I believe parenthood has brought on many positive changes for me, but I'll be the first to admit I've grown downright pedantic when it comes to movie or television scenes depicting pregnancy, childbirth, or the post-partum stage. "Oh, COME ON!" I'll snap, flinging a hand out in disgust at the actress whose strap-on belly, supposedly containing twins, barely pushes out the confines of her hospital gown, as she heaves a delicate sigh meant to convey the depths of her labor pains (Natalie Portman I am looking at YOU). "WHY ISN'T SHE THE SIZE OF A NARWHALE AND POOPING ON THE TABLE."

Newborn babies are always pudgy and adorable, probably because they're actually three months old -- they never look like underdone, angry little pot roasts. Post-partum parents are delirious with joy, sitting in soft-focus pools of light, and no one is furiously scratching their C-section scar or rooting around under the sink for yet another Super-Plus-Flow-with-Wings! maxi pad.

Well, I suppose I can understand why these vignettes might not make for a pleasant viewing experience, but I have to say, I LOVED last season's Friday Night Lights for the scene showing the coach in a grocery store a short time after their baby was born. Did you see that, where he's completely disheveled, wearing stained sweatpants, with purple half-circles under his eyes and a vacant, drooly expression? Now that's REALITY.

Oh, I guess I just like it when parenthood is shown for what it is: a beautiful, blissful endurance trial. It's like an endless, brutal trek up the slopes of a sky-sweeping mountain, where every day you wheeze and gasp and think, holy crap this is so much harder than I thought it was going to be, and yet you are constantly treated to the most glorious landscape. Every step seems so critical, and there are so many paths to choose from. It's indescribable. It's terrifying. Like gazing upon the face of God. A god with many, many bodily fluids.

I'm terrible at goodbyes (and segues!) so I will quickly close by saying that this will be my last post with ParentDish, and I want to thank you for reading. It has come to mean a lot to me to be able to talk about my motherhood experiences -- the good, the bad, and the yeeesh -- and I am so grateful for having had this outlet. Take care of yourselves, you hear?

Our household is actively involved with potty training right now, a milestone that I had vaguely hoped would be maybe a 24-hour preoccupation but has regrettably turned out to be a ongoing effort. I suppose some kids gaily toss their diapers aside, shout NE'ER MORE!, and that's that -- not a drop spilled after the great change has been made, a well-worn, self-motivated path instantly created between child and potty chair.

We, however, are firmly mired in the Land of Endless Reminders: do you have to go potty? Do you have to go potty? Do you have to go potty? I feel like a demented parrot, hovering in front of my child and squawking the same phrase over and over all day long, but we've learned that reminders are not only useful, they're downright necessary.

In many ways it's actually more challenging to have a small child who's not in diapers. Leaving the house requires more strategizing than before, and once you're out and about -- well, there's no longer a safe haven of Huggies between your child's rear end and the shopping cart, you know? Plus, new issues are at hand: he prefers to pee standing up while I prefer not having to use an entire roll of Bounty Select-a-Size paper towels after each bathroom visit; potty reward stickers are now affixed to approximately eight thousand surfaces of my house, including, as I discovered the other morning, the bottom of my 6-month-old's left foot.

Despite the difficulties, though, it's an exciting time. Sure, it's a little moist, there are occasional setbacks, and frankly there's a lot more nakedness than I had expected, but we are on our way to leaving diapers behind (one kid down, one to go!). As my son loudly informed the bemused Fred Meyer clerk this week, "I've got THOMAS underwear on because I'm a REALLY REALLY BIG BOY and I go POOP in the POTTY!" He then went on to disclose some disturbing information about hot dogs, but thankfully we were well on our way out the door at that point.

Having literally eighteen months' worth of adorable kid moments captured by video. Still on the digital camcorder.

Laughing at the baby when he throws a full-fledged tantrum over being dressed in pajamas. So angry!

