danapop

When we bought our house, between signing the closing papers and moving in, a bird’s nest had been assembled in the corner of one of the pillars on our front porch. I had a lot of time on my hands then. I was going through this tough transitional period in my career post-leaving cable news, but pre-making a go at writing full-time. This nine-month period was both incredibly difficult, but rewarding in the long run. I didn’t trust myself enough yet to actually feel and act like a writer (no solid work on the horizon), but I knew in my gut it was what I left a bustling newsroom to do. But to write what and for whom, I had no idea, and instead of gaining confidence with each passing day, I got weaker, filled with self-doubt and sank into quite a funk. We really are our own worst enemies, aren’t we?

Buying this bungalow was a fresh start. We were out of our one-bedroom apartment in Midtown that was cramped and overflowing with wedding gifts still in boxes and into something that was ours. The move and purchase of the house felt very adult and like there was no going back to our carefree ways of stumbling home from a pub in Midtown, and because we could, walking up to a patio bar the next day to begin day drinking with brunch.

I was intrigued by the nest and would watch it each afternoon while sitting on the porch swing, getting fresh air, waiting for my husband to come home from work, anxious to have someone to talk to besides the blank computer screen reminding me of all the stories I’d yet to write. All the articles I’d yet to publish. The momma bird let me sit and watch her. We sort of built an unspoken understanding that I was just going to observe, never disturb, whatever she was guarding in that sturdy nest she’d built.

Then, there were babies. Out of nowhere four teeny baby birds with mashed down fuzzy fine little feathers and beaks so small–but with so much to say–appeared, peaking out over the nest. Chirping all the time for food. It was the most incredible sound, those baby birds at mealtime anxious for whatever the momma gathered for them. She worked tirelessly to feed them all, and it never seemed like enough. Their little baby bird bellies were bottomless pits. Each day, outside on the front porch, I watched it all and they let me.

Then, just as soon as they arrived, they left. I watched it happen with one, the first to leave the nest. He puffed up his little chest, started flapping his wings with all his might (flap, flap, flap) and just when I thought he’d give up from exhaustion, he carried himself up out of that nest and landed just a few inches away. He stood, perched, looking around at his remaining siblings still in the nest in awe of what had just happened; then, he took off for good. Never looking back. I bawled watching that bird leave the nest. Knowing I’d seen something so special and miraculous at once. It took a couple of tries, but he flew the coop. The others soon followed, but I missed all that, and the momma left soon after the last of her babies did.

And now, six years later, on the opposite side of the front porch, we have another bird’s nest. This one is much harder to keep tabs on, the momma won’t even let me so much as open my curtain to take a peak before flying off, leaving her babies hungry, chirping for food. Mostly, I try to leave them in peace. They say a bird pooping on you is a good omen. I think these things are made up to make you feel less bad about it happening, kind of like it raining on your wedding day. I’d like to believe that the temporary home this bird family made on our front porch can only mean good things are to follow for all of us that live both inside and outside this dwelling on Ormewood Avenue.

This time around, I didn’t pay as much attention to the babies, not because I didn’t want to, but because I know they need their space. And it’s also because here, six years later, I have a life of my own. The first brood I was so enthralled and mesmerized with, these, not as much. It’s beautiful watching a living thing develop, but only they can get strong enough to flap those wings. I can’t do it for them. Just like no one else could give me the courage to actually start my own business and write full time. I suppose, I left the nest this time around. Between then and now I grew enough of a voice to actually venture out.

Each February, around this time I get in a slight funk. The holiday season, full of bustle and hope is long gone, work projects I seemed excited to tackle in January appear now more paycheck than passion, and there’s a huge space of reality between now and the next time I’ll see anyone in my family. But, mostly, I think it’s because this is the week my father died.

Some years, his birthday, or my parents’ anniversary, or the anniversary of his death might roll right on by, and several days later I’ll slap my forehead and remember. Other years, I dread it until it comes, worry myself into a panic, and allow it to pass fairly uneventfully since I’ve gotten myself into such a tizzy beforehand.

Either way, it’s strange to miss someone and both try to forget because it hurts, yet want to remember because it’s the only thing you have left.

I had this moment a few weeks ago in the hammam (essentially a Turkish bath) at my gym. This marble chamber is usually so peaceful and I like to pop in before or after yoga if time permits. More often than not I’m the only one in the room, soaking up the silence. I feel sort of close to my father there, since his early career in journalism was so steeped in Middle Eastern affairs and covering conflict there. But, particularly this day, it was because there was music playing softly. I’m certain it was supposed to be tranquil, flutes in unison set to mimic the wind or something, but I found it grating in the hammam, almost echoing louder and louder in a place normally reserved for strict silence.

