danapop

I entered 2011 with two tiny goals (I wish sarcasm were better projected through a website) of a book and a baby. While neither are happening the way I expected, both are likely teaching me more than if they had come easier.

I do feel slightly guilty putting my visions for 2012 out there, honestly. I don’t want for anything. I have a career that stimulates and challenges me, a loving and supportive family, friends that not only have my back but also make me belly laugh until it hurts, and a husband I was lucky enough to snag a decade ago. So, this year’s vision board is done in the spirit of putting it out there, a fresh start, a new year, or as Oprah says, “Another chance for us to get it right.”

I had an article all planned to write this week. It was about holiday hairstyles featuring a funny story about how growing up, for special occasions, I always begged (err bribed) my twin sister into fixing my hair, and she’d always royally mess it up, not looking at all like I’d pictured: I’d walk off in a huff and we’d end up not speaking for several hours until I’d apologize for being such an a-hole and we’d be friends again.

There was going to be some great metaphor about family and friends and looking ones best, but instead, I’m buried in deadlines and just trying to peel myself out of yoga pants long enough to attend a restaurant opening on top of a holiday party I already RSVP’d to when all I really want to do is curl up on the couch, listen to the song below all day, and not worry about what I look like.

This year has been filled with plenty to keep me warm, and I’m so very grateful for it all. It’s all beyond what any person could ever hope for. I’ll be back with fresh content January 4; until then, here’s a year-end video … the best my eyes have seen in 2011. Happy holidays, everyone.

We just bought our plane tickets to head to my family’s house for the holidays, which got me reflecting a bit on the spirit of the season. When I was younger my family had a phrase—one to grow on—that little extra push could set us apart, which could be applied to many things (but I remember it the most with sports, regarding a few more sit-ups or another lap around the track). I find myself thinking about all those things family and friends teach us along the way. Here are my top 10 (plus one to grown on) words of wisdom (or just plain actions I’ve admired) from the loved ones in my life; some, I wish, were still around to continue teaching me. These are my one to grow on moments pushing me to be better.

Everything in moderation
Who: My paternal grandmother
I remember gorging myself on a gigantic hunk of cheddar cheese at my grandparents’ house when I was a teenager. My grandmother told me I could have it, but to be mindful of my portions. Guilted, I put the cheese back in the refrigerator (but it was so good!). This is also the same woman who drank exactly one beer (straight out of the can) every Independence Day. What will power. Eat the slice, but not the whole block! In the same vein, my other grandmother, my Grammy, has a similar story one I’ve dubbed “A lady doesn’t need all that meat at lunch.” Once used to explain the petite 4 oz. portion of filet mignon she likes to special order from her country club. PS – That story’s title makes you think she was talking about something entirely different. Ew.

Call a cab
Who: My brother
Everyone in my family likes a good cocktail or two. And once, my brother explained to me the importance of calling a cab instead of getting behind the wheel, even when you think you’re okay to drive. He reasoned that the money you spend on the taxi and the ordeal to retrieve your car the next day far outweighs the price of a potential DUI, court expenses, lawyer fees, or worse. Agreed and spoken like a true accountant. Pay now or pay later.

Pack efficiently
Who: My father
To my parents’ credit, all four of us kids got the gift of understanding the world through travel. But you’ll never catch any of us dragging more than one suitcase through an airport. Which is achieved, I’m certain, by all of us practicing the art of smart packing taught by our father. The military man in him had a very efficient way of packing for a trip. His tight-roll method for slacks and shirts I still use to this day, and I am always surprised how much I can fit in a suitcase. He pushed for streamlining items and wearing staples like jeans a few times. He also stressed the importance of not wearing clothes in a foreign country that scream, “Hey y’all, I’m an obnoxious American!” Very useful.

Put on lipstick
Who: My Grammy (see also “Everything in Moderation”)
Well, maybe not lipstick, per se, but at least put a little effort into it if you’re stepping out the front door. It only takes one time of bumping into an ex-boyfriend at Target sporting greasy hair held by a Hello Kitty barrette paired with raccoon smudged eye makeup from the night before while wearing too-tight yoga pants and a graphics tee shirt that says something terrible like “My favorite color is yellow” before you realize that Grammy, in fact, might know a thing or two.

Strive for something
Who: My older sister
There’s no one else in my life that goes after something quite like my older sister; I both love and admire her for it. Whether it’s breaking college swimming records, running a half-marathon, getting a Ph.D., raising children, or earning a promotion at work, the girl sets a goal and gets it done.

