Please don't fret about the extreme drought conditions throughout the Southeast. I know your grass is brown. Our flowers are wilted, too. But hope is on the way. You'll be charging up your $5,000 sprinkler systems again in no time.

My toddler hasn't taken a proper bath in almost a month.

Legs flail. Arms swipe. Desperate tears fall down her cheeks. It's as if Al Gore comes to her in her dreams and tells her the earth is dying, and that it's up to her to save it by not washing off the remnants of Crayola Pipsqueak markers, dog hair, dried milk and who knows what else from her body. (Well, I know what else, but you don't need to.)

"No no, I don't like it! I don't want to get in my bathtub!"

I'd like to tell you that she is just that environmentally savvy, but the inconvenient truth is that MJ has developed a sudden and inexplicable fear of the bathtub. One night she's yelling, "Two more minutes! Two more minutes!" when we tell her it's time to get out, dry off and jammy up; the next night -- and every night since then -- she's brutally refusing to sit in even two inches of water.

There they sit, Bathtub Pooh and Bathtub Tigger, sad and lonely and junking up my tub for no good reason, just waiting for someone to play with them. Over there is Rubber Duckie, and to his right, Sailboat, who has run aground near the drain. And here are Mommy and Daddy, trying to broker a compromise in these uncertain times:

"What if Mommy gets in the tub with you?"
"How about you get in with a swim diaper?"
"What if you just stand up in the water?"

All suggestions are met with the pleading look that says: "Please just put me on the ducky bathmat and sponge-bath me like you've been doing, so I can get my pajamas on and get Al Gore's voice out of my head."

As I always do at times like this, I turned to Google for solace, whose broad and completely unlicensed medical shoulders always give me a reason to put aside tonight's worries. Green poop? No, no, perfectly normal in an infant. No emergency room necessary. Is this rash a problem? Rashes? Oh, they're a dime a dozen. It's probably eczema.

I discovered, comfortingly, that bathtub fears are common at this age. But then, Google -- that fickle beast -- pushed a pocket-size tissue pack toward me with this little follow-up gem: "Most kids outgrow their bathtub phobia by age 4 or 5."

Four or five?! @!#*%!! Seriously. She doesn't turn 3 until next month. I mean, at some point in there she's going to start school, and sponge bathing will not suffice.

Well, at least I can come clean about one thing. Between The Toddler Who Won't Get in the Tub, and the appearance late last year of The Mommy Who Just Gave Birth to a Second Baby and Didn't Have Time to Shower (not to mention her companion, Overextended Daddy Who Forgets to Wash his Dog), I'd say our little household will, very likely, singlehandedly end this shortage by May. So when your local government finally lifts your water restrictions, and all your petunias are drinking like there's no tomorrow, please remember who is responsible. In lieu of thank-you notes, we'd appreciate suggestions on how to get Play Doh out of hair without water.

I'm a sucker for a good studio portrait of my babies. But by the time we've finished, ordered and whipped out the credit card, I feel like I'm the one who should be getting paid. I'm sweating, the contents of my diaper bag are strewn about the area, my stomach is growling and I'm exhausted from all the performing.

That's right. I said "performing."

Having a picture made is easy on a 6-month-old, no matter how much they protest. The real art of the deal doesn't even happen behind the camera's lens. It happens off stage, over there to the side of the great big lights, where the mommy looks and sounds like she's one of the Wiggles, jumping up and down, making motorboat sounds, shaking jangly stuffed zebras, elephants and other animals of the wild.

"C'mon, baby! C'mon!"

You'd think she was in Vegas playing craps, if not for the high-pitched voice only dogs and Mariah Carey can hear. That would be appropriate, because the odds makers should generate numbers on the likelihood that your infant will smile for the camera before falling over or melting down and sending Mommy home, dejected and defeated after picking out the perfect dress, charting that day's eating schedule around the photo appointment and generally spending way too much time planning an event that has no bearing on your child's future course in life.


"Are you going to smile? C'mon, sweet pea! Look at Mommy! Daddy's got fifty bucks riding on this! La la la! Da da da! "

Just to solidify your public humiliation -- which you are, in fact, immune to in this moment, because you have your eyes on the prize ... a gorgeous 8x10 to place squarely on your stairwell wall -- the studio makes you take your shoes off in the photo area. Your shoes. The ones covering the hole in your trouser sock, which you put on because you weren't the one having a picture made today, and because you were too busy looking for a tiny pair of leggings to do your own laundry.

