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.

Are You My Mother?

I walked into TGI Friday's at 5:30, printed coupon in hand, and saw my daughter light up and yell hi, both arms outstretched. She hugged me with her whole body. The Boy had picked her up from day care so I could go to band rehearsal, and we met for dinner in between because I have become adept at scoring coupons for free meals. Mirabella was restless, lunging from lap to lap. I produced a plastic container of animal crackers.

"How do you have cookies in your purse?" The Boy asked.

"Mommies carry cookies in their purses," I explained. He looked flabbergasted.

I'm not embarrassed to be seen in public with spit up, drool, or cookie stained garments. I'm not fazed at work when I reach for my planner from my tote bag and a Sesame Street play thermometer or block falls out. I'm getting to the point where I'm no longer bothered when my child yells, squeals or shrieks in public. It's a little embarrassing when she says "hi" to passersby at the store, increasing her volume the longer they do not respond, but mostly that's funny. But one of her latest habits is deeply upsetting.

Aunt Nae, her day care provider, is at the top of her list of favorite people. I have mostly come to terms with this, and mostly I am grateful. If I have to be away all day, which I do, at least I'm able to leave her with someone who adores her (and whom she adores). But. Recently, Mirabella has learned to call Aunt Nae. She does this when she has finished her nap, when another child takes a toy from her, when she wants some milk, when she's not getting her way. And now, apparently, when her parents just aren't cutting it. Last Sunday in the church nursery, she had parked herself at the top of the slide, as is her custom, waving and shouting hi to the people below, with no regard for the children waiting to slide behind her. One of the kids pushed her out of the way. She squealed, "Ahh Na-ay! Ahh Na-ay!" I pretended I didn't know what she was saying.

One of the volunteers said, "Who is she calling?"

"Oh, um . . . Aunt Nae. That's her day care provider," I blushed.

Later that day in the grocery store, I had let her have a sip (or 20 gulps) of my chocolate milk. She had taken the straw out and spilled the milk all over her shirt. I pried it from her milky hands and moved it away from her. Again, she shrieked in frustration and yelled, "Ahh Na-ay! Ahh Na-ay!"

Since then? She calls Aunt Nae after she has said "ahh-dow" (all done) and we have not retrieved her from her high chair fast enough. She calls her if she can't reach a toy she wants, if we take something away we don't want her to have, if we force her to sit (not stand and walk across) the couch she has recently learned how to climb on. And last night, the kicker, after I had put her to bed I heard her on the monitor, calling softly, "Ahh Na-ay."

The other night while I worked on the computer in the office, I heard her downstairs calling Aunt Nae, presumably because The Boy hadn't rescued her from her chair fast enough for her liking. I then heard him correct her, "No, not Aunt Nae, Mirabella. Ma-ma, Ma-ma." At least he tried.

Respectfully Challenged

"Respectfully challenge," the defense attorney said about me and in my general direction, but without meeting my eyes. I would have been the last alternate on a full jury, and I was disappointed. When The Boy was summoned last week and groaned about missed time at work and wasted time in the Quiet Room, I scolded him. "The very foundation of the democratic freedoms we enjoy in this country is the right to due process. How can we say we believe in this, but only if it's someone else who has to serve?" I said variations of this for days leading up to his appointed day in court and was met with rolling eyes. He came home from the first day, naturally having been selected, complaining of "idiots" who tried to elude jury duty. "Isn't that what you wanted to do?" I asked.

"C," he said, "A trial by a jury of your peers is essential to our way of life. It may be inconvenient, but I never tried to get out of it. It's my civic duty." I couldn't believe he had the audacity not only to reinvent history, but then to fail to give me attribution. But it is kind of typical.

The day of his trial everything was closed because of an "in like a lion" March Nor'easter. I got a snow day and his work was delayed. But Baltimore City circuit court was right on time! When he got home from his trial, he said, "I don't want to talk about it. I have lost faith in our legal system." He got into multiple arguments while the jury deliberated, once when a juror said she thought the defendant was guilty but that she, "wasn't there" so she couldn't be sure, and again when another juror alleged that he could not possibly understand the plight of the (white) defendant because he was white. The Boy, incredulous, mentioned a related (and expunged) arrest in his history, but to no avail. I asked lots of questions. "You probably won't get picked, you know, just since you want to do it," he said cynically.

So Thursday I made arrangements for everything to get done at work in case I wasn't there. After 5 I was on the road, so I asked The Boy to check the website to see if would need to report to court. I did. I called a cab last night to make sure I'd get there on time. I waited on the bench outside our house with my laptop bag full of snacks and things to read and work on. I found my way at the courthouse. I changed my name and collected $15. I waited my turn. I found (not free) wifi in the courthouse, thus spending my "expense pay" before I ever went to lunch on cab fare and wifi alone.

I was summoned. I paraded in front of the judge, counselors and defendant with minor confessions I swore would not affect my judgment. I didn't think I'd get called. And when my number came up, I stood in front of the lawyers, one of whom "respectfully challenged" my appointment as alternate #3. I saw other jurors, upon having been placed in the box, then "challenged," actually pump their fists with excitement or thank the "challenging" lawyer. I was disappointed. Rebuffed, I'm back in the Quiet Room with the others who were challenged. Thank goodness for wifi and vpns.

The Minutiae of Fuschia, and Other Observations

If Barack Obama were my friend on Facebook, our relationship status would be, "it's complicated." I have always shied away from strict partisanship, and much to my family's dismay, I am not a single issue voter. I shudder when I hear "God's people" attempt to speak of God's political affiliation or opinions, and with the exception of my undying love for Brady Anderson, I've really never gotten it about being a celebrity's biggest fan. I don't ever foresee political signs on my lawn or bumper stickers on my car or onesies on my child. I'm just not that kind of girl.

It does not offend my sensibilities or seem contradictory to me to choose the things I believe in from whichever side, then weigh them to see who comes out on top (or least on the bottom), even if that means an R on one ballot column and a D on another. Aside from the irritation I have over not being able to vote in primaries as a voter of undeclared loyalty, this works for me. I believe there is only one man who ever could have saved us and changed everything, and he's already been here once, and he's not the president. Still, I'm not easily sucked into "the sky is falling," overwrought predictions. I think if I say God is in control, then I should act like it, not like the leader of the free world has more power than the one who created it. But still, it's complicated.

