Twice a week, I use my lunch hour to pick up Emma from day care and put her down for her nap. (Adam works from home, folks. Don't panic; I don't leave her there alone.) Her pre-sleep routine is so soothing it's often hard to drag my ass back out of her bed and into the office.

That doesn't explain, though, something that happened recently. I went in to wake her from her nap, and she just didn't want to get up. I curled next to her, enjoying the quiet ... and opened my eyes an hour later.

Emma is one of those kids who only sleeps under specific circumstances -- never in the car, never with someone else in the room, never without her silkie, etc. So she didn't believe it at first when I told her we'd slept there a whole extra hour. But it was the best hour of my weekend.

Em's library basket (in the sidebar and also in the floor beside her bed) is overflowing. Check out what we're reading -- and why we picked 'em -- and let us know your faves. We're always looking for inspiration.

(Wondering what else we've read this year? See all 2004 library books.

I got a new haircut yesterday at lunch.

And I hate it.

It's not that the cut itself is bad -- it's done well and makes my hair look thick and healthy. It's all one length and has this fun little swing thing going.

None of that redeems it, though.

Campus this week has been like the set of 28 Days Later. Thankfully, no zombies are popping out of the bushes, but everything is deserted and eerie. But the one coworker I did see yesterday after the scissors debacle reassured me again and again the style doesn't make me look too young. (It's not that fun "I look 21" younger thing, either. I swear, there are kids on the playground with this hairstyle.) Adam was very supportive, saying that he loved it, that it was fun, that no, I don't look like a tween.

They're both wrong.

Last night as we were about to put Em in the bath, the doorbell rang. A kid selling magazines asked "Is your mom or dad home?" when I answered. No shit. And he was completely serious.

Adam tried to convince me it was part of the guy's sales pitch (along with all the steps of the con I dutifully fell into, though I managed to get away without handing him a check, just losing five minutes of my time and a little dignity). But the boy was mortified when I responded, "I am the mom." He sputtered and spit and paused to think of where to go next. "I thought you were 17. At the oldest."

Tell me again the cut works?

I was still dressed for work, even. Granted, it is spring break and I don't work in a corporate environment, so my outfit was business casual. And I was wearing big fuzzy slippers. But still.

It sucks. And I'm stuck with it.

I'm old. I know it. On top of that, my musical tastes are old. Sure, I've got an eclectic CD mix, with some hot pop and hip-hop and obscure local bands or singer/songwriters thrown in, but I tend to bust out the Eagles and Simon and Garfunkel for all occasions.

Still, though, I find it amusing to hear so many songs I grew up being showcased on top-40 stations. At the mall at lunch, I heard First Cut is the Deepest, Behind Blue Eyes, Big Yellow Taxi and Drift Away. Granted, I didn't hear Rod Stewart, The Who, Joni Mitchell or Steppenwolf.

I'm not sure why DJs never announce that those songs are covers. Kids today (listen to me!) probably think Sheryl Crow wrote First Cut herself and Limp Biskit is being soulful for the first time with Blue Eyes. And Counting Crows and Uncle Kracker are far from being the first to cover Big Yellow Taxi and Drift Away.

I don't mind covers, not at all. In fact, I'd often rather listen to a cover band than some up-and-comers doing their own stuff, because I'm all about being able to sing along. And the artists above do a fair job with all of those songs.

But I bet I've mentioned, "Who'd have thought Sheryl Crow would do a Rod Stewart song?" five times to people -- while the song was playing -- and gotten blank stares in return.

Just give the original artists some props, ya'll. Granted, I lose trivia points once the general population knows ...

So, I dropped four large envelopes in the mail today: two to the IRS and two to the Oklahoma Tax Commission. And we'll be getting four direct deposits in return, adding up to a substantial refund. On top of this year's returns, our accountant (that sounds so pretentious, but we only see him once a year) found he'd made a mistake on last year's taxes, so he filed amended versions, and we should get some money back from those, as well.

Which is all well and good. So why do I feel so depressed?

Adam assigned me the task of deciding how best to use the money. I wish I could say we were buying a couch or swingset, going on a trip or finding some small way to pamper ourselves. But the truth is, I need to figure out which wound to staunch first. Do we pay down a credit-card bill? Make some extra house payments? Try to establish a larger cushion in our checking account, which we've run too low for comfort lately? Start an emergency fund?

Don't get me wrong; I'm glad to be getting anything back at all. We'd be up a creek if we had to unexpectedly pay the government instead. But our finances are just an uphill battle, and we can't quite figure out why. We both make good money. We live in a very inexpensive state. Our mortgage is less than the recommended percentage of our income. We don't take big vacations, drive fancy cars, buy new things or even eat out that much. Where in the world does it all go?

All the "experts" recommend paying off credit cards first. And even though we carry very little debt compared to the average American, it's the thing that bothers us the most. Ding-ding, we have a winner. I just wish it were more fun.

Emma adored being the birthday girl. All day long, she kept reminding me, "Say 'happy birthday, Emma!'" and asking me to sing Happy Birthday to her. Toward the end of her day -- after opening a pile of presents, a trip to the zoo with a picnic lunch, dinner out at a restaurant of her choice (she picked Hideaway after seeing the logo in the paper -- who says advertising is dead?) and dessert at Rusty's Frozen Custard -- she started asking, "Is it still my birthday?" She just wasn't ready for it to end. It was very sweet. Luckily, she had a whole 'nother day of celebration, with her party.

If you'd like to see her big day instead of just reading about it, visit her newly updated site.

