Wednesday, December 10, 2014

Trash Collection, Mess Detection, and General Disappointment

Tonight I am exhausted. This day was supposed to be "not that bad": I had very little on the agenda, and a fridge full of leftovers to eat to boot. 

But then, the morning babysitter called off and a few of us traded off moderating the dozen crazies that occupy my downstairs during the ladies Bible study held at my house. The part of the study that I didn't spend downstairs I spent wondering if, as host, it was more appropriate for me to be upstairs hosting the adults or downstairs "hosting" the children. Consequently, I hardly participated.

And then, my darling daughter--beacon of patience and grace--had a total meltdown the minute our study was over because she was starving. I have many friends whose toddlers are picky eaters, or barely eaters, or both. My daughter is neither. She eats nearly everything, and she eats a ton. While we regularly work on this thing called delayed gratification, she is neither a fan nor a believer. Many tears ensued while the ladies chatted and gathered their belongings and her lunch preparation was delayed. Oh that all meals could appear on the table at the snap of my fingers. {"And what would that teach her?" my mind then questions...}

Yet nap time was soon too follow, and unfortunately soon to end. She slept just long enough that letting her whine a while and fall back asleep was clearly not going to happen, and short enough that my nap had barely begun. I hadn't even gotten around to cleaning up lunch. 

Later in the afternoon we ventured out to drop off a meal for a friend with a newborn baby: cuddly, cute and oh-so-bad at sleeping. These conversations remind me that complaining about a ninety minute nap really isn't fair. Especially when my child slept twelve hours last night, straight. 

We continued to venture around town making a few stops for gifts I have been meaning to pick up. Outings have been interesting fact-finding missions as of late, as my daughter has picked up two very important skills in the last week: using a toilet and throwing away trash. Every place we go I quickly scout out the bathroom location and mentally calculate how long it has been since her last successful use of the facilities. While these consistent visits to the restroom keep her from going through two dozen pairs of underwear daily (a laundry reality that I feel like I am still catching up from), she seems to care less about the visits than she does about learning how to flush various models of toilets, how to make various soap dispensers work, and how to scour the bathroom of all pieces of trash and properly dispense them in the conveniently provided can. Never mind that she has likely gathered all sorts of nasty bugs with her newly developed passion for trash collection; the island is cleaner because of it.

For all the minor failures we were meeting throughout the day, the silver lining was that we were nearly 36 hours without an accident: all waking hours had been free of messes--at home, in the car, or on some poor unsuspecting local business owner's floor. And then, less than ten feet from an available toilet, as I sat staring at her waiting for some sign of needing to go (a habit that is formed quite quickly when you clean up endless puddles for days on end), as she rearranged her favorite dog pictures on the nurses' lockers while we waited for a chance to see Curtis...she let loose. 

Some days I feel like I am in a groove: the to-do list gets done, the toddler is happy, and everything just works. Other days, tasks require much more struggle than they should, and the time to accomplish them wanes more quickly than it ought. And on those days, I appreciate moments like this to appreciate the humor, the irony, the reality that my "bad day" really wasn't bad at all--it was just different than I expected. Today my family was clothed and fed; my husband has more work than he needs and we both have jobs we generally enjoy. We are healthy. We are warm. We are blessed.

Tomorrow, perhaps things will turn out like I expect. If not then, maybe the next day. 

Friday, November 14, 2014

Twenty Months

Her hair smells of soy and ginger, with two antenas slicked up in random spots on her head, the product of juicy hands coming through her locks as she finished her ample bowl of stir fry at lunch.

Her mullet is impressive these days, with curls in the back that must be swept the side in order to button up her shirt, while the front is nowhere close to covering her ears, nor blocking her vision. Curtis would love to cut it, to even it out somehow. I wouldn't dream of it. As much as there is nothing I can do to make the front grow faster, there is no way I could force myself to snip off the subtle feminine curls in the back--a bit of my daughter that resembles me, even as her face and eyes remind many of her many other relatives. 