Living in proximity to D.C. probably sounds much more exciting than it usually is. In college in North Carolina, the 7-foot Australian I had driven to the grocery store boasted that his home was 30 minutes from members of the then-popular band, Savage Garden. "Really," I said casually, "Well I live about 30 minutes from the President of the United States. You might have heard of him." But everyone here knows that distance rarely has any impact on how long it takes to get somewhere, and that in many ways, Baltimore is a world away from D.C. So I brag about my friend on Capitol Hill, and friends from the south think I'm savvy, but I just pay attention; I don't really know. Even so, the week leading up to the inauguration was interesting. I took for granted the signs above the Baltimore-Washington Parkway I travel every day that said, "Inauguration Jan 20. Expect Heavy Delays." Friends and colleagues were off because they couldn't get to work. Others I knew stayed home to watch TV; others I knew were actually in the thick of it. But not me.

On Tuesday morning I stood in a dark conference room with a man I'd never met staring at the TV in the corner. "I'm glad they have it on somewhere," he said, watching the masses wait on the Mall. "Driving up 95 this morning, I felt really...lonely. During the election, no one here said anything. It's just so bizarre."

We discussed the unique environment where we work, which tends to be a bastion of Republican ideals in the middle of a very blue state. I told him, "Last week I mentioned concern about traffic on inauguration day, and a colleague said to me, 'I don't really think he's that popular around here, is he?'" Which, I guess, just proves you can always find someone to tell you what you want to hear. Later that morning we were joined by others who brought their lunch and sat mostly in silence to watch the ceremony, and it was a little less lonely.

No matter who you voted for, I think it's hard not to feel proud to be part of a country where it's possible to hold elections and execute peaceful transfers of power, to assemble millions of people in one place without a single arrest, and to elect as president a member of a race that was not so long ago in chains. And while I reject the idea that any one person could fix all that ails us, I hold a cautious hope that some change will do us good.

Running like Zacchaeus

On Christmas night at my parents' house, everyone was hungry. For the first time ever, emulating my Jewish friends from childhood, we ordered Chinese delivery. It was delicious. After we ate, The Boy asked to see my fortune. It said, "Good luck on your journey," and so did his. "Are we going somewhere?" he asked. Oh, the foreshadowing.

The next week, while at Ikea for the second time in three days, I tried to convince myself I did not need a reasonably priced six-pack of cinnamon rolls, a young man in his early twenties handed me a tiny handwritten note. "God bless you," he smiled as I read the words, "I am here to help you with anything you need. Love, Jesus." I didn't think much of it, other than that it was a much more welcome approach to proselytizing than I'd previously seen. No fire and brimstone on a tract. It was nicer.

After we got home, The Boy offered to take me out for…well, just to get OUT. We had enjoyed company in the form of his mother and sister for the last week, but the lack of personal space coupled with my crowded mind was starting to make me lose it. I sat on a bar stool nervously shaking my leg and enumerated the list of things that had me frantic.

"I love your mom, it's not your mom. It's just…work was stressful before I left, then there was the trip to Florida, then there was Christmas and company and the birthday party and now these work changes that may or may not happen and the questions of what's next for us and it's all really good, but it's all back to back to back and I just need time and space to process and I'm never alone and I'm so tired and I can't. I've loved this time at home with Mirabella and she's getting to a different stage where I feel like I'm missing more and it makes me wish I could think about being at home, but I know I can't, so what is the point? But at the same time, I have these ambitions to do more at work, and I'm not sure how to reconcile the two. We talk about growing our family and I want to have faith that God will provide what we need, but I'm not sure where the line is between faith and stupidity. I feel I might be on the verge of a crisis or something."

"Oh, baby," he said, "I'd say you're there. You've given me a lot just now. There's a lot going on in that head of yours, and you can't fix it all, not at once." He reminded me of all the things I already know. But mostly he listened. And this is the way I tell it in retrospect, which is different than the way I accepted it then.

I started to accept that things are harder than they have to be because I've been fighting where I am right now. The roles, responsibilities, challenges, geographical location-- all of it. As if accepting it and learning to be content would relegate me here forever, I rage against it all.

Sunday morning at church a guest speaker, once a missionary in the Philippines, told a story about her beloved dachshund, Zacchaeus, and how he was so anxious to see the whole neighborhood that he pulled at his leash, thereby walking restrained and wheezing for the entirety of his walks. She had a personal epiphany when she told him, "Zacchaeus, if you would just stop running and obey, it would be so much easier!" The words stung me too. Pastor Danny followed, admonishing not to "rue this day or your current position." And I guess that's what I'm doing when I complain about hating where we live because I can never find a parking space and we never have enough room or wanting to be home more or wanting to be in a better financial predicament. There is so much that is good, and there is even more that I just don't know. Sitting, waiting, wishing never got even Jack Johnson anywhere.

As we were leaving church, Nikki asked how I was doing and I wonder if my eyes said it all. "You need to borrow this book," she said, producing a well-read paperback copy of The Shack from her coat pocket. "Take four hours and read it today," she said.

When we got in the car, The Boy said, "Well, was all that loud enough for you?" My head swam with conviction and change. At home, though I didn't have four hours, I did make it about halfway through the book. I stopped at a page where Jesus talks with the protagonist about how humans were made to live in the present, and that when we live in the future, through worrying and speculation, God is not with us there. It painted it so clearly for me, and I saw myself in it.

I have been living in fear about the state of the world, the state of our finances, the possibilities of my job, the fact that my life may never look like I thought it would, that I might never be able to be the mommy I had hoped, at least not in the way I had hoped, that I might never reconcile work with life and dreams, that I might not have another child, or that the walls might crumble if I do, that balance might not actually be something that can ever be achieved. The list goes on. And I say that my favorite Bible verse is Exodus 14:14, "the Lord will fight for you, and you shall keep your peace," and I probably say that because I wish I felt its truth in my heart. What's always felt truer to me, though, is Mark 9:24: "Lord I believe; help my unbelief!"

After this low point and apparent epiphany, things feel different, but not much has changed. I have been without house guests, which helped a little, but we will be welcoming The Boy's father and stepmother tonight for a belated celebration we are looking forward to. I got some news at work that had potential, and I could have let it consume me, but I didn't, which was fortunate because it turned out to be nothing anyway. I have worked hard for four days not to live in fear and to let go. And I guess four days is a start.

(And no, all of this did not overshadow a fantastic time with my girls in Florida or a joyful Christmas with my family and overly-gifted daughter, but I'm trying to live in the present, remember?)

So I don't know how long it's going to take to get to wherever it is we're going, but I know where I am and I'm working on fully living here.