Not having taken my nearly-3-year-old to the dentist yet. And based on his reaction to the pediatrician's office this week (where he wasn't even being EXAMINED, OH MY GOD), planning to eventually fob off this duty on his father.

Never giving any serious consideration to cloth diapers.

Having given up on worrying about the nutritional content of my toddler's meals, and generally just hoping that something with calories makes its way to his belly a few times a day. ANYTHING with calories.

Hoping both children do all their pooping for the day at daycare.

Zerberting the baby's belly right before naptime, even though it makes him shrieky and giggly and generally sort of insane.

Telling my kid the TV's broken sometimes.

Occasionally providing my own spin on our bedtime stories: "And then the caterpillar smoked a nice big green leaf and he was soooo hungry, he ate through one bag of Nacho Cheese Doritos, one piece of pepperoni pizza, one box of Junior Mints, one can of Mountain Dew, and one peanut-butter-and-pretzel sandwich!"

Sending the toddler running back and forth between his father and I in order to deliver vaguely dirty messages. "Mommy, Daddy says he has a BIG HOT DOG for your MOUTH!"

(Got any of your own to share?)

My husband was flying solo on parenting duty over the weekend while I was out of town for a few days, and I could tell he was experiencing the extreme up-and-down nature of staying home with two small children. During one phone call he'd exult about their morning trip to the blueberry farm and the cute things our toddler had done, an hour later I'd receive a text message from him reading "SOLD 1 CHILD. OTHER HAS NOT MET $5 RESERVE PRICE YET. RUNNING AWAY AND NEVER COMING BACK, GOODBYE."

In my absence JB decided to stop swaddling the baby at night and upon my return he smugly informed me that Dylan had not only gone to sleep just fine without his Miracle Blanket, but he slept all the way until 5 AM. I thought, well doesn't that just figure that the baby starts sleeping through the night while I'm gone, but after my first night home when Dylan sounded off at 1:30 AM -- having turned his unswaddled body sideways in the crib and smashed the top of his head against the bars -- I couldn't help but notice that my husband snored peacefully while I came stumbling out of bed, only half-awake, my brain tuned to the sound of crying. In other words, I suspect there may have been the normal amount of night fussing, it's just that it fell upon DEAF, SLUMBERING EARS.

All in all he did just fine, of course, because my husband is a fantastic and capable dad, despite his ability to snore through wails of HALP MY FONTANEL IS PAINFULLY WEDGED AGAINST MY SLEEP-JAIL. I did however enjoy his confession that you know what, it really is better if you put a dish in the dishwasher right away instead of allowing its remnants to harden into cement over a 48 hour period. Will wonders ever cease? Next thing you know he'll realize that just because it's "only" a pee diaper, it doesn't mean it should be left on the floor; or wow, putting laundry in the basket is really pretty easy once you try it once or twice.

As I type this I'm on a plane traveling to San Francisco for BlogHer, and seated behind me is a small boy, sitting between his parents. I'd guess he's somewhere in that troublesome zone between 18 and 24 months, which is to say he's got a fair amount of control over his running and screeching abilities but is clearly still unpredictably Godzilla-esque in his motor functions and generally seems to be, well, let's not mince words: a major pain in the ass to deal with.

He's kicking the seat of the fellow sitting next to me (earning his mother a grumpy complaint: "Hey, can you keep him from doing that?"), he's wailing almost nonstop, he's whining and crabbing and his high-pitched irritating voice is causing all of passengers within the nearest five rows to roll their eyes and shift uncomfortably in their seats.

This is the sort of seating arrangement that has always annoyed me in the past: you pay hundreds of dollars for the dubious privilege of being treated like a frothy-mouthed terrorist as you stagger through various unpleasant security measures until you're finally squashed into your rigid chair, at which point the person in front of you lowers their seat into your lap, you're served a packet of pretzel salt as a meal (if you're lucky), and your flight is delayed several hours, giving you plenty of time to appreciate the screaming snot-nosed rugrat at your side, fully engaged in the activity of making your travel time even more miserable than it already was.

