Resolve That

I'm not typically a resolution kind of girl. I used to be the type that made several resolutions each new year, until I realized that most years they were the same. Variations on a theme.

My journal, always more populated in January, would look something like this:

Work out more (never specific-- harder to fail)
Read Bible more (occasionally, "read through the whole thing in a year")
Write every day (loyal readers, you can guess how that went)

Once I realized this, I resolved not to make resolutions. They didn't work. Why wait until the beginning of the year, I thought. I've never been good at doing things just because I was "supposed to." So, I would periodically attempt self betterment, usually fail, repeat again later.

Last June when my dear co-worker passed away, I made a resolution that actually stuck. I admired Bob because he treated people with respect and found commonality with many diverse individuals. When I heard the way others described him after his death, I was deeply convicted; this was the kind of person I wanted to be. Not just a "witness" or a "light," or a "servant," not that there is anything wrong with any of these adjectives, but I wanted to be a friend. A lover of people-- all people, even the really hard to love. Especially the really hard to love. I started making concerted efforts not just to avoid showing frustration with others, but to avoid being frustrated with others (without avoiding the people themselves). I swore off talking behind people's backs, which I had fallen into because I hung around some wickedly funny people and enjoyed the verbal sparring-- even though it occurred at the expense of others. I selected a couple people I had historically found irritating or difficult to love and worked to get to know them. I invested in them.

And it worked! I was afraid it would be a show, that I'd be nice on the surface and seething on the inside, which is a type of dishonesty I find particularly offensive. But when I got to know the people and to understand the reasons behind the things they did, their quirks didn't bother me as much. I have since put in a preemptive, internal guard against resentment, whereupon meeting new people, (or repeatedly encountering difficult people) I try to find at least one aspect of their lives to identify with or remember-- one connection point. This probably sounds extremely elementary and is automatic to most people. But to me, it was a revelation. People around me, the ones I used to snicker with, didn't understand. One actually asked why I was befriending another, and I stammered while I explained the reasons behind the change. She could not understand.

Life, particularly at work, has gotten easier. Regardless of the project I'm working on, I feel a sense of accomplishment if I've made it through the day having invested in, listened to, and supported the people around me. If you knew me, you'd know this is not the Christina of yore who would actually say, out loud, "Yeah, I'm just not that compassionate. Sorry," like I was proud of it. Ugh. Thank goodness for progress.

With this happy transformation under my belt, I moved toward the new year. 2010 was major for me and my family. We had a second child, that second child had a near-death experience at my hands, and The Boy dove into an exciting new endeavor, leaving me with a more complicated career situation and, in theory, "more time." As a couple, we have struggled to adjust to all the changes. We finally let go of setting a timeline for when we might escape from under our house and our city and fully embraced our life here. Five years after moving here, we established roots, and we were rewarded with a new church family, friends just around the corner that act like family, a place in a vibrant and family-oriented community, and neighbors we love.

So, in 2011, with trepidation, I am going back to making resolutions. It's just one, but it's sweeping. It is not poetic: I resolve to get organized. But what does that mean? It means purging all the rooms of my house, definitely. I have already used my label maker more this month than in all of last year combined. But I am not good at compartmentalizing, and it's hard for me to treat this change as if it applies only to stuff. I am reading the book, Organized Simplicity, that defines living simply as "living holistically with your life's purpose." For me, that means setting systems in place to: a) make my home a haven for my family and others around us, and b) make our life count. If you roll your eyes, I won't judge you. These are principles that would have made me nauseated even just a year ago. It has taken me a long time to get to where I am; to where I want to embrace the life and gifts I've been given with my whole self and without fear. It means a lot of change that will take time and tears. It involves painful decisions I'm not yet ready to share. It means letting go of one dream in favor of another and choosing not to let a past failure dictate our family's future.

In my reading last week (I'm now on a three-year-plan), I came across this passage in Genesis 12: "Get out of your country, from your family and your father's house, to a land I will show you." I do not take this literally. I don't believe we are moving abroad, or anywhere, necessarily. Just that, in our case, right now, not knowing the final outcome or destination is not cause for postponing the change.

Pre-School Mutiny

Everyone's favorite Irishman, our wonderful neighbor, knocked on the door at 8:30 last night. "I'm here to take your bins out," he said, referring to the recycling. The dog could not contain his excitement, and and my wet-haired kids were decidedly not in bed. We had just finished reading Eloise, quite possibly the least appropriate children's book ever. I thanked him profusely, since taking three large bins of recycling, damp and heavy from melted snow, over the fence and down our dark, narrow alley was more than I felt capable of handling.

"Don't be daft, Christina," he said, "This is a good time to be sexist; this is a man's job."

It was nearly two hours later before the giggling then crying coming from the girls' room finally ceased. After 11:00, while I lay in bed reading my beloved Nook for a precious few minutes, I heard crashing aluminum cans. I nosed through my blinds to see a sweatsuit clad 20-something man up to his waist in my recycle bin. His comrade shouted from the corner, trash bag in hand. And we don't even live in a deposit state.

This morning around 6, as I headed to take a shower, Mirabella screamed.

"MOM-MY!" I raced up the stairs to see if I could address her concern before she woke her sister. No such luck.

"My nose is yucky," she whined. I handed her a tissue and scooped up Emerie, her eyes only half open, already signing for milk.

Welcome to our house, halfway through The Boy's inaugural trip of the new year. He's in frigid Milwaukee and snowy Chicago. It's going to be 1 there tonight. I mean, really.

So after calming Mirabella down and feeding Emerie a bottle, I placed Emerie and some toys in the only safe place in the house for a new walker-- the crib-- so I could finally take my shower. After that I negotiated each step of the dressing process with Mirabella, shamed the dog for eating a Pull Up, finished getting ready for work, listened to a story Mirabella told about Dora and "the doll that has this hair" (said as she pulled up a lock of her own hair), shamed the dog for eating half my English muffin, made another English muffin and loaded everybody in the car. A good 20 minutes later than I should have. I laughed at the glowing gas light. Mirabella wanted to know what was so funny.

Feeling over dramatic and sorry for myself on the bumpy access road to get to the tunnel, I tried to snap out of it and find my perspective. To finish a sentence that started with "at least." As I merged into the EZ Pass lane, a compact car cut me off. The utility van in front of him, realizing he did not have an EZ Pass, abruptly threw his car into reverse, slamming into him. A bad fender bender, but not for us.

A few minutes after I got to work, our daycare provider called to tell me, when she went to unbuckle Emerie from her car seat, she realized she was never buckled in the first place. In my haste, I bundled, but didn't buckle. And she was fine.

Ah, there it is.

Christmas Present

I am more excited for Christmas than I've been since I was a little kid. As parents of a perceptive three-year-old, we have been conscious of how we present Christmas. We do Santa Claus, but we don't talk about it much. I feel like she will learn about that without us teaching her. But we talk about Jesus and the story of his birth every day. She plays with her Little People nativity scene; she and Emerie stand in front of it and try to elbow each other out of the way. Today, Mary is a single mother-- Joseph is probably under the couch again. She's standing at the manger alone. Other days, there's been a donkey on top of the manger, a princess with a magic wand bearing gifts and once, inexplicably, Noah was at the birth of Jesus. It's important to me that my kids have a happy, exciting childhood; I want Christmas to be important and spiritual, but also magical. It's a tall order.

We've been talking about what it means to be thankful and kind; that not everyone has enough, not everyone gets to live in a warm house or open Christmas presents, and that God wants us to share what we've been given. We adopted a family, a single mother and three children who lost their house in a fire and their father in court. It's been a horrible year. But she's going back to school and working in her field. She emailed me last week to tell me her seven-year-old daughter was student of the week. Things are looking up. I have tried to include Mirabella in the shopping and in the story. I'm proud that she didn't ask to keep the presents-- she is excited to give them away.