Do what you say
Who: Two of my closest friends
It’s interesting how through the years we have relationships with people at different phases of our life that might be very similar. My best friend from college and my best friend in Atlanta are very alike in how they go about life. And by gosh, these two walk the talk. If they say they’ll be somewhere, count on it. If either of them sets the alarm for a 6 a.m. run, well, you better believe they are pounding the pavement before the sun comes up. They say it and it’s done. These two are also the same sort who will bring over a batch of homemade soup when you’re sick and remember to send a card every year on your birthday. Salt of the Earth.

Clean up after a dinner party before going to bed
Who: My mother
My parents were social butterflies who threw legendary parties (with an endless supply of vodka gimlets) but somehow always managed to wash the dishes before going to bed. No matter how late. I remembered this sage advice one incredibly slow-moving morning following a ridiculously raucous dinner party my husband and I hosted. I was stuck tossing out beaucoup of half-empty bottles of wine that seemed to be fermenting further with each passing minute and grody remains of a cheese plate while on the cusp of vomiting the entire time. That said, my rough guess on how many wine glasses my parents must’ve shattered in their lifetime with this bit of advice is in the hundreds.

Stand up for yourself
Who: My twin sister
It’s funny that growing up I was the more outgoing twin—a chatterbox who was curious and daring while my sister was shy and quiet for years. By the time we got to high school she didn’t march to that drummer any longer. She was outspoken, opinionated, and was not afraid to back up her own ideas to our parents, peers, or teachers. All in a respectful way of course, but her persuasion also allowed her to live a little and gave her space to experiment and take risks. I mean, years later, that same girl would drive from Baltimore, Maryland to Santa Cruz, California and camp out in the Badlands, all by herself, all because she took a stand.

Get to the root of it
Who: My husband (and family)
Growing up, my family mostly dealt with difficult issues or a crisis like a live grenade being thrown in the middle of a locked and crowded room. Freak out. While my husband’s side is a family of quietly effective problem-solvers. My husband (and his family) taught me that sometimes it’s better to leave it unsaid, or at least wait a bit to figure out the guts of what you’re really upset about instead of dropping bombs. This takes a bit of practice, but I’ve found it a very nice (and healthy) alternative to the wreckage to which I’m accustomed.

Bad news doesn’t get better over time
Who: My father
Oh, this is a DRH-standard all the way around, and it’s one of my favorite unsolicited relics of advice I ever received from my father. It’s the one I use most often and apply to practically any situation. I love it too because it’s sort of the opposite of what’s usually represented with “time healing all things” and just “giving things their due time.” In this case, I’d say he’s right on the money with this nugget. Wishing it away won’t work. Buck up, tell the truth, and move on.

Don’t let it get cold (one to grow on)
Who: My maternal grandfather (see photograph)
Obviously if a plate of food is in front of you, despite a photograph being taken, by all means, eat.

Nestled in my mom’s lap at my grandparents’ house circa 1980-something. Boy, those cats had the run of the living/dining room, didn’t they? Also, my mom’s loungewear from Korea rocks—I would wear those in an instant, right about now.

My mom said: To take the week off and spend time with her while she visited me last week in Atlanta, so I did. I’ll be back next week with new content. Until then, I’m relishing in all the sweet doting and tight hugs from her that will carry me through to December, when I see her next.

Image: Courtesy of Korean Air

In this economy many people are looking to fallback plans for their careers. The New York Times has a great piece all about it, which you can read here. Do you have one? You know, that option B, the in case of emergency contingency plan. That career path you’d have in another life. Or maybe even your life right now.

I would be a flight attendant for an airline whose uniforms are adorable; those Korean Air attendants are so chic in white and turquoise, I die. Side note—does Kate Spade still design the uniforms for JetBlue? Does JetBlue even still exist? I’d even have a Plan B for my Plan B, a fallback for my fallback—a bartender in an interesting place like Key West or New Orleans because think of the stories you’d get! I should note, I’d predictably be one of the world’s worst flight attendants or bartenders for the same reason … just like in “Cocktail,” I’d cop a major attitude the second someone asks me to sling them a Cuba Libre. Oh they’d get the side eye for sure on that one.