If for no other reason, you've got to check out my octopus cupcakes. They're certainly not culinary masterpieces -- I have a serious skill deficiency in the icing department, if anyone has advice on how to frost more easily, please, share it -- but they got a lot of praise. As I was finishing them up, about midnight the evening before the big bash, one of the gummi-worm legs kept moving. I'd put it back into place, go on to something else and it would wiggle away. Maybe it was the fact that I'd been reading about serious acid trips in Nothing is Terrible. Or maybe it was that Bryan told me that octopi climb out of their tanks at night and visit other tanks for prey. But when I suggested we lock all the cupcakes in the spare room -- with a door that closes -- maybe it wasn't only because I didn't want the cats jumping up on the counter.

Grandpa Steve, Adam's dad, joined us from Las Vegas for the celebration and he and Emma had a lot of fun. It's interesting to see him with her, since he's really had no exposure to kids since his grew up. I really felt for him, though, since Emma developed a weird quirk while he was here: calling him Pop-Pop Tim. Tim is Adam's mom's husband, and his mom and dad's divorce is one of the most acrimonious I've ever been around. They've now been apart far longer than they were ever together, but there are still very strong feelings on both sides. So I know it was hard for Steve to repeatedly be called Tim. I explained that she does see Tim more often and talks to her grandma about him all the time. So maybe that was it. And because I'm not in contact with my dad, Steve and Tim are the only grandpas she's got. I guess it was just confusing for her -- and uncomfortable for everyone else.

Even so, though, Em and her grandpa had a ton of fun. Having three adults to lavish attention on her instead of only two made her weekend, I'm sure.

Of course, all of the gifts helped. Adam and I got her a ton of stuff, mostly very small, so she'd have a lot to open. She now owns FOUR pairs of diva shoes -- she had one already, we got her two and another came with a princess dress-up set -- and she couldn't be happier. They're just plastic mules, but they have feathers and glitter and bows and make amazing noises as she stomps down the hall. While we were shopping last week for googly eyes (for the party's octopus painting project), she saw a woman wearing high pumps. "That lady has heels just like me!" Emma yelled excitedly. I guess my shoes don't count as cool as hers!

Adam's been saying Em had a retro birthday, since two of her gifts were toys we used to play with: a Lite Brite and a ViewMaster. Both are cooler than the ones we had and still very fun. The ViewMaster is great, in particular because we can attach her carrying case of discs to her backpack and drop the viewer in, and it's perfect for entertainment during meals out. She's loving the Lite Brite, too. I only wish Adam hadn't shown her how much cooler the pictures look in the dark -- we'll forever be climbing under the sheets or into a closet to check it out.

Another big plus at the party was a chance for me to make a new mommy friend. We invited a friend of Em's from her Gymboree class and her mom, who happens to teach it. We spend an hour and a half with them every week, but it's not the same in the "classroom setting." The mom is officially in charge, so there's little time to chat. Having them at the party, and then joining us for dinner after, gave us all time to hang out and get to know each other a little better. It's interesting to observe parenting styles, and watching her little girl wolf down multiple helpings of broccoli and be excited about it was great fun for us. Emma's asked for broccoli the last two nights to be just like her friend. That's an example we'll want her to see again and again!

I could go on and on about how strange time is as a parent: Emma's 3 now, and doesn't it seem like she was just a baby? But truthfully, we're more on the other side. It seems like she should be at least 10, because I can't remember what our life was before we had her.

There are many highlights from Emma's big 3-year-old birthday weekend. One story, though, I can't help but repeat.

As promised, we took Emma to the Oklahoma City Zoo for her big day. We did it last year, and it's going to be a nice little tradition. Mom and Dad take the day off to spend with her and we have the party on the next weekend.

We wandered around, finding her favorite animals and spending as much -- or frequently, as little -- time as she wanted viewing them. "Let's see something else!" is her frequent zoo refrain.

I'd promised a snack as soon as we got to the gorilla enclosures, so we plopped down on a bench next to the Plexiglas and popped open a bowl of Chex Mix. Two seconds later, a curious ape joined us, right on the other side of the window, peering at our food. Emma was so amused at him checking out our snack, telling him, "There's no hole! I can't feed you any!" And one by one, all of the gorillas from the troop stopped by to see what we were eating. We got to see them all up close and personal, and from now on, we'll bring Chex Mix on zoo trips to ensure a good look at the apes.

Finally, we went over to the other side of the exhibit to see if we could entice the other gorillas with our snacks. But, oh no, they were busy providing plenty snacks on their own. Thankfully, Emma missed a lot of what's going to follow. I could've explained it to her and pointed out the more grotesque details, but decided I didn't need to have this conversation for the next six months. Even with what she glimpsed, she's been repeating: "That gorilla was sure having a messy snack!"

Said snack was puke. He kept puking into his own hand, eating it and throwing up again. Apparently it started before we came over and actually ran people off. I missed the first heave when we arrived and looked just in time to see him diving in. As my eyes searched for somewhere to land, I found a mom and baby pair. Aww. Except the mom was producing her own food, too. I thought at first she was fondling herself (we once saw a monkey take care of himself at the Albuquerque Zoo so graphically it still makes me blush), but then realized she was putting her hand to her mouth after. The one guy liked puke; she preferred to nibble poop. And wash it down with her own breastmilk.

Adam had just been commenting to a zoo employee how amazingly alike apes and humans are. And granted, life with a 3-year-old is sometimes pretty skeevy.

But yuck.

My Mac just said to me: "It's not my fault ... " Seriously. It continued on, but I'm listening to Ben Folds and couldn't really hear it.

It reads error messages to me if they're up on the screen too long, usually something like, "HP LaserJet4500N is out of paper" or "Insert Disc #5 from the Big Box of Art." So I didn't pay much attention when it started talking. By the time I realized what it was saying, though, it was too late.

Now I'll never know what it did wrong.