Living in the city, we drive past homeless people on a daily basis. One bitter-cold night, as we drove past the arena that is lined with blanket-covered shopping carts, she noticed a man on the street. "Dat man doesn't got shelter, Mommy?" I told her no, not everyone has a home. "But we got a home, Mommy." I asked her what we should do. "He can come live at our home, Mommy. We can share." I almost cried; I was unprepared for her innocent logic.

Often I feel like I'm making it up as I go. I don't have all the answers for her. But I am so thankful for every day with my sweet children. I mentioned to a woman at church how exciting Christmas is now. She is in town from New Zealand for six months to care for her new granddaughter. "It is such an awesome privilege," she said, "to experience all of the wonder of life through their eyes."

Mirabella was sick yesterday, on her birthday. I told her she could take a sparkly princess bath and filled the tub with bubbles and the yellow and pink sprinkles that had been on her birthday cake. This morning, seeing the sprinkles still on the counter, she said, "Mommy, 'ank you for my pink and yellow 'parkly princess bath. 'Ank you for buying dose 'prinkles." I feel like I should thank her for letting me be a part of it.

Merry Christmas to you and yours. Here's to finding joy and wonderment in the smallest of miracles.

Flying Solo

"Mommy, tell me de story of when Emerie was bor-ren," Mirabella says again. Bed time, with Daddy away, is a little different. I sit and feed Emerie in the red chair while Mirabella sits up in her bed. I tell her stories, but these are her favorites.

"So we waited for the bus, but it didn't come, and we had to walk the whole way," I tell her.

"You forgot, Mommy!" Mirabella interrupts me. "De car was COVERED in snow and we had to wait while Daddy cleaned it off." Maybe we need to find new stories.

The Boy has taken a new position-- one we prayed for and are excited about-- and it has brought with it serious changes. In the month of November, we have spent six nights at home together. We've been together, for another week or so, but it was in Connecticut and the Poconos visiting family. He has ventured all over Virginia, to Chicago twice and to Charlotte and I've been trying to manage our normal life alone. I have cut back my hours at work by a day, and am often able to work one day per week from home. I know we will figure it out, but we haven't yet.

There are certainly good things. I feel like I am spending more time with my girls, and though many days are tough, being able to work at home on occasion is fantastic. I have been incredibly blessed with friends in the neighborhood who watch my children and park my car in the rain and offer to cook me dinner even though they have a newborn (seriously-- want to move into my neighborhood?!). But I cannot figure out how to leave the house less than two hours after I get up. I can't manage to get home before it's dark, which matters when you don't have off-street parking and three to five bags to go with the two kids. Oh yeah, and this whole marriage from a distance thing is taking some getting used to.

During the first trip to Chicago, The Boy called to tell me he was headed to the Bulls game-- to sit in the private box. I was painting Emerie's face with sweet potatoes. I could not relate. Tonight, while The Boy was sitting in Chicago's Ritz and we were driving past the airport on the way home, we told him about the first 6 steps Emerie took today, and how Mirabella peed on the potty and is going to have a gymnastics birthday party in a couple weeks. We talk to him every night and count the days. We divide and conquer well, but the coming back together is harder than we thought. We know it won't always be just like this.

"Mommy, I want to hear de story about when God was bor-ren," Mirabella said in the car the other day. I think I need backup.

The Darkest Hours of Parenting and Really Good Cake

When we arrived at Johns Hopkins Pediatric Emergency Room, we did not have to wait. Once The Boy was able to hold her, Emerie calmed down a bit, breathing in the reverse sighs that follow hard crying.

They gave us a giant bed to sit next to. I still hadn't held her. I think I wondered if they would let me. I wasn't sure I wanted to. Several doctors looked her over and took her vitals, then conferred, deciding what to do next. The kind female attending told me I could finally nurse the baby. Typically modest, I did not care who was around as I pulled Emerie to me. I would not even consider covering her face.

"Some of your extended family is here," our male nurse said, pulling the curtain and averting his eyes. They let my mom back and she hugged me tightly, her eyes full of tears. My mother, father, all three of my siblings and my new sister-in-law waited outside. We were so supported-- so loved.

While I nursed Emerie I gently rubbed her head, out of habit, and noticed the swelling. I pointed out the growing bluish bump on her head. They had not planned to do a CT scan, cognizant of the radiation, but with this new swelling in mind, the doctors changed course. She cried when we held her still under the giant orb, so I sang my made up words to Eidelweiss: "Emerie, Emerie, every morning you greet me. Early light, sometimes night; you seem happy to meet me." She stared at me and stayed still for the test.

New friends of ours from church called, responding to my earlier, SOS text. "I think we're okay," I told Stephanie, "she is acting mostly like herself and it doesn't seem like they are going to do much."

"I think we'd still like to come," she said. She and her husband both work at the hospital and live nearby. Soon she and her husband appeared beside us with a paper bag full of peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. It was after 10 (on her husband's birthday), but there they stood with us while we learned the results of the CT Scan: a skull fracture, right parietal, and a small bleed. They decided to admit Emerie to neurosurgery for observation for the night.

Our new friend-- also a doctor-- came with me to relay the news to my parents, who arranged for Mirabella to spend the night at my brother and sister-in-law's, who would take her to day care in the morning. Another contingent brought our car to one of the hospital garages and brought The Boy's sister, who had been working hard to clean everything up at home so we wouldn't return to it, whenever we returned.

Our friends stoody by while the nurses and techs tried, for nearly an hour, to find a tiny vein for an IV and to collect blood. It took seven attempts. She screamed while I held her bruised arms down; I put my head down while I cried.

We spent the night on a ward with children far sicker than ours, with rare chromosomal abnormalities, or in traction, or worse. It kept things in perspective. It was so clinical. Emerie was hooked to several machines and an IV, and I was not allowed to feed her in case something changed and surgery would be needed.

I wasn't sure how Emerie would receive me, after all this. It sounds silly to me now, but I think I wondered if she would trust me-- whether she would forgive me. But that night, and even now, no one else could console her. I nearly fell asleep standing up, nervous that if I sat I would sleep and she would slip from my arms. A sweet nurse offered to take her so I could get a couple hours of sleep.

In the morning, a neurosurgical team determined she would be fine. "It will be, to her, as if it never happened," the neurosurgeon said. A nurse told me, "It will take 3-4 weeks for her to heal, and probably far longer for you."

She was right. The social worker they sent to talk to me said, "I have talked with the doctors and reviewed your case and the only question I have for you is if you are okay." She told me parents-- mothers in particular-- have a tendency to replay the event."

"YES," I said, teary-eyed. "I worry....that I won't ever stop seeing it. It was horrific-- the worst thing I...ever saw," I said, struggling to get the words out.

We brought Emerie home and took a nap-- all three of us. Our neighbor brought over authentic Irish brown bread and potato soup, which we ate for dinner once Mirabella came home from day care. After a trip back to the ER later that night to investigate additional swelling (it was nothing to worry about), we picked Mirabella up from our friends' house. We loaded her into the car-- in her PJs and bare feet, with sleepy eyes.

We got home and savored giant slices of Emerie's birthday cake with lumps in our throats and renewed gratitude for the blessings we've been given. We carried a large slice to our neighbors, wanting to share the celebration.

I held Emerie while I watched The Boy eating cake sitting across from Mirabella, who was overwhelmed by her good fortune. "I love you so much," he told her.

"Why your say that, Daddy? You telled me that al-ready!" She replied.

We have been overwhelmed. By God's protection of our sweet baby, His provision of new friends who acted like family without a second of hesitation, and of family who couldn't have imagined not being there. Friends and strangers prayed, and we really did feel it.

