I keep a diet journal. I write my weight in it once a week, and I write down Steller Dieting Insights I have, and I make lists of useful foods, and I write down milestones like going down a size, and I write to distract myself from eating, and I use it as a confessional, and I write in it when I’m feeling very tempted to scrap the whole diet.

I recommend it. It’s helpful at the time I’m writing (accountability, therapy, distraction), and it’s helpful to look back and see progress: from “I don’t think I can do this” to “I’m doing this!”

It’s also helpful for my character, to be reminded of what a REPETITIVE, LAME, incredibly SLOW learner I am. I was looking back at my last diet, to see at what point I was able to fit in my next-size-down jeans—I don’t even want to TRY them if I might not fit. And I found myself reading basically the same things I’d JUST been writing.

Easter 2006: All day I ate sweets. They all tasted too sweet—sharp and cloying—but I felt like I’d regret it if I didn’t fully take advantage of this Free Day.
Easter 2008: Today I barely even wanted the candy, and ate it partly out of feeling like I’d be mad at myself later for not taking the opportunity when I had it.

Easter 2006: So I spent all morning eating Hershey and Cadbury and Reese’s. Do I feel great? No, queasy. Was it really fun and satisfying? No, it was just okay. So WHY can’t I take this experience WITH me, so I won’t pine incessantly for the candy I apparently don’t even want?
Easter 2008: I’ve felt queasy all day. When I eat candy, I feel yucky. But when I CAN’T eat candy, I want it ALL THE TIME. It’s a CONSTANT STRUGGLE. WHY IS IT? Since candy makes me feel sick, why can’t I REMEMBER that information and NOT EAT IT?

March 2006: My body feels suddenly different. I notice it feels different to wash, like after a haircut. My jeans are loose enough, I’m thinking of trying the next size down.
March 2008: I suddenly feel different, smaller. I’m tempted to try on smaller jeans. It’s like instead of a HAIRcut, I got a BODYcut.

In fact, what I recommend is keeping a diet journal just once, and then RECYCLING it. No sense wearing out your wrist and wasting ink.

I met Paul the first day of freshman college orientation, in the dining hall. Paul needed a place to sit. So did the guy we’d later name our first son after.

I met my first husband a month later, during a freshmen overnight retreat. We had to pair up with someone we didn’t know, and interview them, and then introduce them to the group. Thanks a lot, stupid “getting to know you” exercise.

I don’t remember when I met my friend Astarte, but it must have been after my freshman year of high school, because she was a grade younger than me and I didn’t go to her middle school.

I met my friend Steve in fourth grade. In high school, he dissected a frog for me. He kept trying to argue me down logically: if I’d accepted a date with his friend Edward, why wouldn’t I accept a date with HIM? He was just as smart, just as good-looking, just as nice. Plus, he’d handled the frog. I conceded his points, but there was zero chemistry. ZERO.

My friend Michelle was a year ahead of me. I just about cried when I found out we were assigned to share a room in the summer dorms, because I thought she was a jerk. She ended up being my closest college friend.

I met my friend Denise in chorus. We were both altos and there was an empty seat next to her. When I think of her now, I get an unpleasant adrenaline feeling in the corners of my jaw. She was one of the worst people I’ve ever known. If I heard that she’d died, I’d be relieved to know she was out of the world.

I met my best childhood friend Jen the summer before we started fifth grade. She thought I was going to steal her best friend away from her. Instead I stole Jen away from her best friend.

I met Al when I was playing playground tag in a group of high school friends and couldn’t catch anyone. He was a total stranger, and he hissed at me, “Tell them Al’s it!” So I yelled out, “Al’s it!” and everyone SCREAMED and started running. Al said we could still be friends even though I didn’t want to date him, but that didn’t turn out to be true.

I met Melissa in a factory where we had summer jobs. I thought she was too cool to be friends with, but I was wrong. We stayed in touch for years, but eventually all she was sending me was email forwards.

I met Edward in English class. We were each other’s very first date. We were 15, so his dad drove. We only went out once, which made me sad and confused. He died when we were 30.

Karen was my boss. After I quit, we became friends.

I met my friend Mairzy because she married an old classmate of mine and my mother sent me a link to the birth announcement of their baby.

John was always reading the sports pages during study hall. My friend Shannon and I talked with happy self-consciousness, knowing he was listening to us. He was kind. We had crushes on each other at the same time, but we didn’t know it until after we didn’t anymore.

I met my friend Liz at work. She correctly guessed my astrological sign; she said it was obvious. She called me “man,” as in, “I love working with you, man, but you have got to stop talking about babies.” Her boyfriend wouldn’t have children, because he had to compensate for his sister’s lack of concern for population control.