This time, though, I just feel sorry for the parents, and I feel bad for the kid, who's surely bored and cramped and just as uncomfortable as the rest of us -- his only crime is that he's too young to socially conform, to suck it up and sit quietly for several hours while his bladder threatens to explode, his eardrums bulge painfully, and his brain slowly atrophies from boredom without even the benefit of an overpriced gin-and-tonic to help the time go by.

I am, however, unbelievably thankful my own kids aren't with me, and that I don't have to deal with air travel and small kids any time soon. There but for the grace of etc, etc, etc. I'd like to think I could stop my own kid from kicking seats or acting like a miniscule jackass, but, ah, I can't guarantee I could -- not without a straitjacket, anyway.

How about you? As a parent, do unruly kids on planes drive you nuts? Or do you feel more sympathetic now?

On the days when we both work, my husband takes on the duty of taking both kids to daycare and picking them up at the end of the day. In return, I help him out as much as possible in the mornings, waiting until everyone's gone before I eat breakfast and take a shower. Usually I feel like this is a good compromise, because having shouldered the burden of dropoff/pickup myself on several occasions I know just how hectic it can be (navigating a parking lot a with a toddler and a baby and getting the kids installed in their respective classrooms while hefting a 38572-lb carseat and an armload of bottles feels a bit like competing in a triathlon. While hobbled. And under enemy fire), but I can't help noticing that there's a fairly huge discrepancy in our mornings.

My husband, 7:30-8:30 AM: Get out of bed, shower. Get toddler, throw on any old outfit that's lying nearby, regardless of cleanliness or fit. Cook toddler a waffle, settle into kitchen table with the paper. Linger over cereal and coffee while reading every single section of paper.

Me, 7:30-8:30 AM: Get out of bed. Get the baby. Change baby, feed baby, dress baby. Bring baby out to kitchen. Empty dishwasher from night before, retrieve clean bottles. Fill bottles, insert bottles into carrying case. Entertain baby, who has become disenchanted with bouncy seat. Entertain toddler, who is requesting that someone read a book, pwease. Notice time and beg husband to hurry up. Notice too-small outfit on toddler and change his clothes.

My husband, 8:30-9 AM: Disappear into office to check email, wander around the house collecting laptop and workout gear, leisurely brush teeth.

Me, 8:30-9 AM: Toss toys at increasingly grumpy baby. Bark at toddler who is constantly underfoot or grabbing things off the counter that aren't his. Ride out at least two full-scale toddler tantrums over such injustices as using the potty or having his shoes put on. Put baby in carseat. Put bottle bag out. Beg husband to hurry, get enormous irritated sigh in response. Rush around picking up scattered mounds of toys and laundry, throw cat outside, put husband's cereal bowl in dishwasher (although seriously give some consideration to placing it under his pillow), hover over carseat making goofy faces to keep baby from wailing.

My husband, 9 AM (or thereabouts): Departs, children in tow.

Me, 9 AM: Collapse to the floor and sob with relief. Now only need to eat breakfast, shower, blow dry hair, put on makeup, get dressed, endure long-ass commute, and arrive to work on time. Note, however, that it's already NINE A.M.

Well, I still greatly appreciate that he does the daycare duty, but I'm thinking I might need to make some small changes for the sake of my sanity. Either we've all got to start getting up earlier, or we need to trade off on who gets to scurry around all morning like a decapitated chicken and who gets time to drink their coffee before it turns into a solid mass.

It's a little less chaotic on the days I stay home with the kids, but honestly, not by much. Are your mornings crazy, too?

(I know this subject's been done to death, but what can I say, IT'S ALL TRUE.)

1st kid: After dropping the pacifier on the floor, boil it for at least 5 minutes.
2nd kid: After dropping the pacifier on the floor, blow off any visible dog hair.

