My blogger friend, Leslie, is giving away one of her “World Famous” sock monkeys. (“World Famous” is in quotes because they may not actually be noted world wide… but they should be. They are dang cute and totally homemade.)

A link to the give-away is here . All you have to do for a chance to win is submit a name for the cute, rainbow monkey. And for an extra entry, make up a Haiku about it. (Leslie is somewhat of a Haiku nut job.)

Go over now, because the entry deadline is November 1st. But if you win instead of me, I reserve the right to punch you. And then be all bitter and sulky.

Yesterday Zoe called me from school, saying that she wasn’t feeling well and wanted to come home. But she sounded pretty chipper, which made me think: oh, she just wants to come home and hang out with me because I’ve been gone for a few days. Because I’m a cool mom like that… my kids just want to hang out with me. (This is what I think to myself.) Since she hadn’t missed a single day of school since school started, I decided to give her the day off. So I drove over and picked her up, and she came to the office looking cute and peppy and pretty much herself. We walked out to the car and I said, “Let’s go get some lunch. What do you want to get?” And she said, “Well, my stomach kinda hurts, but I guess I can eat something.” And I’m thinking, “Ok, sister, I already picked you up, you can stop acting sick now.” So I suggest Jamba Juice, because cool, fruity goodness is probably a nice thing for a kinda sick stomach. She agrees. We get delicious smoothies.

An hour later she is puking it into a trash can. (And there went my theory about me just being a super-fun mom.)

And then she continued to puke every 30 to 60 minutes for the next 10 hours. Even when there was literally nothing in her stomach to come out. It was a sad thing to see.

She claimed — in a very raspy, froggy voice — that yesterday was the most boring day of her life. She just laid there flopped on the floor of my bedroom with her pillow and blanket, alternating between sipping Sprite and throwing up in her trash can. (But hey, I finally went through about half of my saved Wal-Mart bags, using them as puke-liners. I also went through a half of a can of Lysol.) It was a crappy day for both of us. She watched a little bit of Camp Rock, but even Joe Jonas’s dreamy vocals and hot dance moves couldn’t sooth what ailed her.

She then spent the night on our bedroom floor, which went better than I expected. She only woke up once. But then this morning she was sick again, and I couldn’t stand to see another day like yesterday. I gave her half of one of my anti-nausea pills. And then she had a bowl of Honey Nut Cheerios, and she stayed puke-free all morning. She played Webkinz on the laptop and sent Halloween ecards to people she has email addresses for. Today — at least compared to yesterday — has not been all that bad.

These are the things needed for a successful sick-day:

Pajamas, Sprite in a “Zoe” mug, saltine crackers, Webkinz on the laptop and a fuzzy body pillow. Oh, and if there can be a Barbie movie playing in the background, that’s all the better.

As a final note: I really hope that this isn’t the flu. Why? Because I paid $50 a pop for my kids to have the FluMist... the new non-shot-needed vaccine that’s supposed to keep your kids flu-free for a year.  Yeah, they just got that 10 days ago. That means, if you’re doing the math, they should have 355 more days of flu-free goodness. So for now I am calling it a fluke virus that’s going around. I have no proof either way. But I’d like to not feel like a chump, if at all possible.

We’re back. It was a lovely weekend. I am too tired to tell you about it all at the moment. Because coming home from even the most relaxing of vacations will still leave you in a sleepy stupor, knee-deep in dirty laundry. So that’s where my head is today. But I thought I’d give you a little something to look at:

Me, 32 weeks prego, with the Coke Polar Bear, outside the Coke store, Las Vegas strip.

I patiently waited my turn while he was accosted by mobs of squealy teenage tourists. Then, when it was safe to approach, I went up and — very innocently — put my arm around him. Like, only touching his furry waist, not anything boom-chicka-wow-wow. As Jon clicked the picture, the Coke Bear said to me in a very thick Spanish accent: “There are too many crazy women touching me! I can’t take it anymore!” And he ran away from me, into the safety of the store. I didn’t even know the Coke Bear was Spanish. I figured he was really from the North Pole, as the Coke holiday commercials suggest. But apparently this is not so; he is Spanish… and he’s afraid of scary pregnant ladies.

I was a little wounded as I waddled away…

(a few more pics up on flickr, if you’d like to take a peek)

Oh, and in case you missed it last year, I made a sweet video for Jon for our anniversary. I was too lazy and/or not mentally awake enough to do anything of the sort this year. But it’s still a cute video… just a year later. Check it out if you like.