My brother, who has a big, fancy word like “partner” in his present job title, once told me he would be a plumber. Seriously. Another time he told me he’d be a cross-country coach at a high school. My sister, who has a smarty pants Ph.D. next to her name, dreams of being a trash collector. No joke. She explains that the hours are conducive to her schedule (she’s an early riser) and since she’s not queasy at all, I personally think it’d be the perfect fit. Her husband’s answer—a NYC or Vegas cab driver, and boy would I like him driving me around! He’d be the coolest person to talk to, believe me, you’d never want to get out of the taxi. You’d be cracking up and likely exchanging numbers to buy the guy a beer after his shift.

A good friend from college while in graduate school decided she’d like to take a course to become a certified nail technician. Not sure if it was just because she wanted to become an expert on her own cuticles or as a fallback plan, like just in case the patent law career doesn’t pan out, I can always give a good manicure. My best friend in Atlanta, who is a marketing genius, would open a sandwich shop serving only the tastiest lunchtime staples around. My sister-in-law has told me that one of the best jobs she ever had was working at William’s Sonoma. She’s a wonderful cook, and I could see her thriving there, despite the law and MBA degrees.

My television writer and producer husband would be a butcher. Oh, to be the butcher’s wife. I’d be such a happy cow sausaging into my fabulous uniform with the best snacks on the flight. Here’s to fallbacks, and Plans A through C.

I recently wrote all about the tomato-red goodness that once were my kitchen countertops, here.

Well, that fun little (err not so fun and not so little) project is mostly done (aside from the caulk job that needs to happen). Home renovation projects always leave me a bit frazzled, mostly because everything is a bit out of whack and out of place (as I type this, I’m starring at a bowl of avocados in my office since it can’t live in its usual home on the kitchen counter).

Yes, I think avocados next to the computer classifies out of whack. Here’s the before & after in photo form.

Before the project began, I was more worried about what sealing the counters would entail. Little did I know how much scraping…

Scraping … and more scraping we had in store.

Time to call in the big guns (electric sander).

In times of crisis and projects that I’m particularly overwhelmed I generally have one of two reactions—cry or quit. I threw in the towel once during a meltdown at Home Depot, which in retrospect I’m shocked my husband stuck around long enough to actually give me a ride home.

Truth be told, the freak-out had something to do with the paint not coming off and the idea of us stuck with what were for a brief period, pink tinted counters.

It was about this time I was thinking of Plan B. I already had an alternate color of paint picked out in my head hudsonpaint.com (#25 royal bronze).

Getting the layers of paint off the concrete was the bulk of the job and took Friday night through Sunday to see what we were actually working with.

After three days of scraping and sanding, we finally used the Cheng method of non-toxic sealer on the unpainted surface. Helpful tip—old t-shirts (and okay, my husband’s old underwear) were a great application vessel for the sealer. No lint!

The lesson—projects always take longer than slated, cost more than estimated, but are totally worth it in the end. Helpful tip—Never wear flip-flops while working with power tools. My big toe looks like Mark Wahlberg’s face when he isn’t winning in, “The Fighter.”

Our new, concrete countertops in their natural state of gray. This is a project we’ve wanted to do for a while now and while it took a lot of sweat (no tears!), the payoff is nice. I’d be lying if I said they look exactly like what I pictured. But, I’m allowing myself time to get used to our kitchen looking like a freshly poured sidewalk. My husband’s already talking about calling someone to tile this sucker.

I’ve been buried in paint chips and concrete dust since Friday, but happy to report that the countertops are well on their way to cease yelling at me. The red dragon has almost been slayed. Before and after pictures coming soon … I promise.

I’m glad to be posting this on the last day of August. You see, this month, from the start, proved to be particularly challenging for me.

I went to a yoga class recently and the instructor talked about finding comfort even in uncomfortable situations—on the mat when holding poses you want to break out of, to off the mat when say you are on last minute flight to beat Hurricane Irene and you find yourself in Chicago while trying to get to Atlanta. No matter how hard it is making the moment semi-okay when it’s all the way not. Mastering the art of rolling with life and accepting whatever terminal the plane arrives in.

This month began with a massive writing project coming to a close and not at all the way I thought (or hoped) it would. This ending resulted in attorneys being called and me walking away after 18-months with nothing left to show for my work. All of which left me disappointed and sad, angry and hurt, and a whole lot of things I haven’t been able to process fully. Right now, I’m just trying to absorb everything and pick up the pieces from the wreckage. Take the good parts, learn from the bad and move forward. But, it’s hard.

