The One at the Low End of the Totem Pole.

A little disclaimer before I start writing this post:  I know I’ve got it good.

I’m in a loving marriage, I’ve got a great kid, I’m healthy, and though I could use more money (who couldn’t?) we’re okay financially. I know these things, and I try to be continually conscious of and grateful for them.

But then there are days like today.

Days when my house is in desperate need of cleaning, yet I rationalize putting it off for one more day; where the minutia of the daily grind becomes physically painful; when my husband’s jokes are really insults masked in jest; when I spend all my energy keeping my patience with my daughter as she yells at me from her room, incensed because I committed some heinous act against her like insisted she go to bed on time.

On days like today I sit here and think, “This is my life?”

This is my life.

And I keep it together until the house is quiet, and everyone else is asleep except for me. Then I expose my dirty little secret… I break out my imagination. I allow myself to imagine what it would be like to kiss my husband in the morning, drop my daughter off at school and drive until I ended up somewhere new, in another version of my own life.

A life where I’ve had the courage and persistence to accomplish dreams that were seeded long before I could’ve imagined how raw adulthood can be; a life where I’m a tougher version of myself instead of the real me – inconsistent and idle.

I swing like a pendulum – one minute feeling resolute that I deserve a life that’s more than just one laundry basket after the next, then swinging furiously to guilty depths for feeling unappreciative and unsatisfied with how good I actually have it.

Too often I refuse to swing at all, paralyzed by laziness and fear.

I swing between two different characters from Sex and the City (all my references seem to come back to Sex and the City):  I wish I were more like Samantha – brash and entirely sure of herself, unwilling to put anything above her own instinct and survival, but in reality I’m much more like Charlotte – borderline naïve and fragile, yet unwilling to let go of her idealism even though it’s been proven false time and time again.

This is my life.

It’s complicated.

The One Where She's Tall and I'm Short

Do you remember what it was like to be 5? I do, though it's vague and a bit hazy.

I remember being in kindergarten (which was in the basement of a local church -- elementary school didn't start until you hit 1st grade in my day), having nap time, snack, and though I don't recall my teacher's name, I do remember she had short, curly brunette hair.

I also remember feeling very small. Truth be told, I was very small. No matter what age or grade, I always was the shortest kid in class. At just 5' 0" I'm still pretty much the shortest person in any group. And, as my sister loves to remind me, if I were just two inches shorter I could officially meet the height requirements to be classified as a "little person" (thanks, Eva). My 5' 8" husband isn't exactly a tall guy, either. In fact, he's often one of the shorter men in any group.

So, you can understand my continual amazement that our daughter is tall.

Seriously tall. Not just "not short." She's taller than most of her friends, and she wears the same size shoe as her friend who is in the third grade, though my daughter is just 5 years old. (Really. Just look at the photo and check out the size of her feet!) My question? Who was this mystery relative who carried the tall gene to my kid? I've tracked most of the family in the past two or three generations, and I can't figure it out.

This morning my daughter came over for a cuddle (which is just about one of the best things EVER). She sat sideways on my lap and tried to nuzzle her head under my chin, the way she's been doing since she began walking. Only, she doesn't really fit anymore. I could feel her trying to scrunch her body lower to tuck her head neatly into the crook of my neck, and even when I stretched as far as I could, the top of her head roughly came to the bottom of my ear. I pulled her in tight, and she didn't seem bothered that we no longer fit together like puzzle pieces from the same box, so I tried not to be, either.

This whole parenting thing? It goes fast. Well, actually, it often goes slow. Incredibly slow. Frustratingly, mind-numbingly, invisibly slow. But it also goes fast. Crazy fast. Lightening speed, blink-and-you'll-miss-it, heartbreakingly fast. Unfortunately, it often seems the hard parts go slow and the amazing parts go fast. Funny how that is.

My daughter will be taller than me, that's a given. But for now, we can still cuddle, head to ear. And soon enough, when she's asking to borrow my shoes (next year, at this rate) I'll be the one to fit under her chin.

The One in Which Life is Good

It's 1:45. In the morning. I've spent the past couple of days trying in vain to fight off a moderately severe sinus headache, and finally this evening, after a dose of Advil Cold and Sinus, I got some relief, which catapulted me into a restrained, yet giddy appreciation of a throbbingless head (and yes, I just invented that word). So, what did I do? Drank two glasses of soda so I could stay up enjoying my non-pounding head.

Not my smartest move.

Now, at 1:47 am, having hoped to have fallen blissfully asleep at least 2 hours ago, I'm still up. I caught up on my tivo'd shows, facebooked myself to death and spent entirely too much time trolling petfinderdotcom. Now I'm left to sit here, uninspired yet introspective (a dull and potentially annoying combination), so I proceeded to take an inventory of sorts.

I looked in on my daughter. She is sleeping sweetly, and following in the footsteps of a scene from a made-for-tv movie, I brushed back a piece of hair from her face and kissed her on the forehead. I stopped short of clutching my heart while gazing at her lovingly, but just barely.

Then, I went over to my dog -- also sleeping, if not quite sweetly, then endearingly cute -- gently rubbed his ears and whispered, "you're a good boy" near his head.

I came back to the couch and looked around.

