As if I needed the reminder.

Dear husband,

You left on your work trip on Monday morning, and you're due back Thursday evening. I know there are couples who go longer without seeing one another. I know there are jobs that could require you to venture even further away than you've gone -- California is not the end of the world. And yet -- all I can think of is how much I miss you.

The baby's growing, love. He's been walking -- WALKING, not toddling -- all over since you left, and now even attempts jogging, as if it's tremendously urgent that he get from point A to point B in as little time as possible. He bellows while he walks, too, and it makes him sound like he's late for an important meeting. "Joyce! JOYCE! Get those documents bound for me while I go down to the copy room to pick up my business cards. HURRY!" Today I thought I heard him say both "Thank you" and "All done" in the midst of his babbling, and I felt those little words hit me full in the chest, like physical blows. How many more major milestones will he approach or meet while you're gone? And when will I ever get used to the sheer astonishment I feel when he does something like that?

I've been at mom's house every day with boy, as you know, hanging out with her while she recovers from surgery. So I haven't been home a lot while you've been away, but even the few waking hours I have here without you are too many. Without you here, the house has lost its vital spark -- the rooms seem to gape with emptiness, and I wish I could hear the click of your mouse from the office, or the sounds of FIFA '09 from the game room upstairs, because it would mean you would be here.

I find myself being super productive these nights. When you're here, I want nothing more than to have the chance to grab a shower after the boy's in bed, then cuddle up with you on the couch to watch "The Office" together, or maybe "Heroes." Sometimes you play PS3 games while I tap away on my laptop or read, and just having our legs entangled on the same couch is enough. I miss, as we've always expressed it, having you within a four-foot radius. 

Please come home. I'm lost without you. I realized that if the modem or server or router or network or whatever-the-hell-we-have crashes, I don't know how to fix it. I don't know where the next book of checks is, or whether the phone bill is due. Tonight I ate bread and feta cheese for dinner, because if you're not here, why cook? (You know I love bread and feta cheese, so it's not like it was a huge sacrifice, but still.) I'm too short to turn off the smoke alarm if the steam from a hot shower sets it off. And if there's a roach -- MY GOD, IF THERE'S A ROACH. I will do what's necessary, but you'd better get back here quick, man.

Most of all, love, I need you here to look at boy with me. Not WATCH him -- LOOK AT him. There's so much of him to soak up that I feel brimmingly full with the doing of it alone. He is perfect and lovely and a little toot and our boy, and I need you here to help me adore him, to help me remember everything, to make sure we don't miss a second of his growing-up that we don't have to. We both have amazing family members who love him dearly, and they're valiantly doing their share this week -- but it's not the same, love, and I need you here to help me catch my breath from the sheer beauty of him. Today, he burst into delighted giggles when I stomped my tennis shoes around on the tile floor of my mom's house, and the sound went straight through me in the purity of its joy. 

I want you to help me bear how happy I am, how perfect he is.

Please hurry home. I love you.

I miss you.

Love,

me.

Things no one ever says when they turn on the radio

1. "Daughtry? SCORE."
2. "I really wish they'd play that new Britney Spears song more frequently."
3. "Wait ... when was that car dealership sale again? Turn it up -- I can't hear the announcer."
4. "Where do you think this DJ gets all his cool sound effects? I'd love to get some of those for ringtones."
5. "Man, this Nickelback song sounds NOTHING like their other ones."

How to tell if you're married to a nerd

• He makes up jokes to which the punchlines go something like, "'Entropy?' I said, 'Enthalpy!!'"
  
• He mumbles and pretends he's speaking Elvish.
  
• He jokes about crackers looking like "lembas bread."
  
• When you're kicking around names for your unborn child, he's only half-joking when he suggests Eowyn, if it's a girl. (Note: He's Persian and you're half-Vietnamese. Your child is not going to look like an Eowyn.)
  
• Deep in the recesses of your junk drawer, he still has his Dungeons and Dragons dice.
  
• He admits to having a back-up calculator at work in case his current calculator breaks.
  
• His current calculator is the same one he's used since college.
  
• He uses advanced calculus in his job on any given day.
  
• He thinks you're sexy when you reference scientific phenomena, such as flash-boiling.
  
• Your whole extended family (AND his) use him as IT support.
  
• He can tell you the difference between steam, smoke and water vapor.
  
• He points out power plants when you travel to new cities together, and can typically tell whether they are coal- or natural gas-burning plants.
  
• People call him on the phone to ask him random trivia from the 80s, just because he has a mind like a steel trap and never forgets anything. (This makes for interesting one-sided phone conversations. "Hello? ... Gordon Gatrell. ... Bye.")
  
• He started a chemistry club when he was a child (which met outside in his yard, right in front of his window).
  
• The first question he can remember asking his mother is, "What state of matter is fire?"
  
• He got a little sad during the most recent "Transformers" movie when Bumblebee was captured. (Oh, wait ... that was me.)
• He has an Optimus Prime impression, which he's convinced sounds exactly like Optimus. (It doesn't.)

How to tell if you, yourself, are also a nerd:

Every single item above is endearing to you, and you wouldn't change a thing about being married to a nerd. (Plus, people are always buying you books for holiday gifts. And you love it.)

Because inspiration is running thin ...

... here's a little something I saw on facebook, called "Me-ology."

Food-ology

What is your salad dressing of choice?

It changes, but I always get it (a la Sally in "When Harry Met Sally") on the side.