"Pat a cake, pat a-- oh, no? You don't like that one? How about 'You are my sunshine, my only sunshine, you make me happy, when skies are gray...'"

You will sing things in public for a baby that you would never sing anywhere, ever, not even in a shower. You will contort your face into expressions that don't seem humanly possible.

"Oh no no no! Don't cry! Don't cry! Don't cry! Look here, Mommy has your dolly! Look at the nice dolly! She says not to cry."

I don't know why I put so much emphasis on these pictures. (Which must be taken at 3, 6, 9 and 12 months.) I suppose it's because I always loved to see the baby photos of my sister and me. They were classics. They told a story of a time in my life I don't remember, a frame-by-frame film of my first year, images of a little mystery me. They are also, of course, crucial to discovering which side of the family an infant looks like, and all the attending arguments that spring from such scrutiny. (But that's a whole 'nother post.)

"That's it! Yay! You did it! Good job! You smiled! That's my girl! And Daddy won enough money to pay for your picture package!"

They say you don't remember the pain of childbirth, just the child. Let's hope the same is true of the things a mother will do to get a baby to smile for a portrait. What happens at the studio, stays at the studio.

Every now and then, I find myself playing a movie of my life in my head, usually to some particular song. Maybe this is a problem, or an attribute, of being a writer, but stories are constantly running themselves through my mind: Ones that have happened, ones that haven't, ones that never will. It occurs less than it once did. I used to be younger -- I don't mean in age, which is obvious, but in mentality -- and there was time for dreaming. And so I did.

But now the days are packed. There are babies and dishes and laundry and toys and groceries and budgets and appointments and worries. There are laughs and arguments and frustrations and moments of pure joy that fill you so much you think you just might never be able to catch them properly, or hold them long enough, because it's on to the next thing. But every now and then, you do. Every now and then, when you allow yourself to stop and think and take it all in, what all the things you spend your days doing add up to ... well. Your dreams become your reality.

A beautiful song won the Oscar last night, utterly gorgeous, and just the kind of thing that makes a girl like me take stock of what she has on the week of my fifth wedding anniversary. The artist described it in an introduction as the story of someone who, while waiting for his date to return to the table, catches the eye of someone he "fancies," only to realize that the person he's looking at is his date. The song's lyrics are a nice reminder, I think, of all the trivial-seeming stuff that you leave behind when you find the person you will spend the rest of your life with, and all the lovely things you get in return. Well, anyway. Listen to this song, "Falling Slowly," from Once. You'll love it. (If you don't already.)



The above clip is from the Oscars, sort of sweet and triumphant. Below is an acoustic version -- without the pomp but with all the emotion.

Has my 3 year old been to your house lately? Are you missing anything? Check your garbage cans, people.

The trash has become profoundly interesting to MJ this week. I suppose it was bound to happen. After all, one of my most consuming tasks every day is taking things from her little hands and saying, "No, no. That's dirty. Mommy will throw it away." So it's rather like an occupational hazard -- I teach her common social niceties; she takes them way too far.

I show her how to mail a letter; every day for a week we stuff scribbled paper into envelopes, depleting Mommy's memo pad supply in return for a lesson on the U.S. Postal Service. We "clean" Little L's baby bottles together one day; every time I get them out to scrub them for real, she needs a bowl of water and her own brush.

The trash thing started innocently enough -- she would pick up a piece of scrap paper laying on the ground and say, "Mommy, I put in trash?" I can't tell her no. If she learns this bit of self-reliance, she's just one step closer to making Mommy and Daddy breakfast in bed. And that's why we had children, of course: to make our lives easier.

But soon she was picking up her little sister's dirty diapers, which had just been removed (and not yet folded up), and running them to the garbage can, screaming "Ewwww!" the whole way. (Everything is more fun if you can do it while saying, "Ewwww!") Mother Earth cried each time she grabbed the tin cans sitting on the corner of the counter, waiting to be recycled, and tossed them in the trash, too.

Occasionally, when I'm on the phone or otherwise distracted, I hear the sound that makes my heart fall into my stomach with fear: the sound of tiny feet pounding through the kitchen, followed by the step-can lid lifting to accept another of MJ's offerings.

"What are you throwing away? No!" It was one of my dishcloths.

