The Great Night Out

Last night, for the first time in just shy of a year, Himself and I went out and I was neither pregnant nor toting an infant. Granted, I wasn't feeling well, so it wasn't totally all daisies and sunshine, but it was wonderful nonetheless. I had to refrain from skipping down the ice-coated sidewalk outside the restaurant as I thought of a whole dinner out without having to worry about whether or not Baby Girl's baby noises were going to drive anyone mad.

Here's where my not-so-maternal-instinct glowed in neon colors: I didn't feel bad about leaving Baby Girl with the sitter. Not once. Gasp, mutter and shake your head all you want about me not feeling guilty for leaving her at 11 weeks (I've had people tell me we should wait until at least six months - at that rate we'd all be in the looney bin), but it was a wonderful evening, and I managed to rationalize my way out of feeling guilty by making a list:

* Baby Girl's sitter will sit for free on Thursday nights if you pay on time. Miss Jan watches Baby Girl five days a week (more or less) anyway, so it's not like we were leaving her with just anyone.

* Himself and I REALLY needed some time alone, sans baby. A wild-haired, crackly-voiced, cranky, achy mom; bored-out-of-his-mind dad; The Hobbit Hole wildly out of control (more on that later); and the season's first snow - it's a recipe sure to entice someone to wring someone else's neck. A happy baby meant she was the only thing that didn't need fixing.

* Miss Jan is closed today for licensing courses, so I'm working from home - meaning I get to spend the whole day with Baby Girl, making up for the four extra hours we abandoned her for last night.

* We did go see Baby Girl between dinner, dropping the concert tickets off to the guy who bought them off of us and the movie. It wasn't so much the "oh my gosh, I haven't seen my child in hours and I'm going to start weeping if I don't see her" (remember I'm not instinctivly maternal) as much as the date was a last-minute thing, so I had to drop off one more bottle of milk ensuring she didn't starve (and she didn't - she conned Miss Jan into thinking she was starving to death, prompting an extra feeding - which she spent the rest of the evening burping up).

The whole night was magic - even if I looked like hell and felt just about the same. Himself was the charming, talkative guy I fell in love with. We had sushi at the sushi bar. We talked food and work and life and sports (his beloved Packers got trounced last night - too bad). We discovered a Spanish grocery and found all things (or most things) Goya - meaning Himself's Puerto Rican Chicken, Beans and Rice dish will be served tomorrow night, after six months of not being able to make it. We laughed at our obvious maturity as we entered the movie theater to see The Bee Movie (which is cute - and has amazing animation).

The best thing? Himself planned it. He decided on where to have dinner. He found the theater and gave me a choice of two films.

I might not have maternal instincts, but it was worth it for one night of remembering the reason Baby Girl came along.

(For those of you appalled that I would leave my child at not-quite three months, it appears any insult regarding being left with the sitter last night are forgotten, as she's napping soundly next to me while I type.)

21st Century Communication

So, you'll remember my moaning about the ridiculous ticket fees in this post.

Well ... to make a really long story short, Himself and I had a terrible bout of miscommunication, and I ended up purchasing the tickets. When I called to tell him, he said "I thought we agreed $95 wasn't worth paying to see anybody." Um, yes, we did, but then I thought he really, really wanted to go - and, well, I'm a sucker for doing things for others.

So I had two tickets, a horrible virus of some sort and a husband who really didn't care to go and a $95 charge I really can't afford.

What to do.

This morning, I pulled up Craigslist, typed a short advert regarding my need to get rid of my tickets for tonight's concert and said, "if you inquire this morning, I will be in a meeting - please text me."

I got rid of the tickets an hour ago - after a day-long conversation via text with someone named Dustin. We will meet him at will call to pick up/give away/receive payment for our tickets.

I've never actually spoken to him, but I know that he really wanted to go, had to ask his wife if she wanted to/could go and had to make arrangements to meet.

I love the 21st Century. Especially since my rabid sore throat makes talking out loud an incredible challenge at the moment.

A Tale of Two Snowstorms

The last time I had to deal with measurable snowfall was on Valentine's Day. At the time, I was a world away from where I am now - figuratively and geographically. Our parents had just received the card in the mail, informing them of their new grandchild-to-be. I hadn't yet been laid off. There was nothing to suspect the status quo would change.

I walked out to my car to discover the two feet of snow pushed up against it by the apartment complex's snow plow, valiantly spend the next hour trying to make a path out of the mound so I could go to work. I was freezing. I didn't have a shovel. I wasn't in the mood to deal with snow in the wilds of DC. So I gave up, made hot cocoa and told work I was going to work from home.

