So, this weekend I dropped my baby niece right on her head.  Well, not exactly dropped...she crawled off the sofa bed on which I was sitting.  Unfortunately, I was the responsible adult in the vicinity when it happened, the adult who didn't even notice the baby getting closer and closer to the edge of the bed.  The worst part of all of this is that I was videotaping my daughter and other nieces when it happened, so in the tape you can watch the progress of Baby J. as she enters harm's way.  It's like watching a simulation of the Titanic hitting the iceberg.

My first reaction upon hearing THWAP!  WAAAAAHHHHHHHH!!! was fear - what if she broke her neck? What if she's permanently disfigured?  (Witness how quickly anxiety can override my intelligence - she fell two feet, not thirty stories, and I was honestly worried she might have broken her neck.)  Once I saw that she was screaming and breathing, not bleeding with useless limbs hanging awkwardly from her torso, my second thought was:  "Her mother is going to kill me."

I've always been a little intimidated by my sisters-in-law.  I'm not quite like them, not that they are so like each other, but they all seem to have that big-family apathy that comes from years of deflecting simultaneous criticisms from multiple sources at the same dinner table.  I come from a small family with one sister, and I worry incessantly about her opinion and the opinions of my parents.  My beloved, sibling seven of eight (which translates into sixteen nuclear in-laws for me, along with fourteen nieces and nephews, versus three total human beings on my side's nuclear) doesn't give a rat's ass if one of his siblings momentarily disapproves of him, because chances are others would only approve of him if someone else disapproved.  It's a totally different world, and one to which after five years of marriage I am only partially acclimated.

So not only did I worry that my niece was seriously injured (she wasn't), I worried that my reputation as a fit parent was, too.  Even though I would've been HOLDING my niece if she would allow me to do so without screaming.  Even though I wouldn't have hurt her for the world and everyone knows that.  I know, intellectually, that it's impossible to watch everyone at every moment.  There were four other children competing for my attention at the moment it happened.  But I still feel like somehow I should be able to - and this comes from the same deranged part of my brain that tells me I should be able to bring home the bacon, fry it up in a pan, recycle the grease, stop global warming, raise my child, romance my husband, publish a book and exercise four times a week, all while avoiding wrinkles, traffic accidents and nervous breakdowns. 

Fortunately for me, the sister-in-law whose child I neglected - the same SAHM sister-in-law who bakes well and makes her own greeting cards - didn't make me feel bad for the accident.  She was actually extremely cool about the whole thing, which reminded me of the benefit of marrying into a big family - there are a whole lot of people who have your back when you screw up honestly. And unlike in my family, where as the oldest child I've been the first to do a lot of things, there is always someone else who did the exact same thing between two months and fifteen years ago.

Even if when I did it, I did it on camera.

Scene:  The Mall.

We're just getting ready to exit Target when I hear a little voice coming from near my knees.

Little Angel:  "Pinnies!  I wanna throw pinnies ina fowntain!"

Shit.

I decide to go for it, considering a) this is a innocuous request, b) I actually, for once have pennies and c) any aerobic activity will make the little angel sleep better.  Plus, she's slept the last three nights in a row, ever since the fever vanished.

But we must jog.  That is the rule.

She starts to trot down the mall, past the Bath & Body Works, past Foot Locker.  She picks up speed when she sees the fountain. 

After tossing five pennies in the fountain, we head back. 

Me:  "Let's run!"

She takes off at a good clip, training in her head for the Toddler Olympics. 

Little Angel:  "You run, too, Mommy!"

I begin my Mommy Shuffle.  This does not really constitute running, but she thinks anything above a walk is high-speed MADNESS.  As we pass by a flock of middle-aged women holding enormous Starbucks megadrinks, one of them peers over her sunglasses at us.  "What I would give for that energy," she says.

I think to myself, rudely, well, all you have to do is move - it does have this funny side effect of giving you more energy.  Put down your green-strawed heart attack and bust it, sister.

The little angel jogs the length of the mall. By Target, she seems to be getting winded.  I wait for her to slow down.  As she enters the final Target stretch, she's tiredly weaving past the aisles, nearly clocking lawn ornaments in her exhaustion.  She looks back at me.

Me:  "You know, you can stop running any time you want."

She stops dead in her tracks and holds her arms up.  I feel horrible, realizing she was thinking that "run" meant you have to keep running until you drop.  Stephen King would have a heyday with this one.

I pick her up, and she lays her head on my shoulder, pooped.

Me: "I'm sorry, honey, I thought you understood how exercising worked."

