Here's my horn. I'm tootin' it.

The universe conspired against me the other day, as I received a comment on a previous post that said, "You've been selected to receive a blog award! See my latest post at securityville.blogspot.com for details." And when I attempted to go to Securityville (a blog I follow) to read said post, my cable and internet went out.

For five hours.

"But wait!" you say. "Don't you have an iPhone?" Yes, I do, my internet friends. But I neglected to turn off my WiFi, and so no pages would load there either. 

It was not my best moment.

Anyway, when the world finally came back to find me in the form of repaired cable and internet access, I was touched to see that Shorty (Securityville's author) had selected me to receive the Smile Award (Shorty, thank you very much for the compliment). It's a blog award created by a blogger to share with other writers who meet certain criteria. As an award recipient, I'm obligated to post them here.

The characteristics that the recipient of this award must have are: must display a cheerful disposition, must love one another, must make mistakes, must learn from others, must be a positive contributor to the blog world, must love life, and must love kids.

Since I've accepted this award, there are rules I must follow as well: must link back to the creator, must post these rules, must choose five new people to receive this award who fit the characteristics above, must post the characteristics needed to qualify for the award, must create a post sharing your win with others, and must thank the giver.

My favorite thing about being selected for this award is that I get to pass it on. Without further ado, here's who I'd like to recognize, in no particular order:

• The super-talented married yoshimi at Everything Looks Better When You Rock a Lamp. Married yoshimi is not only talented and smart, but kind and generous and giving, and her posts inspire me to live a more well-informed, disciplined life of service. 
• My dear girlfriend at Still Have Sand in My Shoes. This woman is living a courageous life filled with newfound independence, making decisions for herself in a way I admire deeply.
• The amazing Sarah at SwimBikeRunSarah. I've known Sarah since college and I really thought back then that she couldn't get any cooler. Well, try this on for size: She was inspired by someone she knew suffering from a tough medical condition, and so in that family's honor, she trained to become a triathlete and turned in some fantastic performances. Plus, one of her latest posts is of how she climbed Mt. St. Helens. Let me repeat that. SHE CLIMBED A VOLCANO. ROCK IT, SARAH.
• Heather Armstrong at dooce.com. Heather doesn't actually know me at all. But her blog is one of the bright spots in my day. She's won more prominent blog awards than this one, to be sure, but her honesty and her sincerity and sense of humor are lights to me. In particular, Heather's frank and open disclosure about her family life (including her struggle with postpartum depression) has helped me through some tough times (more on that in later posts). 
• Em at emlocke.com. I know Em through her delightful blog, and found her through a mutual acquaintance. And I consider myself lucky that I stumbled across her writing. She's smart and funny and real, and I always look forward to her posts. 

So ladies -- thank you. You've all taught me a great deal about what it means to be a powerful writer and a strong woman. Here's to the spirit of the Smile Award.

And let's all keep writing.

Move over, Wonder Woman.

Superpowers I have obtained since becoming a mom:

• Ability to always know where the keys are
• Ability to survive on interrupted sleep (at a level known, up till now, only by torture victims)
• Ability to make even boxed macaroni and cheese into something remotely healthy by sneaking in green peas (to which husband exclaimed, "You RUINED it!")
• Ability to never let anyone in the family run out of clean underwear
• Ability to not laugh when boy waits till I get the spoonful of squash right to his lips, then blows a tremendous raspberry.

Superpowers I still need to develop:

• Ability to deal with geckos (there is a TEEMING COLONY of them outside our front door)
• Ability to fake being pulled together on days following rough nights
• Ability to whip up dinner from whatever's in the pantry, like a kitchen MacGuyver
• Ability to display perfect patience when boy pulls my hair, scratches my neck, gooses my upper arm or bites me YET AGAIN
• Ability to clip and remember to use coupons at the grocery store, plus keep track of double- and triple-coupon days and sale flyers

Even though I should be sleeping

Sometimes, deep in the quiet night, with the darkness wrapped around us like a blanket, I can feel boy's heartbeat against my stomach while he nurses. In the sleep-deprived fog of those times, I always wonder for a second if I'm actually holding him, or if he's still waiting to be born -- his thumping heart feels so much like the kicks I knew of him before he came to me. And I have to tell myself that it's those times that are the dream now, and the little man I'm cuddling in the night is what's real.

Before I lay him back in his crib, I always look down reflexively to see if he's sleeping. I say, "reflexively" because I can rarely actually see his eyes in the dark. I've found that in order to really see him during those moments, I have to look away from him. Something about the rods and cones of the eyes, I can never remember which one it is that helps you see in low light, but the point is, I see him better by looking away.

I wonder, now that he's almost nine months old, if the same holds true for our daily life. This time with him is the best time I have known -- watching him grow and change and learn is a collection of miracles that are alternately gentle and powerful. And yet, because my sight is always filled with boy, I wonder if I'm seeing all of him. Maybe, from time to time, it would be good for both him and me if I ran an errand without him, spent an hour by myself browsing books at Barnes and Noble, went to get my hair cut, ran to the dry cleaners with an empty car seat in the back. From day one, being boy's mom has meant being with him almost constantly -- he's not one to let you go on a coffee break, he's just not that kind of kid. And I don't mean "just about all the time during waking hours" -- I mean that from the start, he wailed when you put him down. He never did actually sleep in a bassinet or cradle -- those first few months, he slept in our arms, in bed with us. He's what I've come to call a high-touch baby -- just needs and craves that contact. And so from the instant we brought him home, there have been very few seconds when he wasn't literally touching me.

I thank God for these months and days -- for the chance to be fully present in what it means to be THIS mother to THIS boy. I am so grateful for the intense connection that boy and I have -- we need each other in a way that seems super-saturated in every aspect -- if it were a spectrum of color, our need for each other, it would have tenfold the colors that a rainbow has, and they'd be a hundred times as vivid. Because even when it's inconvenient -- even when I'm cataloging his sleep and I see that it's 12:20 a.m. and I've already nursed him back to sleep five times since I put him down at 7 -- even when I can't leave the room without instantaneous and panicked crying on his part -- even when I find myself at home on Friday and Saturday nights when other couples with kids have found a way to take an evening for themselves -- I know that I'll blink, and this season will be behind me, and I will mourn these days. 

Someday boy will read these entries, and he will be aghast. He'll be chagrined that I spoke so openly of how in love with him I am. He'll be embarrassed that I called him "beautiful," that I gushed so unreservedly about the tiniest aspect of his being -- his eyelashes and the way they lay against his cheek when he's looking down at his toys, or the dimple at the top of each chubby thigh. That will be the first someday. The someday I await is the one in which he gazes at his own child through blurry eyes, and remembers these posts.

Someday, he will say, "Yes. Yes, I know."

You can probably tell I've never seen an entire episode of American Idol.

Dear Daughtry,

Now, see? Right off the bat, right off the SALUTATION, I'm pissed. Daughtry. Is it your last name, or are you a one-name person, a la Cher? The first name Chris sticks in my head, so maybe I should have addressed this as "Dear Mr. Daughtry," but I really don't care enough even to Google you. Besides, this is how you appear when your "music" plays on XM Radio, so just Daughtry it is. 

(You should know, before I get down to it, that I'm the kind of person who soaks up lyrics without trying. So maybe this isn't completely your fault, but whatever -- that's about as generous as I'm going to get.)

My basic question is, do you speak English? Because the lyrics of one of your "songs" would suggest otherwise. Every time "Home" comes on the radio, I feel like someone's locked me in a car, in which they've tied down the steering wheel and floored the accelerator pedal: I know what's ahead of me, but I can't do a damn thing to avoid it. The song for me is one dark tunnel, and the wall at the end of it goes like this:

Be careful what you wish for

'Cause you just might get it all

You just might get it all

And then some you don't want.

Hm. Allow me to break this down for you, Mr. Just Daughtry.

Be careful what you wish for ...

Ok, a little trite, but so far, I'm getting it. This phrase is one anyone has heard before, and we grasp the gist of it -- you're letting us know that any desire has a flipside, one that may have dark implications. I got you, Just Daughtry. Let's move on.

