Turns out, Wyoming does agree with me. It was the best trip of our life. Better, even, than our honeymoon, we decided.

That may have had at least something to do with the fact that we know with certainty that our days of relaxing vacations and time for just the two of us are numbered. In fact, our days number 172 as of the time of this posting.

Now incubating Human Newman, expected March 21, 2011.

It was very difficult to blog over the summer, having found out on July 12 that I am pregnant but not being able to say anything about it until, oh, just recently.

I have a lot of stories built up. A LOT. Mostly centering on the absurd things Rob has been saying in anticipation of this baby, and mostly when we are in bed and I am about to fall asleep. Consequently, I’ve forgotten a lot of it, although some statements have been just too hilarious to forget. Lucky for you, I’ve started keeping a notebook by the side of my bed. Next to the Saltines and a copy of What To Expect When You’re Expecting.

A quick sampling, just to get us warmed up:

Amanda (poking still barely visible baby belly): “Look at my belly! I think its growing.”
Rob: “I know! You are a big fat whale!”
Amanda: “No. You aren’t supposed to say that.”
Rob (completely innocent): “Oh. I’m not?”

Rob: “How soon can babies walk? Two months?”
Amanda: “No, like a YEAR.”
Rob: “A year? No way. Our baby is going to have to learn how to walk before that. Get it together!”
Amanda: “Good luck with that.”
Rob: “How long before he can play touch football?”
Amanda: “Like, at least seven years, Rob.”
Rob: “I don’t know about this baby thing.”

Amanda: “Oooh, do I get a pushing present?”
Rob: “I guess so! What do you want? A purse? Something with diamonds? An iTunes gift card? A new car?”
Amanda: “What? How are those things remotely in the same category?”
Rob: “Oooh, I know what you need. A bayonet.”
Amanda (pauses): ” …. A bayonet?”
Rob (longer pause): ” … Wait. What’s a bassinet?”
Amanda: “Something you stick on the end of your rifle so you can skewer your baby.”
Rob: “I think what the baby really needs is a subwoofer in the living room.”

Rob: “I was picturing our baby today, and I accidentally pictured him as something that could fly.”

Coming soon: Lots more where that came from. Also, my thoughts on pregnancy, how we got into this mess in the first place, the end of life as we know it, and some absolutely classic reactions from family and friends.

I promise.

We are dog-sitting Charlie while Ben and Abbie are on their honeymoon.

(Charlie being the aforementioned gigantic yellow lab. He’s, like, a hundred pounds, no kidding. His head is approximately the size of my ass, which everyone knows is quite large and juicy. He poops about a quart of poop, twice a day. It’s insane.)

At first, Molly was the spastic one, jumping all over our guest, demanding a wrestling match. If Charlie got ahold of one of her toys, she’d bark sharply and incessantly in protest, and he’d drop it, sigh heavily, and galumph over to sit by me.

For the most part, Charlie just slept a lot, sprawled unselfconsciously despite his hugeness, occasionally moaning or grunting like a big, sweet, dumb kid. (There’s a great Flowers for Algernon joke Rob and I have going, but I’ll leave it to your imagination, since even just mentioning this is soooo not PC.)

Now Molly is the one hiding out under my desk, trying to get some shut-eye goddammit, while Charlie vigorously chews all the new (to him) Nylabones around the house, moo-ing randomly because he is hungry or excited, or both. Which he is, with gusto, at all times.

But I think Molly is rubbing off on him. Last night, I left them un-crated for five minutes while I ran over to Walgreens, and when I returned, they had retrieved a stale loaf of bread from the garbage can and were gobbling it down like they might never eat again.

We all know Molly spends most of her free time Dumpster-diving in our trash can, but when I leave her loose in the house to run a quick errand, she always watches pathetically from the window, as if her good behavior will bring me back. And Charlie, despite his unending hunger, would ordinarily be mortified by such disobedience. He strives, above all else, to be a Good Boy.

