I am a sucker for that little girl.

Although I am only about half done making Nate's stocking and haven't yet wrapped a single present, it only took one comment ("We really should make cookies, Mommy!") from Lula today to send me into a cookie-making frenzy. Well, a semi-frenzy. It turns out the kind of cookie dough that you can cut into shapes has to be refrigerated for a few hours first. So I sent Scott to the store for some missing ingredients and made the dough tonight so we can make cookies tomorrow.

I see the cookie baking time going one of two ways:

- Tallulah insists on tasting the dough, grabbing at it and accidentally dropping most of it on our dusty-Cheerio-and-dried-pine-needle-laden floor. She cries inconsolably, hitting me and screaming if I try to salvage the remaining dough. I throw a couple of cookies on a baking sheet but our crappy stove burns them anyway. Nate, left to his own devices while we bake, chews on a lead-coated electrical wire, the bottom of my shoe, and every bit of loose cat litter he can find. A few hours later the vomiting starts -- for Tallulah, it's salmonella from the raw dough; for Nate, toxoplasmosis* from the cat litter. We spend the evening at the ER.

- While Nate takes an extra-long nap, Tallulah watches respectfully as I roll out the dough and cut it into shapes. Lula and I merrily decorate the cookies with sprinkles and M&Ms, during which neither of us spills or overeats the decorations. Tallulah waits patiently as the cookies bake and then cool. The cookies end up both beautiful and delicious. Nate wakes up just as Scott -- surprise! -- arrives home early from work. We all eat cookies together, singing Christmas carols and drinking eggnog as Nate keeps repeating his very first word: "Family."

I can only hope the reality is somewhere in the middle.

* OK, so it turns out vomiting isn't a symptom of toxoplasmosis. But adding "and Nate had achy flu-like symptoms that led to damage to his brain and eyes" doesn't scan as well. Though it is a little horrifying. (*runs to clean litter box*)

That's my daughter!

Scene: During preschool pick-up, Tallulah is eavesdropping on a couple of slightly older girls who are discussing their upcoming play date.

Girl A: I can wear the pink dress, and you can wear the blue dress.

Girl B: Yeah, and I can wear the blue scarf with sparkles on it.

Tallulah (butting in): And I can dress up like SUPERMAN!

An Open Letter

To the people who wait behind me while I parallel park, hoping I'll give up and let them take the spot:

Hey. Hi. I know my 7-year-old hand-me-down minivan is large and ungainly. And I can see that your own car is smaller, sportier, newer. But hey -- hey, I'm trying to make eye contact! See me waving you along? That's because I don't want you to waste your time; I know I can fit into this spot. See the state of my back bumper? You don't get that "distressed plastic" look from giving up on small parking spots. Also, and I'm just guessing here, but maybe I know better than you how much space my car needs?

Oh, I see. You'd rather pretend you don't see me. Rather just stare straight ahead and pretend you're waiting for someone/thing else. Gotcha. When I go ahead and endure the knowledge that a stranger is not only watching me execute a difficult driving maneuver but banking on me FAILING to complete said maneuver; when I finally finish my tiny back-and-forths and throw my car into park, and you finally give up and drive on past me, still staring straight ahead? That's me in the parked car to your left, smiling and mouthing the words "I TOLD YOU SO."

Rhythm of the trick-or-treaters

So I finally consciously realized why I get the song "Born at the Right Time" stuck in my head after I view this photo. Please compare:





I mean, kind of, right? You got your running motion-blur thing going on, and your costume with wing-parts flying behind. Maybe those Brazilian guys on Paul Simon's album cover were actually on their way to go trick-or-treating. Who's to say?