Envelope. PLEASE.

To celebrate our nine year anniversary, Lori and I took off for a weekend in Chicago. It was great. Good food, some shopping, a couples massage, Avett Brothers, some shopping, and spending money like we didn't have anything better to do with our money (we do). The BEST part of the weekend was that our kids were sick the whole time we were gone. This was great for two reasons: a) they were sick while we were gone and b) their babysitter, my mother-in-law, is a nurse. She LOVES taking care of people. Our kids healthy are hard to keep up with. When the kids are sick they are pretty mellow and cuddly. This was perfect for Lori's mom. We had it planned perfectly--we'd arrive home, and everyone would be on the mend, and a great weekend would get even greater. We caught the train back to town, arrived home at 6pm on Monday evening, and walked through the front door to find three happy and excited little kids. The house was REALLY clean, the kids were REALLY healthy, and we each did a pair of double fist pumps in our heads (thanks Maggie). Kids were in bed by 7:30 and we follwed suit by 9:00. As we were drifting off to sleep, Ava started to make some noise. The noise grew to crying. And then to all out frantic screaming. I went in, got her settled down, and returned to bed. Screaming 2 minutes later. Lori went in. To no avail. There was no fever, no coughing, no explanation. Then, just as Ava tilted her head back to perfectly position herself for an animalistic yelp (think wolf howl or hippo yawn) we saw them. Two molars, jutting through like two middle-fingered-shaped-rocks bursting rudely through the fertile Nebraskan soil. It looked like it hurt. Bad. Luckily, we got her settled down and back to sleep despite the knifelike portrusions. 20 minutes later, a thud came from Ava's room. Thuds coming from Ava's room aren't that uncommon; she typically throws all of her books out of the crib when she's frustrated. However, the thud on this night either came from a hard back edition of Atlas Shrugged, or Ava had thrown herself out of the crib. Ava had thrown herself out of the crib. We ran into the room ready to find Ava limp on the floor, but no, there she stood, like a victorious gladiator...standing and looking straight at us. Dazed, yes. But she was standing. Ava is in the 2nd percentile in most categories that pediatricians concern themselves with, but she is in the 105th percentile in the only category that matters (put Ava in a room with 100 other 17 month olds, and she will kick all their asses within 5 minutes. 100 + 5 = 105th percentile). I wanted an award for that night of parenthood. We deserved something. The weekend was planned too perfectly for it to end with defeat at the hands of a sleepless 1 year old UFC fighter. But I suppose there are no awards. The award is the moments when we enjoy anonymity, then brace ourselves for the natural slide back into reality where we still have bills, kids still have teeth and sleepless nights, and the bed still isn't made by an unknown third party with a key to our room.