I think about the last few hours of labor with AG, looking at my husband who was beside himself with worry and concern and love for me and our baby. The first couple of weeks where I couldn’t be more in love with him. The subsequent weeks when he returned to the working world and I hated him for it. The evening I collapsed into a puddle of tears and anxiety on the floor of our kitchen. The first evening Abigail slept for a respectable stretch in her crib and we were able to watch TV and eat dinner together, in our living room.

I remember our first weekend alone without the baby. How happy, how sad, how without anchor we both felt.

In truth, after about month four, my memories of my marriage as it tangles up with parenthood are a bit more muddled. I don’t know if that’s the result of sleep as much as it was the result of finding a new normal together. Smarter people than I will say it’s likely a little bit of both.

Not long after AG was born, I remember feeling incredibly aghast with people who had children to save or salve their marriages. Recognizing that we had a particularly rough go of it, I still couldn’t understand why anyone would ever contemplate bringing a helpless, non-contributing, barely functioning human being into a family where there was little to no foundation. What sort of assholes put that onto an unsuspecting baby?

Of course now I know that it’s never that simple. There are things about parenthood that even those of us who considered ourselves to be in strong unions couldn’t contemplate. There were so many moments I blamed Scott for any number of things. For a very long stretch I became impossible to live with – nothing was good enough, clean enough, organized enough.

Ask my husband how I feel about people who bring bottles to the upstairs bathroom without caps on them because OH MY GOD EVERYONE KNOWS YOU CAN’T FILL UP THE BOTTLE WARMER WITHOUT THE CAP WITH WHICH TO DISPENSE THE WATER INTO THE WARMER AND NO I CAN’T JUST KEEP A CUP UP THERE.

God.

Oh the resentment I carried was ripe for a very big caption that read “FIRST-WORLD PROBLEMS: INCOMING!”

I would say that we’ve always had a knack for communication; talking with each other was one of the things that brought us together. We fail at it at times like many couples encumbered with day-to-day nonsense, but we talk. Within those talks it was clear we had to change things, had to amend. I had to ask for help and trust Scott would deliver, even if it wasn’t how I’d do it, whatever “it” was. (I don’t remember now, of course.) Scott had to …well, I’ll let him share that because anything I write down here he’s likely to refute. Suffice it to say, we both had to bust out of our comfort zones, those little corners in which we’d retreat, because we’d found something bigger than ourselves:

Our family.

I’m not going to say that the only driver of our marriage is the common goal of sustaining a whole, happy, healthy family, but it’s the primary focus. Our shared interest in making our family work, or at least stay on track as much as possible, tethers us to making our marriage work in a way that nothing else has. Our love for Abigail is not the all of our relationship, but it’s quite the inspiration.

It’s made me care less if we have a few days of crap piled around. It’s made me care less if my house remains a work-in-progress. I still go batty about the fact that Scott seems patently unable to close his closet door every day – WHY? – but I’ve learned to just fight the battles that are worth fighting. Say, finding a way to have a date night, even if it’s just under our own roof, every week.

I enjoy watching Scott parent; it is one of the single biggest joys of my daily life. He loves Abigail and she loves him. He cares for her in a way I cannot, and I love that she reaps the benefits of two very different people who bring such different skill sets, talents and love to her life. It is OK that he is different. Were it not for those differences, we would never have the girl who is unafraid to climb the entire set of stairs from the downstairs to the upstairs, and has for at least two months. He helps her to trust herself, to be brave, to test life out, kick the tires on it. Oh that I could give her that, but that’s not how I’m built.

This is all to say that the father he is becoming is pretty hot stuff.

Not for nothing, but I appreciate the mother he’s helped me to become, the room he’s given me to find my own way. Never once, at all, has he ever criticized or questioned me unnecessarily. And by “unnecessarily” I mean there are always times where you ask the other person questions or discuss whether one way is the right way, but he does not pick at me or put me down or ask anything of me that he wouldn’t do himself tenfold. I am blessed to have someone with whom I enjoy parenting, and who is a partner.

I said recently that of all of the problems we have, parenting doesn’t seem to be one of them thus far. I hope we can say that in the years to come.

