A Room With A View

The past six weeks have been a whirlwind of work; illness; teaching; time with friends; convalescing; and more work.  Thankfully, during these past weeks, I was given the opportunity to completely unwind.  And I mean completely.  Unwind.

And contemplate.

And reflect.

And while most of my musings were in a Percocet induced fog (which may or may not be the subject of a future post, depending on how brave I really am), I emerged from my recent forced vacation with a newfound clarity.  Suddenly, I have focus. And I have promised myself I will never get so swept away in the tidal waves of life again.  A dear and wise friend of mine has often lamented to me that one of the biggest regrets of his life has been that he has spent much of it adrift, carried where the winds have taken him.  He never really thought much about which way to point the ship - he was merely content to be on the boat: warm, dry and traveling at the tides' whims.  Despite my protestations, I am more like this friend than I publicly admit.  And I have been adrift, running from one deadline to the next meeting to an organized sport to the next scheduled playdate--all without much thought or contemplation.

Frankly, that is no way to live.  I need to slow down and try to savor the little moments.  I should take the time to enjoy every ham sandwich (as my friend says).  And so this is my mindset.  The new me, if you will.  And the new me was at home this weekend, cooking dinner in our kitchen and putting away groceries, when I looked out the window.  And saw this.

And this.

And the new me raced to my iPhone so I could try to capture the moment. So I could look back on that snapshot in time and remember the details.  Those small details I have blogged about before that weave the fabric of our lives.  I want to remember the chill in the air that Sunday afternoon as I watched the three most important people in my life play ball in the backyard.

The way my boy looked while wearing the hat that was carefully and lovingly hand knit by a woman who I consider to be a dear friend, though we have never actually met.

The anticipation of the visit of one of my best friends and her daughter, who were joining us for dinner.

 The smell of the two chickens roasting in my oven.

And I realized then that I have the best view in the world.

I have seen some really fantastic places in my nearly 40 years.  I am talking about spectacular views that literally take your breath away - like the time we rode horses on the beach in Northern California, the view of Napa Valley from the basket under a hot air balloon, the castle in Ireland with the magnificent stonework, and so on.

None of those views compare to that view outside my kitchen window this Sunday.  My room with a view.  The best view on Earth.

The Five Senses

I have neglected this blog for over three weeks.  I remember my father telling me that life is a series of blinks.  Blink once and you're no longer a 6 year old child living at your parents' home - you're graduating from high school.  Blink again and you're a proud new member of the State Bar of Georgia.  Blink again and you're married with two children.

And. . . well you get the picture.

Once again, the smartest man on Earth was right.  January has come and nearly gone in what seems like the blink of an eye.  Over the last three weeks, I have been so very busy with everything in my life that I've rarely had time to stop and really smell the roses.  Which leads me to the point of this post:  our senses.

The sense of smell, for instance, is a more powerful sense than you would think.  Yes, there are some things in life that smell really good -- like my mom's chicken divan as it is brought from the oven.  There are also some things that smell really, really bad -- like -- well, I won't go there.  But smells can do much more than make us hungry, or gag.  They can bring back memories so powerful that it's like stepping back in time.  This morning is a prime example of what I'm talking about.  I took a shower in the downstairs shower as our new bath needs some minor repairs.  I washed my hair with a bottle of shampoo that I used many years ago.  When I started to lather up, I remembered the smell of that very shampoo that made me throw up in many mornings when I was pregnant with Goose.  I dreaded showering for the first 16 weeks of my pregnancy with her, the reaction was so bad (and not just to the shampoo - everything made me sick - the hot water; the smell of the soap; the mere fact that I was alive; etc.) The scent was so powerful this morning that I was overcome by nausea -- and I don't think it's because the shampoo was old.  I remembered that horrific morning sickness like it was yesterday.

Earlier this week, I was missing my son badly because I didn't see him very much due to my teaching schedule; out of town business trips; etc.  When I got home late one night, I saw a pair of his pajamas lying on the floor -- these jammies:

 I immediately picked them up and breathed in the scent of my boy.  Again, the sense of smell was overpowering in a way that made my heart hurt because I missed him so very much.

