And she does.

When I was very young, my mom was single. She was in early 20s, in and out of relationships, melodramatic, and emotional. I adored her.

When we would Drive around in her baby blue Firebird, she would crank up the radio and sing--especially to Journey and to David Bowie's "Space Oddity."  I came to know the words to the songs, and wanted to sing along, too.

"Stop singing!" she would snap, sometimes with great irritation. "I can't hear the song!" 

When I got a little older, she would complain that I couldn't carry a tune and was ruining the song for her. It hurt my feelings tremendously. I remember thinking even way back then that I would let my little girl sing as much as she wanted.

32 years later I have a little girl. A mini-me. And sing she does.

She stands in the yard and sings joyfully at the top of her lungs. She sings heartfelt, original lyrics with great passion into a microphone in the middle of the living room. She sings "Skin-a-marinkey-dinky-dink" from the backseat as we are driving around town with the windows rolled down. She sings lovingly to her Blue Blankey.

Unfortunately she has my voice and can't carry a tune in a bucket, but I love complete lack of self-consciousness and pure joy when she sings.

And Greek olives.

 A (surveying the interior of the refrigerator with dismay):  Ivan, you're messing up my refrigerator door organization. The Sriracha goes on the international shelf. And--look--you have all of the salad dressing over here. This should be on the American shelf with the mustard and ketchup and mayonnaise.

I: The "international" shelf?

A: Yes. See? With the tahini and soy sauce and fish sauce. 

I: Organizing the refrigerator like this is…

A:  ...lost on you?

I: Useless.

On lovies

Sophie: I put Blue Blankey in my mouth. I go to hospital and doctor have to take it out of me and I have Blue Blankey again.

I realized she was describing the extraction of Blue Blankey from her surgically.

Amie: Why would you put Blue Blankey in your mouth?

Sophie: I just like him a lot.

Letter--week of 2/16/15

Dear K.,

Thank you so much for checking on the Wellness Center. I will give them a call. At our appointment last Friday, I promised to email you on Fridays to give you updates. I certainly intend to keep that up, and I am grateful for your willingness to listen.

I didn’t do very many things right this week, but I’m trying to focus on what I DID do right. I cooked actual meals for my family for dinner 3 of the 4 week nights we’ve had so far this week. Like actual made-from-scratch dinners. Not gourmet, but nourishing. That is unheard of for me! I mostly cook meals on the weekends when I am more relaxed and less rushed. There is time for chopping and sauteeing on the weekends. Week nights to date have involved simple, healthy meals for my daughter and then whatever her dad or I grab after she goes to bed—usually leftover pizza he brings home from work. All the cooking this week required a bit of planning and prepping ahead, but I am really incredibly proud of this. It is part of an effort to change the way I think about taking care of myself.

When I am lonely or sad or frustrated or scared, the way that has felt best to take care of myself has been to literally fill myself up. After the rape, I began filling myself up double-time. Which is how I got to where I am today.

I know that things need to change. I want to be an example for my daughter. I want her to love herself much more than I ever did or have loved myself, and I want to be around for her as long as possible.

While texting with a friend last weekend, I mentioned that I was planning to buy a FitBit so that I could focus on increasing my number of steps. A couple days later she emailed me because she had signed up for a new bank account, and they gave her a free FitBit for joining. She is mailing it to me as a gift to help me get started, apologizing that lime green was the only choice they offered. I was absolutely thrilled! I will happily wear that lime green thing on my person. The one she is sending is slightly fancier version of the most basic model I planned to order for myself. It should be here soon. I like to think the universe is trying to help me along here.

Thank you for listening. I hope you have a wonderful day. It’s hard to keep your chin up in these temperatures, but Daylight Savings Time begins March 8, and spring is not too far away. We’re almost there.

Best,

A.

My Room 101 fear/A letter to Sophie

A friend once told me a story about how her father would prepare she and her younger sister for someone with a weapon to attack them unexpectedly.  While sitting in a restaurant waiting for their order to arrive, he might say to them, "A man with a gun busts in through the front door of this restaurant.  What do you do?  Go!" She had an odd childhood, but she became adept at quickly spotting the closest exits and locating objects in her vicinity that could be used as makeshift weapons.

