Another Baby

On Friday night, August 12th, our family got a little big bigger. Our hearts stretched a little bit wider to make room for another little being--my niece, born 7lbs & 2oz., little beauty Pria Ann.

can you stand HOW CUTE she is??!!

I miss her already. I will be there in Minnesota in one month to spend some time getting to know her. Until then, I cherish these phone pics my sister sends me. It kills me to not be there.

I love you, little angel. I can't wait to meet you.

Congratulations to my sis & my brother-in-law. Her family now complete: two little girls, two little sisters. Our hearts as full as the night sky, bursting with wishes.

A House Full of Yin

My Dad came to visit us this last weekend. I was sick as a dog as aforementioned. He helped us out by cooking and watching the little guy. It was an easy couple of days. My brother and my husband and my Dad and I all kind of run on the Yin energy, so when you have four 'go with the flow-ers' in the house, things tend to be mild and quiet and slow.

Here's my Dad feeding his adorable grandson.

Ode to Blogger

I wrote a post once (yesterday).

It was awesome.

It was all about my oldest bestie, Tiffany,

It had great words about Minnesota (I was just there). It talked about how it smelt like a damp lake. It talked about the scratchy sticks of brown trees that tangled the landscape. It talked about May.

I talked about Tiff and how I've known her since I was five. It talked about how she was the kind of gal that would rip someone's face off for you to protect you. I don't need that, I'm a grown adult, but I like that I have that.

I told you about all sorts of things. But when I went to post it, it disappeared. Blogger crashed for all yesterday and the blogosphere ate up all kinds of genius posts and comments. And I weary trying to remember things I've already covered. And so, I exhale. I forget. I'm not the kind of person who likes a challenge. I don't 'rise up and conquer.' I let go.

And so I won't tell you about what a lovely Mother's Day I had. How I made my own mother breakfast and she cooed to my son on the floor. I won't tell you how I haven't spent a mother's day with her in years. I won't tell you how it made me feel.

I won't tell you how I packed up my son in my mother's Malibu and drove to Blaine, Minnesota to see my oldest bestie, Tiffany. How her daughter plays soccer. How the freezing grey rain felt.

I might tell you that we went to The Old Piper Inn with her husband and two young children. How they gave away free lunches to mothers that day.

I might tell you that I fretted over my son at the table as he tried to chew slash destroy everything...

I will tell you this is one of my fave pics. Me & Tiff and our children in front of The Old Piper Inn in Blaine, Minnesota on Mother's Day.

Mother's Day 2011
Blaine, Minnesota

Into the Desert

So last week we went to Arizona. I used to live there. Before San Diego. I met my husband there. My father lives there. My stepfamily lives there. I graduated college there.

I lived a lot of life there. Twelve years. A decade plus two years.

I thought I didn't miss her, the chalky desert sun. But I do. My bare arms and bare legs and bare toes do. It felt divine to feel her warm hug again. You know how it feels like spring here? It feels like summer there. I am the type of girl who loves summer too.

We stayed with my Dad and my stepmom and stepbrother in Phoenix, and because they were such awesome babysitters, I felt kind of free and unhinged. Everyday I met with this friend or that. I had long lunches with Kasey and Adralyn and a crew of others and also one of my oldest besties Beth. This is her cuddling the little guy before we went out baby-free for the afternoon.

On St. Paddy's Day, my very Irish stepfam threw a nice little gathering in the backyard...

On Saturday, Dave & I went to the wedding we came for. Weddings are so lovely. I love them because they are kind of the party place for us 30 somethings. Because when you are in high school, you hide in corn fields and people's basements. When you are in college you go to house parties. Then you graduate naturally into bars. And then you all fall in love and the only place you meet to get wasted anymore is weddings.

So I love them. Because people feel goofy. And I love love too. I've always loved love, and weddings are all about that, so I love them too. Especially when you think the two getting married are great for each other because it makes me feel good about life. When they are not so good, I still don't care, because I still appreciate a decent party anyway.

I wish I would have taken a picture of my dress because I, errr....I mean the dress was smokin' hot. But I didn't. So here's a picture of me in my first pair of skinny jeans. The name of them are "Darcy" so I knew I should get them even though I'm kind of hippy in the hip area and have avoided them forever. Beth said to me, "Leave it up to you Darc, you get your first pair of skinny jeans AFTER you have a baby." And that made me feel good.

Anyways, the wedding was full of old friends. It was also at a castle and the bride is all Russian, so much so that the speeches were translated, and our friend the groom is half black and half white, so the mix of people was so fun and random. They even had a shot guy walking around with "Vodka or Hennessey?" Classic.

On Sunday, before we departed, Dave and I felt close and happy and relaxed. He put his hand on my leg in the dark and said with so much feeling that he was so blessed to have me and that it made him feel less alone. In the plane in the night we cuddled close and quiet, with my legs draping his lap, and with our baby sleeping in my arms. We looked into the navy night from our little round window and felt ok. Like love and the little things mattered. Our soft sighs drifted into the sky like goodnight prayers: Keep it light, God, keep it light.

The Honeymoon's Over

The families have departed. They have come. I have gone. To them too. And now. I'm left with long days that stretch out before me. We don't live near relatives. No grandmothers take our babies on the weekends. No cousin's birthdays to attend. Not yet. And so. We are alone.

Together? Sure. Happy? Absolutely. Lonely? Sometimes...

