6/17/12 Father's Day and the Week We Almost Didn't Survive

Oh Internets.  Have I told you lately how awesomely awesome Tony is?  And not just because it's Father's Day and he's a great Daddy, because it is and he is, but that isn't the reason.  The reason is that he had an out of town work training seminar thing this week and ZB and I both have been battling summer colds and there's only so many days that you can be on 24 hour snot wiping patrol for someone who doesn't know how to blow her own nose and would rather DIE than let you anywhere near her with a tissue before you get all burned out and fed up and want to just throw in the snot-covered towel and be done with it.

You know the old adage that absence makes the heart grow fonder?  Personally, I always thought that was a bit of a stretch, but man is it true.  As he packed up his bag on Monday I was like, "No problemo.  We manage to make it through the day while he's at work.  How much harder can it be to do a few more hours until bedtime?"

How much harder indeed.

The thing is that Tony does a lot more than just work a full time job.  Apparently he also gets up and feeds the cats breakfast sometime between 4am and 6am, and cleans out litter boxes and picks up hairballs and takes out the garbage.  After work he comes home and plays in the floor with ZB while I steal a few precious minutes to myself, feeds her dinner and cleans up the kitchen after she tosses all of that dinner into the floor.  He mows the lawn, takes the recycling out to the curb and makes sure that the house is all locked up and secure before going to bed.  He does all this quietly and without making a big deal out of it, so I kinda figured it wasn't that hard.

Trust me.  It is hard.

While Tony was gone, the cats did not get breakfast at 6am.  They got breakfast at 9:15 when I finally realized that I had forgotten to feed them and that was why they were following me around like the Pied Piper of Purina.  I was very proud of myself for cleaning out the litter boxes on time...right up until I realized that I had forgotten to get the ones in the basement that Bella likes to use.  I almost coughed up my own hairball while trying to clean up the one they left me out on the porch.  (Do you have any idea how gross that is?!?  And how hard it is to pick something up while refusing to open your eyes?  And how much I'm gagging even now just thinking about it?)  I got the garbage can out to the curb in time for pickup, but not in time for me to empty the trash that was in the house into the outside can first.  ZB spent the first few days standing at the front door, waiting for him to come home and play with her.  I tried to wrestle in the floor with her like what he does, but after she accidentally poked me in the eye and boxed me in the ear within a three minute time frame, I called a halt to floor wrestling.  After she tossed all of her dinner on the floor the first night, neither one of us was really interested in cooking, so we distracted ourselves by eating at various fast food places.  (I know.  I'm feeding my child a McDonalds cheeseburger just so I don't have to pick things up off the floor.  There goes Mother of the Year).  Speaking of the floor, I relied on the less sanitary but equally effective cat cleanup system.  I didn't sweep, they ate all the food bits they wanted, and I figured it would tide them over for the next time I forgot to feed them.  Win Win...sorta.  The lawn I ignored completely.  There is just no way to mow and watch ZB at the same time.  And on the second night he was away, I locked up all the doors and windows and set the alarm before bed, only to realize the next morning that I had left my keys hanging in the front door knob all night.  (Good thing we live in a safe neighborhood).

But beyond all the things that he does, we just missed him.  I missed sharing my day with him and ZB missed being played with and talked to and kissed on the head.  We missed hearing about his day.  (Well, he called on the phone, but it wasn't the same).  The cats REALLY missed him, because evidently I am an unreliable provider. And I'd even go as far as to bet that McDonald's missed him because of the mess we left on their floor (and they don't even have cleanup cats).

You know, when that many people miss you, you must be doing something right.  Tony doesn't have a fancy job title or a big status symbol car or custom suits or a mansion to make him feel important.  But he does have us.  And we love him.  And need him.  Without him, we are just not complete.

So I'm going to make sure he knows that.  Not because it's Father's Day and that's what the Hallmark card had written in it, but because it is true and he's important to us.  Every day of the year.

And also that he's never allowed to go out of town without us again.  Ever.  Let's put that in a Hallmark card.

5/7/12 I Think That I Shall Never See, A Tree So Lovely Before KUB

I have a conundrum, oh beloved Internets, and I'd like your esteemed opinion.  See, I had a visit from the local utilities board (KUB) the other day regarding the two giant oak trees I have in my front yard.  It seems that the power lines that run along my street have filed a restraining order against my trees, and my trees are currently in violation of said order by not maintaining the required minimum 10' distance:

Exhibit A:  See the power lines at the top of the picture?  My trees are clearly not respecting the 10' safety zone as dictated by the power company.

Because of this, the power company spray-painted green dots on my trees and came to the door to let me know that some guys wielding chain saws in bucket trucks would be along to extract vengeance upon my topiary trespassers.  Now, I don't remember if I told you guys about this before, but I had almost this exact same conversation a few years ago when the utility guys came through to clear the lines, and back then they absolutely butchered my trees.  They cut this giant wedge out of half of the tree, and they looked stupid for...well, I guess until this year when they grew back out and retook the power line.  So apparently the trees are of the size now that this is going to be a reoccurring theme.  They invade the lines, they get cut back, they look stupid, they finally grow out again, they invade the lines, and the whole cycle repeats.  I said something to this effect to the utility guy, and he was like, "Well, you could opt to be in our tree replacement program". And I was like, "whaaa?" and he was like, "Yeah, we cut down your giant trees for free and replace them with two smaller ornamental trees of your choice.  We even come back out and plant them for you."  And I was like, "For freesies?"  And he was like, "Totally without charge to you". And I was like, "Hmmm".  

So here's my thing:  I can keep my giant trees with the understanding that they will spend pretty much the rest of eternity sporting a really bad hair cut compliments of Knoxville Utilities, or I can have them cut down and put something smaller like dogwoods or flowering crabapples or the like in their places.  Tony and I have been waffling back and forth about it for a week now.  He thinks that it would be a shame to kill some trees that have been here a lot longer than we or the house or even the power lines have been here.  I think they drop leaves and acorns all in my flower beds in the fall, make it impossible for grass to grow because everything is always in deep shade, and completely block the view of the house from the street.  

House?  What house?
(Hint- mine is the one with the white porch, not the one with the car).

Now, some of you are probably asking if they keep the house cool by shading it in the summer, and the answer to that is no.  The way the sun comes up means that they might shade the house for a second at dawn, but that's it, so energy savings are negligible and therefore not a consideration.  And before you even recommend getting rid of one and keeping the other, remember that any big trees that remain will have the "Skrillex 'do", which may work for electronic dance musicians, but not so much for oak trees.  

See? It sounds like I have talked myself into replacing them, doesn't it?  A pretty dogwood perhaps?  Flowers in the spring, doesn't drop acorns in my pond, doesn't cause the yard to look like the 100 acre woods where Christopher Robin played?  But then I look out my window and I see this, and it's so tall and majestic that I'm like, "I can't cut something like that down! It's probably as old as I am!"  And then I'm right back to where I started.  