You know, I could ask for a lot more in this life -- couldn't we all? (this couch, for one, I've never really liked) But when it comes down to it, it doesn't get much better than this: a loving family (of the two- and four-legged variety), a job I'm proud of (did I mention freelance writing has been surprisingly good to me?), and a man I'd marry all over again (thankfully, I don't have to).

Yeah. Life is Good.*

*even if the headache returns.

The One Where I Might be Crazy

I've decided to write a novel.

This, in itself, isn't crazy. Lofty, perhaps. The crazy part is that in the past few weeks I've been intentionally culling my workload down to where I can focus almost all of my attention on this book throughout the summer.

Have I mentioned it's been nothing short of a miracle that I've managed to build up a relatively steady clientele?

So, now you get where the "crazy" label applies.

The biggest problem is that I'm not sure what the novel is about. (Yeah -- that's kind of a big deal.) The thing is I've got no less than 4 potential novels outlined (or copiously noted), so now I've just got to pick the one I want to spend the summer writing.

It's not as easy as it sounds.

Should I go with the story of a young, yet washed up screenwriter? The straight-laced HR manager who begins living different versions of her life? The niece of a famous advice columnist who accidentally rewrites her aunt's column? Or the story set in the afterlife?

Tough choice.

Which would you want to read?

The One Where I Try and Catch Up

Yes, yes, I know it's been a while. QUITE a while, in fact. But in my last post I confided that I cannot multitask, and people, the past 9 months have been nothing but a testament to that.

So, what's gone on since last September?

Lots of normal things -- holidays, birthdays, the close of one year and the start of a new year. The thing that still has me shaking my head in disbelief is that I've been working steadily throughout it all. As in, no down time whatsoever.

This is amazing to me, almost unfathomable.

I've learned a lot about writing since I took the plunge in Spring of 2011 to make a career out of it. Some highlights:

-- Though long-term, recurring projects are always best for the bank account, I tend to enjoy the short, one-off gigs more.
-- I'm much better at this than I thought I would be.*
-- There is a lot of competition out there.
-- I seem to write best in the early morning (who knew?)

* Not that I thought I would be bad at it, I simply thought everyone else was going to be better at it than me.

This jump into freelance writing came on the heels of a miscarriage and the subsequent decision not to have any more kids. Though I've occasionally felt pangs of guilt for not providing a sibling for our super fantastic daughter (who would make a super fantastic sister), I've never questioned or regretted that decision. So, that's good. The last thing I need is something else to generate more angst.

So, that whole growing a human thing? I'm pleased to report it's going well.

The One with the Revelation.

I realized something the other day, and it was a revelation to me. An epiphany of sorts. Though my husband has been telling me this for years, I've only just now accepted it:

I cannot multitask.

See, in my work life I am incredibly organized. I work effectively and often quickly. I am a fast learner. So, I just assumed I was a great at multitasking.

Not so.

I confused multitasking (doing more than one thing at the same time) with prioritizing (figuring out in which order to do things). So, though I am shite at multitasking, I am stellar at prioritizing.

This new awareness may seem like small potatoes, but I'm telling you it's not. It's like I've been in therapy for years and I've finally hit that moment where all the puzzle pieces of my life have fallen into place and things make sense. Not only do I understand myself better, but I didn't have to pay a cent to a psychologist for it. Win/win!

Now, instead of making that urgent phone call while alternately cooking a batch of pancakes and downing my morning coffee only to dissolve into a pile of frustration because none of those things got done with any sort of accuracy, I will happily prioritize the tasks instead.

Coffee.
Phone call.
Pancakes.

And? I bet I get it all done in less time and with an incredible amount of efficiency. IT'S LIKE I'VE BEEN GIVEN THE GOLDEN KEY, PEOPLE.

The One on my due date.

I started this blog back in December of 2010. My original concept was to chronicle my second pregnancy for my own sanity and for the entertainment of whoever may wander this way. After miscarrying the pregnancy, I decided to keep the blog going, and it has become an increasingly important outlet for me.

In the wee hours this morning I happened to notice the date is August 6th. I wasn't sure right away why that date rang a bell, but a few minutes later I figured it out: today was my due date.

I sat there stunned. It was only a few months ago we were preparing for a newborn's arrival. Our lives would change in ways we could only imagine, and I both longed for it and dreaded it simultaneously.

Now though? I can't imagine being at full term with a pregnancy - my belly huge and uncomfortable while I spend my time taking naps at every turn in an effort to steel myself against the barrage of sleepless nights to come.

So much has happened in the months since the miscarriage, and though my head tells me I should lament the loss again on this significant date, my gut tells me this miscarriage was a miracle in its own right.

The loss of this baby wasn't a loss, really. It was a gain. I gained a perspective I'd never had. It was as if my life was hazy and dim and the miscarriage made everything come into focus.

After many years of half-assing my life, I've begun making an effort. I'm healthier. I'm happier. I like the person I'm becoming.

I'm a writer. I'm actually getting paid to write. I'm busy working at the computer during the day and often I have more work than I can get to, so I'm staying up late at night. Honestly, I'm exhausted.

But exhilarated!

So, no matter what my head tells me, I'm not going to mourn the miscarriage I had in six months ago. I'm going to celebrate it.

The One in the Hospital.

There are certain senses that elicit emotional responses, and in particular, trigger memories. I heard once that smell is the sense most closely tied to memory, and I believe it. 

