And, good night.

Thirty days of daily posts, or perhaps more appropriately, thirty days of just-shy-of-midnight posts. I only really mentioned it a few times, but my posting this month was part of something called NaBloPoMo, which stands for National Blog Posting Month. I'd been struggling to find time for writing and thought that this commitment would be a way to get me back in the saddle. It was definitely a great sort of boot camp to get me conditioned to writing daily again.

My commitment didn't necessarily translate to passion or inspiration. I do think my posts suffered, I often said things to Sean like, "I just have to throw a post up before bed" and "I have to write something." Sitting here in a post What Not to Wear glow, I am relieved. Tomorrow there will be no requirement to post, no threat of failure if the laptop goes unused. It's liberating, but it's also inspiring, it feels as if I am getting something back tomorrow, a privilege. My freedom. Back to greater consideration, longer savoring of words in my head before sending them off into the world, and hopefully, more posts that create a connection between us, a shared experience, mine perhaps echoing your own or illuminating one about which you've often wondered.

I am grateful for NaBloPoMo and equally grateful to be bidding it good night.

********

A theme I think you'll be reading a lot of in the coming months: Operation: Sisters Share a Bedroom. We've given it two soft tries and it ain't looking good, not good at all. Avery is unapologetically weirded out by the idea of being out of her crib and Briar is delighted by the prospect of having Avery in with her. Unfortunately, both times, after 10 minutes Avery is trying to get out of bed and Briar is howling mournfully that she needs us, that her sister isn't behaving. Nursing, cuddling, singing, reading, stern go-to-sleeps, all to no avail.

I don't know how to make it work, but am not giving up after two tries. We are officially taking advice from veterans of the siblings sharing a room trenches. Don't be shy, how'd you do it?

It's What Makes it so Perfect

I'll be the first to admit that yesterday was a bad day. I hesitated to post about my funk, but felt it only fair to draw the curtain on that side of things as I am so open about everything else. Ironically another woman that I've found friendship with through blogging wrote a similar sort of, dark side revealing post about parenting, or perhaps more specifically, about being a mom. It isn't easy. I love it, in fact I tremble when I think of what might have happened if I'd walked a different path, if I'd kept moving too fast, my chin thrust too far in back-off-or-I'll-bite stubborn defense tactic.

The simple truth is that I was supposed to do this and I wake every day with an excitement about all that is before me, but that doesn't mean that I don't have moments when the all-consuming nature of this responsibility makes me buckle ever so slightly. As a mom who spends half of the work week working from home I identify with Kelly's post. I understand being torn, pulled in opposite directions by two different worlds, mine is not so much a desire to not to get down on my hands and knees, but a sense of duty to my employer, to follow the work-at-home honor code to a literal T. It is a cruel and arduous battle that alternately has me cursing and counting my blessings.

Waking up this morning I worried that my bad mood of yesterday might still have a hold on me. I padded to the shower and stood beneath the hot spray. I stayed until the steam spilled over the shower curtain and began to swirl throughout our tiny bathroom. Getting dressed was surprisingly easy, I fought the urge to pull on jeans and instead slipped into a pair of impossibly comfortable black Gap maternity dress pants. Later as I did my hair (which yesterday did NOT cooperate and made me fear I had gotten nothing more than a glorified Dorothy Hamil bowl cut, which works if you're 5'2" and wearing a leotard and ice skates, but at 5'10" and pregnant, ain't cute) I began to get the hang of drying, straightening and using some sort of goop. (It's all in the goop!)

I walked into the living room and Avery was breathless:

"Mama, goggie woofin, 's'a goggie woofin!"

I looked at her, "You hear a doggie barking?"

"Yeah, hear a goggie woofin'!" and with that she jumped up and down and pointed to the computer.

She hurried toward the computer, stopping three times in the twelve feet to turn to me, attempt to jump with her feet never leaving the ground and declaring, "S'a goggie woofin'!"

Watching her, it was as if the clock had been turned back, the wholeness of my joy as undiluted as the moment they placed her on my chest those 18 months ago. She stood, back to me, dark, silky tresses curling wildly and framing the familiar shape of her head, narrower than her sister's upon a longer neck. The backs of her elbows still dimpled, but the hands beyond less baby-like, more capable. A brief moment in time just beyond baby and well into toddler, a little girl already knocking outside the window of this room we're in, came as a blessing, as they always do.

There is a perfect symmetry, an exquisitely choreographed magic to the tide of emotions along this journey. While I was pregnant I went through euphoria and terror, anxiety and exhaustion, and as each emotion passed there came a new stage in which I needed to have shed that last layer. My yesterday, my low, foggy yesterday gave me pause, it had me moving slower this morning, and with that absence of rushing came an awakening. I saw Avery.

I really saw her. I didn't move, didn't try to drink my coffee, check my email or fold laundry. I just let myself see her, allowed myself to marvel once again at this little person Sean and I created. I felt the weight that had been so strong just a day before fluttering from the jagged edges upon which it had become stuck, the frustrations and the worries, the challenges and the sorrows, gone. Avery turned to me and there was no catching up, I was in the moment and she knew it. She threw her hands out and ran to me. Hands and mind free I surprised her halfway and we sat, holding on to each other in the sunlight streaming through the window.

One of those days

You ever have one of those days when you just never quite catch up? Today was almost like that, except it wasn't that I didn't catch up, more like I held on by my teeth until I thought I'd drop and I looked up and it was 8:15pm. My shoulders and neck are one hot mess, knots and twinges. And I have this overwhelming desire to stomp my feet and pout.

I'm sitting here trying to figure out what specfically caused my incredibly foul mood and I keep coming up empty. The girls were fine, wonderful in fact. I got home late and we played, tossing around a little ball and clapping and squealing at each catch. The house was easy, a quick unload and reload of the dishwasher, a pass of the vacuum, the flick of a couple of light switches and voila, cozy and bright. Sean got home on time and was in good spirits. Yet the weight of the exhausting pace of the day clung to me.

It all comes down to things beyond my control, personalities and scenarios that I just need to let go, but today I found it tougher than usual. I hate to chalk something up to pregnancy, but I think in this case, I will. I'll acknowledge that I am weary and that with a good night's sleep, tomorrow will hold a fresh start, a new day. There's no shame in that, right? A bad day. A tired me.

Tomorrow's a new day. A new me.

Good night from grouchy, sunshine'll be back tomorrow.

Wait a minute

Sean: You all set?

Me: Yup.

S: Great, see you in...

We had agreed we'd hit the gym tonight. I was taking the first leg.

Me: I'm just going to do 40-45 minutes or so and then run to the store. I just have to go change.

S: Ok.

I ran upstairs and grabbed a sports bra and t-shirt. I debated the pants versus shorts issue, my legs were shaved, but I wasn't sure if I could find shorts that would feel right riding below my belly. Pants it was. I pulled on a pair of bright blue yoga pants. They felt incredible and for once the ties of the waistband weren't hanging awkwardly in my crotch. I peeked in the mirror quickly to make sure the shirt covered my belly. Check. Done.

Me: Ok, babe. I'm heading out.

S: Ok.

He was smiling at me.

Me: Do I look ok?

Sean: You look incredible. Have fun.

Me: Ok, babe. Thanks, I will.

I stopped in the bathroom downstairs to check the mirror once more, just to make sure nothing was hugging me weird. I walked out the door to the sound of Briar running to Sean saying she had a ball and could they throw it, Avery squealed, "A'throw it, a'throw it!" The walk to the car was exhilarating, the feel of the ground beneath my running shoes, the starry sky overhead, and the familiar flutters of excitement before a workout. I smiled thinking of the ultrasound yesterday, watching that perfect little body twisting and flipping to the delight of the sonographer, like a dolphin at Seaworld. She and I were going to work out together and my joy in that was intoxicating.

The Y was packed, but I was undeterred, I circled the parking lot and slipped into a spot in the most remote corner. I hopped out of the car, shrugging my shoulders as other cars zipped and revved vying for closer spots, "no sense getting upset about a distant spot when you come to work out," I thought. I walked the 150 yards to the doors and breezed in, a happy, fit pregnant woman. I smiled at the man on his cell phone outside and the teens in the lobby, they all returned my smile. I was on top of the world.