So what to do, Internets, what to do?  The deadline for the tree replacement program is Thursday.  Cut them down and replace them with pretty little trees, or keep them in their majestic yet soon-to-be funky shaped and acorn dropping splendor? What would you do if you were me?  

3/1/12 There's a Baby in the House

I used to have candles and fancy scented soaps next to my bath tub.

Now I have rubber ducks, plastic sea turtles and a bottle of no more tears shampoo.

There's a baby in the house.

I used to worry about a room's "flow" and "use of space" when decorating.

Now I have safety gates blocking every doorway of every room.

There's a baby in the house.

I used to have a rule, "no eating in the living room".

Now there's apple juice stains on my ottoman and cheerios between the cushions of my couch.

There's a baby in the house.

I used to spend hours obsessing over the knobs and drawer pulls for the kitchen cabinets.

Now the only time I think about knobs is to make sure that the child-proof latches are properly locked around them.

There's a baby in the house.

I used to do one load of laundry a week.

Now I do a load of bibs, a load of onesies, a load of footed pj's, a load of tiny pants and socks (it's a miracle if my clothes even get washed at all).

There's a baby in the house.

I used to have exotic house plants for added bursts of color.

Now the plants are all safely out of reach and the bursts of color come from the books, alphabet toys and plastic blocks scattered across the floor.

There's a baby in the house.

I used to think my life was complete.

Now I have more love, and laughter, and joy, and sweet baby kisses than I could ever imagine, and I adore her more and more with every passing day.

There's a baby in the house.

2/13/12 Feeling the Love

So I made the huge tactical error tonight of stopping by walmart to buy some some necesseties (read: diapers) on Valentine's Day Eve, and the place was a MAD HOUSE with all the kids racing around the card section, trying to decide if Spongebob or X-men better described how they felt about their fellow classmates.

(I don't know about you, but I find it kind of funny that kids seem to take Valentine's Day waaaay more seriously than adults. I mean, here we have a holiday specifically designed for romance, but the ones that are freaking out about it are all the seven-year-olds. Why is that?)

Anyway, Walmart looked like a red and pink war had broken out. Boxes of assorted cards lay littered across the aisles; casualties of finicky grade-schoolers searching for the perfect level of friendly versus coolness. Heart-shaped candies were trampled by the wayside. Assorted chocolates, small plush bears and those bizarre rose-in-a-balloon deals (because nothing says romance like not being able to actually smell your rose?) were being escorted out of the melee as prisoners of war.

Not that I can really blame them. It doesn't make sense to me now, but I can certainly remember being that age and sitting at the kitchen table the night before the class party, painstakingly assigning cards to my fellow classmates in deference to the cut-throat second grade hierarchy. It wasn't that easy either. In a box of 24 cards, there were only 4 designs to choose from. That meant that I only had 7 of the best ones to divide out between best friends, cool kids, and any boys I happened to like at the time. Acquaintances were second tier, then those kids that you never interacted with because their last name started with W and therefore sat on the opposite side of the room, then (because class rules required that everyone be given a card) the kid who ate glue and the one who blew spit bubbles during lunch.

You can see the problem.

Did Eric Watson (pro: could draw really well. Con: Sat about as far away as possible) deserve a Snoopy and Woodstock "You're Neat!" card or the lower, less cool Linus and Sally "I think you're swell!" card? And if you bumped Eric up to Snoopy, that meant that you had to demote the shy girl who transferred into the class last month to a Peppermint Patty "Hi Pal!". And no matter who you gave the Charlie Brown's to, as soon as they realized that they were on the same social rung as the glue eater, there was going to be hell to pay.

It was a logistical nightmare.

And that was just cards. Depending on the party planned and the rules of the teacher involved, there was also the possibility of having to navigate candy. Small pieces of foil-wrapped chocolate, it goes without saying, were the best and could ratchet you up into the coolness stratosphere if you could talk your parents into buying it (I never could). Next came red heart-shaped suckers, and then towards the bottom were those boxes of chalky candy hearts that break your teeth and taste like Rolaids (actually, those weren't bad. At least they had fun sayings on them. It was the tasteless generic knock-off candy hearts that my Dad tried to pass off as the same thing one year that could really take you down a peg on the old popularity meter. It was actually better to show up empty-handed and pretend to be diabetic than to bring those to school).

Still, it wasn't all politics. Someone's Mom always brought cupcakes with red sprinkles, and there were cookies with pink icing on them, and red kool-aid, so we were pretty much guaranteed to be in the euphoric chaos of a sugar high as we raced around handing out our cards to each other. (How the teacher wasn't insane by the end of the day, I will never know).

And it wasn't like we were immune to the prick of Cupid's arrows either. One year I got the bright idea to give two cards to the boy I liked...one with my name on it, and then another as a secret admirer! Oh the cunning! I was just sure that he'd spend days in thoughtful contemplation, trying to figure out who liked him. And yet I'd still have plausible deniability because obviously I had already given him the card with my name clearly on it! (How this was supposed to make him fall madly in love with me while having no idea that I was the one who sent it I'm not quite sure. All I can say is it made sense at the time.) And no doubt the plan would have worked beautifully too had nosy Erin Spangler not happened to see the anonomous card and take it upon herself to try to figure out who had sent it! It wasn't her mystery to solve! It was his! And anyway, she was much too smart for her own good, because she quickly realized that the mystery card was of the Punky Brewster variety, and my signed card was Punky Brewster, so therefore they had to had come from the same pack! She was smug, I was annoyed, and the boy (I wish I could remember his name!) only really cared about seeing if he could find someone to trade his pink cookie for another cupcake.

(Oh the trials and tribulations of seven-year-old love).

Luckily things are easier now. Having been married for almost nine years now, my Valentine and I have worked out a routine. He gets me chocolate, I get him Twinkies, and we go out for Japanese food. Done and done. No confusing Snoopy hierarchy, no busting a filling on a chalk rock masquarading as candy, no nosy Erin Spangler messing up my love groove. Just me and my honey, being together and ignoring the rest of the frippery. Maybe that's why adults don't stress Valentine's as much as kids do. Once you've gotten some practice at it, then it becomes less about the trappings and more about the other person.

Well, the other person and a Punky Brewster Valentine's Day card. Because if you still need help this Valentine's Day, you can't go wrong with Punky.

10/22/11 Yard Sales and Other Deadly Sins

There's a church with a reader-board sign across the street from the entrance to my neighborhood. The church likes to put little witty and thoughtful sayings on it, and I like to read them as I'm pulling out of my neighborhood. That is until the other day, when they put this one up:

"He who thinks he is without fault has another yard sale".

