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!

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?

Things to Remember: Part Four.

Seems like just yesterday that I was in tears over Tori's very first smile. And now? And now she's fast on her way to becoming an official toddler (walking is imminent), and far from that little peanut of a baby whoneeded me so much.

So I thought I'd stop for a minute to put keys to computer screen to record the little moments bound to get  forgotten forever when she moves on to the next big thing. Things like...

Her first words.  For months, she's been babbling in that secret language that is Tori-ese, but we couldn't understand a single thing she was saying. But now she has a few words - Dada (her first, the little brat), Bato (bottle), whadis (what is this), and finally, Mama (which just became clear this week).

Her tendency to shake her head no.  She can't say no, but she sure as heck knows how to shake her head. And now? No matter what you ask her, the answer is nononono...followed by a hand grabbing for whatever she just said she didn't want.

Her unfussy eating habits. As of now, that girl will eat just about anything you put in front of her. Broccoli and cauliflower are just as eagerly accepted as pudding and waffles. Of course, no matter what  you feed her, it ends up in her hair, on her clothes and stored in her high chair (she wants to do it herself), but since I know this won't last, I'm enjoying it while it does.

Her hesitant little steps.  Although she's normally Miss Adventurous, when it comes to walking, she's taking her sweet time. We've caught her taking a couple tiny little steps, and when she does, she grins from ear to ear, but as soon as she realizes she's walking, boom, down she goes. I don't know why we're so eager to see her up on two legs...I'm sure once she starts walking, she'll be running, and then I'll be even more tired than I currently am!

Her burgeoning love of dirt. I think this gardening thing must run in the genes, because the minute we walk outside, she makes her way to the garden and starts pawing in the dirt. She even tries to "weed" with me...unfortunately, her chosen victims are almost always plants I'd rather keep in the ground.

Her straight-legged crawl. This little girl pulls herself along everywhere in a modified downward dog position - legs straight, body bent in half at the waist. It looks ridiculously uncomfortable, but it gets her where she wants to go!

There are more. So many more. But that sweet little monster is up from her nap, so these fond ramblings will have to come to a close. Stay tuned for more...

Just Right.

I was lost in dreamland, floating far from home, when suddenly my eyes snapped open and my mind returned to my bed. At first I didn't know why...it was hours until dawn and the house seemed quiet.

Then I heard it. The heartbroken wail of a lonely child.

Next to me, my husband groaned, "Just ignore it. She might go back to sleep."

But I knew that cry. It was one that would not be denied.

So I got up. Seconds after stumbling to her crib, I realized she had a darn good reason to be upset—she'd suffered Extreme Diaper Failure and was soaked to the bone. As was her bedding.

By the time I got her into some clean pajamas and had changed her sheets, we were both too awake to go back to sleep. Instead, I made Tori a bottle and snuggled up with her in the big blue recliner, whispering sweet nothings as the milk soothed the last of her hiccuping sobs away.

After she finished, she twisted in my arms to face me and babbled to me about her dreams, or so I imagined. Then, all talked out, she tangled her fist in my hair, buried her head on my shoulder and zonked out, snores slipping from her open mouth.

Looking at her peaceful face, my heart cracked anew along the long-since established fault lines.

My baby. Mine. Through 4 a.m. wakings and 4 p.m. giggles, fussy Fridays, wacky Wednesdays and sunny Sundays, she was mine. How did I get so lucky?

Eventually I went back to bed, and when I awoke for real, there were breakfasts made, cards opened and gifts presented. Family fun was had, and the happiness I felt sang down my spine to the tips of my toes.

But I got all I really needed for Mother's Day at 5 a.m., looking at her gorgeous little face as the drool pooled on my shoulder.

Happy Mother's Day indeed.

A Message to the New Mommies of the World.

To all you brand new moms out there:

I have one thing to say to you, and one thing only. But it’s important, so pay attention.

Are you listening? Then here it is. No matter what you’re thinking or how you’re feeling, it’s okay.

Really. It’s okay.

It’s okay to feel ridiculously overwhelmed, and to be unsure if you can get through the next 24 minutes, never mind 24 hours.

It’s okay to look at your baby and be blown away by the fact that this wondrous little creature actually came out of you (also, how did she ever fit in there?).

It’s okay to wonder why no one ever told you how hard breastfeeding is and to sometimes feel like giving up (it’s even okay to give up, if you need to).

It’s okay to think that those little baby burps are the cutest. noises. ever.

It’s okay to look down at your still pregnant-looking stomach and think about indulging in some do-it-yourself liposuction.

It’s okay to change your baby’s clothes twelve times a day because she just looks so darn cute.

It’s okay to feel like murdering your husband when the baby starts screaming at 3 a.m. and he just rolls over, putting the pillow over his head to block out the noise.

It’s okay to be absolutely terrified to cut your baby’s nails (I recommend just chewing them off).

It’s okay to wish your baby would hurry up and learn how to talk because trying to interpret his screams is getting old.

It’s okay to feel like snatching your baby back every time someone takes her from you.

