A Tribute to Mimi

On February 18, my grandmother Mimi passed away. We were told there couldn't be a eulogy at her funeral, so though I had started working on this, I stopped writing it. At the visiting hours, a family friend asked if I had been blogging lately, and I told her how I hadn't had the time or the inspiration to write. Well, I can't think of a better way to jump back into it after a break than to honor my grandmother. . . .

For those of you who knew my grandmother, you’ve seen the face. You know the one: the one she gave when she was being stubborn. When she was determined. When she was wordlessly expressing, “Oh, yeah? Wanna bet?” It was the face she gave when you challenged her, when you told her you didn’t think she could do X, Y, or Z, like finish that last bite, take that extra step, say those words that were on the tip of her tongue. I feel as though she had been giving Life that face for the last seven years. Every time Life said, “Jo, maybe this is it.” She gave that face: Wanna bet?

Our family has joked that Mimi had nine lives. There were so many times she could have left this world. After her stroke. After the cancer diagnosis. After the chemo. The surgeries. And yet she hung on. She was a fighter. Clearly a little stubborn, but definitely a fighter.

I feel especially fortunate to have lived with Mimi and Bobo for a little bit as an adult. I called them on a Monday in 2007 and said, “Mimi and Bobo, I want to work in publishing in New York City. Can I move in on Saturday?” And they both joked that I could move in sooner if I wanted to. After eight months of living with them, I moved to Mimi’s old neighborhood of Astoria, just a couple of blocks from where she grew up. When she and Bobo drove me to my apartment, they pointed out their old haunts, her old apartment, where they used to go on dates. It made me feel even closer to Mimi.

Me and R in front of Mimi's childhood
apartment in Astoria, just three blocks from
R's first apartment.

Just a month after I moved out, Mimi had her stroke. I remember getting the call from my mom that she needed me to go to the hospital. And that’s where I went and spent the next couple of days. I remember sitting on my grandmother’s bed, thinking that this could be it. She didn’t know who I was. She couldn’t speak. She couldn’t feed herself.

But then she started to come back, slowly but surely. I remember we were all sitting in the lounge at the rehabilitation center, and she was starting to joke around. She was so nonchalant with her punch lines and her expressions that her stories were even funnier than she had anticipated. She was fighting her way back, and she was able to give that face. Nope, not yet, Life. I still have some fight in me.

In those seven years that she fought, she got to see three of her grandkids get married; she met two of her three great-grandchildren; she saw her grandkids pursuing their dreams: graduating from college and getting jobs; entering the military; joining the police force; training to be a nurse. My grandmother wasn’t a perfect woman (who is?), but she was a perfect grandmother. And she supported the seven of us in ways that we’ll never forget. She loved us fiercely. She wore our names and our birthdays proudly around her neck every day. She loved her great-grandchildren, and it was like talking to a new woman whenever we called her on Skype so she could see the kids. I swear I could have set the camera up and told her to watch R for the next hour so I could go get some things done, and she would have been able to do it, and happily. I know she would have loved to have met all the great-grandkids to come, but it was time to give the face a rest. It was time. That’s perhaps why it’s been slightly easier for us all to accept this. We know that we were lucky to have the time that we did, that it felt like we were cheating the last couple of years when she could have so easily checked out. I mean, how cool is it that she was able to see all seven of her grandkids reach adulthood?

It doesn’t mean we’re not sad, though. By chance, when I arrived in Tarrytown and went for a manicure and pedicure with my mom, sister, and cousins, something we’ve all done with Mimi numerous times, I got her favorite manicurist. I sat in her chair. And I lost it. It was the first I had cried since hearing the news. And then I realized that as sad as it is that I won’t get my nails done with her again, I was crying because I was having a happy memory of Mimi. She loved having her nails done. She loved tickling our backs with her long manicured nails and daring us not to laugh, which was impossible, by the way. I don’t think any of us girls will be able to get a manicure and not think of Mimi.

There are a lot of things I know we’ll do throughout the years that will bring back little memories. But perhaps the hardest one for me will be when I go on my next trip. Many of you may not know this, but my grandmother has traveled with me to more than ten countries over the last ten years. OK, well, not physically. But every time I went somewhere, she was with me, because I had to make sure I found a thimble for her. Oftentimes I would have to go to more than one store to find the perfect one. When I went on my honeymoon to Costa Rica, I forgot to get an ornament for myself, which is what I like to buy as souvenirs . . . but I remembered a thimble for Mimi. When Mike went to Puerto Rico for a wedding, he bought souvenirs for our daughter, a magnet for me on his way out of the store because he didn’t know what else to get . . . and a thimble for Mimi. It became our tradition as much as hers. I’ll never forget Mimi crying when I bought her a Sound of Music thimble from Salzburg, Austria. It was the perfect find, because that was a movie I watched countlessly with her at the house, one that she loved. I won’t be able to watch that movie without thinking of her. And I won’t be able to see a thimble without thinking of her.

We’ll all have those moments. Those moments where she’ll cross our minds and we’ll think of her and miss her. Those memories that make us smile. And, thankfully, each of her grandchildren has a blanket crocheted by her to keep us warm . . . something she was always trying to achieve, even in Texas in July. Every time we wrap ourselves in those blankets, we’ll think of her.

Mimi, I thank you for everything you’ve done for us. You loved us so much, and the feeling will forever be mutual. We’ll miss your kisses . . . even though we hated feeling your whiskers. We’ll miss the face. But most of all, we’ll just miss you. We love you now and forever.

