Explanations and Potty Chairs in the Desert.

Every day I think about blogging. I think of funny, sad or introspective things to say (at least I think they are funny, sad or introspective, which is all that matters I suppose), but I'm on a self-imposed exile from personal computer use for awhile. Mostly because I like going without it. After 3 years of constant attachment to a laptop, up-to-the-minute content, responsibility over messaging and conversations and brands and so forth ... I'm tired.

And so, because my work system is like Fort Knox (I deal with revenue and client data), and I no longer have to dabble in social media and such for work, I just quit, cold-turkey, and feel ... well, I miss my friends, but I feel a bit liberated when I think about it being one less thing on my to do list.

The problem is, I like blogging. I just am not ready to return from exile yet.

At the same time, I just have to share a Woodstock story.

The girls and I went to visit The Parents for the holiday weekend. This is the second road trip we've taken since Woodstock began potty training 3 1/2 months ago. On the way down, I put a pull-up on her. But I didn't bring enough to have her wear one on the way up (she only wears them now in situations where I think it may be an absolute disaster were she to have an accident). I was a bit nervous, but she's been pretty good about telling me she needs to go - and we do travel with the potty chair in the trunk of the car on road trips.

In the dead center of Nowhere (I'm not kidding - NOWHERE. Right in the middle.), Woodstock says, "I hafta go potty." So, I take the next ranch exit, pull off to the side of the on ramp, get the potty chair out, set it in the bushes on the side of the road and put Woodstock on it. I stand in front of her to shield her from the 1 car that probably passes that on ramp in a 24-hour period. And wait.

And wait. And wait. And wait.

Then Woodstock says, "Der's poop in der, but it isn't coming out." I remind her that she has eaten almost nothing for three days and that fruit and veggies will help it come out. And then wonder how long this is going to take.

Minutes later, she leaps up and exclaims, "I did it! I pooped all by myself!" (Um yes, not sure how one would do it with help, but ... to her credit, it is the first time she has ever poop in something other than the regular toilet and it has to be a bit disconcerting to try and do one's business on the side of the road on a potty chair).

I tell her how happy I am and then she grows serious and says, "I need a magazine. Dis is going to be awhile." (I often use the phrase "this is going to be awhile" - so I'm pretty sure it was just parroting it back to me, but it was still funny - until I thought about standing on the side of the road in the middle of nowhere for the rest of the day).

30 minutes later, Woodstock was the happiest kid on the planet. She had accomplished her task. I was highly relieved it had been done in the potty chair (even if I did have to clean it to put it back in the car - GROSS) rather than her car seat and Pebbles was glad to be doing something other than sitting in her seat waiting for the two of us to get on with our lives.

As we climbed back into the car, Woodstock says to herself, "You did a good job Woodstock. Now, let's see ... what should my special potty treat be?"

I expected something huge - something spectacular (the last time she pooped, she got her hails painted). Instead, she remarked, "Mama, can I have a Smartie as my special treat?"

Um yes, I think we can handle that.

Over the River and Through the Woods ...

For the record, I love road trips. I love adventuring to new places, seeing new scenery, exploring and feeling the freedom that comes with leaving the mundane behind for a couple of days.

This fall, however, I issued an edict that never before would I have considered: NO MORE ROAD TRIPS. Not forever, mind you, this is merely a temporary moratorium. But after seeing the better part of four states, thousands of miles, two sets of in-laws and my own family, I'm done. It wasn't so much those things that inspired the unprecedented proclamation, it was all of the above PLUS doing it in a compact-car stuffed to its gills with everything required for traveling with children (and the things Himself inherited from his father), PLUS a toddler and a 4- to 7-week-old infant. It was spending 18 days of a 22-day span on the road or at someone else's house, where even under the best of circumstances I don't sleep well, and when it involves a nursing newborn - well, sleep was the one thing I didn't get too much of.

Then there were the adventures. The trip to my parents' house with both girls by myself where the entire car was full of cases of apples (loose - the car was too full of kids and kid stuff to do anything other than dump the the boxes of apples in and let them roam around during the ride). There was the point at which our car refused to start at a rest stop in Oregon (the 3-year-old car that with just over 50k miles should NOT be refusing to start). It added an extra 90 minutes to our travels - ended up being a bad batter. Of course, it meant we missed a horrific dust storm in the wilds of Eastern Washington - so it ended up being one of those "hmmm..." moments. There was the funeral - the whole reason for the longest of the road trips. There was the sleeping in the same room as both kids for 8 of the longest nights of my lie, where they took turns waking each other (and us) up. There was the stopping every couple of hours to feed Pebbles and exercise Woodstock's legs. And there was an abundance of mediocre, calorie-laden food during the long days on the road.

Still, it took until the end of the 16.5-hour drive back from our last road trip before I cracked. Somewhere in the wilds of Idaho, I exclaimed, "We're not going ANYWHERE for a very long time. If anyone wants to see us, we have a guest bedroom (with a bed!) and an extra bathroom - they can come see US!"

Fortunately, Himself agreed. The very next day I issued an e-mail to all relatives explaining that we were not leaving the county for Thanksgiving this year. If anyone wanted to see us, they could come to us.

Anytime I think about having to spend more than 30 minutes in the car, I break out in hives. Every time we got in the car for a week after returning, Woodstock would ask which grandparent we were going to see. How quickly the cry of "My bum is tired!" fade from her memory. (Although, to be completely honest, Woodstock wins the "Toddler Traveler of a Lifetime" award - she was a FANTASTIC road-tripper. Not one tantrum in the car. Not one utterance of "are we there yet?" The only peep that let us know she was as tired of the whole deal as we were was the tired bum comment. Pebbles, on the other hand, loathes her car seat if she is awake. Fortunately 4- to 7-week-olds sleep a lot).