It’s okay to wish someone was around to take the baby away from you.

It’s okay to feel sad, angry, overjoyed, bewildered, overwhelmed, terrified…even all at the same time.

Whatever you’re feeling, whatever you’re thinking, it’s okay.

You’re doing your best, and that’s all your baby asks. And as for the rest of the world? Well, feel free to tell the rest of the world where it can go.

Don't forget to visit Mama Kat for this week's other brilliant workshop entries.

Searching for My Happy Place.

It's far too early in the morning. I'm leaning over a desk in a small, harshly lit cubicle, trying not to think about the tourniquet that's tightening on my arm.

Dots sparkle in front of my eyes, and I pull back.

"Ummm, on second thought, do you think I could lay down? I think I'm going to pass out."

The nurse nods and ushers me over to one of those pseudo-comfy recliners they keep for those of us with a tendency to pass out at the stick of a needle.

Again the tourniquet tightens, and I involuntarily let out a deep breath.

"It's alright, honey," the nurse says. "Just go to your happy place. We'll be done here before you know it."

I close my eyes and will myself to an ocean beach, the white sand warm on my burrowing toes, the breaking of the waves loud in my ears. I reach for the pina colada at my side...

and Tori's smiling face breaks into my thoughts.

I'm laying on the grass, the sun hot on my face as I squint up at her gap-tooth smile. She looms over me, trying to feed me a stick she found in the garden. Sitting up, I grab her and roll her on to her back, loudly zerberting her tummy. She squeals and grabs for my nose...

And I will myself back to that tropical beach. I'm swimming in the turquoise water, watching little blue fish dart around my toes. Securing the snorkel mask around my nose, I dive down and reach out to touch the neon yellow fish that's staring at me. My delighted giggle bubbles up around me...

when Brian's voice breaks into my reverie.

Suddenly it's dusk, and we're sitting out on the patio, my feet in his lap. We're sharing a raspberry vodka-laced lemonade while a symphony of crickets and frogs serenades us. Together we build dreams of cedar decks, cascading waterfalls and light-filled sun rooms...

And the snap of the tourniquet releasing brings me back to earth.

"There, all done, " The nurse chirps. "You sure got quiet on me—your happy place must be  pretty fantastic!"

It is. And surprisingly close at hand.

Where's your happy place?

She is One.

Back when I was trying to get pregnant, time seemed to move in slow motion. I was stuck in limbo, waiting for that little pink line to reveal itself so life could move forward once more.

Then, finally, I got my wish.

During those first weeks of pregnancy, I was so terrified of losing her I hardly dared breathe. But she held on, grew on, and before I knew it, the ultrasound technician was exclaiming, "it's a girl!"

Then I blinked and I was in the cold, cold operating room, numb from the neck down. I was calm. So calm. But then I heard her first angry howl and the tears broke free, rushing recklessly down my cheeks.

I blinked again and we were snuggled up together in my hospital room, her perfect little face scrunching up, her mouth gaping open like a hungry baby bird. I stroked her red cheek, heart cracking into a thousand little pieces as I fell hopelessly in love with this tiny stranger.

I closed my eyes for a moment and suddenly we were home. Alone. She was curled up in the crook of my elbow and together we dreamed, living as one being, united against the outside world.

I drifted off and when I awoke, I was chatting on the phone with a good friend as she stared up at the animals on her play gym...and rolled over. Over the moon with excitement, I screamed for Brian and we stared, waiting anxiously for her to do it again...

Then I blinked, and it was time to head back to work. I held her close, drinking in the sweet scent of her hair as the silent sobs wrenched themselves from the depths of my soul.

I put a cool washcloth against my fevered brow, and when I removed it, she was sitting up on her own, playing with a daisy from the garden.

My eyes crinkled with joyous laughter and when the giggles faded, she was creeping across the floor like a soldier in the bush, headed for the nearest treasure trove of illegal playthings.

I dove for her scrambling feet and by the time my belly hit the ground she was pulling herself up on the couch, laughing uproariously as she reached for Kermit's toes.

I rubbed my eyes, sure I was seeing things, and when I took my hands away, she was reaching for me, the word "mama" falling from her lips.

Again the tears started, and I dashed them away as I bent to pick her up. Once she was safely ensconced in my arms, I glanced up at the calendar.

It read April 3, 2010.

Somehow, an entire year has raced by. Somehow, my seven pound peanut has grown into a twenty two pound toddler. She's now a little girl with a ferocious temper, an infectious smile and the ability to steal my heart all over again with a single glance.

Incredibly, my beautiful baby is one.

Excuse me while I go wipe the tears away again.

Dreaming a Daughter's Future.

One of Tori's favorite things to do is to stand in front of my old electronic keyboard synthesizer thing and pound dramatically on the keys. Sometimes she'll press the little orange buttons that make drum sounds, but mostly, she just crashes her fists against the keyboard randomly, reveling in the noise.

