MotherBunker

So if you search deep into the on-demand selections of your DVR, you might find a strange little creature named Andy Pandy. After MJ asked for the 100th showing of "Little Bear" night before last, we decided we'd rather scratch our eyes out than listen to Little Bear's exceedingly patient parents -- and wind up having to turn it anyway, when the goblin comes on and steals a doll and she runs over and hides behind one of our legs, squealing, "No, I don't like this part! I don't like this part."

So we turned on this show that we've never seen before, or even heard of. At least Andy Pandy, a BBC creation with Claymation-ish characters, doesn't scare MJ. But it does scare me. I have a problem with these life-like cartoons that are narrated -- Thomas and Friends also is very creepy to me -- and I've been trying to figure out why. It can't be the British-ness of them; I love BBC America. Give me Jamie Oliver or Gordon Ramsay and a Sunday afternoon at home, and I'm good. (Plus, Thomas is narrated by Alec Baldwin. Not British; even if Sir Topham Hatt is.) And it can't strictly be the narration part that freaks me out, because I love Curious George, which is obviously narrated because somebody has to explain why a monkey is helping retrieve a lost space satellite.

After a few minutes of intense therapy on the way-back couch of my childhood, I now know why: The Disney Read-Along Book series.

Who remembers these? The little books that came with records (tapes, after 1977)?



Generally, I was crazy about these records. I loved the little chime that told you it was time to turn the page, the cool interactivity of it all. They were like early pioneers of the Internet age. But one thing I didn't like was the voice at the end that told you it was time to "turn the record over" to continue the story. I have no idea why, except that deep voices really bothered me when I was little. (It probably didn't help that I was reading stories like Hansel & Gretel. Who writes a kids' story where someone is shoved into an oven? Terrifying!) So I tried to anticipate when the voice would come on, and I would flip the record as quickly as I could. And shows like Thomas and Andy Pandy, with their disembodied voices up to who-knows-what in the background, remind me of that. Who knew I was so damaged by Disney ...

I did an amazing thing this weekend. I cleaned out my laundry room.

I know. Thank you for the standing ovation. I'm very proud. Please be seated.

In case you're wondering, this is the room where I hide the bodies, as previously mentioned. Randy went in search of socks one morning and backed away from the door as though he'd just seen a giant, three-headed dog drinking from a jug of Tide, which is not out of the realm of possibility. I sometimes throw MJ's Dora helmet on my head before going in to take clothes out of the dryer, because one never knows what book or magazine or curtain rod might fall and crack me on the skull. What an embarrassing headline that would be.

So, in a flash of inspired housework, I sieved through the muck. And now I need some help. What, pray tell, do I do with all of these:


"These" by the way, are the multitude of drawings MJ has amassed in her three short years of life (she sometimes prefers a conventional canvas, despite previous escapades). I. cannot. throw. them. out. This is a chronic problem I have. Even before I had kids of my own, my niece and nephew gave me elaborate drawings of houses and malproportioned stick people that, to this day, sit on a bedroom dresser. How could I possibly toss something created and given with such love and care? They're like greeting cards, only worse. It feels so wrong not to keep them.

I tried to look through each of these and decide which ones were best, which scribbles show the most depth of feeling. Purple crayon on green? Red marker on blue with Elmo stickers? And guess what? They're all freakin' awesome. My kid. Drawing! The precursors to writing the Great American Novel and buying her parents that house on a lake they've always wanted. I can't get rid them; I'm certain "60 Minutes" will want them one day. Or even better, Stephen Colbert! I hope she remembers to get us tickets to that show.

Learn all about Costanzatizing at my Triangle Mom2Mom Tuesday post.

I dearly wish I could remember how I used to go to sleep at night when I was three. There are many, many things I am grateful that I cannot remember about childhood. Cutting teeth, for example -- how completely painful that must have been. But sleeping ... I wish I could go back and relive what it must have been like to have to turn off a world I didn't know enough about yet, just to close my eyes and sleep simply because my parents said I had to. Because I think this is MJ's problem. (That's her above, back in the day when all she did was sleep.) I think she can't shut off the world for 10-12 hours every night. She's afraid she might miss something. I know the feeling. Except that what I'm missing is sleep.

She was the baby who, once past three months, settled into her crib without a song or a rocking or any other sort of prop, and was off to sleep within minutes. We liked it that way. We were spoiled. Now, she is the toddler who needs "fresh water" and "Dolly" and "one more book" and "three more minutes" and piggyback rides and has practically written a thesis on what color purple sky is the right color purple sky for sleeping. (Answer: None.) Lately, I've been laying with her, singing to her, brushing her hair with the palm of my hand and rubbing small circles on her back to cajole her to sleep. Sometimes it works; sometimes it doesn't. It can take an hour or more for her to finally give in. But along the way, I've learned a lot about how she processes the experiences of her days -- she hasn't forgotten the dolphin balloon she accidentally freed into the clouds earlier that morning, or the funny dance we did at lunchtime. She recounts them to me like the 11 o'clock news. Then she lays on her side and studies my face while she gives in to sleep, and I think to myself: I wonder if she'll remember this years from now, when she has kids of her own. Will she remember how I looked now? Because I'll think of her exactly like this. I'll remember this little face, and how it looks now, forever. And I guess I can lose a little sleep for that.

I said, "a little." If we could pack the sentimentality into 30 minutes instead of 60, that'd be great. Which is why, this week, I asked my posse:

Your child(ren)'s bedtime routine: Quick and painless, or excruciatingly drawn out? What steps/routine do you have to take to get your kid on the train to sleepytown?

Barb: Bedtime routines at our house revolve around T.V. I'm not going to hide the ugly fact. Anyone who lives in the Central Time Zone, where prime time starts at 7 pm, would probably agree with me. If a Carolina basketball game or something else worth watching is on ("American Idol"), we use the man-to-man strategy. This involves each of us taking a child and throwing them into PJs, brushing teeth and reading one book before lights out. We have this routine down to about 15 minutes. Luckily, the 5-year-old is OK with this and happily looks at books before going to sleep. However, Little C usually ends up in the family room watching TV with us until she passes out from exhaustion.

On the other nights, we go with more of a zone defense. Carter will take care of baths, I take on PJs and teeth and we both read extra books. Little C also gets extra mommy time, which involves rubbing her back until she falls asleep. Truthfully, they are easy to get to sleep, however staying asleep is a totally different monster. {That monster? The scariest one of all.}

Brandi: For Eliana (2.5 months old):
Between 7:30 and 8:00, she eats while listening to "The Wiggles" or "Thomas and Friends" with big brother. {I'm not sure that "The Wiggles" aren't Big Brother; their songs seem to follow me for the rest of the day when I hear them.}

And then she's in bed.

For Gabriel (2.5 years old):

7:30ish Watch "The Wiggles," "Thomas and Friends," or whoever is popular that month;

7:55ish Push Mommy or Daddy away while they are trying to brush my teeth, stick my tongue out;

7:56ish Diaper change and pajamas;

8:00 Storytime; bed.

