OK, so clearly we all have our own ideas and opinions about this MSN upgrade stuff. Personally, I think leave well enough alone. However, since change is just how it goes, especially where technology is concerned (and in a competitive market), I guess I'll just say....whatever.

 

BUT.... can someone freakin' tell me how to leave a comment on someone's page where my picture shows up instead of that weird ghost head?

 

If I keep "Use My Profile Information" checked, I can't write my screen name and if I hit publish comment, it says error on page.

 

However, if I disable that feature and "uncheck" it, I can leave a comment, yet the ghost head still appears on everyone's blog. It's not the end of the world, but it would be nice if it worked correctly. Or, if I knew how to work it correctly. Either way.

 

I don't have much to say tonight. I am completely wiped out. We're on deadline and work and have one day left to put the March issue to bed. We are tired, cranky, mean, and out of energy and ideas. Well, that sums us up every time but it seems worse this week for whatever reason.

 

I started on my list a little bit. I made my doctor appointments. I plan on taking my car in Wed or Thurs. I started a "little" diet today. Just eating better and cutting out crappy food. We'll see how it goes. Just getting that stuff done already makes me feel a little better. I think writing it out helped. I have a big list of "to-dos" around the house, etc. Maybe if I post that too, I'll be more accountable. Yeah, right.

 

Sorry so short and so boring. I am compiling a list of topics for future blogs now....we'll see what happens.

 

Oh, and I have an announcement! I knew this last week, but today I was given permission to announce that our Blog Dork Friend Tina had a little girl. She is just short of a week old. Her name is Katie, and I saw a photo. She is beautiful...healthy... perfect. So congrats, Tina! Can't wait to meet your little princess! She says she'll be back to blogging later. She's still just trying to figure it all out, having two, etc. So swing by and tell her congrats!

 

Til next time....

 

j

Happy Birthday to Kate!

 

Today, my "baby" turned 5. I thought I'd be more emotional about it. Afterall, five is the beginning of "being big." Actually, I was excited about it. I think it's just the stage she is in. She is so independent, funny, smart, and generally fun to be around. I know this is the "good stuff" before the dreaded teen-age years.

 

I wrote an entry about Liv, so I want to write one about Kate, too. I remember when I found out I was pregnant with her. My first thought was, "It's a girl." I remember riding down the elevator thinking, "What have we done? This is for real!" I went back to the office and ordered Mexican food. I called my husband. He asked, "What are you doing?" I answered, "Eating for two." He didn't really get it at first. He just got really quiet. "Are you serious? Oh wow." Then I cried. That was the first of many tears in my emotional pregnancy. He explained he was at work and it was hard to get excited. That night, he brought me flowers and we went to eat.... Mexican food. As it turns out, that was my food of choice during that pregnancy. It's probably also the primary reason I gained 60 pounds!

 

I remember when she was born. She kept sticking her tongue in and out, like she was tasting the world. She looked so much like my husband and had this wide-eyed look, like she was trying to soak it all in. She was so awake. And, much to my dismay, she stayed awake a lot. Everyone told me newborns slept all the time. Not this one. In fact, it's hard to get her to sleep to this day. She's still awake upstairs. I can hear her banging around, avoiding it. She's the only five-year-old I know who actually uses a sleep mask (her idea) because it helps her "forget about being awake." The girl hasn't taken a nap since she was just under 2. I don't know how she does it.

 

This girl is a ball of energy, but is as sweet as can be. She is polite, has great manners, and is such a good friend to everyone. She's not exclusive and is always the first to go say hello to a kid. She loves to sing and dance, and she is as creative and imaginative as can be. I don't know how she dreams up half the stuff she does. She continues to amaze me every day. She has a unique way of making everyone around her feel like they are her "favorite." She has everyone in our family completely wrapped around her finger. We've all been under her spell since the day she was born. And now, she has a new fan...her sister Liv. I love that Kate will always be her protector and guide in life. Liv couldn't be luckier. She has a great big sister, and I can't wait to watch the two of them grow and become friends.

 

I can't believe that this time next year, she'll be in Kindergarten. Our time together when she's "just our's" is quickly coming to an end. Soon, she'll be a teacher's during the day and her friends' opinions will mean more to her than our's. Her affection will go to her friends and (agh!) boyfriends. We'll just be the bank and a place to sleep before we know it. That's why I am going to continue to treasure and soak up this innocence for as long as I can. It's just too good. I love how she will sing at the top of her lungs, run through the house in her nightgown, dance around and laugh in the middle of the living room with no inhibition. I know that won't always be the case. I couldn't quit hugging her today. It's like I want to hang on to this for as long as I can.

 

This was a great birthday weekend. She had her party at a gym with about 20 kids on Saturday. It was such a cute party. Fairy theme. Lots of fun. We came home and opened the gifts. She loved it. She woke up today to lots of hugs and kisses and requested cake for breakfast. Done deal, even with a candle! Then her two best friends came over for a play day. They had a blast and created their own rock band. Too cute. We topped off the night having pizza out with our friends. She fell into bed, a bit over-tired and partied out! Us, too....which is why I have to end this entry now. As the host of the birthday weekend that lasted 2.5 days, I am too tired to type another word.

 

So happy birthday, Miss Kate. I love you!

 

Til next time...

 

j

 

 

I have been writing all week for my job. I don't think I have it in me to put together a real blog, so I'm going with my old standby, What's On My Mind. If you see random "things to do" that's because I am hoping that if I write it down and get it out there, I'll actually really get to it. It's OK if you hold me accountable for it, too. I work better under pressure.

 

Energy level. I always say I'll come home and just pull an all-nighter and get the house straight and some things organized. I intend to. Really, I do. And then 9 o'clock rolls around. All I want to do is flop on the couch, watch a tivo'd show, and call it a night. This is one of those nights. Company is coming this weekend. I need to clean the house, straighten up. However, I also need to watch last night's American Idol. Hmmmm.......

 

Weight. I need to face facts. I need to drop at least 7 pounds. Since November, I have steadily gained seven pounds. On a 5'2 frame, it shows. I keep denying it, saying "Oh, it's water weight." Whatever. It's real. The scale says so, every morning. Lately I have seen 2 or 3 pictures and I realize that I look fatter. Today was my favorite day -- cut and highlight day -- the whole time I was looking at myself in the mirror while he was cutting my hair all I could think about is how my face looks pudgier. It's time to do something. I don't know what, though yet. If I work out, it's 9 or after. I'm good for that maybe 2 times a week. At least I'm being honest. I hate drinking water, in that it has no caffeine. I don't eat sweets. I don't even snack. But my meals often consist of carbs.... I know I need to cut that one out. I need to set a goal date and work toward it. I usually do better that way. I guess I can either lose it or sit here in this comfy chair and just write about it. Again, hmmm......

 

Doctor appointments/consultations. Next week, I want to have appointments made for a skin check with the dermatologist (every time, they find something and I know this time is no different), a cosmetic dentist about Invisalign or other options; a cosmetic surgeon just to "talk"; and the laser center about tattoo removal. With summer facing me, it's time for that baby to go.

 

My car. I mean it. Next week, it goes in the shop. I have had two different accidents, so that is two different deductibles. That sucks, big time. But I am sick of driving around in a dented up car. I just need to suck it up and get it done. It's just that the thought of rent cars, dealing with insurance, switching car seats... yuck.