In the end, Emerie is just fine. At her neurosurgical follow-up this week, she got a clean bill of health. I can now tell the story without crying. And the rest of life, as a result, has gotten better.

But that will have to be a story for another day.

Sinking Boat Meets Fateful Day

That Sunday morning our pastor talked about becoming fishers of men and how the disciples had had to drop their nets immediately if they wanted to follow Jesus. They had to be prepared to leave their livelihood behind. It hit me then that maybe by not drawing any lines, I was making a choice.

It's not fair. I have often complained to The Boy that I do not have the luxury of working late. I have never managed to communicate this to him clearly, but here's what I mean. If his day goes late, it goes late. He has to stay and does. If mine goes late, I either have to draw attention to myself because I cannot stay, or I have to make Herculean efforts in order to line up the rest of my life so that I may stay. Preferably in advance. This is just how our life is ordered.

Up until now, I have not turned down opportunities for more responsibility or to work a little extra on occasion. Part of why is because I know that when women leave the workforce, even only in part, they don't get to pick back up where they left off. I feared that if I took a step back from the role that I worked hard to create and sell that I would never have that chance again. I was hung up on this for a while. But I started to feel that morning like maybe it was time to drop that net. There are more important things.

That said, when I got phone calls and e-mails to help out early that afternoon, I still did, with the caveat that I would be offline for the rest of the day. I knew they were not pleased.

The Boy and I had argued during the week about whether to invite over our lovely Irish neighbors we are starting to befriend. I knew I may yet have work to do, despite my vow, and I was exhausted. But we had been trying to get together for months and they could finally make it, so we planned a small cookout. The Boy grilled the pork chops and potato packets I had made in advance, and I baked Emerie half a birthday cake because it was her half birthday.

We sat outside watching Mirabella splash around in her inflatable pool. At just about 7, in a dress soaked from Mirabella's little shivering, bikini-clad body, after I had set all the food out on the table, I heard Emerie cry. Still in flip-flops from being on the patio, I ran up two flights of stairs to retrieve her from her crib. I snuggled her to my chest and headed back down the stairs when my feet slipped from under me and I fell flat on my lower back. I felt the air rush out of me, and I did not drop Emerie; she flew. Out of my arms and into the air, down onto the landing on her head, where she bounced, then began to roll down the second flight of stairs. I think I screamed. I remember saying "Ohmygodohmygodohmygodohmygod," and screeching at The Boy to catch her. He ran and caught her after a few steps and I found myself in the kitchen clinging to the counter asking my sister-in-law to call 911.

"How many steps did she fall?" Amy asked relayed, phone in hand, and I was immediately irritated. I'm not sure I answered.

Our new friend was a doctor-- this much we knew-- but we did not know until days later that he is a neurologist. He, being a new friend and a very polite Irishman, asked permission to go upstairs to check on the baby.

"OF COURSE," I probably yelled.

All the while I stood, hunched over the counter, heaving. No tears, no breath, no words. I slid to the floor in a pile, hyperventilating. The doctor's wife came to me and I pointed at my elder daughter. She must be scared, I must have thought, and I can't talk to her.

They brought the baby down and she was crying, but it sounded faint. I couldn't look at her. I just couldn't. I felt certain that this was the moment we would always look back on as the turning point-- the event that would define the rest of our daughter's life. I was terrified she would never be the same. I could never imagine forgiving myself. I could not stop seeing the horrific replay of her flying-- terrified-- from her mother's arms. "Mommies protect their babies," I always tell Mirabella. And I didn't. It felt like all I could do was watch.

A police officer arrived and asked me what happened. "How many stairs?" he had asked. Really? He asked to hold the baby. I was crying too hard to object when The Boy handed her over. "Well, she looks pretty good," he said. What do you know? You're just a Baltimore City cop, I thought.

I stood at the front door in my soaked dress, waiting for the ambulance. Our neighbor asked, in her lovely Irish brogue, "Amy, does she have another dress? Or a cardigan?" I stumbled up the stairs and threw on jeans and a tank top. I remember thinking, "Good, I have a clean cardigan," like it was important. The EMTs arrived and strapped our infant daughter-- screaming, at this point-- to a giant backboard. They asked how many stairs. Again. I tried to explain, then brought one of them into the house to show him.

We rode just a mile or so to the best hospital in the country, where, exactly six months prior, Emerie had made her stubborn arrival. The Boy held her tiny hand the whole way while I wept and texted my family to pray for our sweet girl. I was impotent. I couldn't even pray.

Falling Slowly

I don't ever remember making a choice, work over family. I'm not sure I ever did. Since I returned to work in April, the quotidian has been worse than tedious; it has been hard. Really hard. And though I wasn't crying about it most weekends anymore, as I had in the beginning, it has taken a serious toll.

"I just need to know," I would say. "If I'm supposed to just keep working, head down, I can do that. It's only through September. It will be a terrible couple months, but I can do it."

I don't think I ever knew what I would want. I remember, before kids, sitting at a baseball game with a friend whose husband is a lawyer speculating whether I'd be cut out for stay-at-home-motherhood.

"We're just lucky we get the choice," she said quietly. She has an advanced degree and, at least for now, stays home with her twin nearly two-year-olds full time. I am not sure why I thought I'd have the choice.

So far, it's been a non issue. I am blessed to have much higher earning potential than I would have guessed back then, and we need my income. It's expensive to live where we do, and we are effectively stuck with the real estate choices we made five years ago. And it's not that I'm complaining, more just explaining what brought us here.

But it would be disingenuous to pretend I hate working because I don't. Particularly over the last year, I have enjoyed the growth, the increased responsibility and recognition and the path that appeared to be opening for me. People who mattered stuck their necks out for me. I stuck my neck out for me. And I netted a job that I care about and that people count on, and that means being constantly tethered and sometimes working more than full time. So after reluctantly taking another leadership role this summer, I wrestled with knowing if and when to draw the line. I didn't feel any sort of peace about saying no. I needed something more to go on than general malaise. I mentioned this often to friends, The Boy, and family.

The week before it happened was the worst. My new sister-in-law picked up the kids so I could stay at work a couple extra hours. By the time I got them they were fed, so I spent 3o minutes with them in the car and put them to bed when we got home. Then I worked on my laptop, pumped late into the evening (I am, miraculously, still breastfeeding), and went to bed after The Boy was asleep. I was exhausted; I had nothing left. We fought. There was just no give.

Which brings us to August 1st, and the fall that changed everything.

Good-bye, Unexpected Friend

Unexpected, as in, "passed away unexpectedly." Saturday evening, in his favorite chair. Peacefully. Not so peaceful for his wife who tried, desperately, to revive him, or for the rest of us. Left.

It's like he just left. I look up when the door opens, thinking he might be coming to see me. Last week he gave me a yellowed, 35-year-old tried-and-true paperback, "Toilet Training in Less than a Day," and was eager to hear the results. His daughter is about my age, and her daughter is my daughter's age. We circled each other but never crossed.

Years ago when I learned I would share an office with him, I cringed. I didn't know what it would be like. Didn't anticipate his openness or patience; the way he never condescended. Wouldn't have guessed his Air Force veteran, engineering Ph.D. to my "knows how to spell" credentials could enjoy sharing time. He even humored me by letting me review his work because it was my job, unlike others not as senior as he.

"I don't think I'll ever get to Paris," I lamented one day when my first baby was small.

"Oh, you have to," he replied, giving me a Top 5 European destinations, in priority order. He gave me a sample itinerary for Paris in a (long) weekend.