Yesterday, as I was heading downtown for a meeting, it started snowing. Big, white, soggy, wet flakes. By the time I left, it had already made a noticeable impact on the landscape - creating slushy roads and cautious, slow-moving traffic. I caught myself thinking, "If I was still in Virginia, my office would be closed and I wouldn't have to work."

I went to bed last night, lulled into slumber by the voice of the weather man talking about lake effect snow and an increased prediction of how much would stick. I woke up to a silent, winter wonderland of white. I bundled Baby Girl into her newly acquired Santa outfit (because it's very, very warm and ridiculously cute), grabbed my laptop bag, my pumping bag, the mini cooler for her milk, Baby Girl in her carseat and my water bottle (I later remembered I had left my lunch sitting on the kitchen counter - heaven only knows how I managed to forget one more thing ...). I schlepped it all upstairs, opened the door, and realized that, since we no longer live in an apartment complex, there is no one to shovel the walks for us. No matter. I trudged through the snow, buckled Baby Girl in, started the car to keep her warm and surveyed the landscape.

Determining that there was not enough snow to actually warrant shoveling, and risking a very icy return after the stuff had melted and refrozen, I cleaned off the car windows and began my journey. As I drove, I again drew a parallel to my last snowstorm. While the majority of the snow on my route had fallen in the middle of the night, the roads were nothing more than wet. Clearly they had been treated and plowed. I thought, "If I was in Virginia, the roads would be awful, the office would be on a delay and half the people would call in because they couldn't actually drive in the stuff."

But I wasn't, and The Frontier is quite adept at dealing with the snow. The drivers, while probably not any less goofy about driving in it, at least have generally lived here long enough not to panic at the first sight of a snowflake. The schools stay open, the businesses stay open, the world keeps on moving. Whiteouts, power failure, blizzards - nothing stops this place from trudging on. I think it's all those pioneer stock, who feel the need to push on through anything.

No more will I sit, with childlike energy, willing the weatherman to predict a snowstorm - because no more will the mere mention of a snowstorm mean partial days, working from home or complete closures.

Instead, Himself and I will rummage through the shed to find the salt and the snow shovel. Winter has arrived.

Absurdity

There is a concert coming to town this week that I really want to go to. I've always wanted to see this performer in concert - Himself has, and has commented several times on how much he enjoyed it.

Himself and I decided that we'd go and call it the almost-three-months-late-birthday-present-I-didn't-get.

I find out tickets are $35 each - reasonable.

I go to buy them - there are still good seats left. Good.

Then I get to the purchase screen - there are TWENTY FIVE DOLLARS worth of fees! And, if I want to print my own tickets at home, I can add another $3 to that.

Why not say the concert tickets are $49 each and not tell me how much is fees? Funny - I might have purchased them at that point and chalked it up to a splurge.

But I can't justify knowingly paying almost another full ticket price in fees to go to the concert.

So I didn't buy them. I'm in mourning - I really wanted a date night with Himself - and Thursdays are the night our sitter is open late. More than that, I really wanted to see this concert. But all those fees? Am I supposed to clap my hands and jump for joy?

SmithTix stinks.

And God Remembered ...

There is a passage in Genesis that struck me yesterday as I read it in a magazine article: "And God Remembered Rachel."

To put it in context, Rachel was barren and was stuggling to deal with it. She had essentially come to Jacob and said, "Give me children, or I shall die." I'm sure there was much wailing and gnashing of teeth - especially since her sister (and Jacob's first wife), Leah, had already borne him children. I'm sure there were long prayers in the middle of the night - pleading with God to hear her, to give her an answer.

And God Remembered. Rachel ended up bearing two sons and a daughter for Jacob - and not just any son, but Joseph who was sold into slavery and eventually became one of the most important men in Egypt.

The article was about something else, but the passage struck me as being incredibly timely right now - it's the Thanksgiving season, and I am making a concerted effort this season to being very, very grateful - not just in my heart, but publicly.

God Remembered ... After a couple of years of incredible challenges - many of which are unknown to all but a few people - 2007 ended up being a year of incredible blessings, answered prayers and surprising changes.

In a lesson at church on Sunday, the teacher admonished us to be grateful for even the difficult things, because after the trial of our faith comes the blessings. Easier said than done. I made a goal to list the difficult things for which I am grateful - some more difficult than others. Lest anyone think I'm some sort of saint for actually being able to be grateful for the hard things, I'm not. I was definitely not grateful for many of these DURING the rough period, until things came into focus and I realized that they were precursors to something much greater.

