I leave this afternoon for a two-day business trip.  I remember how I used to love business travel when I was single.  When I lived in Chicago, I was gone a week out of every month, and I could scarcely believe the luck.  Fly to new cities, stay in hotels much nicer than my apartment, eat on someone else's dime AND earn frequent flyer miles for free?  Whoopeee!!  Sign me up!

Even after I got married, I didn't mind it so much. It was sort of fun to take a bath, control the remote and drink guilt-free every night.

Then the little angel came along.

I'm such a sucker.  I had to kiss her goodbye extra-fast at the Emerald City's door this morning, then run to my car to keep from crying in front of her.  I'm only going to be gone two nights, but already I can feel the achy-sick feeling in my stomach that always comes when I know I'm going to have to fly somewhere without her.  When my beloved is along, he can quickly convince me she'll be fine, everything will be fine, stop this silliness already.  But when I'm alone, it's all I can do to physically restrain myself from turning the car around and calling an end to the madness already.

I know that I'm being ridiculous. Thank goodness Goofy Girl will be along on the flight to force-feed me some wine and convince me that two nights angel-free means two nights to enjoy the company of adults, two whole nights of unbroken sleep and maybe even an adult conversation at dinner.

But still. 

Wah.

The birds are back.  Just thought I'd point that out. Suckers.

Well, I'm delirious today. The little angel has been teething again, though I'm not sure why. I thought she had all of her teeth, even the molars.  She's been drooling like crazy this week, though.  Last night at dinner, I tried to check. I told her to open her mouth up really wide, then like an idiot, I stuck my finger in her mouth to feel for the back, like I used to when she was a baby, completely disregarding the fact that she now has a full set of chompers with no gaps for my finger.  What did I think she was, a horse?  She thought it was a game and promptly bit down, causing me to cry out in pain and pry her mouth open with my other hand to pull out my throbbing finger.  My beloved looked at me like he was again wondering how he could have married someone with the common sense of a third-grader.  He shook his head as if to free himself of the mental image of my stupidity and turned back to the oven-fried vegetables I had labored over for a half-hour.

Since I have to go to Virginia for a business trip Wednesday through Friday, I've volunteered to take all bedtime angel duty until I leave. Again, a study in my stupidity.  As I tried to rock and sing her to sleep last night, I kept finding a pointed, socked toe in my nose.  She wasn't having it.  I ended up letting her party in the dark while I started packing for my trip, waiting for the tired-sounding wah-wah before I went back in.  She finally passed out.

At 1:30, I heard her crying.  I went in, and she was sitting in the middle of the room, looking confused.  I thought her teeth might be hurting again, so I gave her some Tylenol and changed her diaper.  She went back to bed and I laid down on the floor, head on the life-sized Elmo, and faked breathing deeply.  Her little red head kept popping over the guard rail of the big-girl bed.

"Hi, Mommy!" she would say each time, laugh, laugh, laugh.  GAH.

After an hour of this, I violated my own rules about leaving the bedroom and took her down to the couch. I have to teach tonight after work, and the whole 15-hour-day on top of long, long night is not appetizing to me.  Everything would have been great, except Sybil decided to show up just as the little angel was almost asleep.

Sybil hopped up on the couch, all swishy, soft tail and pretty fur.  The little angel was instantly awake again.  The clock read 3:02.  "Hi, Sybie!  PRETTY SYBIE.  Ha!" said the little angel.  Sybil responded by preening against the little angel's outstretched fingers.  I booted Sybil unceremoniously off the couch. 

Of course, she came back.  She's a cat. There was a blanket and fingers to pet her on the couch.  She's not an idiot.  Finally I convinced Sybil to sit down by my feet.  3:35.

The little angel stuck her toe in my nose again.  I kept shifting, trying to get comfortable. Every inch of my non-lotioned-for-wintry-dry-weeks skin started itching. I tried not to think about it.  It itched more.  Finally, I sat up and scratched and scratched.  The little angel thought it was funny.  4:02.

We both finally nodded off around 4:30, though she started squirming again at 6:12.  By then, I had sort of given in to the lead weights someone had tied around my waist, head and appendages.  By the time I heard my beloved showering at 7, I think I may have whimpered a little.  And we're almost out of Diet Coke.

The little angel popped awake, all bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, and went to get her puzzles.  She stuck her finger up my nose to make sure I was awake and showed me the puzzle piece with the cow on it.  "MOOO," she said brightly.  "Cow, Mommy."

"Yes, cow.  Mommy is so sleepy. Mommy is sad when you don't sleepy."

"CUATRO, CINCO SAYS," she said, laughing wildly.  She knows I'm a sucker for her counting in Spanish.