I only knew how impressive his career was because I put together his resume. Though he loved sharing stories, it wasn't his style to boast. The nature of the projects we worked on lent itself to friendship, if you were so inclined. He was. He loved barbecue and single malt Scotch; he couldn't handle tomatoes. We joked about being too lazy to plan ahead for lunch, which left us standing together at the community freezer on more than one occasion, eyeing the frozen pot pies. Last week he said, "You know, I think we're the only ones who eat these things. But they're good."

His beloved wife, the doula, was the subject of many of our conversations, especially when I was pregnant with my second daughter. He liked to relate. When I was out on bed rest he and our other teammates called me just to brighten my day. One day I received a package in the mail, unexpectedly. There was no card, but I knew it could only be from one place. In the midst of the Tiger Woods scandal, it was a maternity shirt emblazoned with . . . a suggestion that a certain golfer might be the baby's father. Apparently, when a co-worker pulled the shirt up on a website, Bob, pulled out a $20 bill. "You have to buy it," he said. On conference calls thereafter, he told me I had to take a picture wearing it and send it to the team. The perfect storm over, I was going to give the shirt away. I think I'll keep it now.

When I came back from maternity leave, I spent two hours in his office while he filled me in on what I missed and asked about my babies. "I'm glad I got to hear the story," he said. Our joint project over, he asked me what I was working on now. Of a potential new alliance, he cautioned, "Don't do anything unethical."

I told him about my first boss who, upon being told I wouldn't lie for him said, "Christina, don't let your conscience get in the way of your job." Typically when I tell this story, I do so with a chuckle. Bob was not amused.

"That's when you know it's time to get a new job, Christina. Okay? I'm serious."

I hate when, in death, people only speak the fond memories of the departed. As if the incomplete picture is more appropriate once they're gone. It wasn't all sweetness. He was passionate and opinionated, and we disagreed on many occasions. At times like these he sat quietly, fiddling with his hands, listening longer than anyone else in the room. When he spoke, it was strongly. Sometimes it was loud. Mostly it was fair, except in the case of first impressions. He was prone to snap judgments of people that he would share without hesitation. Once he changed his mind, which he often did, he'd tell you he was wrong.

I have only ever cried at work twice. The first time, I had stayed up most of the night working on our project from home. Because other team members did not follow the proper procedures, when I arrived at work, bleary-eyed for our review Monday morning, Bob was booming. "The version on the wall is not the correct version," he kept repeating. I said I couldn't understand why, and then, frustrated, complained that I had been up working on it all night and we would figure it out. "We were all working the weekend, Christina," he snapped, "Not just at the last minute last night." I was pregnant and exhausted and retreated to the ladies room to fight back tears. I fixed it and it was over.

The second time was Monday, when I learned he was gone.

He believed passionately in his faith and was unapologetic about his politics, even when they weren't popular; even though they weren't mine. He was willing to be proven wrong, or at least to bend when ideology faced reality.

Earlier this year, when he turned 62, he joked that he wasn't coming in the next day. "I'm out of here," he said. Nobody believed him. He worked on Saturdays even when he didn't need to, and especially when he did. He stayed at work for 30 hours straight, with a cold, to make sure our team delivered. He performed tasks miles below his pay grade without ever mentioning it. We knew he wouldn't retire any time soon; we knew he would miss it too much to leave.

On what would be his last day at work, he unexpectedly decided to leave at noon. "I'm going to have lunch with the misses," he told one co-worker. And, "I'm going to put the top down and take a drive." I am so grateful he had this kind of day.

This first week without him has been hard on so many of us, least of all his colleagues, I know. I have been surprised how hard this loss has hit me. If life is short and death is certain, as a friend told me the other day, then why does it feel so shocking when it comes? Why is it so hard? And why does this loss hurt this way? Maybe because ours was an unlikely friendship that, logically, never should have been. To him, I'm sure I was just the young girl in the office. I used to think he was just the sweet older man. Now that he's gone, I see he was so much more than that.

Ingredients for Life

I left for the gym and my "lilies of the field" moment with my keys, phone, and $37.00 in cash. After my workout with Kelly (my, ahem, trainer), I stopped by Safeway. Rushing because the baby would be awake and hungry in minutes, I cruised through the store that I know better than the back of my hand. I wasn't sure if our new friends would be joining us for dinner, so I wanted to have enough just in case, and spinach artichoke dip was on the menu for a get together the following night. I grabbed sirloin and another red pepper, a pound of green beans, artichokes, a variety of cheeses, baguettes, and some vanilla bean ice cream. But strawberries were $2.99 for 2 lbs and my new favorite Greek yogurt was restocked, so I added a few items that weren't on my list. I attempted to perform mental math as I went, and I knew it would be close to my $37.00 limit.

I chose the line run by my new acquaintance who works the morning shift. He made lame jokes to the girl in front of me, as is his custom, but she was distracted. As she rushed out, he called after her and held up a long string of coupons. "Keep them," she waved him off.

Looking around a little sheepishly, I said, "I'll take them." I noticed one for $1 off my next shopping order. As I watched my items move down the belt I panicked a little. It appeared I was going to be over my budget, which would mean something would have to back. Not a huge deal, but certainly embarrassing. As the last of my things were scanned, I said, "I only have cash today, so we're going to be cutting it close."

My subtotal? $38.05. I handed the kind man my new coupon, bringing my total to $37.05. I offered to run to my car for a nickel, but he told me not to worry about it. "I don't think they'll fire me over that," he smiled.

Now, The Boy maintains that I'm overstating the importance of this experience, but I don't think I am. If any one of my choices had gone another way, my total would have been different. If I had bought 7 yogurts instead of 6, or if I hadn't bought the generic cheese; if I had brought $40 instead of $37 or if I hadn't taken the coupons-- you get the idea.

This matters to me because it reminds me that God knows everything, well in advance of our need, and is able to provide for it. And if he can and is willing to do it with something as insignificant as a trip to the grocery store, where the only thing at stake is a red face, how much more is he able and willing to show up when it really counts? As I prepare to go back to work, begrudgingly and anxiously, I wonder if my situation will ever change for the better. Certainly we are blessed, but there is considerable fear that our circumstances will not change, which might lead to a variety of unpleasant scenarios I have had the time to contemplate lately. I worry that life will never resemble the hopes I have for it. And maybe it won't. But my checkout-line epiphany made me feel like there's a chance there could be things ahead bigger than my ability to plan.

Or maybe it was just a coincidence.

Adventures in Grrridlock

Realtors beware: We are Open House crashers. We don't go out of our way to look for them or anything, but when homes in our neighborhood are on the market, you better believe we'll be there. In our early crashing days, we used to pretend we were actually interested, but the closer the open houses have gotten to our door, we've decided to fess up. We're just nosy neighbors, upside down, looking for a little reassurance that our house will sell in our lifetime.

So a couple open houses ago, The Boy noticed an open staircase in direct contrast to our dark, tunnel-like one. "I could totally take down the wall and make ours look like this," he said then. Feh, I thought. Then a month ago, he asked if it would be okay if he tackled the project.

"Only if the girls and I are out of the house," I said. So I made plans to head to Richmond and Amber, my best friend from college, and The Boy somehow coerced his father and brother to come down from Connecticut to help with the project. Preparing myself for the worst since, despite his best intentions his well-executed plans are rarely executed on time, I told him I expected to come home to drywall dust and dirty dishes and unfinished work. He smiled and said, "We'll see."

Friday morning I got up early and packed outfits, diapers, and toys for the girls. I thought of everything. I timed it perfectly so that we could leave as soon as Emerie ate and just as Mirabella would be ready for a nap. At 1:30 I was on the road, singing grown-up songs, with both girls conked out. I can do this, I thought, no sweat. But well before the Woodrow Wilson bridge, Mirabella was up and chatty. I had only gotten 40 miles from home when Emerie starting screaming under the Welcome to Virginia sign.