What is your favorite sit-down restaurant?

Whichever one I can get to for an uninterrupted dinner with my husband. We're fans of Mark's, which is housed in what used to be a church. It makes for a gorgeous dining experience with the woodwork and stained glass windows.

What food could you eat every day for two weeks and not get sick of?

CHOCOLATE. I'm pretty sure I do this now.

What do you like to put on your toast?

Peanut butter. Smooth, please -- crunchy will do in a pinch, but I prefer the toast to bring the crunch to my breakfast, not tiny shards of peanuts.

Technology

How many televisions are in your house?

Three, plus one in the garage. I'm serious. It's a very manly garage we have. When the world goes digital, though, that one won't work anymore.

What color is your cell phone?

Black. Then again, it's an iPhone, so the answer really should be, "What color do you want it to be?" Because it can do ANYTHING.

Biology

Are you right-handed or left-handed?

Righty.

Have you ever had anything removed from your body?

Um, a human being. :) He's now 13 months old.

What is the last heavy item you lifted?

See above. He's well over 20 pounds now and while that will seem light in a few months, right now it's a bit of a strain on the old back.

Have you ever been knocked unconscious?

Not quite. I WAS once knocked into a doozy of a concussion. But the only time I've ever passed out was not due to physical trauma, but the psychological battery of observing an operation for a grad-school medical management class. It was a breast biopsy, and I passed out cold. Came to on the floor of the hallway outside the OR. Some kind souls lifted me onto a stretcher and took my pulse and made sure I was ok. If you're going to pass out, a hospital is a good place to do it.

Bull-crap-ology

If it were possible, would you want to know the day you were going to die?

No, thanks.

If you could change your name, what would you pick?

Something more unique than the name I have. I like my nicknames but not my full first name. I think it may have to do with the fact that growing up, there were sometimes as many as SEVEN other girls in my class with the same first name. 

Would you drink an entire bottle of hot sauce for $1,000?

You have GOT to be kidding.

Dumb-ology

How many pairs of flip-flops do you own?

There are three in the active rotation currently. Favorite pair: A pair of snakeskin-ish casual flippies I got at Target. I LOVE them.

Last time you had a run-in with the cops?

Hm. Is "pulled over for speeding" the same as a "run-in"? If so, it was only about eight months ago. Got off without a ticket. Having a dad for a police officer is occasionally extremely handy.

Last person you talked to?

My father-in-law, by phone.

Last person you hugged?

Husband. He told me today, randomly, that he loves figuring out how to parent our son along with me. If that didn't deserve a hug, I don't know what does.

Favorite-ology

Season?

Fall.

Holiday?

Thanksgiving.

Day of the week?

Whatever day I get to spend with my husband and son, so usually Saturday.

Month?

Whichever one is the coldest.

Current-ology

Missing someone?

Today would have been my grampa's birthday. Definitely missing him today. 

Mood?

Sleepy/Slightly anxious.

What are you listening to?

The hum of white noise from the baby monitor, plus the sound of the laundry sloshing away in the washer. This is the soundtrack to most of my evenings. 

Watching?

My son grow up before my eyes.

Worrying about?

Oh, boy. This could take a while.  ...  1) Being the best possible parent to my amazing child. 2) Balancing being a totally devoted mommy with being the wife my husband deserves. 3) Not slacking off in other important roles like daughter, friend, sister. 4) Finding time for ME. 5) My mom's hip replacement surgery this week -- I just don't want her to be in unnecessary pain. 

Random-ology

First place you went this morning? 

To the kitchen to make boy's breakfast (one multi-grain waffle, some bites of fruit, some Cheerios, and water).

What's the last movie you saw?

In the theater? "The Dark Knight." On TV or in general? Probably "Juno." Seems like it's always on right now.

Do you smile often?

All day.

Sleeping alone tonight?

Who sleeps? When I lie down, I'll share the bed with not only husband, but after the fifth or sixth waking of the night, boy as well. 

Other-ology

Do you always answer your phone?

If I don't recognize the number, I probably won't answer.

It's four in the morning and you get a text message. Who is it?

Youngest brother, texting from college with a question about a paper. The only other person I know who'd be awake at that hour is my mother, but she doesn't text.  :)

If you could change your eye color, what would you pick?

Hm. In some lights, I really like my eye color. The brown is shot through with gold in the right slanted evening light. Most of the time, though, it's just ok. I'd probably wish for something exotic and unforgettable, like silver or grey eyes. 

What flavor do you add to your drink at Sonic?

The only flavored drink I order there is a cherry limeade.

Do you own a digital camera?

Yup.

Have you ever had a pet fish?

Yup. It didn't end well.

Favorite Christmas song?

Sleigh Ride.

What's on your wish list for your birthday?

Nothing. I have everything I could possibly wish for.

Can you do push-ups?

If I absolutely had to.

Can you do chin-ups?

Not if my life depended on it.

Does the future make you more nervous or excited?

Um, both? 

Do you have any saved texts?

Yep. 

Ever been in a car wreck?

Fender-benders, sure. (I was even in one while driving the drivers' ed car, though it wasn't my fault. Nevertheless, this did not endear me to the instructor.) I'm thankful I was never in one that required an ambulance or other emergency medical attention.

Do you have an accent?

No. But I can fake one. 

What is the last song to make you cry?