There's a great deal of evidence that mentally rehearsing the details of the way you want something to happen greatly increases the likelihood of the desired outcome.  And I find myself doing this.

Every parent I've ever talked to knows the fear.  THAT fear.  You can take away anything and everyone else, lord, but don't take my baby.  I can't be in a world in which she is not.  I thought I was the only one whose thoughts and worries about it bordered on psychotic at times, but another friend recently admitted she was terrified to drive her daughter anywhere in the car because ..."what if I crash the car and hurt her?  I worry so much that it makes me physically ill sometimes."

One of the things I fear the most is kidnapping.  I am terrified of it in every single nook and cranny of the world--even in my own house.  Someone could take you right out of your bedroom!  We can be at the playground and you run off and play on the other side of a mammoth wooden play structure with 100 different places to climb and hide.  We can be at the library and you walk around to the other side of the bookshelf that I am on. 

My first thought:  I can't see her.

My second thought:  It's okay.  She's just over there.  Safe.

My third thought:  Some pervert could be just on the other side of a bookshelf waiting for a chance.  He might have been hanging around for hours.  But if he succeeds just once it's worth it to him.

My fourth thought:  This is the children's section of the Morgantown Public Library fer chrissakes.  She's probably okay to wander around it for at least a couple of minutes.

I might position myself strategically between the two exits of the fenced-in playground and feel assured for a moment while you're playing out of sight.  But just a heartbeat too long and I have to find you.  I physically have to.  I am incapable of letting down my guard.  The moment I do, the worst will happen.  I just know it.

Maybe I am overly protective; I honestly can't tell.  What I do know is this:  An old man tried to lure me into the trunk of his car once at Teter Lake while my stepdad was fishing.  I hid inside a pine tree and watched him until he finally gave up and left.  Even then I knew what men did to little girls; this was not my first rodeo.

That was around 1984.  Things in 2014 are exponentially more fucked up.  So I cope with my anxiety by mentally rehearsing.  Kidnapping is what I practice for the most.

I remind myself of what my priorities should be across any potential setting:  get license plate number; note physical description of suspect(s)--god forbid there's more than one; have current picture of Sophie immediately ready to show to anyone who will look at it; remember exactly what she's wearing--what kind of Band-Aids is she wearing today?  Was that scrape on her left knee or right? Sometimes I mentally freeze the scenario in my mind and study all the people in my mental image's vicinity.  What did they witness? 

Once police action is under way, Who should I call first?  Her father, of course.  I remember that I can never remember his cell phone number.  I can recall the phone numbers of my 1st and 2nd grade boyfriends, but I cannot remember the phone number of my partner.  The father of my child.  Then call my mom and dad.  Does my mom have my dad's phone number?  I have to be sure she does.  That way I only have to make one call.  Then they will let everyone else know.  I have to practice it all in my head to increase my confidence of actually being able to react quickly and rationally if the real situation were to come true.  There aren't very many days when I don't think about it at least a little.

Yesterday evening in my hometown--40 miles away and in a town with less crime than my current one--two young men were spotted in multiple places trying to lure little girls to their car.  I practice how I will teach you to protect yourself.  Maybe it would be a good idea to test you--get a friend who is unknown to you try to pick you up.  Maybe around age 6 or 7?  I can't tell if that's totally messed up or not. I don't want you to be fearful and timid in the world; just savvy and alert.  If the ability to spot a sticker of any kind from a mile away is any indication, you don't miss much. 

Worrying about protecting you has become an outlet for my previously free-floating hypervigilance.  I always think that when you are a little older I will worry less.  But I know that's not true.  I may worry about a different variety of things, but the worries themselves will only wear ruts deeper into my psyche.  It is a constant effort to keep them in check.

Just between you and I

A return to the beginning

This evening I had the chance to hang out with the Andy sisters.  We were neighbors up until T. and I were in the 6th grade.  Sophie came with me.  It was the oddest thing--spending time with people from the opposite ends of my spectrum.

