Pssssst: I'm Still Here. You Guys Just Can't See Me.

Hey, bloggy friends. Did you know I'm still writing like a madwoman? It's true.

Today, I posted about this new 80s throwback band I found.

Yesterday, I whined about my latest brush with depression.

And the day before that? My toddler showed you all how you how to take a proper afternoon nap.

However, my Google Friends Connect gadget doesn't want to update my feed (apparently it liked it over on Blogger better), so you guys can't see me. We're working on it, but if you'd like to get my posts sent to your reader in the meantime (or even your email inbox. I'm all fancy like that now), could you head on over to my site and subscribe all regular-like?

Heck, I'll make it even easier for you. Just click here and you'll be taken to the subscribe page.

Do I sound desperate? That's because I am. A little. It's loooooonely over here (whimpers for dramatic effect). Come see me?

Moving is Hard.

Hello, loyal readers. Are you still out there?

I haven't forgotten you.

I'm just in the middle of a move to wordpress, and it's not going all that smoothly. I'll be back soon, I promise. And when I am? I'll have all sorts of bloggity goodness for you.

So don't forget about me, okay?

Mwaaah!

Mirror, Mirror On the Wall.

Looking for today's Writing Workshop post? Come visit me at Mommy's Still Fabulous, where I'm guest posting today! She was my first bloggy friend, and an absolute fabulous blogger, so make sure you check her out while you're there.

So, in honor of Her Fabulousness, I'm re-posting an old Writing Workshop post about my ongoing search for my inner goddess.

Mirror, Mirror on the Wall.

REFLECTION: Why are you glaring at me like that?

ME: Because I don’t like you very much.

REFLECTION: Again? We’re having this conversation again?

ME: What do you mean, again?

REFLECTION: For the last 33 years, it’s been nothing but, “why can’t you be thinner, why is your belly so poochy, why are you so short, why, why, why…” It’s enough to give a girl a complex.

ME: I haven’t always hated you.

REFLECTION: Name one time you liked what you saw.

ME: What about back in my 20’s, when I was a size 6?

REFLECTION: You wanted to be a size 4.

ME: That's not true. Remember that string bikini? You looked darn good in that bikini.

REFLECTION: Yeah, but your face was broken out. That was all you could see.

ME: When I was pregnant, I liked you then.

REFLECTION: Wrong. You spent the whole time worrying about how fat you were getting.

ME: Well… I was right. I did gain too much weight. Look at you now.

REFLECTION: You know what? I’ve had enough. I’m going on strike.

ME: You can’t go on strike. You’re my reflection!

REFLECTION: Watch me. I’m walking out of this mirror, and I’m not coming back until you say something nice about me.

ME: That’s impossible.

Reflection starts to leave.

ME: Hey, wait! Come back.

REFLECTION: (Over her shoulder) I meant what I said. I’m going to go back to bed, and I’m staying there until you learn to appreciate me.

ME: But people will think I’m a vampire. 

REFLECTION: That’s your problem, not mine.

ME: (Pounding on empty mirror). That’s not fair! You little bitch, get back here!

REFLECTION: Mmmm, it's mighty comfy in here.

ME: Please?

REFLECTION: Sure am glad I got these bamboo sheets. They're nice and soft.

ME: Come on. I really do love you…

Reflection pops her head back in.

REFLECTION: What? What was that you just said?

ME: I love you.

REFLECTION: Why?

ME: Because you’re strong, and you’re beautiful, and you’re capable of amazing things. It’s just….

REFLECTION: (Sighing) It’s just what?

ME: Nothing. It’s nothing. You’re an amazing woman, just as you are. And in a few months, after I lose this baby weight, you’ll be even more amazing.

REFLECTION: So you’ll cut the crap?

ME: Yes. No more name calling.

REFLECTION: You promise? Because that’s verbal abuse, you know. I could call the police.

ME: No you can’t. You’re my reflection. You don’t have real hands.

REFLECTION: Do you want me to leave again?

ME: No, no. Hey, I know how I can make it up to you. Let’s go shopping. I’ll buy you something pretty.