Yet, together, they are a force to be reckoned with. I swear they are purposely egging each other on.

How is it that two dogs are more than twice as much as one?

This is how parents must feel, going from one child to two. It’s remarkable how different they are: Charlie with his basic willingness to please (that is occasionally trumped by his excitability, which is, of course, exacerbated by his size), and Molly with her basic bossy impertinence (that is occasionally overlooked in favor of her better qualities, such as … um … being cute. Or, uhhhm … not shedding. Yeah, that’s definitely one).

They behave differently on walks: Charlie ducking his head when another dog comes our way, maybe leaning forward for a curious sniff, and Molly instantly going into batshit-insane mean-teeth mode if she so much as suspects that that creature in the distance might be a BLACK DOG. (My dog is a racist. How embarrassing.)

Rob and I even talk to them in different voices: Molly in a high-pitched pinch-the-baby’s-cheeks voice, and Charlie in a hey-buddy-do-ya-want-another-beer voice.

They are so different, for better and for worse, in such different ways, and I love them both for all that they are.

But, honestly, together? It’s like living in a zoo. They team up on me and take over. I’ve more or less given up this week to catering to their constant demands, whether its breaking up an argument over a bone or needing to go outside just once more, not because they have to do their business but because they’re just bored.

On the plus side,  Molly is going to be exhausted and therefore really, really good after Charlie goes home. And Charlie is a quick study on all kinds of new tricks, which I’ll leave as a surprise for when his mom and dad get home.

Not to mention I am enjoying every minute of the craziness in my house. I think that, after years of solitude working from home, and many more years of being an introspective, depressive-type person, I think all this commotion is good for me. My house is a disaster and I can’t hear myself think, but I’ve been in a perpetual state of bliss.

I hope this means I’ll do OK as a mom to human kids. When the time comes. As it is, having two dogs makes me feel like I could be very happy as a childless dog lady.

Just for fun, here is a glimpse of my crazy, crazy mornings. At first we had crazy nights, primarily because Charlie decided he was not happy about Molly sleeping in a crate and would whine his protest, nudging my face or thumping his tail on Molly’s crate, every hour, on the hour, until dawn. So now Charlie is sleeping in his crate, and Molly is sleeping in her crate, and, well, you can see how happy they are to reunite in the mornings:

Click here to view the embedded video.

I’m headed back outside again. The diarrhea train is pulling out of the station after last night’s garbage feast, and I’m just along for the ride.

Several months ago, Ben and Abbie had their first “for better or for worse” moment: they decided to run a marathon together.

They started out strong, running together six days a week along the lake shore, past their new condo and the grassy spot where they got engaged, nothing between them but the Chicago summer sunshine and a gigantic yellow lab.

Of course, life eventually got in the way – as it always does. Abbie’s responsibilities as Dimmer Queen of the World kept her out of town for days at a time, and Ben was spending more and more time in the lab, playing with worms under the auspices of finding a cure for cancer.

Then, Ben injured himself. He claims he hurt his knee trying to keep up with Abbie’s high school track-star pace, but the physician in him knows the truth: after one too many sleepless nights studying at Starbucks North & Wells, his leg muscles had finally atrophied.

It looked like Ben wasn’t going to be able to run the marathon after all.

But on the morning of the Chicago Distance Classic, he was up with the sun (like he is every day), pumping himself full of coffee (like he always does) and lacing up his running shoes (which were still brand new and in the box). Ben knew how important it was to Abbie that they run this race together, and that alone made it important to him.

So he ran with her.

He ran with her when the gun went off and thousands of people swarmed through the gates. He ran with her along the lake front, where they had begun their training, and he ran with her as the course grew unfamiliar. He ran with her when his knee began to ache, refusing her offers to stop to rest and rehydrate.

And when he could run no more, Ben did what he always did: he urged Abbie ahead.

This is a guy who manages to succeed in everything he tries — a talented student, scientist, singer, photographer, even drummer. You kind of want to hate him, but here’s the thing: he has absolutely no ego about it.

