Most of Gavin’s personal qualities he thankfully got from my ex. He is soft spoken, laid-back, and very polite. Sure, there are undertones of mischief that he decidedly inherited from me, but fortunately, his father’s traits keep that in check. What I somehow failed to realize, though, was that my first-born son is actually a soft spoken, non-chalant alpha male.

Today, Gavin was having his usual Mommy-don’t-go meltdown as I tried to drop him off at daycare. Hiding behind my legs, trying to climb into my lap (while I was standing, no less), and explaining in every way his two-year old vocabulary would permit that he very much did not want to be there. Finally, I made a deal with him - I would walk him from the gym back to his classroom and he could hold my hand the entire way. This seemed to quell his apprehension sufficiently and the billowing sobs lessened into soft tears.

Just then, Gavin’s good friend, Jack, ran up. “Can I hold hands, too?” he asked, grabbing my other hand.

“Of course,” I started to say but was interrupted by Gavin wedging himself in between me and his companion, a ferocious look washing over his face. The tears stopped in their tracks and whimpering cries were replaced with clenched teeth.

Gavin ripped Jack’s hand out of mine and moved in close. “No,” he said very seriously. “It’s MY Mommy.”

Jack looked at me pitifully. “Can I hold hands?” he asked again.

With his message not sinking in, Gavin wasted no time. He used his entire body to block Jack from getting anywhere near me. “No, no! It’s MY Mommy! MY Mommy!” I had to pull Gavin away from Jack for fear he would knock the poor child over. Despite Gavin being younger, he is a good head taller.

Finally, Jack lost interest in holding my hand, and Gavin willing rejoined his class in line. “Bye, Mommy,” he said, waving me off with a knowing grin. “Have a good day!”

“Are you pregnant?” is the question I know my grandmother has been dying to ask me.

You see, I’ve been horribly nauseous for the past two days, unable to eat any food and unable to work. I’m pretty sure I have a lovely stomach bug (thank you, daycare toddlers) that for some inhumane and ungodly reason, refuses to be purged from my system.

Of course, as soon as I mention the fact that I am nauseous to my family, they immediately suspect I am pregnant. I don’t even have the words to describe how annoying this is - especially since they won’t come right out and ask me. Rather, they less than subtly dance around the topic.

“Is anyone else at work sick?” my grandmother asked last night on the phone.

“No,” I said.

Silence.

“Is Gavin sick?”

“No,” I said again.

“Well, that’s odd. Usually someone else is sick with the same thing, too.” Pause. “You don’t know what this could be? No idea?”

“No.”

My grandmother has proceeded to call me four times in the past two days to see how I am feeling. Now, I know that she loves me and is legitimately concerned about me, but I promise you that she would not have quite as great an interest if, say, I had bad headaches or cold symptoms.

While I am still nauseous - and boy, is it fun parenting a toddler in this state! - I am most definitely NOT pregnant.

Holy hotness, Batman. My favorite boys of summer are back and they’re better than ever. Of course, I am talking about the U.S. Men’s Olympic Swim Team. Phelps, Lochte, Peirsol. It seems like there is no end to the flowing stream of sheer gorgeousness that happily graces my television, newspaper, and computer each day.

I adored this cadre of cuteness during the 2004 Summer Games and was thrilled to realize that the 2008 Beijing Olympics would bring with it at least one very, very good thing: swimmers in speedos.

I’ve been watching the swimming competition intently these past two days, which has left my ex flabbergasted. “I thought you weren’t interested in the Olympics,” he said. “And I never realized you liked swimming so much!”

Really, with the fine exhibits below, how can you not be interested? I wish technology made it possible to reach through the screen and actually touch what you were looking at.