Internet, do you know any children with food intolerance?  The little angel is still waking up three or four times a night.  My mother suggested she might be allergic or intolerant of something she is eating, which would cause cramping, runny nose and frequent night-wakings.

It's possible.

Of course, her body may also be taken over by nocturnal aliens who return to their spaceship during the day. 

On Sunday at the park, a bird shit in my hair.  I felt it, like a pea-shooter, sort of twhap! as it hit my head. 

"Did a bird just shit on my head?" I asked.

"No, not unless it's white," said my ever-joking husband.  But, just as when I ask, "Does my butt look fat in these jeans?" HE DIDN'T REALLY LOOK.

We played on the playground. We went to see the ducks.  We hung out at the park for a good hour.

When I got back in the car, I looked in the mirror.  Sure enough, there it was.  "Look at this!  You are so useless!" I cried.

And he laughed until he cried.

Why do we get married again?

And where is my good luck, dammit?

This weekend we did some psychiatric work on the little angel. We reviewed the Sounds That Come From the Sky and what causes them. Since the little angel first looked to the heavens and discovered the moon (one benefit of Daylight Savings Time - she knows what streetlights look like now!), she has been very interested in the goings-on of the sky.  And, since she's afraid of the sounds of helicopters, prop planes and trains, two out of three ain't bad.

As we were raking leaves on Saturday, a prop plane went by.  She looked up, terrified.  We discussed that it's an airplane, and even though airplanes seem awfully scary, they're actually very safe and almost never just fall out of the sky.  They particularly do not usually fall out of the sky into residential neighborhoods.  She seemed to buy that one.

We didn't actually see the ghetto bird go by, but we did hear it right before bed. We discussed the pros and cons of helicopter ownership for the local news stations.  I told her it's a lot easier to see traffic patterns with a helicopter, but the higher gas prices may negate the benefits in the upcoming future.  She sagely agreed.

To end our discussion of things of which we should and shouldn't be afraid, I told her some of my fears.  This is the biggest one.  We'll just be avoiding them.

The little angel is afraid of the bath.  I thought, you know, maybe it was the bubbles.  Maybe it was that purple walrus.  Purple is sort of an unnatural color for marine life.  But no, it's the water.

Tonight we filled her little bucket with water, as we have been doing for the past week or so.  We put her in the dry bathtub.  A tiny droplet of water was on her duckie bathmat.  The one that shows the temperature. "Too hot!" the duckie cries if it is above 32 degrees Fahrenheit.

Her perfect, pudgy little toe touched the droplet.  She freaked out.

"No wa wa!" she cried.  She burst into tears.

"Oh, honey, the water is nice," I said, reassuringly, I thought.  So maternal.

"NO WA WA!"  She was utterly serious.  "NO.  WA. WA."

"Let's just wash your hair," I murmured.

"I told you I am politically against water.  We should not be so dependent on foreign water sources.  You should be driving a hybrid instead of two gas-guzzling SUVs," she said pointedly.  "You should be ashamed of yourself.  Did you vote for Bush? Where is our Prius?" she cried.

I tried to clear my head.  "Pardon?" I asked.

She pointed emphatically to her toes.  "NO. WA. WA."

Well, then.  I took her out of the bathtub.

"Tank twoo, Mommy."

Ahem.

I knew we should have turned the channel from the damn killer bee special.  There we were, innocently playing along, looking at photos from when the little angel was a baby.

"Look!" I'd say.  "Who's that?"

Little angel:  "Mommy!  Daddy!"

Me:  "And who is the other person?"

LA:  "Baby!"

Me:  "That's you!  You are the baby!"

The little angel looked at me as though I'd just told her cheese didn't grow out of the ground wrapped individually in plastic.  How could she possibly be the baby? 

LA:  "NO!  Baby!  BAAABBEEEEE!"

Me:  "Well, fine, but it IS you."

I looked up about this point to notice that my beloved had turned on a science-channel special about killer bees attacking the southern U.S.  We both momentarily got sucked in, until I noticed the little angel looking up and my Mama Meter FINALLY kicked in.  I dove for the remote.