Strangers with Admonitions

Elliot squawked and laughed his maniacal, hyena laugh into the darkness of our bedroom, and that can only mean one thing: I had hit the snooze too many times. Elliot is the radio personality I reluctantly invite into my half-consciousness each morning, and he begins his day at precisely 5:48. So if he's on, I'm not supposed to be in bed. I hear Elliot most mornings.

"Ow!" I groaned upon receiving a sharp knee to the back.

"What happened to 5:30, man?" The Boy mumbled into my hair.

"12:30 happened to 5:30, back off." I referenced the ungodly hour we got to bed after unpacking from our gloriously long weekend, but he was right. I had a doozy of a day ahead of me that I had dreaded for the entire 10 1/2-hour drive that usually takes 5 hours, so I got up.

As I walked briskly in the cold to my car two blocks away and an hour and a half later, a black dog lunged away from her owner, who was trying to unlock his front door, and right across my path. Her retractable leash stretched in front of me, then encircled me. Attempting to free myself from just such an entanglement on the beach two years ago left me with a scar on the back of my knee, so this time I didn't move.

"I'm so sorry," he said, a face full of freckles under a backwards baseball cap. "Zoe, come on." He called her and she wound around again. I just stood there dumbly until he wrangled her. "I'm really sorry," he said.

"It's okay. Have a good day," I tried to smile.

"You too," he said as I walked away, then, calling after me down the sidewalk, "I hope you have fewer obstacles."

And that's where it all took a turn.

I won't bore you with all the details, but let me sum up.

Me: "Hi, can you please transfer these files from point A to point B so I may send them to the printers?"

They: "Did you fill out the paperwork? Did you get the guy to sign it who is on vacation until past your deadline? Did you talk to the person who is away from her desk all day? Did you wait at your desk for half the day after printing the nearly 500 pages that, previously unbeknownst to you, need to go through a post-review pre-printing review? Did you contact 'finance focals' in three different time zones to ask the same question without getting an answer?" And this is just
a sampling.

I had told the man who sits by me about my strange encounter in the morning, and he witnessed the veritable ropes course I encountered all day.

"Did you get a good look at the guy?" He said, straightfaced. "Are you sure he was even a real person?"

I'm tempted to lurk around his house to see if I run into him again. Or maybe I should hide? Who knows what my ominous, fortune cookie-esque neighbor might say next time.

Out Came the Sun and Dried up All the Rain

When I got there yesterday, she was on her knees in the middle of the rug, surrounded by dancing toddlers. The Itsy-Bitsy Spider played on a CD and she bounced up and down, throwing her arms over her head and waving them around. She saw me over her shoulder and smiled, then stood up and bounced so ferociously she was almost jumping. She twisted her wrists and threw her head back, laughing. The Itsy-Bitsy Spider is her jam. No matter her mood, if I start with the hand motions and the singing about the spider, she is quietly mesmerized.

Last night when we got home we cranked the music in the living room and bounced around like idiots on the rug, trying to inspire Mirabella to dance for her daddy. We blared Ben Folds and Regina Spektor and Mirabella broke it down. She got low. The Boy captured it all on video, along with her giggly antics and several weeks of other milestones. After dinner and bath and bed I opened the camera to review the footage. I saw nothing but videos from months ago. Everything was gone.

"I'm not mad at you; I'm just mad," The Boy fumed when I sniffled into my pillow and asked why he was blaming me. I knew I hadn't done anything wrong, and I knew it didn't really matter. I knew it was a few big weeks, not a life. But still.

She walks now, and it looks about as natural to me as if our puggle, Mosotos, started walking on his hind legs. She's gotten good enough at it now that she can be nonchalant, only rarely pausing to cheer for herself. When I got there today, she stood in her dancing spot in her tiny pink Pumas.

"Did you have a good day?" I asked

"Miss Thing went to timeout today," Aunt Nae reported. "She and Devin couldn't stay away from the stairs."

This is not her first trip to timeout. My mother likes to tell me I've got a "strong-willed child" on my hands.

Tonight while we ate grilled Asian turkey skewers and scallions, she cried in her crib. She's been on a veggie strike, and don't even think about feeding her from a spoon. I brought her a bottle, guessing she was hungry. We sat in her rocker, wrapped in a blanket and in the glow of her ladybug nightlight she leaned back to smile and wave at me, several inches from my face. I sang the Itsy-Bitsy Spider and she stared and wiggled her fingers and hummed. I squeezed her and laid my head on her head, snuggled beneath my chin, squinting my eyes and telling myself there are some things videos can't touch.

Get Your Own Frickin' Coffee

He was talking about the frustration of having a diverse student body in engineering training classes.

"Some of the students are clerical and they just thought it would be an interesting class. But it's not beneficial to have these discussions with clerks." He patted my back, "No offense Christina."

Because we had company in the form of a high-ranking customer, I tried to minimize my outwardly expressed horror. I'm not sure I succeeded. I turned toward him, the People's Eyebrow aloft, leaning back in repulsion. "Umm," I said.

"Not that you're a clerk," he corrected himself, too late.

"No. No, I'm not," I said with a fake smile.

"Christina's been around this material long enough, she could be an engineer," he overcompensated, once again.

"That's right," a woman who has recently befriended me chimed in, "She certainly could."

I interrupted their stumbling and directed a comment to our audience in reference a point the customer had just made, citing a recent on-the-ground example. I tried to deflect. It makes me tired.

I haven't been a "clerk" since my first job out of college when I was really more like the small Armenian's indentured servant. I drove his cars and he paid for my gas and cell phone; I pretended to enjoy kayaking in his backyard and being spat upon my his spoiled daughter. He asked every inappropriate question in the book and criticized my newspaper-folding abilities. It did not last long.

It's difficult enough to be one of few women in an office or an industry, but I've mostly gotten used to that. It's not unusual for me to be the only woman in a room. But that fact, coupled with my nontechnical title and work, seems to equal in many male minds, an only slightly glorified secretary. There's nothing wrong with that title or job, but it's a far cry from mine.

Working on Mars

"Those are some crazy jeans there," one of my managers said too early this morning.

I advised him they were corduroy and kept working. I didn't say I didn't care how they looked, just that I was actually able to fit into them again after two years.

"That's a pretty wide belt," he went on.

"Does it remind you of the '70's?" I said, wondering if that could have been construed as a dig and if I could have honestly said I didn't mean it.

"Yes!" He said, "Those are 70's pants. And look at those shoes!" He gestured to my berry-colored, patent leather, platform Mary Janes.

"My mom says she should have just saved her clothes and shoes for me," I said, trying to stay good natured while steering the conversation back toward our impending deadline and my pile of work.

"Okay, maybe I'm being too observant here, but. . . did you stripe your hair?"