... 'Cause you just might get it all ...

Oh, ugh. You spelled it all out. See, even in the second line of this four-line disaster, the mystery's gone. If only that were the major crime. 

... You just might get it all ...

Aaaaaand you felt compelled to make SURE we knew the mystery was gone. So far, you've offered a mildly-worded warning that asked us to use our brains (the same brains we'd need to actually recognize the dark side of our deepest desires, which is what you're warning us about), and then you've made it completely unnecessary for us to think at all. Which means maybe now we won't be heeding your first-line advice. Not so much well-played, there. But the kicker is yet to come.

... And then some you don't want.

Really? REALLY? Because you'd pretty much already told us that. And by stating it right out in the open like this, I don't know whether you've given me a double-negative of a warning that's just turned out to be a not-warning (whatever the eff that might be), or whether you really are such a blockhead that you don't REALIZE that "be careful what you wish for" contains within it EVERYTHING YOU SAID IN THE REST OF THE CHORUS, or ... what. What I'm getting at is, this chorus makes me wish my head would just implode already. And if there really was a wall at the end of the tunnel of this song, I would welcome the effing crash, just to get the twisted logic of the lyrics out of my mind.

And so, Mr. No-Just-Daughtry-Because-I-Want-To-Be-Considered-As-Cool-As-A-Lot-Of-Other-Artists-Who-Are-Out-Of-My-League-Like-Prince-And-Sting-And-Madonna, I want you to know that if you get really busy with, say, yardwork or getting your online bill payments set up and you get too busy to write something new, I'm ok with that.

And by that, I'm implying that you stink. Just in case you were wondering what I was getting at.

Boy answers your FAQs

Guest-blogger boy is back to tackle your most frequently asked questions.

Hi, sweet baby! How are you?

Fine, thanks. You?

What are you doing?

Pretty much hanging out. Being cute. Yesterday I ate a dead mosquito. But I don't get to do that every day.

Who's that baby?

Um, it's me. You already said hi. I'm figuring you already know who I am. Here's a question for you: Are you having a senior moment?

Where are you going?

Well, unless mom will finally give up the car keys, just across the room, like usual. I see a dust ball that's calling my name.

Where's baby's eyes?

What do you think I'm using to give you the death stare?

Where's baby's nose?

Right here in the middle of my face. Same as yours. And it's in working order, so please -- a mint wouldn't kill you.

Can you say, "da-da?"

Dude, are you even LISTENING? I say it all day long. Not too quick, are you?

Can you say, "ma-ma?"

Yes. Yes, I can. But I'm saving it for when I've done something really diabolical. THEN I'll whip that sucker out.

Can you wave bye-bye?

Would that make you leave any faster?

Wha?? Five more minutes. Please.

Boy's not what you'd call a champion sleeper. Don't get me wrong -- he sleeps a healthy amount each night, just not strung together. In the past, he'd usually wake up three times a night or so, maybe four. 

But over the last three days, boy's learned to: pull himself up to a standing position against our couch and in his crib; crawl up stairs; cruise around step by step holding onto furniture. They say that when babies make big leaps in motor skills, sleep can be disrupted. 

Oh, boy -- can it ever. 

This is what's noted in my sleep log for boy last night. And yes -- every minute DOES count.

Slept 6:45-7:15 p.m., nursed.

Slept 7:25-8:45, binked*.

Slept 8:55-9:37, nursed.

Slept 9:57-12:08 a.m., nursed. 

Slept 12:22-2:08, nursed.

Slept 2:20-4:20, nursed.

Slept 4:41-5:35, nursed.

Slept 5:50-6:10, nursed.

At that point, I threw in the towel and brought the kid to bed with me to catch at least an hour or two of sleep. No dice -- he was up for the day. Sure, he took two naps of an hour and fifteen minutes each, later in the day, which meant that I did too -- but the choppy nighttime sleep is tough on us both. 

I texted my husband with the following note this morning, and I meant every word:

"Boy is up. It's 6:23. I think I'm going to be a zombie for Halloween. No makeup required."

* Boy has long since rejected all forms of pacifiers. So when I say he was "binked," what I mean is he took the only kind of binky he'll accept -- mom's index finger, nail down. No kidding. Judge if you want -- it worked on car rides in the past, when we tried it out of desperation, and it worked last night. A breastfeeding mom of a teething baby can only take so much.

I, apparently, know jack.

My friend Jack found me a couple days ago. I think the last time he and I corresponded, I was still in college, or maybe it was grad school. Either way, it's been ten years or more. 

Jack and I met when we both worked at the Electrical Engineering Department where I was an undergrad. I was far from an engineering student -- rather, I was an English major lending her organizational skills to the office manager, so there was nothing glamorous about the work. Jack worked in IT, and since the Mac I used frequently needed help, we saw a great deal of each other.

It wasn't long before I realized that this IT guy knew more about good writing and literature than I could have imagined. More than that, he related to literature in a way I never had -- he lived it, knew the characters as people to pity or admire or learn from, breathed the air they did. It was Jack who taught me how to read, just by hearing how he did it, by talking to him about something he'd recently devoured.

And then there was the writing. As powerfully as any of my college professors had, Jack taught me how to get in touch with what mattered. When he shared with me the notes he jotted when inspiration struck him, I saw how truth could be pulled from the dirt, grimy and gritty, to emerge wholesome and hearty, and sustain you when you needed it. In his soft-spoken voice, there was a musical way he used words that felt real and magical at the same time.

If I have moments of strength in my writing, it is as much because of Jack as it is because of anyone or anything else I have met or done or learned. I owe him a great debt for teaching me how to relate to what I consider to be the core of my personal craft, the craft of writing. 

Thank you, Jack. I'm glad you found me again.

I totally deserve an award of some kind.

This weekend I finished the very last drop of a gallon of milk. There was no dumping-out to do before the carton was recycled -- I drank every bit of it before it passed its expiration date. 

Isn't there a prize for that? I totally thought there was.

Because that was a lot of bowls of cereal.

When 900 years old you reach, look this good you will not.

My mom's Aunt F. is almost 88 years old. She was one of something like 11 children, and grew up on a farm in rural Wisconsin. She became a school teacher, so she's still got that tough-as-nails thing going for her when she employs teacher-voice (usually when one of us tries to take her out to lunch or dinner for a change -- "No, I invited you. It's my treat and that's all there is to it."). She gets up at 5 every day, can bake a cake, whip up two batches of cookies or jar 30 quarts of pickled brussel sprouts before 10 a.m., and never skips jury duty. She gives blood at every drive, goes to church every Sunday and has never once forgotten any of the birthdays for anyone in my immediate family, not to mention what our favorite kind of cake is. In short, she's your all-purpose senior-citizen superhero.

This is what was written on the inside of my birthday card this year from Aunt F. You can tell she grew up in a time when newsy correspondence was the thing to do.

"[A friend of the family and his daughter] are here blacktopping my driveway, so I'm home bound today. I weeded in the garden this morning so I'm ready for a rest.

"It's so dry everything is drying up, even the ever-bearing raspberries. My cucumber plant is doing well. I picked over 30 cucumbers from it already.

"Love, F."

She's never once said "I love you" in so many words, but it's in every hem she ever let out of my jeans growing up, every jar of dill pickles she sends us in the summertime, every tin of home-baked and frosted and sprinkled Christmas cookies we get each December, every tear that stands in her eyes as we leave after a few weeks' vacation at her house in July. 

If, when I'm in my 80s, I can look back on my life and see a life of service even half as dedicated and giving as hers, I will be satisfied. "The greatest generation," indeed.

It's about as crazy as Esperanto

I believe that every family has a language. And I don't mean something deep, like a sub-level to every conversation, through which run undercurrents of resentment and latent rage. I literally mean a language, like pig Latin. At the very least, every family has a vocabulary. 