Little Angel:  "Wow, Mommy. Good workout."

Okay, let's revisit this. Last week, I commented on some points one of my students made about virginity and whether or not protecting it is necessarily a good thing.  This inspired some thoughtful commentary both on- and offline.  In fact, my friend Cagey and I ended up talking about it for a while at lunch on Saturday.

While I don't want to go too far into what she said (because that is her commentary, not mine), one of her central tenets involved Sex and the City.  She said it hasn't done anything for thirtysomething women.  She also said that she knows several people who have clung to their virginity until marriage (or they intend to) and it hasn't negatively impacted them in any way.

This is in line with the comment Carrien made - she felt it would be a mistake to advocate sleeping around.  In response to these comments, I realized I hadn't probably been clear with my opinion.  I also realized that this is a really interesting and important conversation, and I think we should discuss it further.

Here's my position (Ma, stop reading now):  I played the field.  And I was on the JV squad, in training very early, earlier than I would EVER want the little angel to be in training.  My student's position was that playing the field exposes a person to the fact that hot sex alone can't carry a relationship if the love and trust isn't there, thereby enhancing the value of love and trust even when, inevitably, the passions cool over the course of time.  I'm sure there's at least someone out there in cyberspace who will try to convince me they're still having hot sex twenty years into their marriage, and I'll believe them, but I won't believe they've had consistently hot sex for twenty years. My guess is that the passion ebbs and flows, spiking after a long separation, a near-death experience, a huge fight or a fabulous, margarita-drenched vacation.  It ebbs when you're tired, overworked, up late with small children, sick, worried about an aging parent or sick child, feeling unattractive or unfilled professionally or emotionally or just plain bored. 

Scientists discovered recently that the chemical reaction that causes romantic electricity lasts about a year.  After that, it's just like drugs - you need more and more to get the same high. Unfortunately, at the same time, you know your partner better and there are fewer new discoveries to elicit that chemical reaction.  My point, then, about the virginity thing - I feel better knowing that just because I had an amazing chemical reaction with other men doesn't mean they were right for me.  I didn't choose to marry my beloved purely 100 percent on physical attraction, though it's there.  And I don't think we need to get divorced if a month goes by without a quickie.  And yes, we have a toddler - they are all quickies.  True love is about more than the sex, but if you've never had the sex with people you didn't love, is it more likely you would mistake a new physical attraction for love?  Might you think, perhaps, you'd perhaps chosen wrong - how could you possibly be attracted to someone else?

I know that I can tell these things to the little angel.  I hope that she listens and holds on to her virginity until she meets a boy or man whom she loves and trusts completely.  I do believe premarital sex is considered to be a sin by my church.  I also believe lying is considered to be a sin by my church - my point on religion is that our American culture seems to weigh sex as worse than violent crime, and I have a huge issue with that.  Sin is sin, and if you believe in grace, you also believe it is not through good works that you are saved, but that we're all human fuck-ups and without grace, we'd be dancing with the devil in the pale moonlight, bar none.  Bar none.

So let's talk about sex, and what can be learned from it.  Can these lessons be taught without experience?  Or is the experience more detrimental than the learning that might come from it?  I don't claim to have the answers.  I only know what I learned from my own experiences.  I certainly will never encourage the little angel to have empty, Samantha-style sex - animal sex.  However, I don't know that I would necessarily be broken hearted if she loved and lost only to learn.

Children, when they are ALMOST but NOT QUITE well, become possessed.  The little angel came home yesterday with a 102 degree fever at noon.  By four, she had poo running down her legs, out of her saturated diaper and onto the floor, right in the middle of my conference call.  By seven, she was running around the house trying to get Sybil to take her thyroid pill.

Last night, she woke several times, and, after some debate, we treated her a sick child instead of a well child. In the morning, she had a 101 degree fever.  Now she's napping. Her fever broke around 9:30 this morning, but it's been up and down all day.  I HAVE to go to work tomorrow, as does my beloved, so I'm humoring her this afternoon even though she's already spilled an entire container of rice on the back patio, killed three flowers by ripping their petals off when I wasn't looking, threw melons on the freshly washed kitchen floor and drank fourteen gazillion half-finished cups of milk.  I want her to get better so that I may then kill her.

Just kidding.  JUST KIDDING!

So, we've got to wait another day for the virginity talk. I promise, it will happen this week.  I think.

I have this whole post revisiting the discussion of virginity, abstinence and whether or not we should be thinking about it already when our kids are only two, but I just came home to be with the little angel, who has a 102 degree fever.  Oh, and I have a spec to edit.