"What was that? Ask me first!" Bye, bye, BBQ brush.

One morning, she came downstairs and was in hysterics. "Mommy! I need Dolly's pants! In the garbage!"

"Why would they be in the garbage?" I said, following her to the powder room, where she pointed to the small trash can which held -- in addition to Charmin wrapping -- two pairs of doll pants.

"They were dirty," she said, simply.

What's the old adage? "Teach your children well."

Then hold your breath, put on your rubber gloves and go digging.

MJ is at that age when most everything she says is cute -- and half of what she says is completely indecipherable. It's miserable to be a misunderstood toddler, whether you're getting scolded by Mommy for something Daddy told you was OK, or desperately trying to assemble all your "fwiends" (dollies, stuffed animals, random bits of paper) for bedtime.

Most often, it's Randy who handles the latter, and he's a generous sort: She gets to take puzzles, hats, Legos and memo pads from Mommy's old workplaces with her when he tucks her in, along with the usual babies and their toy bottles. Everyone and everything with significance from the day that's just ended must, must, must be present, or she simply cannot go to "sweep."

Which means that while Randy builds the foundation layer of Team MJ -- the marquee players like pink dolly and Baby Susie -- I am often called up to put together the "farm team": an ever-changing assortment of new loveys that became crucial while Randy was at work, and about which he has no knowledge.

"Do you know anything about a Tigger book?" he'll ask, trudging his way downstairs. "She says she needs the Tigger book."

We both know that we don't own a Tigger book, per se, so I understand his confusion. I search my daytime knowledge bank and find the answer ... a Tigger coloring book that we had spent time with at lunch.

Then:

"Are you familiar with a Clifford sticker?"

And finally:

"She says she needs Mommy. She says Daddy doesn't get what she's talking about."

But even when you think you know what she wants, you may not know what she wants. When she requests "Mr. Brown" as a bedtime story, you might well assume she means Dr. Seuss' Mr. Brown Can Moo, Can You?, a book that we own. But you would be wrong. While she loves Mr. Brown, she doesn't love this Mr. Brown, the one who stars as the title character. She loves the other one: The Mr. Brown who stood upside down, and came back with Mr. Black in a cameo in Hop on Pop. Seussian confusion abounds. While MJ and I sort out her needs, downstairs, my DVR, packed with grown-up television goodness, is getting impatient.

These episodes of confusion by both parties aren't limited to bedtime, however.

"Jacket one!" she said one day at lunch.

I looked at her quizzically.

She tried something else: "Pig in the blanket!"

Hmm. No idea.

"What do you need?"

"Jacket! Want to watch jacket! Pig in the blanket!"

Sigh.

I went to the pantry to get a box of Bisquick to make a pig-in-a-blanket for her lunch -- a delicacy I was pretty sure she'd never eaten before in her life, and one which I'd never made.

I called Randy at work. Because what could he be doing that was more important?

"Are you aware of anything related to a jacket?" I asked.

"A jacket?" he says, not needing clarification on who we're talking about, which I love. "It's probably a Curious George episode."

"She also asked for a pig in a blanket. When did she have a pig in a blanket?"

"Just try George," he said.

So I found "jacket George" on our DVR, sandwiched between "pirate George" and "scary noise George." And there it was, the answer to all the mystery and my salvation from having to figure out how to shove a hot dog in the middle of bread dough: George wearing a jacket, in the snow, helping a lost pig get home ... whose owner then wraps him in a blanket. Obviously.

You know how, as a mother, you feel like you have to do the job of 10 people, even if those 10 people are quite capable and in the room with you? Once you learn to think this way, it's like a sickness you can't shake.

When people hold six-month-old Little L, for example, I feel I have to hover within a two-feet radius of her, just in case she puckers her bottom lip in a pre-cry pout that (obviously) necessitates a round of "You are my Sunshine" to assure her that she's OK. It’s not that the person holding her couldn’t comfort her. He or she could. But I’m the mommy, and as such, I feel it’s my job to do. All things are my job to do. When we visit the pediatrician's office, I know the doctor has to lift Little L off her feet to test aspects of her development; but instinctively, my hands are outstretched beside the exam table, just in case he forgets his 20-odd years of experience with babies and drops her.

I have an internal to-do list that constantly regenerates itself to fit the situation. I am boss and worker bee, all-in-one, every day of my life.