Janice: Ahh sleep, the elusive beast in our home too. Maya has always been a terrible sleeper. But she comes by it honestly. First the napping ... we no longer enjoy that luxury in our home anymore. I try (for me, I put on a Sesame Street and I have my nap now!). But the nighttime is the interesting time. I am all business - I have been attached to her for the past 12 hours straight, I have very little loving left. So it is teeth, two stories and lights out. There is a bit of protesting, but frankly I am positive she has had it with me and sleep is her only escape! So peace begins about 7:15pm. But Daddy is another story. When Daddy does the deed (which gratefully, is more often than I do), he plays, has a true riot brushing teeth, and then comedy hour with storytime and then screaming and yelling for Daddy to come back. So much drama. And me sitting in my sewing room trying not to get up to interfere (read: solve the problem) and cringing the whole time. And then the running back and forth between our bedroom and her bedroom slamming doors until she collapses somewhere to sleep. So peace begins about 8:30pm. Hmmmm, should I just suck it up and do it each night to save the drama and tears? Nah, I should just shut my door. {Exactly ...}

Becky: Sleep! Who knew something so simple as sleep could become so complicated? Even ants sleep. Perhaps if we made our kids forage for food, carry two times their weight (or is it more?) on their backs, walk for miles in a single line, they'd close their eyes on command. Fortunately at 3 1/2, my daughter is better at her bedtime routine. I don't know if it's because of her better grasp of language and more predictable schedule, or my gained experience as a parent. I had one of those Oprah "Aha!" moments when Amanda was 3 months old. It was after 11 p.m., and I was rocking her on my knees, nearly asleep myself. "Little girl, little girl, when are you going to go to bed?" Then it hit me.... That, Aha!

I am the parent. I need to put her to bed! Talk about no-brainer. Yet bedtime, naptime, anything involving her missing out on the world for a brief amount of time, still was a major struggle. Somehow, though, over the months and years, we've progressed to reading three books (five on a special day, significant only for its bartering power), quick prayer that signals lights are about to be out, nightlight turned on, and kid's CD playing on her little stereo.

Lisa: Before you judge me for putting my kids to bed as early as I do, let me tell you that they wake up at 6:30 am no matter what time they go to bed, so I’m getting mine on the back end. {Judge you? How do we emulate you?} Our kids have the earliest bedtimes of anybody we hang with and we’re regarded with equal measures of horror, envy and disbelief. Don’t hate us because we’re well rested – it’s how I keep from strangling them or committing hari-kari.

We don’t have any magical formula, just constant repetition, like the Suzuki method for sleeping.We’re pretty low maintenance folks, so the bedtime routine is straightforward: bath, jammies, story, bed. The big one gets 10-15 minutes of quiet reading time. The little one gets a few minutes of nose-to-nose ‘snug time’ with Mommy. Everyone is touching sheets by 6:30 pm. All things being equal and if we’ve managed to wear their perky little butts out, that’s the end of the story. But usually, it goes like this: Big, with her boundless enthusiasm and desire to fill us in on Every. Single. Detail. of her day will appear at least once after she’s been tucked in for good. We call these forays ‘pop-ups’ and they’re just as annoying as their Internet brethren (the world record still stands at 15, the night Mommy got the daytime and nighttime cold medicines mixed up). Little is hardcore potty training and has discovered the power of parental manipulation with the key phrase: ‘I go bathroom.’ A lesser used but potent back-up phrase: ‘I super, super thirsty.’ You’ll recall that the only thing I can promise my children is adequate hydration, so I am powerless to resist. Once they’re down, they’re down for good, sleeping through all manner of loud television, raucous partying and ill-conceived late-night attic excursions. Until...the sun rises and my beautiful little morning glories sally forth. They have learned, after experiencing the wrath of a poorly awoken Mommy, not to enter our bedroom until 7:00 am. They will circle the bed like carpet sharks, waiting until they see a sliver of eye-white at which point a tidal wave of love and breakfast requests sweeps any remaining vestige of sleep from their target parent. It’s the mental equivalent of trying to do a push-up immediately upon awakening. Try it!

Do my friends rock, or what? Have a happy weekend, full of glorious sleep, if you're lucky ...

When I think about it, it seems I was destined to marry a Canadian. I love exotic places. Foreign languages. Maple syrup. The kind of sophisticated humor (humour) found in classics such as Strange Brew. As a junior high schooler, one of the happiest days of 7th grade was when 9th grader Lea "willed" me all the Tiger Beat centerfolds of Michael J. Fox taped inside her school locker. (Born 6/9/61 in Edmonton, Alberta, army brat, etc. --- not that I remember all that stuff from his profile off the top of my head, or anything.)

So when I met my Ajax, Ontario-born husband (who, probably not coincidentally, looks a bit like MJF) seven years ago, and asked him where he was from, a secret thrill went through me when he said those magic words: "I'm from Canada."

I know. I'm so multicultural now. I couldn't be more proud.

Randy and I have always loved the show "How I Met Your Mother," but HIMYM earned an eternal place in our hearts last season when it aired the classic Robin Sparkles episode, in which Robin (played by real-life Canadian Cobie Smulders, who clearly isn't afraid to poke fun at her homeland) refuses to explain why she doesn't go to malls. After much guessing among the friends, she reveals that she was a teenage pop star in Canada from the Debbie Gibson/Tiffany ilk. Her big hit? "Let's Go to the Mall."

HIMYM revisited Sparkles this week with James van der Beek -- The Beek -- guest-starring as Robin's old flame from the "Mall" days. Above is Beek and Robin in her second music video, "Sandcastles in the Sand." Below, the 13 things from those episodes that make Randy and I laugh our arses/bums off.

1. "What happened? Did you find out you were Canadian at a mall?"
   Ted to Robin, trying to unearth why she won't go to The Sharper Image with her friends.



2. Robin: "My friend in Canada who got married way too young? They had to do their vows twice -- once in French!!"
   Barney: "They speak French there, too? God, that place is a mess."



3. "Ted, even if she is married, it's a Canadian marriage. It's like their money or their army. Nobody takes it seriously."
   Lily, explaining why Ted shouldn't worry if the reason Robin won't go to a mall is that she was secretly married in one.



4. Robin, after she learns that Ted, through some stealth research, knows she lied about getting married in a mall: "Oh yeah, what database did you use?"
   Ted: "I used the Canadian Mall Marriage 6000."



5. Marshall, watching the Robin Sparkles video for the first time: "If this was the 90s why does it look like 1986?"
   Robin: "The 80s didn't come to Canada until, like, 1993."



6. "I'm gonna rock your body 'til Canada Day"
   Line from "Let's Go the the Mall"



7. Robin: "An old friend of mine from Canada is in town, and I'm meeting him for a drink."
   Barney: "Ooh, somebody you went to Degrassi with?"



