While My Boyfriend Was Sleeping

What I write after Joe and Henry go to bed

Archives for November 2012

The only holiday gift guide you’ll need this year

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Hey buds!

In the history of holiday gift guides this magazine contains the most comprehensive collection of STUFF this shopaphobic has I’ve ever seen. (Um. It’s 142 pages.)

To & From is the brainchild of my good friend and fellow blogger extraordinaire, Meg Biram and Katie Anderson of Modern Eve.

Given my aversion to shopping, I was surprised (and flattered) when Meg asked me to gather my picks for the outdoorsy chick. (See pages 68 & 69.) I’m the weirdo in swim goggles and a swim cap. I know, so fashionable.

Happy shopping. And for the record: I can’t afford a $970 Bianchi either.

The little yard that could

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This is Henry’s little red chair. I’ve got a thing for Adirondack chairs, no? Now my boy can sit in style next to his mother, who when she does sit, likes to sit in style. (Hello Sky Chair.)

The picket fence in the background was something of a neighborhood project. Without the help of family, friends, neighbors and virtual strangers, I’d still be sulking around St. Pete, grumbling about my fugly front yard.

Oh, but I love my house.

Well. Let me rephrase that. I’ve always loved the inside of my house. It’s got a cozy bungalow feel. It’s filled with comfortable furniture, meaningful art, an adorable toddler tyrant, a handsome husband and a fat, happy pug. What more could a gal want?

The front of my house, however, has always been a sore spot. Up until last month it had zero curb appeal. Our lawn was balding. Our once valiant attempt at a vegetable garden had become an angry bed of weeds, littered with bent fragments of metal fencing and forgotten plant markers. Our porch was about as inviting as a parking lot. With the exception of an overly shellacked manatee statue – a gift form my Oma – the entrance to our house was, in fact, off-putting.

We did try to jazz things up. Or rather, well-meaning family gardeners tried to jazz things up.

Two years ago, Oma took pity on us and came over when I was at work to lay down mulch and plant flowers in the sad beds by our front door. Despite diligent watering, her landscaping eventually gave way to weeds. Fed up with these failed attempts at beautification, we decided to let the one thing that wouldn’t die continue to grow – a frail Jacaranda tree in the center of our circular driveway that resembled a stooped-over geriatric.

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In thanks of this

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It’s the day before Thanksgiving and I’ve got about 15 minutes until Henry wakes up, so let’s see what I can do with it.

Really, there’s too much to say. There’s always too much to say, so I’ll do what I always do and thank the higher powers and the lower powers and the super powers and the not-so-super powers for everyone and everything that makes life so beautiful, so raw and so fun.

Since this window is brief, I’ll focus on one thing, a recent development.

My son has started to give me kisses. Nothing lifts me like this does. Nothing. When he sees me from across a room, he’ll give me this look. It’s a cross between What Can I Break and What Can I Climb. If I’m perceptive enough to catch him in the middle of these two thoughts, I’ll throw my arms open and he’ll spring into my embrace, landing at my chest like a wild animal returning to its mother after a long hunt. Sometimes he turns his face to mine and plants a slobbery kiss on my chin, or my cheeks, or my forehead, or my glasses. Sometimes he’ll just stand there waiting for me to kiss him. This rare exhibit of patience astounds me.

I kissed a lot of boys in my day, but nothing prepared me for the joy of being kissed by my 18-month-old son. Joy is an understatement. It’s surreal actually. When you take the time to live in it, the heaviness and the lightness of the moment can spin you around. It’s essentially a flash, a spark in your day, and the more he does it the more you take it for granted.

It’s one of those feelings that as a writer I’ll never accurately describe. It puts into perspective the things that matter and the things that don’t. It wipes away the difficulties of motherhood. It conjures up in you the hopefulness of youth, the wisdom of adulthood, the profound sense of love that fills a body with warmth and gratitude. So much gratitude.