 

Bottle to cup. I am having hell getting my baby to switch from the bottle to a cup. She wants nothing to do with it. Zip. She likes whole milk--that's not the problem. But she doens't want it, or anything else for that matter, from a cup. Her doctor says it's time to be off the bottle. He even said to go cold turkey. I can't handle that. Any suggestions?

 

Five. My oldest daughter turns five this weekend. How did this happen? I vividly, clearly remember the day she was born and it doesn't seem like that long ago. I remember her being a baby, learning to walk, sitting in a high char, carrying her everywhere. Now, I can barely lift her she's gotten so big. Five seems different to me--more official. Like she's crossed over some imaginary milestone and is definitely no longer a "baby." Obviously, but with Kindergarten just around the corner, it has become painfully clear to me that as a working mom, I've missed a lot. I don't regret anything.... but in a way, I wish I could just go back and pay more attention, cuddle with her longer, play with her more, teach her more thing, rock her longer. I guess it's that she seems so independent now that I realize how fast time flies.

 

I imagine I won't be blogging much for the next few days. It will be a swirl of activity with family in, the party, more fun on Suday (her actual birthday). Oh, that reminds me, I need to clean the house.

 

Oh! I almost forgot. Somewhere along the line, my blog  hit the 20,000 hit mark. That rocks! I would never have imagined I'd have 20 hits, much less 20,000. Pretty cool. I never considered that many people would give a second thought about what's On My Mind. But I'm glad you do!

 

I gave Hubby a homework assignment. He was to make his list of “mysteries” about me. They’re not as detailed, but here’s the list, in its entirety. Relate if you can; laugh if you must.

 

1. I don’t use tin foil when baking something, such as a pizza. It drives him nuts that I don’t make things easier on us later by protecting the pan with tin foil. That way, we can just rip off the foil, throw it away, rinse the pan, and be finished. With the way I do it, we wind up scrubbing off burned on junk when we could be relaxing after dinner.

 

2. I cook a meal then leave the dirty dishes out while we eat. He prefers cooking it and then cleaning up so that there is minimal mess after a meal. I don’t know why I do that. I guess I’m in a rush to get everyone fed.

 

3. Toothpaste. He says it makes no sense that I am a neat freak and organized in so many areas of my life, yet I will make a total mess out of a tube of toothpaste. I don’t roll from the bottom. It’s a gloopy, gloppy mess.

 

That’s it. Fair enough. I admit to all of these faults. I know he has more, but that’s all he gave me.

 

I thought I’d play fair and give you the other side of the coin of my list. For anyone who believes I use this blog as public forum to complain about my husband, this is proof that isn’t true. Yes, I might complain from time to time (I have a right; I’m married), but I will also give praise as well.

 

So, here you have it.

 

I love the way he makes me laugh when I am at my absolute maddest. I will be completely upset about something, yelling and griping, and he will find something humorous about the situation and say some kind of joke that almost makes me forget what I was mad about in the first place. If nothing else, it makes me realize things aren’t so bad. He is the master of seeing the glass half full. I wish I had half of his optimism.

 

He brags about me. I can’t tell you how many times we have been in public, and he has said, “Jennifer is the hardest working person I know. I don’t know how she handles all she has on her plate so well.” And the best part? He means it. He understands the unique challenges I face at work and does whatever he can to help me sort through them and support me in the tough times on the job. I also love it when he uplifts me in my dark moments of self-doubt when I’m convinced I’m the worst writer in the world and that I’ll be fired any second.

 

He tells me I’m a good mom. He doesn’t have to do this. He can assume I know he thinks it, but he doesn’t. At random moments, he’ll see me doing something with the kids and say, “You are such a great mom.” It can be something as random as helping my daughter make her first gingerbread house at Christmas, despite the horrible mess and the baby tugging at my legs, but the important part is that he notices.

 

He tells me I’m pretty. When we first started dating, he told me that I reminded him of a model he saw in a magazine when he was a little kid in elementary. He thought she was the prettiest girl he’d ever seen. He said the first time he saw me, his memory went straight back to that girl. He knows I don’t believe in love at first sight—I don’t—but he says he does because he knew he wanted to be with me from the minute he first saw me.

 

He thinks I’m funny. I don’t think I’m funny at all. In fact, I think I’m way too serious for my own good. However, he laughs at stuff I say and write, or the way I say them, all the time. I happen to think he’s hilarious. So, we keep each other laughing, which is a huge plus.

 

He lets me be. If I want to let the house go for a few days so I can get to bed on time or if I just want to let some of the “to-do’s” pile up so I can catch up on tivo’d shows and drink a glass of wine, he says absolutely nothing about it. In fact, he often encourages me to let stuff go so I can get in some much-needed relaxation. On Sundays, he knows I will be in a much better mood if I can catch up on my sleep and get in a good afternoon nap. He takes the kids and lets me hide out in the upstairs guest bedroom and sleep away.

 

We have fun together. On date nights, I am (usually) reminded why I fell in love with this guy. We have a great time at the movies, dinner out, or just shopping around. It seems like forever ago when it was just the two of us, back in the apartment days barely getting by. But I remember being really happy then. It’s nice when I am reminded about how we got here in the first place.

 

He’s a better communicator than I am. I get my thoughts across in writing. I always have. He just lets it out. I am content to stew about something for days, making him wonder why I’m mad. (I know…I know…). When he sees that look of discontent on my face, he wants to stop everything and hash it out NOW. In the heat of the moment, I hate doing that. But we never go to bed angry. He makes sure we work through it. I admire that about him.

 

He’s smitten with our girls. This is a guy who never imagined having girls. He just knew he’d have boys. Both sonograms, when we found out we were having a girl, he was disappointed, much to my dismay. In fact, we fought over how disappointed he was. Both times, however, he has fallen….hard…for these two little girls. They have him wrapped, that’s for certain. And he loves it. I actually find that very attractive.

 

The “little” things….he gives the best massages. In fact, I prefer his over a spa’s. He understands the need for my pedicures and spending good money on a hair cut and color. My feet and hands are freezing at night. He lets me slide them right under him until I’m nice and warm. He brings me a Diet Coke when he senses I need one. He brings home take-out when he knows it has been a long day and I’m stuck in traffic and would have a nervous breakdown if I had to cook. He always unloads the groceries. And even if I don’t let always let him because I’m such a control freak, he genuinely wants to help me out and make my busy, chaotic life easier.

 

I know there are more reasons, but these are most of them. It has taken me much of my 33 years to realize that a couple doesn’t have to be like a pair of bookends to make things work. Each of us is different, yet it’s those very differences that complement us and make us better people. We learn from each other and help each other, every day. We take…sure…but we also give. And by doing so, we’re growing.... in good times, and in bad. We don’t give up, even when it feels like such an easy thing to do. We see the bigger picture. We realize what’s important, and we nurture it when it has been neglected. That’s marriage….that’s us.

 

Why will a man spend 10 minutes scrubbing out dishes, complaining to his wife, that if you don’t wash the leftover food stuff now, it won’t come off in the dishwasher, but he can’t spend an extra second to make sure the trash he just used as a free throw makes it into the garbage? Or an extra second to actually throw the banana peel into the trash, rather than leave it on the counter?