I spent a couple of hours yesterday at a local hospital having a mammogram (which, thankfully, isn't nearly as painful as I imagined it might be before I had my first one. Awkward and uncomfortable? Yes. Painful? No). Not really knowing where I was going, I ended up parking at the exact opposite side of the hospital from where I needed to be (I'm really good at doing stuff like that), so I spent a good ten minutes wandering through the building on the way to my appointment. Through it all, and the further into the depths of the place I got, the stronger the hospital smell became and the more the memories came flooding back.

Back in 1997 I was 23. After three weeks of a fever I couldn't shake and swelling in my neck and throat, I was admitted to the hospital with the initial diagnosis of acute tonsillitis. On Day 5 of my hospitalization, my lung collapsed and a CT scan revealed a serious infection in my chest cavity that damn near took my life. I spent two straight months in the hospital, was on a ventilator via a hole in my throat, endured 10 surgeries and extreme medication, lost 35 pounds and, eventually, all my hair.

My memory is a bit patchy from the experience, but there are certain (occasionally random) bits that are burned into my brain - like the clink of the glass tubes as the lab technicians set down their equipment on the days they came to take a blood sample. For much of my stay, the curtain was drawn across the entrance to my glass-encased ICU room, and I spent what seemed like hours watching people's feet as they passed my way, inventing personalities and agendas to each set of shoes.

Sitting in the waiting room yesterday, gowned and watching some really awful daytime talk show, my instinct was to block out these memories - figuratively sticking my fingers in my ears and going, "lalalalalala." 

I don't often talk about my illness anymore, mostly because I don't often find a good segue for, "So, did I tell you about the time I was given a 50% chance to live?" But the truth is, it still colors my views and actions, and perhaps it would be easier for those around me if I did talk about it once in a while. With the exception of family, most of the people who knew me when I was sick aren't the people I spend time with today (a cross-country move does a lot to change your social circle).

I'm sure we all have experiences in our arsenal of past memories that we tend to sweep under the rug for one reason or another (surely, I'm not the only one, right?), but maybe it's time we consider taking them out, dusting them off, and sharing them with each other. 

I dunno, yes? No? Bad idea? Good idea?

See, I'm sitting here feeling like, "Oh crap, did I say too much?" just by blogging about it.

The One about friendship.

I'm on vacation, and I'm doing a lot of nothing, which is amazingly enjoyable. Currently, while my husband sits in the kitchen trying to pretend he isn't working, I'm watching an episode of Sex and the City - a show that strikes a chord for me, for my generation, and probably for women in general. I particularly love the different friendship dynamics among the four main characters. They mesh well as a whole, yet they're also believable as individuals and in their individual friendships.

It got me thinking about my friends.

I grew up in a small town, and I have friendships that have lasted since kindergarten. Particularly, with my best girlfriend. We met at five years old. Though I don't recall the specific circumstances of our initial "best friends" label, it might have been something as simple (yet profound to a five-year-old) as sharing a cookie.

Growing up, we shared homework assignments, inside jokes, and college visitations. If she weren't a good eight inches taller than me, we might've even shared clothes. When our lives took us to different states for college and beyond, we maintained a connection, albeit occasionally sporadic, that felt like home each time we made contact. She was at my side when I lay, clinging to life, in the Intensive Care Unit in my early twenties. She also flew out for an entire week when my daughter was born, doling out maternal secrets with the perfect balance of love and tact.

Having lived in four different states in the past decade, I haven't been able to cultivate long-term friendships, so I've been taking solace in old friendships, even those I'm guilty of neglecting from time to time. When I was home for my high school reunion, I was excited to get to spend some time - in person! - with my longtime bestie.

So I was literally stunned when, during lunch with a few high school girlfriends, I heard my original best friend refer to someone else as her current best friend.

If my first emotion was shock, my next and more pervasive emotion was guilt. I haven't cultivated this friendship as it deserves. I have taken this friendship for granted. Over the years, I haven't invested in this friendship nearly as much as she has. I was naive in thinking even though we live 3000 miles apart and lead increasingly different lives, that our friendship would remain pristine and uncompromised.

Back at the table, I felt myself flush and I begged a minute away via a trip to the restroom.

I don't blame her for finding a new best friend. I blame myself for not maintaining a relationship that was once (and perhaps remains) the most important friendship in my life. And partly, I don't blame anyone or anything. I know it's normal and natural for friendships to evolve, and even though our friendship may not be the same as it once was, it's still an incredibly special relationship to me.

I'm sitting here making a mental note to contact her and apologize for my neglect.

I'm also left feeling an odd void. If I no longer have a best friend, who do I have? I have friends, certainly, but I don't have that one girlfriend I go to each day for advice, commiseration, support and shared excitement. Instead, I have a circle of friends with whom I share different bits of myself. As time goes on and friendships lengthen, I'm sure some of these current friendships will become less compartmentalized and more broad, intimate.

I do have a army of women with whom I share virtually everything. The only problem? They're literally virtual - it's a small group of mothers who convene in an online forum. In a way, this is fantastic - ideal, even - since working around individual scheduling can put a damper on real world get-togethers, but the truth is, I long for a real-life someone whom I can call without a second thought when something happens that is good, bad, or otherwise.

I guess I wish I had a Carrie, Samantha, Miranda and Charlotte - a small group of women as varied in their lifestyles as they are passionate about their friendships. I think the impetus is on me, here, as there are several women in my life right now with whom I can envision that sort of bond.