REFLECTION: Okay, we’ll go shopping. But no dressing room tantrums, or I’ll make you buy foundation undergarments.

ME: (shudders) A girdle? No, thank you. I’ll be good, I promise.

REFLECTION: Deal. Ann Taylor, here we come… better bring the credit card.

Seven Things That Suck About Indiana.

Oh, Indiana. Home to...corn fields. Lots of corn fields. And pharmaceutical companies. You are a very lovely state. One I'm usually happy to call home (but then I'm from Detroit, so you know. That's not saying much).

But right now? You're kind of on my shit list. And here are seven reasons why.

Holy crap, the humidity. I don't know if you've noticed, Indiana, but it's only June. Not even late June. But the humidity out there? Feels like August in Southern Florida. Do you think you could turn it down a notch or five? Because I'd like to go outside at some point before it turns into winter again.

Tractors should not be allowed on regular roads. Ever. Nothing makes me angrier than having to slow down to negative five miles an hour because some stupid farmer decides to take his two-story-tall tractor out for a drive down the highway (and it happens. frequently).

Enough with the damn thunderstorms.  Five nights in a row? Really? And tornadoes on the ground to boot? This is not the vacation weather I ordered up, dang it. Cut it out!

Your most interesting city is as boring as Law and Order (the TV show).  I'm talking, of course, about Indianapolis. Home of chain restaurants, chain stores and...well, I'm sure there's something interesting to see, but the whole town seems geared toward the Midwestern conventioneers who couldn't afford Vegas (i.e., short on staycation fun).

Why do you have to be so damn rocky? Why is the whole dang state (or at least this portion of it) have to be one solid bed of rock? Because if you didn't know, basements are a handy thing to have when it's tornado-ing out. I may have to look into finishing my crawl space.

Could you do something about the mullets? There are a lot of them. He-mullets, she-mullets, toddler-mullets—even old, balding guy mullets. Someday, they'll come back in style, but for now? The mullet aficionados are making the rest of us look bad.

Diversity. Learn the word—then apply it to your populace. If there is a more white bread place on the planet, I haven't seen it yet. We are lucky that our neighborhood is home to people of multiple races, but on the whole? A face that isn't Caucasian is rare enough to turn heads. That's just weird.

I could go on. But then I'd just be feeding into the stereotypes (even more than I already am), so I'll shut up. Instead, I'll turn the tables on you. What annoys you about your state?

The Stairs: My New Worst Enemy.

Every mom (no matter how clueless), knows that stairs are dangerous. We all know that we should have them gated, top and bottom. That we should never let our children climb them. And that, under no circumstances, should we ever, ever let our little bambinos anywhere near the upper landing.

Yeah.

I know these things. But the problem is, I have pets. Pets who, when they find themselves unable to go up and downstairs at will, show their immense displeasure by peeing and pooping places they shouldn't.

I also have a little girl who likes to climb. She has since she learned to crawl. So I let her climb the stairs—always following closely behind, of course.

Recently, she even learned how to go down, sliding backwards, feet first. But still, I never let her do it alone.

But today?

Today, I was five seconds too slow.

We were upstairs. I'd just put her in her pajamas, then realized I didn't have a bottle (yes, she still gets a nighttime bottle. Shut up).

So I set her down, and together we headed toward the stairs. But I paused. Stopped briefly to pick her wet bathing suit off the bathroom floor so I could bring it outside to dry.

And that five seconds? Well, that was all it took.

In the time it took to take one step, bend down, swoop up the swimsuit and step back into the hallway, she was at the stairs. I saw her start to take that first step...

Then found myself screaming as she started to tumble.

I dove, but the world, it was moving in slow motion as she started to roll. down. the. stairs.

I pounded after her, watching her surprised face crumple into tears as she thumped. thumped. thumped. Thumped.

My feet, they seemed to be moving through mud. Stumbling over my suddenly too big toes, I finally reached her. After she'd already fallen down eight stairs.

Eight.

As soon as I picked her up, she started shrieking.

And I? Started sobbing too.

The tears started during the first, furtive look-over as I checked for bleeding.

It accelerated into bawling as I bent her elbows, wrists, ankles and knees, making sure nothing was broken.