I waited in line to swipe the card on my key ring. The woman behind the counter scowled at me as she took the keys. "I'm not sure which is mine and which is my husband's. Guess it'll be easy to tell in a minute." I was chuckling. She was scowling harder.

"23," it came at me like a wet branch in the face on a late night walk.

"Excuse me?" I asked.

"23. You are 23, your husband is number 22." She said it as if my not knowing suggested I was a lower life form and then flung the keys at me.

I was stunned, but still happy to be at the Y. A couple looked at me, they both flashed warm smiles and I smiled back shrugging, they shook their heads. The friendliness, or lack thereof, of the desk staff at the Y is legendary. I turned and headed to the bathroom. Passing the mirror I smiled, loving the hair cut and feeling proud to have gotten out. I went in to the stall sat down and looked at my shoes and that's when I saw it.

Suddenly a montage of all the people I'd smiled at raced through my mind, the disdain of the desk clerk, the couple. My cheeks burned and I was shaking my head. Two mirrors and a once over from Sean and we hadn't noticed that my freaking pants were on inside out.

Pregnancy ditziness is fine, but my god, pants on inside out? Doesn't that border on incompetent?

Isn't She Lovely?

Thanks, Stevie, for putting our wonder into words.


Isn't she lovely
Isn't she wonderfull
Isn't she precious
Less than one minute old
I never thought through love we'd be
Making one as lovely as she
But isn't she lovely made from love

Isn't she pretty
Truly the angel's best
Boy, I'm so happy
We have been heaven blessed
I can't believe what God has done
through us he's given life to one
But isn't she lovely made from love

Isn't she lovely
Life and love are the same
Life is Aisha
The meaning of her name
Londie, it could have not been done
Without you who conceived the one
That's so very lovely made from love

Tune in Tomorrow

The girls are tucked away in bed, Sean and I are weary from a weekend of home improvements and trying to shake this nasty bug that has taken stubborn root in our chests. I came downstairs this morning, head feeling heavy and swollen, and perched on the couch in front of Sean.

"What are you doing?" He asked.

"Umm, just waking up. I feel like hell."

"Why don't you go back to bed?" He asked.

"Ummm, I don't know."

"Go. Take care of yourself. Sleep." He smiled.

"Ummm, ok, " I'm particularly brilliant and articulate while pregnant and sick in the morning.

I trudged upstairs, looked at the clock which read 9:30, and rolled face down in the pillow with a whimper and a mercilessly stuffy nose snort. Next thing I knew the clock read 11:30. I sat up, nose better, but now my head was throbbing. I made straight for the kitchen for the one inarguably acceptable drug for pregnant women and a glass of oj. Then coffee. I was approaching punky bliss. Entering the newly mocha-riffic fireplace room and I was renewed.

*****************

We head to Albany early tomorrow for an ultra-sound, the big anatomy scan. I have every intention of sending Sean off with the images for posting here tomorrow night or early Tuesday morning.

Care to make a wager on whether we're baking up a little girl or a little boy?

It's Me(me)

I am much happier with my hair than this picture might suggest. I actually skipped out of the salon today, Sean had asked me what I was going to do and I had mentioned a cut and bangs. He said, "Sure, whatever, you always says you'll do something different and you come back and it looks the same." This is true, I admit it. He usually reminds me before I go that my hair was short when he fell in love with me and that I was heavier when we met. "I love you no matter what you look like, babe. Do what feels right," and he sends me off with a kiss. This time, I really did it.

"Shoulder lenght? Longer? Above the shoulders?"

"Above the shoulders," I said, like I was some sort of spaghetti western heroine, my chin jutting out in defiance.

"And you said bangs?"

"Yes," very bold, and then, "Unless you think it would look stupid." She was nineteen if she was a day, had a nose ring, painfully teased hair and she was either chewing gum or clicking her jaw, the slippery slope of self-doubt and giving up the reins to the stylist had begun.

"No."

I couldn't tell if she meant no to the bangs or no to me looking stupid. As luck would have it, Stacie, was a pro. She snipped along, asking me every so often if the water was too hot, the shears too close, the blow dryer too strong, her sensitivity to my comfort was eerie. Sometimes it feels like they are taking their aggression out on you as nails dig into the base of your skull or those little wispy haris by your hears get caught in the comb and your eyes water. Not Stacie. And my god, as she worked the face staring back at me in the mirror looked brighter and brighter.

I was not kidding as I bubbled over with "Oh my gosh I love it" and "I had no idea, this is better than I had hoped for," she beamed in response and it felt like we were both off to a great Saturday. I grinned the whole way home and when Sean saw me his jaw dropped. "Oh my god. It's, you, wow. I can't believe you did it. It looks amazing." And the things is, I knew that, really knew that. Now, if I could get myself to do this more often (the last time was February) I think I'd really be on to something.

Shut up and let me see the hair, right?




And now for the meme tag that was waiting for me when I got home:
The delightful Hotfessional tagged me for a double whammy meme I've never done before, it is excriciatingly long so I am NOT tagging anyone.

(X) Been to Canada - Sean proposed while we were kayaking in Victoria, British Columbia.

(X) Been to Mexico - I studied in Cuernavaca, one of the most beautiful places I've ever been.

(X) Been to Florida - It was a rather inauspicious event; a theatre conference in Jacksonville. Oddly enough, it was also my first and only time in a Hooters and later a drag show.

(X) Been on a plane - I would trade every minute on a plane for an hour at the DMV, hand to god.

(X) Been lost - If I am continually lost does it cease to be "being lost" and simply become "being?"

(X) Been on the opposite side of the country - And how! I hail from the West Coast and am married to a Lake George guy. If you read back a few lines, the plane thing? We're flying West for Christmas, my palms are already sweating.

(X) Swam in the ocean - Many, actually.

(X) Cried yourself to sleep - Many times, I'm a romantic.

() Played cops and robbers - Nope.

(X) Played with a Tonka Truck - I have to believe I have.

(X) Recently colored with crayons - Pink snowflakes with purple glitter, baby..

(X) Sang karaoke - Unfortunately, yes.

() Paid for a meal with only coins - I'm a cheap date, but not that cheap.

(X) Done something you told yourself you wouldn’t? - Yes, I recently spent several mortifying hours in the ER for an infection in my finger. The thing was mostly likely caused by cuticle biting. I swore I'd never do it again, but I have.

( ) Made prank phone calls - My dorky tendencies never delivered me to this.

(X) Caught a snowflake on your tongue - Yes.

( ) Danced in the rain - I've done just about everything else in it.

(X) Written a letter to Santa Claus - Yes, and am so looking forward to doing it with the girls!

( ) Been kissed under the mistletoe - I don't think I ever have...

(X) Watched the sunrise with someone you care about - I am laughing. Every time we used to visit Sean's dad in Milford I would pop up and say, "Honey, do you want to watch the sunrise?" Not that he isn't a romantic, but I don't think he ever really wanted to, but he always did.

(X) Blown bubbles - Often. I also discovered that spit bubbles delight children to no end. Husbands? It may well be their kryptonite, Sean is so repulsed by it.

(x) Made a bonfire on the beach - A little x because I've only ever enjoyed them made by other people.

( ) Crashed a party - You all know my invitation issues.

( ) Crashed a wedding - I find that weddings incite an inappropriate and irrepressible kind of laughter in me. I avoid them whenever possible.

( ) Crashed a funeral - Seriously?

(X) Gone ice-skating - Yes, I am the frankenskater.