8. "So is he the guy that -- how should I put this like a gentleman? ... Robin, did he take your maple leaf?"
   Marshall, asking about the Beek.



9. "Wait, wait -- did he break up with you and tell you that he's just not that 'Inuit'?" -- Lily



10. Robin: "It was very tame. We only dated for a week-and-a-half."
    Barney: "I thought you said you were together all summer."
    Robin: "Yeah, summer in Canada is pretty much the last week in July."



11. "So he's not a snob! He's from a different part of Canada. The maple leaf flag on the back of the pickup truck? He's red province! He's from the Deep North!" -- Robin, on the Beek.



12. "Once you win Mr. Teen Winnipeg, everybody wants a piece of the moneymaker." -- Beek, on how he ended up starring in Robin's music video. (Although, as I recall, Joey chose Josh Jackson/Pacey over him ... and you know what Pacey is: Canadian.



13. These videos, obviously.
    

    P.S. My friend Di has been writing Thursday Thirteens for a while, and after reading hers, I'm jumping on the bandwagon. Because lists are fun. You can read more of them here.

Even at Little L's little age, she shows just how different she will be from her older sister. I always imagined, when I was carrying LL, that she would be just like MJ. I couldn't think of any other face on a baby of mine, so surely she would look exactly like the first. Surely she would have the same personality and quirks and baldness as MJ, the one and only experience I could draw from.
I was so wrong.

They've been different from the beginning, from how they came into the world to how they approached it once they did. Not just because LL has hair and MJ did not; not just because MJ was a reserved baby and LL is a professional squawker. MJ thinks, studies, considers, ponders; she inspects. The moments when she is most free come when she is at home with Randy and me, where her comfort level is steady and her environment already tested.

LL reacts. She goes head-first; she trusts more readily, smiles more easily, complains more lustily, craves interaction like a nighttime bottle.

She is the life; MJ, the soul.

One of the great joys of being the mother of two girls is taking them both to a party with other kids. And I'm not being sarcastic; I'm not talking about the part where you run from one room to the next, making sure each is safe and/or not destroying the furniture or sitting on the family dog. I mean the other parts, watching them come into their own, and thinking about it later: how beautifully different their personalities are, and the little ways in which those differences were revealed earlier that day.

At our talented friend Janice's house yesterday, celebrating little Maya's third birthday, Little L looked as if this was the social event she'd been waiting for all year. She laughed. She smiled. She sat in a circle with toddlers who were not MJ and mommies who were not Mommy and looked as free as I've ever seen her. Not just happy, but gorgeously happy, glowing from her sweet little toes to her sparkly blue eyes, looking from person to person, listening to people talk and smiling at them, at the room, at everything around her. "Oh Mommy," she seemed to say, "thank you so much for bringing me here. This is the best."

MJ was just as content but played mostly by herself, in corners and nooks and crannies, behind trees and bushes that were different from the ones at her house, carefully exploring, contemplating, imagining how the things she saw and felt fit with the world she knows. Every now and then, she would check in with the other kids to see what was happening, what new piece of information might need to be filed away in her little scientist's Rolodex. A game would start; she would be there for the beginning, but gone before the end, on to the next adventure.

LL looks for social connection; MJ searches for worldly connections, the ways in which swatches of information transform into quilts of experience.

The other great part about a kid's party? The clean-up. If there's one thing MJ will commit to, and bond over, with another somebody her age, it's her love of birthday cake. It also bonded nicely to her clothes. For mommies, the party never ends.

Kids say the darndest things -- and almost always in crowded places with their loudest possible voices.

As much as I try not to go grocery shopping with both the girls -- and believe you me, I try not to -- sometimes the bread, milk and OJ supply gets too low to wait for that delicious spare hour (or two, or two-and-a-half) I might wrangle from Randy to go out when he gets home from work. So, we load up the cart: MJ in the front seat, and Little L in her car seat, in the cargo area, where all of my groceries WON'T be. Those? Are under the cart, where blissfully childless people generally put the bulky items.

Essentials to shopping with two small children: two Target baskets placed underneath the cart, to catch all the small items and keep them from rolling off when I stop suddenly (it happens, people! sometimes you see a pretty you just have to go back for); an appropriate number of items from "The One Spot" bins to keep MJ occupied; Starbucks skinny latte for Mommy.

OK, are we all loaded up? Good. Off we go, to surrounding looks of "oh, that poor woman," and "my god, she is absolutely nuts" ...

Usually I speed like an Indy Car driver past the toy aisles (the under-cart baskets also come in handy then) so Mr. Tempty doesn't rear his ugly head and end in a tantrum about something MJ "needs." But on this particular day, I let her have a pair of toy binoculars that seemed right up her alley. And also because I felt like we needed 1,478 toys at home, instead of 1,477. I like even numbers. You'd think these puppies were handcrafted in Heaven, she loves them so much. And I'm here to tell you that they are pure crap -- you can't see anything out of them. Nonetheless, here we are, rolling through Target. Busy place. Lots of people.

She drops the binoculars.

"Mommy! Mommy! My Nockers! My Nockers!"

Mommy:(blushing) Um, OK dear. I'll pick them up. I'll pick up your binoculars.

MJ: Thank you for my nockers, Mommy.

Mommy: (shrugging my shoulders in "what can you do" action at laughing strangers): Yes, dear. Someday you might rescind that particular sentence, though.

MJ: (blank stare, followed by): My nockers!

Later that evening:

MJ: Daddy! Daddy! Look at my nockers!

Daddy: (look of horror): Your what?

Gentle Friends, if I may borrow a line from Miss Manners, I sit here on my family room couch, listening to the second MJ bedtime meltdown of the night (9:32 p.m., right on schedule). I sit on the couch because my patience bank is empty for the day, and Randy's isn't yet. I sit on the couch because at least -- when I get crushed by the ceiling she is sure to stomp so hard that it caves in any second now -- I will have something soft to be crushed into. As you read this Friday morning, an imprint of my body is probably pressed into my microfiber cushions, with only a shell of a mommy left behind. (Luckily, they are beige, which goes with everything.) If you have nothing else to do, pick up the phone and check on me. I may be trapped under something heavy.

But before I go, I present this week's Burning Question, and its shocking results.

On "Survivor: Cartoon Island," the final three contestants are Dora, Winnie the Pooh and Elmo (not a cartoon, but close enough). Based on their respective parental annoyance levels, which two do you vote off the island?

Brandi: The annoyance factor is one thing, but if its Survivor, then I have to tolerate a little bit of annoyance to win.

First to go is Winnie the Pooh. Basically Pooh is lazy, shiftless, unmotivated and a glutton. Food sources would be depleted in less than a week. He is slow and indecisive. All those culminate not only to a losing alliance but an ultimate annoyance.