 

Why will a man make a huge fuss about doing the laundry, marching it through the living room and throw it in the washer with a loud huff but a) never put it in the dryer and it winds up mildewing and needing a re-wash or b) makes it into the dryer but never out to be folded and put away? By the time his wife discovers it, it’s a wrinkled mess that really should be started over again. The kicker? The stains are set. He’s never used Spray N Wash in his life. A double-kicker, his wife’s favorite Anne Klein shirt somehow made it into the mix and is now small enough to fit their toddler daughter.

 

It’s so easy to tell what a man ate for breakfast, what he snacked on, or what he had to drink. Just follow the open cabinets, the drips of mustard, syrup, or hot sauce, the crumbs from the toaster (which is pulled out in the middle of the counter) and finally end up at the place where he ate it in the living room, usually with a few stains or water marks from his drink (with the coaster just inches away) and a wadded up paper towel in the wake. It’s a good day when the drips don’t hit the carpet or if the knife has been wiped clean of peanut butter and the apple core is in the trash, rather than rotting away on the end table.

 

Why is it that when a man is worried about money because he’s recently over-spent that he uses terms like, “we” should set a new budget or “we” need to do better with saving, but if his wife gets in a little fender bender or happens to have a little shopping spree of her own, the united “we” turns into “you?”

 

What is it about eating a big dinner out and needing to go straight to bed? Dinner, to most women, is the start of the evening, followed by a nightcap, a movie, or a play. Why is it such a struggle to get you to keep going whenever food and alcohol are combined?

 

When it’s obvious that between the two, the wife is the better bookkeeper, if a bill is paid late, not enough was saved, not enough was paid on a certain bill….or there was a shockingly high gas bill this month….how is it somehow the wife’s fault? Don’t both parties have access to the same account  to check on at their own will? Aren’t the bills put in the same place every day for everyone’s viewing pleasure (or displeasure?) Since when did the bookkeeper in the family become the reason the couple does or doesn’t have money this month?

 

Why is it that a man can come home from work and just start stripping down, making a path of clothes, socks, and shoes all the way to the bedroom but still carefully hang his tie, pants, and coat on the edge of the entertainment center door? Wouldn’t it be easier and take just as much time to actually hang it back up on the hangers in a closet? And then, when his wife has had it and hangs it for him, she gets a snippy lesson on the appropriate way to hang a pair of dress pants. Huh?

 

Why is it that when a man spends a ton of money on a “toy” it’s an investment, but when a woman spends some cash on her version of a “toy” it’s just that….spending?

 

Why is it that just about the time you are feeling confident in the way you look and comfortable that he’s OK with you, he brings up that you haven’t been to the gym in awhile or points out how if he can carve out time to work out, why can’t you?

 

Then there is the age-old question, why is it when a man and woman have the exact same illness, that the woman can still get up at the same time, get herself ready, the kids ready, take them to school, go to work, cook, put the kids to bed, do the housework and hopefully hit the bed at least 30 minutes earlier than usual while the whole time, her husband stayed home and rested because “it’s the worst he’s ever felt?”

 

….. And then of course, all of this aside, why do we hope this same man will notice us at a party, ask us out, ask us out again, pop the question, meet us at the end of the aisle, become the father of our children, care for us, and one day grow old with us? Because of love, and because….well…..they put up with us and  must work through their own list of “mysteries,” too…. and love us still, despite them.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Therefore.... I will slack off with this...

 

MY ABC's

• A IS FOR AGE : 33
• B IS FOR BOOZE OF CHOICE : Extra dirty, vodka martini...very chilled; Close second... you guessed it... Bailey's on ice.
• C IS FOR CAREER : Writer
• D IS FOR DAD'S NAME : Keith (step-dad is Wayne)
• E IS FOR ESSENTIAL ITEMS TO BRING TO A PARTY:   A great bottle of red
• F IS FOR FAVORITE SONG OF THE MOMENT: Walk the Line
• G IS FOR FAVORITE GAME: Competitive shoe shopping?
• H IS FOR HOMETOWN : Sundown, population 1,400
• I IS FOR INSTRUMENTS YOU PLAY: Piano, by ear mostly... and only a few songs at that
• J IS FOR JAM OR JELLY: Grandaddy's homemade peach jelly or raspberry/strawberry jelly
• K IS FOR KIDS: Two -- 1 and 5
• L IS FOR LIVING ARRANGEMENTS : Home in suburbia with hubby, two daughters, and a dying beta
• M IS FOR MOM'S NAME : Carolyn
• N IS FOR THE NAME OF YOUR PET : Um, Fishy?
• O IS FOR OVERNIGHT HOSPITAL STAYS: Two, childhood; Two, labor; 1 for a kiddo
• P IS FOR PHOBIAS: (these are mostly fears) Ghosts, drowning, Cancer, scary movies, walking to my car late at night; going broke; not having enough money in retirement; getting fired; something horrible happening to people I love; terrorism; car wrecks; Hell; dying young; Ok, I could go on all night....
• Q IS FOR QUOTES YOU LIKE: Too many to list... Right now, "I hate words. Nobody wants to read them."  From, my publisher....
• R IS FOR RELATIONSHIP THAT LASTED THE LONGEST : Romantic.... my hubby (we met in 1991 and married in 1999) Friend, my bff Sherry (we met when I was 4 and she was 5)
• S IS FOR FAVORITE SODA : Diet Coke
• T IS FOR TIME YOU WAKE UP: Usually around 6:30. Last night, 2 a.m. b/c of crying baby
• U IS FOR UNDERWEAR : Comfy, but no granny panties
• V IS FOR VEGETABLE YOU LOVE: Pretty much anything steamed or grilled 
• W IS FOR WEAPON OF CHOICE : I'm a lover, not a fighter.... 
• X IS FOR XRAYS YOU'VE HAD: Knee, once.
• Y IS FOR YUMMY FOODS YOU MAKE : Roast. (two different kinds).... Mexican casserole.....
• Z IS FOR ZODIAC SIGN : Cancer

 

 

It’s ladies’ night at On My Mind. No cover. Just strut on in wearing your comfies, pull up a chair, smoke if you must, order your favorite, and relax.

 

See, now isn’t that better?

 

So when I was going through a rough patch in my life, my grandmother, ever the prim and proper gal she is, knew how tough things were for me. I was tired. Worn out. Broke. Granddaddy sent me $500 to help me get back on my feet again. Today, $500 doesn’t go all that far. But at that point in my life, it was like winning $1 million. Grandmother’s solution to happiness was a bit more simple.

 

“You could use a little lipstick.”

 

Huh.?

 

I never really looked at the situation from that point of view, cosmetics that is. I smiled my polite smile. After all, this is grandmother we’re talking about here. I nodded and agreed. I didn’t think much about it again until a few days later as I faced myself in the mirror. I took a long hard look. What would happen, I wondered, if I followed her advice? I laughed out loud. Probably for the first time in weeks, if not months.

 

I rummaged through my luggage (I was staying in a nasty motel where roaches, sadly, were my new best friends and brown tap water was the special du jour) and found a tube of lipstick. Standing there in my pajamas without a stitch of make-up on, I applied it. My face looked brighter. I looked more awake—like I was back among the living.