She runs with a quick turnover and a purposeful stride, one that has been noted by fellow friends and fellow running coaches alike. We are asked often about her future athletic pursuits, the result of living in a small town where her father's athletic victories of decades prior will undoubtedly hover in the back of minds when people size up my little girl. 

For now, at all of twenty months, her stamina is impressive for her age and her size. For now, we comment on her massive appetite every morning: 1 cup of full fat plain yogurt, 1 full banana, 1 cup of dry oatmeal, prepared with pureed pumpkin, chia seeds, a splash of maple syrup. I don't eat nearly that much for breakfast, and I'm learning that my days of sharing a large serving of lunch or dinner are gone as well. If I don't prepare two full servings for the two of us, I'm likely giving up my own. 

Yet, if my time as a parent has taught me anything so far, it's that (nearly) all will change in time. While her love for movement and determination are two traits that have held true since birth, sleep patterns and appetites and chosen activities waver as she develops. For now, I cherish this little person she has become, even as she grows and changes every day. 

Wednesday, November 5, 2014

An Ordinary Day

       A couple weeks ago: one of the last kayak outings of the season...

Today, my daughter brought me a cutting board, and asked for an "appy" (think "Happy", without the initial "h" sound, or as it might be spoken by one of the chorus members in "My Fair Lady"). Her vocabulary has exploded as of late, and now includes words in addition to "uh oh" "puppy" "da-da" and a rudimentary form of thank you. While those four words are functional in their own right, I must admit I was happy when she remembered how to say "ma ma" after nearly a year hiatus. It's also encouraging when my child sees a nine-foot stuffed brown bear (as are displayed prominently around town in everywhere from the local high school to the customer service section of Walmart), and no longer calls it a puppy. 


Today, I played capture the flag with a couple dozen elementary students at a running camp with which I am assisting. So many personalities come out when you play this classic game of conquest. You have the kid that bolts out, caution to the wind, only to be captured quickly--his ego only temporarily deflated--and ready to bolt in the same fashion when he inevitably freed. You have the kid that dances back and forth across the line, doing the ten-year-old version of a touch down celebration, retreating quickly and safely to his side the moment he's threatened. You also have the character who shows little to no interest in the game--until she realizes that no one noticed when she ventured into enemy territory, precisely because she looks so incredibly disinterested. In the end, the most amusing moment to me was when the local high school track star--who is humble and unassuming, but also nationally ranked and heavily recruited by colleges nationwide--broke into a full sprint in the midst of making an escape. One of the fifth grade boys, glowing in his good luck of being on the same team as this super star, looked up at him as he crossed the line of safety and proclaimed, "You are really fast."


Today, I watched the rain wash across the glass while sun caught the drops in flashes of light. I held my daughter up to the window and we watched the small movements of white rabbit on the edge of our yard for a while.


Today, a friend lost her unborn child a few weeks shy of her anticipated due date. There was no warning, just the reality of a child that was no longer alive--a child that must still be delivered, and a body that will tell the tale of a child that lived for eight short months inside, for months after.


At the end of the day, when the baby is tucked in and I have a few moments to sit in quiet, I can be overwhelmed with all the moments packed into an ordinary day: simple joy, unimaginable anguish, juvenile amusement, quiet appreciation. I have my plans; sometimes they succeed. I am grateful for the beautiful; I am thankful for grace present in the dark. And  some days I feel I have no choice but to rest in the hope that tomorrow there will be grace for each moment as well. 

Wednesday, October 29, 2014


It started in my mind: a vision, a truth, a reality that seemed fleeting even as I read the markings on a Sunday evening.

A few weeks later, the markings were confirmed as waves of sound created an image that flipped and turned, as beats were magnified into 140 notes a minute and a fleck of light ticked back and forth like a metronome on the black and white screen.

Already, unsteady emotions and uncomfortable symptoms confirmed that I had not made the whole idea up. My hair shedding, my face marked like an adolescent, my appetite non-existent, my body had once again become a brilliant machine without any instruction or direction from my own intelligence--building major organs, constructing functioning systems, and nourishing the new life with no thought to my own personal discomfort or cost. This new being is now the priority. This child.