And I was like, "Hmmmm. I'm not sure I get that one. Are yard sales spiritual no-nos? Yard sales are of the devil? Or do they mean that people who have yard sales have faults? Is yard sale metaphorical? Do they mean that the junk cluttering up our lives is a fault? Or that trying to sell your junk to other people is a fault? I was just telling Tony the other day that we needed to get rid of some of our miscellaneous flotsam, but I'M CERTAINLY NOT GOING TO HAVE A YARD SALE NOW!"

Anyway, this sign bothered me for days. DAYS! And maybe you're all smarter than me and you've already figured it out, but I was completely clueless until Tony called me on his way back to work today.

Tony: You know that church sign that's been bothering you?

Me: You mean the yard sale one? Why? Did you figure out what it means?

Tony: Yeah. It needs a period.

Me: A period is a fault or a period is a yard sale?

Tony: No. The sign reads "He who thinks he is without fault has another fault, as in his fault is that he thinks he has no faults. Then a period. End of sentence. New sentence: Yard sale. As in, the church is having a yard sale.

Oh.

Well yes, I suppose that makes sense.

Maybe the yard sale is to raise money to buy some punctuation.

10/6/11 An Egg-cellent Question

I have a conundrum for you, Internets.

See, the Noble House of Quirk was officially out of food and diapers and shampoo and dishwasher soap and diapers and cat litter and diapers, so the ZB and I made a trek out to the local Walmart to procure these much needed items. (I know all two of you are out there going, "So you went grocery shopping. What's the problem?" but I'm not to the sticky part yet, so just hold on. This here's what we like to call "setting the scene"). Anyway. We shopped, and shopped, and shopped, and finally, once our hunting and gathering was complete, made our way up to the checkout lines.

(Sidenote: Why is it that whenever I enter a Walmart, the cashiers are all waiting hopefully at the front of their conveyor belts for some happy shopper to come along, but by the time I finish my shopping, all the lines are 12 people deep with two overflowing carts apiece? Doesn't matter if I'm in there 30 seconds or 3 hours. As soon as I point my cart towards the checkout, the floodgates open and these people materialize out of nowhere. How does that happen? Can anyone tell me?)

By the way, that's not the conundrum either. That's just an example of my inability to stay on topic. The conundrum came when I got home and started unloading the groceries and discovered I had a pack of hotdog buns and 18 eggs.

This is alarming because I did not purchase hotdog buns or eggs.

As near as I can figure it, the woman in line ahead of me purchased the buns and eggs and left them in the little spinning baggie thing. And when I checked out after her, the stuff got all intermingled and I grabbed the bag thinking it was mine. So now the question is, Internets, what do I do with them?

My first reaction was to take them back to Walmart and explain what happened. I mean, obviously anyone who buys 18 eggs at one time really likes them. But would the woman come back to the store for them? Do you drive back to walmart over a missing bag of eggs and hotdog buns, or do you just write them off as a loss?

Also, Tony pointed out that because they were food items and had left the store, Walmart might not give them back even if the woman did come asking for them. They would probably just throw them away in case I poisoned them or whatever. (Not that I would ever do that, but Tony is in food safety, so he thinks about these kinds of things. And I have to admit that if the shoe was on the other foot, I might be hesitant to eat something that had gone joyriding for several unsupervised hours with a stranger).

But on the other hand, this is this woman's food. They are her groceries. She bought them for a reason. Keeping them would be taking food that she rightly paid for out of her and her family's mouth. Maybe they NEED those eggs. Groceries aren't cheap, you know.

So this is my quandary. I don't want the food to be wasted, but at the same time I don't want to keep food that is not mine. And yes, we would use it, but we don't need it, and she might. So what's the call here Internets? Take the food back to the store and hope she returns for it, or keep the food and eat lots of omelets and hotdogs in the future? My gut is saying return it, but I just don't know if that is practical. Anyone ever been in a similar situation? What did you do?

7/9/11 The Crib

It's a milestone event tonight. ZB doesn't know it yet, but she is officially moving out of the cradle next to our bed and into her crib in her own room.

It is long overdue, too. Other moms on the BabyCenter board that I follow started transferring to cribs at about two months, but I told myself that she was waaaay too young to be all the way across the hall. She felt secure having us so close, and besides, I liked to wake up throughout the night to check on her.

I probably should have moved her at three months when she started getting too big for the cradle. She likes to flail around when she sleeps, and she was banging her little arms against the sides. So I should have moved her then, but she was still waking up several times a night to eat, and it's just so much easier to pick her up and put her in the big bed next to me to nurse than to get up and go across the hall to her room.

I should have moved her when she cut out most of her night feedings and started sleeping in 6 or 8 hour stretches a few weeks ago. There was no reason for her to still be crammed in that little tiny cradle, and it wasn't like she needed me to be right there. But we were going to Chicago for the 4th of July weekend, and I told myself that it would confuse her to move her to the crib and then take her to a strange bed in Chicago and then come back to try the crib thing again. It wouldn't hurt to wait until after the 4th, right?

And so then we came back from Chicago and I stuffed her back in her little shoebox cradle next to the bed, and curled up to watch her and just listen to her breathe, like I do every night. Only this time, she was like, "Look Mom. We need to talk about this cradle thing. I'm a big girl now, and I need a big girl crib in my own room. I've been patient while you adjust to the idea of me sleeping across the hall instead of a foot and a half away, but enough is enough. Besides...Dad snores like a chainsaw". And to make sure that I got the point, she proceeded to keep me up all night with her kicking and flailing.

So here we are. Earlier today I moved her white noise machine and oscillating fan and movement monitor into her nursery. Then I put her mattress pad protector and fresh sheets in the crib. I moved her cradle from next to my side of the bed to the corner so that we could put it in the attic later.

Then I cried.

It's silly, I know. It isn't like she's moving across the country or leaving for college or anything. She's 15 feet away for Pete's sake. But still. 15 feet seems really really big when you're only 23 inches long. (Or to be honest, when you're 5' 8" and your heart is only 23" long and 15' away). But I kept telling myself that she NEEDED this, and she's sleep better with the quiet and the extra room and I was not so selfish as to deny my child something she needed just so I could lay in my bed and watch her little chest rise and fall while she slept. Putting it like that made me feel better.

Almost.

So here she is, drinking her evening bottle and getting drowsy. She's falling asleep in Tony's arms while he feeds her, and now he's carrying her up to her room and putting her in the crib. He's turning on the monitor and the white noise, giving her a kiss and turning off the light.

Here I am standing at the door of her room, straining to see her little form sleeping peacefully in the darkness. Listening to the sound of her tiny baby snores though the monitor instead of in person, and watching the little green light blink on the motion monitor that registers her breathing (I deliberately placed the monitor so that I can see that green light blink while I lie in my bed...that little green light is my sanity, and the reason that I'm not in there sleeping on the floor with one hand wedged through the crib bars right now).

