"Show me what's in your hands, missy." My three-year-old was standing in front of me, belly pooched out as she hid the contraband behind her back.

"What? Silly Mommy!" A nice try, but I am on to her.

"What is that behind your back?"

"I'm just patting my butt."

Uh huh. "Can you spin in a circle?" I'm going to outsmart this kid of mine.

"Well..." Her eyes are twinkling and she pirouettes for me, showing off the two magic markers she has shoved down the back of her diaper.

I sweep her up in to my arms, and remove the pens.

"My tail! My tail!" She goes limp, wailing over her lost treasure, while I silently congratulate myself on averting a Mr. Clean Eraser moment.

I'm typing this entry with my arms wrapped around my youngest's torso. She's leaning on my chest, her nose nuzzled under my chin. I could just put her down, I suppose. Oh, wait.

No. I can't.

It seems that we have reached a new 'thing' - me and this three-year-old monkey girl of mine. When I sent her sister and brother off to school in August, I figured that she might be a little bored without her siblings. Actually, she seems delighted that she has all the toys and space to herself. And me. She has me, too.

I'll admit, half of me is thrilled to death that she is so devoted, so possessive of me. The other half is a little bummed. I mean, she's all but given up naps, spoiling any 'free' time I might steal during the day. She trots around at my heels, observing every step of my day. She is eager to participate, and barring that, delighted to interrupt any workflow that may be happening. She will not peacefully pass the hours until her siblings return. No, she must express herself. Her will must be done, and I am the chosen handmaiden.

We do have hours where she is content to play quietly. I am eternally grateful for those hours. LIke the day she camped out on a stack of lawn chairs with a pair of binoculars for hours, playing lifeguard. That was a great time for both of us. Or the time she hid beside my bed all morning, being a bear in a cave. I gave that game a 10.

I am torn, because I feel like a bad mother of one toddler. I've always had a herd of them around, willing and able to amuse each other. Now, I find myself in the glare of a three-year-old's high beams, and I've done all the same dances over and over. She's sitting there, hands on her hips, waiting for the next song to start, and I'm thinking that aside from shoving sparklers into my bra and doing a one armed handstand, I've pretty much done the whole routine.

I know I could think about preschool - a couple hours, a couple days a week would be great for her, I suppose. It feels like defeat to me to admit that maybe I'm not one hundred percent loving spending time alone with my youngest, my last baby, my toddler who is growing like a weed and rapidly leaving the baby years behind. I feel like I should be drinking it all in, memorizing every scrap of who she is now.

I feel guilty for wanting me time. I want to give my children my undivided attention when they speak. I just wish they would take a breath every now and then. I want to learn who they are. And I want to show them who I am. Now, if I could just figure that part out.

For now, I'm just typing around the soft form of my daughter, who likes to pull my ear, and rest her cheek on my cheek while she's sucking her thumb. She smells like lemons tonight, a result of a late afternoon lemon-tree raid in the backyard. I have a sand pail full of half-ripened lemons at my feet, and a demand for lemonade to fulfill. Cliches come to life around here. I'm literally making lemonade from greenish lemons, yanked prematurely from their stems by my wild-haired toddler.

There's a poem in there somewhere.