Last week I cradled my daughter under my left arm while she finger painted the gel on my belly. She tasted it, wiped it on my clothing, and questioned me with her eyes while I willingly let a total stranger wash a wand back and forth across my stretched skin. As I strained to watch the child on the screen, my daughter quickly became disillusioned with the baby everyone was talking about. There was no child in the room besides her, not that she had found anyway.

In reaching the halfway point, I cannot help but soak up everything I love about life as we live it right now: a child that sleeps twelve uninterrupted hours at night, only one little person with needs to be met, a rhythm that carries us through weeks at a time without too much trouble. Yet even as I love the normal that has been established in life with our daughter, I cannot help but wonder about life with a second child. Even as this life only exists within me, he or she colors our plans for the future. Though I don't yet think about feeding and naps, I am constantly interrupted with kicks and movement that break my concentration and remind me of the impending upheaval waiting just a few months away.

Today, I rest in the peace and quiet that exists for now. Tonight, I fall asleep with the gentle nudges from an internal foot connected to a powerful frame that weighs less than a pound. It is no less miraculous the second time. And even as I remember the chaos that comes with a newborn--a body that comes from my own, created within me as I worked and slept and lived for the better part of a year--I cannot help but be thankful for the chance to experience it again.

Wednesday, October 8, 2014

Reminder of Frailty

My daughter is proving to be a bit of a dare devil, shirking the warnings of many a well-meaning adult in order to determine danger for herself.

Age is relative. To the teenagers I coach I am old: I have a baby, a house, a couple degrees, and gray hair that centers around the part in my hair. I'm not keenly aware of what is "on point", don't use snapchat enough, and prefer to go to bed early. To many of the women at church I study with on a weekly basis, I am young. I have a baby and no children in school--let alone college. I attempt to be stylish, know how to use Siri on my iphone, and participate in workouts with the high school track team. 

At times I am not sure where I fit, but I think it is somewhere in the middle. I still feel like I have the options of youth, but I'm thankful much of the time that I don't have the endless transitions that loomed in my teens and twenties. For now, in the deceiving reality I live in, life is stable.

Then, I am reminded that my seeming stability is an illusion.

A friend learned last week that her heart is failing. She is my age, almost exactly. She has a newborn baby, a preschooler, an elementary student, and a child that passed away a few years back. She has a home, weekly activities, and plans lessons and crafts for our mom's group. She is a bright light in our weekly studies, a servant in seemingly every circle she exists within, and too young to have a heart that is failing--much too young.

In these moments, when a few tears over a brief conversation is all our babies will allow, I feel so powerless. Neither the energy of youth or the wisdom of age can do anything concrete in this situation, where the evidence of failure is the subtle shortness of breath and silent panic in the quiet of the night that everything is unraveling. And so we pray: for a miracle, for peace, for comfort, for life beyond the frailty of her broken body. 

In these moments, we are reminded--young and old, healthy and weak--life is fleeting. We are reminded to cling to the truths that are most important, those that remain beyond the conflicts and idols of youth, those that exceed the temptations of complacency and false stability as we age.

Wednesday, October 1, 2014

Nap Time Diversion, or the Perfect Fall Pie

Taken this summer, at a party celebrating 40 years of marriage between Curtis's parents.

Today during nap time, I cooked a pie. I had a pile of pears, a couple of hours, and the urge to wrestle a pie crust. The recipe I found called for garam masala, a spice I have cooked with a few times before, and I had a small jar sitting among my well-used spices waiting for such an occasion. And a lovely occasion it was, where the chopping of pears didn't wake the little one, where the pie crust rolled and folded as it was ordered, where the spices simmered in the hot oven and the crust came out with a perfect golden luster.

My daughter awoke as I assembled the lattice cover (a first for me, but with the luck I was having in construction, I figured it was a good day to try my hand at it), and I fed her uncooked pie crust chunks as she circled the kitchen, flipping through cookbooks and climbing on and off of the dining room chairs.