 

The next day, rather than throw just anything on, I made somewhat of an effort to dress well. OK, well, I at least matched. I put on some lipstick. I instantly felt better. Then I thought back to my grandmother. In the morning, she could be in her robe and slippers preparing breakfast, but she always had on lipstick.  She was awake, ready, energetic.There had to be something to it.

 

Through the years, I’ve had friends who told me that their grandmothers gave them the same advice: “Don’t take on the day without lipstick.” Or, “A girl is naked without her lipstick.” At lunch at a restaurant, without fail, women are re-applying lipstick before they head out. At a club or bar, when you go into the bathroom sure enough, it’s a line of girls at the mirror chatting about whatever (usually guys) while applying lipstick. Rarely, does a girl escape through that swinging door without a fresh pout.

 

Today, our marketing team had to take a group photo. I didn’t see anyone mess with their hair, but I did see everyone of us (myself included) putting on a thick coat of lip gloss. And I have to say, we all looked a lot better…brighter…refreshed.

 

At Girls’ Night Out last week, I took out my “Bag O Lip Gloss” at the table. My friend Kim said, “Is that all lipstick in there?” She couldn’t believe I carried around that much of it. I never really thought about it before. The bag, I remember, was purchased on a trip to New York before I ever had kids, although I was pregnant with my first. I nabbed it thinking, “That is the perfect bag for lip gloss.” Five years later, it still is. Most days, I wait until I get in my car to apply it and dig through that same bag to find just the right shade for the day. And during the day, when I feel I’m “naked,” I reach for it again. I’d rather be in a meeting or cross a co-worker in the hall “dressed” in my secret weapon.

 

The grocery store....A quick errand.....I’m not a high maintenance girl. I’ll throw on sweats and my tennis shoes, run a brush through my hair…. and apply lip gloss. I won’t have one bit of make-up on, except my old stand-by. It makes me feel “good enough to pass” out there, I guess.

 

So I’m curious. What is your “secret weapon” before you leave the house? Are you a lip gloss gal like me? Maybe it’s mascara. Blush? Don’t tell me you’re one of those “I can’t leave the house without all of my make-up on” kind of girls…… So spill it. Guys, you’re invited, too, if it applies to you. Maybe it's a lucky coin. A favorite cap. A certain cologne. But, guys, if you say lip gloss, I’m really going to have to wonder about you.

 

Have a good weekend….. and …..

 

SMACK!!!!!  ;)

I’m supposed to be writing two fashion profiles right now. This screen in front of me should contain copy for two of our fashion advertisers. I need to be writing about how cool, edgy, and fashion-forward they are. How there isn’t another store in the area –a city with more shopping centers per capita than any other city in the U.S.—like their store. Hot couture brands you won’t find anywhere else.

 

Yawn…….Say it with me…. blah, blah, blah.

 

Writing. I wonder how many times a day I say that word? At a party, people ask what I do. I tell them I’m a writer. They automatically think I’m a wannabe starving artist. Then I explain I’m actually on a payroll. The next question is usually, “How did you get that job?” As if I must have known somebody who knew somebody to get in the door. No, that’s not really how it happened. I think about writing all of the time. I think about stories I wish I could write, stories I dread writing, and stories I know I’d never have enough talent or intelligence to write. I read stuff other people have written and then I wish I could write as well as them or I think, “Hey! I could have written that story better.”

 

If I think of a good lead or a good thought for one of my stories, I promise I’ll remember it. I don’t. If I write it down, I’ll look at it later and wonder what the hell I was thinking. I write and re-write my leads to a story over and over. Sometimes, probably 100 or more times. At work, I think I have my day mapped out and then someone asks if I have a few minutes to write some ad copy for a client. It’s an interruption in my writing, but I do it anyway. They can’t believe I just churned copy out that quickly. I act like it was hard. Usually, it’s not. Then there are the questions at work about who is going to write what story. Jealousy ensues. Typically, no one fights for my stories. Advertorial isn’t the most exciting gig at a magazine.

 

I have been at the magazine for seven years this month. Lucky seven or seven-year-itch? I wonder. Some topics I’ve written about several times a year, every year. Topics like women’s health, cosmetic surgery, the latest luxury cars on the market, family law, and interiors. I wouldn’t say I’m bored of it, but if a new topic comes along, the story always sounds better than others I’ve written recently because I obviously put more time and heart into it.

 

Why is that I work and plan ahead on most everything in my life but my articles? When it’s crunch time, I really start on it. I guess I like the adrenaline, fast-paced part of my job. Maybe I think better under pressure. I guess it comes from the newspaper days. I should have turned my story in today for good measure. But I know I have until tomorrow. So I came as close as possible to finishing it, but I didn’t finish it. I’d like to think I just ran out of time, but let’s be honest. I know I have tomorrow to work on it. In all other aspects of my life, that is so unlike me. Here it is 9:20 at night. I should be working, writing something that will earn me a buck. Instead, I’m writing my blog. I’ll go to bed too late, wake up too early, and be tired all day. Tomorrow I have interviews for story and I need to finish all of my stories and profiles. Will it happen? Probably…. Barely.

 

Then there’s this blog. When I started it, I had no idea what I was going to do with it. I started out writing topics in essay form. I just took a topic and elaborated on it. Usually, the topic was something on my mind at the moment, thus the title of my blog. Then I got to know some blog dork buddies and it turned more into a rundown of what was happening in my life. That’s when the weirdos started showing up. So, I went back to my original concept of essays. I may switch back and forth. Who knows? But one thing I do know is how completely astonished I am on a daily basis about how many people visit my site? I remember the first time someone said to me, “Oh, you wrote that article? That was very interesting. I really liked what you said about ____.” All I could think of is, “Why?” That’s the same question I ask myself about this blog. Every once in awhile I find a random link to my site on someone else’s blog. It will say something nice about my writing. After more than 10 years in this business, I still ask, “Why?” I never really wanted to be anything but a writer. In fact, it’s all I’ve really done since I was in junior high. I wasn’t the best student. I certainly wasn’t an athlete. But if it had to do with writing, I typically did well.

 

I don’t really think about it that often until a friend, or even my sister says, how do you just sit there and start writing? How do you know what questions to ask people? One time, I asked my sister to write something on a topic just to prove to her how easy it was. It was horrible! And she’s smart and has so many talents. But I laughed out loud at what she wrote, and so did she. Maybe it’s not the easiest thing in the world. I know it’s not brain surgery, that’s for sure.

 

Well, I officially wasted time writing when I should be writing. Now there’s a sentence you won’t read every day. Minutes procrastinated? About 20. I’m going to post this and then be back to where I started, just a little more tired. I’m seriously thinking about tabling it and just diving in tomorrow after a good night’s sleep. I mean, we both know that’s when I produce my best work, right? I guess I’ll stare at the blank screen a little longer and see if something will magically appear.

 

I’ll let you know what happened.

 

(Number of times the word ‘write’ or a form of ‘write’ appears in this post: 30. Minutes wasted counting: 5)

I woke up at around 6 a.m. on this Tuesday and got dressed. I even did my hair and make-up—which my husband thought was crazy considering where I was headed. I had taken a shower the night before because I knew we’d be rushed. We had to load up the car, take everything we might need and then some, and get our oldest daughter to school. She knew we were going to the hospital and that when she saw us again, she’d have a sister. I thought she’d want to go or would be sad and confused. Instead, she trotted off into her classroom as if it was a day of nothing special.

