That and the fact that it is absolutely freakin’ gorgeous up here. You can’t spit without hitting a phenomenal farmer’s market (because, you know, that would be the classy thing to do), and the locally sourced produce and bread and everythingdelicious is out of control. Plus you just can’t make up views like this:

Or the fact that you’re just ambling through a side-of-the-road sculpture park and stumble upon the most pristine stream you’ve ever seen, the kind you need to wade into and skip rocks through immediately, lest you go back home and remember never doing it:

And then there’s Burlington. While I may not be the worldliest of women, I have been more than a few places and I still maintain that Burlington, VT, is one of the best spots in the world. Honest-to-god hippies stroll shoulder-to-shoulder with Gap-bedecked UVM students, while tourists and locals alike stop to take renewing breaths of the fresh, Lake Champlain-scented mountain air, the foghorns of ferries and the tinkling of head shops and the melodies of live-music clubs all mingling to make you realize you’re really lucky to be there right at that moment.

Every time we visit Burlington, Adam and I throw around the idea of moving there, temporarily shedding our Big City Dreams for a lake-rimmed college town where we could eat our weight in local goat cheese. Then we remember, Oh! Winter! Samosa stands and charmingly dreadlocked neighbors, sure.  But constant multiple feet of snow? We’re just too feeble of soul for that.

Maybe Aura will realize the Burlington dream some day. Adam’s father and uncle both were born and raised in the city, and we tracked down their homestead yesterday. It, much like the city itself, looks like a good place to have grown up.

After all, and as we reminded Aura, it’s always nice to have a legacy, even if it’s far from the place you usually call home.

Since I have never been one to turn down free pity, I simply nodded, trying my best for the expression all those subjects in medieval martyr paintings have, that half-smile/half-grimace that makes you really wish you named your kid Joan of Arc instead of Aura, the goddess of breezes in completely unsaintly and nudity-laden Greek mythology.

Umm…oh yes. My point: I kind of hedged the truth. I was still wide awake when Aura woke up for the umpteenth time at midnight, probably tooling around on my laptop or contemplating the wisdom of buying black matte flatware.

Nice? Pretentious? Capable of showing every scratch? I'm all for advice.

That’s because I’m almost always still awake at midnight. I love the night, and always have. This wasn’t an easy thing to manage growing up, especially with a chirpy morning-person mother who was a firm believer in a Good Night’s Sleep, Especially If You Want to Do Well Enough in High School to Get into a Good College.  But once I arrived at the promised Good College (okay, so thanks, Mom), I indulged. Strolls around campus at eleven at night, forays to the university library at two in the morning, impromptu rides for pancakes hours after midnight…the darker, the better.

And it’s still that way. While I was pregnant, I harbored a gnawing fear that I’d have to change, that becoming a mother would mean that I would finally have to give up late nights, in favor of earlier mornings. Yet that hasn’t quite happened. Sure, Aura goes through phases when she’s rising near dawn, but they’re rare. I realize this is in large part because we have trained her to go to bed a bit later than her peers and therefore also wake up a bit later. And I know it won’t last forever, especially once kindergarten begins. But for now I’m thankful to still have my favorite part of the 24 hours, when the sun finally sinks out of sight and the night stretches before me, complete and thick and somehow full of more possibility than the day ever was.

I just hope Aura is better at surviving fewer than eight hours of sleep than I am. If not, I have a feeling we’ll be having the Good College talk sooner than later. But you better believe we’ll have it at night.

The Little People, long relegated to the basement since the Child Owner turned two, were in desperate need of a bath. Covered with dust and beginning to show their age, the Little People resigned themselves to a soapy bath, a must before entering any public water amusement facility. (Also referred to as a P.W.A.F. Just so you know.)

While no one Little Person would have called the bath pleasurable, nary a complaint was made. The frog on Blond Man’s back did experience a panic attack, but dishsoap bubbles muffled his cries. Turns out that Dawn Direct Foam (Lime Surge scent) cuts not only grease, but also panicked screams. Handy.

Bath complete, it was finally time to pass through the gates into the main area of the P.W.A.F. One glance told the Little People all they needed to know: The park had fallen upon Hard Times. Instead of the bumper boats of days past, visitors were now offered Crocs on which to float. Not even real Crocs either. KNOCK-OFF CROCS.

Still relieved to be freed from the basement, the Little People decided to make the best of it. However, Necklace Lady, long homesick for the placid waters of her native Hawaii (French Polynesia? the Federated States of Micronesia?), did bring her cell phone into the boat with her to lodge a complaint, thus proving you can never truly satisfy a Pacific islander.

Headphone Lady fared better, balancing precariously on the tip of her Croc boat. Onlookers could be heard murmuring that she appeared to be on the verge of taking off her top, but these rumors were speedily squashed by the lifeguard, Pilot Man.

