I've got a new post up at DotMoms.

And before a single one of my guy friends makes a snarky comment in response, let me just give you my reply: Go measure yourself. Then we'll talk.

My childhood was full of drama. There were lots of legitimate dramatic moments -- like the time a coke addict threw a manhole cover at my mom, literally, tossed it at her like it was a paper plate, as Jesse and I watched from a bedroom window -- and lots that were contrived drama -- like when David broke the only thing my family had of any value at all, a set of Depression-era princess glass, one piece at a time for maximum effect, while he and Mom fought.

My mom, though, was as dramatic as you can possibly imagine. Jesse and I would lay awake at night, listening to her and David yell, and then listen to her tale of the argument the next morning. She never knew we were awake, and her story always greatly differed from what we'd heard.

And everything that happened to us kids was spun to reflect how it affected her. For example, my first "real" boyfriend committed suicide a couple of years after we dated. (There's a story here for another post sometime.) My mom had never known him well and certainly never liked him. But at the funeral, she sobbed and cried like she'd lost a child. I didn't get a chance to mourn, to be comforted by her. I was the adult, supporting her in this oh-so-powerful time of need.

On the radio today, I heard the soundtrack to one of the most dramatic Mom moments: Teach Your Children Well, by Crosby Stills and Nash.

I came home from high school one day, and Mom was hysterical. I'd made the mistake of confiding in a cousin (halfway between my age and my mom's) that my boyfriend and I had been having sex. She told my mom, wanting her to get me on the Pill.

And oh, the horror.

I realize that it's reasonable for a mother to be upset to learn that her child is sexually active. (I can't even let my mind go there with Emma.) But, to this day, I don't know exactly what it was that upset her so. Was she mourning the loss of my innocence? (Little did she know it had been lost before then.) Was it that she didn't want me to go down the path she had? Did she want a better match for me than Steven?

Here, I have to digress a little. Steven lived with us most of the time. He was two years older than I was, the son of some family friends. He and his stepdad didn't get along, and he got thrown out of the house a lot, for months at a time. Those months, he spent with us. He was a daily part of my life for years, and much of that time, we were "boyfriend and girlfriend." We were very serious. He was there in the mornings when I woke up and at night when I went to bed. I'm not sure how anyone could've expected anything much different to come of it.

Mom, though, apparently did. In addition to being my boyfriend, he was her best friend. Weird, no? He dropped out of school early on, so he and she would spend all day listening to music and getting high. And, actually, I think that was a big part of the problem. She thought of Steven and I as her friends. It wasn't just that we were having sex, it was that I hadn't confided in her. She always had a skewed view of what our relationship was. If I'd wanted to drink with her, all I had to do was ask. If I wanted to get high, same thing. She always told me things I didn't want to know, wanted me to be her confidant, her buddy. It wasn't -- and still isn't -- the relationship I needed.

So, back to that afternoon.

I came home; she confronted me with what she'd been told. Were Steven and I having sex? Yes. And instead of talking with me about birth control and STDs, instead of asking if it was what I wanted and was ready for or if our relationship had changed because of it, what it meant for me as a person or any of that, she called me a couple of choice names. And wept. And wailed. And gnashed her teeth. (Except for that last part, I'm serious.) And promptly locked herself in her room.

And ruined, forever, a really good song.

She played Teach Your Children Well over and over and over for hours. Literally, hours. She wouldn't come out. I wasn't allowed to go in. (Though truthfully, why would I have wanted to?) Other people did, of course, because the bedroom was the crank salesfloor. They'd come out and have to react to the news Mom had shared with them. (Because it wasn't enough for just her to know, all of her "friends" should hear how I betrayed her, too.)

I didn't see her again that night. And by the next morning, it was over. I know there was a scene with Steven somewhere in there. He'd hurt her, too. We had to be much more careful for a few weeks about sneaking around. And then life was back to normal, on to whatever drama came next.

