A Tropical Christmas Gift

For the past two years, my husband and I have given each other (and our kids) a very special early Christmas present: a few weeks before Christmas, we get the heck out of town.

Don't get me wrong, I love Christmas almost as much as our toddlers, but now that the Holiday Season seems to begin around Arbor Day even I start to feel the Holiday Spirit begin to turn into Holiday Overload bordering on Holiday AHHHHH! by about the second week of December. Leaving for a week removes us temporarily from the decked halls and we come back just in time to enjoy the final buildup to big day. And did I mention we escape to a beautiful tropical island?

We book the trip early in the spring and look forward to it as the seasons change from summer to fall and to the unspeakable horror that (in my book) is Michigan winter. This year in the weeks leading up to our trip, our 3-year-old was almost as excited as we were, as he's become quite a water lover and couldn't wait to suit up and get his little self soaking wet.

My husband, who happens to be a 3-year-old at heart, couldn't wait to get in there with him. The two of them spent the better part of the week running in and out of the surf, jumping in the waves and splashing through the resort's many pools. Even our baby girl got in on the action, dipping her tiny toes in the water with squeals of delight.

I, however, mostly stayed dry, either watching the action from a not too distant lounge chair or supervising the sandcastle building action on terra somewhat firma. It's not that I don't love to swim- in fact, quite the opposite. I grew up with a pool right in the backyard and spent entire summers in the water, practically growing fins by the time Labor Day rolled around. The ideal summer wardrobe alternated between only two articles of clothing: pajamas and a bathing suit, and sleeping in the latter was not out of the question.

But something's changed since the kids came along. For me, swimming with a 3-year-old and an 18-month-old bares very little resemblance to the carefree, easy going activity I've always loved. Between the gallons of sunscreen, the flotation devices, the swim diapers, the toys, the snacks, and the sippy cups, just getting to the pool practically requires a sherpa. Then there's the stress of it all. Maybe it's the news reporter in me, having covered a few tragedies too many, or maybe it's just the overprotective Mother Hen instinct, but I simply can not let my guard down enough to enjoy the experience. The weight of keeping those two precious bundles afloat is enough to sink my spirits completely. So right now I choose to sit it out, attempting to drown my guilty conscience with a fruity tropical drink.

When you love something dearly the way I've always loved to swim, you tend to assume you will love sharing it and doing it with your children as well, but I'm learning reality is not always on board with that plan. In time, I know the kids will learn to swim and that the family water experience won't always leave me feeling all washed up. But until that happens I'm also learning to be OK with keeping the enjoyment of some experiences all to myself without slapping the scarlet G for guilt on the front of my bathing suit.

The other night at dinner, my husband I were reminiscing about the trip. "What was your favorite moment?" he asked.

I hesitated and had to bite my tongue. I really wanted to tell him it involved family bonding on the beach, or holding hands and watching the sunset over the water, or sharing laughs with our dear friends over cocktails and dinner.

Sure, those were magical moments, memories I'll always cherish, but if I'm going to be completely honest, totally candid, they don't quite float to to the top of the list.

No, my favorite part of our family vacation was the gift I gave myself. One sunny, warm afternoon when everyone had slipped into a post-lunch buffet nap/coma, I suited up, grabbed my towel, snuck out of the room and headed over to the pool. As I slipped into the water I feared the feelings might be gone forever, but after a few awkward splashes it was as effortless as I remembered. Back and forth I swam, letting the cool water take over and do its thing. I don't know how long it lasted, but it was long enough. Because for a moment suspended in crystal clear water and now cemented in my mind, I remembered how it felt to be utterly weightless and wonderfully free.

Merry Christmas to me.

Packing for Vacation

My dad always used to say that he knew he was on vacation when he could finally take off his watch and leave it off. A busy doctor accustomed to working long shifts and being paged back to the hospital at all hours of the day and night, it usually took him several days to shake the work world and really and truly unwind. But sure enough, after a few walks on the beach and a few meals by the pool (a few beers never hurt, either) we'd see it: the watch parked next to the hotel bathroom sink. He didn't need to look at his watch to know what time it was: relax o'clock.