From atop his Tupperware observation post, Pilot Man sees and hears everything. Local legend has it that he will put down his steaming cup of coffee and promptly water torture any swimmer who gets out of line, but this might be nothing more than local gossip.

Then again, maybe not.

Happily, Pilot Man had very little other reason to scold park visitors this idyllic day. Nearly everyone behaved themselves admirably, even those waiting in line, a queue that stretched almost as far as the eye could see.

If any of the Little People were anxious about this guy, they hid it well. Apparently men brandishing gigantic wrenches at inappropriate times is not cause for concern at this particular P.W.A.F.

When everyone had their fill of the bumper boats, they moved on to Pirate Island, the P.W.A.F.‘s only other ride. Several Little People jumped in immediately, ignorant of the Dangers That Lurked.

Yet many others remained cautious about the, you know, GIANT SHARK. Kitten Lady opted for the safety of Pirate Island’s beach, her smarmy grin the only hint to her bloodthirsty voyeuristic side.

Cell Phone Man, never the sharpest tool in the shed, performed a lazy backstroke. Cursed with myopic eyes, he never even saw the shark before it ate him. Sigh. Life is so tragic. One minute you’re frolicking at a P.W.A.F., the next you’re nothing more than an inflatable shark’s snack. Rest in peace, Cell Phone Man. Rest in peace.

But Beach Ball Girl? She kept her eyes on the prize. Even as the lifeless bodies of the shark’s victims floated around her, Beach Ball Girl continued to lay claim to the treasure chest. This cold-hearted yet shrewd determination netted her $100,000 in gold coins. She has since used this fortune to start her own line of hair extensions, in partnership with Fisher Price.

The moral of the story? Not all blondes are dumb.

Since both giving and receiving this speech can become dull after a while, I work diligently to mix it up a bit, peppering the diatribe with comments like I HAVE NEVER WORKED SO HARD IN MY LIFE and YOU TRY ENTERTAINING A THREE-YEAR-OLD ALL DAY and—my current favorite—YOU WOULDN’T EVEN KNOW WHAT A VACUUM IS IF IT HIT YOU IN THE FACE. (I find that this last one has a certain 1950s fishwife je ne sais quoi.)

Adam stands at the counter patiently, removing his shoes and mixing a cocktail as I continue to remind him of how lucky he is. On his train ride to and from work, he can read the news, relax along with some music. At work, he can participate in intelligent conversation, make critical decisions, brainstorm with peers. The socialization! The lunch options! The utter and complete lack of Curious George and twisted car-seat buckles and bunny-shaped macaroni and cheese!

Yes, I like to suggest regularly that his job is easier than mine. But on days like today, days of sandcastle villages and sunblock-scented salt air and drippy plastic cups of watermelon slush and a little girl who roars with joy every time a wave splashes her, I remember something else: I would never, ever say his job is better.

I’m still not sure how it happened, except that I was driving and then there was a bunny in front of the car, and then…then there was no more bunny. It was as if it just suddenly materialized inches in front of me, in the dark. I’d make a reference to Bunnicula (oh, Bunnicula, how innocent you seem in these days of sparkly vampires and shirtless werewolves), but that seems a little disrespectful.

Anyway, I hit it and it was dead and the entire thing was beyond awful. (And, yes. I turned around on a nearby side street and drove back to check and it looked dead. Then when I went back two minutes later to check once again, this time to make sure it was a bunny and not a house cat that I should report to Animal Control, it was gone, which means it wasn’t dead but close to it, having dragged its little body, fur tacky with blood, into some nearby bushes ohgod ohgod ohgod.)

I’m telling you, you hit a bunny two days before Easter and it is factually impossible not to take it as a bad omen. It’s like plowing into Santa’s sleigh an icy week before Christmas, or accidentally smothering the Tooth Fairy with a pillow.

Plus, hitting a bunny is so much worse than hitting most anything else. For God’s sake, bunnies look like THIS:

The bad news: Unlike with Peter, one dose of chamomile tea at bedtime was not going to cure what ailed this bunny. The good news: Also unlike Peter, this bunny was not wearing a small blue jacket with brass buttons. If there had been one single brass button in sight, I would have driven to the nearest bridge and promptly jumped off it. A dead bunny I could survive. A nattily dressed dead bunny? I’m not so sure.

But back to the omens. While hell has not quite yet raineth down, someone on high has been screwing with me. Since that night, I have had four, FOUR, bunnies run across the road in front of me. Happily, I managed to not hit any of them. Such effort often requires Evel Knievel-type feats of driving,  involving much jostling of Aura in her carseat and much screaming from pedestrians. But for now, those four bunnies run unscathed, free to dart merrily in front of other unsuspecting cars.