But recently, she's begun delicately pushing one key down, then another, smiling as she goes. It probably means nothing, but being her mother, I assume it signals the beginning of a lifelong musical career.

"Maybe she'll play in Carnegie Hall one day," I say to Brian.

"Do you even know where Carnegie Hall is?"

"New York. Somewhere. But that's not the point. Can't you see we have a child prodigy in the making?"

He snorts dismissively. "Because she likes pressing the piano keys? You might as well say that because she's flexible enough to put her foot in her mouth, she's destined to be a gymnast."

"Who knows? Maybe she is. As long as she doesn't want to be a cheerleader."

"And what if she does?"

I shudder dramatically. "Well, I'll support her, of course. But I'll try my darnedest to make sure she's that one nice cheerleader who's sweet to the nerds, gets straight As, and doesn't party with the football players too much."

Drawing himself up to his full height, Brian suddenly looks more imposing than usual. "She's not ever  partying with the football players. My little girl is going to have a nine o'clock curfew. And she's not dating until she graduates from college."

"Riiiight. Keep dreaming, Daddy."

"Well she's certainly not going to have time to date if she wants to be a brain surgeon."

Now it's my turn to snort. "A brain surgeon, huh? With our collective genes, she's much more likely to be an actress. Or an artist. Or a penniless writer. Or..."

"Not if we start steering her toward chemistry and math now!"

"So, what are you saying? We should get her a microscope for her first birthday?"

"It couldn't hurt. Tiger Woods started golfing when he was three."

"I'd rather let her figure out what she wants to do herself."

"And what if she wants to smoke pot and play the guitar in an alley somewhere?"

"Well, as long as she doesn't cook up crystal meth and live in a van down by the river," I tease.

"She'd have to back that van up over my dead body first," he growls.

"Lighten up, Papa Bear," I say, kissing him on the cheek. "She's going to need to learn to walk before she can go anywhere."

"I still say we should get her started on math now..."

"Fine. Teach her how to count blocks. But first, go grab her off the stairs before she falls to her death."

Grumbling, he goes to do as I asked. Moments later, I hear him explaining what molecules water is made of as he washes her sticky hands in the sink.

I can't  help but smile as I roll my eyes.

With a daddy like that watching out for her, her future is guaranteed to be bright.

Eleven Tiny Moments...

It was a Tuesday evening. I put my bowl of ice cream down on the ottoman to throw a pillow at the cat clawing his way to China through our couch. When I turned around, Tori had the spoon in her mouth, chocolate dripping down her chin and delight shining in her eyes. I had all the proof I ever needed that she was my daughter...

It was a Saturday night. I was sobbing silently, in too much pain to keep my misery to myself any longer. Down the hall, Tori howled heartbrokenly from her crib, not yet ready to face the night alone. Wiping my eyes, I hurried to her side and swooped her up into my arms, squeezing her tight. She burrowed into my shoulder and together, we snuffled and sniffed until our tears died on our cheeks. I rocked and rocked and rocked until her breathing slowed and her snuffles gave way to soft snores, taking comfort in her animal closeness…

It was a Monday morning. I was running late, taking frantic sips of precious caffeine while shredding chicken for the dog, stirring oatmeal for Tori and slapping food into bowls for the cats. Thinking it was strangely quiet, I turned just in time to see her pull the last items from our overflowing junk drawer on to the already messy floor. I wanted to scream in frustration, but seeing her grin, could only smile in return…

It was a Sunday night. Tori sat perched in her daddy's arms as he took her on her nite nite tour. "Say nite-nite mommy," Brian said. Grinning, she waved her little hand at me and said, "ni-ni!" My heart swelled with pride...

It was a Saturday afternoon. I was burrowed under a blanket on our big blue recliner, a snoozing Tori nestled in the crook of my elbow. I wiggled my fingers, trying to ease the discomfort of my slowly numbing digits without waking her up. Suddenly, she stirred. Half opening her eyes, she gave me a sleepy smile and reached out to touch my face before returning to dreamland. Pain be damned, there was no way I was moving from that chair…

It was a Thursday evening. Cookie Monster's image filled my computer screen. As he stuffed his mouth full of apple cores, Tori started laughing her daddy's giant hee haw of a laugh. I almost suffered death by laughter...

It was a Friday night. I was wrestling with a screaming Tori, trying to pin her flailing body down with one arm while cramming her foot into her pajamas with the other.  I looked on helplessly as her face turned purple with rage, having no idea how to break the stalemate. Then Brian walked up and zerberted her tummy, surprising laughter out of her. The spell was broken...

It was a Monday evening.  Grandma was on the phone, imploring Tori to babble to her through the speaker. She was oblivious, busily smacking two blocks together instead. One dropped to the floor and she bent down to pick it up without hanging on to anything. Brian and I looked at each other and said, "did she really just do that?" She did...

It was a Sunday morning. Tori climbed up one stair. Then another. And another until she reached the top, giggling all the way. She turned and grinned victoriously at a slightly horrified me, so proud of her new skill...