While the pie cooked under the watchful eye of a toddler, I attacked the mess that was my kitchen: breakfast, lunch, and pie construction. I filled the dishwasher (while she removed spatulas to lick and make sure they had been stripped of all goodness), and dried the knives, and wiped the counters.

And with all the evidence of the nap time activity gone (save the pie, to be consumed tomorrow), we resumed our normal activities: change a diaper, put on coats and shoes, drive to practice, run a while with the jogger, dinner, bath, bed. In the midst of scheduled activities were many somewhat predictable activities as well: the fit that was thrown when I wouldn't let her have the car keys, the escapist move she pulled when she wriggled her arms out from her car seat straps, the endless dogs and airplanes that were identified as we ran the streets in the sunshine, and several kisses at bath time.

The days with just me and my daughter blend together after a while. Routine and structure seem to be necessities for my sanity, but occasionally the sprinkle of garam masala is the perfect Wednesday addition--something out of the ordinary that's been sitting on the shelf for a while, not the do-it-yourself project or bill paying task I originally had on my mind to accomplish. It was nothing ground breaking, but it didn't need to be. It was my little bit of autonomy at a time when my little appendage is with me everywhere I go.

Wednesday, September 24, 2014

My People

A glorious evening full of sunshine this summer, in what now feels like ages ago.

One of the hardest parts of moving is leaving people behind. Call it what you want: a village, a safety net--it is the community of people who help when there’s a schedule conflict, who make you dinner when you’d otherwise be home alone, who call to check on you when they haven’t heard from you in a while.

And I have them, again.

The last two moves have been easier than most because we were moving back: back to family, back to old friends, back to a church community from the past and a handful of relationships maintained well over time. The difference was that last time I moved back to my old hometown, and this time we moved to his. I had plenty of contacts, and knew plenty of first names, but this turned out to be surface fa├žade that held all sorts of potential and absolutely no depth. Relationships take time and effort and the sharing of burdens and joys. Mostly, time.

This morning sixteen women and a dozen children showed up at my house while I wiped my daughter clean of her morning yogurt mask. They show up every Wednesday, and we study together and share bits of our stories: the good, the bad, the real. Some of the kids play downstairs; some of them crawl over legs, flip through board books and Bibles left unattended, and rock in the small rocking chair I refinished this summer. Most of the women I see every Sunday, though a few of the others I know through play groups, or were invited from churches across town. All of them find value in our shared time, or they wouldn’t bother—cutting out time from a busy schedule, getting parked-in on my isolated driveway by late arrivals, sitting on stools when we run out of chairs, and shielding their eyes when the sun shines brightly through my coverless windows.

Later this afternoon a friend called and offered to take my daughter during cross country practice so I could run without a jogger—the same friend who had invited me over for dinner this evening, knowing Curtis was working all night.

I basked in blue skies and sunshine, running through trails up the side of a mountain with the team I coach—trails impassible by a jogging stroller—for one glorious hour. I watched for roots and avoided mud bogs. I listened and shared in a conversation winding as often as the trail. When we hit the pavement at the end of the run, covering the short mile that takes us from the wilderness to the high school, I couldn’t help but be struck by how things have changed.

The season of loneliness that comes with relocating can be disheartening, but it can also be very good. In choosing people, in choosing activities, you have to consider again what is most important. And when your community comes together again, it is even more precious than before.

Wednesday, July 2, 2014

A Head Case

I had to shampoo my toddler's head three times this afternoon, scrubbing her scalp vigorously and pinching her thin hair between my fingers to wash away the oily residue. I had covered her head in sunscreen, and now I was paying for the deed. 

My daughter has disliked anything on her head for most of her life. Born in March, she cried when we put hats on her even as a newborn. Unfortunately, living in Alaska demands that newborns (especially five bound bald ones) wear hats in the winter, which doesn't typically end until May. We dealt with the crying; it was par for the course for the first four months of her life. 