I smiled and told him that's not what we call it while silently moaning since my highlighting was always meant to be as natural looking as possible. Evidently, I failed.

"Christina, I can see a distinct stripe right there," he approached me, then pointed to it. "You mean that's not your natural color? It's definitely striped. It's dark right there, Christina." He just kept going on. "Maybe if you just brushed it or combed it or something it would blend in better."

"So I'm wearing 70's pants and crazy shoes and I've got striped hair that it looks like I don't brush. Anything else you'd like to tell me?" He was finally done.

Then, at a LASIK consultation, "Wow. You know the girl who just left here, she would have killed to have corneas the size of yours."

This is what happens when you work on a Federal holiday, I suppose.

Tongue-tied Flagellation

Call off the hounds; here I am. Thanks for checking back in. Think I can blame it all on the pumpkin pictured below? Think again.

Miles separate me from many of the people I love. Most of them would agree, to my face (and some have), that I'm terrible at keeping in touch. The ones who have stuck with me are the ones who do not take an unreturned phone call or email-- or several-- as an unspoken write-off. I'm not proud of it; I don't like it about myself, but it's true. I could blame it on being a mother and a wife and full-time employee, and I wouldn't be untruthful, except that this fact predates my current predicament. I have never been good at it.

My freshman year of college, I learned that a high-school friend was mad at me. "I thought we were close," she said, when we talked.

"We were," I agreed.

"Well it really hurt me that you didn't think I was important enough to keep in touch with." I was kind of baffled. Then, we lived in a world without the now-disruptive Facebook, Myspace or text messaging. Without any sense of malice or irony, I tried to explain that I figured since I was in North Carolina and she was in Pennsylvania, we were done. I wasn't sad or upset about it, I just figured that's how it went. She, clearly, had not. I wince now at my certainty then, but that happens a lot these days.

Another dear friend, Mindy, lives in Vermont. A couple years ago, I intended to call her on her birthday, which I always remember. Time got away from me. So instead of calling her a few days late, I didn't talk to her for at least several weeks (and if she's reading this, I'm sure she'll correct me that it was much longer than that). When I sheepishly answered the phone I explained to her, again, in all sincerity, that the reason I hadn't called was because I hadn't forgotten her birthday. "Well, I was upset that I didn't manage to call you on your birthday, because I really did remember. But then the more time passed, the worse I felt for not calling, so I just kept not calling." Because she's one of the ones that love me anyway, she laughed at my flawed logic. Still, I wish I could tell you this was an isolated occurrence. It is not.

Unfortunately, it's gotten worse. Whereas I used to think I was really busy, now I know it. And another friend, now in Texas, who has never minced words about my severe inadequacy in this area, reminds me we are all busy-- I'm not the only one. I can't argue with her point, and it's not for lack of feeling guilty or having good intentions that I don't call.

In the not yet 10 years since high school, Alex has been in Pittsburgh, Charleston, San Diego, and Southeast Asia. He called a few weeks ago to tell me he and his lovely bride have recently moved to D.C. Compared to how separated we've been, we are practically neighbors. But his call remains unreturned. He is perhaps the most persistent and patient of them all. He is the only reason we remain friends, and I'm so grateful for his persistence. If I were him, I wouldn't waste my time on me.

I don't know how people like Jennifer in Salisbury can remember not only to call and text on birthdays but also to send homemade gifts and handwritten letters. Instead, I intend to send photos of my baby playing with the gift a far-flung relative sent, but I never get around to taking or printing the photos, so I don't send the thank-you until it's embarrassingly late. I hope I've crystallized it for you.

All of this to say, yeah, I've been busy, but that's not why I haven't been here. It's been more than three months since I've written. The same friend who rightly says, "we're all busy," on one occasion told me, "I can't really believe you haven't had a few minutes alone in the car when you could have called." She was right then, and it applies now. Of course there have been occasions since August that I've been putzing around online, wondering why other people can't find the time to update their blogs. But a lot can happen in a few months.

A few months, in my daughter's case, is the difference between pureed foods and finger foods, crawling and walking, one tooth or four. For me, it's gone from barely making it through the week day to being noticed and weighing opportunities. It's losing touch with many I love and then, shockingly, hearing from a ghost I haven't known in years. So on my first day back to you, with all of that behind me, what do I choose to talk about? What do I say?

I guess I'll echo the ghost, in typical, understated fashion and say, "it's been a while," and go from there.

Wrong Brained

During the course of our aforementioned, continued and drawn-out
Organizational Extravaganza, we ventured into the kitchen. I was
excited to get rid of the clutter, move out things we never use and
take inventory of what we have. The Boy opened the cabinet that
contained glasses-- one of the few I was pretty sure did not need to
be reorganized-- and looked serious. "Okay, tell me if you agree with
me. I'm thinking the plastic cups should be on the top shelf." This
is when I knew I had just committed to more than I had planned. Five
days later, only the top cabinets have been tackled.

"But why?" I humored him. "That's where they'll have the most chance
of breaking."

"What?" he laughed, "That's what you think? My reason was because
they get the least amount of use. I can't believe the differences in
how two different sides of the brain work."

And sometimes, that's all we are. Two halves of a whole brain,
piecing it all together.

This morning, after he had fed and dressed our daughter, in a pink and
green gingham dress and pink flip flops she'd rather eat and praised
her for saving her poop for the daycare provider, he packed the
bottles up and whisked past me with a kiss and an 'I love you' while I
muttered about all the steps inherent in my getting out the door.

"I have to get cash for Aunt Nae," I said, reminding him that no task,
while with the baby, is a simple one. "I have to go get the car, pack
the car and get her in her car seat only to drive three blocks, get
her out of the car seat to go to the ATM, then put her back in the car
to drop her off at day care, then I'll actually be on my way to work.
And you? You just take your coffee and put your top down and drive to
work without a care in the world," I flung my hand over my head in a
frolicking motion for effect. "As soon as you leave, to anyone who
might pass by, it's as if you don't even have a family."

To which he replied, "That's not true. I think about you the whole time."

Life on a Change

I'm catching my breath through my stubbornly stuffy nose thanks to my persistently snotty daughter, and we've been everywhere. Fourth of July weekend we ventured to Connecticut with The Boy's sister, our dog and the baby. We rented an SUV. We finally started to understand why people drive them; everyone had plenty of space, and there was a place for everything. I made fun of The Boy for backing into parking spaces, the way SUV drivers the world over seem to do for no apparent reason. He offered excuses, but at least he managed to do it in one take each time. Then, in Connecticut, we had to stop for gas. We had to restart the pump because it maxed out at $75 the first time; we remembered why we prefer sedans. We enjoyed introducing Mirabella around New England. She was sleepy, but she fared well for most of the trip.