So, it came as no surprise to me yesterday when, while waiting for a nurse to enter the examination room and administer Little L's vaccines, our pediatrician appeared instead and asked, "Are you busy right now? I mean, like, do you have a hundred things to do?"

And while I did, of course, have a hundred things to do -- including feeding Little L, feeding myself, and going home to relieve my husband of toddler-watching duties so he could go back to work -- one of the 97 other things I had to do was to convince the man who makes sure my kids are healthy that I had absolutely nothing at all to do. Free as a bird. If you need me to be. Motherly multitasking is not just a job; it's a lifestyle.

"The thing is, we're out of the Hib, and I really don't think she should go another three months without it," he said, real anguish on his face. The Hib vaccine, which prevents bacterial meningitis among other wicked illnesses, had been recalled due to contamination at the U.S. manufacturing plant just days before our last well-baby visit, two months ago. The diseases that the Hib prevents defined his early years of pediatrics -- "really nasty stuff," he warned -- and, to hear him describe it, the vaccine transformed the way pediatrics is practiced.

Our pediatrician is something of a rock star in our family -- and it's not just because he goes by his first name only, a la Prince or Bono or Sting. (Dr. Sting?) He convinced us that we were good parents when all the early signs must have pointed to acute cluelessness. So of course I agreed to dress Little L, pack her back in the car and drive less than a mile down the road to pick up a vial of Hib from a competing pediatrics practice. As I walked back to my car with the powerful little bottle, I wasn't sure what to do with it. Was it OK to put it in my pocket? It seemed wrong to chuck it in the passenger seat. Maybe I should belt it in, like I would a child? I looked at the spill-encrusted cup holders of my car. No. That wouldn't work. I had never been a medical courier before. But it seemed perfectly normal that I should be. It seemed perfectly suitable that I -- the woman who carried Little L for nine months, brought her into the world and is almost solely in charge of keeping her alive every day – also would deliver her immunization vials to the nurse.

If they'd asked me to administer the Hib, I probably could have been convinced to do that, too. As I said, it's a sickness. In fact, they're probably working on a vaccine for mommy multitasking as we speak. Let's hope they discover a cure before I'm a grandmother.

MJ is sleeping over at her grandparents' Saturday night with her cousins, M. & N. The phone rings ...

My Imagination: Oh no. I forgot to pack something. I forgot the diapers.

Me: "Hello..."

Grammy: "Uh, MJ can eat pecans, right?"

Me: "Oh. Yeah. Sure."

Grammy: "Like, pecan halves?"

Me: "Yeah."

Grammy: "OK. Well, I thought I better check first."

Me: "Sure. No problem. I think."

Click.

Imagination: Huh. She has had pecans before, right?

Me, to husband: "MJ has had pecans before, right?"

Husband: "Oh yeah. Loads."

Me: "OK. That's what I thought."

Imagination: Has she, though? I can't remember. Oh no. What if she hasn't?

(pause)

Imagination: oh no...

Me, to H.: "Are you sure? You've given them to her?"

Husband: "Yeah, yeah. she'll be fine."

Me: "Right."

Imagination: Still though. I should have packed the Benadryl just in case. What if she needs it for something else? I can just see her little face swelling up like that time the dog stuck his nose in a wasp nest.

Me, to husband: "I should have packed the Benadryl."

Husband, looking up from Popular Science magazine: "You didn't pack the Benadryl? Why didn't you pack the Benadryl?"

Imagination: Great. Now I really feel bad. Why didn't I pack the Benadryl? I remembered the Tylenol. The ear thermometer. The little coverings for the ear thermometer. The toothbrush. The diaper cream. Wait -- did I get the diaper cream? Yeah, yeah. Definitely did that one.

Husband: "Well I'm sure your sister remembered to pack some for M. & N. MJ could borrow theirs if she needed to."

Imagination: Well, that's true. But of course, now, every time she goes to visit, Grammy will say, "Did you remember the Benadryl? Because last time we had to borrow your sister's. Which is fine. But you really should remember to pack yours. What if there's an emergency?"

Imagination: Crap. There's got to be a way around this. Someone else to blame.

Me, to H: "Why didn't you remind me to pack the Benadryl? Why do I have to remember everything?"

Husband, robotically, not averting eyes from Mythbusters: "I'm sorry."

Me: "Well, I hope you're happy."

