“Once Upon A Time there was a Mommy and I loved her sooooo much. The Mommy and Daddy wanted to have an Emmy and so she growed and she growed in Mommies belly, just like I did. And we laughed and we played and we pooped.(giggle) The End.”

- Story by Christopher Buckner

It’s official – after a visit to the Fishers Fire Station, Christopher has decided to become a fireman. “When I grow up, I can go to college and help them with fires.”

The above picture is what happens when Johnny puts Emmy in time out – lots of kissing.

Christopher drew his first real self portrait while waiting for breakfast this morning. I like the arms coming from his head and the red skin “like when he’s at the lake.” I also love the “CHrIs” signature.

“Mama, I will still marry you – even when you are not pretty anymore.”

Awww.

However, being who I am, I WANTED to say: “Now, what makes you think I won’t be pretty anymore? And how soon do you see this ‘not pretty’ stuff happening?”

Instead I just tucked the blanket around him and said “Thank you baby!”

You know this went over well for a three year old. Needless to say, we had several race “do-overs” in the hallway of the convention center.

Watch the video below to see the little guy throw himself to the ground in defeat, then run off mad…

Event Video at NFL Experience Super Bowl XLVI on Jan 29, 2012.

Johnny was home with Christopher, football, and beer. Christopher’s friend Easton was also here, and when the daddies put the boys to bed, they found a set of dry erase markers and did this:

After some investigation (and a threatened call to Santa Claus – he still holds quite a bit of post Christmas power), I learned that Easton had the black marker, Christopher the red. Apparently this conversation went like this:

Easton: “Chris, are we allowed to color on your walls?”
Chris: “Um, yeah!”

Then they drew the night away (with only a dim nightlight to guide them).

After doing the first part of my work out, I stood up and saw Spiderman had taken my spot. After the webslinger took over, a bigger Spiderman wanted to work out his abs. Then a baby girl stole the show. This gym needs a better system with machine sharing.

I guess I still have a crowd to deal with, today’s crowd is just cuter. And they also don’t let me quietly read while working out.

I hate to steal the words of someone else, but really – have truer words ever been spoken about being a parent to a girl?

The following is from Tina Fey’s book, Bossypants (the entire book is awesome by the way, this part just spoke to me. Mindy Kaling’s book is also great, but that is not the point of today’s post!).

This following prayer can be filed under “things that make me laugh, nod, and tear up all at once.”

First, Lord: No tattoos. May neither Chinese symbol for truth nor Winnie-the-Pooh holding the FSU logo stain her tender haunches.

May she be Beautiful but not Damaged, for it’s the Damage that draws the creepy soccer coach’s eye, not the Beauty.

When the Crystal Meth is offered, May she remember the parents who cut her grapes in half and stick with Beer.

Guide her, protect her
When crossing the street, stepping onto boats, swimming in the ocean, swimming in pools, walking near pools, standing on the subway platform, crossing 86th Street, stepping off of boats, using mall restrooms, getting on and off escalators, driving on country roads while arguing, leaning on large windows, walking in parking lots, riding Ferris wheels, roller-coasters, log flumes, or anything called “Hell Drop,” “Tower of Torture,” or “The Death Spiral Rock ‘N Zero G Roll featuring Aerosmith,” and standing on any kind of balcony ever, anywhere, at any age.

Lead her away from Acting but not all the way to Finance. Something where she can make her own hours but still feel intellectually fulfilled and get outside sometimes And not have to wear high heels.

What would that be, Lord? Architecture? Midwifery? Golf course design? I’m asking You, because if I knew, I’d be doing it, Youdammit.

May she play the Drums to the fiery rhythm of her Own Heart with the sinewy strength of her Own Arms, so she need Not Lie With Drummers.

Grant her a Rough Patch from twelve to seventeen. Let her draw horses and be interested in Barbies for much too long, For childhood is short – a Tiger Flower blooming Magenta for one day – And adulthood is long and dry-humping in cars will wait.

O Lord, break the Internet forever, That she may be spared the misspelled invective of her peers And the online marketing campaign for Rape Hostel V: Girls Just Wanna Get Stabbed.

And when she one day turns on me and calls me a Bitch in front of Hollister, Give me the strength, Lord, to yank her directly into a cab in front of her friends, For I will not have that Shit. I will not have it.

And should she choose to be a Mother one day, be my eyes, Lord, that I may see her, lying on a blanket on the floor at 4:50 A.M., all-at-once exhausted, bored, and in love with the little creature whose poop is leaking up its back.

“My mother did this for me once,” she will realize as she cleans feces off her baby’s neck. “My mother did this for me.” And the delayed gratitude will wash over her as it does each generation and she will make a Mental Note to call me. And she will forget. But I’ll know, because I peeped it with Your God eyes.

Amen.