1. Any nicknames? Man, Mans, A. Mo

2. Mother’s name? Anne, the "e" is very important, comparable to the "h" in Slouchy's Sarah.

3. Favorite drink? Each morning's first cup of coffee, followed closely by a forbidden late afternoon coffee.

4. Any tattoos? No need for factory add ons, I like me just fine

5 Body piercing? Just the ears.

6. How much do you love your job? So much! They read this blog ;)

7. Favorite vacation spot? Vacation?

8. Ever been to Africa? No, it would involve considerable air travel.

9. Ever eaten cookies for dinner? No, breakfast maybe, dinner, no.

10. Ever been on TV? Yes.

11. Ever steal any traffic signs? Not traffic signs, but I did take a sign from a place location stricken from the record to preserve my pristine record I lived. It was at a park/school that Sean and I would go to toss the football around. It read:

NO DOGS
NO GOLF
NO FUN

Ok, the third one wasn't really "fun," but that's what Sean and I always said.

12. Ever been in a car accident? Yes, twice. I wouldn't recommend it.

13. Drive a 2-door or 4-door vehicle? 4 Door.

14. Favorite pie? Not a pie person.

15. Favorite Number? 26

16. Favorite movie? I can never answer this. I don't think I have one, but if you set me in front of something that gets me to sit down and forget the laundry, neighbors and energy bill it'll be my favorite.

17. Favorite holiday? Christmas.

18. Favorite dessert? I think the thing I like about dessert is that it's not something you have every day, so it's different, having a favorite would make it less of a special thing, I think.

19. Favorite food? Turkey burgers with obscene amounts of mustard.

20. Favorite day of the week? Probably Friday, but I think they all have their benefits.

21. Favorite brand of body wash? Hahaha, whatever isn't empty in the shower?

22. Favorite toothpaste? I can never remember when I am staring down the massive toothpaste display. I can say I prefer gel to paste.

23. Favorite smell? The scent of coffee snaking in under the sheets as I laze in bed listening to the sounds of the girls playing while Sean putters downstairs.

24. What do you do to relax? Pre-pregnancy I'd lift weights and run, now, umm, maybe not relaxing very much.

25. Do you have a message to your friends reading this? You're still reading????

26. How do you see yourself in 10 years? The mall, walking an acceptable 30 meters behind our 13 and 12 year olds...hopefully the 9.5 year old will still hold my hand.

27. Furthest place you will send this message? I'm not planning to send it anywhere, but there are people in Bangladesh and Singapore who read this regularly

28. Who will respond the fastest? I have my suspicions, but I'll withhold comment.

Now, go treat yourself to something for having made it this far. Good grief.

Reading Double

I have come to accept that until I finally come face to face with this energetic life kicking around inside my belly, I am just going to be confused. The pregnancy ditz-state has rocked this mama to the core this time around, I'd offer examples, but of course I can't remember any. Perhaps I can rope Sean into guest posting for your reading pleasure, until then, bare with me.

I checked my inbox this evening during a What Not to Wear commercial break. I had not one, but two meme tags. Not that big a deal, say some of you, but when the tags come from an "Angie" and an "Anglea" and you're me? It's a big deal. I must have clicked back and forth three times...

"Is it the same?"

"Are there two?"

"No, it's Angie, but wait, that's Angela, but two?"

"The same day? Same name."

"Naw, it's a double publish..."

But I was wrong. The wonderful Angela tagged me for the 8 Things Meme and the delightful Angie tagged me for an alphabet meme. So, yes, two. And away we go:

The rules: list a word that describes you for every letter of the alphabet. Offer as much or as little explanation as you wish. Please keep the words positive (for example, don’t use “fat” for F or “lame” for L), and feel free to get creative. Tag as many or as few people as you wish. Link back to your tagger and forward to your taggees.

awake
bellylicious
coughing...we are all still sick
delirious...we are all still madly in love
energetic
flip
genuine
hopeful
imaginative
joyous
kicky
less-and-less-lap
mama
nocturnal on-demand, if you get my nursing drift
over-the-moon
playful
questing
relentless
sean's
tickled
unironed
va va va voom
wiser
xx did I mention our anatomy scan, wherein we might learn the gender, as in xx or xy of this baby, is Monday morning?
yawning
zany

Rules: Once tagged, you must link to the person who tagged you. Then post the rules before your list, and list 8 random things about yourself. At the end of the post, you must tag and link to 8 other people, visit their sites, and leave a comment letting them know they've been tagged.

1. I generally love movies and fall into the predictable stereotype, getting slightly weepy exactly ten seconds into a trailer and winding up with chills as I rub my arms saying, "Ooo, I want to see that." However, and this is a big however, the movie currently being shoved down my throat with Kelly Russell and Jonathan Rhys-Meyers, so help me it looks like the worst thing ever to be trotted out by the studios. I'd sooner watch an Olsen twin tackle Shakespeare then pay to see August Rush. It has absolutely nothing that draws me in, and in fact, after the commercials end I get angry because the story sounds great, but the actors, the look, I detest it all and resent the advertising blitz.

2. I do not understand how a "Fluff sandwich" can be considered food.

3. Anything raspberry flavored, real or artificial, activates my gag reflex.

4. I am getting my hair cut tomorrow.

5. The portion I have come to accept as a serving size with regard to banana peppers is just shy of one jar.

6. I put on a fresh pair of socks to go to sleep in the winter.

7. I am literally unable to purchase cosmetics or lotions for myself that cost more than $8, though I long for the good stuff.

8. I have an obsession with preventing the squirrels in our neighborhood from eating from our bird feed out front. Thus far the only effective means of doing this is keeping the damn thing empty and they still come and maniacally rub their verminy little claw-paws together, licking their lips and bobbing their heads in search of more $15 a bag wild bird food.

I'm not tagging anyone because at this late hour I know I'll blow a link. Wait, I take that back. For the alphabet meme I want to tag a couple of women whose choice of words always delight me and who I know have, on occasion, seen themselves in a way that denies them the truth of their arresting beauty and exceptional intelligence. So, Miz Flutter and Mrs. Chicken, dazzle us with a little alphabetized self-love, will ya?


Ok, whew. Done.

Unscripted Scrapping

I've not once copped to being creatively obliterated by the challenge of NaBloPoMo, and I'd like to think that my posts have maintained a certain integrity. That all ends today. I am posting way too much video that will more than likely fall on its face as far as blog content goes, but it was oh so fun as I experienced it in the moment, and if it were to give you even a smidgeon of that joy, then I think the three hours it took to upload will have been worth it.

This is a moving snapshot (moving as in "in motion," not particularly tug-at-your-heart-strings, maybe assault-your-eardrums, but certainly not gooey) of our efforts to burn off the extra energy the girls had last night at bedtime. The video is but a fraction of what actually went down. I hope you enjoy, but if you don't, I totally understand and pledge no more video heavy posts.

Giving Thanks

Briar's arrival, my sister's presence, and Sean for always.


For health.


Blue eyes and soft skin.


For Avery's arrival.


For her spirit and strength.


For their friendship.


And for you, little one.

Gratitude Trumping Annoyance

Ok, so this post could have absolutely gone the route of:

Dear Home Owner,
We invite you to call us.
We offer 24 Hour Service...unless
it's a weekday,
snowy day,
rainy day
or an emergency.
With Love,
Your Local Electrician

Which is not to be confused with:

Seasons Greetings,
This year call on us,
for all your plumbing needs...unless
you are standing knee deep in raw sewage,
are without water,
without heat,
attempting to provide for 2 tots in diapers,
or at all optimistic about remedying a nasty situation.
As Always,
Your Neighborhood Plumber

No, this post won't be delving into that ungrateful, but all too often true territory. Today we are thankful for dear friends (Deb) and the ties we enjoy because of that friendship (Can you say County Sheriff?)

I was home again today with no power in the downstairs bathroom which is also our laundry room. Any other parents of toddlers? Do you have any idea how much laundry they generate? And me with my passion for fresh towels and clean sheets? And the increased protrusion of my burgeoning belly of which I cannot seem to remember as I do things like lift salsa laden chips to my mouth. Oh the stains and splats.

I spent the morning calling electrician after electrician, trying to explain our plight. It was a conundrum and my inability to retain even a limited grasp of the terms I needed to regurgitate made the clear delivery of our situation impossible.

"Ok, so was it the circuit or the breaker?"

