Home Again, Home Again

We're back from a lovely vacation armed with Virginia peanuts (but no ham). I always feel so sad when I leave my family behind to head back out West, but simultaneously, it's always somewhat of a relief to be back in my own home. We sunned, surfed, spent time with beloved friends and family members, ate and drank and ate and drank and ate some more. My mother's brothers are both "foodies" in the best sense and family get-togethers inevitably result in massive piles of shaved parmesan, giant boxes of pasta, links of sausage and a hot grill. Oh yes, and lots of bottles of wine. There is nothing like beautiful, messy, lovely family to make a holiday trip feel blessed.

After getting home, we went shopping. I love having a fridge full of fresh foods. The colors of summer are so vibrant on my counters.

Discouraged

Tonight I feel discouraged. This week hasn't been particularly overwhelming (or underwhelming), so I'm not really sure where this maudlin feeling has come from tonight (maybe that second glass of white?).

We have had some client losses these last few weeks. It's been sad. I don't like telling women they are no longer pregnant. They hear the initial news from the doctor, but inevitably, they come to me for reassurance, for understanding, for asking "is it true?" It is so hard holding a woman's hand while she cries in a language that I don't speak. Grief is universal, but there is still a chasm between us for reasons I can't explain. I am not fluent in the specific language of miscarriage loss and I know the grief of any pregnancy loss is so personal and different for each woman and each experience.

I know there are reasons for loss, all loss. I believe there is a place for us all to meet again, to see those we have lost, known or unknown, again or for the first time.

In a few short days, I am headed back to the sticky summer heat and green of Virginia. I am looking forward to taking a break from work, seeing my beloved family and having my tired, dried-out soul renewed from the ocean's salty breeze.

Stoned Fruit

I used the term "stone fruit" the other day (as in, "Please pick up some stone fruit at the store") and The Doctor looked at me like I'd lost my mind. Though I didn't ask, I suspect an image of eating rocks flashed in his mind. Clearly "stone fruit" isn't a term that is as commonly used as I thought.

Stone Fruit: In botany, is a fruit in which an outer fleshy part (exocarp, or skin; and mesocarp, or flesh) surrounds a shell (the pit or stone) of hardened endocarp with a seed inside. These fruits develop from a single carpel, and mostly from flowers with superior ovaries. The definitive characteristic of a drupe is that the hard, lignified stone (or pit) is derived from the ovary wall of the flower.

Stoned fruit salad is a delicious summer treat. Cut up a variety of stone fruits into chunks (peaches, plums, nectarines). Add a handful of berries (your choice, but I'm partial to raspberries or blackberries, myself). Add 2 Tbsp of sugar (or to taste, depending on your sweet tooth). Squeeze the juice of one lime (or equivalent amount of refrigerated juice from concentrate if you swing that way). If you have a zester, zest away (but I don't, so I don't). Tear up a nice-sized handful of fresh mint and mix well. Let sit at room temp for 30 minutes to let the flavors absorb. Refrigerator or eat. Also amazing when paired with Dutch babies (as in the pancakes, not actual babies).

Cherish the Heirloom

Tomatoes are my favorite part of the summer. We always had tomato plants growing on our deck during the summers; they never yielded much bounty, but plucking tomatoes right off the vine and eating them on the deck, juice running down our chins was most certainly the best part of the summer (besides the smell of chlorine and no school).

I can eat a tomato like an apple. Heirloom tomatoes are my favorite. Often, they are so thick with flesh on the inside that I have to slice them and eat them like a steak, sprinkled with salt and drizzled with some balsamic vinegar and chunks of mozzarella.

I haven't been successful at tomato-growing, here in the dry and dusty southwest (but let's face it, I haven't been very successful at making anything grow--even weeds). Thank heavens for stores and farmer markets. There is a lovely place, just down the street, called the Fruit Barn which always sells delicious and fresh tomatoes a short walk away.

In honor of summer, here is my new favorite summer tomato recipe (so easy, I can actually make it after work):

Tomato and Goat Cheese Tart
Two sheets of puff pastry dough, thawed according to package directions. Slice one sheet into four equal squares. Cut the second sheet into strips about 1" thick. Lay the strips along the outside of each of the squares (goal is a tart with raised sides).

Bake at 400 for 20-25 minutes on a cookie sheet.

While the tarts are baking, different varieties of baby heirloom cherry tomatoes in half (yellow, orange, red, etc.). Set aside. Take 2 oz of goat cheese (or more) and mix with sizable pinches of rosemary, thyme and oregano. Add two or so Tbsp of milk and mix it with the cheese so it becomes thinner and more spreadable.

When the pastry is finished baking, spread the goat cheese mixture on each of the tarts equally, top with cherry tomatoes, a pinch of salt and pepper to taste and put back in the oven for another five minutes.

Top with torn fresh basil and serve warm (or room temperature).

Heat Wave

It's gotten hot. Summer has hit full force and the temperatures are soaring well over 105. The heat shimmers on the horizon and the asphalt is sticky.

I hate this time of year in the Valley of the Sun. It's unrelenting sunshine and heat.

I know that it's a dry heat, but still, sometimes, I feel like my soul is shriveling from the heat. The humidity represents a certainly level of fecundity that feeds a soul, keeps one alive even in the heat. Sweaty glasses of iced tea on a porch, the low hum of cicadas, the sticky feeling on the backs of your legs, the curls on the back of your ponytail.

I am looking forward to the humidity of VA.

Set Up

Since I started work, I've been wanting to participate in an apartment set up, but unfortunately, until today, I hadn't been given the opportunity.

In a nutshell, our organization receives clients throughout the week. When a new arrival is slated to come, it's our responsibility to set up an apartment for them the day before their arrival with furniture, food and other basic necessities so when they stumble into their new home, exhausted from travel and the unknown, they're covered for a few days to get their bearings as best they can.

Today, I learned just how basic those necessities are.

Three of us went to Walmart and went shopping off of a list which included things like "female deodorant" and "laundry soap." Total, the apartment I set up cost $194 (not counting furniture). That's it. $194 covered everything from dish soap to a shower curtain to pots and pans and sheets and utensils and towels and dishes and toiletries.

In one way, $194 went a long way. I mean, we got a significant amount of stuff for that apartment. But simultaneously, I kept thinking how much excess there is in this world and in my life. I don't go around dropping $200 on stuff every weekend, but it was a bit of a sobering thought that the money I spend on miscellaneous and inconsequential things in a few weeks could put together an apartment for a family of 3.

XYZ

Today, I walked around for a good portion of the day with my zipper down.

No one told me.

I hope the reason no one told me is because no one noticed my bright green panties peaking through my fly.

When embarrassing things happen (skirt caught up in tights, toilet paper on shoe, zipper down), I always wonder why people don't point out the obvious. Fear of embarrassment? I'll be honest. I'd much rather have a moment of slight embarrassment with one individual than a massive moment of embarrassment alone when I realize I've been walking around all day grinning at people with a big piece of lettuce in my front teeth.

Or flashing my green panties at all my clients as I sat on their floors playing with their babies.

