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Bobbing and weaving in time to the music in her head, she bounded over to me.

“Mama,” she smiled largely, the winning smile that I just know she’ll be using on her future dates. “I wanna watch more Tuff Puppy.”

“No Baby-Pants,” I laughed. “Not tonight. It’s bedtime.”

“Okay,” she stretched her smile as widely as she could. “Can we watch more Tuff Puppy on SUNDAY?”

“Sure,” I giggled at her inflection and emphasis. No one is gonna say no to this kid. “We can watch it on Sunday.”

“OKAY,” she broadcast to the whole house. “THANKS MAMA.”

She bobbed and wobbled off to get her diaper changed before bed.

I sat there, looking after her, bemused and amazed and more than a little bit teary.

It’s coming up on her third birthday. To think this tiny tot with an attitude the size of Texas was once the very same baby whose life I prayed for. Who’s head I wept into. Who’s tiny feet I once held onto like they were lifelines to a world in which no NICU’s, no PICU’s existed. It’s hard to reconcile that these are the same people.

Yet they are.

For her birthday this year, I will celebrate. I will buy a monster of a cake and we shall eat it, sharing it happily with anyone who can be bothered to brave the frigid January air. This year, we will celebrate.

And maybe, just maybe, I can let the ghosts of my past, who still haunt my present, be silent.

If only for a day.

I’m kinda feeling low today. I’m hoping to snap the fuck out of it and come back and actually string words together, instead of posting one of the creepiest videos ever.

Also: Other, Better Shit I’ve Written (a.k.a. I Get Around):

10 Ways To (Not) Entertain Your Kid On An Airplane. I have a feeling the comments will be troll-worthy.

7 of the Most Baffling Products Aimed At Parents

Holly Daze

And a repost of an old favorite: When “He’s My Dad” Makes Everyone Feel Awkward

We Mommy Bloggers get a lot of shit.

Not just because we have a dumb name (I mean, MOMMY BLOGGERS? It sounds like some sort of weird disease or exotic insult), or because we’re all angling to get free shit, but because we’re talking about our KIDS! Online! Without their consent!

(all together now)

*wrings hands*

WON’T SOMEBODY THINK OF THE CHILDREN!?

/end hand wringing.

I get what they’re saying. I do.

If you spend all day, every day, discussing the most intimate details of your kids life, well, that’s maybe not okay. So we each do our best to write things that WILL be okay when our children stumble across them someday. I mean, as we’ve learned, the Internet is a small, small place and whatever you’ve written WILL be read eventually by the one person who you don’t want to read it.

That’s a no-brainer.

I’ve never kept what I “do” under wraps in my family. I don’t necessarily broadcast it to the small crotch parasites because they’d be just as likely to try and fart on me as they would be interested in it. But the Big One, Ben, well, he knows what I do. Sorta.

We’re doing a bullying carnival (much less cotton candy than you’d expect) on Saturday over on Band Back Together. Basically, this means we’re collecting as many bullying posts as we can find (join us, y’all!) to offer as many different perspectives on bullying as possible. This comes on the heels of the tragic suicides of a couple of kids after repeated, intense bullying.

I asked my son to write for us.

He’s been the victim of numerous bullies in his short ten years. If anyone knows how a bully makes them feel, it’s Ben.

Last night, I sat him down and asked him to write 5 paragraphs for us over at the Band about bullies.

He. Was. Thrilled.

And he did it.

What I got was one of the sweetest, awesomest things I’ve ever read. What I also got were questions about what it was, precisely, that Mom does. He knows I’m a “writer” and I have a “blog,” but I haven’t really discussed my other projects with him. I explained what Band Back Together was and how we ran things and the stigmas we were trying to combat.

He thought it was the coolest thing ever.

I, of course, was bowled over. I figured he’d think it was “lame” or “stupid” or something, but no. He thinks it’s great. I know. I KNOW. What. The. Fuck? I thought kids were supposed to hate whatever their parents did. Maybe I’m doing this parenting thing wrong – perhaps I need to become an assassin or something to fill the kid with angst.

When he was done with his bullying post, he told me, very sweetly, that any time I needed him to write a post, he’d be happy to help out.

I actually had to fight back tears. We all three (me, Ben, The Daver) did. What an awesome kid.

Hrms.

Guess that means all that hand-wringing was in vain.

Sighs.

Fill in the blank?

“WON’T SOMEBODY THINK OF THE ______?”

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