Two of my cousins, my brother, and I spent many summer days in the care of our grandmother, an ornery Cuban woman who mopped daily and wore her housecoat low-cut on purpose. Her name was Evelina, but everyone called her "Mama." We knew to put our feet up when the mop slid our way and to sit quietly during The Price is Right. We also knew that not a word was to be uttered in English. If so, we got kicked outside. We were raised in Miami, so outside in July and August was not where we wanted to be.

My grandmother, with the stomp of her slipper, reminded us that we could speak English at school and outside, but in her house, it was Espaňol.

Sometimes you've just got to lie on the floor.

Let me explain.

The high-pitched scream and "Mami, I cut myself!'' was followed by the child busting into the bathroom I was cleaning. She had a bloody, dripping hand. She cut it on the nightlight bulb. She was trying to plug it in, holding it by the bulb. It shattered and sliced her ring finger.

The nuggets of knowledge in my brain are random – from knowing too much about drainage swales to state adoption law loopholes to Robert's Rules of Order.

They were implanted during the 16 years I spent as a general assignment reporter in both news and features. It means I know a little about a lot. Excellent for cocktail party conversation and raising an inquisitive child.

If the fortunes granted me millions, I would set up a charitable foundation that endows stools to public restrooms.

We just spent two weeks visiting family and friends in California, which means I hoisted my 41-pound, 4.5-year-old up to sinks – dirty ones, wet ones, fancy ones, even a port-a-john one – in approximately 743 public toilets. Only a slight exaggeration. I get so excited when we find a stool or a low sink, I think of leaving a "Bless You!" note.

Hello Parenting.com. Happy to be here being me. My name is Carrie. I am a Cuban-American living far from the Mother Country that is Miami. My roots now reach deeply into the country soil of a little town outside of Nashville, the lovely city where I once was a daily newspaper reporter. In nearly two decades as a journalist, I wrote about everything from fires to flip flop fashion to freaks.

I often tell people it is easier to cover an airplane crash on deadline than parent a preschooler. Mine anyway -- a funny and ferocious 4-year-old named Maria who has done her best, even before she was born, to do me in -- infertility treatment, 37-hour labor, emergency C-section. All followed by bad latch, eight months of exclusive pumping, hellacious teething, champion whining, and a Year Three that left me feeling each evening like I'd been chewed and shaken by a Terrier puppy.