Inspired by one of emlocke's recent posts, in which she describes what her mother means when she says, "Love your guts," I made a list of the strange vocabulary we use around here. In no particular order:

zap: n. A shoe, but specifically, a sandal or flip-flop worn around the house. Origin: A bastardization of the Vietnamese word for sandal, spelled "dep" but pronounced "zap." Usage: "Have you seen my zaps?"

sleepy: n. A state of being inclined toward sleep. Origin: My husband. Usage: "I lost my sleepy, so I got up and blogged."

first awake: n. The block of time (usually spanning 7 a.m. to 8:30 a.m.) when boy has arisen in the morning but preceding his first nap of the day. Origin: Self-explanatory. Usage: "I'm too tired to shower tonight. Will you watch boy during first awake so I can shower then?"

ai bao (pronounced "EYE bah-oh"): [Incomplete phrase, therefore not any particular part of speech] Roughly translates to, "Who told you to ..." and therefore needs an object to complete the phrase. Origin: Vietnamese. Usage: "Bumped your head pretty hard, huh? Ai bao crawl under the coffee table and then try to sit up?"

fluppus: n. The tag sewn into the back of the neckline of shirts, indicating size and manufacturer. Origin: My mother's neighbors growing up coined this phrase. Usage: "Hold on, your fluppus is showing -- let me tuck it in."

churdle (rhymes with "turtle"): n. An adorable baby, usually one with pleasingly plump proportions or one who has just made a face or noise that is appealing or at least amusing. Origin: My husband. Usage: "Did you see boy just wrinkle his nose at you?! He's SUCH a churdle."

weegle (pronounced "WEE-juhl"): n. An adorable baby, but one who seems to be kind of a rascal in the making. Usually used after the baby in question has made a cute squinchy face. Origin: My sister- and brother-in-law created this one. Usage: "Ooooh, I'm gonna pinch those chubby cheeks, you weegle!"

fartle: n. The tiny smear of baby poo in a diaper that was thought to contain a much more impressive amount of poo (though a fartle can also surprise the changer, who did not suspect the appearance of any solid matter at all). Origin: A play on the word, "fart." Usage: "Let's change your diap -- whoops, pass me the wipes, there's a fartle here." (Editor's note: In other families of our acquaintance, the usage of the words "shart" and "shartlette" have also been identified to mean the same thing. These words have their basic origin in a movie called "Along Came Polly" starring Jennifer Aniston, Ben Stiller and Philip Seymour Hoffman, in which the Hoffman character must leave a social gathering because he has "sharted" in his shorts -- thought he was going to fart but passed more substance instead. The fact that I am explaining this baffles me to no end.)

choss (rhymes with "gross" but pronounced more quickly): n. A silent fart. Origin: Persian. Usage: "Dude, did you just choss? I didn't hear anything but it's killing me, dude. What did you eat? Are you alright? MAN."

gooze (rhymes with "ooze"): n. An audible fart. Origin: Persian. Usage: "Don't even blame that gooze on me. I heard you cut that one." (Editor's note: I live with two boys. Is there any wonder our personal family vocabulary places so much emphasis on the products of one's excretory system?)

Bob Dylan we're not

Before boy was born, my husband and I were sitting around one night*, idly discussing** the fact that we didn't remember very many nursery rhymes to sing to the pending baby. Rather than actually expend effort and Google a few to jog our memory, we elected to pen our own creations. Here's a ditty that my husband wrote. We have video footage of him singing this to boy in the hospital, and even now, when we launch into an energetic rendition of this, boy grins from ear to ear.

Monkey toes walking down the hallway

Monkey toes get hairier every day

Monkey toes pick up nickels and nuts

Monkey toes can be used to scratch butts!

You should know that this is one of the many new things I've learned about my husband since he and I embarked on this journey into parenthood together -- he's truly gifted at creating little songs and rhymes on the fly. Here's another one he's written, composed late one night when (wait for it) boy wasn't sleeping:

I love you, boy, I love you

We can take a walk and look at the moon, 'cause

I love you, boy, I love you

We sure hope you'll fall asleep soon, 'cause

We love you, boy, we love you

If you sleep till eight then it would be great, 'cause

I love you, boy, I love you

Sure didn't know you'd stay up so late, 'cause

We love you, boy, we love you ...

And so on. He's super good because he actually sings these little songs, making up melodies on the spot too. I think he might have missed his true calling.

Not to be outdone, though, I've penned a few lines myself. Inspired by my brother-in-law's declaration that boy's feet look like hamburger patties due to their satisfyingly chunky dimensions (see banner of this blog, just in case you haven't noticed), I've been reciting the following rhyme to boy as I patty-cake his chubby feet together:

Hamburger feet

Hamburger feet

Fries and a shake and 

Hamburger feet.

Medium rare

Medium rare

Cook my toodies to

Medium rare.

Ses'me seed buns

Ses'me seed buns

Serve my toes on

Ses'me seed buns.

Serve 'em up quick

Serve em up quick

Get 'em while they're hot and

Serve 'em up quick!

Boy loves it. Personally, I just hope our creative juices don't dry up by the time Number Two is born someday. Just in case the well's dry by then, do you think Number Two would believe we made up, say, "Row, row, row your boat?" Nobody sing it now, so it looks more original then.

Thanks.

* We did a lot of this before boy was born ... this now-only-fabled "sitting around."

** We did a lot of this, too, back then ... "idly discussing." Today's conversations have a much more urgent nature. "Catch him, he's tipping!" Or, "Uh-oh -- honey, where's the stain remover?" Or, "No, no, boy, not daddy's stereo receiver!"

Ah, the lengths to which we mothers will go.

Things I was told to consume in order to ensure a good milk supply for my breastfed baby:

• Fenugreek (extract or tea)
• Beer
• Ovaltine
• Plenty of water
• Rice porridge made with pigs' feet ("Not just the foot joints," says my Vietnamese grandmother helpfully. "The, you know, hoof, too.")

Things on this list I found to be helpful:

• None. (But, to be fair, I didn't try the beer idea.)

Things I actually found helpful:

• A good night's sleep.

Number of nights in the last eight months I've achieved a good night's sleep:

• Two. (Sigh.)

I was going to include a picture, but I ate the thing too fast.

Dear universe,

I thought we were friends. I thought we'd been straight with each other. My entire life, we've had an understanding: I don't predict the future, and you don't get between me and my chocolate. It was a good system. It worked. I was happy, you were happy, we both got what we wanted.

Which brings me to my main point. You've been holding out on me, universe. For the last 32 or so years, you've kept the Pizookie a secret. And even when I went out to eat a few times with my husband or a girlfriend at BJ's Brewhouse and Restaurant, and heard the word for the first time, I thought, "Ooooh, weird word. I don't want to eat it if I can't figure out from hearing it what it is." But that was your chance, universe. That was your golden opportunity to step in and set the record straight on what the Pizookie was, and what it could do for me.

But you didn't. It was only within the last couple months or so that I happened to catch sight of a magical dish at BJ's -- as a server marched past me, I caught a whiff of what could only be described as the smell of a freshly-baked cookie. And I wondered. A cookie? At a brewery and upscale eatery? How rustic. How unpretentious. How not what I expected. I couldn't possibly be smelling a warm chocolate chip cookie. No way.

But further investigation of the menu and a long discussion with the waitstaff disabused me of my erroneous assumptions. Not only was BJ's offering me a freshly-baked cookie, universe, it was offering me one served warm in a small deep-dish pizza pan, in a variety of flavors, topped with cold ice cream. And as I tried to decide which flavor to order, the waiter told me -- wonder of wonders -- "If you can't decide, ma'am, you can always choose a Pizookie that's a half-and-half, so you can sample two flavors in the same dessert."

What an embarrassment of riches, universe! What a complete genius decision on the part of the kitchen!! My waiter was sent forth with an order to bring me, immediately, a Pizookie that was half chocolate chunk cookie, half white chocolate macadamia nut cookie. Warm. From. The. Oven. 

And so he did. And as my spoon sunk through bite after bite of chewy cookie and cold, melty ice cream, my heart overflowed with both joy and sadness. For this magnificent dessert was all I could ask a dessert to be, and yet it would have to eventually end. And also, universe, I had waited 32 long years before tasting it at all. All those birthdays spent not eating Pizookies! All those formal dances in high school not ending up at the Brewhouse for "dessert only, please"! All those boyfriend break-ups in college drowned in run-of-the-mill grocery store ice cream! The tragedy of it still wrenches my heart.

