Be honest.

I watched the Oscar's between cuddling my sick little rabbit, doing breathing treatments and counting down the minutes until I could give her Ibuprofen to help ease her pain. Watching your ten month old hit her own head and stare at you with wide eyes because the ear infection is making her miserable is heart wrenching. Once I got her to sleep it was time for the after parties, the coverage and I will admit that I even scoured people.com.

Next to me on the couch were both Self magazine and Glamour telling me how to be more beautiful, skinnier, healthier, happier, sexier, appear taller, pull off the new this-or-that.

It made me realize that a lot of energy is expended on things and the unattainable pretty. You know this pretty. It's the kind that as white as your teeth are, as flat as your stomach is, as great your pedicure in your new stilettos, it still isn't as pretty as that girl. That girl typically looks something like a Victoria's Secret model. I try to make myself feel better by imagining that she either has Chlamydia or webbed feet.

What is so-and-so wearing, who are they wearing and did they Tweet while they were getting ready so our information addled brains could feel part of their luxurious life? Is my dress perfect enough for "cocktail attire," and will my new Michael Kors be too over the top for X event? Is my velvet jacket too 2005? Can it pass for vintage yet? Can I pull off spray tans?

Ridiculous.

I'm guilty, don't get me wrong, but let's be honest. My favorite parts of the day are in Target while I coo at Livi in the basket and ask her if she needs more Boogie Wipes. I'm typically make up free, wearing ill-fitting jeans and my most comfy flip flops, praying that if I run into a client they will only notice the glow on my face put there by a tiny person with a lot of demands.

I love lying on the floor, face to face and making smacking sounds as we giggle.

I adore her attempt at "peekaboo," which sounds a lot like "pepebo" and includes a burp cloth she lifts in front of her tiny Dr. Seuss nose.

I prefer frozen yogurt on my shirt at all times, knowing it was deposited by a very happy, slobbery mouth as the bearer snuggled into my neck.

Can I tell you how much I love it when she waves at me as I lay her in her crib, having tucked her rabbit under her arm, said "night night," and kissed her fat cheeks?

It made me realize that rather than a post about shoes that were delivered via Fed Ex from Rue La La, I'd rather try something a little different.

What do you love?

Seriously. Please tell me.

I'll start.

I love my daughter so much that I sometime have to stop myself from gushing about her while at lunch with my coworkers. My love for her cannot be contained by my chest alone and requires willful restraint.

I love the thirty minutes we spend on my daughter's bedroom floor as a family at the end of the night after she's splashed in the tub, run amok, kissed her teddy bears and tried to share her paci with me.

I love that my husband has never smiled as much as he does now that he's a father. I really love that he admits that he loves our daughter more than me. I feel the same way, "I love you, but I love her in a way that makes me that I could become violent if I had to."

I love my girlfriends when they have no make up on and we're at our funniest, lightest, most free. I really love that I love them more now than I did when it was just selfish little me.

I love that feeling after you work out and things seem shinier.

I love feeling as though my life just started.

And no pair of shoes, no bag, no network coverage can touch it.

Please, tell me.

What do you love?

Be honest.