The little angel may be acquiring plastic jewelry before her time.  This morning, she woke up with icky pooey and gooey eyes.  I had a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach that she had yet another ear infection.  I am starting to hate being right all the time.

I made an appointment for four, hoping she would have some sort of miraculous recovery.  When I arrived to pick her up from the Emerald City, her teacher informed me that the little angel had been having a horrible day.  Apparently, she also fell into the high chair and one of her pointy little teeth cut her lip.  "There was blood," the teacher said solemnly.  "Do you want me to fill out an accident report?"

While I pondered that question, I noticed the little angel was sweating like a Ren Fest actress on a hot September morning.  "Has she been sweating like this long?" I asked.  I mean, she was SOAKED in perspiration. Her hair was actually crunchy.  "Yup," said the teacher.  "Even just walking around. Sweating, sweating."

Things did not bode well.  We got in the car, the little angel still sleeping, and drove to the doc's office.  She clucked a bit as she walked in.  "This is the third time in three weeks," she said.  "I wish I didn't see you quite so often."  She peered in the little angel's ears.  "I'm so sorry," she said.  Then I knew...another 14 days of oral antibiotics, given twice a day with food. DAMN!

"You know, this makes her a candidate for tubes," she said.  "This is the fourth time in six months."  I felt my knees grow a bit faint.  "It's really easy, but there is general anesthesia."  I wondered if I could get some, too.  I'm not normally weeby about operations - I've had more than your average Joe myself, but she's so little!  What if they screw up the dosage and hit her with their best shot?  All the ridiculous mama fears began welling up and dancing in my head.  I have an extremely active imagination.

"Come back in ten days," the doctor said, folding up my chart.  "We'll make the call then." 

After that, we got the fun of getting the little angel's blood drawn to see if she has enough iron in her blood, or something like that.  The little angel shrieked like the hounds of hell as the medical-type thwacked her little finger and SQUEEZED all the blood out.  Sixteen drops - I counted every one.  But then she put a nice, big, fluffy gauze pad around the little angel's finger and taped it on.  Hours of fun! Fun to put in her mouth!  Fun to ask Mama to put in HER mouth for 30 minutes at the pharmacy!  Fun for EVERYONE.

So I brought home my battered, bruised angel and gave her the present of wiffle balls that I purchased at the drug store.  She really likes all things wiffle.  And then it was all okay.

Last night I went to teach my composition class.  One of the girls came up to me and turned in her paper late.  She said she hadn't been able to turn it in because her fiance was in the hospital. I mentioned to her that her larger problem, in my humble opinion, is that she missed the midterm, which is worth ten percent of her grade.  She was unperturbed.  She then informed me that her sociology teacher had just let her make up the pop quiz she missed in the office later that week.

I was a little stunned, I admit. I am naive. I assume if one is going to miss a significant test, one will be horrified and immediately call the teacher to beg for mercy.  Not only did she not call, she just assumed I'd let her make it up?  My teacherly ire frothed to the surface.

"Well, I don't have a make-up policy," I said.  "The syllabus states you need to make arrangements ahead of time."

"What do you mean?" she asked.  Blink, blink.

"I mean that I don't know if you'll be able to make it up."  Pause.  "I suppose you'll need to get a note from the hospital."

Blink, blink.

"Oh...but..."

"If you get a note, then perhaps you'll be able to make up the test," I said, warming to my cause.  "I do feel bad about your fiance, after all."

On the break, I immediately rushed down to the department office, and sure enough, the dean was still there. I explained the scenario and asked for her advice.  She smirked.  "Was her finger broken while her fiance was in the hospital?" she asked.  I stared, not getting it.  "Because if not, she could have called you."

She is so much tougher than I. But it gave me the strength I needed to stick to my guns.  This is my problem. I watch Supernanny every week, delighting in the naughtiness of America's children, but who knows if I will be able to be tough with my little angel? I can barely ignore bad student excuses. What will become of me?  I must be strong.  Must be strong.  I certainly don't want her to grow up to become a holy terror, incapable of informing teachers when her fiance is in the hospital.

I had a bit of a crisis of the technical type this week.  It seems that Microsoft has gotten smarter.  I admit, I had been using a copy of Office 2000.  I think it was actually legal, because you get a certain number of licenses for each copy you obtain, and I know this copy was only on one other computer, but still, Microsoft calls in your sins pretty fast these days.  Apparently I hit something on my desktop that tipped them off, and they locked me out of my applications right as I was trying desperately to construct a document.  EGADS!  I admit it, I threw a plate.  It broke. I had to clean it up.  Combining PMS with MSN is a battle of the wrong acronyms.  I felt really stupid cleaning up that plate.  Thank goodness the little angel was not around to witness her mother's complete lack of professionalism in the face of crisis.  (Of course, if she had been, I like to think I would've responded with more restraint. One doesn't really know.)