Maybe I need to start sharing more cookies...

The One with my List of Five.

Back in The Day, I was a huge fan of the television show, FRIENDS (still am). In fact, I recall watching the pilot episode in my dorm during my freshman year in college. The dialogue was quick and witty, and it adopted the ever-growing idea that your friends could not only substitute for family - they could all but replace them. As I had recently moved out of state for school and had no family within several hundred miles, it was a theory I could relate to.

In fact, I'll admit that my blog titling is stolen from the show. As a film student I got ahold of a few FRIENDS scripts, and they were all titled, "The One...." starting with the pilot, appropriately called, "The First One."

So, it seems only fitting that I divulge yet another premise from the show that my husband and I have copied: Ross and Rachel's List of Five. You might recall...

I think it was before we were married that we each compiled a List of Five, and I will admit it's evolved for both of us. However, in the interest of time (and good taste), I'll only share my current List of Five and not go into the gory details and or all the versions this list has adopted.

1. Martin Sexton. No matter the version of my list, this guy's consistently held the top spot. You might be saying, "uh, who?" Well, he is a musician. Though he may not have broken through the ranks of celebrity, his fan base is wide and rabid, and for good reason. I've always had a thing for the short and stocky type, but outwardly he might not be everyone's cup o' tea. He's got a wicked sense of humor, though, (evident even on the short video clips available on martinsexton.com). If you're still not convinced just take a listen to his voice. My God, that voice. All at once dark and gravelly yet smooth and pitch-perfect, it alone could cause undies to remove themselves of their own free will.

2. Michael Symon. Unless you've been under a rock during the past decade (or two) you're familiar with Iron Chef. Originally, this show was a Japanese wunderkind, pitting accomplished chefs of varying cuisines against each other in food battles centering around key ingredients. This spawned an American version of the show, aptly called, Iron Chef America. As is our country's copycat way of creating television shows, The Next Iron Chef was born, and Cleveland native Michael Symon was crowned its winner. A man who knows his way around a kitchen is a huge turn-on, but Symon knows his way around many kitchens as the chef and owner of several restaurants. He's even a James Beard award winner (think the Oscars of food). This is all well and good, but it's his attitude that hooked me: he always seems to be having fun. That coupled with his unique, infectious laughter was enough to land him the number two spot on my list.

3. Matt Damon. Is there anything this guy can't do? After a few strong supportive performances, he burst onto the scene with a great little movie called, "Good Will Hunting". As if it weren't enough that he starred in it, he also wrote the thing and won an academy award for it. Acting chops aside, he's got boy-next-door good looks and a down-to-earth manner (as evidenced by his marriage to an everyday Jane: a waitress with a kid). In the Jason Bourne movie trilogy he got his action on playing the title character while still letting his portrayal of an amnesiac struggling to find (and accept) his identity while convincing the CIA to just leave him the hell alone for cripes sake take center stage. Plus, his mega-watt smile never fails to charm the pants off me.

4. George Clooney. Speaking of charm, this man eats charm for breakfast. It oozes from his pores. He is our generation's Cary Grant, as at home in a tuxedo as my husband is in a t-shirt. As Doug Ross on the first several seasons of ER, Clooney won over virtually every American woman (including me) as an emergency room pediatrician. I mean, come on - a handsome doctor who works with kids? AND he prefers to spend more time at his Italian villa than in smog-choked Los Angeles. Uh, yeah. I could get used to that.

5. Antonio Ballatore. Yes, the tattooed Design Star winner with clunky black glasses and a stocky boxer named, "Chewy". He's the guy who stood his ground in the very first show of his Design Star winning season and insisted that hot pink spray-painted ducks fastened to a wall was the right way to go. While the rest of his team took relish in throwing him under the bus for the decision, the judges saw his genius (and though I'm no interior design expert, so did I). He brings a rock n' roll vibe to design, and his brash exterior is tempered with (yes, I'm going to say it) a heart of gold. For all these reasons, not to mention his unabashed love of his dog, he is securely set at number five.

And there you have it. After reading my list you may be wondering who is on my husband's list. I am too, actually (I told you the List is ever-evolving). I know at one point his list included Debra Messing and Genevieve Gorder, though I'm not sure either remain. The one consistent List-member is Mariska Hargitay from Law and Order: Special Victims Unit (not that he watches the show, but every time a commercial comes on he never fails to comment on how beautiful she is). 

It's a silly little thing about which some people may roll their eyes, but listing those (albeit unattainable) celebrities with whom we are "allowed" to have relations without consequence is just plain fun. Now, if you haven't already, make a list of your own (you've probably already started making mental tick marks either for or against my list, so go ahead and make one for yourself). Just be sure to share it with me - tit for tat, you know.

The One on the Eve of my High School Reunion

Twenty years, people. That's how long it's been since I graduated high school. It feels just like it was yesterday and light years ago at the same time.

I had a great time in high school. I grew up in a small town in Oregon, and there were only 60 of us in my graduating class (in the one and only public high school in town). You can imagine there wasn't much competition for extra curricular activities with that size student body, so I got to be involved in just about anything I wanted. I was on the volleyball team, on the cheerleading squad (don't judge), in the drama club, in both choir and band, in student government (student body president my senior year - oh yes I was), and I even played on the golf team for a year. I tried anything and everything that sounded interesting or fun, and I often, if not usually, succeeded (there was a reason I didn't play on the golf team a second year).