Next to go is Elmo. Everyone loves Elmo ... I know, I know ... but it comes down to work ethic, and on this island sometimes the work ethics of monsters just don't cut it. Plus it annoys me that every &^%$*( song is sung to the toon of "Jingle Bells" ... that is the most annoying thing of all.

So that leaves Dora. A bit annoying? Yes, BUT! She is an adventurer, a hard-worker, she is bi-lingual, she has a pet monkey (I'm sure you can use that monkey as a weapon), and that PACK! It has everything!!!! You can’t lose with a monkey and a bottomless pack on your side!

Janice: Elmo, number one, must go - come on, the yelling and referring to himself in the third person is just old and drives me to drink (I wish, I am not sure I even remember what a good glass of wine even looks like, although I did make a tasty risotto last night with some wine......).

I am struggling between Pooh and Dora. Yes Dora is HUGELY annoying and the yelling is enough to drive me to the bottle again.... but upon asking my two year old (she is two until Saturday and I am hanging on to that!) she said Dora is her favorite because "she is smart and has short hair." Excellent reasoning. And let me tell you how thrilled I am that my TWO-year-old places intelligence at the top of her list (yeah mommy!). The short hair is also a reason for rejoicing - Maya cannot grow hair to save her life - so she is happy and content in her self.

Pooh is just Pooh, very little reaction and there is no reason to dislike the guy - except that he is greedy - but he is sweet enough, maybe boringly so...

But trusting in my sweet little girl, I will kick off Pooh and Elmo and give the prize to Dora. You go girl! Keep showing my girlie that it is good to be smart, sassy and that you don't need a prince to save you (she saves princes!) And short hair is good! Yeah Dora. (NEVER, EVER thought I would vote for Dora!)

Becky: Dora! Dora! Dora!

OK. I think I should write an explanation, but I was just so thrilled to vote Dora off....

Yeah, Pooh would complain incessantly about the "rumbly in my tummy" and think only of himself, and Elmo's normally annoying high-pitched voice would become even more whiny with in the tropical heat (and note: Mr. Noodle was not invited to the island!), but Dora's orders to "Find the map!" and "Backpack, backpack!" would seal her fate for me the first kick-off night. What if I don't want to find the darn magic purple mountain over the rippling river? What if we just want to sit on the beach and complain about the lack of honey and why Dorothy was eaten by a shark? These are all good questions, and if Dora wants to boss people around she can go visit Gilligan, who would no doubt be happy to follow her around.

Lisa: Dora gets the boot for rendering the Spanish language unusable for talking over the children's heads – talk about your subversive alliance. We’re going to have to learn a sub-Saharan click language. {ed note: I had to look that up ... I feel at least 25 percent smarter now.}

Elmo gets snuffed for implanting the irremovable tune worm, Jingle Bells. It’s an insidious form of torture.

Beth: I have to say, I never thought Dora would get even two votes to win "Survivor." That girl is a success machine that cannot be stopped.

I love TV, so it pains me to kick anyone off of the island. I can't choose. I couldn't bear the crying; there would be "hunny," crayons and monkey fur everywhere, and I would have to clean it up. Besides, there is nothing more pitiful than an unemployed cartoon character. Well, maybe one thing: A mommy without sleep.

Today I'm bringing the sentimental out, people. Sentimental has been mired of late under the heavy load of all that is frustrating about being the parent of a very young child (or two), i.e., sleep disturbances, drama worthy of an M.F.A., refusal to eat properly -- and those are just my own symptoms. My toddler's issues? Much worse. But with not one, but two lunches out of the house this week (I've gone mad with freedom!), things are a little lighter around here today. Perspective has settled over the fine dust of my sanity.

After I had MJ, a friend gave me a CD of lovely lullaby-ish songs, which I absolutely treasure. Nothing calms the fury of new mommy colic like soothing music -- and I'm sure MJ enjoyed the songs, too. One of my favorites was (and is) "Turn Around," which on the CD is sung by Nanci Griffith:

Where are you going
My little one, little one
Where are you going
My baby, my own
Turn around and you're two
Turn around and you're four
Turn around and you're a young girl
Going out of the door

I loved this song for the meaning it brought to what I'd just gotten myself into, this motherhood thing. Though I believe complaining to be an inalienable right of the job, I am also rightly awed by it; more so when I had time to sit around and moon over my employer(s). Recently, I ran into a book in the children's section that reminded me so much of that feeling that I had to buy it. It's called Someday -- I'm sure I'm the last Target shopper on Earth to see it, but I loved it from the first page, which reads: "One day I counted your fingers and kissed each one."


Some other things I love about it:

"Someday you will swing high -- so high, higher than you ever dared to swing."

"Someday, I will watch you brushing your child's hair."

"Someday, a long time from now, your own hair will glow silver in the sun. And when that day comes, love, you will remember me."

I have these moments, I call them "flash forwards," when a very ordinary something is happening before me that triggers an impulse to look ahead. Sometimes MJ will be doing nothing more than eating a slice of pizza, and I'll see her as a teenager, doing the same task with more dexterity, but with the same baby look I'll always know. Little L will laugh her sweet laugh, and I am taken to some unknown scene from her college years -- she's home for break, perhaps, humoring Mom and Dad with her shiny presence. I feel immediately connected to a future I haven't even met. A little swirl begins in my stomach and ends in my throat in those moments, and I am thankful for everything that I have, and everything that I will. For every finger and toe I've been lucky enough to count, for every single someday up ahead.

Her energy is limitless and comes out of nowhere. MJ simply has to dance; she can't get around it, and I can't get enough of it. She has to be the worst -- and therefore, the best -- dancer I've ever seen. Legs flail, arms punch, feet stomp, always at the same speed no matter the music. (I have no idea where she gets her complete lack of rhythm. Ahem.)

The other night, she was doing her patented spin-spin-spin-stomp move at bedtime at warp speed, like a horse on a carousel -- a real horse. Breakdancing doesn't seem like a very calm activity for a kid who has trouble sleeping to be doing before heading off to bed, so I demonstrated my best moves from my 9-year-old ballet class, placing a fingertip on the crown of my head and standing on my tippy toes while slowly, slowly turning in a circle.

"Now you try," I suggested.

And she did. She placed a dainty finger on top of her head, and spun around in a circle ... at breakneck speed, while stomping.

I can't wait for casting calls for "Dancing with the Toddlers."

I love the frenzied curiosity of this age, the constant need to test what your mind and body can do -- the small and sudden realizations, for her and for me, that she's only just tapped the well of experiences she'll have in her life. I think that's what her dance is all about. Unfortunately, I think that's what her tantrums are all about, too. Let's just hope the dancing lasts longer than the tantrums. In fact, let's go ahead and end those wretched things YESTERDAY. (Good lord, the drama ... Any day now I expect her to come down the stairs wearing the curtains from her bedroom, a la Scarlett O'Hara: "As God is my witness, I'll never go without juice before lunch again!" Although, technically, we would have to hang curtains in her bedroom first.)