"Umm, the fuse?"

"Within the circuit?"

"Maybe in the plug..."

"Did you check the box?"

"Is that the panel?"

"Do you know how many circuits are involved?"

"I know the number of outlets and switches."

"But are they one the same circuit?"

"Look, I'd love to answer that, and I think I can, but this feels like a bad game of telephone. Let's cut to the chase, is there a snowball's chance in hell you're even going to make it here today? Because if the answer is no, I'll gladly peddle my non-native English speaker rendition of my problem with someone who will."

Obviously I didn't say that, but about the fifth time I tried to recite by rote the issue about the main box having enough coming in, the panel having enough going out, the connections on the outlets and switches being fine, but the absence of power at each, well, I was fed up, cold and tired. And defensive, I kept wanting to sputter, "But I'm smart. This situation is an unfair indicator of my intelligence and general competence." I could almost feel their eyes rolling, hear the stories, "And then, get this, then she said...." followed by wild laughter and knee slapping.

Enter Jeff, former sheriff and new hero of mine. He swept in with with a toolbelt and head lamp to match the one Sean had been wearing for two days, and proceeded to charm our girls, restore the tender, loving personality of my husband AND get our washer, dryer, downstairs heat and peace of mind all restored. And, it cost less than a trip to the grocery store.

So, today, my gratitude is genuinely trumping any and all annoyance. And, in my next life I shall be a plumber or an electrician and I'll return calls and make emergency calls and become a legend, beloved by all.

Mommy, look! I did it.

We were at the dining room table, Avery was taking a nap and Sean was trying to fix yet another Hmm, wonder what could cause that? kind of quirky, old house, breakdown. I had scooped a handful of tea lights and a couple of tin candle holders along with a box of wooden matches. It was early enough that the candles were more to entertain than to actually illuminate, but I still had the mild hysteria associated with anticipating being without power in the Adirondacks in the winter.

I was prattling on about getting everything just so when Briar slapped the table and squealed.

"Mommy, look! I did it!"

I couldn't imagine what she'd done and wasn't ready to focus on anything but the task at hand, but I did. I turned to look at her and the sight of the flame, so alive and close, rocked me at a primal level. She'd opened the box, struck the match and lit it in seconds. The emotional and intellectual assault of the countless images that careened from the recesses of my memory, matches on counters, tables, on the toilet and in the desk drawer, were almost too much to bear. I lurched forward, snapping the wooden stick from her fingers and pressing my lips to her forehead.

"You did do it, sweetheart. That's amazing." Then I blew the match out and immediately lit another. I placed it between her still-chubby-to-terrified-eyes fingers. "Hold this for mama and light the candle. I waited, holding the candle ever so slightly out of reach before placing it in front of her. I watched the flame go and warned her that when lighting we need to be quick. "Remember, matches and candles are hot," and I let her feel the quickest twinge of heat from the flame. She gasped and a lump, part guilt and part terror of all that is yet to come, took root in my throat.

Her blue eyes looked up at me, wide with fear and expectation. I put my hand on her face, "I am so proud of you for lighting that match and helping me with the candles, but I don't ever want you to do that again, ok? It's too easy to get hurt." I watched her, she looked at the candles and then back to me. "Very hot. Dayn-guh-ruhs! I'm not gonna light 'em. Can we go play piano?" She asked and, upon my nod, scampered out of the room.

I stood feeling intense, head bowing shame. Her bouncing curls, spindly legs, tiny yet nimble fingers, I felt I'd let them down. Did I do the wrong thing? Should I have put another match in her hand? Let her feel that burn? Was I punishing someone? I had never considered the danger of matches, never imagined she could possibly light one, with that ignorance gone a whole new world of possibility opened, a giant chasm of how-can-I-keep-them-safe. It's been five hours and I am still reeling, still suffering that distinctly parental torture of numbness and blinding pain.

I don't know how this will change things, but it will. It has to.

Quarantine

We were watching a movie when we heard a shriek from upstairs, a bedraggled Adam Sandler stood frozen onscreen as we craned our necks to hear the calls from upstairs.

"Was that Briar or Avery?"

"Briar, I think."

It was the 7th time we'd stopped the movie. Avery had been unwilling to go down and Briar had been unhelpfully helpful, as she took calming and disciplining Avery into her own hands:

"Shh, s'o, baby. Don't cry. Shh. It's dark time, you gotta sleep. Dis is your last warning. You hearing me?
Your last warning, Avery! Go to sleep!
high ho a dairy-o the sign says dark moon.
HIGH HO A DAIRY-O, DA SIGN DAT SAYS DARK, DARK MOON! I said, shhh, Avery. Go. To. Sleep.

I said I'd go up. I moved as quietly and quickly as I could, Avery was finally down and I didn't want to wake her or move too slowly that Briar would do it for me.

"What is it, sweetie?" I asked, leaning over her bed.

"Umm, it's my mouth. I need medicine." She said touching her face.

My first instinct was that she was playing me, suggesting that she had the same gum pain that Avery did.

"Your mouth?"

"Yup, it's my mouth that hurts. I need medicine." Her blue eyes looked sincere, so I told her I'd be right back. Dashing past Sean I explained the issue, musing that perhaps it was her throat. Five minutes later Briar had been dosed and we were back having Adam Sandler and Don Cheadle take us to a level of despair I had not intended when we selected Reign Over Me.

Blessedly the movie ended and as I headed up to bed I realized that the ache in my throat was not empathy, it was a good old fashioned sore throat, building in intensity like a camp fire with each step I took. By the time Sean came up to bed after locking up I was barely speaking above a squeak.

Fast forward 12 hours and our entire family is in pajamas, puffy eyes and sniffly noses the accessories to our lethargy and misery.

My mouth hurts.
Whimper, sniff.

Say What You Will...

About country music, the songs can pull your heartstrings like no other.

I was just in the kitchen sitting on the floor weeping while Avery sat, completely engrossed in one of her favorite activities: removing, stacking, and knocking over the water bottles that live in the cabinet by the fridge. This activity is repeated over and over again, the best times being when she maanges to scatter them all over the kitchen floor, which, being in a 115 year old home, is slanted. I'm sure you can imagine the fun.

The little radio on the windowsill was set to a country music station. I'd not been listening to the music as is often the case, setting it more for the girls' benefit. All of a sudden a melody and syrupy voice were swirling about in my head, it was a man singing what sounded like the words stealing Cinderella. I was intrigued, so I quickly helped Avery restack the bottles in the kitchen and craned my ear toward the radio. Try as I might I couldn't quite make out the words beyond: riding her first bike something, something, something stealing Cinderella. Despite not understanding it, my eyes welled and a lump flickered in my throat. Avery hopped up, bored with the bottles, and ran after the dog.

I moved to the computer and typed in "Stealing Cinderella." Here it is, in all its tear inducing glory.

*Beware to pregnant women and parents of daughters, I don't think this can be read without weeping.

I came to see her daddy for sit down man to man
It wasn't any secret i'd be asking for her hand
I guess that's why he left me waiting in the living room by myself
with at least a dozen pictures of her sitting on a shelf


She was playing Cinderella
She was riding her first bike
Bouncing on the bed and looking for a pillow fight
Running through the sprinkler with a big popsicle grin
Dancing with her dad, looking up at him
In her eyes i'm Prince Charming
But to him i'm just some fella
riding in and stealing Cinderella

I leaned in towards those pictures to get a better look at one
When I heard a voice behind me say "Now, ain't she something, son?"
I said "Yes, she quite a woman" and he just stared at me
Then I realized that in his eyes she would always be

Playing Cinderella
Riding her first bike
Bouncing on the bed and looking for a pillow fight
Running through the sprinkler with a big popsicle grin
Dancing with her dad, looking up at him
In her eyes i'm Prince Charming
But to him i'm just some fella riding in and stealing Cinderella

He slapped me on the shoulder
Then he called her in the room
When she threw her arms around him
That's when I could see it too

She was Playing Cinderella
Riding her first bike
Bouncing on the bed and looking for a pillow fight
Running through the sprinkler with a big popsicle grin
Dancing with her dad, looking up at him
If he gives me a hard time
I can't blame the fella
I'm the one who's stealing Cinderella

There comes a moment...