And because I’m not restricted by time, here are some other things that will always make me think of Mimi:

• “What a Feeling” from Flashdance: The sound track was all the rage when I was a baby, and Mimi used to put the tape in the player and dance with me to “What a Feeling.” I don’t remember this, of course, but every time the song came on, Mimi asked me if I did.
• Halloween: Especially now that I have to look for kids’ costumes, I’ll think of Mimi every Halloween. With the exception of a year or two, Mimi made every single Halloween costume for us.
• Styrofoam: Any time I get takeout food in a Styrofoam container I’ll think of Mimi because she hated the sound of Styrofoam rubbing together. She always got the chills and made a face like we were torturing her.
• Any orange-cranberry-flavored food: She loved anything with orange and cranberries, but especially bread and scones. Also on the list of foods that remind me of her: chili, potato salad, and deviled eggs.
• Ripping off Band-Aids: When I was three years old I had a tonsillectomy. When the surgery was over, I remember the only person I wanted to remove the Band-Aids was Mimi.
• Road trips: Mimi was notorious for overpacking—bags and bags and bags, most filled with things she didn’t need for the trip; some were even empty. She’d sit in the backseat with all her bags piled on her lap because there was no more room. Every time I pack now, I make a comment about feeling like Mimi because of all the bags we have to pack for R. Mimi would also fall asleep in the car with her neck hung over in the most awkward positions.
• Mentos: Mimi used to send care packages, generally filled with junk and candy. But Nicole and I always loved the Mentos.
• “Are you hungry?”: Whenever Mimi was hungry, she’d ask if we were and then we’d say, “No, Mimi, are you?” And she shrugged as if she were just asking out of curiosity and nothing more.
• Malls: Mimi loved going to the mall, but mostly just to go into JCPenney. Once we stopped there she’d sit on a bench and wait for us to finish shopping.
• Scratch-off lottery tickets: Mimi had a whole routine for buying scratch-off tickets. She knew which stores she had better luck in, she knew which cards gave her the most success, and she even had a time of day that she preferred to buy them.
• Boats: When we were in Venice, we had to get on a boat to go to the airport. We were all boarding, and Mimi was still on the dock. As she put one foot on the boat, the boat started moving slightly away from the dock. Mimi hesitated and moved her foot back to the dock but continued to hold the hand of the man helping her board. She was spread out between the dock and the boat, and though it was probably terrifying for her, we couldn’t help but laugh once she was safely on board.
• Rummy 500: Mimi loved playing Rummy 500, and she would hoard the cards and put them all down at once. It was a risky strategy, but she loved doing it.
• March Madness: Strange but true. Mimi's stroke happened during the first round of March Madness, and I was having an unbelievable streak (I went on to win more than $800 in my pool that year). As I sat on her hospital bed, I watched the games on the small screen and tried explaining to her how March Madness and the brackets worked. I told her she was my good-luck charm.
• Danielle Steel: Mimi loved her Danielle Steel books.
• Crochet/knitting: Whenever I see someone crocheting or knitting I think of Mimi. She always traveled with her bag of yarn and needles, even after she really stopped crocheting. After her stroke, I had her teach me how to knit so I could help her with her motor and communication skills. It took her eleven years to make the first blanket for her grandchildren, and by the time she made it, it was too short for me. Thankfully, after she made the other six, and even some to be auctioned off for charities, she made me a maroon one to represent Texas A&M.

And possibly one of my most favorite memories is when I told Mimi we were pregnant. We had just gotten back from Australia, and we Skyped her and Bobo to tell them the news. We told them about our trip first, and then I said, “And guess what else?” Mimi, not missing a beat, said, “You’re going to have a baby.” The laughs we all had from her knowing it before I said it and from her delivery were truly special.

I know I’m forgetting so many other memories and things that remind me of her. And I know there will be some things I don’t even realize remind me of her until they do. I’m so thankful I have these memories. I’m so thankful I had Mimi.

In Spain in 2006: just me with my grandparents for three weeks
in the house I spent my first, sixteenth, and twenty-second birthdays.

At a family wedding in 2007.

My bridal shower, 2010:
Mimi made the umbrella.

At my bridal shower in Rochester, 2010.

Mimi and Bobo with their three kids at my wedding, 2010. 

Me and Mike with Mimi and Bobo, 2010.

Meeting her second great-grandchild:
R is four days old, 2013.

Enamored, 2013.

Four generations, 2013.

Mimi and R in North Carolina, June 2014.

Mimi and R in Tarrytown, September 2014.

Good-bye, Childhood

Last night was the end of an era: Derek Jeter played his last game in Yankee Stadium as an active player (I'm sure he'll be back in pinstripes for Old-Timers' Day at some point). And I cried. And I cheered. And I felt . . . old.

Getting married, having a kid, turning thirty: did any of those events make me feel old? Nope. But watching the Captain take his final bow at shortstop? It was like saying good-bye to my childhood. And despite the initial thought of feeling old, I couldn't help but also be transported back to when I was twelve years old.

In 1996, my family moved to Texas during the ALDS. Though I had been a Yankees fan since birth, 1996 was the first year that I remember being really into the team and baseball. Previous to that year I had watched occasional games with my dad, and I even asked for a Don Mattingly poster at the school book fair as a reward for having four teeth pulled (because, you know, having a poster of a man with a handlebar mustache near your bed is completely normal for a ten-year-old girl). 

An early fan of pinstripes.

But there was something about 1996: the Yankees were finally good again; they were enjoyable to watch. There was something about Derek Jeter: his skills, his energy, his youth. There was something about cheering for my team as I moved to the south. And though we were in Houston, not Arlington, Texas was the home of the Yankees' ALDS opponents, the Rangers. I remember feeling like the Yankees' win over the Rangers was a personal victory during a move that I was not happy about (I even made sure to wear my Yankees World Series champions jacket to the rodeo in February just to let everyone know that I was a Yankee through and through). And then there was the ALCS, and the Orioles, and the Jeffrey Maier incident. We had been staying at a friend's apartment until our house was ready, and we moved in to our new home right before the World Series. I remember being in our new family room, sitting on my shins, my elbows on the ground with my head resting in my hands. I remember watching each of the six games. I remember in the last game getting up to pace the room during the top of the ninth inning. I remember Charlie Hayes catching that pop up for the final out. And I remember the joy I felt in that moment. I remember staying up past my bedtime to watch the postgame activities and interviews.

