I swear I was just sitting down writing your nine month post. This month slipped right by. I have a sinking feeling this is exactly what I will be saying when you start kindergarten, graduate from high school and get married. Or when you get your GED, join the Peace Corps and head to South America.  

What I do remember about this month is that you are indeed a genius. Your imitating skills are clearly superior and you have surprised us by copying the way your Daddy plays the harmonica and the way I dance like a spaz. Most recently you grabbed my phone, put it on top of your head and said hello. We didn’t teach you any of those things, you sneaky little parrot. When you randomly display these feats of intelligence we just furrow our eyebrows and stare at you, look at each other, and then look at you some more. We know that you have already surpassed our measly brains and now we’re just sitting back imagining what you might do next. Your future will be more than we can claim in this life, and that is precisely what parents dream for their children.

Your love for Maya has grown by leaps and bounds. Meaning you leap and bound on top of her. You learned how to “throw” her bone for her (about three inches in front of you), and if she doesn’t want it, you will stick that thing right in her face until she takes it. I’m working on “easy hands,” but you will have no part of it. Before I can say unsanitary, you pluck hairs from her head and stick them directly into your mouth. I guess I should thank you for the free grooming.

You adore music and when I let you roam around the living room, you crawl right over to your Daddy’s guitar, seat yourself under it and begin clapping. Only a fiend would not indulge that request. Even my goofiest songs about putting on pajamas and dry heaving over your smelly diapers are pure gold to you.

We’ve experimented with several new foods, balking at the doctor’s idea to wait four days in between trying something new. Who’s got time for that when there are avocados, tomatoes, black beans and mashed potatoes sitting around? Surprise, surprise—you eat everything. It takes a village to sustain that belly.

I spent a large portion of our income on a food processor so that I can make you four course meals crushed into mush. I want you to love good food, to appreciate meals with family and friends, and not obsess about calories and jeans sizes. But I also want you to discover whole, natural foods that keep your beautiful body strong and healthy. It’s a balance that I cannot pretend to have found, but I work at it for you, so that you can see a woman who laughs around a table instead of worries, who accepts dessert instead of becoming defensive about her latest diet. It’s a tricky business being a girl getting to know food, and I want your earliest memories to help shape that relationship into an effortless, colorful, joyful experience.

Related: mashed bananas work better than hair gel.

This stage in your tiny life is still full of belly laughs from all those who get to be in your presence, fleeting snuggles when you are just tired enough, and pure fascination with watching your sweet soul take shape.

But you are also on the move. Constantly. And being with you 24 hours a day is utterly exhausting. So your Daddy and I took a mini vacation over the weekend and left you with BeeMa and Abuelo. Know that I love you with every ounce of my being when I say this: boy was that nice. I think it was healthy for you and me to spend some time apart, to catch our breath and to learn that we can manage a [brief] separation.

I also want you to grow up in a home where your Daddy and Mama love each other. Not in a we’re-married-and-stuck-with-each-other kind of way, but a genuine, look-at-the-way-they-look-at-each-other kind of way. This is the definition you will have of marriage, of commitment, of respect, of love. Your Daddy and I take that seriously. So when we go out on dates, or take a quick weekend trip, of course we’re doing that for ourselves, to deepen our relationship with one another. But we also do it for you. To show you what it looks like when a husband and wife are intentional about staying mad over each other, about creating time to be together, about being interested in each other as people. We think that’s one of the greatest gifts we will ever be able to give you, so that you know what to hold out for. And what to walk away from.

With every passing day, I am so giddy at the thought of spending this life with you. Of your future bursting into being right in front of my eyes. Surely, what a beautiful dance it will be.

From My Whole Heart,
Mama

But enough about my obsession with hanging out with my kid. Let’s talk about how gloriously indulgent two nights away felt for Clayton and me. I still can’t stop thinking about how awesome this weekend was and what a well timed reminder it became for how perfectly matched the two of us are.

When we came back Sunday, we went straight to a Mothers Day get together where my brother asked me how the trip was. “So much fun!” I answered immediately. He knew we’d only gone to Orlando, which, for Tampa natives doesn’t exactly scream vacation of a lifetime, so he looked at me skeptically and said, “Was it actually fun, or did you make it fun?”

