We went to Omaha to rock on for New Year's Eve with two of my friends from high school.  We didn't realize until we got there that the group also included four of my friend D's college fraternity brothers and their wives, none of whom we knew prior to last night.  However, a friend of D's is a friend of ours, and we all got along pretty well.

Our first order of business was to drive to a restaurant in the Old Market, where we had reservations for a fabulous meal.  I had never been to this particular restaurant before, so I was wondering what it would be like. Our table was upstairs.  As we walked up the stairs, the waiter told us how much he liked being upstairs because it was so beautiful.

(Let me pause here to say that I grew up near Omaha and therefore tend to be as hard on it as a mother on her first-born child.  Also, I lived in fabulous Chicago for fifteen months and had a full-glass-window office on Michigan Avenue the entire time. So my standards are maybe a little bit high.)

We reached the top of the stairs to see a bunch of church-basement banquet tables set with white linen, and those chairs you only see in either legion halls or bingo parlors, the ones that are edged in chrome and have cushy, foamy seats and backs.  There were gorgeous windows, but the view appeared to me to be of a parking lot, even though the joint was called Rick's Boatyard Cafe.  I was trying to figure out where the boats were the whole time; wondering, in fact, if maybe the only boat was the one they missed with the upstairs decor.

After dinner, we were told that one member of our party was pregnant and wanted to go back to drink in the hotel bar to avoid cigarette smoke. 

(Now, I feel for her. I had wicked terrible morning sickness when I was in my first trimester with the little angel.  I could actually smell Guatemala on the produce in the grocery store. I could smell the Guatemalan donkeys that lived near the produce.  But still, it was New Year's Eve.)

We all piled back into D's friends' minivan, which we had taken to the restaurant.  When the driver turned on the radio, "Man In Motion" from the St. Elmo's Fire soundtrack filled the minivan.  I was sitting on a plastic Happy Meal Elmo.  I felt a little dizzy for a moment, as though I might've accidentally left my personality somewhere back at the restaurant. 

After about an hour of hotel bar, I was starting to get hivey.  I convinced my beloved to help me rally the troops. We took the hotel shuttle down into the Old Market and entered one of my favorite bars there, Mr. Toad's.  The bar's walls are covered in books and stained glass, and it has a very rabbit-hole effect.

As we were standing around, talking, drinking and waiting for midnight, one of the other women motioned to the twentysomethings carousing in the corner.  We were all in our early to mid-thirties.

J.:  "It's funny how when you're in your twenties you behave like an absolute ass in the bars."

Other J:  "Yeah, but you think you're so cool. You think everyone in the bar is looking at you, wishing they were you."

K:  "I think I just saw that one do some cocaine."

Me:  "Really?  Where?"  (crane neck)

J:  "I wonder if there were people like us back in the bar when we were twenty-one, laughing at us."

This is a sobering thought.

J:  "The funny thing, though, is that I still feel like I'm twenty-one."

I pause to reflect on this.  I don't feel twenty-one, per se, but probably twenty-seven.  I could probably be twenty-seven forever.  I got married when I was twenty-seven.

Other J:  "My aunt is fifty.  She told me she still feels thirty, but her body doesn't do quite the same things anymore.  Isn't it crazy that our grandmothers probably felt thirty when we were their grandkids?"

I down a glass of champagne. The idea of my grandmothers Dorothy and Helen feeling thirty while teaching me to bait fishhooks and make cookies is freaking me out.  What if there is only one consciousness?  What if we are all really thirty for the rest of our lives after passing that fateful milestone? 

Midnight came, and we drank heartily, watching the twenty-somethings make out with each other like Will Ferrel after doing beer bongs in Old School.  Then, shortly after, we immediately left the bar.  We were tired, and the whole aura of the bar was starting to give me the weebie-jeebies.  The forced enthusiasm, the mismatched countdowns, the stench of cigars in cramped quarters.

My beloved and I rode the elevator up, took nice, hot showers and snuggled up in the king-sized, angel-free bed.  It was 1:37 a.m. 

Beloved:  "You know, that was fun, but I almost could've just hung out at home."

