Less than a month and counting until the Second Coming (a.k.a., my precious daughter, Ellie). I’m no amateur at this point, and thus, I haven’t neglected my prep work: sleeping in, watching movies, catching up on television and movies, and obsessive shopping.

But there’s really no way to get ready, is there? Forget all the good stuff—the love, the joy, the gurgling and the giggling, the twinkling and gamboling and goo-goo-ing, and the like. I’m talking about enduring another two years of limited sleep, god only knows how long with the diapers, the screaming, the nap terrorism, cradle cap, booger suction, blender food, tooth drama, milk drama, mama drama, mommy groups, pampers, tummy time, meltdowns, eruptive poop, liquid poop, snack politics (to PBJ or not?), daycare confrontations, nanny ethics, the laws of the playground, gender facts, developmental milestones, educational opportunities—in short, your basic, all purpose, red-blooded, patriotic American domestic malaise.

Ah, I feel better now. Someone pass me a designer diaper. I’m ready to roll.