I'm having a "glass is half-empty" moment. Bear with me.

Being pregnant is a special time.

It's a time when you can feel amazingly confident in your body's ability to adapt and change in ways as old as humanity. It's a time when you can revel in your inherent ability to bring about new life, to nurture a brand new person. You can rejoice in your strength and unique gifts as a woman. You can enjoy the glow of happiness and serenity that all of that knowledge gives you, and finally understand your true inner beauty.

That is, if you're someone else.

Before I proceed, let me assure you that I am fully touched by the blessing that pregnancy is, I really am. I have dear friends who struggle with fertility issues, who would give their right arms to be in the kind of temporary discomfort in which I find myself right now. I have never been happier or more fulfilled in my life than I am right now as a mother, and the knowledge that I'm getting to experience the journey again is heartbreakingly, profoundly beautiful to me.

But as all of us know, blessings are rarely brilliant gems of purely gorgeous beauty. They can sometimes be cloaked in some pretty off-putting stuff, as a matter of fact.

I have never been one of those lucky women who loves to be pregnant, who adores her fertile body in its new rounded shapes, who sees lushness and life in her added weight and contours. I've never been one of the women who feels empowered by the experience of pregnancy, or who finds her mind at its sharpest or her strength at its peak while she's carrying her child within. That's probably because I've never been one of those women who never had morning sickness, either. In my snarkier moods, I could probably call those women some imaginative names.

Who am I? I'm one of the women who loves motherhood but finds pregnancy 10% amazing, 10% "interesting," and 80% distinctly uncomfortable. I'm one of the women who spent the first 19 weeks of her pregnancy either having just thrown up or preparing to do it again. No exaggeration. I'm one of the women who was almost crippled by bone-deep fatigue in the first and third trimesters, one of the women who, just weeks away from delivery now, finds her child's movements more painful than pleasant. (Seriously. What are those elbows and knees freaking made of, anyway?) I'm one of the unlucky women who has and continues to battle postpartum depression or anxiety, who now understands the full meaning of the compound word "heartburn," who (though previously a huge fan of food and eating) has to make herself consume some food-related item several times a day since absolutely nothing sounds appealing, who hates the fact that she's resigned to frequent mild incontinence, who cannot imagine ever being in control of her bladder again, who lays awake in bed for up to two hours in the middle of almost every night for no good reason except for the fact that her hormones tell her she should be awake and worrying about something, who regularly sweats through her pajamas and awakens hot, damp and annoyed, who can fall asleep at 10:15 p.m. and be up to pee at least four times by midnight.

I am that woman.

In other words, I'm a mom-to-be.

And when I think about it, when I really reflect on it, the only truly important word in that last sentence is "mom." That's why this isn't my first time down this path. That's why I'm not at all sure it will be my last.

Because moms? They do what they have to. Not because they're martyrs, and not because they're heros, or superhuman, or different than anyone else.

It's because there is NEVER, EVER a question of whether or not it's worth it.

Shifting boundaries

It was one of the things I never thought would change when we had kids. But it did.

Before boy came along, husband and I were dedicated snugglers. I really wish there'd been an Olympic category for the sport. We would have been the uncontested champs. Every night when we climbed into bed, we'd both maneuver to the middle of the delightfully massive king-size bed and wrap arms around each other to chat until we were both too sleepy to keep talking. It was always a "thing" of mine that I hated to say or hear "good night," because that meant that we were done talking. So we just talked until one of us drifted off, usually with my head nestled against his chest and his arm around me. The sense of peace I got from those few minutes each night was unobtainable in any other area of my life, and it was important to both of us to reconnect every evening through touch and whispered giggles and conversation.

And then boy was born.

My anxiety when the baby arrived was at an all-time high, due to lots of factors (like the fact that the baby was a truly sporadic and high-need sleeper, requiring lots of holding and rocking to fall and stay asleep, not to mention my OWN sleep deprivation and then, of course, the post-partum depression). As a result, I trained myself to sleep lightly, perched quite literally on the edge of the bed. Not only was I acres away from the snuggle zone in the middle of the bed, I was also turned away from it (and my husband) so that I could face the baby monitor, its green glow casting strange flickering lights on my closed eyelids as I tried to snooze and still remain on alert. Anything I said to my husband during those nights had to be tossed over my shoulder at him for him to hear it, and usually repeated once or twice to clarify what sounded like mumbling.

A great deal of time has passed since those early rough days of boy's fragmented sleep, and thankfully, over the last three months, he's turned into a great little sleeper. He goes to sleep more easily, goes BACK to sleep during the night without assistance, and generally gives us no reason to complain. It was a long time coming, and yet it couldn't have come at a better time, now that we're less than seven weeks away from our next baby's scheduled C-section. Now it's my husband who keeps the monitor on his side of the bed, since it's he who arises the one time in the night that boy awakens and needs help falling asleep. Husband sneaks upstairs, scoops our delicious child into his arms, and carries the heavy bundle of him downstairs to finish the night with us. It's wonderful and much easier on me, and now I finally have a brief respite of what should be great nights of sleep to enjoy before the next baby arrives.

You'd think I would have migrated back to the middle of the bed. That I would have learned to sleep once again facing my husband, would have reestablished our snuggle time now that our nights are so much more conducive to it. But no. I still perch on the edge of my side of the bed, facing out into the room and toward the bedroom door.

I actually caught myself doing it the other night, and spent a restless hour or so pondering the reasons why. Why do I still do that? Why am I so closed off to what used to be the most peaceful and contented moments of my day? And truly -- what am I communicating to my husband when I do this?