And here she is at 6am, safely through the night and wanting her breakfast. I went to get her and she smiled when she saw me, no feelings of abandonment or isolation like I had imagined. No years of therapy needed for either of us. She had some milk and even though I wanted to snuggle with her in our bed, I took her back to the crib when she fell asleep again. Might as well equate sleeping time with crib time. We'll both appreciate that in the long run. (I did, however, get my snuggle time at 8am when she woke up for the day. It was a celebratory snuggle because all three of us had a good night's sleep for once).

So here we are...a big girl who sleeps in her big girl crib, a mommy who learned to let go just a teeny little bit, and a Daddy who still snores like a chainsaw, but with only half an audience now.

Quite the milestone indeed.

4/29/11 Things I've Learned in the Past Seven Weeks

My apologies for being so sporadic with the blogging. As you may have guessed, the little one takes up all my time now. (My hope is that eventually she'll be able to amuse herself long enough for me to sit down and actually write something...as it stands now, I just have to hold her with one hand and type with the other).

But in the 10 minutes or so that it will take her Daddy to put her to bed, for her to wake up crying, for him to shush at her for a few seconds, for her to ignore him, and for him to bring her back downstairs to me with a shrug and a "She wants her Mommy", I'll try to relate some of the things this new motherhood deal has taught me.

For instance, I have learned that:

• She changes every day. Every morning I wake up and she's longer, heavier, and her face has changed a little. It blows me away. I can almost sit and literally watch her grow right before my eyes. She looks totally different than she did when she was born, or when she was a month old, or even from what she looked like last week. Clothes that fit 3 days ago don't anymore. Of course, she becomes more beautiful by the day, so all this changing is nice, but still...it shocks me how quickly she grows. Do all babies do this? I never noticed before.

• Babies have no concept of time. Come to think of it, no patience either. The bottle warmer takes exactly 90 seconds to heat up her 3am bottle of milk. You wouldn't think 90 seconds would be that long. But to her, there's only RIGHT NOW, and the bottle is not here RIGHT NOW, despite you saying, "Seriously, just 20 more seconds! Enough with the screaming already!" Seconds mean absolutely nothing to her. The world is ending! The world is ending! The world is-oh hey, the bottle's ready. Cool.

• In a similar vein, she can also go from happy to screaming like someone has amputated both legs in nothing flat. There doesn't seem to be any in between with her. No sniffling, or trembling lip, or cranky warning noises. It's happy smiling (or sleeping) to tortured screams in an instant. Then, just as mysteriously, she's back to being fine again, and you're just left standing there going, "what the heck was THAT?" Tony and I have actually taken to calling these sudden little fits her alter ego, which goes by the name Fussy McFussypants. Thankfully, these visits by Fussy McF are few and relatively short lived, but they're still enough to send your poor nerves reeling if you aren't expecting it. (I know, I know, the same mad crying means I'm hungry, I need a diaper change, I'm tired, I'm bored, my tummy hurts or I just want to be held. Then as soon as she sends the message, she's back to being a happy camper. I will be so glad when she's able to add a few more tricks to her bag of ways to communicate.)

• Also? She melts my heart. She has just learned to smile back at me in the last week or so, and every time I walk into her field of vision and she smiles at me, it's like I float three feet off the ground. I am totally addicted to it. I would walk for days, wrestle mountain lions, and leap tall buildings in a single bound for one of those smiles. As it is, I am giving up sleep, changing poopie diapers and completely foregoing chocolate (which apparently I have an unhealthy devotion to since I can't stop thinking about it, and yet it gets into the breastmilk and gives her a gassy tummy, so it's off the menu for the time being). And the crazy thing is I'm happy to do it for her! It's baby mind control, and I don't mind a bit. (Well, except maybe a little for the chocolate).

• Tony has learned that he REALLY REALLY hates getting up to give her the 3am bottle. He's tired, he's cranky, he's annoyed that I'm still laying in bed even though I get up for EVERY OTHER FEEDING while he sleeps. But still, he does it. Every night. Because he's still dependable, even when sleep deprived. But oh how she has him wrapped around her tiny baby finger! He comes home every day at lunch so he can see her. And you should have seen them reading a story together last night on the couch. I'm not sure who enjoyed it more. So he may really hate 3am, but he's absolutely crazy about that little girl.

• Finally, I've learned it isn't about me anymore. For instance, today she spit up all down the front of my top. (I know...gross, right?) Gallons and gallons of spit-up right over the burp cloth (I'm still not sure how she managed to get around it), hang a left around my collarbone and right down the front of my shirt. Now before, I probably would have ripped the shirt off, run screaming from the room, and spent the next 30 minutes scrubbing off the top four layers of skin in the shower. But now? It didn't even register. Because she needed a bath, and she needed a change, and she needed to finish her lunch, and there just wasn't space in my brain to give it any more thought other than to stuff a paper towel down my front and keep on going. (I did remember it hours later when I stripped off the shirt and found the paper towel still stuck in my bra).

So yeah. This motherhood thing is kinda like being in a cult. I used to think it was a little obnoxious the way parents would go on and on and on about their children, but I totally get it now. They can't help it. I see the whole world through baby-tinted glasses. My life (right now at least) revolves around this little person. A tiny, demanding, wonderful little person. And right now, I'm okay with that. I'm totally drinking the koolaid.

3/28/11 Sleep is Overrated

It's been two weeks now since we've arrived home from the hospital. Tony stayed home for a few days, and Mom stayed with us up through last Friday to help with the transition, but today is officially day one of just me and Little Bit. (By the way, to answer your questions from last week about Baby Girl's real name, I've decided to respect her future privacy by using an alias...however, I haven't decided which one to use yet, so it may change from post to post. As I learn her personality, I hope to pick a permanent nickname that suits her. In the mean time, to avoid confusion, just assume that any reference to someone described with the words Little, Baby, Munchkin, Love Muffin, or Cutie Pie Snuggle Bear refers to the baby).

Anyway, like I said, we're home, and we're adjusting, and it's been...okay. She's sweet and adorable and I can't imagine life without her. She is priceless and perfect and I cannot describe my love for her. On the other hand, she's slowly driving us insane through sleep deprivation torture. You know the new parent stereotype about being exhausted and wearing a bathrobe with baby spit-up on it for three days in a row? Not an exaggeration, my friend. Oh, I thought I could handle it. I was cocky. I told myself that I'd pulled all-nighters before and been fine. So I'd be a little tired. What's so hard about that? But she wears me down. Steadily, methodically, night after night. Interrogators working in questionable forms of "information extraction" would be proud. I would gladly confess to anything if I could just get two uninterrupted hours of sleep.