In Minnesota, I watched my niece Nova shove her fingers in my baby's mouth. Kiss his cheek. Pat his belly. Little Dax and his little cousin--they saw each other. Faces like brand new presents. Curious. Acknowledgement. You'll be in my life forever...

I ache for what they'll miss. The everyday. The seamless weekends. Where mom and mom and nana and uncle and us we get together for goshknowswhat. Those babies will run at our feet. No big thing. This dream may never be... 

And now I have behind me. All the excitement of pregnancy & birth & new baby & who sees who when & Christmas & presents & planes. It is done. The thank you cards are stamped. Sealed. Sent.

Before me I have my itty bitty family and our endless numbered days. It is real. And it is right. But a realization none the less.

I try to live in The Now.

But I drift. I dream about the growing baby in my arms. The growing family in our future. The growing need to believe our extended family will follow us here like ducks. South for the winter. But then they stay. Stay.

Cousins: Nova & Dax

Dax & Nana Kay 

Dependence Day

It's been gloomy here in San Diego the last few days. I wonder where the sun is. Doesn't this city know that it's summer? 

I worry about the changes in my life. I have moments where I feel out of control. Last night I started crying for every reason in the world and none at all.

With my brother moved in, we are making room for him. Not just in the house. We are adjusting our hearts, our time, our space. I've been spoiled with Dave; we've carved out a world for us.  But that's the thing about that: it just doesn't work for everybody. I can't get my way all the time.  I think it's good my brother challenges me.  He won't let me pick out the violet bath towels for the bathroom. I huff and puff. I let go. We settled on cerulean blue.

I'm not sure if he's happy about our compromise. He's been in his room all day. I think I might tap on his door. No. I think I'll let it go.

He bought a stand mixer last night at Macy's. You know, one of those fancy ones that make you want to bake cakes? Today, he ordered three vanilla beans online. He's plans to make a red velvet cake, thick with cream cheese. I anticipate this cake with pregnant furry. I too look to that machine excitedly. I have vanilla buttercream dreams.

I made a flag cake for fourth of July. My first cake from scratch EVER. The cake reminded me of my Grandma, who used to make them at the lake cabin on Lake Melissa in Minnesota every Independence Day. She just turned 90 years old. I wonder how proud she'd be of my flag cake, inspired by those sparkler and bonfire nights by the lake? Where the fireflies flit around the lampposts and the sounds of our young squeals echo as we sprint down the wooden dock in that long ago past.

The Unexpected

I realized the other day how much I need this. How Much I Need this written word diary. This cry into cyberspace. I realized that I can't talk right.

What I say typically has nothing to do with how I feel.

But This. This cry into binary code delivers me somehow. I need you blog. I'm sorry I doubted you.

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My sister and my niece surprised me this weekend. I didn't know they were going to visit. They flew across the country to see me. When I saw them I cried. And my weekend become wonderful. Already wonderful though. My brother snug in his corner bedroom. His presence here and permeating already.

My sister and I fought though. Like cry so hard you want to throw up hard. I even threw a Sprite can at the wall. It exploded and fizzed unto the walls. I have never done that before. Sure, I have lost my temper, but never punched or thrown things.

I come by it honestly perhaps. After we made up (that's too simple of a sentence), my brother sis and I named off all the objects that had been thrown by each member of the family, including my mother. I now, the self-proclaimed non-thrower, now I join the club. I have to admit, it was the perfect expression of how I felt at the moment. I am somewhat ashamed by how good it felt.

I would tell you about it, but it wearies me, and plus my sister reads this. Rest assured though, we all think we're right and justified and that knowledge only flusters us so.

Why though, at 31, are we still fighting? What is it about the sibling relationship that challenges us so? 

Hey There Change-y Pants

I love moving because it feels like you're moving...

You know, like life itself is propelling forward; the very substance of your surroundings morphs. Things are changing. Change is tangible.

I love change, maybe that's why I'd label myself a progressive. I always think things could be better. Even if they're good now, why not strive for Totally Awesome? Conservatism seems to hinge on the very notion that, hey everything's ok, leave it alone you big changer change-y pants. Why you always gotta reach for the sky, can't you be happy with What Is?

Why? Because most of the time, What Is is pretty good, but there's a few tweaks that will prolly make it better. And I Believe. We Should. Make It Better. Always.

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My brother is moving here to San Diego, did I tell you that? In a matter of weeks, my younger brother, who now resides in Minnesota with our mother, will be setting up shop in our hilly town, living in a nice corner room in our house for an indeterminent amount of time. I can't tell you how ecstatic that makes me.

I feel so removed. I feel so cut off, limbs like arms beyond my reach. I miss my family. I miss the life that will never be: me baby-sitting my niece on warm Saturday afternoons--her arms reaching for me as I enter through doors. The me that would pick out paint colors for the nursery with my mother. The me that would help my sis with summer garage sales. I mourn for all that.

But one memory I won't cry for now is the me that sees my son reach out for his uncle on any given Wednesday. The me that drinks cold beers with my brother at the table on a Saturday night, while he whips me at another game of cards. The me that knows I'm not completely alone here.

I think that my brother will stay a very long time here in this cool coastal town. And I think we will too. That makes me happy. These roots extend like arms around our hearts.

