Twinapalooza

Yesterday was Memorial Day. On many fronts. Most of you are Zuckerberged to me through the magic of The Social Network and so were party to my minute-by-minute account of the twins' arrival. Unlike Dillon and Reese, there was an actual labor. And though with Reese, we rushed to the hospital to avoid the Snowpocalypse, we had plenty of time before she arrived.

But yesterday, Eva's water broke around 2 p.m., and we found ourselves once again racing for the hospital. And we made it just as they were putting in the epidural. We'd barely arrived before Baby A was crowning - and subsequently born with one gentle push. And four-and-a-half minutes later, Baby B emerged feet-first.

Elyssa Anne arrived calmly, delicately, small-ly. Under six pounds, her features are doll-like. Her hands tiny with miniature fingers. Her feet, however, are long and thin and capped with monkey toes. Ethan Carter worked himself around into breech position, requiring the doctor to pull him out feet first and squalling for all he was worth. And while his sister basked peacefully under the heat lamp, he wailed himself fully red as a beet.

When Reese was born, I felt awe at the miracle of life, delivered in an instant into the room and the world. With Elyssa and Ethan, I felt awe at the magnificence of Eva, a determined vessel that nourished 13 pounds of baby. She was in the hospital on Sunday after straining a ligament under her belly, and I started to worry that her dedication to keeping the twins until late in her term was going to tear her to pieces. Yesterday, with quiet strength and grit, she delivered two lives into this mad world. She lay spent on the bed, listening to the music of two cries, and I thought, "Wow, what a woman."

Gratitude

...for beautiful weather

...for a Sunday afternoon nap with the door open

...for the promise of spring

...for dispensing - even if for the moment - of desperation

...for those who remind me, when I feel the void, how many dear ones there are to fill it

...for loving so much the sound of someone else's laughter

...for answered prayers

...for e.e. cummings

...for a house that is becoming a home

...for being one known as "Auntley Ashley"

...for being a "plus one" to someone

...for camellias

...for the smell of libraries

...for old friends made new

...for new friends who feel old

...for you, dear reader, gratitude for you...

Dear a-Men:

I read your latest letter to Penelope with, per usual, an absolute sense of likewiseness. Of the sense that tradition clearly stems from the past, is carried into the present and seems rather moot in the face of a faceless future. How (and who - which I must point out is an anagram of "how" -) will it be toted forward if there are no small hands to reach for it? And not even one hand to reach for yours to make new tradition?

Christmas Eve started well enough with coffee with an old friend. But then, it was on to some rather joyless cooking. The chopping and stirring and measuring all seemed rather like a chore than a shared experience. Though we tried to laugh and infuse the egg peeling and pretzel smashing and vegetable boiling with yuletide brightness, it simply felt tired and dim.

We watched the Christmas Eve service on the internet rather than going because I just couldn't muster the energy to push everyone to go. And then we watched Prep & Landing, and it was lovely, but the theme of dissatisfaction and finding fulfillment just made me cry.

And then my brother called and wanted us to come down to his house before Santa's arrival on Christmas morning. But his in-laws were there, and the house doesn't really offer the room for four more adults to be added to the festivities and plus we don't open presents on Christmas day anymore because the in-laws are there and so we postpone until the New Year's weekend. This all led to serious Nana-guilt for my mother and envy-guilt for my sister and me who were having a hard enough time with this holiday season.

The call was a reminder of all the tradition lost and the way our Christmas has become this slippery ephemeral thing to be moved around on the calendar to accommodate everyone's schedule. It all leads to a half-hearted Christmas on both ends of the week - a Christmess if you will. And not only that but there was the reminder of children, of in-laws, of new celebrations and bright eyes and innocence and the kind of love that creates all those things that's decidedly missing from my life right now.

