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.

With each day, wisdom ...

Now that boy is one year old, and has been for all of two days, I'm learning more and more from him all the time. 

1. A low-profile couch (one which has a lower edge just two inches off the floor) is a great way to keep toys from getting stuck under your family room furniture.
   
2. Most toys.
   
3. Chunky puzzle pieces and board books will slide nicely under a low-profile couch.
   
4. Boy's hands fit into spaces just two inches high.
   
5. Mine do not.
   
6. If I think I'm missing books or puzzle pieces from the toy collection in the family room, I've learned where to look first.
   
7. Our low-profile sectional couch is very heavy.
   
8. Lift with your legs, not your back.
   
9. A sprained back is very painful. Advil helps.
   
10. Advil should not be taken with a prenatal vitamin, for the effect can be nauseating.
    
11. Purple prenatal vitamins are just as purple when thrown up.
    
12. But they taste approximately eighteen times as bad.
    

Stay tuned, Internets. I'm thinking of posting a special report on which types of toys hurt the most when stepped on in the dark with bare feet.

365 days

Since I always get to write letters to boy, I thought it might be nice if his daddy had a chance to do it in honor of his first birthday. The letter below was written by husband, just for our little guy.

** ** ** ** **

Dear boy,

Today marks the one-year anniversary of your birth. It's hard to believe how quickly this year has gone by and how much you've changed. You came to us unexpectedly early -- almost three weeks. Looking back, I wouldn't have had it any other way, because we got to see all of your milestones three weeks early, and more importantly, we got to see you three weeks earlier.

As you were growing inside your mommy's belly, we really didn't know whom to expect. Now, you are most decidedly BOY. Filled with your own boy-ness, complete with your own wants, preferences and personality. Each day this past year, you've shared more and more of who you are and who you're going to be, and each day your mother and I have grown more and more in love with you.

At each turn you've surprised us. Some of the surprises, like your sleep habits, have been challenging, while others have brought your mother and me to joyous tears. Nonetheless, this past year has been the best year of my life and it is solely because of how happy you and your mother have made me. At every turn you've made me so proud of who you are and how you handle everything that's thrown at you.

As you turn one, there are a few verities that I want you to take with you throughout your life. First, put your trust in God, and do not despair the tests that life throws at you; you are the product of such tests, and you have brought immeasurable joy to those who saw your mother and me endure those tests.

Second, your mother and I will always be here for you, at every triumph and misstep, at every burst of happiness and every pang of heartache. We love you and you can always come to us.

Third, you are surrounded by many people who love you, and you can lean on them in times of need. Your grandparents, uncles and aunts awaited your arrival, and they will be there for you.

Finally, life will never be as you expect it, but if you stay true to yourself, your Faith, and find the right balance between mind and heart, you will be equipped to handle whatever comes your way. 

As I close this letter, I'd like to offer the first morsels of fatherly advice. Be kind -- kindness will always be repaid in some form or another. Do right -- if you obey your moral compass when faced with right and wrong, irrespective of the environment that creates the choice, your path will be correct. Forgive -- this one's hard. I still struggle with it, but I think that you'll find that most people are capable of change and if you can't forgive, you may miss out on some of the gems of this world.

Son, I love you. This year has brought so much change into both of our lives and I'm proud to have you as my son. Please keep teaching me how to be a good father, and I'll do my best to guide you through this world.

I love you, son.

Daddy.

Maybe if I coat it with mashed potatoes ...

Back before I became pregnant with boy, I started taking prenatal vitamins. 

For any other woman, this might not have been a big deal. But I'm ME. And ME does not do VITAMINS. ME does not do any regular medication. At least I never did before. I always either forgot to take it, or just kind of decided I was probably fine without it anyway, and just quit. Not a good habit, I know. But very, again, ME.

The prenatal thing did not come easily to me back then. I knew it was important for two main reasons -- 1) for about as long as I can remember, I've been anemic. My low iron counts baffle my docs, but they do all agree that they're low, and that makes me easily tired. Pregnancy was sure to sap my energy even more, they all told me, so it was important that I take the vitamins, which were fortified with iron. 2) I also had read enough to know that I needed to be taking lots of folic acid to reduce the chance that the theoretical baby would have birth defects. And as many bags of Cool Ranch Doritos as I'd eaten as a teenager, with all the preservatives they must have contained, I knew I could take no chances.

So, clearly -- a big deal. And yet, I was awful about it. My husband had to resort to playing vitamin cop with me each night. "Honey, did you take your prenatal?" he'd ask sweetly. And gingerly. Because if I had, I'd probably answer in the affirmative through a surly sneer, and if I hadn't, I was bound to flounce and whine all the way downstairs to take the thing. Aside from my natural tendency to be flippant about regular medications, there were two major reasons why I hated taking this pill in particular. 

1) It smelled like an old lady's purse. Seriously, I don't know what fragrance they used in manufacturing it, or what they were trying to cover up, but the mere scent of it was enough to make me want to gag.

2) It was about the size of Pittsburgh. I'm not kidding. It's the only vitamin I've ever seen that you could probably play softball with. What the hell, people? Why would you make a prenatal vitamin so freakishly ginormous? Think about it. The majority of women taking it are already pregnant and therefore PRONE TO GAGGING. Gack. I just retched remembering it. 

So the first time around, I was not a fan of the vitamin, to say the least. "But you could have just taken a DIFFERENT one," you say, and reasonably so. "There must be more than one kind of prenatal vitamin to choose from."

And you're right. There are many. However (and none of you who know me will be surprised by what's about to follow) -- this is the only one that didn't make me nauseous. Even this one had to be ingested under the most stringently controlled circumstances to avoid making me feel sick: I had to take it halfway through a hearty dinner. Not with breakfast, nor with lunch. Not with just soup, or a grilled chicken salad. Halfway through a hearty, filling, stick-to-your-ribs dinner, or hello! I'd see it again floating in the powder room toilet. 

Once I actually became pregnant, my inner vitamin-hating psychosis only grew. I had to pump myself up to take it every night, and as I worked on my vitamin-buffering dinner, I would eye the bottle of medication with open disgust, and more than a little trepidation. Would I succeed this time? Or would the pill hit the kitchen sink with a ping!, the way it did many nights when I just couldn't choke it down? (It really did look like some kind of horse tranquilizer, it was so big.)

And then boy was born, and he was healthy and sound, and I realized that the stupid honker purple pill had some small role in that fact. And of course, in retrospect, it didn't seem all that bad. 

Lately, husband and I have been discussing our plans for expanding the clan once again. Not tomorrow, not next week, but maybe in this calendar year. And so in preparation, tonight was the third night in a row I took the stupid prenatal again.

Only this time, no one has to remind me. It still smells like someone's sweaty grandma, and it still seems to lodge itself sideways in my throat every time I take it, but somehow I don't mind so much anymore.

If the next time is anything like the last time, the payoff's totally worth it.

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.