We hadn't lived in our house on Lawman Ave. very long when they moved in.  It was early evening at the beginning of September, and my mother was allowing me to make my first practice run darting across all the neighbors' backyards to return home from my grandparents' house on the other side of the block ("Don't stop anywhere.  Don't talk to anyone.  Come straight home.").  I sincerely didn't MEAN to stop.  I was running home with my tangled hair flying behind me when I spotted the two girls who weren't there earlier.  I stopped in my tracks.

They were exploring their small fenced in backyard.  Girls to play with.  I was terribly shy and had absolutely no idea how to approach them, so I did the next best thing and stared openly at them from behind the trunk of a tree.  The tree in which we would eventually spend so much time.  They quickly spotted me and called out.  I froze in terror.  I felt silly continuing to hide at that point, but I had no idea what else to do.

Soon after I found my hiding spot, someone came home and brought the girls food from McDonald's.  Oh, surely these were the luckiest girls alive!  My stomach growled watching them eat their dinner.  One of them--I can't remember which--held out some french fries in my direction.  An invitation.  Food!  My shyness couldn't resist and I left the safety of the tree.  I completely forgot that I was supposed to be going home for dinner.

Through rose-colored glasses

I rounded the corner from the produce section to the meat department by way of the deli counter. I remember because I made a conscious effort not to buy any pimento cheese spread and 99 times out of 100 I manage not to. Anyway, I spotted the bag full of tiny plastic cups--marked "Party Cups"--on display at the end of a rack next to the booze room. I immediately thought, "Sophie would love these!" since she is partial to all tiny and/or colorful things, particularly things capable of pouring. I often bring her some small item from the grocery store (a sheet of stickers, a ripe avocado, a fruit she's never tried--and here it is more like 1 time out of 3 in the managing not to), and after doing a quick mental calculation of the ratio between the odds of injury and/or mess and the odds of fun and possibly educational in some fashion, I grabbed them.

They thrilled her, of course, and she immediately began stacking and unstacking them and admiring them in the sunlight.

Ivan walked into the living room drying his hands on a little green towel and observed, "Shot glasses."

"What?" I was confused.

"Shot glasses," he said again. "You bought our daughter shot glasses. I mean, Party Cups? Come on!"

I hadn't really thought of them that way, but, truly, I'm not sure I can recall having any OTHER kind of party with cups this size. Though there are no doubt an infinite number of ways to do so.

Mugs is a funkfest; someone's talking junk.

One of my "neighbors" down over the hill is blasting "Jump Around." It's like 1992 all over again. Which was a good year, incidentally. But c'mon, WVU students, I still have a couple weeks before I have to deal with this middle of the night business. Pack it up, pack it in.

Something in the universe wants me to buy pasta.

Yesterday when Ivan came home from work, he said, "I have to show you what Monica gave me."

"Who is Monica?"  I asked.

"A co-worker," he responded, "and a--what do you call it?--'couponer.'"

He proudly brought over five coupons for Barilla brand pasta and warned, "They're only good for a couple more days.  At Giant Eagle."  Apparently if we were to buy any two boxes of Barilla pasta, we could save $0.55.  Five times.

I didn't really take him that seriously.  I vaguely wondered how this had come about (Did she bring them specifically thinking he would want them?  Did she have them and he expressed interest?), but truthfully was tired from a long day and it didn't seem important.

"So should I go to the store and get them?" he asked hopefully.

"What?  No.  Ten boxes of pasta?  Are you insane?"

He seemed surprised.  I continued, "Besides, I guarantee the store brand we buy for a dollar and like just fine is cheaper at full price than Barilla pasta is with these coupons.  In fact, I would put money on it.  Which seems ironic."

"Oh, okay," he said with a hint of disappointment.  "I just thought it would save us some money."