Even though it was snowing - my first white Christmas! - and the Christmas music played in the kitchen and there was a blue velvet birthday cake for Baby Jesus (because Dillon's favorite color is blue) and Reese woke up from her nap demanding "Ash'ey" and curled up in my lap all warm and cherubic for some TV time, there was still on the inside a void. A cold hollow that echoed with all the doubts about whether it will ever be different. Whether I will ever have my own warm cherub and strange desserts by request.

We ended the night by watching two horrible made-for-TV movies that somehow took the edge of bitterness off the day. If even the Hallmark movie could fail in holiday perfection, perhaps I should cut myself some slack.

Ah, M. Let us continue the advent celebration with the same sense of hope that Immanuel delivered to us. God is with us. And for now, that will have to be enough.

Love,
A

Name Game

Dillon's friend Luke has a new baby brother.

Dillon: What's Luke's brother's name?

Eva: His name is Zane.

Dillon: But why?

Eva: Well, because Luke's mom and dad liked that name.

Dillon: Well, if I have another baby, I'm going to name it Fred the Kong.

Miscellany & All That Jazz

* Today I bought a pair of sunglasses at the same time I bought underpants featuring characters from Cars for Dillon. I felt compelled to explain to the cashier that they were for my nephew because I don't have a kid so these aren't for my kid that I don't have, but instead, I took a deep breath and reminded myself that no one cares but me.

* I bought a house two month's ago that I'm still not living in because I can't move Kudzu at the moment. It's now serving as the world's most expensive storage unit.

* Dillon asked me yesterday why I wear glasses. He found it delightful that "my peepers don't work right." I'm pretty sure I set him up to say that to a stranger in an embarrassing manner before long.

* As I've unpacked items at the *new* storage unit, I've found pictures from 3, 5, 10 years ago. And no matter how recent or distant from present, they all seem like lifetimes ago.

* I'm wondering if it would be taking advantage of the intern to allow him to mow my lawn. He says he likes yard work, and I'm pretty sure that I'm not gonna.

* I've had a spate of Facebook invitations from people I obviously went to high school with but of whom I have absolutely no recollection. And I'm pretty sure I'd remember someone who went by "Jeff Bo."

* Lately, I've dreamed a lot about travel. It reminds me how reluctant I am to take the time, spend the money, make the leap. And so I just stay put and dream.

* How long does it take for water to go under the bridge? I mean, are there just people/relationships/occurrences that you have to let go? But let go in a float downstream unresolved kind of way? And not in the we can be friends kind of way?

* Is it worth it to keep the big fat box of skinny pants? Or should I just accept my fatness.

* In my office of eight, five are women. In the last six months, one got married, and three are engaged. One is pregnant.

* I want some banana pudding.

* Kudzu is in my lap and purring, and I don't want to move him so I may just sleep crooked on the couch.

* I am stupidly excited that the AP Stylebook finally relented and made "website" the correct spelling over the historic "Web site."

* One of my favorite clients took another job in another state. I won't miss the mild sexual harassment, but I will miss a client that curses like a sailor and laughs at my jokes.

* I named a microbrew by a local brewery in town. It's one of my greatest professional accomplishments.

* Lately I've encountered people who remind me of my hopeless quest to be a cool kid and the hopelessness of it. Because, let's face it, there will always be cool kids. And I will never be one of them.

* Friday I ate a blood orange "handcrafted popsicle." I'd like another, please.

* One of the signs that Kudzu's anemia might be worsening is if his tongue gets pale. I never thought I would have such a high per diem of saying "His tongue looks pretty good."

* Right now, my mother's cat is asleep on my right toes - just the little one and the one next to it. His breath is tickling my foot.

* Reese says "hi" in the most charming manner - just a sing-song "hiiiiii."

* I have to go to bed now and pretend that I'm going to get up early and make it to work even before I'm supposed to be there to catch up on work. I have such a good imagination.

Are You There, Blog? It's Me, Ashley.

Six months ago, the words stopped.

