As we get more mature

This evening my husband is working late in preparation of taking a little time off to visit family for Easter.

The dinner table degenerated into some seriously girly silliness. (Oxymorons notwithstanding.)

In the absence of Daddy, and in hopeful anticipation of a peaceful bedtime, I was in the Zone. The peace-be-with-me Zone. The you-can't-phase-Mommy Zone.

Approximately 15 toddler bathroom "emergencies" during dinner? The Zone. Dropped garlic bread? The Zone. Spaghetti slurping contest? The Zone.

Honestly.

Laura, 2, and I returned from potty training trip number 15 to hear Sarah,9, trumpeting that she would always be the faster slurper. Some deep inner calm borne of Calgon dreams and International Coffee hopes caused me to reassure Grace, 6, that she'd be a faster slurper by the time she turns 9.

Sarah, who fully owns the serenity I only sometimes borrow from overpriced products and deep-breathing techniques, countered: "Oh, no, I'll be 12 by then and even faster."

Grace, quick thinking: "But when I'm 60 I'll surely beat you!"

I'm going to need a lot of Calgon.