Second in annoyance, though only slightly, is the "Carle gimmick." Those familiar with his books will know what I mean; in his book about the click beetle, the last page "clicks," and in his book about the firefly, the last page blinks little lights. In this book, the main character decorates a Christmas tree with lights, and then presses a button, which is there for the child to press as well. Do we get a carol? No. Is it even a tune? Only to devotees of Anton Webern (of which I actually am one, so nobody get their drawers in a knot). It's a five-second long splash of unrelated notes, sounding like someone dropped marbles on a glockenspiel. Completely out of place in a preschooler's Christmas story, if I do say so myself.

So that's my take on it. If Carle wins a Caldecott next month, I'll be sorely disappointed.

Okay, I had the best experience on Thursday. The library sent me to a Mock Caldecott panel, and I got to participate in a limited version of what the actual Caldecott panel will do in January. Caldecott awards are given to the illustrator of the "most distinguished" American children's picture book of the year. One illustrator takes the medal, and any other outstanding books are declared Caldecott Honor books.

There were eleven librarians at the mock panel, and we selected our winners from fifty books over the course of five hours. In reality, the panel selects from hundreds and hundreds of books, taking about a week to determine the finalists. We had fiery debates at our mock panel, but these were nothing, I'm told, to what goes on at the actual selection, where certain books can develop followings and librarians search feverishly through the other books for the slightest error which could knock them from the competition.

I fought hard for Click, Clack, Moo. The shadows in the pictures are just amazing, in my humble opinion, making the cows and chickens actually look devious. The pictures seem to vibrate with energy, quickly drawing the reader into the plots of the scheming farm animals. Of course, nobody on my committee agreed with me, and I had to step away from my soapbox in defeat.

What everybody else liked was Sugarbush Spring. I did, too, after my champion was shot to the ground. The illustrations in Sugarbush are breathtakingly beautiful; everyone's eyes seem alive with spirit, and the colors are gorgeous. This was our winner, hands down. Far in the distance were our Honor books: Olivia, The Raft, and You Can't Take a Balloon Into the National Gallery. Other people had other favorites, but they only received a few votes and so were quickly discarded.

The moderator of the group, who has been on an actual Caldecott panel, said that Sugarbush, sadly, has little hope of winning, as it is too "beautiful." The panel tends to choose books that are "edgier," or striking in different ways than in sheer prettiness. She's probably right, but we won't know until next month.

Of course, what most caught my attention was the testimony from the moderator and from another woman present who had also been on a panel. Apparently, the moment one's name is placed on press releases as a member of the panel, publishers begin sending crates upon crates of complimentary books directly to one's door in the hopes of having one of "their" books selected. Free books? Sign me up! Naturally, though, I'd never be chosen; one has to achieve a level of notoriety to even be nominated for the job.

Well, maybe it wasn't all that serious, but it was quite icy. The town in which the panel had convened has an apparent aversion to snow plows and salt (maybe my landlady grew up there, since she shares their aversion), so the roads, covered as they were with falling snow and sleet, were treacherous. I took twice the time in getting home that I had taken in getting there in the first place, and I had more than taken my time making the initial trip. Call me overly cautious, but that little bulge in my abdomen has infused me with a heightened sense of caution.

We got four inches of snow and ice. Of course, most of it was still there today when a steady stream of rain and sleet began to fall. The temperature is now dropping, and the sleet is turning the roads into an ice rink. Eric, who left work early, told me that it was beginning to get hazardous at around five o'clock. I don't go home until eight-thirty; thank God I live only a few blocks away!

Weather reports predicted that we would get snow as well, accumulating from four to six inches, but that hasn't started yet, so I'm hoping it will miss us. Snow is pretty, as long as I don't have to drive in it.

My breasts started itching yesterday and haven't let up since. Is this a common pregnancy thing? Mind you, I'll take itching over aching any day of the week, but I am curious.