I thought about it.  I had this need to go out this year, to do something.  I had a great time, but the longer I go, the more I question who I am becoming.  I told Pa this when we got back to pick up the angel. 

"Welcome to the rest of your life," he said.

Apparently, it wasn't the nightlight.  After one successful night with her new nightlight, moon-like and glowing like a Lunesta butterfly, the little angel has woken up two nights in a row, earlier than ever before.  Whereas before it was like 4 a.m., now it's 2, with a whole night stretched in front of me like so many lost hours.

I've been keeping a sleep log for her (although it doubles as one for me, since I certainly am not sleeping when she is not sleeping).  At present count, she has slept through the night 15 out of the last 41 days, a 37% success rate.  In that time, we have once again tried:

1. Ferber - by the book. We tried this for two weeks.  No response.  Cried every night she was actually up for at least 45 minutes to two hours.  Inexplicably slept some nights.
2. Back rubbing. Inexplicably slept some nights.
3. Sitting in her room, Supernanny style, closer and closer to the door.  Same thing - awake for 45 minutes to two hours.  Unfortunately, this was really painful because we had to be sitting up and watching to see if she fell asleep. Inexplicably slept some nights.
4. Sleeping on the floor of her room - this is what we're on now.  My neck feels like the days of crashing on a friend's futon after a late night at the bar.  These days, though, I'm not even getting drunk or anything. Inexplicably slept some nights.

Usually, by around five, we give into the cries for "MIL!  MIL!" and take her downstairs to the sofa.  She falls asleep immediately and sleeps like a rock.  A sweating, red-headed, 29-pounds-on-my-sternum rock.

And it's getting a little crowded on the couch.

We're going to get her a toddler bed near her second birthday. We have to come up with some money first, and put up a gate, and various other things.  At this point it seems silly to try to fix her almost, because tomorrow we leave for my parents' house for the holiday, then we'll be back there a week later to celebrate New Year's in the Old Market with my high-school buddies (who will ditch their children on her parents and hang with us in a hotel).  Then immediately after that, my beloved goes on a week-long business trip to St. Louis.  There is probably no chance of "fixing" her in the next month with all this chaos.

So, the couch.

It's green.  It's eight years old.  Despite three professional cleanings, it smells of baby vomit, cat and sweat when you are face down in it's green-ness.  It has a board under the cushions to prevent sagging. This board is ineffective.  Yet, the couch. It seems to us the last bastion we are trying to protect is OUR BED.  Is this worthwhile?  Am I really doing anything different by using the couch instead of our bed?

I like to think so.  But really, I don't know.  I've now read eight different books on sleep, from Ferber to Sears to myriad other unknowns.  There is one that I liked. It had a pull-out mantra for tired parents that contained sayings like "You are not a bad parent" and "You are not causing this night-waking."  My best friend S. is not sure why I even feel guilty or would not pick her up at night, although to be fair, S. is childless and probably does not fully understand the continuity of the problem, the hours spent staring at the glowy-green Lunesta nightlight and wondering if I will ever touch the butterfly again.

Damn that butterfly.  I want to eat it for dinner. 

Yesterday I got a call that my good friend's father passed away.  He was 62.  That's not the saddest part of the story, though. The saddest part is that he passed away while he was packing to come spend a week with her, her husband, her brother and her son (and my godson). 

She went to the airport to pick him up, little J. in tow.  She waited for him to get off the plane.  He never did.  She went to the airline and found out he hadn't been on the plane.  She assumed he'd missed the plane, called his house, called his friends.  She said she was picturing him at the United counter frantically trying to book another flight. She was not picturing him dead in his chair  in Florida, half-packed suitcase spread open on the bed.

She finally called 911, and the police had to go through the process of breaking and entering.  This entire ordeal took hours.  Today she's on a flight to Florida to go settle his affairs.  All she could say between sobs was that he was supposed to be there, in her house, with her son, with her.