In an amazing conversation with him, I was able to articulate to him what happens to me in the evenings. After a day of constant stimulation and intimacy with our son, I am simply touched out. I have no space that's my own, with a two-year-old as my shadow. He comes into the bathroom when I'm using it. He wanders around me while I get dressed for the day, clinging to my bare legs and laughing while I try to step into maternity jeans. He watches me blow my nose. He comments on my toothbrushing, my hairbrushing and my choice of underwear. I catch in my hand the food he spits out of his mouth. I change diapers several times a day, along with the wrestling matches that that entails. I snuggle, I kiss, I hug, I carry, I lift, I play, I clean. And it's all the most fulfilling way I could imagine spending my energy, and I wouldn't change a thing about it.

But it's also true that I DO spend that energy. I felt so validated to see the following excerpt in Parenting Magazine this month (the article was about sex drive, but it makes sense in the context I'm using it, too):

Stella Resnick, Ph.D., author of The Pleasure Zone: Why We Resist Good Feelings [notes that g]iving your kids all the cuddling they require (even grade-schoolers need plenty) increases your levels of oxytocin, a bonding hormone. This makes you feel totally close to them -- but it also decreases testosterone, which plays a huge part in revving up your sex drive. Since women tend to spend more time with kids than men do, and have less testosterone in the first place, their levels of this horny hormone tend to drop even more after children come along. The result: By bedtime, the last thing you may feel like is even more physical contact.

When boy goes to bed for the night, I finally have a moment or two to reestablish my boundaries for myself. And unfortunately that translates into some pretty clear line-drawing down the center of the master bed. As I told my husband, I feel like the center of the bed is reserved for the boy, like it's waiting for the time of night he'll need it. And since it's boy's space, I don't want to be in it even when he's not there, because I know once he arrives, he'll be reaching out from that space to lay a hand on his mommy to reassure himself that she's there.

Thank God for understanding husbands. He said that the explanation made total sense to him, and he completely got where I was coming from. For me, though, I can see that in a few short weeks, the demands on my energy are going to increase exponentially, and that I need to (finally) take my family and friends up on their offers of help when possible. If I get some space to myself during the day, maybe there'll be less of a need for me to retreat from other people (like the man I love more than anyone else in the world) in the evening.

I am worthy. ... Whew, that was tough.

I am an avid reader of thebloggess.com, and so should you be, if a little vulgar language doesn't bother you. Her name is Jenny Lawson, and she writes for the Houston Chronicle under the "Good Mom, Bad Mom" column, but her personal blog is my favorite. She's real and wacky and honest and true, and I dig her style.

Jenny wrote an entry on her Chronicle blog (entitled "I am worthy") inspired by the amazing work of Dr. Brene Brown, who is a researcher, writer and professor in the area of social work. Specifically, Brown encourages her readers and followers this month to focus on why they are each worthy of love, acceptance and respect.

As Jenny the Bloggess points out, that's a tall order. It's easy to knock ourselves down, especially (I believe) as women. We're quick to take note of our bad habits, our flaws, our countless imperfections. But we rarely reflect on what makes us amazingly, uniquely, truly ourselves, and worthy of love for that reason.

Here's my attempt.

Ahem.

...

(Still here. Just thinking. Hard.)

(Holy crap, I had no idea this would be that tough.)

Like Jenny, I feel like I'm a "good mom and a nice person," but lots of people could say that about themselves, and it doesn't really feel like a big deal. Who DOESN'T love their child, right? So that's not really enough.

Geez.

All I can think of is that I have always loved people without reservations.

If I love someone, I do it with my entire heart. I hang it out there. Does it sometimes get banged around? Absolutely. Has it been stomped on more times than I care to admit? You bet. Is it worth it? Without a doubt. I couldn't be any other way if I tried. I was in a relationship in grad school where I tried to hold back parts of myself because the guy I was dating seemed closed off, and I wanted to "protect myself from getting hurt." That was a fruitless exercise, and if I learned nothing else from that relationship, it was that it's impossible for me to love someone only halfway.

Most recently, of course, I can see this essential truth of mine at work in my relationship with my son. He's only two, but when I think about how my love for him has changed and affected me, I'm completely knocked off balance by it. Sometimes the people close to me have worried that I am too much into motherhood, that I neglect myself and my personal development, that I ignore opportunities for my own relaxation and peaceful recharging, and I have to admit that they make some excellent points. But here's the thing -- I don't get a do-over for this period of his life. I don't get to try it again if I fail him in some way. So if he's needed me to be his primary source of comfort and security, or if his growth and development have required me to attend to him when I might have been pursuing other interests to date, I can't regret my choices. If the only one I might be selling short is myself, then I'm ok with that for now.

As I read over this entry, I have no idea if I've found what makes me worthy of love or not. I think what I've described instead is the attribute of myself in which I take the most pride right now. And even though I said it wasn't enough to be "a good mom," I guess that's what I feel like I have going for me. I'm tremendously lucky to be surrounded by people who understand that sacrifice and who allow me to adapt my relationships with THEM according to what I want to give my boy. My husband, my mother, my brothers, my family, my girlfriends, my friends -- all of them have graciously allowed me to focus on being a mom, and helped me in sustaining our respective relationships in new and sometimes more fragmented ways.

So I guess what I'm saying is -- to me, what makes me worthy is in part due to what the people I love are willing to let me explore -- the life-changing, axis-redefining experience that is motherhood.

And like Jenny, I can end my entry with the following words:

"I am worthy because of you."

