Sophie in her first high chair at The Chicago Diner.

The baby is sleeping. After hours of playing, distracting, attempting to feed, lie with, rock (all to be met with a stiff back and screeching), Sophie is finally passed out in her bed.

After the horrendous tragedy that befell us two nights ago – which involved Alex and I in the kitchen and Sophie disappearing around the corner, only to find her shoveling Neruda’s beef from a can wet food into her mouth – I lost my mind. Emitting a guttural “nooooooo” as if a car had fallen on top of her, I shoved my hands in her mouth to remove the offensive, stringly clumps – worried that my vegan baby had been corrupted. I immediately looked at the can. “This shit is made in Thailand! Why are we giving our dog food from Thailand? It’s probably not even beef. She probably just ate a cat. Or a rat. Oh my God.”

“But it’s human grade cat, at least,” Alex said, perusing the can. “And look, it has sweet potato.”

I narrowed my eyes, shocked at his lax attitude. “Our vegan daughter has just been tainted by beef intended for dogs. What are we going to do?”

Luckily, I think I got to her before she was able to chew and swallow. And the fact that she puts everything in her mouth, including fireplace ashes, wipes, vacuum cleaner cords, hair diffusers, and hangers – I knew she’d be fine.

“She’ll be fine,” Alex said.

I scoffed at his indifference. “How do you know that? I can already see the tiny parasites invading her virgin gut.” I scooped her up and began the process of washing her hands and mouth. “Should I make her throw up?”

I balked at my own statement. No, I was not going to make my daughter throw up. I was that confident she hadn’t swallowed. Instead, I fed her good nutritious vegetables, cooked in coconut oil: sweet potato, zucchini, yellow peas, lentils and quinoa, all formed into little patties. She dug in with the fervor of a child who was just given his birthday cake.

Veggie patties, ready to be cooked.

“Crisis averted,” I muttered.

I hate that we have to give Neruda meat. The fact that she constantly begs for fruit and vegetables and beans baffles me. Her meat (despite trying every organic brand, raw, fresh, etc.) often goes untouched in her dish. I sometimes wonder if she’d be healthier and happier without it…

Now, I wander to the front of the house, my favorite striped coffee mug in hand. I press the few keys on my typewriter, desperate for a new ribbon. My bigger Smith-Corona Deluxe Secretarial sits on the edge of our dining room table, Alex having dissected it and fixed a glitch. For the past few nights it has lain, disassembled, its dusty screws, rods, and carriage balanced on paper towels. Now it works. I type a sentence just to test it, a quote recently stuck in my head from a documentary we watched – The only thing Americans fear: inconvenience.

Everywhere, there are reminders of our (in/convenient) life here: unpaid bills, the sports nutrition certification I still need to study for and obtain before April, the new book I’m writing, the boxing workout to write for my client tomorrow, and the splayed books on the floor (Sophie’s new favorite obsession). Everyday, she pulls them from the low shelves, stacking them around her and then with precision, carefully flips through each page. There is no shoving the books in her mouth; instead she mindfully thumbs through the pages. What is she hoping to find? Which book will she grab today? Centuries of Poetry, 500 Vegan Recipes, