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."

Labor & Delivery

At the moment, The Barrister and I are sitting in the waiting room watching snippets of Dr. Phil addressing the Octo-Mom in his typical incongruous metaphors. I can't really pay attention. Part of me want to go back to sleep...seeing as how we fled the storm of the decade that unceremoniously dropped six-plus inches of snow at home and arrived at Anna's just before 9 last night. And then got up at 6:30 this morning to get ready for the baby's arrival. Not that this chair is all that comfortable, but I am rather tired.

I walked back to the delivery room to say hello to Eva...she's having contractions about ten minutes apart. It was cool to hear the baby's heartbeat. But the machines, the tubes, the hospitalness of it all. I'm content to be stuck with Dr. Phil and now experts on rosacea. Mom had suggested that I might want to stay in the delivery room...but. No. I think I'll wait until Reese is here and wearing a cute little hat before I get involved. Stay tuned...

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.

Great Expectations

It is with great pleasure that I announce that I'm going to be an aunt for the second time around. Justin and Eva are adding another one to the fold, and their family of three will be four come March.

They heard the baby's heartbeat early last week, and the doctor pronounced it strong and healthy. Unfortunately for poor Eva, she's feeling a bit green.

And me? At first, I felt trepidations - what if I don't connect with the new baby like I have with Dillon? And then, I remembered the day Dillon arrived, a totally unknown quantity, sparking the deepest, most unconditional love. And then I thought...I can hardly wait.

Truckin'

I would like to clarify - for the record - that we only rode around Anna's neighborhood with Dillon in the back, unsecured. We did not go on any main roads. Just so you know...that we're Southern but we're not crazy.

Sliding Down Memory Lane

This morning, Dillon was quite insistent about being allowed to go into the neighbor's yard and make use of the playground equipment. Instead, we convinced him that far better playground equipment could be made available to him by trekking to the school where Mom works in the library. And while I confess that it was fun to watch Dillon laugh and play, I found myself hanging back and letting the others oversee his sliding and climbing. All while I did a little sliding and climbing of my own.

For whatever reason, it was easy to forget on that expanse of white sand and metal bars and plastic tubes that I am nearing 30 years old. Instead, I found myself in a swing, chuckling at the familiar heat of the flexible black plastic that had been baking in the morning sun. I squiged my toes into the sand and pushed off, pumping my knees out of sheer instinct. Then I laid back into the motion, pushing my feet up toward the sky, closing my eyes against the glare. The doppler of wind whistled past my ears, to and fro, and it felt so blissful, for a moment, I forgot everything except blue and sun and air.

Then I went over to the tallest snaking tube (wondering for a moment if I would get stuck inside). I climbed up the metal rungs and gripped the top of the opening and settled at the top of the incline. I pushed off, slinking through the twists and turns with surprising speed and popped back out into the daylight.

Dillon started to pinken, so we decided it was best to stroll him home. I cast a sidelong glance at the slide and said, "Just one more time." And, to my surprise, Justin and Eva lined up right behind me. We all slid through the tube, I imagine, holding our breaths, cloaked in our ten-year-old selves, before being dumped back out into the present.

Thursday Thoughts

* I have been up before 6 a.m. the past two days, which is completely counter to my nature. It's 9:30, and I gotta tell ya, I'm dying here.

* I saw friends this evening - yes! finally! - and I got hugs. At least...let's see...one, two, three. Three solid hugs. Solid.

* Packing list for San Fran? Sadly short. Must get on it. Leaving Saturday.

* Was in Atlanta yesterday to meeting with One Who is Expecting about a campaign I'll be taking over parts of when she delivers. Big campaign. National exposure. So jazzed.

* Am in love with my new hair. I'm sorry, but there probably won't be pictures until after I come back from Cali.

* Dillon and Eva came to the office today for lunch at The Grit. Dillon told my boss what an elephant says. He also had a very nice conversation with the stand-up of Capt. Kirk in the corner of his office.