I met my high school boyfriend when he kept coming into the doughnut shop where I worked. His family was sick of doughnuts by the time I caught on. We dated on and off for two years. I didn’t think we should date anymore, but I couldn’t break it off either, so I got him to sign up with the military. That did it.

I have had a busy-bee kind of morning, mostly involving repeatedly rolling to shorts-height the ever-unrolling pants of a toddler who can’t explain why they need to be rolled, only that it is VERY IMPORTANT that she be able to see her knees.

Another demand: she wanted her favorite socks. I gave in, thinking they’d be hidden by the pants anyway. But no.

I spent some time rooting around in the minivan for a lost deposit slip so I could balance the checkbook, and I spent some time reading inserts from the bank which inform us that For Our Convenience they will now be screwing us SEVEN ways from Sunday instead of the former six. We’re making changes FOR YOU!

And I worked with Henry on baby table manners. Pinky out, Henry.

I am so lucky to be married to someone who cooks, and who is always trying new things to improve the recipe. That was a creative idea, putting the pizza crust into the freezer for a little while before adding the toppings! So what if the warm dough/pan turned an ice cream cake into a milkshake cake? Totally worth it!

I am so lucky to be married to someone who cares about the environment. It doesn’t bother me that we now have an impulsively-improvised “compost bin” balanced precariously on top of the kitchen trash can (how long until the cats knock rotting food all over the floor?), blocking 3/4ths of the trash can’s opening and also ruining one of the new bins I recently bought for the kids’ toys. Nor does it bother me to hear that soon we will be involving worms in this project—possibly before someone moves the project OUTSIDE where it belongs.

I am so lucky to be married to someone who continues over the years to be an active student of life. If the children’s Etch-a-Sketch has to be taken apart to harvest parts for an interesting new project, that’s a worthwhile investment. Some people’s husbands watch TV as a hobby. That must be…..a wonderful dull way to live.

I am lucky my husband is not one of those slobs who has to be shoved into the shower. When he takes a 30-minute shower that leaves me no hot water, that’s CONSIDERATE of him to keep himself so fresh and clean.

It’s good he’s having so much success on his diet. He’s really dedicated. It impresses me when I bake cookies and he eats just one and then daintily refuses any others, while I hoover up one after another.

ANYONE might accidentally think straight bleach was a reasonable cleaning supply. How is he supposed to know what we use to clean the bathroom, when he’s NEVER DONE IT BEFORE?

He’s so good to do the dishes when it’s my turn. Even if they still have visible crusty food on them, it would be nitpicky of me to criticize what is, after all, a GOOD thing for him to be doing. Effort is worth something, right? Assuming that doing an objectively crappy job—when the person involved is a fully-functional, fully-sighted adult—counts as “effort.”

My mom produced the coveted Pecan Roll recipe, so I’ve added it to yesterday’s post.

The Swistle-on-Facebook experiment is so far a wild success. I found I could subscribe to status updates in my RSS reader, and it’s like getting a bunch of intriguing little mini-posts. My favorite this morning was “Claire just did something strange and unprecedented and not necessarily smart. But she remains chipper.” Ha ha ha ha ha! Or how about “Tonie has a plan. She’s going to find you at the end of the world.” You guys are so SMART and FUNNY, I would totally select your profiles from an online dating service, even if you were also short and bald.

Tessie and El-e-e were asking (almost TWO MONTHS AGO?? it feels like last week) how do I STORE all my awesome scores.

It’s true, the storing is not as easy as the scoring. In fact, sometimes I turn down great deals because I don’t want to handle the storage. My recent (TWO MONTHS AGO) acquisition of shoes all the way up to size 11 (when Elizabeth is only now in size 6) was an anomaly: normally I am not willing to screw around with sizes more than two or three ahead. Not only are there storage issues, but things go in and out of style and children change: the child who yesterday wouldn’t consider any shoes except her pink cowgirl boots, today isn’t as interested in them. Also, sometimes something doesn’t work out: while I was pregnant with Elizabeth, I bought darling pink daisy maryjanes at 75% off in every size they had–only to discover that the toe box was way too short for her to get her foot into. At least I hadn’t spent much.

Anyway. Storage.

What I do is, I have boxes in closets. For the twins, the current set of boxes is labeled “3T,” “4T,” and “5T and Up.” I use empty diaper boxes. When I buy something new, I can just stuff it carelessly into the correct box. The careless stuffing is the KEY ELEMENT of the plan: it can’t take more than 3 seconds or I won’t do it and I’ll end up carelessly stuffing big heaps of clothes onto shelves and into the backs of closets, not to be found until our children are disposing of our earthly possessions through sobs of—one hopes—grief and despair, rather than of disappointment that there’s no inheritance to speak of and none of our crap is worth anything.

