Short and sweet.

I almost slept through this one... and honestly, there was a moment (brief, but there) when I almost deliberately decided to skip today's post altogether. Not for any reason really, outside of the general lateness of the hour, general tiredness from the day, and the fact that I'd been asleep in the boy's bed with him for the past hour after we got home from our respective parties... but none of that seemed a good enough reason. I have tons of editing and indexing to review tomorrow -- which means (hopefully) the last of the days where I can't play with Grif much as I sit at the table at work. And which means that I'll (probably) miss the Golden Globes (yeah, I'm one of those people -- I LOVE the awards, I love the speeches, I love the dresses, I love it all). I should stay up and do some more editing, and maybe after I'm finished here I will, for just a bit.

I almost skipped this one cuz I didn't have something profound or deliberate to say. So far this year, something, some "theme" has come to me, either as the day progresses, or as I put Grif to bed, that is both the perfect match to the picture I've captured today, or is close enough to spark something else.

I almost skipped this simply because the walk from Grif's room to the computer seemed impossibly, horribly, exhaustingly long. But at this last thought, I realized that was just silly. All of it was just silly. Today was nothing extraordinary, but neither was it not special. We celebrated a friend's surprise birthday. I spent time with good, good friends. I (once again) chose the wrong thing to order at the restaurant (and once again had that funny food envy). We cuddled, Grif and me, and I held him tight as he fell asleep tonight. And although that's nothing out of the ordinary these days either, when I hold his small body close, when I smell his little boy smell, when I marvel in this good, good life we all have together, I realize that today was still totally extraordinary.

For me.

Friday the 13th? Bah. Granted, it was coooold here. And Grif and I (unfortunately) had to actually run out in the first really bitter weather we've had this winter, but that was more a case of bad timing than bad luck.

So what did happen today? Oh, not much. We played. We made old-fashioned strawberry pretzel salad (which in light of the good luck that came my way, I indulged in... heavily). We napped (translation, I got Grif to nap, a miracle of good luck in and of itself). And, my illustrious cookbook writer/cohort/friend informed me that we were on Amazon. Us. Our cookbook. Even more stunning, me. My name. Top billing. On Amazon. Right there for the whole world to see. And enjoy and appreciate and celebrate and read.

Now most of you might think this is silly (sort of like googling yourself), but I was struck. Still am, if my staccato writing here is any indication. I've been writing a book for awhile now, on and off (mostly off, in all truthfulness). I even wrote about that book here once, and I always knew (still know) that I would one day finish it, sell it, publish it, and then see it on the shelves of my favorite bookstore, and ultimately... on Amazon. The pinnacle. The ultimate. What I never imagined was that I would get there first as an editor. What I forgot to be specific about was that I wanted to get there at all -- and so seeing my name up there on that familiar Amazon template was akin to having all my dreams come true, even the ones I had forgotten about.

Deep in my heart, upfront in my head, ever-present in my soul, is the utter conviction that this is just the beginning. Both as editor and writer. As editor, another cookbook (dare I say, cookbooks?) with my name (and Kelly's and Court's) will find its way to that (official)(epic)(amazing) book-selling, book-reviewing, book-making site. And as a writer? Well, that too. I'm sure of it.

So thanks, friends. Thanks, Kelly and Courtney. Thanks to all my neighbors and friends and family and hubby and boy who helped me get here. And I'm not just talking about the cookbook on Amazon. I'm talking here, on Friday the 13th, with the biggest, most satisfied, Cheshire-Cat grin on my face. Thanks, universe. This day has been so, so good.

Building anew

It's appropriate that today we got a new set of blocks for Grif in the mail. Today, I laid the foundation to build something new as well. Today, along with getting a million errands done and sending a boatload of emails, I followed up with something that has been at the back of my mind for about a month now -- today I met and committed to working with a personal trainer.

Nothing to do with resolutions (cuz if you remember, I don't really believe in them), more to do with just finally doing something more, today, now, finally, about toning up and getting better into shape. I won't be trite or silly and bemoan my current weight or how fit I'm not -- cuz I am, fit, that is, and not all that overweight. At the end of every yoga class, I give heartfelt, deep-seated thanks for my power, my strength, my beauty and health. I believe in those things -- I am those things. But for as much as yoga helps me maintain (and cleanse and renew and detox and relax), I needed (wanted) to do something a little extra to help me lose that little extra "extra."