Honesty Honestly

Perhaps one of the greatest things about getting older is insight about honesty in one's own life. (Now, I realize that "getting older" means closer to 30 in my case, but you know, bear with me.)

This weekend, I had a my weekly 2-hour phone call with my Law Librarian Jen. I can't even remember what sparked the conversation, but LLJ pointed out that one great thing about maturing is being honest with yourself and subsequently making decisions based on what you enjoy as opposed to what you think you should enjoy. It's not about faking enjoyment for something that you hate, but more showing enthusiasm for something you feel apathy for.

I will never forget when I was about 20 my mother confided to me that she, in fact and contrary to what I had thought for the last 15 years, didn't actually care for shrimp. It sounds rather ridiculous for something so seemingly mundane to make a lasting impression in my adult mind, but after an entire life of summers spent at the beach, peeling and deveining freshly caught shrimp to boil for my entire family, I felt rather taken aback. Why on earth, if she didn't really care for shrimp did I have to stick my fingers in shrimp guts for hours on? She, like I, was taught that shrimp were a treat and something special saved for the summer (which it is in my opinion), but if she was honest with herself, shrimp would never be her choice of a treat or special meal. It isn't that she hates shrimp--just that if given the choice of a summer seafood meal, she'd rather enjoy something else instead; she simply tired of pretending that she thought shrimp was something special and was completely unapologetic about it. She said, "Life is too short for other people's shoulds."

She's right. LLJ is right. As I get older, and I'm sure LLJ and I are not alone in this, I find myself becoming more secure in myself and the small choices I make. Who I surround myself with, the parenting choices I make, the food I eat, the movies I watch, the music I listen to and the books I read. And frankly, no one cares that I'd rather read a modern British mystery novel than the searing political commentary of our time.

Honest.

A Farewell to Pride

During 8th grade, one of the required readings for my literature class was The Old Man and the Sea by Hemingway. I hated it. I dreaded reading it, writing about it and (to be completely honest) am not entire sure I even finished the book. If you know me and know anything about my literature consumption habits, you know that refusing to finish a book is a rare thing indeed.

Since that 8th grade misfortune, I've refused to have anything to do with Hemingway. Flat out refused to read any of his novels or show any real interest in his life as a historical figure. In fact, I'd go so far to say that I purposely have been openly critical and hateful toward Hemingway and his writings (all based on one novel read when I was 14).

Weirdly, my life has paralleled his in many ways--at least in travel experiences. I've been to Havana (and am sure I insulted many a Cubano by telling them I was not interested in "Papa," and no, I didn't care about his damn six-toed cats), I've lived abroad in Spain (but refused to watch a bullfight), I've traveled to Kilimanjaro (though I failed to take home any big game animal heads).

Yet, the entire time, I adamantly maintained that Hemingway was an author I'd never read again.

And then a coworker and I started a conversation about books. His preferences tend more toward what I think of as *man-lit*--a combination of nonfiction and novels that appeal to men. But he mentioned Hemingway as one of his favorite authors. I laughed and told him I'd never touch a Hemingway book thanks to my 8th grade experience The Old Man and the Sea.

What a smug person I am. A day or two later, I found myself wandering the fiction section of the library again. I routinely do this--go to the library needing something to read but with no concrete ideas of actual books to take home. And then the idea occurred to me. I *could* check out a Hemingway novel.

After browsing the new releases but not finding anything inspiring, I settled for The Sun Also Rises. Short. Not too intimidating. I checked it out with low expectations.

I am a jerk. Clearly. I am willing to admit this publicly and openly.

All these years of my life, I've spent hating Hemingway, publicly denouncing my dislike for his writing and one novel, one short novel of his that took all of two days to read, felled me like a tree. I loved the story. Loved it.

I don't know if I was too young to appreciate his writing style, too immature to understand such adult themes in literature or maybe I've been a jerk my whole life. Who knows (although, I suspect the latter)? His descriptions of Spain's countryside had me reminiscing about riding through the countryside. The aimlessness of the characters floating through life abroad, the lost innocence, the effects of war on an entire generation, the drinking to suppress feeling the emasculation just resonated with me in a way I didn't expect.

All I know is this: I have given Hemingway another chance and I suspect it's a relationship that will last a lifetime.

PHX

This city of shimmering heat is starting to grow on me. So much so, we're actually debating buying a home in the next year. Committing. To one of the hottest metropolitan places in the world. Forever. (Or at least a good 10+ years.)

I never thought I could make PHX my home. Too hot. Too crowded. Too sprawling. I would grow weary of the commuting, the distance, the sheer volume of people in my space.

Or so I thought. And then, I started to notice the culture, the arts, the community (yes, community) in this improbable city in the middle of the desert.

Maybe this isn't so bad, after all. Maybe, just maybe, I ended up in the right place.

I Forgot

This year, I forgot.

Five years.

The days slipped past me without conscious thought and before I knew it, the moment had passed and I had forgotten.

I thought somehow this year would be momentous. Five years is not to be taken lightly. But miraculous that five years has passed and the day slipped by and I forgot.

For the moment of my life I thought I would be scarred forever and yet, here I am.

So for one more year, one more moment. Even if a bit late.

here is the deepest secret nobody knows
(here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud
and the sky of the sky of a tree called life;which grows
higher than the soul can hope or mind can hide)
and this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart

i carry your heart(i carry it in my heart)

ee cummings

Lost in Translation

We had a baby group at work today. (Side note: Burmese babies are the cutest babies in the entire world and I am always scheming as how to get myself a Burmese baby. Unfortunately for me, any baby that comes out of me is NOT going to look like a Burmese baby, no matter what I do.) Anyways, our program's baby groups replace the regularly scheduled well-baby checkup which means that babies get naked and weighed for their vitals.

This particularly baby group had all three and four-month-old babies. Truly the best part about that age is just how fat the babies get. They have rolls on their thighs--roll upon roll upon roll. It's most certainly a product of being in the baby furniture stage. Babies that age are like seals storing up their fat for when they start becoming mobile and then they just burn through that fat and become lean again. (Another side-note. All of our babies in that group were well above the 75th percentile in both weight and height which just warms the cockles of my heart. So healthy and strong!)

At one point, I was holding a chubby boy who was wearing nothing but a diaper. He had these luscious, squeezable rolls and I had the sudden desire to just gently bite his soft thighs like I used to do to The Bean at that age. I turned to our interpreter, a lovely middle-aged gentleman, and asked him if there were any affection expressions in Burmese that expressed a desire to eat a child. I was thinking along the lines of the English phraseology of, "He's so cute, I just want to eat him up!" or "I just want to nibble his thighs!"

However, "S" immediately gave me a look of panicked alarm and I realized how culturally relevant expressions about eating children are. After I explained what I meant (i.e. terms of endearment, because the fat rolls are so kissable and naturally, kissing leads to biting, just a figure of speech, etc., etc.) he had a good chuckle and assured me that, no, there was not an equivalent turn of phrase or idea in Burmese.

But at least now I've realized how the rumors that white people eat ethnic babies got started.