* Novel by favorite author set aside just for San Fran trip. Also new issue of Real Simple in the mail today.

* Please enjoy these photos, taken by Eva, that demonstrate just how far I'll go to amuse my nephew. I was blowing bubbles, by the way. And he liked it. Which made this ridiculous pose all worth it.

Cutting Loose

This weekend held two anomalies: one, I cut my hair, and two, I went to the bar - twice.

The first had to do with nearing a year away from Wilmywood (next Monday) and feeling like my long hair was strangely tied to the hardships of the last twelve months: Booker dying, the panic attacks, the second thoughts, the loneliness, Ronnie's death. About two weeks ago, I decided it was time to cut it. Time to let those inches go - and let the things associated with my longer locks go as well. So yesterday, I went to Corey and told him to cut it - really cut it - and that I trusted him to do what he thought best. The result: a fabulous, fabulous new style. And a slightly refreshed outlook on life. It's amazing what exposing your neck will do for you. Photos soon...

The second - bar trips two nights in a row - had to do with Justin being in town for his MBA class reunion. He and Eva told me I'd spent too many Friday nights watching "What Not to Wear" and that it was time to find something to wear and hit the town. So I did. I spent Friday and Saturday evening in the international company of Justin's friends from grad school: a Portuguese, a German, two Indians, an Israeli, and a couple of Americans for good measure.

And last night, standing in the bar between the German and the Portuguese and trying to explain the phrase "junk in the trunk" while bouncing a little to the bar music, sipping a Cosmo and rocking my new haircut, a night out turned into a step forward - a refreshed look, physically and mentally. A few moments that seemed normal in a hopelessly abnormal time in life. A sense of confidence about where I am and where I'm going, when it was easy to laugh and easy to walk down the street on the way back to the car, and feel that good in my own skin.

Local Color

On Saturday, after the festivals, Justin, Eva and Eva's brother Gregory took me up on the Blueridge Parkway so that I could get some photos and really see the leaves. Gregory disdained me as a "leaf-looker", the term the locals reserve for stupid below-the-speed-limit drivers who come to the mountains in droves during the fall. And I knew I was old when I was trying to convince this 13-year-old boy to appreciate the beauty of his hometown. We pulled over at one point and climbed through the woods along a rather rocky path until we broke through the trees onto a flat overlook. And it was breathtaking. Totally worth the 19 times I almost twisted my ankle.

Possibly the best part of the whole weekend was Sunday morning. Eva's parents have a landscaping business and so own a Gator. Justin took me out for a ride through their property and the adjacent drive across Old Spanish Oak. It was freezing cold in the open air at 40 mph, Justin and I were laughing at Gregory's dog who insisted on racing us, and it was gorgeous and peaceful. Justin asked me why I wasn't taking more pictures. "I can't," I said. "It's too beautiful and I can't do it justice. I'm just going to breathe and enjoy it." And I did.

Fall, Festivals and Funnel Cake

This past weekend, I traveled to the western North Carolina mountains to take in a couple of festivals synonymous with the onset of autumn. Eva grew up in that part of the state, and we had the pleasure of starting the day with breakfast at her parents' house on Old Spanish Oak Mountain with this spectacular view of Grandfather Mountain from the back porch. (Grandfather is partly obscured by the clouds here, but it truly does look like the profile of an old man, as though he lay down and went to sleep among the ridges.)

We started our festival trek at Valle Crucis, an arts and crafts fair replete with mountain music (bluegrass!), homemade goodies (apple butter!) and a petting zoo (alpacas!). I couldn't get photos that did it justice, but Valle Crucis is a beautiful valley nestled among ranges of gently rolling hills. It's surrounded on all four sides, and this weekend, it was cloaked in the colors of peak fall weekend in the mountains: gilded in yellow, vibrant orange, russet and blood red. Perhaps my film camera captured it better, but I know my digital just couldn't absorb the colors.