To the personal—specifically, us having a baby. I’ve had several doctors’ appointments, tests and just loads of things I never knew we’d have to endure to expand our family. I’m trying to surrender to the process, to find comfortable spots in this stretch of very uncomfortable. I’m trying to take it easy and let everything unfold, as it should. But, right now it all hurts like hell, and I’m trying to get comfortable with this uncomfortable new road we’re walking.

All that pales in comparison to the last bit. While on his morning run, my brother-in-law was hit by a car. He’s fine (relatively speaking), not to belittle his injuries, but there’s no brain damage or spinal cord injuries. He’s getting stronger everyday post a collapsed lung and a ton of broken ribs, but the whole ordeal was terrifying to say the least. Within days, I found myself at my sister’s helping take care of him and their kids. Then, leaving a day early after being rerouted from a connection in Philly to make it back to Atlanta.

This last bit puts everything else in perspective. Life is about free will and choices. We are choosing to expand our family. I chose to walk away from a writing project. My brother-law-chose to go on a run. It’s what happens in the aftermath that gets tricky. But, I suppose without the turbulence, without the uncomfortable, you’d never fully appreciate it when things are simpler and the ride is comfortably smooth.

Our countertop in all its firey glory.

My husband and I are about to embark on another home improvement project. I wish I could put this in the same category as operation subway-tile-the-hell-out-of-the-shower, or slip-cover-the shite-out-of-the-sofa, but we’re biting off more than either of those combined. The big difference in this journey is that, well, there’s a gigantic margin of error, and in our case, this likely means we might truly make things worse than what we started with. Let’s back up.

When we bought our house, while we should’ve been scouring for structural damage and, say, trying to figure out why there were cracks in every wall likely associated with a shoddy foundation, instead we both peppered our realtor with questions about our kitchen countertops. They aren’t your run of the mill granite, marble, or tiled subjects. First, they are concrete, which we both happen to think makes us more incredibly hip and cool than we actually are, especially because our house is not a loft, but a 1940s bungalow. So, yes, it’s a juxtaposed look, which I’ve sort of come to terms with. Second, someone had the great idea to paint these suckers bright, flaming, tomato red. When we did the final walk-through I calculated in my head that besides every bedroom needing to be painted from the most depressing sage green I’d ever seen, those countertops should be added to my “blank canvas” list as well.

Then, we moved in. And here’s the weird thing—those countertops grew on us. They honestly worked for about three years of us living in the house (we’re now at year five). One day, in an über-popular move I’ve mastered called break-down-into-hysterics-over-something-minor, my husband came home from work to find me sobbing as I was cooking dinner with me dramatically pointing and crying, “I feel like they are yelling at me.” In my defense, if these countertops were a character in a play all they would do is let out blood-curdling screams. They really are that loud. And that doesn’t sit well with the muted tones that I so need in my life. Plus, they are chipping like crazy, and I for one don’t like eating paint sandwiches.

I’m not one of those people you see while watching reruns of MTV’s “Cribs” who has Sub Zero refrigerator’s stocked with Fiji water, Cristal, Gatorade, and Chinese takeaway cartons as far as the eye can see. I actually use my kitchen. Love to be in it, in fact. Adore hosting dinner parties where friends and family in the kitchen surround us. And our kitchen literally is at the center of our house (I think I can see every other room except the bathroom from the kitchen). So, there’s a gigantic reason for panic as it’s not like I can be all Mariah Carey about it and say, “Don’t mind the gaping hole from the acid wash I just tested on the concrete counter, let’s just use the guest house kitchen tonight, folks.”

The issue with concrete is this: while you’re pouring it, the options are endless. One can make patina-looking counters and almost replicate granite, or one can pour in a piece the shape of a kitchen sink so it appears continuous with no separate parts. It truly is stunning how much you can do with this inexpensive medium. But, in our case, the damage was already done, what’s poured is poured. I like projects like this. I like taking something that is so-so and making it something you love. I didn’t say I was good at this, I said I liked it. And perhaps only in theory because what I really like is calling someone to come do it for us.

Either of these outcomes would be a dream. Thanks for the images apartmenttherapy.com and jaaroncaststone.com.