Two weeks ago, though it feels much farther in the past than that, we ventured to the Outer Banks with my mom's entire family. We have never traveled together or spent that amount of time together. There was apprehension, as there always is with such inclusive family vacations. But our time off is minimal-- I couldn't afford to take the whole week off-- so we were determined to have a wonderful time, and we did. We laughed that family vacations used to feel a little like a sacrifice because we knew the only time alone we would get would be in bed. Now,the only way for us to get time alone on vacation is if we travel with family. Everyone fought over Mirabella and we got plenty of time with her and to ourselves. We skipped out on a midnight showing of the Dark Knight with all the cousins because we feared we wouldn't be able to stay awake and instead spent the evening in the hot tub with a bottle of Sauvignon Blanc. "I don't care how good that movie is," The Boy said as we climbed into bed, "I can always see it later and I have no regrets."

Mirabella seemed to enjoy the beach, squealing when the water touched her feet and laughing as she wiggled her toes in the wet sand. Despite lots of time alone there, I did wear her baby in a Baby Bjorn to a wine tasting. I wondered if that was bad form.

The little lady is now seven months old, has sprouted her first tooth, has wild and fuzzy blonde hair, and is crawling like a prehistoric reptile all over the place. We are trying to teach her sign language. So far, she looks thoughtful and grunts when I sign "more" (for food) and laughs when I ask "where's Daddy?" and ignores me, most often, when I sign "no," "don't touch," and "stop."

Last week, over a Boboli pizza and a bottle of North Carolinian red wine, The Boy and I had our very first State of the Union: Financial Edition meeting. I dreaded it. I have always dreaded it. Because of multiple factors including unreliable income and bad decisions, we, as a couple, have never operated under a formal budget. My MO with money has always been to worry about it all the time but, in practice, to act like said worries do not exist. Don't try this at home. So now that the market has tanked and we are housepoor and stuck in it, it occurs to us that it would behoove us to change our ways. We pored over spreadsheets and a calculator and came up with a budget and action items. We now have weekly allowances that are tracked on a white board in the kitchen. I just signed up for a supermarket coupon website. I am struggling with the adjustments.

This past weekend was phase one of the Organizational Extravaganza on the homefront. The survival mode that we have been in since I can remember has got to stop. I was ducking when I opened cabinets, buying things I didn't need because I didn't know what I already had. We've been constantly tripping over Mirabella's increasing number of things. She started crawling on an uncomfortable jute rug that was not nearly as clean as it should be. So we've a long way to go, but at least the living room, with it's repurposed rug and rearranged furniture, is more functional and less cluttered.

We are learning to be better stewards of everything we've been given, the big and the small. It's not easy, but it is welcome change.

My World Strapped Against My Back

I feel like a turtle, or at least a bag lady. I see, in my near future, becoming the woman who wears sneakers with her work clothes. I vow not to wear pantyhose with slouch socks, with or without cross-trainers. Never.

This morning I toured my alternate work location with one of my managers. She showed me multiple ways to get there, told me when the close parking spots open up, made sure I could find the bathroom and walked me through the cafeteria. I have four work phone numbers, four computers, four monitors, three work e-mail addresses, two desks in two separate buildings, three managers, one me. How will they ever find me? How will I ever remember where I'm supposed to be and when, and how will I actually get there? I figure that most of the time the phone numbers and email addresses will be useless. I'll be in my car, praying for a parking space or worse, I'll be hiking through acres of asphalt trying to get to where I'm already supposed to be. Which, of course, is everywhere, and never soon enough.

Yesterday I might have snapped, just a little, at The Boy. On the phone from work he told me he wasn't sure when he'd be home. "I wish I could just say, 'oh, I'll get there when I get there.'" I complained. Of course I know he is not gallivanting; he's at work. But even if I had to work late, I couldn't. Because a little girl waits for me, and her day ends at 5:00. She is always ready for me to come; when I scoop her up she hugs me tight around the neck, which is her new trick that I hope she never outgrows. By the time I heave her carrier up the stairs and to the car she is usually, against all bumpy odds, asleep. This is what we do. And I recognize that the opportunity to work later would result in less time with my baby every evening, and the time we have is already limited and busy and cranky. I can't imagine having less. But still.

Sunday, after months of agonizing, I decided to start weaning. And maybe what I really mean is that I decided to stop pumping for minimal effect and call this process what it is. I looked up the definition, and there are two. The first, "to accustom (as a young child or animal) to take food otherwise than by nursing" really started happening long ago. Because my supply was low, we have been supplementing with formula for the last three months, which initiated the process. Mirabella has been rejecting me increasingly over that time. The mornings were our last remaining feeding, and though they will be the last to go, they will be gone soon and already involve a bottle anyway. The second definition of weaning seems more appropriate, "to detach from a source of dependence." And this is why I cried myself to sleep on Sunday.

My baby doesn't need me. Sure, she prefers me, for now. But anyone can feed her. Anyone could care for her. So I am wearing a regular (if ill-fitting) bra today, but it doesn't feel as freeing as I thought it would. I don't feel like I'm there when I'm supposed to be; sometimes I feel like I'm missing it all. Nursing was the only thing that was all mine; it was something only I could give my baby. So that's part of it. But maybe more than that, I've never tried so hard at something and failed so miserably at it. Somewhere outside myself, I know this is harsh and not entirely true, but this is how it feels. Not good enough. Not the best for my daughter. I failed.

Sunday night I soaked my pillow and threw fistfulls of tissues on the floor. I told The Boy, "The change in hormones means I'll get my period again and it could lead to depression, so you have to watch out for me."

"So…this crying at night thing…" he said carefully.

"Once is okay," I sniffled, "every day means there's a problem."

Certainly there are things I won't miss, and definitely the "bonding" aspects of nursing are long gone for us. My baby doesn't like to drink from the tap, I have joked, she prefers her brew bottled, but I don't really think it's funny.

When I started work in March, and when we realized Mirabella wasn't gaining weight because I didn't have what she needed, I prayed that I would be able to make it to six months. Sunday was her half-birthday, so I made it, but just barely. I know there are aspects of having my body to myself again that I will enjoy. I will frantically shuttle between these new stations in my life, more places to go, but one less bag to carry.

