I am going home.

Tomorrow, my daughter and I will fly south to Miami, to visit family and build sand castles on Miami Beach.

I always day dream about palm trees, big puffy clouds and the calming sound of surf for days before we leave. From all these miles away, I can taste the thick, sweet Cuban coffee and the Colombian arepas I love so much. Going home makes me happy.

I keep a list of Things I Knew About Parenting Before I Was A Parent. Things like nap schedules. Obviously the parents whose lives revolve around the nap schedule are letting their children run (and ruin!) their lives. But then I became a parent and understood that you don't have a nap schedule because your child runs your life, you have a nap schedule because if you don't, you will die. Or things like toys. How do parents stand all those awful noisy plastic toys? Why are there so many of them? Why can't they hide them in another room? And then I became a parent and found out how much fun it is to watch your child play with and learn from and discover toys, especially noisy plastic ones. And good luck finding places for them because everyone else loves to give your kid toys too.

My list keeps me humble and warns me not to spout off too much in front of other people who know everything about parenting but have yet to become parents. Besides, two years later I'm still crossing things off. I've recently decided that the Toy Principle also applies to vacations. I think I've mentioned here before that we were thinking of road tripping to Colorado, home of my nephews, a handful of old and beloved friends and one fabulous blogger I hoped to meet in person. We told ourselves we were very excited about this trip, except whenever one of us brought it up, the other was somewhat less than excited to talk about it. The drive felt long and difficult and unknown. And the days we'd actually spend with family and friends felt... long and difficult and unknown. I mean, the schedule is hard enough to keep at home, let alone planning around other families with small children. What if we drove all that way just to sit around in other people's living rooms?

When I told Dan about my recent experience shopping at Costco observing old ladies and the way they interact with children, he said, “Yeah. It sounds like they’re a lot like people, only older.” His observation is correct. They are a lot like people but with their advanced age comes a sort of magnification of what I would categorize as typical responses to stimuli.

The elderly ladies I crossed paths with at Costco could be sorted into 3 basic categories, The Shocked, The Chagrinned and The Perpetual Grandma. Of course there were several women who seemed completely uninterested in me or my family but I will not discuss them here.

First, The Easily Shocked. The Easily Shocked sort of walk around minding their own business. They have shopping to do and samples to taste and they seem to be concentrating very hard on the tasks at hand. Then suddenly for apparently no reason one of my children will momentarily raise his voice, giggle loudly or move quickly within the visual range of The Easily Shocked. She will flinch visibly and step away from the action. Her wide eyes and raised eyebrows will signal alarm and you will get the feeling from her facial expression that she has never seen a child before or at least cannot remember it.

Recently a new parent asked me for my best parenting advice.

Hmmm, let’s see...Don’t neglect your marriage. Laugh with your kids. Invest in stain-resistant carpet. Many tidbits come to mind, but the one I’m most inclined to share is simple: write it down. Write down the funny things, the little things. You think you’ll remember them, but take it from a mother with a houseful of kids (and a bad memory) -- you won’t.

I was a spotty journal-keeper my whole life, before I became a parent. I’d go through seasons of faithfully writing down my thoughts, and then months (even years) would elapse without an entry. But when my first child was born, the stakes seemed higher. Like most new parents, I had a “Baby’s First Year” calendar hanging on the wall of his nursery, and I planned to record the big things: first tooth, first word, first steps. I was quickly struck by how significant even the smallest event could seem. Almost by instinct, I began scrawling notes on that wall calendar -- not big milestones, but simple observations: Hates peas. Figured out how to splash in bathtub. Church nursery workers call him “Sunshine Boy”.

Mothering is of extremes.

Last week, my daughter put on a shiny gold tutu and melted my heart as she showed off her ballet moves and her fabulous, free-style "wiggle-wiggle-pop."

Then, for a few nights going she has broken my heart when she has cried and told me she is afraid of dying.