I cannot explain how blissfully happy I am to have banned all road trips in the immediate future. There is something to be said after all about order, familiarity and routine.

There's also something to be said about a good night's sleep, but we're not there quite yet.

I'm Not Dead ... Yet

Things that make one (or at least me) feel really old:

• Having two kids
• Owning both a guest bed and a chest freezer
• Canning - I did apricots, raspberry jam and applesauce this year, and will likely can green tomato sauce before the first hard freeze (which may be coming sooner than later - yikes)
• Getting excited over leaving the house without having two carseats to buckle
• Most of all ... spending more and more time at home and dreading anything that involves the words "road" and "trip."

This past week, I spent 8 days at The Parents' house. I bravely took Woodstock and Pebbles down to visit Grammpy and Papa - a 4-hour drive if one drives 70-75 mph the entire way. 6 hours if one has to stop and pick up apples (for the father-daughter applesauce canning project), feed a newborn, change two diapers, feed a toddler and do two emergency binky rescues.

Fortunately, I am apparently blessed with two children who don't mind the car so much (Woodstock likes it better than Pebbles, but that is to be expected, I suppose), because every relative we have requires a drive of some length. Unfortunately, the whole thing made me want to swear off road trips forever and ever. Especially the drive home, where Pebbles decided 64 miles from home that she had to eat rightthisverysecond. Sitting in a WalMart parking lot at 9 p.m. with a tired toddler and a ravenous infant is loads of fun. Especially when the toddler pipes up from the back seat and says, "Mommy, my bottom hurts! All done sitting!" You and me both kiddo!

Ever the glutton for punishment, I will again be testing fate in a few days as we load up the girls and everything we own (at least it feels like it) and set out for a 700+ mile trek to the Pacific Northwest for Himself's father's memorial service. At least this time there will be two adults, but the trip is 3 times longer - at least until you figure we'll be stopping every 2-3 hours to feed Pebbles, which means about 70 minutes of driving over every 2-hour span - not very good odds. At that rate, we might arrive in time for Thanksgiving.

And all I can do is sit here and stare at the mountain of laundry and the two-page "list of things not to forget for road trip" and try not to cry.

It's times like this when living in a familial compound don't sound so bad after all.

The pregnant lady, the toddler and the tent (and one obliging Himself)

The first indication that a camping road trip with a toddler and a pregnant woman was a bad idea should have been when I ran over a screw in the 1.5 blocks between work and the bank on Thursday afternoon, necessitating a new tire (replacing the one, I might add, that we just replaced six months ago *grumble*).

Undaunted, I forged on with a spirit befitting a pioneer (or an asylum resident, it remains to be fully determined). No matter, we'd delay our start a bit in hopes the tire could be fixed. When it couldn't, I not-so-cheerfully loaded everything into the smaller car - the one that would mean a backseat ride with virtually no leg room (long car trips with a toddler are best fared with one adult in the back seat).

Flat tire, late start ... no matter, we were well on our way to the Great American Road Trip, clean air, cooler temperatures and some memory-making.

However, there are a few things that seem to always have to happen to make life into one adventure after another when it involves me:

• The late start meant it was raining by the time we reached Yellowstone. Raining buckets. I'm tough, I can rough it, but something about dealing with wet camping gear, a toddler and pregnancy (and a grumpy Himself) didn't appeal. We decided to keep driving until a) the rain quit or b) another alternative presented itself. The alternative presented itself around 7 p.m. Friday night (after the obligatory stop at Old Faithful, where Woodstock delighted onlookers by trying to put her hat on Himself, then giggling hysterically as Old Faithful erupted - she loved it!). At that point we were in Gardiner, Montana. We found a quaint little group of cabins with this sign: Enough to make you want to stop, right? It took some convincing, but they really were cute, charming (and antiquated) little cabins - and cheap (not as cheap as tent camping, but one cannot be picky if one doesn't wish to sleep on soggy ground). We stayed in this one:


• Sleeping with a toddler. I'm not sure how the co-sleeper people do it, but I am convinced they are probably so exhausted no one realizes how little sleep they are getting, because little people were not meant to sleep with big people. Night one we let Woodstock fall asleep in our bed before relocating her to (gasp!) her makeshift bed of quilts on the floor because we only had one bed. And the only way to confine her to one spot while falling asleep was to put her in between us. Night 2 we all shared a tent - where she again enjoyed prime sleeping space between us to minimize nocturnal acrobatics. I've never gotten so little sleep on vacation before. Woodstock kicking me one way, kiddo #2 kicking me from the inside.


• Tent camping. Did I really just do this at 32 weeks pregnant? Yes. And it wouldn't have been so bad if a) my small backpack tent would have actually been long enough for Himself to stretch out in (oops). b)It had not involved a wiggly toddler who slept beautifully even as she ensured her parents would not. c)I didn't have a hip that causes great pain when sleeping on hard surfaces - normally I sleep on my back or stomach while camping. Kind of an issue when one's tummy is out to here leaving no other choice.


