A Very Important Event

One year ago today, for the very first time, my biological clock let out a shrill screech. I sat in the hospital with little Clara cradled in my arms and wished for a baby of my own.

For most of my nearly 30 years I had assumed I would have children - though my biological clock apparently didn't have battery back-up and my maternal instincts never really manifested themselves. Yes, I dressed my teddy bear in clothes - but it was teddy, not a doll. Yes, I played house, but my sister was always "the mom." I was always the aunt or some other cool person who went off to work. Yes, I played Barbies, but my Barbies always changed outfits 76 times a day and never had a Ken doll or kids (the Ken doll was my sister's). Clearly, I was not cut from the "mothering" cloth. I was much more interested in designing roadways and buildings for my brother's matchbox cars, or cooking in the fabulous play kitchen I had, than I was in tending to a wailing baby doll.

We had been trying for a baby for awhile, but even then my biological clock hadn't even so much as ticked. Deep down, I wondered why I'd never felt that pit-of-your-stomach primordial longing for a baby.

It happened that night in the dim hospital room of a suburban Virginia hospital, holding the much-longed for baby of dear friends. I later remarked to Himself that indeed I had a biological clock and it was going off non-stop.

Five days later, we learned of Baby Girl's pending arrival.

It couldn't have happened in a more perfect way than to have the sweet confirmation of my pending motherhood manifested only days after I realized that I indeed had that deep, longing yearning for a child of my own.

Happy Birthday Clara. You will always hold a special place in my heart.

Good Will Toward Men

I've been feeling Scroogy this Christmas - or, rather, apathetic enough to not even really feel Scroogy - just bleh, as if the holidays are one enormous chore to get through (or be avoided). But I really felt Scroogy because I felt like I was totally self-absorbed - one of those grinchy people who looks at the Salvation Army Santas and wonders why they chose this store, on this day, to shake their bell and ratchet your headache up another notch.

I discovered an incredibly easy, cheap way to brighten up a whole county's worth of holiday revelers - quite by accident.

This weekend, my mom needed me to run some errands for her (how she survived with me thousands of miles away, I've yet to figure out - maybe she's making up for lost time). They involved driving down to Happy Valley. For the record, I would rather sit on the Beltway than drive in Happy Valley. It's a most-painful endeavor - especially since her request involved several stops, a couple of stores and a wrapping job (sidenote: the gift ended up looking like a 5-year-old wrapped it - parking lot wrapping jobs with an infant wailing in the background about how unfair life is that she is stuck in her carseat just don't look so great).

It also involved stopping at my aunt's house. In a fit of holiday cheer, I dressed Baby Girl in her ridiculously cute Santa outfit (you can see her here) - largely because it's warm, it fits and the furry collar entertains Baby Girl for minutes on end.

We left the house at noon. We got back at 7:30 p.m. During that time we went to one department store, one farming store (don't ask - I think I was the only one there not wearing boots), my aunt's house, several stores in the mall, Costco and Arby's (I somehow forgot to eat in the middle of all of this). Himself had the stroller, so I hauled Baby Girl around in my arms the entire time. My arm grew tired. She, apparently, did not. She happily slurped on her fist and watched all the people.

I started to notice something ... everywhere we went, people brightened up - if only for a moment. One lady stopped us and told me that we had made her day. There were whispers, pointing, little kids tugging on pants and saying, "Mommy - look, it's a little Santa!". People smiling and wishing us Merry Christmas. Every time, Baby Girl would stop slurping long enough to flash a dazzling smile that lights up her whole face. You could almost see people melt into puddles of goo as they smiled back.

Last night, when we drug Baby Girl out in subzero (not quite, but it felt like it) temperatures to see the lights downtown, she wore the same outfit. The same reaction happened.

I didn't feel quite so Scroogy after that. I realized that my contribution this year to good will toward men might be small, but it definitely makes a difference.

After all, who can walk away not feeling a little better after they see Baby Girl in a Santa suit?

Favorite Things

Strawberry Limeades from Sonic
Christmas morning
Christmas hymns (NOT the nerve-jangling "fa la la la la" stuff)
Snow days (days with snow that involve hot cocoa, reading, watching it snow from the inside, not having to drive and not having to work)
Trying new food
Road trips
Baby Girl's smiles
Bilbo Baggins' White Chocolate Raspberry Bread Pudding
New shoes
Buying new socks for Baby Girl (weird, I realize)
Back rubs
Board games
Early Saturday mornings when the weather is warm and no one else is awake
Good books
Sushi
Plays
Christmas lights
Homemade whole wheat bread
Looking at old photos
Posey Lake trips
Really good french fries with fry sauce
Hiking
New restaurants
Making new recipes
Getting e-mail (not the spam kind)
Visiting new places
Tomatoes straight of the vine, still warm from the sun
Flannel sheets
Visiting the parents
Snow cones
Getting magazines in the mail
Downtown DC
People watching
French Dip sandwiches from Kneaders

If it is Warm & Damp ...

... it probably isn't a good thing.

Last night I was nursing Baby Girl just after dinner. She was being her usual difficult self when it comes to the dinner feeding - like most kids, I suppose, she is interested in anything BUT eating, but lets out a holler if I dare think that she's lost interest in food. She just wants it when she wants it - at her own pace - which usually means suck for a few minutes, and look around for a few minutes, repeated about 36 times. (Nursing her in a dark, quiet room doesn't help either - if there is the slightest amount of light, she's looking around. If there is no light, I fall asleep).

Sometime near the beginning - where she pulls off, looks around quickly and fusses because she can't find her food source again , she spit an entire mouthful of warm milk down my arm - inside the light cardigan I had on. My shirt and the cardigan were both destined for the laundry.

We're nearing the end - where she pulls off, sighs contentedly and lays her head against me for a few seconds, grinning, before she decides she wants more food. She radiates heat just like Himself. Last night, the heat seemed a bit, well, damp. And oddly, the heat seemed to be spreading rapidly across my lap. I picked her up, puzzled.

The rascal had overflowed her diaper and peed all over me. (Not just a spot, mind you, but a flood that covered my entire lap and soaked through my skirt, slip and underthings).

Fortunately, it was bath night. Baby Girl HATES baths, but tolerates them if I'm in with her - either in the shower or the bath. I made Himself hold her while I got ready for the shower. He held her at arm's length, Baby Girl kicking gleefully, so that he did not have to share the warm, wet feeling I already had.

I took Baby Girl, put a changing pad down on the bathmat, and stared in stunned silence - the warm, wet liquid that she had so generously shared was not, it turns out, just pee. It seems that after I had checked, she had continued her expulsion of bodily liquids - all over me, her dress, her onesie, her diaper and all the way up her back.

The week is clearly off to a great start.

(On that note, for those of you interested, at three months, Baby Girl FINALLY fits into her 0-3 month clothes - mostly. She is FINALLY outgrowing newborns - the next pack of diapers I buy will be size 1 - Costco here we come! She is not so scrawny anymore - but there is more muscle on her than baby fat, tipping the scales at a petite 9 lbs 7 oz. last week, still on the 5th percentile growth curve).

Just Another Day in Paradise

I have had a bad month. A bad several weeks, actually, since the month is only seven days old at this point. Himself and I have traded off between feeling like we've been smooshed by a gigantic steamroller and feeling like we can trudge through another day with only minor reminders that we aren't well.

We finally discovered the culprit. The doctor took one look at Himself's tonsils, and after running a rapid strep test, declared thatHimself had the worst case of strep he had ever seen. Our roller coaster rides through illness have been on alternating weeks (thank goodness for that, I suppose), and he is one week ahead of me, so his is worse, but I also have it. Of course, we spent a highly useful period of time last night discussing who felt what and who had had a higher temperature, etc.

The house looks like a bachelor pad - you know, the kind that they'd showcase in a movie like Animal House. We have ordered takeout Chinese twice in 10 days from the restaurant a few streets over who actually has a website where you can order your takeout online (and it is almost as good as Taste of Asia in Maryland). We've never ordered takeout Chinese before. Neither of us are hungry, but one of us is feeding two people with one person's daily caloric intake, so food is sort of a necessity.

The laundry has been done - between being sick and spreading germs all over and Baby Girl, the washer hasn't sat idle more than 24 hours in the last few weeks. What has resulted is lovely, artistically deposited piles of textiles all over my living room, the nursery, our bedroom ... wherever they got shoved if someone was rumored to drop by.

The Christmas tree is up because I felt I owed it to Baby Girl. We're missing one box of ornaments and our tree looks like something even Charlie Brown would have a hard time loving, so it's really more of a garish misappropriation of artificial holiday cheer than a decoration, but Baby Girl loves the thing anyway.

The coffee table is covered in saline drops for babies and adults, a snot sucker, a box of tissues, a digital thermometer, a bottle of Tylenol (formerly occupied by a bottle of Advil, when it was my turn to take up residence on the couch, er, sick bed), a couple of empty water glasses - one which held juice, one which held water, two prescription bottles, a packet of throat lozenges, a bag of throat lozenges (Himself and I have different preferences for those, in addition to our painkiller differences) and a host of other things we've been too lazy to displace.

Our nightstands look equally the same. The couch pillows are on the love seat and the couch is covered in blankets, as one or the other of us has been sleeping on the couch for the last 3 1/2 weeks. All of Baby Girl's entertainment options are stationed within arm's reach of the couch - her bouncy seat, play mat, blanket, etc. The tub of wrapping paper and bows and other assorted useless (we have no gifts purchased yet) holiday cheer sits behind the ottoman, as neither of us have had the energy or foresight to move it.

And we won't even mention the dust and grime that is covering every other surface. Or the fact that the refrigerator is full of ingredients none of us have had the energy to do anything with. Or the fact that somehow we neglected to unpack the winter clothes when we moved in, so there are two boxes in two different rooms with their contents strewn over every available surface. Every morning we go to our appropriate box, shove our hand in and pull out a new surprise - spending the rest of the morning trying to find something to wear with it.

And this morning I realized we leave in two weeks for the great state of Washington. We have no presents purchased. We haven't even discussed what we're giving. We haven't talked about travel logistics - exactly when we're leaving, where we're staying or when we're coming home, nor have we talked about anything else holiday-related.