Note to self

Things to be ashamed of:

• Breaking my promises to myself. 
• Not being a better Baha'i.
• Eating ice cream at 2 a.m. (No one NEEDS ice cream at 2 a.m. A glass of water? Yes. A banana? Maybe. Ben and Jerry's? Not so much.)

Things NOT to be ashamed of:

• Breastfeeding.
• Breastfeeding past boy's one-year birthday.
• Breastfeeding without introducing bottles (resulting in the fact that boy never got used to them, and never would take them).
• Not having any plans to wean from breastfeeding in the near future.
• Having a boy who's not a textbook sleeper.
• (Alright, I'll admit it.) Having a boy who's a CRAPPY sleeper.
• Co-sleeping. (It's the most awesome feeling in the world to wake up in the middle of the night, and know that your baby is safe with you, right by your side, that if anything goes wonky in the night, like if a smoke detector or the security system alarm goes off, you can reach out and pull him close to you, that you're not separated by stairs or distance. Plus, he's such a warm little teddy bear on cold nights.)
• Having a boy who's at the tenth percentile for weight, for his age. He's healthy and growing, alert and inquisitive, and has become a pretty good eater. SOMEONE'S got to make up the low end of the statistical distribution.

Just because I like 'em.

How long has it been since I did a random picture post? 

Well, that's too long.

There's a lot I like about this picture, which my husband took with his iPhone. (As a technology-aside, I'm kind of miffed that his iPhone, which is the newer model, takes much better quality photos than mine. Rawr.) I love that boy's leaning so far back, that he looks so happy and free. I love that he's wearing his monkey cap, and his Packers windbreaker. And I love, love, love the perspective on the swing chains. 

The poor kid is going to have some kind of complex when he gets older. Because, yes, that's a monkey towel, too. 

I love my boys. Even when they're watching college basketball.

Boy is rarely contained in any sort of contraption anymore. When he IS in a play yard of some sort, it's because I have to take my eyes off of him for a few minutes (like when I'm bringing groceries in from the car or something) and I need to be sure he's in a safe place. He usually spends that time either protesting vocally, or methodically testing the device for weaknesses (see above). Like the velociraptors in "Jurassic Park" tested the fences. 

"You talkin' to me?"


We have several azalea bushes in front of our house as part of the general greenery/landscaping/I-don't-know-the-technical-term. Most of the year, they're boring and blah, but for three glorious weeks in the spring, we get a veritable explosion of the hottest hot pink you can imagine. It's the only three weeks of the year I take any interest in gardening whatsoever, and this year I was moved to get the camera out and capture some of the intense color of our blooms. 

Storytime with pops.

"Um, mom? I'm kinda busy here."

"Seriously. The camera can't wait till this book is done?"

" 'What does a lion say,' you ask? RAWR!!!" I love this picture too. Husband's smile is the best.

I seriously had no idea my hair LOOKED this long. I've been on the verge of getting a serious cut -- like, chin-length, with side-swept bangs -- but this picture makes me think maybe I want to keep it long. I kind of dig the hippie vibe.

Part wit, part slapstick, all awesome.

When I was in high school, I was your typical nerdy-pants smart kid. I had a circle of friends who had learned to cope with my nerdiness, and who had known me long enough to recognize that my occasional social awkwardness was probably due to the fact that I had never had much of a chance to learn how to be smooth, since I had strict parents who didn't approve of too much non-academic socializing. And when I was accepted to college, I remember thinking that it was a golden opportunity to recreate myself, to start fresh, to be the me I knew was in there, the me who was shy but a hoot to be around once you got to know her. Only one other classmate would be attending the university where I'd be enrolling, and I thought, "Now's my chance. I want to be fun and outgoing and adventuresome and, most of all, FUNNY." I was convinced that being funny was the best way to actually have fun yourself.

I spent a great deal of time as a college undergrad learning how to be me and be funny at the same time. I don't know how successful I was on other people's laugh meters, but to me, I'd done it -- I felt like a more entertaining and interesting version of myself, like I'd grown into my social sneakers, finally. It was actually a lot more work than anyone might have guessed, but it paid off, and I left college happier with who I was than when I left high school.

And so it's ... well, FUNNY to me that after all that time and effort, after all the trial-and-error spent on concepts like flippancy, sarcasm, well-timed comments and quick quips, that now all I have to do is jump out from behind the couch, and my son thinks I am a comic genius. His laughter ennervates me, emboldens me, makes it possible to shed any inhibitions I might have in the space of a blink, and so I find myself going to all kinds of foolish lengths, making myriad ridiculous faces and sounds, dancing in my family room in ways that would socially cripple me in the real world, just to hear him laugh maniacally. "More," he signs, falling over laughing, "Please, more, pleaseMORE." And so I do it again. Whatever it was, I do it again, sometimes long past the point of being able to stand the feeling of my face making THAT FACE one more time, and yet I do it again. Because he laughs. 

I am finally the funny one. And sometimes it's inconvenient, like when I have to spoon-feed him his dinner around the laughter because the thing-that's-funny is the only thing keeping him eating, but it's always precious. 

And I was right. It totally feels good to be the funny one.

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.)

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.

Jumping on the bandwagon

Ok, so instead of going to bed without posting because I couldn't think of anything to say, I'm copying what emlocke and bad lighting recently did, and doing a year-in-review list. 

1. What did you do in 2008 that you'd never done before?

Had a brand-new human being emerge out of my body. DUH.

2. Did you keep your New Year's Resolutions, and will you make more for this year?

I don't even remember whether I made any resolutions last year. Didn't make any this year. I don't like the whole ... AURA around New Year's Resolutions. They seem designed to let you down, or for you to let yourself down. I gave up on the whole concept ages ago.

3. Did anyone close to you give birth?

Yep. Sister-in-law N and girlfriend C both had precious babies just four and and a half months after boy was born. Our kiddos hang out a lot together. (Although I will say that emlocke answered this question brilliantly with, "No. Nobody gave birth while close to me either, which is an even greater relief.")

4. Did anyone close to you die?

Blessedly, no.

5. What countries did you visit?

None but the good old U. S. of A. Had the opportunity to travel to Haifa, Israel, but had to turn it down. Someday.

6. What would you like to have in 2009 that you lacked in 2008?

A pair of jeans I adore. And that are a size 8 or 10 that fit. I'm really tired of doing the Shimmy of Shame into my size 12s.

7. What dates from 2008 will remain etched in your memory, and why?

Boy's birthday, for sure -- January 26, 2008.

8. What was your biggest achievement of the year?

Learning to forgive myself for not being perfect. Also, asking for help in dealing with my postpartum depression. 

9. What was your biggest failure?

There was a time when I might have answered this with, "Getting an epidural and having a surgical birth," but not anymore. I gave that experience everything I had, plus I ran a fever that made surgery necessary, anyway. And at the end of the day, I got the same baby I would have gotten if I'd been able to stick it out and have the birth I'd envisioned. 

10. Did you suffer illness or injury?

I dunno. How do you classify medically-augmented labor with no pain medication?

11. What was the best thing you bought?

Books for myself that had NOTHING to do with pregnancy, labor, parenting, infant sleep habits or breastfeeding. I am LOVING getting back into the habit of reading for fun. Recently completed: "Stiff: The Curious Lives of Human Cadavers," by Mary Roach. EXCELLENT non-fiction work about the benefit we've derived as a race from the generous people who have allowed their bodies to be used in scientific research after their deaths. 

12. Whose behavior merited celebration?

Hm. From first smiles and laughs to first words and now STEPS, I'd have to go with the obvious and say boy's did.

13. Whose behavior made you appalled and depressed?

Anyone whose behavior was reported on the nightly news, just about. I've boycotted local evening news for a long time now for good reason. You pretty much only hear about rapists, murderers, crooked politicians and other distressing figures. ... Also, MY OWN for how crazy I got about the first three "Twilight" books. I read them so fast you would have thought I was trying to use the pages to fan myself with. I've said it before, but I really don't think they're nearly as well-written as they could have been. The compelling events in each book take place in the last quarter of each one, and a great deal of the leading angst could have been trimmed considerably. Still haven't read the fourth one, and wondering if I really need to. 

14. Where did most of your money go?

Probably to debt-reduction, but it really feels like I should say diapers. Good grief, we buy a lot of diapers.

15. What did you get really, really excited about?

Sadly, being able to get back to taking a shower every day without fail. Even a year after boy's birth, some days are still hit or miss. Also, Green Bay Packers games. And now, New York Jets games too.

16. What song will always remind you of 2008?

It didn't come out in 2008, but Five for Fighting's "100 Years" will always remind me of boy's birth.

17. Compared to this time last year, are you:

a) happier or sadder? Happier.

b) thinner or fatter? Thinner, due to birth-related weight loss. I recommend it. Getting entire people out of your body can really help you drop the pounds fast. 

c) richer or poorer? Emotionally richer. Poorer in terms of sleep. Everything else is probably about the same.

18. What do you wish you'd done more of?

Sleep. Exercise. Blog. Staying connected with good friends who are important to me, but with whom I rarely talk.

19. What do you wish you'd done less of?

Stressing about what people thought of the job I was doing as a mother.

20. How did you spend Christmas?

With my dad's extended family, soothing an overtired boy and hoping he'd sleep in his Pack and Play so that we could stay at the celebration longer.

21. Did you fall in love in 2008?

Yep. Not only with boy, but with his daddy all over again. It's been a joy to watch husband very quickly step into the role of daddy. He's a natural, and he loves his new job very much.

22. What was your favorite TV program?

What's TV? When I did watch it, I watched The Office and Heroes.

23. Do you hate anyone now that you didn't hate this time last year?

Like Jon at badlighting, I really don't like that word. It's pretty heavy. But I'll go out on a limb and admit that I have not been impressed with Philip Rivers of the San Diego Chargers. 

24. What was the best book you read?

I dunno. The one I read most often was "Ten Little Ladybugs," by Melanie Gerth.

25. What was your greatest musical discovery?

That most battery-operated musical toys for boy have an "off" switch.

26. What did you want and get?

A beautiful, healthy, intelligent and delightful baby ...

27. What did you want and not get?

... who is a good sleeper. I'll take the baby I've got any day, though. He's exactly the baby God wanted me to have, and I know He's teaching me through this boy. I just have to be open and attentive to learning those lessons. 

28. What was your favorite film of the year?

I didn't see many, but I did manage to catch "The Dark Knight." I thought about that one for a long time after I saw it. Loved it.

29. What did you do on your birthday, and how old were you?

Celebrated with friends who surprised me, as I turned 33. 

30. What one thing would have made your year immeasurably more satisfying?

Getting fit and slender. 

31. How would you describe your personal fashion concept in 2008?

Dairy-encrusted. Nursing-related. Occasionally sporting spit-up as an accessory.