(By the way, you know that phrase, "Sleep when the baby sleeps"? Well meaning people take one look at my new Night of the Living Dead look that I'm sporting and dispense that little jewel of advice. And it sounds smart. But you know what? It doesn't work. Because Baby Girl likes to nap mid-feed and mid-poopie and with a tummy full of air, and just because she fell asleep doesn't mean your job is through, for if you leave any of that undone the full furies of baby Hades will rain down upon your head when she wakes up and realizes you were slacking instead of wiping baby poo off of her delicate rear end while she dozed. And did I mention that she only sleeps for an hour at a time? So after feeding and burping and rocking and changing diapers, you throw yourself into bed knowing that you have exactly 14 minutes left before she wakes up and the cycle starts again).

But she is worth it. And there is a light at the end of the tunnel. Eventually, I know that she will sleep through the night. (Or at least for a couple of hours). Luckily. Tony and my Mom have been fabulous. Literal life-savers. Because they aren't getting any more sleep than I am, but they're happy to take her at 3am when she wants you to know that the wipes are not warmed to her usual standard.

In the mean time, we take it moment by moment, clinging to those random times when she smiles or makes eye contact or, blessed salvation, actually does sleep in that beautiful angelic way that only babies can. And it's those moments that remind you that there are things that are even more precious than sleep.

*Lest you think that I am sitting here wasting precious sleep time blogging while whining about not getting enough rest, know that Baby Girl is right here snuggled in the crook of my left arm while I type all of this one-handed with my right. In addition to ruler of my days, she has also taken on the role of editor.

3/19/11 One Week

"It's been one week since you popped out of me,

cocked your head to the side

and screamed I'm hungry"

Okay, not exactly Bare Naked Ladies, but it could work.

So Little Miss is a week old now, and we're busy adjusting to life with a new baby. (Which is to say, life without sleep and regular hygiene). But it isn't bad. In fact, I'd say it's wonderful. Every day with her is like your best birthday party and Christmas morning and the first day of summer and a trip to Disneyland all rolled into one moment, every moment.

Here's what we've been up to the last 7 days:

Sleeping
Mainly, she sleeps. We do not. And if we do manage to get more than an hour in any one stretch of time, we are very VERY excited about it. You'd think we'd won the lottery. We tell EVERYONE. "I know! Three whole hours two nights ago! Can you believe it? She slept three whole hours! In one block! It was heaven!" Of course, the first night we brought her home, the lack of sleep was my own fault. She slept just fine...I was the one who stayed up all night staring at her. Was she hot? Was she cold? Did her diaper need changing? Was the night-light too bright? I think I totalled about 15 minutes of sleep that first night. By the second and third night, I had delegated shifts so that I could sleep only as long as Tony or my mom watched her. Now I just put her in her cradle, kiss her little forehead goodnight, and fall face-first onto any available flat surface for some precious seconds of shuteye. My goal is to one day hit 4 whole hours of REM sleep in a single night. At this rate, I figure it will happen right about the time she goes to college.

Feeding
It has come to my attention that my new role is that of the 24/7 buffet. Baby Girl has a tummy the size of a cherry, so it doesn't take much to fill her up, and it doesn't take long for her to empty again. So we nurse A LOT. She likes to eat for about 10 to 20 minutes, roughly every hour. On the one hand, I love the closeness we have during this time. On the other, I've started having dreams where this giant open baby mouth is coming at me every time I turn around. I have birthed a tiny piranha.

Diapering
Amazingly, this is the part that I thought I would hate the most (because c'mon- another person's poop?) but it turns out that it isn't that bad. I get a strange sense of accomplishment whenever I can give her a freshly wiped and diapered tushie. Mama instinct, I guess. Baby Girl does her part to encourage this feeling by wetting her diaper, waiting until she is freshly wiped and changed and re-dressed and swaddled and therefore buried under roughly 600 layers of clothing and blankey, and then announcing that she now has a poopie diaper. Then we get to do it all again! I get lots of chances for that sense of accomplishment.

Pictures
We have taken more photos of this child in the last week than most paparazzi shoot in a year. She blinks and a camera goes off. She yawns and flash bulbs explode like fireworks. We have 900 pictures of her making the EXACT. SAME. EXPRESSION posted on facebook for all the world to coo over. Of course, she is the most adorable baby in the world, so it goes without saying. You can't bring this level of adorableness to the table and expect not to have it documented. Plus she's the first child and first grandbaby for my mom's side. So yes, there are pictures. Lots and lots of pictures. I'm just warning you so you'll be prepared for the onslaught. We're at code orange for beautiful baby overload. (Which reminds me. We have the professional photographer coming over tomorrow to do her newborn pictures. Ya'll feel free to send me your order selections).

Man, she just blows me away. She's been sleeping right here in the crook of my arm while I've typed this, and every time I look at her I just want to squeeze her and never let her go. I've never really been a baby person (they freak me out to be honest), but she is just...I can't explain it. It's like when the Grinch's heart suddenly grew three sizes when he returned all the presents to Whoville. Only my heart flew out of my body completely and is now making little cooing noises while it blinks sleepily. She is all sparkles and stars and rainbows wrapped up in a tiny baby body and sprinkled with pixie dust (and butt paste and baby lotion).

And she's worth a million dirty diapers and midnight feedings and hours of lost sleep. I will pay that and consider myself the luckiest person in the world because she is here.

3/11/11 Baby Girl Has Arrived!

I hope everyone had a chance to pick a date in the baby birth date contest, because the pool is officially closed. In a shocking turn of events, Baby Girl decided to come even earlier than anyone guessed. I'll give you the detailed blow-by-blow later when I'm less sleep deprived, but the whole birth process was easy and painless and quick. It was the next best thing to actually having a stork bring a baby.

At approximately 4:45pm on Friday afternoon, my water broke. I was standing in the kitchen trying to decide what to make for dinner (lasagna or manicotti?) when all of a sudden my jeans were soaked. (They tell you in the birth classes that your water breaking is almost never a giant sudden gush like what you see in the movies. They are big fibbers. Mine was exactly like that. Big gush, wetness everywhere. And thanking my lucky stars that I had made it home from walmart just 20 minutes earlier because nothing says embarrassment like having to call for a cleanup on aisle 4). Anyway, I called Tony and suggested that he return to the homestead posthaste while I tossed a few last minute things into the hospital bag.

We checked into the hospital at 5:30pm, and they whisked me off to the ultrasound room to make sure Baby Girl was still determined to enter this world feet first. She was, so I was prepped for surgery. IV in the hand, spinal block (not that bad, btw), and endless blood pressure and temperature taking. Then at 7:30pm, they wheeled me into the OR for a little slice n dice and Baby Girl was officially born at 7:59pm. I was comfortably numb and hidden behind a curtain, but Mom and Tony watched the entire thing. (I must say that if you're going to have a baby, this is a good way to do it. I never had the first contraction, I was numb from the armpits down, the whole thing took less than 3 hours from the time I walked into the hospital, and Baby Girl managed to avoid that whole alien cone-head look from too long in the birth canal. I'm telling you, I've had dental cleanings that were more painful than this. It was all delivery, no labor, and a precious little girl as the result).

