Some days feel like the top of the mountain is always just a little farther

Yesterday I woke up with a sore throat and spent the day mostly trying to sleep with an almost-toddler who wanted to mostly NOT SLEEP. This involved several low points in parenting, including DH and I getting on each other's last nerve, while Bean pulled CD after CD of the shelf and let it go shattering onto the floor. We did manage to resuscitate the evening somewhat, with a trip to Barns & Noble where we drank tea and leafed through the most recent celeb gossip magazines. (Yes, I do that. Shamelessly.) We also poked through a tile store with the most exquisite handmade tile, and I grabbed several leaflets showcasing exotic glazes and mosaics—thinking I might use them as ephemera for collages.

But last night was mostly like an extension of the more tedious moments of yesterday---with Bean nuzzling up against my face, as if he needed very air I exhaled on his cheek to believe I was there. The minute I got up to pee he began wailing so fiercely, you'd believe that I had left him in the woods surrounded by a pack of wild dogs, rather than in DH's big strong arms.

Now I’ve got him occupied with various kitchen containers and blocks, but this was only after a meltdown of mammoth proportions that involved the proverbial river of snot and much gnashing of teeth. It’s sure to last all of five minutes before he makes his way back to directly underfoot. Where he’ll stand clenching my leg and whining plaintively, before he melts entirely into a little angry puddle on the floor. I’m such a fuzzy headed wimp when I’m sick. I have two deadlines I’ve been procrastinating on and I suddenly can’t imagine meeting them. I can’t imagine staying awake or thinking anything cogent long enough to meet them.

I’ll leave you on a high note though. The Artist’s Way this week asks you to think about five lives you would live if you were not living your own. At first I had a very hard time answering this, because I LIKE living my life. Most days (when I’m not sniveling and sick) I like who I am becoming and love who I’ve decided to travel this road of becoming with. I’m passionate about the things I’ve chosen—writing, and art and teaching, even on the days when I feel like I’ll never really amount to anything in any one of those fields. But, if I had to pick, here is what I’d be—or whose life I would live:

• A homeopathic OBGYN/Family Practice Doctor • A photographer for National Geographic • Barbara Kingsolver • Scarlett Johansson • Mary Oliver

Of course, the AW also tells you to figure out some way to do something that lives out even the very smallest part of one of those lives, but I'm too blurry to think creatively at the moment. Instead, I'll put it on you: What would you be? Or who?

Total self-absorption (in the best way possible)

First:)I want to do a little giddy dance and say THANK YOU a zillion times to all you exquisite people who nominated me for the BOBS best Art/Photo blog! I am blown away every single day by the generocity and encouragement and positive feedback I get from the people who come here often.

Second:) Krystyn is sooo super spiffy with her web design skills. Check out the absolutely rockin' desktops she created at MamaSaysOm using some of my art. Heart her!

Third:) I'm officially jumping on the de-lurking bandwagon. I totally check my blog stats (ah-hem, on ocasion.) I know you're out there. If you're reading this and you don't usually comment, now is you're time to say hi. It would make my day!

Finding what it takes

Running along the lake in yak tracks, the late sun on the horizon above the lake looked like someone spread apricot jam across a rent in the clouds. Snowflakes hit my face. Ice below the snow along the path was slick and see-through. The lake waves cut up onto the cold pebbles of the shore, like a thousand icy tongues. The air was cold when I sucked it in, and each exhalation left a cloud of heat and moisture hovering just behind me for a second in the winter air.

It was the first time I’ve run along the bike path since snow has fallen, and it felt just like running in sand. It took more effort and balance than running on macadam, but there was also a certain new thrill to having the terrain be constantly changing. Today I realized that I’ve gotten to a new place about running in my head: my mind wants to run now and my body follows.

This didn’t happen accidentally or suddenly. It’s taken six months of repeated motion to get my brain in the habit of running—to form a groove in my being where my mind slips now with ease. And I know that if I stopped, given a couple of weeks—no more than a month—it would be gone. But today I sort of marveled at the capacity my mind has to move beyond the immediate intense pain of shin splints (the product of new shoes or the crazy jackrabbit sprint I’ve been doing) and for a few moments at least allow me to feel like I can do anything.

