"I feel anxious," she said, as I opened the book. Then her face turned red and she asked if Daddy could leave the room.

My heart dropped into my stomach.

She told me she'd been at a friend's house and they'd been watching music videos on YouTube. They came to the P!nk video for Perfect. She thought it would be okay because I've showed her P!nk videos before -- the lawnmower, the acrobats -- I don't blame them for thinking it would be fine.

This one was not fine.

In the video, the girl carves "Perfect" into her arm in the bathtub. Blood everywhere.

"I didn't know you could cut yourself on purpose," my girl sobbed. She couldn't stop crying, and she couldn't unsee the bathtub scene.

We prayed. I sang to her. She kept crying. I didn't know what to do.

"You know what? Sometimes you just need your daddy."

I went and got him. She was afraid he'd be mad she'd watched the video. He wasn't. We talked to her about not watching things on the Internet when we're not around, because the Internet is full of things that are very hard to unsee. Then he held her until she fell asleep.

I went downstairs, watched the video three times, called my sister.

In the morning, I told my girl I'd watched the video. I told her the storyline was actually about a girl who'd had a bad childhood but grew up to get married and have her own little girl and how she saved her own childhood bear for her little girl and in the end, everything was okay. The little angel smiled. "I think the bathtub scene was in the story to show just how bad things were before they got better," I said. "Writers do that. It's called 'conflict,' and it's a device. The video wasn't real -- it was a story to go with the song."

(Which is why it's easier for me to read fiction than nonfiction. I can always tell myself the conflict is just a writerly device.)

She went to school, and I spent the rest of the day trying not to think of all the other things she would see and not understand. All the things that would eventually chip away at her innocence until she would have to choose, as I have, to believe that 99% of people mean you no harm and the world is not a horrible, scary place unless you believe it is one.

Remember when you didn't know people could hurt themselves on purpose? I had forgotten there was ever a time like that.

Me: "How far away is Cargo Largo? Because I need more of those between bath pet wipes and they're 50 cents there and $8.99 online."

Him: "Why not just use baby wipes?"

Me: "I was afraid they might be toxic to cats. Babies don't lick their own butts."

Him: "Remember Bella? Besides, if he could lick his own butt, you wouldn't have to use the baby wipes."

* Butt was clean in this pic.

** Thank God it doesn't happen every day.

*** It could be worse.

I've been reading one of my very favorite books with my daughter this past week. THE LION, THE WITCH AND THE WARDROBE. I still remember going to get it at a book warehouse before there were big box bookstores, the boxed set, with my special blue group or whatever they called the gifted class in the mid-eighties. I kept that boxed set my entire life, because it was the only boxed set I owned in childhood (that I recall or that I kept track of), and it has sat on my bookshelf until now, when I finally was able to interest my daughter in hearing the story of Peter, Susan, Edmund and Lucy.

Initially, it didn't move fast enough for her, but by the time the Beavers appeared, she was hooked. Then when we got to the part in which Aslan gives the kids their weapons and tells the girls they were really just for back-up because girls shouldn't fight, my girl -- who had been lying down with her back to me, practically asleep -- actually rolled over and said, "When was this WRITTEN?"

And that, my friends, is how quickly culture changes.

Since we went through that unemployment thing this fall and winter, I haven't bought the little angel any new clothes since the beginning of the school year. She has a penchant for wearing the same thing over and over, and lately she's been looking like Little Orphan Annie with holes in her leggings. All this forced me to do what I loathe doing, which is digging through all her clothes figuring out what to donate, what to give away and what to toss before I go buy her some leggings that don't look like they belong to the cast of Les Misérables.

While she was in the shower the other night, I attacked her dresser and closet. She walked in just as I was putting a purple shirt in the paper grocery sack filled with hand-me-down play clothes for the littler neighbor girl.

And she burst into tears.

???

"You can't give away the purple shirt," she wailed.

"But why not?"

"It's what I was wearing the day Petunia died."

And then I felt tears spring to my eyes, too.

"Well, then, of course we can't give it away. But it doesn't fit. Hmm."