For Valentine’s Day, Scott made me a card “from Abigail,” and it was the most lovely, amazing, creative thing that anyone has ever done for me. It captures the spirit of AG, and of him, and at the end it wished me the best thing I could have heard from them both: “You Are The Best Mom! Love, Abigail.”

Our marriage looks different now than it did a year ago; it’s tested, it’s a little more worn, and it’s a little saggier in some places. (OK. Maybe that’s just my ass I’m talking about.) But it is cherished in a way, for qualities that didn’t exist before, that I could have never imagined.

2) Derby was awesome, even if I did fall the most out of anyone in the class. To be fair, it was only twice and to be fair, everyone but me and the other woman who fell had either A) Been a professional roller derby skater before or B) Already been to Derby Lite before. As predicted, it was a fun, nurturing, supportive environment and while I didn’t love it, I loved it. At least I knew I was going to love it. One of the mantras they ask you to repeat is to never say you can’t or you won’t. Because you will. Someday.

As I nursed my nearly sprained-but-only-badly-bruised thumb, I felt grateful for the chance to take on a physical task that I can’t just master by being dogged or because I’ve been in pretty decent physical condition these past few years. I need to be patient and considerate and humble. I’m learning a totally new skill.

I’m proud of myself for taking on the task.

3) Battling the first cold of the season. Usually by this time I would have slogged through at least four colds by now, which invariably morphed into sinus infections. So far, I seem to be on the mend nicely and after resting today, plenty of Green Monsters, water and soup, I can tell this won’t be around long. If you’re on the fence about sinus surgery? STOP IT. Go get it. It’s awesome.

4) Lent is here. I think maybe it’s being Catholic – the ritual of things, the ceremony, the guilt, all that purple – but I truly enjoy Lent. They’re not the same, but I suppose there are similarities within my love of the New Year that make my love of Lent not surprising. I enjoy a built-in pause, a little sacrifice, a whole lot of reflection. For reasons that I’m not entirely sure of, I’m called pretty strongly this year to observe the season. It’s been a life-changing year, and a lot of things have happened that require a good hard stop out of me.

For the record? No more ice cream, no more snacks that aren’t fruit, no more missing my gym time and daily walks with Glin. There are some more personal, off-the-record things I’m doing in honor of Lent, all that mainly involve giving back or challenging myself in other areas, but those above are the mainstream ones.

5) AG’s birthday party. It’s this weekend. I’m excited, to be sure, but as I think I mentioned before, we’re not going crazy. Balloons, a cake from Costco – embellished by AG’s  lovely and awesome, cake-decorating nanny – and three different kinds of chili. And beer. I bought her a party dress, and I’ll get some things for the kids coming, but it’s family-only and I truly do subscribe to not making a big spectacle out of our kid’s birthday. Not even when she gets older. This may make us the killer of joy, but I’m certain I’ll get over it.

I already have.

All that said, I’m really excited about AG’s first birthday. I guess I can believe it’s been a year – it all does seem like a lifetime ago, after all – but I can’t believe I have a one-year-old. She’s on the cusp of so much. It’s amazing to watch.

Sometimes it seems like the best way to commemorate it would be to ask for a time out, maybe ask her to slow down for just a second.

It’s hard to articulate what this symbolizes for me lately. Maybe it’s this time of year, maybe it’s having spent the past three months stagnant in a boot, but ugh. Really, just ugh. My mojo from last year is all but gone. There it is. Gone.

I plan my meals, sorta. I weigh, measure and portion out my meals, sorta. I work out, sorta. I take my vitamins and drink my Green Monsters, sorta. I drink my daily allotment of water, sorta. I get enough sleep, sorta.

Living in a state of half-assed sucks.

Like I said the other day, I’m determined to get rid of the rest of this weight, but it’s feeling like an uphill battle of gargantuan proportions, in a way it didn’t when I was staring down way more weight to lose. I’m at this moment where my inability to do it all, wholesale, seems to keep me from sticking to any small change. I have too many moments of not eating enough and too many moments of eating a lion’s share of pizza. Or fudge.

How is it that I’m unable to forgo a stupid cookie?