I know this is why the Juila Cameron writes in The Artist’s Way that it is vital to do morning pages and to go on ‘artist dates’ with oneself. Because it is exactly this inner freedom that gradually develops, creating momentum. I would never have imagined I’d be on the brink of committing to start training for a marathon (!), and yet here I am, wanting to test my outer limits. Wanting to do more than just run a couple miles. And I know that after if I can stick with writing every morning, taking time for myself to fuel my artistic soul, I will develop a similar kind of creative momentum.

Right now when it comes to writing that tricky shadow side of myself (that is quick to sabotage the best of my intentions) prickles up every time I sit down to write. I chicken out, write only first drafts, balk at following through. But I’m starting to realize that just as this side of myself exist, so does the fiery side that enables me to burn through my own resistance. This is why I’ve jumped in.

Self Portrait Tuesday: Personal History # 1

We were camping. I was ten or eleven years old. I’m not sure where we were, but the memory I have attached to this photo is very specific. My dad and I were playing on the grass. I’d throw my body onto his feet and he’d bring me up over his head. Then I’d land, and walk myself forward on my hands, giggling, imagining I was in the circus.

It is the only memory I have of playing with my father like this. We played often with words and sometimes with chess, but rarely just the rough and tumble kind of play that kids love best. Somersaulting head over heals, giddy with laughter, climbing up, rolling, wrestling. Both of my parents were intellectuals. To have fun was to read a good book together or maybe play a board game. I have dozens of memories curled up on the couch with one or both of my parents laughing ‘till my sides ached over a good story, and I recall a handful of times sitting at the table learning strategies for playing chess or scrabble and loving it.

But there is a empty place in my being where I remember my child self longing to play ball with my dad, to ride piggy back, chase, or hide and seek. I’m not sure if my parents chose to avoid these things purposely, or simply didn’t think of them—neither being drawn to play or sports themselves. What I do know is that every single day I get down on the floor with my son and let him turn my body into a jungle gym. We dance together. We shimmy. He rides on my shoulders and twirls in my arms. He giggles. And his laughter is balm to that child part of myself that clings to the memory in this photo.

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A year goes quickly by

It’s New Year’s Eve, and like nearly everyone else who has lived since the time when the calendar we use today first was implemented, I find myself taking pause, making lists, and feeling a bit dumbfounded at how quickly and suddenly the year has come to completion. This year was one of beginnings and endings for me. One of monumental changes. A job ended. Motherhood began. My entire sense of self has shifted deeply this year.

I want to write profound things, or at least meaningful ones, but my head aches from too little sleep. Yesterday we played. Today we drove home: seven hours in the car with Bean, starting at 4a.m. Tiredness saturates my body. We didn’t leave the house clean, and came back to find it had not cleaned itself. The plants---almost dead, the laundry—still not done. But it feels good to be home again in this tiny place where Bean is safe in every room (all hazards have already been cleared) and I can scoot from the bathroom to the bedroom in barely a towel without worrying I’ll offend someone.

I sit with my feet on DH’s thigh, my laptop in my lap, and the cat curled close to my toes. Our shared silence and closeness fills me with contentment. And then I think, CRAP. We’re acting like OLD FOLKS. We had dinner with friends, babies in tow, at five. Watched fireworks over the water by 7:30, and by 8 p.m. were home running a bath for Bean. But oddly, it’s been the best New Year’s Eve I can remember in a long time. So much to look forward to. So much to be greatful for. And absolutely zero expectations of a glamorous night out somewhere in uncomfortably pretty shoes and a slinky dress.

So here are my lists (I love lists):

Do: The Artist’s Way creative workshop. The Breadloaf Writer’s workshop Get to know the neighbors in our new home Learn to make authentic chai tea Plant a vegetable garden Apprentice at an apiary Complete a triathlon

Be: Present in the moment Patient with my son and husband Open to new possibilities Flexible in the face of change Generous with the resources I have Brave enough to take risks Disciplined enough to follow through

Dream: Of having a life rich in experiences Of traveling abroad with my family Of teaching writing Of making a home, HOME Of growing new friendships Of becoming involved in the local community Of making a difference

New Jersey landscape on the day before the last day of the year

Yesterday afternoon we walked through the fields where George Washington and his troops once faught. We watched thousands of birds fly pell mell through the sky, alighting in a swirling vortex of black wings on the stubble of mowed-under corn. We walked hand in hand with the setting sun on our faces, staring in wonder at the tall old trees that have grown since the time when America was just earning it's independence. I treasure these moments of us outdoors laughing in the twilight like pieces of prized seaglass. What a way to end a year.