And the best part about this weekend was the simple fact that I couldn’t tell the difference between doing actual “fun things” or just having fun being with my husband. I remembered that there’s never been a difference for us; we have fun going to Costa Rica and we have fun going to Wal-Mart.

Come to think of it, the reason for this trip’s raging success most likely stemmed from the very first stop of Cinco de Noa Weekend: the T-Rex Café. True story.

Clayton had discovered this gem while searching for activities in Orlando that might be appropriate for a baby-less pair of adults. Dinosaur themed restaurant with indoor meteor shower every 15 minutes? Jackpot!

If you are in Orlando, you must go. Cancel that lame dinner at Cinderella’s castle and park yourself next to the woolly mammoth. You’re welcome.

We stayed at the Hilton in the Walt Disney World Resort, which is a full sized city in itself. We didn’t plan to go to any theme parks—weird for being in Orlando, I know—but we were within walking distance of Downtown Disney, which had plenty of stores, restaurants and oddly dressed foreigners to keep us occupied and shelling out cash for two days.

After our prehistoric adventure, we almost considered driving back home because clearly nothing was going to top that idyllic lunch. But we stayed because Priceline does not issue refunds. After Clayton napped off his dino excitement, we headed to a late dinner at Crave. Contrary to the photographic implications, I did not shave my head prior to hitting the town.
Crave is supposedly known for their sushi. We can attest that the normal peasant sushi is quite good, but beyond that you’ll have to ask someone else because we refused to pay $18 for one of their fancy rolls. Their Cigar City brown ale is tasty, too.

After dinner we checked out Orlando Brewing because we have always been suckers for breweries stuck randomly in industrial districts. After parking in Tampa, we followed the sounds of live music and college students celebrating the end of finals.

We knew we would be overdressed, but man were we overdressed. I felt like it made us look even older. Then the sight of a newborn being rocked to sleep to the sounds of an off key garage band not three feet from her mother’s cigarette smoke filled my blood with rage, and I knew we were possibly out of our element. I almost grabbed that baby and made a break for it at least three times, but I was wearing heels.

Saturday we did nothing for about four hours for the first time in I-don’t-know-when-we’ve-ever-done-nothing-for-four-hours. And we did our nothing on lounge chairs by the pools on a gorgeous, slightly overcast day. I did take some time to kick Clayton’s competitive butt at a water treading competition, but then I went back to doing nothing. He went back to modeling. Apparently it was photo shoot day at the Hilton.

My model is cuter.

We realized we’d stayed out by the pool about two hours longer than we’d estimated. Then we realized we didn’t care. And then we realized we were starving. A short 90 minutes later, I was finally ready to head to a super late lunch/super early dinner. And where else would we go but another wildly decorated, over-the-top themed restaurant? Rainforest Café, complete with hooting monkeys hanging over my head. Eating at Chili’s is going to be so boring now.

Clayton was jazzed because he got to use a coupon. Everyone wins at the Rainforest Café. Except the hostess who asked where we were from and, when we said Tampa, replied with “Oh, so that was a pretty short flight.” We replied with awkward silence. Because it’s a 45 minute drive. After linner (lunch/dinner), we walked the length of the Downtown Disney strip and parked it on a bench to watch the videos my mom sent of Addison. Watch. Re-watch. Repeat. By the time we walked back, the Ghiradelli store was calling out to me. It shows a great deal of restraint that I waited 24 hours after initially seeing it to suggest we stop in. Things got rather scientific when I decided to conduct an experiment testing the feasibility of consuming an ice cream cone equal in weight to my body mass.

Clayton, with all his sports medicine experience, served as my trainer and sat next to me quietly, periodically wiping the chocolate off my chin and giving me back rubs when I started to fade. I’m happy to report that the findings are conclusive: my sweet tooth supersedes all laws of physics and physiology. My husband is so proud of me. At one point he left me in search of a bathroom but came back quickly after catching the picture of me sitting alone on a bench trying to stop the melting drips of cookies ‘n cream with my face. I guess it was sort of a sad sight. Not to me, though. It was probably the happiest I’ve ever been.

Yep, my cone was the one hunting the weaker one.