Now, fast-forward eighteen years to last night. Mike and I were watching the game in our new living room. I was sitting on the floor in the same position I've been sitting in since I was four: resting on my shins with my head in my hands (it's not as comfortable as an adult, but I can't seem to break it). Mike and I watched the game—both of us feeling the emotions of seeing a ballplayer we grew up watching taking his final bow in the Bronx. In between the top and bottom of the ninth, I got up to check on R, who had woken up an hour before crying. And as I turned the corner back into the living room, I heard Pirela get the single and then Gardner coming up to bat. And like every other Yankee fan, I knew it was going to come down to Jeter . . . and I was stressed. I felt the pressure for him. I looked at Mike and told him as much. I watched Gardner lay down the bunt and advance the runner into scoring position. And then I started pacing. And rocking. And holding my hands to my face. Just like I did in 1996. 

And then we listened to Bob Sheppard's voice for the last time: Now batting for the Yankees, number two, Derek Jeter. Number two. We watched Jeter walk up to the plate. And then he did it. He did what he has done so many times. Captain Clutch. And it was amazing. I jumped up and down, flailing my arms around, high-fiving Mike. In those few moments, it was as if this were a World Series game. (I wish; wouldn't that have been the best ending for him?) And I smiled and felt that joy that I felt eighteen years ago. I saw Jeter's teammates, the guys with him from the beginning, standing in front of the dugout (as Mike and I said, like the veterans waiting in the cornfield for the newest player to join their retired game). And I stayed up past my bedtime watching all the postgame festivities and interviews. 

Seeing Jeter in the interviews, with more wrinkles and less hair, the twelve-year-old left and the thirty-year-old returned. I was reminded of the eighteen years that had passed, of watching Derek Jeter in so many moments—the good and the bad (because he wasn't always perfect). No, if you measure him against other greats, his stats aren't at the top of the boards. But he sure does know how to come through in the moment. You can't deny that the man was a great ballplayer. Sometimes it's not just about leading the boards but about the passion, the drive, and the charisma in combination with the skills. Should he have started in the All-Star Game this year? Based on numbers, absolutely not. But there's a reason he was voted in. And despite not having "the numbers," he produced.

I grew up listening to my dad talk about the Yankees of his youth, and R will most definitely grow up learning about the Yankees of her parents' youth, namely Derek Jeter. Like her mom, she's a Yankee fan from birth, and I can only hope that one day she'll have a player like Derek Jeter to admire and grow up watching. And man, when that day comes, I'm going to feel really old.

R's first trip to the Bronx.

We Have Exciting News . . . Part II

Here we are again. I'm baiting you with exciting news, just like I did three years ago. This time am I announcing a pregnancy? Is R going to have a little brother or sister?

Eventually, we hope. But no, not anytime in the next nine months. That's not what our exciting news is. As with our exciting news last time, there's a new job. 

For a couple of years now, Mike and I have been the couple who cried wolf move. When we first started seriously dating (which, let's face it, was shortly after we started dating, period), we talked about where we'd want to settle down when we had a family. The answer had always been Chicago. In a perfect world, we would have loved to stay near New York City, but it's an expensive place. And in order to afford a house within commuting distance, Mike would have had to commute at least an hour each way (and that's at the least). Chicago offers more affordable suburbs with access to a fantastic city, and that's how we made that decision.

So . . . are we finally doing it? Are we finally moving west?

Yes. But not to Chicago. To Western New York. (Yes, you read that right, people who have heard me say for years I would never move to Western New York. Seriously, one day I'll stop saying never.) In just a couple of weeks, Mike and I are relocating to Buffalo, New York—home to his beloved Sabres and Bills (Lord help me) and a food I don't particularly enjoy, but I guess I better start to. For the last year, we actually thought we were moving to Chicago; Mike's company had said they would transfer us there at the end of this summer. Unfortunately that fell through a couple of months ago, and that's when Mike decided to open up the job search by applying to positions in Columbus and Buffalo.

I know what you're all thinking: Buffalo?! I've always wanted to go there! It doesn't have quite the appeal of Chicago, but there are certainly a lot of pros on the list as to why this move is good:

• First and foremost, we'll be closer to both sides of our family—just ninety minutes from Mike's parents and five hours from mine, which is much better than now. And if there's one thing we've realized after having R, it's how nice it would be to be closer to our parents and my sister, brother-in-law, and obviously R's cousins.
• We'll still be in the state of New York, which means it's easier for us to hop in the car for a long weekend in the city with friends and family. It also means that we'll still get the YES Network. (Not that there's much to watch this season.)
• Obviously it's much cheaper to live in Buffalo. Sure, we'll have to get a car (holy moly), but even the car payments, insurance, and rent will still be cheaper than what we're paying now. This means we can actually put some more money in savings for our eventual house (how novel of an idea!).
• We'll be close enough to Toronto for a quick "city" fix. Missing theater? Toronto. Want to see the Yankees? Toronto. Just need a change of scenery? Toronto.
• Mike's commute will be much quicker; he'll be home by five thirty, which means an added hour each day with him and R.

Change is hard. It felt great to finally make the decision, but that doesn't mean it's been easy on us since. Not to mention, until this weekend, I had never even been to Buffalo except in passing on the way to Niagara Falls. It's change, and it's a leap of faith. But I'm not new to this. And that's how I know I'll be OK. And during our time in Buffalo this weekend, people were raving about it—I honestly felt like everyone we spoke to worked for the city or something: they were selling it that much. And, thankfully, I can talk to a brick wall, and I have absolutely no problem with going up to a woman with a baby and asking her to be my friend. Seriously, I'll do it. And Mike's company is very family-oriented, hosting monthly get-togethers for their employees, so we'll hopefully meet some people through that as well.

