I'm only going to be gone two nights. I leave tomorrow, Sunday, and will be back late Tuesday night. Not in time to tuck Emma in, but I'll risk waking her to tiptoe in for a kiss. It's only two nights. So why does it seem so hard?

I haven't even packed yet. And I'm the kind of traveler who makes a list a week before the trip so I don't forget anything. I put some clothes together this evening, but I haven't put them in my suitcase yet. (That process is made harder by Adam saying something I picked was more casual than business casual, throwing everything else into flux. But still.) I haven't found what books I'm going to take; I should have time to plow through at least two during airport waits and plane rides alone. But I haven't even walked to the shelf.

It's not like I've never left her. I went to this same conference two years ago, lugging my breast pump and being hassled by airport security about it, like I was going to have the air crew at my mercy with an unplugged breast cup. (And even more fun was when they found the framed family picture Adam had tucked in my bag. "You're still breastfeeding HER?" I was asked of my girl, who was about to turn 1. At least I wasn't trying to cart the milk home; I'd pumped enough to leave for her and dumped what I produced there down the sink. One of the most depressing sights ever was watching it whirl down the drain.)

That was the first time I left her. Since then, we spent one night away from her on a San Diego vacation (she stayed in the condo with Grandma while we had a grown-up night at a hotel), two weekends at OU-TX (one by myself; I work events in Dallas surrounding the game) and nine glorious days in Europe. It seems easier, though, when Adam's with me. He's missing her, too, and I've got him to question about what she's doing or if she missing us. When I'm gone alone, I miss both of them. And I worry about what I'm missing out on.

It probably doesn't help that the conference is looking less like quality alone time, which I've been begging for, and more like work. Outside of the event itself, I've got breakfast, cocktails, receptions, tours and a meeting scheduled. And that's just one day. So much for lolling around in my hotel room, luxuriating in the silence.

The truth is, I'll be calling home, wanting to hear their voices, what she had for dinner and how she spent her day. Reading good-night books to her over the phone. (I photocopied two to take with me, so she could look through them while I read with her. Yes, I'm that much of a dork.) I haven't spent a night without her since October, and every time, it gets harder rather than easier. She knows I'm going and will miss me while I'm gone. For the last week, she's been telling me, "I know you'll come back. You always come back." It breaks my heart.

My mom called this week, just to tell me that Jackson Browne, a favorite singer/songwriter for both of us, was going to be on Austin City Limits. Given how rarely I talk to my mom, and that a good percentage of her phone calls are to share bad news, it was a pleasant surprise. I TiVo'd the show and have already watched beloved songs a time or two, loudly singing along.

As bad as my childhood was at times, music was often a reprieve. Some of my best memories revolve around music; my mom took me to my first concert when I was about 8, a "no nukes" show on the beach in California. Of course, David Crosby got stopped en route with a .357 in the passenger seat, so we never saw Crosby, Stills and Nash. But I remember being on someone's shoulder and the passion of the day.

She took me to see Bob Seger and John Cougar (no Mellencamp back then) while I was in grade school. We went to Jackson Browne numerous times. In high school, my then-boyfriend and I went on a roadtrip, with my parents and his, riding a giant tour bus to see the Stones at the Cotton Bowl in Dallas. I saw so many small bands in bars around where I grew up that I can't even count them.

No matter what chaos surrounded us, music provided a soundtrack. I could often tell what mood Mom was in by what she'd put on to play. David and David detailed drug-lost days, so it probably wasn't going to be a good day. David Allen Coe hadn't forgotten about poor white trash, but he was still a funny singalong. And Jackson Browne could mean anything. I was 14 before I realized that Rosie wasn't about a boy and his girl; it was about a boy and his hand. I'd been singing it for years, and when Mom shushed me at a concert, I finally got why. And then he's melancholy, with Late for the Sky or Fountain of Sorrow. The Load Out, Cocaine and Farther On were always good for belting out with a smile. And then there's Rock Me on the Water, which we had played at David's funeral.