The fair itself was charming with all its folksy art - a genre I'm pretty familiar with, as it's very popular in my hometown, but this art was from the mountains and so had a different flavor to it. A lot of interesting metal work, found object art and wood carving. Some of it wonderful and well-crafted - and some of it was a little scary. I chose an unusual biscuit jar from a Boone potter that was glazed in black and white and bore a hand carved mural and poetry on it. I wanted one of these beautiful natural wood bowls, but they are ridiculously expensive. So I took a photo instead.

We couldn't have asked for more beautiful weather - sunny and crisp with just enough chill to make you grateful for your coat and smile that autumn had chased away the oppressive summer heat. And the smell was marvelous - damp dew, grass, woodsmoke and mountain air. It was invigorating.

We drove out of Valle Crucis and through the mountains, past what Eva's dad claims is the most photographed farm in the state of North Carolina perched on a wide expanse of green between two towering peaks. I, unfortunately, was concentrating on not letting the winding mountain road get to me and did not join the legions of photographers who have captured its likeness. We made our way to Banner Elk, closer to Eva's hometown, for the Woolly Worm Festival. What, you ask, is a woolly worm? I don't believe we have them in Georgia, but they look like crawling pipe cleaners. They have 13 segments of brown and black. And at the Woolly Worm Festival, these creatures are raced (yes, raced) up a 3-foot length of string. After 1,400 worms raced, the winning worm, Armstrong, was used to predict the winter weather. His segmented body bore 4 black segments, 4 brown segments and 5 black segments - so look for a severe onset to winter followed by a mild period and then out with an arctic blast. Oh, and by the way, the whole concept of the Woolly Worm Festival was dreamed up by two guys who were high.

The Woolly Worm Festival offered all sorts of culture, from the folk music to the colorful array of people in attendance. I was lucky enough to procure a hot-out-of-the-fryer funnel cake and Mom selected some delicious apple beignets - deelish. Justin and Eva let Dillon have some funnel cake, and, well, folks, he's from the South - he liked it. But not quite as much as he liked the little maracas Eva purchased from the Cherokee Indian pan flutist.

And so we ended our day of festivals - with sunburn, indigestion and a very happy little boy.

A Plague Upon Both Your Houses

Friday at midnight, Dillon started throwing up. He went through all the sets of crib sheets they own, six pairs of pajamas, eight towels and two outfits by the time we arrived at 2 p.m. on Saturday to provide back up to the bedraggled parents.

Sunday at midnight, I started throwing up. Mom followed behind me two hours later. By the time the two of us had called into work on Monday, Eva joined our happy number. And then Justin, too. I was upright for approximately 10 minutes yesterday. Mom and I alternately moaned, threw up, shared the heating pad for all our aching joints, made blackly comedic remarks, and grew increasingly more dehydrated. Must be my annual weekend for dehydration.

In the past forty-eight hours, I have eaten one cracker, one single-serve Mott's applesauce, a piece of toast and a peanut butter and jelly sandwich (which I ate too fast because I was starving and had to take a nap to keep down). I have missed two days of work - a feat unsurpassed since I was in college - and therein have missed both a company outing and a big awards presentation for my boss at The Fox Theater in Atlanta.

The doctor thought Dillon had rotavirus. I think it's the plague. Please observe the biohazard sign we've hung over the house and keep at a safe distance.

Dillon: A Snapshot

*Teeth: Four
*Crawling: Almost
*Meltdowns: 5 am, 10:40 am, 2:15 pm
* Exhausted parents: Two
*Insanely huge mosquito bites: Two
*Favorite book: Hello, Bee! (Thanks to Andi!)
*Favorite noise: Woof
*New skill: Hilarious attempts at fake crying
*Fingernails: Sharp enough to draw a Potteresque scar on Auntie Ashley's nose
*Worries about scar disappearing before scheduled website photo Thursday: Thousands

A Series of Miscellany

Rediscovered
* 99x Morning Show
* Random songs - Bush's "Machinehead", The Cranberries' "Linger", Live's "Selling the Drama"
* How much I love driving alone to work in the morning
* Can go to Weaver D's any time I want (The Goofball said he'd go with me)