When it comes to Abbie, on the other hand, Ben has an undying confidence in her ability and insists that she follow her dreams. Like the time Abbie casually mentioned to Ben that she was thinking about getting her MBA –- and suddenly, business school catalogs mysteriously began to arrive in the mail.

For her part, Abbie is incredibly strong and independent. She’s out of town all the time, and she rarely whines about having a husband who spends 95 percent of his time in the lab. 

Ben and Abbie are both completely fine on their own. But here’s the remarkable part: after they’ve been apart for any appreciable amount of time, you can actually see them light up when are together again. Ben and Abbie love to be together, not because they need each other, but because they love each other. And that’s amazing, after ten years together — to still light up like that.

Anyway, Abbie ran ahead, determined to finish the race not just for herself, but for the both of them. She ran strong and fast, on the heels of the Ethiopians and the gazelles, and I swear to you that she was barely sweating.

When Abbie crossed the finish line, she kept on running. She looped back around the crowds, past Museum Park and back on the course, against the current of other runners. She ran until she found Ben, hobbling pathetically along the course.

All they had to do is look at each other, and they just lit up. And they knew they could carry on.

They ran together those last few miles, laughing and entertaining each other with their usual silliness and stupidity, the way only best friends can.

When they reached the home stretch, Ben and Abbie fell into step with each other. They were holding hands when they crossed the finish line.

Congratulations, Mr. and Mrs.! Have a great time in Maui! And Ben, stop reading my blog on your honeymoon! That iPhone is so confiscated.

I made the mistake today of going out into the real world wearing yoga clothes.

Being that I work from home, I tend to forget that the vast majority of the population does not live their lives wearing Lycra pants and a hoodie. After all, I only emerge from my house to go across the street to the gym (where everyone is wearing spandex), or to walk Molly down the block and back (where, if I’m wearing anything other than PJs or yoga clothes, the neighbors start asking questions about where I’m headed off to, looking so nice). I live in yoga clothes, changing out of them only at nighttime, to put on my comfy pants.

I am fine with this. In fact, I think I look my best in yoga or otherwise lounge-y clothes. I am far more confident about my appearance in spandex or pajamas than when I’m all gussied up. I can’t wait until the day I turn 60 and it finally becomes appropriate for me to shop at Eileen Fisher. I knew Rob was “the one” the day he remarked that I looked better in my beloved gray pajama pants than in a dress.

So it’s easy for me to forget that I shouldn’t go straight from yoga to, say, the Department of Motor Vehicles and the Social Security office downtown to finally officially change my name, lest I should attract unwanted attention.

Spandex is a privilege, not a right — and this is a lesson I am beginning to learn the hard way.

Of course, I have made this mistake before. Last winter, I left my yoga studio in Nashville, picked up Molly, and started the drive up to Chicago for the weekend. I made it all the way to central Indiana before having to pull over at a truck stop to gas up the Honda. And wouldn’t you know it, no sooner than I stepped out of the car did the truck drivers start in with the commentary.

It wasn’t all bad, though. Who doesn’t like to be called “Hey Gorgeous” once in awhile? And one of the guys practically fell all over himself to scrape the ice that had accumulated on my windshield. 

I made a mental note never to wear yoga pants out again. But today, I did.

I dropped off my yoga mat at home and, without changing my clothes, headed out to go downtown. I hadn’t even made it to the Sedgwick L station when I heard from behind me:

“Girl, you’re pretty juicy for a white girl.”

I looked up to see the man pass me. He’s black, a little disgruntled and insane-looking, quite possibly on his way to the rehab facility/homeless shelter next to the L station. He’s pushing a shopping cart full of cans, but he pauses, craning his neck to take a second admiring look at my, erm, juiciness.

Now, ordinarily, I am not offended by whistling and ogling and so forth. This is mostly because I don’t get hit on too often, so, hey, I’ll take what I can get.

