Last night, I spent two hours dreaming.

I had my first committee meeting on Innovative Children's Services for "Libraries of the Future." A number of subcommittees are meeting to brainstorm and form plans for a new Norman library (or more than one branch). Maybe I'm a dork for being so excited about it, but that should surprise no one.

We've got big dreams. We looked at photos of some amazing children's sections, like the one in Southfield, Michigan, with a reader's throne made of books, a dragon's den, a tree playhouse and more. We discussed what we'd like our facility to include, what our children expect, what perks would draw in parents and what services the library should offer. The dozen women there came up with some great ideas, like having an area where you can "check your kids in" with an adult to oversee them while you spend 15 minutes picking out your own book. Reading nooks. Varied levels. Science areas. Storytime, storytime, storytime. An atrium. Community helpers. Puppet shows. Multicultural books and events. Reading challenges. Oklahoma heritage. Nursing space and family bathrooms. Snack areas. Kids' art on the walls. Wireless access, so grownups can check out a laptop and browse the web while their child plays at the train table. Homework assistance. Best-of lists. Chew and chats. Nearly everything you can imagine, we did.

I was so impressed with this group of women, moms and grandmas, library employees and community members. They had such wonderful ideas, were eloquent about expressing them and allowing others to share their thoughts, as well. I decided early on that even though our agenda said, "Elect committee chair," I didn't need to volunteer for it. Any one of our group would be great. I was very careful not to talk too much, to overpower the discussion, as I know I tend to do now and then. I was always the student -- from preschool to college -- with her hand raised, twitching to give the right answer or share my opinion.

I'd just been thinking how good it would be for me to be just a participant in the process, to not be the leader. And then it came time. And the fingers pointed at me.

Except for the library staff, who were there as facilitators, I didn't know anyone walking in the door. (Turns out one of the women is a friend of Adam's from college, but we didn't make that connection until after.) And still, I felt like homecoming queen when they asked me to be their chair. "You wouldn't have been happy otherwise," Adam told me when he got home. I like to think he was wrong.

So now, I get to make our dreams come true, with research and planning. We'll meet twice a month for a while, come up with a report that helps us prioritize all of those ideas we came up with and all those yet to come. I'll take that plan back to the main committee, serve on it as we hammer out the future of Norman's library.

As I lay in bed last night, obscenely happy, I told Adam that I couldn't think of a single community organization that has more of an impact on our lives than the library. Each of us has a stack of books checked out, all the time. We take Emma to storytime and craft days, hang out and play checkers, borrow movies, watch the gerbils and African water frogs and let her socialize with other kids over Legos and trains. Half our books are from Friends of the Library sales. I've been saying I wanted to get involved in something for a while, since Emma was old enough that I felt like a functioning adult again. I'm glad it's this.

And Adam's right. I'm glad to be the leader. PTA is years away ...

I need your help. We're soliciting input from the Norman community, as well, but I'd love to hear what everyone likes or dislikes about the children's area of their own libraries. What works? What doesn't? If you could have anything in your library, what would it be? Comment or email me with your ideas. I'd love to hear them.

I have a family inheritance. Wouldn't have guessed it, would you? But yes, my grandfather passed it to my mom, my mom passed it to me and I've shared it with Emma.

Unfortunately, it's hair. And not the good kind -- long, beautiful, shiny locks. But the kind that tufted out of Grandpa Jess's ears, that Mom pulls from her chin, that I lay in the bath to soften before shaving off, that makes one line across Emma's sweet forehead.

She's got a unibrow. She's not even 3.

Adam tells me it's not even noticeable, and he's right. But if you look closely, you can see that there are teeny blond hairs stretching across her nose, touching in the middle. The right pair of tweezers will be her friend someday, just as they're mine. And it'll likely be sooner that I'd hope for her.

I know a woman who had her eyebrows waxed for the first time in high school, after a kid she was babysitting for asked why she only had one. And another who, after going to first base with her first boyfriend, was taunted later for having hair where centerfold girls don't. Boy, aren't kids nice?

I was one of the first girls in junior high to shave above the knee. Why I thought this was going to be something liberating is beyond me. Since not long after, I've been one of those women who gets a 5 o'clock shadow on her legs. Emma's swim classes in the summer nearly kill me; I have to shave up to there in the morning and slide into a swimsuit as soon as I get home. Invariably, I have to do a quick touchup before heading out the door. For years (pre-kid, obviously, when I had the luxury), I only shaved in the bath. It was so much easier to get a smooth shave if I had an hour to let the stubble get soft. It's that thick and black. Not pretty. (Just this week, Emma pointed it out and laughed. "Look at all those hairs! You forgot to shave!" Hey, kid, it's winter! But, really. My preschooler noticed. How sad am I? If only she knew what she has coming.)