Noticed
* A very cute drawing in the graphic designer's sketchbook of -- and labeled as -- "bee"
* Friends -- real friends -- and how important they are to me right now
* Details of new commute - the morning sky from the top of the Atl. Hwy. by Peking
* How nice everyone is to me at the office - like the creative director who just "wanted to chat" with me today while I was in the Big City

Embarrassed
* Inability to communicate properly with one of The Owner's of the Company due to my nervousness and his intense pauses which seem to prompt me to say, "I'm excited to be here" eighteen times
* Calling the Big City office today when I got lost on the streets of downtown Hotlanta (thanks to Eva, I at least made it to Peachtree Street)
* Failure to connect senses of humor with any of the men in the office - do only women find me funny?

Only in ATown
* Going to happy hour tomorrow with coworkers preceding our viewing of a documentary about gypsies at the new art house theatre
* Plans for lunch downtown Friday to take in the opening game weekend Dawgs madness
* Next company outing to see coworker who is lead singer of a band

Feeling
* Sad
* Hopeful
* Ready for bed

Working Girl

After several hints and allegations here on the blog, I'm going to come right out and say it: I got a job. Somewhere among the six interviews and the 90-minute writing test, I impressed someone enough to make me an offer. Plus, I was wearing a shirt that, according to Eva, said, "Give me a job and then take me disco dancing."

I know I glossed over that writing test part until now. I confess, I lived in absolute fear that I would suffer the greatest humiliation of my life in holding an MFA and failing a potential employer's writing test. Although, I'll tell you kids, it wasn't anything to thumb your nose at. My disco shirt was wringing with sweat at the end of 90 minutes.

But I was offered The Job, I accepted The Job, and I start The Job on Monday. I'm still a little vague on what The Job is. And whether I can do it. But I prefer not to dwell on those things for now. For now, let's merely celebrate that I don't have to write any more heinous cover letters.

Alka Seltzer to the Rescue

On Thursday, I had an i-n-t-e-r-v-i-e-w in Atlanta that qualified as the most intense 4 1/2 hours in recent memory and included a quickly-eaten egg salad sandwich. For future reference, do not eat egg salad when nervous.

I felt fairly ill for the rest of the day, but marked it down to prolonged anxiety and tried to sleep it off. On Friday, the awful feeling resurged after dinner, but I dismissed it as the result of dwelling on all the things I said wrong in the i-n-t-e-r-v-i-e-w and the contemplation of possibly starting a new job, new life, etcetera and so forth, and on the other hand convincing myself that I'd flubbed the whole thing and would be back to square one. On Saturday, following dinner, the overwhelming nausea reared its ugly head.

I tried deep breathing and sitting upright while watching The Prestige, because I figured Christian Bale and Hugh Jackman would make me feel better. But the stomach pains and biting nausea refused to subside, and I started to worry that I was having a panic attack. After the movie, Justin and Eva asked me if I was okay. But I wasn't. I was positively green. And on top of that, my stomach was hard to the touch, which convinced me that an evil being was waiting to burst forth at any moment. Around midnight, Justin went to Walgreens to consult the all-night pharmacist.

The pharmacist figured that prolonged anxiety had caused me to brew a raging case of acid indigestion in my stomach that had gone unchecked for several days. Prescription? Two Pepcid AC chased by a double dose of Alka Seltzer. Ack. The remedy itself almost made me toss my cookies. But I am pleased to report that within ten minutes, my belly had deflated a bit to its normal gushy state and I didn't feel quite so sick. I'm pretty certain that if I were a superhero, my Achilles heel would be my stomach. With the nervousness and motion sickness, whatever my great powers were, all it would take to defeat me would be a series of speed interviews aboard a cruise ship.