She reminds me now of Emily Yeung, a little girl in Canada with her own TV show that's all about learning how to do very grown-up things. We discovered it while visiting Randy's parents one Christmas and fell in love with her. She's excited about everything she gets to try, from buidling a treehouse to swimming with sharks (I know! Crazy!). One of my favorite episodes is when she learns how to make bread at a pioneer village (the exact village where Randy once went as a child) and, while normally excruciatingly polite, can't wait to get the bread-making over with so she can go visit the horses out back. That on-to-the-next-thing mindset is pretty much how all my moments with MJ go these days ... only without the horses ... or the baking of bread.

Like I needed a research study to prove that.

Apparently first-borns have higher IQs than we extra children do, according to these people in Amsterdam. I mean, if you trust the Dutch. I'm married to half a Dutch person, and he sure thinks he's purdy smart. (But maybe that's the Canadian in him; it's so hard for me to figure out, being the second-born and all.)

The article says that "it is thought that the level of attention parents lavish on first-borns boosts their intellectual development." Yeah. That must be why MJ put the high-chair accessory basket over her head and called herself a beekeeper:

---

Celia Rivenbark rocks: I don't know if this woman has been sitting on the back page of the Sunday Life section of my News & Observer forever, and I've only just noticed it (or had time to read it), but I officially love her. Her column this week on "Earth Hour?" Hysterical. Her bio on her Web site? Funny, funny, funny. Here's a line from it:

"After an unfortunate stint as a copy editor--her ass expanded to a good six ax handles across--Celia started writing a weekly humor column that fulfilled her lifelong dream of being paid to be a smart ass. "

I have a new hero.

If you had walked into my house Friday night at around 7 p.m., you would have seen this: Toddler in corner, bawling, white shirt sopping wet with cold coffee. Daddy, sitting in front of her, disciplining in vain, red shirt covered in yellow pollen. Mommy, standing in kitchen, white V-neck shirt (and new bra, people!) decorated with regurgitated applesauce, chicken and just a touch of Similac. Sweet baby -- who never, ever even so much as spits up -- in Mommy's arms, also covered in her own dinner, wondering what kind of family she'd gotten herself into. It was like a scene from a campy horror movie, where everybody's draped in some sort of spew by the end. Night of the Living Stain Remover.

Here's the digest: Wily kid grabs lazy mom's cup of morning coffee, gets chased, dumps it all over herself and the floors of three different rooms. Previously patient Daddy, fresh from the outdoors, brings his discipline A-game. Mommy, concerned about the look of bewilderment and, possibly, horror, on baby's face in light of unusually loud discipline, lifts her from high chair, only to have concerns validated with a vomit Bedazzling. (A great way to spice up an old pair of jeans!)

So, screaming children, bad parents, dirty laundry, etc. etc. Whatever. The most important part is this: I had just bought the bra. The bra and I were happy with one another, and this does not happen very often for me. We were hoping to go grocery shopping together later, maybe stop for an ice cream on the way home. You know how it feels when you find the one. We really got each other, on a deep, emotional, supportive level.

I simply don't buy clothes for myself anymore. The shoes I bought two weeks ago were the first non-flip-flop types I'd purchased since circa 2005. You may remember that as the birth year of my first child. Yes, it's true: I did buy four pairs at one time -- thank you very much, husband-who-checks-the-credit-card-statement-for-superfluous-purchases (i.e. non-electronics-related items, or anything having to do with grooming that costs more than Great Clips. Did I ever tell you about the time he tried to put me on a $42/week grocery "allowance," and then went out and bought a DVD player that held 400 discs? Oh, can this guy ever bring the funny.)

But I digress. What were we talking about? Oh yeah, pairs. So now the only thing my new bra was supporting was the surprisingly large amount of food an 8-month-old's stomach can hold, and the broken dreams of a broken woman. So I had to do it. I had no choice. Saturday I dug out the "push-up" bra, which, in my opinion, is the smart ass of all undergarments, followed closely by its rude cousin, the thong.

I don't understand these contraptions. I mean, I guess they work fine, if by "push-up" they mean "fall out." If the push-up bra was a dude, it would spend the whole night looking the other way while you talked. It would make you feel incredibly self-conscious, which is interesting, because I believe the push-up bra is supposed to instill some measure of confidence in the wearer. I wiled away the hours adjusting myself like a baseball player and dreaming of my bra-next-door, at home, soaking in a tub of Woolite.

While out buying a bunch of crap at Home Depot (home improvement purchases of all kinds, especially compact fluorescent light bulbs, are approved by management), we stopped for a luxurious lunch at Wendy's. MJ chose this time to notice the fleshy things on my chest that kept her alive, with great reluctancy, for the first three months of her life. Thirty-six months, 21 days and 12 hours after she came into the world, she chooses this moment, in public, with one of my hands holding a bottle to Little L's mouth. She gave them the once over with her curious little eyes, and then thought she'd try to poke them a bit, too. I had to physically restrain her, which wasn't easy, since the bra had thrown my equilibrium off.

Later, as I was reading her a bedtime book, she asked me what they were. I hate all words that describe them -- "breasts" sounds like something that belongs on a chicken, "boobs" is just ... I don't know ... goofy, a word I feel certain a 7th-grade boy and ancestor of Jimmy Kimmel made up hundreds of years ago. Seriously. Say it several times and tell me you don't feel like an idiot. (We're going to be great with the birds and the bees in this family. Randy better bring his A-game that day, for sure, because this ol' girl will be somewhere else. And it's a good bet that 'somewhere else' will be Target, looking for a new bra.)

So I just told her they were something she would have one day, too, that it was completely normal. She curled her lip up into a disgusted little snarl -- not unlike the one she used to have after eating lemon wedge after lemon wedge in restaurants -- and gave me a disbelieving look. A look not unlike the one she will give her push-up bra one day.

Oh luv, you have so much to learn. It'll be fun watching your father teach you.

So I was driving to Target last night, and I saw an object up ahead that lay slightly to the right of the road -- a fairly busy road. An object that looked like the sunshade of a Graco double stroller. In fact, it looked like the sunshade to MY Graco double stroller. In fact ... wait for it ... it WAS the sunshade to my Graco double stroller. As I parked my car at the nearby day care center and sprinted back toward the spot where it sat, bruised and waiting for rescue, I thought a few things:

1. Do I really need the thing?
2. Will passersby wonder why a woman wearing jeans, a sweater and ballet-style slippers is jogging along the side of the road -- especially given the horrendous running form I must have displayed and my lack of jogging bra?
3. I hope none of them are my neighbors.
4. Why am I running? To get there before the other mother who was dumb enough to leave her sunshade on top of her car "for just a second" while she strapped her kids into their car seats -- as I had two hours earlier, when we were going out for dinner?