It was inevitable that Steven and I eventually broke up. I can't imagine a much unhealthier relationship than actually living with your boyfriend -- and your entire family -- at that age. It was awkward for a long time, because he still stayed with us, on and off. I moved on to other guys. And not once did Mom ever ask if I was having sex, if I was being safe, what my life was like outside the world she'd created for me.

As I got older, the friendship she wanted materialized, at least for a while. We drank together. Tended bar together. She watched me meet guys, and never once questioned whether it was a good idea. She was too busy being my friend to be my mom.

So I failed my part of the bargain from the song. I didn't help her with my youth or enable her to seek the truth or anything else that rhymes. She didn't hold up her end, either. If I'd been fed on her dreams, I'd be in a much different place right now. I did learn a lot about my father's hell, though, and how slowly it did go by.

Just as Crosby Stills and Nash told me to, over and over as loudly as that crappy stereo would play, I became myself. And they were right. The past was just a goodbye.

I guess I learned something, after all.

Last night, after Adam got Emma out of the bath and ready to brush her teeth, she started to cry. It took him a minute to figure out what she was saying. "That's not where the paints go!" He'd dropped her bath paints in the plastic tub with all her other bath toys, but we usually store them in a cabinet. She wouldn't brush her teeth until he'd put them where they belonged.

Well, she certainly comes by it naturally. I'm an everything-in-its-place kind of girl.

If only I could teach her to cry when she sees Dad's shoes in the den ...

I spent most of yesterday assuming that Jesse was in jail. No one called to update me on his trial, but the good side of that is I didn't get hit up to pay his fines or get him out.

I called the judge and did some research online this morning, though, and his trial was reset for after the new year. It's amazing how much information is out there if you just know how to find it.

I'm a library lover. We visit the Norman Public Library at least once a week. I pick up my books on hold (I tend to reserve online these days, as it's hard to browse the adult section with an excited preschooler), Emma plays with the trains, the Legos and the gerbils and plays checkers. And I find books for her. Lots and lots and lots of books.

Emma owns 150+ books of her own. (And a great number of those were purchased at Friends of the Library sales.) Obviously, we could read a whole shelf of them daily and still have plenty to get through. But she gets so excited about new books -- we read at least four or five in a row as soon as we get back from a library trip -- and I love exploring new books with her. So I regularly check out 10-15 books for her, and we keep them a week or two before finding more.

Just like my to-read list in my Palm, I keep lists of authors for her, books that got good reviews or our friends loved, etc. We generally really enjoy 80 percent of what I bring home. There are usually one or two we adore and yearn to own and a couple that are really, really bad (I can't read an entire book while trying to keep track of her playing).

All this is a preface to say I'm going to start sharing what we have checked out at any given time. In the sidebar, there's a new "Em's library basket" feature (yup, all of the books live in one place, just beside her bed). I'll give a mini-review, list them in order of best to worst and let you know what you should find for your own kid, if you have one. We tend to read way above her age level, so most of them are usually appropriate for preschool to early grade school. And please, email me and tell me your favorites, too. We're always looking for something new.

I read Lolita for the first time this fall. And though I feel silly saying so, it changed my life. I'm not going to run out and become a pedophile, and I'm entirely too old to be worshiped by one at this point. But it's an amazing, amazing feat of literature, and I'm still stunned that I hadn't read it until now. It's been named as the fourth best book in the 20th century, and it's easily in my top-three favorites.

All I knew about the book going is was the most basic premise --- older man, young girl. I had no idea of the humor, the pathos, the beauty in the novel. It's some of the funniest writing I've ever read. I kept trying to read passages aloud to Adam, after he'd ask why I was giggling, and he just didn't see the humor. ("Um, isn't she like 12?" he kept asking.) The first half of the book is a love story, at turns incredible and horrifying. The second half is a farce, a descent into madness, as clever as any of Shakespeare's comedies.