I couldn't say precisely why. Perhaps it was my unwillingness to let the laptop go and embrace a new computer. Perhaps it was the myriad of out-of-town trips that kept me busy through October. Perhaps it was the onset of the second holiday season without Ronnie. Perhaps it was the relentless pursuit of the perfect house. And perhaps it was a combination of those things or none of those things. But whatever the reason, the inner-narrative that became the outer-blog was suddenly silenced.

I feel like I ought to be able to find the words now to describe those months, to fill in the great void I've left here. When I try to pin them down and sort them out into some chronological experience, it all falls apart. Instead it's a rush and blur of images and scenes. Mountains in October in North Georgia and Boone, NC. Dahlonega in November. Pictures of leaves. A second Thanksgiving without Ronnie. And Christmas without him, too. Cold, gray days, long and dark.

There were sounds: A Death Cab for Cutie concert at the Fox. And Ray LaMontagne's voice crying out "Jolene" against those beautiful theater walls. A new David Gray album - fourth row tickets purchased for his upcoming concert in Atlanta. John Mayer at Phillips Arena again, covering "Ain't No Sunshine."

The milestones: Dillon is three now. And Reese is one. And I bought a house. The Barrister, for whatever reason, still sees fit to hang around me.

I still work in the office between The Goofball and The Linguista.

Nothingandsomuch has changed. And nothingandsomuch has stayed the same.

And even though I want to say everything, I settled for saying something. Something like...hello.

Hard Drive Goes the Hard Way

I heard the ominous whirring. The fan gunning and wheezing to a stop. But I ignored it and pressed onward. I could feel it dying every time I turned on the computer, its arduous start-up process. And it was made all the more pitiful by the broken hinges that meant I had to prop the lid on the couch arm to use it.

For Christmas, Mom gave me a ridiculously large external hard drive for backing up my photos. I left it in the packaging under the table by the bed until the night that the whirring turned to clicking.

Oh, the click of a withering hard drive.

I panicked, willing it to turn on just one more time. Just long enough for me to plug a USB in and drag all my precious files to safety. But instead, they drowned in a sea of rhythmic clicking. Like a life preserver tossed into a tempest, Mom (who's quite tech savvy) tried to reboot from the system disk. Alas, there was no hope. And so, I sat there on the couch, with my hand on the lid of the laptop and thought of all of the photos of Dillon and Reese and Wilmywood, all of the half-started stories and poems, all of the downloaded-only music, sinking down through the cyberspace abyss.

I carried it to the mall to a rather chaotic looking little shop where a harried Asian lady attempted to start the failed piece of crap. Instead of success, she shook her head sadly and repeated, "I don't know. It's the hard drive. I don't know." And I thought to myself, Don't say it again. And two weeks later, she declared it a lost cause.

I had flashbacks of the Sad Mac and poor Carrie Bradshaw's lost files. The Barrister guided me out of the mall while I alternately tried to console myself and contemplated quickly dispatching myself in front of a moving vehicle. I sat in the car, the hunk of plastic and circuits tucked inside the Belk bag that held my newly purchased "fat" shorts (adding insult to injury), and looked out the window. I felt stupid. Hard drive failure had happened to me at work. And I knew that the laptop was on its last leg. I remarked nearly every time I started it up that I needed to back it up. Instead, I let myself down.

Now, the hard drive is sitting on the dining room table, deftly removed from its casing by my mom. There's a box in one of the chairs. There's some packaging materials I've tossed on top for when I get ready to ship it to the ridiculously high-priced data recovery center. There's probably a thin film of dust on it - it's been weeks.

So why I haven't I sent it? I don't know. It's not that I don't want those memories back - I desperately want to be able to look again at the photos I took of Dillon at the playground the day before the hard drive died and the pictures I took at the work retreat and the autumn leaves at last year's trip to Valle Crucis and mine and The Barrister's Valentine's Day and, perhaps most desperately, the pictures I took of the Grace Street apartment that can never be replicated. I want the words I never finished, and the drafts of my thesis that lead me to what I published. And yet, if I don't send it, they are still alive, somewhere in cyberspace limbo. And if I do send it, I might have to hear that they're gone forever, little bytes of life vanished as though they never happened.