• Holiday camping. Camping across from a group of teenagers, to be specific. Himself and I had just commented on how much we liked our campsite when viola! enter a group of 30+ teens and one or two people that might have passed as possible adult chaperones. It wasn't so bad until about 9 p.m., when we were still trying to get Woodstock down for the night and they had Bon Jovi blaring full volume, along with 30+ teenage voices singing along. Add in normal teenage shrieking and it made for a very curious Woodstock and a very grumpy mama bear. She got them back them back the next morning though when she woke up at 5:45 a.m. and declared, "All done sleeping mama. Go 'side (outside)" Turns out, toddlers aren't the most quiet morning people known to man.


• Driving. So the trip to Yellowstone on a good day with no stops takes about 5 hours. Throw in a toddler and a pregnant lady who has to pee every 90 miles and it can take ... oh, much, much longer than that. We spent A LOT of time in the car. Hundreds of miles in 3 days. We saw the West, North and South entrances of Yellowstone. We drove 190 miles within Yellowstone itself. Add in a 45 mph speed limit, numerous stops for photos, meandering down walkways and random animal sightings (buffalo herds crossing the road - or walking down the middle of it, bears on the side of the road, etc.) and it took up a good portion of the weekend, especially if you add in the fact that it the drive to/from is about 600 miles round-trip to begin with. Woodstock has proven herself as a road warrior - only the last day did cries of "Ouchie bum!" emanate from the back seat.


• Hard labor. Camping as a kid seemed easy. Camping as a single adult was only slightly more difficult. Camping with a kid while pregnant? Yeah, not so much. Keeping up with the toddler who was fascinated by the woods and didn't understand why she couldn't wander as she pleased was exhausting. Doing it on 4 hours of sleep in a two-night span is even more so. Doing it while dodging herds of enormous mosquitoes adds a particular element of fun. Adding in the tent set-up, cooking, clean up, tent tear-down, potty runs, and unpacking and re-packing the car makes one want to schedule a spa day on a beach far, far away. Coming home and realizing it will take 5 batches of laundry to get the campfire smell out of every piece of cloth that made the trek makes one just want to sit down and cry - especially given the sore hip, the 20 mosquito bites (turns out mosquitoes can and do bite through compression stockings!) and the sore muscles from sitting and/or hiking.

We definitely made memories, but I'm thinking we'll shelve planning any more vacations in the near future. I can't imagine repeating this scenario until I can actually bend over, breathe, sleep in my own space and hire a maid to clean up after we dirty every conceivable thing we own.

I need a vacation.

Visiting the Past

It has been more than a decade since I last stepped foot in the valley I called home for a couple of years in college. Since the years there were my only true "stereotypical" college years (ie heavy on the socializing, living with roommates and seeing 3 a.m. numerous times), there are a lot of memories jam-packed into a valley that likely sports as many cows as people, and where the university and town's populations are about equal.

Himself and I had been planning to visit for weeks, and, only several breaths later, cancelling the visits, for a myriad of reasons. In the plan's third incarnation, we decided to take a quick day trip, picnic in the canyon and wander around campus (or drag Himself around campus, which is probably more accurate).

Sidenote: Only people who have lived in the insanity of a large metro area understand why a 200-mile round-trip drive could be considered a "quick day trip" (as in less than half a day). In reality, it's no big deal because we used to drive that distance, twice, every other weekend when bringing Grover to visit - during Friday rush hour through two cities. A Sunday drive to the Great Frozen North doesn't even come close.

From the moment we descended into the valley I felt an intense wave of nostalgia. I pointed out random landmarks (old and new) to Himself as we drove - including the fact that the left-turn arrow at 4th and Main was met with,

"This is a great concept!"

(Yes, stoplights were a novelty - at the time I left, my hometown's one stoplight was only three years old). It made me sound like an incredible hayseed, and I'm sure I had seen left-turn arrows before - after all I had been to most of the major cities in the west and a handful in the east before leaving for college. I just remember the exact feeling I had when I first hit that intersection, and for whatever reason, it was one of amazement.

A picnic in the canyon was met with adventure: when Himself and Woodstock launched leaf boats down the river, when Woodstock spent lunch time stuffing her lunch in the cracks of the picnic table (note to self: remember a tablecloth next time), when Woodstock kept yelling at the squirrels in excitement - puzzled as to why they kept scampering away, and when we threw the trash bag in the trunk only to discover one very angry wasp trapped inside.

But it was the campus itself that made me get all warm and mushy inside. Even more than 10 years after leaving, I still felt at home. Like the campus was mine. It was full of memories - croquet in the snow, buying a bag of bread ends at the on-campus bakery (too poor to buy the actual loaves), the heated sidewalks (a necessity in sub-zero temps), sledding down Old Main Hill, Big Blue, going to homecoming on a blind date, climbing three flights of stairs in the ag science building (past the best ice cream on the planet) for 5-day-a-week comms classes (I noticed that there is a new building housing some of comms - praise the alumni donors!), painting posters (always with "free food!" on them) in the student council suite, the opera-loving Dean who was my boss, Italian sodas at the monthly poetry and a beverage nights...

In truth, the stoplight at 4th and main was a symbol of my transition from itty bitty town to larger world. I loved the diversity, the vibrance, the sense of community (so formed because once the snows set in, no one can actually leave the valley without a lot of work and a harrowing drive out the canyons). I made friends quickly and easily, imersing myself in everything that sounded remotely interesting. I quickly found my niche and, while there were dark days, days of stress and frustration and male-induced-angst, I loved it. I had amazing roommates and mentors and professors and quirky landlords who wrote "no sleeping on the couches" into the lease.