Chop Chop

One of the most annoying things about moving is having to find a new salon. The entire three years that we lived in ABQ, I never once found a salon that I liked. After the first year, I pretty much gave up getting my hair cut. It's been a long time since my last hair cut. It was time. I found an ad in a local paper (support local business, right?) for a salon the next block over and made an appointment yesterday.

The stylist was a nice older gentleman and he did a great cut. Unfortunately for me, the style (blunt, chin-length bob) makes me look like I'm about 12. I profusely thanked him, tipped him well and then left with a sinking heart. I hated my hair.

But more than hating my haircut, I hate the fact that I lied. I had the sinking feeling as he was cutting that the style that I requested was not the style that I envisioned in my head. And yet, I effusively thanked him.

Why is it so hard to tell someone that I don't like a service they did for me at the time the service is rendered? I mean, I flat out lied to the man. I tipped him 20% for crying out loud! What the fuck? Why am I sitting here the next day, dreading going into work on Tuesday because I know that my haircut is not flattering? Why do I feel the need to help a hairstylist who I don't know save face? Am I afraid to hurt his feelings?

I think perhaps this is an American trait. Or an American woman trait. I have several coworkers who are not American who flat-out tell you what they don't like. You ask them if you look fat in this dress, they'll tell you yes. No sugar-coating it by saying "Oh, I think it brings out your eyes!" They'll just say, "Yes, it does." And you know what? Said dress probably does make me look fat! Better to not wear it again than naively walk around thinking I look svelte when really I look like a Guernsey cow. In the long run, an honest opinion is far better than a lie (for fashion, anyways. Perhaps not other things?).

I really do think I need to do a better job of being honest when people ask for my opinions.

Especially if I'm paying them.

Footloose

In a desperate attempt to make friends at work and actually make this craphole town feel like my home, I've done the unthinkable (well, unthinkable since I was in my early 20s). No, not binge drinking--my last attempt at that ended in my mid-20s with my head in a toilet next to Roommate Barb sometime in Feb. 2007.

I have joined work's intramural soccer team.

Since The Doctor works nights, CEWG will be accompanying me to the games which are every Weds night. I haven't run in a long time, even after my own child (I tend to just let her go off. She usually come back pretty quickly if I stop looking for her.), so this should be quite the adventure.

So here's to a whole new round of shin guards, soccer socks, sweat and sore muscles starting at 7:30 tomorrow. I can't hardly wait.

Seriously.

Small Heros

One of my personal pet peeves since 9/11 is the overuse of the word "hero." Everyone is a hero these days. It's all over the Info-tainment: "Hero Dog Saves Small Squirrel from Certain Death!" But surely, we can't all be heros, right? What use is a word that applies to us all?

Working with such a significantly underserved population has again reminded me that sometimes, the word hero is still applicable to regular people. There is so much need in my line of work. So much material need--people needing rent, food, clothes, shampoo. Not to mention emotional need and spiritual needs that are neglected in favor of those more pressing physical needs like hunger and shelter.

But every day, my colleagues come into work to face another day of doing only what they can, giving only what they can and having to say "no" more times than they say "yes."

This line of work isn't for people who want to be heros or have glory. It isn't a career that will pay much more than entry level. Ironically, it isn't a career that even has a lot of gratitude. Sometimes, it seems that everyone is always asking for more and something is never enough because when you have so little, there is always more needed.

But every day, my coworkers come back. Some days more burned out than others. Some days, tired with circles and exhaustion, the toll of endless "no's" and "cannot's" evident in their eyes. Some days there is a triumphant smile or a story of success. But still, my colleagues come, each with their own reasons for their work, their own passions, their own stories to tell but with one goal: a desire to give respect and dignity to those who have gone without for so long.

Confessions of a Monoglot

For someone who would love to fancy herself a writer, I have absolutely no talent in language. Well, let me rephrase. I have adequate command of the written English language. I often joke, however, that my written vocabulary significantly exceeds my spoken vocabulary-- not because I don't know the words but because I simply cannot pronounce the words correctly. I often settle for words that don't exactly convey the true meaning and intent because at least I won't make an ass of myself if I say the word incorrectly. (I once pronounced the word "hypothetical" "hi-poth-i-call" in front of my entire 150-person MPH Biostatistics class and almost died of shame when, yes, everyone in the room burst out laughing. And let's not even talk about "posthumously.")

I distinctly remember the day that I discovered that language acquisition was not my forte. I was about 9 and struggling through 3rd-grade phonetics (Mrs. George, how I hated chanting those charts out loud: "PH says ffff, TH says thhhh"). I was sitting at my parents' kitchen table eating lunch and reading a list of clothes that my father was planning on ordering from L.L. Bean (these were the days of the catalogue phone orders, mind you). I saw the word (forever burned in my memory) written out next to "pants" and I could not figure it out. I asked my father how to pronounce the word and I will never forget the incredulous look on his face. "Sound it out, Elisabeth. You know this word. You've heard it before." I struggled and struggled for what felt like an hour but was probably three minutes, and still, I couldn't figure it out. I wanted to shout to my father, "I may have heard it but if I haven't seen it, it's meaningless to me!"

When he finally said the word out loud, I felt like a dipshit (though, that word had yet to be in my vocabulary). The silent "k" combinations had yet to be covered in my phonetics class.

"Khaki." Please.

I've tried my best to move forward from my 9-year-old self. I studied Spanish through high school and in college every semester my entire four years. I even studied abroad in Spain, desperate to learn another language and prove myself to be better than those Amerophiles who refused to learn foreign languages based on principle. I flopped at Spanish. Next on my list was Kiswahili during my stint in Kenya, at which I also failed.

Well, perhaps "fail" is too strong a word. I actually had an amazing grasp on the rules and structure of both foreign languages. I loved seeing how sentences and thoughts fell together, how the rules guided the parts of speech, the nuances of verb tenses. Even the structure of the noun classes of Swahili opened a whole new world for me. But for the love, I could not pronounce a damn thing correctly in either language. My tongue always felt thick in my mouth, unable to make the proper combination of sounds at the right time.

Fast forward to my life in the present. I've given up on foreign languages. Completely stopped. It's been five years, more or less, since I've even attempted speaking more than a short phrase of anything other than English. Whenever my linguistic past arises in conversation, people always smile knowingly and say, "Oh, it'll come back to you if you just practice." I have to refrain from outright laughter and tell them that it was never really there in the first place. No one ever believes me, though.

One of the best things about working at an international organization is the languages. Every day that I walk into that office, it's like being greeted by the Tower of Babel. It's not just languages spoken by our clients, but our staff, too. Each day, there's a good chance that I will hear each of these languages: Arabic, Burmese, Karen, Karenni, Nepali, Farsi, Spanish, Cuban, Russian, French, Swahili, Kirundi, Chin...the list goes on. My office mate alone speaks four languages fluently and I am beginning to pinpoint who she is talking to on the phone by the sounds of the words coming out of her mouth.