Little Paper Hearts

I am so avoiding what I have to do right now. I need to be knee-deep in my closet, curled up on the floor, going through boxes I haven't gone through in a year. I need to look at every little picture and note in them and say, "oh how cute, i remember that." And then I need to re-pack it again. Box it up. Move it to the next place. And then, not look at it at all until the next time we move. These little sentiments are so important right?

Sometimes I imagine my children going through my memory boxes of poems and old love letters, little torn and faded envelopes of a past life lived. A life that they will never know of me. A me that they will never see. I imagine them being surprised, maybe even a little guilty for not knowing these little parts of a person they will come to know as mom, Mom, MOMMM!!!!

Then I think of my own mother and her lives she lived before us. Who was she really? I imagine her laughing, beautiful as ever, gliding across stages in her dance leotards. I imagine men loved her and I imagine she enjoyed their attention without effort, being adored came natural to her. But this is the mother I've imagined. In truth, I will never know her as the her before me. What dreams will my children conjure up?

Then, I imagine I've died abruptly and Dave has to sift through my old memories. I'm embarrassed with this. I start to throw away things that cheapen my love for him, like when I claimed to love others before him. What did I know of love then, before I married you my love? I burn these adolescent poems. I imagine as we gather up homes against the backdrop of our new family, with each move, I'll throw away more and more of these cheap little paper hearts. Leaving room only for my one true beating, breathing heart....You.

Cabin Fever

With the holidays tucked neatly behind us, we're disheveled. You are in the next room, clearing your throat and sucking snot through your nose, as you play some loud thing. I pound green tea to prevent the body from giving in to the cold that hovers in our living room.

Alaska: you are so large and dark in the winter. When we first landed, our plane shook in your freezing air. I held my stomach and averted my eyes from the window. When we are sick, we are alone.

At touchdown, we clacked onto the peach shining tile of the new Anchorage airport. Things change, you must have thought. Your hometown, where your heart grew in its palms, grows without you. It mars your memory. I know this because the Fargo from my youth doesn't exist anymore either. It is something else entirely. It is present. I am past. When I visit, its new buildings tell me, I don't belong anymore.

Through the cold window in the car, the night white snow mesmerizes me. I am not speaking as the black spokes of the trees zip past. A dark organic silhouette emerges on the street, lit by the yellow globes of the quiet winter street. There's our moose, sauntering through the streets like a living poem. Only in Alaska...

I am grateful to love your family. Grateful to hole up in the dim light of that cozy cabin. Grateful for the five-day hibernation that felt like a warm hug. Grateful for blankets, tea, Christmas lights, and carbohydrates.

We were so silent together, the five of us. Even the dogs outside barely barked. When Humvee, the sheep, wanted crackers, he butted his head against the window without a cry. The only peep I heard from him was when we were leaving; his thick hooves crunched in the driveway as he galloped after the car.

I saw you unwind there. I'm not sure who needed that more--you or me. Since we moved to San Diego, I've seen you hold that tight rein around your life. Squeezing it so hard your knuckles whiten, your neck stiff. I know you do it for us and I love you for it, but I miss you.

It's temporary. It's temporal. It's necessary i know. But gawd my heart screamed when I saw you breathe. Even as you got sicker and sicker, your nose stuffed and your head clogged, I was still relieved. It meant, to me, your body letting go. Laying down. Sleeping.

When we boarded the return plane, you handed me our tickets: first class. You smiled at me. I punched you. We sat down and you held my hand. I started to cry. You said, 'we'll figure it out.' And we will.

Giving Up On Numbers

It's the pattern of the holidays again. It's the drown of an entire month spent spending, forgetting that last year we said, "it'll be different. we won't ever do THAT again." But we do.

Not that I'm complaining. I love gift-giving. Even better, I love receiving. I welcome this trade. Sometimes I like to just give. However, just getting something makes me uncomfortable. If you get me something, rest assured, I won't leave myself indebted long.

I act out of the fear that people might whisper, "she always takes, never receives." And so I super give back. You won't be chiding me and my friendship skills later. O heck no.

...


Been traveling back and forth to Phoenix the last couple weeks. Dipping myself in my recent past. I drive around, trying to remember if I ever belonged there. I think I did. Once. Twice. Yes. For weeks and months at a time.

I hit a wall though, somewhere near 2003. I wanted to leave the desert. I wanted to forget her hot hug on my neck. Rip her sweaty kiss off of me. I disliked living in her spiky landscape, even if I did it for love.

And so, back there...the old comfort of familiar friends and family makes me oooh and aaah for my old place in the world. There's a chair waiting, their presence reminds me. The table is full and topped with flowers.

But I must be filled with ice. I'm so cold. My heart is closed to this past of mine. Already. It's as if the wound of me leaving was closed quickly, like a zipper. Simple as that.

Yet, I know it's not a stone heart that keeps my eyes dry.

It's knowing I've done the right thing.

...

I saw my niece Nova, her and my sis traveled down from Minnesota. She's so precious. All moving and kind of mumbling and screaming and crawling.

I didn't get enough of her though, and that breaks my heart. It sucks that I can't get myself around it. I can't find a solution and I'm a solution girl. I hate problems without solutions. Especially when it involves not seeing some of the people I love most in the world.

...

On a positive note, since a handfull of my readers mistakenly think I'm thisclose to offing myself: Today was a beautiful day. The components of this prettiness? Painting, music, and chilled oranges. And this too. This moment right here, tapping out prose like a metronome.

Day 133 - Moms, Anniversaries, and DMVs

1. Moms

Sometimes, I miss my mom so much that it hurts. Such is the case today.