We made reservations at one of the nicer restaurants on the strip and headed back to the hotel to get ready. Maybe your experience has or will be different, so I won’t tell you where we went for dinner, but I will tell you that we will not be going back except that late night rendezvous I’m planning to egg the joint. It was awful from beginning to end, from choosing to walk the eight miles from the hotel in heels, to getting seated right in the entrance and continuously forgetting if we had actually been called or if we were still waiting, to our nearly inedible entrees. No bueno.
It tasted exactly like it looks.

We decided neither of us was allowed to mention that dinner ever again. We even went back to the hotel to change out of our Sunday best into our Saturday denim and sandals to really get the stench of that hour off of our bodies. We walked back to Downtown Disney—much more pleasantly in flats—to an Irish pub that had a duo playing music outside. Best anniversary downgrade ever. It was right up our jeans and t-shirt alley. We threw caution and post-partum weight loss to the wind and ordered potato skins at midnight. That’s big time partying right there. We stayed out until after 1 a.m. Look at us being hard core.

Then we had a hard core breakfast at Perkins Sunday morning before heading to my parents’ house to body check any aunts standing in the way of our little nugget. Some serious snuggles were in order, even though Addison didn’t seem to recognize the fact that I’d been out of her life for 48 hours and that she should have been screaming in excitement upon my return. Brat. But I still chewed the crap out of her thighs.

Since Addison’s obviously okay with it, I now fully support weekend trips at least once a month. Just not to Orlando where sushi is $18 and regular coffee is $4.

Happy Cinco de Noa (and matching dino shirts) to us!

1. You know that moment in Target or the grocery store when you realize you’ve been talking out loud to yourself, either reciting your list, the other errands you have to do or that Ke$ha song you heard right before coming in? When you’re accompanied by a baby you can easily recover with a quick, animated “What do you think about that, peanut?” directed towards the shopping cart. That’s right – you were talking to the baby the whole time.

2. It’s totally forgivable to forego showering, using makeup and general hygiene as long as your kid has on a coordinating, adorable outfit. Preferably with an ironic slogan on it, like “I was partying all night in my crib” or “Spit Up Distance Champion” or whatever.

3. Boobs.

4. Really don’t feel like driving four hours to that creeper cousin’s wedding even though you RSVP’d months ago? Babies can EASILY develop a cough the night before dreaded events.

5. I have been late to everything since I started driving. As of July 15, 2012, it is no longer my fault that I show up 15 minutes tardy for every party.

6. Naps are more acceptable for mothers. Oftentimes encouraged.

7. I spent about half as much money on groceries for the first six months of Addison’s life because her gargantuan carrier took up the entire shopping cart, only leaving room for the bare essentials to be carefully packed in around her. Coffee. Creamer. Something chocolate. And done.

8. My running pace has increased thanks to the 40 pounds of resistance provided by the jogging stroller. I have also abandoned my iPod in favor of being serenaded by baby babbling.

9. “Honey, I really need a night out with the girls. You know…all that taking care of the baby and everything.”

10. Boobs.

Am I missing anything?

It feels like we lived a lifetime in the past two years. Our time in Virginia seems hazy now, and we honestly don’t keep in touch with anyone we met except for Clayton’s former boss. And that’s only because Sean likes to continually remind Clayton that he has a standing job offer if we ever move back. (Which we will not, Sean.)

What I do remember about working and playing in Virginia is the wide openness of the future. We had never lived outside of Florida, and then all of a sudden, we’d done it. We had all of our sad, college-quality belongings in a tiny apartment with snow piling up right outside our door the first weekend we were there. At least at the beginning, we were hypnotized by the romantic ideas of adventure, escape and newness.

The short list of perks of Newport News included easy access to a whole smorgasbord of intriguing cities and small towns. What I miss about that life is deciding on a Thursday to go away that weekend. I miss planning trips simply because we stumbled on an incredible deal on Priceline. Of course we can still do that here, but there is little that is unknown to me about this place. I know Tampa like an old pair of shoes I can’t bring myself to throw away, the way the soles are worn in deepest under the ball of my foot, where the shoelaces are fraying. We go way back, and while sometimes that comfort is exactly what I love about living here, it’s also the piece that the eternal wanderer in me rebels against.