It was a snowy Tuesday morning. Hauling Tori in her car seat, I walked out into the frigid morning air. I shivered, but Tori shrieked with laughter, loving the feeling of the cold on her skin. Seeing her joy, I  paused to make a tiny snowball, giving it to Tori to feel. Her delighted smile was all it took to make me stop cursing the February weather...

It was a Thursday night. Tori was bundled up in her towel, still damp from the bath. As I tried to dry her hair, she snatched it away from me with a little Tori roar. I thought a temper tantrum was unavoidable, but instead, she put the towel to her face, then pulled it away, grinning. Suddenly understanding, I hollered "peekaboo!" She giggled and did it again and again and again...

Eleven tiny moments from yet another month filled with wonder, frustration and more joy than one human heart should be able to hold. Happy Eleven Month Birthday, little one...

A Look Back...

My baby's going to be eleven months old tomorrow. Eleven months. That's almost a whole year. To all you veteran mommies out there, that probably seems like no big thing, but to me? Well, the thought of how different everything was this time last year takes my breath away.

So tonight, for your reading pleasure, I'm re-posting an entry I wrote on March 5, 2009 (cue the Wayne's World flashback music).

One Month To Go.
 
Yesterday marked the beginning of the one-month countdown to baby delivery time. That should seem pretty scary. And honestly, sometimes the thought, “Holy crap, I’m going to have a baby in less than a month,” crosses my mind, and my body’s flight or fight instinct takes over.

My heart pounds. My brain bleats in panic. And I start searching anywhere and everywhere for a responsible adult to take charge. Then I remember, I’m supposed to be the grown-up now.

Which pushes me straight into “I want my mommy” mode.

But she’s seven hours away. Of course, I know if I were to call her up and start howling in her ear, she’d panic and show up at my door in approximately 7.5 hours—faster if sheer force of will could propel her there.

Fortunately, so far, I’ve resisted the urge.

The good news is that these moods are the exception rather than the rule. More often, I find myself getting all warm and fuzzy at the thought of actually meeting my baby. I’ll sit in the big recliner we moved into her room and imagine curling up there with her in my arms. Or I’ll go through her closet, trying to picture an actual baby in those tiny doll clothes. I’ll play with her music box, re-fold her onesies, smooth the sheet in her crib…all with a goofy smile on my face.

I can’t wait to stroll around the neighborhood on warm spring evenings with her, my husband and our dog—our family finally complete.

I look forward to working in my garden, chattering to her as I show her the latest flowers.

Heck, I’m even excited to have company when I’m awake at 3:30 in the morning, marveling at how quiet the world is.

As my husband recently remarked, “Even though she’s not here yet, I can’t imagine our lives without her now.”

Couldn’t have said it better myself.

Screw the Baby Belly: I'm Celebrating Over Here.

Six weeks ago, I thought I was dying. I was suffering from a white hot pain so excruciating that I was absolutely convinced my appendix was rupturing. Was, in fact, minutes from exploding and sending me off to meet my maker.

One four hour ER visit and $5000 later, I found out that I couldn't be more wrong. Nope, the source of all that ridiculous pain was just my ovary's new little friend - a tiny little cyst that had claimed squatting rights on its side.

For a moment, I was relieved. After all, a cyst sounds pretty harmless, right?  But then my doctors had to go and ruin it by telling me that my ovary's friend could be cancerous.

Yep, that's right. They put the word cancer out into the universe. They were almost absolutely certain that it was most likely nothing to be worried about - but they were worried, nonetheless.

So they sent me for blood tests. Blood tests to find out if I had cancer. Blood tests that, when they came back, were frighteningly inconclusive. I most likely didn't have cancer, but then again, I might. But, my doctors assured me, I shouldn't be worried. I should just forget I'd ever heard the word cancer, because I probably didn't have it.

Which is, of course, exactly what I did.

I forgot that my body was possibly under attack. That my ovary’s little friend could have invited its entire family to move in. That, depending on what the next round of tests turned up, my life could be turned upside down, filled with surgery and chemo and bone-chilling fear.

Yep. That’s exactly what I did.

I certainly didn't lie awake at night, wondering what it feels like to die. I didn't wonder if it was too late to get religion - and if the powers that be would forgive me for my transgressions.

I didn't worry about what would happen to my family if I died. I didn't think about my baby girl growing up without me, or about Brian having to cope with single parenthood, or about my mom and dad having to bury their youngest child.

Nope, I didn't worry. Not one little bit.

So, because I wasn't the least bit concerned, I didn't get half-drunk on Thursday night, just so I wouldn't have to think about the next day's appointment. I didn't wake up feeling sick to my stomach, or down half a bottle of pepto bismol for breakfast.  I certainly didn't spend my working hours staring vacantly at my computer screen, sending up half-formed prayers.

I didn't hold my breath all through the ultrasound, or almost break down sobbing when the test revealed what I already knew - that my ovary's friend was still there. I didn't almost puke when I was sent back out to the lobby to wait for the doctor's verdict.

