Dear Friends, Love, Amy.

Dear Friends,

I'm sorry I haven't heard your voice in years, or seen you in what seems like decades. I read your blog posts, and every article you link to on Facebook. I think your band is cool and your kids are adorable. I love the haircut.

I miss seeing you in person, and part of me feels like it's a little weird that all I have of you now is a couple witty one liners here and there, or an idea for dinner you'd like to make, dutifully pinned on your "recipes to try" board. Seriously, though, you live in Texas. Or Costa Rica. Or fifteen minutes south of me; any of these destinations is prohibitively far. Honestly, sometimes the kitchen is prohibitively far from the bedroom, so I stay under the covers and read "Play Ball, Amelia Bedelia" again. I love that one. Run home, Amelia Bedelia! It slays me.

My phone doesn't get reception reliably in the house, damn AT&T. So I don't call you. It's too heartbreaking to hear you say, "sorry, I think you're breaking up...". Just too disappointing. Plus, my baby stares at me the whole time, on the brink of whining, which is just one metro stop before melting down. It's really distracting. And he won't let someone else watch him so I can talk to you. I don't even go to the bathroom by myself, because he wants to come along. If I get out of bed when he's sleeping, he wakes up, devastated. I don't shower much (some things never change).

The thing is, I'm tired but I'm happy. I like making dinner and stacking blocks, and I don't mind dishes or laundry. I'm isolated, yes, but I'm too tired to do much, so I don't want to. I wouldn't have ever thought solitude would suit me, but I'm really quite content most of the time. I think it's my lifeline that keeps me sane.

I know some people hate on Facebook and, I agree, it's not as satisfying as seeing you in person. We used to sit on the floor and talk, or stay up late because we would be bored in bed without each other. But now, honestly, I'll take what I can get, and what I can get is Facebook. Email. Pinterest. On my phone. In bed, while the baby sleeps.

I feel updated on your life, and I love it, even if it's a little delusional. Delusion isn't as bad as it sounds. I have always likes feeling like I am in the loop and, except for one little person whose every sneeze I have witnessed, I can't be in anyone's real loop. So, please, keep posting. I'll keep dreaming.

I am thinking we would love living together someplace beautiful, kind of rural, but maybe that's just me. If so, I think it'd be fun to plan yearly retreats, but to accommodate each of you, I'd be going on a lot of retreats, and, frankly, I don't see that happening for awhile.

So here's what I propose. These next years, I think we will have to stick it out. I just can't see another way with you living in Texas. But, I think things will open up in a decade or two. Ryan will be a workaholic still, my kids won't want to watch me pee. I'll come visit.

We'll order takeout. Go for a walk. Take a pottery class, or stained glass, which I've always wanted to try. We'll make tea, tell stories about the yesterdays we shared and those we didn't. We'll go to the farmers market and make dinner. You'll convert me to a cause, I'll convert you, too. I'll twist my long braid, maybe it will be gray. We'll go skinny dipping.

I've missed you, but you don't feel so far away. I'm keeping you tucked away in my heart, where the belly laughter is. I can't wait to hang out again, and I thank you for all your patience. It's just that, at the moment, I have to teach this kid how to dance in the kitchen, or he may never learn.

Keep typing into the abyss. I'm reading, and I love you.

Talk soon, I hope.

xo,

Amy

30

I have set a new-decade resolution to cease and desist with all gossip. Saying something critical about someone, particularly when I would not say it to the person directly, is cowardly, tasteless, and insane.

I need a form of self-flagellation if I mess up. Something that stings, is relatively simple to execute, but not corporeal. I am open to suggestions.

In the meantime, if you hear me say something about someone that I wouldn't say to them, feel free to give me a quick slap.

Happy new decade!

The real deal

I turn thirty next week. I love my birthday and have always been committed to celebrating thoroughly. Last year on my birthday I was pregnant (miserable, and too large to fit into my birthday suit! Horrors!) and had to work for twelve hours. It was a real dud.

So this year I have been contemplating how to commemorate my glorious thirtieth birthday. What I came up with proves that my youth is already long gone.