So off to the store my beloved and I went yesterday, to purchase a new and too-legit-to-quit version of Office.  I was pretty sure it was going to set us back quite a bit, until we discovered that Microsoft, in an apparent bid to get SOME money instead of NO money, has put out a "teacher and student" edition that is the SAME THING as normal Office.  The only caveat is that someone in your family has to be a teacher or student.  Having been both and currently being an adjunct professor, I decided we qualified.  I talked to the salesperson, who assured  me no proof of studenthood or teacherhood was necessary and yes, it is just Microsoft riling against people like me who borrow their father's CDs on a regular basis.

I took it home, popped in the CD and VOILA - new Office. Just like that.  It was ridiculously easy.  The price of penance?  $150.  My pride?  Let's not talk about that right now.

This morning when I dropped the little angel off at the Emerald City, I noticed the helium balloons that I had taken in after her birthday party were dragging on the ground.  Then my mind started spitting out warning labels and worst-case-scenario articles from parenting magazines. The sequence went like this:

• What is one of the kids popped one of those balloons?
• Then, what if they put one of the little balloon shards in their mouths?
• Then what if the balloon shard closed over their esophagus?
• What if the daycare lady wasn't paying attention as some child (maybe even the little angel) turned blue and DIED?
• What if this was all my fault?

I took the balloons out to the dumpster in the parking lot. Again, here was the mental model:

• It's a windy day.
• What if the balloons fly out of the dumpster and are littering the parking lot?
• They'll know it was me.

I decided to pop the balloons with my car keys. 

Background:  My rings are too big. My engagement ring, which is smaller, normally holds on my wedding ring. The prong on my engagement ring is broken, so my engagement ring is currently in my purse, waiting to go to the jewelry store for repair.

See it coming? 

As I vehemently popped the fourth balloon, my wedding ring shot off my finger, hanging in the sky for just a moment, before it slid into the dumpster.

It was raining. Cold rain. And the dumpster was filled with bags, some open, of the following items:

• Food remains from a week
• Dirty diapers
• Paint cans
• Glass

Aghast, I tried to keep calm as I went to find the director. She went to find the janitor.  She grabbed her digital camera as the janitor lowered himself into the dumpster in the cold, wet rain. Parents dropping off their children stopped to watch.

After about twenty minutes of this, I begged him to get out of the dumpster.  He sighed.  "I don't think we're going to find it," he said.  At that moment, his fingers hit paydirt, and he triumphantly raised my wedding ring from the putrid abyss.

Thank God they don't have a cleaning service.

The little angel's first birthday party is over.  Ah, how good it feels to write that.  We had a good turnout - probably at least thirty people, including seven in-laws, two of whom stayed in my house. 

It didn't start out to be a perfect experience.  My beloved went to pick up the balloons.  He called on his way home from the grocery store, saying cryptically, "You get to pick up the balloons."  When he arrived home, I learned that after he put one bag of twelve helium balloons in the car, he then snagged the second bag on the car door.  As he wrestled with it, it got away, hovering deliciously for a second about three feet above his head.  Of course, he jumped for it and missed.  Just as he was standing in the middle of the grocery store parking lot, feeling dejected, he heard a slight rustling sound.  He turned just in time to see the other bag float heavenward.

Of course, his immediate reaction was to pretend nothing had happened.  He walked back into the grocery store, pretending to talk on his cell phone.  "Yes, dear," he said.  "Twenty-five more," he told the counter people.

When I went back, I took the cake to the car first, then returned to the counter, determined not to let history repeat itself.  When I went to pick up the order, the counter lady looked at my kindly.  "I gave you a discount," she said. "Someone in the parking lot told me what happened to your husband."  Ha.

The little angel properly covered herself in chocolate birthday cake, went willingly to anyone who would hold her and did not melt down until shortly after the bath, when most of the guests had already left. My mother- and father-in-law fell asleep sitting up downstairs as I chatted with the remaining guests.  Then, the house was quiet, the silence broken only by the rustling of the beautiful balloons.

Well, on the eve of the eve of the little angel's big first birthday bash, she has come down with a disturbing combination of symptoms. I had a premonition when I planned the party at least a month in advance that she would inevitably be ill on the big day. Still, there's time.

Most of the symptoms are the sort most parents would ignore.  Stuffy nose, slight cough. It's the eye goopies and diaper issues that have me a bit concerned.  Oh, and the fact the Emerald City sent her home today.

Tomorrow we have her big one-year well-baby appointment. I'm planning to connivingly also make it a sick-baby appointment to see if this is the ear infection I fear.  It has been over a month since we battled the medicine dropper.  I was growing smug and well-satisfied with its absence.  Hubris.

Still, here is a notice to all blog-reading friends - I will probably decide whether or not to have the party based on the little angel's condition; whether or not she would have fun will be the criteria.  However, anyone afraid of germs is welcome to stay home and no hard feelings will be taken.

So, I ask you, cyberspace...to party, or not to party?  When to decide?  The bubbles are bought and the cake is ordered.  My parents-in-law will be here regardless, so the cake won't go to waste. I can always use the bubbles as bribery when she gets old enough to understand such things.  But should I wait and see?  Or call it tomorrow based on her wake-up condition?