I'd suggested the book for my book club, and as expected, it did get varied reactions. Not everyone saw the beauty in it that I did; in fact, some never got past disgust. A friend read the annotated version, and I'm dying to borrow it, because I know there are hundreds of allusions and literary references I missed. It's a deep and rich story.

So, if you haven't, read the book. You'll be astounded. And then, see Adrian Lyne's 1997 version of the movie. (If you will, ever, read the book, do so first. The mystery is revealed much more slowly in the novel, and it won't be as fun if you know it's coming. But if you're not a reader, just rent the movie.) It doesn't have quite the depth of the novel, and understandably, a lot of the back story is cut. But the heart of the novel is there, beautifully shot and lyrically acted. Jeremy Irons isn't nearly as creepy as the Humbert in my mind, and Dominique Swain, though a fetching and funny Lolita, just isn't who I pictured. Still, after just watching the movie for the first time, I'm nearly as fascinated by it as I was by the novel.

The movie isn't as funny as the book, but that's because so much of the humor is in Nabokov's descriptions of America and setting of scenes, which we just see on screen as background or watch instead of imagining them unfold. Not all of my favorite scenes made the final cut, though, thankfully, some survive in "extra footage" on the DVD. And, I have to admit, there are some amazingly sexy scenes, the kind that give you a half smile. And then you remember which movie you're watching, and the goosebumps break out even though you can't tear your eyes away.

Neither the book or the movie are what you think. And they're required knowledge for a literate person in this day and age.

A paltry update of Emma's site is up. The fact that it's the first time we've updated since E-Scout started tells you it's been too long, and we don't even have the usual wonderful photos. But the last ones put online were from Halloween, so we're behind. With Hanukkah just around the corner, though, we'll be taking plenty of pictures of her with loot soon.

Anyway, the update is just recent pictures of Em and even a few of Adam and I, as well as a gallery of photos Emma herself has taken. (We gave her a whole roll in an old 35 mm and she did quite well, but these are with the digital.)

If you haven't seen the site before, I should give credit where it's due (we know Adam's a stickler for that). It's his project -- he often takes the pictures, nearly always writes the copy and every time does the posting. From ultrasound on (and there may be pregnancy pics from even earlier), it's Em's life online. The good, the bad and occasionally the ugly. (Note that very little of the ugly is Adam; funny since he does the photo choosing. Mostly some unflattering pics of me and some of her hair after naps ...)

She can turn on the monitor and speakers and start a CD-ROM to play and has her own email address and web site. What a '00s girl.

A new post is up at DotMoms. Check it out.

The first "event" gift Adam ever got me was some yummy Bath and Body Works stuff, for my 21st birthday, eight years ago. And it set the tone for many of the gift-giving occasions since. Not the gift itself, though I'm always pleased with bubble bath and pampering products. No, it was the fact that I knew what the gift was before opening it.

His mom had been in town, and we were loading up the rental car with her suitcases. He popped the trunk, me standing beside him, and there the bottles were. Whoops.

Nearly every birthday, Valentine's Day, Hanukkah, anniversary, fill-in-the-blank occasion since then, I've known at least one of my gifts. He's pretty well stopped giving me hints, of any kind, because I can ALWAYS figure it out. Or he'd leave a receipt lying around. Or someone would let something slip. Or he wouldn't disguise the gift before wrapping it, so I could tell what it was. One way or another, I knew.

I thought this Hanukkah was par for the course.

Not surprising to anyone, I'm sure, is the fact that I keep a gift list year-round. On it since returning from Europe this summer was, "Frame Venice/Vienna prints" under Adam ideas. Six weeks or so ago, I'd already bought a few of his Hanukkah gifts but hadn't gotten around to that one. At dinner one night, out of the blue, he asked, "Where's that picture we got in Vienna?" A little bulb went off in my mind. I told him, and a couple days later, went to look for it. It was gone.