It continued even after she stopped crying. Even after she started patting my face, babbling at me merrily and wiping away my tears.

The tears even continued rolling, silently, when we were back upstairs, bottle and bedtime story in hand.

Because I failed.

I let my baby fall.

And that image? Of her rolling and rolling and rolling helplessly? Keeps replaying behind my eyes.

She's fine. But I? Well I have one more item to add to my inventory of events to berate myself with when I'm competing in my own personal Worst Mother of the Year Pageant.

I think I'll go buy some gates tomorrow.

Would Be Thieves or Not? You Decide.

This afternoon found me and the family escaping both our messy house and the hot, humid disgustingness that is Indiana in the summer by shopping at a local strip mall.

First we went to Old Navy, where we stocked up on some summer essentials for all of us. Then we went to TJ Maxx, where I found a bathing suit that at least didn't disgust me. And then? We went to Petsmart, where we threw our loot, along with our diaper bag, in a cart and proceeded to wander around the store.

I tell you all this not to bore you, but to give you the background information you need to evaluate the story I'm about to share.

To distract Tori from an impending temper tantrum caused by the removal of a dirty dog toy from her mouth, I pulled her from the basket of the cart and crossed to where the parakeets live in their big plastic jail.

The exotically-colored birds that chirped and flitted about the cage entranced Tori. So much so that I ventured even further from our cart (although still keeping it in plain sight) to help her get closer to them.

She squealed and clapped her hands in delight, drawing the usual charmed smiles from passers-by and besotted beams from us, her parents.

That's when I saw them.

A couple grabbed our cart and started heading for the exit.

I handed Tori over to Brian and went after them.

"Excuse me, that's ours!"

No response.

"Excuse me?"

They kept walking.

Finally, I caught up with them - just as they reached the front of the store.

"Excuse me, miss, you have the wrong cart," I said, smiling.

For a moment, she still seemed not to see me, and then she blinked.

"Oh, I'm so sorry. It's been a long day. We must have grabbed the wrong one..."

And they melted away.

I reclaimed our cart and headed back to Brian, thinking nothing of it.

"What was that about?" he asked.

"Oh, that couple...I guess they just grabbed the wrong cart."

"I don't think so. I think they were trying to steal our stuff."

"Don't be silly. Why would anyone want to steal a diaper bag?"

"They didn't have a cart of their own. Look."

I looked where he was pointing and saw the couple checking out with one small bag of cheap dog food.

"Well, maybe they already put it away," I said, feeling a little shaken.

"Somehow I doubt it."

We dropped the subject after that, but it's still bothering me. I like to think people are generally good (despite all the evidence to the contrary). I'd like to believe that that couple made an honest mistake. I really hope my husband is wrong.

But maybe I'm just naive. What do you guys think?

The Miracle of Those First Steps.

Those first steps are pretty amazing, aren't they?

One minute, they're standing, wobbling precariously. The next they're putting that first tentative foot forward, frowning with the difficulty of it all. And then, suddenly?

They thrust their arms up in the air and smile crazily as they take off, racing forward toward toddlerhood.

Have you ever wondered what happens to give them that push? How they get brave enough to put their feet in motion and give up their horizontal status forever?

After all, it is a tremendous leap of faith.

 I like to think they have help. That they're not taking those first steps alone.

When they thrust those chubby arms up in the air?  I like to believe it's because a spirit is taking their hands.

Maybe our loved ones, the ones who have already passed, are gathered around our little fledglings, urging them on with ghostly coos and besotted smiles.

Maybe Tori's great grandmother laughed with her as she took her first two-legged jaunt across the family room floor.

Maybe her great grandfather cheered her on from the corner.

Maybe she has a whole host of guardian angels protecting her as she trots clumsily across the yard, tripping over her pretty white shoes.

Maybe.

Hey, It's Okay...

Can you believe it's been four weeks since I've done one of these posts and they still haven't stopped the oil spill from destroying the Gulf? That, my friends, is so far from okay it boggles the mind. As is BP's relentless pursuit of someone else to blame. And, and, and...