1st kid: Create a beautiful, peaceful nursery with an aquatic design theme and a bookshelf full of carefully arranged toys and books.
2nd kid: Toys and books spread all over house. "Theme" can be described as "extra storage room where a baby happens to sleep".

1st kid: Entertain the baby with expensive developmental toys featuring age-appropriate patterns and colors.
2nd kid: Hand the baby a plastic measuring cup.

1st kid: Expose baby to television rarely, and only in the form of Baby Einstein-branded DVDs.
2nd kid: Have baby watch HBO during his late-night feedings. Explain some of the more complicated Eff Words if need be.

1st kid: Immediately discard milk in bottle if it sits out more than ten minutes.
2nd kid: Immediately discard milk in bottle if there's a cat hair floating in it. Okay, two cat hairs.

1st kid: The baby's crying! Hurry, tend to him immediately!
2nd kid: Huh, the baby's crying. I hope it's not bothering the neighbors.

1st kid: Gingerly clip baby's nails with the special infant clipper, hyperventilating the entire time.
2nd kid: File baby's nails with your emory board while watching So You Think You Can Dance.

1st kid: Keep a detailed log of your baby's feedings and diaper contents, carefully updating it after every single feeding/diaper change.
2nd kid: Ha ha ha haaaaaa! ARE YOU KIDDING? HAAAAAA.

1st kid: Put adorable pair of Robeez on baby whenever you leave the house.
2nd kid: Cover baby's bare toes with your purse if someone gives you the stinkeye.

1st kid: Obsessively read infant development books so you can anticipate all upcoming milestones and fret over potential illnesses.
2nd kid: Enjoy baby.

If you've ever listened to Bill Cosby's genius comedy routine Himself (if you haven't had the pleasure, may I recommend that you go ahead and buy the DVD right this instant? Okay then!), you know the skit titled "Brain Damage", right? Cosby's got this bit that goes something like, "All children have brain damage. You can't just say "come here", you have to send a barrage of heres. Come here, come here, come here, come here, come here! HERE! HERE! HERE!!!" I was thinking of that this past week during our vacation, which our toddler spent in perpetual Over-Stimulated Mode, as I heard a similar dialogue issuing forth from my own mouth: "Riley! Put that down! Put that down! Down! DOWN! DOOOOWN!"

Put that down, stop it, stop jumping, sit still, no, NO, NOOOO, don't touch that, that's not yours, I don't want to have to tell you again, etc etc etc. My god, I gave myself a lip-cramp from all the Disapproving Pursing I was doing.

I love so many things about Riley's age right now -- this nearly-3-years-old stage of silly games and weird conversations and random acts of utter hilarity -- but oh MAN it makes me crazy when my kid doesn't listen to me. He's officially old enough to FOLLOW MY COMMANDS and yet he's also officially old enough to STUBBORNLY REFUSE TO DO SO.

It was one thing when he was 18 months old and basically a horrifying combination of upright mobility + infanthood (seriously: 18 months, Worst Phase Ever) but now that he's all of three feet tall and able to call me out on my own bodily emissions ("Mommy, that sounded sumpin like a fart") I do NOT enjoy having to chase him and deploy the Maternal Eagle Claw of Death on his damn collar in order to herd him in the right direction because he's refusing to acknowledge my cries of COME HERE COME HERE HERE HERE HERE.

Truthfully, I want to be obeyed. Without question. Instantly. As though he were a tiny G.I., snapping to attention. And if that's not feasible (gosh, you think?), then at the very least I want him to understand the Motherly Line Which Shall Not Be Crossed, where my voice makes it clear we are Not Screwing Around and I Said Come Here Right Now.

This doesn't quite seem to be happening, though, and so I do the one thing that makes me sort of want to punch my own face: I nag. And repeat myself. DON'T. STOP. COME. I SAID. PUT THAT. GRAH. MRAH. ARGH.

Do you find yourself doing this too, or is your child an angelic example of perfect discipline? (And if they are, did you make use of a cattle prod during the formative years? I'm just, ah, wondering.)