But I'm also very very grateful. I just spent five blissful days with her, whooping it up here in sunny San Diego.

My mom is one of my best friends. I feel blessed that I mean that.

Like tourists, we traversed this town. From art fair to botanical garden. From the open green hills to the loud downtown.

At the risk of sounding like I work for the San Diego tourism department, I must say, I'm so in love with this city.

Per usual, we also tackled a home project. Couldn't resist spray-painting my old wicker furniture. We opened the garage and surrounded the chair, the end table, the chest of drawers. From ratty tan to chocolate brown, we transformed my bedroom stuff, all nice and new. Brick orange cushion for completion.

My mom has the ability to unwind me. Sometimes I get so tight. So serious. She just can grab the end of that string, and skip off into the sunshine. When it's all said and done, I'm new again. Unraveled. Disheveled. Smiling. Remembering to let go...

Of course I also have the habit of taking it too far. Ravished for the younger and freer me, I probably maybe perhaps smoked a few cigs while she visited. I probably maybe perhaps drank coffee, soda, and rum. And better yet, I think I probably maybe perhaps needed all that.

Let's face it. Stress management has never been one of my strong suits. Too-shay.

I miss you mom. I wish we lived in the same city.

2. Anniversaries

I'm going to brag here. I just can't help it.

Dave and I celebrated our six-month wedding anniversary over the weekend. With my mom in town and his mom and step dad also stopping in for the weekend, the morning of our anniversary, we quickly shared some lovely sentiments and a heart-felt spoken "Happy Anniversary" to each other before crawling out of bed. He went off to sail with his family. Mom and I, off to the gardens. (That all sounded so bourgeoisie) I didn't think anything of it, I figured we'd celebrate after our guests departed.

Later that evening, he came smiling up the stairs with a fist full of pink and white balloons, one of which, in red lettering said "Happy Anniversary." His other hand? A bouquet of lilies. His mother and step dad followed close behind him, with a smooth rectangle of tiramisu cake. What a guy. What a guy.

I love getting love in all the girly, cliche ways that hipper girls might renounce. Flowers are pretty. Balloons are awesome. And cake is divine. I have a theory that girls who claim to not like these things are actually insecure. They think YOU don't like these things. So they claim the same.

Or they saw a movie somewhere where the quirky protagonist girl said something witty to her potential mate like, "Why would you buy me flowers? It's a waste of money for something that just wilts and dies all over my kitchen table."

Which was really just the screenwriter's lazy way of using character development. The underlying message of the dialogue was meant to communicate this: This girl is so different and unique than all the other girls this guy has ever met. And the guy is supposed to know he's met someone real special and that perhaps his whole life might be changed from here on out.

So some poor girl out in the audience thinks to herself, hmmm...maybe if I don't like flowers than I'll be unique and special and someone will love me just like this guy loves Amanda Peet.

But sadly, the results are simply this: These girls miss out on one of the oldest and simplest forms of male to female courtship. Here's a flower. It means I love you. I'm not much of a talker. But I got you this pretty thing. Because I want to give you things. Because you're pretty. And I like you. And I want to continue touching your boobs.

We're so smitten with this display of affection that we let them. As well we should.

In a more advanced form of male to female courtship, Dave handed me two tickets to the dance tour of "So You Think You Can Dance" in downtown San Diego in November. Row Five. Center Stage.

WHAT??!!! (Can you hear me jumping up and down and screaming at the top of my lungs like Mary Murphy?!) This male to female show of affection says: I love you so much that I went out and did for you (for us) what might make you love me till we die.

Add to that, that my mom witnessed our anniversary exchange. Which means, Dave earns mad brownie points. Which means, I'm all the more ecstatic. Because I'm petty and I love it when things look good. Kidding. Kind of. Let's face it, everybody wants their parents to adore their chosen life partner. Life isn't as fun without that key element.

Anyway, "Happy Anniversary" to the the love of my life. For the seven years before our wedding day and to the 70 years after--my love continues to thicken and grow in my heart. It digs deeper; it gets more complicated; it gets more light than ever.

3. DMVs

Went to the DMV today to finally get my California driver's license.

At the first counter, the guy said, "I like your name. Darcy. That's nice."

Me (smiling): Thanks.

DMV employee: Have you ever seen the TV series "Pride and Prejudice"?

Me (replying in my head): You mean, 'Have I read the classic piece of epic romantic literature written by none other than Jane Austen?'

Me (actually said): The character Mr. Darcy?

DMV employee: Yes, that's it! Mr. Darcy. That's who I thought of when I heard your name. Very English sounding. I love it.

At the second counter, the woman said, "You and I share the same middle name."

Me (smiling): Oh, your middle name is "Jo"?! Are you from the Midwest?

2nd DMV employee: My parents are.

Me: Well that explains it.

We share a laugh.

By the end of our time together, she had complimented my ability to take a good thumb print and also said "Pretty picture!" after snapping my new driver's license shot.

O.k. so my trip to the DMV was lovely. What the hell? Did I just walk into some kind of DMV twilight zone? Where the most upbeat and supportive employees uplifted residents all day long? Next time I go they'll be distributing champagne and cookies at the buffet table. Knock on wood.