When my family was moving from Virginia to Texas when I was twelve, and I was really upset about leaving my three best friends, my mother said that there was no guarantee that my friends wouldn't move away too—and they all did within the next two to three years. Part of me would love for my friends to start moving away, so we're not the only ones. But then I want them to stay so we can see them when we visit NYC. It's selfish on both accounts, I know. I spend a lot of time with my mommy friends discussing this. While I know we'll have friends who will forever stay in New York City and its surrounding areas, and while there are lots of parents who raise kids in New York City, it's just not for us. This move was inevitable, but it doesn't make it any easier to say good-bye to a city that was very good to us. The idea of leaving our friends and family in New York City is not something we're looking forward to. What makes it even harder, for me, is that we're not telling my grandparents, who live forty-five minutes outside the city. They're not quite all with it, so there's no point in upsetting them for something they won't remember or comprehend in a day or two. But for all our other friends and family, they know we'll be back to visit. 

Buffalo will be good for us. It will be great for R. It will great for our families. We know this. We may have to remind ourselves of this often on the hard days, but deep down, we know it to be true. This weekend we went to Buffalo to find a place to live. We're going to rent for a year or two to make sure that we do like Buffalo, and if so, renting in Buffalo will allow us to save some money for a house there. So while we're renting, we're going to live in the city to get a feel for it and to research where we'll want to eventually settle. We thought we found a great place, only to be turned down because the landlord doesn't want a family (clearly we should have brought R with us so he could see how chill she is. Not that I generally wish ill will on people, but a little part of me not-so-secretly hopes he gets two disrespectful tenants instead). We did have reservations about the landlord, thinking he may be a bit of an annoyance . . . so his turning us down isn't all bad. We do feel like we're settling a bit on our second choice, but it's a rental, not our forever home. And there are certainly some positives to it too. Everything happens for a reason, and everything really does work out in the end. These are two things I've always believed, which is why I know that this move will be good for us regardless of what happens.

So there you have it: our exciting news part two. For those of you who live in NYC, we'll be doing a going-away party soon. For any of our friends and family, please come visit us once we get settled (and my guess is you'll want to do this before winter or after, though everyone tells me I'm exaggerating how bad it is)! I mean, I know Buffalo probably isn't at the top of your traveling bucket list, but Niagara Falls and Toronto and the Finger Lakes are a hop, skip, and a jump away. And who knows, maybe after just a few weeks I'll have the same mentality as everyone else we talked to and I'll be selling you on Buffalo itself.

I guess I should probably break out those Bills and Sabres shirts Mike got me now. . . .

Sixteen Things I've Learned in Sixteen Weeks of Parenthood

I said weeks ago I was going to write a post about ten things I have learned in the ten weeks of motherhood. Well, lesson number 873: Finding time to write a blog post is hard. Really hard. And if I have the time, I may not have the energy or brain power to put thoughts to screen.

It truly is crazy how fast time flies. Today R is sixteen weeks. So without further ado . . .

Sixteen Things I’ve Learned in Sixteen Weeks of Parenthood (in no specific order)

Note: If you’re a dad, feel free to insert “dad” where I say “mom” when appropriate. I’m an equal-loving blogger.