Did I tidy the tops of the boxes so that things wouldn’t look carelessly stuffed, even though I JUST SAID that careless stuffing is THE KEY? Yes, I did.

When the season changes or the child outgrows clothes, I pull out the next box and poke through it. So, for example, when the warm weather left us behind in a cloud of dust last fall, I pulled out the 2T boxes to look for pants, and the 4T boxes to look for long-sleeved shirts. Pretty soon, I’ll start looking in the 3T box for shorts, and the 4T box for short-sleeved shirts.

When a box is empty, I re-label it and put it at the other end of the line. After I took the 2T pants out of the 2T box, the 2T box was empty except for a couple of scraps that could go into the 3T box. I scribbled out “2T” and wrote “5T and Up” instead, and I scribbled “and Up” off of the “4T and Up” box. This takes about 5 seconds. It takes longer if what you do is turn the boxes around and and label the fresh clean side so it’ll look tidier for the picture. What am I DOING? Now my picture doesn’t illustrate my point at ALL!

Boots and shoes, it depends. In the front hall coat closet I have two large Rubbermaid totes; one is for snow boots, and one is for rain boots. When I buy those on 75% off (I HATE to spend full-price for something so VERY BORING), I dump them into the bin. When I need some for a child, I root through the bin until I find their size. Shoes, I put in a little heap in each closet. But if I get a whole lot, as I did with Elizabeth’s maryjanes, I make a tidy row in order of size. Even if I later put stuff on top of them, they’re still in order underneath.

Oops, too many 7-1/2.

Coats bought ahead are hung up in the coat closet.

Snowpants bought ahead (I hate spending money on those, too) are put in a large box in the coat closet. They probably need to move into a tote now: the box is overflowing.

There is ONE MAJOR FLAW in my system, and it is this: I haven’t established a good way of keeping track of what I have already purchased. So if for example I am at the store and am confronted with stacks of cute basic long-sleeved shirts at 75% off, I have only my memory to rely on: Have I already bought enough in size 4? Or could we stand to have more?

Fortunately, when we’re talking about $1.74 per shirt, it doesn’t really matter if I buy too many, whereas I will kick myself if I buy too few and later have to pay full (well, sale) price, so I err on the side of too many. This rarely fails me, because I have a good memory and because I generally have a FEELING about how stocked we are. The few times it HAS failed me (one time I ended up with three nearly-identical green shirts for Rob), I’ve weeded out the extras and donated them to a local charity shop, tags still attached, and then I feel good about giving the shop something NEW for a change.

I am back from the Barfing Wars—or at least I am on my way home from them. Last recorded barf was early this morning, and it was produced by a child who’d had very little to eat the entire day before, and since then she’s pinkened up and eaten a good lunch (without barfing) and is looking a lot better. Paul is back to work today, Rob and I are feeling better, Edward hasn’t barfed since that first time, William and Henry never got it at all.

While I was awake in the middle of Sunday night, resting my face on the insufficiently-cool bathroom floor and wondering whether I’d barf next or Rob would or Elizabeth would, or whether perhaps the baby might barf all over his crib, my main thought was, “I don’t think I can go through another pregnancy.” You know how when you’re not sick, you think it’s pretty bad to be sick, but when you ARE sick you can’t believe how bad it feels? I think this is why sometimes people say “flu” when what they have is a cold, and why sometimes they say “migraine” when what they have is a headache: it just feels SO BAD, and words like “cold” and “headache” don’t cover it—either for the sufferer or for the employer/spouse who is expected to sympathize and make accommodations.

When I was feeling queasy and weak, it brought back to me so strongly the first three months of pregnancy and how it feels like that THE WHOLE TIME. I remember being in the first trimester with Henry and thinking there’d be an upside to miscarriage. That thought SHOCKS me now, truly shocks me. But when I felt so sick and queasy and knew I had at least two more months of it, it seemed perfectly reasonable, perhaps even preferable.

I feel a little flattened by those thoughts now, because I REALLY WOULD like another baby, and it seems crazy to be dissuaded by a little short-term NAUSEA, and yet. Well. It just feels SO BAD. So bad! Stomach flu for 2-1/2 months! And yet here I am in the daylight, feeling better, looking at the Henry I got out of it (GOOD TRADE), and it’s hard to imagine how bad it felt.