32. What kept you sane?

Prozac. Husband. Mom. My brothers. The night nanny we hired for a few isolated nights when boy was two months old.

33. What celebrity/public figure did you admire the most?

The Obama family, for how they handled the pressure and attention that the election cast upon them. I'm hoping he's the leader I believe him to be -- poised, intelligent, thoughtful and conscientious. 

34. What political issue stirred you the most?

2008 was the year that "unity" became a political issue, and it was that dialogue more than anything that compelled me to get excited about the possibility of a new era. 

35. Who did you miss?

My gramma and grampa. They would have loved meeting and playing with boy.

36. Who was the best new person you met?

Not a fair question. Almost everyone I know now (and have known for years) is a new person to me, since they've had to become grandparents, aunts, uncles, and more over the last year. I will say that I'm super-grateful for my amazing mom's group girlfriends, who are REAL. They're loving and accepting and delightfully REAL.

37. Tell us a valuable life lesson you learned in 2008.

I learned a lot of them last year. I'll share a few:

Occupy the top half of the baby while you're changing the bottom half, because after a certain age, diaper changes cause baby boys to make quick-handed swipes for their peeps, even if said peeps are covered in poo.

Don't bother changing the baby out of his jammies before breakfast. He's somehow going to end up with applesauce on his elbows anyway, so you might as well wait.

38. Quote a song lyric that sums up your year. 

Husband and I still get a little choked up when we hear this one: "I'm 33 for a moment / Still the man, but you see I'm a 'they' / Kid on the way, babe, and family on my mind ..." -- "100 Years," Five for Fighting. Husband was actually 33 when boy was born, so there's personal resonance there. 

Another 187 miles

On New Year's Day, we once again embarked upon the 187-mile journey to visit my in-laws for a few days. We hadn't been back to see them since boy's difficult experience in the car, so we set out with a show of bravado, but a queasy feeling in our stomachs that had nothing to do with partying the night before (since we were home all evening and in bed by 11, barely staying awake until midnight to wish each other a sleepy "habby-dew-year-g'nite"). Having learned a few things on our last journey, we set out earlier in the day, and packed about 67 pounds of sundry items (board books, wooden spoons, small Tupperware, water bottles -- you know, the usual) to hand to boy in turn as he started to fuss. Which he promptly did.

The assorted crap worked for a while. Luckily, we'd gotten pretty smart and planned a mid-trip stop for lunch, to give boy a break from his car seat. So just as he was getting tired of a plastic microphone (it makes your voice echo when you speak directly into it, without any batteries whatsoever -- it's actually kind of cool), we rolled into the parking lot of a Chili's restaurant in Brenham, Texas. We'd driven right through a cold front, so we blew into the restaurant's front doors along with a whoosh of biting, frigid air, but that still didn't account for the drop in temperature when the clientele there got a good look at us. After I'd make a quick pit stop and returned to our table (a short walk that took me throughout the main dining room and past the bar, then back again), I sat down and asked husband sotto voce, "Um, just curious -- do you think our medical insurance covers gunshot wounds?" To which he immediately replied, "My God, you get that vibe too?"

It always amuses me when people see my husband, who is of Middle Eastern heritage, and assume that he's scary. Because you have to know him for about three seconds to realize that he's about as far from scary as Teddy Ruxpin was from not-creepy. I was commenting on that to husband as we sat, not-enjoying our meal, and I said sarcastically, "You know, that's what drew me to you in the first place -- that air of danger you exude." At that unfortunate moment, our waiter arrived to refresh our drinks and I'm pretty sure he overheard me, which probably didn't help our case.

ANYWAY.

We finished our meal, bundled boy back up in his car seat (despite earnest protests to the contrary) and set out to finish the drive. Since he'd seen just about all our tricks by then, boy was really letting us know he was ready to be DONE with the time in the car. We started in with our nursery-rhyme-song-and-dance, running in rapid succession through the ABCs, "Row, row, row your boat," "Mary had a little lamb," "London Bridge," and the magic penny song ("Love is like a magic penny / hold it tight and you won't have any / Lend it, spend it, give it away / It comes right back to you-ooooo"). When the whimpers started anew, we pulled out the big guns -- the Kenny Rogers CD we'd purchased on our LAST road trip.

Turns out, there are two songs on that CD, tracks five and six, that hold a mesmerizing, lullaby-like quality for our boy. We listened to "The Gambler" and "Love Will Turn It Around" at least a dozen times each, because not only were they causing long breaks in the crying, they were even soothing boy to the point of dozing off. And once again I learned something as I sang along with The Incomparable Kenny Rogers -- even though I've known the lyrics to "The Gambler" for probably more than twenty years, New Year's Day was THE FIRST TIME it ever occurred to me that the song is about more than poker. (Yep. I never said I was brilliant.) Imagine that -- stirring life lessons brought to you by the guy whose grin later graced the packaging for both pineapple and deep fried chicken. 

We listened to that song so many times that in order to deal with the monotony, husband and I not only sang along but began acting out the song. It's become something of a one-woman-show I do now, and I have high hopes of getting husband to break out the camcorder so I can show you what "The Gambler" looks like in pantomime. (Coming soon. If you're lucky. Seriously, I'm smelling a Tony.)

Habby dew year, everyone.

The other side of midnight

I have never liked going to bed.

In second grade, it was because when the night was over, I'd have to wake up and go back to school where my teacher was one step removed from The Wicked Witch of the West. Plus, I hated timed math tests. They made me feel like I had to pee, I would get so nervous.