I’m doing that thing where I’m overly concerned with making sure I have the right foods stocked in our frig and pantry, and then don’t do much about them. I’m back in the gym, but it all feels very pedestrian – I did strap the heart-rate monitor back on to keep myself honest.

The motivation is not there. Something needs to change.

So derby. It’s not a cure-all, but it’s something different to do. A new goal. We also have a real, bona fide CrossFit space opened up in my neighborhood now, right around the corner from my house. I’m just a couple of weeks away from running again. I’m considering hiring a personal trainer, just once a week. Just something to get me back on track.

Sometimes the easiness of this hard battle is dumbfounding. Other times it’s just demoralizing. Hopefully the upswing shows itself soon. Maybe it’ll come whooshing in on roller skates.

But now. Now, well, in two weeks and two days we welcome a ONE YEAR OLD into our home. Let the toddlering commence.

So off we hit the stores, taking advantage of the insane deals and buying her enough clothes to see though the end of the winter, early spring. And while I know it will all likely be augmented by birthday gifts, AG made out like a cute little bandit.

This morning as I gathered up all of the old clothes, I found myself only slightly wistful. While my brain is officially blown back by realizing that a year has actually gone by, I’m genuinely excited for this next stage. I feel rather certain that I am not a baby person. Being the mom of a baby, even one as awesome as my daughter, was not a good fit for me. I’ve heard others admit to this – that they were not fans of the baby stage but LOVED the toddler era. So far, this seems to be true. AG gets into everything, walks everywhere now and has a definite opinion about, well, everything.

This could not be more fascinating and fantastic to me.

And if I’m honest? A lot easier. So much of this past year has been about carving out a new routine,  a new way of seeing the world, of seeing myself. For as much unmistakable joy was wrapped up in this task, there was a lot of sorrow here, too. And struggle. So much of the road of parenthood can be littered with minefields unique to each family. This is probably why I get so punchy when I read/hear/observe others imparting their own experiences as universal wisdom. Such information can be so misleading, so damaging for others. Coupled with PPD and the idea that I was supposed to be in snuggly bliss with my newborn, my first few weeks of motherhood sent me reeling. I felt ashamed, desperate and broken and full of unimaginable regret because my experience was nothing like that of others.

If I have any regrets, it’s that I didn’t read up more on colic and reflux and postpartum depression before Abigail was born. I was so horribly unarmed for that situation.

But here we are now. I rush home from work to see Abigail. To have her attempt to feed me raspberries and puffs at dinner. To run up to my legs and pull at me to pick her up. To hear her bark “MA-MA!” when I walk in the door. On weekends we all seem to sleep in until 7:30 a.m. now. When we get into the car, AG grabs her Pooh Bear blanket, sticks her thumb in her mouth, and lazily gazes out the window as we drive along to our destination – nary an unwarranted cry or scream.

We read books together before bath time and nap times, we share a Green Monster smoothie in the mornings before breakfast. She’s gotten so good at drinking from a straw that we’ve graduated sippy cups.

She is working hard on a new tooth.

My girl was never much of a cuddler, and she’s certainly not now, so I suppose I miss the involuntary moments where sleep would overcome her, thanks to endless efforts to get her to sleep, and she’d lie in my arms, allowing me to brush my lips against her downy little head and breathe in all of that sweet baby goodness. However now before bed she likes to point things out to me around the room, to examine my teeth and then giggle into my neck loudly while attempting to wrestle from my arms and take off.

Everything is a trade off.

Scott remarked that her new clothes look an awful like like Big Kid clothes. As I tossed the last of the footied pants into the bag to be packed away in the basement, I thanked God for our big kid and for getting us all this far.

For now, the random updates:

1) The boot is off. This has been the biggest and best development as of late. Wearing matching shoes is awesome. I had my first physical therapy appointment last week and she declared me to be stronger than we first believed, which means I won’t be in PT for as long as predicted, or as often. I’ve gotten the OK to do low-impact work outs, which has meant the stationary bike and the elliptical, both things I find boring but I’m not complaining. Getting back into a routine has been another matter.

This morning I overslept, and oversleeping isn’t an option. I have to be up and out of bed when the alarm goes off at 4:30 a.m., no questions. This means I need to be asleep by 9:30 p.m. to function, not in bed by 9:30 p.m., which is what I normally do. I do not know how to get around this reality. I must have at a minimum seven hours of sleep a night. I refuse to pretend otherwise.

Anyway, so I can go to yoga, and return to my old commuting routine – I walk to the train to take me downtown, and then walk to my office – and I can get excited about the end. By the end of this month, I should be back to running, which brings me no small amount of joy.

To say nothing of the Derby Lite and boxing classes I’ve signed up for.

I envy people who seem to be able to lose weight without exercise. I am not one of those people. I enjoy eating too much, and I still have a tendency to overeat at times. The combination there has translated into the scale not budging one iota. After seeing the scale drop and drop and drop, and get in better and better shape, the abrupt halt (and, during the holidays, GAIN on the scale), has sucked. I won’t even mince words about it, talk about loving my body, whatever. I’m doing my best to temper my excitement of being able to work out again, but it’s hard. I’m so over these twenty pounds.

Which brings me to Weight Watchers. So before the new calendar yet hit, they changed up the Points system again. I lost three points each day. This isn’t a lot, I suppose, but when you tally it up for the week? It was like losing AN ENTIRE DAY’S WORTH OF FOOD. Just like that. And don’t talk to me about the extra points. I always used up my extra points, or most of them, and to now just eat 29-Points worth of food each day, as was my previous allotment before the switch,  I lose more than half of them. And without the activity points to gain, I invariably end up in the red.

The whole thing is maddening, and I’ve made the decision to say “eff it” to the new system and just do what I was doing before, pleading with my inner OCD to ignore the deficit on my online tracker and trudge on through. I want to not care about losing this weight, but I do. At the very point my life started to calm down, I finally got pregnant and never had the chance to lose what I’d gained. With the exception of my time spent pregnant, it’s all seemed very unfinished and unfair. Which is ridiculous and stupid – no one was forcing me to stress eat – but there it is. All I know is that I’m still about 20 pounds too uncomfortable for the sort of training I like to do, not to mention the jeans I like to wear.

My all-time favorite Seven jeans have not seen the light of day in almost three years. At this point I’m on the road to becoming one of those people whose skinny jeans were last fashionable a decade ago and by the time she puts them on? Oh the horrors.

2) Abigail turns one. I cannot get over that I’m the mother of an almost-one-year-old. There are so many things I love about AG, but mostly I just find myself filled with an indescribable joy whenever I’m around her. There’s too much happiness to contain in her presence, and I can’t believe I’ve got such a great person in my life. I’m a little over her need to feed Glinny food from her highchair, but they’re such good buddies, and Glin puts up with so much, that I can let it slide.

We’re not having a fancy party. Just family. I’m making chili, ordering a cake, putting up some balloons. If it were summer, and we could use the backyard, I’d make it a blowout with all of our friends – an excuse just to have a party – but it’s winter and we’re short on space and I’m not renting a hall.

OK. That’s it for the time being. If I don’t just hit publish, it’ll be another three days before this sees the light of day.

This letter is ridiculously late, mostly owing to me not having my act together, not because we’ve been out-of-the-ordinary busy this month.

It’s amazing, though, how out of hand things can become despite having a pretty predictable schedule. The routine of our lives doesn’t alter much, but I suppose the energy we expend during it does. So, once it’s 8 p.m., and your Dad and I are done with dinner and the day, it’s hard sometimes to get a lick of anything done. The older you get, the more exciting our time with you, the more energy it takes to keep up with you!

And no wonder! This month you’ve mastered the following:

Walking more than fifteen steps. You don’t really crawl much anymore, save for the few belly maneuvers you take as you make your way upright and it’s off to the races again. You do sort of resemble a drunk right now, with your tumbling and bumbling, you pushing your belly way, way out, your hands gesticulating wildly. That last part you can attribute to me and my Italian half. People will tease you for this; you have my permission to roll your eyes at them.

Signing. Your nanny is teaching you sign language, and as most babies are wont to at this age, you’re picking up on it wildly. Your favorite sign seems to be “more,” but I think that’s because it mostly resembles clapping and cheering.