Say Yes

He sits on the lawn amidst heaps of brown oak leaves giggling wildly at the dog. Tomorrow we leave before the sun comes up. Today, his Nonna scoops him up, and carries him off for a nap. Such sweetness. Such sheer delight. It's been good to be here where the December sun is mellow and warm, and someone's always ready with open arms to play with Bean. But we're ready to go home to a house waiting with late-arrival packages, tivoed Project Runway shows, and the simple routine of just us.

Yesterday, after many phone calls, it was confirmed: the house will close---later rather than sooner---but it will. The mortgage rate will stay the same for another month (big exhale), and in the meantime we'll have a chance to ski a couple times, gather paint samples, and visit kitchen showrooms.

Yesterday Marilyn reminded me to visualize the positive, and last night I read this post, and decided simply to say YES. To trust, to breathe, to be thankful. Looking at Bean, his entire face dancing with grins, how can I not?

Sunday Mosaic # 5: Christmas Day

Awake with the first light of morning spreading its way through the opaque curtains. Bean in his red footie snowman pajamas nestles into the nook of my neck for one final snuggle before announcing his desire to roust the world and investigate every corner of it.

DH and I pass him of to his grandmother and take a shower like we used to in college, together, bumping elbows, kissing, grinning. We join the others in the kitchen with damp hair and pour cups of coffee. I make scones, crumbling the butter with the flour until it feels like wet sand. A sprinkle of cream and raw sugar on the top of each will make them sweet and brown in the oven.

Later everyone is on the couch opening presents almost simultaneously. It is a blur of red and patterned paper. Bean gets a little Radio Flyer wagon and his grin couldn’t be wider when he figures out how it works. He spends the rest of the morning as a battering ram, pushing the cart around the room at a careening pace, grinning from ear to ear. All the unwrapping leaves me breathless, and Bean exhausted. By 9:30 we curl up in bed again. He naps, and I look out the window, watching blackbirds and wondering about the remarkable warp and weft that makes family.

In the late afternoon DH calmly descends upon the kitchen and pulls together an exquisite meal almost single handedly: turkey breast stuffed with prosciutto, sage, apples and rosemary; garlic mashed potatoes, sautéed asparagus, cran-rasberry sauce, and sausage stuffing. I put some funky French street-performance inspired music on the stereo, dance with the baby, and make a salad with red leaf lettuce, pomegranate, asiago cheese and apples.

There are of course the moments of raised eyebrows when the siblings-in-law act the way they always do: condescending and critical. But we leave it at that, diluting the tension with the fact that we are together. This is family.

By dinner Bean is in the throws of teething agony—his second top tooth is cutting through. During dinner he sits in my lap and bangs his spoon on his highchair which he refuses to sit in. I gulp my food, feeling guilty. A late dinner has put us past his normal bedtime. I run the bath, but forget to stop the drain so all the hot water runs out. I remember in time to get two inches of luke warm water in the bottom of the tub, but Bean doesn’t seem to notice—- he’s too obsessed with the full length mirror along the wall of the tub and kisses his reflection.

By the time he finally is asleep my throat hurts and I make tea. Days like this fill my heart to bursting with the ups and downs of being a part of the small group of people that make me whole. With the tug of longing for my own family: my sisters, my mom. With the wonder at my small boy who suddenly has four teeth and is almost walking. With wide love I have for DH, who can still after seven Christmases make me giddy for this holiday just by association.

Tree pictures

Another 7 hour car trip to New Jersey survived. Forty degree weather, and scads of starlings whirling through the air like synchronized swimmers. Sun over brown fields of cut corn stalks or new subdivisions. Traffic thicker than a swarm of bees. We are here, with family. Bean's doting grandma has already snuck him at least half of his presents. DH and I got to sleep in until ten. And yesterday we picked out a tall tree, haggled for the price and hauled it home on the roof of our car. As usual, I brought my camera. Happy Christmas Eve!

Flocks of wild birds.

Empty greenhouse.

The xmas tree bailer.

Paulo loads the tree onto the car.

At home Zeus brings me a stick.

