It’s 4:30pm and I felt the need to get out of the house. Mo had been visiting Playhouse Disney on the computer, Co was crawling around getting this, that and the other thing. I was “ret ta go’ and how. So, I packed up all our sundries and just needed to get the little dickens’ into the car. I also needed a way to get Mo off of the computer, into some clothes other than her ballet outfit and into the car so we could go to Target. Priorities, I know. Dinner, schminner. We have to go to Target!! Short of using a crowbar or pulling the plug, I can’t pull her off the computer. I employ the old standby — the egg timer countdown. When the buzzer buzzes, that’s it. All done with Mickey Mouse, no tantrums, no tears, all Target. But here’s the thing — she doesn’t want to go! What?!

I’m stunned that she doesn’t want to go to Target! Who’s child is this? Target is our thing! It’s like the McDonald’s Playplace for adults AND kids. She’s not having it and I’m grasping at straws to figure out how, without manhandling her, the car, to get her to co-operate sans total toddler meltdown. Inspiration strikes in the form of a total win-win on so many levels.

I tell her that if we get ready and go to Target, not only can she keep on her ballet costume, complete with ballet slippers and fairy wings we can have Chinese food for dinner. She has a penchant for chicken and broccoli that is only rivaled for her desire to a) watch the Backyardigans, b) doing “arts & craps” and c) spend the afternoons swinging on the swings at the park. You can see the light bulb go on as she comprehends what I’m saying. And she embraces the idea so totally. As she turns a series of pirouettes to the front door, my dear sweet Mo says, “I’m going to behave right now. Target here we come!”

Wow.

I’ve thought quite a bit about what I wanted to write in honor of Mother’s Day and I’ve come up with a whole lot of “Eh, that’s not what I’m trying to say.” I had this idea to write about how I’ve been influenced, both in good ways and in bad, by mothers I know. How being a mother had helped me recognize what my purpose is and where my passion lies. How motherhood has totally ratcheted up my ability to do more than one thing at a time, although the success of completion is patchy at best. I even contemplated writing about what Mo and Co have taught me about motherhood.. None of those ideas seemed to be where I wanted to go. It’s like having an itch you just can’t reach to scratch. I’m dancing around something, the need to express what my life as a mother is like, especially in the last few weeks.

I sat down to check my email and just had to stop because I was feeling so, so, defeated. What am I doing wrong? So, I just prayed, right there in front of the computer. I asked for that guiding hand, for me to realize that I’m on the right track and if I’m not that I’ll be steered back there. I took a deep, cleansing breath, and then, finished checking my mail. There was a message in my inbox called Invisible Mother about a mom who felt completely invisible to everyone. She went on to write about how she was wondering how things had gotten to where she was only seen as a chauffeur,cook, secretary, and so on, when another, more well traveled friend presented her with a book about the great cathedrals of Europe. She realized, upon reading the book that the connection between herself and those who built the the great cathedrals was a powerful one. For you see, there is no record of who built the great cathedrals. The builders devoted their entire lives to a work that they never saw through to completion. They received no credit for their choices except that in the eyes of God. In her story, she writes, “I closed the book, feeling the missing piece fall into place. It was almost as if I heard God whispering to me, ‘I see you, Charlotte, I see the sacrifices you make ever y day, even when no one around you does. No act of kindness you’ve done, no sequin you’ve sewn on, no cupcake you’ve baked, is too small for me to notice and smile over. You are building a great cathedral, but you can’t see right now what it will become.”

As a blogger, I have officially arrived.

A blog that I often visit, Dad Gone Mad, had post called Big Big Stars where he invited all readers and visitors to his blog to post links to their blogs, thereby encouraging them to meet, greet, and be sweet in the blogosphere.

Not to be outdone, Dee Dee at Random Daily Ramblings has put together a list of everyone who visited and left their blog addresses. She sent me a note after visiting me, saying, “I’ve posted a complete list of everyone who left their blog link on his Big Big Stars post in a post of my own called Blog Rolling With My Homies over on my blog, so if you want to see it come on over and sit a spell. ” How she found the time to do this is beyond me. I can’t even sit on the toilet without an audience and a standing ovation. In any event, I made the list! Woo-hooo! I’ve had visitors and it’s been very exciting. I’m loving the love being shown.

But wait, there’s more. I visited another blogger, BackPacking Dad, and he brought us up to speed on the goings and comings with this list. Evidently, Heather, whom I have not yet had the pleasure of meeting, has challenged Dee Dee to visit and comment on all members of the list. Dee Dee accepted on the condition that Heather do the same. BPD took it one step further, and actually finished the list. Says BPD, “It took days, and my daughter has been in the same diaper since Thursday, and I think she’s had to teach herself to cook, and my wife has since fled to Seattle and Chicago in succession.“

Yeah, that sounds about right. Ohhh, to read the list. Seriously, it’s like the equivalent of an internet white glove has been thrown on the ground and bloggers everywhere are saying, “Aha! I challenge you to a duel” — of course in this fantasy of mine, the accents are French, so challenge sounds more like “shall-lawnge” and duel sounds like “dew-ell”.

