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I've come to the conclusion that even if I were a taste tester for Ben & Jerrys (and for whom would that NOT be a dream job?) I'd probably want to go out for a steak every now and then. And the question then becomes why should I feel guilty about that?

So why is it that when I feel the need to ask for "time off" from being a mommy do I feel guilty? Angelina is 100% a mommy's girl, to the point that she looks at Daddy when he comes home from work wanting a hug, and screams "NO!" while hiding behind mommy. Unfortunately for her, she's just at the height where she's burying her face in my ass, and I always wonder why this would be more appealing than giving Daddy a hug. 'Course I don't mention that one to him, he's demoralized enough.

Then I was pondering how I could explain this to men... Suppose your 24/7 job was painting bikinis on super models. Wouldn't you still occasionally want a break to go watch a football game, be around people for whom you don't have to suck in your gut, and drink beer? Would you feel guilty about abandoning the now bikini-less super models for your ball-scratching beer bash? NOOOO. You'd boast about how perfect your job was and how much fun it was to paint perfect perky breasts. You'd be the envy of all the guys. You'd come back refreshed, and with the wonderful idea to paint a bikini top like two beer cans with the tops popped, and a bikini bottom like a bowl of chips -- the ultimate dream of just about every man. Enough with the artsy hibiscus blossoms! You'd win an award and the cover of Sports Illustrated -- precisely because you were able to go get some R & R.

Do you think men would "get" that? I wish. And why is it we so often have to ask, demand, wheedle and beg for our little breaks. Is it our fault? Do we sing the virtues of Mommyhood so much that they don't think we need our version of the beer bash? I'm happy with being able to shop at Rite Aid without having to piss off other shoppers by going down the exact center of the aisle to keep AJ from grabbing EVERYTHING and throwing it in the cart. How often can I calmly say "No, sweetie. We don't need _______________" fill in the blank with: incontinence pads, a bottle of tylenol, lipstick in purple, a garden gnome.

Listen to me. Sheesh. "Is it our fault?" What IS this? Are we PROGRAMMED to find a way to feel guilty. ARGHHHHHH. Or is it that men are just never going to be intuitive about what others need? It's the old "I can't read your mind" defense. But we women can. He pours his coffee, I hand him the cream -- did I read his mind or am I just aware? I love men, don't get me wrong, and Doug's beyond super. It's the purpose of life to keep learning.

A friend of mine is now pregnant with her third boy. When Daddy comes home, she might as well not exist for the other two. Another Seahorse who has a boy reports the same phenomenon, and was actually able to read several novels on a recent vacation. I vaguely remember what a novel is. On those rare occasions when I've read for entertainment, I've made sure it's in German so that I am at least refreshing the language while I'm "relaxing."

So then the question is, is it a gender thing? Does it switch? Am I going to have one on the breast and one on the hip come September? I'm almost looking forward to the mandatory post C-section five days in the hospital. Where else will I have help like that? And now that the ultrasound has shown that #2 will be a girl, I'll probably have two mommy's girls. And that will be absolutely wonderful except for those two or three hours a week when I've totally lost my mind.

How is it I can be completely charmed by her while she's lying to my face. She stands there with THAT look of concentration on her face and I ask if she's going poo poo. Between grunts she looks at me with big blue eyes and says "No, Mommy."

Angelina's a runner. And she hasn't gotten to the point where she understands, or should I say complies with "Come Here!" Since she did this on my 75 year old mom, I thought I needed to put a stop to it. I have one of those politically incorrect enough harness/leash combos for kids, but since I don't want to trust my daughter's life to velcro I went to PetSmart. She's officially -- by weight - a "medium" dog. I've gotten some weird looks but, as that brilliant philosopher Mr T. was fond of saying, "I pity the fool" who actually ever says anything since I've got my soapbox and speech about child safety in my back pocket at all times.

There have been a lot of boo boos lately that need kissing. Angelina insists on kissing OUR boo boos too. Doug was hopping around on one foot the other day, intently NOT cursing and Angelina insisted on kissing his foot. She'll bang her head on the table, gotta kiss the boo boo. She'll stub her toe on a toy, gotta kiss the boo boo. This was fine until she had a bad reaction to something she ate and wound up with diaper rash so bad she was arched up in her car seat, screaming. I got her in the house and was changing her when she sobbed "Mommy! Boo boo! KISS!" And of course, because it was my sweet baby's cute little behind (and because I'd didey-wiped the heck out of it) I planted little kisses on each cheek. What we won't do for them.

Angelina thought it was fun this morning to take little pieces of toilet paper and stuff them up my nose while declaring "Booger!" -- in German it's "poppel." Even more amusing for her was when I'd press on the side of my nose, closing the other nostril, and snort the TP out of my nose with as much velocity as I could muster. The hubby walked into the bathroom and declared this disgusting... This? From the gender who considers lighting farts a rite of passage? If it amuses my daughter I'll snort TP for hours. I doubt this will spare her a singed heiney if she winds up a tom-boy.

Peekaboo has become "BeeBOO!" It took me a while to realize what she was saying. Poor little thing must think I'm really dense. It was brought home to me again how careful we need to be with our word choices. Don't ask me what got into her, but just yesterday while I was in another room, she ripped off her diaper and sat on the potty -- and peed -- all by her ownsome. Wow! Was I shocked! Her reward of choice is to get naked and roll around under the down comforter in our bed. This being Pacifica, I only own flannel and it does feel good against the skin. She cheerily ordered "Mami, NAKT!" (Mommy, get naked!) and since I was dying to lose the bra anyway I complied. We rolled around, tickling and cuddling. She dug under the covers to get at the "Boobies!" and pretty soon we were playing BeeBoo, Boobies! I've made peace with my poor choice of words for the boobs, but then she was laying on her back, one ankle in each hand she said "BeeBoo Pussy!" Holy crap! Where did THAT one come from? Seeing my shock, and responding to my "What did you say?" she let go of an ankle, and unmistakingly pointed to her little privates and said with a proud grin "pussy, beeboo pussy!" She closed her legs together, then spread them again and said with an angelic little laugh, "beeboo pussy!" All it takes is a couple of times telling her during a diaper change "Hold still, Mommy's got to clean your little pussy" and the word is cemented for life. Oh well, I think it sounds nicer than "vulva."

I told Doug I was going to ask the Doctor if she could make a whole new incision for the next C section. Doug's response was something on the order of "Why the hell would you want another scar?" I told him I might get each tattooed with the baby's name. He just rolled his eyes. Never underestimate the maudlin sentimentality of a pregnant, hormonal woman, I told him. I'm sure Doug was wondering what the heck I'd have done with episiotomy scars.

So wish me luck, I'm starting week 20. I'm half way there and enjoying this pregnancy immensely now that the baby is moving around and letting me know she's there. What a joy this sensation is! What a blissfully happy time in my life. I'm so phenomenally blessed that at age 40 we were able to get pregnant again, the baby's healthy. Exhaustion is a tiny price to pay to be part of this beautiful miracle. My house is a mess, I never wear makeup, I look like crap but I'm blissfully happy. Copyright 2005, Evelyn James