That's why, universe, it will be some time before I can trust you again. For if you've kept the Pizookie from me for so long, what else have you been keeping to yourself? Mashed potatoes with butter that make you lose weight? A new form of hardcover books that, once read, give you the equivalent calorie-burn of a five-mile run? If you're keeping these things from me, universe, you can consider our friendship over.

Think long and hard about it before you betray me again.

And can I just say ...

Jim and Pam make me so happy. 

I KNEW he was going to propose.

The many faces of boy

Dear boy,

You're eight months old today, and if I've learned anything from you over the better part of a year, I've learned to try to capture every little detail about you as well as I can, because you have a way of changing the game on us nearly on a daily basis. And so I thought I'd record a few of your most recent expressions and accomplishments, because by this time next week you're likely to be driving or dating or something, and I don't want to forget anything. 

What's new with you, you ask? These days, you're sitting up, and looking pretty proud of yourself when you do. You're belly-crawling everywhere, rapidly and with great enthusiasm. You've started pulling up on objects that we put in your path. You've got two tiny (and extremely sharp) teeth right in the middle of your lower gums, which you apply to every single non-food item you can get your hands on. (Strangely enough, when we hand you actual food, you never once attempt to get it into your face. An enigma, that's what you are.) And you spend your days talking unceasingly. None of it makes sense, mind you, but you are very dedicated in your vocalizations. 

One of my favorite things about you is your incredible expressiveness. For such a little face, it showcases so many different feelings.

Your daddy claims that when you learn to talk, he's going to sit you down and ask you, "what the heck were you thinking, all those times?" I'll admit to being curious myself, but I figure all we're going to get is what's showing on the front of your head, not what's running through it, so I'll enjoy what you're willing to share. 

I know you won't remember these days. So I'll have to remember them for both of us. Here's what I wish you could keep with you, though.

• The knowledge that your daddy misses you so much while he's at work that he makes me send him pictures of you throughout any given work day. When he and I used to talk on the phone, we'd end conversations with a quick "I love you." Now, before he hangs up, he says, "I-love-you-send-pictures."
• The joy you take in simple outings. Even going to SuperTarget or the grocery store makes you so happy right now, because there's always something new to see.
• The glee with which you watch kids and cars. When we take walks around the neighborhood, I always know that seeing other kids playing will get you keyed up. You shout from your stroller, "Day! DAAAAAAAY!" as if to say, "Hey, lemme play, too!" And when cars drive past us, you always whip your head around to watch them until they're out of sight. 
• The way you have of making people smile. Whether they're strangers at the bank or your grandfather and great-grandparents, people are riveted by you and your many faces. You have brought so much light to so many people already, just in eight months. Your name means "little blessing," which your daddy and I didn't know until we'd already picked it, but it's absolutely perfect for you.

Sweet boy, your daddy and I have already taken over 1600 photographs of you in the last eight months. And I don't think a single one of them shows the same expression. I am so amazed by you, in awe of who you are. I love getting to know more of you every day, and I can't wait to see what the next month brings. 

I love you, son.

Your mommy

I'll just keep cringing alone, thanks.

In the spirit of Cringe, I dug up my old journals and read through them eagerly, trying to find something truly embarrassing to post here as an example of the melodrama of my personal hell. And really -- there was plenty. But the thing is, it's so very awful that I still can't contemplate sharing. 

What I did find, though, amidst the angst and pathos, was honesty. It was heavy and dark, and often self-indulgent, but it was real. And I found, surprisingly, that I was a better writer in college than I am now. That realization cost my pride more than a little bit. After college and grad school, I spent almost ten years as a professional writer and consultant before deciding to take my days in a new direction -- and to think that my writing actually didn't improve over that time stings. I'll rationalize it by assuming that my technical writing got really good, and my personal writing suffered from a lack of attention, and that may help me sleep tonight, but still -- ouch. 

I was particularly surprised to be reminded by my journals how angry I was. I wasted a great deal of time and energy spilling my anger onto the pages of journals, bathing the paper with sweeping passes of ink, the spiral-bound pages scored deeply with the force of my words. If I could go back to that girl and tell her anything at all, I would want her to know that all of her rage would make her suffer more than she needed to. And that if she could let go and forgive, even if she was still angry, she would be doing the lion's share of the work necessary to become truly happy. Because, after all, forgiveness isn't a choice you make one time. You make it every day -- you continue to forgive constantly, you choose it again and again. And sometimes just getting started is the hardest part.

There was a time when I felt that the quality of my personal writing was directly related to how unhappy I was, as if the formula read, discontent = inspiration. Or, misery = brilliance. I see now that that's not the case. But I can finally say, today, that even if it was -- even if I had to choose between being unhappy and a great writer, and happy and someone who could not define herself as a writer -- I'd give up the words in a heartbeat. 

It's not even a contest anymore.

Boy seeks employment

Boy's been working on his resume, apparently.

Objective: To obtain a position working for new management, as the current management and I do not see eye to eye on a variety of issues (including but not limited to night scheduling and the frequency of snack breaks).

Qualifications: Eight months of on-the-job training. 

Skills: Ability to process multiple diapers a day. Ability to bang kitchen utensils on high chair tray while eating. Ability to stop strangers in their tracks to smile and chat with me. Ability to climb over various holding facilities improvised by current management. 

Advanced skills: Highly developed sense of the location of every lamp cord, phone jack, plastic bag, dead bug, pair of shoes and dust ball in any given room. 

Skills I wish to develop: Standing, walking, speaking. Current method of locomotion (belly crawling) effective but limiting. Current methods of communication (gurgling, cooing, laughing, crying, screaming) highly attention-getting but not consistently interpreted in the correct manner.

Pay requirements: Undivided attention a must. Meals on demand preferred, but will consider scheduled meals if frequency of meals is agreeable. Organic foods only (i.e., must be personally manufactured on-site by one of the members of management, as per my current situation).

Contact information: I can be reached in my crib in the upstairs bedroom. I am only there for limited amounts of time each evening and for short bursts of time at a stretch, so advance notice is appreciated. Please see my current management, who also act as my social secretaries, to book an appointment.

I appreciate your consideration.

Do they even make baby hair gel?

As happens to many babies, boy's birth hair has mostly fallen out, to be replaced with what my husband and I refer to collectively as the "spikey mikeys" (see photo if you're curious why). The spikey mikeys are cute and fluffy and resist all attempts to be corralled. They stand up proudly, like it's Super Bowl Sunday and the national anthem is playing, and I love to try to either suppress them (they always spring upright, but in a gentle, nonconfrontational kind of way) or smooth them even higher into a little baby faux-hawk. Which has never worked either.

The other day, I noticed that there are maybe two or three hairs that are significantly longer than their peers. I figure that they're the sole survivors of the hair that boy was born with, and they've stuck it out and hung on, and so they've outpaced all the other downies on his skull. And while I know I should trim them so that they don't tickle his forehead, I can't bring myself to do it. I keep thinking I don't want to punish them for hanging in there.

And now I know what it's like to literally love every hair on somebody's head. 

One more reason why I love my mother

"Ugh."

"What?"

"Seriously, mom, I hate myself."

"Why, dear?"

"Because. Also, I didn't work out today."

"Well ... you'll work out tomorrow."

"No, I won't. I'm great at wanting and meaning to. But I suck at actually doing it. And, I ate three cookies in ten minutes."

"That's ok. They're small."

"Not that small. Those add up. And now there's only one left and it's taunting me."

"You don't have to eat it."

"I know that, mom. I know I don't have to eat it. The problem is, I want to eat it. I should put the package back in the pantry so I can't see it. But I really want it."

"Well, really ... what's the point of putting away one cookie?"

[Pause.] "I love you, mom."