Since then, Life has thrown me a few curve balls, and sometimes I have a hard time finding the fearless and outgoing girl I used to be in my current, adult self. Occasionally, I fear she's just up and gone, leaving me inside the shell of a 37-year-old self-doubting pessimist. When I get to my reunion tomorrow, I wonder if the only thing my classmates will notice is that I've gained weight and lost confidence.

But lately, I've seen glimpses of my former self. Though I still sometimes wrestle with the selfishness of our decision not to have any more children, that was really the springboard for me to embrace the search for, well, me. The past few months has seen me become healthier and lighter, and while my writing career hasn't quite taken off yet, it's racing down the runway.

The person I'm becoming resembles the girl I used to be, but she's less naive and I'd like to think a bit wiser. Though I'm a good 20 pounds heavier than I was in high school, I'm going to walk into my reunion tomorrow hoping people recognize the old me - the girl with enthusiasm and wit, the girl who welcomed a challenge.

And I hope when I get back home I'll remain up for any challenge, because like I said, I've still got that 20 pounds to lose.

The One by the Swing Set

Our job as parents is to teach our children how to live - what's right, what's wrong, and all the tips we've gleaned during our decades of experience living life.

Some of the lessons are simple:

Don't talk to strangers.
Wear your seatbelt.
Use a napkin.

Others are a bit more complicated:

Look both ways before crossing the street.
Give it some gas with your right foot while letting the clutch out with your left foot.
Lather, rinse, THEN repeat.

And still others you never imagined you'd have to teach:

Don't use your safety scissors to cut off the cat's whiskers.
KY jelly is not for polishing dollhouse furniture.
You don't want to win a game called, "How many kernels of corn can fit up my nose?"


Perhaps nothing strikes guilt into the heart of a parent more than realizing you haven't taught your child a basic safety rule before it's too late. Case in point: when my daughter was just two years old we attended a birthday party for a five-year-old. All the kids were older save for my kid and the birthday girl's little brother. It was an outdoor birthday party, and there was a swing set. You see where this is going? My husband was busy helping kids into the bounce house, and I was across the yard when I looked up to see my tiny little girl getting kicked in the head - not once, but twice - as she walked right in front of the swing set as an older child was swinging.

Ever since, I've tried to avoid playgrounds.

But yesterday I took the kiddo to another backyard birthday party. From my vantage point in a patio chair next to the refreshment table I didn't notice the swing set at first, but the world went into slow motion as I watched her make her way towards it. I sprang from my chair and got to her while she stood contemplating the slide. I crouched down to her level and told her to be sure to walk around the swings when someone was on them. Then I took her hand and showed her the path she should take to get around safely. I breathed a sigh of relief when she decided to try the bounce house instead.

Later, while I was chatting up some of the other parents, I saw her out of the corner of my eye. I held my breath and white-knucked the arms of my plastic patio chair while she edged her way around the front of children's swinging feet on her way to the slide steps. A dramatic sigh left my lips, and my heart pounded.

For the rest of the afternoon she carefully navigated her way around the swings, and I sat watching her, amazed and grateful that she took this lesson to heart. No sooner did I let my guard down than she came running towards me, tears streaming down her face. She hadn't walked in front of the swings. In fact, she had gotten on a swing by herself, but she forgot to hold on to the chains as she took her first big swing forward. The poor thing toppled backwards onto the ground like a weeble-wobble. (Wait, "weebles wobble but they don't fall down...") Well, anyway. You get the idea.

SIGH.

Add "hang on to swing chains at all times" to the list of lessons I've yet to teach her.

The One Where the Kid Turns Four.

Tomorrow the kid turns four years old. I can't help but think back to what was going on exactly four years ago. Right about now, I was 5 cm dilated and realizing the pain medication that was administered through my i.v. was not cutting the mustard. I would go on to request and receive a blessed epidural and after pushing for 30 minutes, our six-and-a-half pound girl emerged at 9:58am.

I'm amazed how she's changed in just four years. In less than the time it took me to graduate college, my kid has basically gone from a helpless loaf of bread to a fully-functioning human being. She's learned to walk, talk, count, and stop crapping her pants. She can draw, ride a tricycle, get her own snacks, brush her teeth, and dress herself. She loves playdough, the outdoors, and Scooby Doo.

She is made almost entirely of yogurt for the sheer amount of it she ingests.

She makes me laugh daily - like today, when we ran out of ice cream bars. Without missing a beat she asked in all seriousness, "Can I have some dog ice cream?' (we buy Frosty Paws, a canine ice cream treat for our dog).

She hates to have her hair brushed, and she eats meat so seldom it prompted my mother-in-law to ask me if our kid is a vegetarian. My reply? "No, she's three."

But she's not anymore - she's FOUR. Which, again, just blows my mind. For all the complaining I do over the challenge that is motherhood, I cannot be more proud to be this kid's mom.

Happy birthday, sweet girl.

The One on Mother's Day.

Four years ago I gave birth to a beautiful baby girl, and by doing so I have earned the right to be one of the many women who receives an annual holiday in honor of her motherly duties. It's a holiday that celebrates the blessing that is family and our contribution to the upbringing of our kidlets. My husband falls into the category of men who want to make this day, "all about the Mom," which is incredibly sweet and thoughtful, and yet another reason (among many) that I consider myself oh-so lucky to be his wife.