And with that, I give you this week's Burning Question, which examines the crazy things we have to ask our children to do, or not to do. (Voice of MJ: After that intro, do you really expect me to believe that I'm the one who needs to be told what to do?)

Ahem.

What is the strangest command you've ever found yourself giving to your child(ren)?

We start with Lisa, who suggested this question with these examples: "Take your tongue out of your nose," and "Stop playing the piano with your butt."

LISA: Yesterday, we had one of those Brady Bunch ‘exact words’ kind of day, where I had to make each request with unequivocal scientific precision -- not just, ‘Go wash your hands,’ but, ‘Go away from the kitchen table. Go into the bathroom. Turn on the water. Use soap. Wash both sides of your hands for one ‘Happy Birthday.’ Dry your hands on a towel. Leave the bathroom.’ Fun!

Here are several of the questions I found myself asking, and then immediately regretting:

“Why is there banana bread in the bathroom?”

“Did you put the phone in your bum?” [toy phone, but still, inappropriate!]

“Where are your pants?”

Here are a few choice commands I had to issue in just the past few days:

"Please don’t wipe your bum with the puppy."

"Stop scaring your sister with the chicken leg." [toy chicken leg, but still, inappropriate!]

"Please bring a bee-ba to the oddy room." [Ema calls this ‘Zoe language’ and I have to stop myself from using it in casual conversation with non-Zoes. Bee-ba = diaper, oddy room = living room.]

Six years into this mommy thing, and I still marvel at the sequences of words coming out of my mouth. {Ed. note: I have only three years experience at this job, Lisa, and after reading this, I may quit after five. There's little room for promotion anyway.}

BRANDI: “Don’t move your feet while I’m changing you ... you’ll step in your poop.”

“Gabriel! Don’t squish your sister's head!

“NO kissing boys! Only high fives!”

“Don’t sit on your food.”

BETH: We seem to have a problem with feet, noses and eyes in my family. As in:

"Please take your foot out of my eye,"

and, in one memorable 5-minute span while I was talking on the telephone:

"Paintbrushes don't belong in noses," "Don't honk the baby's nose," and, my personal favorite: "Did you just put a pepper up your nose?" which isn't really a command so much as a statement of disbelief.

By the way, Statement of Disbelief = title of my forthcoming autobiography. Preorder now for its March 2052 release at Amazon.com.

JANICE: Of course we all dream of raising a perfectly healthy kid that shuns junk food and french fries ... but we all know the reality: Fast food has to happen sometimes..... (well at least in this house it does):

"Please eat one more bite of your chicken nugget'" I NEVER thought I would be begging my kid to eat more junk food ... {Ed note: Sing it, sister. At MJ's current pace, her diet will consist solely of hot dogs and sour cream by the start of the summer.}

BECKY: Here's mine that was a delayed response to this question as we were riding in the car: "Let's talk more about who has a penis...."

After some stuttering, laughter and then a shocking realization that she may be going up to her friends at school and asking them about their vaginas and penises ...

"You can't go up to people and talk to them about their private parts."

{Ed. note: That's it. I'm quitting before that scenario crops up. The pay stinks, anyway. Somebody write me in 20 years and let me know how my kids turned out.}

When MJ asks to go to the park, and is told she has to wait for Little L to wake up from her nap, she decides to take matters into her own hands. She walks over to the baby monitor, puts it up to her mouth like a walkie-talkie, and screams, "Babee! Babeee! Wake up! It's time to go the park!" She also hasn't figured out just yet that Little L is a "she" and not a "he" or an "it." But she still, without fail, lets everyone who walks into the room know she has a little sister -- including Randy and I, who are only too aware of this fact.

"Mommy, look!" she'll say, pointing to Little L playing on the floor, "it's a baby!"

Today, for whatever reason, is National Siblings Day. It's a strange thing to celebrate (although no stranger than Eight Track Tape Day, which is tomorrow), but I'm willing to do it. Somebody has to. Above are pictures of Little L and MJ; my sister Melanie and me (I'm the little one); and Randy (also the little one) and one of his siblings, Kevin. Good times.

Randy and I try to keep up with what the kids are doing these days -- and by kids, I don't mean MJ and Little L; I mean pop culture, or whatever you call the slightly hipper level just above that. You know, we use the kids' lingo around the house, even if our lingo is probably 15 years old by now. It's a vain attempt to sound cooler than we actually are. And by cooler, I mean whatever the kids are saying today instead of "cool."

But you reach a point when it's time to admit that you are old. When you realize, as Randy did last week, that the song on the radio you're bopping out to on the way home from work is performed by a Disney Channel star. (Miley Cyrus)

For me, the realization came last year, when I sat absolutely mesmerized while watching "Jack's Big Music Show" on Noggin. The program has kiddie music videos interspersed with stories about musical puppets. I stopped whatever I was doing when the video below came on, and rewound it about a dozen times on my DVR to watch it again. And then I saved it indefinitely, so I could watch it later. I may have even danced, people! Check it out:



I am crazy about this kid, Leon G. Thomas III. He's like a young Michael Jackson, only suaver, if that's a word. He has "mad" charisma (what year is that phrase from, 1989?). Apparently he is also the voice of Tyrone on "The Backyardigans," and appeared in the movie August Rush. But it's this song, "Duck 4," that will make you all kinds of happy all day long.

***

Adult TV Break: Good news for everybody who loves good TV! Friday Night Lights is back next season! I know, I know -- you've never seen it, you didn't want to commit to an hour-long show about high school and football, etc., and so you're not watching it. I know this because I am one of only 12 people who do tune in to the show religiously. But listen up! Best. Show. On. TV. High school and football are only the vehicles that bring us the very best portrayal of marriage, parenting, the messiness of family life, and social pressures and shortcomings on television, not to mention a lot of beautiful people. Like this one and this one.

In one of my favorite episodes, which you can watch in full here (title: "Who do you think you are?"), the coach's wife, Tami (Connie Britton, who is incredible in this role), flees from the day care center with her newborn on her first morning back to work, unable to part with the little girl. She instead takes her to work with her, strolling the baby around the halls of the high school where she is a guidance counselor until she can work up the nerve to deal with the separation. At home later, with her husband, Eric, she goes through all the emotions that anyone would about the conflict of work and parenting. This episode is chock full of poignant moments that happen so organically -- as they always do on FNL. But none are better than the scene at the end. You'll cry, people, but in a good way.

I also highly recommend "Leave no one behind," available at the same link. Watch it! Season 2 DVD is also out, but why buy it when you can watch it online? The only thing better than TV is FREE TV.

Let me ask you something: Should one be offended if one's husband's comes home from work one day and gently suggests it might be time to outsource the housecleaning?

And by gently, I mean that he said, "Maybe it's time we called the housecleaning service."

I am good at many things. I make excellent peanut butter fudge. I have many, many silly voices which are endlessly entertaining if you are (1) a child or (2) me. I can stay up later than any human being I know. I also waste time like nobody's business. I defy you to beat me on that last attribute.

