Category Archives: Uncategorized

What kids want.

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I recently caved and bought myself a pair of Tom’s shoes.

I even splurged for the Vegan pair, made from hemp with recycled plastic for the sole. Cool, right?

I had held out for a long time.  It just seemed to me that Toms shoes were something for kids.  Ok, not like my kids, but you know, young-ens, whippersnappers, ‘kids these days’ kids.  Read: not my demographic.

The more I heard about the founder and creator of the shoe and the work he does, the less I could resist.  It married something I perceive as ‘fresh’ with social responsibility.  That’s a win-win in my book.

However, there are some other products out there aimed at the ‘kids’ of which I will NOT partake.

Freshly cracked eggs in MOST areas? What is the Egg McMuffin made from in OTHER areas?

You know honey, the double strand of pearls really looks best with the black Genie Bra, not the nude. Single strand, definitely white. You hit that on the head.

Remind me again why I’m wearing pearls with my bra?

The Street King by 50 Cent

Here’s an unlikely pairing if I’ve ever seen one. One energy shot for you, one meal for a hungry child.  And does the 50 Cent/the Street King really crave an orange mango dietary supplement?  I guess cheeseburger flavor failed market tests.

Jelly Belly. The Original Gourmet Jelly Bean.

The irony of a sugar-free jelly bean was what made me pick up the package.  I mean, if you take the sugar out of jelly beans, what else is there?  That weird gel crap?

But upon closer inspection, that wasn’t the most absurd part of this product:

I hope the people who develop, create and market this crap (no pun intended) don't sleep at night.

Cause, you know, I prefer my jelly beans come without the need for a DISCLAIMER.  Especially one that reads: consumption may cause stomach discomfort AND/OR laxative effect.  Individual tolerance will vary.  We suggest starting with 8 beans or less.

Sorry kids, I’m not buying it.

A Day in the Life

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It was a rainy Sunday so we decided to pack some snacks and head to the Upper West Side to get out of the GD house for some culture.

Here we go

We were totally original in this idea and congratulated ourselves the whole way up there. Until we saw the lobby.

There are four lines but every single person here is on one of them.

Thankfully the line moved quickly and we started off strong.

The animal exhibits were a huge hit.

"Stay cool guys, but I think there's a polar bear headed my way."

We were having so much fun, even the science exhibits were fascinating.

C's reading to us about mitochondria

Gavin’s favorite part of the day:  the craft table

Look ma, I made a jellyfish out of plastic which is extremely harmful to the actual ocean

Chloe’s favorite part of the day was no surprise:

Mama always has snacks

Mom and Dad’s favorite part:  all that excitement = early bedtimes.

Cheers!

This caterpillar tells me Mila Kunis should fire her agent

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I cannot physically leave my apartment without walking past the Gansevoort Park South hotel.

If you live under a rock (or live a Bravo TV addiction free life), you might not know this hotel is home away from home for many reality show shenanigans.  Bethenny and her friends had a girls night in one of the suites last year (does anyone else find her tedious this season?).  More recently, Ryan of Million Dollar Listing NY held his model search photo shoot in the lobby (that guy is a compelling piece of dogshit).  The most notorious of residents were, of course, the love parallelogram of Kim, Kris, Kourtney and Scott who spent their time there while “taking New York.”

As a result of such fanfare, the sidewalk outside usually looks like this:

Yes, that resourceful pap actually brought his own step stool

Today I was walking by and spotted something odd on the ground in front of me.

Hmmmm, what's this?

Now just to get you in the right mind frame, I was still reeling from having read this post where Kristine is being attacked IN HER OWN HOME by various and sundry creepy crawlers.  I have a serious phobia that one of these devil’s creatures will find their way into my ears or nose while sleeping.  I’m still shaking with disgust.

So as I step a little closer I am certain this thing will just jump up and deposit itself directly in my mouth or circle my head until it finds an appropriate place to nest in my hair.

Blister beetle? Carpenter ant? NO! It's just hoochie gear!

You can imagine my relief when I realized I was not suddenly under attack by Hardwood Stump Borer beetles.

Relief quickly turned to joy.  Do you think this belonged to a famous hoochie?  Let’s investigate.

Could it be Kim lost this eyelash while shedding tears of joy upon hearing a song written about her called Theraflu (yes, Theraflu)?

Probably not, since we know they’ve been spending their time downtown.

Anne Hathaway?

She clearly shed the fuzzy eye insects but it’s doubtful she would have left one just laying around the streets for anyone to pick up and sell on ebay.