Well, there's a whole hell of a lot about what's going on in the gulf that's not okay. But this list isn't about that. It's the brain child of the Whispering Writer at Airing My Dirty Laundry, and it's about the rest of life's flotsam and jetsam. So without further ado, I give you:

Hey, it's okay to wish that someone would gather up every single last pair of pants with phrases billboarded across the butt (I don't need to know your tush is juicy, thanks) and throw them in a giant bonfire.

Hey, it's okay to kind of wish you could have breakfast for dinner...every day.

Hey, it's okay to consider shaving your head when the humidity reaches Utterly Gross levels—but unless you've got a gorgeous skull a la Sinead O'Connor, I'd recommend resisting the impulse.

Hey, it's okay to keep attempting to slither into those skinny jeans...even though you've only lost two pounds.

Hey, it's okay to be completely, insanely jealous of whoever wrote Date Night—and to be secretly sure that you could write something just as hilarious, if only you could find the time,  motivation and discipline.

 Hey, it's okay to sit in your baby's kiddie pool and drink pina coladas after she goes to bed.

Hey, it's okay to wish someone had told you, "sure, you can be whatever you want, but doctors and lawyers make a hell of a lot more money than English majors."

Hey it's okay to think that even if you had as much money as a neurosurgeon with a law degree, you still wouldn't waste it on a McMansion (but a second home on a private island in the Caribbean is another story altogether).

Hey, it's okay to still think the giant sunglasses trend makes everyone look like a big bug

Hey, it's okay to get all your news from The Daily Show—you need a little laughter to sop up the tears.

That's what I'm okay about this week. How 'bout you?

Oh, How Times Have Changed.

This weekend, one of my best friends in the whole world came to visit for a Girls' Weekend.

In the old days, a visit like this one might have become a spur-of-the-moment trip to Chicago. Certainly it would have included a long afternoon spent convincing each other to buy things we didn't need, followed by an evening of booze-fueled conversation.

And the next morning? Would have found us sleeping till noon before heading out for a greasy breakfast (the best hangover cure I know).

Yeah, that was then. And now?

Well, on Friday, our hello hug was cut short by my embarrassed realization that I was covered in baby vomit.

The evening that followed consisted of me running up the stairs to check Tori's temperature, running back down to ask if I should put a blanket on her/open her window/wake her up to give her more Tylenol/call the doctor before dashing back up to continue to stare at her with a worried frown.

We did have an adventure the next day. We went to see a movie. In the theater. The first I'd seen in that environment since, well, Tori was born. And we shopped, too. For a little while. At Target.

But I yawned all the way through the film, and was too worried about the babe to even look at clothes.

And yesterday? We went on an actual road trip. To a town a whole 45 minutes away. With the baby in the back, the hub in the driver's seat and a stroller in tow.

It was a great day. A wonderful visit. A weekend full of laughter and fun. An awesome Girls' Weekend, to be sure.

But the me of five years ago? Is still wordlessly shaking her head at me, wondering what on earth happened to the Amber she knew.

Writing Workshop: Who Needs a Passport Anyway?

When I was 15, I set out on the adventure of a lifetime. Never having been away from home for more than a night or two, I packed my bags for a month in Russia. Or, as it was known then, the Soviet Union. Because at that point, the iron curtain? Was tattered, but still being held in place by a few determined KGB agents and a whole lot of career military folk.

As I may have mentioned before, I've never been one to do anything halfway.

Anyway, my mom and I had spent weeks packing everything I'd need for a month. And I do mean everything. Clothes, laundry detergent, tampons, every over the counter medication you can think of...even jars of peanut butter, crackers and beef jerky (you couldn't count on being able to find such things in Russia).

I also had a money belt stuffed with traveler's checks, all my visa paperwork, and, most importantly, my passport, strapped firmly around my waist.

You can see the bulge under my sweater if you look carefully (I'm the second one from the left. Wearing ugly glasses).

In short, when we set out for the airport, I had just about everything a teenage girl half the world away from her mom could possibly want, up to and including the kitchen sink.

After a flurry of paperwork doing, baggage checking and tear wiping, it was time to say good bye to our parents and take our seats on the plane. Knowing how disorganized I was (and still am), one of the last things my mom said to me was, "You have everything, right? You know where your passport is?"