So, why is it that on Mother's Day the only thing I want to do is to get as far away from my family as possible?

It started last night, really. My husband is quite in tune with his body and can pinpoint the very moment a little sniffle becomes a full-blown cold. As so it was, last night, just after we got the kid to go to sleep that he sneezed and all bets were off. The Cold had made itself known.

This morning when our daughter woke up at 6:30, I somehow convinced her to lay back down and sleep a bit more (a parenting triumph), and when I found her, 45 minutes later, at my bedside saying, "It's good morning time!" I decided to get up with her and let my husband and his cold sleep in.

The morning came and went with little fanfare. After lunch, the kid and I spent a couple of hours outside in the gorgeous sunshine while my husband wallowed indoors. Once back inside, I attempted a nap. I will confess I got in a good hour before my husband came into the bedroom to tag out.

It took me the next two hours to watch a single episode of House Hunters International for the number of times my child, who was supposed to be napping, interrupted me.

She wanted a snack. The she wanted a drink. Then she wanted me to cover her with the blanket. The she needed to pee. Then she heard some thunder. Then she needed to poop. Then she wanted a magazine to read on the potty (I'm not kidding). Then she didn't want the kind of crackers I gave her, but a different kind. Then she was cold and needed help putting on a sweatshirt. The she didn't want to wear pants. Then she wanted to play with the iPad.

Then I put on shoes, told my husband I was, "going away," and I left, computer in tow.

Fortunately for both of us, the kid did something insanely cute and endearing each time I was about to go over the edge. Like when we finished putting her (hooded) sweatshirt on, she promptly pulled up her hood, took off her pants, and waddled back down the hall to her room in her underwear. She looked ready for a snowball fight from the waist up and a seaside beach from the waist down.

The thing is: being a parent is hard. It's just so. much. effort. I remember telling my husband when we began talking about such things as family and the future that I wasn't sure I wanted to have children. As the years went by, I felt a primal urge to procreate that I cannot explain, but perhaps my friend, Abby, put it best when she stated, "Motherhood is falsely advertised."

When I think about it, parenthood really isn't all that heavy on the payback. You have moments of heart-swelling love for sure, but the daily grind of parenthood can be vicious and soul-sucking. And no matter how much love and care and organic food you put into it, at the end of the day there is no guarantee that your children are going to turn out to be happy, successful, well-adjusted people.

The fact is that I can't focus on that stuff. The future is going to be what it's going to be. In the meantime, I'll do my best to recognize the moments of wonder amidst the tediousness that is Motherhood. And occasionally I'll escape to a coffee shop. That'll be good, too.

Happy Mother's Day.

The one that sucks.

So, I had an idea for a story. This is notable because I don't often have ideas for stories. I know what you're thinking, "what kind of writer doesn't have ideas for stories?" Well, me. I learned in graduate school that my writing talents lie more in the construction of a story - putting sentences together and organizing the scenes. Some are "Idea People", and these are the people who tend to have endless story ideas. When it's time to flesh out the story and actually WRITE it, though? That's where I come in. I'm fine with this time-proven fact about my writing; I've long since accepted it.

Which brings me back to why my having an idea is notable.

I ran my idea by my husband - a great idea guy. He actually liked it (other story ideas I've had over the years, though few and far between, haven't fared so well), and he proceeded to make suggestions about the storyline and plot. I nodded and added the appropriate, "mm-hmm" when applicable all the while my mind was racing with the possibilities.

I decided the idea would lend itself best to a short story, and I even went as far as to outline the plot points and general scene order. I must tell you - it was thrilling. In recent years when I've gotten up the gumption to write I insisted on doing it all free form - no outlining a plot or story idea. In some cases, all I started out with was a main character whose only attribute I'd decided on was whether it was a male or female.

Having been one of those geeky students who loved homework, outlining a story is right up my alley. I felt much more grounded and, dare I say prepared, before I even wrote a single word of the story.

Then today I sat down to start writing. You know how the saying goes, "It's just like riding a bike..."? Well, that totally doesn't apply to writing. At least, it didn't apply to me today. I felt like I was writing a Joy Fielding book for how fitfully and elementary the words were coming out of me ("This is Jane. She is a girl. See Jane wear a dress. Nice dress, Jane.")

My fingers are rusty.

It's going to take a while to get back into the swing of things, so to speak. I don't know why I thought the story would flow out of me perfectly on my very first stab at it (but let's face it, I kind of did). For a few minutes I let myself be a little depressed. I sulked around the living room and ate a rice krispie treat to quell my disappointment.

But then, I decided it doesn't matter if the first draft sucks. In fact, first drafts are supposed to suck - isn't that a rule? So, I gave myself permission to suck. And you know what? I wrote almost three pages. Three pages of crap, but three pages nonetheless.

I consider that a win.

The One with the underwear showing.

At the risk of sounding like a bad Seinfeld stand-up routine, I just cannot hold my tongue any longer:

WHAT IS IT WITH GUYS' PANTS HANGING DOWN THEIR ASSES?