I heard Sheryl Crow sing "Sweet Child of Mine" and I realized that there's an entirely new subtext to that song for me now. Sniff.

Plans tonight?

Missed "Dancing With the Stars." DVR'd it, so will catch up later. Aside from laundry, a shower and blogging, that's it. (Don't everyone rush at once to emulate my sexy lifestyle, now.)

Have you ever felt like you hit rock bottom?

Yes. Looking back, it really wasn't. But there have been several times in my life I thought it was.

Name three things you bought yesterday.

Thumbprint cookies, toddler shoes, and an Antone's sub sandwich.

Have you ever been given roses?

Yes. They were lovely. 

Current hate?

I really don't dig that word, "hate." I do, however, strongly dislike not being at the fitness level I'd like to be.

Met someone who changed your life?

Of course. There were teachers, high school/college friends, guys I dated, a handful of college professors (one in particular, who later served as the master of ceremonies at our renewal of vows), and husband.

How will you ring in the New Year?

In some low-key way that totally represents our new style. Like, by watching a movie with the volume low to keep from waking the baby, while we sip sparkling apple cider, and eventually we'll fall asleep before midnight, only to be awakened by our phones going off at 12 with texts from the people we love.

What song represents you?

Not the TITLE, but the SONG "The Lady is a Tramp" has always been kind of a personal anthem of mine. See, she's a "tramp" because she doesn't do things the way everyone else does. She's real and sincere and vital and fun, and that's what I hope I am to others.

Would you go back in time if you were given the chance?

Depends. To experience a lost era? Maybe. But to relive my own life? Never. 

Have you ever dated someone longer than a year?

You betcha. 

Do you have any tattoos or piercings?

My ears are pierced, twice on the left side and three times on the right. There are earrings in all of them.

Will you be in a relationship four months from now?

"For better or for worse, for richer or for poorer, in sickness and in health, forsaking all others, until death do you part." Yeah. I'd say so.

Ever cheated on anyone?

Nope.

Would you be a pirate?

The English major in me prickles at the way this one's worded. If you're asking if I'd LIKE to be a pirate, then the answer's no. I heart indoor plumbing too much, and my fear of the ocean would probably put a cramp in my professional lifestyle. But if you're asking "would you ever find yourself as a pirate?" then the answer is, if I were a pirate, then of course I would.

What songs do you sing in the shower?

Whatever's stuck in my head. These days, lots of lullabies and children's songs. 

Ever had someone sing to you?

Yes.

When did you last cry?

Probably today.

Are you afraid of being alone?

Physically, no. I like some solo time to unwind and do my own thing. Relationship-wise, though? I'm no longer myself without my husband. So in that sense, terribly so.

Do you like to cuddle?

Yes.

Have you held hands with anyone today?

Now that boy's walking, he frequently reaches out for a little mommy-support. Yes.

Who was the last person you took a picture of?

Definitely, without a doubt, boy.

What kind of music did you listen to in elementary school?

I vividly remember running around the gymnasium to a few songs in particular. "Jump" by Van Halen. "Putting on the Ritz" by some band I can't recall. And this awful song called "Swingin'", and I can't remember who did that one either. At home, I listened to whatever my parents were listening to.

Do you believe in staying close with your ex(es)?

I used to. I no longer think it's always possible, though.

Are most of the friends in your life new or old?

New friends with old souls, and old friends with long memories.

Do you like pulpy orange juice?

GACK.

What is something your friends make fun of you for?

What don't they make fun of me for? Seriously, I have no idea. Probably how I used to look like Winnie Cooper from the Wonder Years TV show.

Do you have a crush on someone/want to be in a relationship with someone?

Just one man. And I'm married to him. Though I will say (and husband knows this) that if I were offered the chance to have lunch with Hugh Jackman or Jon Bon Jovi, I would definitely make sure there was no lipstick on my teeth and that my brows were shaped. (Fanning myself now.)

He probably thinks this post is about him.

Scene: MOMMY has set up video camera in the family room. She has turned the camera screen such that BABY can view himself in the screen as he stands in front of the camera. BABY, who is munching a small chunk of Girl Scout Cookie (MOMMY wishes she could tell you it was a piece of fruit, but it's not), catches sight of his face in the screen, experiments with how his movements translate onto film, and then decides to strike up a conversation with the good-looking child he can see.

Note the double-take BABY does when he turns to MOMMY and sees that she's finishing up the cookie she'd shared. (What you can't see off-camera is that BABY is signing, "more, please" but is instead forced to sign another sign he knows -- "all gone.")

Maybe next time we'll let him actually PLAY.

Logic puzzle for you:

Two sets of parents and two very cute little boys head to the neighborhood park for an hour. How many digital photos can the parents take of the boys and themselves in that amount of time?

Apparently, the answer is 183.

Here's but a sampling of those. 

The independent walker:

Whoops.

The playground equipment:

The crazy parents:

The family photos:

The slides:

The swings:

If they'd just quit being so friggin' cute, maybe we could bear to leave the camera at home.

There's still hope.

Daddy may not like to dance. But mommy does. 

And guess who's at home all day with the baby?

Leaps and bounds

Dear boy,

Here you are, thirteen months old -- you're now squarely in your second year of life, and you're making the most of it. 