Something tugged at Clayton and me, both separately and together, that pulled us away from being safe and expected. That something has stirred at the base of my heart since I was 15 years old, and it still rustles when the scent of adventure wafts across my path. When friends without children plan vacations to Africa. When single girls mention kickball games and staying up way past Conan on a weeknight. When advocates introduce a cause that ignites my hunger to do something that matters. These are the adventures that I see just out of reach for a new mom, a housewife, a work-at-home part-timer.

I can’t predict what this life will look like five years from now. Will we have one five-year-old or three kids under school-age? Actually, I can pretty much guarantee it won’t be the latter. Maybe I’ll have jetted over the ocean to soak in a Mediterranean sea or to sleep in a tent serving food to starving kids. Or maybe I’ll have joined up to fight a battle against some worldwide monstrous foe like sex trafficking. Or, most likely, I’ll be right here penning taglines during naptime and jetting to the park in the afternoon to elicit some seriously important giggles on a rusty swing.

What I am so, so grateful for today is that any of those scenarios makes me smile. And proud. I know there were some sacrifices we had to make to grow roots in Florida. The Noa’s will probably never make another trip to D.C., despite my love affair with its grayness set against its significance. I may never live within day trip distance of a mountain hike. And my relatives can show up at my door totally unannounced.

But here is home. Maybe not forever. But for our little family right now, this is where our heart is.    

1. I beat my brother at Words with Friends. Sure, it was the one time in about 39 attempts, but I needed that victory. All that slaughtering was really starting to make me question my career path.

2. Girls Night was last Saturday night. Hey-o! As if that wasn’t enough, I assembled (didn’t even have to bake) and brought this saucy little minx:

(Source)

We chatted, kept our wine goblets full and took a stab at at-home nail shellacking. My effort was more like a massacre, but at least I gave being girly a go. Less than a week later, well, the results speak for themselves. I assure you these results have nothing to do with the product and everything to do with my general deficiencies in the feminine arts.

3. Catching Addison waking up from a nap as she bobbles around trying to blink her baby-sleepy eyes into recognition.

4. Our hot tub is up and running. We’ve lounged in it a few times after putting Addison to bed, and it is rather glorious. We can open the curtains and still check in on the Rays score. Really feels like the Noa’s are winning at life a little bit every time we’re soakin’.

5. Date night tomorrow night. Live music under the stars sounds like perfection. Except that it’s been 86 degrees. Gearing up for some sweet, sweaty PDA.

6. We went on a family run last night. Clayton hates running and only succumbs to my requests if tears get involved. Last night’s easy acceptance of my invitation was pleasantly unexpected. I love running with Clayton (except for when I hate running with Clayton) because I always go faster. Way faster. Our final quarter mile was under 9:00 min/mile. That’s downright insanity for me. It may have been even faster had Clayton not completely tripped over Maya, who got spooked by a mailbox. And that’s the story of the last time Maya will ever get taken on a run.

Distance running is not always fun. It’s physically demanding, yes, but more than anything it’s a mental battle within yourself to simply keep moving. On every long run, whether 5 minutes or 45 minutes in, I’d face that voice that tried to justify stopping. Quitting. Giving in and going home.

Becoming a runner, to me, was the development of a basic but profound ability to shut that voice up and run anyway. 

With a lot of sports under my belt, I can say that runners channel a competitive drive in the healthiest way I’ve seen in athletics: to push yourself to do more than you thought possible. “Beating” someone is not the endgame; doing your best is the ultimate goal. Running longer than you thought you could, running farther than you thought you could, running at all when you didn’t think you could. Your opponents are your last run, the clock and your head.

During the six months I spent going from 3 mile runs to 10 mile mornings, I incorporated several races into my training, culminating with the lone half marathon I completed in September 2011. 

What did I learn? Runners run because they love it. They want everyone else to love it, too. They are warm, welcoming and supportive to anyone who shows up with a pair of Nike tempo shorts. They are not exclusive or judgmental if you are newer or slower, stick thin or pleasantly round, wearing the latest Brooks or the Reeboks you use for gardening. They give you a ride to the start line when you are walking from a mile away. They get giddy upon learning it’s your first half. That same person, who you just met, waves and encourages you when you pass along the course. And then that person, who you’ve known for mere minutes, is waiting to cheer you on at the finish line.

