This one's just between us

There are times when I long to feel the shallow breaths of the baby curled up like a bug on my chest, cooing in his sleep, tiny fingers grasping my necklace.

There are moments when I swear I can smell the lavender oil I once smoothed across his newborn skin, days when I see a photo of him bathing in the sink and would like to relive those giggles and splashes.

Sometimes, I go back to the evenings we spent in the kitchen of our old apartment, me spooning homemade applesauce and him flicking Cheerios from side to side of the high chair tray. I bounced on an exercise ball in front of him and we danced in our seats to Nickel Creek, Jack Johnson and Missy Higgins. And in that quiet before the storms hit that household, I wish to be be there for just a few more songs.

Occasionally, I think I'd like to watch my boy toddle from couch to coffee table to ottoman again or pull him tight to my chest while I nurse the baby to sleep.

I remember the excitement of tallying the words he could say by the time he was only months old and I would like for him to fit back in those little leather monkey shoes and crazy-small onesies and maybe even carry him around in the sling for a while.

I'm not a mother who has preferred one age over the other. I've loved every age for some reason or another, even when the heartbreak of crying it out or teething or time outs or potty training has temporarily silenced all those other delights.

And as I guess we all do, I see those legs stretch and his face change and it is bittersweet to know my baby boy is not just getting bigger, he is growing up.

All of that longing for the early days, for the completely dependent and swaddled infant were set aside last night. Last night when my heart exploded as we lay on the hallway floor, laughing so hard at an inside joke we've been laughing at all week.

All of this over Mrs. Peabody, a character in the book we read devoutly every night. Mrs. Peabody, who's character is inconsequential because her name is so freaking hilarious to preschooler who can't stop giggling every time her name is mentioned.

"Does...this...mean...she....pees...with...her...whole...body? Or....that...her...body's....made...of...peas?", he somehow got out in between gasps for air and shrieks of laughter.

This led me to draw up a picture and scribble out a poem about the newest Jedi, Master Peabody, in one of his daily lunchbox notes this week. And that led to a parody of this ear-worm of a song, which morphed into a slew of normally un-funny riddles revolving around the entire Peabody clan.

I know, none of this has any of you in hysterics. And wouldn't even if I mentioned that most of these performances apparently require recitation by a nakey 5-year old. But there we were, locked in a moment that can only happen when your kid gets to a certain point, to this point.

Of course, I miss fitting my child's whole body between my palm and my elbow. But now, there is this. And this is very different and still so good.

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I still believe that when it's real, you can see it

 Last night, I did something I don't do much anymore. I stayed up late watching Ellen DeGeneres on "Oprah." She was funny and engaging in that not-raunchy way Ellen is so good at being.

And then her wife Portia deRossi came out. They talked about meeting each other, confessing their feelings for each other, falling in love, getting married. Grateful. As the clips of their wedding day played and the camera panned across the two of them watching themselves on screen during those intimate, sacred moments, I had tears of my own.

I'm convinced they are the real deal. Oh, how I hope they are the real deal. It made me realize how rarely we see that on television and in the goss rags, when we turn all this stuff on. Yet, I think we want to see it. We want to believe it is there. So we are disappointed when people we think we know, we think seem like great couples falter or even fall apart.

Maybe I am blindingly seeking that in the faces of this couple. But I don't think so. I think that it is there, the thing you are overwhelmed by at some weddings and startled is absent at others.

One day, I'm going to feel my heart explode with all that goobiness again. Yesterday, it was a blessing to catch a piece of that confetti floating down from these two.

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I'm calling it NoBlownPoMo

For three years, I've participated in NoBloPoMo and I didn't anticipate this year would be any different. To the best of my ability and maybe with an eensy bit of back-blogging, I've spent the last few Novembers posting as many every days as I possibly could. I blogged during the days I filed for divorce and in my early days of blogging, and so I was pretty sure I could muster the energy and inspiration now that I am in a much, much better place.

And I did for a week. Or rather, a work week. Then the weekend arrived and I waited for the late-night panic to set in that I hadn't yet posted. DURING NOBLOPOMO! I waited for the push to put up something -- anything -- after I'd had a few glasses of wine (sorry we all missed out on the brilliance that could have been). And you know what? Nothing came. The only thing that was there was a desire to have a real weekend. A real weekend off. You know, the kind where you magically get a break from working.

So I decided to say screw it to this idea of posting daily and do something a little more manageable for me. I'm going to spend the month posting on the weekdays and practicing logging off on the weekends. Those are definitely equal challenges for me. I guess that means I am still participating, just to a degree. I'm doing this, but with boundaries that don't carry the stress and backpedaling and worries of doing something every damn day. More than belonging to some blogging challenge, I need that. I choose that sigh of relief.

Just in case this thing is being graded, I just wanted you to know that I've officially changed the assignment. I've got gold star stickers to give out to the rest of you and I think I'm going to be fine without sticking one on my screen.

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