* I am grateful that I lost my job in February. I still miss the work and the people, but I now realize that it had to happen. I never would have willingly left, though I had contemplated it. We would have stayed and continued to run like a hampster in a wheel - faster and faster and just barely keeping pace.

* I am grateful for the miscarriage I had just over a year ago. At the time it was complex and confusing and the most physically painful thing I've ever been through (yes, worse than labor for me). Yet, it taught me what I needed to recognize about my body to be able to conceive and carry Baby Girl to term. And she is worth every agonizing moment I spent on the bathroom floor that night, terrified that I was dying.

* I am grateful that Himself didn't pass his nursing boards. This one is the one where there was great wailing and gnashing of teeth and pleading and ranting and making much noise. I'm still not entirely sure why the whole 18-month ordeal was necessary, but I know that it taught us a lot about each other, it helped Himself crystalize what he wanted to do professionally and, because he took it one last time, it meant he landed an incredible job in The Frontier.

* I am grateful for the promptings that Himself and I both had about moving to The Frontier. They came separately and Himself was afraid to even confess it, because he knew I was adamantly opposed to moving back to The Great Wild West. I still struggle with settling back down in the state of my childhood, but I am not as dumb as I occassionally look. I know that there are unbelievably good things that have occurred as a result. One of the greatest is having Baby Girl be surrounded with incredibly doting relatives.

* I am grateful that for 90 minutes in late July, I was unemployed. Again, this one was almost impossible to swallow at the time. However, it led (90 minutes later) to an even better opportunity that offers more stability, more flexibility and a better path toward an at-home consulting gig for me.

* I am grateful that I drop Baby Girl off at a wonderful sitter's every day. I might be struck by icicle glares from some for even admitting this out loud (and believe me, it has taken me a long time to come to this realization), but I can't change the status quo. At the moment, I have to work. We were blessed to find a wonderful sitter in Miss Jan. But I've discovered another benefit over the past two weeks: Baby Girl has some surrogate sisters in a pair of 3-year-olds that Miss Jan also watches. The two girls fuss over Baby Girl (from a distance) as much as Miss Jan will let them. One informed me last week that it was okay for me to take Baby Girl home for the night, but to bring her back, because Baby Girl was her baby. Every day when Baby Girl arrives, the girls rush to say hello. Every night when she leaves, they blow her kisses and say, "Goodbye Miss Baby Girl." It warms my heart to know that if Baby Girl can't spend her days at home with me, that she is spending them in the company of people who truly adore her.

Yes, I have realized that God truly does remember.
And I am grateful.

Neurotic Nonsense

My brain is all over today.

First, I have to brag on my father. He is the greatest father ever. I could write an entire book about it - and I would take on anyone who says that my claim to having the world's greatest father is biased. (And I'm tougher than I look).

Sometime during the decade since I lived in the Great Frozen North, all of my serious winter gear has dwindled into wimpy winter gear - an alarming number of fleeces, a wool dress coat (requisite for the East) and so forth. Being back in the Frontier, where it acually snows (and there are no such things as "snow days"), I realized I needed something more substantial to keep me warm (unless yesterday's 70-degree day has become the norm - very weird). Alas, I've only managed to pick up a good set of waterproof driving gloves.

Today my dad calls me at work - very unusual. He is, I realize, immensely excited over something. He asks if I've procured a winter coat yet. Nope. Then he tells me about a sale notice he got over e-mail today where there is a really great coat on sale for 50% off - no tax, no shipping if you order $X worth. He goes into the benefits of the coat and how much my sister paid for the same one last year (I'm sure my sister is thrilled to know she paid $40 more than I did). He reads me the item number, has me pull it up, recommends a size (yes, my blind father, recommending sizes - don't ask) and then he orders something to bump me into the free shipping zone (I don't tell him that paying for my shipping would have been cheaper than buying a new $50 camp pad).

Because of his eagerness, I was even able to snag a black coat in my size - on clearance (side note: who sells coats on clearance in November?!) - no neon green, slightly-the-wrong-size for me. My coat is on its way. I'm not going to freeze here. Thanks Dad!

--
In other news. One of my Google alerts for a client is "New Orleans" and "children" and "Katrina" - imagine the number of interesting news tidbits I get on that every day.

Today, however, I scored a good one - an interview with Jennifer Garner in Glamour, reprinted on MSNBC.com.

Most interviews with celebrities make me sick. They're either so ridiculously perfect with ridiculous, "I have no idea what the world is really like" opinions or they are ridiculously messed up. Usually I want to throw something at Jennifer Garner because she looks stunning - all the time - and lately I've taken to wearing my hair in a knot on my head - all the time - and smelling like eau de sour milk.