The moment you realize that you just can't quite swing wearing the clothes you've been wearing. Your pants may make it up over your hips, the zipper manages to find its way up despite the newfound fecundity of your backside, heck, you might even be able to get the pants to button, but that doesn't make them passable.

This day came yesterday. My favorite cords, a not quite gray, not quite mauve, don't really match anything, but by-god-they've-always-been-long-enough-and-given-spectacular-ass-pants were sitting just north of my hip bones. Actually, sitting isn't quite right, grasping on for dear life and causing a landslide of "Get me the hell out of here" overflow from my torso that I shudder to call muffin top is more accurate. I had on a longish, ribbed, black sweater which should have disguised the disagreeing areas, but it seemed to me to just blare obnoxiously: soft, abundant and breaking free from the bonds of structure.

The thing people who've not been pregnant don't really understand is that despite how things look, the belly only really achieves beach ball type shape and feel at the very tail end of the pregnancy, and even then it is malleable, yes malleable. So, at this particularly awkward crossroads of regular clothes and maternity clothes, it can be maneuvered to accommodate vanity, but ultimately, if the belly and the lush, beautiful body around it are not allowed to sort of do as they please? Well, you really begin to look like the dude at the fair who you see and you think, "Dude, hike the pants up over that gut and loosen the fabric around those spare tires you've got."

It just isn't tha simple. I've got maternity clothes and I've tried putting them on, what I end up with is chafing between my thighs where the fabric is too loose as my belly, which seems so ample as I dart quickly past the mirror and into the shower each morning, but is really rather unimpressive when faced with the generous swaths of fabric intended to hug it. As my belly gets bigger the pants will grow shorter, oh the shortness of maternity pants on a tall woman. And the tops, the empire tops and me with my incredibly long torso guaranteeing that any empire waist will perfectly slice me across the bust line. Tug, tug, tug.

I know this seems like a rant, but here's the thing, this moment brings something else. Last night, happily tucked beneath thick, heavy layers of quilts and flannel, wearing nothing but a couple of loose tshirts, comfy underwear and socks it happened. Our little baby began its months-long swim meet, pushing off one side of my belly and breaststroking around, little limbs pressing and stretching as the warm hand of a proud papa applauded from the sidelines.

Sean's body was tight against me, his legs tucked in behind mine, supporting and warming me, while his arms wrapped around my middle and rested on my belly.

"You feel that?" I asked.

Silence. Still.

"Yes," a throaty exclaim. "And that." More silence, warm breath on my neck, "And that! Hello baby," he sang as he stroked the skin beneath my belly button. The baby responded with an impressive series of turns and rolls while Seans hands continued to caress a message of intense pride and adoration. We fell asleep to the ebb and flow of butterfly kisses upon my belly and Sean's hands.

Today, with a looser waistband and an impossibly comfortable shirt falling gently over my growing curves, I passed my day falling in love. Stealing litttle touches, whispering "I love you's" and reveling in the wonder of having it all returned in swishes and flutters.

Still Thursday? Really?

I woke up Friday. Today. Every moment of today for me was Friday, which was tough, seeing as it was Thursday. Little things didn't make sense and I would realize that it was because it was Thursday. I am not exaggerating at all when I tell you that twenty minutes would pass and I would be back, head-to-toe, in Friday. I have no idea why I was so off, for now I am just chanting under my breath, "Tomorrow is Friday, tomorrow is Friday," lest I somehow forget during the night that I need to get up, dress myself and shuttle the girls off to the sitter's.

Toward the end of this monumentally, off-kilter day I was at the bank with Sean, Avery was on my shoulders and Briar was at Sean's side in the ATM vestibule, he was taking cash out. "Did you already cash your check?" I asked him.

He gave me a gentle look, his eyebrows lifting over his eyes, mimicking the shape of his hands when he cups my face and shakes his head because I've made a ditzy-from-pregnancy comment. "No, babe, I didn't, but it's not Friday so there was no check to cash."

Luckily, through what I am thinking will probably be an increasingly ditzy pregnancy, I've got great knee-high comedic relief in our girls, particularly Briar of late.

She was looking up at us and as Sean took the two $20's from the slot she said, "Daddy, can I have one? Can I have a money?"

"Not one of these, honey. I'll give you one of these." And he slipped a one dollar bill from his wallet and passed it to her.

"Oh, no daddy, not this one. It's not beautiful. I need beautiful money."

MIDWFE

This morning brought the first frost of the season. Walking to the car, the sight of my breath surprised me and the suddenness of the cold made my eyes water. I started the car and as the defroster ran I scraped the windows, my fingertips throbbing before long. Out of the corner of my eye I saw the curtains in our living room fluttering, the girls no doubt running circles around the chair as Sean sipped his coffee. I tried to bite back bitterness, I wanted to run back inside, sink back into the blurred lens wonder of our early morning routine.

Driving to work I took a different route than usual. I was at a traffic light stewing, the roads were nearly empty and my thoughts were consumed by what I was missing. Two cars ahead of me I saw a white Subaru exactly like our own. More annoyance gripped me as I imagined Sean driving the girls to Jen's without me. I ached for them as if it were my first day away from them. The light turned green and I stepped lightly on the gas. The road began to curve and I saw the license plate on the Subaru: MIDWFE. I recognized it as belonging to one of the midwives from my doctor's practice.

I smiled thinking about our two incredible deliveries, returning to the room Briar was delivered in to welcome Avery, and having our doctor with us both times. I remembered Sean taking my hand, music playing in the background, and dancing me through contractions. I put my hand on my belly and smiled, Sean was home with our girls and I was headed to work with our next baby. I moved through another light and watched MIDWFE up ahead. It occurred to me that she might be heading to work, off to stand beside another woman, coaching her, holding her hand and using her voice and warm eyes to guide her from expecting to embracing.

As the red light on the right side of her car began to blink I teared up. She turned into the hospital parking lot and made her way to another new life. Once that baby is placed in her mama's arms they'll ring a bell, patients will ask what the sound is and the nurses, so often drawn and cold, will brighten, "That's a baby!" they'll chirp and for a moment nothing will matter but the knowledge that a new life has begun, and that somehow the miracle has been shared.

I arrived at work feeling as if I'd been dusted with a little bit of magic.

Welcome to the world, baby.

Seeing with new eyes

The last several months have been revelatory or humbling, depending upon my pregnancy hormones. Avery is moving ahead at such a speed that it's hard to digest it all, some days I am more aware of the language development, other days her athletic prowess, every moment her 0-60 in 3 seconds charisma. Looking back I realize that so much of what she is accomplishing we never gave Briar an opportunity to try - feeding herself soup at 16 months? Ha, I barely let her hold a sandwich.

Today watching Briar play Caribou for the first time I was shocked. She was standing at her Papa's knee, a look of reverent anticipation colored with a Christmas morning like excitement. He taught her how to play and, to what was shameful surprise on my part, she totally got it. She's three, has been since September.

A series of flipped images beginning with the letters A, B, or C and in yellow, red or blue, spelled a simple message:

Don't be afraid to let her try.
To let her succeed.
To let her fail.


And now, I won't, but I can't promise I won't have a lump in my throat.

Mama Love

I worked from home today, sending out emails, returning phone calls and drafting copy to use in promoting events in the coming months. Between hitting send and staring blankly at the screen waiting for the perfect word to come to me, I read Elmo books, of course we skipped to the Cookie Monster pages, and fashioning crowns and jewels upon princess heads. I also became keenly aware of which Barbies have knees that bend and which simply eke by with bust lines meriting their own zip codes and feet too small to stand upon (thank goodness we finally bought a prince so the poor lasses have someone to lean on...rolling my eyes and wondering when the heck I fell into the unconquerable Disney Princess vortex).