For me, vacation is all about the things that never even make it into the suitcase. If you could see into my bedroom right now (which I'm hoping you can't, that's just creepy) you'd probably be wondering what exactly didn't make it in, given the giant, bulging bag we'll be hauling to the airport. Not surprisingly, since we are traveling with our two young kids, my own possessions possess very little of the space inside that bag. I've spent the better part of a week packing diapers, wipes, swim diapers, clothes, toys, books, sippy cups, toys, bibs, toys, snacks and toys for two tots to take to the beach. Did I mention the toys? I think they are actually multiplying in the bag at this moment... I'm pretty sure I saw Thomas the Tank Engine making eyes at a Beanie Baby Bear as I attempted to force the zipper shut.

Still, despite the voluminous nature of the bag there are a few deliberate omissions. My trusty blowdryer and flatiron will not be making the trip south. I'll be subjecting an entire island nation to my giant, frizzy, unruly curls, with a mind of their own, which may explain any strange weather patterns that move through over the next 7 days.

Also not joining us: the laptop. And given that my phone could not be less "smart" that means no internet access for a week (Facebook friends, please pray for me). The gadgets and gizmos will stay home, and hopefully after a week we'll all be recharged with enough juice to get through the hustle and bustle that's still to come.

Given the exorbitant luggage fees the airlines are now charging, I thought it would be wise to leave some of my emotional baggage at home as well. That means I'm not bringing my nearly ever-present Mommy Guilt (the large, slightly haggard bag nagging "Why haven't I done enough to feed their minds, bodies, and spirits today? Have I scarred them emotionally forever with whatever decision I did or didn't make?), the Wife Guilt ("Did I even talk to my husband today about anything that didn't come out of a child's mouth or other orifice?"), the Daughter Guilt ("Maybe if I had just skipped that nap, you know the only one I've had in the past month, I could have made time to go visit my parents before we left?") and the Holiday Guilt ("I'm sure I could make things MORE festive if I just tried a little harder...").

There's no space in our luggage for my ongoing frustration over the lack of Me Time ("All I wanted was 1 freaking hour to get a pedicure before we left, is that seriously too much too ask?"), my neurotic fears ("But we can't go because something bad might happen while we're gone!") and my never ending quest for the "perfect" job that will provide personal and professional satisfaction and a pleasing work-life balance ("HA HA HA HA HA!!!"- that's the sound of the universe laughing its head off at me, in case you were wondering). Nope, no room.

So pat me down and scan me up. It's time to vacate, time for a change of mental and physical scenery. Yes, it's just a week and at the end of it we'll have to return to reality, but I'm praying I'll come home with a bag full of energy and optimism, or at the very least a nice tan.

And maybe, just maybe while we're there I'll find the strength to let go of everything, including my watch.

Thanksgiving Confessions

Thanksgiving is upon us and the nation is preparing to loosen its collective belt. Yes, it's the holiday where friends and family gather to feast on heaping helpings of turkey with all the trimmings. They will stuff themselves with stuffing, mash as many mashed potatoes as possible into each mouthful, and slice up second (and third, maybe fourth in my family!) servings of the pie. And I will make myself a small, sensible plate.

People across the country see the day as the single biggest pigout of the year. A day to throw calorie counting caution to the wind and trade the skinny jeans for turkey pants. An all-you-can-eat extravaganza of the biggest kind. But for me, it's just another day to eat small, sensible portions.

Because that's just what I do.

Because I am a small, sensible person.

Which sometimes makes me feel like a big, huge bore.

Whether it's Thanksgiving, Christmas, Arbor Day, my birthday, or a fancy meal out I am not one to overindulge. Dressing on the side. Baked, not fried. Steamed veggies if available. One small, sensible glass of wine. A few small, sensible bites of dessert shared with my husband. BO-ring.

And it doesn't end there. I don't stay out past my bedtime. I rarely miss an early morning workout. (Have you crossed me off your party list yet?) Along with small and sensible, I am also sometimes described with terms like "dependable" and "reliable." Ooh, fun stuff.

It hasn't always been that way. I spent most of my childhood and adolescence neither small nor sensible. The child of Egyptian parents, I grew up in a culture where food is used as an expression of pretty much everything: gratitude, hospitality, guilt, sadness, you name it, we eat it on a big platter garnished with olives and a side of hummus. Add to that the loneliness of being a not particularly popular, latchkey kid, and I fed my late afternoon loneliness with a daily peanut butter and honey sandwich and whatever else I could find in the cupboard.

Never a slim child, by middle school I was pudgy. By high school, pudgier still. By college, my hair and my waistline had both expanded to ridiculous proportions. (A health condition and a year in France surrounded by the world's finest pastries were partly to blame.. at least for the pounds. There is no excuse for my hair.) But somewhere over the years that followed I started to take control.