Trembling with more than the cold

Irrational fears I used to have, in connection with bathrooms:

• That there was a frog or an alligator in the sewer system that would swim out and bite me on the tush.
• That any photograph of a person's face was watching me pee (I always had to turn the TV Guides over to lay on their covers).
• That there was a murderer hiding behind the shower curtain.
• That a face would suddenly appear in the darkened window, terrifying me as I showered at night.
• That there was a roach. Anywhere.

Of flesh and blood, I'm made ...

Bad habits I'll own up to:

• I usually eat the last cookie.
• Before boy was born, I was one of those annoying people who hit the snooze button.  A LOT.
• I don't always wash my face before bedtime.
• I hate flossing.
• I believe that complete stops at stop signs are for wimps. (But I always buckle up.)
• I have a lead foot.
• As many of you know, I am HORRIBLE about sending timely thank-you notes. (Sorry. That's in no way a reflection of how grateful I actually am.)
• I am completely happy to go to bed with dishes in the sink.
• I dog-ear book pages. (This is a recent development.)
• I will confess to turning on Sesame Street to amuse boy when I need to take a quick 10-minute shower. (I know. I've become that woman.)
• I am a lifelong procrastinator. (None of you who knew me in college will be surprised to hear this.)

One neurotic obsession at a time, I guess.

We bought this contraption for boy about two months ago. It's big and colorful and it required some assembly, and now we have to edge around it in our family room. Officially, it's called a jumper, and that's what it's supposed to do -- help your kid work off some steam by allowing him to jump in one place for long stretches of time, well before he can actually stand by himself. Great in theory.

In practice, however, we might as well have just called it a "stander," since that's what boy has done a great deal of. Standing. Sure, he played with the toys a bit. And yes, the music on this device is actually not quite so mind-stupefyingly annoying as the music on other ones, so, you know, score. But really, we might just as well have thrown four twenties on the floor and stood the kid on them, for all the good this thing was doing.

Which made me think: how do you teach a kid to jump? We tried putting him in it and jumping in front of him. That just made him giggle. We tried moving his little legs for him. That just made him annoyed. We tried pushing on the seat itself to make it move up and down, thinking he'd "get it" from there. That just made his neck look even wobblier than it already did. We tried exclaiming the word "jump!" helpfully and often. And I'm pretty sure that just made him confused. 

For that matter (and more importantly): how do you teach your kid anything at all? If we can't convey a simple verb like "jump" to the poor boy, what about the tougher and more abstract verbs, like "think" and "try?" And if those seem hard, how can we hope to ever communicate what kindness, compassion, thoughtfulness and grace are? 

There's nothing like having a baby to make you realize just how much you don't know. All we can do is muddle through and hope for the best. Besides, the kid shows promise. Just two days ago, he started jumping in the thing all by himself.

Maybe there's hope for all of us yet. 

Throwback toy: Nesting/stacking cups

Remember these? Boy loves 'em.

"You tryin' to sneak up on my cups?"

"Um, a little help?"

"Cups: The perfect toy during mealtimes. Four out of five babies agree!"

"If only I had the fine motor skills to stack them up myself. I usually wait for mom to do it. But she makes it tough on me when she does. After all, they're not going to knock themselves down."

Boy weighs in

Today's post is brought to you by guest-blogger: Boy. Since he's featured so prominently throughout the blog, I thought he might enjoy speaking directly to you.

My top five favorite things, ever (or, so far, anyway):

• Ceiling fans. So, they turn. Fast. And it gets all breeze-y, and my downy hair fluffs up. Plus, they make a pleasant sound that I like to impersonate (see photo of me going "hoooooooo.").
• Bath time. There's this thing I do where I take my hand and I smack the wet stuff really hard. Aaaaaaand it goes everywhere. I love that.
• Dad coming home from work. That guy knows how to play, with a capital pluh.
• When people chase me. Sometimes dad holds me and I look over his shoulder, and mom walks up behind us really fast. Gah, that kills me.
• When stuff rocks suddenly from side to side. I cannot even tell you how hilarious that is.

My top five least favorite things:

• Hats. Super-lame. Mom loves to put 'em on me, more's the pity.
• Going to bed. Dude. I LOVE PLAYING. Why is that so hard for them to get? What's so cool about sleeping, anyway? Stupid bedtime. When I grow up I'm NEVER going to bed.
• Peas. They make me gag. After a lot of gagging, I think I finally convinced mom to quit feeding them to me. However, I have a sneaking suspicion that the last time I had squash, there was a little something extra mixed in. That woman's good.
• When mom walks out of the room. Geez, I really hate that. And you'd think by now she would have picked up on it. Sometimes, she's not so quick.
• When mom cleans out my nose. Um, excuse me? Those were mine. And I wanted to keep them. Just put down that blue rubber bulb-y thing and step back, already.

Perspective

Things that, when you're sick, you swear to yourself you'll do once you get better:

• Work out
• Appreciate breathing through both nostrils
• Stop eating junk food
• Be grateful for having a job to go to
• Thank your spouse for taking care of you

Number of items on this list you actually do once recovered:

None.

Or maybe Dumbledore will loan me his Pensieve

I've been blessed with a pretty good memory. Ask me what my third grade teacher's name was (Mrs. Leach), or what the opening lyrics were to the "Perfect Strangers" theme song ("Sometimes the world looks perfect / nothing to rearrange ... "), or my least favorite opera-day on Mr. Rogers' Neighborhood was ("Bubbleland", with the opening number voiced by Francoise Clemens). While it's handy for things like Trivial Pursuit, sometimes I get the feeling that my brain's getting cluttered. There are, after all, things I'd be happy to forget, such as:

• The day of the kindergarten Christmas program, when my stick containing stapled bells suddenly became unstapled in the middle of a vigorous rendition of "Jingle Bells". With true presence of mind, I continued to shake the empty stick, but I wasn't so naive that I could ignore the chuckles of the audience members.
• The first day of second grade (at a new school) when I cleared the classroom by losing my lunch all over my desk. That's a powerful way to get yourself some privacy. And no friends.
• The time in fifth grade when I fell in the school cafeteria, right into a puddle of orange soda, which stained my white outfit for the rest of the day.
• The first day of sixth grade when I carried a full tray of cafeteria food down a crowded aisle of seated students, only to have one wave her arms at just the right (or, wrong, really) moment and knock my meal all over the place. (Happy ending -- she ended up being one of my dearest friends after that inauspicious beginning, and even occasionally reads this blog. Hey, girl, call me.)
• The lyrics to Richard Marx's "Hazard."
• Spiderman 3.
• Morning sickness.
• Everything I wore from the year 1986 through 1991.

The thing that worries me is that these and other extremely forgettable memories will infringe on the stuff I never, ever want to lose. And there are many of them.

• My gramma's voice, especially when she sang Christmas carols.
• My grampa's laugh, almost silent but with much shoulder-shaking.
• The way my mom's hugs feel like she completely enfolds you in her embrace, even now that I'm taller than she is.
• My husband's repeated whispering of the single phrase, "you're my wife" after our wedding ceremony, like it was too good to be true.
• My dad calling my husband "son" for the first time and giving him an enormous hug after we got married.
• My son's first cry, and immediately after that, the break in my husband's voice when he said, "that's our baby."
• The maniacal giggle my son gets when he's being carried, and he's looking over that person's shoulder, and you pretend you're going to get 'im.

Maybe Apple, in all their genius-ness, will come up with a way to back up my personal memory. I'd spend a lot of money on that baby.

A greeting to age 33

Dear age 33,

I like you already. Today has brought a trip to Starbucks, an afternoon spent with family and a few dear friends, my mother's homemade lasagna, TWO birthday cakes with chocolate in them (one of which was my favorite chocolate chip angel food cake), a stack of NEW BOOKS to read and several gift certificates that AREN'T to Babies'R'Us. (In other words, those little plastic talismans of retail delight are all about mommy and not baby. Not that there's anything wrong with that.)

You know how to make a good first impression. And I'm thinking you and I will get along just fine.

Sincerely,

The birthday girl

An open letter to age 32

Dear age 32,

Well, this is it -- the last night you and I will spend together. We've been together a while (almost a year, strangely enough), and before we part ways for good, I wanted to lay some things on the line.