This time, however, I wanted to hug her. I will forever love her for this quote, in response to who she thinks is heroic:

My younger sister is my hero: She’s a mom and an accountant for the state of West Virginia. She’s able to juggle a job, kids, volunteer work and church, and she still manages to cook dinner every night without feeling bogged down. There are lots of people out there who are literally heroic, but what she does counts too.

Someone who realizes that loving, cooking, working, balancing, juggling, going slightly insane, volunteering - living life - counts. That waking up every day and working to make it a better day is something to be celebrated.

It didn't hurt that she confessed to feeling sheepish about hugging the Boston Red Sox's mascot - a giant red sock. "Why did I have to hug the sock? Just say hello like a normal person."

Sometimes I metaphorically hug a sock too - it's nice to know I'm not the only goofball.

True Love, Part II

True love is asking your sick wife to stop by the store for milk and a few other things on her way home from work, with a 2-month-old baby in tow ... so you have time to surprise her upon her arrival with a household transformation of sorts.

The Hobbit Hole no longer looks like an infirmary. The dishes were all done. The counters were all cleaned.

Too bad Baby Girl had to get up every 2.5 hours and I ended up spending the last half of the night on the couch.

True love says tonight Himself is going to play daddy at 11 p.m., 2 a.m and 5 a.m.. when Baby Girl coughs up so much snot she can't sleep any more.

True Love

True love is driving halfway across The Frontier in search of a Vietnamese Soup house to procure some Pho Ga for your wife who was crying when you left the house in the morning because she was so sick and tired.

True love is not asking her if she wanted any, but buying it anyway, then calling her and saying, "I have a surprise for you."

True love is getting enough that I can eat it today too, as Baby Girl and I hang out in our pajamas and be sick together at home.

Killer Kleenexes

My family spent last weekend with us and lovingly shared their germs. Try as we might to remain germ-free, both Baby Girl and I ended up with viruses. Her's manifested as a cold. Mine (as typical, due to a congenital sinus defect) manifested as a minor (though still horrid) sinus infection.

Neither of us are sleeping. Neither of us want to eat, but one of us is way too skinny (not me) to not be eating. Both of us are inhaling saline solution with great regularity. One of us gets to have her "snoogers" sucked out of her via a bulb syringe. The other has the only-slightly-more-appealing option of blowing her snoogers into a tissue.

I made a trek to Target today, because Baby Girl is out of diapers (a testament to how lousy I feel). While there, I discovered something I didn't know existed: Killer Kleenexes.

I'm probably the only idiot on the planet who didn't realize Kleenex makes anti-viral tissues. In a hurry, I threw the box into the cart and went to the checkout (where it was abundantly clear to the cashier that an adult had a cold of some sort and an infant was in dire need of half the baby care aisle - one should not go to Target when ill, hungry, bored or anytime one doesn't have a money tree in the backyard).

Curious about the "killer" properties of the tissues, I actually read the box when I got back to the office. It says,

"Kleenex Anti-Viral tissue has three soft layers, including a moisture-activated middle layer that kills 99.9% of cold and flu viruses in the tissue within 15 minutes ... See below for anti-viral details.

The "see below" portion tells one which viruses the tissues kill, but not HOW they are killed or WHAT kills them.

Still not satiated, I read the ingredients (Does anyone else find this humorous? A tissue box with ingredients?):

Citric Acid .... 7.51%
Sodium Lauryl Sulfate ... 2.02%
Inert ingredients ... 90.47% (ie all the stuff they use to make the non-lethal tissues, I suppose)

Okay - so my killer tissues have Vitamin C and the stuff they use in toothpaste and shampoo to make it lather (which, by the way, is also a known skin irritant if used in large quantities - just what I want in my tissues that are wiping an already angry nose).

Since when does Vitamin C and a lathering/cleansing agent kill viruses? Does that mean when I used to use lemon juice to lighten my hair and then shampoo it out, that I was killing viruses on my head? If I eat candy bubbles (which contain SLS) and drink orange juice at the same time that I'll kill viruses inside me? How about washing my dishes in water with Vitamin C tablets and dishsoap (another product with SLS)?

Being no chemist (and not sure I even want to know the answer), I am stumped.

I do find it humorous that Killer Kleenexes come with "Directions for Use," indicating that I could go to a federal prision if I use the Killer Kleenexes as something other than for which they were intended. Just in case one decides to kill something other than viruses with said tissues, I suppose.

Who knew you'd ever find a Federal Warning, Vitamin C and Tissues all in the same package? Regardless, it makes a great case for sticking with plain ol' toilet paper, which is standard tissue fare in the Hobbit Hole.