Tears for New Parents Left Behind

For some reason, these tragic stories keep making their way to me. Desperately wanted babies are born to deeply faithful parents and live for only a short time. It breaks my heart, not just the deaths but the strength of the lives left behind. I find myself weeping for people I'm sure I'll never meet. What could I possibly do? So I pray and cry and hope that God would allow my mourning to somehow make their burden even the slightest bit lighter.

First, Angie Smith, whose husband Todd is of the Christian band Selah, writes of her recent experience losing their newborn daughter here. Her words are at once genuine, heartbreaking, funny, and absolutely inspirational.

Then, it appears that people have found this blog while searching for Dennis Rainey. I followed their path and learned that he and his family mourn the loss of his 7-day-old granddaughter, and you can read about it here.

I hope you'll join me in thanking God for the incredible gift of the healthy children in our lives and in praying for those suffering the unimaginable.

Help I Don't Need

There is a dearth of good Christian radio stations where I live. Perhaps I should clarify: there is a dearth of Christian radio stations I enjoy listening to where I live. There are three stations, one of them mostly talk, and the other two mostly Casting Crowns, 4-Him, and Mercy Me, and all three of them mostly Republican. I have never subscribed to the notion that God is partisan-- in either direction-- and I've never felt more strongly about that than I do now. It's not that I am naïve enough to believe that mainstream media is any less biased; it's just that I believe as Christians, we should be held to a higher standard. So, for example, in my thinking, a Christian news organization should deliver the news in as fair and unbiased a manner as possible, as if unto God, the same way the rest of us are supposed to go about our jobs. I've had several of these issues recently that irritated me along my commute. This morning, this: "Two-thirds of Americans support domestic drilling efforts; Democrats disagree." So listeners are supposed to believe that a) two-thirds of Americans are Republicans, and b) all Democrats believe the same way? Because that's what an irresponsibly-worded sentence like that suggests.


But, alas, at this point, I expect my news to be pre-filtered for me, telling me what to think, so I take the time to read, watch and listen to multiple sources across the spectrum of media so that I may sort through the biases and form my own opinions. (Except for Fox News. After my 9-month employment seated in front of a 50-inch plasma screen projecting All Fox News All the Time, I think I've had enough Bill Hemmer and Shepard Smith and Neil Cavuto and Head-On, apply directly to the forehead, commercials to last me a lifetime.)

More troubling than all of this, though, are a couple of "uplifting and encouraging" messages I've been subject to recently on these radio stations. The first came from notorious Christian psychologist and radio personality, Dr. James Dobson. I wish I could find a transcript of his message, but I've been unable. I will paraphrase. He spoke of the challenge of being a woman through different phases and roles of life while I nodded:

"First you're somebody's daughter, then you're somebody's wife, then you're somebody's mother, then, perhaps, you're somebody's widow, and the only thing that stays constant through all of this change is Jesus Christ."

Some part of me understood and felt the heart of what he was saying, but still I felt anger in the pit of my stomach. As I drove my baby daughter to day care, I actually yelled aloud, "SO WHEN AM I ACTUALLY SOMEBODY?!" Of course I could not argue that my Jesus stays constant when nothing else does; in that I have always taken great comfort, even when I could find it nowhere else. But I cannot believe that He sees me only through these lenses. What if I had not married? Would I still then just be somebody's daughter, waiting for my next designation? Would I be somebody's future spouse? Why isn't it enough for me just to be me, a child of God and nothing more or less? I am my Heavenly Father's, most definitely, but why, according to Dr. Dobson and so many, am I only defined on this earth as what I am in relation to a man? I have turned this over in my mind in the months since I heard it, and while I know he might not have meant it maliciously, he still meant it, and I have tried to accept it, but I can't.

Since I experienced the complicated joy of becoming a mother nearly six months ago, I have struggled with identity. "What's wrong with being a mom?" One (childless) friend said. My mother, not really understanding what I meant when I shifted uncomfortably as people who are not my child addressed me as "mom," said somewhat defensively, "I always loved my role as a mom." Of course, I am a wife and daughter and sister and mother and friend and employee, and I relish each role independent of the others. But somewhere in all of that, aren't I a woman? An individual, "fearfully and wonderfully made?" Isn't that list made up of the situations in which I am myself? Don't I carry my transcendent identity into and between those locales? I tried to imagine a similar message going out to men, but I couldn't. It never would.

Another personality I have often admired, Dennis Rainey, spoke the other day on grandparents and how, in our culture, they seem to be raising their grandchildren in increasing numbers. I expected him to talk about teenage or ill-equipped parents, too immature or young to handle parenthood by themselves. Although he did credit single parenthood with contributing to this phenomenon, he also cited a rise in working mothers. He went so far as to shame the mothers for allowing their children to be "raised" by their grandparents. Now certainly I'm aware of situations in which this occurs. But I wonder what Mr. Rainey would have to say about my situation.

Aunt Nae is not Mirabella's grandmother. She is not related to us in any way, but she is the precious lady who loves my baby every day. She feeds her three times a day, keeps her warm and dry, plays with her, worries about her diaper rash, comforts her, and meets her needs until I come screeching up the driveway and down the stairs to scoop her up and squeeze her tight at 4:56 every day. I spend my days thinking about my daughter, providing for her, longing for her, and wishing and planning for days when I won't have to because I'll be with her. I spend my nights holding her, bathing her, rocking her, feeding her, playing with her, reading her stories and singing her to sleep. But am I really not the one who is raising my child? Should I be ashamed that we are unable to afford for me to stay home? Or, delving deeper in the guilt and shame department, does it mean I am less of a mother because I am not sure I'm cut out for being a full-time stay-at-home mom?

Nearly three years ago, newly engaged, on the day before I would start classes in the advanced degree program I now feel I may never finish, I proudly talked it over with my extended family. "But why are you going back to school," a relative asked earnestly, "don't you want to have children? What would be the point?" I remember talking lowly and slowly; I remember my face and neck turning red; I remember The Boy meeting me in the kitchen and, in soft tones, telling me we could leave. That's how I felt when I heard the words of Dobson and Rainey: defensive, inadequate, guilty, ashamed. Not remotely uplifted or encouraged, and I wonder if I'm the only one missing the point.

Not Really Not Guilty

On Wednesday, I was a defendant. Thinking better of the grey pants I had intially chosen, I wore a skirt and uncomfortable heels because that's what I remember Winona Ryder and Paris Hilton doing when they went to court. I was the best dressed person in the court room, but it didn't matter.