Celebrate Good Times

Despite the fact that I'm a tad grouchy about turning 28, the 72-hour birthday extravaganza surrounding the event were enough to wash away the blues. These included

* Arrival of owl post bearing gifts from afar

* Shoe shopping at DSW's 80 percent off summer clearance sale with Mom, Anna, Eva & Dillon. The prevalence of the 80 percent off stickers nearly caused my circuits to overload.

* A card from my sister that wished me clearance shoes in my size. In the end, I walked away with three pairs.

* Funny e-cards and well-wishing emails and lovely comments on the blog

* Greek salad with grilled shrimp

* Sushi at Utage and milkshakes from The Grill (courtesy of Eva & Justin)

* Blueberry pancakes made by Chef Justin

* A card from Justin with a poem about farting (I love my brother)

* A gift certificate from Mom for a massage

* Dillon's first bath in the sink in which he determined that splashing is fun

* Sunday dinner at Blue Willow Inn, which I'm not sure those of you not from The South can truly appreciate. But it's sweet tea, fried chicken, collard greens and sweet potato casserole that will knock your socks off finished with chess pie. Mmmm.

* A new teacup for my collection

* A card from my parents that made me cry

Here's hoping for many happy returns.

As Meg pointed out recently, having the blog often presents a predicament over what parts of life to chronicle. And sometimes, leaving life events off the blog feels odd when you know they're what are coloring that moment in time. I've struggled over whether or not to blog about what happened to me last week, and if I did, how to blog about it. To tell the whole story or just the essence. In the end, for better or for worse, I decided to blog it because I couldn't seem to get past it to write something else.

On Wednesday, Mom and I drove to Atlanta to stay with Justin and Eva for the night so that they could go out on a date while we kept Dillon. The night before, their oven element had burnt out (read: caught on fire), and Eva asked me to ride along with her to get the replacement part. And it was a totally normal sunny hot June afternoon.

When we returned and pulled into the garage, Eva rolled to a stop, put it the car in park, and we heard a very strange noise. A noise of something bumping up under the car. The sort of noise you hear when a cardboard box is caught underneath the car. She turned off the motor. We both exited the car. And it was no longer a totally normal sunny hot June afternoon but a blur of panic and anguish and andrenaline.

Seizing underneath the car was Justin and Eva's cat, Booker. I could tell it was bad. I yelled at her to get Mom. He was under the middle part of the car, and I'm not even sure how I reached him - I have bruises on the top of my feet where I pressed them to the concrete trying to get him. And when I did get him into my arms, he stilled and was quiet and there was blood in his mouth and coming from his nose and his pupils dilated and I laid him, as gently as I could in my panic, in the backseat and got in the car.

I don't know how many times Eva backed from the garage and pulled forward trying to get angled out of the driveway before I said, "You can't drive." I ran inside to get Mom, told her I didn't think he was going to make it as she passed me.

Inside, I looked at my hands and forearms spattered with blood and blood down the leg of my jeans. I washed up and then I sat in the floor in front of Dillon in the Exersaucer and wept. When Justin called the house, I told him Booker had been hit by a car, for some reason, unable to confess that it was Eva and me. Cowardly, I know, but I had to hold it together while in sole possession of Dillon.

When they came back forty-five minutes later, Eva told me he had died instantly and that the vet said all his subsequent movement was reflex. We scrubbed the car and the garage and my pants and wondered over how this had happened.

I haven't been able to stop replaying it all in my head. To try and sort out what exactly did happen, examine the forensic evidence and reconstruct the incident. And in doing so, determine the million points along the timeline at which, if we'd only done x differently, it wouldn't have happened. But the truth is, it isn't possible, no matter how many ways you write the equation, to prevent all terrible things from happening. No matter how careful you are, how closely you look, how slowly you're going, how many times you've pulled in before, the fact that we just didn't see him. And on top of it all, between the lost dog and the car accident and now this, I am unable to shake the feeling that some terrible karmic energy is hovering over me and that somehow I'm to blame for making this happen.