Suffice it to say, I'm excited -- proud that I actually took this step and made this decision (and financial commitment) as opposed to just thinking about it or tossing it around as a "wouldn't it be nice if" idea. I'm anxious -- curious to see what kind of results I'll see in the next three to four months. I'm nervous -- to find out how either really behind I've let myself get or how crazy boot-campy my new trainer is going to be.

It's only once a week right now (but I can show up for solo cardio whenever I like), so I'm not expecting instant miracles or results the likes of which will drop me down to the dress size I was when I met Jim (but wouldn't that be cool?). But already, with this sense of accomplishment (and there THAT feeling is again!), I'm feeling stronger, straighter, leaner, lovelier. More powerful, more beautiful, more healthy, more happy. And isn't that what life should be all about?

I'll keep you posted. Literally.

Mornings, a study.

I feel divided about mornings. On the one hand, I despise them. My least favorite part of the day, the time when the darkness and warmth of my bed call me to stay just a little longer and put off getting up as long as possible. I've always been more of a sunset, twilight-time kind of girl. That relaxing of the day, the reflection, the pause, the settling as the day wraps itself up in color and quality, just before the night comes in.

On the other hand, I love the mornings. Not only for the times when I can sleep in (rare, but occasional), but because they usually begin with the light clomp-clomp of bare Grif feet, and a boy with an armful of bunny and dog silently begging me to open the covers and let him in, so we can snuggle for just a few more minutes.

I dislike mornings when I have to rush the boy to hurry hurry hurry to get ready, change clothes, eat breakfast, put on shoes and bundle up in your coat so we can go go go go!! I love mornings when I can doze just a few minutes longer with a boy and a pilot on either side, all of us tucked in the warmth of "we three" before reluctantly letting the day truly begin.

I dislike mornings as that's usually when Jim leaves us to go on a trip. I love it when he's home and I can sneak out for my favorite yoga class, which begins before most of this city has started to stir.

I dislike mornings as they often signal a time when I must leave the boy at school and make my way into work. I love mornings as they now represent just a fraction of the time I have to spend away from him, as opposed to last year's full-time commitment.

Mornings are usually mommy and Grif time, as even when daddy is home, he's slower to get moving and we often tiptoe out to let him sleep. And then there are the mornings for just the pilot and me, which remind me of when we first met and would lounge and watch TV and nap until noon.

Mornings -- so promising, often painful, but usually worth it, when it's all said and done with, don't you think?

The Boys

The language of fathers and sons... it's something special. Something obvious. I often hear about the singular connection between a father and daughter (I'm living proof, you could say), but in Jim's case, I think he could only have had a son. Which is not to say that if we'd had a girl, he wouldn't have loved her with his whole heart. Of course he would have. But for some reason I feel he was always destined to have a little boy.

It was Jim, in fact, who was ready for it all before I was. I was still terrified of even thinking about having a baby, possibly looking for, but never finding a solid reason not to at all. It was Jim who reminded me that in everything we had done so far together, we had been so very good. What made me think having a child would be any different? He was right, of course. He usually is.

We both were positive Grif was a girl. And both (secretly) trying not too hard to hope for a boy, afraid to voice to each other the near certainty that we would soon be looking at pink paint for the walls. This time, we were both wrong. Gloriously so.

From the very beginning, we've absolutely shared all aspects of parenting. And I mean all. Unlike many dads, Jim was able to take off more time than even I could, and we were a true team from the minute we drove to the hospital. I often say that in those first three months after Grif was born, Jim was hands-down the better mother of the two of us. Even now, because of his schedule and mine, Jim gets to be stay-at-home dad for days at a time while mommy goes to work. Something very few dads get a chance at, a blessing I know he values so very much, especially during the times when he's gone six and seven days at a time. Even now, he and Grif play together in a so much more connected, full way than the boy and me. And rather than being even the tiniest bit envious of that, I can't wait to watch it unfold. To the first time they "have a catch," to when Jim teaches him how to ride a bike, or fix an engine, or mow the lawn, or build a campfire, tie knots, train dogs, fly kites, wash dishes, do laundry, drive, fly, care for, love, live.

Just today in the car, Grif was dreaming of the future. When I grow up, I'm going to be a pilot, just like daddy. It was the first time that I'd ever heard him say all the words together, in a full sensical sentence (some days he's going to fly planes and be a pilot, others he's going to grow up to be a plane, or a firetruck or a train... as if he could grow up to be the vehicle instead of its driver). To be just like daddy. Hard not to love everything about that, right? My boys. My blessings.

Phases and cycles.