And when my doctor told me that it wasn't cancer? That it was just a weird cyst that had to come out - but a decidedly non-malignant one? I didn't make him repeat himself ten times, or have to pinch myself to resist the urge to jump off the table (half naked or no) and hug him.

Nope, that wasn't me. And if you believe all that? I've got some directions to a pot of gold at the end of a rainbow somewhere to the left of sunrise...

I don't have cancer. I do have to have surgery, but I don't have cancer. The idea of surgery, which would normally scare the shit out of me, has never sounded less worrisome than it does right at this moment. Because I don't have cancer. You hear that? I don't have cancer (if I repeat that enough, I'm sure I'll start to believe it).

And because I don't have cancer? I'm not getting anywhere near the scale this week. I. Just. Don't. Care. My body isn't killing me. So it can be just as fat as it wants to.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm going to go hug my baby  (the one I get to see grow up) and kiss my husband (the one I get to see all old and wrinkly) another time or five hundred.

But don't worry. The regularly scheduled weigh-ins will resume next week. After all, my skinny jeans are waiting to celebrate my cancer-free status with me.

Seventeen Years of Discovering the World Together.

Seventeen years ago today, my husband and I went on our first date. He had called that morning, out of the blue, to see if I might be free, then sheepishly admitted I'd have to pick him up—his car was out of commission.

Giggling, I agreed, not quite believing the turn my life was taking. I'd certainly never imagined Brian would ask me out. He was just the funny (but attached) guy who sat next to me in class every day, cracking me up for the whole two hour period.

I couldn't tell you exactly what I wore, but I know I agonized over my outfit for hours. I'm sure my jeans were pegged to perfection, and that my lipstick was applied crookedly (I still hadn't gotten the hang of the whole makeup thing).

It was a cold winter's night, much like this one, and I shivered as I waited in his driveway, strangely jittery. After all, this was Brian—someone I already considered a dear friend. There was no reason to be nervous!

The proof that he already knew me well was in the movie he picked. We went to see Aladdin, the newest Disney flick (I did and still do enjoy a good Disney romp). Afterward, we enjoyed a romantic dinner at Burger King, where I sipped on a strawberry shake and munched on french fries long after they had gone cold and clammy.

We talked and laughed for hours— ignoring the nasty stares the staff gave us as they swept around our table, clearly trying to close for the night. I vividly remember the feeling of wonder that overtook me about halfway through the evening when I realized I really liked this guy. As in, liked him liked him.

At long last, curfew grew close and so we headed for home. I think we had our first kiss that night (although, since we went out four nights in a row, my memory's a little foggy as to which one it was). I know I arrived home with a smile in my heart and laughter in my eyes, suddenly excited to see what the rest of my senior year would bring.

And if you had told me then that I'd found my soul mate on that cold February night? Although I wouldn't have admitted it, somewhere way down deep inside I would have known you were telling the truth.



Here's to a lifetime spent discovering how wonderful the world can be when you have someone to share it with.

My Valentine Done Good.

Internet, I have a confession to make. I may be just a little evil. Why, you ask? Well, because when I wrote Thursday's post—you know, the one full of Valentine's Day dos and don'ts? I had a feeling it might make for a slightly more valentine-y Valentine's Day around here.

And I was right.

In our house, Valentine's Day started on February 12, and continued on right through the weekend. The hub and I both took Friday off (but sent the munchkin to daycare), giving us eight whole hours of free time. And you know what we did?

Get your minds out of the gutter! My mom reads this blog...

We went furniture shopping. That's right. My determined-to-be-romantic husband said we could do whatever I darn well pleased, and I dragged him through every furniture store in town. Every. Single. One. In my defense, this is impossible to do with a baby in tow, but I do recognize that I could maybe use some romance lessons of my own.

On Saturday, the wooing continued. He took over baby duties for the afternoon so I could take some time out for myself. He probably hoped I'd visit Victoria's Secret, or go get my legs waxed or something. So you know what I did?

I took a nap. That's right. A two hour nap (I'm not helping my case here, am I).

Later he went out and got us some takeout...from Olive Garden. I know, it seems like an odd choice, but that restaurant holds a lot of fond memories for us. So anyway, he got what I ordered, and as a surprise, even splurged for a bottle of my favorite wine and some tiramisu (the tiramisu was what made me swoon).

He didn't even complain when I fell asleep on his shoulder at 11:15 (yes, after the two hour nap. Disgraceful, I know).

To cap it all off, yesterday, I came downstairs to find a dozen red roses with a card nestled in their blooms. And in the card? Was a gift certificate for a massage.

In short, my baby done good. So, Internet, I owe him an apology. It turns out, he does a romantic bone or two. I'm thinking next year I might loudly complain about the lack of tropical vacations in my life. Think that'll have the same effect?

Don't answer that.

The Anatomy of a Sick Day.

It's cold outside. Cold and snowy. We've got six inches of snow on the ground, and more is falling. Normally, this would make for an awful start to a Monday morning. Normally I'd be out there scraping off my car, and negotiating un-plowed roads, and dealing with drivers, who despite living in a region where snow falls fairly regularly, still cannot manage to steer their cars in a straight line.