There’s one part to this project I wouldn’t dream of paying someone to do … I’ve been waiting for two years to be let loose wielding a paint scraper. Just go to town. So, that part, I’m pretty sure I’ll endlessly enjoy. What gets tricky with this project is what you seal it up with. Basically this isn’t a concrete floor that can be sealed with any old thing. This is something that needs a little bit of thought and care because well, there’s the small detail that we prepare food on it. And everything we’ve found is of course toxic. Some guy at our local hardware store told us about something called Top Secret, and believe you me, he acted like he was giving us the vault code for Ft. Knox. Speaking in whispers like he could really get in trouble for even mentioning this stuff to us, it was created by the military and all. Pretty sure an open burner flame around that stuff would set our kitchen on fire, so that’s a no. Then, we stumbled across Cheng, a guy out of Canada with incredibly entertaining videos that show him pouring his own sealer across and working like a mad man (but oddly very Zen about it) before it sets. Watching the wax on and off peaceful state is pretty hilarious, but seems totally over our heads (and the amount of beach towels we own).

Of course I’ve covered the market on DIY blog reading and I’m up to my elbows in Apartment Therapy advice. We’re slated to start the demo in the new few weeks. Here’s hoping we won’t be eating out for the next month to fix this mess we’ve made.

Otis on canvas by Augusta Hyland Wilson

Summertime is the only time I feel sorry for Otis. It’s hot and he can’t handle it. And other than the stretch from June to August, that dog doesn’t have it so bad. Not in the slightest. But, boy, come June, you’d think he was dying from a heat stroke with the drama that ensues after he’s out back … he’ll throw himself under the ceiling fan in the living room like he’s dying, then go to our mudroom and dunk his entire face in his water dish, look up pitifully with water dripping down as if to say, “It’s so rough out there, you have no idea.”

I wanted a dog most of my life. I spent every birthday hoping for one, but it never came. When my brother (who’s the oldest) was a baby, my parents had Basset Hounds, Buck and Maggie, but they eventually had to put Buck down for violently biting my brother, and later, they gave Maggie away. I think the heartbreak from both was so devastating they never got another dog. But, that’s just my theory on the matter.

Instead we were a family who had cats. Angel, Lucy, Rose, KC, Spike, Martin, Java, Dolores, Rudy, Reagan, and Aggie have all clawed, hissed, and torn up and down the long hallway at my parent’s loft. Though Dolores and Reagan were my sisters’ cats and only there on college breaks, Aggie was mine from college, and it took several days before my father realized she was different from Spike because they looked so alike.

We got Otis through a non-profit called Atlanta Lab Rescue about a year after Spike died. ALR brought two adorable puppies to our house—well three if you count the one who was already adopted out and just slept in the back of the truck the entire time—pretty sure he was thinking, “My job is done” and didn’t even bother waking up. The litter of five boys (three black and two chocolate) born on December 9 to a black Labrador who had the extreme good fortune of breaking through the basement window of a house whose owner happened to be involved in animal rescue.

The foster first brought out a chocolate boy named Lex that I had my eye on, and next, a whimpering black puppy named Wink. As she retrieved him from the truck, I asked, “Why is he here?” about Wink, and informed the foster all I wanted to see were chocolates. Well, after about ten minutes of solid humping and pinning Wink down aggressively by Lex, I still wasn’t swayed. Figuring my husband and I were in for a long debate on chocolate versus black, I went in to get the adoption paperwork, regardless of the color, I knew one of these boys was our dog. I walked outside and saw Wink sitting next to my husband with his little head cocked as they both watched Lex attempt to dig a hole to China in our backyard.

Our licorice-colored dog chose us. Calm, goofy, curious, a lover not a fighter, a wonderful boy from day one, and our family wouldn’t be complete without him. He’s one of the best decisions we’ve made, adding him into our life, and there isn’t a day or a walk that goes by that I’m not grateful for everything he’s brought with him. In all his sweetness, this is also the same being that barfed up a pair of my underwear on the couch the first night its custom slipcover was on it, acts like the bathtub is his for Pollack-style muddy paw marking, and passes gas so foul and loud it clears a room … he’ll seriously have the nerve to look at us like that sound came from one of us and like it surprised him that it even slipped out. Or there’s the time he had an allergic reaction to his tick medicine the night before we were supposed to leave on a week’s vacation, which led to us at the vet at 8 am, postponing getting on the road for a seven-hour drive. Or when he swatted at a bee who promptly stung him on his face, or when he ate an entire bar of soap like he was punishing himself for eating all his own poop in the backyard. I won’t even mention the psychedelic mushroom trip he took himself on from the wild ‘shrooms in our backyard, or the sheetrock wall and wood crown molding he noshed on with puppy teeth, nor do I bother to keep track of how many rolls of toilet paper he’s consumed or decorated our dining room with.