As I predicted in your eleven-month letter, you are indeed not only walking, but walking well, and often, and with great gusto. When we reach out to take your hand while you toddle around, you frequently stop short, pull in your arms close to your chest (making you look like a tyrannosaurus rex) to avoid contact with us, and grunt, as if to say, "Um, I've GOT it, thanks." In the last six weeks or so since you took your first steps, you've progressed quickly to not only tee-tottering around, but stopping without falling over, changing direction, walking while carrying objects of various dimension and mass, stepping over toys on the floor, and even running a few steps when you're really charged up. With each step, your dad and I can see that your confidence is growing just as your balance and coordination improve, and as usual, our hearts swell with pride to watch you master such big-boy skills.

With your enhanced motor skills have also come language skills. These days, your most frequent utterance is, "What's this?" In your unique language, it sounds more like, "Wah-zis?" You punctuate the question with vague but urgent multi-fingered pointing, and since we can rarely tell what you're actually indicating, I'm certain we've told you the names of things you couldn't care less about ("That? That's a bottle of low-sodium soy sauce, son. SOY SAUCE. Mommy doesn't like to wake up after a dinner of fried rice with her rings too tight. Oh, wait -- you probably wanted these Cheerios ..."). Other things you're saying regularly (that make sense) include the sounds a dog, cow and duck make (woo-woo, booooo and ack-ack, respectively), the sound a car makes (confusingly for some, also woo-woo, since you can't get out all the consonants for "vroom-vroom" yet), the words, "hi," "ma-ma," "da-da," "nye-nye" for night-night, "um" for when you want a snack or meal, and the word "uh-oh," probably because you hear that one all day long, since you're constantly falling over, dropping things or pitching toys into hard-to-reach places in the family room. The things you're saying that DON'T make sense comprise a list nearly as long, and they include the utterances, "gogoly," "oh-buh-dee," "bob-chick," and "cockly." We have no idea what any of those mean, but they've become part of our strange family pidgin just the same. 

Not all of your rapidly-expanding language skills are spoken, however. You have been great about signing "more" for months now, and lately you've added a few other signs, such as those for "please," and "all done." It's so gratifying to be able to communicate with you more reliably, and your dad and I are delighted you've taken so well to the signing. 

(Here you are modeling a family hand-me-down. To me, you look like a tiny, disgruntled Chinese waiter. Where's your other sock, by the way?)

You enjoyed not one, or two, but THREE birthday parties in honor of your first birthday, son. The first was with your cousin and your buddy, both of whom are just four months younger than you are. (Their mommies were there, too, of course.) The video at the bottom of this post is from that impromptu party. The second was on the night of your birthday and brought your mom's extended family together not just for your big day, but for the Asian New Year, as well. It was a late night for you, but you handled it beautifully. The third was your official party, with your grandparents, aunts and uncles and a few family friends. The pictures below are from that party. Your dad and I really thought you'd relish the chance to dive into your first cupcake, all by yourself, but we were wrong. You really weren't all too interested in the frosting or cake. (Are you sure you're my child? Because that's foreign to me.)

One of the challenges that we've tackled now that you're a year old (and then some) is night weaning. I'm finally ready to admit that there's no real reason you need those milky snacks in the wee hours anymore, so about a week and a half ago, I started to pick you up when you cried at night, but not nurse you -- instead, we sit in the rocking chair in your room and just rock until you've calmed down and fallen back asleep. I won't go so far as to say it's going well -- there are some rough nights, and some rough periods most nights, as a matter of fact -- but on the whole, you've accepted the change better than I'd thought you would. I'm hoping to be able to say next month that we've made some strides in the right direction with your night-time sleep -- once you're used to not nursing anymore, then it'll be time to start lowering you into that crib when you're less and less asleep, to get you used to falling asleep without me at all. I shudder to think of how long this process might actually take, but we'll get through it, buddy. Hearing you protest (loudly) is hard on me when comfort is near at hand, but this is the right thing to do in the long run, son, and at least I can cuddle and soothe you while you cry. For the record, I'm sorry it's hard for you, but I find solace in the fact that you'll never remember any of the tears later. I, however, will remember not only your tears, but my own.

So son, here's to the fantastic voyage you've taken us on already, and to the journey ahead. And someday when you view these posts, maybe you can take a peek at this video and tell me what the HECK you were talking about.

I love you,

mommy.

Before boy was even born ...

... I came across this enchanting little photo somewhere, and the image of this angry little bluebird stuck with me. Now, I know I'm anthropomorphizing it -- I know this little bird isn't angry at all, that it's merely a trick of perspective and this breed of bird's unique markings that make it appear pissy when seen from a dead-on perspective. But I think the image was entitled "The Angry Bluebird," and it certainly seemed to fit.

Fast forward years later, and all of a sudden I have cause to remember that image. When boy was about seven months old, he made this face constantly, and all I could think every time was "The Angry Bluebird." And I'm so glad I snapped a few shots of the face, because of course he doesn't make it anymore, and it's just further evidence that each of these magical, amusing stages are so fleeting. 

I give you ... the angry bluebird.

I can see we have our work cut out for us.

This series of pictures is proof that no little boy is ever born a gentleman.

Boy's sweet little cousin looks a bit stunned at having her lovely green star toy snatched away from her so swiftly. Thank goodness for boy she seems to be the forgiving type. 

Looking ahead

A letter to boy, twenty years from now:

Dear son,

I am so proud of you. Your determination and steadfastness have enabled you to accomplish so much! What some people call stubbornness, I call stick-with-it-ness, and the ability to stand up for what's important to you. It's sure to continue to serve you well, son, and I'm so glad you know your own mind and are strong enough to express it.

