Part One: The Cream In The Middle

Education and obedience were first and foremost in the household I grew up in (but not necessarily in that order). My parents had no tolerance for children who spoke disrespectfully, or for that matter, for children who spoke improper or grammatically incorrect English. I remember once mimicking the speech patterns of some of my White friends from school and getting a stern correction from my English-major-turned-English-teacher mother. She said something along the lines of "You're a little black girl and the world is judging you; you can't afford to speak like that." It took many years for me to understand what she meant by that. Over the years, and to this day, I've pondered her words, realizing the irony of them: in order to be taken seriously and respected, I had to speak proper English, when in reality my careful articulation and attention to grammar has been one of the very things that has alienated me from many of my black peers, and in a weird way, my white peers as well.

When I was in fifth grade, I won my class spelling bee, which elevated me to compete in the school-wide spelling bee. When I correctly spelled "m-e-a-s-l-e-s" after Tony Jackson missed it, I sealed my victory by spelling "o-c-t-a-g-o-n." I was elated; my mother was in the audience and the entire school was cheering me on...or so I thought. I later found out that several faculty members--all white women--were not discreet in expressing their displeasure that the black girl had won the school spelling bee. In fact, my homeroom teacher didn't even congratulate me once we all returned to class that afternoon. When I came in 6th place (out of almost 100 students) at the regional bee, only one teacher from my school--Mr. Levans, who I'd had two years previously--expressed pride in me. I was confused, because I was the student that all the teachers liked--straight A's, always obedient, ever-helpful. But it was almost as though they wanted me to be successful, but they didn't want me to be too successful...

In sixth grade, after being placed in the upper-placement English class and making the honor roll for several consecutive quarters, Shenita, a black girl who I didn't know very well but who was in my P.E. class, cornered me one day, sneering, "Why you talk the way you do? You think you white or something?" After looking over her shoulder at a group of black girls who were snickering amongst themselves at her comments, she continued, "You think you bad because you get good grades? You ain't white, you know." Then, turning to her friends, she mocked me, "Hey, y'all, she thinks she white!" Why did speaking correct English and getting good grades equate to me thinking I was white? Why would my black cohorts think it not okay for a black girl to be well-educated and articulate?

In ninth grade, Jamie, a white girlfriend of mine, was talking about some black classmates of ours who annoyed her for some reason. She finished her story by paying me a "compliment": "I don't really think of you as black, Lauren...you're not like all those other black people." I was stricken and embarrassed and extremely ofended. I knew she didn't mean to insult me, but she had. How could I not be like a black person, when I was black? And what were other black people like anyway?

Over the years, I've had a number of experiences that have reminded me that I am a black girl (or now, woman) in a world that thinks I'm too white. I don't know how many people have told me over the years that "I didn't expect you to be black; you sounded so white on the phone!" If sounding "white" means proper English and good diction, then people of any other race should be offended; why would white people have authority over speaking well? In school, I was in accelerated classes that were predominantly white. I belonged to extra-curricular clubs that were predominantly white. My group of friends were predominantly white. I plastered posters of New Kids on the Block all over my bedroom walls, and sang along to Debbie Gibson, Tiffany and Richard Marx. I watched "My So-Called Life" and read the "Sweet Valley High" book series. I studied German and Russian in school and did a study abroad to England in college. It didn't matter that I knew more about black history than the average black teen did, or that my desire to achieve and be successful was in accordance with what the Civil Rights Movement was all about. My self-esteem was shot; I was doubting myself, the life I was leading and the choices I had made. I was starting to believe all the people who told me I acted too white.