Looking for the right words

Tonight at the writing workshop I try to untangle a little more of the story I am attempting to put down in ink. The people I write with are an mismatched, well read, easily humored crowd who all have day jobs. We sit around eating pretzels, discussing the virtues of present tense. They ask me about my dad. I try to explain how my relationship with my father, who died nearly four years ago, has been evolving in a one-sided way since then. Sometimes it’s hard to locate him in my memory, except in freeze frame images. Snapshots. Mostly, I can’t help looking through the lens of the present: dissecting who he was, his beliefs and flaws. I know that then, when we were in our relationship, I couldn’t see outside of it. I know I didn’t analyze his beliefs in the way I do now, measuring them against my own. The seam between my thoughts and his was often blurry. I loved his way of thinking. His persistent, disciplined way of examining the spiritual world through meditation and questioning. I loved how he could apply logic to the fixing of a broken radio, or the cutting of a fallen tree.

After he died, for weeks, months, the first year even, I could call to mind his face, his smile, his fierceness, and our love was very present. Now, I spend hours hunched at the computer, my body mirroring his posture, writing about the ways I’ve been shaped by him. It’s a strange shedding process that is taking place. I’m slipping out of the skin of my childhood as his daughter and fitting into my own. I am gathering myself up—finding abundance in one hand, loss in the other.

Looking for harvest

I beg for you now, your absence is an ache like a sadness at new moon. A craving for touch, a shock when I look at familiar photos and know those bones and skin, are not around the corner.

I do not know my feelings now. Cannot grasp onto any understanding of moments or metaphors. You hang like a crescent moon in my heart a sliver, a sickle, a tool of harvest.

Yet I do not know the fields where I can go walking to find your abundance. I know not where to find the round fruits of your love.

So I wait. Polish the scythe. Hold on to my heart.

pieces of my soul

I spend the late afternoon as darkness falls with headphones in my ears. The upstairs neighbor’s music makes me restless. The incessant beat raps a staccato in my head. I long for the quiet of open winter fields. For wind. Bean is finally napping with DH after crying for awhile, tired enough to protest the nap but too tired to skip it. I find solace in Stan Getz on my iPod, and follow the random branching network of links answering my search: “tips for keeping chickens in winter.”

I know it will take years to evolve from my greenhorn self into someone who knows what to do to keep the frost from killing sleeping bees or roosting chickens. It will require trial and error, and lots of talk with locals, to understand the true art of the perennial garden, or to know which animals leave tracks along the snowy paths in the woods.

It’s not that I want to suddenly slip onto a farmstead and never return. I’m to much of a girly-girl with a penchant for expensive jeans to want to be far from the city forever. Yet this much is also true: I am someone who is most centered when I am connected to the land on which I live.

I’m not waxing bucolic. I’ve just always had a profound love for nature. I think I must have gotten this from my mother, who always notices the most exquisite little things on walks we take: a newt on a log, orange and wet, or the feather of a wild turkey stuck in some briers. I have a deep sense of self when I connect to a place. The outline of my position in the universe, small and unique, is most apparent when I am able to see how I am connected to my immediate surroundings. I like to see the fields being used; like knowing where my food comes from---and I take some sort of satisfaction when it comes from a local farm rather than from Argentina or Brazil or trekked across the country in a big rig.

I am far too much of a voluptuary to uproot entirely and live ruggedly off the grid. It was my mother’s story and not mine to boil cloth diapers in a pot and then line dry them in the middle of January in the Rocky Mountains, until they hung stiff and frozen like boards. I’m too academic, too soft around the edges to be that wholesome or self-sacrificing. I like my frothy chai from the local café. I have a penchant for expensive outdoor gear. I love the ease of eating out, the pleasure of savoring food without the preparation or washing up. But I am also someone who strives to live consciously, aware of my impact on this earth.

Everyone struggles, I think, with these things. It is the side effect of living in our world today, with technology folding in around the edges, media pushing it’s way through the chinks of our souls. I think each of us must experience this push---pull: heart and mind narrating different stories. I want to know, what scattered pieces make you whole?

Self Portrait Tuesday: Reflective Surface # 2

There we are, a whirl of color captured in a shop window. This is what we do every day: walk, bundled up, to get coffee. Snowflakes kissing our cheeks, the wool of our hats pulled close against our ears. This is me: the one who takes note of small things. The one who documents with words and images; the topography of our little family.

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looking inside

It is starting to be long john weather here. The red line on the thermometer never crept past 30 degees today, and the air bites at exposed cheeks. The light at dusk strikes the buildings with sharpness. There is no depth to it like in the summer, or even in the autumn when the rays seem to fall in long angles. Now, the light is filterless and bright; shadows spilling onto the streets in dark contrast. Winter has a way of making me look at my life starkly, as though I were seeing my soul in series of x-rays. Like the fields of corn stalks tilled into frozen soil or the rocky hilltops exposed below the silhouettes of trunks and branches, when I look in on myself I see mostly skeletons. I go back over the writing I have done in years past, and am stunned at my own depth, yet feel incapable of duplicating it. The voice of my shadow that always whispers “failure,” harps louder now.