Dancing. It does not matter the song. You are scooting and grooving. Once at church, as Mass was over and we were waiting for your Papa, we caught you standing up, then bending over, hands on the ground, butt up in the air, shaking your caboose. RIGHT UNDER THE ALTAR. Let them praise his name in the dance, indeed. You love, love music. I found a reasonably priced music studio around the corner from home, so we’ll be signing you up there to get you out of the house!

Pointing. This one completely trips us out. If we ask you, “Where is Mom’s nose?” you immediately point to my nose. If we ask you, “Where is Dad’s nose?” you immediately point to your Dad’s. Same thing with our mouths. That you know the difference between these two body parts is crazy enough, but that you now know the difference between Mom and Dad? Astounding. You still struggle with pointing out your own nose, but you do know where your ears are. Your Papa always said that watching your children learn is one of the best parts of parenting, and he’s right.

Climbing. You climb stairs, chairs, the nap nanny, the couch cushions…everything. My heart stops at every inch your legs take.

You still love bath time, and take regular naps. You’ve got four new teeth coming in, albeit slowly. You’re pretty good-humored about it. You love other kids and despite your being an only child, near-weekly play dates with other kids seem to be a good way to show you that there are other little people in the world. You’re really verbal and vocal, and now you’re trying pretty hard to repeat the things we say. “Dog” and “yogurt” and “Glinny” seem to be favorites, alongside of course, “Ma-MA” and “Da-DA.”

Your new nanny has been a wonderful introduction into your life. You light up when she walks in and proceed to ignore me completely. She’s made you playdough, brings over her guitar every day to play for you and has taught you about quiet time before naps. As a result, you’ve become a much bigger fan of books, at least in as much as you’re looking at them more, putting them into your mouth less. The other day I came home to find an art project you did, with her help, and I couldn’t have been more proud. Who knew I’d gaze at a bunch of pieces of yarn and construction paper, held together by clear contact paper, so lovingly?

We’re at the home stretch, I know. The newsletters I receive refer to my baby as a toddler, or at least that you’re a soon-to-be toddler. We have our bottles together and the last thing you want to do is cuddle and fall asleep in my arms. I put you to bed in your crib and you’re still awake. You get yourself to sleep now. Well, you and Pooh set out on that together.

The panacea for the roughness of life seems to be a couple of hours spent playing on the floor with you. You’re a fearless kid – you bound, leap and tumble all over and very rarely do your falls and bumps result into tears. Mostly when you’re leaping and bounding and tumbling you’re laughing, and oftentimes you head straight toward me, and jump straight into my lap, arms lifted high, stretched out for me to catch you.

I hope it goes without saying – I will always, always catch you. The catch itself may not always be quick, or perfect, but if you need a net, you know where to find me.

xo,

Mama

This makes sense. It’s the way things should be. I’ve been with Scott for almost six years now; much longer than I was ever with my first husband. Scott and I have a much more together life. It’s merged in the most specific way, one Abigail Grace. But beyond even Abigail, I am invested in my marriage to Scott in a way I never cared to be in my marriage to Erik, in a way I never really could be.

I own these things after-the-fact. The truths about our own foibles are sometimes easier viewed long after the crime scene tape has been cleared away, the wreckage cleaned up, the wounds healed. Assessing the blame, the problems, the damage you’re causing isn’t as realistic a feat as the car is crashing.

Many think that divorce is a long, drawn-out, formulaic experience. However, for some of us it felt like getting jacked by a semi in the middle of an intersection that we totally thought we had the right of way in and were being extra, extra careful as we crossed.

Anyway, I was married once before, and then got divorced. When my relationship with my ex was crumbling, it was clear here at this blog that something was wrong, but I couldn’t bring myself to articulate that. I was ashamed, angry, depressed, hopeful and mourning. Nowhere within those emotions existed the ability or desire to communicate with strangers that something in my life was wrong. Even with strangers who didn’t feel so foreign and strange; I’d been blogging since 1999. Most of the people who read me had followed along in our courtship, engagement and wedding.