So...instead I'm going to show you this AMAZING drawing that my friend Bill Rose just did for no reason at all, other than he is a rock-star artist with a generous streak.  Oh, and he does work on commission, if ya'll want one, too.  For extra credit, go to his site and see if you can find my beloved and me.

I have this whole post revisiting the discussion of virginity, abstinence and whether or not we should be thinking about it already when our kids are only two, but I just came home to be with the little angel, who has a 102 degree fever.  Oh, and I have a spec to edit.

So...instead I'm going to show you this AMAZING drawing that my friend Bill Rose just did for no reason at all, other than he is a rock-star artist with a generous streak.  Oh, and he does work on commission, if ya'll want one, too.  For extra credit, go to his site and see if you can find my beloved and me.

My beloved was mowing the lawn when we got home from daycare last night.  I went to get the sidewalk chalk so that we could draw more hot-air balloons on the broken concrete we euphemistically call a "patio."

The little angel has become a fan of organization and cleanliness.  She wants her spoon and hands wiped off between courses and would request sorbet to cleanse her palette if she knew such a thing existed. 

Little Angel:  "Daddy, it goes in there."  (points to the shed)

Beloved:  "Oh, you think I should put the mower in the shed?  Okay.  I won't leave it in the street, then."

My beloved went over to the shed and pulled out the jogging stroller, since the mower lives behind the jogging stroller in the shed.  "Mommy's stroller!" shouted the little angel.  She's never seen her father jog.

The little angel leaned over conspiratorially.  "Daddy's stroller is louder than Mommy's stroller."

*Updated to add - Here are some thoughts on the new BlogHer ad network (see the cool ad in the left sidebar? If you're interested.  More on that later...got to go to work.*

Today I was telling the Editor Across the Aisle about the little angel's recent sleeping problems. I have to give her props - the little angel, that is - because Monday night and Tuesday night she slept through the night for the first time since May 3.  (Let's observe a moment of silence for children who occasionally sleep.  Ahhhhh.)

Anyway, on Sunday night, the little angel woke up at three in the morning.  She clamored for about a half an hour about wanting milk. I told her no, sleepy. It's time to sleepy.  She said no, the milk.  I said no, the sleepy.  In response to this, she grabbed the edge of her toddler bed and jumped up and down.  I almost laughed, as her flair for the melodramatic is come by honestly. (Ahem.)

After this, she laid down on her bed and kicked her pudgy feet vehemently on her Ebayed Laura Ashley beach-scene sheets. I held firm.

Then she asked to go downstairs and lay down with me on the couch. This sounded like an awesome alternative to the drama scene unfolding in her bedroom, but again with the firmness.  No, I said.  Sleepy.

Then she said she was poopy. (Liar, liar, pants on fire.)  I offered to change her diaper, which she accepted, thinking it was part of the negotiating process.

It wasn't.

Finally, she laid down and accepted her water cup. She bit the top of her Nuby, said it was leaking, and threw it at my head.

I said, no, sleepy.

I handed her back the cup.

We went back and forth like this, with her alternately pummeling her feet and throwing the cup at my head until I finally won and she went to sleep with said leaky cup cradled in her arm like a baby.

About halfway through this story, the Editor mentioned her water cup was leaking.  She said that every time she takes a drink out of it, it dribbles on her pants. It has made her fear the drinking of the water, but she insists on drinking it anyway. I think this has something to do with the fact that she is from Iowa, and believes in the power of wearing a dress that she got for $5.27 at T.J. Maxx to not one but two black-tie affairs in the past month.  I did not mention this. (I bet she's dribbling now, reading about it.)

Me:  "I know that what you really want to do is throw that water cup at my head."

Editor:  "I do, and even though I do seriously believe that you would kill me, I want to do it anyway.  Just to see the look on your face."

I almost peed myself laughing.  I can just see the headlines now:  Cube-mate Killed In Toddler Re-enactment.

Last night I taught my last class for a while.  Well, I didn't really teach. I proctored my final exam.  They did really well - this is the hardest-working group I've ever had.  But that isn't what I want to talk about.

Two weeks ago, they handed in their final paper.  A bunch of them wanted me to grade them right away, so they'd know how well they needed to do on their final exams.  In my first semester, I would've just told them that of course they should always study hard and reach for the stars for any test.  Two years in, I just told them to talk quietly amongst themselves or study while I graded in the last hour of class, if they really wanted to know so bad.  I was secretly grateful for the chance to do it in class, as opposed to after putting the little angel to bed when I could be doing other great things, like reading The Bitch in the House or watching Big Love on HBO on Demand.