Today I wrote about the national face of Ann Imig's amazing live performance series, Listen to Your Mother, on BlogHer. Here I thought I'd share details about the Kansas City show, which is directed by my friends Erin Margolin and Laura Seymour. Here are the details:

Be part of this national event that will be in Kansas City for the first time on May 11, 2013. We want you to join us in giving Mother’s Day a microphone!

You’re invited to join other Kansas Citians in a national series of live readings celebrated locally and shared globally via social media, blogging, and the small world of the internet. Listen To Your Mother-Kansas City is directed, produced, and performed by our local community, for our local community.

We are officially accepting submissions! Please email yours to us, ErinMargolin@gmail.com and Laura.Seymour@gmail.com. These will be accepted from now through February 15, 2013.

Commitment for cast members includes two group read-throughs in April, a pre-performance run-through at Unity Temple on the Plaza, and one 7:00 p.m. performance on May 11, 2013.

Ticket sales for this event will begin March 1, 2013. If you are interested in sponsoring or coming to our event, learn more at our website: listentoyourmothershow.com/kansascity, and please don’t hesitate to email us with any and all questions!

Proceeds from ticket sales will benefit the Rose Brooks Center. Rose Brooks Center provides emergency shelter to women and children escaping life-threatening abuse. Once they are safe, these families receive the tools and resources they need to begin rebuilding their life – a life built on respect, love and compassion. -Rose Brooks

PS: In other news, if you've ever wanted to speak at BlogHer's annual conference, you should submit a Room of Your Own idea.

Viva la voices!

Last night I watched a few episodes of Shark Tank with the little angel and the neighbor girl. These two are infamous for starting and rapidly abandoning businesses. The little angel is building up a good inventory at Hoggin Crafts, so I thought we were through with the insane business ideas.

This afternoon they came back from the neighbor's house with a full-on PowerPoint presentation about a pet sitting business they were going to start. Included on the "what we sit" page were: monkeys, horses, turtles and rabbits, in addition to pets they might actually find in our tri-state area.

"You're going to pet sit monkeys?"

"Sure."

"And horses? You know how to take care of horses?"

"Yes! I saw a horse once!"

*headdesk*

I think I created some monsters.

The little angel has been working hard on the Hoggin Craft dynasty. I thought I'd share some pictures of the piggy banks because they are so hilarious. Because the little angel kept three old Harry & David boxes full of every piece of crap plastic she's ever received, we have lots of junk to glue to pigs now.

This is the pig for the jeweler's granddaughter. Notice the accessories. I didn't do any of this except the hot glue.

The little girl's name starts with an "E."

This is the travel pic commissioned by my parents. It's a medium-sized pig. I ended up ordering 24 of the three-inch size from Oriental Trading Company, because it's more in line with both her attention span and people's wallets (not to mention the silent partner's investment). The itsy ones are going to be themed or custom designed and $5 each. I figure she'll get a bunch done by the garage sale and make a kid killing. (Or at least sell a few to people who aren't related to us.)

The artist at work. Tiny has moved down to do security.

The little angel got a book over the holiday break on money management. I thought it was going to be a book about budgeting and saving and all that good eight-year-old stuff, but no, it was a book on MAKING money.

The little angel whipped up a business plan. She was going to sell something. She was talking margins. I remembered the failed craft sales she and the neighbor girl had on our neighborhood's garage sale weekend in the past. The times they tried to sell complete strangers used ribbon for $1. I told her if she was going to sell something, it had to be something GOOD. Something useful. Something one might want to own even if it were not made with her hands. She suggested piggy banks.

And so Hoggin Crafts was born. Here is her logo. She made it herself on the Mac, not that you could tell!

I did offer to be her silent partner. I fronted her seven piggy banks, which I bought at Hobby Lobby. She is customizing them. We were at the jewelry store where I bought my replacement wedding ring getting it ionized or whatever it is you do to make white gold match platinum again (and if you did not know you could do this, it totally rocks, and if you ever buy white gold you should get them to throw this service in every six months for free) and the jeweler started telling us about her 16-month-old granddaughter who was enamored with ... you guessed it! PIGGY BANKS. The little angel got her business card and started designing the custom piggy bank that afternoon. Here is the plan.