But I will be the first to admit that the clutter has gotten away from me. It's not dirt that's the problem (we have clean dishes, people! I'm not a monster!); it's just the newspapers and the magazines and the toys and the bags and the packaging and the socks. I have a gum drawer -- that's right, that's what I said -- wherein I keep my Extra wintergreen-flavored "crack" (as my husband calls it), and where I also keep the empty wrappers of said crack, because I apparently cannot walk 10 feet to the garbage can after I've had a fix.

It's not really that I'm a pack rat; just more of a I'll-just-do-that-later kind of rat. I have developed two modes when it comes to straightening up the house: "stalling" and "company's coming crisis." The latter is when everything gets chucked into a particular room or closet -- what I like to call "hiding the bodies." Company's coming crisis mode is not pretty, people. You don't want to be here for that. In fact, you probably wouldn't be -- it's probably your impending arrival that has persuaded me to finally take a bulldozer to my living room, raking up every Happy Meal toy and Weeble in sight. (But please come and visit me, just the same. We'd love to have you!)

It might be different, if, say, someone were to tell me that I couldn't dunk a basketball. There are obvious physical reasons why I cannot -- though I dearly would love it if I could, if for no other reason than to get all the free sweatpants that go along with being a member of a basketball team. If there's one thing a stay-at-home mom needs, it's more sweatpants. But the cleaning house thing, well ... if laziness is a valid handicap, I suppose that works in my defense, but I've got nothing otherwise. Presumably, decluttering is part of my job description. And if that's true, I'm really going to score poorly come performance review day.

So I'll give the husband this one. Besides, having my house cleaned by someone else just gives me more time to shop at Target, come home, and leave the bags strewn about the kitchen floor.

What does a hopeless insomniac lay awake thinking at night? This week, I've been wondering what time MJ will wake up and decide to rearrange the furniture in her room ... or in our room ... or most likely in the baby's room. But other nights, I am burdened with life's most difficult, pressing matters: If coffee suddenly became scarce, would I make it past noon? How long can I delay washing the whites before Randy is forced to go to work in flip flops and adult diapers? If a tree falls in the woods, would Diego rescue it?

Like I said: Burdened.

Fortunately, I have friends to turn to in such times of crisis -- a posse, if you will -- who have agreed to help relieve the heavy load I bear. They kind of rock. I thank them, and I present the Burning Question of the Week. Guests first!

You are stranded on an island with only your children and the current contents of your purse. If you could have three other things with you, what would you choose?

Barb: First of all, my purse would be of no help unless there is a store there that accepts Visa. Yes, I'm the mom you see in the public restroom layering her baby's soaked diaper with paper towels because I forgot to bring extra diapers. I'm really, really out of practice with the whole baby thing.

1. Case of Tostitos Lime Tortilla Chips (aka Green Sour Chips)- The only thing that Big C will eat at the moment! Little C and I also think they are yummy.


2. DVD Player with an unlimited supply of batteries and Disney DVDs- Big C would never say another word except to ask me to open another bag of Green Sour Chips.


3. All future issues of OK and InTouch magazine... my secret obsession. Little C also loves to be read to... who needs Dr. Seuss! {Ed. note: Green Eggs & Brangelina.}

Becky: Maybe I should start carrying a bigger purse, as my small clutch's current contents are completely inadequate for island survival. Thankfully, it does hold a pen. So I'd need the thickest--yet lightest--journal possible to brain dump my thoughts, provide my daughter space to scribble and send her "emails" as she calls them.

Next, I'd ask for my XM satellite radio that would somehow have to work without electricity. But let's ignore that minor detail. Music endlessly inspires, entertains and distracts us, so this would be a must. We both love to dance and sing--she can really shake it! We'd never be complimented by strangers, though, so an island would provide the perfect refuge.

Lastly, my daughter's current lovey would join us. That'd either be Meno Kitty, Blue Rabbit, Pooh or Mimi Bear. It'd be tricky to get her to choose just one. We'd probably have to arrange some deal that another lovey could come along for the ride to the island--or to wherever we were headed before we got marooned. And there would be times when she'd want to go back and get it, and we'd discuss doing that when the boat--or plane--returns, and have that talk a million times until at one point I'd crack and say, "Because we can't! Sometimes life is just like that." Then I'd immediately regret those words, because she's only three, and the adult world of absolutes makes no sense to her. So then I'd give in to some other realistically impossible but beautifully pretend deal she'd no doubt barter. In the end, though, the one lovey would work wonders, and she'd have hours of fun bringing her friend on all sorts of imaginary adventures until I'm too exhausted to play island school for the hundredth time and try to enforce some sort of beach bedtime. All this ignores real survival stuff like Cheerios, apple juice and Dora yogurt. So in our island life, hunger would have to miraculously disappear or be appeased by fresh, plump tropical fruit that she'd love immediately and never grow tired of.

Brandi (who originally said she would bring her husband (good choice!), but probably decided he didn't qualify as a "thing." She's nice like that):

1. Boppy pillow


2. Baby Bjorn


3. Lots of water {the unsalted kind!}

Janice: Well, the current contents of my purse would get us through the first year of being stranded. I have enough crackers, juice boxes, and raisins in my purse to give me a hernia on a daily basis - but hey, I always have to be prepared to extinguish any scream from the backseat! {Ed. note: and you can share with the rest of us! Yay!}

So now that food is covered ... I'll take the Dr. Suess Treasury book for lots of reading and the portable DVD player (assuming that we would have electrcity of course!) stocked with MANY files of shows. Hmmmmm and last.... my pillow. Maya and I love to nap and snuggle on it. And yes, of course, she has to hog most of it.

Lisa: My current purse is this bag from BUILT (http://tinyurl.com/2zyw6a) made out of neoprene so it is waterproof and floaty, the contents of which include lifesaving medications and crucial hair toys.

I'm stranded on a desert island and I'm bringing:

1. Swiss Army Card Lite (http://tinyurl.com/2e7ccg) - Includes all the essential tools for cracking open a tasty coconut as well as disarming whatever Dharma Initiative-brand poisonous gas stations I come across (I watch too much television). {Ed. note: I don't believe that's possible.}


2. Tube of Darice glo-bracelets - If every girl has a light, every girl is all right. Fashion colors will match tropical plants used for clothing.


3. Potette folding potty (http://www.potette.com/) - Since the only thing I can guarantee in this life is that my children will be well hydrated, we will also need to potty. This one folds up really tiny so we won't mind dragging it around the island.