1. I like pink. A lot. Who knew? I was never a pink person (though, ironically, of the five bedrooms I lived in—houses only, so not including my New York City apartments—two of them were painted a shade of pink). Having a daughter? Well, that has made me a pink person. Especially after spending nine months of not knowing the gender. I’m super glad we did it that way, and I was perfectly fine with all the gender-neutral items, but once I started getting the girly stuff, I realized how much I loved it—especially the pink!
2. Never say never. I used to say I’d never put a headband on my daughter if I had one. I don’t know why I was so vehemently against headbands, but I definitely had strong opinions on them. Cue daughter. Turns out headbands are pretty dang cute. I prefer the smaller headbands; I’m (personally) not into the big flowers and bows, but I guess I can’t say I’ll never put one on her.
3. No amount of sleep deprivation pre-baby will prepare you for sleep deprivation post-baby. I don’t mind the 3:00 a.m. feeding, for some reason I find that one really enjoyable, even if I am exhausted. But there was a week or two where R was waking up every two hours, which meant I was waking up every ninety minutes. And even though she seems to have hit a pattern now that is manageable (goes to bed at seven and wakes up at eleven thirty, three thirty, and seven thirty), I know there will be regressions and teething and colds that will mess routines up and cause some exhausted days. Mike and I used to joke that my all-nighters for freelancing acted as a good form of “spring training” for mommyhood. Wrong. I will admit I am a high-functioning human being on very little sleep after years of practice, but I don’t bounce back from sleepless nights as easily as I did when I was pulling all-nighters and going to the office.
4. Speaking of the office . . . for those who do not know, my office is now my apartment. I am an official stay-at-home mom and freelancer. Finding time to do my work, which is now my sole source of income, on top of my work of being a mommy, is really, really hard. I always knew this would be the case, but actually living it has brought this knowledge to a whole new level. There have already been a few nights of working until R’s three-thirty feeding and then going to bed after that. Thankfully, Mike takes over on the weekends, so I get to sleep in and catch up on all the work I didn’t get done during the week. Hopefully R will start to take better naps in her crib during the day so I can get more work done then.
5. Sometimes I miss my nine-to-five. Yes, I have a job that I love and I can do it from home, but there are days when I miss going to the office, talking with my coworkers, knowing pretty much exactly what my day is going to be like. When I was growing up, I knew I wanted to be a stay-at-home mom at some point (my theory: I’m the daughter of a stay-at-home mom and I loved how active she was in my childhood), but then I found a job I loved. And there was a lot of internal back-and-forth on what I wanted to do and what was feasible in this day and age. Thankfully, my nine-to-five job opened up a world of opportunities to become a freelancer so I can continue doing what I love—and what I’ve worked hard to achieve—and be a stay-at-home mom, which is perfect timing for our family right now. But sometimes my little assistant just doesn’t provide the same kind of break as walking into a coworker’s office and chitchatting for fifteen minutes. Sure, she and I talk a lot . . . but she doesn’t have much to contribute to the conversation just yet.
6. I’m not getting nearly as much unwanted advice as I thought I would. I was warned a lot that this would happen, but so far it’s been manageable. Most of the advice I’ve gotten has been helpful. (By the way, speaking of advice, I don’t think I will ever tell someone “to sleep when the baby sleeps.” It’s just not feasible past the first couple of weeks. I sleep when the baby sleeps if the baby is sleeping on me and I can’t do anything else. If I can get her to sleep elsewhere for any time longer than twenty minutes, I take that time to get everything done that’s been building up . . . you know, like a shower, eat, the essentials.)
7. Moms aren’t as catty and judgmental as some people (read: the media) will lead you to believe. There’s a lot out there about how moms like to judge other moms. I’m not saying this doesn’t happen, but I’ve been pretty fortunate to have mom friends who aren’t like that. And these aren’t mom friends I knew pre-baby—these are ladies who I met randomly through meetup.com and now see once a week: stay-at-home moms, work-from-home moms, nine-to-five moms; breast-feeding moms, formula-feeding moms; married moms, engaged moms. We support one another, because, at the end of the day, it doesn’t matter what kind of mom you are. You’re a mom. Period. I also love that in the rare case I post something frustrating on Facebook, friends, both old and new, chime in to offer support, which has been really nice.
8. Babies come with so much stuff. It’s ridiculous. (Yes, I realize this is a first-world convenience; babies can actually make it by with very little.) There was a brief moment when Mike and I considered staying in our one-bedroom apartment until we figured out where we wanted to settle. Thank goodness we didn’t do that! As much of a pain moving is, it’s nice that R has her own room; it’s nice to have space for the Pack ’N Play, the bouncy seat, the Jumperoo, the play mat, the swing, etc. Because one day R will like one of those things a lot . . . and another day she’ll hate it and like something else. Not to mention that our new place has space for an amazing couch that has been our lifesaver.
9. I love my body. Flab and stretch marks and all. I have to say that I have never felt more confident than I did during the last year. I loved my pregnant body, and I’m not hating my body now. I have been noticing a bit more flabbiness around my midsection lately (because breast-feeding burns so many calories, it gives you a false sense of security: you think you can eat a lot more than normal . . . which you can, but you know, not, like, an entire six-pack of Reese’s eggs . . . oops), but still, my body made a baby. And that’s pretty freaking awesome. It had to stretch and accommodate a near-nine-pound baby; I can’t be mad at it for that.
10. Getting myself dressed each day is a struggle. I like to tell myself that by staying in my pajamas, I’m really just saving on laundry, which then in turn saves me from going to the Laundromat more often (because it’s an eight-minute walk and a couple of hours of my day; it’s not like I can just do a load here or there). As comfortable as pajamas are, I do feel pretty sloppy most days. Especially since I’m constantly interacting with messengers and mailmen, so it’s not like I’m holed up and people don’t see me. This will most likely change when this terrible winter is over and we go out of the house more often.
11. Some days I feel like I’m just barely treading water. Others I feel like I’m—to borrow from Cards Against Humanity—being a motherf------ sorcerer. I feel like the latter when I get tons done. For instance, about once a month I’m able to sit down and go through cookbooks and websites looking for Crock-Pot recipes. I then create a very large FreshDirect order, have the groceries delivered, and spend a day or night getting a whole bunch of meals together to put in the freezer. That feels like a major success. And recently the recipes I’ve made have been really good, which makes it all the better (because there’s nothing worse than putting a new recipe in the freezer, putting it in the Crock-Pot when you’re ready, and then hating it when you eat it and having nothing else in the house).
12. I spend most of my days looking and acting like a complete idiot. Anything to keep R happy and smiling (and trying to get her to giggle, since she’s just starting to figure that out—greatest sound ever). I hate singing and dancing in public. HATE it. I have to have quite a bit of liquid courage to go on a dance floor, and it better be packed so I can melt into the crowd. And I freak out about even being near a karaoke bar for fear that people will force a microphone in my face, even if it’s a group song. My most embarrassing moment was trying out for The Sound of Music in high school. I was the type of person who wanted to be a part of everything, and I love musical theater, so this seemed like a logical thing to try out for. It should be noted that I can’t sing. At all. It was terrifying and embarrassing and I didn’t even have to check the cast listing to see if I got a role in the background (because that’s all I wanted, I mean, I wasn’t completely fooling myself). Now I dance and sing all day, stupid songs, made up songs, nursery rhymes, you name it. Whether R is smiling at me because she likes it or she’s laughing at me is yet to be determined.
13. When you find something that works, it’s the most amazing feeling. In an effort to get R sleeping better at night, our doctor told us to put her to bed earlier. We had been starting her routine at eight o’clock because that allowed Mike some time with her when he got home from work. Well, now we start getting her ready at six thirty, and she’s in bed by seven. She still wakes up at the same times to feed that she did when she was going to bed at nine, but she’s not waking up an extra time or two in the middle of the night just because (or to fart, because there was a week where she was waking up consistently at two in the morning to toot). And with her earlier bedtime, I have an extra two hours now. Not to mention, trying to eat dinner with her before was hard; Mike and I can eat leisurely these days.
14. When something that works stops working, it’s the worst feeling ever. R used to sleep six hour straight. I knew it wouldn’t last, because 1) it was too good to be true (parenting isn’t that easy), and 2) other moms had told me those sleeping patterns are pretty normal around weeks five through seven, and then babies go back to every couple of hours after that. Despite knowing this, the first day after that six-hour night, you think, OK, so tonight was a bad night, we’ll go back to normal tomorrow. And then the next night, you think, Well, crap. Parenthood really is a whole bunch of trial and error. What works for some families doesn’t always work for others. And what works one week may not work the next.
15. Shopping for a baby is so much more fun than shopping for yourself. Their stuff is just so cute. And there's so many mixed emotions when they grow out of a group of clothes. You get excited about the new stuff, but you get so sad about packing up the clothes that have become too small for your baby.
16. There really is nothing like the love you have for your child. I didn’t need sixteen weeks to figure this one out. It’s just with each week, my love for her grows so much more. Even with the bad days, the exhausted days, the whiny days . . . being a parent is still awesome. 