Guys, wonder what women talk about when their alone? Body hair ranks high up there. I know someone who tried to Nair her bikini line during pregnancy. She couldn't see what was going on down there, but knew it was getting out of control. After, her husband informed her it looked like she had "crotch chemo."

I know someone else who had eyebrows tattooed on. Her own were so thin and blonde that she looked like she had none at all (so not a problem I have). She drew them on every day since she was old enough to care and finally splurged for the "cosmetic enhancement." Once the scabs finally fell off, she looked great.

My mom used to pluck her brows to this perfect little arch. I remember a wacky neighbor once asking how Mom did it, so Mom showed her. The next time I saw the neighbor, she had brown Crayon-looking lines arching across her forehead. Not good.

I've always been very, very wary about plucking. Sure, I'd like to have more delicate eyebrows, some that look less like they'd fit just as easily on Adam. But I've got my work plucked out for me just in keeping them in line already. It takes serious time -- and just the right tool -- to not have them meet in the middle or grow into my hairline. I'm afraid I could never keep up with a "brow style." And I'm a little a'feared of waxing. What if I look like a freak? How long might it take them to grow back?

I know lots of women who bleach -- their arms, their mustaches, their chins, that "trail of pleasure" or whatever silly thing you call it leading down their bellies. Can't say I've never been friends with Sally Hanson. (I've actually thought about trying to lighten my brows. But what if they turn orange?)

And the idea of a leg and bikini wax sounds divine, in theory. To not have to shave for weeks at a time in summer? To not have to worry about whether your current, um, style matches the shape of your swimsuit? But I've never been brave enough to try. Salon says even men are doing it. Maybe if I can get Adam to go first ...

However else you manage your hair, though, tweezers are a girl's best friend. We have a whole shelf piled high with them in our medicine cabinet, and I'll dig through until I find the right pair. They make a huge difference. In college, I worked for a while in a cafeteria, the kind where old ladies regularly lunch. I felt so bad for the women with the 2-inch gray hair dangling from their chin. I have a hard enough time seeing stragglers with my glasses off, and I'm not even 30. God knows what it'll be like in 40 years. Girlfriends, you tell me, and I'll tell you. We'll pluck together. And with random dark hairs sprouting now and then on one of my hands, on my arms, heck, let's be honest, even on my toes ... it's only going to get worse.

Poor Emma. She's got this sweet, downy blonde hair covering her now. Just like her perfect skin, it's beautiful. Touchable. Wonderful. But not forever. Damn you, Grandpa Jess.

Emma is the luckiest kid around? Of course. I'm a great mother.

Adam's the envy of his friends? Of course. I'm a perfect wife.

No one can do a job like me? Of course. I'm the best employee.

Friends rave over their birthday gifts? Of course. I'm the ideal friend.

My mother-in-law asks to talk to me and not her son? Of course. I'm a wonderful daughter-in-law.

Construction workers whistle as I walk by? Of course. I'm beautiful.

Strangers keep striking up conversations in the grocery store and elevator? Of course. I'm likable.

Julie and I were discussing recently our views of good vs. good-enough moms. And during our conversation, it occured to me how I must sound. I really believe the statements above. Self-confidence has rarely been an issue for me. I don't often doubt that I'm a good-enough mom, wife, friend or employee. Why would I? If I interview for a job, they should offer it to me. If I play a board game, I should win. (Unless it's Scrabble or Trivial Pursuit. Then it's all Adam. Or Candyland or the matching Olivia game. Then it's Emma.) If I try a new recipe, it'll turn out well. If I meet someone new, we'll hit it off.

But as I thought about it, I realized there's an entire structure that underlies each of those assumptions. Yes, I'm a great mother. But to be that person, I have to cook. We have to craft. I have to costume. We have to read. We have to go to the zoo and Gymboree and swim class and the library. I might be better off if I were a more casual parent, not so worried about Emma eating the right number of vegetables, how many books she reads a day, how much intellectual stimulation she gets. And it's not that I stress about it; it's just how I do things.

Some of those apply to Adam. He benefits from the cooking, of course. I have standards for the house. We're very careful with each other -- we don't snipe when things are bad at work, raise our voices when we're annoyed or take things out on each other. I try to baby him, too. I make his favorite meals, pick his gifts with great care, leave him little notes and bring him Vanilla Coke home from work. I do my best not to bitch during the fall, when he's constantly gone to OU football and soccer games and then off playing for his own soccer team, too. We talk, a lot, so much so that some friends tease us about overcommunicating. There's a whole list in my head of "do"s and "don't do"s in terms of marriage. We both agree that we have an amazing relationship, and we're lucky to have each other. But there's a whole set of things I have to do to keep it going.

