My poor peanut, Andrew, has had a rough week.


On Monday evening, while we were going through the ritual of taking off the clothes and putting on the jammies, Andrew, wearing only a diaper, hurried importantly over to the baby gate that blocks the stairs leading to the basement landing to throw his dirty clothes downstairs. His job is to toss "dirty dirty" over the gate and as far down the stairs as they will go. (Sometimes, when I haven't made it into the basement for a couple of days, you can hardly see the stairs for the accumulation of baby clothes.)


On Monday, however, he leaned on the wretched gate a little too hard, and it gave way, tumbling both him and the pieces of the gate down seven (fortunately carpeted) steps onto the landing.


I was sitting on the couch and Kip was on the floor, waiting for Andrew to perform his task so he could finish putting his jammies on him. Neither one of us felt like we could move fast enough. I mean, this has been one of my biggest fears since April 29, 2001: that through my own ineptness as a mommy, I would allow my son to fall down the stairs and break his neck.


Kip, being younger and more agile, leaped up first and pelted down the stairs to scoop up Andrew and bring him back upstairs. He was crying, of course (Andrew, I mean), and naturally, he upset himself enough that he threw up (but only slightly, which is encouraging, because he is, I'm sorry to say, a very pukey baby when he's tremendously upset), but there didn't seem to be any other damage. Not even any rug burns, which were a distinct possibility, given the distance that he and the gate slid.


Once we'd all calmed down sufficiently, Andrew sat on my lap for a long time, talking earnestly to me. I would give anything to know what he's saying when he launches into these soliloquies. We watched Daddy put the gate back together, which was very interesting, and he finally slid off my lap (still wearing just his diaper and his socks) and marched over to the gate, which was restored to its original location. He stood there solemnly for a little while, pointing down the stairs and then looking back at us and jabbering.


Though I had no idea what he was saying, I was relieved that he was still speaking to us.

OK. I thought of one.


IM me.

My brilliant husband Kip is temporarily famous today. I should point out, of course, that he's in there because I TOLD him to submit the item to Dave Barry. But still.


I said to him with great excitement, "I'm going to put you in my blog." Now that strikes me as a 21st century phrase if ever there was one.


What are some more? Um ...


I'll get back to you on that.

Apparently I will have the flu from now until the end of time.

When I came down with this three weeks ago, the "triage nurse" (talking to someone with that title always makes me feel like I should be in an episode of "M*A*S*H") told me that people's flu shots were wearing off because the flu season was lasting longer.

So I started feeling better, and so did my husband Kip, and so did my son Andrew. And now I'm feeling like hell again.

Whiny, aren't I.

Though I admire his work, I consider Michael Moore a big dumb mass of dumbness after watching his hissy fit on last night's Academy Awards.

Here's an analogy: If you are against abortion, it seems to me to be far more effective to walk quietly in front of an abortion clinic, perhaps praying to yourself, than to scream imprecations at patients or super-glue yourself to the clinic's front door.

Similarly, among the people who were most effective last night in their anti-war protests during the ceremony were Adrien Brody, who gave an emotional, though reasoned, appeal, and even Susan Sarandon, who did nothing more than flash a peace sign.

Michael Moore, on the other hand, came across as a shrieking ninny, whether or not you agreed with his position.

AAAARGHHH ...


I quote directly from the column I'm editing:


"Incent the 50 percent to make them more profitable ..."


NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO ...

I am supposed to be working. Instead, I'm browsing misheard lyrics, which are making me snort with laughter. My co-workers probably think my snorting is the last vestiges of the Death Flu, which I had last week. So far, nobody's ventured anywhere near me to find out the real reason.

Anyway, here's my favorite misheard lyric of the day:

Rocket man, running out of shoes. Oh well, so long.