In Southern California, winter is my favorite time of year, because it’s the only time we get a break from the endless monotony of sunshine and warm temperatures. The evenings turn chilly right around Halloween, and usually the rain starts after Christmas.

It’s been hotter than hell in So Cal; usually we get our hottest weather right around Labor Day, so business as usual. But already my boys are planning for Halloween; they talk about it constantly, and are always bugging me about how long it is until Halloween. (Sam is going to be Jason, the killer in the hockey mask; Matt is either going to be Woody the cowboy or Evil Woody, the difference being that Evil Woody carries a gun and, presumably, laughs maniacally.)

But this morning at Starbucks I got my surest sign that fall is on the way: pumpkin spice lattes are back. And suddenly I’m loving life just a little bit more.

Bring on the autumn.

I came out of the kitchen and this is how I found her. Need I say more? We are in SUCH trouble. (Please excuse the candy cane stains on her shirt. Toddlers are like that.)

You know those times when one of the neighborhood dogs starts barking, and he sets off another dog to barking, and then the rest of the dogs pick it up, as do all the dogs on the next block and the one on the other side and the one behind you? And you start thinking Jeez, does EVERYONE in this benighted neighborhood have a dog? and Shit, that’s annoying; can’t they get their fucking dogs to SHUT UP ALREADY?

One of the many joys of having basenjis is that no matter how many dogs are barking, YOU KNOW YOUR DOGS AREN’T AMONG THEM.

Now, if someone’s dog is howling or whining or barooing relentlessly, or pawing on the sliding doors to be let in . . . that’s a different matter altogether.

Ben and I arrived at day care yesterday evening to pick up the kids, and it turned out Julia had herself a little adventure during the day. She’s just turned two, but has figured out how to open the day care lady’s front door. And the front gate. So, while the day care lady was making lunch, she got her little boyfriend, two-year-old Teddy, and led him out the front door. And down the lawn. AND ACROSS THE STREET.

One of the neighbors spotted them, thank God, and walked them back immediately. The day care lady completely freaked. For 20 years she has always had an “open door” policy, meaning that she leaves her front door unlocked so that parents can just walk in anytime they please. Julia, my little escape artist, has made her change that policy. The front door is now kept locked, and she had a gadget installed that sounds a loud bell throughout the house anytime the front door is opened.

Today, I’m thanking God that Julia and Teddy had a guardian angel with them yesterday. It’s every working mother’s nightmare, the idea that something terrible will happen to them at day care and we will not be there to stop it. And meanwhile, we’re keeping an especially close eye on our adventurous little girl.

This morning, Julia made it quite clear that she is going to take after our boys.

The family was getting dressed and ready to leave for work and day care this morning, when Julia smiled her sweetest, most angelic smile and began dancing around the bedroom floor, chanting as she danced. And what did she chant?

Toga. Toga. To-GA! To-GA! TOGA! TOGA! TOGA!

Has she even SEEN Animal House? I don’t think so. But given that she lives in an animal house, I shouldn’t be surprised.

I am SO in for it with this kid. I might as well have had a third son.

My sons — spurred on, I have to admit, by my husband — have recently become fascinated by the swirly, which is a sort of hazing prank wherein you stuff someone’s head into the toilet and flush it. They are constantly threatening each other with wedgies and swirlies, and Sam uses a little plastic toilet to have his action figures give each other swirlies.

The boys also pretend to fart on each other’s heads, with their father’s implicit encouragement. This is what it’s like to live in a household full of juvenile males — I include Ben in this number, because he’s no better than his sons. Thank God for Julia, whom I hope will become a force of peace and order in the household . . . although with two older brothers to imitate, it may only be a matter of time before she’s threatening swirlies as well.

For those of you who are Miss Doxie readers, and wonder whether she has disappeared from the face of the earth, don’t fear — I’ve just heard from her and she’s having technical problems with the site and cannot post, in addition to which her life is typically crazy.

She will post when she can, and promises fun and surprises when she returns.

One of the most disconcerting aspects of motherhood is dealing with your children’s bodily fluids. Forget changing diapers; that, you’re prepared for. It’s some of the other stuff that really freaks me out.

Matt, for example, while long since toilet trained, sometimes still requires help with the paperwork after a #2, so to speak. This is usually Ben’s job, mostly because when I have to do it, I get the dry heaves. Also, there are boogers — lots of boogers. Apart from them wiping their noses on my clothes in the process of hugging me, when I see one of my kids with a boogie nose I just reach out instinctively and wipe their nose with my hand. And then I am left with a hand covered in baby boogers, and must cast about for something on which to wipe my hand (which, in a pinch, is sometimes my own sweatshirt).

But worst of all is the barf. The boys are big enough to run for the toilet or a wastebasket if they’re about to throw up, but young toddlers just heave-ho with no warning whatsoever. Two nights ago, I was awakened late at night by the sound, smell and feeling of Julia barfing into my hair.  People, it doesn’t get any nastier than that — having to deal with a baby who is still crawling, barfing, all over the bed; changing the sheets; changing my own clothes, and washing the barf out of my hair. And then having to get up early for work the next morning.
I don’t blame Julia, of course, except insofar as I wish she had barfed on Ben instead. Make a note of that for next time, okay, Boolie?