The Great Pie Gathering

Thanksgiving is my favorite holiday, for which Himself has mocked me for the almost nine years we've known each other. He thinks it's silly to have a favorite holiday that is just about eating (and giving thanks, but he doesn't ever mention that part). It shouldn't be a surprise that a holiday about food is my favorite - especially since the preparation for the holiday and the leftovers are far better than the actual meal itself.

This year, for the first time in seven years, I am having Thanksgiving with my family. This will be Himself's first year celebrating The Great Feast with my family.

I'm not sure when it started, but at some point, Thanksgiving became a contest to see how many pies could be consumed during the four-day holiday. Unable to hold themselves back, my dad and uncle always start in on the pies the night before Thanksgiving, to the great consternation of the women (whose role it seems is to preserve one's appetite for The Great Feast over which they have been laboring - even if only in their minds - for months).

There is ALWAYS more than enough pie to go around, yet, in a great race to ensure that one gets pie before the men eat it all, slices begin magically disappearing the moment the first guests begin stirring Thanksgiving morning. Usually a couple of pies are gone before The Great Feast even begins. Perhaps this is the reason that it is a family "necessity" to have at least as many pies as people - whether or not said "people" are old enough to consume pie (for instance, this year, Baby Girl gets counted in the "people" category - meaning the pie count will be upped by one).

I didn't realize the madness surrounding all of this (it's quite normal when one grows up expecting there to be a massive amount of pies at Thanksgiving) until Himself stopped me last week while I was reciting the food assignments.

"Are we eating anything but pie?"
"Of course!"
"All you've mentioned is pie - and the fact we're supposed to bring two of your key lime pies and another pie of our choosing. Who is bringing the food?"

It was at that point I realized that food had not yet entered the food assignment conversations. Last night I phoned my parents to see what else I needed to bring besides three pies (it works out that you typically get assigned to bring one pie per member of your household attending The Great Feast). This year, the first year he is hosting at his new home with his new wife, my uncle is in charge (a bad sign, and probably the reason only pies had been discussed thus far). Dad said, "I don't know - your mom and uncle were discussing it earlier today, let me put her on."

Good news. The women are usually the only reason The Great Feast Happens - not for lack of help on the men's part, but more out of lack of caring if there is anything but pie for the holiday.

So I asked, "Mom - what are we supposed to bring besides pies?"

*Crickets*

"Mom, please tell me that you talked about more than who was bringing what pies!"

*Crickets* Then, "Well, we did finalize who was bringing what pies."

I related the conversation to Himself when I got off the phone. We laughed. He said, "You should bring your fabulous homemade macaroni and cheese."

I told him I would be the laughing stock of my family if I showed up with that - macaroni and cheese is not considered "real food," no matter if it is homemade or out of a blue box.

He countered with, "At least we'll know there is food."

This year's Great Feast might just end up being The Great Pie Gathering. And you know what? It's okay by us. Himself won't have to eat turkey and the women won't have to drive each other mad cooking dinner in someone else's kitchen.

Regardless, Thanksgiving will still remain my favorite holiday.

The Memory Tree

Last night I went to a Christmas tree decorating workshop given by the wife of my landlord (who also happens to attend the same church). I learned a lot. I oohed and ahhed at her perfectly executed French Country Christmas tree. She used to be, after all, a designer at a local Christmas store - a veritable expert in all things Christmas.

As I listened to everyone else in the room talk about their Christmas tree themes, I realized I might just be the only person on the planet besides my mother whose tree has absolutely no semblence of a theme whatsoever.

Until I thought about it a little more.

My actual tree is a sad, fairly short, pathetic excuse for a fake tree (a charity gift from a friend who purchased said tree on a trip to Indonesia, if that gives you any better picture of its absolutly pitiful state). Himself mocks me every year for it, but I can't bear to spend a great deal of money replacing something that, decorated and lit in a dark room, manages to conceal its flaws well enough to be forgiven - at least at this stage of my life.

In truth, I couldn't care less about the actual tree. It is merely a vehicle to display a hundred or so memories each year. I have a Memory Tree. Each year as a child, a family friend who had no grandchildren sent myself and each of my siblings an ornament. Occassionally, I received other ornaments from family and friends - commemorating special events in our family or my life.