My father thought I did. He would drop snarky comments to my sister and me about "liking the white boys"--the New Kids on the Block, or some cute boy at school I had a crush on. "Why can't you like the black boys?" he'd ask. But I wondered, why did I have to have a reason for liking who I liked? No one else had to have a reason. My white friends could love Boys II Men or Bel Biv Devoe and date a black or Latin or Asian guy, and they were considered open-minded and cool. Latin and Asian girls weren't relegated to hanging out with friends, liking performers or dating boyfriends of their same nationality...so why was I? There just seemed to be something...almost limiting about being in a black skin. Black people called you a sell-out if you wanted to explore something--or someone--outside of your ethnic boundaries. White people found me...more acceptable?...less threatening?...for "not being like all those other black people." But sometimes, even white people would accuse me of "acting white," as though my tastes and preferences, while comforting to them on some level, also bordered on being too intrusive or overly familiar...it was as if I were invited to the party but no one really wanted me to come through the front door. I had loads of white friends, but none of the boys would have ever considered dating me (even though white girls could seemingly date whoever they wanted). Black guys, while interested, seemed to think of me as too snooty or distant because of the classes I took and the crowds I ran with. In essence, I was too white for my black peers and too black for the whites; I was stuck in the middle.

One of the more offensive slants I've heard toward people in my position is "Oreo"--dark on the outside and white on the inside. I remember reading an article in a teen magazine that was written by a young black woman who had essentially lived my life--well-spoken, an over-achiever in school, with lots of extra-curricular activities and mostly white friends and (so-called) white pop-cultural tastes. And, just like me, she was in the most unfortunate position of being told she was suffering from "an identity crisis" and didn't know who she really was. For her, going to college, making friends from all different backgrounds and learning that she didn't have to apologize for who she was--or the girl she used to be--was the antidote to a life of self-conflict. For me, it took a little longer to figure out how I could finally be comfortable in my own skin.

There was no singular event or experience that made me realize who I was, or allowed me to be comfortable with the person I had become. Like many girls, I suffered through body image issues, borderline eating disorders and emotional instability in order to grow into a self-assured woman; one who didn't care what family, friends or strangers thought about me, or how I talked, dressed, or what music I listened to. So I ended up being a black woman who loves folk rock a la Ani DiFranco and the Indigo Girls, and new-wave British synthpop, like Depeche Mode and Erasure. People give me incredulous looks. I have ceased to care. I went to school at NYU, and became friends with some of the most interesting and textured people--of all different ethnicities and backgrounds--I have ever met. I am educated and trained as a wildlife biologist, a field that is traditionally dominated by white men. I love what I do. I am an aetheist and a vegetarian who lets my dogs sleep in my bed, even though I come from a history of relatives who are southern Baptists (and Catholics) who eat food seasoned with ham hocks and bacon and consider dogs "outdoor animals." I married a white, Jewish man from Queens, NY. Are there people--white, black or otherwise--who care about the person I have become and the choices I have made? Probably, even likely. But I don't care anymore what other people have to say. As my husband likes to say, "Those people don't pay my bills, so they don't get an opinion on how I live my life."

Of course, it's not necessarily as easy as that when you're dealing with elderly relatives, potential employers or new friends. Inevitably, there's a part of me that braces, waiting for the seemingly unavoidable questions. But, I've found, the older I get--the more self-assured I get--the less likely people feel a need or a right to question who I am. I am what I am and that's all that I am. And I'm realizing that not only am I comfortable in my own skin now, but I always was. I used to let other people's discomfort and insecurities about me question my own lifestyle choices. But not anymore.

My senior year of college, I took a linguistic anthropology course. The final exam was a ten-page essay asking us to use labels to define ourselves, and then explain how that label defines or is defined by our speech patterns (and how we are able to converse with our speech/ethnic group). This was the assignment I'd been waiting for all my life. I wrote that paper in one night, barely stopping to eat. The words flowed as I used my experiences as a "black, middle-class young woman" to highlight my interactions with both the black community and the white community. My conclusion--that I actually use a middle-class dialect, not a "white" one, and that I, like everyone else, am a`product of my upbringing and environment--was not only the end of my essay, it was the beginning of the end of my insecurities about myself. To this day, I still have that essay in a folder. It got an "A."