Justin loved Booker so much. He entered their lives as a stray when Justin was in grad school, and they started to feed "Myrtle" who looked terribly dirty and mangy. Until one day, they took him to the vet and found out "he" wasn't a "she." Booker had a tiny meow that earned him the moniker Mr. Meepers and so much fuzz on his back legs that we used to say it looked like he was wearing chaps. And he loved to sit on Justin's stomach and knead and knead. He let Dillon pull his hair, sitting calmly while we extracted Dillon's fist from his fur. On the day he died, he'd been sunning on their back deck and played with the neighborhood kids.

Holding Booker after the accident, knowing that life was literally seeping out of him, was somehow intensely profound for me. I'm sure some people will read this post and think it ridiculous, with all that's going on in the world, that I was so shockingly affected by a dying cat. But somehow, it was a reminder that the innocent suffer for no apparent reason. That in an instant, something that brought great joy into this world was gone. That there is no rhyme or reason to it. That it's not anyone's fault. And perhaps worst of all, that something like this, some inexplicable terrible thing, will happen again. Sooner or later. And there's nothing I can do it stop it. Death creeps up; it lurks around the corner. Whether it comes for the pets or the people that you love, when death comes, you just have to live with it.

In the Still of the Night

Dillon and I didn't sleep well.

In the crib: Dillon has learned to turn himself over from stomach to back. Unfortunately for all parties, the reverse is proving a bit more complicated. Set to sleep on his stomach, he flips and wakes and cannot go back to sleep.

In the guest bed: I crawl into the bed in the guest room certain that sleep will come swiftly after an early morning and a long day. I read until I am quite sure my eyelids will droop closed before the next word and turn off the light. Immediately, my eyes open wide in the inky darkness.

In the crib: Dillon draws his knees up under him and then shoves his feet back, twists on his side and rolls against that left arm that is never quite in the right position to turn. He wobbles against it until he is on his back.

In the guest bed: I fight the sheets and blankets, alternating between hot and cold. This bed used to be my brother's bed. I used to seek refuge there when the dark of night and all the monsters lurking there struck fear in me. And now, all the anxieties are swirling around in my brain, a persistent hum against the black.

In the crib: Dillon can put the pacifier in his mouth, but he forgets to let go and jerks it out again. We call it the Paci-Monster.

In the guest bed: I see plastic stars stuck to the ceiling by the previous owner's kid. Without my glasses, I can only make out the faint smudge of flourescent above me. In a trick of poor eyesight and darkness, it looks a little like the night sky until all of the light in them recedes to nothingness.

In the crib: Sometimes, Dillon just wants to know someone is there.

In the guest bed: I try not to think about the hours passing. I breathe deeply. I try to imagine somewhere peaceful. But the serenity fades and I end up counting my anxieties, fluffy little insecurities herding through my mind.

In the crib: Dillon cries loudly and I am up and in the hallway before I'm really concious of moving. I hope to save Eva from a trip to the nursery. He's all twisted up in the blanket, and I'm working to untangle him when she arrives. In mere seconds, she scoops and flips him like a baby pancake and has the pacifier in his mouth before he hits the crib again.

After four and before seven, we drift in and out, finding the edge of dreams but always jerked back by the insecurity of being flat on our back, anxious that we are alone and unable to pacify ourselves long enough to fall back asleep.

Amalgamation (uh-mal-gah-MAY-shun)

amalgamation (noun) - a combination or blend of diverse things, sometimes companies or metals; an alchemist's word...the number of things running through my head that are in no way related in reality but somehow encompass The Brain at the moment



Road
So many hours in the car between here and Wilmywood, here and Atlanta, just me and the Rav and the pavement. And for the first time in a long time, the car is meaningful - mine, that I'm paying for, that feels like me the way my first car (92 baby blue Honda Accord with pop-up lights) felt. Time passes in the car with me in hazy, unfocused autopilot, driving the drive I know well. Or lost in some imagined scenario: job interview, apartment hunting, going to London, winning backstage passes to John Mayer. Or in the music. Whatever I'm listening to, so into every note and word and feeling it and singing it and knowing it. Most of my CDs went into storage for lack of a place to put them. I am thankful for Keane and The Fray and Jeff Buckley and the words that I sing, that run through my mind long after, that tell me someone else has been in this place before.