The hum of foreign languages flows around me, seductively luring me in, enticing me to want to learn again, to pour over lists of flashcard vocabulary and learn new rules and structures of speech. I hate that I am that typical American, unable to communicate with anyone outside of my language because I think it truly hinders my ability to understand a culture. Understanding language and syntax is the first step to understanding a different worldview. Language is the first glimpse a novice has into the way things fit together in the mind of the other. I've always wondered if lovers who speak different language use their mother tongue in that critical moment of passion or clumsily try to use their common language to express their mutual feelings of ecstasy. I marvel when I hear the sounds of other languages spilling out of others' more fortunate mouths, "Does that sound/grunt/tone actually mean something to someone? Amazing!"

But I must accept my shortcomings. I will never be able to seamlessly switch between languages to use the words that best describe my intent. I will always be clumsy and never witty in another language. I am confined to reading inferior English translations of Tolstoy and Sartre and Rumi, never to grasp the full beauty of their written word.

Here is my confession: I am, and will never be more than, a monoglot.

Tonight

It's raining in the desert right now. There is something so satisfying about the gentle patter of the drops as they run down my windowpanes. Most often, it seems, we get the torrential rains, the pounding sheets of driving rain that turn a person blind, the fast cataclysmic downpours that shake up our brown earth and turn our empty washes into coursing rivers..

But occasionally, we get the soft rains of the East, the leisurely splatters that instead of washing away the dust in a torrent of floods, gently caresses our dirt, healing, coaxing change and bringing green, even for a short time.

This is one of those rains.

Rediscovery

I never thought going back to work would change me. I mean, I knew my life would change, I knew that my schedule would be different and I'd have less time to cook and clean and play with CEWG. I knew I'd be juggling the demands of The Doctor's career which is neither forgiving nor flexible. But I figured that at this point in my life (ripe old age of 29, thank you very much!), I've come to figure out who I am and where I am going. If not, what was that quarter-life crisis for?

Boy, was I ever wrong.

This job has thrown me into another world that I had forgotten which challenges who I am now and where I want to be every single day I walk into that office. I have never worked harder, more intensely and with more discipline in my life and I have never been happier than I am right now.

The only thing that has affected me more is becoming a mother.

I cherished the time that I spent with CEWG at home. I got 22 beautiful months to intensely fall in love with my child. Learning how to be a mother and setting a foundation for perhaps the most powerful relationship a person can have has truly been the most life-altering experiences I have ever embarked on. I feel so fortunate that I could make the choice to stay home and simply exist with my child without any other demands placed upon my time.

I feel like I'm in rediscovery mode again, but this time, instead of learning who I am as a mother, I'm relearning who I am as a person. I am reminding myself who I am outside of my family, reminding myself of my interests, my passions. Each day, I learn more about myself. Each day, I am given a new challenge, a new viewpoint, a new problem, a new way of looking at the world.

How awesome is this?

Old Friends

Last night, ex-Beloved came over to my house for dinner. We hadn't really spent any quality time together in the last five years. In fact, I hadn't seen him in 4 years except for once for a brief encounter a few months ago (The Doctor, CEWG and I invaded his house for an hour to say hi).

There is something wonderful about seeing people from your past. They remind you of who you were and you can get a glimpse of your old self as well as a new perspective on who you've become. It was wonderful to simply sit and talk, laugh about old times, reflect on memories and who we used to be and begin to learn who we are now.

I am so thankful that I have so many friends who are comfortable friends. Friends who are like favorite pairs of jeans--you can slip them on and just be yourself. My college experience was wonderful, the education was top-notch. But truly, the best gift that William and Mary gave me was a collection of friends that have been there for each other through thick and thin.

A New Year, Another Beginning

I can't believe it's 2010 already. For some reason, 2010 sounds so futuristic to me. But I suppose since it's here and now, futuristic it is not. And here I am. Starting another year, one step closer to 30.

We're firmly settled in PHX. I didn't turn the air-conditioning off until mid-November. Pity me, please? At least our electric bills will get a respite since we don't need heat and I doubt we will since the projected highs hover around the upper 60s/low 70s before they shoot back up to the upper 80s.

But of course, the biggest news is that I'm back at work full-time! I somehow, I managed to land my dream job with my dream organization. I'm still in shock that I'm so lucky to get up every day and do what I do and take home a paycheck for it! How does that happen? And how does that happen to me? But it did.

And amazingly, we've all adapted to the change well, CEWG included. She's enrolled in daycare (AKA nursery school) and after two to three weeks of transitional crying, loves loves loves her teachers and class.

I'd like to start to get back to blogging, simply because it forces me to write. I didn't get time to do NaNo this year because of personal extenuating circumstances. And of course, since I've moved, I have no writing group to force me to write, either. But hopefully, writing here a few times a month will at least get it out of my system and give me that creative outlet.

To here's to the New Year, you and yours!

Moving On

Well, we've moved on. Or, over. Our family has officially relocated one state over, back to Arizona, but this time in Phoenix. It's taking a bit of adjusting (as to be expected, naturally) and I'm anxiously awaiting the end of summer (and thus the end of 105 degree heat). Yes, it is almost October and yes, it is currently 102 with a high of 106.

But we have a beautiful home that is (mostly) unpacked. Much more space than we had before, which is nice. We're slowly making new friends and reconnecting with old ones.

I am enjoying my toddler who occasionally tries my patience and almost always makes me laugh. It's nice to have a bit of my life back now that she isn't so needy as an infant.

I Didn't Know

I didn't know it would be like this. Motherhood. Wearing your heart exposed. I see the photos of Mary holding the Christ Child, her Immaculate heart exposed with a sword in it and I just get it.

Motherhood is like that. A heart on the outside, waiting to be pierced with both sorrows and joys.

Last night, I spent the evening reading a blog by a mother whose fourth pregnancy had a "poor prenatal diagnosis." She chose to carry her pregnancy to term and give birth to a daughter who lived for two and a half hours, a daughter who died on her birth day. I'm not a sentimental person. But I wept, wept at the photos of her tiny daughter, wept at the thought of losing my child, wept because throughout the world, there are mothers who lose their children every day.

Every six seconds, a child dies of hunger.

Every thirty seconds, a child dies of malaria.

Every eight seconds, a child dies of lack of water or a waterbourne illness.

Every three seconds, a child simply dies.

That's 20 children per minute, 1,200 per hour, 28,800 per day.

Those statistics should stun anyone. But it should especially stun us who are mothers. The mere thought of losing my child is enough to bring me to my knees in grief because I love her so much. And motherlove is the same across all languages and cultures. Every child on this planet--every person on this planet--is loved like I love my child. The thought of that much love is staggering.

That is over 28,000 women a day whose exposed hearts break as their beloved babies and children die in their arms, the sword piercing.

The thought of that much sorrow is staggering.

The Deepest

I thought maybe I'd forget this year, that my life had woven its way out of your memory and into the future. But here we are again.

here is the deepest secret nobody knows
(here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud
and the sky of the sky of a tree called life;which grows
higher than the soul can hope or mind can hide)
and this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart

i carry your heart(i carry it in my heart)
*e.e. cummings

Co-Sleeping

Five tiny toes
pointed high
straight to the ceiling.
Arm thrown out.
Sweaty hair pressed
against forehead.
Hand patting my face
reassuring
while sleeping.
Sweet smell of
milk breath
mingling with mine.

Snapshots of my nights.

365:31

365:30

365:29

365:28

365:27

365:26

365:25

365:24

365:23

365:22

365:21

HAPPY 1ST BIRTHDAY, BABY! These are our wishes for your next year. May you grow in light and love.

365:20

365:19

365:18

ZIPPY

365:17

365:16

365:15

365:14

365:13

SELF PORTRAIT

365:12

365:11

365:10

365:9

365:8

365:7

365:6

DINNER

365:5

365:4

365:3

LUNCH.

365:2

Just painted my toenails with a fresh coat of red.

365:1

I am going to embark on a photography adventure this year. "Project 365" is a challenge to take one photo a day to document your life over the course of one year and post them to a blog.

So January 1, I give you Charlotte and her Ride Along:

2009

Lately, I feel like the Virgin Mary.

Not in the virginal sense, of course.

My favorite verse from the entire Christmas story is the often unnoticed one.

Luke 2:19: But Mary treasured up all these things and pondered them in her heart.

I love this Bible verse. In fact, it might be my favorite verse in the entire Bible. It's not a verse that is prophetic or life changing. It doesn't talk about salvation or the destiny of mankind. But, the verse is so...human. So real.

I've often wondered about Mary. Last year, I felt like her, being very tired and great with child. But now that I've had my child and hold her squirming body in my arms every day over the last year, the reality of what motherhood is has resonated with me--what it means to create a person from my body, nurture her body and soul every day with my own body.

These days are so long and these months are so short. And I find myself, every day, treasuring up all these things and pondering in my heart.

One More, This is the Last!

Send your own ElfYourself eCards

On the First Day of December

Send your own ElfYourself eCards

28

So much wonderfulness has happened over the last year.

And I am eternally grateful to everyone who has held my hand through it all.

Thanks to you.

Toofers

Can you see them?

Two tiny, teeny little pearly whites.

Poop.

It smells like poop in my house.

And I don't know where it's coming from.

Mom-Do

New Mom-Do to go with my high-waisted jeans and sensible footwear.

Confessions of a (Reluctant) Co-Sleeper

Never in a billion years did I imagine that I'd be one of those. You know who I'm talking about...a co-sleeper. One who sleeps WITH their children.

That's right. Yes, you read it correctly.

Co-sleeper.

The Bean has a perfectly acceptable (and I'm sure, quite comfortable) crib in her own room. It's decorate quite nicely with warm flannel sheets with little sheep on them.

Prior to actually having children, I always imagined that parents who slept with their babies were simply crazy. I mean, give up a decent night's sleep to have your kid curled next to you?

Then I had children. And like most first-time parents the reality between what "should" happen and what "actually" happens hit me like a ton of bricks. Apparently, some babies do voluntarily sleep alone from the start. You can put them down and they'll simply sleep.

Not my Bean. Never has and probably won't for some time.

She liked to be held from the beginning, curled in the crook of my arm, on her side, facing me.

My one regret of parenting thus far was fighting this. I have tried night in and night out, months on end, to try to get her to sleep, alone, in the crib. But inevitably, she ended up back in our bed at some point during the night. She has never slept in her crib a full night. Not once.

So I am resigned. I have accepted my fate as a co-sleeping parent and have embraced it. We bought a king-sized bed. It's likely that she will not be moving out anytime soon.

And in my resignation, I have found that I love sleeping with my daughter. I love seeing her lips pursed in sleep, as if she is blowing kisses to me in her dreams. I love feeling her warm breath smelling of my milk against my cheek. I love how she reaches for my face at night, to reassure herself that I am right there, still next to her, still protecting her. I love feeling her little sturdy body next to me, being able to brush her hair with my fingers. I love that the first thing I see when I wake up is her round face peering at me, smiling at me with sleep in her eyes.

Why did I fight this for so long?

It feels so right.

Joyous

It's been a long time.

I came across this quote today from Anna Quindlen. And, as luck would have it, I'm feeling exceptionally sappy. A rare day, indeed.

“I did not live in the moment enough. This is particularly clear now that the moment is gone, captured only in photographs. There is one picture of (my three children) sitting in the grass on a quilt in the shadow of the swing set on a summer day, ages six, four, and one. And I wish I could remember what we ate, and what we talked about, and how they sounded, and how they looked when they slept that night. I wish I had not been in such a hurry to get on to the next thing: dinner, bath, book, bed. I wish I had treasured the doing a little more and the getting it done a little less."

My whole life, I've always had problems living in the moment. I forever feel like I'm looking to the next step and not simply enjoying the now.

I cherish my life, my baby, my husband. I am so grateful to them and for them. And for my friends, far and near. And I don't tell them enough.

So thank you.

Today, I will live in the moment.

Today, when I stepped in the shower, I smelled something I hadn't smelled in a long time.

The scent of chlorine.

Although I am the fire sign of Sagittarius, I was truly born a Water Baby. My first foray into a pool occurred sometime around my sixth month birthday and I've never stopped.

I grew up in a pool. I started swimming competitively around the time I could read chapter books on my own. Early morning practices, biking a few blocks to jump in a cold pool, warming after a few laps back and forth. The snap of the rubber cap against my skull, the depression around my eyes that goggles would leave for hours after practice.

But mostly, what I remember is the scent of chlorine that never seemed to leave my body. Even though swimming indoors was rare (meaning, all of my pool activities happened in the summer), I smelled like chlorine year-round. When I jumped out of the shower, the smell of the pool hung in the air for hours afterwards. Sometimes, in December, I could scratch my arm and smell the pool lingering fresh on my skin.

Eventually, I stopped swimming so much. Early morning practices and hot Saturday meets ended with high school. Lifeguarding ended with college. Summers in Arizona were so hot, the pool felt like bath water and did not feel refreshing enough to make it worthwhile.

I am determined to make The Bean a Water Baby. I want her to love the ocean and the pool as I do, to count down days to summer not to be out of school, but to be in a pool. Last weekend, we took her to her first pool. She seemed a bit hesitant at first, making her serious baby faces. But she warmed up after a bit and by the end, splashed and kicked with gusto. I swam a few laps myself, ecstatic at the silvery feel of the water.

The monsoons have come early this year, and with it, bringing the summer molds which make my allergies go haywire for a few weeks before the rain leaves us for dust for another year. I haven't been smelling much. But today, when I stepped into the shower, I smelled the scent of the pool.

Summer is here.

A Worthy Goal

There is a shop in ABQ that sells only cupcakes. It is called Cake Fetish (yes, google it). Cupcakes of a variety of flavors and tastes, styles and deliciousness. Here's a random sampling of flavors:
Half-Baked – Chocolate Chip Vanilla Cake, Vanilla Buttercream and a Cookie Dough Center
“Hot” Chocolate - Chocolate Cake dipped in Chocolate with Chocolate Red Chile Buttercream
Razzmanian Devil - Chocolate Cake, Chocolate Buttercream, Raspberry filling and Chocolate Ganache

They have some flavors that are available every day and some that are available only certain days of the week.

One great thing about breastfeeding exclusively is that I can eat pretty much anything I want and not gain weight. I may not lose weight, but I'm able to maintain my current weight even while eating chocolate chip cookie dough for breakfast four days in a row. God bless the milkies.