But my body had other ideas this morning. It decided to declare a revolt. It decided that I really didn't need to be going anywhere today. So here I sit, aching and tired, on my couch.

Aching and tired, but not cold. Or soggy. Or enraged because of what the idiot in front of me just did. Nope, I'm just sick.

And so I sit, watching the fire crackle and the twitter stream go by. I listen to the wind howl, glad that for the moment, while my daughter naps, the house is silent around me. I sip my hot tea and re-arrange my blanket around my toes, snuggling a little deeper into the cushions.

I consider doing some dishes, but my body protests, so I don't. I think about taking a nap. My body thinks that sounds like a good idea, so my eyes drift closed, heading toward dreamland.

But what's that I hear? The monster is up from her nap. Reluctantly, I pull myself up from my cozy nest, wondering if it's too soon to take some more Advil. Because while I might be sick enough to declare this a day off of work, there's no such thing as a sick day for mommies.

The Birth of a Family Vacation.

Summer Vacation. Growing up, that phrase was never uttered without the capital letters. Because in our house? Summer Vacation was a Very Big Deal.

Once a year, my parents would pack the whole family up (including the St. Bernard, and yes, even Fuzzer the cat), and we'd hit the road. And these were no short jaunts we embarked on. Nope. The average trip was 18 hours or more, over giant bridges and through towering mountains, all on traffic-clogged, construction barrel-littered highways.

I'd spend the trip getting slobbered on by our 180-pound dog while my mom cleaned up Fuzzer's repeated bilious protests (she vomited so much we called her Faucet Face) and my dad swore at the traffic.

By the time we arrived, I'd be so carsick I could no longer stand up straight. My dad would be snarling at the world. I'm not sure what my brother was doing (by this point, we usually weren't talking), but my mom would be cheerfully assembling sandwiches and snacks, sure that once we had food in our stomachs, everything would take a turn for the better.

And you know what? She was right.

A lot of my fondest childhood memories stem from Summer Vacation. I remember cannon-balling off my dad's shoulders, shrieking with joy. I remember playing in the surf with my mom, laughing as yet another wave threatened to tip us over. I remember watching the fireflies dance, and playing Yahtzee, and chasing down pelicans.

For that week, my brother and I were always the best of friends. We'd spend hours playing in the waves together, catching hermit crabs, and making sand castles on the beach. At night, we'd take turns roasting marshmallows, and at bedtime, we'd giggle together in our sleeping bags until my dad threatened to make someone sleep in the car.

Every vacation had its share of mishaps (for instance, there was the year our cat got kidnapped by raccoons), but in my mind, those memories are surrounded by a soft golden glow. They're also accompanied by the smell of salt, the feeling of sand between my toes and the sound of waves crashing on the beach.

Because our Summer Vacation? Wasn't a vacation at all unless it found us playing on an ocean beach.

So now that I have my own little family, I'm dying to have a Summer Vacation of our own. One that involves an ocean, a car trip, and maybe even a little swearing.

My husband is trying to talk sense into me. There's no need for a 14-hour trip down I-65, he says. After all, we'd probably pass about 12325475824 perfectly good lakes on the way. Lakes where we could swim, build sand castles and make memories.

After all, he points out, she's still too young to really remember a vacation. And our last car trip? The one home at Christmastime? Was made 1,000 times longer by the soundtrack of screams that issued from the backseat.

These are all good points. Points I really can't argue with. But my desire for an ocean-oriented vacation has nothing to do with common sense. It's a hunger that comes from somewhere way down deep in my soul.

In the depths of this endless Indiana winter, I need something to look forward to. I need to know that sometime soon, I'll hear the ocean's rhythm again. I need to believe I'll see the pelicans circling again. I need to be able to daydream about showing Tori how to make a sand castle, snuggling on the beach with my honey and watching the dolphins dance in the surf.

I need to know there's a Summer Vacation in our future. Is that so much to ask?

Writer's Workshop: A Wise Woman Told Me...

“People are going to start pressuring you to have another baby, but don’t rush into anything. Two is way tougher than one.”

My sister-in-law shared those wise words of advice with me during one of the few quiet moments we had together at Christmas. She’s got two girls, born just two years apart, so she knows what she’s talking about.

Truth is, I don’t know if I’ll have another baby. After all, I’m not getting any younger. And as much as I love Tori, she’s a heck of a lot of work. Right now, she demands my attention almost constantly. In fact, if I walk out of the room she’s in, she almost always crawls right after me, crying ”mamamamama.”

I simply can’t imagine juggling the needs of two munchkins at once. How is it possible?

Plus, there’s the money issue. Sure, we have all the gear now, but there’s still daycare to think about. We’d need a bigger car, for sure. We’d also lose our guest room, so we’d have to buy a sleeper sofa. And then there’s college. With my luck, they’d both want to go to expensive liberal arts schools that I’d have to re-mortgage my house to afford (hi mom!).