"Siete," I said.

"OCKO, NUAV, DAYS!"

Nuav days, here we come.

The birds are back.  Just thought I'd point that out. Suckers.

Well, I'm delirious today. The little angel has been teething again, though I'm not sure why. I thought she had all of her teeth, even the molars.  She's been drooling like crazy this week, though.  Last night at dinner, I tried to check. I told her to open her mouth up really wide, then like an idiot, I stuck my finger in her mouth to feel for the back, like I used to when she was a baby, completely disregarding the fact that she now has a full set of chompers with no gaps for my finger.  What did I think she was, a horse?  She thought it was a game and promptly bit down, causing me to cry out in pain and pry her mouth open with my other hand to pull out my throbbing finger.  My beloved looked at me like he was again wondering how he could have married someone with the common sense of a third-grader.  He shook his head as if to free himself of the mental image of my stupidity and turned back to the oven-fried vegetables I had labored over for a half-hour.

Since I have to go to Virginia for a business trip Wednesday through Friday, I've volunteered to take all bedtime angel duty until I leave. Again, a study in my stupidity.  As I tried to rock and sing her to sleep last night, I kept finding a pointed, socked toe in my nose.  She wasn't having it.  I ended up letting her party in the dark while I started packing for my trip, waiting for the tired-sounding wah-wah before I went back in.  She finally passed out.

At 1:30, I heard her crying.  I went in, and she was sitting in the middle of the room, looking confused.  I thought her teeth might be hurting again, so I gave her some Tylenol and changed her diaper.  She went back to bed and I laid down on the floor, head on the life-sized Elmo, and faked breathing deeply.  Her little red head kept popping over the guard rail of the big-girl bed.

"Hi, Mommy!" she would say each time, laugh, laugh, laugh.  GAH.

After an hour of this, I violated my own rules about leaving the bedroom and took her down to the couch. I have to teach tonight after work, and the whole 15-hour-day on top of long, long night is not appetizing to me.  Everything would have been great, except Sybil decided to show up just as the little angel was almost asleep.

Sybil hopped up on the couch, all swishy, soft tail and pretty fur.  The little angel was instantly awake again.  The clock read 3:02.  "Hi, Sybie!  PRETTY SYBIE.  Ha!" said the little angel.  Sybil responded by preening against the little angel's outstretched fingers.  I booted Sybil unceremoniously off the couch. 

Of course, she came back.  She's a cat. There was a blanket and fingers to pet her on the couch.  She's not an idiot.  Finally I convinced Sybil to sit down by my feet.  3:35.

The little angel stuck her toe in my nose again.  I kept shifting, trying to get comfortable. Every inch of my non-lotioned-for-wintry-dry-weeks skin started itching. I tried not to think about it.  It itched more.  Finally, I sat up and scratched and scratched.  The little angel thought it was funny.  4:02.

We both finally nodded off around 4:30, though she started squirming again at 6:12.  By then, I had sort of given in to the lead weights someone had tied around my waist, head and appendages.  By the time I heard my beloved showering at 7, I think I may have whimpered a little.  And we're almost out of Diet Coke.

The little angel popped awake, all bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, and went to get her puzzles.  She stuck her finger up my nose to make sure I was awake and showed me the puzzle piece with the cow on it.  "MOOO," she said brightly.  "Cow, Mommy."

"Yes, cow.  Mommy is so sleepy. Mommy is sad when you don't sleepy."

"CUATRO, CINCO SAYS," she said, laughing wildly.  She knows I'm a sucker for her counting in Spanish.

"Siete," I said.

"OCKO, NUAV, DAYS!"

Nuav days, here we come.

I turned 32 yesterday.  I was feeling sort of weird about that, no idea why, and happened to mention it to my beloved.  His advice:  "I think from here on out we have to just sort of forget how old we are."

Working on it.

I turned 32 yesterday.  I was feeling sort of weird about that, no idea why, and happened to mention it to my beloved.  His advice:  "I think from here on out we have to just sort of forget how old we are."

Working on it.

I read a while ago that Mighty Girl wished she had old-school pink bunny slippers.  I have them.  I had no idea I was so forward-thinking with my fashion, since I've been reading all week about how Mighty Girl (whom I do not know, though she sounds cool) is something of an Internet hair and fashion icon.

Which I so am not.  Anyway.  Here they are.  I can hear you all shaking with envy.  Admit it.

I read a while ago that Mighty Girl wished she had old-school pink bunny slippers.  I have them.  I had no idea I was so forward-thinking with my fashion, since I've been reading all week about how Mighty Girl (whom I do not know, though she sounds cool) is something of an Internet hair and fashion icon.