I patted my trusty money pouch and (most likely rolling my eyes) said, "don't worry, mom. I've got it."

And I did.

In fact, I kept track of it all the way through customs at the JFK airport.

But that's where my luck ran out.

You see, we were late. Rushing to meet our connection, in fact. We may even have been running through the airport, I'm not sure. At any rate, after going through customs, I failed to put my passport back in the money pouch where it belonged.

Not that I realized this at the time.

It wasn't until I had boarded the plane to Moscow and set about organizing my plane tickets (this was way before e-tickets) that I realized it was missing.

At first I didn't think too much about it. Sure, it wasn't in the pouch, but surely I had it. So I checked my jacket pockets, my jean pockets, even my socks (I had a habit of storing things in my shoes). But when I took off my gym shoes and still hadn't found it, I freaked the hell out.

"My passport," I screeched at the top of my lungs. "It's gone!"

But no one heard me. So I dragged my carry on out of the overhead bin and commenced tearing it open.  I finally got the flight attendant's attention when a pair of underwear went flying over her head,.

She bustled over, and officiously asked, "is something wrong?"

"My PASSPORT" I shrieked, sobbing now. "It's gooooooooone!"

"Oh, now, honey, surely it isn't really gone. When did you last have it?"

"I don't knooooooow. I'm going to Moscow, and I don't have a passport! They're going to lock me in a Siberian prison and I'm never going to see the light of day agaaaaaiiiiiin!"

"Did you check your pockets?"

"Of course I checked my pockets," I hiccuped. "What do  you think I am, dumb?"

She was silent for a few seconds before replying, "no, I'm sure you're not. Okay, hold on a minute."

She hurried away and the next thing I knew, an announcement was crackling over the PA. "Attention, passengers, we have a lost passport situation. Could you please look under the seats and on the floor in your area to see if you have it?"

If I had been feeling even a fraction more rational, that announcement would have made me want to sink through the floor in embarrassment. But I was too busy picturing myself being forced to carve out ice roads in a forced labor camp to worry about it.

The minutes ticked by as my fellow passenger shuffled about, searching for my lost identification. Just as I was bequeathing my most precious possessions to my friends (I wouldn't need them in a Siberian prison, after all) I heard the shout.

"I found it," came the call from somewhere in first class.

When the flight attendant came toward me, blue leatherette booklet in hand, I literally collapsed on the floor in relief.

"Here you go. Now, I suggest you put this somewhere very safe."

I nodded, choking out a strangled "thank you," before slinking back to my seat.

Because once I had been saved from life in Siberia? The embarrassment hit full force, making me want to dive through the emergency exit door, coast down the wing and start the long walk home.

It was a hell of a way to start the adventure of a lifetime. An adventure that from that moment on, included merciless teasing about my inability to hang on to anything (including my camera. I sent that clattering down the marble staircase in the grand entrance of the Hermitage, but that's a story for another day).

That's my story and I'm sticking to it. Now visit Mama Kat to see what the other workshoppers lost.

Wordful Wednesday: Summertime Fun.

Holiday weekends usually find me and mine packed in the car, heading for the homeland. But not this time. For once, Memorial Weekend found us at home with nary a relative in sight. So what did we do?

Introduced Tori to summertime fun, of course.

The pool was an immediate hit.

Especially after she discovered she could eat it.

The sandbox? Also got some serious usage, especially after...

...she discovered she could eat it.

Then it was on to chalk. Drawing with chalk is her new favorite thing. More popular even than walking!

 

And you know what? She didn't even eat it.

Hey Buddy, My Eyes Are Up Here!

At work, I'm surrounded by talk of boobs. There's the maternity campaign I'm working on. And the breast cancer campaign. And the girl who just had a boob job. And the myriad of crass boob jokes that go along with working in an ad agency.

Even so, I'm generally not all that aware of my own. Boobs, that is. Since having Tori they've become utilitarian things. Utilitarian things that require a lot of under wire and gravity defying support devices to look like even a shadow of their former selves.