Baby Girl is 18" long and weighs 5lbs, 10 oz. She is tiny and adorable and perfect, and my heart completely melted and dripped onto the floor in a puddle from the moment I saw her.

1/26/11 My Deep Dark Secret About Kevin Bacon

I have a confession to make. I've never seen the movie Footloose. Nope. Never. I did once see a little blip of it where Kevin Bacon is stomping around a warehouse being mad and having 80's flashbacks of people with really big hair, but to be honest his dancing kinda looked more like he was having an epileptic fit during a gymnastics routine, so I was not inclined to really see the movie in its entirety.

Call me an uncouth hillbilly rube, but that's the truth. Kevin Bacon does nothing for me.

No, not even when he's flopping around on a dirty warehouse floor, doing backwards rolls to express his anger.

I know, I don't know what's wrong with me either.

12/2/10 Hopes for my Daughter

Sometimes I sit around and daydream about how life will be for my daughter. I have hopes and dreams and expectations for her, and I thought I might jot a few down so that once she's here, I can remember and share them with her. These are for you, baby girl:

Number one, I hope you're healthy. Fingers and toes all accounted for, and healthy as a (small, easily birthed) horse. So far you look fabulous on the ultrasounds...so just keep up the good work in there, and you'll be just perfect when we get to see you in a few months, okay?

Secondly, I hope you get my nose. Not that your daddy doesn't have a simply delightful nose of his own, but his is a very manly man nose, and it might look a little strange on a little girl. Therefore, in order to avoid that awkward "growing into your features" phase, let's just hope you inherit my nose from the get-go.

I hope you like cats. Presently, there are five of them running around the house, so I hope you don't turn out to be a dog person. Not that there's anything wrong with dogs, or that you can only like one or the other but not both, but the number of cats in attendance (five) greatly exceeds the number of dogs in attendance (zero) and I just don't want you to be disappointed (and no, we're not getting a dog). Actually, I'm not too worried about this since I've never met a little girl who didn't like cats, but all the same, I thought I'd give you a heads up.

I hope you love to read. Obviously in your first few years, I will be doing all the reading for you while you just listen and look at the pictures, but my hope is that when it does come time for you to do your own reading, you'll love it as much as I do. Reading opens up a whole new magical world where anything is possible, and my hope is that you'll fall in love with all the places a good book can take you.

I hope you get the best traits from me and the best traits from your Daddy, and I hope you surpass them all. We're pretty good, but I have the feeling you can be exceptional. I want you to know now that I believe in you even now, baby girl.

I hope you love at least one sport. I'll let you in on a little secret...your mama is not very coordinated. Most sports require a little thing called depth perception, and I do not have it (although your Daddy isn't bad). But good or not, I think it's important to find an activity that gets you moving and you enjoy playing. You'll feel better, make more friends, get better grades, maintain a healthier weight, and not just zone in front of the TV all day. (Note: Your Daddy is already planning to put you in peewee hockey. Of course, you have the right to choose what sport you would like to try, and keep trying them until you find one that you love, but I'm telling you now that he's going to be pushing hard to get you out on the ice. Be warned).

I hope that the craze for Hannah Montana, the words "diva" and "princess" on clothing, Bratz dolls and Justin Bieber will be over by the time you're aware of them. I hope that whatever new fads that have taken their places are less obsessive.

I hope you have some kind of talent in music. Neither of your parents play an instrument, or sing, or read music, but in the interest of being better than we are, I thought you might enjoy the cello. (Yes, it's big and bulky, but it sounds so lovely! No? Okay, we'll talk about that one later). This one isn't a make or break...heaven knows you'll be okay if you can't carry a tune in a bucket (like your parents), but I'm saying that if you did want to take up the cello, we'd be happy to go to your concerts.

I hope you're a night person like me. Actually, I wouldn't mind if you went to bed early like your Dad, but I sincerely hope that you aren't a (gasp!) early riser. Your mama just doesn't function pre-8am, and if you're really looking for some quality time with her, let her sleep a little first. (If you find that you absolutely must get up early, please wake your daddy. He's better at that kind of thing).

I hope you are kind. I hope you see the wisdom in treating others as you would want to be treated. I hope you have a good heart, and can love freely. I'll try to help you with this as much as I can, since this will become the essence of who you are. Insides count, you know.

I hope you go easy on your old mom and dad. Remember that we haven't ever done anything like this before, so we're learning as we go too. Try to cut us some slack, especially during those terrible two years, and when potty training, and when you become a teenager. (Oh heaven help us!) We aren't always going to agree on things, but we'll always be there for you, so try to keep that in mind when I won't let you pierce your eyebrow or date that older boy with the motorcycle. (We'll talk about the purple hair later).

Lastly, I hope you know we'll always love you. From the moment I found out about you, to my last dying breath and beyond. You're someone I never knew I wanted, but now realize that I absolutely cannot live without. No matter what. We haven't met yet, but you'll always have a place in my heart. You are my precious baby girl, and I love you.

No doubt after you are born, you'll start making your own hopes and dreams for yourself. I can't wait to see what they are. But for now, maybe these can get you started.

11/28/10 A Turkey-Induced Random Thought...

Can someone explain why I've been out of high school for twelve years, but I still have dreams where I the bell rings and I can't remember how to get to my next class? Or my locker combination? Or I'm taking a final exam (usually math) and I realize I don't know how to do any of it? I get that they're insecurity dreams that symbolize feeling unprepared for something (like a new baby, perhaps?) but really? All the way back to high school? There isn't anything more recent that I can worry about?

I'd really like to outgrow these dreams...mostly because they make me feel stupid. How old do you have to be before you start dreaming about IRS audits, or the water heater needing to be replaced, or high cholesterol dreams? At least then I'd feel like an adult while my subconscious fretted.

Just a thought...

11/25/10 Happy Thanksgiving Ya'll!

There's turkey and gravy and dressing and mashed potatoes and broccoli casserole calling my name, but I wanted to take a quick moment to jot down the things I'm thankful for (in no particular order) because it's important to remember.

Things I'm thankful for:

• This awesome little baby girl, who I didn't even know I could love so much, but now I can't imagine life without. I can't wait to meet her!
• A good book.
• The library, which feeds my insatiable book habit.
• My family, who loves me and cracks me up on a regular basis.
• My mom (who yes, is technically considered a part of the family, but gets her own shout out because she's been so incredibly supportive and knowledgeable and fabulous and has helped me through this pregnancy when I had NO FLIPPIN' CLUE what was happening). She goes to doctor appointments, makes all my nursery stuff, calms insecurities and indulges cookie cravings on a regular basis. This would be so much scarier without her.
• Tony, who is the best hubby anyone could possibly ask for, hands down, even when I don't tell him enough.
  