There is my childhood favorite - a Winnie the Pooh bear perched on a wooden rocking horse - received when I was about two. It has been glued on countless times, but always remains in a prominently visible position, honoring it's revered place in my childhood memories. There is the glass ball commemorating my birth, complete with my name in garish glitter. There is Santa ornament doing a handstand - the last gift I received from my grandfather before he died. There is a nativity scene, given to me by an aunt to support my ever-growing nativity collection. There are the handful of ornaments Himself brought into our Christmas celebration - a few handmade ones from childhood, an entire collection of Rudolph ornaments and so forth. Then there are the very few I have purchased for myself - a couple commemorating trips or special locations, one commemorating my marriage to Himself, another a silly reminder of a passion for Veggie Tales held by myself and some old roommates (we all have the same ornament). And dozens more.

My mom took up where the family friend left off. Since he came into my life, Mom has faithfully sent Son an ornament every year - accidentally starting a snowman theme. I imagine she'll continue the tradition with Baby Girl.

Every year, these beloved memories get hung on the tree, only outdone in their haphazard lack of sophistication by the strings of multi-colored lights that illuminate them. Every year as I decorate the tree, I am wrapped in hundreds of warm, wonderful memories of past Christmases, loved ones and childhood joy.

I will never be asked to teach a Christmas tree decorating workshop. My tree will never be lauded as a well-executed example of sophistication and household decor. It is the kind of tree other people have for their children to decorate. One friend even exlaimed that my tree would have been the perfect inspiration for Charles Shultz as he labored on his Charlie Brown Christmas special.

No, I will never be praised for my perfectly executed tree. Yet, neither will I ever forget the love, the memories and the true meaning of Christmas as I assemble my patheticly chaotic Memory Tree every year. That makes every snide remark, every glaring lack of thematic elements and every pang of uncoordinated Christmas chaos my tree evokes all worth it.

I'm not sure I could ever give it up.

"You're Not From Here"

My biggest fear in moving to The Frontier was in reliving the angst I previously had when I made the area my home the first time - I didn't fit in. While I share the same basic cultural and ideological background as the majority of the residents of The Frontier, I don't always agree on the execution or the details. I don't fit into the pre-defined mold (or the perception of such mold, rather).

So it was with not much more than mild surprise that I was greeted at Einstein's Bagels yesterday with, "You're not from here, are you?"

I wracked my brain about what had given me away. I had not spoken to the assistant manager who prepared and rang up my purchase beyond giving him my order. I was wearing a shirt, slacks and heels - nothing too bizarre there (though I did realize later in the day that Baby Girl had left a spot on my left shoulder - burp rag, dummy, burp rag!). I don't have any weird piercings or tattos to make me stand out. I don't speak in a foreign accent. I am essentially your standard Frontier demographic - white, blondish, blue-eyed, boringly average.

WIth a look of casual puzzlement, I responded, "Not exactly. I grew up south of here, but I just moved back to The Frontier from the East Coast, why do you ask?"

The assistant manager laughed.

"The Lox," he said. "It's not especially popular among locals."

I smiled. I should have known. The food outs me every time.

Who am I?

I love being Baby Girl's mother - I love the little moments like I had last night, with her lying and me sitting on my bed making faces at each other and laughing (well, I was laughing - Baby Girl was smiling enough to be laughing, but isn't coordinated enough to make much of a noise - it's like watching Charlie Chaplin laugh in a silent film).

However, it is becoming increasingly apparent at how easy it is to lose oneself completely when one becomes a parent.

I barely have the time and energy to come home from work, cook dinner, clean up from dinner, feed Baby Girl (sometimes twice), get her ready for bed and do the laundry (which only ranks as a top priority because Baby Girl can go through enough clothes - hers and mine - and pajamas to justify a couple of batches of clothes a week), let alone think about me as a person or as a wife.

I don't even like cooking lately because it takes three times longer than usual and usually results in me eating a cold meal sometime after Baby Girl has gone to bed. I have stacks of thank you notes and baby announcements on the coffee table - some are even written and addressed - that haven't been finished enough to schlep them to the post office. My winter clothes (who am I kidding? Most of my non-maternity clothes) are still packed in boxes. Each morning I engage in a ritual of shoving my hand in the box, grasping an article of clothing and then running around like a mad woman trying to complete the outfit.

It scares me that I find myself looking forward to my twice-a-day stints as a milk cow, where I sit in my car and replenish Baby Girl's food supply. It is two 15- or 20-minute stints where I am able to semi-relax (complete relaxation is not possible when one is hooked up to a machine that looks like it originated in a dairy barn) and listen to NPR or catch up on my ever-growing pile of trade magazines that need to be read.

Yesterday I even managed to go through the day without ever setting foot in the shower, prompting me to consider showering after the 2 a.m. feeding, just so I could have hot water (the Hobbit Hole only produces enough hot water for 1.5 showers in a two-hour span) and not have anyone else needing the bathroom or screaming at the top of her lungs that I'd abandoned her. I held off, but it just meant that Himself held Baby Girl as she screamed this morning while I scrambled to take the world's fastest shower so he wouldn't be late to work.

