While, yes, this blog remains a priority for me, I can’t really blog tonight because I’m busy exchanging “voice notes” with my sister via blackberry. Newly discovered. Have you tried it? We’re mostly swearing back and forth at each other. I feel a little like a child with her very first walkie-talkie. Only my sister and I are both over 30….

When we were little we tried to make a language out of knocking on our bedroom walls after bedtime. I think we got from 1 to 6 knocks. For the life of me, I can’t remember what any of those knocks signified.

I hope my latest voice note worked. I said: “You’re a nerd. G’night. F** off.” Hold on a sec. Let me check.

I think it worked. Oh, there she is. Dara and I — the only two people on the planet who don’t own iPhones. And so we send each other voice notes. She better not get an iPhone, or I’ll have no one to voice note with.

At least for now, I don’t DO iPhones. But, I said the same thing about Facebook not long ago, didn’t I…? “I WILL NEVER!!!!!11″ I’m not a hypocrite. Just a pushover. Still, I don’t know about the iPhone with these thumbs of mine — which, I hereby declare, from now on are to be called “Megan Fox” thumbs instead of “toe thumbs.”

…Just noticing the funky toe thumb-lengthening diagonal-nail-polish trick she’s done there. Hmmm….

I’m going to bed. Well, I have one more Celebrity blog post to write, and THEN I’m going to bed.

Truth is, I’m writing like a dog for work. Like THIS:

Her underbite’s so big she can’t kiss you without scraping you with her buck canines…. It’s awesome.

I love all this writing I get to do for work, but I admit I’m drained. With all the Junior Kindergarten and Preschool end-of-the-year parties, the running running running, grocery shopping ONCE a week (what IS that?!), I’m drained. Drained of ability to string words together in intelligible sentences past 10pm. Remember when I used to blog at 3AM? The days FROM HELL when Rascal was a baby and the Monkey was just over two? OMG. Well, that’s physically impossible now. I guess that’s what happens when you’re 35…….., and, in all fairness to myself, ahem, when you’re all-of-a-sudden working again AND taking care of the kids in the afternoon, AND then working nights, and eating like crap, you’re entitled. No?

So I’m going to go easy on myself tonight. I WILL not edit this post after I press publish. I’ll let it go. Into the amazing infinite non-space that is the Internet. Goodbye, post. Hello voice notes. Gotta go. mysisterCANNOThavethelastwordBYE!

LOVE! xo Haley-O

Sometimes I forget that she’s still so little. At almost 5, she’s a whole 26 months older than her brother who demands so much. I go to hug her, and there he is, sandwiched between us. I kiss her good morning, and there he is, pitter-patter-pitter-patter by my side. I unravel the yoga mats, and there he is, beneath my downward dog. I pick her up from school, and there he is, holding my hand. I watched her twirl and jump and dance her little heart out on stage yesterday, and there he was, begging me for apple juice. But, she’s still my baby. Always.

She was the littlest one in her class, but she had the biggest cheeks of all, and she brung it at the show last night! And I hooted and hollered in the audience — “GO, MONKEY! WOOHOO!” — much to Josh’s embarrassment. And I was a little embarrassed (which takes a lot these days, I must say) by my own hoot-and-hollering. But, I remember my mother doing it for me when I took the stage — “GO, HALEY! WOOHOO!”

My mother was always uncharacteristically aggressive when it came to her kids (still is), even if it meant being totally embarrassing. So when I went to pick the Monkey up at the end of the night, remembering my mother, I politely pushed my way through a crowd of parents to get to the very front. Nothing stopped my mother. Nothing’s going to stop me.

And nothing stopped that show! Two shows — 3 hours long, each! By the end of the night, never mind her, I was exhausted, starving, and giddy. The Monkey, on the other hand, wanted to just go home and watch Strawberry Shortcake. I’ve got a cheaty little nighthawk on my hands. Of course, her brother wanted to watch, too.

I cried a lot yesterday. Not only because I’ve been overwhelmed with so much stuff lately, but because I was so proud, and so sad, and so exhausted (7 hours of watching other people’s kids dance will do that to you). She’s my baby. My cheaty little monkey. The Cheaty Monkey!

I guess the best thing about these dance recitals is the way they make us celebrate our kids. Our babies. Still my baby.

I love you, Monkey — so much, I’ll shout it to the world. Woohoo!