First I tackled the food end of the scale (so to speak). I became a vegetarian and I'd be lying if I said the decision wasn't in part a reaction to the giant plates of meat shoved at me for the first two decades of my life. I started reading labels, cut out the junk, and discovered the joy of cooking with fresh, seasonal ingredients.

A passion for exercise came next. I got hooked on step aerobics in the early 90s, became a gym rat shortly after, and finally discovered running while searching out some much needed grad school stress relief. Through a combination of my two new loves, fitness and nutrition, I managed to drop the weight, get in shape, and aside from two pregnancies (where I gained a small, sensible 20-25 pounds) that's where I've stayed.

So what's the problem? Well, sometimes when you close a door, when you lock it tightly and barricade it shut, the effort of holding it closed begins to consume you. Though my weight has barely budged in over a decade (and I don't even own a scale) I devote enormous amounts of subconscious energy to thinking about gaining weight. I don't count calories or fat grams because I don't have to. There's an invisible line in the sand that my brain just won't let me cross. Not even on Thanksgiving. The little devil on one shoulder says "Go ahead, have some more!" but it falls on deaf ears. Though it's not realistic, in my mind, overindulging at Thanksgiving would just open up the floodgates and reverse everything I've worked so hard for. You can take the pudgy girl out of her husky pants, but you can't ever make her feel at home in a small, sensible shape.

Don't get me wrong, I'm proud of what I've achieved and the healthy lifestyle I'm working hard to maintain for our family. I know we're living in a time of skyrocketing obesity and diabetes rates and I want no part of that. My son could eat fruit until the end of time and one of my little girl's first words was actually "broccoli." Without being too militant about it (I hope) we're a whole grain, non-processed, no fast food, homecooked meals 6 out of 7 days/week kind of a household, and I want to keep it that way. I just wish I personally knew how to dial it back a little for a holiday.

I think there was a time when I was a lot of fun. Yes, that's me in the orange sequined dress, starring in a late night show at the Caribbean resort where I worked. Dare I say it, I was even a bit wild. I was also not a mom. And since that major life change, I've felt the lock in the door turn even more tightly. I feel like now that I have kids, I have a responsibility not just to myself but to them to keep the "bad stuff" away, to stay in control at all times.

But sometimes I wonder what it would feel like to let my hair down (which of course I cut into a short, sensible bob years ago) and just go a little bit crazy. I wonder if with all my sense and sensibility I've lost touch with my senses. I wonder if this Thanksgiving, I could dare to do something different. I wonder if I could show my kids another side, if I could teach them that letting go on special occasions can be... special.

Maybe this year I'll try. Maybe I'll surprise you. Maybe I'll surprise myself. In even just the smallest, most sensible way.

"The Sound Of Music"- The Soundtrack of Childhood

It's funny how you can't wait for your kids to say "Mama." You coax them constantly to produce those two syllables, and then when they finally do and you eventually get to the point where you wish that every once in a while they'd say something else.

I have two little ones who seem to call out "Mama!" (or something similar like "Mom!" or "Mommy" or "I need YOOOOOUUUU!!") all day long, and often into the night, and right back into the early morning hours.

When I was their age, I was probably just as likely to call out "Teta" as "Mama." That's the Egyptian word for "Grandma," which may seem like an unusual thing to call the Polish nanny who lived with us when I was a child, but she was anything but usual. She was the widow of an Egyptian man, the mother of 5 (including a very close family friend, which is how she came to be with us), real-life "teta" to 21 grandchildren and 9 great grandchildren. An amazing woman we were blessed to have in our home for several years and in our lives until her passing just a few months ago.

Teta was a marvel, to put it mildly. She spoke more languages than a diplomat and was as devout as any religious figure. Well into her 7th decade she sewed dresses for me and my brigade of dolls with fingers flying at lightning speed. She introduced me to the delicious crunch of steaming hot homemade potato pancakes topped with cool sour cream and applesauce. She taught me the simple power of praying the rosary. I didn't find out until after she died, but as a young girl she survived being held prisoner of war when the Germans invaded Austria, never to speak of the experience again.

One day circa 1978-ish, she decided to take me and my brother to the zoo, and nothing- not the lack of a driver's license or the scarcity of public transportation in the Motor City was going stop her from making it happen. We walked 2 miles before we found a bus stop, rode for over an hour, and on the way back she stopped to pick grapeleaves off a vine on the side of the road for dinner. It was classic Teta.

