JB did give me breakfast in bed, though. Aw, who’s a good husband? He also slyly handed me one of his furniture-making periodicals first thing in the morning and announced he had an EXTRA gift for me, heh heh heh. Naturally, the title of the magazine was WOOD.

Our family outing for the day was to a nearby botanical garden, where I carefully balanced several river rocks on my shoulders while Dylan squirmed restlessly in the Bjorn carrier:

And JB demonstrated Tantrum Management Maneuver #47: The Marlin Hold.

On Saturday we left both kids with the grandparents as planned, despite the fact that both of them were acting like this:

At first I felt bad about saddling JB’s folks with the crabby, soul-sucking children, but as our car pulled out of the driveway the guilt was replaced by a nearly giddy sense of freedom. “Let’s not talk about the kids at all tonight,” I said to JB, and he readily agreed. That promise lasted for about three minutes but it was a fine night regardless: we saw Iron Man (very fun, I highly recommend it), and had an amazing dinner including DESSERT. I haven’t had dessert in three damn months and it is maybe embarrassing to admit but the prospect of chocolate? Officially more enticing than the offer of morning WOOD. Listen up, men: this is why you should constantly tell your women how hot their muffin-tops are, because otherwise they go on diets and their priorities get all KINDS of fucked up.

Business, however, has greatly improved since my last post, which is — get ready for a big old no-shitter — the way parenting always seems to go. You get driven straight up the wall until you’re clinging to the ceiling, teeth chattering, hair standing on end, eyeballs comically protruding from your skull, index finger poised to hit the speed-dial option helpfully (and controversially) labeled “SIBERIA” . . . and then your toddler sweetly offers you a corner of his beloved blue blanket “so you can get comfable unda the blankie, Mommy”, and your 3-month-old sleeps right through the damn night, from 10 until 7, and wakes up cooing.

Sometimes it’s the unpredictable nature of all this that I love beyond measure, and sometimes I can’t help thinking, WHO DO I HAVE TO BLOW FOR A LITTLE CONSISTENCY AROUND HERE.

So! What are you up to this weekend?

To Riley: You know what? When you randomly drop toys all over the house all day long, you are bound to lose something. No, I don’t know where the hell your tiny plastic ladder is, and I’m sorry life has become such a shit sandwich as a result but I am frankly sick and tired of hearing about it. Is it really worth all the screaming? The loud, loud screaming? Your wailing and garment-rending is even more brain-burningly annoying than your brother’s, and I am seriously considering cramming both of you in the outgoing mail with “SIBERIA: OUTER” stamped on your asses.

What time is it? Why, I believe it’s ENFORCED NAPTIME. Booyah, motherfuckers:

Dylan thus far has remained illness-free but I can only assume he too will succumb, and then the adults will absorb the childrens’ germs and transform the symptoms into something even more disgusting in our clunky grownup bodies, like geysering arterial jets of blood from our eyesockets, and then there will be nothing left to do but burn our house down.

I am feeling maybe a little despairing today, can you tell? I wish it was sunny outside. And that I had a gallon of peppermint ice cream. With Xanax sprinkles.

In other news, I am kind of looking into hiring a nanny. We’re not unhappy with our daycare, but I’ve been thinking more and more that it might be nicer to have someone come to our house instead. There are pros and cons to both situations, really, and it may be that we simply can’t afford a nanny, even on the part-time basis we need, but you know, I’m checking it out.

So have any of you hired a caregiver before? I could use some help thinking of the right questions to ask. Also, if it turns out the right person is a young college student who can only work for us between now and fall, do you think that would be worthwhile, as long as we had a back-up plan when they start up school again (ie, hiring someone new or holding a spot at daycare)?

(I wore jeans, low heels, and a fake wrap shirt thing, and that worked fine, except for the briefly terrifying/humiliating moment when I tripped on the stairs and nearly plummeted to my death. I am not used to wearing shoes, what can I say.)

Real quick-like, I thought I’d let you know that the fitness/health/etc blog I mentioned earlier is up. It’s hosted on Gather.com and sponsored by Boca Foods; my entries appear under the “Featured Articles” section. I’ve got three articles published at the moment, and the idea is to continue updating at least on a weekly basis (I’ll add another RSS widget thing to my site here at some point). This is where I plan to do most of my blathering about workouts, dieting, and my progress with fitting back into my Joe’s Jeans (current status: am able to button the waist, but cannot yet sit down without rupturing an internal organ).

Also, there will be progress photos. Dear god.

Anyway, please go check it out if you’re interested. I think you have to be a Gather.com member to post comments, but you can always email me if you have Blog Topic Requests.

(I don’t know if I mentioned it before, but Intervention has totally been my guilty maternity-leave daytime television, uh, addiction. Maybe two or three times a week I’d put that on in the afternoon while feeding Dylan, and weep my way through whatever horrific personal tragedy was unfolding before me. Especially during the ubiquitous footage of the ruined adult as a young, innocent toddler, galloping around with a sunny grin, no indication whatsoever of the terrible future awaiting them — then I’d really get going, blatting all over Dylan’s soft spot and wiping my nose on a burp cloth. Cathartic, in a soul-crushingly depressing sort of way!)

