Just for the record, blog is the worst word ever. Phonetically, it is identical to the heaving sound our dog makes just before producing a foamy pink puddle on our wood floor. I hereby formally object to the name. Not that anyone will care. I am well aware that, despite being all I think about, I am in fact not the number one topic on everyone else’s mind. Which really is a shame if you ask me, though nobody will.

As you may have surmised by the fact that I have had enough time to write this sentence, my cherubic toddler is presently unconscious. Lila’s noon nap is a daily oasis from my role as her chief entertainer, dance partner, cheddar-bunny purveyor and sewage remover.

My daughter is a ray of sunshine, and I’m grateful that I get to work from home so I can be with her most days. But, I am also very grateful for her naptime. Without it, Boyd would find me sitting in the shower at the end of each day, rocking back and forth and muttering the lyrics to “Happy Tappin’ With Elmo.”

A little voice is now making itself heard from the nursery. It seems to be engaging in a dialogue of some kind…with itself. The exact gist of the conversation is unclear, but what it lacks in clarity it makes up in enthusiasm. If I manage to crack the code, you’ll be the first to know.