I am also overwhelmed sometimes by the sense of touch.  I pray that I never forget what my son's head feels like on my lips as I kiss it about 1000 times before he goes to sleep.  Or the softness of my daughter's cheeks as I press mine to hers each night during our "goodnights" at bedtime.  It's amazing what a little touch can do to comfort those around us.  Whether it's a firm handshake, a pat on the back, an all encompassing embrace, or a gentle stroke of the cheek.  The act of physical touching is incredibly important -like holding your spouse's hand to let him know how much you love him.

I am in a weakened state due to a terrible cold and have been reminded of just how important the sense of hearing is.  I had to fly to Miami for a deposition in Key Largo this week.  I learned that you should never ever ever ever ever fly with any sort of congestion.  The pain of descending was nearly unbearable -- I honestly thought I was going to have to drive straight from the Miami airport to the closest ER because I thought my eardrums were going to burst and my brains were going to explode from my head.  OK.  Maybe that's a big melodramatic, but it's only a slight exaggeration.  It hurt like hell.  And ever since, I haven't been able to hear.  My ears are stopped up, and except for when they occasionally start popping, it sounds as if I am hearing everything around me through sound reducing headphones.

Last week, before I was in my weakened state, I received a phone call from an old boyfriend.  Actually, it wasn't just any old "old boyfriend," it was Charles -- my very first love.  The boy I dated throughout high school.  The boy I went to prom with.

The boy who made me swoon when he was on the baseball field.

The boy I completely gave my heart away to at the age of 16.  I was sure I was going to marry him.

Until he shattered my heart.

Anyways, Charles called me last week.  Out of the blue - while I was at the office.  I haven't talked to Charles on the telephone in nearly 20 years.  I am sad to admit that I didn't recognize his voice.  Once he identified himself, however, the memories came flooding back.  All of a sudden, I was this 9th grade girl who would talk to him for hours and hours and hours on the phone.

Yes, the sense of sound is a powerful one indeed.

The sense of taste, likewise, can be incredibly powerful.  I recently smoked a cigar while sipping bourbon with a friend and colleague.  The taste of a good cigar reminds me of so many good times.

I hesitated before posting this photograph because it identifies me as a Kappa Delta. . . and I'm obviously smoking a cigar in the photo.  But then I remembered the "Standards" we had to live by -- we were allowed to smoke in our sorority, as long as we were under a shelter and had our legs crossed.  I look perfectly dignified in this photo (well, relatively so) and I am hopeful that my sisters will not try to strip me of my letters for posting it.

Finally, I am overwhelmed at times by the things that I see.  Here is a shot I took in Key Largo with my iPhone on Thursday at sunset.

It was breathtaking.  Sadly, this is the extent of my experience with the beauty of the Key.  I literally stepped out of my rental car, walked briskly into the building where the deposition was being held (as I was, as always, fashionably late), and walked briskly back to my rental car.  It was then that I turned around to see this sunset.  I kicked off my heels and walked to the edge of the water (which was literally feet from where I was sitting all day at the deposition) and took this photograph.  And this one:

And, before I raced back to my rental car so I could drive back to the airport to catch my 10:30 p.m. flight home that would allow me to crawl in my bed around 1:30 a.m., I took a moment.

A moment to stop.

A moment to smell the roses.

And a moment to give thanks for beautiful sunsets, among other things.

Old [But not "Old"] Friends

Everyone has them.  Those friends who you have known since your childhood days, who know you better than you know yourself.  Those friends who really should be choosing who you marry since they know who is a good match for you (when you sometimes don't.)

I have them. 

And I'm thankful for them because they help me keep my life in some perspective.  For example, I had hoped to take some time out of the office over the Christmas holiday.  I had big plans for shopping, relaxing, meeting with friends, organizing my house, and doing all of the things that "normal" women my age seem to do around the holidays.

One thing is for certain.  I'm not normal. 

I took two days off at the holidays, the day after Christmas and the day after New Year's.  Both days were complete mayhem as both of my children were also home.  For those of you who have small children, you know that those days are completely worthless days in terms of any sort of activities described above. 

Don't get me wrong, they are definitely worth it.  How could you look at this face and think otherwise?

Or this one?