Therefore and In Conclusion, given that I am putting such effort into not killing bunnies forevermore, I feel that it is only fair to ask the shortest person living in this house to STOP REMINDING ME.

Because, honestly? That green one with the bow tie is starting to freak me out.

Anyway, the only part of the NYC trip that anyone else might find remotely enchanting is this:

Okay, so maybe not that. But this:

Yep. Aura and Adam played a rousing game of Whack-a-Mole next to Chris Rock and his kids. While Adam did have a ten-second conversation with him about why the line for tickets was moving so slowly (computer down! so exciting!), neither of us acknowledged who he was, because that would be creepy and weird, even though both of us could recite the entirety of his HBO specials.

But then this guy walks up to Chris Rock, right smack in the middle of his little girl bearing down on a particularly frisky mole, and starts quoting one of his bits back to him. Though Mr. Rock was gracious, it was truly horrifying. Much like a photo slide show, in fact, but ten times more humiliating. Like a naked slide show.

ANYWAY. This leads me to ask: Which celebrity would I ever care about enough to approach? Sure, I’ve enjoyed John Irving’s novels for many years, so I guess I could quote a line or two from A Prayer for Owen Meany or something if I found myself in line behind him at the grocery store.

But that just smacks of literary wannabeishness. I think it’s a lot more likely that I’ll simply spot Bruce Willis in Target someday and choose to yell “Yippee ki-ay, MOTHERFUCKER!”  at the top of my lungs. Granted, it’ll be an expensive moment of spontaneity. First there will be the whole arrest-and-paying-bail thing. And then you have the cost of enrolling Aura in some kind of retroactive deafness therapy. Eh, hardly worth it.

Thank God I live in eastern Massachusetts. The biggest threat around here is bumping into John Malkovich while moseying around Cambridge. And I’ve seen In the Line of Fire enough times to know you shouldn’t go near that one.

(So, come on. Who would you choose to approach? Because someone out there has to love imagining self-humiliation as much as I do. Action movies, too.)

Lunch at the food court was had, conversation was resumed, and many a ride in the mall’s glass elevator was taken. All in all, life was good. Which is why Mother and Daughter should never, ever have stopped into the mall toy store. For that is where Mother was exposed to the stuff that will haunt her nightmare for decades to come. (For the record, Daughter seemed wildly unaffected. Mother questions this. Mother feels that maybe less sheltering needs to take place.)

Without further ado, The Stuff That Will Haunt My Nightmares For Decades to Come, also known as…

BABY DOLLS.

Horrible Horror #1: The Man Baby

You can dress up that sucker in all the pink in the world, but that won’t change the fact that she looks like George Burns. Or possibly Nick Nolte on a really youthful day.

Horrible Horror #2: The Assassin Baby

The manufacturer can swear up and down that this is the “Sleepy Time Dreams” baby, but I for one know the eyes of a killer when I see them. It’s a free country, so, of course, buy this for your kid if you want. But I’d frisk that moon for the world’s tiniest sniper rifle first. Maybe the little yellow cap, too.

Horrible Horror #3: The Opera Baby

Now here’s a doll I can almost get behind. Does he let mere cardboard packaging and the possibility of living for all eternity in the World’s Worst Toy Store get him down? No, indeedy! He flings his chubby plastic arm out with the kind of flourish normally reserved for opera singers. If you close your eyes, you can almost hear him: “Figaro! Figaro! Fiiiiigaro!“

Horrible Horror #4: The Sumo-Politician Baby

Leave it to the close-minded world of toy sales to make the one non-white baby in the store a cross between a sumo wrestler and an infant with a penchant for Hitler’s gestures. Plus the indecency of the high-waisted, polka dot diaper! I almost bought the little bugger just to put him out of his misery in the trash can outside the store.

Horrible Horror #5: The I’ve-Given-Up Baby

Poor little gal. Not even that plastic cable-tie-type thing they tried to lasso her neck with can contain her—or her despair. I thought you only saw such hopeless eyes in those photos of refugees that Time always publishes, but obviously I was mistaken.

Horrible Horror #6: The Morning-After Baby

Now, the box tells us that this is “Baby Sleeping Beauty.” Yet I beg to differ. Last time I saw Aurora, she was shying away from spinning wheels but otherwise hale and hearty. This Sleeping Beauty? Well, let’s just say that she doesn’t look like the type of girl who shies away from anything. It’s spooky, actually. It’s as if she’s taking fashion pointers from Lindsay Lohan but learning how to sit in public from Britney Spears.

Needless to say, Mother will never be the same.