Which is why, when the guy behind the counter at the sandwich shop took my order while ogling my chest, I became instantaneously paranoid.

Did I have a button undone?

Had I forgotten to put on a bra?

Was there some weird stain on my chest?

Was I having a freakish moment of out-of-nowhere lactation?

A quick look down assured me that no, none of these things was taking place. And still the guy stared.

What in God's name was he looking at? Had I sprouted a third nipple?

Somehow, I stammered out the rest of my order, face flushing beet red.  As my arms crossed protectively over my chest, he finally looked up - and had the good grace to look mildly ashamed of himself.

But not enough to keep his gaze at eye level.

Finally, I turned away, pretending to stare with intense fascination at the freezer case full of hams. So intense, in fact, that the guy had to ask me three times if I needed anything else before I heard him.

I mutely shook my head no, arms still clamped across my boobs. And at that point, the universe decided to have mercy on me. Mr. Ogleton headed to the back, leaving another, much less disconcerting employee to ring me up.

It was only later, when I was driving back to the office, that it occurred to me I should be flattered. Someone not required by law to find me attractive had clearly found my chest at least a little bit impressive.

I'm going to go ahead and take that as a compliment...and as an excuse to splurge on Victoria's Secret bras more often.

Camping? Not Me, Thanks.

Memorial Day Weekend makrks not only the unofficial kickoff of summer, but also of camping season. And once upon a time, I was one of those outdoor enthusiasts who gladly packed up the car and headed for the wilderness, where I could wipe my ass with poison ivy and shower in subzero water.

Not anymore.

Why? Because of one too many poison ivy rashes and subzero showers, of course.

I used to be made of hardier stuff. Growing up, most vacations found us calling a tent home, whether we were in the No Man's Land that is the Upper Penninsula of Michigan or the sunny beaches of South Carolina.

I once washed my hair in Lake Superior (which is the same temperature as a frozen Hell, for those of you not in the know).

I once got a severe case of diarrhea when the only toilet I had access to was a stinking Port-a-Potty baking under a 90-degree sun.

I once stomped on a fire ant hill and ran screaming back to my mom with armies of stinging red hellions traveling up my thighs.

But at the time, I thought nothing of it. Those adventures were just part of the Camping Experience.

Experiences that also included swimming in ocean surf, collecting Hermit Crabs in buckets, roasting marshmallows on an open fire and giggling with my brother in our own "Grown-Up Tent" after lights out.

Then I grew up. Well, maybe not "up," but older. Old enough to have my own set of car keys, friends and camping equipment. And camp we did.

My best friend and I once camped in weather that reached freezing temperatures at night, in the rain, then washed off in the aforementioned sub-zero showers.

Before we were married, my husband and I once went camping on Lake Michigan—in an area where the water, warmed by the nuclear power plant just at the other end of the beach, was decorated with used condoms and empty beer bottles.

Not to be deterred, the next summer we set out for a campground on Lake Huron, only to be awakened in the middle of the night by a tornado siren. After spending several hours praying to a nameless God as I sat shivering and drenched on a pitch black beach (we were told that the tornado would turn back before it hit the water), I vowed never to camp again.

But it wasn't until a weekend of rustic camping (i.e. peeing in the woods), left me with a poison ivy rash up and down my legs and thighs so bad that they were swollen to the size of tree trunks that I made good on my promise.

While smearing myself with Calomine lotion and popping steroids, I swore never to camp again. And I haven't.

Because of this, our vacations have become much less frequent (a clearing in the woods is way cheaper than a hotel, yo), but significantly more pleasurable.

When it rains? I can go inside.

When an unexpected cold patch hits? I can turn up the heat.

When a tornado threatens? Well, I still quake in my boots, but at least I'm dry while I do so.

So, all you hardy, I-don't-need-no-cushy-mattress types, enjoy your mosquito-ridden, rain-soaked weekends. I'll be toasting you from inside my air-conditioned living room, munching on s'mores roasted in my microwave.

Cheers!

From Couch To Frustration.

The Couch To 5K is a fine, fine program. I'm in my fourth week (although redoing week three), and so far I've heard nary a protest from my knee, ankle or back, which means I must be doing something right.