Puttin On The RI-I-ITZZZZZZ!

Young Frankenstein is coming to the Wharton Center here in East Lansing, and there has been a continuous onslaught of commercial advertisements for it. The most familiar one is when the monster sings in his off-key, monotone monster voice, "Puttin...On...The...Riiiiiiiitz!"

I've been singing this all around the house much to Adam's (initial) amusement and (now) annoyance. I sing it loud and obnoxious, just like the monster does. I dunno, it makes me feel good to be loud and obnoxious for no reason at all. I think I'm channeling my inner Ramona Quimby here. Hey, it makes Bryony laugh...or at least, stop and stare. Works for me.

Puttin on the riiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiitz!

Moving On

So we finally got some good news on the job front--Adam received orders from the Army that have him reporting to Ft. Hood, TX for a one-year assignment with their JAG corps. We are very excited by this news as we've been pinching pennies and living without health insurance--a very scary predicament when you have an infant--for too long. Of course, this good news also brings some challenges; Adam is driving down by himself, and won't be able to return to move Bryony and me for a couple months. Adam and I are used to being separated because of military deployments, but we've never had to endure it in the time since we've been parents. To be honest, I'm a little anxious about the idea of being completely on my own with the wee one for two months. And I'm really going to miss my husband, particularly since I don't sleep very well when he's away. But on the other hand, I'm looking forward to organizing the house the exact way that I want it. It's the little things, I guess.

We met friends at the local sports bar tonight to send Adam off over beers (he leaves tomorrow). It was really nice to have so many folks come out to wish him well. We really have made some great connections here in this little old town. We've sort of made a family here, and we're going to miss them dearly.

Thanks, y'all.

Up Close and Personal

I'm at home on a Saturday night, Adam is out with the guys, baby is sleeping and Saturday Night Live is a bit of a dud. And I really want a glass of wine but I make it a rule never to drink when I'm home alone with the baby, so...whilst scanning Craigslist for a cheap jogging stroller for Bryony, my eyes fell onto the personal ads. I haven't really looked at the personal ads since I lived back in Manhattan and would enjoy reading the racy comments in the Village Voice, but tonight I decided to give it a go. I found myself drawn to the "missed connections" category, filled with posts from folks like the man who wished he'd spoken to the woman who'd held the door open for him at the reststop that morning; or the girl who has been wanting to talk to the guy who works at the hardware store for months; or even the one-night stand who is sending a message out to that not-so-special person for a little more lovin'.

There are a few creepy posts, some sweet ones, and some really sad ones. Here are just a few that grabbed my attention.


I see you everyday
You moved into the house next to me last summer. All summer I wanted you. If it wasn't for that pesky husband then I'm sure I'd've bedded you down by now. I think you're about early 20's and you got a hot body. When you lay out in the sun in the back I watch you all day long with my binoculars. I know I would be a better man than your husband is.
Sometimes I see you inside at night when you leave on the lights and don't draw the blinds. wow. I think you do that so I can see you. I am retired and willing to play any time of the day just come by. We can make it quick or I can draw it out. I see the swimsuit top you wear and I see how it is all padded. I would be willing to buy you new boobs if we end up playing.

I love my best friend
I'm totally in love with my best friend. Her laugh and smile, her brand of sarcasm, and the way she wears her hair. We've been through so much but I could never tell her how I feel because she is happy where she is.

I need to quit you
... I do. Except there are constant reminders of you everywhere. And the biggest joke is I'm not even sure why I dig you. Please tell me it's unrequited so I can just move on. It would never work.

Brown dog blue truck
Do you know why I enjoy the weekday mornings so much?

Sexy Asian kitten
It's New Year's Eve so what the hell.
We met a few months ago when you immediately caught my attention at a party with your piercing eyes and gorgeous smile. We chatted for a bit. You were dating someone then but I just learned that you're now broken up and available. I'd love to take you out.
-Fellow JCrew Lover (that's a hint for you!)