Love, mom

A letter to my almost-thirteen-month-old son:

Dear boy,

You may think you can outlast your mother in persisting in waking up just as she lowers you into your crib all night. She's here to tell you that you get your stubbornness from her, and she's perfected it. YOU CANNOT WIN. Also, if you don't stop repeatedly throwing your toys onto mommy's MacBook keyboard (despite her constant attempts to thwart you), you won't live to see two.

Persistence may be an admirable character trait, son, but not when it endangers mommy's technological best friend.

You've been warned.

Love, mommy

[Posted with iBlogger from my iPhone]

Sometimes I forget ...

... that there's a world out there beyond my and boy's comfortable, safe existence. I forget that not everyone in the world enjoys personal and religious freedom. 

It's deeply troubling when you do think about it. 

Lately, a group of Baha'is in Iran have been subjected to persecution because of their beliefs. It's all conveniently couched in lies and falsehoods around "Iranian security" and the like, but at the heart of it, they're being held in prison without access to due legal process just because they don't worship the same way the people (and I use that term loosely) in power do.

Here's an article on cnn.com written by Rainn Wilson of "The Office," himself a Baha'i, with more details.

Please -- if you have a heart and 10 minutes, send a note to your congressmen and/or women online to ask them to support the members of the Baha'i Faith in Iran through writing or supporting legislation in Congress. I'm glad to say I've already done so, though I'm a little embarrassed that it was the first time I've ever actually gotten my rear in gear and did it. 

And may those men and women be kept safe in God's hands, and delivered back to their families very soon.

In so many words

I love this site. I never could have done this distillation of Write Softly myself. 

So this is, apparently, what the blog is all about. I had no idea there was so much emphasis on folding T-shirts all over the blog.  

No more refills

So, I'm getting off of Prozac.

I've been on a low dose since boy was two weeks old. That means it's been just about a complete year. When I started it to combat the postpartum depression that was controlling my life (and not in a good way, like how staying up to speed with "The Office" controls my DVR free space), my doctor told me that the plan was to stay on it for a year, or until I stopped breastfeeding, whichever came second. Well, I'm still breastfeeding, and have no immediate plans to stop, as long as boy still finds comfort in it -- it's a bond with him I've come to cherish deeply, and I see no reason to end it now. (That probably deserves its own post: breastfeeding a toddler. With eight teeth. And a wicked sense of humor.)

But what is on the horizon is the idea of having another baby. And if I can manage it, I'd rather go through this second pregnancy without extra medication in my system. I understand that it's considered fairly safe, and that many women need to be on Prozac or some other antidepressant while pregnant. I applaud them for doing what their bodies need, for taking care of themselves, because ultimately THAT'S what's best for the baby. It's just that if my body can do without it, that's the way I want to start off with this next baby.

About a month ago, with my doctor's support, I started taking my regular dose of Prozac only every other day. Did that for two weeks. Noticed no change in how I was feeling. Phase 1: Check.

Phase 2 was to cut back to just three times a week. I've been doing THAT for two weeks. So far, no change. Phase 2 is almost over. One more week of this, and it's phase 3: full stop.

I have high hopes. I'm feeling pretty good, and on days when I'm a bit cranky or down, I'm certain I would have been the same if I were still taking Prozac every day. (Contrary to popular belief, the meds don't make you blissful, or keep you from having ANY downs at all -- they just make your downs manageable, help you cope with them in a healthy way.) 

It will be nice not to have to take it every day (then again, I'm doing the prenatal vitamin thing, so it's like swapping six of one for a half dozen of the other. But it's really just one of each. Ah, you know what I mean). At the same time, that medicine helped me get through a really rough spot, and if Prozac was a person, I'd owe it a lot of thanks.

So here's to you, P. Thank you for helping me surface out of the ocean of fear and anxiety that was my brain-space for two dark weeks. Thank you for helping me see that maybe losing 25 pounds in 10 days is too rapid a rate of weight loss for a new, nursing mother, and that maybe I should take better care of myself and actually eat something. (Come to think of it, you may have done that job too well.) Thank you for enabling me to open my eyes to the wonder of my little boy's tiny feet, to see the light in his bright eyes, rather than just seeing that it was time to change or feed him again. Thank you for helping me tumble head-over-heels in love with the little guy. I'd started down that path already, but you really cleared away my roadblocks, and there's certainly no turning back now.

If you were a person, I'd totally send you flowers. At least. Maybe even a lobster-gram. Definitely something expensive. 

Because you made a tremendous difference. And I am so very grateful.

Tomato, to-mah-to ...

Even before we were married, husband and I disagreed about one important aspect of life together. It seemed that every few days, we'd have cause to drag out the old argument again and go head-to-head. There never was a clear winner. We tried compromise, only to find there was no middle ground. We enlisted the advice of other married friends, to discover that our polling left us no closer to a solution. We even tried NOT dealing with the issue-at-hand at all, but that just led to a huge mess.

I'm talking about the all-important, earth-shattering, is-this-gonna-be-a-deal-breaker-or-what issue of ... how to fold T-shirts.

Husband favors a complicated fold I call the double-trifold. You hold the T-shirt by the shoulders so that it's facing you, then you fold both sleeves behind the center of the shirt. THEN you tuck the neckline under your chin and do a quick scoop-up twice. You know, the Gap fold.