Our little sixteen-week-old

Valentine's: A Great Day for Daughters

Let me start by saying that I have many blog posts going on in my head. I'm generally always writing, even if I'm not physically writing or typing something out. The problem is getting enough time to sit at my laptop to write them. There are three posts I want to write today: Ten Things I've Learned About Myself in the First Ten Weeks of Motherhood, a post about Derek Jeter's last season and how I'm handling that, and a post about Valentine's Day, which I started thinking of this morning. Seeing as today is Valentine's Day, I think it's best to go with the timely post. So look forward to Eleven Things I've Learned About Myself in the First Eleven Weeks of Motherhood and a post during spring training about Derek Jeter.

I've never really had a set opinion on Valentine's Day. On one hand, yes, there shouldn't be just one day that you're made to feel special and loved by whomever your Valentine may be. Love should be a 365-day thing. But on the other hand? It feels good to have a day where your love is recognized a little bit more than the other 364 days.

Everyone loves Valentine's Day in elementary school. I remember how much fun it was to go to the store and pick the pack of valentines that spoke to me. Would I be the only one with Doug-themed cards? (For some reason, this is the first pack that jumped to my mind, though other years were filled with My Little Pony, Disney princesses, and Care Bears.) What kind of cards would I get? There was a party in class. There was candy or cupcakes from the class mom (aka my mom) and bags that we decorated earlier in the week to place at the end of our desks for our valentines to be deposited in. But then middle school happened and puberty hit, and Valentine's Day came with expectations: without a boyfriend or girlfriend, you couldn't celebrate. You spent each class period hoping a secret admirer would send you a candy gram. For me that never happened. Admittedly, I  felt like an ugly duckling during middle school, and the boys I had crushes on never returned my affections. Valentine's Day just reminded me of this.

But that didn't mean I didn't have a valentine.

Here's what else I remember about Valentine's Day post elementary school: my dad. Each year he picked out three boxes of See's Candies: one for my mom, one for my sister, and one for me. There was always a card. There's still always a card. Despite wanting to not put too much weight on Valentine's Day, I remember feeling so special when I saw that card and box of chocolates from my dad.

Last night I told Mike I didn't do anything for Valentine's Day. I felt bad about it--I'm usually very good about getting a card at the very least. But after being in Ohio, battling a cold, and the snowstorm keeping us in yesterday, today just kind of snuck up on me, and I didn't make it to the store (and the sidewalks are too slushy/icy to go out today with R). Despite my forgetfulness, Mike still made me feel special. This morning the doorbell rang. When I answered the door, there were flowers from him. And I had this moment as I took the flowers in one hand, holding R in the other: What will be R's tradition with her dad? I have no doubt he'll make her feel special 365 days a year--I can already see R wrapping him around her pinkie. Will R feel like an ugly duckling during those dreaded teenage years? Will she find as much comfort in her dad telling her she's beautiful? (Will she tell him he's only saying that because he's her dad?) Will a Valentine's Day box of chocolates, or a bouquet of flowers, or whatever their tradition may be make her heart smile knowing that whatever her relationship status there's always one man who will be her valentine? It's pretty awesome to think about.


If you love it/celebrate Valentine's Day: Happy Valentine's Day to you.

If you hate it: Happy February 14, just one day out of 365 that you are loved.

And whether you love it, hate it, or are indifferent to Valentine's Day: Go get some chocolate. Because today is a day to indulge and love yourself; no one's judging.

The Big Gender Reveal

I'm a mom.

I know . . . stating the obvious. But every day it catches me off guard with excitement and wonder. Every time I look at R (since my blog isn't private, I'm referring to her by first initial only), I smile and think to myself how awesome it is that she's ours. It's been two weeks with her, and we're certainly adjusting to this new and crazy world that is parenthood. I'm sitting here on the couch, listening to the silly noises she makes in her sleep . . . and I smile with each one. I know I should be sleeping since she's asleep, but unfortunately the last two weeks (and years of freelancing) have conditioned me for nights with only three hours of rest, and I'm just not tired enough right now (I will be, I'm sure, right as she wakes up for her next feeding).

So since I'm awake, I figured it would be good to get back to the blog and tell the story of our labor (excluding the TMI portions) and how the big gender reveal went down.

It became clear at our last few doctor appointments that our baby was taking his or her sweet ol' time. We were given the option of inducing on November 25 or December 2 (Thanksgiving falling in between the dates put a kink in the inducing schedule). We decided to stick with the second in hopes that the extra week would allow nature to do its thing and get my body closer to labor without having to do all the drugs.

