My husband returned home tonight after two weeks of Army Reserve duty. And although it wasn't the first time he'd left me alone with my children, it was the first time since I had one baby on the outside and a full-time, all-the-time, work-from-home job. I have a babysitter 12 hours a week, but what usually seems like a luxury was laughably inadequate.

In the hours leading up to his arrival (a few hours later than scheduled thanks to an I-5 traffic jam), much though I missed him and his wonderful sweet husband-ness, all that I could think was how much I wanted to meet him at the door with my laptop all packed up and a few dollars for a beer, and run as fast as I could to the nearest WiFi spot without the kids. Or him.

Everett insisted that I watch him flip through the extras on the Monsters, Inc. DVD, or talk for one of his action figures; Truman was into everything and knocked over my coffee, my late lunch of pasta, my glasses, an entire drawer full of crayons and chalk (for the eighth time), a basket full of photo CDs that I'd just organized by date; and neither of them could keep their hands off me! I was just trying to focus for 10, 20 minutes on something. And not. Doing. So.

Last night, I must admit, I lost it a bit with my boys. They're both doing this screaming thing now, to get what they want, and I just wanted a few moments alone! I tore my hair and then settled them both down for bed so I could have an hour or two of peace. It didn't last long. All night long, as we tossed and turned together (Truman co-sleeps and Everett always crawls into bed with me somewhere around 3 a.m.), I wondered when I'd be able to just sleep alone.

And then today I hung out with Larissa at the "Alberta Art Hop." We were selling our latest lark, bonnets and baby carriers and tees and onesies and what I'm calling "teething birds" made with vintage and recycled fabrics. Naturally, it being a nice day in Portland's baby central, we saw dozens of pregnant bellies and an equal measure of tiny newborns.

And oh, how I wanted to feel that feeling once again, that sleepy eye-rubbing newness, that falling-in-love, the time when every breath is full of the wonder of brand-new life. I wanted a baby again, a tiny mewling hand-clenching newborn.

I wasn't the only one. Larissa joined in my wishes, although if you want to know the truth neither of us ran home and checked our ovulation calendars or anything. Maybe I won't be trying to get pregnant in the next weeks or even in the next year. But oh, I want. I want.

[Photo Larissa Brown, teething bird Barbara my own. In Portland? We'll be 'round 29th & Alberta tomorrow.]

Truman turned one year old on Friday, and I've just gotten to the computer to focus on him. Despite his overwhelming sweetness and perfection, the poor kid, he just does not get as much attention as his older brother.

For Truman's first birthday, there were no themed invitations, few outside-the-family guests, no presents from mom & dad, not even a big #1 candle. I forgot the candles entirely, in fact, so busied myself photographing him stuffing delicious cupcakes in his mouth.

He's such an amazing boy, and so different from his older brother. Where Everett is light and bright, Truman is dark and serious; where Everett is zany and dramatic, Truman is calm and focused; where Everett shunned the large variety of foods offered him for favorites, Truman happily eats everything he can fit in his mouth. They're equally smart and flirty but Truman has this soulful stare that melts everyone with whom he makes eye contact, whereas Everett is in-your-face silly and sweet but never soulful.

Truman, whose first birthday is tomorrow, has begun to distinguish himself as a true chocolate freak. It was our anniversary yesterday, and given that I had an entire category of blogs launching first thing in the morning, my husband celebrated by buying several chocolate bars and handing them to me bit-by-bit as I furiously emailed, IM-ed and blogged.

For Truman, it was like a baby scavenger hunt where every treasure is yummy and deserving of pressing into his slobbery maw. Got chocolate? Truman will make you feel as if you are the only one who can save him from certain sweet starvation. I found him today scaling his high chair. His mission? A few squares of leftover chocolate. I could open a bar two rooms away and in seconds Truman would come toddling toward me, grabbing onto my leg and using every bit of strength to drag himself up to the milky cocoa-liciousness.