 

I was relieved she felt that way. I had enough apprehension for us both. I remember that she was the first one at school that day because we got there when the doors opened. We had to be checked in by 7:30 a.m., latest.  My stomach was growling. I had an almost eight-pound baby in my stomach who was used to being fed continuously (as I’ll later regret) but I couldn’t eat. Those were the rules. I remember parking in front of the hospital and thinking, “Here we go again.” It had been four years almost exactly since I’d done this routine before. Like many before me, I had blocked the not-so-fun parts of labor out of my mind and only remembered the good parts. However, the bad parts came rushing back the minute we entered the double doors of the hospital. I remember holding a pillow (bring one, the nurse said, as we are running low) and hoping they had a bed for me (they were low on those too.) I was ready to have this baby. My first daughter was 8.5 pounds. I’m only 5’2, small-framed. Let’s just say it was a hard labor. We decided to induce two weeks early to avoid that again.

 

All is well when we check in. They think I’ll have the baby by 6 p.m., latest. I thought there might be a period of just waiting around, but no. I was immediately hooked up and doped up. As most moms know, labor is swirl of nurses, anesthesiologists, assistants, and doctors going in and out of your room all day. Throw privacy out of the window. I tried to concentrate on a television show. I couldn’t. Hubby brought some games. I don’t like games anyway, especially at that moment. I was worried about everything—the epidural, the pain, when the contractions would get worse, would it take as long, and will she be OK?

 

At about 15 weeks of pregnancy, one of my prenatal tests came back positive for Down’s Syndrome. In fact, it was about 1 in 150 odds. I opted to have a high-level sonogram. They felt fairly certain she didn’t have Down’s based on the sonogram, but they couldn’t say for sure. Her arms and legs measured very short for this stage of pregnancy, which is an indicator of Down’s. I opted for an amnio, even though I understood the dangers. I cried the whole time, held my husband’s hand, and said the Lord’s Prayer to myself. A long and agonizing three weeks later, I got the call that she had a 98 percent of not having Down’s. I was relieved…until I heard that a friend’s friend got the same results and breezed through the pregnancy and labor, only to give birth to a little boy with Down’s Syndrome. I wouldn’t have changed my mind about the pregnancy. I would have loved her as much as I do now. I just wanted to know and be prepared. Once I received the good news, I didn’t think about it much again….until I was in the hospital room wondering about anything and everything that could go wrong.

 

But back to birth day. The labor wasn’t progressing well, much like the last time. The doctor, I could tell, was eager to have a result. If I hadn’t progressed by around 8 p.m., she would wheel me in for a C-section. I was kind of disappointed because I had managed to pull through with a regular delivery with my first daughter. I was surprised I couldn’t do it again. It was like she could hear us talking about her and decided to make her debut to provide us wrong, and at 8:45 p.m., after about six good pushes, she did. I pushed for two hours with her older sister. And there she was, all red and squished up. She gave a little bit of a cry, but that’s it. She had dark black hair. I’m blonde. Dark skin, almost Hispanic-looking. I’m very fair and pale. Who is this kid?, I thought.

 

She had wide, big eyes, a sweet little mouth and she looked, well, worried. Like, What am I doing here and why did I wind up with you? Mom says she couldn’t believe how relaxed and chilled out we were. I was even taking pictures of her from my hospital bed, rather than laying there in shock of it all. I didn’t spend much time with her. I was tired and actually wanted to go to my room. I was grateful for a quiet, dark room with minimal interruptions….and I was starving. They wouldn’t let me have much. I remember having a Sprite and peanut butter crackers. I devoured them. And in the morning, I ordered Belgian waffles and a Diet Coke (my first since finding out I was pregnant.) I was dismayed to find Diet Chek Cola with my order, but I drank it anyway. I remember feeling guilty that I kept sleeping. I would awaken to remember what I had just been through. In my mind, I knew I should ask for the baby, but I just needed more rest. I wasn’t ready. I was kind of scared. I missed my oldest daughter. I wondered what she was thinking at home.

 

I remember when they brought her to me after a decent night of sleep. I thought she was quite the looker, despite her squishy red appearance. She was quiet, sleepy. A good baby. She wouldn’t eat a lot, but she seemed OK with that. I had a few family visitors. Oh, and by the way, she was born on my sister’s birthday….she was there to “cut the cord.” Pretty special. She didn’t fuss much, but I noticed (to my delight) that when I held her she seemed as calm and content as could be. That indescribable “rush” of being a mom went through me at that moment.

 

For the first three months, Olivia Noelle (we call her Liv or Livie) slept a lot and was quiet and content. An easy baby. My first was a very demanding baby and slept very little. I was pretty happy about the situation…… and then she turned six months old. From then on, she has been quite vocal, very opinionated, mobile, and so curious that we can’t turn our backs on her for a minute or something is bound to crash! In fact, her Dad calls her “Crash.” She is a bundle of joy and energy. She smiles when she sees any of us…loves her big sister to pieces. She’s a great eater and rarely turns down any “bites.” She can say Kate, Daddy, and good girl, or something like it. She calls me Na Na (rhyming with Mama). She waves hi and bye, cruises and crawls, and loves to be tickled. I love the way she sucks her thumb and rubs on her hair when she’s tired and how she curls up with a blanket to fall asleep. The whole house wakes up when she’s awake – she wants a bottle NOW. In fact, I don’t know how I’m supposed to get this kid off a bottle, she loves it so much!

 

She had her first birthday with family on Saturday. She cried when we sang Happy Birthday—I think it scared her! She was ladylike with her cake, just casually and tastefully licking the icing with one finger as to not make a big mess in front of her admirers! (Of course, the next day, she dove in when no one was watching….typical female!)  She’s not walking yet, but that’s OK. It makes her stay more of a “baby” to me. I’m just enjoying the moments as they come because I know from experience how fast they go.

 

We tried for just over a year to get pregnant with her. I was about to start fertility treatments when I found out I was pregnant. She was very much wanted. When she was 2 months old, she was hospitalized for two days. She had a spinal tap and other tests and I was horrified. It was so hard, but that’s probably when we bonded the most. She is so different from her sister, so I’ve had to learn a new way of taking care of a baby. But that’s OK. I’ve enjoyed both ways of caring for them so much. This year has gone by so fast. Sometimes I still feel like I “just had” a baby, but I didn’t. I’m pretty sure she’ll be our last, so I’m savoring every moment. They’re just too sweet.

 

Tonight, as I was climbing the stairs to give her a bath I had an “out of body moment.” My husband and oldest daughter were laughing and joking downstairs as she was getting ready for her bath. I was holding the baby and tickling her while she was giggling out loud in sheer delight. The house was full of laughter and love—complete. So January 18, 2006 is a celebration not only of our baby daughter’s first birthday, but also of our “official” little family of four. A lot has happened in the last five years, but I wouldn’t change a thing for two reasons….Kate, age (almost) 5, and Liv (age 1).

 

Happy Birthday, Olivia Noelle. I love you!