I think we’ve settled on where to eat, since we finally identified a place that meets both our Date Restaurant Requirements. For Adam, this means the establishment employs a bartender whom he can merrily pester and badger and try to stump with his requests for arcane gins and boutique bitters. For me, this means there is not a child in sight. I am nothing but easy to please. Maternal, too.

It’s been so long since we’ve been out alone that I had forgotten that there is more to Date Night than the Date. Wearing something besides jeans, for instance. I wandered upstairs a while ago and started pushing hangers around and pulling open drawers, ever hopeful of finding a fantastic outfit that I already owned but had totally forgotten about, kind of like happens on the makeover shows except that those people are models anyway and reality television continues to screw with me.

I was rifling through one of the drawers when my fingers suddenly tangled in the straps of something. It was only after cocking my head to the side and squinting really hard that I recognized it for what it was: a push-up bra. After gently removing the layers of dust, I tried it on and found it does indeed improve the shirt I was hoping to wear. There is also a slight chance that it makes me look like an overage teenage hooker, but I choose to ignore that part. If anyone at the restaurant says anything, I plan on knocking them flat on their back with my cleavage. Especially if it’s a kid.

What doesn’t sit so well is something I’ve encountered during our recent expeditions, and it is called The Mean World of Playground Graffiti. I never thought I was an out-and-out prude, but I may have to reevaluate. Either that or call the city’s Department of Public Works to request a little scrub-down. Here, let me show you.

It all starts semi-innocently enough. I mean, generations of teenagers have challenged authority. That being said, I myself may have issued such a challenge a little more eloquently. For instance, I would have scrawled “the police” instead of “The Police,” since otherwise it kind of looks like someone is screwing with Sting. But whatever.

Then the first mention of reproductive organs is made and both grammar and decency go all to hell.

Once you get past the fact that we’re talking about a lobster penis, not a “horse penis,” or a  “bear penis,” or peni of any other animals larger than a lobster, another thought jumps out at you. Our friend Spencer does not just have a lobster penis—he IS a lobster penis. Which seems like a pretty bad insult, especially when it’s all underlined like that in Sharpie marker. It’s one thing to have genitalia like a crustacean; it’s another thing indeed to BE the genitalia. I know not who Spencer is, yet I pity him.

However, Spencer is not the graffiti artistes’ primary target. Nope. That would be the much maligned Kristen:

I feel for Kristen. Not only is her alleged sexuality pronounced for all the world to see (the arrow helpfully explaining her sapphic tendencies), the one compliment offered is scratched out and refuted. Suddenly, one senses disagreement among the ranks of this particularly nasty little group of homophobic middle-schoolers.

Yet their differences do not get in the way of their constant need to elaborate. In case we still do not understand what Kristen supposedly enjoys in relationships, there is this charming clarification:

By the time I saw this gem, I didn’t know what I would do first if I got my hands on the graffiti culprits. Would I lock them in a room for a day-long seminar on verb-object agreement and words that sound the same but are spelled differently (words that are called GOD HELP ME homophones)? Or would I simply beat their insensitivities out of them with an especially spiny lobster penis, such as Spencer? I still haven’t decided.

One thing I have decided: This has got to stop. I can be fancy-free and laid-back and all that good stuff with the best of ‘em. But then a few days ago Aura pointed to the following and asked, “Why did someone draw an alien on the playground tunnel?”

She’s three. I’m 32. Neither of us needs that drawing to be anything other than an alien. But to be on the safe side I’m so calling the city tomorrow.

I have big hopes for this BlogHer-for-birthday plan, though many of these hopes are thrashing and drowning in my pre-conference anxiety. Do they have a special seating section for people who own Eensy Weensy Blogs? Are women who write content that awkwardly straddles the mommyblog/humor blog/whoknowswhat blog shunned, or encouraged to skip the nightly cocktail parties? When I close my eyes and try to visualize the conference, all I can imagine is a throbbing mass of women, 30% of whom are skinnier than I am, 70% of whom have better shoes, and 99% of whom have better known blogs.

See? THEY'LL ALL BE WEARING THESE. EVERYONE.

Thankfully, wonderful, splendid Taryn is also going and has sworn to shield me from the waves of success emanating from Christian Louboutin-shod Amalahs and Finslippys and Chookooloonks. I’m hoping she’ll also warn me of any impending fashion mistakes. At the last conference I attended, a huge writers’ affair where I knew no one and was totally outranked, I chose to wear a bright-blue patterned shirt, which I thought perked up my black pants nicely. I was feeling fairly self-assured when a woman standing near me said, “Wow! Nice shirt!

“Thanks!” I said, thrilled to be speaking to someone finally.

“That color blue is so…brave,” she replied. Then I think she may have snickered.

Suffice it to say, I will wearing all black at BlogHer. THE ENTIRE TIME.

(Anyone else going?)