Oh, and 22. A spell checker for my computer

For your reading pleasure, a peek into what 12-year-old girls are craving these days. At least, one almost 12-year-old girl I know.

Dear Whoever Finds This,

I would like the following things for my B-day, which is coming up in 2 days.

1. 25$ Itunes gift card
2. The Book, Fairest
3. The book, The Indian in the Cupboard
4. The book, Life as we Knew it
5. A pair of High-heeled go-go boots
6. Kirby Canvas Curse
7. Perfume (Either floral, stimulating, or fruit scented)
8. A pair of pink high-heeled platform shoes
9. Smecils-lots of them
10. Scented markers-also lots of them
11. A pair of Jimmy-choo flip flops (For the summer)
12. A trampoline for the summer
13. A pink Protta tote
14. A tiffany hair band
15. A sable
16. 20 dollars
17. A sleepover
18. Ballons
19. A chocolate cake from Jewle with chocolate frosting with the words Happy Birthday, Pop3tt3!
20. CHOCOLATE ICE CREAM WITH THE CAKE! :-)
21. Brekfast in bed

OK, this is a long list, but I'll be able to manage some of it. I can see the books, the chocolate cake, the balloons, the Kirby game, the scented markers and Smencils. And I am not nearly as stupid as she thinks; I recognize that she is trying to tell me that she wants chocolate ice cream with the cake and not that lame vanilla stuff you usually buy, mother.

But in case you think I'm over-indulgent? I think it's safe to say that she will not be receiving a sable for her 12th birthday.

Also, I managed to convince her that there is actually no such thing as a Tiffany hair band, which is why it got crossed off the list.

And don't worry, people. She's not getting a Prada tote until she can spell it.

13

Every year you move further away from these images.


And this year you moved at warp speed.

And I just realized something. As an etiquette maven, I shouldn't call you Young Master Buxom any more. You're 13; you're not a "master" any more. You're not a man, though. (Even though this morning you said you were going to "miss being a kid.")

We're Episcopalians, so we don't do much of anything to mark the occasion. We don't have anything like a Bar Mitzvah. (It's just as well; I'd have disgraced myself by blubbering all over the place.)

Oh, I held it together while everyone was awake. We had a good day. We made breakfast to order: three hard-boiled eggs, two strips of bacon, and a toasted, uttered bagel. We gave you two boxes of Krispy Kremes to hand out to the kids in your advisory. After school, we went out together, and I bought you a new bike. One that would fit your long legs. And helmets for both of us. On the way home, "Slow Ride" played on the radio, and we laughed over the way it sounds when I play it on Guitar Hero. And sang along.

Dinner was more of your favorites: New York strip steak, baked potato, brussels sprouts. Yellow cake with caramel icing.

No, you're not a man. You're more like an adolescent giraffe, anyway. At 5' 9" and 115 pounds, you are the tallest, thinnest creature in Cook County. You're the tallest member of the family; you have the biggest feet. You have the deepest voice--and most of the time, the loudest voice, too.


The coolest moves, too. They were impressed at the Virgin Records Mega-Store on Hollywood Boulevard.

But you're still willing to pose with the Easter bunny.


Or next to the plaque commemorating the founding of a hospital by your great-great-grand-uncle. Yes, it's dorky, but you'll still pose to oblige me.


You know what? They never tell you what a crushing weight of love you're going to feel for the baby who turns you into a mother--(or a "Mamy," as you insisted on spelling it--in caps--when you were in kindergarten.)

Or maybe they do tell you--but you don't understand because nothing like it has ever happened to you before.

And another thing. They never tell you that the love never stops. No matter how stretched-out and long-legged and manly-sounding the baby gets.

Happy birthday, boy.

Love,
MAMY

Perfection Attained

Sunday was my daughter's 10th birthday. On Friday I took her and three of her friends to see the show here:



And then they had a sleepover downtown. They loved the elevator. In fact, I think they loved it best of all the things they did. I could have saved $30 a head in tickets by letting them ride up and down on the elevators. They decided that jumping up and down while the elevator was moving was the most fun thing in the world. It made them scream with excitement. Needless to say, this was a bit rough on the ear drums, but it was pretty to see their enthusiasm.

The rest of the time, they ate pizza. And giggled.



My daughter's presents were all perfect. She got a disco ball. And a Bratz CD player. I bought her






Her grandparents sent a notebook and stickers. And the soundtrack to Gilda:



She loved everything.

What does it mean when your daughter's favorite song is "Put the Blame on Mame?"

(Don't answer that.)

In other perfect news, I pitched Tiffany a couple of weeks ago. I'm chairing a benefit and I wanted them to sponsor us. And Tiffany, which is a store I've always enjoyed anyway, is generously donating these:



for the raffle, and these



for the goody bags. Which adds up to over $11,000 in free loot. Not bad for a half day's work.

But wait, don't go! I have more perfection for you!

In case you suffer from insomnia and this post isn't enough to send you to slumberland, I have the solution. Get this:



and read four pages--five at the most. You'll be in slumberland before you can say "Ambien."