The pig saying "oink" is  her trademark. It goes on the stoppers on the pigs' bellies. She's about 3/4 of the way done with the pig pictured above and has taken four more orders, all from extended family. I have no intention of starting an Etsy store, but if anyone wants a custom-designed pig, let me know. The 3-inch-ish size pigs are $8. I'm happy she's developing these entrepreneurial skills now, because by the time she goes to college, a gallon of gas will cost ten whiffle-wind credits, and that will be just chaos.

Last Thursday, Petunia passed away. I was planning to send the little angel to school and then pick her up and go to shelters to look for a new cat, but when she said goodbye to Petunia she was crying too hard to speak, and then so was I, and we agreed she would stay home so I could take her to shelters over lunch thanks to my extremely empathetic and understanding managers. Beloved, who had the job of taking Petunia to be put down, deferred this adventure in favor of jobhunting, because of course we need all the bad things to stop as soon as possible, and all I want for Christmas is a two-income household.

The little angel and I cried our way through the first several hours of the day. When I started crying on my co-worker during an editorial meeting, I said enough is enough. I packed up the little angel, a list of shelters and a large and small cat carrier (the small one is a bag that some cats refuse to enter) and off we went.

The first shelter was actually a vet. All four kitties were adorable and declawed, but there wasn't that pang of connection we were hoping for. The second shelter I had never heard of and none of the information on the website for the individual cats sounded very encouraging -- I like to have the "housetrained" box checked even for cats. It just makes me feel better. But when we got to the Kansas City Pet Project shelter, there was a sign outside that said "Preowned Cats," and I was encouraged.

In we went. The cat room was small and packed with floor-to-ceiling cages and another big cage in the middle. I was overwhelmed. I started chatting with the cat ladies, who were beyond awesome, and wandering around the room opening cages and searching for our cat, all the while holding back tears because I didn't want a new cat, I wanted PETUNIA.

Until I saw him. Sir Charles Buttonsworth. A sixteen-pound Manx with facial markings that look like a mustache. Who is allergic to seafood.

Sir Charles Buttonsworth

Against my better judgment, I hefted Sir Buttonsworth out of his cage. (There is no picking him up, there is only hefting him.) He turned his head to look at me. His face is long and he always looks sad, even when he is purring his ass off, which is all the time, because nothing bothers this cat. I carried him around the cat room, trying to interest the little angel in him, but she was looking at all the cute, perky, kitten-like and infinitely more sensible cats.

I talked to the cat lady. Sir Buttonsworth is declawed. But he needs special food. And clumping litter, because the last person who adopted him brought him back because he pooped outside the box without clumping litter. And because he was farting, probably because he was eating seafood. And by the way, Sir Buttonsworth takes shits like a human, just so you know.

And they weren't exactly sure how old he was.

I knew I was going to go all Island of Misfit Cats and adopt him. So I deferred from The Plan, which was to get only one cat -- unless we found two that had to be adopted out together -- and asked if the cat ladies through Sir Buttonsworth would be okay with a friend.

"If you're looking for a declawed cat, you might like Kismet," she said, and pulled out an overgrown kitten with huge eyes who always looks surprised.

Kismet, who has become Kizzy, because he's spazzy and not because of Roots

Kismet snuggled up immediately in the little angel's arms and is only 20 months old. Would they get along? The cat ladies were so excited someone might be taking Buttonsworth that they immediately put us in the break room with Sir Buttonsworth and Kizzy. They pretty much ignored each other and hung out. I asked lots of questions about what might happened if they started attacking each other and was assured they would work with me if that happened.

I thought about it for approximately 30 seconds. Kizzy was the insurance policy against an overweight and maybe middle-aged Manx with digestive problems that I could not leave behind. And also very cute. And also more the personality the little angel really wanted -- a pet who would play with her.

Every decision this time was made with the little angel in mind. I know she always wished for a closer relationship with Petunia, who really preferred quieter adults. With all the neighbor kids and friends in our house all the time, I really wanted a cat who would not freak if a strange child reached for its face.