Well. Let’s see. Other news. Oh yes! I’d paid for that fabric-protection stuff they offer you when you buy a new piece of upholstered furniture, mostly because I was too shy to say no, and so I called about the recliner Edward barfed on at the beginning of this whole ordeal. They sent someone out this morning, and (1) he was cute, and (2) he was non-scary, or as non-scary as any Stranger In My House can be, and (3) he made that recliner look nearly BRAND-NEW. I won’t know how good a job he did on the smell until the sun hits the fabric sometime this afternoon, but I might have to get my furniture cleaned from time to time now that I’ve seen how nice it looks. I wonder how much it costs? If I weren’t such a SAD WIMP, I would have asked him while he was here and he probably could have done our other recliner (a golden color that looks grubby now) at the same time. But I AM a sad wimp, and so here I am with one gorgeous recliner and one grubby.

This morning Paul left for the grocery store before I took a shower, to beat the crowds (at the grocery store, I mean, not in our shower). As he pulled out of the driveway, I headed downstairs with a load of laundry–and found the basement covered with huge puddles. I was contemplating the puddles with the detached inability to problem-solve that hits me whenever I’m surprised, when I heard Edward suddenly start crying, and Rob and William yelled, “Edward threw up!!”

So of course I went running upstairs, and I found what looked like a gallon of curdled milk soaking into the recliner and carpet, and Edward was screaming in dismay. And I may be a compassionate mother in many ways, but there is NO CHANCE of me scooping a barfy child into my arms and holding him tight until AFTER he’s cleaned up, so I soothed him with WORDS while I wondered if I should try to clean up the recliner or just pitch it into the front yard and hope for it to be swallowed by the earth. And in any case, Edward had to be cleaned up first.

And that’s when Henry started crying, and I discovered he had a stinkers diaper.

I realized that although I theoretically could handle this alone, I didn’t want to–and since Paul wouldn’t even be at the store yet, I could call him on his cell phone and tell him to come back home. I called—and heard his phone ringing from the top of our bureau.

I mobilized the troops, sending Rob and William for a bunch of towels, and Rob to fill the tub with warm water, and William to get baking soda to put into the tub. I stripped Edward down and had him stand on a hard floor as opposed to the carpet, since carpets are Barf Dowsers.

Then William came up and said he couldn’t find the baking soda. And I went to check on Rob’s progress and found that he’d filled the tub with cold water even though I’d told him it should be warm and had confirmed with him that he’d checked it and it was in fact warm. Also, the shower curtain was in the water instead of outside the tub. And because dismayed frustration is the emotion that leaves me least able to control my temper, of course I yelled at both of them, and I marched William down and showed him the baking soda EXACTLY where I’d said it would be and where it always is, and I invited Rob to feel the water and tell me if that was called WARM or not, and I chewed them both out for not listening to instructions.

Then I apologized, and put Edward in the tub, and had Rob and William supervise him while I changed Henry’s diaper and tackled the recliner/carpet mess. I don’t want to talk about tackling the mess.

Then I took the laundry basket of revolting towels and clothing down to the washing machine and added half a box of baking soda, and put my barf-speckled pajamas in there too, and went upstairs and got dressed even though I hadn’t showered yet, because I find I can’t really tackle tough situations in my pjs and socks. And I went back downstairs to examine the basement.

Luckily there was no water in the carpeted areas, only on the cement. And it looked like it was coming from a leak in the bulkhead, not from the ground below. And it looked like it was not getting worse. And nothing was sitting in it except plastic containers and the boards we put under boxes to keep the damp from seeping in. So I rescued a few unprotected things that were on dry cement but might not be soon, and went back upstairs.

I bathed Edward. May I take a moment to recommend baking soda? Before I discovered it, I used to give a barfy child MULTIPLE baths in strongly-scented soaps and STILL not remove the barf smell. I used to put barfy clothes through the washer MULTIPLE times, spraying them with Febreze between each load, and STILL not remove the barf smell. Now I put half a box of baking soda in the washing machine and the barf smell vanishes. I put the other half of the box into the tub, leaving out enough to make a paste to work through the child’s hair, and the barf smell vanishes.

As I was drying Edward, Paul came home. I told him the news: basement, barf, CELL PHONE VIOLATION. He said it made sense that Edward was getting sick, because SO WAS HE. He said he nearly threw up in the grocery store parking lot.

And so all day, Paul has been lying in bed, gasping and groaning and asking me to make a batch of Gatorade to replenish his electrolytes. I haven’t taken a shower yet, so I’m not quite as fresh as a daisy. I suppose I could take one now, while the three littles are napping, but I would rather talk to you. Venting to friends is what keeps me from having something more significant to complain about, such as jail time.