Looking back, I think I was not very charitable in that conversation.  His financial habits have often been a point of contention in our relationship.  I'm the one always suggesting ways to save money.  I'm the one giving lectures about cutting back, doing without.  And while it seemed strange to want to buy ten boxes of pasta when we only eat it on occasion and out-of-the blue to bring home coupons, this was a genuine attempt on his part to please me in that way.  I should have been kinder.

Sophia, however, was excited to come across the little stack of colorful papers that were now on the end table.  She carried them around the rest of the evening, and added them to her collection of colorful paint swatches that she like likes to pull in and out of the little drawer of her table and the microwave of her play kitchen.  At bedtime, she grabbed her favorite two blankets and two stuffed rabbits, and then rushed over to scoop up the coupons.  She often takes random things to bed with her.  Since she's so good about her bedtime and can chatter to herself and play happily for as much as an hour if she's not yet tired, I didn't think anything of it.

This morning she brought all the coupons back down to the living room with her, and when it was time to go she grabbed those, too.  "Honey, why don't you put the coupons on the table and then you can play with them again when we get home?"  I suggested.  She smiled at me and carried them over and tucked them into the little side pocket of the bag I was carrying.  I laughed.

So.  Here I am.  With the capacity to purchase 10 boxes of discounted pasta, sitting at my desk.

A tiny, stoic sentry

At the end of every day, when I crawl into bed next to my husband, there is a part of me that stays alert, a little part I save just for my daughters in case they need it -- a tiny, stoic sentry who never sleeps and guards her post alone.

- Kate Rope, The Bittersweet Loneliness of Motherhood

My family on Earth is so good to me.

[From a letter to a friend nearly a year ago--reflections on relocation.]

I don't know where to begin.

For the past couple weeks, in particular, I keep looking around thinking, "What the fuck has happened to my life?"  The first two days back in WV I cried constantly.  My mother settled into a chair with a tall glass of wine (with ice) and a bunch of cats on her lap to watch some nameless legal show and ignored me.  It was like being 14 all over again.

I feel homesick, although for what or where I really can't say.  Most likely I just feel homesick for one of my grandparents' front porches in the early 80s, when I had seen or experienced very little of the world and when all I needed was an extra five minutes to play outside before dinner or to finally distract my grandpa from his baseball game so he would talk to me instead ("Papaw, have you ever had a mustache?  How old were you?  How long did you have it?  Would you ever have one again?").  Obviously, I can't go back there.

And that leaves me here.

My friend came to see me.  Judith.  She lived in an identical apartment above me when I lived at 3333 W. Grace Street in Richmond, VA.  23221.  I met her shortly after I moved in.  One weekend morning I was unpacking and cleaning and whatnot, and waiting for my landlord to come and unclog my kitchen sink so I could move on with my day.  Suddenly my upstairs neighbor drained the dishwater in HER sink and my kitchen began flooding.  I threw on my flowery bathrobe and ran upstairs to plead with her to please, PLEASE plug her sink!  Just for now.  Her large dog (a boxer mix named Jojo to whom I would later sing, "Jojo left his home in Tuscon, Arizona for some California grass...") came charging and barking to the door.  After some delay, she cautiously peered out through her cracked front door.  She seemed nice but a bit reserved and more than a little startled by my dramatic, breathless appearance at her front door on a Saturday morning.

When she wanted to visit me upon my unceremonious return to the area, I warned her that I was staying at my father's and he lived a little off the beaten bath.  She said adamantly, "I will find you."  And she did, thank god.  Spending a couple days with her and watching her play with my daughter made me feel normal--like my old self for awhile.

This morning at 6am I stood at my father's kitchen sink eating a half sandwich with last night's slow roasted pork and surveying the landscape, and it felt good.

I can't say much for the events that have taken place in between Judith's visit and that sandwich.

I had a job interview on Friday.  At [a local mental health facility] in Clarksburg, WV.  It is located just feet away from the old hospital in which I was born, and it was a completely baffling experience.  The two women who interviewed me were as sweet as could be and incredibly informal.  Mary Sue and Peggy.  They stared at my resume and then up at me and said, "What brings you here from San Francisco?"

Oh, ladies.  If only I could succinctly answer that question.