Steve at the Chevy dealership
When we went on the test drive i have never laughed so hard in my life. I wasn't sure if you were single or not so I didn't say anything. But your really hot and I would love to grab a drink with you. Thank you for the Christmas card. I love my white malibu. wink wink

Bed, Bath & Beyond Cashier
During the holiday shopping I met you at the cash register at bed bath and beyond at the mederian mall. You were wearing a red sweater with dark brown hair pulled back into a pony tail type thing. You have paleish white skin and beautiful eyes. Medium height and very pretty in the face. You didn't have a name tag on so I don't even know your name. I was the dark brown haired Italian guy with his grandma who bought a pizza grabber thing and we joked about something for a second or two. I hope you get this and I hope you remember, because I do.

MacDonalds on S. Cedar St in Holt
You hand me my senior coffee when I come through the drive through window. We spoke briefly last time. If you enjoy the company of an older guy, I'd like to meet. If you see this, either respond with how you make my coffee or what I drive so i'll know it's you..

To the cashier at the Quality Dairy
This is to the tall slender female that works there I think you are a great female a very pretty smile I do know your name is Robin
I have seen you there mostly at nights so i am thinking you are a 2nd shifter i come in there close to around 6 to 8 I come in there on purpose just to see you sometimes i buy things i do not need (lol) I am not a stalker so please do not think that
I do know that you are single i have heard you tell some people you are and that you wear that ring on your finger because it only fits that finger(lol)
I am not sure how old you are but i am thinkning close to maybe 40 but you have a great body i would like to come in there sometime when you are not busy with others to ask you out
If any of you men see this lady Robin at QD you will know she is hot she is single to (lol)
Sometimes she don't wear a name tag but she has a tattoo on her neck you can see a tip of it i do not no what it is
Also if someone sees her tell her there is a man on here that wants to take her out (lol)

Only coffee?
You come in for coffee almost every weekday. You are absolutely breathtaking with your hair pulled back or flowing down. Your smile is beautiful and I look foward to seeing your glowing face. If I thought I was your type I would've asked you out years ago. You are just wonderful and I hope you have someone in your life to tell you so. Oh yeah, your body is smoking hot as well. Maybe next lifetime.

Murphy's gas station
OK ... this is a long shot ... you know how sometimes you get the feeling that someone is looking at you? Well, I had that feeling while filling the tank at the gas station today ... turned around ... you were standing at the pump behind me ... our eyes met for a second, then I dropped mine. For the moment, you seemed like a decent guy. Anyway, if you read this and maybe want to just get together for a drink or a bite to eat, let me know what kind of car you were driving and the color of my jacket.

Math whiz
We were at the Lab desk today. We were both taking tests today. You had pink eye shadow on. If you would like to go out sometime just respond to my post.

Fowlerville Tim
Tim, you are so sexy and make such good pie

The Race Card

I've been putting this off for awhile, simply because I've had so many thoughts going through my head about what I want to say, I haven't had the energy to sit down and put them all down into words. However, seeing as this has been the week we celebrated Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr., perhaps it's finally time to write what I've been thinking.

I've decided to do a four-part post entitled "The Race Card," where I will chronicle my experiences (and my thoughts) growing up and living in this nation as a black American. Why "The Race Card"? Well, I've always thought that was an interesting phrase for someone to use. "Ahh...there they go again, pulling out the race card!" as if one's race were the Crazy Eight in a stack of fifty-two...as if people of a certain ethnicity are constantly sitting on the special card they were dealt upon their birth for the purpose of pulling it out and flashing it around at the most convenient time. So, there you go, "The Race Card."
So, in Part One, "The Cream in the Middle," I'll talk a little bit about what it was like growing up trying to be "black enough" for black America and "white enough" for white America. Part two, "Good Hair," will be a continuation of the discussion of black hair in the Chris Rock movie of the same title. Part Three, "America Beyond the Color Line," (based on Dr. Henry Louis Gates' PBS documentary of the same title) will be a perspective on contemporary issues in American race relations. Finally, Part Four, "American Family" will look at my experiences being in an interracial relationship (and now marriage) and having a child of combined ethnicities.