They are happy and they make me happy.  But I am not relaxed. And I did not take any time to "recharge my batteries" over the holidays.  I desperately needed that time.  When Whit called last week to tell me that my son's sitter could not watch him on Monday so I could take the tree down, go to a movie, have lunch with a friend, etc., I literally burst into tears in my office.  Of course I adore my son, blah blah blah, but moms sometimes need some downtime.  Once I received that call from my husband, I realized that I would not be getting any said "downtime."

I was feeling particularly sorry for myself when I received a phone call on my beloved iPhone from an old friend who moved away twenty years ago when we left for college, Candice.  As soon as I saw the familiar name on my caller ID, I realized that, of course Candice is in town!!!  It's Christmas!!!

We hadn't spoken since our high school reunion in August.  This one:

 (Candice is the 2nd from the left).

This was a shot of the "gang" that was inseparable in the 8th grade.  I distinctly remember the four of us watching the Super Bowl at my parents' house and climbing the Magnolia tree at halftime in 1988.  Wow.  Times have changed.

Despite the fact that we had not spoken in over four months, Candice immediately launched into how crappy her day was since her mother made her sort through boxes of her personal effects that she had stored since the dawn of time.  Candice, my tough girlfriend who lives in New York and is as independent as they come, showed just how sentimental she really is during that call.  She was particularly affected by the love letters from old flames she found in the box. Like this one from the 8th grade:

She found cards, photos, notes, and other mementos of her past life, a youth that we both shared.  I know all of the names of her past boyfriends.  I remember their dates -- some of which I was actually on with her since we often went out together.  I was there for the happiness and the breakups and the joy and the heartbreak.  I heard tales of her parents and complained in my teenage years about just how dreadful my own parents were.  (Sorry, Mom.  Sorry, Dad.)  We have a history.

I understood her angst as I just went through my boxes that my own mother had stored since the dawn of time last year.  [This, however, is a post for another day.]

Even though it was a school night for me, we met for jazz and drinks at a club in town.  Her parents (yes, the ones I heard so many awful things about) were there.  We drank.  We laughed.  We were merry.  And we listened to good music.

We took surreptitious photos of unknowing patrons.

And people who were waiting to go onstage to show off their musical talents.

And then I went home and crashed before having to get up 6 hours later to go to the office.  But it was worth it.

We met again two nights later when Candice came to see my children.  She came bearing gifts for the little ones, as well as a bottle of wine for me and Whit.

That bottle didn't stand a chance.

Bless its heart.

We not only shared a bottle of Cabernet, but also stories of our past.  Some of which, unfortunately, were captured on "videotape."  Candice brought an actual VHS tape and VCR from her parents' house so we could watch a video taken of us during the summer before 9th grade.  After I put Henry to sleep, we poured our first glasses of wine.  Whit plugged in the VCR and popped the tape in.  We sat back to enjoy the show.  As soon as I saw my 14 year old self on the video, dancing and singing to Randy Travis' "I'm Gonna Love You Forever", I immediately felt the heat rise in my cheeks.

My husband was stunned.

My daughter (for once) was speechless.

The moment was priceless.  As was my time with Candice.  Thank God for old friends.

Baby Jesus is Caroline!

Not really.  But the baby who "played" baby Jesus last night at our Christmas Eve service was actually a 6 month old girl named Caroline.  Goose was stunned to learn that baby Jesus was actually a girl.

I have often said that there is nothing more magical than watching Christmas through the eyes of my children.  Going to Disney World with my daughter dressed up like Cinderella is a close second, but the magic of the holiday season still reigns supreme.

Like most families, ours is not immune from the dreaded commercialism and secular nature of the holiday.  Goose loves to sing "Christmas songs" like Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer and Jingle Bell Rock.  Both of my children love Santa.  

Well.  Goose loves Santa.  

Henry's not so sure about him just yet.

This visit with Santa was totally spontaneous and part of the magic this season.  I got the children dressed so that I could take them to see a "Mall Santa."  Of course, my 8 year old Goose wanted to know how it's possible for Santa to be at all of the malls at the same time.  My regular response to such a question in years past would have been "Santa's magic".  And that's that.  Unfortunately, she's getting older and smarter and such answers no longer satisfy her curious mind.  

I was caught off guard and needed an answer on the fly.  Without much thought, I just told her that sometimes Mall Santas are not the real Santa, but his helpers.  We never know which Mall the real Santa will choose to visit each day.  In other words, he may be real. . .or he may just be an understudy.  But we'll never know which is which.