Not too many moons ago, the boy was hands-off. Don't touch me, mommy. Please don't pat my back (at least I got a please, right?). Don't hold me. Funny stuff, really, coming out of a three-year-old's mouth. What's really funny is how I often let it hurt my feelings. Especially now that that phase is over.

I come from a basically over-affectionate family. My mother is Mexican, the youngest of 13, most of whom married loud, boisterous, demonstrative Italians. Which means, that at every wedding, weekend dinner, funeral, reunion or casual visit, I would be expected to kiss and hug every single relative (and there were a lot of them), whether I knew them or not. It's just what we did. So very different than my father's very reserved Dutch upbringing. At times, I shied away from the over-affectionation, so to speak. I didn't know half my relatives' names, and I'm expected to do the double-kiss and hug? And mean it? Quite quickly though, the more I did it (under my mother's approving eye) it made me feel adult, like I belonged in some super-secret (vast) family that knew everyone intimately enough to welcome them in arms, even if this was the first time we'd met. It's part of my upbringing that has branded me deeply -- I tend to judge people not by the quality of their handshakes, but by the quality of their hugs. The tentative, half-shoulder squeeze just doesn't do it for me. I'm a two-armed, all the way around, bear hug kind of girl, regardless if you're family or friend. And I expect it in return. 

Consequently, I've passed some of that on to Grif. Perhaps sometimes unwittingly so. That boy we met at the park the other day? As we said goodbye, I told Grif to give Louis a hug and tell him thanks for playing with me. Which he did. Enthusiastically, genuinely, without pause. I ask him to do this frequently, obviously for close family, but really, for anyone with whom we've just spent a few hours... my friends, Jim's friends, a sweet boy we met at a park. He passes this on -- bunny and dog (his go-to companions) often give kisses, hug each other, cuddle with us. He pats their backs, rubs their tummies, worries about them. He worries about Thomas the Train, when we're watching DVDs and Thomas needs help. He constantly tells me how his Wocket is sad, although we can never fully figure out why. He fusses over his trains that have "bruises." His capacity for care, at just over three years old, stuns me. And heartens me. I so want him to grow up to be "good" -- courageous and considerate, strong and dependable. I want his heart to always be this full of compassion and love and simple, innocent goodness. And although I know that this is not totally possible (he will be a teenager someday), I hope that his heart will always be this big. 

Now, his ever-present litany is a request to be held. First thing in the morning, last thing at night. Mommy, will you hold me? Yes, honey, I'd love to hold you. 

Big, contented sigh.

Today, for what feels like the first time in eons, and in all honesty, is probably the first time since March of last year, I didn't have anything to do. No writing, editing or indexing projects hanging over my head, no resume favors left undone, no "work" work that I should have been working on pressing down my day or my heart. Nothing left outstanding, nothing to feel guilty about not doing.

Which is not to say that I still didn't have a ton to do. My side of our office is still barely controlled chaos. My hotmail inbox is horribly overloaded. Don't even talk to me about laundry, mountains waiting, and Grif's journal, still not updated. Today, there were veggies to cut up and freeze in prep for Super Bowl chowder and chili, breakfast to make for today and tomorrow, xmas decorations to take down, dinner and dishes and all the rest. But I had time to do all that, without guilt, without being pressed, without feeling like I really should be doing something else. These tasks were optional, leisurely even. Even more amazing, thanks to my pilot, I got to go to yoga today (where my favorite moksha teacher of all time was teaching class, and so it was even more fulfilling and challenging and good than normal), got there early, left late, and still got to take a nap when I got home. And for that I was so thankful. I felt accomplished. Contented. Relieved, relaxed, good.

Today, I had time. And so this is what we did. You want to come draw with me? Yes, honey. Absolutely. And I did it without watching the clock or being anxious about how much longer I could play with the boy before I had to rush off to finish some endlessly unfinished task. Today, I had time. And it felt totally, gratefully, permanently, amazingly, wonderfully good.

Good stuff.

I'll admit, this daily writing and posting thing is getting harder. I know, I know, it's only been a few days, but it's days like today -- when I'm well and truly exhausted, after three grueling (no, really, grueling) days of editing and indexing into the wee, wee hours, followed by a full day today of top-to-bottom cleaning and high-maintenance dinner prep (but, oh, that salmon and orange-ginger-butter cream sauce were sooo worth it) -- that I can see how easy it would have been to let this go, just this once, for today. I'm the kind of tired where it gets difficult to type or complete thoughts, and would have much rather just gone to bed than haul out this silly laptop.

