Category Archives: Life and Family


In October of 2012, I lost two people I loved very much. One was my grandmother, who lived a fierce and fascinating life. One was a baby whose heart never had a chance to beat. I remember the news and the numbness. I was sure that I would run out of tears, that I would shut down. I was sure that the world would end. It didn’t, of course. The world always turns and we’re carried through another day whether or not we’re ready. I wasn’t. But I was swept along, with everyone else, into November, December, and a new year.

In October of 2013, after a hormonal assault on my ovaries and my pride, a little seed of hope was planted inside me. A fragile, beautiful ball of cells. October 2013 was anticipation and anxiety. It was joy tempered with caution. I didn’t dare imagine what might be. It’s hard to hold love in your heart when it’s a love that’s hurt you before. But there was room for the love, in between the pain and the guilt and the worry. There was room, and I held that love tight.

In October of 2014, I hold my son in my arms. He squirms against me, trying to burrow through my shoulder with his drool-soaked chin. He chatters and smiles and pulls on my shirt. This is love. This is more love than I deserve. I’m filled with wonder and gratitude. I inhale and take in his sweet baby scent. He smells like diapers and milk. He smells like Dave and me. He smells like home.

Necessity, meet invention.

Liam was sitting in his carseat, ready to be hauled off to daycare. It was pouring, and I had nothing to cover him with. The cute flannel receiving blankets are too small for the job and would just dangle in his face if I draped them over the handle. An umbrella wouldn’t have been much help, since  I don’t have the strength and dexterity to both hoist the 30 pounds of combined plastic and baby and cover everything adequately with an umbrella. He’d end up jostled, wet, and angry.

So… other options… I found a small bath towel and draped it over the carseat. It was exactly the right size to cover the seat without dragging on the floor, but I couldn’t pick it up. The towel slid all over the handle and wouldn’t give me a good enough grip. The carseat canopies you can get custom made on Etsy, by people who have talent and time, have little straps so that they hang under the handle.


Binder clips. Baby toys.




Patent pending.

Liam’s Birth Story

Liam’s birth story begins with an ultrasound tech saying “Hmm.”

“Hmm” meant my amniotic fluid was very low. It meant an anxious phone call to Dave warning him not to leave for work. It meant they were getting a room ready for me in Labor & Delivery, because as the perinatologist put it, I’d be “having a baby this weekend, one way or another.”

Induction. What I’d most wanted to avoid. I wasn’t having contractions, my water hadn’t broken, and I felt absolutely fine (besides huge, sweaty, and sluggish). I’d read enough to know that pitocin’s no picnic, and that inductions before term had a decent chance of failing and sending Mom to the OR for a C-section. I wasn’t afraid of the C-section itself, but I dreaded the thought of being in pitocin-cranked labor for hours and hours and hours and then needing a section anyway.

I called Dave to confirm we were about to start the party early. I called work to tell them I wasn’t coming in for, oh, a few months or so. Then I drove home. I could have walked across the parking lot to the hospital, but I needed some time to come to terms with the induction plan. I was twitchy and distracted. I couldn’t make my eyes focus on anything. I pulled the hospital bag out of the car to check it and recheck it and make sure I hadn’t forgotten anything. Dave stood by patiently, knowing I’d already checked it two days ago. He was so calm. On the outside, anyway.

Then we went to Panera, because I wanted a chocolate chip cookie. Gestational diabetes be damned, if I was to be done gestating in a few hours. I wanted a goddamn cookie, and I was going to have a goddamn cookie. And it was THE BEST COOKIE EVER.

After the L&D receptionist gave us our armbands, a nurse brought me to a room and asked me to get changed into a hospital gown. I stood at the door, frozen.

“Don’t I start at triage?”

“Oh, no, we’re getting you started right away.”

Giant speeding truck of reality, meet my head. Head, meet truck. Ok, we’re settled, then.

