Today is the little angel's seventh birthday. As we waited for the school bus, she danced around the driveway singing, "It's my birthday! It's my birthday!"

There are so many things I could've said back, how much I love her, how her face makes my pupils dilate and my dopamine surge, how I physically miss her when she's gone, how proud of her I am, what a wonderful, sweet, funny, smart human being she is.

But instead I said, "Happy birthday!" She won't realize how much I love her until much later in life, and that's okay.

As we walked through the door to the exhibit, the little angel fixated on a diamond tiara in the entryway, an enormous photo on the wall of Diana wearing a different one. More than one diamond tiara: the true mark of a real princess.

As we passed through the rooms highlighting the Spencer women and Diana's early life, Beloved showed the little angel Diana's ballet shoes. "She was a normal little girl?" asked my daughter.

Well, sort of. If being a British aristocrat is normal. But yes, sort of.

When we saw her wedding dress, the little angel noticed there was another tiara. Then the dresses. Pictures of her wearing them, doing charity work, at balls. It was in the dress room that it dawned on me that I am older than Diana was when she died.

I was most surprised by the room -- the room -- containing books of condolence from all across the world. I never understood the Diana phenomenon. I didn't stay up to watch the royal wedding. I remember not understanding what she saw in Charles, not grasping she married at nineteen, was dead by thirty-six.

And that's what the little angel clung to -- how had she died? In an car accident. Why was she being chased? People wanted to take her picture. In a car? Why would they want to take her picture in a car? If she was not smiling? Were they bad guys? Were they trying to hurt her?

No. It was an accident. They really just wanted to take her picture.

And then, it came out of my mouth: "I guess that's why we shouldn't want to be famous."

I've been turning that over in my mind since Friday when we went to Union Station. Fame, such a strange thing. The same force that begat an entire room of books of condolence, diamond tiaras and televised weddings also inspired high-speed car chases and an unfortunate and untimely death.

"But she was a real princess?"

"Yes, real princess. And now I suppose Kate Middleton will be a real princess."

Whatever that means these days.

I took Friday off. But then there was this really important call I had to be on. Approximately fifteen minutes before that call, as I was frantically cleaning because my parents were coming, the neighbor walked in. To tell me our other neighbor, who watches both our girls after school, is moving. In a month.

We talked about how we were going to squeeze through the month of May before school gets out and her daughter stays home with her (she's a teacher) and my daughter goes to already-planned summer camp.

"The thing is," I found myself saying, "say for instance she comes home and I have a really important conference call in eleven minutes," and the neighbor was all, "yeah, yeah," and I felt myself fighting tears because all this was happening and my neighbor was in my foyer and my husband and daughter were home and I really, really did have a super important conference call in eleven minutes.

I had to very rudely excuse myself to go upstairs for the conference call. And then I shoved the whole childcare problem to a back corner of my head, where it pops up from time to time like a rubber duck that refuses to stay submerged. It was there, staring at me, when I woke up this morning.

There are options, they just have to be examined. The child isn't going to like any of them that we can afford, that are practical. After a week of spring break, I could barely get her out of bed this morning. I could barely get myself out of bed this morning.

I think I need an entire day of sleeping. That would fix EVERYTHING.

She wanted a set of Dr. Seuss reward charts and stickers. They cost $4.99 and she had $3, but I decided to spot her the rest, surprised she would spend three weeks of allowance on something that seemed like work.

At home, she demanded a list, so I dutifully wrote one out, forgetting about half the things I wanted her to do every day.

Yesterday morning, I walked into her room. Her perfectly clean room. The 8,400 books that perpetually line each side of her bed were in her bookcases. Her bed made, Ski Bear and his posse carefully balanced on the edge. They were even wearing tiaras. Her snowglobe collection perfectly lined up, her desk clear. She was dressed. Her teeth were brushed.

I stared at this child in shock. Academically I realize she's almost seven. In my head, she's still two, just an extremely literate and verbal two.

Suddenly in my head she was 15, asking me to drive her to her part-time summer job at the ice cream shop.

All day, she lived to serve. She set the table, cleared the dishes, cleaned up the living room, rearranged all the magnets on the refrigerator, fed the cat. Her hands in constant motion, her eyes searching for another task to complete -- and I started to get a little nervous. She earned 24 stickers in one day, which will pan out in either 50 cents or a small shake, not to be earned more than twice in one week.

I went to bed wondering if we had created a monster.

This morning, I walked past her bedroom. The bed's not made. The breakfast dishes are still sitting on the table. The girl's on spring break, Beloved's out jogging, and I'm in my home office listening to the sound of her sacked out on the couch watching television.

Phew. She started to scare me there for a minute. I'm all for motivation, but child, you are SIX YEARS OLD.

The little angel didn't like the outfit I designed for her this morning.

I told her if she wanted something different, she'd have to go get it herself, with me not being her personal assistant and all.

MAD EYES.

STOMPING.

STOMP, STOMP, STOMP.

Beloved and I looked at each other and rolled our eyes.

"We created this, you know," he said. "Literally."

And then we both yelled at her to knock it off as the stomping sounds traveled across the upstairs hall toward her room.

As I emptied the dishwasher, I saw her plaintive cheeks peeking in from the living room. I walked over, gathered her on my lap, rubbed her back.

"Do you think it's even remotely possible for you to stop stomping? I won't yell if you won't stomp."

She shook her head. I felt it rather than saw it.

"Why not?"

She wiped her nose on my shirt. "Because it makes me feel better to stomp when I'm mad."

I considered.

That's true.

"I'm learning that if you just wait a little bit, the mad part will go away and then you can go back to being happy."

She shook her head again. "I keep thinking about it even though I don't want to. And then I get mad again."

