Holy rugrats, Batman: apparently the rumors about Angelina Jolie having not one but TWO buns in the oven are correct. Are the celebs drinking from the same twin-producing water cooler these days?

While promoting their awesomely-titled movie, "Kung Fu Panda," costar Jack Black spilled the beans during a joint interview with Angelina, dropping the phrase, "when you have these [babies]."

Jolie was then asked by Today show's Natalie Morales if she is in fact having twins, and replied, "Yeah, yeah, we've confirmed that already. Well, Jack's just confirmed it actually."

At that point, everyone on earth rushed to find a good picture of Angelina Jolie's pregnant body, because twins? Really? Girlfriend still looks like she needs a STEAK.

The undoubtedly gorgeous specimens will be the 5th and 6th additions to the Jolie-Pitt clan, whose family currently includes Maddox, 6; Pax, 4; Zahara, 3; and Shiloh, who turns 2 this month. With two more bio-kids on the way, this balances the brood between adoptive and biological offspring, if anyone's counting.

Jolie demurred when asked about the babies' gender, saying they would like to keep that information private. That is, if Jack doesn't end up spilling the beans on that one, too. Something tells us he has a pretty sweet baby gift -- make that gifts -- coming to make up for that slip of the tongue!

My 3-month-old has started laughing, or more accurately, chortling. His version of laughing at this stage is much like I remember his brother's: a staccato "ah-heh-heh, ah-heh" sound, accompanied by a delighted grin. The thing that was cracking Dylan up a few days back was my comical choking sound as I loomed over him and he kicked his frog toes against my neck. "Aaaaauuucccch," I would say, bugging out my eyes and letting my tongue loll out of my mouth in the Universal Sign For Pretending to be Choking. "AUUCCH. You're KICKING my NECK! HELP! Someone SAVE ME from KARATE NECK-KICKING BABY!" And Dylan would bark his weird little robot chortle, practically slapping his knee with the hilarity of it all.

Since then I've caught him laughing at his brother's antics, too, although I have the feeling that is more of a joyous expression of the DEVOTION he feels towards Riley. For his part, Riley is quite tender towards his immobile younger sibling (with a few exceptions: notably, the ongoing forbidden Let's Throw Hard Plastic Balls In the Air Above the Baby! game, and what is the DEAL with those balls anyway, I keep getting rid of them and he keeps finding more, they're like Tribbles) and speaks to him in this weird ultra-high-pitched voice that makes my eardrums shiver and Dylan obviously loves.

My toddler got sick this week and it was a feverish sort of malaise-inducing illness that completely erased his normal spirited personality. He was depressed, sunken-eyed, prone to picking random spots on the floor on which to stretch out and whimper, clutching his ever-present -- and increasingly filthy -- blanket to his runny nose. It was so utterly unlike him I felt he'd been replaced by Pod Toddler. A Poddler. A creature (surely an emo fan) whose presence was like a black cloud of mucusy despair.

While I tried to tend to my unhappy two-year-old with goopy doses of Tylenol and helpless words of comfort ("Dude, I know: colds suck"), the baby decided that it would be a fine day to refuse all naps and act as though his legs were being gnawed by piranhas every time I put him down. I eventually found myself staggering from one end of the house to the other, first trying to get the baby in a state where he'd be calm for five consecutive seconds, then heading back to the sobbing toddler while the baby's inevitable howls of dismay echoed down the hall.

My 3-month-old has figured out that the starfish-like things at the end of his arms actually belong to him, and whenever he's not busy destroying our eardrums howling out his various commands ("MORE MILK! ENTERTAIN ME FOR I HAVE BECOME BORED! REMOVE THE POOP FROM MY BUTT CRACK IMMEDIATELY!") he's staring at his waving fingers, all tripped out.

He's also testing his growing ability to manipulate his sticky little monkey paws, which is causing all sorts of problems. For instance, he tends to get his hands all up around the bottle while he's eating, or goes ahead and shoves a finger or two into his furiously suctioning mouth, sending milk all down his face and into his neck-folds before it's eventually absorbed by my bra strap. If he's not doing that, he's pulling my shirt halfway down to my waist, yanking my hair, or just giving me an out-of-nowhere hook to my upper jaw.