A nurse took my vital signs, then strapped monitors to my belly. Whoomp whoomp, baby was still doing fine even though his swimming pool was down to a puddle. It took three tries and both arms to get my IV installed, because although the nurse was really good with her needle, my veins are full of valves. Good for doing their blood transportation thing, but bad for snaking a tube through. We laughed about it. I joke around a lot when I’m nervous.

Dr. Rojas came in, smiling as always, and explained what was going to happen. We’d be using a couple of waves of different medications, and we’d see what my progress was like after each one before moving on. That sounded fair to me. Slow and steady. I was relieved that they weren’t just going to fill me with pitocin right away. I was given Cervidil around 2pm and told to stay in bed for twelve hours while it worked its magic, opening up my cervix. 12 hours is a long time when you know you’re not supposed to move except to use the bathroom. I think we watched some TV. Dave went to get food, but I was only allowed liquids and jello and long wistful looks at his takeout. Sometime around 8 or 9, the nurse offered me Ambien so I could get a little sleep before all the craziness planned for the morning. I took it gladly, and drifted in and out of sleep for a few hours. Hospitals are hard to sleep in. So much beeping.

I started feeling contractions somewhere around midnight. They intensified steadily, and the nurses offered me some IV painkiller to take the edge off. It helped, and I drifted back in and out until Dr. Rojas came back in at 2am to check on me. He was happy enough with my progress to switch me over to pitocin. He told me things were going to start getting more intense, and that the medical team would do everything they could to minimize my pain – when I was ready for the epidural, they’d get right on it. He told me not to be a hero, to ask for it when it started to hurt. He squeezed my hand before he left.

It didn’t take long. By 3am, I was feeling contractions strong enough to make me whimper, groan, and squeeze the sides of the bed. I was making enough noise to wake Dave up, and I felt bad. After half a dozen contractions, I knew two things. One, I would never be the type to choose a medication-free birth. Two, it was epidural time. Well, it was ask for an epidural time. Took them an hour to get to me. That was a rough hour.

A needle into the spine is not fun. And the fact that they leave a little tube in place, similar to an IV in my back, freaked me out. But, you know, contractions. Pain. For how many more hours? So I leaned forward and tried not to move while the anesthesiologist did his thing. I flinched when the first medication went in, because it felt like my back was on fire. Pro tip: do not flinch during an epidural. You will be yelled at. Which may make you cry. Just saying, theoretically. He secured the tubing by taping my back up like he was shipping an international package in a questionably-constructed box, and then I got to lie down again and rest while my contractions continued. Or so the monitor said. I couldn’t feel them at all. Ah, pharmacology. I love you so much.

Fun fact: the epidural medication pump had an intermittent squeak that sounded so much like a tiny kitten that I was sure either Dave or I had changed the notification tone on a phone or tablet and we were getting lots of messages. I’d say it was just the drugs making me crazy, but a nurse confirmed the pumps squeak. Most people think it’s a bird. But it sounded enough like Horton that it helped me to smile through the pushing stage later on, so I’m grateful for it.

Dr Leak took over later that morning, and came in to check my progress. Three seconds into the exam, her eyes popped open wide.

“You don’t feel that?”

“…no…?” (Hello, that’s why I got the epidural!)

“His head’s right here! It’s pushing time!”

There was a whirlwind of gowns and tarps, some parts of my bed disappeared, and someone set the baby warmer to preheat in the corner. Before I had time to even think about it, they were hoisting my legs up and asking me to tell them when I felt pressure so I could push with the contractions. I did pretty well, or so they kept telling me. We laughed a lot through the delivery, which made me so happy. My son was coming into the world in a room full of laughter and silliness and joy. It helped tremendously that both Dr Leak and the nurse were incredibly relaxed and kept everything low-key and informal. It was like having three Daves in the room with me. I’d feel pressure, tell them “Maybe now?” And they’d say, “sure, let’s push.” Dave stood at my side and helped support my neck when I curled up for each push, and he encouraged me the whole way, telling me what a great job I was doing. After about an hour of that, Liam was born.