You've given me a great deal to remember you by -- the third trimester of pregnancy, labor pains, and the birth of my son, most remarkably. On the whole, you've brought me some of the most vivid and unforgettable experiences of my life, and I'm grateful. I *will* say, though, that since the boy's arrival, you've neglected to provide me with as much sleep as I used to get from, say, ages 28 and 29. So I'm chalking that one up in the "could have been better" column, but still -- I don't mean to sound ungrateful.

Before you go, I do have one bone to pick with you. I was always given to understand that along with your arrival, I'd be getting wiser, gaining insight and knowledge heretofore reserved for the most sage women around. And I have to say -- not so much. I thought by now, I'd have a lot more figured out -- like my true professional calling, or how to perfectly balance being in the moment with planning for the future. I thought, too, that I'd use this time with you more wisely to get into what I seriously wrote in a journal to be "the best shape of my life." And, um, to put it lightly, no. Unless "soft" is a shape.

In a few key areas, then, age 32, you just didn't deliver what I thought you'd promised. You remind me of that guy I dated in grad school who wanted to give me a string of freshwater pearls for my birthday. (Let me point out, age 32, that it was his idea and not mine.) We talked about the size of the pearls I liked -- we compared freshwater with cultured pearls -- we discussed strand length. We planned out exactly the kind of accessory that would suit me and my existing wardrobe perfectly, leaning more toward Jackie O. than Barbara Bush, of course -- and on my birthday, I unwrapped not the perfect pearl necklace I had come to anticipate with guilty avarice, but a green ceramic dolphin. The guy explained he hadn't been able to find the perfect necklace after all, and nothing short would do, and really, things were kind of tough and he couldn't quite swing it right now after all ... all of which I understood very well, and was truly sympathetic to -- but I just didn't get why the hell was I getting a ceramic dolphin, then? Age 32, you know I do not collect ceramics, have no particular affinity for dolphins, and don't even consider green to be my favorite color. So I was first surprised, then confused, then disappointed and hurt -- but what did I do? I smiled and like a moron acted like it was the best damn ceramic dolphin ever. Really, I love it. No, don't feel bad -- I know exactly where I'll put it at home. 

Anyway, age 32, I digress, but the point is that you, too, promised a few things that you didn't end up coming through with. But this time around, it really is ok. Because what you delivered, you delivered in a big way, and it more than made up for the wisdom I didn't obtain and the jeans size I didn't reach. And I'll admit, too, that along with the baby's arrival, you brought me a sense of deeper connection to my family and to other mothers than I ever thought possible. Besides, I hear you and age 33 are pretty close -- and I figure you wanted to leave a few things for age 33 to give me.

So farewell, my friend. Thank you for the last painful, difficult, sleep-deprived, glorious year. Thank you for the first smile, the first feeding of rice cereal, the first time boy said "da-da." Thank you for the quiet moments spent with the two most amazing men in my life -- the boy and his daddy. Thank you for the hours we've passed laughing in delight at our family antics -- crawling on the floor, splashing in the tub, blowing bubbles on a baby's perfect belly. Thank you for the way you've made my heart feel so full that my chest is tight with joy and it's hard to breathe. 

Age 33's got a lot to live up to.

Sincerely,

The almost-birthday girl

It starts.

Today, Boy got his hands on a number of contraband items, which I had to wrestle away from him. Here's how various confrontations were resolved:

Boy crawled over to his diaper caddy and wrangled a bottle of baby lotion out of it, commencing chewing. I removed it from his hands. He crawled away and began to play with an actual toy quite happily.

Boy crawled over to the power cord for a floor lamp. I picked him up and turned him

in another direction. He crawled away, once again perfectly content.

Boy found the universal remote lying on the floor and eagerly pounced on it. I took it from him. BOY BEGAN TO SCREAM. IN ALL CAPS. It was REALLY LOUD, I tell you.

I am now outnumbered. Also, doomed. 

I mean, it's a backlit keyboard, for Pete's sake.

After he ate a sandwich and chips for dinner, my husband moved toward my new MacBook. As he reached for it, I leaped into action.

"Wait!"

"What?"

"Did you wash your hands yet?"

[Beat.] "Are you serious?"

"Well ... yeah. I mean, you had Cheetos."

"My hands are fine, honey."

"Please. Just do it."

Whether or not he actually did it is not important. What's sad is that ... I don't even do that to him when he reaches for the baby anymore. [Sigh. With a head shake.] 

And the migration continues

This post courtesy of my new MacBook Pro. (Thank you, husband!)

First an iPhone, now a MacBook ... the delight never ceases.

I'm still figuring it all out. Switching from the PC world to the Apple world is not without its pains and discomforts ... but so very TOTALLY worth it.

Bear with me. Must ... not ... stay ... up ... till ... 3 a.m. .... playing ... with ... MacBook ...

Grateful, part 2

Why mgb, married yoshimi's husband, rocks:

1. Because he's known me since I was a total dork (as opposed to the semi-dork I've become) and still wants to be friends with me.
2. Because he reads books. Like, real books. Fiction and stuff.
3. Because he married the aforementioned ms. yoshimi. She's in-freakin'-credible. And if it wasn't for him, I never would have met her.
4. Because even if it's been months since we talked, I know it's all good and we won't waste any time berating each other for not calling -- we'll just jump into the juicy stuff.
5. Because sometimes he hears songs that make him think of me, and he'll send me links to the files so I can hear them too.

Grateful, part 1

Why I love the boy:

1. Because of the way he sleeps on his tummy, with his diapered butt way up in the air.
2. Because of the way, from time to time, he'll put a tiny hand on either side of my head (grabbing one ear and one handful of hair), and try to eat my face. It's as if he, also, loves me so much he wants to consume me.
3. Because he is always, always happy to see me. And it doesn't matter if I haven't brushed my hair or if my t-shirt has strained peas on it or if I'm two weeks behind on getting my brows reshaped. He just lights up. (I'm enjoying it while it lasts.)
4. Because he is heartbreakingly beautiful.
5. Because he is mine.

Why I'm sweet on my husband:

1. Because he gets the spiders. And geckos.
2. Because he knows how much I hate being startled and has never once leapt out at me from behind a door.
3. Because he hung in there and waited. And waited. And never gave up.
4. Because sometimes, once in a while, he looks at our son and the boy's beauty makes him cry, too.
5. Because he's never once made me feel bad about myself or said anything intentionally hurtful to me in the nine years we've been together.

I have yet another blogging hero ...

... and here she is.

The posts about her daughter and her dog are my faves.

Would that I were this clever. Can I just follow this woman around and listen as gems of delicious wit fall from her lips? I heart her style.

Yet another reason I'm glad I married him: A one-act play

[Scene: A semi-lighted living room in a two-story home in the suburbs. It is 9:45 p.m. on a Wednesday. A WOMAN enters, wearing pajamas and a towel wrapped around her wet hair. She crosses the living room intending to enter the master bedroom, adjacent. Suddenly, she freezes. She slowly backtracks a good ten feet, then leans back to call up to the second floor.]

Woman: [Urgently] Honey!
Man: [Enters, and can be seen on the landing] Yes?
Woman: [With great deliberation] There. Is. A. GECKO. Under. The. Couch.
Man: ...
Woman: Come down here and GET it. Please.
Man: [With finality] Sweetie, I'm not touching a gecko. They freak me out. The way they run ... [affects a surprisingly good gecko crawling motion while standing upright] ... Gah. Yuck.
Woman: But this is precisely why I got married! So I wouldn't have to touch them!
Man: Seriously? You can't pretend it's not there?
Woman: [Thunderously] This is where YOUR SON crawls. Every day. [Switches to whining] PLEASE.
Man: [Sighs] I'm coming.

[MAN comes downstairs, having tiptoed past the doorway of a sleeping INFANT.]

Man: Where is it?
Woman: [From across the room] Under the corner section of the sectional couch.
Man: Of COURSE. It WOULD be under the hardest section to move.

