kids are cute

The three-year age difference between my children is never more apparent than at the holidays.

Although I know I should send her back to her room, she looks so sweet with droopy eyes and disheveled hair. I can’t help but pull her into bed next to me.

One of the worst things about the holiday season is making small talk at gatherings. How interesting can the weather, the economy and Balloon Boy be?

Poor puppy Jasper is getting a little snip-snip that will hopefully make displaying inappropriate affection for Emma’s stuffed pony but a distant memory of dogs gone wild. And because I (foolishly) taught my children to be inquisitive beings, there are a lot of questions surrounding this event.

Two four-year-olds announced at circle time that their parents are “superheroes.” It’s interesting that they were both boys describing their mothers.

“If you were a dog, Daddy, what dog would you be?” Emma asked recently at dinner. Random questions are popular among the 6-and-under crowd.

Benny walked up to a bunch of big kids — at least, big kids by his 2-year-old standards — at the park. No hesitation, no shyness. “Whatcha doin’?”

If environmental consciousness had a brute squad, Emma would be its commander-in-chief. The squad leader’s favorite tactic: Strategically aimed guilt.

Emma sat down with me on the couch. “Mom, I have to tell you something. Something real. Something important.” “OK,” I answered, knowing this something could be anything from the puppy chewed up another of Benny’s diapers to So-and-so at school has stinky breath.