They put him on my chest and rubbed him down, suctioned the goo from his throat, and let me have a look at him. He was gross and squishy and beautiful. They didn’t leave him there long, because they didn’t like his breathing. They called in someone from the NICU to have a look, but they reassured me that it was almost always nothing, just a transition from goo to air that made them sound funny and struggle a little. I didn’t worry much. But then the specialist saw Liam’s hands shaking. They ran a bedside glucose test. His result was low. Very low. So low that they weren’t going to let me breastfeed him yet because he needed to get his sugar up ASAP. Before I knew what was going on she’d whipped out a bottle of formula and plugged it in his mouth. So much for avoiding bottles.

For the rest of the day, they checked his glucose every few hours, after nursing sessions. He was doing better by late afternoon, but not good enough for the NICU specialists, who decided he needed an IV with a steady sugar supply so he wouldn’t dip into hypoglycemia. They took him away around dinnertime. I was devastated. I’d just met him, and a few hours into our relationship, he was leaving me for the hectic bright world of the NICU.

We kept thinking they’d let him go as soon as his sugar looked good, but they were very cautious and wanted to wean him off his glucose drip very slowly, to be sure his body could manage sugars on its own after he left. So we spent three days visiting him there every three hours. Dave wheeled me down the hall 8 times a day so I could feed Liam, even if the little guy only got a few drops out of me and needed to be topped off with formula. We stayed for an hour each time, holding his hands and stroking his hair and trying not to notice the tubes and wires attached to our little man. The nurses were wonderful and he got the absolute best care from all of them, but Monday night became the hardest night in my life when I had to leave the hospital without my son. As we were packing up to leave, I saw the beautiful flower and balloon arrangement from my mother-in-law, and I fell apart. On TV, the woman being wheeled through the lobby with the happy “It’s a BOY” balloon is holding that boy in her lap. But I wouldn’t have my boy. And in my blind emotional state, I refused to entertain the thought of leaving this gift behind in the room. So Dave, wonderful, wonderful Dave, picked it up and walked three steps behind my wheelchair.

Liam won’t have any memory of the NICU, but we’ll never forget it. The sinks at the entrance, where 3 minutes of scrubbing with antiseptic soap stood between these babies and possible infections. Liam’s poor little feet covered in bandaids to hide the dozens of cuts from the lancets used for his blood draws. The tiny plank strapped to his arm to keep his IV in place. The care with which his nurses swaddled him up for the night. The shrieking of the heart monitor if we bent the wires the wrong way when picking him up from the plastic bassinet. The regular hum of the IV pump blending with Liam’s snorting and sucking as he was held to my breast. The sounds of other parents, getting news you can’t ever be ready to hear. We were so lucky that it was just a little blood sugar issue. He was only in the NICU because they were being extra careful. I can’t imagine the stress that other mothers must feel when their babies are stuck in the NICU with serious issues for days or weeks or months.

But Liam’s body just needed a couple of days to figure out how sugar works. We brought him home on Tuesday, healthy and happy and asleep. We got him into the house and let the cats sniff him. We put all of our bags in the front closet to be dealt with later. We took our son out of his carseat, looked at his scrunchy sleeping baby face, and wondered… what the hell were we supposed to do with him now?

Ruining everything, in the nicest way

My son is already a month old.


That went by fast.

I meant to write up his birth story and share it on the blog, but the thing with having a newborn around is that you very seldom get around to the things you meant to do. Instead you’re busy with all the new things you absolutely have to do. Like changing diapers and feeding a thrashing baby and driving to urgent care at 2am. And sleeping, if you’re lucky. We’ve been lucky. So far. When I find a small block of time for myself, I indulge in a decadent 5-minute shower. Sometimes, I make it 6 minutes, and break out the conditioner.