I can't blame him but his passion and focus are overwhelming. He'll go through any amount of struggle or discomfort for chocolate. I only hope he's as smart as he is sweet-toothed so I can teach him not to follow any manner of Pied Piper bearing a Hershey's bar. I keep wondering how much chocolate is too much for a baby. For Truman? I think the daily limit is somewhere between a couple of candy bars and a double-wide box of truffles.

"You want to get me in the mood? Help out!" says one mom I know.

"Watching my hubby cheerfully, without my prodding, take care of household duties totally puts me in the mood," says another.


Why is this? It's certainly not that male domesticity is dreamy -- you'll never find me, or any of my mama friends, watching videos of scantily-clad men putting plates and bowls in the dishwasher and tucking the kids in bed. Scrubbing toilets isn't fun no matter who's doing it. It's not the work in and of itself. It's the helping. And it's the fact that you don't have to do it all yourself. It's the fact that you don't have to do it all yourself. And perhaps most importantly, it's about recognizing and appreciating your partner's hard work. That alone is a powerful aphrodisiac.

When you first partner with the man of your dreams, it seems easy -- or, at least, possible -- to separate your wifely self from that of career woman, sporty gal, best friend, craft maven. As a wise woman told me recently, “before I was a mom I was Ghandi: I was generous with my time and resources. If my husband wanted to go on a hike, that was great!” But after… every half-hour had to be portioned out, with a responsible parent “on duty” at any given time. Once I became a mom, my identities were no longer separate and certainly not equal: I was mom first and foremost, and 24 hours a day. Suddenly my partnership with my husband was that of boss and executive assistant. And that’s just not sexy.

In order to get in the mood, I had to step out of my mom role. In the first months of a child’s life, that’s nearly impossible; and for the rest of toddler-hood it’s just really, really hard. So when I read Lainie Keslin Ettinger’s essay in the New York Times (she’s the wise woman of whom I spoke), I thought, yes! Someone understands exactly what I’m going through.

And I discovered that, for moms, porn is not so racy after all.

Want a mom in the mood, men? Try these tips:

1. Put the kids to bed, making an effort to get them to sleep without a fuss.
2. Dinner time? Offer to chop while she sautés.
3. When mom gets home from work and errands, have the baby bathed and freshly diapered.
4. Clear out the answering machine.
5. When dinner's over, show off your high-school waiter skills and carry all the dishes to the kitchen.
6. Send thank-you notes to all your relatives for the gifts they've sent this year.
7. Fold the laundry in the dryer and put it away.
8. Talk about something other than discipline or chores or bills.
9. Take the kids to the park (or anywhere, for that matter!) so mom can have a break.
10. If you're unsure how to help, by all means, ask.

Update: lots of you have commented to say, "this article is outdated!" and, "my husband helps around the house" or, (for you dads), "I help! I do!" and to that I say, I know. I know that many of you help. These dads pictured here? They help. And the more they do, the more their busy, next-millennium, working wives feel intimate, sexy, valued.

Just because some of you do help doesn't mean that it's any less desired. Just because some women don't value that help doesn't mean it's not true for me, for my very fashionable and well-educated friends. We love our husbands and yet we rarely have time to separate ourselves from the day-to-day of mom, career, mom, friend, mom, household finance chief, and oh yeah, mom. The more our "partners" are truly partnering, the better we feel about them come nookie time.

I remember back in the late 90s when the iconic television show of those years, Ally McBeal, was the one everyone rushed home for. Among my largely-unmarried group of friends, we empathized with Ally, and adored Billy right along with her. Despite our longing for the two of them to rekindle their long-ago relationship, we couldn’t help but admire his marriage and hold up his TV spouse, Georgia, as the pinnacle of wifeliness.

And there was the episode in which Georgia complained about their intimacy. She revealed in an explosive scene that the two of them made love every Tuesday and Friday. Aha! I thought. Married people have sex twice a week! And, for many years, this was my benchmark. When my husband and I were engaged, without going into the details, according to this reference point we were surely best-of-class.

And I was married, and became a mom (not necessarily in that order). And I learned that I needed an entirely new scale by which to measure our intimacy. I barely showered twice a week. If I was going to keep my marriage from sliding into the statistical abyss, measures needed to be taken.