Keeping this in mind, my mom-friend Claudia and I have agreed upon a worthy goal to complete by the end of the summer. We shall sample every flavor of cupcake before Labor Day.

Kung-Fu Cats

Naturally, now that we have a baby in the house, we have lots of baby items in the house. Paraphernalia that I was previously unaware of, stimulating the baby in ways I did not realize babies needed stimulating (I hate the term "tummy time." Barf). Swing, bouncer, Bumbo, carseat, Pack'n'Play, crib, dresser, changing table...the list goes on. (And now that I really take a look, I feel like this very small person---not even 14 pounds yet---is really taking up a lot of space.)

Lots of people ask how the animals are dealing with the transition. Since we own a menagerie of obnoxious animals, I can see the concern. The dog has adjusted well--she only gets a bit upset when the baby cries (but let's face it, who doesn't?).

The cats are a different story.

The cats, all three of them, are in love with the baby...or not so much the baby herself, but rather the previously listed things that come with the baby. They have taken up permanent residence on the baby's furniture. Every day, I find myself evicting cats from the bouncer, the crib, the changing table, the dresser...the list goes on.

It's really rather infuriating, getting their cat furs on everything.

I love them dearly, but I wish they were a bit less interested.

Home Again, Home Again, Jiggety Jig!

I am not sure that I spelled "Jiggety" correctly.

But anyways, I am back in Albuquerque after a quick trip home to VA to see my family. What a joy to be home. The Bean charmed the pants off of everyone she met--she was quite the little trooper. Only one day of meltdown the entire week and that was after a party the night before at her BFF Emma's house.

Flying with a four-month-old infant was quite the thrill. I'm truly amazed at how rude people are when they see a baby board a plane. Some are even outright hostile. One woman who boarded after her husband (sitting behind me) hissed at him, "How could you choose these seats! There's a BABY in front of us." I was seriously tempted to hold The Bean up over the seat and let the spit-up pour down. I refrained.

However, the woman sitting next to me did not hold in her vomit. I've probably flown close to fifty times in my life--across the world, for crying out loud--and I've NEVER seen anyone vomit into the flight bag. But she did. The whole flight. She also reeked of day-old booze. I was tempted to tell her not to drink herself into a coma the night before a flight across the country. I refrained.

So I'm home and summer is starting. Days are dragging out, the sun is hotter than ever and I am truly at peace.

I Am Here Today, Again

One more year down, but an infinity left to live. The day is almost gone, but here I am again.

The sharpness of the past has dulled over the last year. So many changes have propelled my life forward that there has been little time for reflection and looking back. But there, in the back of my mind, sits the thought of you. I am in a better place.

So still, I carry you in my heart, always.

Resigned

I am officially no longer employed.

Yesterday, I turned in my official letter of resignation to my supervisor and am embarking on the career of stay-at-home-parent.

It's scary not having a job. I can't remember the last time I didn't work, even if the job was only a few hours a week.

But it's exciting, too. I am thrilled to stay home with my baby while she is a baby--such a short time of her life. Work will still be there, waiting for me in a few short months when she's older, walking and talking.

And so, the adventure continues.

In an Instant, Everything Changes

Literally.

January 21 at 11:30 P.M.

One minute, I'm writhing in the most agonizing pain known to woman-kind, my body taking over the task of expelling a human against my will; the next minute, there is a living, breathing, screaming baby on my chest, wet and sticky with life.

She is beautiful and I am in love. I think about her all the time, whether we are apart or together. I want to hold her constantly, feeling her soft skin against mine. I stroke her soft, fine hair, twirling it between my fingers like a lover.

This love, it isn't instantaneous but a gradual creeping that becomes utterly overwhelming.

This love, it is intense and all consuming.

This love. It is worth everything.

My Hero

Best. Christmas. Ever.

Dance Dance Revolution is being opened tomorrow.

Holiday Dispirit

The Christmas cards are rolling in and every time I rip open an envelope, I am racked with guilt about my lack of Christmas-carding this year.

I just couldn't do it. We couldn't do it. I mean, we barely put up a tree. Couldn't even FIND the menorah.

Normally, we send out a photo card with our cheerful faces smiling out from whatever desert location we happen to be living in that year. But this year, we just couldn't get it together long enough to find a time when we were both A) together, B) looking good enough to take a photo (i.e. no pregnancy fat face) and C) had someone available to take the photo.

Last weekend, we briefly pondered sending regular cards out with a nice message for all our family and friends. And then, I thought logically that we would be sending out dozens of birth announcements in about a month's time (eek!).

So my apologies to everyone out there. You ain't getting a Christmas card from Nuevo Mexico this year. But do keep your eyes peeled for a birth announcement in the next 3-5 weeks. Much like the Virgin Mary, I am great with child and very tired.

Out of the Mouths of Babes

Standing in line at the Grove for a refill for my iced tea, this little boy (probably about 4 years old) comes up to me and asked, "Do you have a baby in your belly?"

He seemed a bit too young to know about babies in bellies, but I just smiled and replied, "Yes."

His father, who was standing in front of me, turned around to look at me and said, "Thank God!"

27

I am so blessed.

This month has been long. The Resident has either been out of town or working a busy schedule. We've had a few house disasters, including a poo-filled front yard. I've traveled coast to coast, which while fun, is exhausting when 7 months pregnant. A close friend of mine has had devestating news yet again and my heart aches beyond words for her. And my beloved cat Zola is dying.

The Resident was on-call today, my birthday, of all days. I fully expected to sit at home alone like I do most weekends when he works on-call. I envisioned watching bad television on abc.com (hello, October Road) and crying about my cat.

Instead, my reality was quite different. A good friend of mine from work drove down from Santa Fe to have birthday lunch with me. I met with my group of beloved writers for an afternoon of just being together, celebrating another year's novel complete. And this evening, another few friends stopped by so I would not be alone on my birthday.

My phone rang all afternoon, birthday wishes pouring in from around the country. Emails, e-cards, IMs and flowers.

I am about to embark on the most life-changing events within the human experience. I am both terrified and elated at this journey, but I know that I am fortunate to be surrounded by friends who love and support me.

I am so thankful for you, my friends. I truly hope that I give back as much as I feel I take. I only hope I can be half the friend you have been to me.

Thank you.

The Name Game

It's recently come to my full attention that having a baby means having to name the baby. Yes, this is an obvious realization, but at the same time, the deeper meaning behind baby naming is often overlooked.

(For example, the name "Destiny" is the number 4 name for New Mexico. It should come as no surprise that a full 1/2 of births in this state are to single mothers under 20.)

I'm not just naming a baby. I'm naming a person. I'm actually starting a new person off in life. Another potential 80 years seen on this earth. A new birthday for ever and ever. And a new name. In an instant, everything begins.

So naturally, instead of our list of potential names getting shorter, they keep getting longer. Prior to getting pregnant, I had two names for each gender picked out and ready to go--first and middle for both. I was certain what I wanted. And suddenly, I have no idea. The universe has opened up and I have this one opportunity to make a mark. Everything and anything is a potential name. I'm listening for undertones and subtleties, for words that roll off and sound good together. Names that convey power, but also sound classic.