Today is the little angel's birthday. It's odd to think that this time last year, I had an epidural and a Pitocin drip in me.  I feel sooo much better now!

The festivities for her birthday began at 3:45 a.m., when she woke up to party. Actually, we finally decided she was hungry after my twenty minutes of Baby Tad playing and back rubbing and my beloved's fifteen of rocking.  She drank about half a bottle and conked back out.  Then this morning, not hungry. Couldn't possibly touch that bottle, no thanks, I'm cranky and hating life.

I hope she feels better this afternoon. Six months ago, I had all these grandiose ideas of what I would do for her on her birthday. Six months ago I did not realize that when the day arrived, I would have a new job and my beloved would have decided to take an entrepreneurial class on Wednesday nights. I wish that I could keep her out of the Emerald City and spend the whole day playing at the kiddie spot at the Great Big Frickin' Mall of the Great Plains, but alas, there is software to design.  I feel bad.

At around 3:50 this morning, as I wearily sat down beside her crib, thinking she was finally asleep, I looked over at her closing eyes.  All of the sudden, the eyes flew open, and she realized I was sitting there.  Her chubby little arm reached through the crib bars and she grabbed my arm and patted it, smiling, happy I was there.  I'm a little sappy today on her first birthday.  She is the best gift in the world on her own day.

Somehow, my beloved has been secretly brainwashing the little angel to talk to him. I don't know how he does it - maybe he  spends the three hours while I'm teaching my class on Tuesday nights focusing in his evil language lessons.  Or maybe he squeezes it in during the hour a weekend I go to the gym.  Because really, I am with her more than he is.  At least I thought I was. Now I am beginning to question this.

First he taught her to clap, clap, clap.  I had been attempting this for weeks, but does she pay any attention to me?  NO. I can't talk like the cowardly lion in the Wizard of Oz.  My nose doesn't crinkle up like his does. 

The latest betrayal was her first word.  Yesterday, while he installed the window unit in her room (we have central air, but when the vents are in THE FLOOR, it doesn't help much that hot air rises upstairs), we played, we ate porcupine balls (don't ask - a friend gave me the recipe - the little angel spit them back out, then threw them all on the floor - I guess beef is NOT what is for dinner for her), then...he walked in.  She looked up, batted her big, blue eyes, and quite clearly said, "Hi, Daddy."  Then she went back to throwing the porcupine balls on the floor.

I sat there, crushed.  My beloved looked at me triumphantly and proceeded to do a short, unchoreographed victory dance through the middle of the kitchen.  I looked at the little angel, who was winding up to pitch the next porcupine ball to the cat, who looked interested.  "Hi, Mama," I said, weakly.  She looked at me and laughed.  "Ga ga," she replied.

SHIT.  Yes, I'm obviously green with envy.

A few months ago, I wailed to the abyss about my little angel's paci victimization, how she was cruelly accosted by a Paci Bandit.

Yesterday, I went to the Emerald City to pick up the little angel, and was sternly informed by the lead teacher (who insists on being called Mrs. W by the parents - the children can't talk) that 1) the little angel needs bigger diapers (she just got into size 4 - size 5 is like for twelve-year-olds) and 2) I need to bring in a paci tether because my daughter and her friend J. like to swap pacis.  She has become an aggressor!  What happened to my darling little fat-n-happy baby?  So quickly they change.

There was a little part of me that breathed a sigh of relief, however...not about the diapers, but the paci thing.  When I saw the paci being ripped from her mouth back at Oz, I remember thinking she should rip it right back.  That's really the only way to get rid of Paci Bandits in this world.  I secretly wanted the little angel to take back the night.  And now she has!  Now, mind you, I don't want her just to run around the neighborhood sneaking into houses and stealing pacis from the mouths of sleeping babies, but if someone steals hers, she should steal the other child's right back!  You go, baby!  Hopefully she will learn that there is a time and place for aggression, such as paci banditing activities and department status meetings.

Now, you may be remarking in your heads that I am suddenly unconcerned with oral hygiene.  You would be correct.  Here's why.  During the past few months, the little angel has been disease-ridden with the following afflictions:

• Cradle cap
• Common cold
• Hand, Foot & Mouth Disease
• Rhinovirus (twice)
• Unnamed stomach virus
• Ringworm (which is really just athlete's foot/jock itch located on the body - it's not a worm, people!)
• Ear infection
• Recurring yeast infection (babies CAN get them!)
• Sensitive skin rash
• Teething pain (incessant)

Every night after her bath, we have to apply four kinds of lotion and creams. One for the drool rash on the face, one for the senstive-skin rash on the body, one for the diaper area rash and one for the ringworm rash.  This takes ten minutes and results in a howling goo-child impossible to stuff into her almost-too-small winter jammies.  However, at this point, after all she's been through, I'm thinking she's probably more dangerous to the other children than they are to her. 

Why is that comforting to me?