How many times have I realized I was supposed to be somewhere, but was not?  How many friends and family members did I disappoint as I went on with my own little agenda, not realizing they wanted me there, just at that moment?  The story of C.'s father slowed down time for me yesterday.  As I rocked the little angel to sleep, I did pray that she would never stand in an airport waiting for me to not get off a plane.  I can't really control that - can't control fate - but I can make sure that she knows I am totally there for her, in the moment, in these precious days and years we have together.

I called my parents after that and told them I loved them. They know that I love them, but I told them again anyway.  It's a good thing to do.  It can't be done often enough.

I married Clark from Christmas Vacation.  He likes itineraries.  He fixes the newel post with a chainsaw.  And every year, he dresses up as Santa Claus so that we can drink with twenty or so of our closest friends and familiar strangers.

Two years ago, he bought me a leather skirt.  Not because I like leather skirts, mind you - it took me until I turned 30 to even think about buying a leather jacket.  For some reason, I put leather jackets in the same category as huge engagement rings and wearing eyeliner to football games - just too damn high-maintenance.  But my beloved, he insisted it would bring something to our marriage.  I'm still trying to figure out what that something is, because after I wore it to Santa Pub Crawl, I got a wicked cold I'm still fighting and never cashed in on my leather-encased booty.

We are leaving tomorrow for Lawler, Iowa, population 450, to get together with five out of the nine families that comprise my husband's extended nuclear.  My mother-in-law happened to mention that Santa was not coming to Lawler on Saturday as planned, oh, so too bad for all the grandkids.  I foolishly mentioned that my beloved not only owned a full Santa suit - oh, no - this year he also purchased a fake belly.  So now we are hauling the suit along with a monster tub of hand-me-downs, the camera, video camera, toys for the car, extra food in case the little angel remains picky (tonight was a Food Showdown that ended with me crying for mercy and offering beans-and-wieners), the Pack-n-Play, sheets for the Pack-n-Play, Tad, Gray Kitty, Pink Bear, African-American Cabbage Patch Kid (mine from my not culturally diverse childhood), bedtime books, clothes, medicine for the little angel and me, clothes and boots for all three of us to go sledding, 1.5 liter bottle of wine (my Survivor luxury item), portable booster seat, diapers, diaper bag, extra sippy cups and myriad other kitchen-sink-type items.  It's a good thing we drive a Ridiculously Large Vehicle for our three-person brood.

The first year we did Santa Pub Crawl I dressed as the elf from A Christmas Story. HO HO HO.  The second year I reeled it back in with jeans and a turtleneck.  The third year, I was pregnant and introduced the famous Jingle Bell Necklaces.  Last year, I got a little crazy and wore a frisky tank top in December.  This year, the leather.

Yeah, baby.  That's me - Mrs. Claus, if you're nasty.

I married Clark from Christmas Vacation.  He likes itineraries.  He fixes the newel post with a chainsaw.  And every year, he dresses up as Santa Claus so that we can drink with twenty or so of our closest friends and familiar strangers.

Two years ago, he bought me a leather skirt.  Not because I like leather skirts, mind you - it took me until I turned 30 to even think about buying a leather jacket.  For some reason, I put leather jackets in the same category as huge engagement rings and wearing eyeliner to football games - just too damn high-maintenance.  But my beloved, he insisted it would bring something to our marriage.  I'm still trying to figure out what that something is, because after I wore it to Santa Pub Crawl, I got a wicked cold I'm still fighting and never cashed in on my leather-encased booty.

We are leaving tomorrow for Lawler, Iowa, population 450, to get together with five out of the nine families that comprise my husband's extended nuclear.  My mother-in-law happened to mention that Santa was not coming to Lawler on Saturday as planned, oh, so too bad for all the grandkids.  I foolishly mentioned that my beloved not only owned a full Santa suit - oh, no - this year he also purchased a fake belly.  So now we are hauling the suit along with a monster tub of hand-me-downs, the camera, video camera, toys for the car, extra food in case the little angel remains picky (tonight was a Food Showdown that ended with me crying for mercy and offering beans-and-wieners), the Pack-n-Play, sheets for the Pack-n-Play, Tad, Gray Kitty, Pink Bear, African-American Cabbage Patch Kid (mine from my not culturally diverse childhood), bedtime books, clothes, medicine for the little angel and me, clothes and boots for all three of us to go sledding, 1.5 liter bottle of wine (my Survivor luxury item), portable booster seat, diapers, diaper bag, extra sippy cups and myriad other kitchen-sink-type items.  It's a good thing we drive a Ridiculously Large Vehicle for our three-person brood.