And then I read this.

Those kind of tears would cause anyone to lose an eyelash.

First Friends with Benefits and now the starring role in Bethenny Frankel’s thinly veiled “novel”.  Sarah Marshall is officially forgotten.

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We get by with a little help from our friends

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I have friends who have tackled some major obstacles in life — death of loved ones, divorce, depression, financial troubles.

Friends, dear friends, have battled cancer.

I have always felt helpless during these times.  I kept them in my thoughts and my heart always — whether or not I was able to communicate it to them — but sometimes it just doesn’t feel like enough.

Thankfully, I have strong and capable friends.  Optimistic, positive, motivated, proud, brave, loved.  They believe they can overcome these obstacles.  Giving up the fight is just not an option.  I am proud to call these people my friends.

I have another friend struggling with a disease called Cystic Fibrosis, a disease that attacks the lungs, pancreas and digestive system.

She swallows 40+ pills a day just so she can eat and grow.

She spends hours each day hooked up to a machine to clear her airways just so she can breathe.

She is seven years old.

And she can’t do it alone.  Here are two things you can do right now, sitting at your computer:

1.  Take just three minutes to watch this inspiring video of Cammy being a funny young girl, a caring older sister, and a daughter that anyone would be proud to have as their own.

2.  If Cammy’s story moves you, please consider donating to her walk “Cure for Cammy”

The link above will bring you directly to the page.  No searching, no registering.  It will take you the same amount of time it takes to check out with your virtual shopping cart from Rue La La.

Bonus:  For every contribution made through this site, EVEN JUST A DOLLAR, I will personally donate an additional $10.  Please write “WTTM” (for Welcome to the Motherhood) in the comments to be sure you are included in my final tally.

And then the next time you see your kids struggle – to find the words they want, to put their shoes on, to make friends – give them a huge hug.  The determination of a child is nothing short of inspirational, and they deserve all the support we can give.

iMom

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Moms get a bad rap for gushing about their own kids.  They get an even worse rap for gushing about pregnancies and babies in general.  They say things like “pregnancy is amazing”, “they [kids] will change your life”, “being a mom makes me better at everything I do” and the most damning “when are you going to have kids?”  Sure I know they mean “motherhood is crazy stupid amazing” but of course it comes out “when are you going to have kids so I have someone else to commiserate with?”

Which reminds me of being in the Verizon Wireless store this weekend.  That’s right.  I was hearing all the same things – the blind love, the incessant gushing and the cult-like insistence that you join too – but there were no children in sight.  The object of this mom-like fervor?  The iPhone.

Behold its perfection

Why does everyone need to tell you how amazing their stinking iPhone is?  “You can’t imagine how you lived without it!”  Does the thing fold the laundry?  Because that’s something I couldn’t live without for one minute longer.

My husband is one of these devotees.  He goes so far as to trash my Android (which I happen to enjoy) simply for not being an iPhone.  In common conversation he now uses “droid” as a noun/verb meaning “[to reach] an unfavorable result.”

As in:
“Chloe peed through her onesie and I don’t have a back-up”
“Oh man, that’s a droid.”
or “I waited in line at Babies R Us and they wouldn’t take my coupon”
“You totally got droided.”

Though I defend the mom and vilify the iPhone user, I am forced to see the similarity.  We are just extremely passionate about the things we hold dear.  Even if mine is the flesh and blood of my womb and yours is a silly machine that has the most annoying ringtone of all time.  Yes, even despite that minor difference, I now support you iPhone user and refuse to speak ill of you again.

But like people who post pictures of their pets in outfits, there is one group I won’t let up on.  Hey!, blackberry user, 2002 called and it was using an iPhone.

I actually had one of these awesome RIM wireless versions...over 10 years ago.

Boobs and periods – it’s like 13 all over again

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I said I was going to be real on this blog but this may be more real than anyone is interested in.  Feel free to click away from this page.

If you are still reading, I warned you.

Help! I’m bleeding and my boobs are gone!**  No, this is not from one of my many Hunger Games nightmares.  It’s the result of weaning Chloe.

Despite having two children of my own to care for, most mornings I feel like a 13 year old girl.  Like junior high, I spend my time trying on outfit after outfit and looking at my profile in the mirror.  Only instead of watching them grow, I’m watching them go.  Seriously, how are my breasts DISAPPEARING before my eyes?!?!  I didn’t think they were something that could be removed without my consent so I am a bit confused.

