The reframing worked!  I feel better.  It's funny - I often know how I'm supposed to go about being mentally healthy, but I just consciously choose not to be.  Because sometimes it's just so much more fun to wallow around in a stinky, self-doubt-filled abyss of my own creation.

This morning I took the little angel with me to the dentist (because I love punishment).  No, really I took her because I wanted to get her acclimated to the idea before her first appointment.  She fell off a tricycle at Toddler High yesterday and has a fat lip with a white, hurt-lip-skin spot in the middle of it.  She eyed the dentist chair warily, and was even more freaked out when I donned AmberVision sunglasses and lay down on it.  Her injured lower lip began to tremble.  Only SpongeBob Squarepants in the next room could console her.  (It didn't console me - I hate SpongeBob with the same intensity that I reserve for the Wiggles, the Teletubbies and Barney, none of which she's ever seen).  It was SpongeBob or crying toddler, though.  So...SpongeBob.

On the way back to Toddler High, she took out her new toothbrush and brushed Tellie 1 and Tellie 2's teeth.  Tellie 1 and Tellie 2 are the children of Star and Roar.  All of these individuals are rubber dinosaurs from Target's $1 aisle.  The little angel named all of them.  They apparently had VERY dirty teeth, because she wore out her new toothbrush removing all of that ick from their rubber mouths.  Most dinosaurs eat cavemen and brush and such, but Star and Roar in particular are often treated to bits of the little angel's dinner.  And yes, I allow this, because the little angel eats corn and cauliflower and melon and turkey slices, unlike many other toddlers that I know.  If Star has to mess up her stegasaurus mouth in order to get vegetables in my child, so be it.  You have to pick your battles, people.  Dental hygiene:  It's not just for humans anymore.

I have this whole post revisiting the discussion of virginity, abstinence and whether or not we should be thinking about it already when our kids are only two, but I just came home to be with the little angel, who has a 102 degree fever.  Oh, and I have a spec to edit.

So...instead I'm going to show you this AMAZING drawing that my friend Bill Rose just did for no reason at all, other than he is a rock-star artist with a generous streak.  Oh, and he does work on commission, if ya'll want one, too.  For extra credit, go to his site and see if you can find my beloved and me.

I have this whole post revisiting the discussion of virginity, abstinence and whether or not we should be thinking about it already when our kids are only two, but I just came home to be with the little angel, who has a 102 degree fever.  Oh, and I have a spec to edit.

So...instead I'm going to show you this AMAZING drawing that my friend Bill Rose just did for no reason at all, other than he is a rock-star artist with a generous streak.  Oh, and he does work on commission, if ya'll want one, too.  For extra credit, go to his site and see if you can find my beloved and me.

Today I was telling the Editor Across the Aisle about the little angel's recent sleeping problems. I have to give her props - the little angel, that is - because Monday night and Tuesday night she slept through the night for the first time since May 3.  (Let's observe a moment of silence for children who occasionally sleep.  Ahhhhh.)

Anyway, on Sunday night, the little angel woke up at three in the morning.  She clamored for about a half an hour about wanting milk. I told her no, sleepy. It's time to sleepy.  She said no, the milk.  I said no, the sleepy.  In response to this, she grabbed the edge of her toddler bed and jumped up and down.  I almost laughed, as her flair for the melodramatic is come by honestly. (Ahem.)

After this, she laid down on her bed and kicked her pudgy feet vehemently on her Ebayed Laura Ashley beach-scene sheets. I held firm.

Then she asked to go downstairs and lay down with me on the couch. This sounded like an awesome alternative to the drama scene unfolding in her bedroom, but again with the firmness.  No, I said.  Sleepy.

Then she said she was poopy. (Liar, liar, pants on fire.)  I offered to change her diaper, which she accepted, thinking it was part of the negotiating process.

It wasn't.

Finally, she laid down and accepted her water cup. She bit the top of her Nuby, said it was leaking, and threw it at my head.

I said, no, sleepy.

I handed her back the cup.

We went back and forth like this, with her alternately pummeling her feet and throwing the cup at my head until I finally won and she went to sleep with said leaky cup cradled in her arm like a baby.

About halfway through this story, the Editor mentioned her water cup was leaking.  She said that every time she takes a drink out of it, it dribbles on her pants. It has made her fear the drinking of the water, but she insists on drinking it anyway. I think this has something to do with the fact that she is from Iowa, and believes in the power of wearing a dress that she got for $5.27 at T.J. Maxx to not one but two black-tie affairs in the past month.  I did not mention this. (I bet she's dribbling now, reading about it.)

Me:  "I know that what you really want to do is throw that water cup at my head."

Editor:  "I do, and even though I do seriously believe that you would kill me, I want to do it anyway.  Just to see the look on your face."

I almost peed myself laughing.  I can just see the headlines now:  Cube-mate Killed In Toddler Re-enactment.

The other day at work, the conversation turned to fraternities and sororities.  The Editor Across the Aisle had asked me where I went to school, since it turns out we are both from Iowa. (Someday, I will really start the club Originally From Iowa, and it will have more members across the country, especially in California, Chicago and Kansas City, than any other state's club, because nobody that is born and raised in Iowa lives there in their thirties.)  I told her my old house, then along came another co-worker, he of the famed Bathroom Humor, and mentioned that he had been in a fraternity, lo, the same fraternity as a few of our other co-workers.

This led to a description of living in the Greek houses.  My experience with living in the sorority house was a) it sucks to have to hide your alcohol, b) it's nice to have cleaning ladies - an experience I would draw upon later in life, c) everyone borrows your car when you live in a sorority house and d) if I didn't already know how to make myself throw up by college, I would've learned how in the communal bathroom.  Some of those rumors are true, kids.  My co-worker went on to describe the antebellum splendor of sorority houses, how nice and clean they are, etc., etc.  Fraternity houses are, of course, NOT CLEAN. In fact, they are not the sort of place you want to go the bathroom in, let alone exist.

Then we talked about how I was not only Greek, but I was also on the Panhellenic Council.  I busted parties with underage drinking after giving a thirty-five minute warning and loudly announcing my presence so that anyone underage stupid enough to still be holding a cup deserved a little extra study hall and a monetary fine.  The remainder of the conversation was as follows:

Co-Worker:  "I remember we used to get so crazy in the house. I hated living there. They were always throwing things."

Me:  "Really? Like what?"

Co-Worker:  "Like...beer bottles."

Editor: (incredulously)  "What?  Didn't you get hurt?"

Co-Worker: "Well, one guy did cut his eye when a bottle broke. We took him to the hospital, got in trouble, all that.  After that they passed out safety glasses when we partied."

Editor:  "Why didn't you use cans?"

Me:  "Or kegs?"

Next...followed a stunned silence.  My co-worker was actually dumbfounded that they hadn't just used cans.  We were blown away that he was blown away.  It was one of those surreal moments when you realize just how scary group-think can be.

Alpha Beta Gamma Delta Epsilon Zeta Eta Theta Iota Kappa Lambda Mu Nu Xi Omicron Pi Rho Sigma Tau Epsilon Phi Chi Psi Omega...I can barely remember being that person, but I can still sing the damn alphabet.