And yet, I always knew it was fleeting. The very first day I moved into my apartment (the dungeon beneath a dentist office across from campus), I took a walk to where you could see the over whole valley from the west end of campus. As I stood there breathing in unseasonally cool air (the first snow storm would come only days later), I had the distinct impression,

"You aren't going to graduate from here."

I don't know why I felt that way, but it was the clearest impression I've ever had. There were words in my head and I felt ... puzzled. I had fallen in love with the Ivy League feel of the campus - old brick and stone buildings,lush green landscaping - and accepted the money the school threw my way. I fought against it, figuring if I filled up my days and nights and became a vital part of the university's community that nothing could make me leave.

I was wrong.

Two years later, I left it all - student council, a fabulous job, wonderful roommates, a fledgling major (the near collapse of which was the one thing, as it turns out, that could make me listen to the voice in my head) - an academic junior with more credits than a typical transfer student, unsure where to go. I accepted a job on the East Coast, then a position in a highly regarded major at a university farther south. I graduated with good grades, found a good job and a life of adventure and chaos in my beloved adopted state of Virginia.

But I never forgot the person I became in the valley of the cows, bitter canyon winds and eternal winters where the university was the center of the universe.

It felt good to wander around campus, void of all but a handful of students, looking very nearly like it did when I was first starting out on the adventure of life. It felt good to share the last piece of my history with Himself, to remember the days of $60 food budgets and $400 monthly paychecks ... to remember, and cherish the years I spent there, growing up, growing wiser and moving forward.

All Hail the Aggies.
(And my advanced apologies for rooting against you in next weekend's football game).

You cannot make this stuff up!

I thought my days of embarrassing moments were over. It appears not.

Thursday morning up at Deer Valley, Himself took some of the stuff out to the car for me, since he had to be at his conference at 8 a.m. sharp and I wasn't leaving until 8:15ish. I thought I very clearly indicated to only take my laptop bag out when he took the pack-n-play and Woodstock's bag. Apparently I didn't (likely) or he didn't listen (more likely), because after I finished nursing Woodstock I went to find my shirt.

Himself had taken ALL of our things to the car. Including, as it turns out, my shirt - which was in the bag I had thought I had indicated he should leave.

It took me five minutes to decide whether stealing the lodge's bathrobe was more acceptable than walking down the hall, out the doorway, across the patio, down the stairs and throug the FRONT parking lot half clothed.

Let's just say I didn't steal the bathrobe. And that I'm REALLY glad Woodstock's sleep sack was still on the bed - between her and it an indecency charge would be hard to prove.

----
Today, I left work to attend a meeting with a contract designer. We had to swap horror stories of The Factory (the story actually gets worse, unbelievably!), which meant I was a little longer getting back than I anticipated.

I got back only to discover ... a locked office. Of course, my office keys and my laptop and my lunch were INSIDE the office. I made a to do list. I paced around the building. I went to Whole Foods and bought a vegan cookie (strangely delicious) and some herbal tea (to counteract the calories in the cookie, of course!). I came back and chatted with the neighbor who works in the suite next door. And I imagined being fired for incompetency.

Some time later who should appear but the VP. He was rather awstruck that I was stupid enough to leave my keys in the drawer (hey! I've always worked for huge companies - there is no such thing as getting locked out at 12:30 p.m.) and wondered how long I had been there.

I confessed to half of it. If figure the trip to Whole Foods could count as lunch and the 15 minutes I took to do a to do list counted as work, right?

Good grief. Two humiliating moments in one week. This is ridiculous.

Pausing.

It must have been the cooler air.

Or the drive through Parleys Canyon.

Or the Aspens mixed in with the rugged pines.

Or the postcard-perfect (if overpriced) Main Street.

Although it was probably the huge comfy bed and the jetted tub.

I went to Deer Valley for an overnight retreat and didn't want to come home.

Himself has been up there for several days for a work conference. A free hotel room is the perfect excuse for a 14-hour vacation. So yesterday after work, Woodstock and I went on a mini-road trip (30 miles, the perfect kind with an 11-month-old). I've been up there once or twice since moving back, but I forgot how absolutely visually stunning it is.

I'll admit, "Deer Valley" is usually a term that is apt to rile me up a bit. I'm usually one to gripe how people fly in with their ski gear and flashy snow pants, drive up to Deer Valley, throw money around, live like the world is their playground and then go back and rag on all the "goofy natives" that live in the rest of the state.

However, I've significantly underappreciated what is only minutes from my own backyard. If it didn't snow in the winter (or I was a die-hard skier, which is about as likely to happen as winning the lottery) and the housing was affordable (ha!), I'm not sure I would have left. The air was clean and warm, but not too warm. The lodge was lovely. The jetted tub ... oh the jetted tub!

It reminded me so much of our trip to the Sunday River Ski Resort in western Maine five springs ago. A bit like we were the only people on earth, for a moment. Lovely and quiet (off seasons are the best time to visit ski resorts, in my snow-hating opinion), nestled in the mountains, bringing back floods of wonderful memories.

I didn't have to think about the boxes to be unpacked or the kitchen floor that is in dire need of attention. Or the dishes I didn't get done before I left for work yesterday. Or the still-damp-even-though-the-landlord-took-the-fan-back drywall in my bedroom. Or work. Or anything, really. I just existed, and it was beautiful.

We dined on Cajun/Carribean food, wandered Main Street, watched some Olympics (during which the Men's 200-meter race had me yelling at the TV) and slept soundly in dark, quiet room.