Oh yeah, and the weatherman is calling for a big storm where snow will fall "in feet, not inches." Hopefully this one isn't as badly forecasted as the one last week where we got 8-10" out of a storm that was supposed to just drop a "dusting."

It's another day in paradise, er, The Hobbit Infirmary.

All of our agents are busy right now ...

Baby Girl's social security card hasn't ever shown up.

Today, I finally had the half hour necessary to remain on hold to find out what I can do about it.

"Welcome to the SSA, blah blah blah about our website. For English speak/say one." Okay. Easy enough.

"Blah blah blah about our website and all the fabulous things you can do there. Let me go through some options."
It gives me a list of options for things I can do through the automated process or over the website. Locating your baby's social security card is not one of them. I hit zero, hoping I can cut through the automated nonsense and speak to a real live government drone.

"I'm sorry. That is not an option." At this point, I'm using my handsfree system in my car, driving up State Street on my way to a meeting. Frustrated, I yell, "I just want to talk to an operator!"

The voice-activated system says, "Just one moment and we'll transfer you to an agent." SUCCESS! Except, I forgot I was talking to the government - and the SSA generates almost as much red tape as the IRS.

"We're sorry. All of our agents are busy now. Let me blah blah blah about our website and everything you can do through the automated drone." Which knocks me back into the system I just left - which still doesn't have an option for finding out what happened to Baby Girl's social security card. I yell in frustration, "I just want to talk to an agent!!"

"We're sorry. All of our agents are busy now. Let me blah blah blah about our website ... if you would like to continue holding, please press or say 2."

Of course, I follow the command, which immediately says, "Thank you for calling the SSA. We're sorry we are unable to help you at this time. Goodbye."

At this point I'm staring straight at the state capitol and have half a mind to march myself in there (my meeting was across the street) and find out how on earth I can talk to a real, live government SSA drone. I refrain.

Two hours later, after the meeting, I try again. This time, miracle of miracles, I get through to hold music. Elevator music has never sounded so good in my life. Thirty minutes later, it's not sounding so good. Finally, a real, live government drone gets on the phone. I explain that Baby Girl has never received a social security card. (My comments, or rather what I would have LIKED to have said, follow the SSA drone's statements).

"Well, Baltimore issued her a number." Um, that's nice, but she doesn't have a card.

"Maybe you moved?" No. Not since she was born. What I'm really worried about is that the card was swiped and someone else is being Baby Girl and using her SSN. The nurses at the hospital told us that the postal carriers were not allowed to deliver to a mailbox that didn't have our last name on it somewhere, for just that reason.

"Well, ma'am, there isn't any way I can tell to where the card was sent or if it is being used by someone else. But I wouldn't worry about it. The envelope says right on it 'if this person doesn't live here, please return to sender'." Um, right, and that is going to deter someone from stealing someone else's identity. Who can I talk to to make sure it isn't being used?

"Ma'am, that isn't going to happen ... the envelope says right on it ... I don't know who would steal it." Um, I live on a BUSY, five-lane street. My mailbox doesn't have a lock. I realize it's a far cry, but it was supposed to be here WEEKS ago. You say it was issued and sent - so where did it go?

I resign myself to just trying to get her a new card and then worrying about identity theft.

"You have to request a new one. We sent you one, which you should have received if you gave the correct address. You have to fill out a form. It will take 6-12 weeks to arrive." Okay, but what if the SAME problem happens again? That's what I was told the FIRST time I filled out the form. I was told to call if it didn't arrive.

"Well, there is nothing we can do here. The card is issued in Baltimore." Fine. Can I go online and do it?

"Yes. Print out Form XYZ and send it in. But Baby Girl is going to need identification." SHE IS 12 WEEKS OLD - what kind of ID does an infant have? What about her birth certificate?

"I'm sorry. That is not an acceptable form of identification." It's her birth certificate - the only thing I own with her official name on it. I had to use MY BIRTH CERTIFICATE to get a driver's license (which, by the way, IS acceptable identification - unless you're 12 weeks old). I also used it to get my social security card changed when I got married (along with my driver's license). They didn't need ID the FIRST TIME I filled out the form (when she was 2 days old).

"I'm sorry. You'll have to provide some other form of ID." Like, what, exactly? "You can have her pediatrician write a letter, stating she's a patient, last seen on xyz. Make sure it's on letterhead." Okay fine. Whatever. Because my pediatrician has time to vouch for my child being mine.

"Oh yes. And since she's too little to request her own replacement card, you will need to submit ID." Okay, so I'll enclose a copy of my driver's license.

"Ma'am, we can't take copies." Um, you told me I could SEND it in. How can I SEND an original of my driver's license or other ID?

"Well, you can't send in a copy. You'll have to come to our office then." And then what? You can give me a new card?

"No. Baltimore issues the cards. You have to come in and show your ID and Baby Girl's ID and we'll send the form on to Baltimore." Do I need to actually bring my baby?

"Well, it would be helpful...you know, because you don't want anyone representing her fraudulently and using her SSN for identity theft..."

I CANNOT BELIEVE THIS. I am so not having this conversation again. *Banging my head repeatedly.*
No wonder new mothers go insane.

Corporate Christmas

In a prior life, late October was the time for The List. An e-mail would go out to all mid-level and senior management, with an attached spreadsheet of last year's corporate gift recipients. You were supposed to scan the list for your clients/vendors/partners, remove anyone who know longer warranted a gift, declare what level of gift anyone staying on the list should receive and shore up your defenses should anyone challenge your decisions.

Then, The List was sent up to the executive suites to be vetted. Typically, executives of other companies got the top gift - aged scotch. Lesser beings got champagne. Known non-drinkers or mere minions (if any were lucky enough to make it on The List) got a gift basket of assorted edibles. Nothing, however, is black and white or etched in stone (or the powers-that-be wouldn't have needed an entire month to vet The List of any imposters).

Just because someone was a senior-level executive didn't automatically warrant aged scotch. You had to be influential in some way - or a "close, personal friend" (corporate speak for we're going to ask some enormous favor of you or we offended you somehow and this is how we're apologizing) of a senior executive on our end.

Just because you got aged scotch last year did not guarantee the same level of generosity in the present. Perhaps you are no longer a "close, personal friend." Perhaps the buisness of which you are reigning emperor is no longer critical to this business. Perhaps your company contact did not advocate as loudly for you this year. All reasons warranted a drop on "The List."

Wo to those who specifically requested something non-alcoholic. It didn't matter who you were, if you had such nerve (or your company contact had such nerve), you were automatically permanently relegated to the gift basket portion of The List, regardless of stature or status.

It was a throwback to the old world feudal system - with a lord standing at the top of the pile beating down the minions with a club, 'No you impertient soul - you're neither a firstborn, a clergyman or of royal blood - no Christmas gifts for you!'

The whole thing turned a group of mostly Ivy-league-educated senior managers into a group of hysterical, oversized kids as they bartered, begged and sleuthed to make sure their clients/vendors/providers were well taken care of. There was a whole social heirarchy - both in who got The List circulated to them and who really had authority to do anything more than glance, nod and say, "no changes this year." The List was taken very seriously. After all, one didn't want to be in the position of having to admit one of their clients/vendors/partners weren't worthy enough to maintain the same gift status - or remain on the list at all - as last year.

Each year, as The List was circulated (I was important enough to receive the list, but typically not important enough to move anyone up to the next gift level), the senior-level managers frenetically tried to figure out who belonged where. The rest of us mid-level minions tried to remember who typically gave the best gifts (gourmet cheeses and Mrs. Fields gift baskets were the most coveted) and squeaked like little mice, lobbying for better gifts for those who were likely to give us the best gifts, gleefully grabbing an open champagne spot, should someone higher up on the food chain deem his or her contact unworthy of such a low-level offering.

I can't say I missed "The List" frenzy this year. Though I do miss the cheeses and Mrs. Fields coookies.

No Panty Bunching Here

I am a bad person.

* I don’t get fired up about the things I sometimes feel I should.
* My panties sometimes don’t get twisted into a knot over some things that probably warrant having one’s panties in a knot.
* I work in corporate America (though no longer in big business - not that I cared).
* I shop at Wal-Mart (occasionally, and I really don’t like it because I prefer the cleaner stores and shorter lines of Target, but I do shop there if I need something they have and I’m in the neighborhood).
* I send out religious Christmas cards (to friends who are Christian) and non-religious holiday cards (to my Jewish friends – sidenote: have you tried finding Hanukah cards in a place like the Frontier?)

There is something floating around decrying several stores for calling their Christmas trees “holiday trees” or “family trees.” It urges me to pass it on.

I deleted it.

I’m probably going to hell for it, but it’s not one of those “panty-bunching” issues to me. I am a good Christian. I believe in the religious reason for Christmas. I loathe the fact that Christmas has become more about getting more than the next guy, Black Friday and not offending anyone in its observance than about peace, reflection and Christ. It is, after all, a religious holiday. (Not to mention my prior post on pet peeves about e-mail forwards).

But I’m not offended by Christmas decorations being called holiday decorations. More accurately, I don't have TIME to be offended by it. I'm lucky I even put my decorations up this year - I don't have time to worry what I should/shouldn't be calling them or if I need to be offended by someone else's reference. You know - good will to men and all that.

It does bother me that people get offended by those using the terminology “Merry Christmas” – as if it’s okay for me to be bothered as long as someone else isn’t. But it doesn’t offend me that people choose to use “holiday” instead of Christmas. Again, I don't have time to worry about it or be bothered by it.

Maybe it should bother me. After all, Christmas is as much a religious holiday as Easter.

Though come to think of it – Easter doesn’t seem to cause big controversies. No one seems to get their panties in a bunch about people saying “Happy Easter.” I wonder why...? It’s an even more religious, more solemn observance than Christmas.

Maybe people are right – the East corrupted my sensibilities and turned me into a crazy woman with an all-black wardrobe, an attitude and far too open mind.

Except, looking at that list, I moved to the East with everything but the all-black wardrobe.

Maybe I’m just wired wrong.

FWD:

Okay, it's Monday, the roads are still slick and winter has settled in for a long, comfortable stay. Therefore, I'm allowing myself the luxury of dragging out a pet peeve.