The were puzzled as to why I had a PhD in psychology but no license to practice therapy.  At one point, one of them asked the other, "Did you see on her resume that...." The other one cut her off:  "I read it," she said.  "I read every bit of it."

They seemed to want to try to fit me in SOMEwhere in the organization and promised to talk to their HR to see what they could offer me.  "Honey, you might not even want the job after you see the salary," Mary Sue warned.  Possibly as much as $40,000/year less than I made at my last position.

Oh, Mary Sue, I want it.

I heard them talking about me before I was even down the hall.  "She's so nice!" was the main thing I heard.

I am nice.

My mother was dogging San Francisco as a place to raise a child.  "I hear frogs outside every night!" she bragged, as if that fact alone were enough to sufficiently make her point.

"Yes, but I could count every person of color in my high school on one hand and I can still remember all their names!" I countered.  "Because there were so few of them."

"We have the Mexicans and the Orientals here now," she offered.

Yes, it's true.  And if they're not picking our produce, they've opened a restaurant.  My friend Shannon tells me there is a popular Chinese restaurant here that keeps a large bowl of Doritos on the food buffet.  And they're very popular.  And everyone still finds it hilarious to joke that the chicken is actually cat.

To be continued.  Sorry.  I didn't even bother to edit this for typos as I usually try to do.  Stream-of-consciousness.  My household is starting to wake up.  Send.

Letter to CEO of Mattress Discounters (the west coast version of the company)

To:  Mr. Dale Carlsen, CEO of Mattress Discounters 

Re:  Replacement box springs/foundation

Dear Mr. Carlsen:

In August 2012, I purchased a mattress, box springs, and bed frame from the Mattress Discounters located in Pleasant Hill, CA (Invoice #5XXXXXXXX). Actually, a kindhearted relative purchased it for me. (I am unable to find work in the San Francisco Bay Area at the moment and I have a young daughter, so as you can imagine money is pretty tight.) I desperately needed a new one as my old one was begging to be put out of its misery and long ago had given up any attempts to contain the metal coils within it. This was very painful. The protruding sharp metal coils, I mean.

When choosing the merchant from whom to purchase my new mattress, I chose Mattress Discounters without a second thought. I had purchased my very first mattress and box springs from a Mattress Discounters in Richmond, VA in 1999. I was 22 years old (and broke then, too! Ugh.) and was deliriously happy to be moving into my first apartment and starting graduate school. I stumbled upon a Mattress Discounters on W. Broad St. The sales associate was incredibly friendly and helpful and assisted me in locating a mattress and box springs set that fit my meager teaching assistant budget. I'm pretty sure it was the least expensive mattress in the whole store but I didn't care. I had my own place and I wouldn't be sleeping on my hardwood floors in the humid summer heat another night.

Since my experience with the east coast Mattress Discounters was so positive and my budget mattress lasted long beyond its projected lifespan before giving up the ghost, I decided to purchase from the west coast Mattress Discounters.  My initial second experience was also positive: the sales associate was efficient and helpful, my order arrived promptly, and the first few weeks on the new bed were absolutely blissful. During what was, I believe, our second month of new bed ownership, the trouble began. As my partner and I were settling in for the night, I turned over to go to sleep and we heard the cracking of wood from below the bed.  (I'm going to be honest, Mr. Carlsen: it didn't do much for my self-esteem.)  After a few more weeks there was a second sound of wood splitting from beneath the bed. Gradually, the problem progressed to the point at which we find ourselves today. 

I believe we were fairly “normal” users of the bed. If anything, we have been very LIGHT users of the bed. I am the mother of a toddler and a chronic insomniac; I am not in the bed nearly as much as I would like to be. My partner works hard and has a long commute; he is also not in the bed as nearly much as he would like to be. No one is jumping on the bed. There is no rough-housing on the bed unless you count my one year-old daughter diving into the pillows and blankets in order to evade having her jammies put on at night. As for other strenuous activities that often go on in folks' beds, well, Mr. Carlsen, as I mentioned we are the parents of a small child. We are tired. We are stressed about our finances. Let's just say this bed has had an easy life thus far.