In case you were wondering—Labradors eat EVERYTHING. And the joke about you and your mangy dog? Well, he was one. Though I don’t like to recall the massive bout of mange he came into our house with, forcing all his fur to come out in clumps while we nursed him for months with dips and shots to rid him of the aliment passed from his mom while nursing (as best we know).

But, I love his orneriness just before he eats dinner; his witching hour when I might see him trot out of our bedroom carrying whatever was on the laundry drying rack in his mouth. Or when he throws himself down in my office, wanting to be a little closer to me (and the vent that blows straight on him), it’s that presence I’ll never tire of. My favorite time of the day is seeing the excitement he gets waiting for my husband to come home from work; he’ll stare out the French doors in anticipation of the slightest noise of his tires rounding up the drive. I like to pretend he’d speak in a British accent if he could talk like humans, this idea coming after his allergy vet (yes, of course he’s allergic to everything) told me she thought he wasn’t a mix, but actually a British Labrador, one of the rarer versions of the breed.

Tally-ho, good chap. Otis is a good chap, indeed.

Editor’s note–The irony is not lost on me that I caught Otis fishing this piece out of the wastebasket in my office just after I’d finished editing. He ate his own article. Of course he did.

Stepping away from the computer and replacing it with raw oysters, sweet corn, champagne, fireworks, the metronomic sound of ocean waves, hot and humid three-mile runs, and quality time with my husband. Independence Day (err seven day) bliss. See you next week.

L-R: me, twin sister, older sister, older brother

I’ve been in Atlanta for 11 years now (almost to the day as I moved here Memorial Day weekend in 2000). And mostly, this feels like home. That’s the interesting thing that happens when we’re adults and no longer dependent on our parents; when the home you grew up in isn’t home anymore. Last year we toyed with the idea of many other places becoming our home—our hometowns made the cut (Cincinnati, Kansas City), as did NYC, LA, and Chicago. Even Richmond and Boulder were in the mix because of potential job opportunities.

But, that wasn’t where we were supposed to be. We’re clearly, for now, meant to be here, in Atlanta. Though that doesn’t make the missing any less rough. Lately I’ve been incredibly homesick, and I’m not certain what it is that I’m missing. My mom? My sisters and brother? My nieces, nephews, and grandmother? The unrealistic notion that my family isn’t scattered throughout the country?

My first Thanksgiving in Atlanta my twin sister visited and brought along her college roommate with her son who was about four at the time. My twin also invited her on-again-off-again high-school boyfriend and we cooked the turkey with the bagged innards still inside the bird (whoops), watched half of “Fight Club” just before bed and I had an epiphany in the middle of the night, woke my twin up and asked her to tell me the truth, “Is Tyler Durden real?” But that’s a whole other article. Anyway, apparently when they left, my twin’s college roommate’s son (ahem–this story is really a friend of a friend, plus a cousin, isn’t it?) said, “I miss everyone.” Meaning the chaos and all the fools (myself included) at that Thanksgiving in my teeny apartment.

And that’s where I am, as profound as a child, “I miss everyone.”

I’m 34. Even though I apparently look young (I still get carded fairly often) despite my obvious signs of crow’s feet, I feel better than I did in my twenties. I’m more confident, more sure of myself both mentally and physically; in short my thirties have been very good to me, I think. But, never have I felt all of 34 until we started trying for a baby.

My junior year of college, until I graduated, I worked as a freelancer at a television research firm, which isn’t your typical part-time job for a degree-seeking student. Besides the matched 401K, I worked with some of the most hilarious people I’ve ever met, and I remember coming into work one day saying the Captain Obvious statement when you’re in college and have nothing better to do than sleep ten hours a night “I slept like a baby.” A witty co-worker replied, “What, you cried and wet the bed all night?”

