I just came downstairs because the babysitter is here and I can still hear Leta screaming. Whenever she sees the babysitter coming up the front steps she gulps air, flaps her arms, and looks at me like, “YOU TRICKED ME AGAIN!” And then the screaming crying starts. The babysitter tells me, though, that all she has to do to calm her down is turn on “Boohbah,” and Leta instantly forgets that she ever had a mother in the first place. For those of you who sent me email to tell me about “Boohbah” and its body-numbing abilities, I OWE YOU MY LIFE.

Leta has been sick with a cold for the last couple days, and her pediatrician’s office told me that if the stuff coming out of her nose isn’t neon green then there is absolutely nothing we can do. And then the woman went ahead and said something like, “If it persists for 10 or more days, give us a call back.” 10 OR MORE DAYS? WHAT? I barely made it through the night last night. In 10 days WE’LL ALL BE DEAD. Had I known that kids come with untreatable sicknesses that last MULTIPLE HOURS and by that I mean HUNDREDS AND HUNDREDS of them, I might have just stuck with that career thing I had going that was making me miserable BUT NOT 10 WHOLE DAYS MISERABLE.

This morning her nose was oozing the goo like some washed up jellyfish that you just want to poke with a stick. Poke. Poke. And she was miserable and crying, and when it came time for her to take a nap she was hysterical. So I thought I would try something new: I brought her into my bed with me, put her on my chest, and shushed her into calmness. As I was rubbing her head and getting her to stop crying I thought, “See, we are bonding. We’re spanning time.” And that little imaginary bubble of mother/daughter closeness popped with one gigantic SMACK to my chest and even heavier crying. I felt like calling up Jon and saying, “Your daughter is a little shithead,” but then I remembered that she was sick and that whole mother thing kicked in again. So I put her into her crib and she was asleep within 20 seconds.

Does this mean that she isn’t going to tell me when her period starts? Or about her first kiss? Will I even be invited to this kid’s wedding?

Enough about her already.

A couple nights ago Jon and I started decorating the tree together, a tradition we want to carry throughout our marriage and Leta’s life. (Note that I didn’t say, “children’s lives” because have you heard about the one I already have? WHO IN THEIR RIGHT MIND WOULD DO IT AGAIN?) We’re both pretty festive people, and the man can string lights better than his temperamental father who I hear was the best tree light stringer Northern Utah EVER DID SEE. I hung all the ornaments, including the homemade glittery bows I fashioned out of ribbon on sale at Costco. I’m hoping to sneak a few into Martha in prison. She taught me how to do it in the first place, and with all the inmate sex she’s having, I’ll bet a few bows for some boxes would be appropriate.

Before we started the tree festivities, however, I hit the LIVE TV button on the TiVo and the tuner was on some mystery channel that was playing Top Gun, the movie I have mentioned here before as playing an integral role in my sexual awakening. Jon was appalled that I left it on and said several times, “I can’t believe I’m decorating the Christmas Tree to the sound of Top Gun,” but my sexual awakening won out. And then he kept saying, “Are there checks being written that his body can’t cash?” and while I laughed outwardly, I cried a bit inside, because PLEASE LET ME REMEMBER TOM CRUISE AS BEING A VOLUPTUOUS HETEROSEXUAL, just for the sake of my childhood, PLEASE.

When the scene where he and Kelly McGillis are standing in the middle of the street after almost crashing the cars and she says, “I just didn’t want anyone in there to know that I’m falling for you,” (I tremble as I type these words), I ran over and paused the TV and told Jon to come be with me, to experience the Tom Cruise Tongue-Action Sex Scene with me. And the Berlin song started playing, and he’s taking off her shirt, and then they lie down on the bed, and his tongue starts to go at it and then… AND THEN…. AND THEN THEY CUT TO A FUCKING COMMERCIAL.

(warning: an all caps rant is about to follow) MY LETTER TO THE FCC HAS BEEN TYPED AND IS IN THE MAIL AS WE SPEAK, BREAKING TO A FUCKING COMMERCIAL DURING THE SEX SCENE IN TOP GUN, MY ASS. THERE WERE NO BOOBIES, NO BUTTS, NO OFF-COLOR LANGUAGE, JUST A GAY MAN HAVING SEX WITH A BEAUTIFUL WOMAN AND MY MEMORIES OF HAVING FEELINGS IN MY BATHROOM AREA FOR THE FIRST TIME.

The kid shut-up, I think. She’s probably watching “Boohbah,” and spanning time with the babysitter.

Traitor.