But no. I have just a few minutes to be true to this challenge I've unwittingly, yet willingly, set for myself. And this one is easy. This one is in thanks for the good friends I have in my life. The ones who listen to my silliness, my woes, my real problems. Really listen. The ones who ask the questions I didn't even know needed to be answered. The ones who offer advice, laughter, understanding and love. This one is for my dear soulmates who embrace my child and take his energy and silliness (and demands) into their whole hearts, and genuinely enjoy him, in turn helping me take a fresh (more patient? more understanding? more joyful?) look at my sweet little boy. This one is for the people who see me, really see me, and still love and accept and support me. Without fail, without question. This one is for Kristy, who is all of these things. And for Jim too, as he is as well (and also possibly because he took care of the HUGE mountain of dishes and pots and pans and mess my colossal dinner made, as he always does). This one is for the good stuff. Cheers. Happy, contented, thankful sigh.

We are three.

There was a short period of time today where I wished Grif was a twin. It's a feeling that I have often when I watch him latch on to 3-year-old he's never met, and proceed to laugh his head off and play with him for the next two hours like he was his "best friend ever." He was meant to be a twin, with his silly high-pitched (amazing) laugh and his noticeably stunning blue-grey eyes. He was meant to be a twin, with his endless, no, really, endless energy. His love of other kids. His delight in playing with another being his size and age and temperament. His, "you want to come play with me?" attitude of pure, pure innocence and delight that infects everything he does.

And then two hours later, when he's having a screaming fit cuz he's worn out from the park, I remember that this was the reason he was not a twin. Solely in service to my sanity, cuz two of him would surely push me over the edge I approach all too often as it is.

In truth, I wanted two kids from the very beginning. In truth, I was terrified of having (and parenting) ANY kids, regardless of number. And then between a pretty horrendous delivery, and an overly challenging first three months, coupled with my (ahem) age, and a myriad of other pretty selfish reasons, we decided to remain three and three alone. And lord knows that there are many days when I am sooo thankful he's a solo. Until days like today. When it's nearly 55 degrees and we go to the park to burn off some much-needed energy outside in the glorious, sunny sunshine. When we meet this sweet little boy Louis and his mom, and it feels like we should all have met years ago, our families and situations (and humor) so immediately alike and compatible, our natural affinity for each other. Louis' mom was 3 months pregnant, and so excited, that I couldn't help but pause for a minute and think, hmm. Should we have? Should we still? Regrets? And resoundingly, rightly, the answer is nope, none. Except for the fact that I should've exchanged numbers with Louis and his mom so we could meet another day and do it all again.

Fit to be.

A consequence of my very (thankfully) busy last year was that I did not (as planned) continue to write down the funny sayings and nuances of a quickly growing Grif. I love and am soooo thankful for the extra time with him courtesy of my (no-longer-new) job, equally blessed with the overabundance of freelance work that fell into my lap (including the illustrious cookbook), but writing in the "Grif Journal" was one of the things that got abandoned by the wayside quickly as the year and ensuing craziness and fun unfolded. My plan is to pick it up again (maybe tomorrow?), and fill it in randomly, in no order, with all the silly stories and snapshot memories that I have of him in the last year. Sort of like a "best of," stream of Grif consciousness, you could say.

So as I pondered what today's blog and photo would be and bring, I picked up the boy from daycare, and immediately was branded "bad Mommy" because I had forgotten (legitimately) to bring the usual, obligatory pretzel/raisin snack pack that Grif usually inhales on the way home. In a word, he threw a fit. A huge one. He is three after all, and everyone (medical professionals included) assure me this is normal. So in an attempt to distract him, I pointed out the awesome colors in the setting-sun sky, to which he immediately responded, "I don't WANT to look at that sky." And which, of course, he did immediately. Three seconds later, the fit ended when he spotted a plane in that gorgeous sky, crying, "Mommy! Oooh! A plane! Ooh! Look! Over there! Behind those trees! A plane! Behind those trees!" His eagerness and excitement over the plane making his voice high-pitched and stuttery and repetitive, a reaction that has happened many times before.

Which brings me, I guess, to the point. How amazing his capacity for wonder and excitement is. How huge. How quickly it can turn on a dime, from a screaming, fit-throwing, seat-kicking, crazy child to a high-pitched embodiment of laughter and light. A lesson I would do well to learn, and certainly emulate more. More wonder and joy, less fits and anger. How's that for a motto?