Sometimes you've just got to lie on the floor.

Let me explain.

The high-pitched scream and "Mami, I cut myself!'' was followed by the child busting into the bathroom I was cleaning. She had a bloody, dripping hand. She cut it on the nightlight bulb. She was trying to plug it in, holding it by the bulb. It shattered and sliced her ring finger.

I just came back from a 5-day trip that was all about me. Okay, it was about work, but it was all about my work. I had adult conversations without being asked to get anyone a meal, drink, or take them somewhere. (Well, technically I did, but it was from adults who actually returned the favor and asked me if I wanted anything.) I was not in demand 24/7. If I am going to be totally truthful, I have to tell you it felt nice.

Pregnancy

The thrill is as overwhelming as the uncertainty that dominates your time.

"Do we need that?"

"Breast feeding or bottle?"

"Diaper Genie or Diaper Champ?"

Plus binkies, onsies, unsolicited advice from strangers, and on and on. Your every thought is of just how life-altering that little, growing bundle will be. There is much to discuss.

This afternoon as Magoo appeared to be settling in to build a summer home in the city park porta-potty, I got to wondering, “Why do these delightful young people have such a fascination with all things gross and disgusting?”

Although I made them both use the bathroom exactly one millisecond before we left for the park, as soon as we arrived and came in visual contact with the stinky poo boxes, they suddenly had to go again. Because porta-potties are cool. Because they don’t flush. Because within their walls are found the contents of an entire week’s worth of visitors’ bowels.

I have two months left to go with this pregnancy. It's even more frightening when I convert it to weeks. Eight! Half of me is, "OMG, EIGHT MORE WEEKS. AM GOING TO DIE," and the other half is all, "Pregnant? When did that happen? Seriously? Another baby?"

The nuggets of knowledge in my brain are random – from knowing too much about drainage swales to state adoption law loopholes to Robert's Rules of Order.

They were implanted during the 16 years I spent as a general assignment reporter in both news and features. It means I know a little about a lot. Excellent for cocktail party conversation and raising an inquisitive child.

Hello, my fellow parents! I am the new Mom on the block. Let’s start this relationship with a few facts about my life. My philosophy on blogging and “sharing my life with complete strangers” boils down to one simple idea. The more we share the honest truth about motherhood with each other, the less alone we will all feel.

I am a mom to three kids — two boys, a teen and a ‘tween, and an elementary school age daughter. I have been married for 18 years. I am also the owner of — or as he likes to think am owned by — a 90-pound Doberman. Needless to say, my house is loud. I wouldn’t have it any other way. The chaos, the fun, and the endless drama keep me energized and, yes, at times frustrated. It is a busy life, but it is our life. I am here to share it with you. Warts and all.

I’ve successfully potty-trained two little people now and I fancy myself somewhat of an expert on all things body fluids. I’ve been thinking about the secret to my success and whether the world was ready for me to share it, whether I was ready to share the most important parenting information I’ve learned to date.

I took Jack to the wading pool yesterday, and for a full hour I was mom not only to my one-year-old, but also a four- or five-year-old little girl. Jack and I had barely filled our buckets before this little girl arrived from who knew where, eying the collection of cups and buckets we'd brought with us. She was cute and friendly and I didn't mind her going through our toys, especially because she was playing so well with Jack. When Jack wandered a little farther out, she came along. When I coaxed Jack back to our end of the pool, she was right next to us.

If the fortunes granted me millions, I would set up a charitable foundation that endows stools to public restrooms.

We just spent two weeks visiting family and friends in California, which means I hoisted my 41-pound, 4.5-year-old up to sinks – dirty ones, wet ones, fancy ones, even a port-a-john one – in approximately 743 public toilets. Only a slight exaggeration. I get so excited when we find a stool or a low sink, I think of leaving a "Bless You!" note.