Life is so different now. Harder. More stressful. I miss my old life some nights, when I’m walking laps, bouncing my son and listening for the fart that means his gas pain has passed and his diaper needs changing. I could be sleeping. I could be enjoying TV. My husband and I could be out for dinner or a game night with friends. But it isn’t about us anymore. It’s not an easy thing, to find your entire life’s focus suddenly and irreversibly redirected to this tiny creature who needs you for everything.

I’ve been peed on, pooped on, and barfed on several times in this short month. The house is a mess, and will likely stay that way for decades. Outings are much more complicated than they used to be, and they revolve around his schedule. He eats almost constantly, so I’m never asleep for more than 3-4 hours at a time before my boobs need to deliver. And when he eats, he likes to clamp down and yank until it looks like he’s an early bird getting a worm. It’s hard to see this as the new normal. Hard to wear the “parent” nametag for this new job, knowing I can never clock out. It’s terrifying.

But this tiny creature needs me for everything. I’m so incredibly important. He’s so new and so small and so helpless. He’d never make it without us. He’s awe-inspiring and difficult and beautiful and frustrating. Soon he’ll start smiling and cooing and interacting with us. He’ll crawl, and walk, and have a favorite color and a best friend at school and want to be all sorts of things when he grows up. And it’s my job to get him there, to help him reach all the milestones and to guide him through every single day.

So after I change that horrible oozing diaper and pick him back up to help him with his next fart, I hold him tight to my chest while I pat his back. He’ll never be this tiny again. I lean in close to his little ears and I tell him Mommy’s got him. Mommy will always have him.


You should know
How great things were before you
Even so
They’re better still today
I can’t think of who I was before
You ruined everything
In the nicest way

-Jonathan Coulton, “You Ruined Everything”

A night in the life of a pregnant woman

On an average night, I wake up twice because my bladder only has a fraction of its former volume left.

Gonna BlowI add to the problem by giving my kidneys a fresh cold glass of water to process every time I get up, because for unfathomable reasons, peeing at 1:45am makes me desperately thirsty. It’s usually as I’m climbing back into bed (yes, climbing – I need a step-stool to haul myself into the bed now) that I realize I’m too hot and sweaty to ever possibly get back to sleep, so my first wake-up ends with me turning on the ceiling fan. Even if it’s cool outside, and even if the air conditioning is keeping the room at a reasonable 75F. After my second wake-up around 4am, I give up on my PJs and end up half-naked and sweating on top of the sheets, gasping for oxygen like a dying fish while my husband snores beside me wrapped in a blanket.

It’s the hormones and the squirming heat-generating nugget in my uterus that are making me sweat, but I’m sure the pillow nest is helping to retain that heat and contributing to cooking me alive. I could probably hatch chickens in my bed. Or alligators. And they’d all be male.


The nest is a necessity, because apparently the worst thing you can do while pregnant is sleep in any manner other than on your left side. So you buy fancy giant pillows and prop yourself up all night and try not to roll onto your back and die. How humanity got through the dark ages before Snoogle pregnancy pillows is a mystery to me.

Reclining Woman in a Landscape

In Renaissance days, pregnant women stuffed a small yippy dog at the small of their back when sleeping, so the dog could warn them if they tried to roll over.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, it’s nap time. So I have to go pee.

Where Do Babies Come From?


(Note: this is an edited repost from May 2013.)


When a man and a woman love each other very much and want to have a baby, they share a special hug that puts a baby into the woman’s belly.

We tell children variations on this story, adding levels of scientific complexity and biological grossness as they get old enough to want or need the details.

For 1 in 8 couples, though, this story isn’t true.

Sometimes all the love in the world isn’t enough to make a baby, no matter how enthusiastic the special hugging.

Sometimes, a man and a woman love each other very much and want to start a family. They throw away all the protection that they’ve been using since their parents taught them about the mechanics of sex, and they “try”. They make jokes about bad baby names and daydream about the nursery. It’s fun and it’s exciting and they hold their breaths every month as they check pregnancy tests to see if they made it.

And they wait.

Friends and family ask them when they’re going to have kids. Soon, they say, and look at each other with knowing smiles.