My plan is to be as honest as I possibly can without offending anyone or being overly political. This is just supposed to be a narrative of what my experiences and perspectives have been thus far. Give you guys a window into my world for a little while. I hope you enjoy.

Disclaimer

My 8 January blog post entitled "Little Earthquakes" was written and posted several days before the terrible earthquake that hit Port-au-Prince, Haiti. I realized the title could be perceived to have been in poor taste considering its temporal proximity to these most recent events.

That's all.

Battle Scar

I find myself absent-mindedly touching my C-section scar a lot these days. Maybe it's because the scar is still relatively new to my body. Or, perhaps it's because the incision, which got infected in the weeks after the surgery, took a really long time to heal, and so I still subconsciously worry about it. I really think, though, it's because I am self-conscious about the scar; actually, I really hate it. I hate that I have this permanent reminder of my inability to birth my baby naturally. I hate that while I'm still losing the last of the baby weight, I have a weird crease above my groin that my belly fat hangs over, like dough falling slowly over a ledge. I hate that when I touch the scar there's a weird numb sensation, which the doctor told me might remain forever.

I know, I know. I'm supposed to be proud of my battle scar. After all, four long days of labor with Bryony merits some sort of pride in having a physical reminder, right? But I'm not proud; I just feel butchered and sliced, like I consented to being a turkey on Thanksgiving Day.
Adam, however, has been excellent about my insecurities regarding the scar. He is sympathetic about everything that I went through and gives me all the hand-holding I need when I feel down about how things ended. He reinforces this by emphasizing that Bryony's and my safety might have been compromised if I hadn't had the surgery. While we'll never know if this is true (we were both doing just fine when I consented to the surgery), it still makes me feel a little better.

A few years ago, I read a quote by Angelina Jolie, where she referred to Brad Pitt and her post-pregnancy body: "I’m with a man who’s evolved enough to look at my body and see it as more beautiful because of the journey it has taken and what it has created. He genuinely sees it that way. So I genuinely feel sexier." I don't know if she had a Cesaerean section, but I would assume that not even Angelina Jolie's body looks the same after a pregnancy (especially after carrying twins!). I'm pretty sure that Adam appreciates my body more for the baby it has made, carried and delivered, and he certainly treats me as though I'm beautiful. So the issue is all mine. Evidently, while I have yet to achieve Angelina's mindset about how to view a post-partum (or post-Cesaerean) body, my Adam, surprisingly enough, is channeling Brad Pitt.

No wonder I love him so much.

Little Earthquakes

So, remember a few posts back when I mentioned that I'd be taking our Christmas tree down the following day? Yeah, well, that never happened. Mostly because I've been so busy with the wee one during the day to even give it a thought, but also partly because I still get great joy from flicking on the lights every evening and having the evergreen tree smell lingering in the air. But it's starting to get a little embarrassing now that it's the second week of January, so tomorrow it goes...really...

Tonight I set my oven on fire. But it wasn't my fault, really! There was some grease on the bottom of the oven that I hadn't noticed because the broiler rack was covering it. Anyway, whilst making one of my signature dishes--eggplant parmesan, sans the parmesan--I noticed smoke billowing from out of the oven. Upon opening the oven door, I discovered a fire inside. All I could think of was the flame somehow finding a random stream of gas in the air and igniting the entire house. Luckily, I still had the good sense to find the baking soda and not the sink spray nozzle. Adam ended up extinguishing the fire, and we held our doors open to the cold (15 degrees F) Michigan winter air while we allowed the smoke to exit. What was most amazing, however, was that Bryony slept through the entire debacle, smoke alarms blaring and all.