It all started a couple months ago, when a Transit Authority officer appeared in the middle of the road and motioned me to the side. I despise this; it is terrifying and not the first time it has happened. I am a reasonably defensive driver, but why would I assume a law enforcement official, or any individual for that matter, would be standing between two lanes of opposing traffic on a busy road? I pulled over and might have sworn, realizing I did not know the speed limit on that road. I prepared this defense, then scrapped it when I saw a speed limit sign (the first posted on that road) directly ahead and mocking me while I waited. The officer was friendly, despite my terse responses. Mirabella wailed.

"She probably wants to be moving," the officer offered, "mine were always that way." I wanted to remind her why I had stopped and that I was not interested in small talk. After taking every bit of ten minutes, she returned at my window with a $90 ticket and apologetic smile. "I had to give you a ticket; 43 in a 25 is a bit fast. But I would fight it." She would repeat that suggestion, making me wonder why we couldn't just skip a step and forget the ticket. It was my first speeding ticket in over 10 years of driving.

I decided to take the officer's advice. I did a dry run of the drive to the court house and promised myself a trip to Starbucks when it was over. I practiced how I would plead and what I would say with The Boy the night before. And in the morning I waited. A lot. Immediately I noticed that "District Court of Maryland," the phrase that encircled the seal above the judge's bench, was not centered. I could not believe how much this bothered me. I kept thinking if they would just scoot it a little to the left all would be well. I turned around every time Court Room 5's door opened to see if my officer would show up. She did not. At least 50% of the defendants failed to appear, but oh the ones that did...

I learned that in the future, should the officer show up and I really am guilty of the charges, pleading not guilty will get me nowhere. I had suspected this. I was hesitant even to go to court, because I do not understand the concept of pleading not guilty when clearly I was doing whatever they said I was doing. Kudos to Maryland for the "guilty with an explanation" plea. This seemed to work better for most of the defendants.

There was the guy who looked vaguely like someone who would have gone to my high school who was charged with driving with expired registration and no tags. He politely explained that he was in the middle of a nasty divorce, and his ex, unbeknownst to him, had removed and returned the tags. " I didn't even believe it when the officer told me why he pulled me over," he explained, "I had to see for myself." The cops seated behind me snickered; "Cut him a break," they said. The sympathetic judge lowered his fine and removed all points from his license.

He was not as forgiving to the diminutive teenage girl who pleaded not guilty of speeding in excess of 20 miles over the limit, and following too closely as she changed lanes. Repeatedly. Her defense didn't make any sense, ("He said he was right behind me, but I didn't see him" and "I was not following that close"), yet she chose to CALL A WITNESS. Really. The blonde girl she called had allegedly been in the car with her for the stop. She angrily disputed the officer's claims.

"Were you the one driving?" the judge asked.

"No, she was texting the driver," one of the cops behind me scoffed.

The judge noted that the offense occurred on the same day the girl in question had been in court for a previous speeding ticket. "How long have you been driving?" he asked.

"Almost a year," she said, dejected.

"Where are her parents?" the cop behind me wondered aloud. I had to second that emotion. The judge upped her fine to more than $500, and I wondered why she hadn't just paid the initial ticket.

The large, smiling woman wearing what appeared to be a modest beach cover up was charged with not displaying her tags properly. Though she acknowledged she was guilty, she pleaded not guilty and mentioned that the officer was very "cordial" during the stop which, she noted, occurred on her way to church. After her sentencing, in which one charge was dropped and her fine was lowered, she asked to approach the bench. "No," the judge said with a straight face.

Finally, when all of the police officers had left, about ten of us remained, and apparently, we all had the same officer, who just happened to be in County court that morning. Hallelujah. I was the last person in the room. "Ma'am, since Officer Miller is not here, you want to plead not guilty, right?" The judge asked. I tried not to smile as I accepted my papers that said there would be no fine. Not even court fees.

And now, lessons learned:

1. The speed limit on half of South Clinton Street is 25
2. They really do monitor it
3. Always, always appear in court for moving violations. Unless you have already paid a fine, which one girl did, causing the judge to add another fine once he noticed that she has had five offenses in just 2 1/2 years of driving. "I'm also going to send you to driver's improvement class," he told the girl, who protested because she'd already been there. "Well, you're going again," he replied, "apparently it didn't work the first time."

I might just start showing up in District Court for the stories.

An Exercise in Abstract Dreams

It was a weekend of news stories, and not the drive-by shooting or election kind, and best of all, not the kind that has anything to do with me. I am hoping to stay out of the headlines of my own life for a while.

We put The Boy's mother on a plane Saturday night and breathed a collective sigh. Not because we did not thoroughly enjoy and appreciate our time with her and all the ways she helped us, but because our living space is small, and Mirabella's exersaucer is not. At about 9:30, while making banana pudding squares for my little brother's belated birthday celebration, I realized we had eaten Triscuits and salsa and cheese, but no dinner.

"Do you want me to make you something?" I asked The Boy.

"Why? I just had dinner," he said. Ah, the y chromosome. How could I go about getting myself one of those?

Sunday morning, after church, Ansley, the beautiful daughter of friends of ours announced, "My mommy didn't have a baby…yet." I raised an eyebrow at her mother. No news, she confirmed. We giggled, even though we shouldn't have.

The birthday celebration featured barbecued chicken and a cake that prompted The Boy to say, "Wow, this fetti really is fun." My fussy five and a half month old wanted nothing to do with her doting great-grandparents, presumably because they were not me. She is developing something that seems to border on obsession, but then she also seems to be developing teeth. I'm hoping she gets over both soon.

The Boy played with water balloons and college kids and seemed energized despite complaining earlier that he never gets a chance to relax. On the way home, he played a voicemail for me on speaker that made me cry. "Expecting twins," our friend's measured voice said, all too calmly, despite using the word, "pumped" in the delivery. We listened to our daughter moaning herself to sleep and tried to imagine multiplying that by two. But they had longed for parenthood for longer than we knew, and they were ready. I closed my eyes and saw their sprawling, light-filled split-level that backs to the park and will make a gorgeous place to grow up. I thought of their genuine joy and gifts of a toy Moose (Mirabella's favorite so far) and excellent pizza when our sweetheart was born, despite their quiet desire to be on the other end of the exercise. So when we heard the news, we glowed with thoughts of November babies and our children knowing each other as they grow. My heart felt full.

While The Boy checked his messages, I checked my own. Two from one of my favorite people. They were short without content or her typical cheerful intonation, just "call when you can." "She's engaged," I told The Boy, "I just know it." For months every time I saw her name on my phone I answered, "Can't talk, running out the door, but what's going on?" just in case she had news to share. When she actually had it, I missed her call twice, international roaming charges on her end, diaper changes on mine. Finally, I heard the story of the first place on the east coast where you can see the sunrise where the man we've never met asked for her hand. She talked about the vintage carnival theme we all giggle about, but she has always been able to see things we couldn't see. I wondered about the logistics of her December wedding, all the while knowing it won't matter; of course, I will be there.