So we waited forever for Kizzy to be chipped and Sir Buttonsworth's food type to be documented. Then we stuffed the cats in the two carriers and headed out to Vicki the convertible. We just barely fit the big carrier in the backseat.

As we drove away, I realized I had to go buy the special food before we went home, as well as another litter box. The cats were not happy. They made pathetic meowing sounds all the way to Petsmart, and I saw my hands shaking on the steering wheel and realized my blood sugar was tanking out since I hadn't eaten all day. And we had ten minutes before my next conference call.

We jogged around Petsmart looking for this special food, which the shelter thought didn't require a prescription but both required a prescription yet didn't exist on the Petsmart shelves. I bought the litter boxes and litter, called my vet to see if they carried Science Diet, and hurtled my way back to the car to hop on my conference call.

At this point, we'd been driving around for about 30 minutes and were 15 minutes from the vet.

I was making good on the conference call, having looked at the comps while waiting at the shelter, and I was totally congratulating myself on my multi-tasking and imagining all the food I would eat when I got home when I recognized the unmistakable smell of cat shit wafting from my backseat.

I muted my phone.

"Did someone ... poop?" I asked.

The little angel just pointed at Sir Buttonsworth's cage, her face a mask of shock.

I felt the stress of the day quadruple. I was driving around the greater Kansas City metro during the workday and during a conference call with a child who should be in school and two strange cats, one of which had just shit in his carrier.

I hung up the phone, rolled down the windows, and stepped on the gas.

When we got to the vet, I told the little angel to stay in the car with Kismet while I tried to get the food and get the poop out of Sir Buttonsworth's cage.

As I was trying to explain all this to the receptionist at the vet, she told me Science Diet B/D doesn't exist for cats.

I lost my mind. Tears were pouring down my face, and I was telling her about the poop, and she told me I would need a prescription but the vet would have to see the cat for that and then I was mumbling about my husband being unemployed and money being tight and Petunia being put down at this very vet this morning and how I hadn't eaten yet and my daughter was in the car with yet another cat and this kind vet came out of the back and told me new cat visits were free and please come in the room and she'd take care of the poop. So I went and got the little angel and Kizzy and we went in the room and let the cats out and then I started worrying they would hate each other but they didn't and the receptionist came and took away the poop and hosed out the carrier and someone else told me there was free biscotti in the front by the coffee.

And I texted my editor that my new cat shit in the car, because I'd just bailed out of a conference call with no explanation. And bless Julie's soul, that is enough of an explanation for her.

So the cats checked out, and the vet called the shelter, and we think we have the right kind of food (though I don't know, because Sir Buttonsworth has yacked five times in the past two days and the shelter is closed today).

So finally we got the cats back in the car and home and Beloved told me I was fired for bringing home two unrelated cats, but it's okay because he has since fallen in love with both of them, even Kizzy who keeps climbing the bookcases and who has a terrible cold and needs to go back to the shelter vet tomorrow because if he sneezes in my face again I will stick him outside for the squirrels.

But I love him.

So I made some soup and went back to work and managed to pull off a few more things and my managers were so great and everyone wanted to see pictures because they know how much I loved Petunia and how incredibly stressful losing a cat is normally and then on top of a really stressful holiday season with everything that's gone on and I might have a teensy tiny problem with anxiety in the first place.

That night, the little angel went to bed with not one but two cats on her bed and woke up with Kizzy on her pillow, and she is over the moon with these cats. And even though we still have to work out the transition and the sneezing the barfing, I am, too, even though if I let myself look at Petunia's chair I am still sad.

But as the days pass and the boys get more comfortable here, I know I will grow to love them dearly, too, and it feels very good to have let not one but two cats win the Holiday Cat Lottery to come live at Chateau Travolta with Beloved, the little angel, me, Charlie and Sebastian the hermit crabs and Simon the fish. And we pray at night that Petunia is easing into her new apartment in cat heaven with a full box of mouse popsicles and Bella and Sybil down the hall.

PS: The vet must think I am INSANE.