The good news? This will fit perfectly now

I was a full C pre-baby and during my first pregnancy my bra size skyrocketed.  These days the only Ds I see are the batteries for Gavin’s toys.  After nursing two kids for two years total, I am a laughable A cup.  Is there a biological reason that withdrawing milk = removing breast tissue?  And what’s a woman to do???  THIS is one of those things I wish I knew about.  Not that I would have done anything different, but I would have appreciated a heads up.  Maybe cherished my old boobs a little more.

[pause for full young perky breast nostalgia]

Since I don’t plan any plastic surgery in the foreseeable future (we have preschool to pay for, people!), let’s move on to something more constructive.  Menstruating.

That's right. We're going there. Cause if I miss another there will be more of you to contend with

I haven’t had a period since 2008.  One year without for pregnancy and one year without for nursing x two kids back to back.  Almost 4 years to the month.  But alas it is here.  I feel like a teenager all over again.  I’m scared of tampons — which might be hysterical since I passed two children through the same place the uterine lining is shed.  Pads, thank god, have come a long way since I was a teenager.  In fact, they have grown wings which helps a lot (why did it take so long for someone to come up with this?!?) but they still present most of the issues we struggled with as teens (jacket tied around your waist?  Been there).

A friend suggested a Diva Cup, which I began to research once I realized it had nothing to do with Mariah Carey and Aretha Franklin on VH1.  It sounds like a really great concept but just reading the FAQ page makes my head spin.  My doctor recommended Mirena, the modern IUD.

I know you wanted to let your hormones go unchecked for awhile, but look how happy I am. I using Mirena right now.

No kids and no periods for FIVE years.  Sounds good other than I really was hoping to give my body a break from hormone regulation for awhile.

I admit my first one back wasn’t too bad.  No PMS at all, cramps seem like a joke compared to childbirth and very light flow.  Mother nature must be easing me into something terrible.

It’s amazing that being a woman presents constant challenges even in areas as basic as boobs and periods.  I have been dealing with these things for decades – but this new chapter leaves me feeling as confused and unsteady as I did when tackling them for the very first time.  Only now I don’t have the locker room to compare and no girlfriends to bum “something” from in the school bathroom.  So I turn to you friends, am I alone in this?  How has childbirth changed your body?

**mommy disclaimer – the opinions above are the opinions of Carinn and do not reflect the experiences of all mothers.  Some get their periods back while nursing.  Some claim to have larger breasts after childbirth.  I envy them.

-

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Birthday hangover

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The first sign that you’re old — you are worn out simply from exerting energy.  Don’t get me wrong, when I set out on Friday morning I was full of adrenaline.  Imagine a day with no kids, no work, just me and the hubby!

We went to an amazing brunch where we sipped Mimosas, spoke of travel and ate three courses at a leisurely pace.  Can you imagine?

I rocked my blow out:

and my green jeans:

It was a really great day.  The celebrating went into the weekend and I got to do more “adult” things in 3 days than I have all year.

1.  Saturday night dinner, complete with sushi and beer.  To be honest Ian and I used to do this regularly until he tore his Achilles tendon and has been laid up for the past 11 weeks. This was the perfect occasion to revive the experience.

2.  Movies.  Like in a theater.  With other grown-ups.  And popcorn.  And no sharing (don’t be jealous).  We saw Friends With Kids.  It was so-so.  And by so-so I mean Jennifer Westfeldt wrote and directed a somewhat interesting story with a really original concept, but she cannot act.  Not even a little bit.  I wonder if it was as painful as all her Botox injections.

3.  SLEEP!  I don’t know who read my blog – my kids or God, but I can assure you someone was on board.  We are talking minimal night wakings and 645 rise and shine times.  It was nothing short of glorious!

In the meantime I have ignored my blog, my friends blogs, Facebook, Twitter and, oh yes, my kids.  If you see them roaming around the city, please take good care of them.  And give them a kiss from mama.  I promise I will get my act together sometime this week.

It’s my birthday!! and all I got was this lousy post

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It’s Friday!  It’s 76 degrees in March!  It’s my birthday!   What more could I ask for?  A lot.  That’s right, I had a list.

A hearty happy birthday from my offspring

maybe after he finishes watching Dora??

 

a great pair of colored denim that I might actually wear more than once

a really great color green

A great read

Thoughtful present from the hubby

Snacks of course!

Mama Always Has Snacks

Get your grubby fingers off my cupcakes boy!

And the best surprise/awesome gift maybe ever (behold it’s complicated beauty)

From my amazing MIL who not only reads my blog, but listens to what I say!!!