We were headed to one of our regular haunts for lunch on Saturday, the same local market where we go nearly every Saturday for their special Chicken Nachos.  When we got out of the car, who do we see?  SANTA CLAUS.  Sitting by himself.  Laughing.  Fat.  Happy.  And ready for my children to sit on his lap.  Goose was absolutely 100% convinced that he was the real Santa since he wasn't at a mall and no one expected him to show up at the market that Saturday afternoon.  He even knew some of the neighborhood children's names.  

So convinced was this daughter of mine, that she made us walk far enough in the parking lot to see if we could see the rooftop, where she was convinced Rudolph and the other reindeer were parked.  Pure unadulterated magic.  

Santa isn't the only tradition in our home at Christmas.  We also have an elf -- one of the dreaded "elf on the shelf" creatures (which is pure brilliance in my humble opinion) -- named Spencer.  Here he is hiding in our tree:

Spencer comes to our house on Thanksgiving and stays with us, moving about the house to various locations, through Christmas Eve when he hops on Santa's sleigh and returns to his home on the North Pole.  Goose loves Spencer -- and starts talking about him around Halloween.  Once he arrives, she talks to him incessantly.  This year, they exchanged a series of "notes" to one another.  

One such note read like this:  "Dear Spencer:  Do you love our tree?  Love, Goose."  Followed by:  "Dear Goose:  I love your tree, but not as much as I love you.  Be good.  Love, Spencer."

I love that elf.  I also love that our elf doesn't do some of the over the top crap that other elves do -- like making snow angels out of flour; toilet papering the house; and other various and sundry "tricks".  Bah humbug.  Our elf appears.  And moves.  And writes my girl sweet notes.  The end.

We also attended our annual performance of The Nutcracker at The Fox Theater this year.  What a spectacularly stunning performance.  Goose sat on the edge of her seat, whispering "I want to be that ballerina. . . no. . .  I definitely want to be THAT ballerina."  Magic, I say!

This year, we went to a Teddy Bear Tea at Callanwolde.  

[I don't really know what's happening here, but this is one of my favorite shots from the tea.]

And what would the Christmas season be without parties?  I went to the annual fancy Lawyers Club of Atlanta holiday party with one of my law partners and dear friends.

There were reportedly 1600 people at the party which was, ironically, also held at The Fox Theater.  I didn't sit down for a minute and neither one of us stopped to grab so much as a morsel of what I heard was a particularly wonderful spread of food.  We mingled.  We sipped bourbon.  And we reconnected with old friends and colleagues.  

I love this time of year for a variety of reasons.  I love the Christmas carols playing constantly on a local radio station.  I love the smell of the Douglas Fir in my family room.

I love driving around and looking at people's Christmas lights.

I love my own home's Christmas lights.  I love our reindeer.

Henry does too.

I love our house when it's all lit up.  Just ask my husband, who constantly bemoans the amount of electricity we're wasting.  

I love meeting my family every year for our annual Christmas Eve dinner at a local Chinese restaurant.

And don't forget about leaving cookies and milk for Santa.

My family is also not immune to another Christmas tradition that people complain about.  Gluttony.  Naked.  Unabashed.  Gluttony.

Henry's only 14 months old, but even he got swept away in the melee.  Our house is still trashed.  

Despite all of our traditions, I am cognizant of what this holiday is really about.  

I have joy and hope and faith and anticipation, for I am celebrating the birth of my Savior:  the real baby Jesus.

And the angel said unto them, Fear not: for, behold, I bring you good tidings of great joy, which shall be to all people. For unto you is born this day in the city of David a Saviour, which is Christ the Lord. And this shall be a sign unto you; Ye shall find the babe wrapped in swaddling clothes, lying in a manger. And suddenly there was with the angel a multitude of the heavenly host praising God, and saying, Glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace, good will toward men.  Luke 2:10-14.


Merry Christmas to all.  And to all a goodnight.

Progress

I apologize in advance for the length of time between posts.  It has been an incredibly busy couple of weeks, between work, holidays, work, family obligations, and work.  Did I mention work?  It usually slows down this time of year enough for me to make runs to Target and the Mall so I can join the masses in the frenzy to buy "last minute" Christmas gifts.  All of my gifts are last minute every year.  Does that make them less worthy?  I think not. 