Imagination: Wait a minute. Can you even give toddlers Benadryl anymore? Was that on the list of cold medicines that are dangerous? [sigh] Crap. Should I call over and tell them not to give MJ any of M. & N.'s Benadryl, in the event she has an allergic reaction to ... anything at all, over the next 15 hours?

Me, picking up the phone ...

Husband: "Put the phone down."

Imagination: Seriously. Listen to him. I'm tired.

Me: [sigh] "Fine."

No, despite appearances to the contrary, I have not been striking in sympathy with Hollywood writers for the past month. Nor have I been holding my breath, waiting to hear back from MJ's waitlist application to the church-operated "preschool of her choice," as my husband so wryly puts it. The truth is I've been staring at my family room, trying to figure out what Martha Stewart might do to it if she were available.

Now, you might say, "for a full month? How is that possible?" Oh, it's possible. I wish it weren't, but it is. One of the enormous downsides to being at home all day long with little people is that you begin to find new ways to dislike your material surroundings. Sort of a Love-the-Kid, Hate-the-Walls scenario. (That, by the way, is the title of a chapter in my forthcoming autobiography detailing My Life: The "How Did I Get Here?" Years.) It's hard to see the improvements you're making in your children on a daily basis -- especially with all that dried milk around their mouths -- but at least you can redecorate the filter through which you view them. This sort of home improvement binge is a particularly troubling affliction during the winter months, when the kids and I are stuck inside, huddling from the 55-degree temperatures under our fleece blankies.

Oh, the things I could have been doing instead of hating my house: Raising money for starving children. Writing a few long-overdue thank you notes for my Little L's baby gifts. Making a healthy dinner at least once a week. Watching an episode of "Ramsay's Kitchen Nightmares" (the British version, not the cheesy Fox one). Laundry. My hair.

But no. Instead, I have literally been staring at my family room walls. From the kitchen. From the foyer. From the front porch. Once I wondered what they look like from my neighbor's back deck, but you'll be pleased to know that I refrained from knocking on their door to find out. "Hi, could I come in for a minute? I just want to see what my Antique White looks like from your kitchen. Thanks!"

For two weeks, I stuck paint chips in strategic areas: near windows, the fireplace, a painting. I noted what they looked like at different times of day in different kinds of light. When the furnace repairman came one morning, I considered asking him if Georgian Green or Spring Bud was the right way to go. I thought of acquaintances who seem to have the Midas touch when it comes to decorating, and I spent a significant amount of time silently hating them from the kitchen island bar stools, where I stood, assessing Hawthorne Yellow in the early evening light. At one point, I even considered how the pictures I take of the kids would look with a less neutral background.

While Randy and I listened to talk of a recession on TV, we did our part to stave it off by buying a nice area rug from Lowe's to chase away the room's doldrums. It didn't seem big enough when we got it home, so we took it back and got the next size up. When my mother pointed out that it, too, looked a little gimpy in our open floor plan, we returned it. We are now awaiting delivery of the World's Largest Persian Rug. It will arrive just days before the World's Largest Entertainment Center -- 114 inches of the finest wood veneers and particle boards that our anticipated tax rebate money can buy.

A week ago, Randy did his part to beat the family room into being interesting. He upgraded our mantle. Gone is the movie-prop quality job the builder installed (it split in two when the force of my five-foot frame lifted it from the bolts), replaced by a taller, wider, fancier one.

(This task, though, was nothing compared to the Great Wall of Randy -- a three-month saga that went up in our former loft/current bonus room during last winter's remodeling frenzy. Its pocket doors alone are still talked about with the kind of awe generally reserved for people who are believed to have been touched by God.)

Then one recent, sunny weekend, when the temperatures topped 70 degrees, we moved the furniture. We put the sofa in front of the windows. We took down the World's Longest Baby Gate. And that was it. Suddenly, sunlight streamed through the windows, spreading love and happiness across the builder-beige walls. Our children seemed shiny and new and without fault -- their dimples twinkled like diamonds. The hot pink, fuzzy Dora chair by the fireplace looked like something out of Better Homes & Gardens. The paint chips fell from the walls. The coffered ceiling Randy was planning no longer seemed necessary. The writer's strike ended, and the full hilarity of Stephen Colbert returned to our late-night rituals.

And the next day, our toddler "got into" preschool. I mean, I don't want to say that "24" is coming back to the airwaves because we moved our couch, but ...