I cursed him to everyone I knew. Not only had he stolen MY gift idea, I knew, through no fault of my own, what one of my gifts was. I muttered and mumbled the story every time gift shopping came up. He and I even had a convoluted conversation the other day (in which he was refusing to give hints), in that "I know you know I know" kind of way.

Tonight, digging through a sweater drawer, I found the print. I pulled it out, spilled my confession, and he of course laughed at me. Again and again.

I've done a little touching of the wrapped gifts, though (it's an addiction). SOMETHING is framed. In fact, there are two framed things wrapped together. (If only he'd put them in a box, so I couldn't feel the little hangy thing on one and the standy thing on the other.) I could do some sleuthing, determine what else might be missing. Or maybe he left the prints where they were so I wouldn't notice they were missing, and I'm supposed to plug them in once the gift is opened.

Whatever it is, I'm glad not to know. And I close my eyes when I stick something in the trash, lest I see something I shouldn't.

So, sometimes I'm not so smart. I had to go into work for a while this evening; Emma's day care person is sick, and I'll be on Em duty tomorrow, so had to get things done tonight. I rewarded myself with the better part of a 20-ounce Vanilla Coke.

About 14 ounces in, I remembered the migraine medicine I'd taken earlier is mostly caffeine. Lightweight that I am (literally and figuratively), I'll be up all night ...

(And, an addendum to my last post, also related to this one. Adam took off this morning to cover in the day care emergency. Good husband and father. So he deserves credit for that, particularly since he thinks I was lacking in my weekend-o'-chores round-up. Of course he was here. Of course he helped. Particularly with the icing of the cookies. Go, Adam.)

So far this weekend, I’ve:

• Bought a gift for a 3-year-old’s birthday.
  
• Had dinner with friends.
  
• Planned next week’s menu.
  
• Grocery shopped.
  
• Cried because Paper Warehouse no longer carries anything for Hanukkah.
  
• Put up Hanukkah decorations.
  
• Took Emma to the library.
  
• Made grilled cheese and tomato soup for lunch.
  
• Cleaned the kitchen.
  
• Wrapped a giant stack of Hanukkah and holiday gifts.
  
• Watched part of Lord of the Rings: The Two Towers.
  
• Turned a 4-pound chuck roast into barbecue for sandwiches.
  
• Cleaned the kitchen.
  
• Washed loads of laundry.
  
• Made a winter counting book with Emma.
  
• Edited for a friend.
  
• Watched the disaster at the Big 12 Championship.
  
• Baked sweet rolls.
  
• Cleaned the kitchen, again.
  
• Shopped for Hanukkah and holiday cards.
  
• Shopped for more holiday presents.
  
• Tried to buy a new keyboard tray for work (but OfficeMax was closed).
  
• Made dough for 6 dozen gingerbread cookies – with lots of Emma assistance.
  
• Cleaned the kitchen, again.
  
• Vacuumed the entire house.
  
• Tried to blog.
  
• Tried to blog.
  
• Tried to blog.
  
• Cut, baked and iced aforementioned cookies -- 82 at last count.
  
• Cleaned kitchen.
  
• Took dozen cookies to neighbors.
  
• Reheated BBQ for dinner.
  
• Cleaned kitchen.
  
• Walked to store for disposable containers to pass out said cookies.
  
  All this was done with the assistance of a nearly 3-year-old, of course. And that’s not counting all the sniffly Emma play, chores, meals and routines, tons of book reading (hers and mine), talking to friends on the phone, general house cleaning, helping Adam’s mom shop for Em via phone and online and so on. And let’s not forget the sack of Hanukkah gifts that smacked the base of my thumb as it tumbled from the top of my closet. The sack full of books. And the purple, yellow and brown bruise covering the meatiest part of my palm that I’ve spent a lot of time admiring.
  
  Still left to do: Update E-Scout (once Blogger is running again), laundry to fold, presents to wrap, Quicken to update.
  
  And this was a quiet weekend for us. That day of rest thing might not be a bad idea, after all.