There's so much work involved with caring for a very small child, but pretty much all of it boils down to Keeping the Baby Alive, Limiting the Amount They Cry, and Occasionally Removing Their Coating of Filth. I mean, sure, there are intermittent brain-benders having to do with figuring out their sleep, and finding the best ways to get calories inside their cry-holes, and deciding whether or not Baby Einstein videos promote development or beam math-destroying dullard rays directly into their fontanels -- but generally it's less about middle management strategy sessions and more about digging for patience reserves as you deal with what is essentially a tiny, adorable howler monkey.

Toddlers, on the other hand, are sort of a terrifying combination of Infant + Teenager, where one minute they're curled in your lap wanting hugs and kisses, and the next they're slamming the door to their room and blaring emo music and writing angry poetry because no one understands their needs. They require much of the work a baby does -- because they aren't quite ready to open the fridge, fix themselves a sandwich, then grab a hot shower before motoring off to preschool -- and they also require active intervention, in the form of discipline, education, and guidance.

Guidance! How scary is it that there is a human on this earth that needs my questionable life-navigation advice? Never mind the sheer horror of helping my kids make it through their school years without succumbing to the various horrors that could befall them (like drugs! Unsavory friendships! Eventual dedication to the Republican Party!), I'm freaked out that my ineptitude is going to ensure the presence of a diaper under my child's commencement robe.

See, we're in the midst of potty training in our household, and nothing has made me question my parental abilities quite like the task of teaching a child to void themselves somewhere other than their own pants. I secretly want to punch all the people who claim they trained their kid in one joyous feces-filled day, and if there was a professional potty trainer I could hire -- sort of a Cesar Milan-esque Potty Whisperer -- I would totally do so, because at least I could feel confident that someone with some EXPERIENCE was handling this project. My only skill set with regards to the potty is knowing how to use it myself.

(And, frankly, even that came into question more than once during the Great Third Trimester Chest Cold of Aught-Seven.)

Still, though, what can you do but muddle onward, making mistakes and hopefully learning from them (Handy Potty Tip! Offering M&Ms as a reward can result in a child producing exactly one molecule of pee at a time before demanding a CHOCWATE, PLEASE). This surely won't be the last time I'm faced with a parenting challenge and feeling unsure about whether or not I'm doing the right thing -- but man, I sure hope it's one of the last ones that involve poop.

Enjoying the simple things in life:
"I happy to be holding this blue cup!"

Following a thought to its logical conclusion:
"Daddy goes poop on the potty like a big boy and he get an M&M? A GWEEN one?"

Criticizing parental music abilities:
"No WHISTLING wight now. No SINGING. Hey you guys, dat's enough!"

Exploring manners:
"I want some milk, please. Please, right now. Fank you!"

Learning cause and effect:
"You going exercise, get all sweaty, needa SHOWER? Mommy's socks SMELLY?"

Torturing the household pets:
"Eeeeeeeee! It's the kitty, Mommy. Say: meow meow! I pull her tail, okay?"

Fashioning artful excuses:
"No, I can't pick up dat toy, I'm too little."

Creative descriptions:
"Dat's a TWO PUMP camel right dere."

Revealing someone's foul language habits, probably his father's:
"Mommy? I have a, um, shiddy diaper."

Working on his standup routine:
"What TIME it is? Eleben? Oh, I thought it was BOOTY TIME."

Specific mealtime requests:
"I want a peanut butter and peanut butter sandwich, Mommy. No jam! Just peanut butter. No jam wight now, okay?"

Heartbreaking cuteness:
"You have a booboo, Mommy? I kiss it, it all better."

Brain-bending annoyingness:
"Where Daddy go? Where Daddy go? Where Daddy go? Where Daddy go? Where Daddy go? Where Daddy go? Where Daddy go? Where Daddy go? Where Daddy go? Where Daddy go? Where Daddy go? Where Daddy go? Where Daddy go?"

The other day when I was at the gym I realized that the cloth I had tossed in my bag to use as a sweat-absorber was a burp rag. I mean, a clean one, but still. It was one of those hankie-sized cloths that come ten to a pack from Babies R Us, and it was festooned with cartoon whales. As it turns out, dabbing daintily at your forehead with an aquatic-themed washcloth is a fantastically efficient method of deflating any sense of bad-assedness you might have worked up during your kickboxing class.

