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.

Bad Behavior

It was as I was cuddling my daughter, teetering over the tiny little hands and toes in my new BCBG suede platform pumps that I noticed a new little baby, big blue eyes and a very attractive ensemble.

"Who's this?"

The teacher smiled, "This is Hudson! She's new and so easy to care for...."

I felt my lips purse as we all know that Livi is definitely not "so easy to care for..." No, she is funny, adorable, super sweet and incredibly demanding. There is no grunting or pointing, only shrill screams to inform you if you're not feeding her fast enough, not putting her shoes on right or simply annoying her by your presence and inferior intelligence.

"She's adorable!"

"Oh yes, very stylish."

I turned to pull Livi's diaper bag from her peg and noticed Hudson's next to the Petunia Picklebottom I may have dropped a pretty penny on prior to my pumpkin's arrival. It was the one I referred to when I came home from picking Livi up from school after her first day, "Livi has all kinds of new friends. There's Liam and Eric and Natalie..."

He interrupted me, "But Livi's the smartest and most beautiful, right?"

He regularly interrupts most mentions of other children with, "Our daughter is simply the most beautiful child ever born. And the smartest. Got it?"

I nodded that yes, of course, she was the most beautiful because whenever I've said, "Well so-and-so is awfully cute," he then questions my loyalty to our offspring and can be heard telling on me, "Livi, your mom needs to have her eyes checked...." I smiled conspiratorially and only because I know it goads him on, "Not only is she the most beautiful, but she's also the best dressed and has the best diaper bag."

He laughed, "We're snobs. You know we have to stop talking like this in front of her soon."

"Very soon."

So, when I came home and told Mr. J about Livi's new friend, Hudson, and how cute she was... Well, let's just say there was a bit of loud conversation in which I admitted that yes, she was better dressed than Livi, may have whispered, "she even has a cooler diaper bag," and ended in the decree that I am never allowed to buy her clothes from Target and Livi would soon resume her title as Best Dressed.

I shared this funny little story with Raymond last week. About two sentences in he looked at me with great humor about his eyes.

"Merryhill in Summerlin?"

"Yes."

He looked like he was snacking on something righteous, "You do know who Hudson is, right? She's my friend's daughter. Remember? Two dads? Adopted her in March?"

"Ohmygod. We have no fucking chance."

"Her birthday is coming up and you know all of us are buying her outfits."

I groaned and I do believe he stood up as he yelled, "The gays win! Again!"

I immediately sent Mr. J an email, "Hudson is Raymond's friend's daughter. Olivia doesn't have the budget to out dress her. And Raymond says he wins. Again."

Mr. J typically is a bit of a stickler about how much I spend on clothes, but when I mentioned today that Livi is outgrowing her little skinny jeans he turned the car toward Baby Gap and marched straight to the sale rack. I found a few things that were not on sale and realizing I had one shot I called out, "This isn't on sale, but it would so out-do Hudson," as I held up a dress.

"We're getting it! Hudson's going down!"

I giggled as I pulled it from the rack.

And then turned around to see Hudson lounging in an adorable outfit with little gold shoes on tucked deeply in one of her daddy's arms.

Well shit.

I couldn't be sure whether I'd been caught, so smiled sweetly, "Is this Hudson?"

Daddy laughed, introduced us to his mother and mentioned we were the ones he was telling her about, the funny story Raymond told him and such. Mr. J seemed a little tight and quiet and I couldn't think of what to say next. We made small talk about milestones while we paid for our stash and headed toward our car. We turned the corner from Baby Gap, into Gap Kids and when the coast was clear we could clearly be seen speaking out of the sides of our mouths, unimpressed Liv in tow.

"We are so busted."

"I hope they didn't hear us."

"Even if they didn't we so got caught trying to upstage Hudson. We didn't even like slowly drip cool outfits on her. She so has the upper hand."

"I hope she likes us."

We both started laughing as I texted Raymond about our bad behavior.