But then, as I hold her sleepy body in my arms, my heart flips. She’s brought so much joy into our lives. How could we not have another one?

Reading things like this, and seeing pictures like these don’t help matters. To tell the truth, they kind of make my uterus hurt.

But, oh, the work. The not sleeping for months and months and months. The aching joints and constant indigestion and leaking boobs and eight-week C-section recovery and year-long post-pregnancy diet and, and, and…

Yeah. I’m not going to rush into anything.

Now head over to Mama Kat's and see what the other workshoppers have to say!

Things to Remember: Part Three.

It’s funny how time warps, isn’t it? It seems like just last week that I was laying on the floor with Tori, cheering her on every time she managed to turn her head. That’s it. Just turn her head. From one side…to the other. And back again.

Surely it can’t have been three months since she spat out her first bite of solid food. Or two since she finally figured out how to crawl…forward (she was a master backwards traveler for a while).

Time is going so damn fast, it astounds me. As I watch my baby become a little girl, I just want to say, “Stop! Stop changing so fast! Can’t you just stay small for a little while longer?”

I don’t mean it, of course (except I do).

So before I find myself handing her the car keys, I thought it might be good to stop for a minute. To try and capture a few of those little things that make her so special right now, before she becomes someone new again. Things like…

Her Vietnam-soldier style crawl—she can crawl all regular-like, but that’s just too boring for Tori’s taste. Instead, she prefers to keep her belly low to the ground, traveling arm over arm as her legs kick frantically behind her. Sometimes she'll peer at us around corners or from behind curtains, just to check and make sure the enemy's nowhere to be found, I guess.

Her sentences of gobbledy gook—some would say that she can't talk yet. I beg to differ. She does—it's just in the language of Tori, and we don't know how to speak it. She'll put together whole sentences, complete with emphasis. Things like "Ah ba da da zaz GOO!" Then she'll turn around, for all the world looking like she expects you to know exactly what she said.

Her tendency to occasionally spit out a real word, out of nowhere—Once, when I came to get her up for the day, she looked right at me and said, "Hi!" Which is my usual greeting to  her. I've also heard kitty and oggy, but not more than once or twice. And yesterday? Yesterday, Brian was waving bye-bye at her, and I swear, we both heard her say "bu-bye."

I don't know, maybe it's my grandma's genes talking (she always insisted her dog could say mama, but no one else ever heard it), but I think that kid's working up a heck of a vocabulary.

Her preoccupation with climbing everything—Over Christmas break, she learned how to pull up on things, and now? Nothing is safe. She climbs along the couches, of course. And she likes to try to pull up to the table using the tablecloth (results? not good). But that's just the beginning. My pants, the rocking chair, the mop bucket, even the toilet. I kinda wish those eyes would hurry up and grow on the back of my head.

Her insistence on "walking" everywhere while holding my hands—Once she's tired of perching on whatever semi-stable object she's managed to climb, she holds her hands out to me so I can help her walk to her next destination. And she? Never tires of this game. Unfortunately, my back can't say the same.

Her suddenly toothy grin—No more gummy smile for this baby. She's got three teeth, and she's working on the fourth. I haven't gotten a good picture of it yet, but that grin is fan-freaking-tastic.

Her sweet babyness—Every once in a while, when she forgets she's supposed to be a big, brave girl now, she reverts to my little baby Tori. Like last night. I was feeding her a bottle, all snugged up on the couch, when she reached her hand out to my face, closed her eyes, and promptly fell asleep. We snuggled for a good hour, long after my arm went completely numb, but nothing could have convinced me to move her. I'm going to miss those moments when bottles go the way of her pacifier...

I could go on. And on. And on. But since no one is as captivated by my baby as I am, I'll stop now. Now if only I could stop time from marching so fast...

What a Year. What a Decade.

In less than three hours, a year (and a decade) will be over. I wasn't going to make a big deal about it, but I just can't let this day pass without pausing to reflect (out loud, apparently) on how much has changed.

Ten years ago, I had been married a little more than a year. I lived in a darling little apartment (well, actually, it was pretty damn run down, but we loved it to pieces), had two kitties and relatively few worries.

If you had asked me then what the next decade would bring? Well, I had a vague idea that somewhere along the way we'd buy a house, have a couple of kids and I'd quit my job to stay home and raise them.

I imagined I'd live behind a white picket fence, drop in regularly on my mom and pal around with the women who had been my friends since high school. I thought I'd learn how to cook, resign myself to cleaning and become the domestic goddess I was sure I was meant to be.

In short, I had no clue what was in store for me.

A lot has happened to me in the last ten years. I've struggled with depression. Changed careers a couple of times. Left behind all that was familiar to explore the great unknown (twice). Experienced more pain than I thought I was capable of withstanding—and more joy than I ever knew was possible.

There were years I wasn't sure I was going to make it. And others where I couldn't believe my luck.