I live ten minutes from the beach (I know, pretty awesome, huh? But these are Washington State beaches, so don't bother getting jealous.) but my kids have never seen the waves or trembled with joy at the sight of such a huge sandbox. Even during the last few weeks when we were sweating through a heat wave, I resisted the cooler air and wearing-out-the-children properties of the beach. Why? Because the effort required to go to the beach just seems like something that might kill me.

I finally took them yesterday. Friends were going, which always makes me more inclined to go anywhere, and I had to admit I wanted to see the look on Jackson's face when confronted with acres and acres of sand. They were planning to meet between 10:30 and 11, prime toddler visiting hours, but I knew I could get there earlier. Molly took her nap early, I wasn't planning to give them baths (what would be the point?) and all I had to do was pack two lunches, throw the beach towels in the beach bag, find the sunscreen and we'd be on our way. I could probably be there by TEN!

Well, we managed to get out of the house at precisely 10:22.

I’ve had a rough day. I’m edging into my third trimester, so I’ll blame my quarterly hormonal shift for the increased anxiety and irrational fear I’ve been feeling lately. I monitor myself closely and try to take as little medication as I can while still feeling normal and capable of coping with life.

But this week it’s been rocky, and I’m sick of asking myself, “Am I afraid for a real reason or are these cyclical thoughts and this tight feeling in my chest and the pit of my stomach just my brain rebelling against me again?” When I picked up my anxiety meds yesterday, the pharmacist asked me whether I was familiar with them and I started crying. Oh, I’m familiar with them. I was familiar with them for 2 years after Magoo was born and I’ve been familiar with them again throughout this pregnancy and I don’t want to be familiar with them anymore. I want my independent, strong, unbroken brain back.

Dear Summer,

You have finally arrived! We have waited for you to get here since our Christmas break. After a year of too many illnesses and too many school projects, we were overjoyed to start counting the days until your arrival. You bring us hope, joy and mornings where we can sleep late. You bring us long evening walks, late night movies and trips that can last longer than a weekend. We love when you show up and every one feels a very heavy burden lifted from their shoulders. In fact, I could go as far as saying you are our favorite time of year.

However, I do have a few requests while you are here.

WHEREAS it has been affirmed that we don’t generally condone violence in this family, and

WHEREAS it has also been acknowledged that in excess of 66% of this family is male, and that’s a lot of testosterone in the backseat, and

WHEREAS your mother knows a thing or two about picking her battles, and

WHEREAS your mother has duly observed her children’s insistence on the playing of this game and has duly worn herself out with the refereeing,

It is herein set forth, on this eighth day of June, Two Thousand and Nine, the official rules of the backseat game of Slug Bug, which shall be fully and legally binding until further notice; in other words, I’m the mom and I said so.

Whenever I find myself wondering what in the world I'm going to write for Parenting.com this week, all I need to do is take a trip to a playground and VOILA: instant blog fodder. Playground parents NEVER disappoint!

We were at the fancy schmancy outdoor shopping mall today, killing time in the play area before our appointment to yank my two-year-old's toenails out, I mean, get his hair cut. Note to Jackson: getting your hair cut DOES NOT HURT. I'd appreciate it if you kept the public wailing to below CPS detection levels. And look at me, digressing ALREADY.

I suppose I could have taken him to the children's barber in the fancy outdoor shopping mall but $25 plus tip to cut a two-year-old's hair? I think not. The play area, however, is free and we availed ourselves of the various toys and slides while we waited. It was 80 degrees out and I worked on my tan (there are only so many opportunities for browning oneself in the Pacific Northwest) while Jack summoned all his toddler courage to climb to the top of the slide all by himself. Molly jabbered to herself in the stroller and I had one of those, "This mom gig ain't all that bad!" moments. And I might have yawned, because, well, let's just say I wasn't having one of those moments at 5:30 this morning when Molly decided she was awake for the day.