"Well, I guess it's sort of up to you if you want to think about it again. It's taken me an awful long time to learn not to do that."

"I guess I'll just stomp." She wiped her nose on my shirt again and wrapped her little arms around my waist.

"I love you, Mommy."

"I love you, too."

Well, I guess stomping isn't really the worst thing in the world. She'll only be six for another few weeks. And I stomped until like yesterday.

... you have three different notebooks from three different areas of your life open with a list of uncrossed-out things on your desk

... you have to think really, really hard to remember what you did last night, and then you remember, hey, that was important! and are amazed you forgot

... your cat won't speak to you because you forgot you wouldn't be home until an hour and a half after her lunch

... you hear Twitter go off and jump because you think it's an actual bird in your house

... you realize next week is spring break for your kid but you totally forgot it starts on Friday

... you broke all the rules today and finally bought your girl the stupid pink Kid Snuggie she's been wanting since Halloween because it made you feel more normal than the three notebooks

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Hey! I finally reviewed a book I've had for more than six months! Check out the fabulous Nicki Richesin's latest anthology (up with anthologies!) on Surrender, Dorothy: Reviews.

Dammit. The little angel can read.

And if she can read, how can I leave this lying around?

I love you, Star magazine, but you've got to go for my daughter's mental health.

I started subscribing to Star magazine when I was going through a low period and needed to laugh at other people. There, I'll admit it. It was in the height of the Brad/Angie/Jennifer triangle, and I couldn't take my eyes off the celebrity gossip. I was up to three magazines a week at my lowest point. I actually subscribed to Star to save money at the grocery checkout line.

Initially, she saw it in the bathroom. But she couldn't read, so I just showed her the pictures of stars in pretty dresses and she would pick out which one she liked best. But now? She can read. And I know that means I can't expose her anymore to the world's obsession with people too fat or too thin, how bad we all look without make-up and who has cellulite on her butt. And don't even get me started on Lindsay Lohan.

I know better. I had an eating disorder that I attribute at least 35% to the girl in white jeans in Seventeen magazine's mini pad ads in the mid-eighties. I remember thinking I should look like that! I can't let that happen to my girl. I can't let her know there's a whole world out there just waiting for women to look bad so they can take a bunch of pictures and sell them to other women who need to feel better about themselves.

Um, like me.

And at this point, I don't need to feel better about myself anyway. In the past few years, the subscription has gone from a welcome relief to something that sort of bothers me. It should bother me a lot more than it does, but I like so many others have become conditioned to the misogyny of Star magazine and its icky brethren. I write all the time about feminism, but yet I like to relax. Suddenly, it doesn't seem like relaxing when I view the photos through her little eyes. I'm an adult. I know the difference. But she doesn't. Sure, they bag on K-Fed's gut, but most of all it's the women. Jennifer is pathetic and can't find love. Angelina is a ball-cupping bitch from hell who can't even get along with nice Missourians. Jessica is fat, then thin, then fat, then thin.

And we are all waiting for Britney or Lindsay to just end it already. It's literally a suicide watch.

And I know it's sick.

It was fun, back when I thought of celebrity gossip as eye candy for me. It's not fun now that I realize SHE CAN READ. And for God's sake, I don't want her to learn how the world treats celebrities just yet. She doesn't even know the Disney princesses don't really live at Disney World, let alone that they've all had Botox.

There are a lot of things that are less fun once your child can read. Blogging with cuss words. E-mail that she reads over my shoulder.

Parenting forces you to be a better person.

I'd like to keep my closeted subscription. I'd like to have my vices. I'd like to pretend it's all harmless fun.

But I know it's not, not if she reads it and thinks she, too, should be perfect in a way that no woman is perfect.

Parenting is hard. Goodbye, Star magazine. It was fun while it lasted.

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Read my review of Cloudy With a Chance of Meatballs on Surrender, Dorothy: Reviews!

After four months of practices and fifteen hours in a small, poorly lit dressing room, it came to fruition.

 

The little angel as snowbird in the room that almost stole my soul.

 

The hat really makes the outfit.

 

The birds wait backstage.

She came flying in.

 

And landed, eyes on her heroine.

The snow queen.

She was also a merry maid.

 

The cutest in the world.

976 school kids from the KCMO school district saw the show. Thanks to all for the donations.

I've never completely forgotten about my blog before. Never. But yesterday -- my first day at BlogHer -- I totally forgot about my own blog. I've heard this happens to people, but I always laughed and thought that would never happen to me.

Hmm.

I wrapped up and ran out the door at five to overnight some paperwork and pick up the little angel for Nutcracker dress rehearsal -- the third one this week. We got there and they had scheduled both a wedding rehearsal and a ballroom dance class in the upper studio where the little kids were supposed to wait between scenes and use as a temporary dressing room. So there we are, trying to keep 20 little kids dressed as gingerbread cookies and white birds from trashing their costumes on the carpet because they can't run around on the dance floor. IT WAS SO FUN!

After the first 45 minutes, I went downstairs. They appeared to be still doing the opening scene. Then I heard it -- they started the music over. I'm supposed to be volunteering to run birds up and down at the actual performance, so I'd been hoping to use last night to gauge how long it takes in between when the show starts and when I need to bring the birds down. No dice.

I went back up, pulled the little angel off the carpet, showed her the dirt on her knees. Sighed.

Two and a half hours later, we were finally released into the freezing night air. The little angel was so tired she was half-crying for her bed as I stuffed her in the tub to get all the junk out of her hair. She passed out on the first book.

I, myself, didn't last long. After attempting to make myself a tuna sandwich and setting off the fire alarm, I gave up and took a bath.

And then I dreamed about them starting the tree scene over and over until we did indeed reach the edge of hell.