But juicy? Really? He obviously meant it appreciatively, but I had to bite my tongue to keep from demanding, “ARE YOU CALLING ME FAT?” (I figured the best way to kick off an afternoon in the social security line was not by confronting someone who’s on — or worse, not on — something.)

White girls do not want to be juicy. In fact, we go to great lengths not to be juicy, or even to appear to be juicy. When we put celebrities on the covers of magazines, we airbrush out any and all traces of juiciness. We aspire to be completely juice-free.

When I called Rob to whiningly ask if he thinks I am fat, he maintained that juicy just means “sexy,” with no allusion to size or shape or muscle tone whatsoever.

I know better. So does Urban Dictionary, which defines juicy as:

1. Description of a girl’s high sex appeal and shapely figure, often related to the curves of a round butt or large breasts; thick and curvacious.
2.  Laced with PCP, as in, “Man, I’m ripped. Was that chronic juicy or something?”
3. As in Juicy Couture, a cheap but overpriced brand of tacky velour sweatsuits bought mostly by preteen girls and white-trash middle-aged women who think they’re on the cutting edge of fashion. 

Thick and curvaceous? I am now feeling very distressed about the size of my derrière. I mean, I know I’ve been getting a little jiggly, ever since I started up with all those smoothies on our honeymoon. I know I’ve gained back, like, ten of the 20 pounds I lost a few years ago, when I was at my juiciest. I just didn’t think it was that … noticeable.

Ugh. Why do I always allow the offhand commentary of the homeless to usher in a major personal life crisis? 

Oh well. I’m off to make banana bread out of the healthy bananas I bought with the express purpose of letting them over-ripen so I could make some sugary, carb-filled banana bread. I’m putting chocolate chips in there, too. And I will probably have eaten half of it before the night is over.

So stick that in your juice box and suck it.

That’s it. Molly and I are on a diet.

Back in Nashville, when a friend started calling Molly a hippo, I didn’t think anything of it. When we went on our honeymoon and the dog sitter reported to us that she had started feeding Molly a scant cup of dog food — rather than a heaping cup, as I instructed her — I shrugged it off.

And when the woman down the block started telling Molly how nice and plump she is these days, I just added it to the list of all the unsolicited, judgmental “advice” she gives me. I mean, this is the woman who, when we run into her and her dog on the street, feels welcome trying to teach Molly commands (it never works) and who has no qualms about hunkering down next to Molly and saying, “Now be sure to tell Mommy that you would like to start going to doggie obedience school, OK?” And then she goes along on her merry way, perfect golden retriever prancing alongside her. Like that’s a hard breed to train.

But now, it seems that everyone we meet on our walks has a comment about Molly’s weight: What are you feeding her? Because you know you shouldn’t give them as much as it says on the dog food label and My, my, looks like someone gets a lot of treats at home! and Whoa, she’s huge! I’ve never seen such a big Wheaten!

And then there’s my personal favorite, the direct hit: Wow, she’s really getting fat!

Um, excuse me? Since when is it OK to say something like that? I wouldn’t dream of telling you that your kid is looking fat these days. My my, little Bobby’s really going at those desserts. Looks like he’ll be in the husky sizes in no time!

And I can’t help but take it personally. I mean, I feed Molly exactly what it says on the label of her ultra-premium expensive dog food. She gets one dental hygiene bone a day, and almost no treats. And she never gets table scraps. Ever.

But wait, there’s more! You didn’t think I would leave out all the intimate details of our honeymoon, did you?

It was inexplicably wonderful to vacation in Maui with a big group of family and friends — we pretty much took over the resort! We couldn’t walk from one end to the other without running into at least a handful of people we know — but we were glad that we opted to honeymoon on another island altogether. The sheer exhaustion of all that socializing (and almost two years of, for me, planning, and for Rob, worrying) hit us like a ton of bricks, which seemed apropos given that we were vacationing on an island completely covered in rock.