Trevor smiled as he drummed his fingers on the steering wheel, "Seriously, we have to stop talking like this in front of her."

"I know, but it is so funny."

"Oh, and you can't do the flying monkey punch anymore. She's going to think you beat me."

"I know...."

We both sighed as we headed home.

This little girl... oh, how she makes a mess of us.

Happy Valentine's Day!

Fancy Dresses, Fancy Flaws

My laughter infectious, my liner flawless and my heels higher than high. Mr. J wonders how I do it, how I work a room, circling here and about, how are you, congratulations on your write up, that photo spread was amazing and Jesus, that story you broke was captivating.

I queue him in on my secret, "Watch, so and so won't remember me..." as I walk up, hand on forearm, "X! It is so nice to see you again. I was so happy to have run into you at X Event with so-and-so. We still want to meet for lunch sometime!" Recognition rings in their eyes as we share pleasantries and I quickly move us on before any air becomes stale.

"That was smooth."

"You have to place yourself in their memory or the exchange is awkward. Tell a joke or say something funny to bring up next time. Then leave. Never get to the point that weather is discussed."

"Jesus."

"I know. I'm good."

I discussed this with Raymond over a chicken salad wrap at Jason's Deli today, far from fabulous.

"I was on my game, saw the people I needed to, but God, there is at least a two hour refractory period afterward."

Raymond looked at me, confused as to whether I was going to lay something big and awe-inspiring on him or finish a very dirty joke.

I continued, answering the curiosity in his stare, "I feel a sense of self-loathing after. I am not that girl. I mean, I am because I get paid for it and I'm really good at it, but I kind of feel like I stand outside myself, take off my costume when I get home and stare at the pile of fancy clothes and wonder who that girl thinks she is. I grew up poor as dirt. I shouldn't have that pile of fancy clothes. I was a little ragamuffin from a bad neighborhood. I'm not supposed to be here."

I thought of a line stretched thin with the fancy people in dresses who really don't care about me at one end. I'm Ms. J with the funny stories and conversations over lunch, but no matter how much I spend on a clutch they do not think about me after I walk away. There is no second thought after the market closes, after their driver pulls from the curb, after they close their program and brush their teeth.

The other end of the line is a consortium of memories, some good, some bad, but they all rest in a tiny little place far far away where humility is valued and material possessions are the devil. We had bonfires, worshiped a jealous God and judged each other within an inch of our lives. We didn't wear labels, we lived paycheck to paycheck and thought about each other after we clocked out, after supper, after we brushed our teeth. We also struggled, cried very big tears and experienced hardships and abuse.

In the middle is my life now. It is happy, solid and everything I built because I didn't want what came before to be the foundation of my family.

I have nothing to complain about and everything to celebrate.

I just wish a few of my friends from Back Then were happy for me, would see past the fancy dresses and stupid Facebook status updates and say, "Good for you." I wish they wanted to see me when I visited that place far far away. I wish we still had things to talk about.

I just wish that a few of my acquaintances Now would see that I'm not fancy dresses and stupid Facebook status updates and I struggled and cried big tears and suffered abuses that I don't dwell on, but that make me far more relatable and human than they could imagine. I wish they wouldn't judge me so harshly.

And the people in the dresses far more fancier than mine that have no access to my stupid Facebook status updates? I am certain that they have loves in their lives that think about them after they brush their teeth. Our exchanges are business, but maybe one day we'll have genuine conversations and care more than an evening of plated dinners and champagne.

I'd like to think we're all a little awkward when our makeup is discarded into a cotton ball in our hand and a yawn spreads about our lips. I'd like to believe that the woman in the fancy dress leans in to inspect the lines around her eyes, deep in thought, at the same time a mom of three does. Maybe we all look in the mirror and see someone who puts on the fancy for a little while, just to crawl into bed the girl or boy from the place far far away that just wanted to be more than what they were when they started this messy journey. Maybe when we close our eyes we all think about how when you peel back the ornaments we adorn ourselves with we are just a naked kid picking at flaws.

Maybe.