As I carried Woodstock to the car this morning, I thought how much I love nothing better than slightly cool, silent mornings before the world begins to stir.

Forty minutes later, I had dropped Woodstock off at Miss Jan's and pulled into work, feeling more refreshed than I had in weeks.

It was the perfect mid-week pause.

Mexican McDonald's Mayhem

Last night, Himself had to work until 9 p.m.

We had to return Nephew to the very top of the state by 8:30 p.m. Which meant the duty of getting him there fell on me.

It was Grover's last night at our house. He and Himself catch a plane at 11-something tonight to head East.

I got home from work, piled all three kids in the car and we headed north. We zipped along for the first 20 miles and then ... well, one thing you should know about The Frontier is that there are only two seasons - winter and construction. We hit the awful, painful, traffic-slugging, lane-reducing, disasterous construction in the next county up.

Stop and go. And stop. And crawl. I haven't been in traffic that annyoing since I left DC. Mostly annoying because on the other side of the big orange barrels was a 2-lane-width stretch of smooth new asphalt that really should not have been sitting useless.

Of course, Grover and Woodstock had conked out the minute we left the driveway. Nephew, surely bored by NPR's Marketplace on the radio, had shoved his iPod in his ears and was looking mournfully out the window. We were off to a wild beginning.

In order for Grover to not have to endure his last night with us in the car, stuck in traffic for the 162-mile round-trip excursion with nothing else, I took them all out to dinner. Me. One teen. One pre-teen. One baby. You can only imagine the looks we got.

I decided on Mexican. Eeasy enough to satisfy everyone, right? Apparently not. Our final tally at the Mexican restaurant was Grover's "burrito" with just meat and cheese, Nephew's bacon cheeseburger, Woodstock's rice and my Chicken Mole (which I only ordered because I knew Himself would ask me how the Mexican restaurant was, and I didn't want to have to admit that no one, in fact, had ordered anything Mexican).

Add to that a 10-minute wait between our drink order and the next time we saw our waitress (who arrived sans drinks), the 15-minute wait for a table when there were five completely empty tables when we arrived, Woodstock's insistence on happily flinging rice all over - encouraged by Grover and Nephew's giggling, the fact that my food was nothing more than mediocre, and I was seriously thinking we should have done a drive-through run at a burger joint.

We made it to the northernmost McDonald's parking lot in the state, where we were meeting Nephew's dad, only 15 minutes late. As we were pulling in, Nephew said, "I don't really want to go home tonight." Grover said, "I don't really want to go home tomorrow." Woodstock clapped her hands in agreement.

The thought passed through my mind ... "Seriously? We've had the most convoluted, traffic-construction-mess, hot and sticky, mediocre food night of your entire stay and you don't want to LEAVE?!"

But I didn't say anything. Someday someone will say, "remember when?" and we'll all chatter about the happy adventure that involved not-very-Mexican food, road construction and a trip to the northernmost McDonald's parking lot in the state. Stranger things have happened.

F-E-V-E-R Spells Disappointment

I am, by nature, rather high strung. As a result, there are very few activities or places that I find relaxing. In fact, there is only one place where I feel absolutely, totally relaxed - where I can seperate all of the nonsense chatter in my head from complete serenity.

It is a little campground on a big mountain next to a tiny lake, where the air, even in mid-summer is cool enough for long sleeves in the early hours of the day. For nearly 3 decades, my family has trekked up the mountain for a week of relaxation, hiking, fishing, good food, board games, reading and naps. It was the one place as a children where we could venture out on our own. Every childhood memory there is perfectly preserved, as changes in nature are measured by centuries, not by decades. (So little changes, in fact, a fort constructed by my brother years ago still stands at one of the remote "satellite" lakes located a couple of miles from camp).

This year was to be a year of firsts, and a year of much-needed respite after a year of extreme highs and lows. I was taking Son and Baby Girl for four days - meeting my family (who had arrived days before) and spending some time just being. It was to be my first year as the "middle" generation. My whole body ached with anticipation (and, later, we discovered, it also ached with tonsilitis).

The morning arrived, I piled both kids into the car with the camping gear, the snacks, the range of clothing (mid-summer to early-winter outfits in three different sizes) and all of the baby gear. We drove through some of the most scenic country in Utah for three hours, turned onto a dirt road and drove up the mountain for another hour.

We arrived elated. Sedated. Happy. Ready to unpack and soak up nature, family and the stillness that drives me crazy everywhere else.

An hour later, Baby Girl registered a temperature of 104.9.

For the next 24 hours, it spiked and ebbed ... in the early morning hours our first (and only) morning there, her fever broke without medication and I breathed easier. I bundled her up in a blanket and sat on the end of the dock to watch the ducks. She pointed and chattered a little - but clearly didn't feel like herself. Three hours later, her temperature again reached 104.9. It wouldn't abate.

I hiked a nearby hillside and stood perfectly still to capture the dicey cell signal. I called the ranger stations in the tiny towns on either side of the mountain, searching for a medical clinic.

Exactly 24 hours after arriving, I gathered up Baby Girl, her things and any "necessities," threw them in the car and charged down the mountain - leaving Son to stay an extra day and return home with an aunt.

The official diagnosis was tonsilitis and pneumonia. My heart was broken. Weeks of anticipation followed by 30 minutes of elation and 23.5 hours of worry, concern and confusion had left me heartsick and exhausted. A million questions ran through my head, "how on earth can somone have pneumonia and no signs?" "how did I make Baby Girl feel better?" "was there nowhere I was going to find solace?" "what do people in Wayne County do if they get sick, since there is ONE clinic in the entire county?!"