I digress.

To say that we have a lot going on in our lives right now is an understatement.  Remember our purple bathroom?  This one:

Well.  The purple beast has been slain.  Let me tell you -- it was not a pretty process.  Indeed, it was a very, very ugly process.

They started on the bathroom two weeks ago.  I am still finding dust everywhere in the house. 

Goose was so sweet to draw a heart in the dust on my dresser.  I <3 her. 

Obviously, our master bedroom was not usable during our renovation undertaking.  Therefore, I have spent the past two weeks sleeping in the Goose's loft bed.  While it is an extremely comfortable bed, there is something decidedly uncomfortable about a 39 year old woman dragging herself down the ladder at 3:00 a.m. when the baby who is "sleeping" in the room next door decides he needs a bottle and his mother's arms.

Here's a shot of Henry and Goose high aloft in Goose's fancy bed. 

I am pleased to report that I survived my nights in Goose's room.
The headaches that accompanied the demolition, while not beautiful, were well worth it  in light of the finished product.

Remember those imperfections I discussed in a previous blog post?  Well one of those (the purple beast) is no more.  Praise God!  Progress.

I also talked about my baby brother, who was recently disappointed to learn that he would not be attending Harvard University.  This one:

Michael definitely has something to smile about (other than his upcoming nuptials with his beautiful bride to be.)

As I predicted in an earlier post, Michael just learned that he was accepted into the University of Virginia Darden School of Business.

I predicted he would persevere.  And persevere he did.  I am so very proud of the young man my "baby" brother has become.

I love him.
I also posted about my girlfriend, Stacy, who underwent significant losses and hardship in trying to get pregnant with her second child.  Some folks in the office threw her a little get together last Thursday. 

That's her cake (which I ordered from one of my girlfriends, who is a phenomenal baker, at http://www.sweetnsinful.com/).  Stacy was so happy.

Twenty-five hours later, I received a frantic call from her.  She was at the hospital and they were going to do a c-section within an hour.  I dropped everything, drove to the school where Goose and her son, Carson, attend, and took Carson immediately to the hospital so he could be there when the world welcomed his baby sister.  When I arrived at the school, I thought Carson was going to pass out from the excitement and anticipation.  I knelt in front of him and told him to stop and breathe.  I wanted him to savor the moments for his life was about to change forever. I spent time talking with him in the car about all of the wonderful joy a baby sister would bring -- and how her being here would change his life -- especially in the beginning. I told him that his mom and stepfather were going to be very tired and maybe a little bit cranky.  They were going to be excited about the baby and would be extremely protective of her.  But no matter how thin their patience, how exhausted they are, or how much attention they lavish on the baby, they will always still love him just as much as they love the new little one.  I hope some of my words sank in.

When we arrived at the hospital, Carson was beaming.  So was his mother. 

Have you ever seen a woman more beautiful just minutes before undergoing major surgery?  (Stacy makes me ill, for the record.) 

And then we waited. 

I took Carson to the gift shop so he could buy his sister her very first birthday gift ever.  He perused the shelves very seriously, wanting to make sure he chose the perfect gift. He finally settled on a pink and white spotted puppy, which I'm sure she will treasure for years to come for it was chosen with a lot of love by someone who loved her before she was even born:  her big brother.  I also bought him a "BIG BROTHER" t-shirt, which he hurriedly put on when we returned to the waiting room.

And then we waited some more.

The doors opened.  We heard footsteps.  It was David, Stacy's husband, who had just become a father for the first time.  Seeing him in his scrubs, holding the camera so he could show us pictures of his new daughter, brought tears to my eyes instantly.  I cried with joy.  So did David (who kept saying "I'm a DAD!!!"). 

Carson did not cry.  He beamed. 

Can you see it?

Lauren Grace is here.  She weighed in at 6 lbs, 3 oz and was 19 inches long.  She has the most beautiful head of dark hair and chubby cheeks (despite her small stature). 

Those toes.  I had to kiss those toes.

So I did.  And Stacy indulged me as I unwrapped her swaddled baby so I could ogle her feet. 

This is the best kind of progress.  Welcome to the world, Lauren Grace. Hang on tight, for it is one hell of a ride.