This reminded me so much of my father because he had such an aversion to loud noises, which is ironic because his idea of a sick joke was to wake us to the Rolling Stones or Elton John or the Beatles blaring through the Bose speakers in the living room.

Babies crying, temper tantrums, anything uncontrollable and hysterical really, my father couldn’t handle. He said it reminded him of Vietnam and we all respected that explanation. As I age, I notice myself annoyed with the volume level at which our world operates. From television shows with people yelling at and talking over each other to the fact that every other person you encounter these days feels the need to talk on a mobile phone at crazy decibels like no one else is around. I wonder what he would’ve done with the noise factor now. I think it would’ve driven him mad.

I tend to think, especially now that he’s gone, that white noise happens to distract us and throw us off course a bit. To dip into something that’s not essential in our day. Because unfortunately, I learned just after my father died that most of us turn small conversations into something much bigger than they need to be–I just didn’t know it at the time. Unfortunately, when I was 24 and my father was 54, the only noise that mattered was the oddly calm conversation coming from the other end of the telephone on a random Saturday morning that had me hours later arriving home and confronting my father’s death and the chaos that surrounded it.

I often wonder what kind of a man he would’ve been today, at 65, instead of never making it past that last week in February. While I cannot predict what he’d be listening to right now, I know I hear things differently and likely will for the rest of my life.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Siesta Key, Florida holds a special place in my life. My husband and I fell in love there, for one. Well, we likely were before that, for certain on my end, but it was there that I figured out I was in it for the long haul. We made the trip about five months into dating, our first vacation together as a couple, and after spending a week playing house at his parent’s condo, I still wanted to be around him. And better yet, he still wanted to be around me.

I celebrate two anniversaries in October. The first, my wedding anniversary, which Monday, was seven years. The second, the anniversary of my first danapop post, two years ago on October 14. Both, my loves. My husband and my work, and completely coincidental that both milestones occur the same autumn month. And both hit me like a ton of bricks in Siesta Key; the name and concept behind this website coming five years into my marriage while on a trip to that same beach. It’s pretty fitting that’s where we chose to mark our anniversary this year–it is still the one place that best defines us.

Sometimes I can be go, go, go, check, check, check; off lists, off life, and just the thought of somewhere called Siesta makes you want to change your pace a bit. To wander and just be. My husband and I met and married within two years. I’m sure people in our lives (though no one has ever said) likely thought we were absolutely nuts, but we knew. What’s it that lady says in When Harry met Sally? “You know like you know a good melon.”

I can’t say I know how to pick a proper melon, but I do however know that when I met my husband I was done with dating. I’d had my heart ripped out of my body in more than one way (my father had died nine months prior, I had just gone through a horrific breakup with a really bad boyfriend) and was ready to be on my own for however long it took to be okay with me. And when I took that moment to step away, that afternoon nap on my life and let whatever was going to happen just happen, I went and landed myself a love.

Here’s to remembering to take a Siesta every once in a while to reflect and soak in … so, a toast to another year of writing, and above all, to love.

Cin cin,

Chemotherapy. Just the word sounds like napalm or terrorist. It’s so gross sounding (and feeling from what I’ve been told). Though it’s some of the hardest stuff in the world, I’m grateful for the time I have with my mom right now and the beauty of taking care of her in such an important and meaningful way; just as she does for us.

I’ve just returned from an amazing week in Krakow, Poland. I won’t be able to go into full travel details here per usual, as I’ve been assigned that piece for a mortgage paying publication and they get first dibs, but I can tell you a few general things, first … go.

No huge surprise here, like most eastern European countries, in Poland, the dollar gets you far. The old town section of Krakow (the best part) is built around a central square, so if you start there, you’ll be in excellent shape. Park it at a café, sip coffee with steamed milk and just soak it in. Later in the day, add some sight seeing and prosecco, and by gum, you’ve got a vacation from everyday American life.

The overarching theme I walked away with was taking time and allowing myself the space to just be. For us, this year has been one of twists and turns, and sometimes it has taken me a minute (or months) to integrate them into my life. To take time to fully grasp and appreciate the concept of the life I’ve built filled with close friendship, a supportive and loving family, and creative work that inspires me.

This trip allowed me the space to wander, think, write, and observe. The women in Europe are so chic. You’d never catch one in mom jeans looking haggard. No sir, even on long flights minding children and loads of luggage they still manage to put on mile high heels and lipstick. Affection is displayed quite openly and I found myself nostalgic about romance and those little moments I may not notice in my Atlanta life. It could also be because of the reason we were there … love was in the air.