Similar stuff with friends. I try to be a good listener, offer solid advice when it's asked for and keep my mouth shut when it's not. I plan gift-buying all year. A small thing, I know, but I love to find the perfect gift, one that really expresses how well I know someone. Friendships aren't supposed to be hard, and mine aren't. But they are something I constantly work at. If it's worth having, it's worth working for.

I'm usually very happy with the way I look. Granted, some things help. And I do lighten my hair, pluck my brows and am happier with a little bit of a tan. But on the whole, I'm happy. I like how I look, and I think others should, too. (The construction-worker thing does happen. A huge addition to my building has been under way since May. Those guys must get really bored.)

I could go on about how wonderful I am at my job, how I befriend old ladies and stray kittens, how I cherish my relationship with Adam's family. The point is, though, yes, I'm certainly confident about my life and my abilities, particularly my relationships. Cocky? Maybe. Conceited? Now and then. But all of that confidence is based on a lot of hard work. And sometimes, when one piece of the puzzle doesn't fit, I'm just as insecure as anyone else. I worry about my hair. I call a friend hours after an online conversation to make sure she didn't misinterpret what I said. I apologize to Adam for not saying I love you enough. And I fret that with all my planning, all my care, I'm going to push Emma too hard. But for the most part? Go me. I rock.

Want to read how some other moms feel about the same thing? Check out Mom in the Mirror and DotMoms.

Yup, my comments, hosted by BlogSpeak, are gone, as are anyone's who use that service. They may or may not be back. If you've got suggestions on another service I could use or want to tell me something you'd normally leave in a comment, email me instead.

I tried Haloscan earlier today, and inserting that code made things go all wonky. I know it's a popular comment system, so I might try it again when Adam, my HTML guru, can try to pinpoint the problem.

A few months ago, Emma started talking about Polly. She'd say she was going to see Polly or Polly did this or that. I thought at first she'd read a book about a girl named Polly or that she'd met someone with that name at day care. I kept reminding myself to ask her day-care provider about it, but never got around to it.

Then one day, she was telling an especially detailed Polly story. "Emma, do you see Polly at Toni's?" I asked. "Sometimes Polly comes to Toni's," she replied. Not a conclusive answer. "Where is Polly now?" She pointed across the room. "She's right there, petting Chance." Finally, I got it.

As I wrapped up my lunchtime today by putting Emma down for her nap, she was en route to Polly's house, a popular naptime destination. She buckles all of her "babies" (the menagerie of animals that live in her bed) into their car seats and seatbelts, and off they go. She tells us she'll go to sleep at Polly's house. If we listen on the monitor, we can hear her playing with Polly, reading to the animals and more. On a good day, Polly wears her out and they all sleep. On a bad one, we get called back into the room, again and again.

I wondered about Polly's future at Hanukkah. Emma got a doll from her grandma that she promptly named Polly. (We still haven't figured out where she learned the name, by the way. None of us have read a book with a Polly in it, seen one on a show, know anyone by that name, etc.) I thought maybe Polly the friend would fall by the wayside as she played with Polly the doll. No go, though. (She has two sets of stuffed cats named Io and Little Bit, which are our real cats names, so I shouldn't have worried.) A few days later, Polly was back.

Mostly, she plays with Polly when she's alone. Occasionally, though, Polly comes to visit when she's hanging with Mom and Dad. We'll have to set a place at the table for Polly, be sure she can see the book we're reading and ask if she needs to potty, too. If we ask to many Polly questions, Emma balks. I'm so interested to understand how her mind works, I'd like to know what Polly looks like, where they go, what they play. But Em's not forthcoming on the details. So mostly, I eavesdrop outside her room or via the monitor. (Think she'd notice if it's still in her room at 16?)

Emma's latest invention is more than just a friend -- it's a whole world.

EmmaLand.

Where did it come from? Again, we don't know. But all of a sudden, she'll announce we're either there or going. The main feature in EmmaLand is that everyone is named Emma. The whole family -- Mom, Dad, cats, dog, fish, tons of toys -- are expected to answer to that name. Mostly, trips revolve around her saying, "Hi, Emma!" to everyone. I responded, "Hi, Mommy!" the first few times, before I knew the rules. But that's not how the game is played.

Hmm. I've never asked what Polly's name is in EmmaLand. This could get confusing.

OK, so maybe the cookies and the complicated Sunday-night meal were too much. It took me an hour to get my breathing back to normal after my shower this morning. I ended up calling into work, knowing there was no way I could handle that walk in or sitting at my desk all day. You'd think I'd feel better after a day of sleeping and reading, but just being up since Em woke from her nap three hours ago has worn me out.