My stint into running is still new, anything but elite, and far from marathon-capable. But I’ve spent enough time around runners to know that they are a community of decent, dedicated individuals.

Runners just want to run. And they are immediately inspiring to those who show interest in their passion. 

When I saw what took place on Monday in Boston, during one the most iconic races that celebrates runners on an international stage, I was heartsick. For the lives lost, for the people injured, for the city. But mostly for runners. There and everywhere. In a group that’s run together for a decade or strangers waiting for the starting gun next to each other, it is a true community. People who are unthinkably tough inside and out, who also use their coveted breaths to motivate someone who has stopped to walk in the middle of a race.

This ugly, darkened shadow has been cast over one of the most wholesome groups of people. Runners who have been working tirelessly to push past the point where their mind said they must stop, for the first time or for the 40th time. Families and friends lit up with pride, the people who facilitated this momentous accomplishment by babysitting, succumbing to pasta four nights a week and hiding water bottles along an 18-mile training route. A city opening its arms and streets and cheers to thousands of strangers.

These are the faces that form my sadness. This was the celebration meant to be incinerated.

Of course—unquestionably–if you have met a runner you know that quote floating around couldn’t be more accurate:

“If you’re trying to defeat the human spirit, marathoners are the wrong group to target.”

Runners are solid and strong. Marathoners most of all. They ran 26.2 miles (still inconceivable to me) and kept running to help.

Those are runners. Those are the people who will prove there are 27,000 more reasons to hope and rejoice in the good of others instead of the one reason that leads us to doubt it. Though for a moment, one act grew louder and threw the dust of evil on this one day, in the seconds, the days and the weeks following I have no doubt the steady rhythm of feet on pavement will deafen the roar of terror. The melodic miles underfoot on roads in Boston, pastures in England, sandy streets in Africa and the sidewalk in my own neighborhood will drown the blasts of hate.

We’ll run. Even when it’s hard. That’s what runners do.

As suspected, crawling serves but one function for you: transporting you to a different location to stand. From the table to the window sill to the laundry basket, you scoot, hoist, balance and celebrate. You’re a pro at leveraging all your baby muscle to get into an upright position. I don’t know if it’s because we’re deliriously biased, but we’ve always thought you were freakishly strong for a baby. This standing business is further evidence of our argument. Beauty, brains and brawn. The world can’t possibly be ready for you.

Speaking of those growing brains, you are a first class imitator. Being the responsible caretakers we are, in preparation for the brightest possible future for you, we’ve been teaching you how to make fart noises. And we find it thoroughly hilarious every single time you purse those pouty lips together and shoot saliva across the room. You will learn very quickly that being one of us does not always mean being the fanciest or the shiniest, but we hope it means being the funnest. But don’t say “funnest.”

Your Uncle Tony has also been teaching you how to blow kisses. Right now the hand makes it up to your face, and then you lose interest. Don’t worry, baby girl, I know it’s a complicated process and really more of an 11-month old trick. But we have every confidence you’ll master it by 10 months. No pressure.

Yet another adorable attribute you possess is remembering which member of your fan club taught you which skill. When you see Uncle Tony now, the first thing you do is swing that open palm up to your mouth. When you see your Daddy, up comes the floppy waving hand. Sure, when you see me, you still nosedive into my chest, but I can’t really expect Pat-a-Cake to compete with your life supply.

Last week you were sick for the very first time. If I’d only had your disposition to consider, I never would have known. Most of the time you were just as pleasant and playful as ever. But the certain giveaways were the snot streams trailing down your face incessantly. You slept a little more, and snuggled even more than that. By mid-week, you’d shared your germs with me and we holed up in the house for the rest of the week and weekend. And I gotta tell ya, those colds were probably two little gifts for our family, forcing us to push the brakes on the chores, the commitments, the errands and the socializing.