Some time around five months she quit resisting head coverings, and I was thrilled as I accessorized her outfits with colorful bows and matching beanies. Around ten months she remembered that she didn't actually care for anything touching her head, and now she had the coordination and dexterity to match it. Though it was the dead of winter, she whipped hats (and of course headbands) off her head as quickly as I could put them on. I crocheted a hat with straps to secure it, and though it was warped and mangled by her fierce pulling, it stayed on. Unfortunately, her sun hats straps have velcro, and she has discovered it is no match for her previously unknown strength. 

And the hats come off. Every time.

Thus I found myself in today's predicament: unwilling to stay inside when the sun was shining brightly and the thermometer declared it was above 70, and unwilling to risk a sunburn on her oh-so-exposed scalp beneath a ridiculously thin matting of hair. So I squirted a small puddle of the thick, white shield into my hand and reluctantly spread it on her head, trying to rub it in and around her face while she looked at me with an expression that was more shocked than concerned. When I finished, a young boy nearby asked me why my child's hair was white. I explained to him my decision, and he looked unconvinced that it was completely necessary. After all, it looked completely ridiculous.

A few hours after the smearing, after three thorough scrubbings, the hair was mostly back to normal. A patch on the crown of her head escaped a thorough mauling and remained crusty and tangled, but otherwise evidence of the dousing was gone.

Good to know, since I have a feeling we will be repeating this again tomorrow. 

Wednesday, May 21, 2014

The Story in the Sink

There is a wealth of information in a sink of dirty dishes: A cutting board covered with remnants of oranges and strawberries and tomatoes, each not leaving a big enough mess to warrant a cleaning before reuse. Multiple small containers, coated with a thin layer of sand and ash, alongside remnants of items stored for a lunchtime picnic at the beach. Four (or was it six?) bowls streaked with dried oatmeal from three days' breakfasts unattended. 

If the highchair tray came with multiple covers, they'd be stacked by the sink too.

The weather forecast has been favorable this month, with only a half inch rain and a delicious abundance of sun, a welcome contrast to the fifteen inches we received in January.

This island we live on is green, with weather that is notoriously harsh. A friend visiting in March commented on what a distinct look seaside towns have: houses with exterior paint gradually peeling or chipped, foliage with hearty root systems to survive the ever present wind, so many trees and fences and walkways leaning. Weathered. All of it.

And so when the sun comes out and the wind eases up, so do the people--with as much time as real life allows. I spent two hours after my daughter went to bed cleaning: laundry and dishes and bathrooms. I unpacked from last weekend's track meet and began to repack for this weekend's final meet. It seems that the evening, after the sun has dipped below my backyard spruce trees with glistening rays through my kitchen window, is the only prudent time to get such work done. 

Eventually these tasks demand attention, when the baby runs out of clean pajamas, and there isn't a clean spoon in the house. Until that breaking point, I exercise my freedom to ignore. There will always be housework; alas, there will not always be sun...especially in this town. 

Monday, May 5, 2014

Nap Time Musings

     Morning sunrise, a bit earlier each day...

Last week, an hour after putting our toddling girl to bed, I could still hear her babbling away in her crib. Knowing this was unusual for her, I went in to check that something hadn't happened. Everything was as it should be, but the minute I entered the room she popped up and greeted me with an excited squeal, and I lifted her into my arms. With all the range of voice she could muster, she continued to talk and squeal, to play with my lips and drum her hands on my shoulder, pausing every now and then to bury her face in her blanket, which she had intentionally kept tightly within her grasp as I lifted her out.

After a couple moments I lay her down again, and she began to cry intently. This is not her typical response when she is put to bed, and being caught off guard I immediately picked her back up. At that point every parenting advice ever given to me flashed into my head: what habits was I teaching her in this moment? Cry and you'll get what you want? I rocked her as I stood next to her crib, breathing deeply her smell as she nuzzled against my neck, humming as I stood in the evening glow of her room. The sun still shone brightly outside of her western facing window, the rays breaking through the cracks left by the darkening shades. After several moments I lay her down again, and she settled with her left thumb in her mouth, her right arm cradling her pink blanket to her face, and both eyes wide and fixed on my own. 