I have new canvasses and the longing to paint, but a terror to pick up the brush. Everything I make might be ugly. Words stalk me at indecent times when I have no notebook, no means of record. But when I sit at the computer with an hour of quiet stolen from other tasks, nothing comes except mouthfuls of hesitation.

Natalie Goldberg says it doesn’t matter. She says “One of the main aims in writing practice is to learn to trust your own mind and body; to grow patient and nonaggressive.” I try to come back to this. To simply write. To get out my paints and follow the movement of my hand. To trust that I will once again feel the divine moving through the branches of my soul like wind.

But like the flock of startled crows I saw today, whirling black specks against the grey sky above the rooftops, I become easily scattered. I know this is to be expected in this time: this collision of moments when we are making choices about our future happen now. Buying this house isn’t just buying a house for me. It’s about fulfilling a dream that has been a part of my mental geography for as long as I can remember.

I am like that. When I loose myself in my thoughts, I am lost in a specific geography. I have always been someone who has felt closely tied to the land. I have worked on farms, milked cows, grown gardens, and I know that these things provide a rich soil for my creative life. I long to put down roots in this place. Keep bees, learn to ride horses.

So I am here in the midst of making something I’ve always imagined a reality, and it feels awkward like I’m trying to help hatch a baby bird. They are so fragile and ugly and gawky when they first peck their way out of the shell they’ve lived inside for weeks. Then they just sit there in the nest, all beak, squawking.

It’s cold out. The mud is frozen solid and our apartment is too small. I can’t help squawking, doubting that flight will ever be possible. The pessimist in me chokes at the stir-crazy feeling I know I’ll have we finally close the deal after the new year and start to rip down walls. It will take months of effort before anything resembles anything I imagine. This process should be familiar. It is the one I face every day when I come to the blank screen or the empty canvass and struggle with a mess of words or lines. I should know. The good stuff only happens when I’m patient.

The antedote to all my idyllic posts

Tonight I can't help wishing I had hired cleaning help, a clawfoot bathtub, a bar of chocolate, and a nice glass of merlot. Instead... when the bath drains the toilet makes gurgling noises. We ran out of toilet paper ENTIRELY. Of course I was ON the toilet when I discoverd this. And our house needs so badly Bean managed to eat an entire second dinner off the floor under the table.

***I wanted to write all sorts of brilliant and reflective things in response to hanging out for four days straight with my friend Willow whom I’ve known since fifth grade. But instead I spent the night single parenting and ate cereal for dinner, so all insight has been shelved for some later date.

I have no idea other mamas pull it off with any grace at all. After just a couple of hours every surface in our tiny apartment is strewn with toys, or objects being rendered as toys (think spatulas, bowls). Actually that is an understatment. What I mean is our apartment went suddenly from livable to kick-it-when-you-try to-walk messy. The laundry is in a heap at the top of the basement stairs, and every counter top is covered with dishes.

In an effort to turn things around I washed dishes for so long my fingers pruned. In the past I’ve tried to be very zen about having to wash dishes by hand: it brings you into the moment, yada, yada, yada. But it doesn’t really. It’s less sanitary and a total waste of time that could otherwise be spent reading Bean a book. You can bet we already have a dishwasher picked out for our new kitchen.

The real trouble though is that DH has the stomach flu, and truly there is nothing nastier. It is so hard for me to take care of someone who is vomiting. I think of all the times as a kid when my mom held the bowl for me to puke into, and I shudder with awe, realizing the lengths mothers go. I suppose I would do the same for Bean in a heartbeat—but I can’t quite feel the same empathy for DH.

I couldn’t help feeling a little sorry for myself as he lay on the couch with a low-grade fever clutching his stomach, and I went through the motions of making dinner for Bean, feeding him, cleaning up. To my credit I did manage this more or less to myself, and instead of turning into a total harpie, I proffered ice water and a cool hand. All the while Bean was trying to stand hands free, narrating his progress with a series of high-pitched shreeks, and I kept wondering hell she does it with two little rascals.