We spent my lunch hour at the park swinging and sliding with Papa and Daddy. I spent a great deal of time endeavoring not to become covered with muddy dog prints from our deliriously happy dog (I failed). The afternoon and evening proved to be as magical as the early half of the day, with hula hoop hysteria by way of an "if-only-his-staff-could-see-him-now," arts administrator, Papa swinging electronic hula hoops on his arm while making the sounds one makes when willing to do anything to elicit laughter form little girls.

Setting my laptop on my legs I was excited to regale you all with poignant stories of reunions and healing, but the reality is for the first time I may be without words, or perhaps I 'm just not ready to share yet. And so it is that I'll give special thanks to Oh, The Joys and Momma Bean for bestowing upon me two awards that allow me to pause before sharing and simply spread a little love around our community.

First, Oh, The Joys, a site that consistently makes me nod in agreement, snort with wicked delight or furrow my brow and wince, so accessible are the emotions she shares in her witty, wise and naughty posts. She gae me a little award called the "Blogging that hits the mark" award.

I realize I have become totally predictable, but once again I am going to tip my hat to Nutmeg. She is my go-to blog. She's smart, sincere, and authentic. I love shocking dish as much as the next person, but Nutmeg peddles a different brand of scandalous - she thumbs her nose at convention. She write rhapsodically about life with her four children and love with her wonderful husband. She has her days, frustrated and short, generally Nathan pops in and leaves a comment that makes her readers gooey, and her photos? Simply spectacular. So, her blog hits the mark for me. You should check her out, prepare for addiciton.

Next, Momma Bean gave me an Excellent Blog award. This is a woman who has time and again left comments on Tumble Dry that have made me melt. And her twins? Her beans? Ay yai yai, too cute.



I am passing this on to Karla at Untangling Knots. When I started reading her blog I spent most of my time tearing up, more than a year has passed and I still tear up, but now, instead of aching for the losses she has suffered, I revel in her now. She is an amazing mother and sometimes, as I read the chronicles of her life with Mark and Nate, I desperatley wish for her life to become a reality series. Absolutely hysterical, happy, happy tears and clutch-my-belly laughter. Go, now, visit her.

And now I'm off to sip a cup of tea and reminisce about the day.

Nutmeg - Thanks for reminding me to be thankful for today.

That face!

Avery is motivated by two things:

A lack of fear

and

A desire to make us laugh.





*I mentioned in an earlier post that Sean was egging her on, clearly in replaying this, I am egging her on too. And that kiss at the end? Impossibly perfect!

Down to the wire

I have been trying unsuccessfully to upload a video for the last two hours. I feel as if I am back in college watching the first hints of dawn breaking through the ridge outside my window, my pulse racing and my neck throbbing as I realized my class would begin in a mere three hours and I had at least 4 hours left to write to get the sucker done.

It's NaBloPoMo and I'm no quitter. Must post! I also like to think that I am above posting a ridiculous post for the sake of posting.

The viedo, well, it had all the elements of what makes my life what it is:

Chaos in the form of a ratchety, noise maker/musical instrument in the background

Sean egging on one of our daughters and looking adorable irresistible doing it

Danger with Avery leaping from the couch to the "island" also called an ottoman

And me laughing.

You see my life is kind of like a free outdoor concert attended with your closest circle of friends and that guy you have a crush on, at any moment I am having several needs met by Sean, my girls and the things we do.

I wanted to share that. I don't know if I'll make it by midnight, but I think it's important to share these things, to demonstrate that life is fun and nutty and that if you take the time to listen and watch and experience, you've got it all right there in front of you.

Better, thanks.

The girls sprang from their beds this morning, puffy eyes bright and glassy, little noses endearingly crusty and stuffy. I kept them bundled and loved up, trying desperately not to hold them in my arms all day. They were normalish, appetites weaker than usual and a tendency toward falling and slamming abruptly into walls usually reserved for up-past-bedtime romps.

Your comments lifted me, especially the admission from Sam that they might be dipping into cough medicine contra band. To Chelle, Cathy, Sam and Heather, here's hoping your little ones are feeling better too.

Off to stand by their beds checking their breathing and reverently caressing the swells of their cheeks.

Suffering

I read another blog the other day, a mom describing the pain of watching her child suffer. I recognized her anguish, my fingers hovered over the keyboard, language failing me as I searched for words that would communicate what I was feeling. I vaguely remember my fingers rushing into motion, the clackety clack clack of my typing and the gentle whir of the computer, and then an emphatic click as I hit return.

I know now, as I knew then, that what I was sending was not magic, that it wouldn't touch her pain. Tonight I realize that when you are the mom and it is your child(ren) whose eyes bear violet smudges in the puffy bags on either side of their nose, there are no words or sympathetic looks that can change the reality that you cannot fix it.

Avery and Briar began their downward spiral this morning, a little sniffle here, a raspy sound there, by 1pm when I picked them up they both sported full blown runny noses, with lips that became more scarlet with chapping through each passing moment. We spent the afternoon bundled in fleece and elbow deep in arts and crafts, my feeble attempt to repel and distract. Why does bundling them up make me feel as if I can ward off anything?

"Come on girl, lets get under the blanket, it'll be safe and cozy."

"Here let me wrap you up tight."

"Honey, mama wants to put a sweatshirt and socks on you, ok?"

It was about 3:30 when Briar first began sobbing, the rawness of the skin beneath her nose became too much to tolerate. Shortly thereafter Avery began sneezing, her eyes welling nearly to overflow at the first one and from that point on they were glassy pools of suffering beseeching me to fix it.

I cracked the Tylenol at 5 and by 7pm after a bath, more bundling and a hot dinner I broke down and unearthed the one bottle of cold medicine I kept after the baby cold medicine backlash. I gave each girl a partial dose. I was crazed, anything to provide comfort. I rocked them, cooing and caressing, tears welling in my eyes and my hands trembling with wanting to heal them. Avery fell asleep at my breast, her lips and cheeks hot against my skin, her brow damp with sweat and her hand clasped tight around my torso.

I lowered her into her crib, careful to hold her shirt so that her skin stayed covered. I tucked the blankets around her form, always so tiny in sickness, and laid my hand on her, memorizing the rhythm of her breathing and the shape of her back in my hand, before leaving.

I crept to Briar's room, she was sleeping, but stirred as I lowered myself onto her bed. "Cuddle, mama?" almost a sigh. "Of course," I collapsed beside her, grateful to satisfy a request. We laid together, our hands cupping each other's faces, and I felt my worry slip, like fighting contractions, I knew that struggling against this, would only hurt more. So I stayed, watching her sleep, proud of the battle she was waging.

Down here at the computer I am thinking of that other mom, thinking of her child and of all the other children and moms. I wish this weren't so, that they didn't suffer and that we didn't feel defeat at not preventing it. I will say that knowing that there might be other moms out there, fingers hovering over a keyboard, searching for words for me and for my girls, well, believe it or not, it helps.

Further Proof...

She takes after me.

"Hey Ave, can you dance? Can you dance for mama?"



Her jerky moves and hoppy feet make my heart soar.

Thanks to all who felt my pain, tonight, bedtime was a dream. Off to tuck myself in and dream of dancing daughters.

Like Lucy at the chocolate factory

Bedtime was a bitch tonight. Seriously, it had all the makings of a great comedy, except that I was living it. Let's just do a quick bulleted run-down, shall we?

Ok, not bulleted, because I can't make bullets.

Avery begins a relentless episode of plaintively calling, "Mommy?" at dinner.

I begin a series of futile attempts to retrieve what she wants.

Much emphatic head shaking and disappointed declarations of, "NO!"

I pass responsibility to Sean.

Avery begins the routine anew.

Sean chooses not to engage.

Avery is sent to bed.

Curtain down on dinner, commence bedtime routine.

Briar climbs in the crib with Avery, Avery climbs out of the crib.

Avery empties every drawer in her room.

Briar begs for me to put Avery in the crib.

I explain Avery doesn't want to be in the crib yet.

Briar pleads, Avery screams, "No."

Briar asks if she is pooping, I say I don't know.