I fold shirts the way I was raised to fold shirts. (This is also known as "the right way.") I start with the T-shirt held up by the shoulders (but facing AWAY from me), then fold down the center line so that the sleeves meet up and are "stacked." Then I tuck the sleeves under, and fold up the shirt once from the bottom. 

I'll admit that the Gap fold has one advantage -- when you glance into your drawer, you know just which of your old T-shirts is on top, because the front panel is clearly visible. I get the plus, there. But that's where the pros end. Because the Gap fold makes your shirts extremely thick in your dresser drawer, so that you can stack fewer of them in a "column" in your armoire. 

MY method is clearly superior because not only can you see a full quarter of your shirt's front (which is more than enough to tell which shirt it is, especially when you consider that you're probably only folding cheap, old shirts anyway, so what does it matter?), your folded shirt also only has four shirt-layers to it, six if you count sleeves. (The Gap fold yields an astounding NINE, including sleeves.) So you can get more of your old giveaway blood-drive/college/March of Dimes T-shirts into your drawers. 

When we got married and I took over laundry duty (because I'm the one who will actually listen for the chime and transfer stuff from the washer to the dryer, thereby avoiding the cooked-in hard creases that result from forgotten wet clothes sitting overnight in a humid, icky machine), I made a sincere attempt to live with the Gap fold. I figured, Hey, we're married now. I can give in a little. I can extend the olive branch. I can show flexibility and maturity and adaptability. How bad can it be? So I sorted and washed and dried and fabric-softened the cheapies, and folded them carefully into the nine-layered behemoths that they were, and packed them into husband's dresser drawers. I did the hell out of that Gap fold for two years. 

Then we had a baby. And things got a lot more crazy. And now? I fold the T-shirts however I damn well please. Which is The Right Way.

Husband hasn't said a word. He either 1) hasn't noticed, 2) is more mature than I am, and has let it go, or 3) is plotting to get back at me in some other diabolical way, just when I've decided he's over it. *

Hmmm. 

Remind me to check to make sure the toilet isn't Saran-wrapped the next few times I use it.

* Update: Husband claims he's been quietly refolding the shirts his way before putting them in their drawers, and has just been choosing not to make an issue of it. 

He's a smart man.

I don't look good in low-rise cargos, anyway

Internets, the crazy has struck again. You've got to help me. Someone, please -- take the TV remote away from me. Hide the phone, and take away my credit cards.

Or else I'm going to order Hip-Hop Abs.

You know I'm not immune to the seductive ways of the infomercial. You know how those late-night voice-overs call to me. And you know I miss the swing dancing I used to do (and teach) before boy was born. Maybe that's why this particular fitness DVD appeals to me so much -- because "it's not exercise, it's a dance party!!"

Right.

This morning, I was SUPPOSED to be packing and getting ready for a short trip we're taking to visit my in-laws. But what I found myself doing was sitting, mesmerized, in front of the TV while Shawn T discussed his trademarked "power-T" ab-crunching dance moves. My wet hair was dripping onto the clean laundry I'd folded and was about to place in our suitcase. I saw the water drops on my jeans, and you'd think this would have spurred me into action, but no -- I perched on the edge of the bed and sat through a half-hour of the infomercial, taking in the before and after photos and the teary testimonials with all the earnestness of a religious zealot. Wow, I thought. That guy lost 58 pounds! And 22 inches in total! Maybe if I got THIS one ... And then the fine print caught my eye. 

Results not typical.

It didn't stop there.

You may be less successful.

And there it was. A cold, hard reminder that not only did THAT GUY order the DVD, he then DID it REGULARLY, and probably (gasp) changed his eating habits, too. He might even have been doing extra workouts he didn't discuss. For all I know, he might have had liposuction on top of it all.

So I flipped the channel over to The Food Network, and watched Paula Deen top a 70/30 hamburger with a fried egg, and dip her twice-deep-fried potato fries into mayonnaise.

That's WAY more my style.

The only thing missing was the pink polo shirts

Ways in which a one-year-old's birthday party is a lot like a frat party:

1. Bottles are passed around liberally.
   
2. Someone's guaranteed to crap his pants.
   
3. Your floor may have throw-up on it at some point.
   
4. The salty food runs out early, while there's too much dessert left.
   
5. At least one guest shows up in pajamas.
6. The guest of honor ends up getting called a lot of names. (How different is "stinker" from "a**hole," really?)
7. It's a lot wilder than it was in your head when you planned it.
   
8. Everyone's sweating.
   
9. Party guests may disappear for hours at a time.
   
10. Some girl is gonna cry.
    

Full circle

About ten years ago, I read a study that said that when women sit next to men on airplanes, it's the men who end up with control of the shared armrests between them over 70% of the time. Why anyone would bother to actually research and document that particular phenomenon, and where or how I came across it, is beyond me. But come across it I did, and in my mind it stuck.

Ever after that, I would approach each business trip with a mission: To Acquire The Armrest. I'd eye my row-mates on those Continental flights with a steely gaze, sizing them up for any territorial tendencies. As soon as I sat down, I'd whip out my paperback and snap those elbows out to cover all fronts (or sides, as the case may be). If someone had to sidle past me to get the window seat, I moved enough for the sake of politeness and tactical necessity, but as soon as they were past? SNAP. ELBOWS. I was like a pop-out automobile windshield sunshade, I would unfold those arms so fast. 