One of my favorite musicians is coming to town in three weeks, and Himself promised to take me as a belated birthday present. As I went to buy tickets this morning, all I could think of was the logistical nightmare it poses and how I'm probably going to fall asleep in the first five minutes. I didn't buy the tickets. Himself told me I was boring. I feel anti-social while feeling a desparate need to socialize. I found myself having a great time on Monday at a wholesale food warehouse with my mom because it meant being somewhere different. Even then, I could only look for a few minutes - Baby Girl needed to be fed. The thought of preparing for the holidays fills me with something akin to nausea.

I think I'm lost.

Serenity

Sunday ranks in the top five of all good days I've had in my life, even though it had a rough start.

Sunday, I dressed Baby Girl in a long white dress made by a family friend - the same one my sister and I wore as infants. I then added a pair of pink ballet shoes that were a gift from a friend in Virginia and a headband given to her by my sister. Dressed head-to-toe in love, she and I joined Himself, my immediate family, my extended family and a few friends at church. She was then formally named and blessed, surrounded by some of the most important men in her (and our) lives.

It was a moment rich in emotion as I sat in my new congregation and listened to the words of Himself haltingly bless Baby Girl. He was nervous - a strange thing for me to realize about Himself. I could feel the love throughout the rest of the meeting wrap itself around me, seated between Himself and my sister, with Baby Girl nestled between all of us.

Later, during Sunday School, I watched my brother cradle Baby Girl. I watched her snuggle up to him and sigh contentedly into arms that weren't quite sure what to do with such a tiny little baby, dressed almost as an angel. I sat next to an aunt as she held Baby Girl close during the women's service. My heart pounded and my eyes stung.

Just before church ended, I gathered Baby Girl in my arms and walked the 60 or so steps to our house in the warm, late autumn afternoon sun. I entered the Hobbit Hole to find it bursting at the seams with family and friends and the scents of good food. As I settled down in the nursery to rock and feed Baby Girl before our entrance into the frenzy that would move to the backyard (the Hobbit Hole is not equipped for entertaining), my heart swelled again. I listened to the women in the kitchen putting the finishing touches on the appetizer spread Himself and I had coordinated. I listened to the men drifting in and out as they moved the tables and food outside - overhearing snatches of conversation about the big Patriots v. Colts football game.

I wanted to weep. Here, in my little home, cradling my infant daughter to my breast - still dressed in her achingly beautiful, long, white dress - I realized that sacrificing our own comfort zone, the proximity of so many dear friends and journeying to The Frontier was the best thing that could have ever happened to Baby Girl. Here she could grow up, basking in the glow of family, sheltered by a love that comes from deep relationships, knit tight by decades of growing up together.

We emerged out into the backyard, dappled by golden sunlight, awhile later, and I basked in the glow of being surrounded by those people who would act as the founding community of Baby Girl's life - those who, through their presence this incredible day, would pledge their love and support of her as she grows into the remarkable daughter of God she is destined to be.

Somehow, I am confident that Baby Girl was aware of the magnitude of the day - that she knew she was surrounded by a group of people who would move mountains for her.

It will be a day I will always remember - for it's goodness, it's love and the deep impression it left on my soul.

Favorite Restaurants

Himself and I were talking this weekend a lot about DC - as mentioned before, I was homesick, and he was suffering a myriad of emotions over who was and wasn't coming to the weekend's celebration.

Since my mind was on food all weekend - what to buy, what to fix and serve for Baby Girl's blessing luncheon, and since Heidi and Dave spent their anniversary in DC revisiting favorite restaurants (and texting me about it), I thought a lot about MY favorite restaurants in DC.

In no particular order:

Bilbo Baggins, Alexandria: I discovered this when training interns while I was working in Maryland. We were going to take them to Gatsby's Tavern (a fabulous place for a colonial lunch), as was tradition, but it was closed for a wake. The maitre d' suggested we walk down Queen Street to the bright yellow townhouse that was home to Bilbo Baggins. I immediately fell in love. Himself discovered it a year or so later. We both declared to each other, "There is this great restaurant ...!" and then burst out laughing when we realized we had suggested the same one.

