This morning I went in to get Hatchling, walked to his crib, lowered the rail, and then for some reason I walked over to his closet to decide what he would be wearing on today's outings. Naturally, about a second after my back was turned, a scream pierced the air and I whirled just in time to see the boy do what would have been, in diving, a perfect 10. He leaned over the bar, flipped forward, hit his head on the carpet and kind of rolled forward before landing on his buns, Blankie still gripped safely in his fat little clutches. He was more than a little affronted. His blame of his mother was obvious, as he would accept no mama- lovin' for comfort. Just Blankie. Blankie wouldn't let him fall out of bed, no sireee, but Mama, well, she sucks.

After that little episode, I dragged him (kicking and screaming, because I made him leave Blankie) to Sam's, that bastion of bulk- buying. We had to get our tires rotated and balanced, and we enjoyed at least the first hour of wandering the aisles, looking at huge quantities of things we don't need, like 20- packs of Sharpies, or gigantic containers of biscotti. While waiting, I indulged in a Mr. Pibb and a slice of beef enchilada pizza, effectively sending my diet into a downward spiral, at least for today. Well, and tomorrow too, because I bought a buffalo chicken pizza to bake at home....

Pizza, most perfect of all foods. You fatten me with your cheeses. You tickle my taste buds with your bubbling sauces. How I love you, wretched fattener of Americans.

I have a friend who thinks that no one really likes the taste of pizza, but that we are all socially conditioned to believe that we like it. To him, I say simply, "pushaw."