[MAN retrieves a flashlight and a broom from offstage. Returning, he surveys the scene.]

Man: What sucks is that I'll have to get down at FACE-LEVEL to the thing to find it.
Woman: [With great sincerity] I love you, by the way.

[MAN gets on his belly behind the couch. A long silence ensues, during which time WOMAN climbs onto a chair to get even further away from the alleged gecko.]

Woman: Do you see it?
Man: [Looking intently ... then, suddenly] YES. [He leaps upright with alacrity.] Baby, I would love to be your knight in shining armor on this one, but I am NOT touching that thing. It's effing QUICK.
Woman: [Despairing] But what am I going to do with the baby all day tomorrow? This is where he plays most of the day! What do we do now?
Man: [Unhelpfully] I don't know.
Woman: [Thinks furiously, then says with decision] I'm calling J. [J is her youngest brother, away at college.]
Man: Wha ...? Why?
Woman: He'll have a plan.

[WOMAN whips out her iPhone and dials. YOUNGEST BROTHER answers.]

Youngest brother: Hello?
Woman: [Without preamble] I've got a problem and I need advice.
Youngest brother: [Immediately gets serious] I'm ready.
Woman: There's a gecko under the couch, and neither one of us here wants to touch it. Can you think of a way to trap it that doesn't involve touching it?
Youngest brother: YES. [He launches right in.] One of you will have to tip the couch slightly to flush it out. Then the person who's committed to catching it should take a large transparent Tupperware container and clap it over the lizard when it emerges. Then you can scoop it up with a piece of cardboard underneath and take it outside.
Woman: Right. The problem is, you see, neither one of us is really willing to commit to catching it.
Youngest brother: [Trying not to laugh] Yes, there is THAT.
Woman: Ok, we're going to try something else. I'll keep you posted.
Youngest brother: Text me later. [They hang up.]

[Back to square one, WOMAN and MAN look at each other across the room. A silent struggle takes place, an argument completely held within their shared gaze. MAN graciously surrenders first.]

Man: [Resigned] Ok, I'll tip the couch section back, but it might run toward YOU. You have to promise not to scream.
Woman. [Confidently] I can absolutely NOT promise you that.

[MAN reaches toward couch, but WOMAN's protest stops him.]

Woman: Wait!
Man: What?
Woman: What will you do when you find it?
Man: Yeah, I'm not sure yet.
Woman: But you'll have a very small window of time to decide on a course of action! We need a plan!
Man: Ok. I have a plan. Hand me that shoe by the back door.
Woman: [Aghast] No! Don't kill it!
Man: [Almost out of patience] Baby, I'm NOT TOUCHING IT. It's either kill it, or it stays where it is.
Woman: [Wages an inner war, with the combatants being her conscience and her cowardice. Cowardice wins.] Ok, FINE. But I don't like this.
[MAN shoots WOMAN an eloquent glance that clearly communicates his distinct dissatisfaction with the current state of affairs as well.]

[MAN tips up the couch section.] Do you see it?
Woman: Um, no. No, I don't s- ... CRAP. THERE IT IS. [A tiny one-and-a-half inch lizard sits quietly on the underside of the couch section.]
Man: [With great urgency] IS IT MOVING?
Woman: No. It is NOT moving.

[MAN sets the couch section down on its back, and makes his way gingerly around to get a clear shot at the reptilian victim. WOMAN gasps as he raises the shoe high. The shoe whistles through the air, delivering a quick blow to the couch. MAN straightens up.]

Woman: Did you get it?
Man: Yes.
[WOMAN clamors down from her perch to peek at the lizard.] Aw, poor thing.
Man: [!!?!?!]
Woman: I know. You're right. [Sighs with great relief] THANK YOU, honey. The sanctity of my home has been preserved. I love you SO MUCH. [They embrace. WOMAN smiles up at MAN.]
Man: [Proud of himself, and basking in the praise] Will you help me move this couch section back in place?
Woman: [Instantly retreats] Not a chance till that thing's outside.

[MAN sighs. Curtain closes as MAN cleans up the carnage and sets the room to rights.]

THE END

Starring:

WOMAN ....... Me
MAN .......... My husband
YOUNGEST BROTHER ........... J
INFANT ......... Himself

Good thing he's too young to vote.

I don't generally trust my seven-month-old son's judgment. Here's a quick run-down of his opinions ...

Things that taste better than actual food:

1. His fingers
2. My wrist
3. Carpet fuzz
4. Blanket lint
5. Strands of hair

Syllables/sounds that are preferable to "ma-ma":

1. Da-da
2. Gee
3. Ba
4. [Various tongue clicks]
5. Ts

Objects more interesting to gaze at than his mother's face:

1. Ceiling fans
2. Windows
3. Moving cars
4. Televisions
5. Tubes of diaper ointment

Items more fun to play with than toys created for that purpose:

1. Shoes
2. Plastic bags
3. Paper napkins
4. Empty water bottles
5. Stereo and TV components

Every now and then, though, he gets it right.

People he prefers to his mother, when he's scared or wants comfort, especially in the middle of the night:

1. No one
2. No one
3. No one
4. No one
5. No one.

At least I realize how ridiculous I sound.

These are first-world problem statements I've actually made or thought in the very recent past:

• "I wish this Starbucks was a drive-thru."
• "I hate that this antibiotic pill is so BIG."
• "I thought these flourescent light bulbs were supposed to last seven years! It hasn't even been two!"
• "So should we rent the 15-foot ladder again, or just buy one?"
• "Damnit, I bought fat-free Lactaid milk. I meant to buy the 2% kind."
• "This Uncrustable [frozen PB&J sandwich] is taking forever to thaw."
• "I guess it's time to do the 'pre-cleaning' before the cleaning lady gets here."

Seriously ... it's embarrassing.

I totally thought I'd get more of them.

I scored 51. You give it a try.

Any given morning

[I open the nursery door and walk in. Boy is babbling in his crib.]

Me: Good morning, son! How's baby today?
Boy: Day! Da-da-da-day-DAY! Day.
Me: Really. Hm. Interesting. What do you want to do today?
Boy: Thhhhhhh. Ts-ts-ts. BAAAAH. Bay-ba-ba!
Me: Ok, you work on that. How about we start with a diaper change?
Boy: [Indifferent silence, as he's rediscovered how delicious his toes are.]

[Diaper change commences. A struggle ensues.]

Me: Son. Son. Can you lie still so mommy can get your diaper on?
Boy: [Makes a surprisingly quick-handed swipe for, and snags, one of various toiletry items stationed near his head. Apparently mommies and daddies never learn not to store the nasal aspirator/hairbrush/tube of diaper ointment so close by.]
Me: Um, can I have that back?
Boy: [Gums the taboo item gleefully while making happy faces around the thing lodged in his mouth.]
Me: Fine, but just till I get the diaper done, then I get it back.
Boy: Ghee. Gleh.

[Boy is scooped up and carted downstairs to his play area in the family room. Shoes off (to keep the carpet clean for creeping and crawling), we sit on the floor and survey our little kingdom.]

Me: Look, son! All your toys are saying 'good morning' and are ready to play with you!
Boy: [Makes a beeline for my flip-flops at the edge of the carpet.]
Me: No, no, honey. Shoes are not for eating. How about this? [I hold up an adorable monkey toy with rattling body and squeaky head.]
Boy: Uhn. MMMMMM. [Strains to be released. I place him back on the carpet in front of another toy.]
Me: Ok, how about this instead? Look, the purple elephant will tickle you with his nose. See?!
Boy: [Glances dispassionately at the elephant in question, and then looks at me as if I'm nuts.]
Me: Um, alright. Let's sit you up in your Boppy so you can practice sitting up like a big boy.
Boy: [Is placed upright in a firm horseshoe shaped pillow, and nestled just so. He sits up for four seconds, then spots the satin tag on the side of the pillow. Heedless for the safety of his adorable face, he makes a nosedive for the floor.]
Me: Whoopsie. Careful, big guy. Here, lay on the floor, then, so you can play with the tag.
Boy: [Immediately loses interest in the aforementioned, desperately-necessary-to-his-happiness tag.]
Me: Fine, sweetie. What do YOU want to do, then?
Boy: [Affects a faraway look. From below the belt, unmistakable sounds issue forth.]
Me: [Sigh]. I figured.