Just yesterday, I was driving home from various errands, and I saw a young man (20-ish?) walking down the street wearing some colorful plaid boxers... oh, and he had a pair of pants around his thighs. I drove by, shaking my head and rolling my eyes. When this fashion trend (and I use the term loosely) began surfacing, I thought it might last a season or two, at best. But here we are, countless seasons later and yet I continue to see boys' underwear at seemingly every turn.

I have so many questions.

1. How do you manage to walk around with pants sagging around your thighs? Either you're forced to pull them up every three paces or you've cinched a belt so tightly that you end up walking like a penguin. Honestly, it looks like serious effort, and it seems to me you're getting zero payoff. Women are no strangers to challenging (and even painful) fashion trends, but at least stilletos make a chick's legs look longer and her ass look higher. Sometimes they even win you a free dinner.

2. Do I really need to see your underwear? Are they super special somehow? Do they glow in the dark, have pictures of jolly rogers or arrowed hearts on them? Were these underwear a gift, and you're simply trying to show your appreciation? Did someone make them for you? If you're that keen on displaying them, why not just wear them on the outside of your pants?

3. How is pants hanging off your ass attractive? HOW? Is it supposed to accentuate your ass? Your underwear? Make your legs look shorter? Make your shirt look longer? I just DO NOT get it.

4. After trying out this... "look", why continue with it? I will admit I've tried a few fashion trends that were ill advised, at best (as my junior high school photos will atest), but I've moved on. I beg of you to do the same.

My very own nephew, I'm afraid, suffers from the dillusion that the pants-hanging-off-your-ass look is The Thing To Do. I finally got up the courage to ask him about (berate him over?) this fashion choice. When I asked him, simply, "Why?" he offered me the pat answer, "I dunno." When pressed further, he just shrugged.

And then it hit me: perhaps the throngs of boys and men who are wearing their pants like this simply don't realize HOW pants are meant to be worn. Maybe they've never been taught what the numbers on the manufacturer's tag are for, yes?

WELL.

That first number there? Is the size of your waist, which is actually where the top of your pants are supposed to be. What's that? Don't know where your waist is? Find your belly button. Your waist is right around there - maybe a few inches lower.

Yes, way up there.

No, I'm not kidding.

So, next time you put on a pair of pants, try - just TRY - wearing them snuggly in that general area. You'll be amazed how much easier it is to walk around.

You're welcome. (p.s. you look like an idiot.)

The one on vacation

This is the first vacation we've taken in three years. I hesitate to call it a vacation, really. We're visiting family, and though I've been amassing a vast arsenal of lovely memories (not to mention a full sd card of photos), visiting family isn't always relaxing. We've got to juggle spending time with family while trying to make time to see friends as well. Navigating family dynamics, particularly when we haven't been privy to them in several years and have forgotten when to bob and weave around certain ancestral mine fields, has proven to be a bit tricky.

Overall, however, it's been a fantastic time. We've been fortunate to spend time with people I didn't think we'd get a chance to see, like my sister and brother-in-law, whom I adore. They drove almost six hours (each way) to visit us, and I will be forever grateful for their efforts. My daughter, their niece, will be four years old in just over a month, and this was the first time she and my brother-in-law had met. Despite my daughter continually forgetting his name and calling him simply, "the boy", they got along smashingly.

On the second leg of our trip we've been visiting my husband's family, which has been equally satisfying. We've gotten to see many of his old friends (dating back to junior high and high school) as well as spend quality time with family. Perhaps the most heart-swelling moments have been watching our daughter enjoying the company of her two cousins who are incredibly sweet, talented and beautiful girls.

Now though, after two weeks away from our home and routine (not to mention our dog), we're ready to head back. It's been a long trip, but a great trip, and one we won't soon forget. But if we do, at least we'll have the photo documentation to prove we ventured west.

The One with the glass half empty.

Have I mentioned I'm a pessimist? That may sound like a complaint, but it isn't necessarily. As a pessimist I have a deep well of cynicism at my disposal; I draw out sarcasm and self-deprication by the bucketful. I mean, it's fun to be pessimistic, right? Some of my favorite comedians are pessimists: Woody Allen, Janeane Garofalo, Lewis Black, and the list goes on, so at least I'm in good company. I confess I enjoy looking on the dark side of things sometimes; my rose-colored glasses were sold in a garage sale at some point in my early 20s, and I've never thought to replace them.

My husband has been telling me I'm a pessimist almost since we met, but I didn't take him seriously for a long time. It was only a couple of years ago that I began to realize he was oh-so right. We were our way to visit a friend overnight; my husband was driving, I was in the passenger's seat, and our then one-year-old daughter was sleeping blissfully in her carseat. The drive was only two hours, but from the get-go I began considering the worst. I sat quietly imagining an impending car accident in which my husband and I both perish. I lamented the fact that we hadn't drawn up a will and fretted over what might happen with our daughter in the event of our demise. I went so far as to imagine how long she might have to wait amongst the wreckage until the arrival of the fire department or ambulance, all the while calling, "Mom... Dad..." in the direction of our lifeless bodies.

(I know, right? AWFUL.)

At this point, my husband interrupted my imagined horror to ask if I was okay. I confessed my concern and began spewing all my fears in gruesome detail until my thoughts were spilled out like an upturned bowl of tomato soup.