And he was right. Babies cry. Often. My mother-in-law tells the story of my husband’s older brother crying for a solid three months, and then one day, he just stopped. I cannot even imagine what crying for 90 days straight sounds like. And they do wet themselves (and worse) like it’s their job–because it is. And I don’t even want to think about what happens when babies become toddlers screaming at the top of their lungs inches from your face because you won’t let them bring their blanket to the dinner table or throwing an epic tantrum in the middle of Trader Joe’s because someone won’t put Pirate Booty in the shopping cart. Then there’s the gross-out factor kids bring with spit and vomit and bloody gashes. One time the dog threw up on the couch and I gagged so hard while picking it up I dry heaved and my husband thought it was the funniest thing he’d ever witnessed. And when my nephew showed up wearing a cast on his arm post-soccer injury, I abruptly put the kibosh on the conversation mid-sentence as he was describing the sound his wrist made when it broke.

Then there’s the stuff I did as a kid. I had extremely messed up baby teeth from either thumb sucking or a fall (neither my mom or I can remember which), so they resembled a gnarled mess for a few years. I split open my chin after tripping on wet stairs trying to collect an aluminum can for my brother’s fundraising efforts to send him to the big island of Hawaii, split open my right eyebrow after knocking my face on the back of my twin sister’s boyfriend’s head while on an innertube pulled behind a boat at my grandparents’ lakehouse, and there’s a skateboarding incident that involves me being pulled behind a bicycle by a jump rope that to this day makes my belly churn thinking of the skidded-up mess that was the end result of a few minutes of a good time. I remember throwing up on my mother once when I was about 8 years old. I was sick and she brought me a glass of cold water which I threw up just after drinking it, and my mom stood there catching the throw-up with her own bare hands. Can I catch my own kid’s puke? Honestly, I’m not sure, but I’m leaning more towards no. Will I have it in me to not start crying and feeling badly if our kid is bullied, or what if our kid is the one doing the bullying? I’m sporadic at best with tending to our herb and vegetable garden, and sometimes I let the dog bark a few extra times outside the back door just because I need a couple more minutes of peace, and I go ballistic when my schedule is thrown off because my internet is down and I’m on deadline–what’s a baby going to bring to this mix?

I’m not sure. But, I do know I want one. Not the way a celebrity wants one for a public relations ploy or a career boost or the best accessory to tote around these days (PS—I wonder who knocked up January Jones), but because I really do want to be a mother, and that hit me around the age of 30. My husband and I both entered into our marriage with the notion that one day we’d have children, we just didn’t know when, but thankfully we didn’t get too many questions about a baby early on, as our older siblings took one for the team on that front. On my side, both my older sister and brother were married for years before they had children, and my husband’s siblings already had given his parents ten grandchildren ranging in age from 7 to 20, so no one from either of our families really asked us anything. For that, I’m grateful, and now any prodding has been because we’ve offered the information, not because we’ve been forced to spill the beans.

Also, around the age of 30 there came a point in my life when not having kids made me feel like something was wrong with my marriage. That thought wasn’t really in the forefront of my own mind, but a seed planted by others. I remember one friend came through town, and while my husband chatted with her husband at a Mexican restaurant, between margaritas and guacamole she badgered me about when we were having kids. After they drove away I bawled and felt inadequate and that our marriage was not enough because it was just us, our party of two. I felt pressure that people were judging us. Having children is such a personal issue to me that it’s taken time and consideration. How do you know the reason people aren’t having children isn’t because they aren’t in fact trying, but something isn’t clicking? Do you really want to be caught in a conversation with someone about her husband’s sperm count (this isn’t our issue)? How personal do you have to get? To be blunt, I shouldn’t have to tell every fringe friend the reason I haven’t had kids is that through the years my husband and I wanted them at different times and now, we finally want them at the same time. And all that takes time, thought, and consideration. You can remove a tattoo, get a divorce, but a baby, well, that’s permanent. And to be even more blunt what’s required even more time is me feeling like I was ready to be a mother and learn from the way I was raised, keep some parts, disregard others, and hopefully arm myself with enough tools to become the mother I want to be.

At 34 I’ve heard all the stories from friends and family–miscarriages, fertility treatments, pregnant without even trying, believe me, I’ve heard it all. I know a couple that was married ten plus years before they finally had their son. I have a friend from high school with five children. I have friends in Atlanta whose household is married lesbians raising twin boys. I have a friend who is the world’s best stepmother, friends that got pregnant in high school or college; the idea of family has changed, in a good way.

I’m not sure what the end to our story will be, but I’m struggling to surrender to the process and try for our baby as long as it takes. Without revealing too much, it’s taking longer than I would’ve hoped or thought. I assumed since we waited so long to have kids and our lives were stable and our marriage solid, babies would just happen on our terms. I’m certain this is the test of many things to come, but we cannot control it. We can do things when we’re supposed to do them, but babies come when they are good and ready both in conception and delivery. But I’m growing tired of counting days between cycles and the roller coaster that comes between those days and missing the spontaneity that once was our bedroom time. So, the truth is this, we’re trying.