While the customer service was friendly, I have to say California government lags lags lags. First off, my written driver's test was actually written. What? Written. Like pencil and test sheet. And when I was done, I watched my fave employee with the middle name Jo grade it by hand. By hand. What kind of backwards shit is that? Don't they know that most states have these electronic things, they're called computers, that not only save paper but also increase efficiency?

And to boot, they said, "Your license will arrive in the mail in a few weeks." What? Um, in Arizona and Minnesota AND in po-dunk North Dakota (circa early nineties), you get, hold your breath, the darn thing printed off right there. Weird. Why is CA so behind?

To further this point, the other day I got pulled over by a stoic motorcyle cop. Why? Um, I was also interested to find out. Apparently it was for talking on my cellphone while driving. Without a hands-free device. Apparently that's a law they enforce here. I thought they were kidding. And when he handed me the ticket, he said I could call a number and pay, but I would have to "wait a month or so, so that they can get the ticket in the system." Hmm... it's no wonder Cali has budget problems.

Which brings me to my last point. Which is quite far down here, so I'm hoping some of you have dropped off before getting here, so you'll miss one of my few Republican-like confessions.

Now, most of you know that I'm a Democrat through and through. I tend to agree with and therefore vote blue, the majority of the time. But I have to say, one negative thing, I've noticed since living in this dark blue state (the first one in my life, Arizona and North Dakota are blood red), is that (begin redneck twang here and kick dirt with cowboy boots), "There sures are lots of laws here. Lots of big bureacracy, red tape. I don't know if I like the gubernent' deciding all my bizness." Sometimes a point is a point.

Day 118 - Sick Day

When I woke up this morning, I couldn't believe how dang tired I was. I could barely push myself out of bed. On day nine of no caffeine, I couldn't help but think 'wtf? still tired? if this is life without coffee then I quit quitting.'

Instead I booked an appointment with Dr. Google. As I searched 'exhaustion' and 'adrenal fatigue,' my tiredness morphed into a headache that felt like a punch in my left eye. I started to wonder if the continual caffeine intake had only been masking a complete health failure. Was caffeine propping me up like rag doll? Sure to fall over without support...

But by noon my neck felt swollen. My throat filled with raw sand. Wait a second.

Sneezing sets in. Watery eyes. Shit.

I'm sick as a dawg.

I was kind of relieved. I was thinking my no caffeine experiment was yielding arg-worthy results. On the other hand, I'm sick. Arg.

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In other sickly news...

I hate the little pieces of pink chicken in Campbell's chicken noodle soup. Why can't they just make noodle soup in chicken broth? Why add the little shredded morsels of loose meat? I pick them all out, one by one.

It grosses me out to think of how long they've been dead and floating around in my salty broth. Years perhaps? So I could be eating four-year-old dead chicken? I know they've been on my shelf for atleast four months. Disgusting.

When I'm sick, I miss my mother immensely. My mom was the best mom EVER when I was sick. For some reason, as a teenager, I was sick a lot. Much more than my brother or sister. It was always a problem with my throat and it always knocked me on my ass. At least three days. Can't talk. Can't walk. Can barely swallow or lift my head.

My mom was like an angel, swooping down with a look of love and concern. She'd dote on me all day. Antibiotics. Soup. Crackers. Tea. And a few lucky times, a touch of hot brandy mixed with tea. She said it soothed my throat and also put me sleep. It did. Both of those things.

I loved how whenever I woke, she was there, with medicine or soup. I didn't have to think about anything, I just fell in and out of sleep. The days would go by and she'd be my blurry consistent. Nursing me back. Until one day, I'd crave something solid and I'd watch reruns all day.

Don't get me wrong, Dave is good. He stocks the cupboard with Nyquil and saltines. And he says, "I'm sorry you're sick, babe." If I ask him, he'll stir me a pot of soup. Butter my crackers.

But still, moms are just better than boys. They just have the perfect mix of love, concern, and get-better-know-how. They give you what you need before you ask.

I remember one time when my mom was sick she said, "Who takes care of mom when she's sick?" As busy teenagers, it surely wasn't us.

It seems that by the time your heart grows big enough to love your mom the way she loved you, it's too late. You're gone. All growed up. Too far away to reciprocate the kind of day-to-day love she bestowed on you.

As I get older, I understand this sad catch-22 more and more. I suffer alone on the couch. I feebly ask Dave for water, hoping not to bother him. Everything maternal in me gives; never takes. As we get older and the estrogen thubs through our blood, the only override of this instinct is mom.

I guess what I'm really saying is...

I want my mommy :-(

Day 92 - Balboa Park, In Pictures

For the day at Balboa Park, the family free-for-alled. Here's $40 bucks and a map, they said. Here's some snippets of the park journey....

At the visitor's center, I almost kicked somebody in the head when I found out the art museums were all closed on Mondays. Considering THAT was the ONLY reason I voted on the trip, I pouted like a little baby.

Luckily, the actual baby, Nova, was strapped to my torso, making it very difficult for me to feel negative emotions for long...

Music from an organ ambled into the air from a distance. My brother Cole and I hiked in the direction of the sound. It's eerie hollow yell led us to this door.

Someone played alone behind the large steel ediface, filling the park with the sound of yearning without a face.


We tried to peak through the cracks and saw nothing. But the music still moved me...

Then, wooed by the promise of peace and zen, we followed the path to the Japanese Friendship Garden. At $4 dollars a head I thought 'this better be good,' and it wasn't, but then again it totally was. I do remember this...a room with a view...