Marginal

"You're over the hump; you're on your way!" a man once proclaimed to me, unprovoked, in a freight elevator we weren't supposed to be taking. I had never met him before. It was a Monday. I smiled, befuddled, on the way to my office with the half sandwich and salad that had cost me nearly $7.00. Back in my cube, I asked my neighbors what such a declaration could possibly mean on a Monday.

"It's probably because it was lunch time," a coworker shrugged, leaving it at that. I wrote it down because that's what I do, and it encourages me, accidentally, when I flip backwards in the planner Tara gave me for Christmas that is called A Year of Days Worse than Yours. She had written on the first page, "Thought you could use this…" I keep thinking the book will become a conversation piece, but no one has ever asked. I sit at the ready with examples from the book like The Valentine-less Valentine's Day, Bris, and Going Hunting with Dick Cheney, but I've ever had the opportunity to share. It's becoming a test on which I will evaluate the character of strangers. Like if I, as a friend recently has, began carrying my lunch in a Dunder-Mifflin lunch bag. The moment I saw the Dwight K. Shrute bobblehead on her desk, I knew I'd underestimated her.

In my planner each day is filled with tasks, marked pressing or not by their case. "MAIL MOTHER'S DAY CARDS" contrasts with scribbles like, "send photos to Ritz," "crushed tomatoes," and "grilled chicken and veggies," which is crossed out and replaced by "Noche de Mexicana," which is crossed out but not replaced at all, which probably indicates I gave up on making tacos and we went out to dinner. Tasks completed are checked off; circles remind me of what is yet to be done.

I see fragments of the nonsensical in my daily encounters. On April 21 I find, "What does the customer want? Do they really want to go down to the nuts and bolts?" Which is not notable except that it points out how buzz-word laden and ineffective at communication my work culture is. And how clunky subject-verb agreement is as it relates to the word "they" in our language. If I wrote something down today, it would be "interface," and it would be overused and it would be used incorrectly. April 4 takes me back to the inexplicable conversation about the Double-T diner that contained the quote, "the Greeks don't put a lot of sugar in their cakes;" a phrase I'm sure I wrote in an effort to keep a straight face.

Nearly three years ago, preparing to move from the suburban townhouse I shared for two years with two (and eventually three) other girls to a tiny apartment in the city, I went through notebooks, personal and academic, eager to lighten my load. Always they were marked with lines of tiny cursive; songs that were stuck in my head ("Round Here" by the Counting Crows and "Stories in my Pockets" by Sarah Masen were standbys), ideas for stories I usually didn't follow through on, snippets of conversation, lines of prose. Ideas to keep my eyes open and my mind alert while making it seem to anyone watching that I was being studious. I wonder what I might have taken with me had I not been so focused on filling the margins. I wonder what it will mean if I ever stop.

"The stories in my pockets are the best I've ever lived; so what if they don't sell, sell, sell?"

Ever Mine, Ever Thine, Ever Ours

We devoured tortilla chips, mini chimis and big margaritas, frozen for one, top shelf for another, sugar-rimmed for me. We talked fast and laughed loud and I gestured wildly enough to jostle my drink, sending the bartender over with a rag and a quizzical gaze. I almost ended up seated beside strangers twice after potty breaks, but eventually we settled in the dark, together, and watched women in impossibly high stilettos live outrageous lives nothing like the three of ours, which are nothing like each other's. Walking to our cars, I looked down at my Naturalizers, which were red, but still Naturalizers, and asked if anyone really wears $500, six-inch tall shoes. "They must have lots of corns," I said.

"Well I went from Easy Spirits to Crocs," Nikki said, gesturing to her flip flops, "and I'm pretty sure these have spit up on them."

I got in my busted up Acura and called my long-suffering husband, who, I would soon learn, had emptied the dishwasher and prepared bottles and cared for our baby and finished his homework, and who didn't for one second make me feel guilty for my ill-timed break. "We're getting ready for bedtime. We were just about to read a story," he reported. I suggested Little Big. "Last night we read There's a Wocket in my Pocket, so maybe we'll take your suggestion."

I rolled down all the windows and opened the sunroof and let the indie rock blare. Even though I was wearing jeans a size bigger than the size bigger I was before I got pregnant, and that coupled with my cropped hair puts me nowhere near the ladies I had just watched on the big screen, I thought of my own group of four. I thought of the women who would drive through the night and run in heels in the rain to be with me if I needed them. And when I have needed them, they have. I thought of so many other drives, with one of them beside me, our hearts screaming through open windows. And though I've never found their equal, I thought of the awe-inspiring women I've met since. The wives who are trudging beside me, the mothers who are teaching me, the girls who sat beside me with my spilled margarita and laughed with me.

I thought of my sweet husband who loves me and our daughter and tells us all the time and shows us even more. And even though I was coming home to a house upended-- my poor mother-in-law on the couch because her broken foot will not allow for stairs, my sister-in-law working a double and then sleeping in our guest room so she could help her mother with our baby since we don't have daycare this week, a bathroom no one can use easily because it lacks a floor and some walls and a sink or counter, a poorly-equipped kitchen because I chose Sex and the City with the girls over grocery shopping by myself-- I couldn't wait to get there. I went about the monotonous litany of tasks I perform every night, chatting away.

"You can tell she had a margarita," The Boy said to his mother.

I advised them that was hours ago.

"Are you just in a good mood because you had a good time? Because maybe you should go out more often."

"I had a wonderful time," I told him, but that was not all.

Our life is more making do than making it big, and I can sometimes get stuck underneath the tedium of the quotidian. But not last night. I felt enveloped by the beautiful in my life that no one is entitled to and that can slip away in a moment. As usual, I felt overwhelmed, but not in the usual way.

I had missed bed time and settled, sadly, for a kiss on the cheek. I was thrilled when my sweet girl awoke crying, just before 1:00 and for the first time in months, apparently because she was cold. She beamed at me while I dressed her in warmer pajamas and rocked with her before
putting her back to bed. I nuzzled my face in her fuzzy hair and whispered her songs and held her tight.

It's not that the movie was great. It wasn't. My city and my world may be much smaller and far grittier and more cluttered than the one I watched last night. But every so often something interrupts my busy day to remind me that it's all the little things I take for granted that constitute a life. It doesn't mean I won't ever complain or forget. But, at least for today, I get it and am unspeakably grateful for it.