They start to wonder why it’s taking so long. They do some research. She buys tests to check her urine every day. The strips can tell her when she’s ovulating so they can have better timing. She buys a thermometer to take her temperature every morning before getting out of bed, to keep track of her cycles. She drinks green tea and eats pineapples; someone on the internet said it helps. He takes vitamins and tries to eat healthier. She cuts out caffeine and pushes through the withdrawal headaches. He avoids hot tubs on vacation. Every month, they wait two long weeks after ovulation to see if they’ll get a pink line on a pregnancy test.

And they wait.

Friends and family ask them when they’re going to have kids. Soon, they say, and squeeze each other’s hand for support under the table.

Someone tells her to just relax. Maybe stick her legs up in the air after sex. Someone asks him if they’ve tried different positions.

They see doctors. They give medical histories. They have blood drawn. How are their hormone levels? Do they have any STDs? They send blood out to see if they’re carriers for genetic diseases. He hands over a sample container in a crinkled paper bag. He holds her hand as she lies back and tries not to faint while a tech squeezes thick gel into her uterus and fallopian tubes to see if the paths are clear.

And they wait: for the phone calls, the follow-up visits, the medical bills. They wait for answers.

Friends and family ask them when they’re going to have kids. The silence is awkward.

Someone says they should try adopting, because their cousin got pregnant right after she got that girl from the Philippines.

Sometimes the problem is obvious, once the test results come back. Bad sperm, blocked tubes, hormone imbalances blocking ovulation. Sometimes it can be fixed with medication or surgery. But sometimes the doctors shrug and say there’s nothing wrong that they can find, but that if pregnancy hasn’t happened yet without intervention, it probably won’t. They give the couple odds. They’re bad. They cry.

There are options, of course, but they’re expensive. Many insurance plans have little to no coverage for fertility drugs or procedures. Intrauterine insemination, usually the first step, can cost over $1000, and you’re only buying a 15-20% chance at a viable pregnancy for your money. In-vitro fertilization has better odds (40-60%) but is much more invasive and expensive – approximately $10,000 per round. It’s a whirlwind of tears and hormones, injections and blood draws, medical bills and invasive ultrasounds, and time taken off work for medical appointments. And it’s waiting. Always, always waiting.

Babies come from love. Sometimes they come from science, too. Sometimes they come from donor eggs or sperm or from adoption. And sometimes, they never come.

This week is National Infertility Awareness Week. Many people are reluctant to talk about infertility. Maybe they’re ashamed of their issues, feeling like there’s something wrong with them. Maybe they’ve heard one too many “helpful” comments and are afraid to tell anyone else about what they’re living. Maybe it’s too hard to talk about without crying.

Please take a moment to read this page from RESOLVE, the National Infertility Association. This is information that everyone needs to know in order to create a better support network for the infertile couples in their lives. Read it. Absorb it. Share it. 1 in 8 couples out there could really use your support.

That’s why I walked in RESOLVE’s 2013 Walk of Hope in Washington DC last June. Funds raised from the Walk support local RESOLVE programming, including support groups and educational events, public awareness initiatives, and advocacy efforts to ensure family building options are available to all. Because they should be. You can learn more about RESOLVE here, and donate to the cause, if you’d like. But just the act of you reading this post has helped the cause, too, so thank you.



Baby Brain

Baby brain has hit me. Hard. It’s one of those things that mothers always joke about, how the fetus doesn’t build its own neurons from scratch, but sucks Mom’s out of her brain instead. More efficient, surely, but when it leaves Mom a confused stumbling mess, I’m not sure that’s the best strategy for survival of the species. Maybe that’s why humans developed societies and the pair bond – to keep pregnant women from absentmindedly walking off cliffs and squashing the next generation.

The baby isn’t snacking on my brain like a tiny zombie, of course. But some days it feels like it. Especially in the early days, it was mostly due to exhaustion. During the first trimester, I was tired almost all of the time, thanks to crazy hormones. Between nights and naps, I was getting at least 10 hours of sleep a day, but it was never enough. And when I’m tired, I do stupid things. Things like pouring a glass of water, putting it into the fridge, and walking to the couch with the Brita pitcher in my hand.