Washington, DC/Northern Virginia is not the easiest place to stop, and it wasn't time for Emerie to eat anyway; she was just unhappy. I barely made it through Springfield when I found myself parked at a Wendy's with Emerie on my lap and Mirabella on the passenger's seat, coloring. After feeding Emerie, I walked the girls into the bathroom where I laid Emerie on the floor on a changing pad while changing a standing Mirabella. No changing table, no problem. At 3:18 I got a text from Amber: "Dinner choices... 1. I cook, 2. Japanese takeout, or 3. You and I go out to dinner nearby and Matt watches the kids." I responded, "I might kiss him. Just warning you now." I had a renewed sense of purpose, but by the time I strapped Emerie in her seat, she was wailing again. I closed the door to pump gas. I couldn't hear the girls. I might have lingered at the gas pump.

I merged off the ramp onto 95 and standstill traffic. I made it 11 miles in an hour and 15 minutes. I tried to ignore my baby's mostly on-again crying. I found myself becoming angry with everyone. I never notice the vast array of non-issues about which to be passionate until I'm in traffic with bumper-sticker people. Two of the most memorable: Owned by Parrots, and Got Tea? I can think of few things less likely to induce passion then tea, but then maybe I need to venture further outside my black/red/Earl Grey comfort zone.

At 5:30, I was still an hour and a half outside of Richmond, under the best circumstances, and it was time to feed the baby. I ventured farther than necessary off the exit and into a McDonald's where I bought a vanilla shake and an iced mocha. The women behind the counter ooed and ahhed over the baby, and I could only imagine how frazzled I looked. Again, we sat in the car and I sighed deeply. Repeatedly. I glared at the clock and felt my dinner with my friend slipping away.

Back on 95 an hour later, nothing had changed. The baby, now fed, still cried, and traffic still moved at 6 miles per hour. We finally arrived in Richmond after 8:00, hungry and annoyed. Mirabella ate mac and cheese and I ate leftover spaghetti. The girls were both down by 9 but not asleep until after 11. I talked with my friend into the wee hours.

After a weekend of time at the park with five children after they all napped at the same time, a forced viewing of Twilight in an attempt to convert me, copious time in the minivan, and the long-awaited Japanese takeout, I almost cried in preparation for the drive home today. Thankfully, as I said in my message to Amber upon arriving home, sometimes God says yes. We didn't stop at all, since Emerie slept the entire way home and we hit minimal traffic. We arrived home to no dirty dishes or drywall dust, an opened stairway but unfinished walls.

"Why Daddy do dat?" Mirabella asked, gesturing to the new hallway. "He need to put a rail-lin."

Then, at dinner, she had this to say:

"Mommy, sometimes dinosaurs say, 'Rahhhhr.'"

"Yes, sometimes they do say that if they're angry," I said.

"Mommy, sometimes you say, 'Grrrrr.'"

"Mommy doesn't really say that much, Mirabella."

"Yes your do," she replied, "When you're angry. You say dat."

"Sometimes I do," I conceded, "When I'm angry. But I don't say it much."

"Yes your do say dat. You say dat in the car all de time. You say, 'Grrr, come on, cars!'"

The Boy just laughed.

Hi, My Name is. . .

Awkward.

Despite what The Boy will tell you when we're telling Our Story, I hardly ever gave out my number. I can only recall doing it twice-- once that ended in a disastrously bad date to an Orioles game (a story for another post, for sure), and the other ended in the messy and cluttered joy that is my current life. But that was then. Since meeting my love, I give my number out like it's my job.

Remember when making friends was as easy as sitting beside each other in homeroom? Yeah, not so simple now. Several years ago, upon seeing a beautiful, dark-featured couple in my Sunday School class for the first time, my heart stuttered a little. I wonder if we could be friends, I thought. Then I looked down and saw her silver stilettos. We will definitely be friends. I chased Joyce down the hallway and forced my handshake upon her, telling her how my boyfriend and I were in the market for friends. I gave her my number and set up a first date, before which I pleaded with The Boy to behave. He didn't, but it still went well. Since then we have had dinner parties and playdates and even . . . shopping. After college I thought I'd never have a (new) friend I'd be comfortable enough with to go shopping. But with Joyce, I did. With strollers in tow. And baby weight. And it was still fun.

I have been surprisingly fortunate to keep my male friends from my single days because: a) the Boy genuinely likes them regardless of whether I'm there/especially when I'm not, and b) the ones who have taken the plunge all married great women with whom I'm friends apart from my affection for them. I did not see this coming, but I love it.

So I am aware that friendship after marriage is possible, but friendship after kids? Well, that appears to be a whole other thing. Now there are so many more boxes to check. Do I like her spouse? Does she like mine? Do we have kids of similar age? Are we of similar age? Do we have a somewhat similar outlook on parenting? Does it matter? Is she a working mom? Is she a stay-at-home mom who doesn't dislike working moms? Does she live anywhere nearby? Is she willing to put up with my inability to volley communication attempts effectively? So far, with one notable exception of a fellow mom I met online, these combinations haven't quite gelled yet. Not that I haven't tried. I joined the neighborhood parents' listserv and read it regularly. I wrote for a mom's website and friended people there. I signed my then 18-month-old for swim lessons, selfishly, so I might make some mom friends. I take my daughters to the park and tot lot and scour the area like a single guy on the prowl. I am unnecessarily chatty at the grocery store in our neighborhood with mothers who look like my type. But so far, to no avail.

This past Sunday we visited a church that is new to us and the neighborhood. We didn't feel new. We met a couple with a two-year-old and another on the way. We spent the evening in their home later in the week. We were open, they were warm, and it was easy. Easy! After nearly two-and-a-half years!

"Just let me know if you want to swap babysitting-- we're all about that," she said.

Of course I do! I almost cringed at how quickly and enthusiastically I answered the question. Because, really, I just met these people. But friends! For the whole family, and where we live! We see everyone else seem to have such things and wonder how it has thus far eluded us. I think of the couple we saw each week at the pool last summer. The Boy would talk to the little girl's father for a half hour at a time but never introduced himself. How did we get so clumsy and unfriendly?

Today at the tot-lot I sat isolated on the bench in the corner, nursing Emerie. "You need to get into the inner circle," The Boy said, gesturing to the center of the tot lot where four pony-tailed, jeans-clad moms sat chatting. Suddenly, I felt like I was back in high school, except I used to be on the inside. I made a mental note to be more friendly to the ones on the outskirts, that is, if I ever get back in. Until then, I'll try to push myself more, awkwardly extending my hand, and pray for a warm reception.

Yes Sir, That's my Baby

Driving home from dropping Mirabella off at day care and a disastrous trip to the dollar store for plastic Easter eggs, I decide to take a detour to David's Bridal. My two-month-old, Emerie, snoozes in the backseat of our new-to-us vehicle that The Boy affectionately refers to as "the grocery getter." For obvious reasons, I have been putting off ordering a bridesmaid's dress for my college roommate's May 30th wedding, but for reasons far less apparent, bridesmaids' dresses take months longer to deliver than any other kind of dress, so ordering one on April 1st for a Memorial Day wedding is pushing it.

Of course, as I unfold the stroller, the baby begins to cry. And from a combination of acid reflux, a cold bestowed upon her with the utmost affection by her big sister, and persistent crying over the last week, homegirl is hoarse. This does not bode well for my shopping trip or public perception. I stop just short of the store to remove Emerie from her seat and try to calm her down, then attempt to enter the store whilst pushing the stroller and holding the newborn. A saleswoman-- Donna-- opens the door for me, and I manage to tell her what I need just in time for her to take a lengthy phone call. I start to wander the aisles, frantically trying to find a dress before Emerie loses it, but she never really had it to begin with, so I end up outside to let her cry it out. When I reenter the store, Donna is (still) on the phone, and I manage to find the styles I had seen and liked online. Donna tracks me down with a list of the bridesmaids and asks if the baby is hungry. I cannot understand why this is commonly believed to be the only reason babies cry.

