When I flew by myself last month, I scored a seat in the emergency exit row, with all of its leg room and responsibility.

The flight attendant came by to make sure I could lift the 50-pound door.

"I'm a mother,'' I said. "I could lift a 3,000-pound car if I needed to.''

I believe that.

I am not an overly protective mother and when it comes to my kid -- my strong, feisty girl of 5 -- I tend not to worry too much and lean toward "walk it off'' before I freak out.

But, of course, the girl who hasn't had more than a cold or an ear infection since she was 17-months, gets a fever of 102 in the middle of a Swine Flu scare.

Of course.

My girl rushed at me last night in a blur of pink stripes and bouncy brown hair.

"Mami!'' she yelled, running toward me, arms outstretched.

Few sights ever have been better.

I picked my Maria up and squeezed her with all my strength. She squeezed back with all of hers. We both smiled broadly, oblivious to anyone else in the Nashville airport.

Today is my 16th wedding anniversary.

As the date arrives each beautiful spring, I am grateful and even a little amused that, wow, we've made it another year.

I don't say that to imply there is much thought to not making it every year, but rather to point out I celebrate we haven't become part of the well-known statistic -- the 50% that doesn't make it. And we're also not part of the statistical group that lives miserably together on a daily basis. Amen for that.

At some point early in our marriage, my husband noticed I stepped wide around discarded bags -- big or small, paper or plastic.

I think we were in New York City, meandering, when he first asked me what the deal was with my litter phobia.

"Brujeria,'' I said. "Witchcraft.''

You never know if there is some sort of “trabajo” in there. Step on it and you pick up the curse aimed at someone else. At least that's what my grandmother said, I told him, explaining my "curse-in-a-bag'' superstition.

Miraculously, my perfectly Protestant husband did not try to talk me out of my crazy.