The first year we did Santa Pub Crawl I dressed as the elf from A Christmas Story. HO HO HO.  The second year I reeled it back in with jeans and a turtleneck.  The third year, I was pregnant and introduced the famous Jingle Bell Necklaces.  Last year, I got a little crazy and wore a frisky tank top in December.  This year, the leather.

Yeah, baby.  That's me - Mrs. Claus, if you're nasty.

Setting:  2:30 a.m., Little Angel's Lair

According to my spreadsheet, the little angel has not slept through the night (meaning: 8 p.m. until 5 a.m.) since last Thursday.  She and I have both had a wicked bad cold, and she also seems to be the victim of some nasty teething.

But then there's this other problem of the Diva Effect.  The little angel never used to be a diva.  She used to be quite agreeable. Then a few things happened...she turned twenty months old, and the "babies" came into Waddler B.

The children in Waddler B graduate to the two-year-old room when they, well, turn two.  The little angel's friend J. is getting ready to move over, much to his mother's relief.  You see, Baby M., Baby S. and Baby R. have entered Waddler B, and they are terrorizing the place with their howling, refusal to understand the word "no" and other annoying-to-toddlers baby behavior.

To be fair, it's not their fault.  When the little angel and her posse entered Waddler B, the little angel couldn't even walk. They all still drank from bottles and took naps in cribs. So this expectation that these new, walking, talking babies should act any older than they already are is completely unfair.

Not that the toddlers care about this.  Mama J. told me that J. sits around at home saying "NO BABIES!"  He refuses to read books about babies.  He hates them.  I wonder if all the disruption is fueling the little angel's need to completely control her surroundings at home.

Or, it could just be That Time.  That Time When The Angel Becomes Possessed.

Anyway, after all that backstory, back to the lair.

The little angel usually sleeps through until at LEAST 3:30.  We already got to the point where we consider 5 a.m. "long enough" to sleep in the crib.  It started to creep toward 4 this week, since she had a bad cold and was having trouble breathing and such.  However, 2:30 is NOT ACCEPTABLE, so we went in to see what was causing the problem.

The little angel didn't seem to be in any kind of pain, but we gave her some Oragel just in case.  She wanted to get out of the crib.  We decided it was too early for that, but since she has enough phlegm to vomit at the drop of a hat, we decided to stay in the room to make sure we could catch the vomit before it sullied the sheets, if she decided to go that route.  She didn't, thank goodness.

What she did do:

• Dance around the crib in anger, tossing out Gray Kitty, Orange Fishy, Pink Bear, White Bear, Green Frog and Yellow Blanket.  Each time she tossed something, she would scream "NYO!"
• Throw herself on her mattress and beat her tiny feet against the sheets, howling all the while.
• Kick the slats of her crib in frustration: rat-a-tat-tat.  "NYO!"  This part was actually pretty funny - my beloved and I tried not to make eye contact so we wouldn't outwardly laugh at her.
• Stand back up to see if we were still watching.  At this point, we were tired. We laid down on the floor and went to sleep for a while.
• Rinse, lather and repeat.

This went on for about forty minutes until she went to sleep herself and we crawled back to bed, feeling oddly triumphant, considering we really weren't.  We didn't pick her up AND she didn't vomit. This is a major accomplishment lately.

The other day we made a family grocery trip.  As we were checking out our 8,000 items, the cashier complimented the little angel's faux-fur, leopard-print jacket.  I smiled, since it was the second time that day a cashier had been drawn to it.  The little angel, she is a diva.

This cashier, however, didn't stop. The first one said something about how her little girl had a coat just like it in 1968.  This cashier said also that her little girl had one when she was the little angel's age, but now that she's three, she just can't find any that fit.  Then we got talking about the muffs we apparently both had when WE were little girls.