Which I so am not.  Anyway.  Here they are.  I can hear you all shaking with envy.  Admit it.

Last weekend, I excavated two of This Old House's closets. This Old House was built without closets around the 1920s, so at some point someone had the bright idea to wall off parts of the house and call them "closets."  For this reason, it's damn near impossible to install a clothes rod anywhere, because there are no appropriately placed studs.  The closets are big, but in most cases long and narrow with sloping roofs and built-in drawers that you must climb under clothes rods to reach.  Terribly inefficient. Oh, and there is a window in every closet.  We don't have windows treatments in there, so if you drive past my house, you can see anything from my beloved's tie collection to my yellow feather boa to a blanket tacked up to the little angel's winter coat, depending on which direction you are driving and how hard you look. Am I classy or what?

Anyway, I pulled out six garbage bags of crap, moved a ton of stuff into even more plastic tubs in our basement (even though we are currently convinced we are through procreating, we are keeping this junk - break glass in case of emergency, oh, and to loan to needy friends), and dragged a few choice items out to the curb.  Not for the garbage man, silly, for the neighborhood vultures.

Since I live in the city and in the last "okay" neighborhood before you get into hard-core South K.C., home of liquor stores with bars on the windows and good BBQ, I have a wide variety of bizarre individuals driving around my neighborhood on any given day.  They have cell phones. There is a Trash Vulture Network.  Sure enough, not ten minutes after I dragged: a box full of old pillows and cushions to furniture we no longer have in the house; a Reebok step (1992, anyone?); an old birdhouse (white); a laundry bag full of stained and bleached towels and an ugly set of sheets with matching bed skirt; a cool pewter-looking magazine rack; and a box of broken picture frames out to the curb, there was a pick-up truck pulling up. 

I watched through the sun porch windows.  After the pick-up, a late '80s model sedan with kickin' rims slid by the street.  It parked and out popped someone to grab the picture frames.  While that person was picking through the pile, another pick-up pulled up and stopped about twenty feet away. I slowly realized that this was Trash Vulture Etiquette, kind of like waiting twenty feet back while someone else uses the ATM.  Who knew?

Within twelve hours, it was picked clean.  Anyone need to illegally dump something at my house?

Here are my top ten:

10. I can't stand hot dogs, and I must look away when the little angel consumes them. Lips and assholes, people, lips and assholes.

9. I'm not a huge fan of glitter. Glitter seems to cover most objects intended for little girls between the ages of five and ten.  I'm not looking forward to all this garishness. WHAT IS UP WITH THE GLITTER?

8. I don't understand the big deal about Gymboree.  And what a dumb name.

7. I am not looking forward to soccer, t-ball, Little League, basketball or any other sport the little angel chooses to play. She will probably play one or all of them, since her father used to be radio sports director for an Iowa radio station and lives and breathes S-P-O-R-T-S.  I secretly hope for her to be uncoordinated and therefore reduced to a life of drama, dance lessons and maybe Mommy and Me sculpting classes.

6. Looking back at the carseat, stroller, portable child seat and diaper bag in my back seat sometimes makes me feel like a pack animal.  I miss public transportation and the ability to read a book while traveling.

5. Not a fan of the primary-colored plastic toys.  Is it so hard to design something for toddlers in oh, ecru?

4. I can't handle the foul and mysterious odor that frequently invades my living space when the milk cup goes undiscovered for a day.

3. Another pet peeve?  Broken crayons and toys that come with more than four parts.

2. I grow weary by having to applaud every time my child sleeps until at least four in the morning, eats a meal without throwing half of it at the cat or manages to keep her fingers out of my ears when I'm dressing her.

1.  I take offense to the Wiggles on behalf of drag queens across America.

Lest you think I'm horrible, there is also another top ten list.

10. Little feet in blinky shoes.

9.  Seeing the little tufts of red hair on the floor after the little angel gets a haircut and thinking of all the good times we had while she was growing that hair.

8.  When the little angel points out the moon every afternoon when I pick her up from the Emerald City.

7.  Her insistence that she color every other minute that she is home, always with two coloring books to increase the coloring options.

6. The way she kisses all her bath toys good night and counts to ten in English and Spanish when it's time to get out of the bathtub.

5. Getting notes from her daycare teachers saying what a big girl she has become.

4. Seeing her show empathy to her posse when one of them gets hurt.

3. The expression on my family and extended family's faces when she walks into a room.

2. The expression on her face when I walk into the room.

1.  The smell of her perfect little head after a shampoo.  If we could bottle that, people, we could stop wars.