Beth: So, I am rummaging through my purse, which is actually a diaper bag (I haven't regularly carried a "purse" since high school, much to my mother's dismay), right this minute. And it turns out I should have padded it before asking this question. Here is what I have:

One package of wipes, no diapers (ironic?), one 4-oz packet of powdered Similac, stained bib, Q-tips, a few dirty plastic spoons, a Tide pen, a cell phone with a dead battery and this week's Sports Illustrated. (What? It's Final Four week.) I have no I.D. That's right, Mom, I forgot it again. I know, I know -- what if I had been stopped by the police on my way to the island, etc. I'm 35! Stop scolding me already. (Voice of my mom: I'll stop scolding you when you start remembering to take your wallet with you when you leave the house.)

I am totally bringing (1) my laptop, people. I assume that my husband will have gone ahead of me and set up the wireless Internet connection. It's a bold choice, I'll grant you, given that my battery only lasts six hours, and I will probably use up five of them reading that awful, awful Web site TMZ before e-mailing home to let everyone know we're lost. But at least I'll know what Brit-Brit is up to. And if you're on my island, I'll let you read over my shoulder. (You know you want to.) Oh, I almost forgot: the kids! I guess we'll need something for them. Fine. I will also cart along (2) fingerpaint! This is your chance to go crazy, MJ. The biggest canvas you've ever had, and the best part: I don't have to clean any walls later. Mother Nature shall be my housecleaner. And for Little L I will bring (3) a picture of Daddy. We're all going to miss that guy.

Wait a minute. Where is he, anyway? Why am I always the one stranded on an island alone with the kids?

MJ actually slept through the night last night, which meant I decided to have a bout with insomnia. Oh, the cruel, cruel irony. The best part? All-purpose champion MotherBunker empathizer, superstar friend and former colleague S. McArnie had told me about a relaxation technique her dad used to use on her in elementary school when she couldn't sleep.

"Maybe it's not the amount of sleep you get that matters," he would tell her, "but rather the quality of the rest. As long as you're resting, that helps."

The thought, of course, being that the kid settles down just long enough to fall asleep. Maybe I could try that with MJ, was the idea.

Maybe. Or maybe I could try it on myself at 3 a.m. I have to say, it's a remarkably useful little trick. And it would have worked, too, if I hadn't simultaneously been thinking about how I should e-mail S. today and tell her how funny it was that I used her dad's trick on myself. Which led to thoughts about other e-mails I needed to write and ... oh well. Oh, sweet, merciful sleep, where have you gone?

Anyway ... on to the Weeview!

You know, when you're still a new-ish parent -- and when I spend time with my sister, mother of a 7-year-old and a 12-year-old, I realize just how new I still am, despite what my creaking bones say -- the little things "they" tell you to expect seem so trite and hackneyed that you never believe that you'll actually experience them with your own kids. They seem more like narrative devices for family sitcoms (you know, when there still were family sitcoms ... I miss you, "Family Ties") than real life.

I mean, c'mon, do kids really ask for juice all the time? Ha. Ha. Ha. Yes, yes they do.

Here's another example: The "Why" Barrage. Never thought we'd get around to it with MJ. But we have. "Operation: Less TV" has really brought out the 'whys.'

"Watch Clifford?"
"Not right now."
"Why"
"Because he's napping."
"Why?"
"Because that's what dogs do."
"Why?"

This just gives me another chance to talk glowingly about the "Curious George," who continues to rock the preschool set. I'm a sucker for the unexpected word play, and a new pirate-themed episode of George this season features a show about the S.S. Whybecause, a ship that gets taken over by pirates.

Hundley (the prissy little dachshund lobby dog) dreams that he's the captain of a boat, too, and that he loses command to "Yellow Hat," a famous pirate who is remarkably cheerful when he comes on board:

"Hi, how are ya?" he says, as though he's just arrived for brunch. "We're taking over your ship, because, well, you know. That's what pirates do."

The other great thing about this episode (there are so many; man, I love the TV) is how Hundley's imagination constantly corrects The Man with the Yellow Hat -- I mean, Yellow Hat's -- behavior to sound more pirate-y and authentic.

YH walks into a flooded brig and says, "Oh my goodness -- I mean, 'Gaarr.'"

I am so easily amused.

Oh, sweet TV, how I love thee.

You know that episode of "Lost" where Desmond screws with the space/time continuum just by crossing the ocean?

I'm pretty sure we screwed up the parent/child dimension by reversing door knobs.

So the toddler was tucked in, and locked in, for her own safety until we can get her to kick the midnight roaming habit. Randy went to his office to get some work done; I went downstairs to watch ... (wait for it) ... TV, secure in the knowledge that we had switched the inside door lock to the outside, that our traveler would be grounded until the morning. No gates, no knob covers, just a screwdriver. That's all it took.

Ha, ha, ha! Cue the maniacal laughter. What fools!

Here she comes, padding down the steps, a vision in her light blue footie PJs with white puffy clouds and sheepies all over. Prison uniforms are so cute these days.

"Hi Mommy."

"Uh, hi baby," I said, looking at my pint-sized Houdini with remarkable calm, given that she was COMPLETELY LOCKED IN HER ROOM 10 MINUTES EARLIER.

Where will the madness end, people? I ask you: Where?

"Did Daddy let you out?" I asked her.

"No, I play with my doll house." And off she went to pretend she was the mommy in her Loving Family Twins Dollhouse. (Or is it a townhouse? Dolls are so chic and urban these days, it's hard to keep up.)

Meanwhile, I called Randy on the intercom upstairs, all business-like, and told him we had a jail-break situation. "Nooo," he groaned. "How is that even possible?" He went in to inspect the escape site, and as I listened to the thumping and pounding noises coming from MJ's room upstairs -- was he kicking the crap out of the door as punishment? I didn't know -- I considered what might be causing this hair-pulling behavior. Behavior that, as I looked at the mommy doll's appearance, I realized was starting to affect even the sanity of MJ's pretend parents.

THUMP! THUMP! THUMP!

Could this be happening because my child is about 65 percent organic these days, since I got scared into switching to hormone-free dairy foods to ward off early puberty and hence, early dating? (I will, indeed, pay $12 a gallon for milk if it means less trouble for me a decade from now.) Kids can be a little OCD sometimes; maybe she's taking the whole cage-free thing a little too far.

TWHACK! TWHACK! TWHACK!

Before I had a chance to conjure any more ridiculous notions, MJ stopped playing, became wide-eyed, and said, "Mommy, that noise ... what is it? It's scary."

THUMP! THUMP! THUMP!

"Oh, honey, it's nothing. It's just Daddy. He's trying to fix your door."

She wasn't convinced. "I go up and see," she said.

"OK, dear," I said, the way you do when someone is being naive and cute, "you go help Daddy."

I heard her little footsteps stop at her door. And then I heard her crying, and this:

"I can't get in! Daddy, help! I can't get in!"

"I know!" came the reply from the other side of her door, "I can't get out!"

My husband, ladies and gentlemen: beaten at his own game by a toddler. Locked in by his own lock, a lock that could not contain a three-year-old. Was I rolling on the floor with laughter? Yes, yes I was. For a prolonged period of time, I might add. But in my mind, I was already putting bars on the windows.