Rusty

Tonight, I logged in to the Jungle for the first time in ages. I suppose I've checked into the dashboard a couple of times over the last two-and-a-half months, but, to be honest, I haven't really had words. I haven't had words or time or both, or maybe the chemistry to grease the wheels between thoughts and expression. For whatever reason, I took an unintended hiatus.

At times, this accidental absence has felt like a release from responsibility. But at this point, the silence is deafening. The words are clogging my synapses; it's difficult to even know what to say.

My first impulse was to try and write everything...try to somehow recapture the lost time. Instead, I'm going to oil up the brainwaves and just let it all tumble out. And if there's something you want to know more about - if any of you are still out there - I'll be happy to expound upon it. So here's a little of what you've missed...and by the way, it's good to be back.

* Third blogiversary
* Winning lottery ticket - $35
* Harry Potter & the Half-Blood Prince
* The death of Michael Jackson
* 30
* New-found affinity for goat cheese
* Monet's water lilies * Birthday shoes
* Dillon's 2 1/2 birthday party
* House hunt with renewed vigor
* Big new account at work
* Trip to Ohio and reunion with the one and only Kim Shable
* Nearing 8 months with The Barrister
* Introduction to Beach Ball Rodeo
* Client placement in an in-flight magazine (the ungetable get)
* Reese sitting up
* A terrible tragedy
* The rise of tweeting
* Frequent travel to the Big City office
* New tripod
* A month of physical therapy for my continued back problems
* Blackberry cobbler
* Weight gain
* Death Cab for Cutie concert
* Death of the Hard Drive
* Tommy's 30th birthday party
* Growing volunteer group
* Seeing Penelope & Andi
* Meeting The Ice Cream Man
* Discovery of The Furminator
* Received a hand-painted lizard from the Dilly Monster
* Laughed, loudly, as always
* Made mistakes, as always
* Lived

Obligatory Cuteness

FAIL

* Blogging

* Reading the novels sent to me by Kim Shable and Susan

* Leaving the bar at Smartini

* Seeing Reese and Dillon

* Contact with the outside world

* House-hunting

* Being productive at work

* Writing (in a way that uses that MFA thing I've got)

* Finances - surprise - $270 for car servicing! Taxes not back yet. Yelch.

* Sending back the merchandise that Amazon sent me incorrectly

* March project for volunteer group (although, I will have to partially blame it on the rain that is falling, falling.)

* Putting a picture of The Barrister on my desk at work

* Life, generally speaking

The Knockers are Coming

Apparently it started when Dillon decided to potty train himself. One day, he simply refused to wet his diaper, and since then, he's been heading to the bathroom like a big boy. And one day, he knocked on the wall while doing his business and said to Eva, "The Knockers are coming, Mommy." And where are The Knockers coming from? "Right there," he said and knocked on the wall again and then pointed to a different spot on the wall for her to knock. "Right there."

The Knockers continued to make regular appearances at potty time for awhile. Then one night after he had gone to bed, Justin heard noises coming from Dillon's room. He opened the door to find him standing in his bed, knocking on the wall and pronouncing that The Knockers were coming.

Eva and Justin finally confessed to each other that The Knockers were giving them the heebie-jeebies. But Dillon seemed unafraid of The Knockers - excited even by their arrival. Eva asked the pediatrician if he was overly stressed; the doc told her that Dillon's just highly imaginative.

I had not seen - and hoped to never see - the strange phenomenon of The Knockers. Children plus the supernatural equal a very freaked out Ashley. But last weekend, I was introduced to The Knockers.

Dillon stood at the front door looking out into the yard through the storm door. And then he began to knock. "The Knockers are coming," he said. "Right here. Right here." He knocked again.

"Who are The Knockers, Dillon?" I asked.