Speaking of fashion or a lack thereof I go back to work tomorrow and I have no idea what to wear. I have all these new dresses but it doesn’t quite seem like the right weather yet and my jeans sort of fit but they sort of don’t and everything in my closet just seems LAME. I work in an extremely casual office (as in, some of my coworkers have been known to shuffle around in sweatpants and slippers) but I have been living in yoga pants for three straight months and I’m vaguely thrilled to have an excuse to wear something without elastic, and yet I’m already wondering if there’s a shirt that can be paired with my trusty Lululemons because ARGH.

You guys always know best: it’s your first day back at work, you want to look nice, but not Trying Too Hard nice, and you want to make it through the day without your waistband exploding. What do you wear? What do you wear?

PS: Thank you for the music suggestions — so many great recommendations in there! My iTunes bill is going to be fierce, and what great timing, right when we’re pretty much broke from my paid leave being over. Come on, economy stimulus check! Mama needs another Kate Nash song!

Also, the yoga instructor had either padded pants on or she was wearing knee pads under her pants and while I realized after the fifty-millionth minute of balancing on one knee with only a quarter inch of mat between my kneecap and the hard-ass floor that she was definitely onto something, I also couldn’t help thinking what JB would say if he saw me in a similar getup, and how he would probably sprain something trying to get out just the right sausage/protein snack/beefstick/Administer Orally Every Twelve Hours Preferably With a Meal joke.

Honestly, I don’t know what my problem is. Basically I am a twelve year old boy trying to pass off as a thirty-something suburban mom. It’s sad, really.

So hey, I need some new music (again). I start work next week and I need some fresh iPod content to make my commute tolerable. What have you been listening to lately that you can’t get out of your head? Loud/upbeat/butt-shaking stuff particularly appreciated.

He’s not entirely predictable about how he chooses to spend his daylight hours but oh my god he is such a good baby at night. He usually goes down around 8 PM in his crib, and JB wakes him up around 11 for a last feeding before putting him back to bed. His one night-time wakening happens anywhere between 3-5, and it is completely painless: he milkpigs 4 or 5 ounces, farts a few times (he is such a frat boy), then falls back asleep in his swing.

(And now that I’ve described this fantastic behavior I’ve probably doomed myself to an entirely new routine involving round-the-clock feedings and a sustained bout of screaming from 2 AM onward.)

It makes such a HUGE difference when babies start sleeping more. I don’t even think I was aware of how fractured I was feeling as a result of not getting enough sleep, I just powered entire cases of energy drinks at a time and tried to ignore the fact whenever I stopped moving for five seconds my eyes drooped shut and a line of slobber hung from my lower lip.

Oh, and the other big difference? Getting him out of our bedroom. I knew that would help and yet I resisted it, but now that he’s at least starting out the night in his crib and I’m not waking up over every snort and whuffle (and I’m not getting up to feed him at his first squeak), I think both of us are resting better.

In other news that has nothing to do with babies, sleeping or otherwise, JB has been wearing these beige camo-print cargo shorts paired with white socks and clunky Keen shoes, and it is SO DORKY LOOKING, in a very Pacific Northwest dorky kind of way. However, when I made fun of his ensemble, I couldn’t come up with an answer to his question of what the fucking hell he’s supposed to wear with shorts then, Mrs. Fashion Plate?

So what do you think? What should a guy wear with cargo shorts when it’s not quite warm enough to sport the open-toed Teva mandals?

The last three months have been . . . well, what can I say that I haven’t said a thousand times already? They have been wonderful, amazing, joyous. They have sucked big fat hairy balls.

I look back on those early weeks after Dylan was born and I can barely remember how difficult they were, the hardest days have already receded; a bad dream blurred upon awakening. The screaming puking newborn has morphed into a buttery pudge of coos and smiles, and I thank the great baby gods for that.

At three months old our boy is watching us constantly, ready to break into a giant drooly grin whenever our eyes meet his. He blathers away in his weird vowelly language and pistons his feet up and down happily, blasting out gunshot farts and blowing spit bubbles. His thighs look like something Pillsbury would sell in the refrigerated section of a grocery store, his hair is fuzzy and whisper-soft.

I tell him he is the silliest baby I’ve ever heard of. “You,” I say, as he flaps his arms and jogs in place, his mouth open wide. “You are ridiculous.” Aaaaaooooooww, he says, beaming and flashing me his cheek dimple. He is a flirt, a goofy good-humored guy with tenderly sweeping maybe-it’s-Maybelline eyelashes.

I love him so damn much. I used to worry: could I possibly love a second child as much as my first? And it’s true, what they all say: yes, yes, yes, yes you can. You expand. There are no limits.

We’re on to new schedules, now, new routines and busier days. I’m ready for it, and at the same time I wish I could hit pause and stay here just a little longer.

I feel frantically busy but stationary all at the same time and I crave the feeling of movement. My day is filled with duty and tedium and enjoyment and laughter but no forward momentum: a hamster on a wheel. I turn on DVDs and jump around the living room to banish the sensation of paralyzed limbs, of feet that fell asleep despite the long road beneath them.

My boys are like something enormous and spectacular mined from the depths of the earth, faceted and painfully glorious, heavy and burdensome. This is the most beautiful thing I have ever seen. This is so hard to carry. We hold them high and march through the days, bearing that which we love beyond all measure. My arms tremble.

I am so much more capable than I have ever been. I am weak and filled with shortcomings. I am a flexing muscle, aching under an indescribable, joyous weight.