With several active volcanoes spotting the terrain, the Big Island feels more like the moon than a tropical paradise. You can drive for an hour and scarcely see another soul, let alone a shrub. A thin haze (or vog, as they insist on calling it) hangs in the air, giving the days a dreamlike quality and making the nights almost frighteningly dark. And there is lava everywhere.

The landscape is absolutely breathtaking and unlike anything I have ever seen. I’m not one to cry at a pretty sunset, but something about setting foot on earth that was only just created 20 years ago gives me goosebumps. It feels like the end of the world, and the beginning, all at the same time.

On a drive through Kilauea national park, home of the most active volcano, the road comes to an abrupt stop because, just several dozen years ago, lava flowed over it. How ridiculous is that?

The whole “active volcano” thing made Rob a bit nervous. Here he is on our way up the mountain, preparing to put the top back on our sweet white Chrysler Sebring convertible, when the weather abruptly changed.

And here he is as we passed a sign that warned us to roll up our windows, as the emissions from the volcano contained sulphur and were unsafe to breathe. I, of course, insisted on rolling them back down to take a picture.

Rob was having none of it.

The entire vacation, he worried that the volcano was about to erupt and we’d all be swept into the ocean to our certain deaths. I made fun of him, naturally. They can predict when the volcano is going to erupt, they wouldn’t let tourists in dangerous places, this is America, blah blah blah.

But no sooner do we get home than the the Big Island’s name was splashed across headlines:

Huge Fountain of Lava Gushes From Kilauea Volcano in Hawaii
Kilauea volcano magma meets ocean with 100-foot lava burst
Scientists scratch heads at unpredicted eruption, should have listened to paranoid tourist

Yes, that’s right. Our honeymoon spot was ablaze.

The flight home was obscene. Do not, under any circumstances, fly United Airlines to Hawaii. Here is Rob, in the teeny-tiny, seven-gate, outdoor, cockroach-infested, Greyhound-station-esque airport, on hour three of our 30-hour delay, making the most of the mandatory down-time by billing some hours.

And here I am, on hour 29.

Caption: I hate it

Finally, for what amounted to (or at least felt like) three days without sleep, we were back in Chicago. And just in the nick of time for wedding numbers two and three!

Our landlord in Nashville has begun showing our house to potential tenants. We are driving up to Chicago next week to find a place to live, but if our previous house-hunting experiences are any indication, it takes us an average of 4.5 months of serious looking to find a place that is remotely acceptable for our over-anxious, hyper-critical, penny-pinching personalities. And that does not include the eight-month lead time during which I pore obsessively over the online classifieds.

Did I mention that, this time next month, we will be leaving for Hawaii? Between preparing for the wedding and the two (count ‘em) at-home receptions that follow (it’s our very own Nuptial Triple Crown!), we are more or less out of commission for six weeks.

That leaves us about 26 days (and 11 hours, 18 minutes, and nine seconds) to find, tour, finance, inspect, and close on a condo in the city. Not to mention we have to come up with a down payment while also paying for a wedding and honeymoon.

We are about to be homeless.

To top things off, Rob has decided that he wants to spend about half as much on a mortgage than would any reasonable person in our exact same financial situation. It’s all part of his Master Plan to retire by 40 with 20 million dollars in the bank. I’m not overly clear on the details, even though he and Andy have been fine-tuning the Plan for years, but from what I can gather it involves Sara not buying any fine Italian leather goods while living in Italy and me living in a cardboard box under the highway at North Avenue with my fluffy, fluffy white dog.

Of course, he insists on finding this “affordable housing” while not conceding things like central air, newer construction or remodeling, and proximity to the lake, the gym, the El, and a 24-hour Starbucks and Walgreen’s. Oh, and it can’t be in an elevator building, either. Too claustrophobic.

I can see myself with the stringy hair and ruddy complexion already. Maybe I’ll acquire a limp and a cardboard sign with details about my imaginary tour in Vietnam.