• Sonic cheese sticks. Oh my word, the cheesy goodness!
• Sleeping in late (Which I'm appreciating now because we're about to kiss those days goodbye!)
• The wonderful ladies I volunteer with. They are such a hoot!
• Catching all the green lights.
• My home, my city, my country, and the freedom that made them all possible.
• It being 70 degrees outside for Thanksgiving. I love you warm weather! Please don't ever leave me.
• You guys, who read and comment and write great blogs of your own. I do love spending my mornings with you.
  

So that's my list. What's on yours? Did I miss anything?

Thanksgiving comes to us out of the prehistoric dimness,
universal to all ages and all faiths,
At whatever straws we must grasp,
there is always a time for gratitude and new beginnings.
J. Robert Moskin

11/18/10 See This Box of Soap? I'm Standing On It.

Ya'll bear with me. I feel a soapbox moment coming on:

For the past three days, Tony and I have been watching the nightly news reports about the TSA screening procedures. And how hard they've been trying to make them into a controversy. Oh I know, I know, that pilot complained that he was getting groped, and now the pilot's unions are advising a ban on the screenings. And Rosemary Fitzpatrick, a CNN employee, talked about how violated she felt about a pat-down after her underwire bra set off a detector. And each night, the news finds more people who give little sound bites like "invasion of privacy" and "molested at the airport" and "Extreme TSA procedures". And I get that. No one likes to be poked and prodded and looked at in a full body scanner by a stranger.

But you know what I hate worse? Terrorists blowing up the plane I'm riding in.

And given the choice between the two, I'm going for the scans and pat-downs every time.

I feel sorry for the TSA. People complained that they weren't doing enough to stop contraband items from sneaking through airports. So they tried to be more thorough. Then everyone complained that the lines were too long, so they instituted new machines and technology. But no one liked those machines because it showed them without clothes, so the TSA offered pat-downs instead. Now the searches are "too personal". Give the poor screeners a break already! I seriously doubt they really want to see you naked or pat you down. Heaven knows I wouldn't want to see the general population naked either, xray machine or no. And actually touching you as you stand there encased in the little glass box with your dingy sock feet and your pajama bottoms and ratty "traveling" sweatshirt? Let's just say that however airport screeners get their thrills, chances are it isn't happening with you. It's their job, and they're trying to be professional about it.

I figure TSA screeners have the same kind of detachment as say, your gynecologist. They're looking for things that shouldn't be there, things that they need to find to keep you safe, and if that means looking at a grainy picture of you in your underwear or brushing against your bottom during a pat down, then so be it. I'll sacrifice my dignity to keep from being blown out of the sky, and I'm certainly going to sacrifice yours.

Don't get me wrong, if one of them violates procedure and uses their position for abuse, then I'm all for an investigation and the proper reprisals. But to give them grief for doing their jobs trying to keep us safe? It is the nature of the world we live in, my friends. As long as there are people out there trying to kill me, then I want other people out there doing their darnest to keep me safe.

10/26/10 The Forbidden Call of the Other Side (of the Bed)

Something happened the other night that has totally altered the fabric of the universe in our house. I mean, completely changed everything. Black was white, night was day, cats were actually well behaved at 5am. It was total chaos. And now I'm not sure we can ever get back to normal.

See, Tony and I switched sides of the bed.

Maybe this is not a big deal for you. Maybe you switch sides all the time. Or maybe you sleep alone and diagonally if that's what floats your boat. But we? We do not change. Ever. No matter where we happen to be sleeping. There are RULES about these things.

You have to understand that Tony always sleeps closest to the door. Always. I told him that from the very beginning. I don't sleep closest to the door. My thinking is that if bad guys ever attack via the door, they have to go through him first. (Not that that would really make a difference, since Tony's such a heavy sleeper that the bad guys could climb on the bed and do the foxtrot on his chest and he would never even stir, but still I figure that gives me a few extra seconds to get the baseball bat ready). It's my little neurosis. I like to have a bad guy attack plan, and my plan is they have to go through someone else first. (I hear you out there. You're asking what my plan is if the bad guys come in the windows, or are already hiding in the closet? To that I say Shut up. One ridiculous paranoid psychosis at a time please). So hotel rooms, guest rooms, air mattresses in the floor. Tony always sleeps closest to the door.

The other rule is I always sleep next to the nightstand with the lamp, phone, glass of water, books, etc. That is because Tony uses the bed to go to sleep, whereas my nightly routines involve more baggage than Paris Hilton vacationing in the French Riviera. I need my book. I need a glass of water. I need a tissue. I need a spray bottle to spray the cat trying to drink my water and shred my tissues. It's all very complicated. And since our bedroom setup only has a space for a nightstand on one side of the bed, it's mine.

And this is all well and good. It's worked for us for years. Except for two nights ago. Because two nights ago we switched sides, and now I must confess that once we went through that door, we haven't been able to get back to where we were before.

See, two nights ago, one of the guys who works the night shift at Tony's company had a flat tire and was late showing up for work. And because he was late, things didn't get done that should have gotten done. And since Tony is in charge of making sure that things get done, he got called at about 3am to see what the people who were at work should do. And since the phone was on my side of the bed, that meant that I had to answer it. And pass it over to him. And turn on the light so that he could find his contact phone numbers. And sit there while he worked stuff out on a scrap of paper on the nightstand on my side of the bed.

Of course, one cannot blame Tony for this. He's just doing his job, and sometimes that job involves fixing problems in the middle of the night. But I must admit I was a little miffed when the phone rang again at 4am, and AGAIN at 5am and we went through the whole light, phone, contacts, my side of the bed routine for a second and third time. And Tony, perhaps sensing this (or maybe he was just alerted to the problem by my growling) suggested that maybe this once, for tonight, he should sleep on my side to be closest to the phone and the light and the nightstand so that my beauty sleep wouldn't continue to be interrupted. And I was just tired enough to glance at the door and just not care about bad guys. So we switched.

And it was great.

It was great because in addition to being closest to the door, his side is also closest to the bathroom. And since baby girl likes to rumba on my bladder about 40 times throughout the night, this was a real time saver not to have to stumble all the way around the bed when I got up. And it was great because even though the alarm is on my side, he's the one who uses it, so when it went off two nights ago, he just shut it off instead of me having to do it. Plus his side is closer to the window, which meant my pillow stayed nice and cool all night long.