In due time

When people see that you have a baby, their first two questions are as regular as clockwork. "Oh -- how old is he?" And then the inevitable, "Does he sleep through the night yet?"

I never saw that one coming. Sure, I knew people would ask about the baby's age. I knew they'd have opinions on nursing versus bottle-feeding. I knew they'd share ideas about how to cure colic. But I had no clue about the sleep thing. People really seem to care. And if your answer is "No, he's not sleeping through the night yet," they act as if that's a bad thing.

I'll admit I don't get nearly as much sleep as I used to. And I'll even go so far as to acknowledge that it would probably be really good for me to sleep more than three or four hours at a stretch. That's pretty much all I can complain about, though. My dirty little secret is that I love the nighttime feedings.

See, during the day, feedings tend to be a little rushed. We're either coming back from somewhere or on the way out the door. We're waking up to tackle tasks, or we're winding down to grab a quick nap before an afternoon appointment. And while my eyes are on my son, my mind tends to wander, visiting and revisiting my endless mental to-do lists. But nighttime's a different story.

Boy goes to bed around 7 or 7:15 each night. He's up for the first feeding around 11 or so, before I turn in. I call it a night around midnight or later, so I'm really only awakened for the second feeding. I usually hear him stirring via the monitor on my nightstand. A bit groggy, I fumble for my glasses, check the time, and head upstairs. With each step I wake up a little more, and by the time I reach the door to his room, I'm firing on all cylinders again. Within a few steps, I'm at his crib-side, and when he hears my quiet greeting ("hey, baby"), his cry instantly changes from angry or frantic to relieved -- it really does, every time, and it touches my heart to know that I can bring him comfort, that he is always glad to see me. I scoop him up and do a quick pat-down for diaper status. If it needs changing, we attend to it, but if all's well, we get a few seconds to just cuddle as we make our way in the dark to the rocking chair.

As I sink into the soft chair and settle him to start nursing, my eyes adjust to the darkness enough to see the shape his jammies make in my arms, and I can marvel one more time at how much he's grown and changed from the fragile little newborn we brought home. Nursing contentedly, boy's hands and arms settle into their usual nighttime positions -- one clutching my shirt, as if to say, "stay with me, mommy," and the other wrapped around my side, skimming across my skin, as though he needs a moment's reassurance that I'm really there. And in the peace and quiet, it's just me and my son, his warmth a perfect anchor in the darkness, the soft touch of his downy hair in the bend of my arm. There are no phones to answer, no pressing tasks to perform, nowhere I need to be but with my boy, wrapped around him in the dark, trying desperately to soak in every second of the fleeting baby-ness of him.

Within ten minutes, he's had his fill, and is sound asleep in my arms, sated and heavy with sleep. I lay him gently in his crib and tiptoe out the door to my own room, glad to have had an excuse to touch him once more, at peace knowing that he's full and happy and resting comfortably. As I drift off to sleep again myself, I glance at the monitor on the nightstand, a sentinel in the dark, and know that when I'm called again, I'll know it within seconds.

Maybe in a few more months, I'll feel differently about the nighttime feedings -- maybe. For now, I find that some of my richest memories are of the few moments I have alone with my son in the night, when everyone else we know is asleep.

Is he sleeping through the night? We'll get there. All in due time.

I thank you, Lord, for the gift of this perfect child. I ask you to make me worthy of him. Help me to be the mommy he needs and deserves. With all that I am, I implore you to keep him safe, healthy, and happy. Show me how to nurture him to grow up into kindness. Protect him as he learns, grows, explores the world around him. Help me to raise this healthy baby into a happy child, and that smiling child into a loving person of faith and courage and strength.

Please, God, help me to do this right -- this job of being a mommy. Never have I been so blessed as now, and never have I needed You more than I do in this work. Guide my steps, my words and actions, please.

There just aren't enough Os in "smooth" for me.

A while back, I decided to go see a great band at a cool local venue. I couldn't talk my husband into going -- he was in grad school at the time and had to do something lame like "study" or "read" -- so I figured, hey, I'm secure. I'll go alone. No big deal.

So when a great band comes to a popular joint, turns out the place fills up. It never occured to me to call ahead to reserve a seat in the pub -- I just figured I'd get there early and stake out a spot. When I walked into the place and was greeted by a hostess, I realized the error of my ways.

"Hi, can I help you?"
"Yes, I have a ticket for tonight's show. Can I just sit anywhere?"
[Beat.] "No, ma'am. If you don't have a reserved seat, it's standing room only tonight."

Oh.

Sitting alone is easy. You trade small talk with the people on either side of you, and once the show starts, you're on your own. Done. Enjoy the show, sing along, whatever. But standing? You have to keep shuffling around to get out of the way of the harried waitstaff. If you walk to the ladies' room, your two-by-two square of carpet gets taken over, and you lose that spot you so carefully staked out. Not to mention the awkward eye contact with the people sitting at the bar.

[Let me back up here. I'll go on record with this -- I've never been much of a drinker, or a girls'-night-out-er, or a bar-frequenter. I had what you might call a more bookish experience in my earlier years. I've never even been drunk. So as a result, I don't have any social grace around bars or their patrons. I just get all stupid and tongue-tied. As you'll soon see. Plus, I never know when people are drunk or not. I just figure they may naturally be loud, or careless enunciators. Anyway, I digress.]

So I pick my spot -- carefully chosen to 1) see the stage, 2) scan the room for two friends who said they might drop in, and 3) catch one of the waitstaff if I get a hankering for a diet Coke. It's a half-hour before the show starts, and I'm seeing and scanning, and contemplating catching. As my eyes skim over the crowd, I accidentally lock gazes with a guy at the bar. I look away quickly, but not before I see that he smiles. And -- horror of horrors -- he starts making his way toward my two-by-two square.

Damn it, damn it, damn it! WHY did you do that? Ok, just be cool. Refold your arms so that your left hand with the wedding rings is on top of your jacket. That's right. Make it look casual, though. Ok, here he comes. Be cool. Cool. Wait, hurry up and think of something to talk about in case he asks you a question! You need to prepare a way to let him know you're married, so you have to anticipate his approach! Um ... ok, crowded bar, great band, got it. He'll probably go with something along those lines.

He arrives. "Excuse me. Are you going to be here for a while?"
I smile brightly. "Yup! Standing room only! Guess I'll be standing! Since it's crowded, you know! So, standing!"
He blinks, taken aback. "Well -- I'm working on this beer, and I don't want the waitress to take it away. Would you just watch my beer while I put my jacket in my car?"
Oh, Lord. "Sure."

He walks away, leaving his beer on the ledge near me. As my cheeks burn in embarrassment, I try to regroup before he gets back. So I thought he was going to hit on me. And I was wrong. Big deal! I can handle NOT being hit on. Didn't I want to prevent it in the first place? Come on, girl, pull it together. Sh*t, here he comes again.

"Hey, thanks."
And still I have not learned. "Sure! No one put drugs in it or anything!"

...

All I can say is, it's a good thing I'm already married. I have no idea how I'd ever meet anyone again.

Congratulations

Dear Snickers,

Nice work. With the introduction of your Snickers "Miniatures," you've managed to make me work four times as hard to feel twice as guilty for eating half as much candy.

Really. Good job.

Wish you were here ... or that I was there, maybe.

Things you miss about home when you're on vacation with extended family:

• Your own bed
• Your own bathroom
• Deciding for yourself when each day starts and ends
• Making quick decisions about where to go or what to eat for lunches and dinners
• Walking around in pajamas as long as you please
• Holding the remote
• Knowing for sure whether that towel in the bathroom is a new one or not
• Controlling the thermostat
• Not living out of a suitcase
• Doing laundry in machines you understand, and for which you know all the quirks
• Knowing when the milk was purchased
• Not feeling guilty about doing absolutely nothing.