While I was grading, though, I couldn't help but eavesdrop. 

Student 1:  "So your daughter ran into the fireplace with her head?"

Student 2:  "Yeah - she's only two, but she's already a handful, just like her daddy."

Student 1:  "You'd better be careful.  You're going to have to sit at the door with a shotgun when she's sixteen."

Student 2:  "Nah.  I hope she dates a lot."

Student 3:  "You don't want that.  She'll come home pregnant."

Student 2:  "No, she won't.  I'm going to teach her all about that stuff."

Student 1:  "But then she'll just have sex!"

Student 2: "Exactly."

At this point, I couldn't pretend to not listen anymore.  I chastised them for distracting me with such a conversation, but I, like the other students, wanted to know why any hardcore father (he is hardcore - he even stayed home from class the night his daughters' dog died) would throw his baby girl out to the wolves that are teen-aged boys.

Student 2:  "The only reason I'm still married is because I had a lot of sex before I met my wife."

We were flabbergasted. We asked for MORE, MORE on this subject. 

Student 2:  "I know so many people who got married young, sometimes to the first person they'd slept with, and then ten years down the road,they wonder if they're missing something.  I am happy where I am because I know what I'm missing, and I'm just fine with missing it.  I want my daughters to go into marriage with their eyes wide open, and sometimes you have to kiss a few frogs along the way to get that perspective."

I went back to grading my papers, but part of me was thinking about my own premarital sexual escapades.  I did some really dumb things, and some even dumber people. It's true.  I also had my heart broken, stomped on and driven over with a Jeep Cherokee.  I did learn what worked and what didn't, how to switch it up, how to ride out the plateaus, and when to cut ties and bail...before I got married.  It is true. 

That said, I can't bear the thought of the little angel going through what I did, physically or emotionally.  I know she's going to have her heart broken.  I know she's going to like someone who doesn't like her back, maybe even love someone who doesn't love her back.  I hope she is pretty, but I don't want her to be too pretty.  I hope she is sensitive, but not as sensitive as I am.  I hope that by the time she gets married, she knows what she wants in a traveling companion and understands that no man can ever fulfill a woman. The woman, the person, has to do that for him or herself.

I'm not sure what my position will be on sex when the little angel is hanging around the condom basket in high school health class (she won't be going to school in Kansas, no sirreee).  I'm not sure how forthcoming I'll be about my own experiences, but I won't lie to her if she asks.  I hope she doesn't have to grow up too fast, but I'm not sure how she can avoid it, unless we move to a bubble.  Small towns are no safer, folks.  I grew up in a very small town.

I found K.'s perspective on sex education rather interesting, though. As a good Lutheran, I believe we should try as hard as we can not to sin - we should not plan to sin.  At the same time, as a good Lutheran, I believe in grace.  I hear the argument that preaching anything but abstinence is like encouraging your kid to fornicate.  But I also believe that the kids will be a fornicatin', and I don't want my child to get any horrible diseases or have a baby when she's still a baby, if it can be so easily avoided with a little education. Which is the worse sin?  Discussing fornication or withholding information that could save your child's life, literally and figuratively?

I'm also fascinated by this concept of playing the field in your youth as marital aid.  I can see his point.  I was just talking to my girls yesterday about how I would've liked to have been a younger mother in theory, but in practice, I was sooo enjoying the road trips on $50 and the beer-soaked parties and the roller blading and the sleeping late of my twenties.  In my twenties, I did not know what I wanted in a man - that was clear from my persistent pursuance of loner types who were long on sultry glances and short on phone calls.

I do know that I would never have clicked as well with my beloved if I hadn't learned the hard way how to recognize a good man, a kind man, a man who would treat me with respect and make me laugh instead of cry when he could.  You can't learn that stuff in school. You can't watch it on television and have it translate. You can't buy it in a store.  You have to live your bad kisses and your heartbreak and your mismatched priorities and your boxers-or-briefs and your morning breath to KNOW WHAT YOU WANT, hopefully before you walk down the aisle.  And you have to have lived all that stuff to remember that that's what's out there when you're tempted to stray or bored or just sad or mad or hormonal.  Remembering you chose your spouse because he was the best match for you out of all those many people you did date, you did audition, those other people who just did not make the cut, because your man was the best for you.  You hope.  You hope you chose best, because you had choices and you knew what was out there.

Or maybe not.

Thoughts?