I don't have a "What I Just Watched -- Theater" section in my sidebar, because we literally make it to about three movies a year, if that. It's hard with a young kid. But each of the last three years, one of our outings has been to a Lord of the Rings installment. I'm sad that the saga ends now (future of The Hobbit movie aside).

Return of the King is amazing. Astounding. I didn't even mind the 3+ hours (everyone with me having made sure to run to the bathroom ONE last time just before it started).

I'm not a Tolkien purist. I've read the books a number of times and enjoy them, but the pages and pages of Elvish songs and descriptions of desolate plains and history of folks who never appear in the series bog me down. The fact that I'm willing to slog through all of that to get to the enchanting story says a lot about my love for the tale, though. I'll likely read them again soon, with the magic of the movies in mind.

Even knowing what was to come didn't dispel any of the wonder of Return of the Kings for me. There were some details I'd have like to seen -- most notably, the hobbits return to the sheared Shire -- in their entirety, but the movie was plenty long without them. I did get caught up in "I wonder how they did that?" and speculation about what will be on the special features of the DVD (Adam whispered about Minas Tirith, "How much of that do you think they built?"). I had to force myself to stop thinking those questions and get lost in the story.

And what a story. I can't imagine anyone doing a better telling of the tales than Peter Jackson. It's silly, but I feel lucky just to have been an audience member, to have watched in the theater and spent hours on my couch with the DVDs. It's cinema history, folks. Run out and get caught up in it.

Emma was right; I did need to go to the doctor. I have bronchitis. Ugh.

The drugs he gave me work pretty well, and by the time we headed out to the movie last night, I was breathing clearly for the first time in a week. Of course, Return of the King is so long that they wore off in the middle and I was holding my chest, in pain. Or maybe it was just that the excitement of the movie wore off and I was feeling my body again ...

Strange memories wind their way into my consciousness when I'm awake in the dark.

As we were trying to fall asleep last night, I couldn't stop ragging on Adam about his "sniff-clear throat-swallow" compulsion. He's got some serious drainage going on, too, and the noises he made trying to deal with it drove me crazy. I tried, I really did, not to comment, but I couldn't help myself.

And somewhere in berating him for something he couldn't control, I remembered Bob.

My mom is a serial monogamist. Along with her three husbands, she's had a long string of "serious" boyfriends. When I was a kid and along for the ride, we lived with one of these guys most of the time. Bob was a long-term one, in between her second husband and David.

How does this relate to Adam and the sniff, clear, swallow that kept grating on my nerves?

Bob didn't allow Jesse and I to cough.

He gave us some line about how it was better for our health to suppress a cough, how we'd just make ourselves sicker by "giving in." Uh-huh. I can remember trying so hard to hold a cough in, until my eyes watered and no long drink from the faucet could soothe the burning in my throat. If he heard us, we got in trouble, but how can you not cough? I'd run the water in the bathroom, opening the stream as far as it would go, so I could hack under the noise. I think he just didn't like kids and any reminder of us was bad. Certainly worse if we sounded sickly or frail.

Every time I woke last night, and trust me, there were many, I thought of another Bob story. He hasn't crossed my mind in years, but last night, I remembered.

Like many of the men in Mom's life, he had a dramatic flair. This was often evidenced in his disc-throwing skills -- he liked to toss plates, bearing some item that displeased him, across the room. Full of food. Like Frisbees.

He drove a Porsche 911. Perfect for the growing 12-year-old with long, skinny legs. The 911s do come with a backseat, one meant for perhaps a grocery bag filled with coffee beans and brie. I rode with my knees against my chest for the duration of the relationship.

My grandmother hit my mom with an iron skillet over Bob. Keep in mind that Grandma Bessie stood 5'2" and weighed 75 pounds dripping wet. But she took care of those around her, though usually not by walloping someone. I missed the action, unfortunately, because I was in school. Jesse was in kindergarten, and he woke from his afternoon nap to find the door to Mom and Bob's room locked. He banged and tried to wake them to no avail. So he called the one number he knew by heart, Grandma's. She and my grandpa rushed right over. (And given that they lived in the country, it would've taken them a good half hour to have to gotten there.)