I am a blessed woman and the day has barely begun!  Off to the festivities (more on our adventure day later!)

Beautiful Boy (Darling Boy)

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I was on the fence about posting my son’s birth story.  It’s not as fast-paced or sweet as my daughter’s.  In fact, all 16 hours were entirely uneventful as far as labor goes.  Textbook delivery.

It was after he was born that shit got hectic.  But I never want to put that on him.  He carries enough weight on his tiny shoulders.

So this is not his birth story.  This is my story and the lessons we can both take away from that day.

——————————————————————————————————————–

Dear baby boy,

We checked into the hospital early on a unseasonably warm Friday in February, nine days after the first time they told me I would be induced.  I resisted as long as I could.  I knew you weren’t quite ready (even if I was!).  But as my due date passed and my fluid level decreased to alarming levels, I could no longer demand more time.

After 16 hours of pitocin induced labor and 4 hours of pushing, you arrived.   3:46am on Saturday.

Immediately I began to hemorrhage.

355am.  I lose consciousness.  Daddy tells me my eyes roll back in my head and I go limp.  With some oxygen they revive me as they call for the crash cart.  Your nana, who is with you in the nursery, hears the code blue call to maternity but cannot imagine that it is her baby that might be dying.

4am.  They wheel me to an operating room.  I am crying and confused but mostly terrified.  Your daddy’s face is white even though his voice is strong.  He is willing me to stay with him.

408am.  The doctor is trying to explain.  The placenta.  They can’t deliver the placenta.  It has grown into the uterus.  She needs to perform a D&C.  Here, sign these forms.  We may have to remove your uterus entirely.  Yes, I was asked to consent to a hysterectomy twenty seven minutes after giving birth for the first time.  “Hope you enjoyed that experience because it will probably be your last,” the universe taunted.

411am.  Your nana left you in the nursery to come check on me.  When she enters the delivery room it is empty of people but covered in blood.  What looks like buckets and buckets of blood.

418am.  My doctor is working.  Working to save my life.  There are no less than eight nurses and doctors around me.  The room is full but I feel so alone.  No one is talking to me.  Staring up at the glaring white lights I bark questions into the air.  No one answers.  So I listen.  We need blood.  What’s her count?  2 units.  Look at her tongue.  It’s white.  Four units.  Carinn, you are going to need a transfusion.

420am.  I am crying.   What is going on?  Everything is a blur.  Suddenly I realize you are not there.  “I miss my baby.  I want to see my baby.  When can I see my baby?”  My pleas are ignored.

422am.  They won’t let daddy in the OR.  He receives the cold shoulder from the nurses going in and out of the room.  At best, a vague update.  “We are doing everything we can.”

5am.  The D&C was successful and the blood transfusion complete.  I am wheeled to a recovery room.  I STILL HAVE NOT HELD YOU.  Thankfully it is only me that is deprived.  Your daddy and your nana are loving you every second that I am gone.  And they are making damned sure you don’t get a bottle.  The doctor agrees.  You can wait.

6am.  After my incessant begging, they bring you to me.  With a warning.  “Do not sit up, do not stand, do not feed.  You may hold him and nothing else.”

As I hold you for the first time I am starry eyed and breathless.  You return the look.  What has this experience been little smoosh?

We meet again

Three years later you are a serious and sensitive soul.  You are reserved.  You take your time and you don’t like change.  You are deliberate.  Everything needs to make sense to you.  You ask a lot of questions.  You soak up the answers like a solar panel, stored, to be used later.

You seem to carry the weight of the world.

I wonder if the way you came into this world made you that way or whether it was you who dictated the way you were born.  Either way, my lessons to you will always be about letting go.  They are my lessons as well.

When I checked into the hospital, I had my birth plan printed and in tow.  It involved my feelings on epidurals (no), episiotomy (no), immediate physical contact upon delivery (yes), breastfeeding (yes).  I scored 50% on the plan that applied.  I scored a zero on the rest of the days events.  Because my birth plan never contemplated most of what actually happened.

Life is not perfect.  It surely does not always go according to plan.  That doesn’t mean you shouldn’t make plans.  You should make plans.  Big ones, small ones, practical ones, grand ones.  But don’t lose it when life gets in the way.  Just roll with it.