Here's a little something to kick-start you into your week.....

 

My friends, I’ve been at war. This is a battle that war veterans (fellow moms) will understand while bowing their heads to silently wish me luck, and those who have never seen a battle like this will shrink back and  then quickly double up on their birth control to avoid experiencing its treacheries.

 

Yes, this is a war against a virus who is spreading its terror through my baby’s body at this very minute. The enemy made himself (yes, it’s a he; a she would never do this to a fellow she) visible to me on Friday, knowing that is when I would at my weakest. Fridays call for wine at 9, pay per views, and relaxation after a long week. Yes, this tricky son-of-a gun set his sights on us and struck the little princess just at the right time—4 p.m. on Friday. This is when I get the call alerting me to  impending doom.

 

Babysitter: “Olivia has thrown up twice. She doesn’t have fever and seems OK, so maybe it was something she ate. Either way, you need to pick her up now.”

 

My experience in war, as I have an older child and have fought numerous battles in my day, tells me that no matter how much I want it to be different, my weekend is spoken for. It will be 12 hours of battle, best case scenario. Little did I know then that this would no small battle. This my friends, was war.

 

In case some of you are munching on a nice snack while reading this blog, I’ll spare you the gory details. Let’s just say my home has transformed from a safe haven for relaxation, laughter, and play into an emergency medical clinic. Signs of distress from this war are everywhere. There are soiled towels on the ground. Pedialyte bottles are strewn about, as are silver foil particles of suppository packages. Lysol cans and instant hand sanitizers are within reach in every room. The constant hum of the washing machine reminds us that we are constantly trying to hide the evidence of baby “spills” day and night. No article clothing is safe, and the brand-new carpet is an open target.

 

Like many good soldiers, I began this fight with the best intentions, donning matching pink outfits and warm socks every time a change of clothes was in order for my sweet soldier (at its worst, this is about every hour). Today, I have given up. She looks the part of a war-torn hero, highwater pants from 3 months ago, mismatched socks, and an oversized t-shirt of her sister’s that happened to be handy on the floor. (Sorry, Kate.) She smells nothing like the sweet baby from last week. But I have long since given up. What’s the point until it’s over? Besides, sadly, I am becoming immune to the smell.

 

I am in no better shape. I haven’t looked in the mirror much in the past few days, but in passing a mirror tonight, I will admit to you that the situation is quite grim: grey sweats streaked with baby “spills” from both ends, dirty hair pulled in a ponytail that smells of said “spills,” and under-eye circles so dark that I look like I belong in an after-hours goth dance club rather than squeaky-clean suburbia. My roots are showing; my pedicure is chipped; my nails are jagged and mis-shapen. I need an eyebrow wax in the worst way. My days and nights blend together, a continuous cycle of light sleep only to be awakened by a shrill battle call which is a cry from a story above that ought to wake the neighborhood. I make a brisk run up the stairs with weapon (a fresh towel) in hand; search for the “spill” and determine from which end it came; cuss out loud about the smell of the “spill”; clean the “spill,” change the sheets; change the little soldier; dole out the rations (Pedialyte); the rations come right back out on me; change me (or just enter into battle topless or bottomless if necessary—I play to win); comfort the wounded soldier; and then finally, rest until morning’s battle cry when it starts again.

 

This war has been raging in our home since Friday. It is almost Thursday. We have called in reinforcements. Our brave little soldier has been to three doctors—one late at night. I have consumed many adult beverages, day and night. Tests come back the same…it’s the enemy we suspected….the enemy that cannot be destroyed with the “pink stuff” antibiotics… he is a virus accompanies by his buddy, bronchitis, a secondary infection due to a weakened immune system. And these brothers from hell are mean, nasty, stinky, and relentless. Today I had to pull out my super-secret weapon—my mother. She was called into battle so that I can go out and make money to continue to support my little soldier in order to make sure she and her sister remain in cute shoes and hair bows and have enough Disney Princess gear to entertain a small village.  I would hate for my master sergeant to deem this war at home unworthy and think me a slacker. So back to work I go, leaving what’s left of this war to my saint of a mother who says she’ll gladly take on the “spills” for me. She’s a braver woman than I.

 

This war must be won soon. I have full calendar, and I need my soldier front and center to look cute, take a first step, giggle, and flirt with family and friends in the upcoming days. After all, her first birthday is next week and her party this weekend. The cake has been ordered. It’s vanilla with cookies and cream filling. She has cute plates with the obligatory 1 on them. My taste buds craving sugar will not allow me to cancel this order….nor will my scrapbook. I have girl’s night out planned. I have a get-together with friends on Sunday. So damn you virus, go away. I will continue to Lysol you, wash you in my super-duper machine, and Zithromax you into oblivion. And don’t you even THINK about moving over to my other soldier. She is older. She has fought up an immunity to you over the years because she has been in daycare since she was six weeks old, thanks to her overworked, career-minded Mommy. Together, we will laugh in your face! (Or, cry together at 2 a.m. over the toilet if you do what I’m afraid you’re going to do.)

 

So excuse me now, I need to polish off my Bailey’s, wipe my tears, dry yet another load of laundry, check on my sweet soldier, and fall into bed with fingers crossed that the next battle cry isn’t heard until the sun comes up. If nothing else, at least tomorrow I get a shower and a Starbucks.

 

 

I’ve been thinking a lot about love lately. As a busy, working mom I don’t have a lot of time to think about much else but kids and work, but now and then I get a few precious moments to myself which allows my mind to blissfully drift and wander where it pleases.

 

I think confusion about love starts with the movies and television. As the music crescendos and lovers run toward each other (often in the rain) for a long embrace where he lifts her tiny body off the ground and into his strong arms, we are left to believe that’s how a good love story should end in our lives, too.

 

Most romantic comedies are essentially the same movies, just re-packaged. Even the same actors play in them over and over again, just because the directors know that’s where we want to see them—romancing the girl, snagging the guy. I’m a sucker for it, too. Dermott Mulroney hooked me in My Best Friend’s Wedding and has kept me on the line through The Wedding Date and now The Family Stone. Love. It seems so easy in the movies and the hard parts about it only last for a few moments. Of course, in real life, love is the exact opposite. And, sadly, there’s never any pretty music playing in the background in real life.

 

Not so many months ago, my husband announced at a very random moment and time that we don’t tell each other that we love each other anymore. I started to argue in my best west Texas twang and give him a million examples to show him just how wrong he was. But I couldn’t. He was right. Years ago, when he traveled a lot for work, it was without a doubt that we’d say we loved each other before he left and every time we hung up the phone. If someone else was around, we’d say “ILY.” Sometimes, we’d joke and say “lerve ya,” a little “us thing.” We’d also sign our emails with ILY.

 

As the years passed, the marital fights ensued, and the kids were born, we stopped saying it. In fact, sometimes I think the reason is because on the surface, we didn’t feel it. What’s so romantic about breastfeeding, diaper changes, empty checking accounts, yard work, and cleaning toilets? At one point in our marriage, we had become so angry and bitter with each other that we even stopped wearing our wedding rings. We left them out on our dressers, a silent signal to each other that sent a loud message about our dissatisfaction with each other.