"No, she just ate" I tell her, "She's just a cranky baby," which is mostly true.

She tells me I don't want the dress in my hand because Lindsay, the matron of honor, will be wearing it. She directs me to a one-shouldered number that makes me scrunch my nose. We select three additional dresses-- one I like and two I don't-- and head to the fitting rooms. Emerie fusses loudly as I begin to sweat, knowing that if I were here for any other reason I already would have dumped the dresses without trying them on and walked out (as I have done in Banana Republic, and the Gap Outlet, and JC Penney, and various other fine retailers while cradling a wailing infant and an apologetic smile). I begin to panic knowing she will scream when I set her down in her dreaded seat.

As I open the fitting room door and steer the stroller inside, Donna says, "Here. Give me the baby. I'm a grandma; I'm a pro." And here's the moment I'll reflect on when winning Mother of the Year, 2010: I gave her the baby. Along with a burp cloth. Wouldn't want her to get spit up on her ensemble while kidnapping my child. I could hear her singing to Emerie while I tore my clothes off, all the while thinking, it would be very difficult for her to take the baby. There are lots of people here; there are security cameras; she works here and they know all her information. But really, I can't believe I gave her my baby. A minute later there's a knock on my door and Janice says Donna has sent her to help me.

"Don't worry," she tells me, "Donna is wonderful with babies." She also tells me I look great "for just having had a baby," a modified compliment sure to thrill any new mother. She hems and haws over the dresses, asking me to try on the one I already have and getting me a new size. Donna comes back bouncing my baby.

"I didn't want you to think I had taken her, mom," she says, "We are just fine." Clearly, I am not, as I have handed my infant off to a a stranger.

Janice returns with a larger size and news that my top choice will not be in until the week before the wedding, but I could take said larger size home today, and besides, doesn't it fit better in the bust anyway? So I'm back in my clothes and Donna is walking with me to the cash register, singing nonsense words to my child as onlookers stare.

"Who gave Donna a baby?" an employee asks, but the manager, dressed in black, is all smiles as I stumble an attempt at complimenting Donna, the babyknapping saleswoman of the year.

At the counter, yet another saleswoman explains that I can't get the widely-advertised $20 discount because my bride bought her dress "almost a year ago" in August. I cannot understand the logic behind this policy, but the baby is crying (again) and my self esteem is waning. I fork over the full amount and take the dress. Donna puts Emerie in her seat and pushes the stroller, insisting on walking me to my car. She commiserates with me about a similar experience she had when her kids were young (in which a salesperson did not take her child). As I secure the baby in her seat, Donna asks if I am okay and hugs me. If a stranger is giving you a hug, chances are, you're not okay. I weakly ask her if the woman in black is her manager and tell her I really appreciate her kindness, that I want to ensure her manager is aware of it, and that if it weren't for her I would have left without buying a dress. She graciously waves me off and I proceed to a more remote section of the parking lot where I nurse my child in the driver's seat.

So thankfully, I made it to term and had a healthy baby, Emerie Jane, at 39 weeks via C-section because she was breech and refused to be moved. And she is precious and most days are not as stupid as the one seen here, but heading out unescorted into the world with my daughters reminds me of a feeling that overwhelmed me when Mirabella was born: I've never felt less competent than I have as a mother. I believe I first uttered those words when I locked myself out of the house and a six-week-old Mirabella in. Thank goodness for God's provision and sweet, healthy, forgiving children.

Still Pregnant

Really? I could have sworn I had written an update before now. I have been on some form of bed rest for 8 weeks now, putting me at 35 weeks. 32 days until D-Day. What has it been like?

Until Christmas, my days were pretty ordered. Up early, get ready (shower, makeup, etc., of course, because that's just the kind of girl I am), breakfast, then plop on the couch. Conference calls for an hour, then work, Rachael Ray at 10, work throughout the day. I have had some more freedom for the last four weeks-- still couldn't return to work, but was told I could "ambulate a little more and see how it goes." So I have been able to help out around the house a little more. I've had a lot of contractions and discomfort, but so far they don't seem to be affecting me or the baby. Girlfriend and I are very cramped for space at this point. She doesn't move as much as she used to, but when she does, I can see her little limbs and joints protruding from my about-to-burst belly. Like an alien would. It's weird.

Mirabella had a series of birthday parties leading up to her actual birthday, often coinciding with other events like an aunt's or a friend's birthday. On her actual birthday, home sick with a virus, she told me, "O-ny my blow out the candles, right Mommy? Not Amy. O-ny it's my birt-day." We gave her a hand-me-down dollhouse with new people that she loves and I made ladybug cupcakes we only ate 2 1/2 of. The Boy bought a nearly four-foot-tall Cinderella balloon (or "Tinkerbelt," depending on who you ask). We decorated the living and dining rooms with streamers and watched the Tinkerbell movie. All of this after Mirabella awoke from a nap as an official two-year-old, irrationally screaming for no apparent reason. This is not typical behavior for her. Or at least, it wasn't before.

"So," The Boy said, "I didn't expect that the Terrible Twos would start at t he exact moment she turned two." Neither did I.

But mostly she's still the very talkative and hilarious sweetheart she's been. She enjoyed a week-long visit with her Nonna (The Boy's mom) that ended Monday. This was a special challenge, as she was basically couch-ridden with a broken foot and I was supposed to be on the couch as well, but Mirabella was home and basic things still needed to get done. We look forward to a more normal visit after the little one arrives.

This morning The Boy called me on his way to work, after dropping Mirabella off at day care. She has taken to making up and singing mashups, like the following she sang to me in the kitchen the other day, "The Bible tell me so, and the Bible never ever get me, 'cause my in my kitchen, and my mommy make me dinner, the Bible tell me so." This morning's song was about "Baby Sitder," about whom she talks a lot these days. The Boy said, "Are you excited about Baby Sister?"

"Yes, my excited. It's my baby sitder, right? Right Daddy? Not yours. O-ny my baby sitder."

"Right, Mirabella," he said, "She is your baby sister, but she is mine and Mommy's baby."

"No, she not your baby. O-ny you can have one baby, not two ones, Daddy. Your can't have two ones, only one. My your baby, Daddy."

Uh-oh.

Bedrested Development

Today is Day 18 of my latest development, possible pre-term labor and bed rest. Because of cramping (read: contractions), it appears I am progressing in ways I shouldn't be. So I've been living on the couch for going on three weeks. Praise the Lord for the Internet and company-issued BlackBerry, but it's tough on The Boy.

Every day I wake up before 6, when The Boy's alarm goes off. I get Mirabella dressed from bed and give her "piggy tails" when she asks for them. At my daily 8:15 conference calls, they ask me how my jammies feel, but there hasn't been one day I've stayed in pajamas. I shower every morning, put on makeup and do my hair before taking my daily trip down the stairs to the couch. I've been busy with work, which makes me incredibly grateful; my relatively new found ability to work from home has enabled me to avoid taking disability. But, necessarily, I'm out of the loop. My team at work has been wonderful-- concerned about the right things, working with me however they can-- but I'm not nearly as valuable to them as I would be if I were there. And that feeling isn't unlike how I feel at home; I am not useful. I have completed 3/4 of our Christmas shopping, but there's not much more I can do.