E-mail that starts with FWD: that comes from someone who never bothers to send anything else.

*Duck*

It shouldn't bother me, but it does. I, as a general rule, don't mass-forward anything. Generally, if I forward something, it's to the one or two people to whom it might matter. Or it's fun and interactive. Or it's a one-time lapse in sanity. And I'll hide your e-mail address.

I'm a cynic by nature, which means I don't believe in good or bad luck. I don't believe in coincidences either (for an entirely different reason). I don't believe that Microsoft or AOL or anyone else is going to give me money for forwarding an e-mail. I'm in marketing - if they were going to do it, the industry press would be all over it. There are bad people and bad stuff in the world, and I like to stay informed, but I prefer to get my news from reputable news agencies (okay, I'm willing to debate the word "reputable") rather than some person, usually Anonymous, who claims to know of a sister's, friend's, cousin's, grandmother's, aunt's, niece's, cousin's, friend of a friend who had x, y or z happen to them. Target is still not a French-owned company. I've been to the corporate headquarters in MN (okay, just the outside, but still ....). Shampoo is not going to give me cancer. Nigerians are not going to magically give me money by cashing a check for them or giving them my bank information.If a bank with whom I've never had an account contacts me about needing me to update my account information, it's a phishing scam. I am not an activist. I have quiet moments of outrage, contemplation and activism, but they are generally either a) generated by someone I know (as in directly) or b) my own philosophies and beliefs - not by a forwarded e-mail started by who knows who. I am paranoid by nature, which means I drive with my car doors locked, don't talk to strangers and run in the opposite direction from strange men (or try to). I shred my mail. I don't mail anything important from my mailbox. And so on ...

If I've heard from you once in the last year (whether via Christmas card or e-mail or phone or anything else), I am not talking to you. If I know the names of your last two kids, it's all okay. If you know that I moved thousands of miles and had a kid this year, you're probably okay (that lets anyone reading this off the hook, so you can all stop worrying if I'm posting to you ... in reality no one who does any of this even knows I blog). UNLESS ... you send me hundreds of FWD messages. Then I might have to think of something equally as annoying. Like signing you up for all those sweepstakes offers out there. :)

Okay, rant over. Back to your regularly scheduled programming.

How Do I Hate Thee...

Winter, how do I hate thee? Let me count the ways (in no particular order);

1. Snow. Pretty snow when it requires no driving (as it was on Saturday) is fine. But it must be gone from all streets, parking lots, sidewalks or any other hazardous place by Monday morning.

2. Melting & Re-freezing - see above (especially when one has to lug Baby Girl, a laptop bag, a lunch bag, a pumping bag - and this morning, a diaper bag - across said frozen water).

3. Inversion. A special winter evil in The Frontier.

4. Smog (worsened by inversion).

5. Hills - making 1 and 2 particularly nasty.

6. Dark mornings, dark commutes home.

7. Gray. When the valley fills with clouds, fog and even the mountains disappear - it's hard not to feel gray inside too.

8. Below freezing temperatures. I finally bought a good winter coat - just in time for my old coat from college to be located. Doesn't mean I like wearing either one of them.

9. Tourists. I liked tourists in DC (as long as they stayed off public transit and downtown streets during rush hour), but tourists in The Frontier are (generalizing, stereotyping - forgive me) generally hot shots who think they're coming to the world's most backward state to have a little fun, complain about the locals and then jet back to their fabulous McMansion.

10. Lake effect. Warm water + arctic air = LOTS of white stuff.

11. Bad weather forecasts. A chance of a "slight dusting" on Saturday morning turned into 10" along the east bench.

12. No snow days. At least before I could hope for a storm bad enough to close work. No more.

13. Dress shoes. I'm wearing my ugly (but oh-so-comfy) Aerosole loafers with the tassles and my clunky oxfords every day. They have rubber soles, slightly minimizing the fall factor. My cute shoes worked in VA because my car was garaged and snow was scarce.

14. Salt. Icky, saltiness covering everything.

15. Mountain passes. Bad storms render one virtually stuck in one place.

The Great Night Out

Last night, for the first time in just shy of a year, Himself and I went out and I was neither pregnant nor toting an infant. Granted, I wasn't feeling well, so it wasn't totally all daisies and sunshine, but it was wonderful nonetheless. I had to refrain from skipping down the ice-coated sidewalk outside the restaurant as I thought of a whole dinner out without having to worry about whether or not Baby Girl's baby noises were going to drive anyone mad.

Here's where my not-so-maternal-instinct glowed in neon colors: I didn't feel bad about leaving Baby Girl with the sitter. Not once. Gasp, mutter and shake your head all you want about me not feeling guilty for leaving her at 11 weeks (I've had people tell me we should wait until at least six months - at that rate we'd all be in the looney bin), but it was a wonderful evening, and I managed to rationalize my way out of feeling guilty by making a list:

* Baby Girl's sitter will sit for free on Thursday nights if you pay on time. Miss Jan watches Baby Girl five days a week (more or less) anyway, so it's not like we were leaving her with just anyone.

* Himself and I REALLY needed some time alone, sans baby. A wild-haired, crackly-voiced, cranky, achy mom; bored-out-of-his-mind dad; The Hobbit Hole wildly out of control (more on that later); and the season's first snow - it's a recipe sure to entice someone to wring someone else's neck. A happy baby meant she was the only thing that didn't need fixing.

* Miss Jan is closed today for licensing courses, so I'm working from home - meaning I get to spend the whole day with Baby Girl, making up for the four extra hours we abandoned her for last night.

* We did go see Baby Girl between dinner, dropping the concert tickets off to the guy who bought them off of us and the movie. It wasn't so much the "oh my gosh, I haven't seen my child in hours and I'm going to start weeping if I don't see her" (remember I'm not instinctivly maternal) as much as the date was a last-minute thing, so I had to drop off one more bottle of milk ensuring she didn't starve (and she didn't - she conned Miss Jan into thinking she was starving to death, prompting an extra feeding - which she spent the rest of the evening burping up).

The whole night was magic - even if I looked like hell and felt just about the same. Himself was the charming, talkative guy I fell in love with. We had sushi at the sushi bar. We talked food and work and life and sports (his beloved Packers got trounced last night - too bad). We discovered a Spanish grocery and found all things (or most things) Goya - meaning Himself's Puerto Rican Chicken, Beans and Rice dish will be served tomorrow night, after six months of not being able to make it. We laughed at our obvious maturity as we entered the movie theater to see The Bee Movie (which is cute - and has amazing animation).

The best thing? Himself planned it. He decided on where to have dinner. He found the theater and gave me a choice of two films.

I might not have maternal instincts, but it was worth it for one night of remembering the reason Baby Girl came along.

(For those of you appalled that I would leave my child at not-quite three months, it appears any insult regarding being left with the sitter last night are forgotten, as she's napping soundly next to me while I type.)

21st Century Communication

So, you'll remember my moaning about the ridiculous ticket fees in this post.

Well ... to make a really long story short, Himself and I had a terrible bout of miscommunication, and I ended up purchasing the tickets. When I called to tell him, he said "I thought we agreed $95 wasn't worth paying to see anybody." Um, yes, we did, but then I thought he really, really wanted to go - and, well, I'm a sucker for doing things for others.

So I had two tickets, a horrible virus of some sort and a husband who really didn't care to go and a $95 charge I really can't afford.

What to do.

This morning, I pulled up Craigslist, typed a short advert regarding my need to get rid of my tickets for tonight's concert and said, "if you inquire this morning, I will be in a meeting - please text me."

I got rid of the tickets an hour ago - after a day-long conversation via text with someone named Dustin. We will meet him at will call to pick up/give away/receive payment for our tickets.

I've never actually spoken to him, but I know that he really wanted to go, had to ask his wife if she wanted to/could go and had to make arrangements to meet.

I love the 21st Century. Especially since my rabid sore throat makes talking out loud an incredible challenge at the moment.

A Tale of Two Snowstorms

The last time I had to deal with measurable snowfall was on Valentine's Day. At the time, I was a world away from where I am now - figuratively and geographically. Our parents had just received the card in the mail, informing them of their new grandchild-to-be. I hadn't yet been laid off. There was nothing to suspect the status quo would change.

I walked out to my car to discover the two feet of snow pushed up against it by the apartment complex's snow plow, valiantly spend the next hour trying to make a path out of the mound so I could go to work. I was freezing. I didn't have a shovel. I wasn't in the mood to deal with snow in the wilds of DC. So I gave up, made hot cocoa and told work I was going to work from home.

Yesterday, as I was heading downtown for a meeting, it started snowing. Big, white, soggy, wet flakes. By the time I left, it had already made a noticeable impact on the landscape - creating slushy roads and cautious, slow-moving traffic. I caught myself thinking, "If I was still in Virginia, my office would be closed and I wouldn't have to work."

I went to bed last night, lulled into slumber by the voice of the weather man talking about lake effect snow and an increased prediction of how much would stick. I woke up to a silent, winter wonderland of white. I bundled Baby Girl into her newly acquired Santa outfit (because it's very, very warm and ridiculously cute), grabbed my laptop bag, my pumping bag, the mini cooler for her milk, Baby Girl in her carseat and my water bottle (I later remembered I had left my lunch sitting on the kitchen counter - heaven only knows how I managed to forget one more thing ...). I schlepped it all upstairs, opened the door, and realized that, since we no longer live in an apartment complex, there is no one to shovel the walks for us. No matter. I trudged through the snow, buckled Baby Girl in, started the car to keep her warm and surveyed the landscape.

Determining that there was not enough snow to actually warrant shoveling, and risking a very icy return after the stuff had melted and refrozen, I cleaned off the car windows and began my journey. As I drove, I again drew a parallel to my last snowstorm. While the majority of the snow on my route had fallen in the middle of the night, the roads were nothing more than wet. Clearly they had been treated and plowed. I thought, "If I was in Virginia, the roads would be awful, the office would be on a delay and half the people would call in because they couldn't actually drive in the stuff."

But I wasn't, and The Frontier is quite adept at dealing with the snow. The drivers, while probably not any less goofy about driving in it, at least have generally lived here long enough not to panic at the first sight of a snowflake. The schools stay open, the businesses stay open, the world keeps on moving. Whiteouts, power failure, blizzards - nothing stops this place from trudging on. I think it's all those pioneer stock, who feel the need to push on through anything.