She says she thinks she is.

I rush her to the potty, Avery cuts in front of us.

I swallow several four letter words.

Briar gets on the potty, her underwear do not escape unscathed.

Avery squawks about poop.

Avery grabs a razor from the sink.

Briar tries to wipe, "Uh oh, mom...."

I grab the razor with one hand and fix Briar's issue with the other.

Avery sprints from the room, I call for Sean.

Sean takes Briar to bed, I take Avery to her room.

Avery wants to nurse, but forgets that teeth aren't necessary.

I swallow more four letter words.

Avery begins to nod off.

Knocking downstairs, Sean keeps reading.

I peek through the window, it's a client.

"Sean, Rosa is here."

He leaps up, promising to be right back.

Briar is quiet.

Avery sleeps.

Sean moves around downstairs, the 100 year old crank doorbell sounds.

Briar asks who it is.

Avery stirs.

Voices.

Patient, silent waiting.

More voices.

More waiting.

"Mom?"

"Shh, Dad'll be right back."

More waiting.

"Does anyone wanna read me A Fly Went By?"

"Shh, Dad is coming right up."

Avery stirs.

Briar runs in, "Can ya just put this sticker in the trash?"

I tale the proffered piece of withered paper, Avery looks into my eyes.

"Shh, back to sleep Ave, back to bed Bri."

Pitter patter of feet and the squeak of an old bed.

Avery falls asleep and Briar is quiet.

Sean returns.

Avery wakes and bites me. I choked on a big god damnit.

Sean and Briar whisper next door.

Avery claws at my breast, kneading herself to sleep.

I wait and then put her in bed.

Downstairs, quickly joined by Sean.

Peace.

"Mom, can I pee? Can I pee. MOM CAN I PEE?"

"Did she pee?"

"Yes, she peed."

"CAN. I. PEE?"

"She peed."

"I have to pee. Pee. I have to pee, mom!"

Sigh. Upstairs, Briar meets me at the door.

"Mom, I'm gonna pee."

"Ok."

Avery wakes and immediately begins howling.

"Am I poopin?"

"No, but I think mama is?"

"You're poopin, mama?"

"No, mama was being silly. Mama's just crackin."

Still got it, jack ass

Hey tall guy at the grocery store,

I want to thank you. I didn't expect much more from my frantic lunch hour grocery store trip than milk with dinner. Your dramatic, rubber necking turn out of the peanut aisle and over to the dairy section where I was standing was unexpected. It was really kind of awesome to know with absolute certainty that I was being checked out.

You were no good ole boy toting Milwaukee's Best and cheese doodles either, you actually had real food in your basket and wore clothes clearly purchased in this decade. You weren't my type, but I'm not embarrassed to say that I had a spring in my step as I crossed to my cart. You smiled at me when you saw that my cart was actually 8 feet of bright red and yellow truck steered by two little girls clutching character toothbrushes. You went your way as I went mine. It was a perfect exchange, nothing untoward, just a dose of grocery store flattery.

What was seriously not cool was the look you gave me when you saw me at the check out. You were clearly working your mojo to great effect on the sample girl hocking ham roll ups. I was cooing at the girls as I loaded the items from the cart onto the conveyor belt. All was good, then, as I reached for the organic red peppers in the bottom of my cart my red top lifted to reveal the hint of a pregnant belly. I'll give you the fact that you managed not to choke on the ham roll up that was clearly fighting its way back up your esophagus at the urging of your brain. The sudden realization that you'd ogled a pregnant chick was more than you could handle. I think you might have actually shuddered.

Not cool, not cool at all.

-The pregnant chick with the-still-fine-ass

Keeping Me Up at Night

Lest I mislead you into believing that the only reason I am ever up at night is to tend to toddlers agonized by molars and night terrors, there are a few things you ought to know about the inner workings of my mind. I suspect that my sweet husband is rolling his eyes right now, but that's ok, I'm willing to wager there are more than a few of you out there who are plagued by demons similar to those I'm about to share...if not, humor me and leave comments like you know what I mean, ok?

Ok, so I know I am not a tiny person, standing 5'10" in stocking feet and having a muscular build, Sean is over 6', also with a muscular build, but it's not like we are enormous. Why, why, why do the cushions in our furniture become permanently dented within a month of purchase? I flip, I fluff, I perch lightly, daintily, even, but still they sink.

Are beds not made for cuddling or are people our size not supposed to cuddle? I know there are people bigger than we are, but does everyone just accept that beds will get a massive slope in them causing you to roll to the middle or sit high on a perch just near the edge of the bed?

Why does the hair that is constantly falling from my head land in the sink and not on the bathroom floor? It would be so much easier to sweep the floor and it would be a hell of a lot less noticeable to certain male people in our household that live in constant exasperation with the long strands of hair that fall hither and thither.

Are there underwire bras that manage to keep the wire from poking out and puncturing your sternum?

Why will our cat not eat kibble unless a fresh layer is set before him at each of his 57 intervals of grazing throughout the day?

Why does the dog take the kibble out of her bowl, place it on the floor and then eat it from the floor?

Why have I never lived in a place where the mail is delivered before 3:30 in the afternoon? What's it like to get your mail first thing?

Why do fruit flies seem to appear even when I am staying on top of the produce?

Does anyone really make it through one of those giant sized jar of pickles, or does everyone push them to the back of the fridge until the eventually just chuck them?

Do you think anyone has ever considered creating a garbage bag that has a substance, maybe like the foam they use in floral arrangements, to catch the 2 quarts of obscene fluids that seem to gather and leak through the bottom of the bag no matter how dry the garbage you put in originally was?

When they made the decision to start sewing the toys into packaging in addition to the tape, twist ties, shrink wrap and steel like plastic casing were they just trying to f*ck with us parents?

So, really, do you wonder about these things too?

Not There Yet

I don't mean there in the destination sense, but rather there time in your life sense. We had been discussing a quick roadtrip to Burlington and I just couldn't quite get myself to being 100% on board with an overnight excursion with all of us operating on a not-quite-sick-but-close state of being. I felt like a real wet blanket so I suggested taking the girls to see Bee Movie. It was 11:05 and there was an 11:55 showing.

Brilliant, suggestion denial despondence averted!

We bundled up, me looking like the typical mama-pack horse with diapers, wipes, changes of clothes, babies, gum numbing gel and a stash of Pirate's Booty and fruit chews packed in plastic baggies to avoid the introduction of a type of processed "food" heretofore not exposed to the palates of our asparagus and sharp cheddar cheese loving blue-eyed cherubs. (I know, resistance is futile, but I'm not ready to give in to transfats, high fructose corn syrup, and servings administered by the pound or gallon.)

We pulled into the parking lot behind the theatre at exactly 11:05. Score, we miss the previews and get straight to the movie.

Wrong.

After the girls worked their signature crowd wooing moves on the two cashiers at the ticket counter, we headed into the theatre. Older moms smiled at us, their eyes glazing over as they traveled back in time and remembered with fondness the smell of downy heads and the feel of squishy fingers grabbing at their cheeks. I smiled back and felt a surge of pride and accomplishment. A movie. Wow.

Any of you laughing derisively yet? You should be.

Just past 3 and 17.5 months, clearly, we would learn, not the optimal age for the in theatre movie viewing experience. We found seats in a row by ourselves, though the mothers behind us were so smitten with the girls they might as well have been sitting beside us. My annoying habit of trying to present a serene front in the face of certain toddler adversity reared its formidable head. Damn. I quickly propped Avery in my arms and sank low in the chair to create as little obstruction to the people behind me as possible. Sean sat a seat away with Briar in his lap, their profiles were identical with the exception of his being topped by a gentle buzz and Briar's with a halo of irresistible flyaways that had escaped her big girl braids.