I spent this last weekend on a four day trip with the track team, flying a few hundred miles away from my family to parade around town in a minivan filled with teenagers. The conversations ranged from overplayed radio hits, to loyalty in relationships, to favorite ice cream flavors. In the couple hundred miles I drove to and from three days worth of track meets, there were plenty of quiet moments where I was able to relish the gift it is to have a job I thoroughly enjoy. And in the quiet of the evening, as I fell asleep in my sleeping bag on a classroom floor listening to the whispering of teenage girls, there were many moments where I very much missed being home. 

I am spending my Monday catching up from a long weekend away from home, finding myself enjoying the rhythm of day to day living: clean sheets, milk in sippe-cups, and the indecision of my daughter as she climbs on and off my lap a half dozen times. She wants to be near me, and though she doesn't have the words to say it, I can tell she noticed my absence. 

It's nice to be away. It's nice to be home. 

Wednesday, April 9, 2014

Outside the Box

My daughter has learned a new skill this past week: the art of transportation. Now that she has mastered toddling around the house on her two dainty feet, she has her hands free. And what better activity than carrying items from one location to another? She is increasingly aware of where items belong—and where she can find them. Personal toiletries seem to be a favorite, and she loves that feminine products fit neatly in her fists, ready to be distributed throughout the kitchen in cupboards and drawers to be found at later dates.

At some point, operating in a world where items materialize in random locations around the house became expected. I’m not sure the day it happened, when the pitter patter of little feet and the sound of her shallow breathing as she concentrates on a specific task became noises that are so familiar, when the schedule of my day began to so effortlessly match the patterns of her naps, when grabbing hats and mittens for two people no longer required any more thought than gathering them just for myself. I don’t remember when I started emptying the dishwasher when she is out of the room, racing to place the contents on the counter before she has made her way over, because as soon as she hears the clinking of silverware and clangs of bowls being stacked she comes running.

Last week, I left her behind. I got on a plane with a couple dozen high school athletes and travelled to a track meet on the mainland, leaving her in capable loving hands—just not mine. The first 24 hours were glorious. I ate without breaking off small chunks to feed a pleading toddler; I fell asleep listening to sounds of sleeping bags rustling against sleeping pads, and awoke to the sound of an alarm clock instead of a cry. Yet after that initial break, where I remembered what it was to operate as an individual, I was ready to return. She has become such a bright spot in my day-to-day existence, and while she complicates the simplest of tasks she has edged her way into my expectations.

Friday, March 28, 2014


I remember the moment my daughter was handed to me, naked and caked with evidence of her dwelling inside me, with one eye wide open and the other stuck closed with the remains of my womb. I remember feeling the pulse of the umbilical cord, so aware of the short life that remained of this connection. In that moment I still nourished her completely; she was still completely reliant on my well-being. And then, in the haze of adrenaline and stitches and staring into her dark, attentive eyes, it was severed, and she became her own.

In the weeks and months that followed it was so difficult to envision her life apart from mine, because she didn't have one. On days we could coordinate schedules I would nurse her, drop her with Curtis at his office, and scurry quickly at the gym around the corner--mindful of the short window I had before she would need me again. At times she would settle into the carrier while he would work on notes of patients he had seen that day, and I would return to an infant wrapped against her daddy's chest, fast asleep. Other times I would return to find him circulating the office after hours, chatting with coworkers as he balancer her on his right arm, rocking her constantly, ever aware of her love of movement.

These glimpses of time I found beyond this nursing babe were fleeting at best, coming in spurts of an hour or so, requiring coordination and effort that felt at times so far beyond my exhausted self. It is hard to explain the contradictory feelings that come on so strongly in those early weeks and months: as suffocating as it felt to be on call for her needs all day and all night, as long as those days stretched into what felt like an endless abyss, the thought of being without her was equally as oppressive. The weight of parental responsibility coupled with the fierce attachment and bonding that happens invisibly and yet so strongly left me struggling to picture the time away that I craved.