But damn is it frustrating.

I remember when I could run four miles. Four! Uphill. Barefoot. Through the snow. Okay, maybe not that last part. But the point is, I could run pretty dang far, and it felt good.

But now?

Now I'm huffing and puffing and generally making a fool out of myself as I trot past garage sale attendees and playing kids and dog walkers.

Now I'm looking at my iPod every five seconds to see how. much. longer. untilthetorturestops.

Now I'm red-faced and sweating and pulling at the shorts that are riding up my too fat thighs.

Now I'm miserable. Miserable and only running three minutes at a stretch (and I'm using the term "running" very loosely).

It makes me long for the good old days. Those summer days two years ago, before pregnancy and those three abdominal surgeries.

The days when I could run.

I know I'll get there again. I just have to keep at it, keep working, and ignore the frustration.

Bur damn, I wish there was a fast forward button.

A Moment For Thanks.

I am thankful...
For the fiery blast of sweet smelling air that hits my face when I walk outside.
For the blessed coolness that caresses my skin when I walk back in.
And for the flats of rainbow-hued flowers waiting to brighten my garden.

I am thankful…
For the evenings spent watching Tori splash under the hose.
For the days that lengthen far into the night.
And for the cricket and frog symphony that lulls me to sleep.

I am thankful…
For the sunshine that flickers across my closed eyelids on a lazy afternoon.
For the cool grass that tickles my feet as I walk across my yard.
And for the warm trickles that fall from my hands as I play with Tori in the sand.

I am thankful…
For the sandals that free my feet from their suffocating winter prison.
For the whirly skirts that swirl around my legs.
And for the sleeveless tops that welcome the freckles back to my shoulders.

I am thankful…
For the scent of grilling hamburgers racing on the wind.
For the cool drips of condensation flowing down a glass of lemonade.
And for the creamy goodness of the season’s first ice cream cone.

I am thankful…
For picnics in the park.
For afternoons at the beach.
And for long holiday weekends.

I am thankful for summer.

What are you thankful for? Link up at Alli 'n Son and tell us!

Tori Walks!

Tori took her first steps almost two weeks ago. And ever since, I've been trying to capture them on film.

Well, I am lots of things, but a master cinematographer is not one of them. So it took me a while to get anything. This was my first sort of successful attempt:



But I wasn't satisfied with the amount of walking shown. So, after numerous attempts, I got this:



Forgive the shaky camera work, and the lack of editing (I can't figure out how the dang program works). But we have walking...and now there's proof.

And yes I know, I'll never sit again. The thing is, I wasn't aware that I ever got to sit before!

Top Ten Signs You Have Baby Fever.

I do not need another baby right now. In fact, I'd go so far as to say a baby is the last thing I need right now. It's taken 14 months to feel like I have any idea what I'm doing. To feel anything other than tired and frazzled, as a matter of fact.

But part of me really wants another baby.

That's right, people. I have a small case of baby fever. How do I know? Well, gee, I thought you'd never ask. Here we go...the top ten signs you're jonesing for a babe.

Pictures of wrinkly, newborn babies bring a tear to your eye. And not one of remembered pain, but one of "ohmygodsheissocutecanaIhaveonenowplease?"

You attempt to sell your child's outgrown clothes, but can't bring yourself to do it.  Because, sure, you have no plans to get pregnant again, but what if you did? And what if it was another girl? A girl who conveniently enough, was born at the exact same time of year? Then you'd want those clothes again, wouldn't you?

You start rationalizing why you don't really need the guest bedroom in your head. After all, you only have guests once every other month or so. Besides, those pull-out couches are surprisingly comfy! And hey, they could always sleep in your bed...

You start keeping track of your cycle again. You know. Just in case.

You look at pregnant bellies, and instead of smiling in sympathy, you have to stomp down a pang of jealousy.

You start sentences with "next time..." I'll exercise all the way through. And I'll watch what I eat. And...

You allow yourself to picture driving a minivan. And you don't feel the urge to vomit.

Speaking of vomit, you tell yourself morning sickness wasn't that bad. After all, it only lasted a couple of months. And those preggo pops were awfully tasty...