Last week at a check up we discussed positive test results from an ultrasound that indicated the baby's birth was not impending, which is great. In the past two weeks, my contractions have gotten better (most days) and I haven't dilated any more. All good signs. So they told me to continue on bed rest for at least two more weeks, "ambulating" a little more to see how it goes. I still cannot lift Mirabella, which means I can't feed her without help, I can't put her to bed; I can't really be alone with her for long. We ambulated to my parents' house for Thanksgiving, which was really nice, but I had contractions most of the day and into the night. Saturday was a lot better and I was able to escape to get my hair done and even have dinner with The Boy, but it was a quick trip, then back to the couch. Last night-- out of nowhere-- the contractions came back, and they've been coming off and on today.

The uncertainty is probably the hardest part. I'm thrilled to know that the baby looks and sounds great. She is growing well-- a week ago she was 2 lbs, 12 oz-- which they tell me is good. My greatest fear, obviously, would be that she come very early and have to spend time in NICU and might not be healthy. Aside from that, and even though I long for the things I used to take for granted, I fear going back to real life. I don't think I can do it. The days I've been up a few hours, for the most part, have not gone well. I can't imagine re-entering work at a point where it's 6-7 days per week, frequent 12-hour days, plus primary care for my sweet little girl and the house stuff. I think part of The Boy fears I won't be able to come back in any capacity-- it's incredibly hard for him to keep up the pace, and it's gotten the best of his temper only a couple of times, which I was afraid of. I never want him to be resentful, but I'm sure it's hard not to.

It's all pretty complicated and, ironically, hardly restful.

I'm Every Woman

Today a co-worker asked if my daughter understands that a baby is coming soon.

"I'm not really sure that I understand it," I told her, "So, no. Probably not."

Tonight, when I asked Mirabella where her baby sister is, she pulled up her jammies and stuck out her tummy. "In a beddy, Mommy. Baby in MY beddy."

My days have been coming and going so quickly that, most days, I can't remember how far along I am in the incubation of Daughter, 2.0 (oh yeah, it's a girl). I'm also incubating my first project at work, due two days before Christmas, followed closely by my second project at work, due two days before the baby. Deliver a proposal on Friday and a baby on Sunday? Ain't no thang. Should it be disconcerting that I actually know what I'm in for, but I'm still looking forward to childbirth, sleepless nights and breastfeeding as a break?

I'm struggling with the lack of balance in my current life. Though I'm getting better at recognizing that the now is not forever than I used to be, I still have hopes for the relatively near future that look a whole lot different than the reality of my present. I'm not sure how I got to married mother of two-- I don't feel nearly old enough or grown up enough or ready-- yet here I've been. My youngest brother is getting married, my little sister is talking about college, my nearly two-year-old tells me stories from her day, I nonchalantly mention my husband of more than three years, all the while my second child flips and kicks and flails nearly non-stop in my growing belly and I'm the boss at work without ever actually being the boss of anyone.

I happened upon a discussion among coworkers yesterday about why men seem to age better than women, and I think it's because they don't tend to have to juggle quite as much as we do. Not typically as many roles, responsibilities, or hats. It's why I can get up well before 6, make breakfast and lunch, sing pre-school songs on the way to daycare, and deliver homebaked goods to a meeting I'm running in which I have to issue professional admonitions, all before 9 AM. But not without hearing, "You look tired," three times by 10 AM. A bit of wisdom: if you know a woman like this, please don't tell her she looks tired. Just don't.

Snapshot of our Life

We sat on a bench eating ice cream and listening to a band cover Billy Idol. Mirabella, in her jammies and clutching Hank, her tiny stuffed hamster, stood on the bench and kissed The Boy. "Bye Daddy. See you soon," she said. She kissed me good-bye too and tried to wriggle off the bench.

"Where are you going?" I asked her.

"I going a work," she announced. Right before she screamed and arched her back and told me "Top it Mommy, top it, I GET DOWN!" because I wouldn't let her walk around the sidewalk in her socks. Welcome to our life these days with an almost 2-year-old and another on the way.

"Where's Mommy's baby?" I ask Mirabella. She pulls up my shirt and points to my "beddy."

"Mommy's baby in a beddy," she says, then points to her belly, "and Lella's baby in a beddy." She doesn't quite get it yet.

I am exhausted most of the time, but I'm not sure who's to blame. Last time I was pregnant, I had a stress-free (if also fulfillment-free) job and all I had to do was make it through the day. A challenge, to be sure, but once I did it, I could crash on the couch. It was okay if I didn't make dinner, even if I felt bad about it. Now, I like what I'm doing much more, but the days are crazy. I certainly don't have time to nap in my car, as I had done last time. When I get home I'm chasing a toddler and making dinner and there's bath and bed and, if I can stay awake long enough, I'll check in with work. If I can't, I mumble an apology to my husband and pass out midsentence. Life is crowded and joyful and we are excited, but if I hear one more person tell me how tired I look, I can't be responsible for what happens.

So in the middle of all the mundane, we look forward to February, even as we try to soak in the now. We took Mirabella to the fair yesterday, amid plenty of double strollers, but we relished this time with just her. She said hello to every animal, attempting to speak to each in their native tongues. She rode the carousel for the first time, and she squealed when her daddy won her a teddy bear in a Ravens letterman's jacket.

"Look at us, doing family things," The Boy said, over a shamefully large cup of cheese fries.

"I think maybe that's what we are."

"Maybe so."

Roadtrip Retrospective

Since we got married three years ago, I have paid particularly close attention to what families with young children go through on beach vacations. It seemed to require so much stuff. And it has always required stuff for me anyway, because I like to have a variety of sunscreens, towels, blankets, books, beverages, lunch and snacks at the ready-- I don't like to go back inside. Over the last three summers I have motioned to those families and groaned, "One day that's going to be us." I've watched their minivans and SUVs pass our sedan on 95, OBX stickers on the windows, bikes on the back, car top carriers on top, smudged fingerprints on the windows.

Now said sedan has a white leopard print car seat on the backseat and dismembered "fishies" and crumbs strewn everywhere. When my friend Mindy visited last week, she got Mirabella out of her seat and tactfully said, "Wow, it must be hard to keep a car clean when you've got a toddler." I laughed. Because here we are, having accepted that our trunk cannot accommodate suitcases and a Pack and Play, and a stroller, and food for breakfasts and lunches for the duration, and everything else we need, renting an SUV to take our little family of three, plus my sister, on vacation. I have bought shovels, pails, sandcastle molds, sunscreen, a beach umbrella, a sunhat, a tiny tankini and flip flops. We are borrowing a cooler and boogie boards and scrounging up folding chairs. We're going to the beach! When I used to watch those families trudge, loaded down, through the sand, I was not envious. But did you hear me? We're going to the beach! Who cares what we have to bring? This morning we were running late, as usual, but The Boy folded laundry on our bed, "to make it easier for you when you get home," he said. We have piles arranged throughout the house, and lists galore. He stooped to kiss the baby goodbye, and our usually nonchalant little girl didn't want to let go.

"Guess what?" He told her, "After today, we're going to the beach!"

"Beach!" She said, though she doesn't know what it is.

"We're going to get to spend all kinds of time together!" I got a little choked up. I might have grumbled about not being able to take a week off or about having to bring my laptop with me, or about going to Virginia Beach instead of somewhere warmer or more exotic. But we're going to the beach. And I couldn't be happier.

Pomp and Circumstances

Nearly seven years ago, I sat in an auditorium surrounded, mostly, by strangers. Because I graduated in the summer, a year early, I did not graduate with my friends. We came from all over. The girl beside me had been in college, living there, for 8 years. There were some traditional students, like me, but there were also graduate students and adult students. My whole family had come-- my parents, both sets of grandparents, all of my siblings, and even my boyfriend's family--everyone was there. But to me, it didn't seem like that big of a deal.

When a representative from the program for adult learners spoke, I tried to understand the emotion, but I couldn't. The speakers kept prompting graduates to give their families a round of applause because they were responsible for getting the graduates through. I saw extended families clutching these graduates after the ceremony, bawling. Everyone wanted pictures taken. And I just didn't get it.