You, your Daddy, Maya and I had three days of lounging late into the morning, short walks to breathe some fresh air, camping out on the floor with some toys and rare couch cuddles way past your bedtime. Of course in between it all there were the snot-drenched shirts, the disinfecting every surface, the washing of all the bedding and the few times when you clearly (and loudly) let us know you were not feeling well. But what I’ll remember are those late afternoons when we were sleepy but didn’t sleep, reclined in front of some baseball game, and you were content simply poking at the buttons on my sweater. There’s simply no other place I’d ever want to be than completely congested, woozy with sick, but bent into a perfectly shaped Mama and Addison indentation with your soft round head resting on my arm.

While you may not warm up to new people immediately, you are undoubtedly social. As long as you’re otherwise happy, you usually don’t cry if you get passed around or find yourself in the arms of a stranger. You may toss out a stink eye or six, but that’s just another check in the Gets It From Her Mama column. At your Dedication, you flew from one aunt to the next, cousin to cousin, and didn’t miss a beat. A nursery worker at church said that you tried to comfort a crying baby by patting her on the head. It worried me slightly since I know for you “pat” is code for whack, but it warmed my heart just the same thinking that the seeds of compassion are already blossoming inside you. With the daily inundation of evil and tragedy, these reminders are healthy for my cynical mind. There is good left in this world, and it takes the shape of a chubby baby hand reaching instinctively to soothe the cries of another. Keep reaching out that hand, sweet Addison.

Way back in March, just barely into your ninth month, Uncle Tony and Aunt Ally watched you for a Mama/Daddy date night. When we came home, they swore you were saying “bye bye.” I didn’t believe it. But sure enough, it stuck, and you will offer up a lulling “buuuuh buh.” Granted, every other word we’ve attempted sounds an awful lot like “bye bye,” but it will still go down in baby book history as your first word at an astonishing nine months. Whenever I actually get around to starting your baby book. You also say “boom boom” (I swear it’s different than bye) and have recently developed this throaty, coughing laugh. It’s eerie how conspicuously patronizing it sounds. Real funny, guys. Look, I’m in stitches. Ha. Ha. Are you already sarcastic? Be still my proud heart.

The magic of such brightness bursting from such a small creature, radiating onto everyone you meet, it’s simply spectacular. Whether furrowed brows, raspy laughs or gentle sighs, there is no dullness in you. You are movement and concentration and feistiness and discovery. You are stubbornness and strength. You are tumbles and wobbly legs. You are rolling burps and staccato giggles. You are nothing any of us could have ever dreamed up, and as I marvel every day at this little person stepping into her own identity, I confess  

I am so inside-out punch-drunk in love with you. Snot and all.

From My Whole Heart,
Mama     

True to form, the Totally Casual picnic turned into multiple trips to my parents’ house for paraphernalia storage, too many Publix runs to count and late night cursing at the glue gun. I’ve come to dread hosting anything now with that judgy jerk Pinterest peeking over my shoulder making sure the cupcakes are arranged in a perfect circle to compliment the color coordinated circles of confetti I spent an hour funneling into clear balloons. Because you can’t just have colored balloons anymore.

Sunday morning was the typical mad dash to pack up everything that’s not nailed down in our house to cart it over to church, baby-in-pretty-dress included. There’s also a lot of prayer and precautionary butt whiffing that takes place when your infant is dressed in head-to-toe white.

I’m proud to say the only thing I forgot was the dog. Sorry Maya.

My sister in law graciously offered to help me set up some decorations at the park before church to claim a shelter before any other group could get their grubby hands on it. She also didn’t outwardly mock me for almost bursting into tears when the helium-filled balloons floated listlessly to the ground. She switched into make-it-work mode and we used an industrial roll of tape to stick those suckers to some poles. Suck it, gravity. We have bested you again. We also troubleshot a major sign hanging snafu. Such significant problems out there in the middle class suburbs.

So many family members and friends made it to church, which sort of knocked me over when I walked in and saw everyone. Not because they were at church but because they were at my church to see my baby dedicated. If I’d stopped to process at any point throughout the day I would have required an outfit made of Kleenex.

Clayton and I had no idea what to expect for the actual dedication during the service. We just knew it was happening, but no details. When they announced the other baby, her whole extended family went up to the front. I hadn’t thought about anyone coming up with Clayton and me, but then I figured we had to pull some unsuspecting family members to the front. I mouthed desperately to my sister in law, “Come up with us!” right before we were called, and she dragged my brother and my parents with her. I guess if we really wanted to get competitive about it (and really, when don’t I?) we could have emptied the three rows my family was occupying. But I played it cool, mostly trying not to trip in four inch heels in front of said family.