Of course, I was sure that he'd want his side back again. We are, after all, creatures of habit. But when he mentioned that my side was incredibly comfortable and he'd slept really well over there (after the phone quit ringing anyway), I admit it gave me pause. Could we do it? Could we actually switch sides? I'd be giving up the nightstand and my water glass and reading lamp for the front line in bad guy attack, but at the same time, the idea of having toilet-front property was mighty appealing. And to not have to be the one to mess with the alarm? Switching definitely has its merits.

So I don't know. Last night we went back to our original sides, which are steady and established and I (literally) could maneuver around in my sleep, but I just can't seem to shake the thought of that new and exciting other side of the bed. It calls to me, that bad boy side of the bed. A little darker, a little cooler, a little more dangerous, but oh so alluring.

It could change bed time forever as we know it.

10/4/10 The List

You know how you're in the house, doing whatever, and you realize that you're almost out of X product that you were doing the whatever with, and you're all, "We need some more of this. I need to write this down on the official Wal-marts list", but the list for the Mart of Wal is all the way in the other room so you're like, "Honey? Remind me to pick up some more X next time we're at Walmart" and he's all "Okay!" but you know he won't because he said it without ever taking his eyes off of the football game on TV so you know it went in one ear and out the other? And then later you ARE in the same room with Wal-mart list and you can't for the life of you remember what X was, even though you can remember that you need SOS pot scrubbing pads and more deodorant, although you already wrote those two down and you know, just KNOW that there was a third mystery thing? And you're like, "Honey? What was that thing that I said to remember?" and he's like, "SOS pads!" and you're like, "No. That wasn't it. You told me that we were out of SOS pads. What was the thing I told you?" and he's like, "Ummmmm. SOS pads?" so that's no help there. And for the entire rest of the day, the ghost of product X bugs you, taunting you from the very corner of your mind, until about 3am when you rocket out of a deep sleep and sit straight up in bed and shout "Febreeze Upholstery Spray!" at the top of your lungs, probably waking the neighbors, but who cares about them really since more than once their doofus teen-aged son has come home in the wee hours of the morning without his house key and awakened you with all his infernal door banging? And anyway, this is a moment because the prodigal brain has returned and brought the elusive Product X with it! It's all so clear now! You can remember anything! And you must share this triumph, so in all of your excitement you lean over and shake your dear sleeping list-forgetting husband and whisper "Febreeze!" in his ear so that he too can marvel at your amazing mental recall, only instead of celebrating with you properly, his way of marking this momentous occasion is apparently to just roll over in his sleep and murmur, "And SOS pads. Don't forget those".

9/10/10 September Morning Can Still Make Me Feel That Way*

Where have I been this past week? Why, out enjoying some semblance of fall, of course.

If you've ever been to East Tennessee in the June/July/August/September months, you'll know that we do hot. And humid. And sticky and sweaty and...well, it's hot. And this year, we've have more hot than usual. This year we've had 74 days above 90 degrees, when the past summers have only averages 34 days of scorchers. And I love hot. I really do. I'm a warm weather girl through and through, so I was fine with hot.

But then something strange happened. Football started. Kids went back to school. The air smelled fresher and crisper. And glory hallelujah, the temperature dropped 10 degrees. And I, much to my own surprise, discovered that this year rather than mourning the end of summer, I am all excited about this early sneak peak of fall.

I realize for those of you living in other parts of the country/world that a high of 80 degrees may not exactly scream fall weather to you, but trust me, the difference has been noticeable here. It has awakened a long dormant desire for me to wear boots and soft sweatshirts and kick up piles of leaves as I stroll along shady tree-lined lanes on my way to pick apples or carve pumpkins or something.

(Yes, I know that 80 is still too hot for sweatshirts and boots. And no, I'm not even sure if this is the right time to pick apples, or where to do it if it is. And yes, I know that there are exactly three leaves on the ground at the moment, which may or may not have been forcibly plucked off of a tree in the back yard and tossed in the air by a certain someone just so she could dance around while they fluttered back to earth, but hey, it's still early, and sometimes Mother Nature needs a little help. Shut up.)

Okay, Okay, so I may be rushing the fall thing a bit. The calendar says autumn doesn't actually start for two more weeks. And chances are this week's weather is just a fluke and it will go back to being 80 bajillon degrees soon. But there's this feeling around. And it feels like football, and back to school, and that certain crispy smell in the air, so I still say it counts.

There's something delightful about the change in the seasons, isn't there? Long before we've gotten tired of the cold, or the heat, or the rain, or the endless raking of leaves, there's a fresh excitement about the new things each season brings. A giddy feeling that makes us throw open the windows or linger a little longer on the sidewalk just to see and smell the coming changes in the wind. They're new and refreshing and timeless and comfortable all at once.

So that's what I've been doing this week. I've been on the back porch, eating the apples I picked up at the grocery store (seriously, can you pick your own apples now?), surrounded by three little still-green leaves, waiting expectantly for the signs of a newly approaching season. I can feel it coming, and I can't wait.



*A Neil Diamond song for the title reference? Oh yes I did.

7/30/10 Judging You By Your Cover

I'm sure that by now many of you have heard Amazon's announcement last week that ebooks are now outselling traditional books. While this is one giant step forward for technology, (and I love technology!) this recent Slate article did bring up an interesting point: In a soon-to-be world where everyone is using a Kindle or Nook, how are we possibly going to be able to judge each other by our covers?

I don't mean that in a bad way, either. It's just that back when books had actual covers, it was a lot easier to glance over at the person on the train or the treadmill or at the table next to you and peek at what they were reading. I'll admit it. I do it all the time. I'm interested to know what other people are reading, and if it looks enticing enough, I'll make a note to put it on my own reading list. I've found some great books that way.

Plus, if eyes are the windows to the soul, books are the windows to the personality. What better way to get a feel for someone you just met than to take a peek at their bookshelves? Is this potential new acquaintance a fan of popular who-done-its or Ancient German Philosophers? Sci-fi or poetry? Seven habits or chic-lit? (Or all of the above?) Books make great conversation starters. ("I see you have a copy of X over there on the coffee table. What did you think of the main character?") Bookshelves can tell you how someone feels about something, and what you have in common, and is still less intrusive than peeking in the medicine cabinet.

I suppose we'll find other ways to connect over books though. I'm a member of a website that allows me to keep a virtual bookshelf of books I've read (and want to read). The site allows me to rank how much I like a book, and even have discussions and join special online reading groups of other people with similar tastes. (Although to be completely honest, I don't really do much discussing there...I use it mainly to keep track of what I've already read so I don't make the mistake of trying to read something that I already read a year ago. I do follow other people's recommendations though, and it's a fabulous way to discover new authors).

So I guess "Hey! You're reading that? I read that! What do you think of it?" will always live on in some way...we'll just do it with booklover914 from Sydney rather than the woman on her lunch break at the table next to us.