Rob’s latest solution: Roger’s Park, the northernmost Chicago neighborhood along the lake, just south of Evanston. Did you know you can buy a three-bedroom walk-up condo with all the bells and whistles for under $200,000? Heck, you can buy a ginormous single-family home for about twice that!

(Note to Chicago virgins: I know it sounds absurd, but that is an insanely good deal.)

So we did a little research and learned from the neighborhood’s website that RoPa is an eclectic and vibrant community, a place where people of diverse economic and cultural backgrounds can live in happy harmony, practically frolicking between their well-priced vintage homes.

Too good to be true? Perhaps, but there’s nothing like a little hope to get you in the mood for packing your bags, even when you practically just finished UN-packing from the last move. Then I stumbled across some less-than-reassuring blogs about Roger’s Park.

Like the one solely devoted to photos of abandoned Cheetos bags found in the neighborhood. That’s right. There are enough discarded bags of Cheetos in RoPa to warrant an entire blog.

Or this one that detailed the police scanner from just two hours on the night of Monday, May 2. Here’s an abridged version that includes only the violent crimes (no noise complaints or parking violations):

11:30 PM – Shots fired, 1200 block N. Campbell – “gang”
11:47 PM – Man with a gun walking around at 47th and Ashland
11:50 PM – Person shot, 1800 block N. California, police looking for “two male Hispanics”
11:51 PM – Man has a gun, 1800 block N. Kedzie
11:54 PM – Dispatcher says there is a “wolf or coyote” spotted at Clybourn and Fullerton. Cops on radio enjoy this. “Can we shoot?” “Tranquilizer darts.” “Come on, it’s only a wolf, you don’t have to shoot it.” “Can we shoot?” “Wolves are endangered.”
12:02 AM – Officer arranges for “removal” of a dead 19 year old female, gunshot to the head, from the ER of South Shore Hospital.
12:05 AM – Man “masturbating in the park.”
12:08 AM – Man with a gun threatened to shoot the caller on 5500 block W. Diversey, caller says he is now walking back toward him.
12:09 AM – Person down, 1400 block W. Farragut Avenue.
12:11 AM – Need evidence technician (ET) to photograph “the victim,” who is in critical condition at Mt. Sinai Hospital.
12:12 AM – Persons waving guns at 53rd and Ashland. They are driving a white Pontiac Bonneville. Reported by people who waved down a police officer.
12:20 AM – Shots fired, 1300 block of (unintelligible).
12:28 AM – ET requested in 10th District to photograph a victim, a “26 year old male black.” One of the perpetrators is in custody.
12:31 AM – Van hit a female “on the expressway” near 1800 block of N. Ashland. Illinois State Police are investigating.
12:34 AM – Two female Hispanics flashed a gun at Ohio and Ashland, then drove eastward. Purple car – another officer calls in that car is seen going northbound on Ashland, chase ensues. “Approaching Augusta…” Moments go by; “Stopped them in 1000 block of N. Ashland. “Request a female officer for a search.”
12:38 AM – Requesting backup for large fight at a house, 800 block of Sacramento.
12:42 AM – Cop radios from house fight, “disregard”
12:42 AM – Person with a gun, somebody’s girlfriend driving dark red or maroon Pontiac with Texas plates. “They’re still in the area” (13th, 14th Districts). Search ensues. Cop on radio, “That car’s been up in this area all night, by Potomac and (unintelligible), was in the are when those shots were fired.”
12:44 AM – (Responding to above) “We stopped that car earlier… We’ll get those plates to you…”
12:47 AM – Person shot, Belmont and (?)
12:47 AM – “We’ve rounded everybody up at (2900 block, Devon).”
12:48 AM – Assault, victim being followed by assailant in 7000 block, N. California. “No further info.”
12:54 AM – “You can cancel that ambulance.”
12:55 AM – Officer reports that a victim is “stable, gunshot wound to the right arm,” ET requested to photograph a silver Ford Taurus. Nobody in custody in the 11th District.
12:59 AM – 5800 block, N. Magnolia – 30 kids fighting out front.
1:05 AM – “Everybody’s dispersed” from fight on Magnolia.
1:04 AM – Robbery; two male blacks, 300 block E. Garfield on Green Line CTA train, took two cell phones and $60.00 cash.
1:14 AM – 8500 block, Marquette; breaking into house, man banging on windows and doors.
1:22 AM – “Shots fired.” “MORE SHOTS!” at Spaulding and Kimball.
1:26 AM – “Subjects ran south from Evergreen.”
1:38 AM – Male posing as a cop, 4400 block, S. ???.
1:39 AM – Westbound SUV on Division, people throwing beer cans as they drive.
1:42 AM – Male Hispanic walking with a gun, 47th and Troupe.
1:42 AM – 50 people fighting on street, 16th and Karlov, throwing bottles at police.