No more will I sit, with childlike energy, willing the weatherman to predict a snowstorm - because no more will the mere mention of a snowstorm mean partial days, working from home or complete closures.

Instead, Himself and I will rummage through the shed to find the salt and the snow shovel. Winter has arrived.

Absurdity

There is a concert coming to town this week that I really want to go to. I've always wanted to see this performer in concert - Himself has, and has commented several times on how much he enjoyed it.

Himself and I decided that we'd go and call it the almost-three-months-late-birthday-present-I-didn't-get.

I find out tickets are $35 each - reasonable.

I go to buy them - there are still good seats left. Good.

Then I get to the purchase screen - there are TWENTY FIVE DOLLARS worth of fees! And, if I want to print my own tickets at home, I can add another $3 to that.

Why not say the concert tickets are $49 each and not tell me how much is fees? Funny - I might have purchased them at that point and chalked it up to a splurge.

But I can't justify knowingly paying almost another full ticket price in fees to go to the concert.

So I didn't buy them. I'm in mourning - I really wanted a date night with Himself - and Thursdays are the night our sitter is open late. More than that, I really wanted to see this concert. But all those fees? Am I supposed to clap my hands and jump for joy?

SmithTix stinks.

And God Remembered ...

There is a passage in Genesis that struck me yesterday as I read it in a magazine article: "And God Remembered Rachel."

To put it in context, Rachel was barren and was stuggling to deal with it. She had essentially come to Jacob and said, "Give me children, or I shall die." I'm sure there was much wailing and gnashing of teeth - especially since her sister (and Jacob's first wife), Leah, had already borne him children. I'm sure there were long prayers in the middle of the night - pleading with God to hear her, to give her an answer.

And God Remembered. Rachel ended up bearing two sons and a daughter for Jacob - and not just any son, but Joseph who was sold into slavery and eventually became one of the most important men in Egypt.

The article was about something else, but the passage struck me as being incredibly timely right now - it's the Thanksgiving season, and I am making a concerted effort this season to being very, very grateful - not just in my heart, but publicly.

God Remembered ... After a couple of years of incredible challenges - many of which are unknown to all but a few people - 2007 ended up being a year of incredible blessings, answered prayers and surprising changes.

In a lesson at church on Sunday, the teacher admonished us to be grateful for even the difficult things, because after the trial of our faith comes the blessings. Easier said than done. I made a goal to list the difficult things for which I am grateful - some more difficult than others. Lest anyone think I'm some sort of saint for actually being able to be grateful for the hard things, I'm not. I was definitely not grateful for many of these DURING the rough period, until things came into focus and I realized that they were precursors to something much greater.

* I am grateful that I lost my job in February. I still miss the work and the people, but I now realize that it had to happen. I never would have willingly left, though I had contemplated it. We would have stayed and continued to run like a hampster in a wheel - faster and faster and just barely keeping pace.

* I am grateful for the miscarriage I had just over a year ago. At the time it was complex and confusing and the most physically painful thing I've ever been through (yes, worse than labor for me). Yet, it taught me what I needed to recognize about my body to be able to conceive and carry Baby Girl to term. And she is worth every agonizing moment I spent on the bathroom floor that night, terrified that I was dying.

* I am grateful that Himself didn't pass his nursing boards. This one is the one where there was great wailing and gnashing of teeth and pleading and ranting and making much noise. I'm still not entirely sure why the whole 18-month ordeal was necessary, but I know that it taught us a lot about each other, it helped Himself crystalize what he wanted to do professionally and, because he took it one last time, it meant he landed an incredible job in The Frontier.

* I am grateful for the promptings that Himself and I both had about moving to The Frontier. They came separately and Himself was afraid to even confess it, because he knew I was adamantly opposed to moving back to The Great Wild West. I still struggle with settling back down in the state of my childhood, but I am not as dumb as I occassionally look. I know that there are unbelievably good things that have occurred as a result. One of the greatest is having Baby Girl be surrounded with incredibly doting relatives.

* I am grateful that for 90 minutes in late July, I was unemployed. Again, this one was almost impossible to swallow at the time. However, it led (90 minutes later) to an even better opportunity that offers more stability, more flexibility and a better path toward an at-home consulting gig for me.

* I am grateful that I drop Baby Girl off at a wonderful sitter's every day. I might be struck by icicle glares from some for even admitting this out loud (and believe me, it has taken me a long time to come to this realization), but I can't change the status quo. At the moment, I have to work. We were blessed to find a wonderful sitter in Miss Jan. But I've discovered another benefit over the past two weeks: Baby Girl has some surrogate sisters in a pair of 3-year-olds that Miss Jan also watches. The two girls fuss over Baby Girl (from a distance) as much as Miss Jan will let them. One informed me last week that it was okay for me to take Baby Girl home for the night, but to bring her back, because Baby Girl was her baby. Every day when Baby Girl arrives, the girls rush to say hello. Every night when she leaves, they blow her kisses and say, "Goodbye Miss Baby Girl." It warms my heart to know that if Baby Girl can't spend her days at home with me, that she is spending them in the company of people who truly adore her.

Yes, I have realized that God truly does remember.
And I am grateful.

Neurotic Nonsense

My brain is all over today.

First, I have to brag on my father. He is the greatest father ever. I could write an entire book about it - and I would take on anyone who says that my claim to having the world's greatest father is biased. (And I'm tougher than I look).

Sometime during the decade since I lived in the Great Frozen North, all of my serious winter gear has dwindled into wimpy winter gear - an alarming number of fleeces, a wool dress coat (requisite for the East) and so forth. Being back in the Frontier, where it acually snows (and there are no such things as "snow days"), I realized I needed something more substantial to keep me warm (unless yesterday's 70-degree day has become the norm - very weird). Alas, I've only managed to pick up a good set of waterproof driving gloves.

Today my dad calls me at work - very unusual. He is, I realize, immensely excited over something. He asks if I've procured a winter coat yet. Nope. Then he tells me about a sale notice he got over e-mail today where there is a really great coat on sale for 50% off - no tax, no shipping if you order $X worth. He goes into the benefits of the coat and how much my sister paid for the same one last year (I'm sure my sister is thrilled to know she paid $40 more than I did). He reads me the item number, has me pull it up, recommends a size (yes, my blind father, recommending sizes - don't ask) and then he orders something to bump me into the free shipping zone (I don't tell him that paying for my shipping would have been cheaper than buying a new $50 camp pad).

Because of his eagerness, I was even able to snag a black coat in my size - on clearance (side note: who sells coats on clearance in November?!) - no neon green, slightly-the-wrong-size for me. My coat is on its way. I'm not going to freeze here. Thanks Dad!

--
In other news. One of my Google alerts for a client is "New Orleans" and "children" and "Katrina" - imagine the number of interesting news tidbits I get on that every day.

Today, however, I scored a good one - an interview with Jennifer Garner in Glamour, reprinted on MSNBC.com.

Most interviews with celebrities make me sick. They're either so ridiculously perfect with ridiculous, "I have no idea what the world is really like" opinions or they are ridiculously messed up. Usually I want to throw something at Jennifer Garner because she looks stunning - all the time - and lately I've taken to wearing my hair in a knot on my head - all the time - and smelling like eau de sour milk.

This time, however, I wanted to hug her. I will forever love her for this quote, in response to who she thinks is heroic:

My younger sister is my hero: She’s a mom and an accountant for the state of West Virginia. She’s able to juggle a job, kids, volunteer work and church, and she still manages to cook dinner every night without feeling bogged down. There are lots of people out there who are literally heroic, but what she does counts too.

Someone who realizes that loving, cooking, working, balancing, juggling, going slightly insane, volunteering - living life - counts. That waking up every day and working to make it a better day is something to be celebrated.

It didn't hurt that she confessed to feeling sheepish about hugging the Boston Red Sox's mascot - a giant red sock. "Why did I have to hug the sock? Just say hello like a normal person."

Sometimes I metaphorically hug a sock too - it's nice to know I'm not the only goofball.

True Love, Part II

True love is asking your sick wife to stop by the store for milk and a few other things on her way home from work, with a 2-month-old baby in tow ... so you have time to surprise her upon her arrival with a household transformation of sorts.

The Hobbit Hole no longer looks like an infirmary. The dishes were all done. The counters were all cleaned.

Too bad Baby Girl had to get up every 2.5 hours and I ended up spending the last half of the night on the couch.

True love says tonight Himself is going to play daddy at 11 p.m., 2 a.m and 5 a.m.. when Baby Girl coughs up so much snot she can't sleep any more.

True Love

True love is driving halfway across The Frontier in search of a Vietnamese Soup house to procure some Pho Ga for your wife who was crying when you left the house in the morning because she was so sick and tired.

True love is not asking her if she wanted any, but buying it anyway, then calling her and saying, "I have a surprise for you."

True love is getting enough that I can eat it today too, as Baby Girl and I hang out in our pajamas and be sick together at home.

Killer Kleenexes

My family spent last weekend with us and lovingly shared their germs. Try as we might to remain germ-free, both Baby Girl and I ended up with viruses. Her's manifested as a cold. Mine (as typical, due to a congenital sinus defect) manifested as a minor (though still horrid) sinus infection.

Neither of us are sleeping. Neither of us want to eat, but one of us is way too skinny (not me) to not be eating. Both of us are inhaling saline solution with great regularity. One of us gets to have her "snoogers" sucked out of her via a bulb syringe. The other has the only-slightly-more-appealing option of blowing her snoogers into a tissue.

I made a trek to Target today, because Baby Girl is out of diapers (a testament to how lousy I feel). While there, I discovered something I didn't know existed: Killer Kleenexes.

I'm probably the only idiot on the planet who didn't realize Kleenex makes anti-viral tissues. In a hurry, I threw the box into the cart and went to the checkout (where it was abundantly clear to the cashier that an adult had a cold of some sort and an infant was in dire need of half the baby care aisle - one should not go to Target when ill, hungry, bored or anytime one doesn't have a money tree in the backyard).