The happy couple was still sleeping and Jesse was still wailing, freaked, when the cavalry rolled in. Grandma soothed him, Grandpa tried to break the bedroom door down, worried at this point that something was wrong in there. Mom and Bob finally wake from their downer-induced stupor, confused, and stumble out, naked.

I'm not sure of the order of things that happened next, but Grandma whacked Naked Mom with the skillet and promptly had some sort of panic attack that ended with a quick E.R. trip. Jesse went with her and Grandpa. And ended up living with them for a few months while Grandma tried to gain custody of us. I got picked up at school early and we hid out in hotel rooms for a few days until the worst blew over.

I was too young to understand the machinations that followed. But my grandparents weren't granted custody and Jesse ended up back in the happy home. We moved from house to house, running from I don't know what. One summer, we lived in an ancient claptrap that we were all renovating. It was sort of like camping -- nights spent in sleeping bags on hard floors, cooking over a campstove in a room lit with a kerosene lantern, washing up from a 10-gallon bucket.

We all chipped in, stripping the woodwork, painting and repainting, pulling up tile. Jesse was especially helpful one night, when he stayed up a full 24 hours using a sledgehammer to knock down walls. (He would've been 5 or 6.) He'd drank from the "grown-up water" in the mini-fridge and then couldn't sleep. (Cocaine was the drug of choice then, and none should go to waste. Mom and Bob would immerse the empty quarter-papers in a bottle of water, so that any residue left would melt away. And then they'd drink the water for a needed lift later. Only this time, Jesse beat them to it.)

Life with Bob wasn't without its rewards. He worked at a factory on a three-days-on, three-days-off shift, and in the summer, we'd often spend those three days off on his houseboat at Lake Thunderbird. (How did a factory worker drive a Porsche and own a houseboat? He had rich, indulgent parents.)

The boat was great, except it was very cramped quarters for the four of us. And when Mom and Bob fought, as they inevitably did, there was no place for Jesse and I to go.

One of my first real lessons in not believing in the kindness of strangers occurred on a lake trip. We had hauled the boat to Keystone Lake, which was more picturesque than Thunderbird, for a long weekend. A number of Mom and Bob's friends, with their own boats, had joined us for camping, drinking and mayhem. The first full day there, we were tooling around the lake and stopped on a small island. It was perfect, sandy and cool.

But when it was time to leave, the boat wouldn't start. We were stuck. We had enough supplies to make it through the evening, and surely one of Bob's friends would come by the next day and tow us back to the marina. Jesse and I spent the dusk playing in the sand, waiting for dinner. No big deal.

Until Mom and Bob started arguing. I don't know what spurred it, but she poured his fifth of vodka into the lake. He did the same with her bag of pot. And the next thing Jesse and I know, they're fighting for real. Not only can we hear the yelling, folks further down the beach can, too. We watch Bob hit her and Mom hits him back. I run out into the water, but the boat is anchored too far out for me to get up the stairs without help. I see Bob smack her head against a railing, grab her hair and pull her below deck.

Everyone is watching the fight. I run down the beach, begging for someone to stop it. Jesse sits quietly. We hear a loud crash and the ting of broken glass. I plead with every adult I see to do something. No one does.

I join Jesse on the beach, holding him, rocking and crying. Finally the noise quiets down, and 15 minutes later, Mom emerges from the boat to join us on the beach. It was a long, cold night.

But hey, the next day I learned to parasail.

Salon has a good story today about creating traditions and making Hanukkah special. Like me, the author wants to have a holiday her children are glad to celebrate and for them not to feel left out at this time of year.