You know something? That cardboard box is looking better and better. Wait, wait, how does that song go? “Young man, there’s a place you can go …”

So I am back in Chicago for the week, staying in our old apartment. It’s so good to be back. There’s nothing like Chicagoans in spring. They’re positively GIDDY, what with the scent of chocolate from the candy factory downtown wafting northward and the temperature sitting above 50 degrees for nearly a week now. Shorts and an ice cream cone and chatting with the random drunks on Wells Street are absolutely in order, whereas people from Nashville (where it hasn’t been below 50 since February) would be wearing actual parkas. And mittens. I’m not even exaggerating.

Tonight I had dinner with our upstairs neighbors after babysitting their adorable little girl, to whom I feel a special connection, as if I were a godparent or otherwise special aunt, because of the mere fact that her birthday almost coincides with mine, by a margin of just three days. And, you know, 27 years.

The darling child, however, does not feel the same way. Though usually the picture-perfect jolly chubby gurgling baby, today she took one look at me, determined I was NOT her mother, and commenced with the wailing. And there was a LOT of wailing, tempered with tears and snot and drool, the likes of which I haven’t seen since I saw the ending of Juno the first time.

She finally settled down and agreed to halfheartedly go about her business, so long as I did not sing or clap or make silly faces or sit in front of her or remind her in any way that I was present and also not her mother. Any attempts to make her giggle were met with an icy glare.

And then she did a face-plant on the hardwood floor and got a big red bump on her forehead as a souvenir of our time together.

I don’t know if I’m reading into things too much, but I’m thinking this is the universe’s way of telling me that I should not be thinking about getting pregnant on my honeymoon.

I swear I used to be great with kids. But I suppose that was, oh, 15 years ago. Just the other day I was befriended on Facebook by one of my former babysitting charges, who is now apparently in high school and has probably already kissed more boys than I have.

Is my sister right? Am I too old for Facebook? I mean, I don’t just remember when this girl was born, I remember when she was conceived. OK not so much conceived, but I was babysitting for her older brothers when her mom went to the doctor and confirmed that she was pregnant with a girl.

Hell, I probably was babysitting the night she was conceived. I babysat for these kiddies a lot. (The going rate then was five bucks an hour, for three kids. I understand its nearly triple that for one child nowadays.) And I was a damn good babysitter, if I do say so myself.

Though, now that I think about it, the first time I watched the two older boys, the younger one was a toddler and was in his walker when he crashed into the baby gate, face-planting himself at the bottom of the two steps and splitting his upper lip open. There was a lot of blood, and a lot of Hail Marys. I suppose they have since added walkers to the no-no list, but crap, maybe I’m the one that is hazardous to children!

Are two face-plants two too many?

Am I the worst babysitter ever?

Perhaps it would help if I flounced around the room lip-synching “And Then He Kissed Me” in a crushed velvet and checkered skirt number? Oh heck yes, we need to watch it on YouTube.

Click here to view the embedded video.

*It’s a quote from Adventures in Babysitting, people. I’m just trying to channel Elisabeth Shue.