The pastor asked for both babies. Now, Addison and Jasmine, the other little girl, were born just a few hours apart. But little Jasmine weighs about the same as one of Addison’s belly rolls. I knew I couldn’t say in the middle of the service, “Have you been working out for six months to prepare for holding our baby?” Okay, truth: I probably would have said that if I’d been holding Addison, but Clayton had her and conceded immediately.

The discrepancy between the two nuggets was hilariously obvious. Jasmine remained perched high atop the pastor’s shoulder while Addison’s little bloomers sunk lower and lower under the crook of his arm. Shortly after requesting the babies, he noted, “One of these babies weighs more than the other one.”

And then it got weird. Because then I raised the roof. Leaned back teetering on two-story heels and pumped my arms in the air. I suppose in celebration of my kid’s girth? I don’t know. In most uncomfortable situations I’d just mumble an inappropriate sarcastic comment and move on. But since this wasn’t a forum for that, apparently bringing back an awkward dance move from 1994 was the next best thing. In my head, no one saw me because they were counting down the seconds until Addison completely slipped out of the pastor’s grasp onto the linoleum. Next time, I’ll either 1. Rehearse my dated dancing ahead of time or 2. Maybe just not dance.

If you’re not familiar with a baby dedication, it’s basically an opportunity for the parents to show off their (hopefully) cute babies to the church while also committing to the task of raising them in line with Christian principles. And if you’re in our family, it’s also an excuse to eat afterwards.

We carted sandwiches and sides and cupcakes and cookies out to a nearby park and spent the afternoon catching up and passing around the Diva of Honor. You know, once she finally made her appearance an hour after everyone else arrived. Nap time, folks. It’s no joke. 

I didn’t hold my baby for a solid three hours, so once we arrived back home it was a snuggle fest of gigantic proportions. We watched Clayton do some yard work while lazily critiquing from a blanket in the grass. Deep down he appreciates it.

We both agreed that the day was a perfect mix of being surrounded by friends and family and down time with our little trio. We’re so thankful for such a beautiful celebration. And pleasantly surprised our pastor didn’t drop our baby.

In a way, Easter started out Saturday night when I leaned over to Clayton sweetly and said, “I need to tell you something, and you can’t laugh at me.”

Pause for my sincerity.

“I want to run tomorrow before church.”

Pause for Clayton’s echoing laughter.

So, obviously, I woke up Sunday morning at 6 a.m. and had to run. There was no other choice.

The reality of that ever happening again is Leann Rimes slim, so I tried to soak in the silence and focus on the magnitude of the holiday. It’s a pretty big deal.

After a few dirty looks from Clayton when I returned home 15 minutes later than I meant to, our day was officially a go. He left early for band rehearsal and I had the task of prettying up a post-run me and a squirmy Addison. My 9 a.m. arrival time at church turned into 9:30 without blinking an eye. We may have had a few distractions.

Yes, my husband got Cinnamon Toast Crunch for Easter. Don’t be too jealous.

After trudging through a forest of egg dishes and baked goods (praise God for little old ladies who love to cook), our service kicked off with some rocking music from a studly worship leader. Addison could barely contain her Latin hips and forceful clapping. (Do you think we’re just a little enamored with our gal?)

We spent the afternoon at my grandmother’s house eating a gluttonous spread of ham, vegetables defiled by mayonnaise and sugar, and dessert. So American. So unashamed of our casseroles. It was the usual mix of booming voices and side corner sarcasm from the cousins’ circle. Except this Easter I got to roll around on the floor with a crawling infant and fail horribly at snapping a useable photo of her in a stain-free dress. I did manage to get about 38 shots of her blurry booty scooting away from me. Way to go, Mom.

Then she found her shoe. Which made it the best Easter EVER.

Also new this year was the glorious 30 minutes Clayton and I spent napping on the couch in total confidence that out of 12 obsessive family members, someone was most likely watching our baby. New tradition? I think so.