The one thing I do know?
It has to sound good in the Name Game.

News-Wordy Events

Tonight the headlines for the ABQ news: "Drunk woman wearing only underwear struck by semi on highway."

Why did they need to announce she was wearing only underwear? Does that strike anyone else as odd? Of course, this is coming from the news channel that interviewed a man over memorial day who said (when asked about his weekend plans), "Well, I cain't afford another DUI, so I'll probably booze it up close to home."

In other wordsmith news, this Sunday was my writing competition awards luncheon. A few weeks ago, I was notified that my submission was a "winner" in my entry category and either placed 1st, 2nd or 3rd.

Your's Truly here won first place!

Honest to god, I was shocked. I was surprised my entry even won anything to say the least, much less first place.

So now I have reason to actually write the damn ending.

Stay tuned!

Lobster Tails

I had my first pregnancy breakdown this weekend.

We decided to go out to dinner and of all places, Red Lobster sounded tasty. So we headed over for the requisite 20 minute wait. The only seat available was right next to the lobster tank.

Mistake number one.

I took the seat and watched the lobsters crawl around on each other; I started thinking about the spiny lobsters we saw on our honeymoon while SCUBA diving. And the realization struck me, all of these lobsters were going to end up on someone's plate for dinner, probably sooner rather than later.

And the tears started. Not quiet tears, but great sobbing gulps of sorrow over the lobsters.

We actually had to leave the restaurant because I could not stop crying. Deep inside, I knew I was being ridiculous, but I literally could not stop the tears from streaming down my cheeks.

So we had vegetarian noodles for dinner.

And now, I'm feeling rather strange when I contemplate eating meat--odd from someone who's killed a chicken themselves.

Think about it. Plants practically BEG to be eaten--"spread my seed, diseminate my genes." They tempt you with luscious fruit dangling, ripe for the picking.

But animals? Animals, all animals, will run away if they can when you try to kill them.

My Mom was Right! I'm a WINNER!

Back a few months ago, I submitted the first few chapters of my novel, The Mikvah, to a writing contest. My whole writing group was doing it and so I jumped off the bridge, too--with only thoughts of drowning in my mind.

I got a letter today in the mail today, advising me that I placed in the contest in the category that I entered! I'm in shock. I seriously thought I had a bat's chance in hell of winning anything ever again in my life, but apparently, I did! I don't know what place I won, but I will find out at the winner's luncheon.

Wow!

The Countdown Goes Public

Jan 22, 2008. Here we come.

16 weeks down, 24 to go.

HP7

Excellent.

That's all I have to say.

Excellent.

Paralyzing Decision

I am so excited. Like 90% of the world's population, I've been looking forward to this event the second after I read the last word of "Harry Potter and the Sorcer's Stone."

But I am also incredibly stupid. Until Tuesday, I thought the release of HP7 was on the July 27, not the 21. Consequently, I have not reread any of the books. I recently got a hookup with a rep at Simon and Schuster (New Mexico: Land of Who You Know); said hook-up mails me any book they publish as part of her job as "Publish Rep." When I discovered I was mistake about the HP7 release date, I was in the middle of another historical fiction involving the last of Henry the VIII's wives.

I was torn. Reread the Best.Books.Ever or continue reading a compelling saga of the English courts circa 1540? I chose the book I was already consuming.

Now I'm panicking that my HP7 will arrive tomorrow before 7 pm and I will have questions and confusion about RAB and Horcruxes. How far back do I go? Start with HP1 or can I just reread the most recently published?

5K Results

The culminating experience of my brief running career was an interesting experience to say the least. I wish I had a few photos of me gasping and sweating--I think only a visual could truly do the run justice. I also wish I could say it had been a glorious experience. Alas, it was not.

I ran about 2/3 of the race and walked the rest, which I actually expected since I've not regularly trained for about two months.

What I didn't expect was to almost be beat by a seven-year old. Yes. Seven.

She and her mother started out in front of me and at the half-way point, I jogged ahead of them. I stopped to walk, and I swear to god, the little girl SKIPPED in front of me. It went back and forth between us for about ten minutes and finally, as we neared the finish line, I realized I had to shake that little girl or it was going to be really embarrassing coming in mere seconds behind a seven-year old.

So I kicked it up a notch and came in at 42.35, a whole 1.04 faster than the seven-year old.

5K

Tomorrow is the big day. Unfortunately, due to some..uh..health reasons, I've been exhausted beyond all understanding for the last 10 weeks and have basically given up my training schedule. When I get home from work, I collapse on the couch in front of the TV and lose myself in reruns of The Simpsons and South Park.

But time marches on and the race begins at 7 am. I've never been in a race of any kind before and I'm really looking forward to this, despite my poor running abilities. I'll let you know how it goes!

Beach Livin'

Contrary to my mountain-loving friend, I love the beach. Growing up on the coast, beach vacations were an integral part of my childhood. And I don't mean the crowded, tourist beaches with boardwalks and shops. I mean the natural beaches with dunes and sea grasses, cottages on stilts and the smell of salt in the air.

This past week, the Resident and I headed back East for a trip to the beach. We were only in North Carolina for a few days, but those days restored my spirit. There is something healing about waking in the morning to the smell of salt, the ocean breeze, the rustle of scrubby grass.

As I sat on the ocean and watched the waves break on the sand, I realized I have had enough of desert living. Really had enough. I miss the green, the hazy days and dare I say? The humidity....

There are things about desert living that I love. I love the deep, brilliant blue skies that are incomparable to anything I've ever seen. I love the scrubby front yards with the blooming cactus and the flat adobe houses.

But I miss my ancestral homeland. There's something about the ocean.

Apologies

I know it's been awhile since I've posted anything. I don't even know if any of my friends even check this anymore. I could be blogging to a silent audience!

A lot is going on right now, exciting stuff, but I'm not quite ready to post about it yet.

Life is good.

Thunderstorms

This week has been both busy and surprising.

Spring is in full swing here in the ABQ and I'm really enjoying the seasons. It's been raining frequently, the showers coupled with thunder. I love thunderstorms. There's something so cleansing about them---kind of like the atmsophere letting off some extra electricity as some kind of cathartic release.

One Whole Year

I am no longer a newlywed.

Today is the Doctor and my one-year wedding anniversary. I can't believe it's been a whole year since we've gotten hitched--in all honesty, it feels like it's only been a couple of months (which is markedly better than saying it already feels like a lifetime!). I suppose what they say about the older you get, the faster time flies is true.

In true Sagittarius fashion, I demanded an adventure. Dinner and jewelry is nice, sure, but this is the only one-year wedding anniversary I will have! So here are a few photos of our latest adventure...the New Mexican balloon ride.

Deluged

I'm truly impressed with myself. I've been running for a month now, training for that 5K. I've not stuck with running this long since I was in high school.

After I got home on Wednesday and changed into my running clothes, the heavens opened up and dumped down a deluge of rain. I have neither a gym membership or a treadmill, so I shocked even myself and headed out for a jog anyways. Halfway through, I realized none of the gutters had drains and the water pooling on the sides of the road proved to be dangerous; at one point I was slogging through ankle-deep, shivering, my clothes sticking to my body, rain running down my face. I went home.

But you know what?

It's okay I went home. I'm so proud of myself for trying, even though I hate getting unnecessarily wet in the rain (Wicked Witch, anyone?).

Today, I tried running along the golf course trail behind my house--quite possibly the most awful experience of my life. The view of the cityscape is beautiful, but the wind was blowing so hard, I could have leaned into it and not fallen. And of course, all of my intervals were perfectly placed to have me run up rocky hills exactly midway through the interval. And you, my friends, know how truly uncoordinated I am (in college, my dance teacher remarked I have the feet of a dancer, but not the grace).

But you know what?

I finished all four of my intervals. Yes, it sucked and yes, I almost vomited during my last five minutes (eating a burrito smothered in green chile before running is not a good idea). But I finished.

I'm really doing this. In public. My ass jiggling in front of strangers as I run (practically in slow-motion, sometimes!) by them. Panting. Sometimes feeling like I'm dying. But I'm really doing this.

Submission

No, not that kind of submission.

I've actually submitted the first three chapters of my NaNoWriMo novel to the world at large. Everyone in my writing group submitted to the competition, so I bowed to the peer pressure and sent mine in, too.

My submission is postmarked in time, in the mail, on its way.

I have no illusions of winning, but each submission is getting a "professional evaluation" which should be helpful (not to mention interesting).

Keep your fingers crossed.

Like a Deer

I've recently realized that I am only aging and I will never get younger. This revelation shouldn't really be a surprise, considering that every year, I get older on my birthday (I just want to mention that the Doctor recently turned 29--last year in the decade of the 20s!).

Maybe they're right about the dawning realization that I am not immortal, that time is flying the older I get, that grey hairs sprinkled through my head are inevitable.

It's shocking really.

So, I've decided to start running. I need to begin to incorporate some form of exercise in my life on a regular and (this is key) permanent basis. I am only getting older, my metabolism is only getting slower and my ass is only getting bigger. It's time to step up to this challenge.

So I signed up for a 5K. There's a women's training program that meets for the next ten weeks every Saturday morning; tomorrow is the first Saturday. I started training on my own a few weeks ago so I don't look too slow. I'm in my third week of training and I'm starting to get it. I don't like running, but I like the competition. I like pushing myself by running another minute in my intervals. I like walking less each day when I leave the house. I like running the hardest I can my last interval, pushing myself to the limit, feeling my lungs burn inside my chest.

I'm feeling happy again. I no longer feel like I'm drowning. The skies have gotten blue again. And I'm am able to breathe again, exhaling with a force of life I never thought possible here in this place.

My Mixed Tape

Sorority Sister Cristin sent me two books (highly recommended) and I got the package last week, so excited to have some new books to read. I still haven't been to the library here yet (nor do I read book reviews in the Washington Post anymore) so I'm slightly out of the loop as to what is current lit out there in the wider world. Anyways, she loved these books and like any good bookie, passed them on to me (thanks, SSC).

Last week, I devoured Love is a Mixed Tape by Rob Sheffield and that book just about broke my fragile heart in two. I actually laughed and cried on the bus to Santa Fe while reading this book. As a newlywed, this book terrified me a bit though. The Doctor is older than me, and being a woman, I naturally assume that I will outlive him. Medically speaking, I come from hardy stock with few "family histories" of any illnesses. My Doctor is less genetically lucky. But even assuming that I'll live longer, I still don't expect death to haunt us for at least another 45-50 years.

I've been lucky enough to find love so young, and I'll be damned if I'll let that go to waste. All week, I've held on to him a bit tighter at night when we're falling asleep, kissed him a bit longer when I say goodbye. It's worth remembering that I am lucky to have found him, flaws and all.

In a somewhat related tangent, Golden Brother made me a 3-disc 90's "mixed tape" appropriately named "Do You Remember?" for my birthday this year. My brother was only 5-14 during that decade and experienced the 90s mostly through a haze of childhood observance, yet somehow managed to make the most kick-ass compilation I've ever gotten. When I asked how he came up with all these songs, he replied, "I just tried really hard to remember what songs were on the radio or tape player a lot when I was a kid." Some of these songs, I have not heard for years (Harvey Danger, anyone? How about The Toadies or Superhog?), but all were at the top my listening list at some point during that decade (and HFS's). In fact, these CDs bring back hot memories of standing in front of a stage at HFStival, smelling beer on people's breath, being pushed by crowds, my sunburned skin sticky with the residue of others.

These memories are making explore my CD collection, rediscovering music and bands that I've long forgotten (Save Ferris? Cherry Poppin' Daddies? Jimmie's Chicken Shack???). Sometimes, it's good to remember where you came from.

I've been listening to these CDs a lot this week. Somehow hearing these songs that my brother carefully selected for me makes me feel closer to him. He's been through a lot this week and my heart hurts knowing that I cannot be closer to him (truthfully, if I were there, I am not sure what I could do), but listening to Golden Brother's CDs while I go for a run makes me breathe a bit easier as my feet pound the pavement.

I wasn't going to say anything about Monday, because there isn't really anything I have to say that is worth adding. The media blitz has begun, the barrage of hindsight, the voyeurism that invades our modern media coverage.

But I can't seem to shake this sadness--despite my Southwest location, I'm still a Virginia girl, through and through. My heart swells with pride at the mention of anything Virginian (presidents, tidewater, Richmond accents, ham, peanuts, even tobacco...you get the point). My Golden Brother attends Tech (and thankfully, he's okay). Countless friends, neighbors, neighbor's children, acquaintances attend Tech or are alumni (and thankfully, everyone I know or know of is okay).

Since visiting Tech's campus for the first time in the summer of 2002 with my high school friend Mawls, I always maintained that if I could do college over and had to switch schools, I'd have chosen Tech in a heartbeat. There's a vibe on that campus that I love--a camaraderie that can only be referred to affectionally as "Old-School-Styled-Spirit."

I hate that this happened and I hate that Tech, despite everything that is so wonderful with the university, will be known for this event for some time to come.

But this post isn't really about Tech. What shook me the most was my mother.

She called me, mid morning, at work to tell me what had happened, that a student had died and seven others wounded. I already knew what had begun at Tech and having called him earlier myself, I knew Golden Brother was safe in his apartment. The call was short. Not even two minutes later, she called me back to tell me that the news had just broken that it was not 1 student dead, but 22 and the count was rising.

I've never heard my mother's voice sound like this before. She was crying, but it wasn't normal crying. Her voice had this primal wavering quality, shaking through phone line, all the way to my core. It was a sound of pure desperation, of devastation, of disbelief. I can't even adequately describe the feeling that her phone call left with me.

When I close my eyes, I can still hear her voice echoing in my head, that raw quality reverberating in my ears.

Is this what it must be to have children? To know that at some point, crisis could befall them and you as the parent be utterly helpless to change their situation? To know that even though your own child is safe, there are 30-some other parents who will be getting the news that their child was not so lucky? To feel this naked pain for all those families?

Reading these words I have written, I see them fall flat, sincere as they may be. But these words are all I have.