Moral of the story? I hate, detest, loathe thinking I'm nothing more than a statistic. 

The other day, I was out walking with boy around our neighborhood. It was one of those magnificent Texas winter days -- clear, breezy, sunny and about 55 degrees. The wind was just crisp enough to make me tug boy's hood up over his spikey-mikeys, and seemed to blow every bit of haze out of the air, so that everything looked sharp and colorful. It also caught the fabric of the stroller enough to make even our three-mile walk a bit of a workout, which was a nice bonus. As we were traipsing along, a school bus rumbled by, and I caught the sound of the laughter and conversation of the kids on the breeze. Surrounded by the smell of exhaust and green vinyl seats for just an instant, I was transported back to my own days of riding the bus to or from high school football games, and I remembered that I'd seen many, many moms pushing strollers myself, through neighborhoods a lot like mine. It came back to me in a flash that I thought I knew what their lives were like -- I imagined mild, tranquil days of light errands and playing with babies, days in which the greatest challenge to be faced was whether to make chicken piccata or broiled sea bass for dinner. I thought they headed out for their stroller walks humming just under their breath, content and at peace and carefree. I thought their kids were your average, textbook kids who were good sometimes, tantrum-y others, and just like any other kid you could point out. And I'll confess I thought those women were probably boring and dull and that I had nothing in common with them.

So now, 1) what an idiot I was. And 2) hooray for irony! I'm one of them. I'm square in the middle of that statistical distribution -- a former career professional turned stay-at-home mom, 33 years old with a child under the age of two, contemplating another child in the next 12-16 months, living in a suburban neighborhood, with a stroller and car seat and SUV and an HEB grocery store I adore. I belong to a mom's group, I own more plastic toys than I ever wanted to (though not as many as I could, I'll state in my own defense), and yesterday I oohed and aahed over my girlfriend's new Honda Odyssey minivan. I even lick my own child, and say things like, "Just one more bite for mommy, please!"

(Sigh.)

I have misjudged you, stay-at-home moms. And I had forgotten that I'd done so, but I'm apologizing, for the record. I see now that you are not all the same, that you are not statistically one. I understand that you are each unique and interesting and rich in subtle differences from one another. Of course you are. It just took me most of my life to appreciate it, about as long as it took for me to join your ranks, strangely. Yes, some of us are literally soccer moms, and others are room mothers and still others may pack juice boxes and carrot sticks and PB&J sandwiches for their children's lunches. But we also speak many languages, hail from various former pre-child careers and lives, worship in different places, prefer different retail establishments for our myriad senses of style and fashion. 

We are all women, but not the same woman. We are all mothers, but not only mothers. We don't receive pay for what we do, but we work (and work hard) just the same. 

So here's to us, whether we're struggling with teething or potty training or tantrums. Here's to our patience and selfless nurturing, whether we're mothering toddlers or teens. Here's to appreciating one another, because sometimes we're the only ones who remember to do it. Here's to sticking together, because someday our kids will head off on their own, as they rightly should and we've raised them to do, and yet we'll watch them go with needle-sharp pains in our broken hearts. 

I'm raising my ice-cold pretentious can of orange-flavored, La Croix sparkling water high to you, my sisters. Forgive me for my short-sightedness for so long. I'm proud to be one of you.

Bedfellows

I'm one of those annoying people who has to have total darkness before she can fall asleep. (To be fair, it's probably only annoying if you've ever lived with me -- so, sorry, Mom and husband.) Even the glow of the indicator light on boy's baby monitor seems blindingly bright to me, and I have to make sure that the light isn't shining in my general direction. Either that, or I have to have an obstacle -- like a pillow -- in between me and the tiny green dot of light that seems to shine straight into my brain, keeping me awake.

Anyway.

Because I'm sensitive to light, I was opposed to having a television in our master bedroom, but eventually I wore down. It's turned out to be largely a non-issue, since husband, 99 times out of 100, is asleep long before I turn in, so there's rarely occasion for me to gripe about the flickering light in the room if it's on. But instead of the glare getting on my nerves, it's turned out to be the remote control.

See, my husband is blessed with the ability to fall asleep faster than anyone I know. It's great for HIM. It means that whether we're on vacation (and therefore in a strange place) or not, whether we're in a rainstorm or not, whether it's an afternoon nap or an early bedtime or a crash at the end of a long day, he's out within two deep breaths. The drawback for me, of course, is that if there's anything I want to chit-chat about at the end of the day, I have to make sure I catch him while the lights are on and he's not yet horizontal, because otherwise I may find that I've been talking to myself for 15 minutes about the last episode of "Lost" I just got around to watching. 

(On three or four different occasions, he's even fallen asleep WHILE TALKING TO ME. Granted, each time, he was really tired anyway, but it was disconcerting because he shifted gears right from normal conversation into dream-speak instantaneously. I was all, "What do you think about repainting the library?" and he was all, "I think it's a good idea, because the guys were driving the truck, and the meeting was moved anyway, so Trent told me he'd take us out to lunch. Grandma?" Wha?! There's a lot wrong with that sentence or two, but that last part really gets me. Not only am I not his grandma, she's been dead for like eight years.)

Ok, FOCUSING. Sorry, Internets.