I really, really cherish the times when I have a chance to escape the house and get out on my own, even if it's only for an hour doing something like poking around our neighborhood thrift store or sipping a coffee at Starbucks. O, freedom! On my way out to my car I have to stifle the urge to leap into the air and click my heels.

It's not that I'm constantly dying to get away from the kids (usually), I just love the brief sense of being unfettered by the responsibilities of parenthood -- made all the sweeter by the fact that these moments are few and far between. It's all about MEEEEE, I sing in my head as I drive along in my cracker-crumb-laden ride with the two (TWO!) carseats in the back, blaring my music at adults-only levels. I'm footloose and fancy FREEEEEE!

The weird thing is, once I'm out in public I feel . . . I don't know, like I'm missing some critical part of my persona. I start feeling the strangest urge to go up to people with kids and tell them that I, too, am a parent. Not that I would ever do that, of course, because I might be a giant dork but I am not THAT socially inept (yet); I just have a real desire to somehow inform the world that I have these two boys and they are so awesome and, you know, they're not with me right now, but they exist! Really!

Do you ever feel that way? Like you vaguely wish you had one of those HI MY NAME IS stickers, and that it read: PARENT? I feel like parenthood is such an integral part of who I am, and yet when I'm out on my own I suppose I'm oddly paranoid that it isn't obvious.

I seem to keep forgetting to take Dylan to his 2-month checkup, for no particular reason other than life is busy and I am stupid. This week has officially become No Good Schedule-Wise so it'll have to be next week at the earliest, at which point he'll no longer be 2 months old. Will they refuse to see him? "I'm sorry, ma'am, but this child is THREE months old. You'll have to leave, and please collect your Bad Parenting Sticker on the way out."

I also just realized that this upcoming appointment is the one where he is supposed to get, what, about seventy-eight shots? All in his defenseless Pillsbury-roll thigh? Okay: it's really five, right? Five vaccinations. All at once.

*giant, anxiety-filled sigh*

I am neither convinced I should delay vaccinations for Dylan (uh, delay them more than I already have by means of forgetfulness, that is) nor am I filled with a sense of conviction that I'm doing the right thing by getting those shots ASAP. All I know is that I want to keep my baby safe: safe from ALL diseases and reactions and, you know, random bolts of lightning that everyone says won't happen but hello, sometimes they DO.

So! You think we can talk about this subject without getting all pissed off at each other? I'm just curious about your take on vaccination schedules: did you go the typical route with regards to timing when your child was little (2 months, 4 months, 6 months, etc), or did you choose something different?

I don't know if you've noticed this, but being around very small children can make a grown adult act like a capering, idiotic clown. Witness my daily ritual of singing to my 3-month-old at the top of my lungs during a diaper change:

Did you poop, poop, poop, poop your pants?
Did you poop, poop, poop, poop your pants?
If you're feeling warm and mushy then it's time to check your tushie
If you poop, poop, poop, pooped your pants!

The Poop Poop Poop Your Pants Song is an old family favorite from when my toddler was a baby. We also enjoy the following during baths, sung to the tune of "In The Summertime":

If your figs are clean, then your nuts are very nice
If your figs are clean, then your nuts are very nice
If your figs are clean, you're not stanky you're not stanky anymoooooore

(This is particularly entertaining when accompanied by an Ashlee-Simpson-esque hoedown dance.)

My husband sings an interesting rendition of "Hush, Little Baby" that features his own take on the lyrics:

And if that diamond ring don't shine
Daddy's gonna drink some turpentine
[...] And if that twenty-dollar bill don't change
Daddy's gonna buy you something strange

Riley's heard that song so many times he lustily sings along with his favorite lines: "TUPPENTINE!"

What kind of ridiculous songs are being sung in your household?

I don't know if I'd call myself an optimist, but I often sail along with a blind sense of it-can't-happen-to-me-ism. Or in the case of my family, it can't happen to us. This allows me to make it through the day without succumbing to a full-body panic over the myriad unpleasant fates that could befall one of my kids at any moment, such as accidents, illnesses, pianos falling from the sky, dingo attacks, and so on.

Unfortunately, this sort of thinking is what leads me to constantly get peed on. I mean, I know my 3-month-old is basically a human sprinkler, I know the sensation of having a diaper removed and a cool wipe applied can trigger any number of Bellagio-esque outbursts, and yet every single time I forgo the protective diaper or washcloth shield. Why do I do this? Because every single time I think, oh, I don't think he'll pee on me today. And that is usually when a powerful jet of liquid sprays me directly in the eyesocket.