1. Force Ryan to run errands with me. This includes babies r us (to buy an ergo), ikea, and JC Penney portrait studios (to pick up the holiday card envelopes they forgot to include with my order).

2. Force Ryan to help me clean the den and/or basement.

3. Maybe go out to lunch or something.

That's what I got. I'm glad I had so much unmitigated fun in my teens and twenties. These days, I'm apparently all business*. I hope I don't want to clean the bathroom when I turn forty.

At least I'll be running errands in my birthday suit. That thing makes a party out of anything.

*Upon a re-reading of this post, I realize that it's not so much business I'm into as forcing Ryan to do my bidding. I can't help it. I'm an oldest child.

Milestones

It seems that some parents rejoice when their child, especially a firstborn child, passes important milestones. Not me. This child has started practically begging me to eat solids, and I just keep trying to nurse him. It's so easy, so convenient, so inexpensive, so metabolically favorable.

And now the little sucker has started crawling. Mobility is proving just as problematic as I anticipated. He just wants to eat electrical cords.

When he walks, I quit.

Grievances about my lower half

I'm posting this from my phone and have no idea where the photos will show up. Forgive me if it doesn't make sense. I'm in the process of learning to use my phone as my only link to the outside world.

I take issue with the following:

According to standard distribution charts for white, American females, I am a of approximately average height and weight. Why, then, are all pants minimally five inches too long? I recently purchased six pair or jeans at Unique Thrift, sweet purveyor of nearly-free clothing, and every one requires either a seamstress or impractical shoes. If I am average, it seems there could be at least one pair that would be in the ballpark. Perhaps I should wear only capris. Better cold ankles than tripping. This reminds me of canned pumpkin, sold in 29 oz. cans when everyone knows that all pumpkin recipes call for one cup (8oz.) or maybe two, if you're lucky, but never 3 and 5/8. But that grievance has nothing to do with my lower half, so, moving on...

to my next point. The aforementioned pants represented sizes four through ten. This is four different sizes, for any readers unfamiliar with women's sizes. The size four pants are roomier than the size eights. This is simply madness. Men's pants are sized in a sane way, according to their measurements. Even a difficult to size man, like my long-legger spouse, can hope to find pants if the numbers are right. Women have to take an entire store into the dressing room. I am renewed in my zeal for my fondest dream, that all the world wear zip-up jumpsuits, like auto mechanics. Practical. Comfortable. Easy to size. Why is nobody on board for this idea? Probably because they are too busy trying on pants and freezing leftover pumpkin.

And finally, I went to the gym today and did a routine of exercises specific to my glutes. Only. Just butt exercises. Because mine is a full six inches south from where I left it when I got pregnant. To my knowledge, the baby does not gestate in ones derrière. Why, then, does mine look as though someone let the air out of it? If anyone needs me, I'll be doing hack squats.

Those are all my complaints. In other news, the kid has a tooth. He does not care to show it off, and thus must be forced. He likes his dad. So do I.

Over and out.

Happy Halloween

Last year we celebrated Halloween with a 400 lb. pumpkin. It was a real big pumpkin.

This year we only had a twenty pounder. Just a little pumpkin.

Happy Halloween :)

Emergency preparedness

I am newly, blissfully addicted to Pinterest. It gives a person the distinct sense of having accomplished something when, in fact, all she has done is lain in bed so her kid will stay asleep.

Pinterest has given me some anxiety. I fear I will fail to thrive as a mother and human being if I do not purchase a sewing machine and a laminator. I am now aware it is possible to fashion upwards of twenty different homemade wreaths for even the most mediocre holidays. And I am more keenly attuned every moment to the impending apocalypse. We need food storage. Survival training.

And all I do is watch my kid sleep.

But sometimes a person realizes she may be unduly complicating things. In fact, the ability to complicate simple things may not only describe a pastime, but a defining personality trait.

Think with me on this. Is there anything I need in a 72 hour kit besides a jar of peanut butter, a bottle of gatorade, and a small firearm.

I eagerly await your input.