Moments
Teetering on the edge of the other side of the canyon, casting a caustic glance at where I came from, I crave moments that affirm that it's good that I made the jump. Sometimes they come in the everyday - deciding which facial scrub to buy at Wal-Mart with Mom, uncapping and sniffing, reading the backs and pretending we have any idea what makes one better than the other. Going to the quilt shop, touching the fabrics, admiring the patterns and color pallettes, planning to make a skirt or a shirt while I'm home. Listening to the rain drip off the edge of the house and splatter on the front porch while reading.

And then there are the moments I know I am needed or wanted. When Eva tells me that she is so glad that I'm home, how badly she's missed me. How they all held their breath this weekend fearing I would say I had made a mistake. (The unspoken reality that I held my breath, too.) The observations of other people become surprising. The Boss asking, "Are you happy? Because you seem to be really happy." And it seems too long since someone has made that comment.

Observations
This odd quality in me rising to the top again after hibernating for some time. I open my eyes to what's just there and enjoy it. I take it in, when others miss it, overlook it. A red-headed woodpecker in the front yard. The vibrant green color of the choleas we planted two weeks ago. Riding with the windows down. That a product called "Fluff" in a jar exists.

Future
Growing less distant and more real with each passing day. The realization that I've got to move forward is dawning, but less disturbing. This respite in the safety net of home has given me a sense of peace. The knowledge that family and friends are here to rally behind me, to help me make the next leap, make it less scary. The first time, I walked the wire alone. But this time, there will be hands to keep me steady, push me forward.

Them's Fightin' Words

When I arrived at Eva & Justin's house last week, I interrupted play group. This means that I walked into the kitchen filled with four mothers and six children. Eva had warned me, knowing that there's no love lost between me and other people's children.

I was handling it pretty well, seeking refuge at one end of the kitchen table and trying to make polite conversation and keep up with talk of Exersaucers and Johnny Jump Ups. Eva had just finished feeding Dillon and handed him off to me to take one of the other mothers to see a project she'd been working on. He fussed, and I checked his diaper and confirmed that it was wet. I said as much aloud.

That's when one of the mommies totally overstepped bounds. In this voice one would use to speak to a child, she said, "Since Auntie Ashley is holding Dillon, will she change the diaper?"

In my head, I turned to her and said, "Don't patronize me or I will cut you." But in real life, I simply gathered Dillon up and headed off to change him. And she followed me. Standing over my shoulder, she cooed to her own infant, as though giving her approval, "Look at Auntie Ashley go!"

I held my temper in check, but I was so enraged that I couldn't quite get over it. What was it about this woman's ridiculous behavior that had me itching to lash out at her? Perhaps it was due in part to facing one of those moments when I felt more Bridget Jones-esque than ever, surrounded by the Mom Squad with their infants and toddlers, and me wondering if they were feeling sorry for me or thinking "tick tock, tick tock." But more than that - because I didn't feel this Hulkish rage toward anyone else - I think it was her condescension to insinuate that I would be too squeamish or too inept to change a diaper. And no disrespect to the moms out there, but rocket science it ain't.

I couldn't help thinking about the book I blogged about recently that called women on the carpet for being stay-at-home moms. In that moment, I found myself faced with the complete opposite opinion - someone who thought that they could talk down to me, treat me like a child, because I am unmarried and childless. I was angry at the woman, and I was angry at myself because, what does her judgment matter to me? She isn't someone I know, and certainly (after this) someone I respect. Why should I allow her to make me feel so inadequate about myself? It was dispicable, really.

But there, with her cooing her baby-talk commentary, I seriously considered punching her in the mouth. And I'm pretty sure I'd have been sent to timeout.