The cracking and breaking of the wooden slats in the box spring/foundation portion of the bed has gotten out of control at this point. Each half of the bed sags dramatically so that sleeping in it is akin to curling up inside a taco. It's actually not as fun as it sounds. We have to roll uphill to get to the center of the mattress as well as to the outer edge. As a result I have started having some pretty severe back problems and I am now shuffling and limping and groaning around the house. It's very painful, Mr. Carlsen. I cannot afford to see a chiropractor. My partner and I switch off as to who “gets” to sleep on the couch in the living room.

I contacted your customer service center, and Rose Bauer in Sacramento, CA called me back in a timely manner. At her request, I photographed the mattress and box springs on top and underneath. I also took a picture of the splinters of wood of varying sizes and metal staples that now regularly litter my bedroom floor. (Please recall the oft-mentioned small child in my home. I don't know if you have children yourself, Mr. Carlsen, but babies and toddlers try to eat everything.) Ms. Bauer called me on Friday, May 11 to let me know that she'd spoken with her supervisor because she had some questions, and it was decided that there was so much breakage that it was due to damage on our part and not due to being defective and therefore would not be replaced under warranty. I emphasized to her that we had NOT damaged our box springs. (Honestly, why would we do this?) The men delivered the frame, mattress, and box springs and set them up for us and we haven't even so much as flipped the mattress in the interim. (I know I'm supposed to do it every six months. At least that's what Martha Stewart recommends.) Ms. Bauer repeated the conclusion that the box springs were considered damaged and not defective, and she was happy to offer me a 40% discount on the purchase of a new one.

Is Ms. Bauer accusing me of being untruthful? It feels like she is and I really have an issue with that. Also: spend more money at a Mattress Discounters after this? I don't think so.

I really hope you can help make this right, Mr. Carlsen. I do not believe I am asking for anything unreasonable. I love the mattress. I just need something to put it on that isn't going to collapse if I happen to have eaten dessert that evening. One only purchases so many mattresses in their lifetime; I have now gotten both of mine from Mattress Discounters and, in my opinion, that makes me a pretty good customer. I would appreciate being treated as such.

Sincerely,

Amie X. Xxxxxxxx

Mine and yours

"...and all this was happening around 500 B.C. You know, when the Greeks were doing their thing.  In my region--not your region.  I don't know what yours were doing at that time.  Fucking sheep, probably."

A portion of Ivan's account of a chapter on Buddhism he'd recently enjoyed in a book on world religion, and one of many reminders that his Balkan ancestors are superior to my Northern European ones.

Today 2/14/13

I am putting them in the closet in a labeled box instead of getting rid of them. 

Just in case.

The good things

Things are pretty dire right now.  My unemployment has ended, and today I am placing my beloved bird Cricket in a new home.  If I let myself think about it all more than a couple seconds I melt into a puddle of fear and sadness.

So I need to focus on a good thing for at least a few moments.

I have a history of being a sad bastard on my birthday.  It's always been less about getting older  (though that is becoming more of a factor these days) and mTore about having way too many expectations and then being disappointed when no one lives up to them.  (The month is still young, however, and there is still time for me to catch up!)

There was, though, the year (2008?  I think it was?) my old book club and my friend D.P., in particular, had the sweetest and most thoughtful little surprise celebration for me at our monthly meeting.  I still have the origami cranes from that.  And the melted record album bowl.  And the cards.  Because it was one of the nicest things anyone has ever done for me.

Anyway.

Ivan called me from work on Thursday, breathless with excitement.  I was surprised, because usually when he calls from work he sounds much more tired.  He started telling me what all errands he'd run during a couple hours he had off earlier in the afternoon, and then he burst in with, "and I got you something!"

He told me all about how he had wanted to find me something so special, something that could possibly convey the depth of his love ("That's a lot of expectations for one present," I pointed out as he shushed my skepticism.)

"I went to Haight Street," he said, "because there are so many weird goddamn shops close together that I figured if I was going to find something for you it would be there."  I rolled my eyes.  "Did you know there's a store there for Edwardian fashion?  Like, nice stuff.  I bet they only get customers one time a year..."