Curious about the "killer" properties of the tissues, I actually read the box when I got back to the office. It says,

"Kleenex Anti-Viral tissue has three soft layers, including a moisture-activated middle layer that kills 99.9% of cold and flu viruses in the tissue within 15 minutes ... See below for anti-viral details.

The "see below" portion tells one which viruses the tissues kill, but not HOW they are killed or WHAT kills them.

Still not satiated, I read the ingredients (Does anyone else find this humorous? A tissue box with ingredients?):

Citric Acid .... 7.51%
Sodium Lauryl Sulfate ... 2.02%
Inert ingredients ... 90.47% (ie all the stuff they use to make the non-lethal tissues, I suppose)

Okay - so my killer tissues have Vitamin C and the stuff they use in toothpaste and shampoo to make it lather (which, by the way, is also a known skin irritant if used in large quantities - just what I want in my tissues that are wiping an already angry nose).

Since when does Vitamin C and a lathering/cleansing agent kill viruses? Does that mean when I used to use lemon juice to lighten my hair and then shampoo it out, that I was killing viruses on my head? If I eat candy bubbles (which contain SLS) and drink orange juice at the same time that I'll kill viruses inside me? How about washing my dishes in water with Vitamin C tablets and dishsoap (another product with SLS)?

Being no chemist (and not sure I even want to know the answer), I am stumped.

I do find it humorous that Killer Kleenexes come with "Directions for Use," indicating that I could go to a federal prision if I use the Killer Kleenexes as something other than for which they were intended. Just in case one decides to kill something other than viruses with said tissues, I suppose.

Who knew you'd ever find a Federal Warning, Vitamin C and Tissues all in the same package? Regardless, it makes a great case for sticking with plain ol' toilet paper, which is standard tissue fare in the Hobbit Hole.

The Great Pie Gathering

Thanksgiving is my favorite holiday, for which Himself has mocked me for the almost nine years we've known each other. He thinks it's silly to have a favorite holiday that is just about eating (and giving thanks, but he doesn't ever mention that part). It shouldn't be a surprise that a holiday about food is my favorite - especially since the preparation for the holiday and the leftovers are far better than the actual meal itself.

This year, for the first time in seven years, I am having Thanksgiving with my family. This will be Himself's first year celebrating The Great Feast with my family.

I'm not sure when it started, but at some point, Thanksgiving became a contest to see how many pies could be consumed during the four-day holiday. Unable to hold themselves back, my dad and uncle always start in on the pies the night before Thanksgiving, to the great consternation of the women (whose role it seems is to preserve one's appetite for The Great Feast over which they have been laboring - even if only in their minds - for months).

There is ALWAYS more than enough pie to go around, yet, in a great race to ensure that one gets pie before the men eat it all, slices begin magically disappearing the moment the first guests begin stirring Thanksgiving morning. Usually a couple of pies are gone before The Great Feast even begins. Perhaps this is the reason that it is a family "necessity" to have at least as many pies as people - whether or not said "people" are old enough to consume pie (for instance, this year, Baby Girl gets counted in the "people" category - meaning the pie count will be upped by one).

I didn't realize the madness surrounding all of this (it's quite normal when one grows up expecting there to be a massive amount of pies at Thanksgiving) until Himself stopped me last week while I was reciting the food assignments.

"Are we eating anything but pie?"
"Of course!"
"All you've mentioned is pie - and the fact we're supposed to bring two of your key lime pies and another pie of our choosing. Who is bringing the food?"

It was at that point I realized that food had not yet entered the food assignment conversations. Last night I phoned my parents to see what else I needed to bring besides three pies (it works out that you typically get assigned to bring one pie per member of your household attending The Great Feast). This year, the first year he is hosting at his new home with his new wife, my uncle is in charge (a bad sign, and probably the reason only pies had been discussed thus far). Dad said, "I don't know - your mom and uncle were discussing it earlier today, let me put her on."

Good news. The women are usually the only reason The Great Feast Happens - not for lack of help on the men's part, but more out of lack of caring if there is anything but pie for the holiday.

So I asked, "Mom - what are we supposed to bring besides pies?"

*Crickets*

"Mom, please tell me that you talked about more than who was bringing what pies!"

*Crickets* Then, "Well, we did finalize who was bringing what pies."

I related the conversation to Himself when I got off the phone. We laughed. He said, "You should bring your fabulous homemade macaroni and cheese."

I told him I would be the laughing stock of my family if I showed up with that - macaroni and cheese is not considered "real food," no matter if it is homemade or out of a blue box.

He countered with, "At least we'll know there is food."

This year's Great Feast might just end up being The Great Pie Gathering. And you know what? It's okay by us. Himself won't have to eat turkey and the women won't have to drive each other mad cooking dinner in someone else's kitchen.

Regardless, Thanksgiving will still remain my favorite holiday.

The Memory Tree

Last night I went to a Christmas tree decorating workshop given by the wife of my landlord (who also happens to attend the same church). I learned a lot. I oohed and ahhed at her perfectly executed French Country Christmas tree. She used to be, after all, a designer at a local Christmas store - a veritable expert in all things Christmas.

As I listened to everyone else in the room talk about their Christmas tree themes, I realized I might just be the only person on the planet besides my mother whose tree has absolutely no semblence of a theme whatsoever.

Until I thought about it a little more.

My actual tree is a sad, fairly short, pathetic excuse for a fake tree (a charity gift from a friend who purchased said tree on a trip to Indonesia, if that gives you any better picture of its absolutly pitiful state). Himself mocks me every year for it, but I can't bear to spend a great deal of money replacing something that, decorated and lit in a dark room, manages to conceal its flaws well enough to be forgiven - at least at this stage of my life.

In truth, I couldn't care less about the actual tree. It is merely a vehicle to display a hundred or so memories each year. I have a Memory Tree. Each year as a child, a family friend who had no grandchildren sent myself and each of my siblings an ornament. Occassionally, I received other ornaments from family and friends - commemorating special events in our family or my life.

There is my childhood favorite - a Winnie the Pooh bear perched on a wooden rocking horse - received when I was about two. It has been glued on countless times, but always remains in a prominently visible position, honoring it's revered place in my childhood memories. There is the glass ball commemorating my birth, complete with my name in garish glitter. There is Santa ornament doing a handstand - the last gift I received from my grandfather before he died. There is a nativity scene, given to me by an aunt to support my ever-growing nativity collection. There are the handful of ornaments Himself brought into our Christmas celebration - a few handmade ones from childhood, an entire collection of Rudolph ornaments and so forth. Then there are the very few I have purchased for myself - a couple commemorating trips or special locations, one commemorating my marriage to Himself, another a silly reminder of a passion for Veggie Tales held by myself and some old roommates (we all have the same ornament). And dozens more.

My mom took up where the family friend left off. Since he came into my life, Mom has faithfully sent Son an ornament every year - accidentally starting a snowman theme. I imagine she'll continue the tradition with Baby Girl.

Every year, these beloved memories get hung on the tree, only outdone in their haphazard lack of sophistication by the strings of multi-colored lights that illuminate them. Every year as I decorate the tree, I am wrapped in hundreds of warm, wonderful memories of past Christmases, loved ones and childhood joy.

I will never be asked to teach a Christmas tree decorating workshop. My tree will never be lauded as a well-executed example of sophistication and household decor. It is the kind of tree other people have for their children to decorate. One friend even exlaimed that my tree would have been the perfect inspiration for Charles Shultz as he labored on his Charlie Brown Christmas special.

No, I will never be praised for my perfectly executed tree. Yet, neither will I ever forget the love, the memories and the true meaning of Christmas as I assemble my patheticly chaotic Memory Tree every year. That makes every snide remark, every glaring lack of thematic elements and every pang of uncoordinated Christmas chaos my tree evokes all worth it.

I'm not sure I could ever give it up.

"You're Not From Here"

My biggest fear in moving to The Frontier was in reliving the angst I previously had when I made the area my home the first time - I didn't fit in. While I share the same basic cultural and ideological background as the majority of the residents of The Frontier, I don't always agree on the execution or the details. I don't fit into the pre-defined mold (or the perception of such mold, rather).

So it was with not much more than mild surprise that I was greeted at Einstein's Bagels yesterday with, "You're not from here, are you?"

I wracked my brain about what had given me away. I had not spoken to the assistant manager who prepared and rang up my purchase beyond giving him my order. I was wearing a shirt, slacks and heels - nothing too bizarre there (though I did realize later in the day that Baby Girl had left a spot on my left shoulder - burp rag, dummy, burp rag!). I don't have any weird piercings or tattos to make me stand out. I don't speak in a foreign accent. I am essentially your standard Frontier demographic - white, blondish, blue-eyed, boringly average.

WIth a look of casual puzzlement, I responded, "Not exactly. I grew up south of here, but I just moved back to The Frontier from the East Coast, why do you ask?"

The assistant manager laughed.

"The Lox," he said. "It's not especially popular among locals."

I smiled. I should have known. The food outs me every time.

Who am I?

I love being Baby Girl's mother - I love the little moments like I had last night, with her lying and me sitting on my bed making faces at each other and laughing (well, I was laughing - Baby Girl was smiling enough to be laughing, but isn't coordinated enough to make much of a noise - it's like watching Charlie Chaplin laugh in a silent film).

However, it is becoming increasingly apparent at how easy it is to lose oneself completely when one becomes a parent.

I barely have the time and energy to come home from work, cook dinner, clean up from dinner, feed Baby Girl (sometimes twice), get her ready for bed and do the laundry (which only ranks as a top priority because Baby Girl can go through enough clothes - hers and mine - and pajamas to justify a couple of batches of clothes a week), let alone think about me as a person or as a wife.

I don't even like cooking lately because it takes three times longer than usual and usually results in me eating a cold meal sometime after Baby Girl has gone to bed. I have stacks of thank you notes and baby announcements on the coffee table - some are even written and addressed - that haven't been finished enough to schlep them to the post office. My winter clothes (who am I kidding? Most of my non-maternity clothes) are still packed in boxes. Each morning I engage in a ritual of shoving my hand in the box, grasping an article of clothing and then running around like a mad woman trying to complete the outfit.

