One of the fun parts of working in television “having to” dress up every day for work. The hair, the makeup, the wardrobe (all three of which I was solely responsible for, so file with the Complaint Department at the front), it was kinda fun to have a job where one of my responsibilities was to look presentable.

There was a period of about six months after I had my son—my first child—that I nursed him multiple times each night.

Maybe it was the beading sweat on my forehead and the look of sheer panic on my face. Maybe it was me muttering–to myself, I thought, but apparently not–“HOW did you do this??”

Your family. The love of family is made of loyalty and constancy and sometimes, the deep and guttural desire to slap your brother/sister/mom/dad/etc. across the face out of extreme annoyance but I am here to say PLEASE PLEASE don’t do that.

As soon as I found out I was having a little girl people prepared me for how different they are from boys.

I remember strolling bleary-eyed through the aisles of Publix shortly after I had Sammy, and a stranger just blurted that out to me. It took me a second in my sleep-deprived state to grasp its meaning.

Like the dark wood leaf table, the frayed black-and-white photos of relatives long gone and the bottles of Manischewitz lined up in the bar, it was always there in my Pap and Gram’s dining room, leaning against the corner.

I haven’t checked my mail yet today, but I’m pretty sure when I get it, my Mother of the Year certificate will be there waiting. Sarcasm. See that picture? That is a wet shoe, drying in the sun.

Thank you for the sweet giggles and the slobbery kisses. Thank you for always sharing your half-chewed food with me from your high chair. Thank you for your sassiness and your grumpiness and for always reminding your older brother that just because he’s a boy and he’s bigger than you, it doesn’t always mean he’s in charge. (A good lesson to hold onto for later in life, too, actually.)

So when you see El Toddler running up and down the aisle, tearing holes in the carpet; or the baby rips off the glasses of our unsuspecting seat mate; or me, clawing past passengers to lock myself alone in the bathroom, just remind me, it’s only a couple hours.