On summer vacations with my family to Wisconsin, it was because going to bed marked the end of one more precious day of our limited time with my friends and cousins, whom we only saw once a year. 

In college, it was because I had lost one more day against the time I had to write seven to ten twelve-page papers for the end of any given semester (that's life as an English major). I asked for (and usually received) so many delayed due dates from my professors that my brother dubbed me the queen of extensions.

Nothing's changed now. I still hate going to bed. But you'd think I wouldn't, right? After all my griping and whining about how little sleep I get and how tired I am, you'd think I'd race to fall into bed and seek out the Land of Nod, wouldn't you? Turns out, not so much.

The thing is, I love being alone. There's something about being the only person awake in the house that feels so liberating. I can read as long as I want to, shop Amazon and daydream, organize my photos and music, plan blog entries, fold laundry, whatever. No one's around to interrupt, or roll their eyes if I end up reading "Outlander" again, or tell me to keep my feet off the coffee table (not that we're that kind of family, anyway), or pull the folded towels onto the floor. Again. There's no husband to share the remote with, no baby to step around and coo over when he starts tottering away from his secure hold on the couch, no mom to spend endless hours on the phone with.

And yet. There's no husband. No baby. No mom. Which can get kind of lonely, too.

And that's what finally gets me into bed these days. It's the knowledge that while the time alone is relaxing and recharging, it's the people in the daylight that make the relaxed, recharged me someone worth being around in the first place. 

Good night, Internets. See you in the morning.

Sigh.

Dear Internets,

I miss you. I'm sorry. 

Where have I been, you ask, and what have I been doing? Hm. I know what I haven't been doing. That includes sleeping well, eating well, relaxing, or working out. Yech. I feel like more of a lump just typing all that. I guess what I have been doing is lots of baby care (um, like LOTS) and visiting with family. Which is great, and which I love, but which doesn't leave much time for anything else. 

I've also been doing a fair amount of moping, Internets -- I can't lie. I feel like I'm letting down a lot of people I love, and I'm not used to that. And it's been hard to find a way out of that muck, and I dwell on it too much instead of brainstorming ways to NOT let them down. So I've been a little blue.

But you know what they say about the new year -- it's a fresh start, a clean slate, blah, blah, blah. And as banal and trivial as that sounds, maybe there's something to that. I'm not making any New Year's Resolutions -- those are too easy to forget about, and dismiss as "oh, I guess those didn't last very long, did they?" Instead, I'm making some vows to myself. Sounds silly, but it's time I took a long hard look at what I want to be, and put myself on my own list of priorities so I can get there. So I vow 1) to take care of myself (I am historically crappy at this), 2) to ask for help when I need it (this is huge for me), and 3) to let go of the things I can't control (also huge). 

I'll keep you posted. In the meantime, I also vow to correspond with you more often, Internets. I liked November for our constant conversation, and I want to do better. 

So get ready to hear from me. I can't promise it will always be riveting, but it WILL always be real.

Love,

me.

And that's as much a request as it is a sign-off.

In my defense, I NEVER CLAIMED to be normal.

If I ever walk up to you and sniff your face, you can blame my aunt B.

When I was a little kid, I used to spend afternoons after school at my grandparents' house. My aunt, who wasn't yet married at the time, still lived with them. And occasionally, she'd let me watch her put on her makeup. 

My aunt's makeup ritual would have been elaborate to an ADULT. To a second-grader, it bordered on the mystical. She would take a seat at her low vanity table, and survey her assortment of vials and compacts and tubes. First was the concealer, dabbed on in strategic places, then blended carefully. Then came liquid foundation. Then powder. Then eyeliner (this took a while, as she carefully pulled and lifted the applicator to create an almond eye shape, almost feline at the outer corners). Then eyeshadow -- three or more colors, painstakingly applied and blended. Then a touch of lipstick to the mouth, and dotted on the cheeks and forehead and rubbed in to give her face a rosy, pinky glow. At each step, she'd pull back from the glare of the vanity mirror and check the overall effect, frequently moistening a finger to undo the latest application, grumbling under her breath until she had the cosmetics on the way she wanted.

The whole process took over 45 minutes. And this was makeup ALONE. Hair and wardrobe hadn't even been considered yet. So it's really not surprising that she would therefore be so meticulous about the finished product. If we ever reached up to hug her after her ministrations, she'd hiss, "Watch out! Don't touch my face!" It wasn't long before she'd perfected the air kiss, a quick peckish motion in the vicinity of your cheek in greeting. 

Over the years, she became less adamant about the absolute-no-contact rule, and modified her salutation into a sniff. In order to preserve her carefully applied lipliner and lipstick, she'd curl her lips into her mouth, and press her nostrils onto your cheek, inhaling at the same time to create a light suction effect, not unlike a kiss, I suppose. In Vietnamese, the phrase you use to describe that little sniff is hit vao, pronounced HEET vah-oh, and it's become the standard greeting for more than one of the perfectly-made-up women in my family. If it hadn't started when I was such a little kid, it would probably seem gross, but at this point, it's just what they do. I've even caught myself doing it when I greet them in return, strangely. 

And there was the one time I did it to a girlfriend who is not acquainted with my family, and heck, she's not even Vietnamese. Not that that would have helped.

She'd just had a baby, and husband and I had gone over to visit the new little family. As good friends do, we'd made and brought dinner along with us, so when I saw my friend for the first time, my hands were full of a slow-cooker, teeming with some kind of soup or stew. A hug (our normal greeting) was therefore out of the question, and without thinking about it at all (clearly), I leaned down and sniffed her cheek. 