In the mess that life can make of your plans, it’s your job to find the beauty.  Not to try to make sense of it all or to try to make it perfect.  Instead, it’s your job to find the humor (like when I tried in earnest to convince everyone that I didn’t need surgery, that a little oxygen would do just fine).  To find the good (like how you stayed strong through the trauma of 4 hours of travel down the birth canal, how your heart rate never even so much as dipped with the stress).    To find the positive aspects of the outcome (like the fact that you were born completely healthy, with a perfect APGAR score no less!).

In the mess of a mother I am at times, I always see the beauty in you.

—————————————————————————————————————————————————

Before you go to sleep
Say a little prayer
Every day in every way
It’s getting better and better

Snuggle time - February 2009

Beautiful, beautiful, beautiful
Beautiful boy

Snuggle time - February 2012

Before you cross the street
Take my hand


Life is what happens to you
While you’re busy making other plans

Beautiful, beautiful, beautiful
Beautiful boy

-John Lennon

Heated arguments, drug pushers, soulmates finding each other. No, it’s not a show on the CW. It’s your birth story.

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Dear baby girl,

You were born on a Saturday but your story begins on a Wednesday.  Your brother came down with an ugly stomach virus.  He threw up all night long.  Every hour, I nursed him to health one tablespoon of Vitamin Water at a time.

Thursday:  By morning he was fine.  And then I got this ugly stomach virus.  Liquids spewing out both ends.  10 months pregnant.  It wasn’t pretty.  I nursed myself with Vitamin Water all night long.

Friday:  By morning I was fine.  And then your daddy got it.

That’s when shit got hectic.

Saturday

1am.  I wake to hear your daddy covering the entirety of our four square foot bathroom with puke.  As I wonder who is going to clean that up, I notice that in the 5 minutes I have been awake I have had 5 contractions.  Seriously.  But they aren’t strong, so I close my eyes and try to go back to sleep.  Good luck with that one.

3am.  I call the doctor.  Thankfully the midwife is on call.  We speak for 10 minutes, debating what to do.  Clearly I am not in much pain but the contractions are coming regularly, one minute apart, and second babies come quick.  I insist I want to stay home as long as I can.  Your daddy is still locked in the bathroom.

5am.  The contractions are farther apart, but stronger.  I call the doctor again.  Three minutes apart.  Yes I can still talk, but they stop me in my tracks.  Get ready, she says, and call soon.  I know that your dad can’t accompany me to the hospital in the shape he is in, so I call your eagerly waiting nana.  She lives two hours away.  I ask her to leave now.

7am.  Stepping over the mess that was my bathroom floor I shower and pack a bag.  The contractions are getting stronger.  I know I am in labor.  It feels oddly calming.

8am.  Your nana arrives.  She isn’t sure what to make of my calm so she freaks out.  I insist that I will walk to the hospital.  This only elevates her freak out level.  She pictures you being born in a puddle of Starbucks, dog urine and late night pizza scraps on the corner of 31st and 2nd.

815am.  We leave the building to make the half mile trek.  And then I remember, “oh, I need a bagel and juice!  They won’t let me eat at the hospital!”  Your nana’s eyes bulge out of her head.  We have to go!  I ignore her and walk in to our regular bagel shop.  My friend behind the counter asks when the baby is coming but he doesn’t expect me to say “right now” as I double over with a contraction.  We make our way out.  There are almost no cars on the road.  It is a quiet Saturday morning.  It isn’t cold for February, but it is so windy.  The contractions are getting stronger.  I feel you moving down.

840am.  We arrive at NYU reception.  They take one look at me, how calm and relatively pain-free I am and send me to triage.  “You aren’t ready to be admitted but we’ll have your doctor check you.”  I go to triage where they hook me up to the fetal monitor.  Every moment of sitting is sheer pain.  Stabbing feeling in my abdomen.  My doctor comes in.  The one who saved my life (but that’s a story for later).  She checks me.  5 centimeters.  She knows I want more than anything to do this with no medication, no intervention.

9am.  “Walk around the hallways.  Do not leave.  I will check you again in two hours.”

Elated that I don’t have to be admitted yet, I jump up to walk around.  As soon as I pop up, a gush.  My water breaks.  And so does my calm.  In a split second I am S-C-R-E-A-M-I-N-G my head off.  THE PAIN.  I DEMAND an epidural.  I cry about how tired I am from the events before, I haven’t slept in three nights.  The sickness left me drained.  I stand, I jump, I shush everyone.  I squeeze my eyes shut.  My toes curl.  The pain.

910am.  WHERE IS THE ANESTHESIOLOGIST??  I screech.  A 12 year old boy who swears he isn’t Doogie Howser and that he is old enough to have completed med school comes in.  He barks some legal mumbo jumbo.  I say yes, yes, yes, whatever you need, just BRING IT NOW.