In the last week or so, my almost-5-month-old has abandoned his admirable new habit of sleeping 6+ hours at a time in favor of waking up every three hours to demand yet another feeding. It's not horribly disruptive since he essentially wakes up, rings his version of the dinner bell, powers down a bottle and falls immediately back to sleep, but my body has been experiencing something like a cringing depression at having to get back into the routine of staggering out of bed at 1 AM, 4 AM, etc.

It doesn't help matters that my husband snores peacefully throughout each awakening, then innocently asks in the morning whether or not Dylan woke up in the night. (Jeez, at least pretend like it screwed up your sleep too, you know? Otherwise I might be forced to help you SHARE in this wee-hour inconvenience, by, say, dumping a glass of cold water into your open slumbering snout.)

My gut feeling is that the baby's going through a little growth spurt and that we don't have a bigger sleep issue going on, mostly because of how he's waking up: he's not frantic or wanting comfort, he just seems hungry. I can sympathize, really -- if being a small growing baby is anything like being pregnant, I don't know how he makes it through the night without getting up and eating yet another toasted, buttered, and salted Thomas' "Everything" bagel.

(What? You didn't pork out on salt-and-butter bagels at 3 AM during YOUR pregnancies and wake up with poppy seeds stuck in your teeth? Freak.)

I'm hoping we get back to a more reasonable sleep schedule soon, because even though I suppose it's not all that tragic to have to deal with a couple quick feedings with a mostly cheery baby in the middle of the night, I'd rather up my chances of making it all the way through that dream involving George Clooney and the bathtub scene in Out of Sight, you know? (ALL THE WAY TO THE HAPPY ENDING IF YOU KNOW WHAT I MEAN AND I THINK YOU DO.)

I don't plan to try Dylan on solid food for a few more weeks still, and I know there is supposedly no correlation between solid food and sleeping through the night. However, I'm curious as to whether or not your experience matches what the experts say. Did your baby sleep better once he/she was eating solids?

We've got a road trip planned for this weekend, a 7+ hour drive from Seattle to the southern Oregon coast to visit family. I've done this drive so many times I have the landmarks memorized: there's the right-wing billboard in rural Washington which typically marks the point when we've run through our repertoire of festive family sing-alongs, there's the rest stop where we had the World's Most Stressful Two-Kid Diaper Change, there's the quaint little coffee shop in the Willamette Valley where we can no longer stop and relax and have an adult conversation because we've got two children dear GOD TWO CHILDREN HOW DID THIS HAPPEN.

My husband likes to act like he doesn't understand why I dread these drives so much, until I cheerily announce that this time, I'd like to spend the majority of the trip in the relative comfort of the driver's chair while he sits in the cramped backseat, wedged between bags of food and diapers and toys, entertaining the baby with dangly plastic things while pointing out cows to the toddler. For SEVEN HOURS.

It seems like traveling with the kids will get easier when they're a little older, but maybe not. I cringe to think back on all the road trips my mother took me on when I was a school-age kid, where we would drive across the entire country from our home in Virginia in order to visit all sorts of amazing, beautiful places -- and how I would whine and complain and repeatedly get carsick and generally was probably such a pain in her ass I have no idea how she managed not to resist leaving me on the side of a road somewhere.

For this trip, I plan to bring our usual accoutrements: snacks, bag of distracting new toys from the dollar store, DVD player, drawing pad. You know what I'd really like, though? If I'm being totally honest? A soundproof glass divider between the front and back seat, like you see in limousines. Wouldn't that be great? When the kids start whining, you just push a button and bzzzzzzzt -- blissful silence.

Alternately, I'd like the option of FedExing my children to our destination ahead of time, so my husband and I could spend the drive BSing and taking turns napping. Oh, don't look at me like that: I'd put holes in the shipping container, I'm not a monster.

What do you guys think, is it easier to travel with older kids -- or does it just get HARDER?