I’ve stepped into the shower with my socks on. I’ve fed the cats and wondered 5 minutes later whether it was time to feed the cats (the cats are loving this part). I’ve left for work without my lunch, without my badge, without deodorant. I’m on autopilot, but my autopilot is a soviet-era autopilot retrieved from a wreck and cobbled back together by a team using only IKEA pictograms to guide them. I remember to breathe, to eat, and to go to my prenatal appointments. At this point I have to wonder if I should just accept that as a successful effort at this pregnancy thing. Maybe I already did accept that? I’m not sure. My memory is shot.

Which means that words? Those things I use for talking? Forget it. They’re gone. I have never relied on hand-flapping and creative substitution as much as I have these past couple of months. My husband thinks it’s hilarious, and at first he’d call me out on my crazy sentences.

“Oh, crap, I forgot to pick up, um, that stuff… white stuff… like for baked potatoes?”


(Spousal violence in the form of whacking him in the arm)

Marge, where’s that metal dealy you use to… dig… food?

As time goes on and it’s clear that the vocabulary situation isn’t improving at all, he’s choosing to ignore it more often and guess my meaning from context. Smart man. Maybe we’ll keep the next generation from being squashed after all.


Here Comes Cookie Day

I spent the entire evening baking cookies yesterday. It made my house smell delicious. I made several dozen oatmeal chocolate chip Craisin cookies. They’re chewy and cinnamony and absolutely perfect, but this batch isn’t for me. These are sharing cookies. I made enough to give away to the family this weekend, when we all get together for Cookie Day.


C is for coooookie

Cookie day is an annual tradition here with my Maryland family. December comes, and it’s so easy to get swept up in a Christmas panic. We all take a Saturday off, away from the crowds at the mall, and spend an afternoon at my in-laws’. The guys put up and decorate the tree, and the women bake and decorate dozens of Christmas cookies. It’s a comfy, casual day, and I always look forward to it.

We always have to make Hershey’s kiss “peanut blossom” cookies, because there would be a general revolt from the guys if we didn’t. We’ve been alternating between sugar cookies and shortbread cookies, both of which wear holiday sprinkles well. We’ve tried a few other kinds, too, including the oatmeal ones I just got done with tonight. We won’t have time to bake more than two kinds of cookie this weekend, though. Even with someone making the sugar cookie dough in advance. See, Cookie Day got more complicated once my nephew arrived on the scene. A baby (and then a toddler) needs constant supervision, so there was less time and attention available for baking. This year, we’ve got his little sister around, distracting us even more from the tough cookie work. No complaints here; a cute nephew and niece are much more worthy of my attention than sugar cookies! But we all love cookies, and it’s more fun to have a big variety. And, honestly? A few dozen cookies, split between three families, taken home on the first weekend of December? They have no hope of lasting until Christmas. I figured that I’d use up a bit of my spare energy and chocolate chips and bring a couple dozen to Cookie Day. All the cookies, none of the effort (for them, anyway)!

This year, my nephew will be old enough to help us decorate the sugar cookies with sprinkles, which will be so much fun. I know he’s probably just going to dump sprinkles all over everything, but I can’t wait to eat his masterpieces.

Cookie day just keeps getting better.

Beginning to Look a Lot Like Christmas, Part 2

A day off. December looming. A husband stuck heading into work to finish up a project. It added up to the perfect day to deck out the house and surprise my hardworking husband by having him come home to Christmas.

First, and most importantly, the tree. We made the transition to an artificial Christmas tree a few years ago, so at least I wouldn’t be stuck driving back from Home Depot with a tree drooping into the windshield of my tiny Honda Fit. But our fake tree spends the off-season in a giant box on a shelf in the garage. I do not like the garage. If Baroque cartographers had sketched the continent of “Garage,” they would have marked its mysterious wilds with “Here There Be Spiders.”