 

Fortunately, we survived that bump in the road but the love aspect didn’t really return. We didn’t hold hands. We didn’t hug. At night, we’d turn off the t.v. and roll over to our respective sides. Sometimes, we’d avoid the nighttime altogether and act busy at the computer or pretend to be engrossed in a show so we didn’t have to go to bed at the same time only to face the awkwardness that had become us.

 

How can you love someone, but not feel like you’re in love? That’s how we felt. I wanted what “they” had in the movies. I wanted a guy who would absolutely adore me…. to express that adoration often….to pick me up off of my feet and swing me around and spoil me rotten. I wanted the butterflies in my stomach again. Hey, I deserved it! I would look back at past loves and remember that feeling. My first love was in elementary—Reuben. We would walk around the track together at recess with our arms around each other. Even at a young age, I liked the feeling of being special to someone and everyone knowing it. My biggest crush was Cary Hogue, all the way through junior high. Even though I had a boyfriend (my first kiss actually), the boyfriend I really wanted was Cary. I wasn’t cool enough or pretty enough, I guess, because he essentially told me so. I imagine I had hundreds of journal entries about him. However, that changed at a school dance when he chose me to dance with all night. I couldn’t sleep I was so excited. Then we became an item. I felt like the coolest girl in school. Two weeks later, he sent his best friend over to my house to break up with me for him. I was crushed by my crush.

 

My first real boyfriend was Tye. I was an incoming freshman in high school. He was a senior. Our parents were horrified, as he was much too old for me. He was captain of the football team; I had just made cheerleader. We were both blonde and people said we looked like the All-American, perfect couple. I loved the attention we got. Did I love him? I thought so. He said he loved me. I think what I loved was the idea of being in love with him. I broke up with him. He moved on. I regretted my decision because it was only after he was gone that I realized I loved him. Well, as much as you can love someone at age 14.

 

Then there was Bill. This is a blog for another time. But he was my high school sweetheart, and eventually my husband of 2 ½ years. He broke my heart about as many times as he lifted it. I loved him, that is for certain, but for every wrong reason you could love a person—to save them, to help them, for security, out of fear. And the day I left him, he was crying (for the first time ever) to me, all six-foot-five of him crumpled on the floor. I looked at him, after so many years of abuse, and knew for certain I didn’t love him anymore. I stepped around him and left. I have never seen or talked to him since.

 

Of course there were boyfriends in between and after throughout high school and college. We probably told each other that we loved each other. But I’m sure we really didn’t. Guys broke my heart; I broke some as well. Most of the time, when it got to the love stage, I bailed. I just didn’t really understand the concept of love because from what I experienced in real life about love, I didn’t much care for it. I always enjoyed the beginning of a relationship—the early stages when you’re “in the bubble.” I guess later I just grew tired of it—the maintenance, the work, the fights, the reality of really being with someone. I hate to admit it, but I also didn’t like being stuck when there were so many other options out there. I didn’t like it when the guys turned sappy on me, professing their undying love….. yet I wanted the movie kind of love. Clearly, I didn’t really know what love was or what I wanted out of love.

 

I met my husband (I’ll call him J b/c he’s wary of this blog thing) in college. We both wrote for the school paper. We dated on and off throughout college. He knew I had a boyfriend (of some sort, Bill) but we were more friends than anything else. Most certainly, I thought, I didn’t love him. But he would often tell me that he loved me. He once told me he could see our names on a PTA list one day. I laughed. He was not marriage material, this partying, smoking, wine-drinking guitar player. We graduated from college on the same day. I knew I was going to eventually marry Bill, even though I didn’t really want to. It just seemed like the thing to do. J was excited about starting his new life, a new job, and moving back to the big city. Everything was moved out of his apartment the day after graduation except a suitcase and his mattress…. So well…..

The U-Haul was outside. He had to go. I cried the whole time he drove off because I knew, well…. at least I think I knew…. that I loved him.

 

Skipping over a lot of miserable parts in my life, not too long after my divorce I saw J, my husband now, and we talked. He had a girlfriend. We had spoken a few times during my marriage. Usually I cried to him about my horrible choice. He listened, but he had moved on. Fortunately for me, he changed his mind! We started dating and, well…. dating led to an engagement, then the wedding I should have had the first time. Eight months after our wedding, I became pregnant with our first daughter. None of our life was really like a romantic movie, per se, but it was a settled, content, and safe feeling. I knew I loved him, and I was happy.

 

As the realities of marriage set in—bills, mortgages, job gains and losses, pursuing our own interests, and then kids—I realized that the Hollywood love story as I wanted to experience it just wasn’t going to happen. Even the way he breathed annoyed me. In the movies, the guys and girls always looked spectacular. We didn’t always look so spectacular, and often, far from it. I didn’t like the way he took care of the baby, the way he kept house, or the fact that his time appeared more important than mine. His list of annoyances about me was about as long. We were doing the dance—the marriage dance. Trying to figure out who leads and when, the rhythm and flow, and how to avoid stepping on each other’s toes (even when we really wanted to smash them!)

 

One day, I had just had it. We didn’t necessarily fight, we just didn’t talk. The only thing we had in common was our daughter. He was finding every reason imaginable not to be at home, and I was finding every reason in the book to be mad at him. I had been single before, and I could do it again. My mom had been a single mom; so could I. If he wasn’t going to give me what I wanted…what I needed…then I would prefer to find it elsewhere. I was convinced that we had fallen out of love. I got as far as putting a deposit down on a horrible duplex, the moving vans were scheduled. My sister was there to help me pack.

 

I don’t know what would have happened if he hadn’t been packing the last of his stuff into his car when my sister and I pulled up to the garage the day I was set to pack up. He had agreed to be gone while we packed. But there he was. I got out of the car and he said something along the lines of, “Be patient. I’m almost out of here.” My heart leapt. A rush of emotion I hadn’t felt in years passed through my body. The first thought that came to my mind was, “I love him. He’s my best friend.”

 

We did separate for about a week to sort through our feelings. Then one day, it just started clicking for us again. Maybe I grew up. Maybe he did. I just know that we both started trying harder. I realized I didn’t care about a movie-style love story anymore. I just wanted my life back. Yet still, we didn’t say the word – love.

 

When he mentioned to me several months ago that we don’t tell each other we love each other my gut instinct was to do what I normally do, avoid it. But I didn’t. Although it felt strange, I made it a point to say it in the morning, at night, and on the phone. I made it a point to walk up to him and hug him, or give him flirty squeezes now and then. When we were out, I would grab his hand. He started doing the same. At first, it didn’t feel right. It was awkward…almost embarrassing. But it worked. The actions helped bring back the feelings. The saying, “marriage is work” was proven by us. Once again, love is a regular part of our day. We even do group hugs as a family almost every day. The house feels warmer. My heart feels happier. My life seems more full and settled. It’s as if the word ‘love’ and the feelings of love were somehow trapped and couldn’t get out without us. Once we opened up and let them out, it was like we could breathe again.