It scares me that I find myself looking forward to my twice-a-day stints as a milk cow, where I sit in my car and replenish Baby Girl's food supply. It is two 15- or 20-minute stints where I am able to semi-relax (complete relaxation is not possible when one is hooked up to a machine that looks like it originated in a dairy barn) and listen to NPR or catch up on my ever-growing pile of trade magazines that need to be read.

Yesterday I even managed to go through the day without ever setting foot in the shower, prompting me to consider showering after the 2 a.m. feeding, just so I could have hot water (the Hobbit Hole only produces enough hot water for 1.5 showers in a two-hour span) and not have anyone else needing the bathroom or screaming at the top of her lungs that I'd abandoned her. I held off, but it just meant that Himself held Baby Girl as she screamed this morning while I scrambled to take the world's fastest shower so he wouldn't be late to work.

One of my favorite musicians is coming to town in three weeks, and Himself promised to take me as a belated birthday present. As I went to buy tickets this morning, all I could think of was the logistical nightmare it poses and how I'm probably going to fall asleep in the first five minutes. I didn't buy the tickets. Himself told me I was boring. I feel anti-social while feeling a desparate need to socialize. I found myself having a great time on Monday at a wholesale food warehouse with my mom because it meant being somewhere different. Even then, I could only look for a few minutes - Baby Girl needed to be fed. The thought of preparing for the holidays fills me with something akin to nausea.

I think I'm lost.

Serenity

Sunday ranks in the top five of all good days I've had in my life, even though it had a rough start.

Sunday, I dressed Baby Girl in a long white dress made by a family friend - the same one my sister and I wore as infants. I then added a pair of pink ballet shoes that were a gift from a friend in Virginia and a headband given to her by my sister. Dressed head-to-toe in love, she and I joined Himself, my immediate family, my extended family and a few friends at church. She was then formally named and blessed, surrounded by some of the most important men in her (and our) lives.

It was a moment rich in emotion as I sat in my new congregation and listened to the words of Himself haltingly bless Baby Girl. He was nervous - a strange thing for me to realize about Himself. I could feel the love throughout the rest of the meeting wrap itself around me, seated between Himself and my sister, with Baby Girl nestled between all of us.

Later, during Sunday School, I watched my brother cradle Baby Girl. I watched her snuggle up to him and sigh contentedly into arms that weren't quite sure what to do with such a tiny little baby, dressed almost as an angel. I sat next to an aunt as she held Baby Girl close during the women's service. My heart pounded and my eyes stung.

Just before church ended, I gathered Baby Girl in my arms and walked the 60 or so steps to our house in the warm, late autumn afternoon sun. I entered the Hobbit Hole to find it bursting at the seams with family and friends and the scents of good food. As I settled down in the nursery to rock and feed Baby Girl before our entrance into the frenzy that would move to the backyard (the Hobbit Hole is not equipped for entertaining), my heart swelled again. I listened to the women in the kitchen putting the finishing touches on the appetizer spread Himself and I had coordinated. I listened to the men drifting in and out as they moved the tables and food outside - overhearing snatches of conversation about the big Patriots v. Colts football game.

I wanted to weep. Here, in my little home, cradling my infant daughter to my breast - still dressed in her achingly beautiful, long, white dress - I realized that sacrificing our own comfort zone, the proximity of so many dear friends and journeying to The Frontier was the best thing that could have ever happened to Baby Girl. Here she could grow up, basking in the glow of family, sheltered by a love that comes from deep relationships, knit tight by decades of growing up together.

We emerged out into the backyard, dappled by golden sunlight, awhile later, and I basked in the glow of being surrounded by those people who would act as the founding community of Baby Girl's life - those who, through their presence this incredible day, would pledge their love and support of her as she grows into the remarkable daughter of God she is destined to be.

Somehow, I am confident that Baby Girl was aware of the magnitude of the day - that she knew she was surrounded by a group of people who would move mountains for her.

It will be a day I will always remember - for it's goodness, it's love and the deep impression it left on my soul.

Favorite Restaurants

Himself and I were talking this weekend a lot about DC - as mentioned before, I was homesick, and he was suffering a myriad of emotions over who was and wasn't coming to the weekend's celebration.

Since my mind was on food all weekend - what to buy, what to fix and serve for Baby Girl's blessing luncheon, and since Heidi and Dave spent their anniversary in DC revisiting favorite restaurants (and texting me about it), I thought a lot about MY favorite restaurants in DC.

In no particular order:

Bilbo Baggins, Alexandria: I discovered this when training interns while I was working in Maryland. We were going to take them to Gatsby's Tavern (a fabulous place for a colonial lunch), as was tradition, but it was closed for a wake. The maitre d' suggested we walk down Queen Street to the bright yellow townhouse that was home to Bilbo Baggins. I immediately fell in love. Himself discovered it a year or so later. We both declared to each other, "There is this great restaurant ...!" and then burst out laughing when we realized we had suggested the same one.

Tachibana, McLean: I love sushi. Love it so much I could eat it every single day of the week and not tire of it. While flying one Christmas from the right coast to the left coast to visit Himself's family, we read a review about the restaurant in an in-flight magazine. I tore the article out (yes, I know, bad plane etiquette) and saved it. When we moved back to the DC area, we tried it out. If you discount the mismatched 1970s decor, the food is amazing. The sushi is spectacular - large, succulent pieces of fish over tangy rice. And nowhere else makes spicy scallop rolls quite like Tachibana. In fact, the last truly sushi meal I had there (a sushi meal without raw fish isn't sushi), was the day before I found out about Baby Girl's pending arrival.

Pho 2000, Herndon: Comfort food extraordinare. There are dozens of Vietnamese soup houses in the metro area, but having tried at least half dozen of them, Pho 2000 takes the cake (or soup). They have the richest broth, the best chicken and the best additional menu items (like spicy chicken with bamboo and coconut in a clay pot). Plus, Himself and I could eat there for $17 - including appetizer, tax and tip - a bargain in DC. And it was right down the street from our house.

Taste of Saigon, Tysons Corner/Rockville: Introduced to this restaurant during my first sojourn in DC, it remained one of my favorites. Black pepper chicken, in all it's caramely, peppery goodness, remains one of my all-time favorite foods. Owned and operated by a Vietnamese family who emigrated to the US during the fall of Saigon, every meal tastes homemade. It's a good thing that by the time my office moved to the building next door, I was only there for another week - otherwise my paychecks would have begun subsidizing all the black pepper and gyoza goodness that was Taste of Saigon.

Hee Been, Annandale: (See a theme? Asian food as a general cuisine is my favorite - it surpassed even Italian years ago). Recommended by Tom Sietsma, the restaurant critic for The Washington Post and a VP with whom I worked, Himself and I tried Hee Been for the first time about seven months before we moved. It quickly became a favorite - especially when we could take advantage of their much less expensive lunch offerings. Savory bulgogi and kalbi, spicy kimchi and the best Korean mashed potatoes in town. Mmmmm. It was worth the horrendous drive to get there.

There are more. DC was the birthplace of my love affair with all things food. There is Cafe Deluxe and its wonderful fire roasted tomato soup; Sweetwater Tavern and its great rootbeer, mashed potatoes, fried dough and house salad with goat cheese; Vidalia and its salmon croquettes; Jaleo and its cod fritters and paella; Taste of Saigon and its chile lime rockfish (served with the head - not for the squeamish) and dozens more.

All that thinking about food makes me hungry. I guess chocolate milk isn't enough to count as breakfast.

Homesick

Can one be homesick for a place in which one has no family, no juvenile roots, no actual claim to roots at all, in fact?

If so, I am homesick.

It is ironic, really, that this week I have had an especially strong pining for all things (okay, most things - I certainly don't miss the traffic) DC. At this moment most of my immediate family are on their way to visit for the weekend. Tomorrow at this time, some of Himself's family will arrive. It is my first time as an adult hosting any sort of family function (try not to burst out laughing picturing a family reunion at the Hobbit Hole a la Bilbo Baggin's birthday party).

And yet ... I am homesick for my other home. While Utah might be my childhood and collegiate home, the Frontier itself is not either of those. Nor is it my home of adulthood. I have even fewer roots in The Frontier than I do in DC. Himself and I met when we were both living in the DC metro area. Most of our mutual friends are there. Most of our married life thus far was spent there. Our second family is there - a comical group of friends cobbled together by our mostly mutual expatriate status.

We will celebrate the birth of Baby Girl at her blessing in church this Sunday. We formally name her and bless her and celebrate the miracle of her life. I am beyond happy to be able to share the experience with our families (and a few friends who have also migrated to The Frontier). However, I have found myself longing this week for the family of sorts we left behind in Virginia. I feel as sad celebrating Baby Girl without them as I would without my immediate family.

I miss the variegated friendships, the deep relationships that formed in absence of any local family members. I miss my feeling of confidence and independence and passion about the area in which we lived. I miss the second mothers, best friends, close colleagues, food buddies and mentors I left behind.

The rising emotional significance of this weekend - the first meeting of my family and Himself's family, the celebration of Baby Girl, my first family hosting responsibilities - has paved the way for strong feelings of longing for my two worlds to collide - the world of my carefree, confident young adulthood and the world of my childhood, which is now the backdrop for my child's childhood.

I do not question the move. Clearly, we have been blessed beyond comprehension. I am continually reminded of all of the magnificent things that have happened since our arrival in The Frontier. Yet it does nothing to diminish the yearning I have for the relationships and memories I left behind five months ago. I wonder if the pioneers - the first permanent settlers in The Frontier - felt something akin to what is going through my heart and soul this week. A profound gratitude for their arrival in The Frontier and everything it meant, mixed with a nostalgia for what they had left behind.

I am homesick.

No More Bah Humbug!

I am reforming.

I, until about two weeks ago, was an avowed critic of Halloween. Since I grew out of school Halloween parties, my parents no longer pay to take me out to dinner on Halloween (a Halloween family tradition) and I don't like candy - there isn't much that really says "celebrate" about Halloween to me.

But Baby Girl has the CUTEST Halloween outfits. Most of them haven't fit up until about a week or so ago. Technically, they are still way too big - but too big in a "I'm just little" kind of way, not in a "my mom is retarded and doesn't know what size I wear" kind of way.