Tired of pneumonia posts yet? Me too. With any luck, they're going to end any day now.

Check out my sidebar for how I spent my day, if you'd like.

My house smells incredible right now. Monterey Chicken is bubbling in the oven -- an amazingly complicated (read: time-consuming) recipe that involves making white rice, sauteeing veggies to mix in it along with a sort of chicken gravy, pounding chicken breasts and stuffing them with Monterey Jack cheese, dredging them in eggs and bread crumbs, browning all that and placing them on top of the rice to bake. By my standards, that's pretty complicated.

But I know we eat home-cooked meals more often than the average U.S. family. We cook a "real meal" (i.e. not mac and cheese, Gardenburgers or PB&J) at least four nights a week. Each meal feeds us a couple of times, too. Adam and I each eat leftovers at work, and Emma usually takes them with her to day care for lunch. We bake from scratch a lot, too. Emma and I made browned-butter cookies yesterday from an equally complicated recipe. (I've described them to friends as tasting as good as sex feels and gotten multiple questions about Adam's prowess, but trust me, they're that good. It's a tribute to him that I compare them.) We bake something almost every weekend. I've tried multiple brownie recipes so that I'd have a from-scratch version that compares with Ghiradelli's from-the-box kind. (No luck, by the way.) I want to be the mom who always has some freshly baked treat in the kitchen.

I'm a little obsessed about food. We make sure Emma has a fruit and a veggie with lunch and dinner and as often for snacks as we can manage. We made all her baby food at home. It was Adam's idea, actually, and it stuck. We baked apples and steamed green beans, pureeing everything and freezing it in ice-cube trays. There was a little inconvenience involved, particularly when we ate out and had to carry tiny Tupperware bowls with us, but the goo actually tasted pretty good. And it's paid off, because Emma eats well.

When I first moved out on my own, I hated to cook. It had been such a chore growing up, one that was almost exclusively mine. On top of providing meals for the family, I never knew who might be hanging out at the house come dinnertime. I became an expert at stretching. So when I wasn't forced to cook any more, I didn't. And even now, there are some things I just won't cook. I will never, ever fry another chicken. It's a hot, messy, nasty process, and I don't even LIKE fried chicken that much. If Adam wants it, KFC does an acceptable job.

So why the hassle now? We plan a week's worth of menus every weekend, shop for all the ingredients early Saturday or Sunday morning. I rush home most evenings to get started or put everything in a Crock-Pot the night before and plug it in on my way out the door. It'd be a lot easier to buy frozen dinners or pick up fast food. And we do that occasionally, too. When I've planned it, that's fine. I know we'll usually throw something together one night, eat with friends another, maybe pick up a pizza or Sonic. But when I haven't, like last week when I decided to take the nurse's advice and stay off my feet that evening, it stresses me out. I felt really guilty that Emma was eating deep-fried food.

A conversation with Julie made me start thinking about it. Meals were so haphazard when I was growing up. Mom was paid in cash every day, so some nights we'd have to wait till she got off to buy groceries for that night's dinner. Or just scrounge around. We never sat down "as a family" (what a joke that would've been). And it was MY responsibility, not my mom's. Some credit for her, she often worked nights. Or didn't get home till late. We ate a lot of Spam (the idea makes me nauseous now), Hamburger Helper without meat, mac-n-cheese made with water. Our "better" meals were always made with hamburger, like spaghetti and tacos. (Those are staples in the Brooks' house now, too.)

Anyway, Julie posited that maybe cooking is a way for me to show my love for the family. It's important to me that we eat healthfully and well. And I often want that food to have been prepared by my own hands. I cherish the three of us ate the table, discussing whatever random topic flies into Emma's head. Laughing. Loving. It's my picture of how a family should be. And I don't mind spending some time to make it perfect.

I'll let you know how the chicken turns out.

I'm not much of a Legolas fan. I mean, in the way some people are fans. I'm more of an Aragorn fan, myself. (And no, it's not really a Viggo Mortensen thing. He did nothing for me in A Perfect Murder, and the clips of him on the LOTR extras with the weird orange hair are especially unappealing. I just tend to get a thing for certain characters, not the actor who plays them. I'm madly in love with Giles, not Anthony Stewart Head. Or Dr. Cox, but not John C. McGinley. But this is getting off topic.)

But Orlando Bloom as pirate-by-blood Will Turner is much more my speed. Maybe it's because he looks like Aragorn, with the long, slightly dirty, dark curls rather than the pristine blond 'do he sported in LOTR. And again, it's the character, not the actor. Bloom is cute enough, but Turner is much more appealing. Maybe I just prefer the sword over the bow. Of course, Giles is pretty mean with both. And Dr. Cox uses neither. Hmm.