Emma's handling everything like a trooper, though I'm starting to hear things like "Santa is nice" from her. I think the situation is made worse because we don't have any Jewish friends with kids. So when we start sorting (as we inevitably do, given my daughter) so-and-so celebrates Hanukkah and so-and-so celebrates Christmas, all her friends fall on the Christmas side.

The good thing, though, is that all her friends will know all about Hanukkah. They'll join us for latkes and candlelighting, dreidels and songs. They'll be more well-rounded for having her as a playmate.

And it just takes a while to teach people. I've had four conversations this morning about Hanukkah, from a coworker who lives nearby and noticed our (cheesy!) decorations in the front window to a student who wanted to know "how it works, exactly." But no one has asked me yet when we're putting up our tree, so that's a step up from last year.

I stumbled in Em's room a bit ago, bleary-eyed, as she woke from her nap. She was telling Daddy, "I was crying because Mommy is sick." Just what I thought. She then asked me, "Are you all better?" It felt bad to disappoint her by saying no. She lectured me, emphatically, about how I needed to go to the doctor and get medicine to make me feel all better. I just agreed. She doesn't quite grasp there are some things you just have to suck it up and muddle through.

Normally, Wednesdays are my favorite day of the workweek. I get to spend the day at home with Emma -- balancing time with her, doing stuff around the house and work work, too.

This morning, though, I'd have been better off in the same place I've been in the last two days: cowering behind my desk in the office, moving no more than was absolutely necessary. Trying to balance all of my duties while at home with a very active nearly 3-year-old while I just want to be sleeping off the illness I refuse to have is impossible. It's actually less stressful to be in the office, where the only person's needs I have to tend to are my own.

So I've been a little short with her. On a good day, it can be hard for her to understand why I can play for 15 minutes and then have to deal with a phone call or an email immediately. My patience in explaining those things isn't at its best today.

She was helping me wrap a Hanukkah present for Adam earlier, something I offered to do precisely so we'd have some together time. We'd already done one cheesy Hanukkah craft from a kit, as my concentration couldn't handle much more. I didn't feel up to the library or bookstore, and I don't want to expose her to all those other germs out there, too. So present-wrapping won.

She pulled all the paper out of the box. Covered herself in "stickers" (gift tags). Demanded to have tape. And so on. When she jumped up and down on the wrapping paper, I told her she could either be nice and help or leave. She chose to leave. I relished that five minutes alone.

When the package was neatly wrapped, I called to her, asking if she wanted to put on the bow or pick which snowman tag we'd use. She didn't answer. I'd heard her talking to Adam ("Daddy, Mommy kicked me out") a minute before, but knew she'd tromped back down the hall. I called again, stepping out of the spare room. She peeked out into the hall, eyes full of tears, nose red. "Have you been crying all this time?" I asked. "Yes," she quietly responded. I crouched down for a hug and she ran into my arms, then started to sob.

The 10 minutes we rocked together after that made my morning. She'd have never sat still for so long if she hadn't been upset. When she pulled away, the crook of her neck smelled just like my shampoo. And she was happy again. And so was I. As bad as I feel for snapping at her, and as much as I know she's worried because I'm not my normal self (she's told all her animals, "Mommy's sick," all morning long), I'm glad to have gotten that time.

It put us both in just the right mood to play with a Hanukkah cling scene. And then a great game of dreidel, with marshmallows in the pot. Her giggle is still in my ears.

Adam's offered to put her down, normally my thing on Wednesdays. It's quiet. This day isn't so bad after all.

I'm having some caching issues with the new Blogger version. If you're getting an old version of the page (in which case, you're not seeing this anyway) or images are missing, try refreshing. And let's hope this resolves itself soon ...

Emma is such an interesting combination: She's wedded to structure and routine, yet her imagination knows no bounds.

Today, at naptime (Adam and I split the week so we each use lunch to pick her up from day care and put her down for her nap twice), we read our books first. (Two long, one short, in that order.) We cuddled (to precisely two songs on one of the two allowable classical music CDs). I sang Hickory, Dickory, Dock three times. She pottied, while I waited in the hall. I tucked her in and she went to sleep. All of the same stuff we do, in exactly that way, before nap and bedtime, every day.