(Well, there is that too - when Himself and I bought a couple of Halloween sleepers in January on clearance, we were clueless in sizing and bought the wrong size - G hasn't worn those to the sitter's yet because I'm too embarrassed to admit why my smaller-than-average 7-week-old is wearing a 3- to 6-month Halloween sleeper, so she has just worn those over the weekend). Of course, the fact that her Halloween outfits are huge, means she'll be wearing them until Christmas - after all, pumpkins are fall too, right?

On top of having cute outfits, both Himself's boss and a neighbor bought her Halloween socks - purple with black spiders. She has worn them every day for the past week. And a friend gave us a package of baby hats as a gift - one of them is green, another one is orange - the kid is festively Halloween from head to toe.

Somehow, by just dressing Baby Girl up in cute Halloween clothing, I've managed to feel sort of, well, holidayish (if I can use that as a word). Festive, really. So festive I made pumpkin bars last night (another family tradition) for Himself and I to take to work and for Baby Girl to take to the sitter's. Of course, G didn't really appreciate this, since their delicate nature required I make two trips to the car this morning - leaving her sitting in her carseat on the living room floor until I could fetch her.

At the sitter's this morning, I was greeted by one of her 3-year-old charges - a girl who will someday rule the world, based on her personality - dressed as a cat. She asked what G was. G was wearing a long-sleeved, orange onesie with "I want candy" embroidered on it with candy corn and her green hat (with, of course, her purple spider socks). "She's a pumpkin," I replied. The sitter commented on her slew of cute Halloween outfits, making me doubly glad that I hadn't schlepped her to the sitter's in a two-sizes-too-big sleeper - she apparently does notice how I dress my child. It is a thought that makes me shiver - I can't match my own clothes (hence the East Coast all-black wardrobe), let alone someone else's.

Himself is really loving my newfound recognition of Halloween as a legitimate holiday. He loves Halloween. He especially loves it because I acquiesced and agreed that we could go out for sushi tonight to celebrate. I have not yet given in to his idea of going dressed up - because the thought of dragging my tired self home only to put on different clothes and make-up (not to mention thinking about what to put on) makes me want to curl up and go into a comatose state (which is what I'd be on if I sat down, as evidenced by how many times in the past two days I've fallen asleep feeding Baby Girl).

No matter. We'll still have fun. It might be the only Halloween in recent history I actually can say I enjoyed. Who knew a 7-week-old would end my almost decade-long apathy for all things Halloween?

No Picky Eaters Here

(Side note: Himself and I probably BOTH qualify as picky eaters in our own ways, but I will eat anything put in front of me, except baloney and sea urchin, at least once. Himself isn't quite that accommodating).

After last night, I've realized I have high hopes (and reason to believe) Baby Girl (at least while on a completely liquid diet) is not picky in the slightest.

Yesterday's horrible, no good, very bad day continued to slide downhill with alarming speed. Baby Girl puked all over me and her (necessitating a second wardrobe change for both of us - er, rather one of us - she stayed half naked in her diaper from then on) when I went to pick her up from the sitter's. (I stopped myself from thinking that the smile mentioned in yesterday's post was really the "my head is safe" smile and the puking was the "take that mom!" reaction when I showed back up).

No big deal. She ate too much. Baby Girl pukes just like her mother - with great regularity for no apparent reason. Except, she didn't cry more than five minutes for the next 3 hours. And she refused to eat. But she smiled a lot - that little impish grin that has come to mean "You only THINK you have things under control." She was right.

I finally coaxed her to eat (Lesson #473 - having to coax an infant to eat is probably not a good sign). I picked her up to burp her and VOILA! baby puke all over my couch (and I mean ALL OVER - two whole cushions were casualties), all over me (remember the wardrobe changes? Yep, I too ended up in almost nothing), all over her and then all over the towel I grabbed as she deposited the last of any stomach contents on the nearest object.

And I thought my bad Monday was over.

I called the on-call pediatrician, because clearly an infant who has not kept food down in six hours is not a good thing. He was a bit more nonchalant about it than I felt and reassured me that the morning's bump on the head had nothing to do with her throwing up.

On his advice, I sent Himself to the store for Pedialite. Himself gave me a dirty look and protested that he was not dressed to go out. I glared at him and stood very close and stage whispered, "I have put all of my clothes I wore today - all two wardrobe changes - in the washing machine and I STILL smell like sour milk!" He quickly acquiesced, if only to escape whatever might come next.

And this is where I discovered Baby Girl is not picky. She already moves from nursing to bottle and back like a champ. Apparently the fact that grape Pedialite cannot possibly taste like breastmilk didn't even seem to register in her mind. While she wasn't particularly interested in eating period, she didn't even think twice about the yucky purple stuff in the bottle. By the second middle-of-the-night feeding (1 oz. of purple water doesn't stick around in one's tummy very long), she was sucking down COLD purple Pedialite like it was the best thing in the world.

Then she smiled. This time, I'm sure it was of the "You're the greatest mom ever" variety. Right then, in the dim corners of the Hobbit Hole, with Baby Girl snuggled in my fuzzy robe and smelling of something like grape-flavored sour milk, the world was perfect.

Maybe Mondays aren't so bad after all.

A Petition to End Mondays

It is hereby declared that Mondays shall be banished, effective immediately. The 24 hours allotted to Mondays will be absorbed into weekend days. The workweek will commence with Tuesdays as of today.

The reasons for this are as follows:

*This morning flowed far too smoothly for me to actually pull it off well. In a flurry of activity, I turned a corner too fast into the nursery and bumped Baby Girl's head. For her, it was a minor bump and a bigger scare. For me, it signalled the fact that I am (as I suspected) a horribly inept mother. She cried. I cried, called Himself to confirm I hadn't permanently damaged her, and cried some more. In fact, long after Baby Girl stopped crying, I continued to cry. She smiled at me when I dropped her off at the sitter - I'm not sure if it was a smile of "I really do love you mom, you're forgiven" or "Yes! Someone else is watching me so my little head is safe for the moment." I'm pretending it was the former.

*I was ready to leave the house - on time - when, loaded down with Baby Girl, my laptop case, my pumping bag and my lunch, I discovered that I had not removed my keys from the glove compartment, where I had put them on the drive back from the Great Frozen North yesterday afternoon (Himself drove, I took my keys as backup. I was afraid I would lose them and made a grave error in judgement, putting them where I would forget them). My keys were now LOCKED INSIDE the car, rendering me stuck at home.

No matter. I figured I would call Himself and he could rescue me much like I rescued him two weeks ago when he locked his keys in his car at work. Except Himself is the only one in the lab this week and can't leave. He reminded me that our car has roadside assistance. I called. They wanted the VIN#. Wouldn't you know, in the stack of bills, I couldn't find a single one with anything about my car on it? The lady took pity on my and looked it up.

*While waiting the 90 minutes for the locksmith to show up, I tried to get some work done from home. Baby Girl, who had fallen asleep amidst all the drama, woke up again. While feeding her, I began to feel strangely warm. I looked down. Baby Girl had soaked both me and herself, necessitating a complete wardrobe change for both of us - just as the locksmith showed up.

I finally dropped Baby Girl off at the sitter's and made it to work - nearly 2.5 hours late.

Therefore, we hereby declare that Mondays no longer exist, due to rising tensions, excessive stress and unhealthy levels of dread.

File This Under Ridiculous

FEMA, struggling to recover from the black eye it gave itself two years ago over the handling of Hurricane Katrina, faked its own news conference - by filling the journalists' seats with federal employees.

"We had been getting mobbed with phone calls from reporters, and this was thrown together at the last minute," said deputy director Mike Widomski, of FEMA's public affairs.

As someone who has organized and attended press conferences, I'm still trying to decide why they thought faking a press conference would be a good idea.

FEMA was once one of my clients - during my short stint working for a PR firm in downtown DC. They were ridiculous then, but that was 7+ years ago. Their recent antics make their issues when I was their bottom-of-the-totem-pole PR girl look like nothing.

If I was Mr. Widomski, I think I'd be packing for an extended stay at someone's remote Italian villa about now.

Service Included

I love food.

This does not mean I necessarily love eating. I have to be in the right mood to eat, a problem given my current milking status. But I love food in all of its incantations.

I love cooking.
I love selecting produce (and meats) - though I hate grocery shopping.
I love farmer's markets.
I love cookbooks.
I love the Food Network (especially anything with Alton Brown).
I love trying new food (not the same as eating).
I love festivals with food.
I love talking about food with anyone who also likes it - one of the reasons Himself and I get along so well - we sit and dissect the potential ingredients of anything new we eat and play amateur critic at every new restaurant we visit.

Most of all, I love reading about food.

Because food is a growing obsession, there are more and more books out about food - especially narrative nonfictions - one of my favorite genres to read. Favorites include: Julie & Julia a dialogue about a woman who sets out to cook and eat every recipe in Julia Child's The Joy of French Cooking in her tiny New York apartment, Garlic & Sapphires - the delightful tale of Ruth Reichl's misadventures and split personalities she creates as the New York Times restaurant critic, and Kitchen Confidential - Anthony Bourdain's behind-the-scenes look at the underbelly of the culinary world.

This weekend, I gleefully picked up a new narrative - Service Included from the library - the very first patron to check it out. I read the entire thing on the drive to and from visiting Himself's family in The Great Frozen North. It was, as Anthony Bourdain would have referred to it (and as the author commented on), "Food Porn." I was in absolute drooling heaven as I read the author's narrative about her 18-month stint as a captain at Per Se, the NYC offspring of Napa Valley's The French Laundry.

More than my love of reading about a 4-star restaurant from the waitstaff's point of view, was my vibrant memories of my one (and probably only) dining experience at a similar restaurant - Maestro at the Tysons Corner Ritz Carlton. As she described the food, the philosophies, the adventures, the setting, I replaced it all in my mind with my own 4-star experience. Chef Keller became Chef Trabocchi. Laura, the manager, became Emile. NYC became Tysons Corner. The food - American with a French influence became regional Italian with an American influence.

Last Halloween, Himself and I took advantage of a complimentary dinner at Maestro as guests of the chef and manager. I had hired the entire back-of-house restaurant staff for an event earlier in the month and was rewarded with the most exquisite dining experience of my entire life.