We made the trek to Poland for a dear friend’s wedding, which was, without question, the nicest wedding I’ve ever attended (and like most people in their thirties, I’ve attended many). Planning my own wedding years ago, I made decisions merely to get them crossed off my list, but here that didn’t appear to be the case, seemingly taking such care in every decision from meal, to reading selection, to wine list. The loveliest ceremony I’ve ever witnessed.

Now, back to my cultural observations about both in being in Europe and being surrounded by mostly Irish and English wedding attendees. It seemed like in this lot, if one were to wear Jimmy Choos it’d be because they are good, quality shoes that’ll last, not because it’s something to boast to friends while sitting in your 5,000 square foot home one payment away from foreclosure.

Nothing seems to be done in an ostentatious way, just sophisticated and full of grace. It’s not about a carat diamond ring; it’s about the sentiment behind it. I could use a lot more weeks of taking notice like that in my life. Seems less about what you have and more about how you take care of it. I’ll take the moments over the material any day.

Still in vacation mode–or as the international crew I’ve just spent the past week with–still on holiday.

I promise to return next week loaded with stories.

We know what this road looks like, you see. In 2004, we walked it. I was a month shy of my one-year wedding anniversary when I was back in Kansas for my ten-year high school reunion. My mom had a mass on her neck. Just in the vicinity of her collarbone.

She actually discovered it while we were on talking on the phone one night a few weeks prior. Those days, I used to get off work late since my show was on the air from 10-11 p.m., and my routine was to call her after my show. She’d generally already be in bed, and was lying with the phone nestled in the crook of her neck. It was then that she felt something.

And now, she felt it again–this time in her armpit.

Non Hodgkin’s Lymphoma. That’s what she was diagnosed with as all of us kids and spouses sat in the room at KU medical center listening to mom’s oncologist tell us the stage (three), the prognosis (treatable, but could come back), and the treatment (chemo with one medicine, and a clinical trial) six years ago.

We’ve walked this road.

But, it’s back, as we all knew it would be, as Non-Hodgkin’s is a reoccurring cancer in most cases. This time, it’s stage two, but much more aggressive in its growth. As is her treatment plan (chemo with a five medicine cocktail and a much longer duration). Right now, we’re all sort of plowing through our schedules and getting reacquainted with words like scans, white-blood count, port, chemotherapy, treatment, mass, lymph nodes, insurance, and appetite.

My mom is incredibly strong. She got through this once, and we’re all hopeful and encouraged that she’ll do it again. But just because you’ve already walked it, ran it, crawled it, long-jumped it, it certainly doesn’t make it less scary of a path to walk.

Walking down the path to an open crater at Poas during my 30th birthday trip to Costa Rica.

One of my dearest friends is moving from Atlanta. After 17 years in this city, she and her husband are moving to L.A. Her move got me thinking of all the change this year has brought, not just for her, but so many people in my life (including us).

Not just in 2010, but for some reason around August/September of last year, there was a huge shift in our life. And right now, several of my close friends (and family) are entering life-altering transition phases. I have more than one friend going through a divorce. One of my twin’s friends came out of the closet, two children and a marriage later. My brother and his family, who’ve always lived near my mother in the Kansas City area, are moving to Dallas. Not all of this is bad. Closing the door on one life, opening another.

Friends of mine, after about 5 years of trying for a baby, just had their son in December. And we, I think, are closer to what we want than we have been in years, and it took a layoff for us to figure out what that truly was.

Contemplating in Charleston, SC.

The only common link that I can hold onto is that we’re all in our thirties. In my twenties, I took so many distractions as signs; now, I’m smart enough to know the difference. Not everything means something. Is it that in our thirties we have a clearer idea of what we want and are more focused on how to get it?

Does this economy have something to do with it? That people are fed up and are making a conscious choice to weed through the self-proclaimed bull shite? To start companies, and take stock in their own desires? In my twenties the book that captured it all was Quarterlife Crisis. I read it feverishly just after college and related to it like no other. The notion of, “Awesome. I have a degree, a car payment and rent due, now what?”

Mid-life and quarterlife crises are over-reported and over-exposed. Are they just a hall pass to act like an asshole? Because, I’ve found, every age and stage has its challenges, as well as the hopefulness for the next year. But, in my life, for right now, the parallels of major shifts, bravery and grabbing onto that life you want, even if it’s some 2,000 miles away, that’s the real stuff that defines you.