My doctor hears my screams and wants to know what happened.  “Her water broke,”  Doogie explains.  She checks me.  “Carinn, you are 10 centimeters”.  Oh God, what?  I’m still in triage!

915am.  My doctor, two nurses and the jilted anesthesiologist beg me to sit in the wheelchair but I am busy swaying and jumping and doubling over and curling my toes.  It’s not an option to walk so I climb on like a petulant child who won’t sit in his stroller facing you and instead faces the wrong way, kneeling and grabbing the back of the seat.  But I am not smiling, only wincing and writhing with pain.  One of the nurses finally notices the pad that was discarded.  The one I was sitting on as my water broke.  “MECONIUM” she screams.

MECONIUM they echo.  PEDS (short for pediatrics)!  PEDS, PEDS PEDS they yell to reception as we race by.  There was meconium in the water.  WE NEED PEDS HERE NOW.  I swear they were only yelling so loud to drown out my screaming.  My primal, guttural, indescribable shouting.

920am.  There were no delivery rooms available.  They are quite literally wiping blood off the floor of one as they wheel me in, still kneeling, still hollering.  They push me in and the team disburses.  Doogie leaves with his unsigned waiver.  I have a moment of “holy shit I am really going to do this without any meds, all on my own, not even hooked up to a freaking monitor.”

One nurse scrubs in while another grabs instruments and another gets the baby blankets ready.  My doctor scrubs in.  All this activity fades as I realize an important piece of business that needs to be taken care of before we get on to delivering this baby.  I’m in my head trying to figure out how I can ask this at such a tenuous and inconvenient time.

“Can I please go to the bathroom real quick?  Bathroom?  Please?” I say to no one in particular.

“Um, I HAVE TO POOP!”  A little louder this time.  “Can someone help me to the bathroom?”

It’s like I have never seen 80,000 a few episodes of TLC’s A Baby Story.  I truly believe I need to go #2.  My doctor explains that is the baby making me feel that way and if I was a little less delirious from the pain I would have shot her a dirty look for saying you are making me feel like shit.

Lightbulb.  Oh.  The baby is coming!

925am.  The nurses are still getting ready but I climb up from the wheelchair on to the hospital bed, still kneeling, and begin to push.  Completely unattended.  The nurses take time from their busy work to notice my silence and signal to each other.

“Somebody better get her, she is pushing,” their masked mouths whisper.

I finally realize I don’t know where your nana has gone.  Wait – she’s in the corner on the phone.  Really?  I see her hang up and put her coat on.  REALLY??  Not sure this is the time for a coffee break.

She explains.  “Ian and I are going to switch off.  He has stopped throwing up.  I am going to go home to watch the baby (your brother was the baby right up until the minute you were born).  Ian will come now.”

“NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!  This baby is coming RIGHT NOW!”  I shriek.

Not that I blame her.  Last time I pushed for 4 hours.  She thinks she has time.  But I know you are coming now.  I know you will not wait.  Not for your brother to feel better, not for your daddy to arrive, not for anyone for anything.  This is your time baby girl.  Your time, your terms.

935am.  I ROAR.  This is not an exaggeration.  I ROAR and your perfect little head peeks into the world for the very first time.

939am.  You are born.  Small and pink with bright blue eyes.  You make your presence known instantly with your strong baby lungs.  Flailing and agitated, you don’t settle until they put you back in my arms.  Physically, you look nothing like me, but the connection we have is deeper.  It’s evident in the way we stare at each other in silence and awe.  It’s in our DNA.

Welcome to the world my beautiful daughter.

Epilogue

940am.  I feel more amazing and alive than I have ever felt.

I am a self-professed adrenaline junkie and this feeling surpasses any other.  I feel more vitalized than I did after swimming with sharks in Tahiti.  More exhilarated than after jumping off a 30 ft. cliff in Maui.  More inspired than when I finished writing my screenplay.  It’s like I can actually feel life coursing through my veins.

It’s transcendental.  Pure euphoria.

I call your daddy before they even cut the cord.

“I’m so sorry, I couldn’t wait!”

“It’s ok, I’m coming now.”

“She is amazing, Ian.  A real force to be reckoned with!”

——————————————————————————————————————

The natural high eventually faded, but in that moment it brought me real clarity.  Because one year later, those words I uttered just minutes after your arrival, they never felt truer.

This is what a real force to be reckoned with looks like on her birthday.