The problem, as I see it, is that my identity as a lovin' wife needed to be kept entirely separate from my other identities. So the other day I sat down with Lainie Keslin Ettinger, whose essay in the New York Times had me laughing (and definitely not at her). We looked over our shoulders in the somewhat-crowded coffee shop and whispered euphemisms, not knowing whether to giggle or blush or pretend it didn't bother us. And we talked about what "did it" for us.

Last night on Desperate Housewives, Lynette Scavo's eight-year-old son, Parker, was curious about vaginas. He started asking some uncomfortable questions, leaving her with an imprecise description of a really big hug that magically planted a seed in a mom.

This sort of thing wouldn't happen in my house, where I'm all too eager to answer the most abstract questions. "What are those words?" Everett asks at the beginning of his Thomas the Tank Engine movie. "Those are just all the people who own licenses," I said. "What are licenses? Can we have some of those?" asked Everett.

I launched into an explanation of what licenses were, and how the people who own the brand Thomas aren't the same people who make the movies, the clothes, the toys, and the trains. "We have lots of those trains, right?" asked Everett.

Guess my answer was incomprehensible. And maybe I shouldn't be worried, then, about the obvious confusion after my description of how the process of leasing out empty retail space worked, or why he couldn't (after all) invest in stocks as they advertised on CNBC. Do you try to answer questions that really should wait until your kids are older?

Among the majority of my working mama friends, it's the woman of the household who's in charge of the budgeting; even those where mama makes less than half of the family income, or whose work is extremely part-time. And so when April rolls around, a mom's thoughts turn toward the 1040.

Given my state of permanent procrastination, I'm struggling just to prepare to file for an extension by tomorrow's tax deadline, with my husband loyally performing the duty of Chief Filing Officer. But it's not an unwelcome task. I find a great deal of satisfaction in the part where I carefully enter the social security numbers of my sons and register those lovely deductions and child tax credits. After all, it was (quite literally) my own sweat, tears and anguish that
brought my bouncing baby tax burden reductions into the world.

Who does the taxes in your household? And do other moms take as much joy in finally reaping the financial benefits of your many hours of painful, difficult labor as I do?

I'm not proud. But I admit: I use the play pen largely to negotiate toy battles.

Everett (you know) has all the best toys. No matter what he's playing with that day, it's the only thing 11-month-old Truman wants and he's desperate to get it, at all costs. Naturally, this causes angst. And at not-quite-four years old, Everett's still struggling with the concept of sharing. He will share, when forced or in a particularly friendly mood, but it's not yet a given.

A good 50% of the time when Truman heads for Everett's carefully-designed trainscape or his favorite airplane puzzle, I go for the easy way out: I stick Truman in his pack-n-play with a bunch of (baby-approved) toys. I eliminate sibling rivalry and choking hazards in one fell swoop.

I like to call it "toy jail." Lazy or practical? Feel free to judge, but I prefer a house with a minimum of high-pitched screeching, "Truman's playing with MY TOYS!"

I love you, Target, in oh, so many ways.

One of those ways is not, however, your ease of use. And I'll tell you what I mean, specifically: it's your carts.

Just take a look at this photo here. I'll have you know that I came to your store, the one at Mall 205 in Portland, Oregon, with two children who both wanted to ride in a cart. Despite your huge store with wide, wide aisles; your carts only have one seat.

No matter. I put Truman, my 11-month-old, in a sling. And proceeded upstairs to get a new car seat for him. He's getting so big!

And you see what happened? It didn't fit. None of your car seats would have. In fact, a good percentage of your large items can't possibly be wedged in the cart.

Instead, I balanced it precariously and proceeded to push the cart gingerly through your store, holding my large baby in the sling. The box fell out three times. Maybe four, I lost count. And what's worse, I conked my poor son on the head a couple of times.

Please get carts that fit your merchandise, Target. Then I'd love you a little more unreservedly.

[p.s. I do love my evenflo car seat, Truman quite enjoys riding in it and it's a nice plaid color.]