“Look at. Look at. Look at. LOOK AT, Mommy.”

Over and over. Like a broken record. A needle caught in a groove. 1200 bpm wpm (words per minute)

Some days it’s certainly warranted. With these cool, exotic things.

Other times, it’s a drop of toothpaste on the sink. A fleck of lint on my collar.

“What’s that? What’s that? WHAT’S THAT, Mommy?” It goes on until every thought in my head is erased, and I’ve put my keys away in the fridge.

These are our days with Milo.

But he’s not the only one. Someone else has been watching me. He’s looking at how many pounds I weigh. He considers my age and counts my follicles. He’s the doctor who prods the flesh between my legs. Magnifies the dark empty space of my uterus over a TV screen. He’s suggested additional ultrasounds. More injectable drugs. We are not home free.

But I’ll do it. Not because I’m desperate for another life. Not because 2 + 2 equals the quintessential family of four. This is a feeling I can’t shake. Like pre-destination. Like Calvinism. And this little he/or she is choosing me.

But I realize that’s a little heavy for a Tuesday.

So I’ve got to tell you, there’s someone else watching me too.

It’s the eyes of a hacker.

Apparently, according to Karen Katz, the CEO of Neiman Marcus – my account with them may have been compromised. And yet, I DON’T HAVE A NEIMAN MARCUS ACCOUNT. [Are you nuts? That’s the gateway card to financial catastrophe.] But the letter from Karen Katz was addressed to me, and sent to my home address.

Not to mention, it came on Thursday, the same day a girl slammed into my bumper at a red light. The impact was so sudden, it knocked my car out of gear. Made my head snap over the wheel. [And strangely we are both okay with only minor knicks.}

Dear universe, if you’re listening today – quit watching me. Quit running into me.

Let me fly under the radar for a bit, and make a splash when I’m ready.

Like Richard Sherman. Like orchid paisley pants.

Got it???