"Mom! She's blinking at me!"

Ever since my daughters were old enough to understand basic concepts, I have repeatedly told them, "Honey, you can tell me anything. Anything that's bothering you - you can tell me. I'm always here for you."

And it seems they were listening. Lately, my house is full of information.

"MOM! She's poking me!"

"MOM! She took the doll I was playing with!"

"MOM! She's playing with the door again!"

"MOM! She's sitting on the book I want to read!"

"MOM! She won't let me sit on the bed with her!"

"MOM! She's LOOKING AT ME!"

The crowning jewel came Saturday at my mom's house. After telling them both repeatedly that they were not allowed upstairs, I realized that they'd snuck up there without permission again. I stomped up the stairs and before I even lay eyes on them yelled out, "You aren't supposed to be up here and you know it!"

When I entered the room in which they'd holed up, Peanut looked at me, eyes filled with guilt, and said earnestly, "MOM! Loaf is upstairs."

"You're upstairs," I answered back matter of factly.

Without missing a beat Loaf declared, "Mom, Peanut upstairs first."

Oh. My. GAWD.

Today, I actually told them, "unless someone is bleeding, I don't want to hear it," which goes completely and utterly against my previous you-can-tell-me-anything stance.

Then, about ten minutes after I talked with them about tattling, Loaf tattled on Peanut. Peanut's response? "MOM! Loaf is telling on me."

I used to read about tattling and wonder why it got so much ink in parenting books and blogs. It seemed like a pretty insignificant problem in the world of parenting. BOY WAS I WRONG. It is a huge deal. Enormous. It is the size deal that drives parents slowly insane and makes them long for the days when they did not have to deal with such petty, ridiculous crap.

Seriously, what am I supposed to do with this? Do you have any ideas? Come on, you can tell me. So long as your suggestion doesn't start with a whiny "MOM!" I'm open.

Pondering life's great questions

After a particularly bad round of fighting with her sister:

Peanut: Mommy, was I happier before Loaf was born?

Play along: What do you think he did?!?

Today in Loehmann’s, I happened to look up and right in front of me is a young woman with an obviously bored-out-of-his-ever-fucking-mind man standing off to one side. Draped over his arm is a massive quantity of women’s clothing.

She is furiously rifling through the sales rack in front of her, occasionally plucking something out and hanging it over her own arm. Suddenly, she stops, turns to him and snaps, “Here! This is getting heavy again. You hold it,” as she transfers her pile of clothing to his.

He actually winces in a display of physical pain when this happens. I’m not sure if that’s due to her gruff manner, the gargantuan weight of the clothing, or impending credit card bill he knows he is about to receive from this little expedition.

Clearly, he was not there by choice, because really, what man who is not under serious womanly peril would chose to spend his afternoon like that? So my theories as to why he was playing the role of her shopping caddy are:

A. He spent all day yesterday screaming at the NFL playoffs and ignored her,
B. He was out with friends at a bar screaming at the NFL playoff games all night and did not arrive home until the wee hours of the morning, or
C. He was found looking at porn on his computer.

Any guesses? Come on – we can all play along.

Internal conflict

I have two gorgeous children.

I do not want a third.

I am sure of this.

I do not want to go back to square one: diaper blow outs, nursing, bottles, pacifiers, hourly feedings, crying for no known reason (though there are moments when I find myself still dealing with this), weaning, sleep training, having to do everything with one hand, etc., etc., etc.

I have given away all of my baby goods—from the bassinet to the infant car seat to onesies and infant toys—as Loaf outgrows them.

I do not wish to subject myself to another pregnancy—the nausea, the weight gain, the bloating, the insomnia, the back pain, the sciatica, the cramps, the dry skin, the itchiness, the sore boobs, the heartburn, the acid reflux, the bleeding gums and the cankles. I do not wish to spend nine months in a constant state of anxiety worrying about about something – everything – going wrong. Not to mention I have no desire to relive labor, birth and post-birth recovery.

I am nearly 39 years old.

I do not even particularly enjoy the needy infant stage that much.

I am 100 percent sure that I do not want a third baby.

So why – WHY— is it that lately every time I see a newborn baby, my heart clinches up and my uterus actually aches with a pain that can only be described as emptiness?

Why do I find myself eagerly drinking in every word of the slew of newly pregnant bloggers who, even as they write about the inconveniences and annoyances of pregnancy, make me secretly wish I could join them?

Why do I find myself feeling what can only be described as jealousy when friends tell me they are pregnant? Why does it suddenly seem like 50 percent of the women at my gym are hugely pregnant (and glowing and fit to boot)? Why could I not take my eyes off the sweet gurgling three-month-old at the new playgroup I joined last week? And why did I tear up the other night while wistfully thinking back on soft baby skin, fuzzy heads, a tiny warm body sleeping on my chest, sweet, grunty baby noises and early toothless smiles?

Can anyone please answer this for me? Because this sappy maternal craving shit is really starting to piss me off.