I cried on the way home. I sobbed the next morning, enveloped by my own case of tonsilitis, exhaustion and self-pity. Home was not the haven I had craved for weeks - rather it was a disheveled collection of half-opened boxes spilling their contents in every room as the process of "moving in" dragged on. There was no family bonding, no relaxation, no hikes or early morning fishing. Baby Girl did not go on the lake on the boat, or up to the lookout tower in the backpack, or to the beaver pond. She didn't play with her cousin, get coddled by Grandpa or experience the great outdoors within the confines of her playpen while I dozed nearby in the clear, cool mountain sunlight.

I read 50 pages between monitoring Baby Girl's temperature between 9 p.m. and 5 a.m. The only reason I left the mountain dirtier than when I arrived was due to diaper leakage.

It felt like running a marathon - excited for the celebration of finishing the race, only to discover part-way through that it had been extended for another 26.2 miles and one must keep on running to the new end point.

I will keep on running. Running and running and running.

(ETA: Baby Girl is fine. Her lungs had cleared by the next morning - after some high-powered antibiotics administered via a shot. Her tonsilitis cleared up almost immediately. She slept for almost an entire day and woke up happy and healthy. I'm still working on getting to sleep for the first time).

Something Wrong With This Picture

(if I had a picture, anyway).

Everyone said we were crazy.

Himself said I was crazy - and immediately backed out of any responsibility for the whole mess, even though, while it was my idea, it was his agreement that spurred me forward.

We tried to go camping.

Keep in mind, the family tent was a second home growing up, so camping in and of itself wasn't the issue.

The issue was two-fold ... camping and babies require a lot of stuff - even if for only one night and cars are not made for camping trips.

The plan was to drive from The Frontier to Bryce National Park, hike around, see the sights and camp at Pine Lake, just up the road (to avoid the nutty national park campers). The following day we'd drive to Zion National Park, hike some more and spend the remainder of the 4th hanging out with my parents.

Except, well, cars aren't made for camping trips.

Even when we left out the pack-n-play, the large tent and any non-essential items (like more than two pairs of shoes for me), our "large" compact car (not to be confused with the "small" compact car that replaced the hoopty) was loaded to the top, leaving no room for Himself, Son, myself, Baby Girl and Himself's best friend, who was visiting from Virginia.

After packing and unpacking the car, I did (under a great deal of histrionics and persuation) what any reasonably sane adult would have done weeks earlier ... I called my parents and asked if we could stay with them instead.

Camping in beds with showers and loads of food is always pleasant in the end.

I'm still determined we're going camping this summer - the one benefit to The Frontier is camping, and I haven't gone yet.

Back Seat Yoga

I keep hoping to have a little extra money to start a yoga class one of these days, after an extremely successful venture into yoga during pregnancy. No such luck yet. However, this weekend I got 9+ hours of practice driving to and from The Parents' house. It's what happens when you try to haul a baby (and all the assorted paraphernalia) and all of Himself's assorted ski stuff in a compact car - necessitating that my 5'9" frame be folded into the back seat next to Baby Girl, smooshed behind Himself and next to the end of the skis, which got the passenger seat all to themselves.

There was no downward facing dog or warrior positions, but there were several others:

*Sideways facing professional: Buried in work, I took the opportunity to engage in some productivity on the way down, plugging my laptop into a power inverter and typing away, answering the occasional e-mail on my trusty Blackberry. Of course, Himself's seat was almost in my lap, necessitating that I turn almost sideways in order to be able to open my laptop far enough to actually be useful.

*Contoured feeding machine: Since Baby Girl eats every three hours and the drive is 4+ hours, I had to give Baby Girl a bottle on the way. In order to get the right angle with the bottle, I had to lean back to miss the skis dividing the back seat into two, twisting myself into previously unattainable positions.

*Sleepy mom: On the return trip I finagled a reverse sideways position, using the side of Baby Girl's seat and her soft pink blankie as a pillow. I actually think I slept more than Baby Girl did - until she started pulling my hair.

And here I was wondering what possessed people to buy larger vehicles upon the birth of just one child.

Silly me.

Insanity Defined

* 8 days
* 33 hours in a car
* 1 3.5-month-old baby
* 4 snowstorms
* 4 major mountain passes
* 5 interstates, 3 US highways, 1 two-lane roads
* 2 Adults: 1 duffel bag, 1 overnight bag, 1 "entertainment" bag (books, laptop, etc)
* 1 Child: 1 suitcase, 1 overstuffed diaper bag, 1 package diapers, 1 pumping bag (with cooler, pump, bottles), 1 stroller, 1 pack-n-play, 1 carseat with base
* 8 Christmas presents
* 1 mother, 1 step-father, 1 biological father, 1 step-mother, 2 sisters, 2 brothers-in-law, 3 under-three nephews
* 4 states, 2 different destinations
* 2,000 miles (approximately)
* 1 house with no central heat
* 7 visits to Wal-Mart
* 1 movie theater visit
* 4 visits to the local Mexican restaurant
* 1 visit to Cracker Barrel
* 5 hours in Cabela's
* 1 prime rib Christmas dinner preparation, 3 other dinner preparations, 5 breakfast preparations
* $125 in groceries
* 10 packages of peanut butter or cheese crackers consumed
* 1 coconut cream pie preparation
* 1 batch of sadly awful orange rolls
* 4 assorted dogs, 1 cat, 1 baby with allergies
* 5 tanks of gas
* 2 novels and 1 WWII coffee table book read
* 1 misadventure involving a new television set, a 200-mile drive and an itty-bitty back seat
* 3 tired, cranky, ready to get back to real life people
* 100 photos

Visiting the in-laws in Washington state for Christmas: Priceless

Serendipity

I went to visit The Parents this weekend. My sister and best friend from high school had taken pity on me and had arranged for a baby shower this weekend in my hometown. I had a rough week, and I knew the timing of this visit would soothe my wounded soul.