But then I married a man who, despite early claims to the contrary, had not finished his Bachelor's degree. He had started college right out of high school while working full time, took a job that moved him to Baltimore and to me, and took classes sporadically. I encouraged him to keep at it, and he did when he could, but with homeownership, marriage, demanding jobs and then parenthood, often it got pushed aside. When he looked to change industries, we began to realize that potential employers probably weren't even getting to his (professionally written, ahem) resume because he didn't have a degree. He vowed to get on it and I vowed to make it possible for him.

He worked through one class every five weeks with only a couple breaks, enabling him to graduate on his birthday last month. I threw a huge party-- parents and siblings and uncles came from up and down the east cost, and we had to borrow space for the extravaganza. But first, I sat with his mother and stepmother and father at the ceremony. I thought about why I felt more nervous and excited for his graduation than I did for my own.

"I never really doubted that I would graduate from college," I told his mom, "It's just what came next." But I watched him face significant fear that he would never finish. And maybe that's why those people at my graduation were so emotional. Because they really believed they might never get there.

So I sat just about as high up as I could at the Meyerhoff and though I'm grateful for my now better-than 20/20 vision, I still couldn't really see. But I listened to the speeches and I got it when the representative from the class thanked his wife for enabling him to be there and spoke of his kids as his inspiration. "How can I speak of the importance of education if I never finished college?" he said. And I understood.

I cried a little when the keynote speaker spoke. I felt energy in the room. The Boy would later say that the students were all friendly to each other. No one was "too cool" to be there. In the lobby I saw a woman in a cap, gown and stilettos with three young children around her feet. I saw grandparents walking across the stage. I saw hope. There was no other place I would have rather been.

We threw the party, despite obstacles of remote location and threatening clouds, and I lit the candles on The Boy's favorite banana dessert as my family clamored for him to give a speech. He deferred, "This was really all Christina. A typical night for us over the past year and a half would be her coming home and cooking dinner and taking care of the baby and cleaning the kitchen and keeping the house running so I could have time to do homework. She edited papers late into the night. I couldn't have done this without her."

But really I couldn't have been prouder, even if he really did have all those degrees he said he had when we met.

Override Me

It's true. There was a time when I couldn't say the word "budget" without flinching. It wasn't so long ago. Obviously, it's also true that people can change. Dramatically.

Now there is a sloppy chart on a dry erase board in my kitchen that is updated multiple times per week. I've winced at its placement often as I see our guests studying it. "Does the color indicate anything?" My sister-in-law asked one day, gesturing to a board full of red.

"No," I laughed, "Though often that would be accurate." We track gas, personal expenditures (allowances, if you will), dry cleaning and, most notably, groceries.

I subscribe to the Baltimore Sun so that every weekend I can sit at our dining room table and clip coupons, then sort them in my check file. I look up Safeway's weekly specials and build my meal plan and list around them. I put the list and the coupons in an envelope and head to the store. Every week. Our friendly neighborhood Safeway is celebrating their "Re-Grand Opening," as one of the employees kept stating over the PA. In anticipation, they sent out coupon books and new club cards pre-loaded with 10% off May purchases. As Mirabella and I made our way out the door, I said, "I think this is going to be a good trip."

About an hour later I worked to maneuver my cart around turns in the floral department, but it was heavy. I had three pounds of chicken, four pounds of sirloin, four pounds of pork loin chops, four 12-packs of Coke products, 5 boxes of Quaker Oatmeal Squares, and lots of produce and weekly staples. I even got flowers for our upcoming company. Throughout my shopping trip, someone would announce over the PA, "We have an iPod winner on register 9!" or wherever. When selecting a checkout line, I tried to find one that hadn't given an iPod away yet. I watched the screen while the cashier deducted my coupons.

And then he said, "I'm sorry ma'am, but I'm going to have to get a manager to do an override. You saved too much money." Sweeter words I've rarely heard! Needless to say, I did not win an iPod. But I felt like confetti and balloons should have dropped on me anyway. I saved more than $115, and I ended up paying only $183. When I got home I pinned the receipt to the bulletin board in the kitchen and wrote my savings on the board under the heading, "A New State Record." And then I called my mom.

See? People can change.

Certainly Unsure

There's a line in a Straylight Run song that says, "You take in everything with a certainty I envy; it's somehow all I need," and when The Boy and I were first dating he said it reminded him of me. I was so sure, he said, of so much. I had conviction and definitive answers. This sounds like a compliment, I guess, and I think it was meant as such, but I don't think it's accurate now.

It's not that my conviction is gone. I'm pretty confident those close to me would still label me passionate, and there are still a few things I wholeheartedly know. I'm still animated, I still talk when I should listen, I still embrace opinions with too little information; I still think I know more than I actually do. But not like I did then. Then, there were so many things I just knew. I just knew I had made certain choices that were necessary for me to find my destiny. I knew, despite all evidence to the contrary, that I was going to marry the Other Boy, now referred to as the Marital False Start. I knew there were certain issues that others struggled with-- others I judged, by the way-- that would never plague me. I knew what I would do in just about any situation I had not actually encountered, especially marriage. And parenting. I just knew.

Here's the thing about just knowing: If you're wrong, you're screwed. Let's take the False Start. Turns out I was wrong-- heartshatteringly wrong-- and I had to start over. The logistics were a challenge, though not insurmountable, but the mindset change took much longer. I had built a future on a fantasy, and I had to reframe it all. In fact, I had to throw it all out and learn to wear a wardrobe full of uncertainty. And for a long time, it didn't fit. I had to stare my assumption (previously loudly stated) that there was "one person for everyone" dead in the eye. Because if that were true, I was done. And how could I be comfortable saying I was done for a lifetime at 21?

So when I met The Boy and it started becoming apparent that he was The One, I made the itchy and utterly unromantic statement that I didn't actually believe in The One, or at least I didn't think I did. We still have all the same reminiscent conversations, like, "If I hadn't met Jenn, I'd never have met Erin and I wouldn't have been in that place on that night and I never would have met you," but it's not like I believe that to mean I never would have married or had a family or been happy. I would have, I'm pretty sure, and I would never have thought of what might have been if the door hadn't slid because I wouldn't have known to. "Might have been" doesn't carry much with me because it's so arbitrary. I'm grateful it doesn't.

At our first marriage counseling session, I told our Pastor I was nervous about getting married because so many people get divorced and I have to believe most of them felt like we did at the start. "I just feel like there's nothing that makes us different than them," I said, "and it scares me." I was embarrassed; this was not the kind of thing a blushing bride was supposed to say. He told me he would be worried if we didn't fear divorce; if we thought it was something that couldn't happen to us just because we said we didn't believe in it. It was comforting, in a way, but also disorienting.

I'm much less sure of things than I used to be, which sometimes feels like regression, but probably is progress. I'm working on broadening my view and judging less, or at least later. I think having a child has helped that. I have trouble now looking at someone who is a nuisance or an outcast or a rebel without thinking of the whole of his life. I can't help but think there must have been somebody at some point who really loved him. It may not always be true, but I imagine he probably had a someone who dreamed of his future; who longed for great things for him. There's just so much that I don't see. Maybe it's growth that at least I see that now. I know that I don't know what I don't know.

Mirabella and I went to lunch with my little sister today, and the child threw a fit in front of everyone. More than once. I carried her away from the situation and softly reprimanded her; I put her in time out on a public bench. I didn't actually know what I was doing, but I did what I told her I would. Lately I can see it in people's faces, the internal proclamation that "my child would never behave that way." I'm trying to learn not to care, even while I wince and wish I could apologize to those I've condemned similarly in the past. Being sure was easier.