But the precise details change from day to day. While we were cuddling, she had to arrange her "babies" around her. (She sleeps with one huge Kanga and one huge teddy bear, each positioned beside her, under the covers. Also residing on her bed are one average-sized stuffed cat, one average-sized stuffed dog and one average-sized tiger. Two tiny beanie cats, a beanie elephant and a teeny Curious George. And they all have a specific place.) Then she started "throwing the babies in the ocean" (the space between the bed and the wall), one at a time, wrapping them in her silkie first "so they don't get too cold and melt."

We carried the cat, the dog, the tiger and one of the beanie cats (wrapped in her silkie) to wait in the hall with me while she used the bathroom. The tiny cat was a baby, and at first, the cat and dog were its parents. Then the tiger and the cat. The tiger, which until today she's refused to name, became Baila (after the wife in Moishe's Miracle, which we've been reading over and over). And just a second later, and I'm not sure what happened here, they became made of clay. And I had to be careful not to bump them, because they might break. "Mommy! Your elbow is touching Baila! Don't knock her over! Now Baila is touching Little Bit! Mommy, be careful with them!"

She finished up in the bathroom, and I asked if she wanted to take her pants off (she doesn't like to sleep in them). "Yes," she replied. "I'm so surprised I want to take my pants off." I could hear Adam in her voice, and I guess we say that a lot at naptime. So I told her about sarcasm, and how when you say "I'm so surprised" and you're really expecting that same thing to happen, you're teasing and being sarcastic. We traded examples for a minute. She seemed to get it.

Then we had to carry the animal crew back to the bedroom, where the beanie cat became a baby once again. She had to wrap it up carefully, give it a bottle and tuck it in before laying down. And then do the same with the other beanie cat. And then put all the animals back in the right spaces. And then kiss her goodnight, making sure Kanga and Teddy were securely under the covers and her silkie was within reach. Restart the CD and say "good night" as I'm leaving the room.

God is in the details. That's my girl.

For a few months, I was totally addicted to The Sims. I am not a gamer (Roller Coaster Tycoon is the only other game that held my attention), but I'd lose hours to The Sims. I'd sit down to check in on my characters, and by the time I looked up, my body was cramped, the sun had gone down and I really needed to pee.

And then I started growing my own little Sim and playing god to her world was more interesting than the one I'd created through the game.

That said, I know very little about The Sims Online, except that I barely have enough hours in the day now, so I can't afford to lose any to that community. I can read about it, though. And Salon has a very interesting story about Sim Town censorship. A blog that serves as a newspaper covering avatar events in an online town? Sounds like a novel waiting to be written.

I'm not getting The Crud. I'm not.

My throat isn't raw and sore, and there certainly isn't an ever-flowing river of slime sliding down the back of it. It doesn't hurt when I breathe or swallow or talk. My nose isn't running. My hearing is fine, not like my ears are suspended underwater, popping every time I take a deep breath. Of course my glands aren't swollen ropes that you can see if I turn my head. And my lymph nodes aren't huge marbles stationed along my jaw. My sinuses are clear and open and don't make me feel like my head could explode at any minute. Speaking of my head, it's fine. It doesn't ache. Nor does any part of my body. And I'd never get winded making the daily hike from my parking spot to my office. I'm not dizzy or woozy. I'm fine, really.

And if there was a teeny chance I wasn't, it must be that Austin dust that plagues Omar so. It's not The Crud that landed Em's day care person in bed for five days or gave a coworker bronchitis.

I've got book club's holiday gathering (and a Why Girls Are Weird, which I pretty much demanded we read, discussion) tomorrow night. A gift exchange and Return of the King viewing Thursday. Hanukkah starts Friday. A holiday brunch Saturday morning. Family arrives Saturday night. My winter break begins Monday.

It's not The Crud. It isn't.