With one itchy-trigger-fingered hand holding a giant red can of Raid, I opened the door between the mudroom and garage. I flapped my other hand wildly in the darkness to trigger the motion sensor and get some light. A cricket bounced away from me, presumably to tell his spider friends about the fresh meat coming their way. Picking my way through the junk on the floor, I found the tree shelf. The front of the box was clean. No cobwebs. I shook the box, hard, to disturb any creatures with too many legs who may have been hiding under or behind it. Nothing scurried, so I lifted the box.

That is to say, I heaved and pulled and yanked on the box until it crashed to the floor, and then dragged it into the house with many huffs and puffs. Artificial trees are heavy.


I didn’t need the Raid. But I was PREPARED.

I got the metal stand assembled and hoisted the bottom section of the tree into it. The tip that goes into the stand looks like the end of a patio umbrella, and trying to dock it with the base took a few tries, a few curses, and lots of flailing. Between its weight and the twenty branches flapping in my face and obscuring my view, that section is tough to maneuver.


Umbrella stage complete.

The other two tree sections were much lighter, and I could easily see where they fit together, so the rest of the tree went up without any swears. The six pairs of plugs for connecting the built-in strings of lights were color-coded, and easy to reach and connect. And almost all of the LEDs worked, halleluiah! I pulled on a pair of work gloves and spent the next half hour fluffing out the branches. The cats helped by tasting lower branches for doneness.


Al dente, just how Horton likes it.

Next, I installed the fiber-based anti-cat tree-protection device. Very necessary when you have cats who consider the Christmas tree a great place to recreate the epic battles of history. While I enjoy a good cat fight as much as the next guy, I’d rather not lose my ornament collection as casualties of war.


Fiber-based anti-cat tree-protection device. Patent pending.

Fluffed and secured, the tree was ready to be dressed in its Christmas finest. I made myself a mug of hot chocolate, put on the Christmas radio station through the TV, and trimmed that tree like I meant it.

IMG_1085sIt ended up beautiful, and my husband was all smiles when he came home to twinkling lights in the living room. I caught him staring at the top of the tree, which is when I remembered I’d put a placeholder up there so that he could be the one to decide whether it would be an angel year or a star year. He hasn’t changed it yet, so it looks like 2013 is a Stegosaurus year. That feels just right.

Beginning to Look a Lot Like Christmas, Part 1

It’s been Christmas around here for a while, as far as the stores and restaurants are concerned. The Jingle Bells and Holly Jollies started weeks ago almost everywhere we shop or eat, and the aisles in Target and Wegmans and Michaels are full of already-discounted decorations and holiday-themed housewares.


What, you don’t have a Christmas-themed Spreader Set? You barbarian.

I hate that I’m always pressured into starting “Christmas” immediately after Thanksgiving, but that seems to be the way it works around here. Six seconds after your first post-Thanksgiving-turkey burp, an elf pops up and yells “CHRISTMAS CHRISTMAS CHRISTMAS!!! GO GO GO!!!” while waving a Macy’s Black Friday Sale flyer as a starting flag.

image from


I usually resist decorating my own home and allowing the Christmas spirit to permeate my being until I can flip the calendar over to December. Too early and the music will annoy me too soon. All the snowman cookies will be eaten long before I’m supposed to leave some for Santa. And I’ll forget which presents I’ve bought for whom and end up buying much more than I need.

But this year, I started early.

I’m going to claim that this year’s super-late Thanksgiving coerced me into obeying the starting elf. A late Thanksgiving means that there are only four weekends between the holidays, which means a whole lot less time to get anything done, especially when you factor in parties and family get-togethers. I had a whole Friday to myself. I was kept from sleeping in by the army of leaf-blowers clearing the neighbor’s yard. I wasn’t going to fight the Black Friday crowds for discount cheese knives. Why not haul out all the Christmas crap and decorate?