Reread

It’s interesting the things you find after someone is long gone. Revisiting that box of letters from an old boyfriend tucked inside a childhood bedroom closet at your parents’ house is like visiting another life. Your teenage self, falling in and out of love.

Mine is a more permanent lost and found. It’s deeper than the nostalgic first love–it’s the loss of a parent, and that feeling of the missing never quite goes away. They say losing a parent, no matter if you’re 14, 24, or 64, it changes you significantly and in ways you cannot imagine. You’re forced to grow up and deal with something those around you aren’t quite equipped to understand (unless they’ve been through it themselves).

Every so often I’ll stumble on a couple of things from my father that will stop me dead in my tracks. Above all, it is his inscription on two reference books I use often for work (yes, sometimes, I actually use books in lieu of Google). One is a soft cover, torn from age and use, military issue word division style manual published in 1984. The inscription reads (in his very recognizable all caps):

3 APR 1986
DEAR DANA.
I HOPE THIS BOOK HELPS, IN SOME SMALL WAY, YOU ACHIVE YOUR DREAMS IN SPACE.
LOVE,
DAD

That was my astronaut phase. Before I realized I was incredibly claustrophobic and needed solid math skill set to do anything pertaining to the sciences.

The other, the hard back Merriam Webster’s Collegiate Tenth Edition Dictionary given to me as a stocking stuffer that couldn’t quite fit in the stocking one Christmas.

Inside it has Presented to, By, and Date printed by the book manufacture all ready for someone gifting to fill out, which my father did.

Presented to MY LOVELY DANA
MAY THE WORDS AND THE TRUTH ALWAYS COME EASY FOR YOU. YOUR SUCCESS INSPIRES ME!! LOVE, FOREVER DRH
By HER FATHER
Date DECEMBER 25, 1994

Because of this, I always try to take my time when filling out cards or book inscriptions. You never know if these might be the last words someone is left with that they’ll reread over and over again.

My Funny Valentine

My friend Kenn came up with an incredible concept for Valentine’s Day this year. In lieu of tacky grocery store flowers or a box of waxy chocolates, send a terrarium.

He and his friend Alice are making these adorable plant villages in modern vases complete with children’s quotes on the tags about love. While the terrariums are so beautiful and alive, the quotes really do add something special. Here are a few:

Love is sloppy … especially when there’s some other person involved.
~ Arnold, age 9

Love is like a flower … don’t step on it!
~ Marv, age 8

When God saw Miami Beach he fell in love with it. That was the first example of love that is on record.
~Arnold, age 9

If falling in love is anything like learning how to spell, I don’t want to do it. It takes too long.
~ Glenn, age 7

Oh my gosh, I’m in love! What will my mother say?
~ Sharon, age 9

Don’t forget your sweetie’s name … that will mess up the love.
~ Erin, age 8

I’m not rushing into being in love. I’m finding fourth grade hard enough.
~ Regina, age 9

Holding hands is usually a sign that people like each other a lot. Or, it could mean they are afraid that somebody else might flirt with their lover.
~ Christine, age 8

Aren’t they fantastic? They are adorably honest (and true!). Here’s how to order one of these sweet gifts if you’re in the ATL-area.

She’s Here!

Little Miss Seith arrived and she’s absolutely perfect. Dan and I brought our daughter, Margaret Ainsley Seith, into the world on my late maternal grandfather’s birthday, November 8, with the help of our extraordinary doula, Kate, the incredible Dr. Knoer, and rockstar nurse, Lucy.

After trying every natural induction technique we’d heard (acupuncture, walking, sex, pedicure with a pressure point foot rub, spicy foods, eggplant) my water broke at 6 a.m. and our little girl arrived just about 12 hours later (three days after my due date). The birthing experience and seeing her for the first time was like nothing I could’ve ever prepared myself for, both emotionally and physically. Birthing her was no small feat and I joked during the process that if I was of the cave or pioneer times I’m pretty sure childbirth would’ve taken me out. Modern medicine mixed with natural elements were what worked for me. Eventually I’ll write a whole post on my experience (as it was a very positive one), but that is for a later time. As soon as I saw Margaret I was so overwhelmed with emotion I broke down sobbing, repeating, “She’s here.” Not only that the birth was over, but also that we waited so long for this to happen. All three of us were crying. I will remember that moment for the rest of my life.

Margaret is a name both Dan and I liked early on in my pregnancy. The name is classic and sophisticated, yet can be shortened to be a bit more approachable. When naming her, I couldn’t help but think of all the strong women called Margaret—Margaret Thatcher and Margaret Mitchell—to mention two. While I was pregnant we watched The Iron Lady and this line Thatcher is famous for saying clinched it for me:

It used to be about trying to do something. Now it’s about trying to be someone.