Why does this big picture window with its rock garden view calm you? Who knows. But it does. Why ask why? That's so zen.


Maroon trees and bamboo forests. Bonsai trees and pithy Japanese paintings.
And then there was that koi pond...



We leave in a hurry, and I miss the tea pavilion. Next time, next time... We scurry to meet our sister at the lily pond.

Next, we meander through the cool shade of the botanical building. Where the caged birds sing...

We squirl at carnivourous plants and medusa's heads...These are the stories that incite the imagination...

I see an abstract painting in the flowers. I snatch the picture. I color it neon to make it mine.

We meet the rest of the fams at the IMAX to go "Under the Sea." My sis and I sat in a corner with Nova as she slept...and I wouldn't of had it any other way. When Nova awoke, she watched the gargantuan screen with us.

My fave part? At one point, Nova screamed, scared out of her wits, when a creepy crab pounced on a fish, chewing it to bits. I love that she vocalized that terror. Even at 7 months, it's amazing we already know what's f'ed up and scary.

Speaking of scary, we also saw the BodyWorlds exhibit. Creepy? Pretty? Smart? Educational? Hmmm....I got words waiting for this....

Day 82 - Dictators Rule

Every year we convene for our annual McGaugler vacation, we arrive fresh-faced and gleeful. We hug and kiss cheeks. Each of us throw our bags into some room down the hall, eager to ask the usual barrage of questions--How was the flight or drive? Job? House? Kids? In the beginning, we're all bendy and flexible for each other...

But soon enough, we settle right back into our usual roles. I take on the role of instigator, inciting heated arguments due to my lack of patience with group democracy. My sister, she's a frustrated mothering type. My brother, he's a snarky mediator. My stepsister is simply vocally annoyed by the whole thing. And my stepbrother is the 'keep me out of it' guy.

Add to that my father, whose the poster dad for "tough love" (i.e. "don't expect any kind of break just cause you're my kid"). Then, my stepmother, the opposite of my father, overreaching her attentiveness i.e. "do you need anything, what about this or this or that?!" Lastly, throw in a couple of moody teenagers, a beautiful baby, and some half-terrified spouses. THEN, it's a party.

We must all sense the impending boom because most of the adults, minus the recovering alcoholics, grab beers as soon as their suitcases hit the floor. We cross our fingers that our impulses aren't a sign of our own future recovery. But Fuggetaboutit. We swig.

It's normally all fine and dandy until the family meeting. Every year we circle around the living room floor and, according to my father's rule book on how to run a meeting based on we-have-no-idea, we discuss/vote/change/keep any and all aspects of our week-long beach side event.

There's so many differing opinions in even this small of group that I often wonder how Congress gets anything passed at all. I sigh and understand the slow uphill groan of bureaucracy. It's times like these I think, despite popular opinion, dictatorship ain't half-bad. The fact of the matter is: Most people don't know what's good for em'. Case in point: George W. Bush got elected. Twice. (Well at least once; that first election is debatable...)

Now our gathering is, of course, much more evolved than the half-wits who elected W., but still, I lose patience for our slow decision-making process of majority rules. (Note: my family and democracy-lovers in general just gasped and threw tomatoes at me. Whatev. I ain't taking it back!) See how I am? An instigator.

Anyhoos, besides everything, one of the major things we discuss is our family day. What San Diego attraction will we descend upon this year? We vote and much to most people's delight, it's a day at Balboa Park!

Stay tuned...

Day 75 - Sunday, Fun Day

So remember how I told you about that all-girls bookclub of 20-30 somethings that I was trying (ok begging) to join? Well, they did in fact let me in and yesterday I attended my first meet-up.

I nervously set my alarm in case I overslept. Like a schoolgirl, I hand-picked my outfit, laying each piece out thoughtfully.

I debated with myself as I peered into my messy closet. No, no...that's overdressed. OR This outfit looks like I'm trying to hard. OR trying too little on that outfit. But THIS ONE, this is just right. Seemingly effortless, casual, and stylish. Bingo.

The setting for our Sunday soiree of potluck and book swap is a shaded park in Mission Hills, an old neighborhood in San Diego known for its old-growth trees, historic architecture and quaint walkability. I get a little excited/anxious as I quick check myself in the mirror. New friends...here I come!

I stop at Trader Joe's to pick up a dish. It's whole wheat tortilla chips and guacamole dip. I grab a gallon of chilled green tea with mint for my sippy cup. As the grocer places my goods in recycled bags, I'm pleased with my selections. I think they say, "Look, I'm conscious! Befriend me!"

I note that an intense urge to smoke hits me as I breeze down the freeway to my destination. I want to roll the window down and thoughtfully take pulls. I'm a rebel, a misfit, that's where I fit in, my craving seems to coax. I ignore that Junkie brain, and unwrap my dark chocolate instead. I shove squares of truffle in my mouth at 70 miles per hour.

I get lost and I'm late. After a call to my beloved human GPS (Dave) who recently bought me a real GPS (Garmin), I pull up to the green park nestled in the city. A cluster of about twenty girls congregates near the center, sitting cross-legged on blankets. I creep up to the food table and no one looks up as spear watermelon and scoop hummus unto my plate. Even when I give my I'm sorry I'm a loser face to the chatty group, no one seems to pay attention. I am relieved when I finally sit down on the fringe.