Only FOUR days left until Hanukkah.

See:



That's a menorah. No, really. Emma's been cutting one link off her Hanukkah chain every night. Adam says we're just stretching out the holiday. Go us. Creating traditions and all that.

OK, to be honest, the picture is just an excuse to demonstrate my new ability to upload photos. And look -- no ads on this page! I can even check site stats. Now if only I could convince myself I won't obsess over that. (Or, since I'm reading Why Girls Are Weird, I won't long for deep interactions via email with readers.) So visit often. And comment. Or email. Love me, please?

It's really too bad that Eats, Shoots and Leaves isn't available in the United States yet. (Check out the link just to notice the different Amazon wording. The book is usually "dispatched" within one to two weeks. Hee.) I'm not nearly as geeky about LOTR as I am about grammar rules. I want this book.

Thanks to the World Wide Words newsletter for making me yearn for something I can't have.

While on the topic, some peeves:

• For those who live in the Norman area: It should be Classic '50s, not Classic 50's! The apostrophe should refer to the missing "19," not make the decade possessive. Yet another reason to eat at Sonic.
  
• A national offender is Carl's Jr. Is Junior the son of Carl? Or is the restaurant Carl's offspring?
  
• And for one that makes me wince every time I drive by, there's Stepin' Out. I can never, ever shop there. We'll be screwed when Em needs prom shoes.
  

I think author Lynne Truss and I would be great friends. Can you imagine the fun we'd have over a beer?

Tiffany ROCKS. I'd sort of resigned myself to the fact that it would be at least a week before I could see The Return of the King. I have book club Wednesday night, Hanukkah starts Friday and we've got holiday commitments and family coming in Saturday.

But in addition to our annual gift exchange with Tiff and fam Thursday night, she's agreed to watch all three kids so Adam, Tiff's husband and I can hit the theater.

I can't show enough geeky excitement about this movie. I've been watching special features on The Two Towers DVD, and every single minute makes me appreciate Peter Jackson and his team even more. The trilogy is a feat that I hope gets the credit it deserves, in terms of acting, moviemaking, CGI and storytelling.

And reading Eragon, with its magic and dragons, young hero and evildoers, has gotten me even more ready for the film.

Yay, yay, yay. An early Hanukkah present. Thanks much, Tiff.

Emma announced at lunch today, "I want a baby sister." It came up during a discussion that Adam doesn't have a sister, and I don't have a sister, and neither does she. Adam mentioned she probably never would.

She started her familiar refrain (any time we tell her no or something will have to wait until later) of "Maybe someday." We explained no, probably not.

And then Adam said something that surprised me: "If we could guarantee it would be a sister, I'd probably be more likely to want one." Hmm. We'd never specifically discussed that, and I was shocked to hear him say so. He's never wanted two kids, so the thought that he'd even entertain the idea if we knew we'd have a girl surprised me.

And we can't guarantee that. I was so worried the first time around that we were going to have a boy and Adam would be brokenhearted. He really, really, really wanted a girl. So much so that even if I hadn't wanted to find out the gender at the ultrasound, I would've. If we were having a boy, we needed to know in advance so Adam would have time to reconcile himself to the idea.

It's not that I don't want a baby boy. It's that I don't think I want another baby at all. Though today, I watched "movies of Baby Emma." Em wanted to watch herself, as she often does, when she was "tiny Emma." We randomly rewound a tape from the right age range, and she and I giggled and giggled as we watched her crawl, carrying a teething ring in her mouth. We saw her first Hanukkah and complete disinterest in anything but eating the wrapping paper. (Emma kept yelling at her younger self, "Eww! Don't do that! Yuck! Don't put that in your mouth" and assured me that Big Girl Emma does, in fact, know what to do when presented with a wrapped gift.)

And seeing her then, there was a slight twinge. What an amazing, energetic, intelligent child. And isn't it nice to have her right beside me, growing up. If I want to see my baby again, I'll just pop in a movie.