 

I know a lot of people don’t like J. I know there are family members on both sides who don’t like him. And yes, I know he’s changed since we were first married. He’s not as fun-loving as he used to be or as laid back. He has a quicker temper and he’s a little more opinionated. His patience wears very thin at times. I can attribute that now to the circumstances that have occurred in his life. He has so much more responsibility now, professionally and personally. But at the end of the day, he’s the same guy. I know I’m the only one who gets to see it, but that’s OK. That’s all that matters. No, he doesn’t pick me off my feet in the rain. He doesn’t shout his love from the rooftop. He is still the worst gift buyer on the planet, but we can joke about it. I still think he’s too messy, and I still complain that I do more of the childcare stuff than he does. But at everything, he’s doing better. I’m trying to be better, too. And in a marriage in today’s crazy world where one out of every two couples gets divorced, I think that’s the best thing you can hope for.

 

Last week we were at a movie. The lights dimmed and the previews were about to start. He reached over and grabbed my hand, gave me quick kiss on the cheek, and said ‘I love you, honey.’ It dawned on me that although we weren’t on screen, I had my sweet Hollywood romance movie moment…..I had real-life love—at the movies and even better, at home.

 

 

 

I’m driving down a busy street in my suburb and notice a crew of workers disassembling a tall Christmas tree that goes up every year in a popular shopping center. I look forward to seeing it go up every year—it means the magic of the season has begun. I wind my way through a residential neighborhood and notice families taking down yard decorations and lights. I pull in the garage and push through boxes of Christmas decorations that need to be put away in the attic and notice that our outdoor garbage can is brimming with holiday sacks full of trash.

 

The house is quiet. The kids are gone for the weekend to their grandparents’ lake house. I notice a pile of Christmas cards on the piano and feel guilty knowing that I won’t keep them, and those sweet, smiling faces will soon have to go, too. It’s kind of sad. The rush of Christmas always comes to such a screeching halt. We complain about how busy we are, how expensive it is, who will go where this year, who got what, what to get who, and then what will have to be returned. Afterward, we worry about the holiday pounds and stress over the to-do list waiting for us when we get back to work. The excitement is over and reality sets in. I was thinking how ironic it is that even though the holidays are stressful, they’re so beautiful. The glowing lights, the pretty music, happy people, excited children, the anticipation of giving and receiving. Then, bam, when it’s over it’s over. It’s as if in one day, almost overnight, the magic disappears and a light, both literally and figuratively, goes out.

 

On the way to visit family a few days after Christmas, my oldest daughter asks me if it’s still Christmas. She’s noticed that there are still decorations up, but knows that Santa has been gone awhile and is resting at the North Pole. I tell her that yes, Christmas is over. She asks, “What’s next?” (Much like her mother, she always needs something to look forward to.) I tell her that her best friend’s birthday is next, then her sister’s, and then hers. Then I hear, “And then what?” (What, that’s not enough?) So I tell her Valentine’s Day. This game continues until we’re all the way back to Christmas. Then I realize that this time next year, I’ll have a daughter who is almost 6 and half-way through Kindergarten and a daughter who will be entering the Terrible Twos. I think of how quickly this year has gone and how one year ago, I was very near delivering a baby and worried about getting the nursery ready and maternity leave. I was miserable and ready to hold her in my arms, rather than in my ever-expanding stomach. We had just turned away from a house I loved, lost a bid on another house we both loved, and were in hot pursuit of another one. Just months later, while on maternity leave, we found the house. We thought the renovation would take two weeks. It took almost two months. But now, even the renovation seems like forever ago, which it wasn’t. A year gone, but it was a great year.

 

We have a new precious baby who is growing and changing every day. We have a happy, healthy, pretty, and smart-as-a-whip older daughter who makes us laugh every day and gives the best hugs on the planet. We have made and grown new friendships which have enriched our lives and made the weekends much more fun. We have remained employed and managed to buy and renovate a house while not going broke at the same time. We’ve enjoyed good health and I pray every day that continues. I think back to this time in 2005 and very little of what occurred did I anticipate, which makes me wonder what is in store for 2006.

 

To update, Christmas went well…. Here is a bit of a recap:

 

The Pillow Talk. For those who read my blog before I left town, I’ll update you. I’m over it so I won’t go into great detail, but basically I overheard two family members discuss how snobby hubby and I are. That, after we provide tons of food, drinks, gifts, our home for the weekend, and about as much of a laid-back and relaxed “paper plate and Miller light” atmosphere as possible. I was hurt at first, but then I got over it. Who cares, right?

 

The Trip Home. I haven’t stayed with my Dad overnight since I was a teen-ager. It was kind of different for me. I’m not used to staying with him for an extended amount of time. But it was good. We actually had some good talks and we had fun. It was really hard without Granny and Papa though. Their presence was definitely missed. I realized how that is a time that is long gone and now I treasure the memories even more. The visit to the farm was harder. I walked in and it instantly smelled “like them” if that makes sense. It was the same smell as it was when I was a kid. I love that smell. It makes me feel happy and comfortable—safe. But it was deafeningly quiet. I hated the quiet. They were obviously long gone. So empty. I noticed the calendar was on August 2005, the month they were both moved to retirement homes. The last time they were ever there. There was Papa’s handwriting on a few of the dates. I cried. I took the most random stuff with me – a hat of his, a pair of suspenders, the salt and pepper shaker they had for years, a hot plate with German writing on it, Granny’s teapot, and a stool I’d stand on when I was a little girl to help her cook. I love those items more than any material possession I have at home now. I feel a little better having them though. I noticed the hat smells like Papa’s cologne. I put it in a bag to try to preserve it for as long as I can……

 

The Anniversary Party. It was very sweet. I learned about my grandparents’ wedding 60 years ago, in front of a fireplace after WWII at her dad’s house. One attendant each. She was proud of the cake and that it had real flowers decorating it. She wore a blue suit and they honeymooned in Big Spring, Texas. She blushed when she talked about it. I cried….. Grandaddy gave a sweet toast. I cried….. I felt lucky to have all of my grandparents for so long.

 

New Year’s Eve. I dropped the kiddos off on the way back with my mom and step-dad at the lake house. It looks great—they are renovating it. I spent the night there and got the girls situated and headed back to Big D. We wound up going to a hotel party. I won’t go into the details. I’ll just let the photos do the talking. We had a great dinner at Bob’s Steak and Chop House at 10:30 and rung in the New Year there with a huge tab. We saw 3 movies – The Family Stone, Fun with Dick and Jane, and Walk the Line—because we never see movies until the kids are away. The Family Stone is good and Walk the Line is great. I highly recommend it….. “Baby, baby, baby, baby, baby….” Love it. Fun with Dick and Jane…..it should go straight to video. Suckola. But back to New Year’s. I have little bits and pieces of memories which I’ll share. I remember dancing to “My Humps” by Black Eyed Peas and telling somebody, “I’m hot!” OK…… I remember eating mashed potatoes out of a martini glass. I remember taking my photo with the security guard but not that I put my hat on his head. I remember falling down onto the bed and passing out, then getting up later to take off my make-up and put on comfy jammies. Oh, and take two aspirin. The next morning hubby took me to a nice, big breakfast in the a.m., then sushi for dinner. It was all good. I also got in a few naps, which to me, is something like winning the lottery.

 

Ok, so this is officially the longest entry ever. But it’s been awhile. If you’ve suffered through it, then thanks. I’m thinking of taking my blog in a new direction soon once I get my thoughts together. We’ll see how it goes.

 

‘til next time…..

 

j