But there's one thing I remember most of all about our beloved Teta. Every year, around this time of year, she would pull her chair up close to the TV, closer each time as her eyesight faded. "Mon Mon!" she would call out in her deep, heavily accented voice, "Come see! The Zonc of Moosic!"

Julie Andrews in The Sound of Music

And there we'd sit watching what became my favorite movie- The Sound of Music. Together we'd see the hills come alive, laugh at the exploits of the Von Trapp children, hum "Edelweiss" along with the gang. In the scene where Maria and the Captain finally wed, Teta would turn to me and say "Mon Mon! One day you will have a bootiful wedding like this!" It took almost 30 years but I'm happy to say she was right, and she was there to see it happen (I'm also happy no one was singing "How do you solve a problem like Mona?" as I walked down the aisle.)

Around the time I started school full-time, Teta left us and went back to her own home. Though she still visited often, I missed her dearly and found little comfort in the string of college and high school babysitters who took her place. To curb the sadness I came up with a fantasy that stuck around for many years: I imagined that every time the doorbell rang, it was Maria Von Trapp from the Sound of Music (or perhaps a slightly more modern version) showing up to be our Governess. No, I didn't want her to fall in love with my dad or take my mom's place, I just wanted her around on a part-time basis to fill the lonely hours after school, someone to keep me company on the weekends when everyone in our house seemed so busy with their own pursuits.

Whenever the loneliness really started to take over, I'd slip into my little Austrian musical fantasy world to sing and dance the pain away. Sometimes I was Gretl, the baby of the family, too young to stay up for the fancy dinner party. Sometimes I was 16 going on 17, with a schoolgirl crush on a boy named Rolf (of course in my fantasy he didn't turn out to be a Nazi). If I could have, I would have crossed the Alps on foot to somehow make it come true. "The Zonc of Moosic" was always calling out to me, always with a heavy Polish accent. I watched the movie whenever it was on, but it just wasn't the same without Teta.

I spent my junior year in college living in Paris and couldn't pass up the opportunity to get that close to the Promised Land.

Salzburg, Austria 1992

Yes, I shelled out for the deluxe Sound of Music Tour in Austria. We danced around the famous gazebo, and ran around the fountain singing "Doe a deer" (you can stop laughing at my giant, triangular hair now, thank you very much). I wanted to stay forever, except that Maria was still nowhere to be found. It was a bittersweet delight.

This year The Sound of Music celebrates its 45th anniversary. I watched the cast reunite on Oprah with great anticipation. I admit to getting a bit misty eyed seeing the Von Trapp children all grown up, amazed that they dared to deviate from the fantasy frozen in my head. But as they showed clip after clip from the movie, I realized it no longer made me sad, no longer left me longing to escape my current life.

I'll always cherish that movie and will no doubt torture my kids into watching it with me. And I'll always hear a loving but firm Polish voice calling me towards it. But now, I've got a new "Sound of Music" in my life, a different song in my heart.

It calls out "Mama" all day long.

Falling Down And Getting Back Up

She bends her legs, grunts, uses every bit of strength in her tiny body and pulls herself up to standing.

The grin that follows says it all: triumphant! So proud of herself, she looks around to see who might be watching. "Check me out! Look what I've done! Have you ever seen anything so impressive?" she seems to say.

As quickly as it happened, it's over. The little legs give out, she topples down onto her bottom, and giggles hysterically.

And then she does it all over again.

There's nothing much more entertaining than watching children learn to stand, or to be more exact, watching them fall. I marvel as I see my baby girl take those first tentative steps toward taking steps, and wish I could be more like her.

For a baby, not only is falling down not a big deal, it's downright enjoyable. In a baby's eyes, falling down is just part of the adventure, another part of the cycle. For babies, failure to stand doesn't translate to failure. Failure as we know it doesn't even exist. (It also doesn't hurt that everyone watching applauds the effort and encourages another attempt.)

At some point that changes. I can already see it beginning to happen with my 3-year-old, as frustration creeps in and tries to block his best efforts. He stacks his Legos into a tower but when it comes crashing down he no longer finds it funny, and needs to be reminded (through his tears and tantrums) that he can in fact put it back together, if he'll just try again.