The screen lit up with the first of what would be a 20 minute cluster of previews for an audience far older than the girls in our laps. Briar appeared to be engaged, Avery was another story. She began fidgeting in my lap, forward, backward, forward, backward. She flirted with the people behind us, then turned and reached for the man in front of us. She clambered toward the seat beside me, grabbed her doll, dropped her doll, squealed for her doll, pulled the hair on the impossibly delicate skin along my neck. Then came the noise, she was talking and squawking and kicking the back of the chair of the already angry head in front of me I felt the first hints of the unbeatable back-arch, the pre-cursor to the stiff-as-a-board and limp-as-a-ragdoll dance I panicked. I also smelled something.

Swell, she pooped. I took the opportunity to dash out and change her diaper. Surely the change of scenery would help her reset. We passed one of the moms we'd seen on the way in, "Must be waiting for a teenager. Poor thing," I thought to myself. The look on her face was different, and I imagine now that she was thinking, "Must believe a trip to the bathroom is going to fix it. Poor thing." We went into the bathroom, which, as luck would have it (or not), had no changing tables. I went to put her on the counter, but of course there was not a single area that wasn't soaked. I looked for paper towels, none. Screw it, I took my arm and wiped the surface down. The rest was easy, of course once I got down to her skin there was no poop to be seen. Her eyes twinkled, gotcha. I chuckled despite my frustration. She giggled back and I thought for a moment we'd be fine.

We got back into the theatre and discreetly slipped into our seats. Sean smiled at us, Briar was too engrossed in the activity on the screen to notice us. I breathed a sigh of relief as Avery's head pressed against my chest and her fingers toyed with the leg of my jeans. I started to get into the banter between the bees played by Matthew Broderick and Jerry Seinfeld. I ate a few fruit chews and then all hell broke loose, as Avery grabbed a coat from the chair next to us and unleashed a clatter of shoes, keys, wallets and water bottles. I sat up, pulling her to me and offering her at once: a bag of fruit chews, a bag of Pirate's Booty, her baby doll and my left breast. For the love of god, please just put something in your mouth and stop moving. She took the breast and clearly mistook if for popcorn because after approximately three seconds she bit down with a ferocity that made me gasp, I saw the man flinch and I thought, "You don't know the half of it, asshole."

Popping my breast back into my bra, I crammed into my bag as many of the things that had fallen from the chair as I could, kissed Sean and bolted from the theatre.

"Goin'. Goin. A-ree's goin'." Avery tittered gleefully.

"Yup, goin'," I concurred as I blew wisps of hair out my eyes and tried to yank my non-maternity sweatshirt down over my needing-a-maternity-shirt belly.

Walking out of the theatre I actually didn't feel defeated. I was proud that we had tried, proud that I had acted rather than hissed. As we emerged into the harsh mall lighting I felt a little spring in my step. This wasn't a failure, it was a shot, and while it missed the mark, it made a memory and on an overcast Saturday I don't think that's half bad.

She owns me

A. Mo Gonna Do-Mo

Once upon a time Sean started calling me A. Mo ala J.Lo, but without the bangin' flygirl ass or the slammin' diva bank account. It didn't matter to me, I'd never really had a nick name and I loved it. So, today as I post a day late about my participation in NaBloPoMo, I am using A. Mo for its alliterative qualities with Do-Mo and NaBloPoMo, work with me, I'm pregnant and operating on a negative sleeep bank thanks to molars, nightmares and growth spurts.

NaBloPoMo stands for National Blog Posting Month, which boils down to a whole lot of fantastic bloggers pledging to achieve a post a day for the month of November...wishing I had the creative chops to take the Donny and Marie Little Bit Country ditty and spin it, alas I am struggling to so much as use complete sentences and proper names.

Sean, by the way, is right at this moment reading this and snickering, remembering the night I walked into the living room and asked with righteous indignation:

Did you just obsume my water?

He and my sister looked at me, eyes dancing, mouths quivering as they struggled to find the right words to appropriately mock my exclaim that I can only look back on as having been a combination of: abscond, consume and assume I was done.
It was right up there with the time when I was pregnant with Briar and I took Sean a root beer and as I handed it to him said, "Here's the roast beef you wanted." Luckily I tend to proof before I publish, so hopefully I won't make those pregnant missteps in the next month of posting, but we'll see. I'll send you some roast beef if you catch a crazy mistake, beware though, it just might come in the form of a can of Mug Root Beer.

Aside from making light of both my pregnancy induced ditziness and my reckless decision to commit to posting every day for a month, I wanted to share something that once again reminded me that being a parent is as close as you can come to living in the presence of real magic.

Briar: Hey mama, mama? Can you see it?

Me: What's that sweetie? What do you see?

B: Da shadow. Do you see it?

Me: (looking up form my laptop distractedly) Where baby?

B: Right dere, mama. It's an umbrella shadow.

Avery: Brella! Mmmmm-brella!

Me: Briar! That is an umbrella, oh my goodness!

B: I'll share it with you. Wanna hold my umbrella?




Me: How 'bout I hold it over all three of us?

The girls beamed at me and the three of us sat 'round that umbrella made of sunlight as I held it over our heads.

Pull Meme Outta This Slump

I've been a bad blogger, staying away from the keyboard, or worse, approaching it and laying the laptop gently in my lap, my fingers poised dramatically and then...nothing. My well has been dry for some time now as I float between a toddler on the verge of becoming a girl, a baby sprinting toward kid status and the bump in my belly tugging and cramping.

Do I share how I fear Avery will soon turn away from my breast, but then throws me for a bittersweet loop as she suckles and pulls me toward her, pudgy fingers clasping the back of my neck and a silky cheek pressed against mine?

Do I tell you that Briar is pulling herself onto the potty herself, that she is saying things like, "I don't think so, but thank you anyway, mom,"?

Do I spill my fears about the baby growing inside me? Do I finally talk about the midwife telling me that they had found two sacs, but that one was "looking like nothing more than a blood clot,"?

I don't know where to begin, and some days I feel like something ended without me. I've not raced to pour my heart out, yet it is all still here, my love of words and of sharing. My connection to strangers who have become friends. Outside of my relationships I have simply never loved something as my much as I do this place, this blog of mine, and the depths within me that it has allowed me to reach and know intimately.

And then came an email, a comment on this blog:

Now I am tagging you...sorry.
7 random things about yourself.

It was from the Sexy Housewife, a user name I love for its blatant refusal to give in to the mommy apathy of high waisted jeans and schlumpy tops and the idea of getting to stay home and focus on being a mom and a wife. I'm hanging in there by refusing to give in to elastic waist pants and anything from Christopher and Banks and by making sure that Sean and the girls come first, no matter what.

But back to the tag, I don't think I can articulate my gratitude for the lifeline that this tag has provided. I can no longer avoid posting, can no longer shrug my shoulders and say, "I can't, there's just nothing there." So for that, I am oh so grateful for this tag. And, in the spirit of bloggers everywhere who are afraid to assign something as potentially tedious as a tag on someone else, I would invite anyone suffering a similar blogging malaise to email me at briars_mama at yahoo dot com and I can officially tag you and perhaps help you out of the cavernous place you've become stuck.

And now, 7 random things about me:

1. I find Gordon Ramsey of Hell's Kitchen and Kitchen Nightmares fame to be irresistible. I am not a fan of reality tv, but Gordon, well from Gordon, I simply cannot turn away.

2. My kryptonite is open-mouth chewing, when the smacking of tongue on roof of mouth becomes involved it is as close to torture as I could ever imagine.

3. I would be happy to live on cheese, granola bars and nuts. Forever, with the occasional addition of banana peppers and Greek Isle pita chips.

4. I am incapable of washing my face without soaking the entire counter, no matter the size of the sink.

5. I am usually very modest, but I think I kick ass in a meeting situation, speaking my mind, neutralizing (or creating, if the occasion calls for it) tension and finding a way to communicate a message to gain consensus and excitement.

6. Since we moved into our house in 2003 we have lived out of hampers. Our 115 year old house has pygmy closets and we have no dressers. It is an endless source of consternation and yet despite an ability to solve just about any problem, Sean and I are continually on our knees in defeat with regard to the insane, unmanageable nature of our clothing situation.

7. We do not eat food from drive thrus. Ever.

There you have it. May this be the first of many posts.