Tachibana, McLean: I love sushi. Love it so much I could eat it every single day of the week and not tire of it. While flying one Christmas from the right coast to the left coast to visit Himself's family, we read a review about the restaurant in an in-flight magazine. I tore the article out (yes, I know, bad plane etiquette) and saved it. When we moved back to the DC area, we tried it out. If you discount the mismatched 1970s decor, the food is amazing. The sushi is spectacular - large, succulent pieces of fish over tangy rice. And nowhere else makes spicy scallop rolls quite like Tachibana. In fact, the last truly sushi meal I had there (a sushi meal without raw fish isn't sushi), was the day before I found out about Baby Girl's pending arrival.

Pho 2000, Herndon: Comfort food extraordinare. There are dozens of Vietnamese soup houses in the metro area, but having tried at least half dozen of them, Pho 2000 takes the cake (or soup). They have the richest broth, the best chicken and the best additional menu items (like spicy chicken with bamboo and coconut in a clay pot). Plus, Himself and I could eat there for $17 - including appetizer, tax and tip - a bargain in DC. And it was right down the street from our house.

Taste of Saigon, Tysons Corner/Rockville: Introduced to this restaurant during my first sojourn in DC, it remained one of my favorites. Black pepper chicken, in all it's caramely, peppery goodness, remains one of my all-time favorite foods. Owned and operated by a Vietnamese family who emigrated to the US during the fall of Saigon, every meal tastes homemade. It's a good thing that by the time my office moved to the building next door, I was only there for another week - otherwise my paychecks would have begun subsidizing all the black pepper and gyoza goodness that was Taste of Saigon.

Hee Been, Annandale: (See a theme? Asian food as a general cuisine is my favorite - it surpassed even Italian years ago). Recommended by Tom Sietsma, the restaurant critic for The Washington Post and a VP with whom I worked, Himself and I tried Hee Been for the first time about seven months before we moved. It quickly became a favorite - especially when we could take advantage of their much less expensive lunch offerings. Savory bulgogi and kalbi, spicy kimchi and the best Korean mashed potatoes in town. Mmmmm. It was worth the horrendous drive to get there.

There are more. DC was the birthplace of my love affair with all things food. There is Cafe Deluxe and its wonderful fire roasted tomato soup; Sweetwater Tavern and its great rootbeer, mashed potatoes, fried dough and house salad with goat cheese; Vidalia and its salmon croquettes; Jaleo and its cod fritters and paella; Taste of Saigon and its chile lime rockfish (served with the head - not for the squeamish) and dozens more.

All that thinking about food makes me hungry. I guess chocolate milk isn't enough to count as breakfast.

Homesick

Can one be homesick for a place in which one has no family, no juvenile roots, no actual claim to roots at all, in fact?

If so, I am homesick.

It is ironic, really, that this week I have had an especially strong pining for all things (okay, most things - I certainly don't miss the traffic) DC. At this moment most of my immediate family are on their way to visit for the weekend. Tomorrow at this time, some of Himself's family will arrive. It is my first time as an adult hosting any sort of family function (try not to burst out laughing picturing a family reunion at the Hobbit Hole a la Bilbo Baggin's birthday party).

And yet ... I am homesick for my other home. While Utah might be my childhood and collegiate home, the Frontier itself is not either of those. Nor is it my home of adulthood. I have even fewer roots in The Frontier than I do in DC. Himself and I met when we were both living in the DC metro area. Most of our mutual friends are there. Most of our married life thus far was spent there. Our second family is there - a comical group of friends cobbled together by our mostly mutual expatriate status.

We will celebrate the birth of Baby Girl at her blessing in church this Sunday. We formally name her and bless her and celebrate the miracle of her life. I am beyond happy to be able to share the experience with our families (and a few friends who have also migrated to The Frontier). However, I have found myself longing this week for the family of sorts we left behind in Virginia. I feel as sad celebrating Baby Girl without them as I would without my immediate family.

I miss the variegated friendships, the deep relationships that formed in absence of any local family members. I miss my feeling of confidence and independence and passion about the area in which we lived. I miss the second mothers, best friends, close colleagues, food buddies and mentors I left behind.

The rising emotional significance of this weekend - the first meeting of my family and Himself's family, the celebration of Baby Girl, my first family hosting responsibilities - has paved the way for strong feelings of longing for my two worlds to collide - the world of my carefree, confident young adulthood and the world of my childhood, which is now the backdrop for my child's childhood.

I do not question the move. Clearly, we have been blessed beyond comprehension. I am continually reminded of all of the magnificent things that have happened since our arrival in The Frontier. Yet it does nothing to diminish the yearning I have for the relationships and memories I left behind five months ago. I wonder if the pioneers - the first permanent settlers in The Frontier - felt something akin to what is going through my heart and soul this week. A profound gratitude for their arrival in The Frontier and everything it meant, mixed with a nostalgia for what they had left behind.

I am homesick.