BPD was talking about having someone design some badges for our blogs saying, “I’m on the List” or “I Completed the List”. I SO want one of those. I’m such a taggie/gidget/gadget junkie. Until I can squeeze out some copious free time (read: laundry, dinner, diaper changing, baths, and all other domestic responsibilities can suck it while I sit at the computer), the speed through which I get through the list probably can’t be measured in any perceptible units. No matter, I’m looking forward meeting and greeting.

The List is out there, people, and the blog is open.

I was reading Dad Gone Mad today, and DGM was talking about fan mail and his fan letter to the Fonz. Thankfully, I am old enough to know who the Fonz is. I’m sure there are people that run in my social circles who don’t know who the Fonz is, and I’d put money on that. But I digress. DSM was talking about writing fan letters, and posed the following questions, “When was the last time you wrote a fan letter? When was the last time you told someone how much their work means to you? If you were going to write a piece of fan mail today, to whom would you write it?” And of course, me having the attention span of a fruit fly, simply read and answered the first question.

When was the last time you wrote a fan letter?
I wrote a letter to Mike Tyson when he was at the height of his boxing career and married to Robin Givens. I know, I know — WTF? I had to have been like, 10 years old. I can’t even begin to guess what I wrote in that letter. I’m sure it was a request for an autograph, but I probably wasn’t with it enough to ask for some tickets to a match or something. Hey, we lived in NJ at the time, same as “Iron” Mike, and I thought, “I bet he’ll invite me over to his mansion for dinner!” Yeah, what did I know. I do remember that I got an 8×10 autographed glossy in the mail, which I promptly lost. Still, I have the memory *sniff, sniff*.

For you, my dear readers, I shall answer the other two questions.

When was the last time you told someone how much their work means to you?
Probably this side of never. I’m not one to fawn or fuss all over people, especially now that I’m older. If I am really moved by something and happen to see the artist, I’ll say to them how much I enjoyed their work. That’s about it. I’m constantly telling Mo how I love her use of the orange crayon when she draws concentric circles over Elmo’s face in her coloring book.

If you were going to write a piece of fan mail today, to whom would you write it?
That’s a toughie. I have my simple Hollywood crushes (hellooooooo, Wentworth Miller), but in terms of being someone’s biggest fan? Don’t really have anyone coming to mind. I will say that I admire the work of several authors, photographers, TV personalities, but I don’t see myself breaking out the nice stationery and stamps. Besides, my lifetime appointment as President, CEO, CFO, and all around Chief-High-Priestess-Number-One-Biggest-Fan of the Mo and Co Super Fan club prohibits me from making any solicitations to any non Mo and Co Super Fan Club members.

After dinner, where she had two helpings of chicken, rice pilaf and green beans all washed down with a glass of milk, Morgan has a Popsicle. The blue Popsicle makes her look like she’s been eating Smurfs by the bucketful. She asks for more milk. She sees Craig eating some cashews and asks for some cashews. She runs off to get her coloring books, and then quickly changes trajectory towards Coever laying on the floor. We think she’s going to jump on her sister or whack her with the rattle that Coever has in her spitty little hands, but before we can open our mouths to shout a warning, she’s off again. Morgan draws up short before whirling around and running to Craig for more cashews. This happens like three more times before he puts a stop to it. It’s his snack after all.

I say to Morgan, “Are you serious with this? Where are you putting all this food?”

Morgan looks at me. “In my mouth,” she deadpans.

*****

One, Two, Buckle My Shoe
by Morgan

One, two
Buckle my shoe

Three, four
Shut the door, but I would like to keep it open

Five, six
Lay it down

Seven, eight
Lay it straight

Nine, ten
I’mma do it again

I put the girls down for a nap and manage to squeeze one out for myself. I’m dreaming, I know, because the things I’m seeing don’t quite make sense. Disjointed images and disjointed sounds. High pitches squeals and suddenly my eyes flap open. The images dissipate, but the squealing continues. I rush to Mo’s room, throw open the door and there is my first born child. Buck naked save a do-rag to preserve the carefully parted dozen of pigtails I labored over this morning.

I ask her, “What’s wrong?”

“I was calling you,” she says.

“Yes, are you alright?”

“Yes.”

“Why are you naked?” I ask, praying there aren’t any surprises to found in the crib as I pick up the diaper.

“Because I was sleeping.” Her eyes say, Duh, Mommy.

****

We’re sitting on the sofa having some hugs and loves (a.k.a cuddles). Mo is all up in my face and her breath is kicking. So of course, I tell her so.

“My breath isn’t kicking,” she says, pronouncing each word so well, I’m wondering when she has had time for elocution lessons.

“Your breath is humming,” I say.

“Hmmmmmmm,” she says.

Indeed, indeed.