"Well, little girls love their fur," I said absent-mindedly.

The cashier pulled herself up to her full height (she was pretty tall).  "Yes, we do," she said.  "Umm-hmmm, and those PETA people, I can't believe they throw paint on fur."

"Oh, well, hmmm," I said, not really wanting to talk politics with the cashier.

"You don't ever see them coming in the urban areas," she continued, slamming the groceries across the scanner.  "My grandmother has a fur coat, and I wear it sometimes."

"That's great," I said, trying to hurry her along.

The cashier looked at the little angel again, smiling.  "If someone threw paint on my granny's fur coat, I'd cut 'em," she said.

My mouth dropped open.  I looked over at my beloved, who was staring at Star Magazine, shoulders shaking. I thought I saw a tear creeping down one cheek. 

"Wow," I said.

As we were walking out of the store, we burst into laughter.  "Well," said my beloved, "at least she's descriptive.  It would be interesting to see animal activitists take on the urban core."

Yes, I guess it would.  I'm not sure who I'd be rooting for, but I bet it would be a hell of a fight.

It's been difficult to explain to the little angel this weekend that no one can own snow.  I tried a few different methods, but it was sort of like the Native Americans trying to explain to the Europeans that no one can really own land.  "Oh, yes they can," said the Pilgrims, and well, it stuck.  So this is an age-old problem.

Yesterday the little angel and I bundled up and ventured out for her first real walking snow experience.  First, I put her in the toddler sled and strapped her in, as a good parent should.  I started pulling her around through foot-deep snow, and about three seconds in, she shifted and the whole thing went over.  Unfortunately, she was strapped in with a noggin full of snow.  It was about nineteen degrees out at the time, and the very Sirens could not have screamed louder than she did.  Of course, once I stopped laughing, I felt terrible.  We went in, gathered ourselves, then went back out. After that I stuck to pulling her around on the driveway and other packed surfaces.

Today, it was considerably warmer.  All of the snow on the flat surfaces had melted, and my beloved was with me this time, so we took turns letting her sled down the little incline in our front yard.  She thought this was grand.  Then we decided to make a snowman.  After much discussion, we found a way to wedge rocks into eyes and a mouth.  "Happy!" said the little angel.  She sat down in the snow and pointed to it.  "MINE," she decided.

This "mine" thing just started in earnest this week, when she got into a fight at the Emerald City with Baby M. over a doll she was trying to feed fake Kool-Aid.  "MINE!" she howled, pushing him away.  To be fair, Baby M. has some control issues himself, but still.  Last night she decided the regular telephone was "MINE," though I disagreed.  She only pays, like, twenty percent of the phone bill.

Today at lunch, I tried to give her peas. She's been on a hunger strike since this last cold set in.  She refuses to stop until Saddam commits to being tried in Iraq without kicking up such a fuss.  I tried to reason with her about this, but considering the tribunal isn't having much luck with old "hey, glasses, don't you recognise your former dictator?" I didn't think I would get very far.  She started throwing the peas on the floor, so I grabbed the bowl before she could upend the whole thing.  "NYOOOO!"  she howled.  "MIIIIINNNNNNNEEEEE!" 

I decided lunch was over.  We went upstairs.  She drank some milk so she wouldn't actually starve to death and passed out about halfway through, snuggled into my chest.  Her breathing is getting clearer, so she doesn't sound quite so much like a wild hog while sleeping.  Just before I put her in her crib, I gave her a tight squeeze. 

"Mine," I said.

There is a light at the end of the tunnel.  The little angel's fever has dissipated (we hope for good).  She went all night without either a) vomiting, b) waking up crying or c) spiking a noticeable fever (I know, because I checked on her a billion gazillion times before I passed out covered in celebrity gossip magazines - my current feel-better drug of choice).

I could tell she was feeling better last night, because she started cracking jokes again.  Her latest joke is to take her shape sorter and put one shape over a hole into which she knows it does not fit.  Then she'll look at me, say "NOOOOOOOO," and put it in the right hole.  When it goes through, she looks back and says "YEAH!"  Then she laughs.  High comedy, to be sure.