Here is an updated description of the living beings in my life.

Me: See how I put myself first? You can’t spell F-A-M-I-L-Y without an I, right? I’m a 47-year-old married woman, mother to three internationally adopted children who kick my ass every day. I teach a little journalism on the side. I’m a fitness trainer; I specialize in teaching boxing. And I write – I write this blog, I write stories, I write notes, I occasionally write college essays for kids I like. KIDDING! Or not. But don’t bombard me, people. I love Little House on the Prairie reruns and that song Brandy. (You’re a fine girl, what a goooood wife, you would be!) I live in a Florida beach town and love salmon, wine and crunchy salads. I take anti-depressants to keep me anti-depressed. I sometimes have illusions of grandeur that propel me to the forefront of America’s 21st century female writers of note. Then I blow off writing to watch So You Think You Can Dance and the vision dissolves. I have a tattoo.

Hot Firefighter Husband: We met as journalists more than 20 years ago, but after a decade or so he had a midlife crisis and became a firefighter. He loves politics, surfing, tequila and me. He can recite sports statistics dating back to 1966, and has a clean floor fetish. He thinks we’re going to retire to New York City, but that’s not going to happen. He thinks Ann Curry is unctuous. If I never changed the sheets on our bed again, he wouldn’t notice. He shaves his chest.

The Diva:
My 9-year-old darling angel princess perfect baby girl was born in Vietnam in 2001, and came home to live with us forever at six months old. She’s 9. She loves Taylor Swift (duh!), American Idol (double duh!) and shopping (Yahoo!), and eats tiny birdlike servings of noodles, popcorn and peanut butter every single day. She thinks sandwiches, as a general concept, are gross. When she grows up she’s going to be a rock star, a dance teacher, a writer and a mother. She’s learning to surf and do a back handspring, and loves those new pretzel M&Ms. But who doesn’t?

The Pterodactyl: My 6-year-old tick who would prefer to be surgically attached to me. He was born in Guatemala in 2004 and came home at six months old. He knows the superpowers associated with most Pokemon, likes to call people diarrhea-head, and shows potential as a brilliantly deranged art prodigy. He has exhibited anger by cutting the straps off my flip flops or breaking the back windshield wiper off the Motorized Landfill. He once used Scotch tape to repair a sapling we had cut down; he likes hot dogs for breakfast and drinks a half-gallon of orange juice a day. He blinks his eyes really hard when his feelings are hurt. The arrival of his baby sister pretty much ruined his life. He tells her she has big boobs.