He looked at me with his guileless eyes and said, "They're coming."

"Coming to what?"

He took the index finger of one hand and started to draw circles on the glass. "They go 'round and 'round and 'round." It was almost like he was mesmerized. And then his connection to The Knockers was broken and he turned back to play.

Thoroughly chilled, hair standing on end, I asked, "Dillon, what do The Knockers look like?"

"They're big shapes," he said, holding his little arms akimbo.

Now...I fully imagine that The Knockers who are big shapes and go round and round look like this:
But in all fairness, The Knockers, who are big shapes, and go round and round could look like this:
In all fairness, Dillon isn't afraid of The Knockers. I mean, the rest of us are utterly creeped out and live in fear that The Knockers are coming. But they seem to make him happy or at the very least be on friendly terms with him. All the same, I welcome any suggestions - garlic or crosses or a lucky rabbit foot - to keep The Knockers from coming to see me.

Ash & the Case of the Brilliant Barrister

The Crimes:
* A felony charge of blog neglect
* Numerous misdemeanor counts of phone calls unreturned, emails unanswered and skipping out on family togetherness
* A couple of petty charges of lack of productivity at work and overtexting

Opening Argument:
Ladies and gentlereaders of the jury, in my own defense, I plan to acquit myself of the above charges by demonstrating an alibi of happiness directly related to The Brilliant Barrister. Knowing the history of my state of happiness from the annals of this blog, you may bring a preconceived notion that this state of being is impossible for the defendant. On the contrary, it is, in fact, possible. Please observe.

Evidence:
Exhibit A - Flowers for no good reason on three separate occasions in the last month, including roses, lilies and tulips. I ask you, ladies and gentlereaders, - particularly ladies - whom among you could hold this against me?

Exhibit B - Spontaneous visits to my place of employment. While these may have contributed to my petty lack of productivity at work, these visits were not with malicious intent. Instead, these visits were meant to contribute to the greater happiness of the defendant by infusing her life with the element of pleasant surprise.

Exhibit C - Please see the generally goofy, moony smile plastered on the defendant's face.

Exhibit D - The Barrister demonstrates a willingness to journey more than 20 minutes to my place of residence and fetch me for outings. On said occasions, he charms the parental units with witty banter and tales of his barristerish activities.

Exhibit E - The Dilly Monster allowed him to play in The Artichoke Band last night. It is important to understand that these privileges, on past occasions, have actually been revoked by The Monster from the likes of his own Nana. We ask that the jury not underestimate the significance of these actions.

Witnesses:
The fam, the office crew, Mr. Kudzu, T., Sus, Jenn and Niki. In addition, The Barrister is now friends with STGD and Kim on Facebook in a gesture of full disclosure with those with whom he must curry favor.

Closing Argument:
In closing, I would like to note that general control of The Panic has improved and umprompted commentary on my state of well-being have seen an increase in the last six weeks. And while I have noted the external evidences of The Barrister, I have not cataloged the less tangible evidences of The Barrister's influence: calm, laughter, contentment. But I ask you, in light of the circumstances of the last two years, the long and winding road through struggles that you...well, cut me some slack on the charges listed.

Verdict:
It is up to you, ladies and gentlereaders. Am I guilty of these punishable offenses? Or am I just guilty of indulging in a little *gasp* normality that seems to be leading to the Land of the Happy?

My Little Drummer Boy

Midnight Miscellany

* I am on Facebook, the seventh time-suckage wonder of the world. This has led to the good, the bad, and the ugly: reunited with a long-silent friend who lives in the ATown; found Chad D., love of my 15-year-old life; and a guy I went to high school with wearing a cowboy hat and a very curly blonde wig, making him just about the ugliest girl I've ever seen.

* Tomorrow is the Come-to-Jesus Part 2: Status Redux. I'll be heading to his house with pizza and indigestion following work tomorrow. Stay tuned.