Thanks to my own disorganization and regrettable tendency towards sloppiness, the children's accoutrements have pretty much infiltrated my entire life. The backseat of my car contains enough cracker crumbs to feed a family of ducks for a month, I've had an old baby bathtub in my trunk for weeks (Goodwill doesn't take such items, it turns out), every pocket of every pair of pants I own has at least one tissue squirreled away in its depths from the constant vigilance a toddler snout requires, and a few days ago I pulled a pen from my purse which had a Soothie pacifier firmly stuck to its nib.

The most embarrassing, though, was the time I dug out my wallet at a grocery store and accidentally yanked a Ziploc'd diaper from the bottom of my oversized purse. A wet, used diaper. Which I had sealed in a plastic bag with the intention of throwing it away as soon as I could find a garbage can, except I never did. And it had created its own . . . weather system inside the bag, coating the inside with little rainforesty moisture droplets. This repulsive item somehow hitched a ride on the corner of my wallet and made its humiliating debut right in front of an entire line of customers at the store before I managed to wrestle it back out of sight. I suppose that technically there are worse things that could have erupted from my purse, but aside from a tampon which has escaped its wrapping and comes peeping out like a tufted, dingy white cotton mouse, string dangling gaily over the side, its side stamped with the soul-shriveling text SUPER ABSORBENCY, I'm not entirely sure what they might be.

Tell me I'm not alone with the kid-stuff-everywhere issue. Okay, fine, so you don't carry used diapers in your purse (aren't YOU fancy), but surely I'm not the only one who has a baby sock in their coin pocket? That's normal, right?

I was snickering (with you! WITH you!) at some of your comments on my last entry, particularly the poster whose screaming son scared everyone enough to take him to the ER where he eventually ripped an enormous fart -- the apparent source of all his discomfort -- before immediately calming down and falling asleep. Ha ha ha! I mean, I hope it's funny now, because I'm sure it was a fairly horrible experience at the time.

Speaking of being able to laugh at past unpleasant experiences, I'm reminded of the time our first boy was a newborn and he hadn't pooped for a couple days. I had been obsessively detailing every single molecule that went in or came out of his body in an Excel spreadsheet (a crazymaking and frankly stupid practice we thankfully never considered for one hot second when our second son was born) and as I realized I hadn't documented anything in the appropriately-colored "POOP" column for more than 24 hours, I started to freak OUT.

With some barely-remembered set of instructions in my mind that had to do with -- I am not even making this up -- relieving constipation in pet rats, I did some Googling and verified that a well-lubricated Q-tip could do the same trick on babies. I stationed my husband nearby with the phone, ready to dial -- well, I don't know: 911? The National Guard? Oprah? -- and ever so carefully . . . I, um, "swirled" a vaseline-coated Q-tip in my baby's butt.

For several days my 3-month-old had been channeling his 3-week-old self, in that he re-developed a startling habit of randomly hosing down his entire body and any nearby furniture/parents/passing cats with the contents of his stomach. I had informed him that I thought we were past all that infantile behavior and that he was a GREAT BIG BOY now, RIGHT, I mean have we not moved up to the 3-6 month sized feetie pajamas, HMMM? -- but instead of listening he just jammed his fingers in his mouth, because hey, if he's not barfing for no apparent reason, that means he's got time to dramatically gag himself, right? Let's see just what that washing machine's capable of.

He had no other symptoms of illness: he'd been eating just fine, sleeping as normal, and whenever he's not trying to set the house on fire with his brain he's generally doing a whole lot of gummy-mouthed smiling, but I finally dragged him (literally: my god, that carseat weighs a TON) into the pediatrician's office on Monday just to make sure everything was okay.

Once we were situated in the exam room, I put him on the table where he instantly acted as though I had dipped him in Zoloft, or maybe tequila. The squirming! The joyous squealing! The meaty, hysterical giggles! It was like he'd been waiting his whole newbornhood for the luxurious experience of lying face-up on a paper-covered table. I have never seen him so filled with joie de vivre, and I wondered where I might be able to purchase a Baby's First Medical Equipment™ Paper Exam Table of my very own.

The nurse took one look at my hilarity-filled baby -- his rosy cheeks glowing, his pudgy thighs kicking -- and then peered over her glasses back at me. "So he's doing some spitting up, then?" she asked, and I could actually see her picturing the home situation that propelled me (clearly a bug-eyed, medical-website-surfing mom) to the doctor's office: the teaspoon of milk he produced after a hefty post-meal burp, the panicked call I made to 911 as a result.

