Once upon a time, there was a little girl who wanted to work on a Navy submarine when she grew up.

“I’m sorry,” said her mother. “But that’s a man’s job. Women aren’t allowed to work on submarines. Maybe you could be an astronaut, or a firefighter, or a scientist instead?”

But that was yesterday. Today, the U.S. Navy announced that it is ready to lift the ban on women in submarines and that the modifications necessary for the subs to accommodate both sexes are a factor, but “not insurmountable.”

Kudos to the U.S. Navy. As a mother of daughters, I celebrate every time a hurdle is kicked down that might block their way in the future. Now, when we tell our daughters that they can be anything they want to be, we’re one step closer to actually meaning it. As long as they don’t say “Priest.”

A couple of months ago, someone tried to break into our house in the middle of the night. As the rest of the family slept like logs, I awoke at 3:00 a.m. to the sound of someone trying to get in the front door.

Long story short, he was arrested with no real damage done. Except, of course, for the fact that I haven’t slept much since.

Every creek of our old home wakes me up; sure that someone is on the stairs, in one of the girl’s bedrooms, or lurking behind a dark corner.  Of course, even after I get up to check, it’s hard to get back to sleep, so lately I’ve been spending a good chunk of time lying in bed at night exercising my imagination.

We took some simple steps to beef up our security – you know, double- and triple-checking the locks on the doors before bed, actually turning on the security system at night, buying an aluminum baseball bat. 

And then, one beautiful day last week, a package arrived in the mail. Hubby said it was a gift for me, but I should open it after the girls went to bed. Turns out, the next person who tries to break into our house is in for a real shock, because in the box was my very own stun gun! 

Let me tell you, nothing makes a girl feel secure like 200,000 volts of electricity popping and zapping in her hot little hands. The pepper spray loaded in the handle is the icing on the cake.

For me, it’s the perfect solution. I feel empowered to do some real damage if I ever have to face-off against and intruder, but I know it won’t kill anyone if  (God forbid) the kids ever find its hiding place, unlock the safety and decide to give it a go. 

Now if you’ll excuse me, I have some sleep to catch up on.

My hubby and I probably don’t go on as many dates as we should. We both work a lot, and when we’re not working we prefer to hang out as a four-some with the girls. But for about two weeks, last Friday had been dubbed as a date night. We picked the restaurant, we lined up Nana to watch the girls and we put it on the calendar in ink. 

Then the blizzard blew in and dropped about a foot of wet, heavy snow on us. We decided to venture out, but the roads were terrible. The smart people stayed home, but we could not be stopped.

On the way to Nana’s, big-sister piped up from the back seat that her tummy hurt, then barfed all over herself, the car seat, and me. Hubby whipped the car into the nearest parking lot: Kentucky Fried Chicken. I ushered her through the blizzard and into the bathroom to clean her up and assess the damage while hubby cleaned the stinky, vomit-soaked car seat with diaper wipes. 

We told ourselves that she had probably just eaten something that disagreed with her and slid across the parking lot to Target for a quick change of clothes for the two of us and a package of disinfectant wipes. 

We wore our new, clean clothes out of the store and pressed on, dropping the girls of with an agreeable Nana, and continuing on only to discover that our restaurant was gone! At some point in the last three years, they tore it down and no one bothered to tell us. The nerve.

By now it was quite clear that we should have stayed home. The universe was conspiring against us, but we weren’t about to turn back now. We opted for the closest bar, which happened to serve up a tasty burrito, and had ourselves a meal with some adult beverages and adult conversation.

It was great, but by the time we got back for the girls it was getting late and they were tired. In no time flat, I was back in the car listening to two crying daughters and a song about Little Jack Horner.

The date part of the night was great, but we’re still getting used to the fact that bad weather, sick kids and a changing restaurant scene are all part of our new “normal” as parents. Don’t get me wrong, I love it. But it’s sure not as easy as the old, DINK normal, is it?

Michelle Obama is an inspiration to me. I’m not talking about her newfound international acclaim, her sense of style, or even her beautiful family. Oh, no. I’m talking about her vegetable garden.

That, and the fact that my friend who owns an Ace Hardware told me that vegetable seed sales are up 300% from last year, got me thinking that planting a vegetable garden with the girls would be a fun project. 

The plan was for the girls - and by girls I mean the three-year old, since the baby can’t even walk yet - to pick out the vegetables and help me plant them, care for them, harvest them and, eventually, eat them. 

As the snow fell and wind blew outside, we put Sheryl Crow on the kitchen speakers and set up all of our supplies on the island – seed packets of corn, green beans, carrots, two kinds of lettuce, and three indoor greenhouse containers full of peat pellets.

But these things never turn out as Rockwell-esque as I imagine them.

Just as we settled in, the plumbers showed up to fix the backed up drain in the kitchen sink. Which was great, really, since the sink was full of water and everything we had put down the garbage disposal recently. So they traipsed past us, spreading out their tools and turning on their loud pipe cleaner-outer-thingy.

“Helper” daughter spilled the watering can, got tired of pushing the seeds into the peat after trying it once and decided to eat the seeds instead. (If you’re a pediatrician and I should be worried about corn stalks growing out her ears, please leave a comment). The baby crawled off to play in the toilet.

At the same time, I remembered what corn stalks look like. Growing up in Iowa, I know all too well that when you get up close, corn stalks are tall, ugly and messy. Not exactly the look I’m going for in what, until now, has been my flower garden.

What was I thinking?

And then, just as I said to my husband “I have a feeling I’m going to regret this,” the three year old, with her dirty hands, dirty face and soaking wet pink leotard, leaned over, put her head on my chest and said, “Mommy, you’re my best friend.” 

Then I knew, there is absolutely, positively no way I am going to regret this. So what if the kitchen is a disaster, the kids are wet and messy, and the corn doesn’t look good next to the yarrow? I was missing the whole point – we were all having fun and making a mess together.  It’s about the journey, right?

So I went straight out and bought the supplies for next weekend’s project – dyeing Easter eggs!

A couple years ago, my grandparents gave my daughter a copy of the book “We Help Mommy.” You know, the one from 1959 starring darling little Martha and Bobby as mommy’s biggest helpers?

I was thrilled! I loved “We Help Mommy” as a little girl, and as a newish mom I was so excited to share it with her. I was giddy with excitement about the bonding in store for the two of us.

And then we read it.

How had I managed to forget what this book was about? Martha and Bobby “help” mommy all day as she makes the beds, cleans the house, does the laundry, buys the groceries and prepares the food. Roll, pat. Roll, pat. Making a treat for daddy.

No kidding, my husband was laughing out loud watching my wheels turn as I turned each page. Was this really one of my favorite books as a child? Me, who married daddy because he gets right in there and makes the beds, cleans the house, does the laundry, buys the groceries and prepares the food next to me? How did this happen?

My daughter loved it – “Again!” she said, over and over.

And you know what? I loved it too. Ok, so it’s not quite the way things run around here, but I figure I can start to teach her to be an independent thinker by letting her choose her own books. I love that this thoughtful gift came from her great grandparents, I love that it’s 50 years old, and most of all I love having her crawl in my lap to read a book that I used to read with my mom.

The next time we visited my parents, she pulled open the drawer full of books and out spilled my copy – old, worn and frayed on the corners. Just like the rest of my favorite books.