We, as guests of the chef, were given no menu - instead we were asked if the chef could cook for us (of course!) and how many courses we would prefer (Himself, starving, answered that the suggested 7 courses was fine). What we didn't realize is that, as guests of the chef, we would also get several extra courses - resulting in an 11-course, 3.5-hour dinner that stuffed us so full we didn't eat for another 24 hours. It was absolutely divine.

For 3.5 hours we were the only people in the universe, it felt. A cast of waitstaff swirled around us, anticipating our every need before we even knew we needed it. We sat, entranced, watching our food prepared in the open kitchen - like watching a silent ballet. We enjoyed the 50+ bite-sized dishes (tasting again - my favorite way to eat). We tried not to look like a couple of "wanna bes" and tried to limit our amazement and drooling to after everything was said and done.

Had we paid for the meal, we would have been out $400+, not including tax and tip. It cost us the extra $40 I put toward the 20% gratuity the house picked up for us (a startling revelation - I never expected the house to also comp our tip!). We left, feeling uncomfortably full and completely satiated, vowing to never forget the experience.

It made reading Service Included even better because I had lived, even if only for a few hours, a 4-star life, and I could easily picture everything she described - the sites, the sounds, the indescribable flavor of black and white truffles, the feeling of being the only people in the room - the most important people in that split second.

It made the red curry we had for dinner last night very dull indeed.

Stalked by a Vampire

I have a pretty high tolerance for stupidity, lack of common sense and plain old annyoing behaviors. For me, there is quite a distance between aggravating me and leaving me flat out furious.

The Red Cross has found, and crossed, that line.

Three years ago, in the spirit of helping out the daughter of a friend, I succombed to my fear of donating blood and sat with a needle in my arm for several minutes. I am not afraid of needles. Quite the contrary. I'm afraid of passing out. I have very low blood pressure and very low blood sugar - if you take a large amount of blood out of me, I wobble. But, I gritted my teeth and did it.

Turns out, I have O+ blood - I am a universal donor.

Guess what that means?

Yep. The Red Cross calls me ALL THE TIME.

It wouldn't be so bad - I didn't pass out that time, I enjoyed the juice and cookies, I didn't break out in hives from the bandage they used (I'm allergic to adhesives - go figure). However, nearly a year later I was diagnosed with a condition that now prohibits me from donating blood.

I have explained this, quite patiently, to the Red Cross in subsequent calls. Each time I have to re-explain it and asked to be removed from their list, I get an assurance it will happen. It never does.

Several months ago, the gentleman on the other end admitted there are SEVERAL lists - how I ended up on all of them, I'm not sure. I pictured the Red Cross gleefully sending my phone number and blood time to every call center they have, with a note that said, "Call her! She's got perfect blood!" (Of course, in my mind, the Red Cross is looking more and more like Count von Count on Sesame Street - maybe it's the season).

It was aggravating. This month, they crossed the line to furious.

For days I had been receiving calls coming up as "unavailable" on my caller ID. I didn't answer, figuring if they really wanted to reach me (they called only during the day, during which I would theoretically be at work) they would leave a message. They never did. I started charting the calls. I was getting 4-5 calls a day, some within just minutes of each other.

I finally answered. Silence. They use one of those auto dialers that only connects when you pick up. I waited. Still nothing. I hung up. They called back 10 minutes later. I didn't answer. No message. An hour later, they called again. I answered.

"Hello?"

"This is the American Red Cross calling for Sara"

At this point I am considering banging my head on the nearest solid object. I explain that I can no longer give blood and to PLEASE stop calling me. She again confessed there are more than one list. I explained that I have probably spoken with the Red Cross at least once a month for the past 2 1/2 years - that's approximately 30 times I've actually SPOKEN to them. How many more lists could their be?! She didn't know. Of course not. She is making $6 an hour at a call center in Timbuktu, far removed from the acutal Red Cross.

I won't boycott the Red Cross - I think they do good work. But I am searching for somewhere I can contact to stop them from stalking me.

I feel bad, I really do. But it makes me want to yell, "Watch out if you donate blood - you will be stalked by a vampire for the rest of your natural life," to anyone who is considering donating blood. Really. Could they limit their calling to once a day? That, at least, would be approaching something close to reasonable.

And This is the Other Reason(s) I Moved...

We're sleeping with the windows open, to keep our bedroom cooler than the rest of the house. The Frontier has rabbit brush, sage brush and grass. Three things to which I am highly allergic, which pollenate in the fall.

It has been a great reminder of one good thing about pregnancy - I had zero allergy or asthma issues, which is great since I couldn't take any of my normal meds (still can't, since I'm nursing, but that's another rant).

Even worse, however, the past three weekends in The Frontier have been C-R-U-M-M-Y. Snow, wind, rain and freezing temps.

Of course, our cold-weather clothes are still in the various boxes that haven't been unpacked. *sigh* I had forgotten how long winter is in this place and how dark, gray and gloomy it is when it really storms. The mountains seem to block every bit of light that might seep through the heavy cloud cover. It is during winter that the mountains make me feel closterphobic.

I turned to Himself a couple of days ago and said, "And now I remember the OTHER reason I left this place ..."

I hate winter.
I hate inversion.
I hate driving in snow.

Give me ridiculous people freaking out over forecasted snow, snow days and the wide open horizons of a Northern Virginia winter any day.

It's only October, and I already feel like hibernating ...

To Have and To Hold

Nothing can adequately describe the incredible range of emotions I have felt over the last 6 weeks, but this photo, taken last week, comes pretty close:



Baby Girl is growing, but still tiny. While nearly longer than most just-born babies, she has yet to reach the birth weight of any of the babies born to my friends over the past two months. Last week, she began smiling when smiled at during her happy periods right after being fed and having her diaper changed. Tummy time is limited since she is so wiggly - she always ends up on her side or her back. "Back to Sleep" is no longer, as she learned to turn onto her side at Day 4 and, while I still put her down on her back, she steadfastly refuses to stay that way any longer than 30 seconds. She loves nothing more than to hang out over a shoulder - content to watch the world from up high. She is just beginning to discover texture - fingering everything with which she comes into contact.

I've grown to love the feeding times I once dreaded - to indulge in holding her and watching her tiny hands grab onto anything within reach. Himself and I fight over who gets to hold her when we're cold - as Baby Girl has inherited her father's ability to radiate startling amounts of heat.

She is starting to coo and make happy baby noises that one could interpret for a slightly more two-sided conversation. When faced with a new scene or a different angle, Baby Girl turns and twists and stares, trying to take it all in. She delighted the entire back row of Sunday School yesterday (her first foray to church) by smiling and craning her neck to take everything in.

My heart is full of perfect love I didn't know existed.
And my heart aches because on Wednesday I will have to drop her off at Miss Jan's and try not to smear my make up as I cry all the way to work.

It's been six weeks and already she is growing up way too fast.

Domestic Hijinks

4 bushels of apples
1 bushel of green tomatoes
1/2 bushel of ripe, red tomatoes
8 lbs. of ground elk
1 blind guy
1 incredibly domestic diva
1 domestic flunkie
2 infant girls

Somehow, while at my parents' house last week, my dad, sister and I managed to create a 2-day marathon involving food, countless dishes, all four burners on the kitchen stove, plus the two burners on the gas stove outside, the oven, the neighbor's steamer, the food dehydrator, the Vita Mix, the juicer, some funky fruit/vegetable puree machine, every pot my mother owns and a surprising amount of fun.

I've never been so exhausted.

On my way down to my parents' house, I stopped by an orchard and picked up 4 bushels of apples, adding them to the tomatoes I was bringing down. The produce, added to one retired blind guy (my father) and myself, turned into a kitchen marathon not seen in my mother's kitchen in a decade. My sister (domestic goddess that she is) was recruited to help supervise and to lend a hand, thereby increasing the number of projects we could have going at one time.

The kitchen hummed along. At one point, both girls (Baby Girl and my niece) were in their seats on the counter - involved in the action. At another point, my sister had my niece strapped to her in a Snugli and I was peeling apples with Baby G swaddled and over my shoulder.

My mom made the mistake of coming home for lunch on Day 1 - and turning right back around and fleeing back to work at the first opportunity. When she came home that night she hid in the den until shouts of "All Clear" eminated from the kitchen. She was afraid. Very afraid. Who wouldn't be with such a hodge-podge wrecking crew inhabiting her kitchen?

But no one complained at the results.

Day 1 Produced:
*32 pints of applesauce

*Enough juice for 32 half pints of apple jelly (the apple jelly would have been made and canned as well, except no one could find the recipe and everyone was too scared to call mom, lest she go completely nuts and run away until all signs of Dad's "project" had abated.

*2 apple pies

*1 pan of Danish Apple Bars

*10 pints of green tomato (chalupa) sauce - (this in addition to the 16 pints' worth I had made for myself before my trip down south to visit the parents)

*And a pork roast to go with the green tomato sauce for dinner

Day 2 Produced:
*22 pints of applesauce

*Enough juice for another 32 half pints of apple jelly

*Elk jerky

*8 pints of homemade tomato bisque

*And a pan of homemade chicken and dumplings for dinner

With the help of a neighbor, Google and some information in Mom's pantry, we taught ourselves to can - with startling success. We peeled, cut, simmered, sirred, measured, juiced, sauced, bottled, sealed, froze, dehydrated and cleaned for the entire two days, all the while regaling each other with funny memories of other kitchen marathons from childhood ('Remember when mom used to circle the bottle to mark the worms that accidentally got in the peaches because dad couldn't see them?", "Remember S using a plastic knife to help since he was too little for a real one?" "Remember the 25 dozen cookies we made for Dad's fire crew?" and on and on).

The kitchen was a cacophony of timer bells, knives chopping, hot water hissing and shouts of "hooray!"" each time a bottle of applesauce sealed and popped - accompanied by the occassional fussy baby noises. When we were done, we dined on the fruits of our labors.

When Mom finally dared ask about the results of the domestic endeavors, Dad proudly proclaimed, "This canning stuff is fun! I'm going to have to do it more often." When she reminded Dad that the produce season was almost over, he exlaimed, "That's okay! I'm going to teach myself to bake bread next."

Mom just sighed.

I hope that heaven is as wonderful as those two days.