* Yesterday, my client sent my boss a note about what a great writer I am. I mean, I know it's Writing for The Man, but still, it warms my heart.

* Dillon now says my whole name - although he finds the "l" a bit tricky. But I'll take "Ashey" anyday - even when it's followed by the demand, "Socks off!"

* I am getting the ball rolling with my own volunteer group. I'm both nervous and excited. It's thrilling to think that it could work and be great, and terrifying to think I will be a singles volunteer group with a single volunteer - me.

* The weekend will be partially devoted to a Thanksgiving party with friends - and partly to finishing Breaking Dawn.

* Good night.

Another Perfect Weekend on a Mountaintop

Perfect Happiness: In Pictures

While You're There, Comb Your Hair - Don't Forget Your Underwear

* Getting ready to shower on Saturday morning at Anna's, I realized that I'd forgotten to pack any underwear. I had to borrow from Anna - and for those of you who know the difference between our body types, you can understand that even her granniest panties were my thongs.

* I saw Les Mis for the fourth time this weekend, and it threw me back to my insane theater freak days. I confess - "Bring Him Home" still gives me shivers, "The Final Confession" still makes me cry, and the smell of the Fox Theatre still makes me happy. Javert was out-of-this-world good, and Eponine's "On My Own" was perfection.

* On the way to Les Mis, Eva looked over my outfit - a black cropped swing jacket over a sheer cream colored ruffled blouse and black pants - and said, "Wow, you look fabulous." She thought for a minute and said, "I had forgotten what I used to be like - I would've planned what to wear today. Instead, I just threw something in the bag." She sighed a little, and I thought...there are two sides to everything.

* Dillon has gotten so big! And talkative! He now calls me "Ashley," although the "l" is pretty subtle. I'm amazed how much he can already communicate - and how much of a little boy he's become. (All 25 pounds of him!)

* Anna decided to let Zeke and Eli run free in her yard on Saturday. Only, they didn't - as she had hoped - merely frolick in the backyard where she and Dad were weeding. Instead, they took off like bullet trains through the woods. The recovery effort took about an hour. It made me feel slightly better to know that it isn't just me.

* While we sat on the back porch this afternoon and enjoyed the crisp mountain air tinged with fall, Anna did her Sunday coupon clipping. "I need new shampoo," I said, thumbing through one of the sales papers. She tossed me an envelope stuffed full of coupons to see if she had one for shampoo. I sorted through the massive pile, chuckling at the fact that she cuts and sorts every coupon. Including one for Durex condoms and two for Depends.

Peek-a-boo: A Series

We All Scream for Ice Cream

Occurences

Haircut - On Saturday, I accompanied Anna to the salon for a haircut. It was monumental because a) she had grown her hair out for Locks of Love b) she hadn't had her hair cut since Ronnie died and c) I can't recall the last time she had anything beyond a simple trim done. But she gritted her teeth through the initial scissor slice and now she has a shoulder length 'do that's really quite fetching.

Ash - Dillon has suddenly switching from "Sha" to "Ash." On Sunday, when we arrived to keep him so that his parents could celebrate their wedding anniversary, he ran to passenger side of the van calling "Ash! Ash!" And when I left for work yesterday morning he wouldn't give me a goodbye kiss because he wanted to play "cars." Mama said he stood at the door pitifully saying "Ash?" after I left.

Floor - For the first time in almost three decades, my mother is having the floors in our living room, dining room and den replaced with hardwoods. The crummy deteriorating carpet is being toted out and replaced with gleaming blond oak beams. Already today, the living room is woodsy. And she agreed to only put the furniture back in the room that she likes as opposed to just loading back in what's always been here.

Dancing - Last night, Mom and Dad were still at Justin and Eva's babysitting, so I had the house to myself. I watched She's the Man, and when the credits rolled to "Move Along" by the All-American Rejects, I gave into a fit of spontaneous dancing in the den. The cats looked perfectly scandalized. I thought it was magnificent.