I’ve been cleaning out Lucy’s room. A brief inventory tells it all. What I found:

Detritus from the plastic tide constantly battering our shore. News: we are losing to the tide. I found myself picking up tiny pieces of plastic asking, “What IS this?” A bolt from the space shuttle? A prized gem? The one little thingie that fits into the other thingie? I have several Ikea containers of items for which I couldn’t answer that question. If in the next three weeks, nothing collapses and no fits are thrown, they’re gone.

Several caches of acorns and pecans. Is she a squirrel? Is it wartime? Are we not feeding her enough?

Approximately 1,327 stickers. About 1% of which were adhered to inappropriate surfaces.

Three containers of Scotch tape. This in house with a child who is always either asking 1) “Can I watch TV?” or 2) “Where is the tape?” Where IS the damn tape? Oh, it’s in your room.

Those lost socks. Luckily, she’s down with the non-matching-socks fashion statement.

Oh, the rocks. So many rocks. And shells. And even another dang bone (smallish — a deer foot, maybe?), despite my blanket ban on any new bones coming into this house. She’s a freaking archaeologist.

Trash. Really, this is a whole category of stuff ranging from gum wrappers to popsicle sticks (used, people, not the kind intended for crafts) to cardboard of any kind. I hate to stifle a burgeoning artist whose primary medium is the found, but ew. One must draw a line. Mine is the UNWASHED CUP used as part of baseball stadium model.

Necklaces, bracelets, makeup brushes, tubes of lip balm. All of which are MINE. Finding my lost stuff in her nest is both annoying and sweet. I choose to think of these stashes as little altars to mom.

The starts of many stories. I have to confess to saving choice pieces of paper — any artifact or memory that could be filed away.

We’re not done by a long shot, but at least no one from TLC (or CPS) is coming.

p.s. PLEASE, don’t buy her anything. I will pay you not to.

The past few weeks have been a test of my relationship-maintenance skills. I have failed. Any of you who rely on this blog to know what in the world we’re doing, what can I say but “I’m sorry.” For those of you who actually picked up the phone to call (and got no response), I am extra sorry.

All is good here is Lucyandmiloland. Nothing new but the usual May marathon of end-of-year events and school holidays. Plus I was on a massive work deadline counting down to seven days in New York: fun-filled professional development + many good meals. While I pretended to be very important, Jason held down the fort at home. Miraculously, laundry and homework and piano lessons got done.

Ed. note: Jason, upon reading this post, rolled his eyes at the word “miraculously.”

… that the closest living relative of the manatee is the elephant?

…that “Do” (as in “Doe a Deer”) is the note C? And that Lucy can sing each note nearly perfectly before playing it on the piano? (And that maybe I only think she’s playing them nearly perfectly because I am a little tone deaf?)

…that the treble clef is a G clef and the bass clef is an F clef? And that there are some others, but we don’t need to know them for piano right now? And, look, this line that goes up and down? That’s a measure.

…that pinnipeds are wing-footed mammals (seals, walruses, sea lions, you know)?

Confession: all the above was news to me. Mind is reeling from all I learned during piano lesson (Jason normally handles this) and all the discussion leading up to and after today’s  Sea World visit.

Let’s be clear: Jason will not be free of me until I am dead.

That said, let’s hear it for occasional single parenting. Logistically, it sucks (may I never know how much). But there are moments when being alone with your kids is so much easy than managing them together.

With Lucy, it’s all about shooting the gap. Any difference of opinion or lack of paying attention between me and Jason = advantage Lucy. There’s a whole list of classic Lu maneuvers that read like chess moves or football plays (the “Mom Promised!” Opening, the “But I’m Starving” Gambit, the “Dad Said It Was Okay” Defense). The two of us are no match for one of her.

With Milo, it’s simpler. He likes Jason better than me and whines and cries for Dada if Dada is anywhere in the house, making it impossible for me to do anything for him. If Dada is not home, Milo might go to the door and ask “Dada?” once in a while, but is largely happy with me. (P.S. Milo, remember how I gave birth to you drug-free, and NOT on the side of Mopac? You’re welcome.)

I enjoyed my evening alone with the kids. Here’s hoping Jason enjoys the FIVE DAYS I am about to unleash on him next week.

Be brave and behave. That’s what Jason says to Lucy when he sends her into the world. It’s good advice, words I’ve tried to follow during some of the recent most comically hard days of my professional life.

Confession: I’m not a public speaker. I’m great in a meeting. A cocktail party. Fourteenth row of an airplane. Any kind of conversation? I’m your girl. But a straight-up, canned presentation in front of a big audience? Not so much. To my continued surprise, I am a reluctant public speaker.

So recently, when I overcame that hesitation and agreed to be one of faces/voices of something I’ve been working on, I thought: Be brave.

And I was. I presented the first part of my section and I was okay — warming up, a little hesitant, not my best, but getting there. Right before it was my turn again, I took a quick bathroom break, and as I was returning, I threw a hello over my shoulder to one of the participants who was also headed back in and WHAM. I walked straight into the egde of a metal door frame. With my forehead.

I returned to the bathroom, seeing stars, and looked in the mirror to find a smallish, profusely bleeding gash and a rising goose egg IN THE MIDDLE OF MY FOREHEAD. I think to myself: “Is this really happening? Am I in a sitcom?”

Colleagues and helpers rushed into the bathroom. There was discussion of ice, stitches, a substitute presenter. But I decided, I am in New York. This is my Broadway moment. THE SHOW MUST GO ON.

Also, faced with possible concussion, facial scar and deep wound to pride, I was no longer nervous. Was this all a dramatic ruse to distract from my public speaking fear?

I took a deep breath, and assumed my place in front of the room — paper towels pressed to my forehead (you know how headwounds tend to bleed so dramatically?) — and said:

“Lest you think I’m so nervous that I am literally sweating blood, I have to confess to a Lucille Ball moment I had right as I was walking in…”

I was brave. And it was fine. Maybe people even liked me more upon seeing this clear display of my humanity. And as for the “behave” part of Jason’s advice, I think we can safely translate that into being safe. Next time, I will behave and wear a helmet.