Jackson Browne is on permanent rotation in my office CD player. And now, he's permanently saved on my TiVo's hard drive. He's my answer to, "If you could only listen to one CD for the rest of your life, what would it be?" (Hands down, The Next Voice You Hear.) It still surprises me sometimes that music that was often a soundtrack to such a horrible time in my life can still be so comforting.

A new post about the balancing act of marriage is up at DotMoms.

Em's been learning some Spanish lately. (Admission: It started with Dora, but we've capitalized on the trend. In one of the preschools we visited, the teacher looked mighty impressed during Spanish time when Emma chimed right in with uno, dos, tres ...)

Yesterday, I overheard her tell Adam "Vamanos" (let's go). He told her that it was more polite to say, "Vamanos, por favor," and that por favor meant please, etc.

Later in the day, I asked her what word Dad had taught her that went with vamanos. She said she didn't remember, and I reminded her that it was Spanish. With a giggle, she replied, "Vamanos, taco!" I laughed, too, and told her it was two words. "Vamanos, Taco Bueno."

Smart aleck.

My bathroom is a veritable farmer's market; every grooming product I slather on, spritz with, wash off or massage in has a different botanical "origin." Lemon butter, sweet pea. Citrus squeeze, sun-ripened raspberry. Almond apricot and almond milk. And don't forget buttermilk or milk and honey. Cucumber melon and cucumber and ginseng. I'm not quite sure where ocean breeze fits in, but I guess it's "natural."

And then there are all of those things that are definitely scented, but not labeled as such -- shampoo and conditioner, hair spray and lip balm and face lotion.

I'm used to all of the various smells, and somehow, when combined, they're innocuous enough. I don't smell like a flower garden or anything (or, at least, I don't think I do). But two new products have been tickling my nose lately.

I invested in a new, dermatologist-recommended (straight from the pages of the O Magazine in my mother-in-law's bathroom to me) "daily facial cleanser." It's working well, near as I can tell, but it smells like something I'd use to clean my bathtub. Adam's washing with it, too, so the two of us snuggling up at night reek of a chemical spill. VERY conducive to romantic interludes.

The other new scent is much more pleasant. Adam and I are practical folks, and we don't use separate "hers and his" body washes. I try to find a neutral scent that both of us are happy with. I was seduced by "tropical coconut" while grocery shopping this week, and the stuff has absolutely met its end of the bargain. Even though we're still smack in the middle of winter in Oklahoma, when someone is showering, it smells like a luau. I catch myself sniffing my own skin for that sunscreen smell. Summer in a bottle, baby. It's better than a tanning bed by a long shot.

When I arrive on campus in the mornings, my mind is awhirl. I'm digesting the last NPR story I heard -- will the judge believe Martha Stewart and her broker had an agreement to sell ImClone at $60? I wonder how cold my long walk in from the parking garage will be -- did I dress Emma warmly enough? I mentally peruse my to-do list -- can I get it all done today? I wonder if I told Adam I love him before leaving the house, what we'll do for dinner, how Emma will spend her day, if my outfit works, if I'll find a few minutes to read at lunch. I'm writing blog posts, making phone calls, setting up meetings and sending email in my head.

It's no wonder at 5:05 p.m. I can't find my car.

The same thing used to happen before construction surrounded my building, when I parked in a flat lot. But then, if I couldn't remember where I'd left it, I could usually swivel 360 degrees and find it. Can't do that in a parking garage. So part of my morning mulling now has to be "I'm on 3. I'm on 3. I'm on 3."

Help me remember, will you?

Every weekday morning of late, when I'm abruptly awoken before dawn by the rude bleat of my alarm and I either burrow back in bed for a precious extra five minutes of sleep or crawl out, groggy, to begin the tasks of beginning my day, I ask myself one question: Didn't I just do this yesterday?

And, occasionally, one more: Do I have to do it again tomorrow?

One of the greatest joys of living in a college town is the events -- like tonight's chance to hear Rudy Giuliani speak over dinner.

