In just 11 short hours, the next installment of “See how much one can actually drink a full mile above sea level” will begin.

That’s right, the Rocky Mountain Blogger Bash 6.0 is tonight. Bloggers welcomed, groupies too. There will be pool, there will be beer, and there will be, well, us. All of us. Well, a lot of us. Be there or be square.

Hop on over to David’s site and let him know you’re coming.

L has a growing vocabulary. She says excuse me, puppy, doggie, dance, T and B, outside and so on. She won’t say milk, but she will sign drink. She will say eat but won’t sign it. Who understands toddlers? No one, that’s who. Today, a sad T told me that she called him stupid. While I assured him no 16 month-old baby could possibly say stupid, I am in fact quite sure that she not only can, she most likely did.

Every home with a toddler has a Keyser Soze. A noun that you cannot figure out, but is none-the-less the object of your sweet butter’s obsession.

Ours is anNee. More like anNeeeee! Our little L spends most days, every day prattling on and on about anNee. When she fake-talks into the phone, she talks to/about anNee. When she is bent over backwards having temper tantrums that require a priest and some special water to stop, she is yelling at/about anNee.

Could anNee be our resident ghost? Is anNee just her little baby word for fuck off you skanky bitch? It’s been hard to say, but I am happy to report that anNee has not only been identified,

but we captured that sucker.

Mom: “Where anNee, baby? Where’s your anNee?”

L: ““

Sometimes I think my son is the funniest kid, ever. Today, he was fabulous.

This afternoon:

T: Mom, is Cupid real?
Mom: I think so, honey.
T: No he’s not, mom!
Mom: Oh yeah, well then how do people fall in love?
T: Maaawm, you just meet a girl who you think is pretty and…
Mom: So you have to be pretty for a boy to fall in love with you?
T: Yes!
Mom: What if I was ugly? You’re saying dad wouldn’t have fallen in love with me?
T: Noooooo. But someone would have thought you were pretty.
Mom: Thanks. It’s a good thing he thought I was, huh?

Chauvinist pig. Good thing he’s cute.

Later this evening, I was taking pictures of my darling children who clearly

just like their momma

loves them some chocolate fondue

and I took the umpteenth picture of T in which he looked exactly like a serial killer. I couldn’t help but chuckle and I said, “T, you should try to not open your eyes so wide when I take pictures of you.

To which T said, “What do you mean, mom? I was just smiling.”

To which I said, “But T, you look like you’re about to come at me with a kitchen knife.”

To which he said, “Naw Aww, mom! Let me see.”

At which point I showed him.

To which he said, “Aw, mom, that’s just because I’m Irish.”

I wanted to go on about how much I abhor this stupid holiday, but a big, blue-eyed little almost seven-year-old hugged my legs this morning while I brushed my teeth, shot me a humongous, toothless grin and asked me to be his. And so, now even I like Valentine’s day. In moderation.

Instead, I offer you 5 of the very worst gifts you could give your sweet butter love today.

1. A Back Razor:
If your dude has back hair, that means that A) he has lots of testosterone, and we all like that and B) that he is self-conscious about it. Don’t rub it in. It’s just, well, mean.

2: Any variety of salve or cream, especially this one:

I have never met a man who could be early for anything. I suppose you could look at this little problem as A) a compliment or B) one step closer to punctuality.

3. Edible Undies. Ones purchased at 7-11 are doubly wrong.

4. An engagement ring. Do you know that your marriage is a whole like more likely to fail if you proposed/were proposed to on Valentine’s Day? I can’t recall the statistics, but the failure rate is really high. Wait a week. Then you’ll be totally safe.

5. Dinner out. There is nothing (aside from Mother’s Day) more horrifying that 2 hours in a restaurant on V-Day. The staff is pissy, everyone is waiting, the kitchen is bombed…it’s a nightmare. Stay home. Make fondue. Or eat those undies you picked up at 7-11.

I feel like I should list boxes of chocolate, e-cards, roses or any of those cliched gifts, but to be honest, I kinda like all those things.

Anywho, Happy Day of Tennis Bracelets and Awkward Sexual Encounters. I hope you have fun. I will, for sure. I’ve got me a very funny Valentine.

Dear Sheryl,

Today you celebrate your 21st birthday*. This afternoon your children and I will have lunch with you, eat something curried, give you a few gifts, coo at my baby, and we’ll be on our way. I will not say the gazillion things I need to say to you, because that’s just not how I roll. You will give me that look, that look, from across the table, and you will not see the insides of me crumble because we both know that if I have nothing else, I have a really good game-face.

That doesn’t mean that I am not, indeed, crumbling.

I love the story of how I met you, but as time passes the how of it becomes increasingly irrelevant. Here we are, here we will always be. You, kiddo, are stuck with me. For better or worse. For always and ever.

(This would be a very good place to make a little note that I have now typed, deleted, re-typed, backspaced and started all over again on this several times. This one is H.A.R.D.)

There is so much I want to say to you, but I literally cannot find the words. I have been mulling over this post for days and I have tried, but I am sitting here speechless. You saved me. You save me every day. You are slowly helping save my little family. I want to find the right way, the big way, to thank you but if I say it one more time I imagine you may vomit a bit.

I don’t know how to do this.

Because of you I have a sister. I have two brothers. I have cousins and an uncle. I have two nieces who will be here soon and who will never know that I am not really their auntie. Because I really am their auntie. I have a family. I have a dad and I have a mom. I am past the part where I feel like the outsider and where I wonder why I get to be there with you all because I know that I belong there. You guys are mine. My kids have real, true, good grandparents.

My kids have grandparents.

I never thought I’d be able to say that.

I am tired of fighting it and I really don’t want to anymore. I love you in the way they write about in stories where that little spot in the back of your throat aches from the sheer joy of it. You are seriously the most beautiful human being I have ever had the privilege of knowing and there is not one inch of me that isn’t grateful for every day I get with you. You haven’t made me a better person, you haven’t made me stronger or braver or prettier or funnier. You simply made me realize that I already was all of those things and that maybe I am a bit rough around the edges but that I am pretty damn ok just the way that I am. You do, however, make me happy and peaceful and graceful (except when I’m drinking; no mortal could do THAT) and calm and content. And secure. And that’s the kicker. All the rest of that you can get in pill form, but the secure takes some doing.

So, my dearest friend, today on your birthday I will sit by you and I will say none of this to you, but here it is all laid out for the world to read, because somehow that’s easier for me. I love you with every inch of my heart and my soul. I love every single little tiny thing about you. Thank you. Thank you for believing in me when no one else has, thank you for shaking me up and sorting me out. Thank you for what you do for my babies. Not one of us could live without you and we never, ever will.

You better live to be 187.

All my love, all my life.

~S

*For the 40th time.