But I wouldn't trade a single minute of the last decade. You know why? Because it took every one of those 5,256,000 seconds to get me to where I am today. They shaped who I am and helped me realize who I was meant to be.

They led me to the moment where I fed my baby her last bottle of 2009, kissed her good night and wished her sweet dreams. They brought me to my Tori—the best thing that's ever happened to me.

So tonight, I wish you all a very Happy New Year—and hope the next decade finds you living a life well lived.

It's Beginning to Feel a Lot Like Christmas.

In case you missed it (and I don't know how you could, considering the commercials started in August), it's the holiday season again. Which has me feeling...conflicted.

Part of me loves the holidays - everything about them. Decorating the house, putting up the Christmas tree, baking all those cookies - it all makes me want to jump up and down and clap my hands like a little kid. Once the time changes and the night gets long and dark, I start pestering my  husband to put the lights up outside -  those twinkling, colored lights make my heart sing.

I even love Christmas shopping. At the mall. Yes, really. My mom and I  used to make an event of it - the day after Thanksgiving was Serious Shopping Day, and we'd spend hours combing the mall for the best deals on the softest, shiniest, glittery-est presents to stuff under the tree.

Now that I'm seven hours away, I kinda miss that.

There's also a part of me that dreads the holidays. I feel guilty admitting that, but it's true. Especially since we moved away and our trip home became an Event. There's always so much pressure. Everybody wants a piece of us (usually at the same time), and there's absolutely no way to make everyone happy.

Someone always ends up disappointed. Sometimes lots of someones.

And I? Spend the week with knotted up shoulders, a tension  headache and a sour stomach. Because, you see, I really want to make everyone happy. Especially during the holiday season. But I haven't figured out how to clone myself, so it's impossible.

Plus, I'm not naturally a very social person, so all that visiting starts to get to me after a while. I start longing for a quiet corner to hide in, or at least a bag I could put over my head.

By the time we head for home, I'm usually so exhausted that I spend the next three days sleeping.

But this year is different. This year there's Tori. She's not old enough to really appreciate all the hubbub around the holidays, but I'm looking forward to sharing it with her anyway.

I can't wait to put up the tree, so I can watch her face shine when she sees it glowing  for the first time. I want to buy her a stocking, and let her get her hands in the cookie dough (don't worry, I know she can't eat it yet).

I want to dress her up in pretty, absolutely useless frilly dresses. Take her to visit Santa. I even want to get one of those cheesy family portraits done (we may even wear matching clothes).

I want her to join in the chaos when her cousins rip into the Christmas presents under the tree. I want to see her face when she tastes turkey and mashed potatoes and pumpkin pie for the first time.

Above all, I want to share the joy of her first Christmas with everyone I love. Even if it kills me.

So, I'm going to try to leave my inner pessimist home this year. I'm going to do my best to get through it all with my smile intact and my shoulders loose. I'm going to try to enjoy myself.

Because you know what's really great about having a baby at Christmastime? It gives you an automatic excuse (lots of excuses) to get out of doing anything you don't want to do. After all, she has to eat, sleep, get her diaper changed...

I may actually get some quiet time this year.

And Away We Went.

Recently, I saw the movie Away We Go. For those of you who haven't seen it, the story follows a pregnant couple as they visit various cities looking for a place to call home. It spoke to my heart.

Why? Well, because after the years of Badness, that's exactly what Brian and I did.

At the time, we lived in the same town we always had, not more than ten miles away from where we grew up and fell in love. We were surrounded by all the people who loved us - which was great. Most of the time. But it was also a little suffocating.

Not because anyone was trying to be overbearing, or tell us what to do, but because they knew who we always had been, and expected us to stay the same. Be the same. And we? Couldn't. We had to change.

So we decided to make a complete break. To venture out on our own and discover who we could be - not who we were supposed to be.

I found a job in Cincinnati, and after spending a weekend there, we decided to do it. To make the move and start over.

It was frightening and exhilarating at the same time. We didn't know anyone. We had nobody to fall back on. We were completely and truly on our own.

Over the next few months, we worked to rebuild our lives. To make Cincinnati home. But it just didn't work. It felt too crowded. Too segregated. Just wrong.

So we prepared to pull up stakes again. I interviewed in all sorts of places - Memphis, Nashville, Louisville - even back up in Detroit. But none of those cities felt right either.

Southern Indiana wasn't even on our radar. Until I interviewed here - just for a lark.

But walking around the town on the night of my interview, I knew I had found it. The place we could call home. The quaint downtown, the tree lined streets, the youthful vibe - it all felt right. So right that Brian agreed to make the move without ever seeing it.

I found us a sweet little house to rent and two weeks later, we made the move. By the way? Never move ten days before Christmas. It was an exhausting way to spend the holidays.

Brian found a job within a week, and we began the process of rebuilding our lives. Again. But you know what? This time, my instincts were right.

We fit in here.
We have friends here.
We have...roots.

Given the business I'm in, I can't guarantee we'll be able to stay here forever. But I hope we'll be here for a while. Because this? Is our place. It's home.