So if setting my kitchen on fire wasn't enough of a tremor tonight, then this next one takes the cake. My husband actually joined Facebook after several months of my prodding. It actually had nothing to do with me, though. After being ripped on by many of his friends for not having a profile, the final push was taking a class that suggested joining Facebook (and/or Twitter, LinkedIn, etc.) if you are job hunting. Since we are nearing the point of whoring ourselves out on a street corner, Adam must have thought Facebook was an easy alternative. So there he was tonight, getting all situated, friending people left and right, posting comments, arranging his settings. He done made me proud.

This weekend, for various reasons, is sure to provide a few more little quakes. I'm just hoping to maintain my footing.

Cringe

My favorite NPR show, "This American Life", did an episode back in 2006 called "Cringe". Essentially, it was a show that talked about the stories in our lives that, when we look back on them, make us cringe with embarrassment or horror or plain old "Please erase this event from my memory (not to mention my record)!". I have SO many of these types of stories that I thought I would embarrass myself by recounting just a few for your reading enjoyment...

This is probably my all-time, most cringe-inducing story that makes me go red (even if I'm in bed under the covers all by myself) every time I think of it. Years ago, when I was a graduate student, I was told of a certain professor from another university who did research that I was interested in. I tracked him down at a conference later that year, introduced myself and ended up having lunch with him. A year or so later, I arranged to have him come to my university as a guest speaker. When I picked him up from the airport, he met me at my car and...I...went...to...hug him...just as he stuck out his hand for a handshake. It was so awkward and embarrassing, even moreso when, realizing my inappropriate greeting, I tried to shake his hand, and he tried to hug me. Then we were both bumbling and mortified. I only made things worse when the next day, I introduced him before he gave his lecture. Instead of just listing his credentials like most people do, I started rambling on about how I'd met him at the conference the previous year, had had lunch with him and kept in touch with him, and how I hoped he was not just my mentor, but also my friend. First of all, he had never offered to be my mentor or my friend, and even if he had, it's not exactly the type of information I needed to be spouting during his seminar introduction. The audience looked at me like I was a moron, and I quickly realized my credibility as a scientist, a student and as a rational human being was quickly descending. Even now, as I write about all this, I just want to crawl into a hole somewhere. Yuck.

A close second was when Adam and I were hanging out with his parents, and my father-in-law and I were swapping stories about weird people we knew back in high school and college. Just as he finished a particularly entertaining story about a kid who set himself on fire, I decided to try to one-up him by telling a story about a girl in junior high who always smelled like she didn't wash very well during that time of the month. The look on my mother-in-law's face was enough to make a bison stampede come to a grinding halt. Her exact words were, "Lauren...I did NOT need to hear that!" Imagine that said with utter disgust. From your mother-in-law. Right before she walks out of the room.

Here are two that are particularly cringe-worth stories for me, because they have to do with my childhood obsession with food (not to mention the extra weight that accompanied).
When I was in elementary school, the teacher would take students out to lunch if they had not had any demerits against them for the entire semester. They'd always take us to Frisch's Big Boy for the requisite burger, fries and soda. Well, one particular semester, I was out with my 4th grade teacher, Mrs. Thomas, and a small group of students, and we were just finishing up lunch. I had already cleaned my plate and eaten the leftover french fries on my friend's plate, too. Mrs. Thomas asked everyone if we were done, or if we were still hungry. I greedily (squirm!) exclaimed that I was still hungry! Everyone turned to look at me, wondering how I could be the only one at the table who was still hungry. Mrs. Thomas took her time responding; I was at the same time embarrassed but also anticipating what treat she might have in store! I believe she stopped at a convenience store on the way back to school and bought us all ice cream bars. Leave it to the piggly little brown girl to demand more food. Where's that hole for me to crawl in again?