I love going to visit The Parents. I love arriving home, knowing that they are both waiting for my arrival. I love the fact that there is always a kitchen (and pantry and storage room and extra freezer) stocked with good food. I love that there are no beds more comfortable (or with more pillows) than those at The Parents' house. I love that The Parents are early risers, like I am, making the days seem longer. I love that I get to order breakfast the first morning, and someone else will cook it. I love that I can have deep-thinking conversations about life, events, philosophies and the weather with The Parents. I love feeling like the world has stopped, while I am wrapped in the arms of a safe, loving haven.

Friday night, I actually slept blissfully, given the increasingly large state of my stomach and the fact that my energy-conscious parents don't run the AC at night. I woke up on top of the blankets, cooled by the ceiling fan, bathed in the warm glow of the just-after-6-a.m.-sunlight. I stretched lazily, did yoga and wandered into the kitchen, where my mom asked what I wanted for breakfast. I ordered a fruit smoothie (plug here for their Vita-Mix - it is a small appliance I greatly covet), and laughed as a debate ensued between my parents as to what fruits were suitable for that morning's concoction.

Mom and I took our smoothies outside where my Dad had begun working with his puppy, Roger on obedience skills (which were about as successful as training a 13-year-old to not roll his eyes when he disagrees with you). We sat on the edge of the deck, legs dangling, sipping our breakfast and playing fetch with Roger. We laughed as he shot back from the far corner of the yard, dropping his sloppy tennis ball at our sides and covering us with soft golden fur. I marveled at how cool the air seemed for mid-summer and how wonderful the gentle breeze felt on my skin.

We talked of simple things - Roger versus Charlie (the dog of my teen years who passed away just before I graduated from college). We spoke of the weather, the progress of dad's fruit trees, the plans for their upcoming camping trip, updates on the neighbors, memories of past family outings and what the day held; things that seemed to be of utmost importance in that second of time.

I sat, mesmerized, slurping the last of my smoothie through my straw, just to grate on Mom's nerves and remind her that some things never change. I tried not to laugh as Roger spent his time chasing my dad's bootlaces while Dad tried to leash-train him. I inhaled the clean air of a small town, relaxed as the sun warmed my skin, felt Baby Girl come to life inside me. Then, we finished our breakfast, brushed ourselves off and returned to the house for a the start of the day.

I spent a lifetime anxiously awaiting the day I could move away from The Parents. I spent the morning wishing that I could have more of these quiet Saturday mornings on the back deck, encapsulated in absolute contentment.

Random Thoughts From the Road

(Okay, not exactly from the road, since I have arrived at my destination in SLC, but you get the point).

We left not-so-early Sunday morning to head from N. VA to our new home in SLC. We arrived yesterday afternoon. I still have incredibly mixed feelings about everything, brought to the immediate surface by the dreaded pregancy hormones. I've cried twice today already, and it's barely even mid-day.

Himself drove the Big Yellow Truck - I've decided Penske is the way to go because their trucks are so easy to keep track of on the road. It was a permanent fixture in my rear-view mirror, as I was the pace-setter in our little caravan. Himself stalwartly drove the entire 2,300 miles with only AM/FM radio, which essentially does no good when you're driving through the middle of nowhere. I make a strong recommendation to Penske to at least put satellite radio in the trucks - better yet, satellite radio AND a CD/mp3 player. Something to break up the boredom. Poor guy. I at least got to listen to books on CD.

Some highlights from the trip cross-country:
-The drive up 15 to 70 and then to 68 from N. VA to Cumberland, MD, is STILL one of my all-time favorite drives. I love the serenity of the pastoral landscape going up 15. This time I viewed the drive with some longing, as I never did managed to hit the antique shops that line 15 on the Virginia side. It was raining a bit when we left MD, making the scenery even that much more beautiful.

-The cleanest restrooms were in the roughest-looking towns. Cumberland, MD, and Danville, IL, tied for cleanest gas station restrooms (being pregnant, I saw A LOT of restrooms on this trip). Danville, IL, was one of those towns that sent shivers up my spine when we pulled off the interstate for some reason. I made Himself stand guard outside the restroom door (it was an outside entrance), because it was dark, and I was in no mood for any kind of adventure to occur.

-The ENTIRE states of IL, IA and NE pretty much look the same, just like this ----------- (below the line is green, above the line is blue - making it a perfect landscape to paint for budding artists). Once in awhile, it changes to --------^------ with the ^ representing a silo or two, clustered at the far edge of massive fields of soybeans or corn.

-Iowa is prettier than I expected, and is prettier than Nebraska. I think soybean plants must be more attractive or Iowa gets more rain or something, because while it was treeless, for the most part, it was lush and green and the very picture of Americana - blue skies, fluffy white clouds, red barns, green fields, white clapboard houses. Essentially, Iowa looks like this:


-The rain smells better in Nebraska than anywhere else I've ever smelled rain. It also produces the coolest lightning storms I've ever seen, though I would have appreciated them both more, if they weren't simultaneously occuring while I was driving on a one-lane section of Interstate under construction, in the dark, behind a semi.

