Holy crap, it must be time to have another baby. This calls for one of the things that my husband dreads more than penis-kabobs: A LIST. Don't worry, honey. It's not a honey-do list... unless it concludes with "do me," in which case I'm confident you'll have no problem following orders. It's a list of pros and cons.

So let me get this straight... the Catholic Church thinks that, to be a good wife, I need to be a good housekeeper? Someone interpret that differently for me. Please. Be my guest. Tell me I'm reading it all wrong.

Every parent is unique, but we all share a common goal before we go tits-up: To die with no regrets. (Other than the regret of accidentally swallowing that rat poison that's now killing us.) And that pursuit -- or avoidance, rather -- is a complicated thing.

At two, he's 87 per cent trained. He has the occasional accident, but who doesn't? (Blush.) The day is quickly approaching when I will no longer accidentally lick "chocolate" off my wrist, and I can buy more vodka and less diapers. Those friggers are 50 cents a poop, er, pop! I'm broke. And I'm not just talking about my vagina.