My hope for our Margaret is to do something, not to try to be someone. Ainsley is a variation of the name Ann, after my twin sister. It’s a Scottish name (which is where the maiden Hazels side of me is from) meaning Ann’s meadow. We love it.

We’re still trying to figure out if she’ll settle into being a Mags or Maggie, but for now, she’s Margaret and we’re absolutely in awe that we made something so miraculous. We’re all just getting to know each other and adjusting to our new normal. We’re also in complete shock that we’re responsible for something other than trying to get the dog to stop eating toilet paper, and we’ve done such an excellent job with that.

Thank you for all the sweet messages and words of encouragement through it all. Here’s to the next adventure!

Trick-Or-Treat

Halloween has always been one of my favorite holidays. As a child I would get so excited for the occasion. But it wasn’t really for the candy; for me, it was always about the costume.

Every year my mom sewed our Halloween costumes. And they were the most creative of the bunch—though sometimes, a bit too outside the box. There was the time in second grade my twin sister and I dressed as Laurel and Hardy despite being in two different classrooms and people thinking each of us were Charlie Chaplin. We didn’t know who Laurel and Hardy were, and neither did the other kids or even our teachers. That’s a costume fail.

Any given Halloween one, of the four of us kids could be a California raisin fashioned out of black garbage bags, a Rubik’s cube assembled from a perfectly square cardboard box, a bunch of grapes made out of purple balloons attached to a leotard, or a daisy with poster board acting as petals and my sister’s face poking out of the center.

Two of my favorite costumes were when the four of us went as a collective group—a caterpillar made from a green bedsheet in height order with me taking the tail and my older sister (who happened to be taller than my older brother at the time) having the head duty. It was a cumbersome outfit, all of us walking in a straight line all night long, but we got a lot of comments about how we were the best costume anyone had seen.

My other favorite—and the story most often told about me within my family—is the infamous mouse costume. When I was about three, my mother made this amazing mouse outfit out of gray sweatsuit material complete with a little pink tummy and an awesome hood with tiny rodent ears. I wore that thing for weeks leading up to Halloween. I loved it so much, and if memory serves, I even slept in it.

In all my excitement though, I managed to make myself sick when October 31 rolled around (it didn’t stop me from dressing up and posing for photos). I had to stay back with my mom while she passed out candy to all the revelers, my dad took my brother and sisters trick-or-treating, and my twin sister carried around an extra plastic pumpkin bucket to collect candy for me.

And it’s still sort of like that—me, sick from excitement on big occasions. Do you know what you’re dressing up as for Halloween this year? I’m betting that Honey Boo Boo costumes will be in full force. Bleh.

For creative inspiration, check out these adorable artsy kiddo costumes … Frida’s my favorite. Actually, the entire homemade costume series on ohhappyday.com is fantastic.

Date Night

Today is my ninth wedding anniversary.

I remember back when I met my husband, when we were “just friends,” dressing up one New Year’s Eve with him in mind. A mutual friend used to throw epic NYE parties, and while getting ready I had that wonderful butterfly feeling in my stomach. The flutters you get when you’re excited to see someone and wonder when and if they’ll show up to the party.

I still remember the exact outfit I wore that night (and not just because there’s photographic evidence). It was a fitted pale purple blouse from Urban Outfitters that my mom bought me in SoHo over the holidays, paired with black trousers that zipped in the back. He did show up to the party, and I still smile thinking of how I felt when I saw him walk into the kitchen where I was talking with a friend. Our “just friends” status changed roughly a week after that, and about a year later we were engaged. While I had no clue what sort of wedding I’d want, I did know the type of ring I would want to wear the rest of my life.

A decade later and my engagement ring and wedding band set is my most cherished possession. It was designed by the jeweler my husband’s family uses in his hometown of Cincinnati, and it resembles the Tiffany & Co. Étoile collection. It means star in French and it makes me think that anything is possible with love.

We’re headed here tonight for dinner. I can’t wait to dress up a bit, albeit the clothes this time around won’t be as form fitting.

Let’s Roll

I sometimes miss this life. The newsroom life I left in 2005.

Fact: Veteran newsman Aaron Brown was slated to start a show to premiere January 2002 called, NewsNight with Aaron Brown. Show staff were in the process of being hired (including me) on September 11, 2001. That day, instead, became Aaron Brown’s first day on the job in which, according to NPR, he would report the news for 17 hours straight. I have no idea if that’s accurate, since I, among hundreds of my colleagues were running around like chickens with our heads cut off just trying to keep up and make sense of the story unfolding on the video feeds around us. Working in the CNN newsroom on September 11, and the days, weeks, and months that followed, was incredibly difficult—the raw footage and images coming into the network haunt me to this day.