Surely by now you’ve seen this video? I love everything about it. How one baby is smiley and taking it all in, letting the other one talk his little heart out, animated and vocal. My twin sister and I are not identical, unlike what these adorable fellas appear to be. No, we’re fraternal, which, when broken down, means we’re no different technically than any other siblings. But we are, regardless of the countless studies saying the contrary. Separated by just eight minutes (the longest of my mom’s life, she says) we were born on our due date, which is overdue for twins. Apparently we liked each other from the get-go, no hurry to join the rest of the world, perfectly fine hanging out, just the two of us.

My mom snagged this photo of us in our matching, yet non-matching outfits, just before I hopped off the swing.

I’ve touched upon being a twin (here) but that piece was more about my marriage than my relationship with my sister. We’re more alike than people give us credit for. I think others want to compare twins and stick them in a box and give them set differences and all that is fine, but the one key difference with us, despite what people try to interject, is the speed in which we operate. We joke that I function as if I’ve just done a few lines of coke, her like she’s just digested a bag of mushrooms and is waiting for the pretty colors to change. Our swim coach growing up used to call us Double Trouble—she was just Trouble and I was More Trouble, and I think we lived a bit in those roles for a while. She was shy and I was outgoing, doing the talking for the both of us. She was careful in thinking, doing that for me, very cautious and meticulous in her process.

A covert operation for Fritos. Me taking off with the stash, her quietly covering our tracks.

My mom tells a fantastic story about us. I’ve always gone to bed early and gotten up early, even as a baby. My twin stayed up late and slept in (when did our poor mother sleep?). Well, one morning when we were babies, I crawled out of my crib and padded downstairs to find my mother in the kitchen. She asked me if my sister was up, and I said no. My mom started to feed me and about half and hour or so passed. With no noise from upstairs or anything, I declared, “She’s up.” We went upstairs, and sure enough, she was stirring in her crib. I apparently just knew and I’d do that often.

A typical day at the Hazels' house--her painstakingly working knots out of Miss Piggy's mane (that I probably put there), me waking Big Bird from his nap so we could have a conversation.

When this video appeared online, my twin was at a conference for a week in Tampa and I didn’t talk to her for almost an entire week. One of the longest stretches we’ve ever gone except for times one of us has been out of the country. It was awful and I felt off for days–sad, lonely, just bleh. She’s back, thank goodness, but it made me realize how special our relationship is, and one I wouldn’t trade for anything.

Also—I’m pretty sure the video ruckus is over the missing sock.

Playing in our dad's amazing hat collection--an early lesson that sometimes life requires a helmet.

Several of my friends saw the Dalai Lama (if you were my husband, you’d insert the Bill Murray-Caddyshack line here) speak last year when he was in Atlanta and the take away (according to them) was that life is about finding the sweet spots along the way, not nirvana at the end.

The journey is the message, and I think there’s something in that. So far, this year’s been particularly busy. I’m trying to wrap up several major writing projects, and ease into a new position, as well as start a new chapter in our family. But, I’ve found it’s always busy (in some fashion) and there’s often a monkey wrench … not every year is a job layoff and cancer, but some are just difficult conversations or a conflict with a sibling. Here are a few things giving me respite lately…

Beach time. I recently headed to Siesta Key for a few days. Transitioning back into Atlanta life has been tough … working in the home office wearing a bikini and sipping cocktails just isn’t the same.

Nothing transforms my mood like a well-written book. After hearing a great NPR interview with him (interestingly called ‘Fame’ Connects Joan of Arc to Britney Spears) I’m now buried in this gem from Tom Payne.

Dog walks (and cuddles) with our boy. One of the joys of writing from home--an instant cure to writer’s block.

Loving a few new Atlanta restaurant openings as of late--two worth a mention for a quick, tasty bite--Victory Sandwich Bar (frozen Jack and Cokes!) and Delia’s Chicken Sausage Stand. Image: Courtesy of Rama N. Roy

Book design comps! A year plus writing project is finally coming into fruition!

Despite waking up before the sun, ohm relief at Exhale Spa is one the favorite parts of my day. Image: Courtesy of Exhale