Here it comes. 

I have no idea if she caught the footage of the bees swarming and killing a small dog or not (yes, this is how stupid we are - we didn't even notice what we were watching, I swear!), but she woke up at 1 in the morning, then again at 3.  From 3-4 a.m. she was inconsolable.  Even when my beloved in desperation laid down on the floor and stuck his hand through the crib bars to comfort her, it was not enough.  She was howling, her crocodile tears pouring down her face.

I finally came in (I had done 1 a.m. duty), pulled out my earplugs and patted her head. She was standing in the crib, completely ignoring my beloved and screaming.  I have been reading a lot about sleep disturbances lately - as any reader of this blog knows, my sleep is disturbed on average of two times a night five nights out of any given week - and I finally became convinced she had had a nightmare.  Therefore, I took pity.  I pulled her out of her crib and took her downstairs.  She practically scaled my body as I picked her up, heading straight for the protection of my neck.  She lodged her red head in between my chin and my sternum and rubbed her snotty nose into my skin, pat, pat, patting my back all the while.  "Mommy, mommy," she moaned.

Well, now, I felt pretty bad for her.  She was obviously terrified.  And I know, I know, I'm supposed to make her stay in her crib.  But guess what?  We've been attempting to Ferber her since she was five months old, and when I look back, she hasn't slept through the night more than two times straight since AUGUST, despite our Ferberian efforts.  So?  Screw it.  The couch it was.  Once we climbed under the blanket and Sybil joined us, she passed out, nose in my neck, like a log.  And I admit, sometimes it's nice to be so needed.

Last night, I picked up the analysis of my teacher evaluations from the past two semesters at the community college where I teach English composition for pin money.  I have been eagerly awaiting them for some time - I've gone almost three semesters with really no feedback other than being asked back every semester. 

My average scores in general were lower than the college mean.  I was fleetingly upset about this until I realized a) I'm new to this gig and don't know what the hell I'm doing and b) the college mean dates back to 2002 and includes online and classroom courses.  That's a big average to be fighting against.  Personally, I think it's harder to be engaging and entertaining for three hours at night than it probably is for an hour and a half at 10 a.m.  Maybe I'm just rationalizing. 

There were a few areas in which I got a nice, fat, high score.  One was passion for the subject and the other was subject knowlege.  (toot, toot - sorry)  This pretty much made up for scoring below the mean in Knows the Macarena and Lets Me Make Up My Midterm So I Can Go To Vegas.

The criticisms ranged from fair (Too Much Lecturing) to churlish (The Class Is Too Long, Even Though I Knew It Was Three Hours at Night When I Signed Up For It).   I was starting to get a little disappointed with myself for all the "too much lecturing comments" and brainstorming how to get more productive group activities (they always seem to end up just talking about their BFFs if I let them stay in small groups for more than ten minutes) when I noticed my favorite criticism of all.

She could be taller.

Well, there you have it. 

Yesterday as I was driving the little angel home from Grandparent's Day at the Emerald City, I saw sleds in the window of the neighborhood hardware store. Red sleds.  Plastic sleds.  Sleds with runners.

It seldom snows in Kansas City (Kansas City natives may argue with me about this, as "seldom snows" is relative, but I grew up in Iowa, and dammit, it doesn't snow much here), but when it does, the hardware stores and Wal-Marts sell out of sleds in 12 minutes and 37 seconds.  My beloved and I have been talking about taking the little angel sledding since she was born.  We HAVE to have a sled.

We popped out of the car and into the store.  To my embarrassing levels of delight, they actually had toddler sleds!  Red!  With high sides and backs and seatbelts!  I put one down on the ground and the little angel crawled right in.  I pulled her a few inches.  "More!" she cried.

We went home and pulled her around the yard in her sled. The leaves actually helped quite a bit with mobility.  "More!" she cried.

We went inside.  I put the sled on the floor. She climbed in and attempted to fasten the seatbelt.  "More!" she cried.