I don't understand this about myself. I feel like I have gained all sorts of experience since we brought our first son home, and yet in this arena I remain painfully naive, ignoring all historical evidence in favor of allowing my shirt to get hosed down yet again -- then having the nerve to be surprised about it. "Crap!" I say, spluttering and flailing and mopping up my clothes, all startled and unprepared, as if the whole thing was totally UNAVOIDABLE.

Is it always true that ignorance is bliss? Because when the ignorant person is being urinated on at least once a day and twice on Sundays, I'm not sure how that can be.

Dylan, my three-month-old, has been a formula-fed baby from birth, and not that anyone needs an explanation about that but I'll just quickly say it was a couldn't-vs-wouldn't issue. My older boy Riley also had bottle instead of breast, and since I knew after his birth that my situation would require any future children to suckle at the sweet teat of Isomil instead of my own I've had some time to get used to this fact.

You'd think that would mean I've been able to lay aside any guilt and regret for something I have no control over, and yet I haven't, not completely. I read Angie's post here at ParentDish about the pro-breastfeeding billboard that reads "Babies are made to be breastfed" with great interest because I have seen these signs in Seattle (often near a Starbucks, of course --- mmmm, breastmilk cappucino!) and my own gut reaction was one of defensiveness. I've thought, where the hell is the second line that says 'Although we acknowledge that not all mothers are meant to breastfeed'?

As some of the commenters have pointed out, though, the billboard is probably meant more as public service announcement for those who still react to the sight of a breastfeeding woman as though she has sleazily whipped open a trenchcoat to flash her goods at innocent passers-by.

One thing I've learned the hard way -- especially since becoming a parent -- is that no one can make you feel guilty. Not your friends, your family, the media, or angry internet commenters. It's a feeling you have to own, because it's your own creation. Whenever I see an ad for formula or even the container of formula itself that reads "Breast milk is recommended" I want to whop the makers of Whatchamacallit Advanced with Iron over the head and yell I KNOW THAT BUT THANKS FOR REMINDING ME THAT I'M POISONING MY CHILD WITH YOUR INSANELY EXPENSIVE POWDER. Is it the formula company's fault for making me feel that way? Or the US Department of Health's for putting up a pro-breastfeeding billboard? Nope, that's all on me.

Didn't someone once say something like, guilt leads to fear, fear leads to anger, anger leads to hate, and hate leads to suffering? Or, wait . . . I just mis-quoted Yoda. Well, still.

I just started putting Dylan down in his crib -- in his bedroom -- for daytime naps, which has been a fantastic development. I don't have to tiptoe past his lightly snoring self only to stupidly wake him up with the clatter of the ice dispenser. I can eat my lunch without trying to chew quietly. I can play my workout DVDs and gallumph around the living room and instead of being interrupted by a suddenly grousing baby three feet away, I can be interrupted by a grainy, black-and-white image of him on the video monitor, banging the crib bars Attica-style and yelling for a schooner of milk, STAT.

And of course because parenthood is nothing if not an endless series of illogical, conflicting emotions, I put him in there, breath a sigh of freedom, and instantly start missing him. I go and peer at the monitor and wonder just what kind of snuffling sound he's making in his sleep. Is it the snorty piglike one, or the breathy sighing one? Good thing the monitor can be turned up to ELEVEN so I can hear everything, including oxygen molecules floating around the room.

We made all sorts of plans to start putting him in there at night, too, but as it turns out neither myself or my husband are quite ready yet. I was thinking I was more than eager to get some rest at night without being constantly woken up by all the snuffles and sighs and random bloops and bleeps Dylan makes in his sleep from the nearby bassinet, but then I picture the absent space he'll leave behind and dude, why am I suddenly all sniffly over here. JB announced that he thought the baby was "too small" to be in his own room at night, which is his way of saying ME WANT BABY NEAR. CAVEMAN NEED PROTECT.

Dylan will be stationed in his own room soon enough, and no longer will we listen to him breathe, squirm, fart, and snore in the dark of night. Which I suppose is why I'm clinging to it now.