Before I had a child I enjoyed my independence. I would happily spend free hours in the summer sunshine biking across the city in trails that wove under busy roads and along creek sides until reaching the ocean, or scaling one of the mountains hovering along the city's skyline with friends. I perused book stores, pieced quilts and experimented with new recipes. I made bread from scratch while listening to audio books. And all of these things seemed to fade into oblivion when the little one arrived, compromising everything from having a full night's rest to accomplish unnecessary tasks to having the hands free to accomplish them. She was attached, and I had to adapt, whether I wanted to or not.

Changes that felt so extreme initially predictably became normal. Outdoor adventures came with the consideration of whether a stroller or backpack could be accommodated. Babysitting that accommodated long outings was cherished, and glimpses of our former freedom allowed retrospection of how far we both had come. Our lives were changed.

And then one day this intense attachment seemed to shift. I am sure that it was gradual, just as it was with her stretches of sleep, just as it has been with the additions of food to her meals. Yet it is hard to see this shift when you are in the midst of the haze that is living-with-a-baby. All of the sudden, she is ready to stop nursing. She can stay with others for hours at a time with minimal preparation on my part. And for as happy as she is to see me when I walk through the door, she would have been okay if I'd stayed away even longer.

After a year of such an intense connection, it feels odd to have such an easy separation, one that came with so little ceremony when compared to her birth and the severance of that pulsing cord.

I realize this is only the beginning, that nearly thirteen months finds a baby still terribly dependent on someone to provide for the most basic of needs. Yet, in a way we have marked our first step of separation since birth, a separation that will continue as she grows and matures and learns how to exist in a world all on her own.

In the days and weeks that followed birth I daydreamed of being free again, of having time to myself to exist and explore and be as I was for the years before she came along. Now I know that that person doesn't exist in the same way. For no matter where I adventure, what projects and plans I pursue, I will always wonder where she is and what she is experiencing. Though we are destined to be separate, though she will inevitably be on her own, I cannot imagine ever being completely free of her. I doubt I ever will.

Monday, February 3, 2014

Settling in, Surveying the Terrain

Taken as the sun was setting, at around 3 in the afternoon, leaving the day's high temperature at about -6.

We have found a routine around here, with some stumbling and some intentional scrounging. It is a funny thing to have so much change at once, as I am sure I have mused about on here too many times these past 11 months. One of the side effects of that is that even though my baby is almost a year, I am just now determining some sort of structure to our day. Sure, we have had structure every now and then throughout the last year, but this structure was short lived and evolving as quickly as our living situation.

Now we have a home, a car, a laundry room, a treadmill, and I can't depend on anyone to have dinner on the table when Curtis is working if I don't do it myself (one of the best benefits of the four month communal living situation we had with Curtis's parents). We also have a child that sleeps ten hours in a row on a regular occasion, stacking a three hour nap on top of that after an early morning feed.

Yes, life is good on so many fronts. There truly was a light at the end of the proverbial tunnel.

With that said, as much as I love routine, too much of "the same" and I begin to go a bit crazy. Babies, after all, don't offer a lot of variety--certainly not as much as teenagers in the classroom do. Our days revolve around diapers and soft finger foods, outfit changes and naps, games of chase on our hands and knees, and quest to find the small ball that has inevitably ended up under the couch, again. I find myself looking for variety in my daily search for new recipes to assemble in the evenings, a sort of challenge in an otherwise pretty simple day. Baby girl and I make a trip to the grocery store, typically a welcome outing, where we check our PO box, inevitably run into one or more people we know, and stop on several occasions when a small expressive face catches the eye of even the most hardened looking fisherman. 

These days we look forward to the sunrise coming a bit early each day, to the month of February not breaking records with rainfall as January did, to Curtis taking a few days off this month, and to the new tricks that we observe with our daughter on a regular basis. We have so much to be thankful for. We have so much to look forward to. 

The rare occasion when she transitions from the crib at Grandma and Grandpa's house to my shoulder without waking up.