There is no place on earth that as closely resembles kiddie hell as the fabric store. I know this because I remember wanting to bludgeon myself at the mere mention of a trip to the fabric store when I was a kid. It didn’t matter how awesome the finished product was going to be, shopping for the raw materials was enough to make me completely lose it.

Fabric store trips always take too long and the stores are too full of cool things that you’re not allowed to touch. The adult fabric shopper always needs to look at everything twice or a hundred times, feel the textures, match colors, go back for various notions several times, and stand in line at the cutting counter for sometimes several days, depending on how good the sales are that day. It is mind-numbing for small people.

There is no children's product I loathe more than the sippy cup. How come none of those Useless and Annoying Baby Things lists you see all over the internet leave out the hateful sippy cup? I understand you have to put your toddler's milk in SOMETHING, and I do see the insanity in handing him a nice tall glass of grape juice, but I am pretty sure sippy cups are out to get me. At the very least, the Sippy Cup Industry is conspiring to take all my money.

Why? Because I am on a quest for the perfect cup. I have entire cupboard full of rejected sippy cups: big ones, little ones, two handles, no handles, spout, and straw.

I often feel badly that my car's satellite radio is tuned only to the 24-hour politics station. My poor kid, I think. She could be listening to Dan Zanes or that butt song she likes. Instead, wonks drone on, spin masters dizzy us, and angry audio spews from the speakers. Try as I might to switch to a more happy place, this presidential election has captured my attention more than any other in years past.

It is no surprise then, that Maria has asked a lot of questions about the candidates. Kid questions like "What does he look like?'' and "Is he nice?'' But because she also has gotten stuck on the theme of war, and stopping it, I haven't felt nearly as badly about forcing her to listen.

Now that the kids are in school and I have a manuscript due like, yesterday, and work piling up left and right, I decided to sit down and catch up on the new Fall TV lineup that I have recorded with my DVR. No, it is not a TiVo. I got the one that came with my satellite. And let me tell you one thing about it that I never knew before: this thing is snobby and not even a little bit kind in its opinions on what I record.

As I pull up the menu of hours upon hours of shows, I decide on Survivor. Midway through the show, my DVR freezes. Then it turns itself off. Totally off.

I have, on occasion, heard some parents of daughters rail against the phenomenon that is the Disney and/or Barbie princess craze. I’ve heard some parents wonder if we are setting unrealistic expectations of “happily ever after” for our daughters, or if we’re teaching them to define success by someday nabbing a handsome prince.

If that’s the case, then I am hosed. Because I have a three-year-old daughter who has bought in to the entire thing, lock, stock, and barrel.

Laylee loves to watch people and occasionally to make observations about them. She’s getting better about gawking and making hurtful comments but sometimes she can. not. control. herself. With Seattle Children’s Hospital as her playground today, there were just too many amazing and mystifying people to see and she could not be restrained from filling me in, sometimes loudly, on all the sights.

Before Molly was born I made sure to do some research on how, exactly, one transports two children (under the age of two!) by herself. I scoped out double strollers at the playground. I spent hours online reading about slings and wraps and pouches. I studied car seats and infant carriers and for goodness' sake, people, WE BOUGHT A NEW CAR. A bigger car, with more storage and more seats. But now I wonder why I bothered, because leaving the house with two children (under the age of two!) is practically impossible.

Sure, we've been out and about plenty of times, but always when my husband is around to do the heavy lifting.

A million years ago when I had the time to take weekend art classes, I spent a day making spontaneous art at a local studio, a magical place overflowing with baskets and buckets of beads, feathers, glass, beans. All sorts of things to play with and make art that would eventually get picked up, each piece you used went back in its proper basket. The lesson was about Zen, about appreciating the beauty you can make, and it's OK when it is gone.

That exercise was followed by painting without first thinking about it. Just grabbing the brushes and going for it. I loved it. It was like being in kindergarten, but in a class with no teacher.

I admit: in our household, when it comes to homework I have always been the go-to parent. It’s just the way it happened once the kids started school. With the confidence – and a touch of arrogance – of one who has been to college, I had no shame in amazing my children that I could do math. In my head! I could whip off the 9's times table and the 5’s with nary a blink or hesitation. Oh, I was just that smart (to them).

And then came the day they stumped me. I want to tell you that it was a calculus problem that had me struggling, but I can’t.

I had three boys before I had a daughter. Three boys who are very different from each other, but who are all very...shall we say, boyish. As preschoolers they were utterly delightful, but they were loud, messy, and packed the destructive power of a category-five hurricane. They were still only when they slept or had the flu.

I'd see my friends with calm children – sometimes daughters, though not always – and wonder what that would have been like. I'd read blog posts about encouraging your child to sit down with a bowl of water and utensils and encourage some "quiet water play." Really? My sons' idea of "quiet water play" was banging the garden hose into the grass instead of through the back window.