So husband winds down by watching a little SportsCenter or MSNBC most nights. While I'm surfing or reading, he'll flick the channels a bit, and then in one sudden move, he's switched off the TV, spun onto his side to face the window, covered his head with one hand or a pillow, and mumbled "g'night." And none of that would bother me if the remote control made it over to his bedside table. But no -- it never does. Instead, it just gets dropped wherever it was when he hit the "off" button, as if he'd turned off not only the TV but his own active brain waves and motor control, and I never learn my lesson and fish it out of the blankets at that moment. Nope. I wait till about 3 a.m., and I've just climbed quietly back into bed after nursing the baby, and as I flick the blankets back to slip into the warmth and ease back into la-la-land, the remote goes flying and hits the chest of drawers across the room with a clatter, scaring the tar out of me. Either that, or it tumbles out of the blankets in the near-darkness, and for a split second I think it's a large rodent, and I try to scream but I can't get out any noise past the object lodged in my vocal cords, the object being my own heart, which has leaped in panic and tried to skitter into the bathroom by itself to crawl up onto the counter and point at the rat and shriek. 

Yeah. I really hate that remote being in bed in the night. The only technology I can deal with at 3 a.m. is my iPhone, and that's because it's sleek and sweet and tells me the time when I can't see even as far as the night stand without my contacts. In fact, I'm pretty sure it ends up in bed through the night at least half as often as the remote does.

Hmmm. Maybe I should quit my complaining before husband reads this post and starts to get ideas about banning remotes AND iPHONES from bed. 

Because that would just be crazy-unreasonable.

With apologies to my male readers

There comes a time in every woman's life when the profundity of the wisdom she's been told by her elders finally makes sense. It's a time of enlightenment, of realization, of dawning clarity, and it gives her a sense of really coming full circle. All those scoldings and lectures and wagging fingers culminate in perfect understanding.

I'm talking, of course, about sunscreen.

When I was young, none of us ever gave the sun a second thought. I played outside as a child for hours on end, enduring blazing summers with nothing but my Rainbow Brite t-shirt and my own sweat as protection against the sun. In high school, I sported seasonal "band tans," complete with a sock line so stark that it was probably visible from space. After day-long band competitions (during which we'd all sit in the stadium bleachers watching other groups perform), many of us showcased the classic half-baked look -- we weren't under the influence, though. We were just burned on one hemisphere of our faces, with the other half free of that telltale pinkish hue.

And the thing is, I had truly great skin back then. All I ever did was wash my face in the shower with soap and water. I never moisturized, and was strictly forbidden from using cosmetics of any kind, so I was lucky to have skin that could endure puberty without any kind of topical enhancement. So I was one of the ignorant few who breezed through high school and college without ever worrying about makeup or daily skin care. 

Enter grad school. My luck held, and once I'd completed my masters degree and started my career, I found that I was approached during my lunch outings to a local restaurant row, on a semi-regular basis, by Mary Kay and Avon reps, wanting to see if I'd consider becoming a rep myself. "You look like someone who knows how to take care of her skin," they'd all say, and I'd nod vaguely, more concerned with how to brush them off gently than by the implied suggestion that responsible women DID take care of their skin at all. During one particularly dry winter, I stumbled upon a light aloe-containing lotion that worked great for my hands, and just took to using a touch on my cheeks and brow after a shower, and for a few years, that was enough.

Then I turned 30.

A couple of years ago, I was touching up my eyebrows and since the light in the bathroom wasn't the best, I was leaning in toward the mirror for a close look at what I was doing. Huh, I thought. I never realized I had freckles. There they are, though -- a few on each cheekbone. How long have I had those? Wait ... maybe they're not freckles. Maybe ... uh-oh -- maybe it's SUN DAMAGE. How did THAT happen? And what the hell do I do now? I was lost. Thinking (stupidly) that a lack of moisture was the problem, I became more religious about my lotion application post-shower, and that did help my overall skin tone. But you know, Internets, that aloe alone won't protect anyone from the brutal Texas sun. And after another summer, I had to admit that I needed more help.

All of a sudden, it seemed, there were commercials about moisturizers on every time I turned on the TV. It boggled my mind to realize that I'd been tuning out these ads for years (DECADES, even), while I blissfully went about my UV-ray-soaking existence. I tried a few different moisturizers with an SPF, and they mostly made me feel like I'd just rubbed a stick of butter on my face, or that I'd slapped on a layer of Sherwin Williams instead of lotion. SPF is some serious sh!t, my friends, and it sat on my face in all its solemnity, daring my skin to take one teeny breath of air through the protective fortress of its presence.

Finally, I've found a facial moisturizer with SPF 30 that I can live with. It's Aveeno Positively Radiant, and it actually doesn't feel like anything is on my face after I've applied it. If any of you guys out there are even still reading, you're nodding and rolling your eyes, but you girls hear me -- THIS IS A BIG DEAL. I've been using it every day for a couple of weeks, and lo and behold -- I've stopped looking like death warmed over. (For a mother who doesn't get more than 2.5 hours of sleep at a stretch on any night, EVER, this is akin to truly high praise.) Instead of my face itching when I smile, ... well, it just doesn't itch. 

And so, Internets, I've done it. I've entered the world of product endorsements. If you're a woman and you want to use a facial moisturizer that feels good, protects you from the sun and doesn't smell like a lifeguard's armpit, give Aveeno Positively Radiant a try. It may make you smile, and you'll be able to do it without scratching your face so vigorously that you give yourself dimples you were never supposed to have.

You can thank me later.