I am one of those people who thinks it's awful when parents dish out unwanted advice to other parents, or even worse, non-parents, and yet sometimes I can't help myself. The other day I was horrified to find myself telling someone "if there's ONE thing I've learned about parenthood, it's that nothing is predictable! So keep that in mind: just when you think you've got your kid figured out, he'll change EVERYTHING!". Which, god, shut up, self, because I should clarify that the person I was speaking to did not in fact request my One Most Useful Piece of Parenting Know-How, I just up and offered that all on my own, and also, ALSO? I can't even follow my own advice, because even though the whole business of unpredictability is in fact true, I fall into a DAILY trap of thinking I know what the hell is going on in my own household and guess WHAT, I NEVER DO.

Hoo, sorry to go all CAPS LOCK on you, I'm just still reeling from a challenging couple weeks with the kids, where there was illness and then there was crankiness and the baby's started slobberingly gnawing his hands (no teething! no teething allowed! You're only 3 months old!) and wildly gagging on his fingers and I keep thinking he's hungry when he's tired and vice versa and my toddler has been oscillating between extreme cuteness and downright putridness and I feel like I've been plunged into jungle warfare lately, like where are the next round of bullets coming from, NO ONE KNOWS.

I guess it's mainly the baby's presence that makes everything extra crazy, because although Riley's mood can greatly change depending on such intangible factors as the number of oxygen molecules in the room and the position of the planets, he at least sticks to a basic routine of napping/sleeping/eating. In comparison, Dylan's the real chaos factor. Will he nap in short, frustrating intervals, or will he lapse into a comalike state for three solid hours in the middle of the afternoon, causing me to worriedly hold mirrors in front of his sleeping mouth? Will he milk-bong about a thousand ounces at this feeding, or will he daintily sip a few swallows and then loll his tongue out, totally distracted by the beige wall paint? Truly, even when babies start to develop schedules they are still a (pooping) mystery wrapped in a (spitup-coated) enigma.

So even though I clearly need to STFU when it comes to offering Helpful Little Parenting Guidelines, here's the ONE thing I KNOW is true: I am totally winging it over here. Seriously. I've been at this job for two and a half years and I swear it just gets more humbling every day.

What about you? Do you feel pretty confident as a parent, like you've pretty much got your stuff together -- or are you winging it too?

Holy rugrats, Batman: apparently the rumors about Angelina Jolie having not one but TWO buns in the oven are correct. Are the celebs drinking from the same twin-producing water cooler these days?

While promoting their awesomely-titled movie, "Kung Fu Panda," costar Jack Black spilled the beans during a joint interview with Angelina, dropping the phrase, "when you have these [babies]."

Jolie was then asked by Today show's Natalie Morales if she is in fact having twins, and replied, "Yeah, yeah, we've confirmed that already. Well, Jack's just confirmed it actually."

At that point, everyone on earth rushed to find a good picture of Angelina Jolie's pregnant body, because twins? Really? Girlfriend still looks like she needs a STEAK.

The undoubtedly gorgeous specimens will be the 5th and 6th additions to the Jolie-Pitt clan, whose family currently includes Maddox, 6; Pax, 4; Zahara, 3; and Shiloh, who turns 2 this month. With two more bio-kids on the way, this balances the brood between adoptive and biological offspring, if anyone's counting.

Jolie demurred when asked about the babies' gender, saying they would like to keep that information private. That is, if Jack doesn't end up spilling the beans on that one, too. Something tells us he has a pretty sweet baby gift -- make that gifts -- coming to make up for that slip of the tongue!

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My 3-month-old has started laughing, or more accurately, chortling. His version of laughing at this stage is much like I remember his brother's: a staccato "ah-heh-heh, ah-heh" sound, accompanied by a delighted grin. The thing that was cracking Dylan up a few days back was my comical choking sound as I loomed over him and he kicked his frog toes against my neck. "Aaaaauuucccch," I would say, bugging out my eyes and letting my tongue loll out of my mouth in the Universal Sign For Pretending to be Choking. "AUUCCH. You're KICKING my NECK! HELP! Someone SAVE ME from KARATE NECK-KICKING BABY!" And Dylan would bark his weird little robot chortle, practically slapping his knee with the hilarity of it all.

Since then I've caught him laughing at his brother's antics, too, although I have the feeling that is more of a joyous expression of the DEVOTION he feels towards Riley. For his part, Riley is quite tender towards his immobile younger sibling (with a few exceptions: notably, the ongoing forbidden Let's Throw Hard Plastic Balls In the Air Above the Baby! game, and what is the DEAL with those balls anyway, I keep getting rid of them and he keeps finding more, they're like Tribbles) and speaks to him in this weird ultra-high-pitched voice that makes my eardrums shiver and Dylan obviously loves.