Keep in mind the poor woman had recently had her first baby. She was wearing her glasses, which means she hadn't been sleeping regularly enough to know when to put in or remove her contact lenses. And chances are, if you're not sleeping regularly, you probably haven't had a regular shower routine, either. Not that I even remember whether she smelled bad or anything, but if you hadn't showered recently and a friend put her head next to your face and inhaled sharply, wouldn't you feel uncomfortable?

The instant I'd done it, I thought, "Hey, I'll bet that seemed REALLY EFFING WEIRD to her." But I had no idea how to address it. She didn't say a thing about it (the fact that she didn't rear back as if I'd tried to bite her is a testament to her grace and poise), so I pretended like nothing strange had happened, and to this day we've never discussed it. 

So, I'm just sayin'. If I sniff you, it's 'cause I love you.

Twitter me this ...

So I jumped on the Twitter bandwagon. As you can see from the left-hand sidebar here. And it's fun, and I really do like it. But there's a whole subculture around it that I know nothing about.

I assumed Twitter was like Facebook, in that you look up people you ALREADY KNOW and have a new, mobile-phone-based way to keep in touch with them. But what I'm finding is that a lot of people use Twitter to MEET NEW people. So I jumped on, ready to connect with the handful of friends I knew who were already using it -- and now I'm getting random people "following" me. Which is flattering, but, um, kind of a lot of pressure.

Supposedly, Twitter's intended to let you address just one question: "What are you doing right now?" And you can answer that and tell your followers what's going on from hour to hour in your life, if you want. And that's cool, and I'm warming up to it. 

Problem is, while I'm always doing SOMETHING, it's not exactly pithy Twitter material. "Changing a diaper. Again." Not so fascinating. "Catching a nap while boy snoozes." Good for me, right? But who cares? So I've tried using Twitter (to date, anyway) just to share some random thoughts. What I'm wondering, what just occurred to me, what I cherish about the day. 

And now I have an all-new format in which to feel pressured to be clever and fascinating. 

I couldn't have said it better myself.

My sister-in-law sent me the most amazing e-mail today, and I felt so exhilarated by it that I had to post it here. The excerpt she sent me was a scanned piece from The Washington Post, called "Tell Me About It." And I liked it so much I've RETYPED it here. If I knew what date it was circulated, I would include that, but I have no clue -- I'll cite it the best I can. This piece is written by Carolyn Hax of The Washington Post. You can reach her at tellme@washpost.com.

So -- this one's for my sister-in-law, and for screamy mimi. And for shorty, and dooce. It's for my girlfriend Laura who reads this blog and has two amazing kids herself. It's for N, also a mother of two, and C, whose baby is just four months younger than my own boy. It's for my incredible girlfriend K who is a mom to an adorable one-year-old, and who has battled cancer and numerous health issues herself since her son's birth (she just finished chemo and radiation, and her spirit inspires me every day). It's for all the moms in my mom's group. It's for any mom anywhere who's ever felt frustrated with the fact that her to-do list never seems to get completely checked off on any given day. 

There's a good reason for that. Multiple reasons, in fact. As you'll see.

Dear Carolyn: Best friend has child. Her: exhausted, busy, no time for self, no time for me, etc. Me (no kids): What'd you do today? Her: Park, play group ... 

OK. I've talked to parents. I don't get it. What do stay-at-home moms do all day? Please no lists of library, grocery store, dry cleaners ... I do all those things, too. I guess what I'm asking is: What is a typical day and why don't moms have time for a call or e-mail? I work and am away from home nine hours a day (plus a few late work events); I manage to get it all done. I'm feeling like the kid is an excuse to relax and enjoy, but if so, why won't my friend tell me the truth? Is this a contest ("my life is so much harder than yours")? What's the deal? I've got friends with and without kids and all us child-free folks have the same questions.  -- Tacoma, Washington.

Dear Tacoma: Relax and enjoy. You're funny. 

Or, you're lying about having friends with kids.

Or you're taking them at their word that they actually have kids, because you haven't personally been in the same room with them. 

I keep wavering between giving you a straight answer and giving my forehead some keyboard. To claim you want to understand, while in the same breath implying that the only logical conclusions are that your mom-friends are either lying or competing with you, is disingenuous indeed.

So, because it's validation you seem to want, the real answer is what you get. When you have young kids, your typical day is: constant attention, from getting them out of bed, fed, cleaned, dressed; to keeping them out of harm's way; to answering their coos, cries and questions; to having two arms and carrying one kid, one set of car keys, and supplies for even the quickest trips, including the latest-to-be-declared essential piece of molded plastic gear; to keeping them from unshelving books at the library; to enforcing rest times; to staying one step ahead of them lest they get too hungry, tired, or bored, any one of which produces checkout-line screaming.

It's needing 45 minutes to do what takes others 15.

It's constant vigilance, constant touch, constant use of your voice, constant relegation of your needs to the second tier. 

It's constant scrutiny and second-guessing from family and friends. It's resisting constant temptation to seek short-term relief at everyone's long-term expense.

It's doing all this while concurrently teaching virtually everything -- language, manners, safety, resourcefulness, discipline, curiosity, creativity. Empathy. Everything.

It's also a choice, yes. And a joy. But if you spent all day, every day, with this brand of joy, and then, when you got your first 10 minutes to yourself, wanted to be alone with your thoughts instead of calling a good friend, a good friend wouldn't judge you, complain about you or marvel how much more productively she uses her time. Either make a sincere effort to understand, or keep your snit to yourself.

