A confession.

Okay, so when someone talks about what they saw on Oprah, I may roll my eyes. And then I may say that although I appreciate her getting to read books again and attempting some philanthropic works, I just don't get it.

But the truth is, I don't not watch Oprah because I'm so holier-than-thou. No. I don't watch Oprah because that stupid woman makes me cry way too often. Even when she has the Sex and the City girls on. So there. I said it.

Confession #3.

Since we're heading back to the states to see family at Christmas (which I am referring to the "guilt trip" -- aren't I punny?), CPT Dick wants to go spend a week, just the three of us, somewhere warm and relaxing right before deployment. He has a few criteria for the trip:

1. It is warm.
2. It is sunny.
3. There is a beach.
4. There is a golf course.
5. It is all-inclusive.
6. It does not have entertainers or other individuals that will try to get you up and dance on the bar when you are just trying to get a goddamn refill on your beer.
7. It has stuff for the Munchkin to do.
8. It is not on the military's no-go list.
9. It costs no more than an arbitrary random figure that he pulled out of his butt.

Umm, hello? Warm and sunny in February? Meals and drinks included? You want all that? No problem. Wait? You want it for how much?

Yes, my husband has no concept of time, space or how much a decent vacation costs now that our son is old enough to require his own seat on the plane and we are looking for sun and surf in February.

It's not that we can't afford more than my husband's set price. We can. And frankly, since he'll be heading off for 15-18 months in the desert, I think that we should be willing to splurge to make sure he gets exactly the kind of decompression trip he's after. But he, being dumb, can't think outside the change purse.

So here's my third confession. I found the perfect vacation spot -- a week in the Maldives. And I found a great deal on a resort there. It's gorgeous, has activities for toddlers and an open bar. It is my husband's dream come true.

But it's almost twice the amount that my husband wants to spend.

So guess what? I'm not telling him. I booked it today and then immediately sent out a bunch of emails to editors I work with frequently asking for a little extra work this month. With holiday crunches upon them, most of them came back with something. I got enough to cover the whole trip plus some diving for me.

I won't tell him about the extra work either.

And if he asks me how much the total was? Well, I'll just fudge the numbers a bit. What he doesn't know, won't hurt him.

Confession #2.

I once peed on my son.

Don't look at me like that. It wasn't on purpose, exactly. Well, at least not initially. And let's face it, the kid has peed on me more times than I can count. So let's just call us even (though he still owes me big time for all the poop and vomit I've had to endure these past few years).

We were traveling, just the two of us, and I had to make a restroom run. The only toilets available at this particular airport were the squatty potty variety, very popular in Eastern Europe and Asia. If you've ever used one, you know exactly what I mean. The groan when you see it. The knowledge that it's finding a way to successfully bend down or go find an empty bottle somewhere. And if you haven't ever come into contact with one, if you are that lucky, just take a deep breath and be ever so grateful that you haven't crossed paths (though if you really want to see one, click here).

The bathroom was filthy. But when you have to go, you have to go. But what do you do with a newly walking toddler? I mean, there's absolutely nothing in the manual about squatty potties and toddlers. Seriously. I checked. And I doubted that leaving the boy outside of the stall was really the way to go either.

So with no other option available, I squat, knowing that my son will probably come over and visit, getting in the way of my urine stream. I mean, it's a given that he's going to be a little freaked out by the complete and utter nastiness of the place. And with me squatting down, almost just as I do when I'm opening my arms up to hold him close or pick him up, he was going to come calling. And, indeed, that's exactly what happened.

I tried to figure out a way to keep him at bay. I did. But when I tried the Heisman move, I realized that my lack of balance in the position would only result in me peeing on both of us. I had a change of clothes for him (two, in fact, given his reputation for diaper leakage). I didn't have one for me. Lack of foresight, I know.

He didn't mind so much. It only really dampened one of his pant legs. But I still felt like the worst mother ever. I mean, what kind of Mom urinates on her only child?

So, yeah, it happened once. I'm learning to deal with my shortcomings. And honestly, I figure that with all the other stuff that comes with CPT Dick and I parenting, this is going to be way down on the list of things he'll have to discuss with his therapist.

Confession #1.

I am a cheater.

No, not that kind of cheater. Get your mind out of the gutter.

CPT Dick and I play a lot of board games. One of our favorite games to play is Trivial Pursuit, as whomever wins usually spends the rest of the day lording how smart he or she is over the other one. It is verbal foreplay at its best.

Neither of us is very crazy about the later versions of the game. The questions are a bit too pop culture for our taste. But we just got the newest version as a gift and decided to give it a go.

We were neck and neck in the game. And for whatever reason, CPT Dick kept getting these serious meatball questions. For instance:

• What 1995 Alicia Silverstone movie is credited with helping popularize the phrase, "As if?"
• What "soldier's newspaper" did Ulysses Grant's troops launch in 1861, after finding the offices of the Bloomfield Herald abandoned?
• What Star Trek collective warns: "Prepare to be assimilated...resistance is futile?"
• Who made his bride jump on 10 foot crocodiles, on their 1992 honeymoon in North Queensland?

The answers, of course, are Clueless, Stars and Stripes, the Borg and Steve Irwin, respectively. And take special note of the last question because my husband answered it as "The Crocodile Hunter." And even though it was a piece of the pie, I gave it to him.

And me? I got questions like:

• What national has the highest incidence of kuru, a disease spread by eating human brains? (Papua New Guinea)
• Who moved across the bay to Oakland in 2001, to keep catching footballs? (Jerry Rice)
• What rodent flavors Phillippe Parola's award winning recipe for Ragondin Salid? (Nutria)
• What U.S. painter famously mistook Peggy Guggenheim's fireplace for a urinal during a cocktail party? (Jackson Pollack)

Flash forward a few turns and I get the following question, also for a piece of pie:

• What uniquely titled magazine did Gene Simmons unfurl in 2002?

I replied, "Tongue." But since the back of the card said, "Gene Simmons Tongue," he wouldn't give it to me. And then he went on to mock me for other questions he knew and I didn't. I started to get really annoyed.

So when he was up for his final piece of the pie, the question was "What talk show host reveals what famous folks' offspring might look like in segments called "If They Mated?"

There was no way I was giving that one to him. He loves Conan O'Brien and would have gotten it in a second. So I cheated. I read the next question down instead: "What gubernatorial candidate canvassed Florida in a trademark red Ford pickup?"

He didn't get Janet Reno. I went on to win the game.

So I confess, for the first time ever, I cheated. But it was a hollow victory and I don't imagine I'll do it again. After all, I'm sure I would have kicked his ass anyway.