My toddler got sick this week and it was a feverish sort of malaise-inducing illness that completely erased his normal spirited personality. He was depressed, sunken-eyed, prone to picking random spots on the floor on which to stretch out and whimper, clutching his ever-present -- and increasingly filthy -- blanket to his runny nose. It was so utterly unlike him I felt he'd been replaced by Pod Toddler. A Poddler. A creature (surely an emo fan) whose presence was like a black cloud of mucusy despair.

While I tried to tend to my unhappy two-year-old with goopy doses of Tylenol and helpless words of comfort ("Dude, I know: colds suck"), the baby decided that it would be a fine day to refuse all naps and act as though his legs were being gnawed by piranhas every time I put him down. I eventually found myself staggering from one end of the house to the other, first trying to get the baby in a state where he'd be calm for five consecutive seconds, then heading back to the sobbing toddler while the baby's inevitable howls of dismay echoed down the hall.

My 3-month-old has figured out that the starfish-like things at the end of his arms actually belong to him, and whenever he's not busy destroying our eardrums howling out his various commands ("MORE MILK! ENTERTAIN ME FOR I HAVE BECOME BORED! REMOVE THE POOP FROM MY BUTT CRACK IMMEDIATELY!") he's staring at his waving fingers, all tripped out.

He's also testing his growing ability to manipulate his sticky little monkey paws, which is causing all sorts of problems. For instance, he tends to get his hands all up around the bottle while he's eating, or goes ahead and shoves a finger or two into his furiously suctioning mouth, sending milk all down his face and into his neck-folds before it's eventually absorbed by my bra strap. If he's not doing that, he's pulling my shirt halfway down to my waist, yanking my hair, or just giving me an out-of-nowhere hook to my upper jaw.

I really, really cherish the times when I have a chance to escape the house and get out on my own, even if it's only for an hour doing something like poking around our neighborhood thrift store or sipping a coffee at Starbucks. O, freedom! On my way out to my car I have to stifle the urge to leap into the air and click my heels.

It's not that I'm constantly dying to get away from the kids (usually), I just love the brief sense of being unfettered by the responsibilities of parenthood -- made all the sweeter by the fact that these moments are few and far between. It's all about MEEEEE, I sing in my head as I drive along in my cracker-crumb-laden ride with the two (TWO!) carseats in the back, blaring my music at adults-only levels. I'm footloose and fancy FREEEEEE!

The weird thing is, once I'm out in public I feel . . . I don't know, like I'm missing some critical part of my persona. I start feeling the strangest urge to go up to people with kids and tell them that I, too, am a parent. Not that I would ever do that, of course, because I might be a giant dork but I am not THAT socially inept (yet); I just have a real desire to somehow inform the world that I have these two boys and they are so awesome and, you know, they're not with me right now, but they exist! Really!

Do you ever feel that way? Like you vaguely wish you had one of those HI MY NAME IS stickers, and that it read: PARENT? I feel like parenthood is such an integral part of who I am, and yet when I'm out on my own I suppose I'm oddly paranoid that it isn't obvious.

I seem to keep forgetting to take Dylan to his 2-month checkup, for no particular reason other than life is busy and I am stupid. This week has officially become No Good Schedule-Wise so it'll have to be next week at the earliest, at which point he'll no longer be 2 months old. Will they refuse to see him? "I'm sorry, ma'am, but this child is THREE months old. You'll have to leave, and please collect your Bad Parenting Sticker on the way out."

I also just realized that this upcoming appointment is the one where he is supposed to get, what, about seventy-eight shots? All in his defenseless Pillsbury-roll thigh? Okay: it's really five, right? Five vaccinations. All at once.

*giant, anxiety-filled sigh*

I am neither convinced I should delay vaccinations for Dylan (uh, delay them more than I already have by means of forgetfulness, that is) nor am I filled with a sense of conviction that I'm doing the right thing by getting those shots ASAP. All I know is that I want to keep my baby safe: safe from ALL diseases and reactions and, you know, random bolts of lightning that everyone says won't happen but hello, sometimes they DO.

So! You think we can talk about this subject without getting all pissed off at each other? I'm just curious about your take on vaccination schedules: did you go the typical route with regards to timing when your child was little (2 months, 4 months, 6 months, etc), or did you choose something different?