"Halloween," I broke in, just as he said, "Burning man."

"Anyway," he continued, "I went from store to store.  I even went into the Edwardian place.  Who knows?  Maybe they have something for you in there.  But I couldn't find anything.  I could find anything just right.  That said what I wanted to say.  I gave up.  Honey, I had given up!  And then I saw it.  Out of the corner of my eye.  There it was!"

"What, in a window?" I asked.

He went on to tell me about how the store clerk had been so helpful to him as they examined his options.  My curiosity grew and grew.

"You're going to love it!" he promised.  "You're going to know instantly why I got it for you and you're going to understand what you mean to me."

This was dramatic language even for Ivan.  I could barely disguise my doubt and disbelief, though I was completely intrigued by whatever item he thought could accomplish all this.

He wasn't done.

"Also I'm going to prove you wrong over what you said at Christmas.  How you said I didn't get you at all.  I do get you!  I get you and I love you so much!  You mean so much to me.  Do you want it now?  Yes!  Let me give it to you now!  I don't think I can wait."

I was completely blown away by the level of enthusiasm he was showing for this (and it doesn't even involve Warhammer!) but I said, "Look.  You would not believe the history I have for negotiating my presents early.  But I want to wait for this one.  Things have been so hard for so long for us and my birthdays usually feel so crappy to me that it would be really nice to have something to look forward to on my birthday."

He was doubtful and pointed out that he had to work on my birthday and I would be home alone with the baby.  I knew that, though.  And I don't even need the present.  The thought and effort that he put into really touched me, and this birthday, in one of the last days that I will be able to stay home with my girl before something--one way or another--changes.  This is enough. 

Dear Frijole/Undertoad Crossover

Dear Frijole,

As I write this, you are 8 1/2 months old.  You've now been out of me longer than you were in me.

You have five teeth at various stages of coming in.  You love avocados, hummus, cheese, yogurt, and yams.  You love to dance, and you and your father are the only people in the entire world who like the sound of my singing.  "Yo Gabba Gabba" and "Dora the Explorer" get you excited, and you lick the TV screen to show your appreciation of the characters you like best.  When you take a bath in the evenings you love to play with your pink rubber duck.  Always as we are finishing your bath, we say goodbye to Duckie and he quacks and "kisses" you on the cheeks and nose and your smile gets so huge.  Sometimes you murmur "mama" in your sleep and it does something in my chest that I can't quite describe.

Some of my favorite moments of the day come when you wake up.  You sit up with blanket marks on your face and sleepily rub your eyes.  You'll play quietly with your animals for a few minutes:  touching them, patting them, biting them, burying your face in them.  When you notice me watching you, you break into a grin and eagerly stand up in your crib to reach for me.  I hug and nuzzle you and take in your baby smell.  I could pick you out of hundreds of babies just by smelling you.

You are--many times over--the most beautiful thing in my world.  I can barely believe that I am lucky enough to have such a beautiful, sweet, playful, inquisitive little girl to love.  The responsibility of guiding you into becoming a confident, courageous, compassionate young woman is a daunting one, but one that I take very seriously.  

I can't look at newborn pictures of you without weeping, because every day takes you further away from being my tiny baby.  It is bittersweet to be leaving your babyhood behind, but it is amazing to watch you learn and grow and change.  You are my greatest joy.

Love,

Mama

Fighting words

"The front door's open.  You don't have to make a scene."

Sergeant Pepper Taught the Band to Play

Twenty years ago today.  Can you believe it?  I don't feel old enough to have fallen in love for the first time twenty years ago today.

October 24, 1992.  It feels like the day life as I know it began.  Thank you for that.  They are happy memories for me.

A tube is a tube is a tube

A: Can you run out and get me a tube of Orajel? We're almost out and I'm starting to freak out.

I: (picks up a tube of Desitin diaper cream) Can't you just use this?

A: That's for her butt.

I: (Looks at tube again, shrugs) Okay.