But December 1 rolled around and we still didn't have a baby in our arms. So that day, eleven days after my official due date (we thought our date was the twenty-second, but it turns out it was never changed from the twentieth), we went to the hospital to start the process of being induced. I would have to be on a drug for twelve hours to get my body ready for the pitocin, which would move the contractions along, so we were told that we'd probably have the baby Monday afternoon or evening. We got to the hospital at 5:00 p.m. and finally got a room right around 9:00. The first drug was administered with the disclaimer that the doctor wanted it in for at least six hours, if not the full twelve, but I could have it removed at any time if I became too uncomfortable. I made it four hours. After three hours, I wanted to call it quits (and Mike definitely wanted me to call it quits after seeing me in pain), and it was only because I don't like failing that I was able to (uncomfortably) push myself for another hour.

As it turns out, the labor process had already started on its own, and I made it farther along in those four hours than most women do in twelve. (I'd also been having contractions all day, though I didn't think they were the real deal because they were in a different location than I had been feeling previous contractions, they weren't in any kind of increments, and I was able to talk through them--which I was told I wouldn't be able to do.) In fact, it was decided I didn't need the pitocin because my contractions were already steadily moving along. At 2:00 a.m. I caved and got an epidural. I wasn't opposed to the epidural, though I wanted to try to go as long as possible without it, especially once I found out that the hospital did not offer walking epidurals as I originally had heard (the idea of being bedridden for hours really wigged me out, and at the time, I thought I'd still have at least half a day of labor to go). Once I received the epidural (seriously, so glad I got it), I was able to get an hour of sleep before I started feeling the pushing pains. The on-call doctor came in at 4:30 with the news that I would be having this baby sooner rather than later . . . much of a shock to us. At 6:30 I started pushing, at 7:30 my doctor showed up (and our nurse said she was going to stay past her shift to see us through the end--she was so great), and at 8:05 . . . we became parents.

Now for those of you who had been following, we didn't know the gender of our baby. I've said for years (long before I was ever married) that I always wanted to wait to find out the gender--the reveal was one of life's greatest surprises and I always thought it would be more special after waiting nine months. Mike thought boy before I was ever pregnant. For the first half of my pregnancy, I also thought boy. But then something switched, and in my gut I knew the baby was a girl. Our nurse, Ree, said that she'd been guessing baby genders (when the parents didn't already know) since August and had gotten every single one right. She said she had to get a feel for the couple before she made her prediction, and right before I started pushing, she said she got a feeling and that the baby would be a girl. Mike, of course, thought we were both wrong.

When the baby was out, the doctor asked Mike if he wanted to cut the cord. We thought my mom would be in the room with us (as was originally planned), but since the labor happened so quickly, it was just me and Mike . . . so there was no one to take the picture. I made Mike pass the camera to me so I could take it (those who have known me for years will not find this surprising at all). And that whole time, I still hadn't thought, Do I have a son or a daughter? It was such an overwhelming feeling to know that I had a baby. That I was taking a picture of my husband cutting the cord of our baby. Labor really is labor. It's not fun, but the end result is so worth it. And it's also really hard to focus in the moments afterward. Not to mention, the doctor never said, "It's a . . ." (or if he did, neither of us heard it).

After Mike cut the cord, he looked at me and said, "It's a boy! We have a son." And you know what my first thought was? I was wrong? Yes, it's a downside to being a competitive person. I knew that when my gut switched to girl that one of us would be right and one of us would be wrong. And I didn't want to be the latter. So I looked at Mike and repeated, inquisitively, "We have a son? Really?"

Mike's mistake was innocent enough. In the excitement, Mike saw the umbilical cord stump and the swollen genitalia and thought it was the anatomy of a boy. (And to be honest, I wouldn't put it past Mike to joke in a moment like that, even if he had known it was girl from the start.)

It wasn't until Mike was in the side area with our baby and the nurses while she was being weighed and footprinted that I looked at Ree and said, "We were wrong. It wasn't a girl." Imagine the doctor's face when he heard me say that. He was pretty confused but then confirmed what my gut knew: "It's a girl."

And my first thought when I heard him say that? I was right! And that thought was shortly followed by my calling out Mike for being ridiculous with his original announcement.

So while the gender reveal didn't go exactly as planned, I'm still so happy we did it that way. And it was so much fun as family arrived to see their faces when we made the announcement that the baby was a girl (which didn't come as a surprise to anyone but Mike).

The next two days in the hospital were a whirlwind. The first night I spent hours just staring at R as we spent time skin to skin. It's so hard to put into words those first twenty-four hours as a mom.

Our first night at home was rough--she cried the whole night and wouldn't sleep anywhere that wasn't on my chest or in Mike's arms. Every time she cried, I cried. There were many moments when Mike took R and my mom took me (or Mike took me and my mom took R). And it's not that it wasn't expected--I knew it wasn't going to be easy. But there's all the emotion of being a new mom and having this life that you're responsible for and listening to your child cry and not knowing why. And the hormones. Oy, the hormones.

But since then? It's been pretty good. R is a pretty chill baby (knocking on wood). Sure, she cries, but it's generally when she has gas (it's so sad watching how frustrated she gets when she can't get the gas out). She isn't a fan of her crib yet, though I try to put her in there a couple of times a day just to get her used to the room. For now, she prefers the bassinet in the living room (and getting her to the bassinet was a weeklong struggle; she preferred only the car seat before that). So I sleep on the couch (so glad we have a great one now) and watch countless marathons during her night feedings (I'm pretty sure Law & Order: SVU is on twenty-four hours a day if you just flip channels).

Tomorrow (well, today), I'm going to my first mommy event to meet other moms in the area. And it's hard to believe that next week is Christmas. This holiday season has seemed so bizarre and different without the normal traveling preparations of years' past. But it's different in the very best way possible. And we certainly have so much to be thankful for this year.

It took a while for us to get pregnant. And it took our daughter an extra twelve days to make her arrival. But she was worth every minute, day, week, and month that passed before her arrival.