Can you hear me clapping?

Now, let me clarify -- I am blessed with friends who have never openly wondered whether I've developed bedsores from lazing around in my new lifestyle. I can't say that I have a "Tacoma, Washington" among my loved ones. So this isn't so much a redirect of this rant to the people in my life as it is me flying high the banner of the stay-at-home mom -- and of her understanding circle of dear friends. Because I know I've fallen off the radar of a lot of people who are important to me -- I was never the world's best correspondent, and now it may be months between calls or notes or Facebook Wall postings. And they may think they've fallen off of MY radar, but that's not true. For what it's worth, I think of them -- of YOU -- all the time. I remember birthdays, wonder how someone's mother is doing, wish I could be there for him, plan to call her. I miss people I taught with, worked with, danced with, laughed with. And if those people are YOU, I want you to know -- you are still important to me. 

Don't give up on me. I'm still here. My hands are full and every hour is a balancing act, but I AM here. With everything I've got, thank you for being understanding and patient and flexible. 

Legends

Every family has stories, the stories everyone in the family knows by heart and can finish if someone starts. These are a few of mine.

** ** ** ** **

I heard this one countless times as a child, and every time Grampa told it, I loved it more.

When Grampa was a little boy, he and one of his brothers were playing down by the creek behind the family farm. They happened upon a turtle nest (pit? what do you call what a turtle lays eggs in?), and were so taken with the round, dimpled turtle eggs that they filled their pockets and lunch pails with them. Carting their treasures home, they smuggled them into the house and played with them for hours, rolling them around like big marbles. When it was time for bed, they wanted to hide their new toys away from their mother's eagle eyes. They scampered down the basement steps and secreted their find away in various nooks and corners.

I can imagine Grampa as a little boy, skipping around the basement, his shoulders hunched in an effort to be furtive, seeking out dark spots, tucking round leathery eggs underneath burlap sacks filled with dried corn, balancing them on top of jars of canned peaches and beets. I can hear him giggling behind his hands, trying to be quiet, shushing his brother when they both get too loud. And I can see him tripping over the stairs as he rushes back up to get ready for bed, trying to get ahead of his mother's prompts. 

The next day dawned, and as usual, Grampa and his brother were expected to complete their daily chores. In the hustle and bustle of the day, they completely forgot about the turtle eggs that lay quietly all over the basement. That is, until the day a few weeks later, when my great-grandmother went down the basement stairs to fetch up some pickles to go with supper, and was greeted by dozens of tiny, clumsy, flapping turtles. 

Grampa always said he'd never had his behind reddened like that, before or since.

** ** ** ** **

My dad is a police officer. Has been for over 20 years. He's seen his share of awful and amazing things, and has dozens of stories. But one of the stories that is the most vivid to me only starts off scary -- it has a happier ending.

My dad and his partner were called to the scene of an armed robbery. One of the people they found at the scene was a man who had been shot in the chest. The two officers began to administer first aid, but it became apparent that the victim's lungs had been punctured, and he couldn't draw breath. Thinking quickly, my dad slipped the cellophane wrapper off of a pack of cigarettes lying nearby, and held the thin film of plastic to the man's wound. He says he heard the plastic instantly sucked tight to the man's body, and all of a sudden the victim drew his first deep breath -- the film had sealed the wound, temporarily giving the man a closed chest cavity again so that he could breathe. If it hadn't been for my dad's presence of mind, that man might not have lived, but instead, he was conscious and breathing when the paramedics arrived and took him to the hospital, where he received treatment for his injuries. And survived.

** ** ** ** **

When I was a little girl, I would beg my parents to read stories to me before bed. I was happy to hear my books read over and over, but my parents got bored soon enough, and one night, my dad decided he could tell just as good a story as any in a book. So he settled me under the covers and told the following tale.

Once upon a time, there was a princess. And she was a good princess, but sometimes she got bored in the castle. So one day she went outside to play. Her parents the king and queen told her to stay close to the castle, and she promised she would.

But she strayed a little far into the forest, and as she was walking, she heard a noise behind her. Boom, boom, boom, she heard. She turned around, but there was nobody there. Startled but brave, she kept walking, hoping she'd imagined it. 

Before long, she heard the noise again. Boom, boom, boom, she heard. Once again she whipped around, but there was nobody there. 

Scared now, the princess realized she didn't know the way home. She turned in the direction she thought would take her to the castle and started hurrying to get out of the forest. And then she heard it again. BOOM, BOOM, BOOM! She turned around, and there, standing before her, was an enormous boogeyman. He had great sharp teeth and huge claws, and he was ready to eat her up.

The little princess whirled around and started running as fast as her legs would carry her. She could hear the boogeyman behind her, roaring that he would catch her. Quick as a flash, she ran up a big hill, and putting her shoulder against a huge boulder, she pushed with all her might. The boulder broke away, gathered speed and headed straight for the boogeyman, getting faster and faster as it rolled down the hill. And just as the princess had hoped, it rolled right over the boogeyman, and mushed him flat as a pancake. And so the princess went straight home, and never disobeyed her parents the king and queen again.

The end.

** ** ** ** **

Yes, every family has stories, and over the last month, I've told a number of mine. Now that National Blog Posting Month is over, I'm releasing myself from my self-imposed commitment to a daily post. But I've found that I like posting frequently, Internets, so I'm hoping that I can keep things fresh for you here at writesoftly. I do love feedback, so if you find yourself chuckling or sneering or wiping away tears or craving a Pizookie, leave me a comment to let me know.

And thanks for stopping by.