And then I fall in love. These girls are knee-deep in a conversation about whether or not one of Jodi Picoult's recent books lacked her usual spunk. Which parlayed into which of her books were faves and which flops. I have opinions on this very matter. I share them. People laugh. I fit right in.

When they ask me about the book I brought, "The Glass Castle" by Jeannette Walls, I express succinctly and steadily what I love about this memoir. The dysfunction. The heart-ache. The genius. When I'm done, a girl turns to me and says, "I read that book, I loved it."

When the swap starts, I'm secretly pleased with myself. My book is coveted. It's one of the first to reach White Elephant retirement, meaning it's been stolen/traded two times and therefore can be swapped no more. I end up with a collection of the best American essays from 2006. I'm thrilled about this as I think it might help me improve upon this very blog.

We form a circle and chat about where we're from and where we've been. We talk about babies and careers. We talk about movies and books. As the girls start to thin away into their cars and their lives, I end up talking at length with a girl, who also recently married and who recently moved here from Nashville.

Randomly, she cut Dave's hair a few weeks ago. Through their conversation, they deduced that her and I coincidentally belonged to the same book club. Considering the one-in-a-bunch chance of that, me and her e-mailed a few times, and met for the first time today! It's fateful enough that I pay attention to it. I'm eager to see it through, to find its path.

She's in a similar place as me in life, and we got along excellently. I'm hoping hoping hoping, perhaps I've got me a friend.

Look at me now, world. All growed up.

Day 73 - An Emotional Rollercoaster

Talking to my sister on the phone today she said, "I don't know if everyone else feels like this, but I feel like I have so much love surrounding me. And Nova. From all of the women in our lives." I smiled for her. I love that she feels that. I love that she is protected and supported.

Suddenly I realized like a lump in the throat that I would not have that when I had a child. Then, I was jealous of her. Intensely, painfully jealous.

After we hung up, I needed consolation for my woes. I needed to hear "Oh no honey, don't be silly, you'll be surrounded. We'll make it work." I immediately called my mother. No answer. My husband. No answer. My brother. No answer. With each left message, my voice broke a little more.

It will be alright. It will be alright. I counsel myself on my drive to work. How I got to today included the right steps; I retrace them to be sure. Check and check. And so, the world will take care of these needs for me. I trust. I won't. I won't be left alone.

After work, Dave gathers me in his arms and asks me if I'm o.k. Not really. I say.

I peel myself from him and make chamomile tea. Just smelling it reminds me of how delicious life can be, even in her sadness. I retouch and re-frame an original oil pastel of mine from a couple years ago. When I show Dave, I'm beaming.

Day 67 - A Holy Super Nova

Nova lifted us all to the holy occasion on her big day. Waking up and looking at her smiley happy giggly baby face is eating a slice of heaven. Just being in her presence makes me calm and centered.

My sister is so good about letting others just be with Nova. I love that about her as a mother. She isn't over watchy or critical or panicky as some young moms I've seen. She's very loving and fun and at ease with her new role; it's amazing to see. She makes it easy to feel comfortable when I want to boggart time with my niece ;-)!

And gosh was Nova ever precious. Her long white dress of tulle poofed and spilled out of her car seat. It was so poofy we could barely clasp her belt. She wore her handmade pearl and amethyst (her Feb. birthstone) bracelet with her name on it that I customized for her from Dara's baby bling store on etsy. The charm on the tiny bracelet was a guardian angel.

At St. Andrew's church, we file in and fill the pews. The pastor opens the service prayerfully and also reminds us to pick up the Lutheran church newsletter on our way out. From my seat I can see the front page headline "Your Gay Neighbors." I stifle a giggle, amused by what information this article might impart. I imagine it might read something like this: Be nice to them but remember--they're going to hell. Council them to pray their way away from gay. (One of many reasons I don't go to church is that church culture supports this kind of nonsense.)

But I'm extra-partial to this church because my grandmother finds solace here and for that I am grateful and I find solace too. Our family marks our beautiful moments here--our beginnings and endings and our hopeful inbetweens. From our weddings to our funerals, we celebrate the circle of life here. And today, we watch as God wraps his grace around our newest family member.

Shortly after starting, my sis and her husband and Nova and me and my brother join the pastor at the front. I watch her the entire time and I say I will to what the pastor asks of me. And my brother nods too. I know he's asking me, as her godparent, to carry her faithfully into the palm of the Lutheran faith and I say yes but I jumble the semantics in my brain a bit because while I promise to support her spiritually, so she knows God and his goodness, I probably won't be ushering her into the pews every week.

While the pastor may disagree, I believe that God approves. Because all faith is Lutheran faith and Lutheran faith is all faith. As it is with Catholics and Buddhists and Muslims too. God is what love is. And that's the promise I make to her.

My own godmother, my Aunt Janice, the night before the baptism spoke a bit woefully to me about her own godmother role in my life. She said she herself tried to fulfill her duties as ambassador of my faith when she called to ask my mother if she could take me to the necessary classes to get confirmed. My mother, god bless her, said her children chose their own religious path and that she would ask me. To which, I, at the tender pre-teen age of 11 or 12, replied with a simple "No." And so it was settled.

While I sense my Aunt feels a tad sad by the abrupt "end" of her stewardship, what she needs to know is, in my mind, she DID fulfill her duties, in spite of our church blocking. In that, I have ALWAYS felt her love. Dear Aunt Janice, I have always felt your love...