I got emails. Oy, so many emails. I left most of them unanswered; I found it gob-smacking that people would ask me what was going on with my marriage. Just like that – “What’s going on with you and Erik? You don’t write about him much lately! Are you guys OK?” On one hand, some people felt invested in our story as I presented it. They were genuinely worried, they were people who had reached out in one or another before. On the other hand, I couldn’t help but think, “What the fuck? Who asks that of a stranger?” Do people really think that bloggers, big and small, really put it all out there?

We don’t. You don’t.

There were the search terms. “Erin + Erik + divorce” Then, the weird discussions happening at forums, dissecting my writing, me, even my choice of wedding dress. I was genuinely amazed that people had an opinion about me – positive, negative, neutral. Even more amazing was that those people felt the need to articulate their opinions publicly online. Even more weird to me was the outrage some folks had that I had not been more forthcoming about my relationship at my blog, that I hadn’t shared those details that led up to the divorce.

This has never been a blog that’s shied away from tough topics, but…

It was sort of awful, watching all of this commentary about my life, commentary informed by only a tiny fraction of knowledge about my marriage, and an even tinier fraction about who I was/am. And I wanted to engage, I did. Once, I wrote about it, but only as an addendum to my original post that announced my divorce. For the same reason I couldn’t adequately articulate what was happening, I also couldn’t articulate the why. “The Why” had almost nothing to do with my marriage, with my then-husband, but everything to do with me. I was desperately trying to figure out why I was so badly broken, and through that process it was clear that everything had to change.

Sometimes I say that the breakup of my marriage was the sad and unfortunate consequence to a long, hard look in the mirror at myself and the choices I made. I don’t bear all of the responsibility for the breakup of my first marriage, but it’s safe to say that I was the one who set us down that road, and then wouldn’t ignore some of the more obvious sign posts.

This is not the way for some people. Some people find their marriages stronger and in tact. That wasn’t the case for us.

–

It’s hard, sometimes, to watch as the masses huddle and point and scoff and publicly speculate, and then not wonder why it’s important to wonder at all.

So much of it I loved. Especially the parts such as, “Teach your daughter to be strong and confident in her abilities and not be afraid of failure.” I know of few people who have mastered this task, but oh it’s a good reminder. Then there’s “Teach your daughter that has the right to get loud.” Oh the time I spent being self-conscious for being the sort of girl who stood up and made her opinion known. Oh the time I wish I could get back, as cowering changed me forever. Once I was a girl who stood up to a priest when he tried to short-change me my well-earned varsity letter. Now? Well, now I’m not quite so saucy. I even loved,  “Go easy on the plastic surgery.” Why? Because it subtly communicates a certain level of tolerance for the choices of vanity that others make. Especially women. It’s so easy, and so accepted, to bash our fellow women for nips and tucks and pulls, and make it about their character, or lack thereof. It’s a stupid, bullshit game that pits women against each other unnecessarily, and who the hell cares if another person alters her body using legal means?

But then there was this: “Teach your daughter that smart girls get further in life than slutty girls.”

I don’t think it’s a far stretch to say that yes, girls who focus their efforts on their intellect, and all of the pursuits therein, do better in the world than say girls who worried more about losing their virginity. It is every parents’ nightmare, I suppose, that their daughter is going to wake up one day and only be concerned about attention from boys. Or girls. Or both.

Sexuality, and the discovery of it, is scary shit. I don’t pretend to have any answers when it comes to my 10-month-old, and I’m currently operating under the happy delusion that she’ll actually never want to go on a date with anyone whose affection she desires without her father and I tagging along.

But it’s not realistic, and neither is slut-shaming as a means of shaping a girl into becoming a strong, independent, successful young woman.

Do you know what has shocked me this year about being a parent? I mean, just rocked me to my core? IT ISN’T THAT HARD. At least not philosophically. You can rest yourselves: I know we’re at the easy part. She doesn’t talk, hasn’t formed (many) of her own opinions, doesn’t know that we’re not infallible, has no concept of the world at large, etc. I get it. We have many bridges to cross, roads to travel, blah blah blah. Generally, though, it’s not hard to see that my Dad was right: You begin parenting immediately, from the moment your kids are born. It’s what you have to do.