I've had a few setbacks recently, I've taken a few falls both professionally and personally. There was the job that was offered that I couldn't take. Another job I dreamed of that was never even offered. The phone call I waited for that never came. Frustrations with a family member that don't seem to be easing up. Surprising behavior from someone I thought was a friend. With each stumble, it's been feeling harder and harder to get back up and start over again. I like to think of myself as a positive person, I like to believe I've learned how to pull myself back up when need be. But right now it's a struggle. I find myself thinking it's easier to just sit still rather than risk another fall.

As we get older, falling down seems to become so much more painful, and getting back up so much more of an effort. Is the ground really that much further away? Or do we just know too much about the risks of what lurks below?

I've never been one who suffered from a fear of failure, or someone who shied away from an opportunity. I don't want to start now- what message would that send to my kids? It's time to get back up, to focus on standing without overthinking the whole act.

So as I watch my little one on a seemingly endless loop of scrambling to her feet, tumbling down, laughing it off and starting over, I make a promise to that sweet baby girl:

I will hold your hand and help you to stand, I will try to always be there to cushion your fall, if you will keep teaching me how to get back up.

Routines

The infamous cup.

It's just a cup. Now breathe.

That's what I tell myself four times a day, as I scrub out a certain little red sippy cup with flowers on the side. It's just a cup. Keep breathing.

It's not a symbol of what my life has become, it's not a force of evil in the world, it's not something I want to throw against the wall. Much. It's just a cup. So relax.

But I can't relax, because it's the only cup my little girl will drink her milk out of (yes, I realize I am indulging this particular bit of pickiness on her part but you pick your battles, and no, I can't find another cup like it because believe me, if I could I would buy 37 of them), so I have to keep it clean, I have to keep scrubbing it out. Over and over. All day long. Week after week. Which turns into months. And then I close my eyes and see myself 30 years from now, gray haired and wrinkly and still standing over the sink scrubbing out this stupid cup which is of course ridiculous because by then my baby girl will be 31 and if she's still living at home and drinking out of a sippy cup we have big issues and now I'm feeling dizzy so I really need to just breathe....

It's just a cup.

But it's also a constant reminder of the routine that has taken over my life. And just how routine that routine can sometimes feel.

Experts tell us that routines are good, even essential, for kids. The predicability of a routine (bath, bottle, bed for babies; dinner, homework, family time for older kids, etc) teaches kids about expectations and outcomes, and helps them build confidence and a sense of security while reducing anxiety. Routines are healthy, routines are important. And sometimes routines make me want to throw up.

Our two kids are now 3 years and 16 months old and it's hard to argue with the results of the structure and routines we've provided them with. They eat well, play well, and sleep well, and I'm sure much of that is due to the fact that those things happen on cue at the same time almost every day. Sure, there are exceptions and adjustments for special occasions, but for the most part we stick to the routine.

Routines are definitely not something that were part of my own childhood. With 2 busy, working parents my brother and I were often left to fend for ourselves with a teenage babysitter who occasionally glanced up from watching General Hospital to make sure we didn't climb out any windows. Aside from church on Sunday, our lives didn't have a whole lot of structure. And that was OK with me.

As it turned out, I never became a big planner or or one to stick to a firm routine, and working in TV news fed my unstructured side perfectly. From the sublime (helping bring injustices to light) to the ridiculous (I once covered the rescue of 7 ducks from a sewer), every day was different (often changing in the middle of the day), I never knew what to expect walking in the door. And that was more than OK with me.

But balancing that routine with family life proved untenable for me. I spent a difficult year after our first child was born trying to prove I really could have it all, really could do it all. In reality working weekend nights and swing shifts so we could afford a nanny, never having time off with my husband, prepping dinner in the dark at 6am, and trying to cram all my Mommy Moments into 48 hours (along with cleaning the house, visiting my parents, and going to the grocery store) was slowly sucking the life out of my life. It took a confession to my husband- that I sometimes fantasized about having to have my appendix removed or a minor car accident so I could get some rest- to make me realize this was not at all OK with me anymore.

Shortly before our second child was born I made the decision to leave the full-time work world. Over lunch with one of my stay at home mom neighbors I attempted to share my fears about the transition but found myself running into a mental wall. "But you'll be so busy running after two kids!" she insisted. I told her I honestly worried about the monotonous nature of life with two kids might turn my brain (what was left of it) to mush. I've barely heard a word from her since.