I don't know if you've noticed this, but being around very small children can make a grown adult act like a capering, idiotic clown. Witness my daily ritual of singing to my 3-month-old at the top of my lungs during a diaper change:

Did you poop, poop, poop, poop your pants?
Did you poop, poop, poop, poop your pants?
If you're feeling warm and mushy then it's time to check your tushie
If you poop, poop, poop, pooped your pants!

The Poop Poop Poop Your Pants Song is an old family favorite from when my toddler was a baby. We also enjoy the following during baths, sung to the tune of "In The Summertime":

If your figs are clean, then your nuts are very nice
If your figs are clean, then your nuts are very nice
If your figs are clean, you're not stanky you're not stanky anymoooooore

(This is particularly entertaining when accompanied by an Ashlee-Simpson-esque hoedown dance.)

My husband sings an interesting rendition of "Hush, Little Baby" that features his own take on the lyrics:

And if that diamond ring don't shine
Daddy's gonna drink some turpentine
[...] And if that twenty-dollar bill don't change
Daddy's gonna buy you something strange

Riley's heard that song so many times he lustily sings along with his favorite lines: "TUPPENTINE!"

What kind of ridiculous songs are being sung in your household?

I don't know if I'd call myself an optimist, but I often sail along with a blind sense of it-can't-happen-to-me-ism. Or in the case of my family, it can't happen to us. This allows me to make it through the day without succumbing to a full-body panic over the myriad unpleasant fates that could befall one of my kids at any moment, such as accidents, illnesses, pianos falling from the sky, dingo attacks, and so on.

Unfortunately, this sort of thinking is what leads me to constantly get peed on. I mean, I know my 3-month-old is basically a human sprinkler, I know the sensation of having a diaper removed and a cool wipe applied can trigger any number of Bellagio-esque outbursts, and yet every single time I forgo the protective diaper or washcloth shield. Why do I do this? Because every single time I think, oh, I don't think he'll pee on me today. And that is usually when a powerful jet of liquid sprays me directly in the eyesocket.

I don't understand this about myself. I feel like I have gained all sorts of experience since we brought our first son home, and yet in this arena I remain painfully naive, ignoring all historical evidence in favor of allowing my shirt to get hosed down yet again -- then having the nerve to be surprised about it. "Crap!" I say, spluttering and flailing and mopping up my clothes, all startled and unprepared, as if the whole thing was totally UNAVOIDABLE.

Is it always true that ignorance is bliss? Because when the ignorant person is being urinated on at least once a day and twice on Sundays, I'm not sure how that can be.

Dylan, my three-month-old, has been a formula-fed baby from birth, and not that anyone needs an explanation about that but I'll just quickly say it was a couldn't-vs-wouldn't issue. My older boy Riley also had bottle instead of breast, and since I knew after his birth that my situation would require any future children to suckle at the sweet teat of Isomil instead of my own I've had some time to get used to this fact.

You'd think that would mean I've been able to lay aside any guilt and regret for something I have no control over, and yet I haven't, not completely. I read Angie's post here at ParentDish about the pro-breastfeeding billboard that reads "Babies are made to be breastfed" with great interest because I have seen these signs in Seattle (often near a Starbucks, of course --- mmmm, breastmilk cappucino!) and my own gut reaction was one of defensiveness. I've thought, where the hell is the second line that says 'Although we acknowledge that not all mothers are meant to breastfeed'?

As some of the commenters have pointed out, though, the billboard is probably meant more as public service announcement for those who still react to the sight of a breastfeeding woman as though she has sleazily whipped open a trenchcoat to flash her goods at innocent passers-by.

One thing I've learned the hard way -- especially since becoming a parent -- is that no one can make you feel guilty. Not your friends, your family, the media, or angry internet commenters. It's a feeling you have to own, because it's your own creation. Whenever I see an ad for formula or even the container of formula itself that reads "Breast milk is recommended" I want to whop the makers of Whatchamacallit Advanced with Iron over the head and yell I KNOW THAT BUT THANKS FOR REMINDING ME THAT I'M POISONING MY CHILD WITH YOUR INSANELY EXPENSIVE POWDER. Is it the formula company's fault for making me feel that way? Or the US Department of Health's for putting up a pro-breastfeeding billboard? Nope, that's all on me.

Didn't someone once say something like, guilt leads to fear, fear leads to anger, anger leads to hate, and hate leads to suffering? Or, wait . . . I just mis-quoted Yoda. Well, still.