So much of parenting seems fundamental: You show up. You’re compassionate. You’re consistent. You’re loving. You’re present. I don’t fear the future because for as much of it is out of our hands, I know my husband and I are here for our kid. None of these things will mean we won’t face hardships, or blood-curdling screams and hormonal outbursts, and oh my God Mom I HATE YOU. I’m not naive. But we’re committed to be a constant, visible presence in her life. So despite whatever challenges come her way, our way, we’re there to face it as a team.

So the last message I want to send to my daughter is that 1) she’s better than the girls who are searching for attention and love in their lives and 2) that it’s OK to use a woman’s sexuality as a means to defame or belittle her.

I’m certainly not saying that I wouldn’t explain and discuss the dangers of promiscuity, or that I’d even for a second encourage it. I do believe in honest, early communication about sexuality and sex in general, but I think as a parent it’s my job to also arm her with a healthy sense of self and respect, beyond sex, so that she doesn’t feel quite as pulled to seek negative attention.

But what I don’t want is a daughter who sees people, especially other girls, in such black and white terms. Moreover, I’d like her to have compassion for those girls. They aren’t always the – ahem – bad girls, and better my kid is the one who goes out of her way to be kind, rather than be the kind who contributes to the cacophony of competitive messages women hear from each other from the get go.

A lot of this is easy from my vantage, I know. I don’t argue that at all. But I know what I value, and what I hope to teach our daughter, even now. I’ve said before that my only real parenting goal is this: Don’t Raise An Asshole. I don’t know that there is anything wrong with teaching her that yes, girls who find value and worth in their brains do well in life, but it’s not as if you have to do it at the expense of mocking others.

What she makes up for in a heftier back account, she’ll lose in sisterhood. Not an added zero to a paycheck in the world that’s worth that.

–

Oh, resolutions.

Everything has sort of been not-as-awesome this week.

Early wake-ups? Check! Green drinks? Check! Budget? Half-check. Spent more last week but definitely won’t have to this week. Mostly I still can’t seem to get meditation and stretching down.

I think being this damn boot is wearing on me. I did manage to drop some weight, but I imagine that’s owing to me not having unfettered access to cookies and more cookies anymore.

I did eat much better – lots of veggies and fruit. REALLY enjoying the detox salad, and while I didn’t get around to green monsters last week, I have faith this week will see more of those. I was OK on vitamins, but still can’t manage to make them a part of my weekend routine. Same goes with water. Oy. I’m not sure it could be simpler and yet?

My friend, Joanne, mentioned the other day about struggling to take time to just be grateful for the things in her life. It struck me that perhaps that was my barrier to stopping and taking a few moments to relax and be present. So, I took a small notebook with me to bed the other night and started writing down five things for which I was thankful that day, right before I settled in to sleep. Just five things.

I would love to tell you it’s totally changed things, but it hasn’t. I’ve yet to be consistent with it. However, it’s a good practice, and at least a step in the right direction. I can find the time to stop and be grateful for my life and the people and things and opportunities in it.

Seriously. It’s five freakin’ minutes.

1) Back to the early wake-ups. Done. That was not a hard one. And I like having the extra time to take a hot shower, get totally dressed and listen to NPR (really, really quietly) and empty the dishwasher and make the bed before AG wakes up. Once I’m out of the boot, this is all out the window, of course. And admittedly if I’m not jumping out of bed immediately at 5:30 a.m., the time goes by quicker than I’d like. Ah well. I’ll get there.

2) Meditation and stretching. HA. HA HA HA! I think there was a moment where I took three deep breaths and then it seemed to take up too much time to take  a fourth. I would love to tell you that I’m ashamed of this, but I am the mother of a 10-month-old, have a full-time job, and a husband whose life mirrors my own in terms of demands for time. I clearly suck at being present, but I’m chalking that up to not having the time to be present. So what to do, what to do. Maybe just try it at night, instead of trying to fit it in for the mornings? We’ll see how it goes.

3) Water and vitamins. REALLY good at this. Not during the weekend, though, but during the week. My office roommate, April, and I have been reminding each other to drink our water. Of course now we’re moving floors so we’re losing our buddy system, but I suspect we’ll find a way! And since April’s pregnancy is now a thing for public consumption – YAY! – I’m totally going to IM her through the day on this one.