"Holy shit, Honey," my husband responded (and rightly so). I immediately went on the defensive and spat back, "You're telling me you haven't worried over a single thing about this trip?" He admitted that he had, but when he told me his general concerns were in the realm of, "What if one of us forgets a toothbrush?" I shut my mouth.

Thus began my attempt to drop the pessimism a few notches in favor of something else - if not cautious optimism, at least buoyant apathy. Exactly where this tendency came from, I'm not sure - nature or nurture? I don't know, and really, it doesn't matter how or from where it originated. I'm doing my best to curb it to a manageable level these days.

Though I've made strides, my mind still veers off into the dark forest more than I care to admit. Now, however, after only a couple of minutes of leaving the good behind in favor of harping on the bad and the ugly, something inside me screams, "Stop. Just, stop." And amazingly, I do. Simply recognizing and acknowledging my pessimistic instinct has been surprisingly helpful. I realize I probably won't ever be someone who dots her "i"s with perfect tiny hearts, but I've stopped dotting them with hostile "x"s, so that's a start.

The One with the valentines.

It's Valentine's day. Funny how this holiday seemed so significant when I had no one to be my valentine, but now that I have someone to love today doesn't seem like much at all - just a reason to allow myself to eat candy, really.

I decided not to buy valentines for my daughter in favor of making valentines for her preschool classmates. I dutifully folded and cut up multi-colored construction paper cards and steadily wrote, "Happy Valentine's Day" on all of them. I set them out on our dining table with heart stickers, glue and sequins, puffy paint, and other assorted craft bits for my daughter to use as decoration. I was excited that I'd summoned the creativity to present such an entertaining project to my daughter, and I'll admit I was feeling a bit superior - ready to strike appropriate guilt into the hearts of those preschool parents who'd simply purchased ready-made valentines or worse, no valentines at all.

The first kink in the works was my daughter's refusal to decorate a single valentine. Not one. She decided she would rather adhere stickers to her shirt and to our dog. No matter, I simply put them aside and decided to try again over the weekend. Only I forgot. And I didn't remember that I'd forgotten until Monday morning when we were on our way to preschool. I calmed myself into the realization that since it was a Monday, most of the other parents had probably forgotten, too. The preschool didn't make any mention of it, and I bet almost no one paid attention to it whatsoever.

When we got to her room, however, my daughter's cubby was already filled with four valentines, all attached to some sort of sugary goodness. I gave her a kiss and hug and raced home. I opened a diet coke and flipped off my boots in favor of my oh-so comfy slippers. After all, this was serious business. I dug out the construction paper cards, stickers and markers and forged my daughter's artistry.

Oh yes I did.

I stuck stickers, scrawled shapes and scribbled lines. I made sure each card had just the right ratio of stickers-to-markers adornment before I stacked it neatly and moved on to the next. In the end, though the cards didn't boast some kind of take-home treat, at least they had been lovingly handmade (or so I hoped everyone would believe).

Next thing I knew, it was time to pick up my daughter. I hopped into the car and raced over there. Once I arrived and was on my way through the parking lot towards the building I realized two things:

1. I'd forgotten to bring the valentines, and
2. I was still wearing my slippers.

The one with lots of vegetables.

I've been eating lots of vegetables lately. And fruit. And nuts. Prior to this, I'd been shoveling all manner of crap into my face, and my body was done with it. So, I've been eating a partially raw diet for the past eight days in an effort to cleanse myself and jumpstart a healthier lifestyle.

See, that whole motivation thing that kicked in a few weeks ago? That has seeped into the part of my brain that been in charge of procrastination (a frighteningly large portion, truth be told). I've been telling myself for years that I'll get around to achieving a handful of goals someday. Now, it's like I woke up and realized "someday" is today, and one of those long neglected goals is to finally get this body into shape.

I know most people suggest making modest changes when you're planning to ease into a health kick, like taking the stairs instead of the elevator, not going back for seconds at dinner, or cutting down on caffeinated beverages, but not me, sister. I'm more of a balls-to-the-walls kinda gal - if I'm going to make a lifestyle change, I need a huge kick in the pants to make it stick; hence, my new (albeit intentionally temporary) diet.

Basically, I'm eating "raw" all day except dinner, which means I can eat fruits, vegetables, nuts and seeds. Oh, and I don't cook anything. For dinner I eat whatever the rest of my family is eating. We had grilled cheese sandwiches tonight, turkey dogs while watching the Super Bowl, and so on. Amazingly, I haven't been having late night snacks like I used to.

There is a whole movement and lifestyle supporting raw eating - and as you can imagine, there are many health benefits. The serious raw foodists make incredible dishes that simulate other foods we Americans are quite used to - spaghetti with marinara sauce, chips, tacos, and the list goes on.

I am not a serious raw foodist.

Though I applaud their dedication and I sympathize with their movement, I know myself, and I know I wouldn't be up for maintaining a raw diet indefinitely. But for now and the foreseeable future (a month, maybe? or two?) I will continue munching my way through green beans and red peppers, heaping sliced avocado onto multi-colored salads, and snacking through nuts and dried fruit towards a healthier self. Once I'm off the raw food bandwagon I plan to adopt a healthy diet, one that includes lots of fruits and vegetables.

Oh, and also? One of the by-products of ingesting copius amounts of raw foods has been the flushing out of my innards. There is a reason a friend of mine dubbed this the "Shit Yourself Thin" diet.

Don't say I didn't warn you.