I will NOT get a dog. Will NOT.

Sam has been asking for a dog for a while. We talk about it, and then I ignore him. Mostly we talk about the different kinds of dogs he wants. His first choice would be to have a dog like Blue, the clue-leaving, game-playing, animated blue dog. I can understand that. If we could have a dog like Blue I would be down with that, too.

But, see, we can't. Because Blue already belongs to Joe. Duh. While I try to indulge my children's every whim, every once in a while they come up with something that I just can't produce.

Still, whenever we see a dog on the street, Sam says, "Oh, we could have a black dog like that!" He said that today on the way to school and my somewhat-shorter-than-usual fuse resulted in a terse response of, "No. No we could not."

Terseness doesn't work with children.

So Sam asks why.

"Because dogs are a lot of work. They need to be fed and walked . . ."

"And I could give him a bath after we play in the mud together and we can wrestle . . .!"

Dude. This was not meant to be a slow motion series of touching vignettes starring a boy and his dog. Also, I don't think you should wrestle with dogs. What is it WITH boys and wrestling? I don't get it. STOP WRESTLING. READ A BOOK.

So I respond with the best shot I have, "And they POOP. When you have a dog you have to clean up it's POOP."

"Well, he can poop outside."

"You still have to clean it up."

"But why?"

"So you don't step in it. You don't want to step in dog poop."

"Well that's okay. We clean up Owii's poop. Maybe we could put a diaper on our dog."

"No. Because that would be weird. Sam, dogs are just a lot of work and I don't want to do that right now."

"But Daddy could do it. And I could help!"

Aw, that's cute. Also it is a lie.

At this point I realize this is going nowhere so I just tune into the radio for a while. Until . . .

"What should we name our dog?"

Sigh.

"Dude. That's up to you. I have enough to worry about trying to name this baby."

"Her name is Lily."

"Really? I thought you liked Abby better?"

"Well, but Abby has really ugly hair."

"Do you even know an Abby?"

"What?"

"What?"

And that, my friends, is what happens when you have kids. You have conversations you can't even follow.

Oh children. You are so honest about my flaws.

Something happened to my face recently. Don't know exactly what's going on, but I know that the visual result is a horrifying conglomeration of red splotches on my cheek. Just on the right cheek. And they aren't even pimples, because, trust me, I would know how to handle those. They just LOOK like pimples.

They are, however, in a symmetrical arrangement that defies nature. Three in a line right down my cheek. And then a few more besides. But it's the three in a line that are really distracting.

So I broke out the foundation this morning. Put on some concealer. That's why it's good to be a woman, right? You have the option of concealing when weird shit happens on your face. Why, if I were a boy I'd just have to pretend it wasn't happening. Or put a large bandage over the right side of my face. Thank goodness for concealer.

When I was getting the kids in the car, Owen found a little pink marshmallow in his car seat. He can find these little treasures because Owii takes time to smell the roses, my friend. He doesn't rush though his day, missing the finer points of world around us. He OBSERVES. The rest of you, with your getting-to-work-on-time-ness, and your not-being-late-ness, well, that's all fine and good, but you just keep missing all the little pink marshmallows, you know. All those, old, stale, hard, tiny pink marshmallows just fly under your radar.

Anyway, Owii found his tiny pink marshmallow and Sam says, "LOOK! Owii found a little marshmallow! Like you have on your face! HA HA! It looks like you have marshmallows on your face! Or, no, wait, I think it looks more like a candy cane, because it's all like that!" As he traces the line of theoretically concealed splotches down my face.

Just in case I thought I was fooling anybody.

The one where I say "vagina"

Recently, I was reading this article about the 10 biggest scientific advances of 2009. One of them was this new method of surgery wherein they preform "ectomies" (the removal of stuff) through an "already existing opening." That would be the mouth or the vagina, folks.

Gross.

So they are talking about all this removing through the vagina (that seemed to be the favored route) and I keep thinking it's a little creepy. But maybe we can get over that if it is true that the rate of complications and infections are less, recovery is faster and less painful, and scarring is minimized. The thing is, they don't have to cut through so many layers. And no cutting of abdominal muscles.

So I start thinking (and this is pretty much my exact thought process), That doesn't sound so bad. I've had a couple of surgeries ("ectomies," if you will) in the past few years and let me tell you, they were no spring picnic. The scars don't bother me so much as the recovery. Maybe they can figure out how to use this 'vaginal removal procedure' with women having babies.

Wait.

Man. This haircut.

I got a haircut last week.

Since my old hair place closed down and my mom left town, I was going crazy with all my saggy hair.

So I tried a new salon. And, boy, it was a lovely experience. People were friendly, and you got a free head and hand massage and she really took some time on my hair and then did my make up for free. It was great.

And my hair looked good.

For a night.

And then I washed it and . . .

It just keeps getting worse. Worse and worse, every day. Some days it looks like a boy haircut. Some days it is evocative of a mullet. All days it is strange and flat and strangely flat and also weirdly long in the back but short in the front and are these layers? Because they are not working.

I'm eager to see how bad it will be in another week. Good thing it is hat season.

Oh, the eating I will do

Congratulations!
Today is my day.
I'm off to Great Restaurants!
I'm off and away!

I have an appetite in my stomach.
I have feet in my shoes.
I can steer myself
any direction I choose.
I'm home from work. On maternity leave.
And I am the guy who'll decided what to eat!

I'll look in the up and down cupboards. Look 'em over with care.
About some veggies I will say, "I don't choose to go there."
With my appetite back in my stomach and my shoes full of feet,
I'm way too smart to forget about the store down the street.

With the nausea finally gone
Because the baby is here
I'll eat myself silly,
Stuff my belly to HERE.

It's hard to remember
but I'll someday recover

With the baby outside me,
restoring my love of food
the price for a baby visit will be treats
and what you bring better taste good.

And when the scale starts to creep,
I won't worry, I won't stew.
I'll just continue to eat
And NOT vomit it up, too.


OH!
THE EATING I'LL DO!