4) Juice and green drinks. So-so on this one. I juiced for the first three days and it the last two only after AG was awake. Sadly it seems that the juicer wakes up the baby, so if I’m going to juice, it has to be when she’s up. Sadly, when she’s up it’s all-systems-go and there isn’t room for the extra time that cleaning up the juicer takes and get out the door by 8:30 a.m. every day. All is not lost, of course. Scott has expressed an interest in juicing so I’m just going to start doing this in the evening when I get home, when it doesn’t matter if clean all seventy-billion parts of the juicer in time. The green drinks have been a success, and I swear these things are magic. They taste like grass, to be sure, but I love them.

I’m also taking Aloe Vera juice at night, too, alongside the green drink. It’s…OK. I don’t know that I notice a huge difference, but I paid for it so I refuse to let it go to waste. I don’t know.

Mornings this will week will have me experimenting with Green Monsters. I can always take the hand blender downstairs in the basement if need be, and it’s a damn sight easier to clean. I’m not going to lie, all of this attention to juice and whatnot has led me down the path of researching vegan recipes. It seems every winter this happens, predictably after the holidays indulgences. I’ve been cooking at least one vegetarian meal a week, if not two, but I’m intrigued to add more.

I mean, seriously, does this not look awesome? Or this? And, holy Moses, this?

Scott’s trying to work on his veggie consumption, and his whole-grains consumption, so this might be a good way to do it. Moving on…

5) Budget, budget, budget. Awesome here. Although I did spend an extra $45 on a gift for a pregnant friend who is on bed rest, in the hospital. I even went to Whole Foods to pick up kefir and baby food and only spent $35. I don’t think I’ve done that ever. I stuck to my grocery lists, and managed to not eat out. The bigger piece is that I solved a problem that had been plaguing me a bit, which basically resulted in me setting aside too much money for our mortgage payment. The nuts and bolts are not important, but it explains why I wasn’t able to put money aside more quickly than I wanted.

6) Dentist. Nyet.

I did the dry brush once, but that’s a matter of habit. Scott and I have been sitting down at the table together for dinner. I’m reading more – still not enough.  I am still working on forgiveness. Hard. I’m not sure that’s going to be anything I can update on a weekly basis, but I can guarantee that I’ll keep trying. So there’s that.

–

Later this week I’ll update on the very tasty Lifeway Kefir project I’m doing. Natalie over at Lifeway asked if anyone was interested in trying some of their products – for free or at a discount – and writing about their experience. So I’m doing just that.

Frozen kefir. Really good. Expensive, but whoa. Tasty.

NINE.

I have gained enough weight to need to go back into my still-too-big-but-more-forgiving-for-a-day’s-wear jeans. I stepped on the scale yesterday. Six pounds seems to be the magic number after all of that time not working out and holiday-ing.

And, you know, whatever. It is what it is. I had my follow-up the week between Christmas and New Year’s and I have another two weeks to go, and have thus far had two of the experimental hot laser treatments done to my heel. I’ll tack on some more this week, provided my work schedule allows for it. He seems to think I’m in the home stretch, but rumor has it that “home stretch” after the boot comes off is another six weeks.

SIX WEEKS.

None of this would concern me had it not been for the unfortunate timing of the Chicago Park District. This winter, they’ve closed my local pool. For the winter. I still haven’t learned when it’ll open again, though I hope it’s soon. I care less about the weight gain than I do the sheer stagnation. I will have lost the majority of what I gained during the summer and fall months, as far as athleticism is concerned, and frankly I’m sad to have no physical outlet. I miss the rush and the stress management that comes from a good workout.

I’ve bandied about just going to the gym to do some upper body weight training, and I’m holding out hope that I’ll at least be able to start walking again, or something else that’s low-impact, but I know that’s a tall order.

So for now I sit, literally, and wait. And hobble around on this stupid boot, with these stupid crutches, hungry and irritated.

If I had a spare good foot, I use it to kick myself for being so stupid this Fall. Gah.