There were no catastrophes, really, other than a solid stone rolling pin landing on my foot (clean up from gingerbread cookies I made earlier), but I couldn’t help feeling like I was flailing about in a rising tide. After such lovely days with an extra set of hands, and lots of laughter, it felt really off tonight to be down to just me and Bean. Now everyone’s tucked into bed and for some reason, though it’s earlier than I usually call it quits, I’m totally exhausted.

Self Portrait Tuesday: Reflective Surface # 1

Taken in low light, at night, indoors. This is my hands holding the lense of my camera--reflecting into the lense of another camera and blue ceramic bowl on the table. It was nearly an impossible shot---but I wanted to try because it says so much about my new found interest in photography. I am discovering a new piece of me, still blurry, reflected in the images I take with my camera.

Weekend Mosaic

A weekend full of grins with snowflakes falling on our noses. Lunch at a little French Bistro, good chai at the local coffee shop, long conversation. I’m still relishing every moment that’s she’s here today—and trying to hammer out a dozen pages for the workshop tomorrow in the gaps in conversation when we listen to Horowitz and she sinks into a soft armchair with a book. So for now I leave you with a mosaic of little moments. Snowsuit weather. Playing on the couch. Shopping for ornaments in the local arts boutique. Several high-scoring rounds of scrabble, and bright winter skies.

Talking toay

A close friend who knows bits of my heart is visiting. We’ve known each other since we were eleven, with skinny knees and flat chests. Our conversation takes flight. We move outside the boxes of our ideas, words becoming dreams or prayers for the small pieces of future we imagine. Today there was solace. We went to the house and looked out over the still quiet landscape dusted with snow.

Ripe pomegranate seeds eaten over the Scrabble board. Looking through camera lenses at each other, a bunch of digital geeks. So good to have her here today, tomorrow, the next day. She's brought pocket full of reassurance, sunbeams, laughter with her from the West.

Illustration Friday: Blue

Early winter before the snow starts falling, when everything is cold and grey, and darkness swallows up the world, always makes me sad.

Today I just can’t seem to shake it. All the giddiness of yesterday, evaporated like the almost-snow in the air. The immenseness of the fact that we moved here just over a half year ago and I’m still grappling with finding the time to find friends makes me feel terribly alone today. It doesn’t help that I’ve been stricken with an unusually fierce bout of procrastination and self doubt.

My writing sits and lurks at me from the screen, like a couple of pickled eyeballs in a jar. It taunts me. I can’t finish a paragraph further than I’ve already gotten. My workshop deadline is next week and I know I won’t be finished.

I hate days like this. Wanting attention, but not to give it. Wanting alone time, but wanting good company even more. Wanting something decisive to happen, but still in limbo with just about everything.

Remembering the texture of moments

I'm feeling mostly better today, and tomorrow we're our way back north. Towards our small, busy apartment; towards the unfinished business with the house and work; towards heaps of christmast cards that need mailing and cookies that need baking; towards snow; towards days without the joy and distraction Bean's grandprarents bring to his life. But also towards our morning ritual of a walk downtown and coffee; towards our cat's soft purring; towards friends; towards home. Already the walk along the the canal on Thanksgiving day is just a collection of snapshots. Memory. Autumn, still clinging to tree branches. Canada geese in droves along the edges of the water.

self portrait. windy hair. up close.

concord grapes against concret.

autumn still lingers. leaves like bright flames over water.

a tangle of grass seeds like delicate jewlrey.

bird berries.

burgundy leaves. some small insect's feast.

tree berries. sliver and knobby against dark water.

bird's nest. lonley and dark in the twigs against the sky.

Laid up

I woke up at 5:30 with stomach flu. NO, IT ISN'T FOOD POISONING, or everyone else would have it---and I'm the only one who had to run to the bathroom this morning where I sat in agony on the loo. I've been floating in and out of a feverish haze all day. The real reason I'm posting however, is that I spent most of today away from my beautiful baby and I missed him something fierce when I finally dragged myself out to the living room. And you know what? He missed me back! He reached his arms out and grinned and chuckled and just about ate my face of with his version of kisses. It is as though I'm watching him grow at light speed today. Suddenly he seems so big: eating mostly solids (soup and sweet potatoes spoon fed by his nonna). Just in a heartbeat during our visit here he has learned to stick his tongue out and wave 'bye bye' and 'hi.'

I'm writing about it because I'm not sure it's really happening--as feverish and miserable as I've been today. I'm looking forward to coming back to what I've written when I'm better--to read it like a postmark. This happened. Because right now I'm pretty much just whimpering and wishing I could fast forward.