From birthdays to graduations to weddings--she handmade scrapbooks and banners, she fussed and asked of me, she gave me compliments and loving smiles and her presence. When I recently moved here to San Diego, I had to clean out a lot of my old boxes. In one of those boxes, I found letters and cards from her from over the years. I sat on the empty carpet of my living room floor and re-read a pile of letters she sent after I graduated from high school and moved to Phoenix. I was eighteen, I felt alone, and I needed them, even if I didn't know it then.

Having that love and support in my life SHOWS me what God Is...and that's the pact I make with Nova.

Nova never makes a peep during the entire baptism, staring happily at the pastor as his words lull and crest. When he dips her head to the stainless steel bowl in the podium, her bright blue eyes are so clear as she peacefully looked up at him. He cups his palm into the water and lifts it. The water pours slowly over the top of her head, slicking down her hair to her warm soft head. It's quiet and touching and lovely; we're humbled and moved.

After the service, our family gathers for food and cake. I'm happy all day. I later say good-bye to my family as they drive off to Minneapolis, and I spend the remaining hours with Tiffany and her husband and her two kids until they drop me off at the airport. There too, I am with large pieces of my existence. And so I'm complete.

It's home again home again on the two planes. Travel is like I like it--silent and free. I'm so tired I crash into my husband's arms like sand. His shoulder nook is one of my favorite places; I am safe and loved.

Day 66 - The Way We Were

Airline travel normally doesn't bother me. Traveling relieves a person of looming obligations and tasks. Your job is simply to get where you're going. What you do in the meantime is Zen. You are free to BE. To read. To watch. To listen.

But I have to say, this two-legged trip into the green and golden plains lacked a little due to a few annoying seatmates. On the first leg to Denver I huddled in the middle seat, between two unthinking males. They both selfishly hogged both of my potential armrests without apology.

Not fair. You have a aisle or a window seat (with a completely free armrest all to yourself) and here I am in the middle AND I have no armrest. Not even half of one! I try to make my body so narrow as to not touch either of you unaware schlubs and I simply can't melt that far into myself so your shirts stop brushing my arm.

On the second leg, from Denver to Fargo, I was relieved to see a skinny shy teenager filling the seat next to my window seat. That is, until I realized his nose ran for miles and he refused to go blow it. He filled the silence every 23 seconds with a gooey obnoxious sniffle. Go blow your nose kid. And cover your mouth when you cough, oh my gawd, you better not get me sick. I cuddle against the window. I cover my face with my hair.

But none of that's here nor there as I descend into the cauliflower blue sky of my youth. As I watch the defined lines of the farms unfuzz in my view, I realize I forgot my camera. I'm sorry for that; I wanted to show you...

It's a joyous embrace with my mother, brother, sister, and brother-in-law. We drive happy and chatty to my grandmother's house. A content me wraps my arms around the little star of Nova, my beautiful and charming niece. For the rest of the afternoon relatives stream in and out of the house, a steady hum of talking and eating.

Towards the dark part of the night, we head to the main Broadway drag in downtown Fargo to watch my cousin play in his band Cousin B. Dempsey's bar is ripe with good sound and Josh rocks the bass, of course, and his band bedazzles us. All of this I would have guessed.

What I wouldn't have guessed was that everyone and their mother would be there. It felt like a high school reunion! My sister ran into her old friends. My brother ran into his old friends. I ran into my old friends. My cousins were there too. My oldest and bestest friend (and partner-in-party-crime) Tiffany met me there. Overly ecstatic, tired & unfed, and in-step with my former Fargo self, I definitely drank too much.

There's something about Fargo that lures me into this defunct version of myself. I've often wondered if it's the particular gridlines on the map. That particular place in space sucks me in a weird wormhole of myself but not really me behavior. But unchecked debauchery frequently rules. I'm sad this post isn't ALL sunshine...the punchline drags and blows...

On my two month anniversary of NOT smoking, I smoked three cigarettes. How poetic. Arg. There goes my two-month-anniversary how-far-i've-come-on-not-smoking blog post I was planning. Stupid stupid Fargo, you have me wrapped around your crooked finger. I need to unwind.

Don't leave me yet. Tomorrow is beautiful and pure, I promise. I felt and loved the day right as rain. With a copious amount of sunshine.

Day 65 - Leavin' On a Jet Plane

Getting all packed up and ready to head to the humid plains. I'm thrilled to be visiting Fargo this time of year again. Since my family moved to Minneapolis, it's a rare thing.

I love Fargo summers. Humid and midwestern, mosquitos and thick green trees, rivers and birds. It's a special place to me, although you'd have to kill me first to move back there. I do love it to visit, to fill my heart back up with its sounds. I love its easy vibe and slower pace. Fargo is friendliness and debauchery--two of my fave things in one. (Although I'll only get one of those this time, baptisms are healthy and holy events so let's go with friendliness).

My flight tomorrow is early and ridiculously long. Touchdown at the two-(or is it three now)-gate Hector Airport in Fargo isn't until the afternoon. I'll be whisked away by family and friends, swallowed up by their love.

Dave has two of his friends visiting from out of town. The mood is festive and it feels like normal again at our house. But tomorrow morning I'm leaving on a jet plane. I'm sad to pick only one or the other. Although I couldn't be more thrilled with my weekend plans.

See you tomorrow Fargo, friends, family. I will not be able to access a computer tomorrow, but I promise you I'll sketch the scene later. It'll be fresh as a newly typed blog.