As I folded laundry, I turned on Shrek II on HBO or some such channel.  She sat in her sled and stared, slack-jawed, at the television.  She's never really cared about cartoons before, preferring only Baby Einstein.  I wondered briefly how long it would be before she wanted to watch Sex in the City with me.  Or how long it would be before I could let her without guaranteed mental detriment.  Then I remembered that I actually read V.C. Andrews books when I was ten, and I lived to tell about it.  Right after Sweet Valley High.

Then I realized it's scary how rapidly we go downhill.  In our little red plastic sleds.  Whee!

The corrupt hard drive - it is worse than the corrupt dictator in terms of American terror.

Yes, this weekend was spent alternately weeping with the thought of losing all the digital photos of the little angel that I said, I SAID, I would print off the best of, but of course I never did, nor did I ever back them up like I SAID SAID SAID I was going to do; cursing with frustration and leaping about the room with joy when at the very least I saved all my poems and short stories and lesson plans and photos.

Sadly, the iTunes did not make it.  So much for all that purchased music.  I guess we'll have to purchase it again.

My father, MacGyver, arrived on the scene yesterday.  My parents came in for Grandparent's Day at the Emerald City.  Blessed man, he laughed in the face of HP support, who said you couldn't add another disc drive just because there was no bay or bracket.  "Ha ha!" he said. "We'll just buy another one, put a piece of cardboard in the middle and TAPE THEM TOGETHER."

"Will this cardboard and taping business set my house on fire?" I asked.

"Ha!" he said again, twirling the tape with glee. 

Unfortunately, we discovered there were some spatial geometry challenges associated with our plan.  We did manage to wrench it in there, though. Unfortunately, once I put the recovery CDs on the new drive and get it all Nortoned to the eyeballs, I then have to pull the cover off the machine and reattach everything all by myself. This makes me just a tad nervous.  Pa assured me he would talk me through the whole thing on the phone. This reminds me a little too much of the intern being talked through an open-chest procedure on Gray's Anatomy a few episodes back.  But hey, I already got my photos, THANK YOU JESUS.

So, guys?  BACK UP YOUR SHIT.  NOW!  Let my stupidity be a lesson to all of you.  Do not risk losing the photos of the little angel eating yogurt or the first short story you ever wrote when you were 14. 

Do it. Do it.

Well.  It turns out I should've just been reasoning with her this whole time.

Last night woke up one time, when her Benadryl wore off.  (No, Internet, I don't drug her to sleep - she has a very runny nose due to a cold.)  I gave her some more, then rubbed her back for a while.  I thought maybe she was faking sleep, but I decided to take a chance as I backed out the door.

Little angel:  "MOOOMMMMYYY!!"

Me:  (re-enter room)  "Okay, angel, it's like this:  Mama is tired, too.  I need you to lay down here with Gray Kitty and Orange Fishy and go back to sleep. It's sleepy time.  Night-night."

Leave room.  Angel calls out to me, my beloved and Jesus for five minutes.

I go back in.  I try a new method.  I squat down and look her right in her blue, blue eyes.  She has big, fat crocodile tears on her cheeks. This makes is difficult to be firm, so I wipe them off.  She nuzzles my hand.  Ah, this is difficult.  I just want to snatch her up and take her back to bed with me so that I can sleep, too. With my beloved gone, I have been spending too much time thinking about the break-ins that happened down the street not so long ago.  I wipe her nose with a tissue.  She smiles.

Me: "Okay, angel.  Do you see Mama's door? "  I point dramatically at her door, through which you can see mine, mere steps away.  They are actually perpindicular to each other and I can stand with one foot in each room, if I want to.  "That is where Mama sleeps.  I can hear you perfectly, so you don't have to cry. I can hear every little sniffle.  I will come in if there is something very wrong, so you don't need to worry.  Now go to sleep."

She looked at me dubiously, then laid down, picked up Gray Kitty, and closed her eyes.  When I left, she cried for exactly one minute.

I was so surprised, it shocked me wide awake.  Took me an hour to get back to sleep.  I guess next time, I'll just go straight to logic.