When I was in junior high, I used to hang out at the mall a lot with my girlfriends. One day, we had all decided to get baskets of french fries at a little food shop for lunch. My girlfriends left for a few moments to wash their hands, and left me with three baskets of fries in front of me. I thought long and hard about how, if I was quick enough, I could steal a few of their fries and still have my full basket ready and waiting for me when they came back. Well, I took too long to decide, because by the time I made my move, they were already on their way back to the table and they caught me trying to steal fries from their baskets. I was humiliated. Greedy, deceitful and humiliated. I still am--humiliated, that is--all these years later. *Snort, snort*

Completely Random Secret...

...that for some reason, at 2:00 in the morning, I feel compelled to share. I'll likely regret this candidness as soon as the first person brings it up in polite (or raunchy) conversation.

Anyway...I sometimes act out my own commercials...in the mirror, when I'm sitting on the toilet, lying in bed, driving in the car, pretty much anywhere. I'll make up a script in my head and then act out the commercial--in my head, silently mouthing the words if there are people around, or out loud if I'm by myself. Here's my latest incarnation:

"Every child deserves to believe their mother is the most beautiful woman in the world, and they shouldn't have to work too hard to believe it." Then I'd go into some common sense talk about eating right, exercising, and using some wonderful, all-natural, paraben-free skin product guaranteed to keep your skin youthful and soft, keeping your child giddy and confident that s/he indeed has the most beautiful mum in the world. I've practiced this one several times in front of the bathroom mirror when I'm rinsing a scrub off my face.

Sometimes, it's not a commercial, but rather an awards show. I love accepting a Grammy for "Best New Artist" for my eclectic and ground-breaking new album...that is, until an invisible Kanye West intercepts my acceptance speech.

Good night, y'all!

Red Year, Blue Year, Old Year, New Year

Happy 2010, everyone! And no, we are NOT in a new decade, but rather at the end of the current one! But who's keeping track?

2009 was full of firsts for us...first wedding anniversary, first pregnancy, first kid, first Xmas with the kid. Oh, and the very end of 2009 brought the kid's first bout with illness. Yup, that was fun, right around the holidays, too. But now we're in 2010, the holidays are over, the kid is feeling better and we're prepping for whatever's in store for us, like the kid's sleeping schedule changing. Ahhhh, yes...nstead of the 4-5 uninterrupted hours she typically sleeps during the night, now she's sleeping only 1-1 1/2. Yeah, my legs and breasts are getting a good workout as I limp to her room several times a night to nurse.

Last year held another first for me--my first foray into the world of knitting! A new friend invited me to join her knitting group, and I've totally surprised myself by how much I love it...the knitting part as well as the socializing part. I just finished my first project--a totally shapeless series of increasing and decreasing stitches that I was able to fold into some semblance of a purse. My knitting friends are way more impressed than they should be by the fact that my first project is a purse; it was literally a ginormouse mass of nothingness that I just tried to make into something productive. However, now that I know what I'm doing (mostly), I'm taking a step backward and making the proverbial beginning knitter's scarf. Look out family! Xmas 2010 presents are in the works!

Adam and I are looking forward to 2010, hoping that it will bring us some gainful employment, perhaps a new location, and a feeling of stability. We are definitely wanting to set down roots someplace now that Bryony is in the picture. If that's Lansing, that's cool; if it's somewhere else (Oregon, Oregon, please let it be Oregon!) that'd be pretty cool, too. I am also feeling a new rejuvenation, a new sense of self and self-confidence. I'm ready to create my own destiny, whatever that means...perhaps I'll fully divulge those details in a later post. For now, however, I'll stay a bit vague.

Right now I'm looking at one vestige of 2009--our beautiful Frasier fir Christmas tree, only the second I've ever had as an adult. The white lights are twinkling and the tree is still giving off the intoxicating scent of evergreen sap, a reminder of the holiday that's passed. Tomorrow I'll take the tree down and stow all of the ornaments and decorations back down in the basement until next year. But tonight, I'll sit here, with my sweet baby sleeping soundly (for now) in the next room, and knit a few stitches on somebody's future scarf by the comforting white lights of O Christmas Tree.

Happy New Year, everyone.