My time on the NewsNight staff, which began January 2002, included some of the best work I’ve ever done in my career. I don’t miss it enough to go back. But, damn if this show and this show don’t make me a bit nostalgic for those days, and days like today certainly bring it all back.

An aside, the Maggie character on The Newsroom is completely ridiculous. Everything is state of the union with this girl. That’s what I call conversations that should realistically be about a sentence and end up being five hours long. The only thing that’s marginally believable in this show is that every single one of their personal lives gets interrupted with breaking news. My friend, Michel (who is in the news biz) said it best with a retweet from a Reuters editor, “I look forward to the episode of The Newsroom where they spend 3 hours doing expense reports.” Me too, my friend, because that’s the reality.

To me, September 11 always seems like a day of reflection. What was lost, how our lives have changed since, and where we’re headed. But, usually, in all honesty, ever since September 11, 2001, I don’t turn on the television.

Image: Courtesy of CNN/Turner Broadcasting

Love, Unspoken

I have very fond memories of my father, but none more sweet than the way he’d hold my hand. Whenever we’d hold hands to cross the street as a child, he’d give three short squeezes. I. Love. You. That gesture has stuck with me through adulthood.

My sister-in-law has a similar gesture she does with my niece. She’ll point to her eye, then her heart, followed by a quick point to her daughter. I. Love. You.

My husband and I have sort of our own communication when it comes to saying, “I love you” without saying one word. We spent years as a couple on very different work schedules. He’d be getting up to head to the office at a normal hour of 8 or 9 a.m. and I’d still be dead to the world, since I wouldn’t come home until about 11:30 or almost midnight the night prior. In the morning, he’d rouse me with a brief kiss on my forehead. Instead of even responding, I’d put my hand across my heart and open it up to him after, as if to say, “You have my heart, today (and always).” If we travel separately, we always do this before getting on a flight. And I’ve done it several times while doped up heading into surgery. It’s our own language, in which you don’t say one word, but say so much.

And right now, with this baby in my belly, we already have an unspoken love language. Lately, our favorite activity is for me to laugh and then for her to kick, which ultimately makes me laugh more and her kick more. We could do this game all day long. I’d like to think it’s our own endearing language of letting the other know we’re around.

Do you have an unspoken way to tell someone “I love you?”

Image: Courtesy of the most gorgeous website that I cannot read a single word, coolandbello.co.il

A Cappella

Whenever I see one of these sayings on magnets or greeting cards I have to laugh. “Sing like no one is listening.” Ha! I cannot carry a tune to save my life. Like if the ship were going down in a wreck, I wouldn’t be the one that should be singing in the lifeboats, or whatever that Voltaire quote says. If I’m really going to throw myself under the bus with this revelation, I might as well take others with me–not one person in my family can sing either. Usually singing goes hand and hand with having musical interest, and I have neither. I’ve known this from a fairly young age.

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Good Omen

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?

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Event Envy

Fear of missing out (FOMO) is a real thing. And never has it been more apparent in our culture than right now with the boom of social media. In an instant, our lives are as mundane or as fantastic as we spin them to be. Forbes just featured a great piece on it, you can read here.

We can shape a so-so situation into the most glorious time, making other’s wish they were there. We’ll fill our social calendar out of that fear of missing anything. By choice, I’ve been a hermit lately. And for the first time in a while I recently ventured out to an event–and lo and behold if it wasn’t the same people having the same conversations. Nothing against any of those people, nor their likely enlightening conversation, but man, if I didn’t want to just be at home cooking supper with my husband or out to dinner with my best friend giggling until we both keel over from stomach pains.

I had an epiphany at that event that I was really only there because I didn’t want to be the one that wasn’t. As if I’m so important that anyone would actually give a care if I didn’t show up. I’m seriously not that full of myself, but are we now a society shaping our lives not because we want to be somewhere, but because it’s where we think we ought to be? Why? So, we can check in on Foursquare with our peers and someone can say, “It looks like Dana and Stacy are at the opening of the must-be-seen-at latest restaurant opening or art exhibit. Wow, wish I were there?” So you can post pictures of the it’s-so-amazing-oh-my-gosh-you’re-a-dork-if-you-don’t-know-about-it underground supper club that meets every third Tuesday of months ending in “y” in an airstream trailer that moves to undisclosed locations.

Seriously. I’m not jealous. Isn’t there some famous quote about one of the great joys in life is not only being invited, but having the choice to not show up? I’ll probably find that gem of a saying on Pinterest, while crafting the perfect surprise birthday party theme with the most coveted invite list in town.

Sigh.

Trust me, you’re not missing a thing.