Now, I've been home for 17 months and life has never been more routine. Make breakfast, clean up breakfast. Make lunch, clean up lunch. Nap time. Laundry time. Snack time. Dinner time. Bed time. Fill the sippy cup, scrub the sippy cup. Lather, rinse, repeat. Yes, our days are filled with love and laughter, giggles and bubbles, trips to the park and the zoo and all sorts of different adventures. But there's also a whole lot of the same.

Something has to change, and I'm not just talking about the sippy cup. Somewhere between "footloose and fancy free" and "If it's Tuesday it must be time to clean the toilets" there must be a middle ground. I am finding myself bored and restless, in need of a challenge, but lacking the time or energy to even begin to figure out what that might be. The kids need their routine, and I'll do everything in my power to keep them in it, but I need more as well. Admitting that may make me less of a mom in the eyes of some, but it makes me more of myself in my own and that's all that matters.

I don't know what the solution is yet, but I'm committed to finding it. Somewhere there must be a routine that will work for all of us, at least most of the time. Somehow, the (sippy) cup can be half-full again.

Just One Of Those Days

Noah and Cecilia in Non-Grump Mode

It was just one of those days.

One of those days when the occupants of the house included a grumpy preschooler, a grumpier baby and the grumpiest mom. It seemed we had all woken up on the wrong side of the bed (or crib). At least one of us was sleep-deprived (gotta love working nights), another was cutting a tooth, and the third, well, he's 3, so enough said. Together, our grumpy trio grumped through the day, feeding off each others negative energy like a child (at least my child) tears through Goldfish crackers. By mid-morning we could have hung a sign outside designating our house as Tears R Us. Most of lunch ended up being thrown under the table, which is also where I considered throwing myself at several points. By naptime it was all I could do not to scream "GO TO SLEEP, #$%& it!!!" but somehow managed to tuck them both in with a story, a kiss, and a weak, shaky "Sweet dreams."

Finally, a break.

It lasted about 6 minutes.

The little angel who naps 3 hours/day and sleeps 12 hours/night (yes, I know- we are spoiled) decided to Just Say No to naptime. Repeatedly. And loudly. I calmed her down and gently placed her back in the crib. Nap, Take 2.

This time, it lasted about 6 seconds.

After a seemingly interminable stretch of rocking, back rubbing, singing and shushing, we had a breakthrough. Nap, Take 3. I tiptoed backwards out of the room, quietly opened the door and was instantly greeted by shrieks of "MAMA!!!!! I HAVE TO GO POOPOO!!!!" from the room next door.

Scream went the baby! Scream went her brother! RUN FAR AWAY! went the little voice in my head.

Noah's current favorite nap location

Another 20 minutes and the screams had been calmed, the poop had been pooped, and the now relieved preschooler was tucked back on the floor. Yes, the floor- it's where he currently insists on napping. Like I said, he's 3.

Baby, however, was adhering to the "3 strikes and you're out of the crib" rule. In her mind, there was no going back.

I tearfully stood there holding her, unable to move. I was so very, very tired, so thoroughly in need of a little downtime, a few peaceful minutes with no one pulling at one of my appendages. Defeated, depressed, and downtrodden, I carried her to my room, crept into bed, and held that little one to my chest. Within 2 minutes we were both sound asleep.

Seems like only yesterday

My little baby girl is now almost 16 months old. Though I still call her a baby (and in my heart she will always remain my baby), I can see clearly that she no longer is. At some point I blinked and she turned into a talking, almost walking, highly opinionated little person. When awake, she's a constant ball of motion, but yesterday I got to once again feel her at rest. It had been months since I held her sleepy little form in my arms and felt her heartbeat next to mine, her little chest rising and falling against my own.

I only slept for a few minutes, as her jerky little sleepy twitches woke me with a start. But for a time I wished could have gone on and on I breathed in her sweet smell, ran my fingers through her hair, and just held on to that precious baby girl. It was the best non-nap I've ever had.

Every parent reaches his or her breaking point, and every parent deserves a break. The lucky ones have a network of grandparents, friends, and babysitters at the ready to provide that much needed pause. The rest of us find ourselves waiting (sometimes desperately) for that moment of solitude that with kids becomes so elusive (remember when going to the bathroom was a private affair?).

But sometimes when the unexpected happens (as it so often does), it helps to remember that what we so desperately crave can be found in places we might not usually think to look. It happened to me. I found peace, comfort and strength in a non-nap with a wriggly, wiggly non-baby.

It was just one of those days.