You give yourself a mental high five when your husband slips and says things like "our kids" (plural).

You find that you're almost disappointed when your period arrives on time. Not that you were "trying" but...

So yeah. I think I have baby fever. But I'm pretty sure I can wait this one out. Kind of sure. Sure I am.

How about you? How do you know when you're suffering from an acute case of GimmeABabyNows? And how 'bout you go visit Oh Amanda and spread some Top Ten Tuesday sugar around?

My Daughter, the Bottle-holic.

At Tori's twelve month appointment, my pediatrician looked sternly at me over her glasses and asked, "is she still getting bottles?"

When I shamefacedly admitted that yes, I hadn't even attempted to wean her from her naptime and bedtime bottles, she launched into a full-blown lecture.

I had better do it sooner rather than later, she said.

Every day I waited, I made the eventual trauma of having to go bottle-less a little worse for Tori. Delay too long and I might as well start a savings account to pay for her future therapy bills.

Plus, Tori's teeth were in danger of rotting out of her head and when they did, she'd be the only second-grader with dentures in Bloomington.

So, the pediatrician advised, I should just start replacing the milk in her bottles with water, and before anyone could yell "say cheeeeeese," she'd be off the bottle and on her way to a picture perfect smile.

Thoroughly cowed, I swore to follow my physician's sage advice.

The day after Tori's appointment, I replaced the milk in her bedtime bottle with some warm water. But when I gave it to her? She took one short guzzle before making a horrified face and throwing it clear across the room.

And her screams? Might just have pierced the sound barrier.

Needless to say, I went and got her some milk.

The next night, I tried the old switcheroo again, with equally painful results.

And again the next.

And after that? I gave up. There is only so much pain my ear drums can stand, you know?

Besides, I like (make that love) those few quiet moments we get together while she drinks her bottle. She curls up on my lap in the big blue chair and grabs her bottle with one hand while she runs the other through my hair. Meanwhile, I bury my nose in the sweet grassy scent of her head, close my eyes and enjoy her warm, heavy stillness.

Then, when she's done, she turns around in my arms and chatters at me, playing with my lips and beeping my nose. I beep her back and together we giggle, reconnecting after the long hours apart. It's easily one of the best parts of my whole day.

So yes, my daughter's a bottle-holic. But while they say the first step is admitting you have a problem, I'm not ready to do anything about it yet.

Is it so wrong to want to hang tight to this last little bit of baby-ness just a little longer?

Who Wants to Vote on My New Header?

My husband, creative maestro that he is, has decided he wants to start designing blogs. So, of course I told him he could start with mine. What we've come up with so far is a drastic departure from what I currently have, so I thought I'd put out feelers before it becomes reality.

Obviously, this is rough. But what do you guys think? If we go this route, I'm thinking my tag could be something like "writing my way through life, one wrong turn at a time." Maybe.

Be honest (but as nicely as you can, please).

Wordful Wednesday: The Promise I Made.

It was day two of Tori’s short life. We were alone in our hospital room, listening to the rain pounding on the window as we memorized the lines of each other’s faces. Ever so gently, I pulled her arm from the swaddling that engulfed her and counted her impossibly tiny fingers.

She seemed so small. So delicate. So ridiculously breakable.

As I stared down into her blue, blue eyes, I made her a promise.

I promised to keep her safe from the big bad world.

To protect her from the bad, the evil and the merely indifferent.

To surround her with goodness, with happiness and with light.

To help her to grow up to be strong, and confident, and sure.

To be there to share in her triumphs and take the sting out of her defeats.

To surround her with people who share my fierce devotion to her well-being.

To love her unconditionally with every beat of my heart.

I made her a promise.

And that’s why this search for a new daycare is breaking my heart.

How can I tell this face that she’ll have to spend her days in a space smaller than our family room at home?

How can I tell her that her time will be strictly regimented, that she can only sleep between 12 and 2, and only play outside for thirty minutes each day?

How can I tell her that her caregiver might let her sleep slumped over in her high chair, or step on her while passing through the room, or ignore her cries because five other children need her more?

How can I tell her that I chose a daycare that was simply “good enough?”

How?