-Gas is Ohio is cheap. (Gasp! Did I just call $2.82/gallon cheap?! Inflation has hit my brain).

-Stopping every 90-120 minutes adds A LOT more time to estimated drive time than I previously thought. An average bathroom/gas stop was 20 minutes. *sigh* It meant 17 hours on the road one day, 15 the next and 9 the following.

-Finding Hostess crumb donuts is almost IMPOSSIBLE. Himself was on a mission to find them every day - we looked in a grocery store outside Dayton, OH; at a gas station in Pickerington, OH; at a gas station in Danville, IL - no luck. The next day we found them in Iowa City, IA, so I bought the last package. They seemed to be more common the further west we got, but I never did find a place that had more than two of them on the shelf.

FAVORITES:
*SIGN: "Fun Valley Ski Resort, Next Exit." This, not too far outside Des Moines, IA, on I-80. I phoned Himself in the truck behind me. "Did you see that sign?!" (Remember - Iowa looks like this ----------). Being from Utah, I had to laugh and wonder what Iowa's definition of skiing is. The horizon is truly flat - not a rise in site, let alone a hill. Turns out, today I discovered that the Fun Valley Ski Resort is no longer hosting winter activities. Guess someone found a real mountain and realized what he/she was missing.


*FOOD: Whiskey Creek Steakhouse, Whiskey Creek Steakhouse North Platte, NE. Himself insisted that we have steak in Nebraska. We called our trusty concierge service (still provided complimentary through my old job) to find a suitable place. They recommended Whiskey Creek. Even I liked the steak there - it was remarkable. It's a mid-western chain. I highly recommend it.

*DISCOVERY: Himself actually likes a cheap taco joint, Taco John's. Their apple/cinnamon/cheddar cheese dessert item was not too bad - definitely something I'll have to expirament on in the kitchen.

*ADVENTURE: Wal-Mart, 6 a.m., Tuesday, Sidney, NE. Himself had a call about a job interview while somewhere in Iowa. We found his suit (not too wrinkled), a suitable dress shirt (not too wrinkled if Himself didn't remove his jacket at any point) and a suitable tie (the only tie we found, fortunately corresponded with the shirt). But no shoes - one pair was in VA, the other in a box somewhere in the bowels of the Big Yellow Truck. Hence the trip to a 24-hour Wal-Mart to buy the only pair of black, non-velcro dress shoes they had in his size. Smelly Cheap Shoes: $15. Black Socks You Don't Need $3. 24-Hour Wal-Marts for your last-minute job interview needs: Priceless.

I'm so glad it's all over, though sharing the road with Himself was preferable to saying good-bye to him for a month today at the SLC airport. Poor guy has to do the drive all over again (granted, next time will be in the comforts of the "nice" car - w/ comfy leather seats and a 6-CD changer) in early July. Lucky him.

Royal Encounters

Three weeks ago, the thought of changing jobs, moving 2,100 miles away and having Baby Girl in a totally unfamiliar location wasn't even a consideration. Two weeks ago it was really more of a "when Baby Girl arrives," thought than anything.

So it is no wonder that, when realizing that we were moving (a week ago), I grew anxious about how to fit in some of the plans we'd made for next month. By nature, I am a planner. In fact, one of the most endearing traits (okay, and truthfully, sometimes nerve-wracking traits for a Type A person like me) Himself has is his ability to be spontaneous. So it was with shock we greeted a complete role reversal when we had the following conversation Thursday evening:

Moi: "You know, since you're working this weekend, we could go to Philly tomorrow to see King Tut."

Himself: "You have got to be insane. We won't have enough time."

Moi: "We will. I can get off at 11 - we can do it. I really want to go."

Himself: "So do I, but this is a really bad idea."

Somehow, my "bad idea" won - I think it had something to do with pregnancy hormones, a *slight* amount of insanity on both our parts and an act Himself hoped would keep me from falling off the precipitous drop of emotional stability I've been clinging to for the past week.

We went to Philly to see King Tut, Himself silently wishing my spontenaity had come at time that didn't involve the beginnings of Friday-before-Mother's-Day-East-Coast-Traffic.

What we experienced was beyond what either one of us had dare hoped. Somehow, the three-thousand-year-old statuettes, vessels, jewelry, furniture and other relics cast an enchanting spell. It was a once-in-a-lifetime experience - seeing items that have never before been in the United States. Fellow museum-goers were also in a hushed trance as we peered through glass cases almost incomprehensively. Painted wood that had survived 3,000 years. Tiny figurines with intricate details. Jewelry that showed remarkable style and craftsmanship. All of it breathtaking. Himself and I were nearly beside ourselves at our good fortune in being able to experience it and spent 2 1/2 hours to view every one of the 130 objects. The exhibit preview didn't do it justice, nor did the postcards of our favorite artifacts. It was absolutely breathtaking.

Later, as a result of a wrong turn, we stumbled across Xochtil (so-cheet), a traditional Mexican restaurant with the Aztec influences of the Puebla Region. Seated at the downstairs bar, due to the reservations-only status, we had a completely indulgent meal of meats, cheeses, handmade tortillas, spicy sauces and tableside quacamole.

We lingered so long over dinner, we arrived home at midnight, only five hours before Himself had to drag himself out of bed to go to work.

I would have felt bad, had we not said "Good Night" by sighing contentedly, "It was the perfect day."