Emma's not a fashion maven. She doesn't really care what we ask her to wear, as long as the neck hole is big enough to put her head through and it's not itchy or oddly confining.

Before I went to shop the big consignment sale, I asked her if there were any kind of clothes she'd like me to look for. (Adam's rolling his eyes in the background at this point.) She thought for a minute, with her trademark "hmmm," tapping-finger-on-chin look, and then emphatically answered, "Animals. I'd like you to find all kinds of clothes with animals. Like doggies and giraffes." I said I'd see what I could do.

Two hours and $130 later, I returned home, triumphant. Emma and Adam were already cuddling in bed, and I was glad to get to see her for a moment before she went to sleep. When we got up for her last potty trip, she asked if I'd found any animal clothes. I told her I indeed had and asked if she'd like to see them.

I couldn't tell you the last thing I did that made Emma as happy as these clothes. I found one T-shirt with a screen-printed kitty and three tank tops with embroidered animals: one with a seahorse, whale and octopus, one with a dog driving a car and one with two frogs fishing. She was beside herself with excitement and spent a great deal of time on the potty closely examining the clothes. We counted all of the animals: seven. Listed the colors of the shirts: green, yellow, pink, blue. Counted the number of tank tops: three. Shirts with sleeves: one. She went on and on and on.

I had to disappoint her a little by telling her it won't be tank-top weather for a while yet. (The first thing she said when she woke the next morning was, "Is it warm enough to wear a tank top today?") But she's worn the kitty top already and knows that the others are waiting. She wasn't nearly as pumped about the rest of the clothes -- and Adam was a bit astounded at how much I spent, but I got 46 items, including a bingo game and two sets of "Snap" cards we've already gotten our money's worth out of.

I can't wait to see her in all the adorable leggings, cute T-shirts and jeans with a drawstring (I'm a little afraid things without elastic at the waist will still slide right off her). But we'll have to have a camera ready for the look on her face the first time she wears "that silly dog driving a car! Look, there are buttons as wheels!" shirt.

And look at the picture when she's really picking out clothes on her own.

Last night at dinner with a mommy friend, her little boy called her by his day-care provider's name. She handled it well, just quietly correcting him. And while I was wincing in pain for her, I was also quietly reassured. Emma does the same all the time, and it hurts like a bitch. I know it's no big deal; she spends 20 hours a week with someone else who feeds her, reads her books, takes her to the library and park, laughs at her antics and soothes her when she's hurt. It's not surprising that she'd slip up and call me by her name now and then.

So why does it make me feel like such a bad mom? Sometimes I don't acknowledge it all, sometimes I correct her and others I know she can tell it bothers me. She made a game of it the other day, just to tease, and I was able to laugh it off. How can I explain how much it sucks that she spends more time awake with someone else than she does with me? And why do I feel better that preschool is coming up? She'll still be away from me the same amount of time, but it seems somehow less painful to have her in a class of 15 other kids than it does to have her in one-on-one care with someone who loves her.

More than anything else, though, I was glad to see my friend have to deal with it. That may make me a bad friend. But it's nice to know that it's not just me.

We found out recently about some friends' financial troubles. And it, too, made me feel good. "It's not just us," I thought. "We're not the only ones struggling." I hate that they are having to deal with it, but I'm glad to know we're all in the same boat. It's cozy in there, but at least we have someone to talk to.

It's been a while since I regaled you with tales of Emma's verbosity, so it's about that time.

---

Me: I love you more than anything in the whole wide world.
Em: (giggle) Mommy, the world isn't white. It's blue!

--

Adam was telling me that someone said an OU coach should be fired.

Em: He can't be fired! He might get burned!

--

Emma loves making up words. For example, we play elaborate rhyming games where one of us says a string of nonsense and the other has to follow up with an equally silly, rhyming string.

In the bath last night, she was striking a number of gymnastic/acrobatic poses. "This is moding," she'd say, with one leg cocked in the air. "This is troding," with the leg bent. "This is trilling," using the other leg. Then she performed a series of kicks and bends, naming each one. "Pex, dex, lex, trex."

--

Not surprisingly, we've been talking about birthdays a lot lately. She was telling me about her friend Jack's party and the moonbounce he had. She insisted that it was a Wiggles' moonbounce, and I was clearly doubting her. Before I had a chance to argue too much, though, she turned my own words against me. When I disagree but don't really want to fight, I often say, "If you say so, Emma."

"It was a Wiggles' moonbounce, Mommy! If I say so!"

She also frequently replies, "I don't doubt it!" when told something interesting.

--

She calls her pajamas her "PJ-Bs." She often says "OD-KD" for OK. I've picked up both.

--

Looking at a picture of Adam and I recently, Emma asked where she was.

Me: You weren't born yet, honey.
Em: Was I in your tummy?
Me: No, you weren't in my tummy yet.
Em: Why not?
Me: Daddy and I hadn't made you. (As soon as the words left my mouth, I regretted them.)
Em: How did you make me?

I gave some pat answer about wanting a baby and loving each other so much we decided to make one. She didn't question. Thank god.

--

Emma doesn't love the new routine of having her hair dried before bed, and it's often a struggle. Last night, I'd wrangled her onto the potty to start, and noticed she was repeatedly gesturing with her arm, like she was tossing something.

Me: What are you doing, honey?
Em: I'm throwing a fit.

--

So, while eating a vending-machine Snickers yesterday, I noticed the wrapper promoting that the bar had the most nuts ever. What it didn't say, though, was that the bar is bigger. So doesn't more nuts equal less of something else? Caramel, nougat, chocolate? I think I got robbed.

Emma decided six months ago she wanted an octopus birthday party. We don't know why (though it was around the same time she decided she needs to be an octopus for Halloween this year). At first, I tried to gently dissuade her, because there's no place to buy octopus pre-fab birthday kits. Now that the party is just days away, though, we're all excited.

She'll be 3 on Friday. Time moves so strangely with a kid. On one hand, I feel like we've had her forever. Shouldn't she be 10 by now? On the other, I wonder how in the world she got to be 3.

So we're busy doing party prep. I bought a pound of gummi octopi. (Who knew they even existed?) We're making octopus cupcakes -- icing upside-down cupcakes with gummi worms for legs and gumdrops for eyes. We're doing an octopus craft, involving paint, fingers and googly eyes. We've got an octopus party game: an inflatable pool toy whose tentacles you toss rings over for points. Since arriving in a package with Grandma's gifts for her, he's her new best friend. She's danced with the octopus, dragged him all around the house, read to him, played ring-around-the-rosie, swam the ocean depths and more. It was all I could do to convince her they couldn't share a bed.

So, along with her eight-legged friend, we're counting down the days. Adam and I will take her actual birthday off, and we're hitting the zoo, as we did last year. With any luck, we'll see an octopus or two.

I spent most of this weekend putting price tags on the last few years of my life.

Literally.

This post is up at DotMoms.