Of course, I'm not there, though Adam is. I'd planned to go, but I've been out of the house every night since we got back from Phoenix. I have a library meeting later this week and I leave on a business trip this weekend. I just wanted some time at home with Emma. (And we don't have to pay a sitter if I stayed home. It's always going to be a factor.)

But I can't imagine Adam's having more fun that Em and I did this evening.

She and I made veggie pizzas, one of her favorite meals. I think that might have something to do with her loving to push her fingers into the pizza dough and try to flatten it with the rolling pin (and begging "Just ONE more piece, Mom. Just one more!" as she tears off bites). Or it could be she gorges herself on broccoli and carrots dipped in the sauce (ranch dip, mayo and sour cream). Or eating grated mozzarella by the handful. And once we do manage to get the pizza into -- and out of -- the oven, dipping "pizza bones" in blue cheese dressing is a big hit. Besides the whole pizza itself; for some reason, tonight we were little kitties as we ate, meowing the whole time. And she worried I was the Plum Thief, bent on stealing her fruit.

We followed it up by finishing off the half-gallon of Super Fudge Brownie ice cream. Hope Adam gets a good dessert at dinner, at least.

Bath time is always loads of fun. Of course, she nearly choked herself on a giant mouthful of water, swallowed while she was trying to playfully escape from the terrycloth hippo puppet intent on eating her as he washed. But once she was through coughing, she was giggling again, tromping her teeny plastic animals up a waterfall and letting them "mumble" into the muck. We spent half the bath making up nonsense rhymes, as usual. There's a poet inside her, I tell you. Adam usually just shakes his head and laughs, but Emma and I waste hours trying to top each other with convoluted wordplay.

She folded her silkie a million different ways as I dried her hair -- we've recently discovered it's a lot less messy in the mornings if it's not wet when she goes to bed. (Go figure.) And yes, we could wet it and redry it in the morning, but it's easier to find an extra three minutes in the evening routine. Plus, it's such a nice feeling to run my fingers through her freshly washed hair. After some initial protests, she's starting to say, "That feels SO good!" She'll never say no to a salon trip with Grandma, I suspect.

Then, on the bedroom. In honor of today's library storytime about cows, we read Calico Cows (a gem from one of our first Friends of the Library excursions years ago), Click, Clack, Moo: Cows That Type and Mr. Gumpy's Outing, which features only a single cow, but hey, it's in there. She's starting to sight read, so it's fun to watch her scour the pages for words she knows. (And watch how she learns: One of the words she started with was "no," and she's built on it to ID "now," "not" and "snow.") Plus, we're sounding out words, and the animal noises are great fun. Handy to find "moo" over and over.

After reading, it's cuddle time. We time the session based on songs, and she's recently made a big switch from Baby Mozart to Classic Disney, Vol. I. Given that she'd been sleeping to Mozart since she was born, it was a big deal. I was sure after she asked for it the first time she'd call us back in minutes later, wanting to switch. But it's stuck for weeks now. And frankly, the Disney CD -- long a waking favorite -- is so much more fun. We skip the first third of the disc, all songs from the '90s, in favor of the older, much sillier stuff. We generally begin with A Spoonful of Sugar (the Julie Andrews version, though it amuses her that her Harry Connick CD has it, too) or The Monkey's Uncle, by Annette Funicello and the Beach Boys. We laugh along to Burl Ives and the Ugly Bug Ball and often finish up by singing with The Spectrum Song, a tongue-twister about colors. This CD, with Haley Mills' Let's Get Together (which makes me laugh for reasons I shouldn't explain to Em) and Kirk Douglas's Whale of a Tale (much bawdier than anything in the last few decades) is classic. I'm listening to it via the monitor right now, and I'm so glad she enjoys it. It doesn't sound like kid music.

I do wish I were still cuddling with her, though. She begs me to tickle her back as we snuggle together and discuss her day. But when our three songs are over, I've got to go -- she wants me gone before the elephants start singing on Colonel Hathi's March. Routine, I tell you, is key.

What a perfect night. I'm off to soak in the bath and finish up Oryx and Crake, one of the most interesting things I've read in a while.

There's no way Giuliani could've compared.