Wait, the Second Trimester Is Almost Over? Time Flies When You're in the Car . . . a Lot

This has certainly been a hectic summer . . . and it's crazy how little of the chaos has to do with the pregnancy. The last time I posted about the pregnancy, it was week seventeen. I'm now at twenty-six weeks, which means I'm closing out the second trimester soon. Where did the last nine weeks go?

In the middle of June, Mike's best friend, Jay, and his wife, Holly, were in town. It also happened to be Brad's thirtieth birthday and Tessa's wedding weekend.

Me and Mike with the birthday boy!

Me and Jay at the Yankees game

Some publishing ladies at Tessa's wedding

The following weekend we were in the car and off to Delaware for a weekend of R & R with three other couples. It was great to go to the beach, play Cards Against Humanity with friends, and drink (virgin) Bloody Marys on the screened-in porch. Little did I know what the next few weeks would bring.

For Fourth of July we drove to Rochester for Adam and Pam's party. It was great to see them again just two months after visiting them in Australia. I also got to meet some more of Mike's high school classmates.

Greece Athena boys and some wives in Rochester

The second week of July we had a "break." Though that break was filled with some freelance work (obviously) and three hours at Buy Buy Baby registering (so not exactly a relaxing weekend).

The third week of July, Mom and I drove to Rhode Island for a short girls' trip. We did a lovely lighthouse tour and sat by the pool.

Getting ready to sail on our Newport lighthouse tour

The next two weeks were really hard--and I plan on blogging about them in more detail when I have a bit more time to devote to the subject. On July twenty-fourth, I lost my paternal grandmother, Grammy. She was the first of my four grandparents to pass away, and while her actual death came suddenly, her physical and mental health had been declining for the last ten years. My sister and brother-in-law got in a car Wednesday night with their son (ten months old), drove the ten hours to New York, picked up me and Mom, and then the five us drove to Florida on Thursday, driving through the night (twenty-three hours total). The upside to the sadness was the reunion of cousins--it had been four years since all six of us were together. And it was the first time all six of us were together with the three husbands who were crazy enough to marry into our family and with the three babies who are starting the next generation. It meant celebrating my birthday celebrating my grandmother's life, and with the group together, we began brainstorming the big cousin reunion for 2014 with all eleven Miller grandkids and five great-grandkids.

The bright side: spending time with my nephew

Mike, Bobby, and my dad all flew back home, leaving Mom, Nicole, and I to drive back with the baby on Tuesday and Wednesday (this time we stopped overnight in North Carolina). On Wednesday, July 31, about an hour from home, we got a call that my maternal grandmother, Mimi, was taken to the hospital. She had to have a knee surgery to fix an infection and is now recovering, thankfully. I got home from the hospital and called Mike, who was in the city, to find out that his grandmother, the last of his grandparents, had passed away. That weekend we got back in the car and drove to Rochester for Grandma's funeral. I am so happy that I got to know Grandma as well as I did over the last four years, and it was hard to say good-bye to another family member.

When we got back from Rochester, we were thankful to have a weekend at home . . . but it wasn't quiet. With the clock ticking on our apartment, we needed to find a new place to live--a dreaded task in New York. We spent six hours trekking around, but we did find a fantastic place that we're really excited about. And then the next day we went to the burbs to celebrate my niece's first birthday and to spend time with my grandmother in rehab.

What a year: S is one and her cousin's in my tummy.

Another week of work and then back in the car to Rochester again for a baby shower thrown by my mother-in-law. It was a great weekend, and the baby received a lot of fantastic gifts. We could not be more thankful.

We did not plan the pink and blue outfits. Shocking, I know.

So what's next? Moving. This Saturday we'll move to our new place, which brings with it all sorts of excitement and chaos as we start settling in and preparing for the baby. We moved into our apartment a couple of weeks after getting engaged, and now we're moving to a new place for the next stage of our lives. It's really crazy how time flies. Whether it's four years or nine weeks.

And then? Some relaxation. Some quiet. At least we hope so. Lord knows we have limited weekends of that left.

And now, an update on the pregnancy questionnaire:

How far along? 26 weeks, 2 days
Total weight gain: At my last appointment (24 weeks), I was up ten pounds total. So I think I'm doing pretty well!
Maternity clothes: Yep. Pretty much exclusively, unless it's a big, flowy shirt.
Sleep: Very thankfully, it's business as usual, even with the stress. Every now and then I'll wake up and realize the baby has been kicking, but it doesn't feel like I'm waking up because the baby's moving.
Cravings: Still no cravings and no aversions. Whoo!
Best moment this week: The baby shower.
Movement: Oh yeah. And I love every minute of it. Every kick, punch, and squirm catches me off guard and makes me smile. I spend a lot of time with my hand on my belly to feel the baby from both sides, and when I'm home I often roll up my shirt to watch my belly move (just little thuds; it's too soon to see which body parts are creating the movement).
Gender: We're still staying strong and keeping it a surprise. Though I think we both are leaning toward boy right now. (And at the shower, there were twelve votes boy to six votes girl.)
Labor signs: Nope. Phew!
Bellybutton in or out: Um, kind of nonexistent. It looks like the head of a nail that you would need a Phillips-head screwdriver for (I'm sure there's a technical term for that). Definitely not in, definitely not out. Just kind of a weird-looking slit.
What I miss: Sushi. Diet Dr Pepper.
What I am looking forward to: I really want to feel the baby's hiccups! And I'm looking forward to getting the baby's room ready in the new apartment . . . once we get furniture and all the other accoutrements.
Milestones: Feeling the baby every day.

 Weeks 18, 19, 20 21, 22, and 25. Weeks 23 and 24 occurred while we were at the funerals, so we ended up not taking photographs.