Once we came home, Addison got to dive into her Easter basket. Quite literally. She loved the eggs, and I was extremely grateful I hadn’t wasted any money or effort on filling them. We sat outside for awhile without shoes and looked like those neighbors. We’re already on the HOA’s list, so whatevs. Just add it to next month’s snarky letter.

  Happy Easter from the Noa’s!

The biggest challenge was a freelance project I’d agreed to the previous week without carefully reading the last sentence in the email that said, “It’s going to be tight, but I think it’s doable.” “Doable” meant working through every nap time and after putting the peanut to sleep every night. Not impossible, but certainly stressful.

My mom was a saint the entire week and spent too many hours over here Tuesday pulling Addison’s fingers away from the electrical outlets they are so drawn to. I put that vintage desk in the guest room to good use. Clayton and I host a small group from our church every Tuesday night, so I called it a day early to clean up the house and run to the store for some snacks that no one ever eats. I threw dinner in the oven for me, fed Addison and found a t-shirt free of spit-up stains all in time to welcome the group at the door precisely at 7. Except there was no group at 7. Or 7:10. Or 7:20. Turns out they thought we’d canceled since Clayton was out of town. I drowned my disappointment in the hummus artfully displayed on the counter, gnawing on those few hours spent Swiffering up coffee spills on the floor that could have been spent working.

I spent Wednesday night at my parents’ house thinking the extra help with Addison would give me more time to work. My attempt at forethought and planning blew up in my face when Addison slept for two hours that morning. I’d already packed my computer in the car in hopes of a quick wake up and hit the road scenario. The reality was my pacing around the house aimlessly, “accidentally” dropping glass objects on the tile and nervously watching the non-productive time tick by.

After Addison finally woke up, I loaded up the kid, the dog, myself and 83% of all our belongings, and we trekked the 35 minutes to Wesley Chapel. My mom took over Addie duties and I got my work station all set up…only to discover I’d forgotten my laptop charger at home. No worries, I thought, I’ll just work until it dies. So I power up the trusted HP, and surprise—7% power remaining. Enough to move the cursor over about 1/8 of an inch before it shuts off.

A humiliating all-call on Facebook was useless, but luckily my dad had a charger at work he said he’d bring home. That still left us gals with three hours of time on our hands and no work to be accomplished. I nearly broke down. I wanted to, but my mom was close at hand and I didn’t feel like a pep talk, I just felt like chocolate. The realization that it was only Wednesday also played into the feeling that I was trapped in a never-ending week. I did end up getting a good chunk of the project completed once my dad came home and they tag-teamed Addison. They also did a great job of infant entertaining after dinner until it was time for her to go to bed.  

Being away from my own space proved even more stressful, so the three Noa ladies came back home on Thursday. I found time to sneak in the last portions of the big project, plus finish some smaller jobs that popped up in the inbox. I even managed to take Addie to her first baseball game that her Uncle Tony was coaching. The difficult-to-watch two hours of errors and restrained rage was a decent metaphor for the week I was having. I won’t mention the score, but Uncle T did not come out on top. 

I have to give a mama shout-out to my little girl because that kid slept like a dream every night. If I had to combine the tension of that week with two or three overnight wake-ups, I may have crumbled. Lugging her around the city probably aided in exhausting and confusing her throughout the day, so yeah, high-five to me for yanking any hope of stability away from my 8 month old. That seems to really tire them out.

In related news, I actually do know the exact location of the trash cans in the garage and which days all that garbage magically disappears from inside of them. I enjoyed two sweet potatoes in the absence of my potato-hating husband, and there was no one in my living quarters forcing me to share my sushi, ice cream or red wine. Or make judgments of how much of them I was consuming.

I don’t know how single parents do this day after day after day. My solace so many times throughout the week was looking at the calendar knowing, down to the second, when I has handing that baby over and clocking out of mom mode. My life is so very good, and ridiculously easy with the support system I have around me. A long list of people offered to help last week, so I knew that I had reinforcements whenever I needed them.

Still, Addison and I were both jazzed about Clayton getting back home, harmonica and all (don’t ask). She showed him just how much with a warm welcome from 2-4 a.m. that morning. I would have joined the party, but like I said: I was off the clock.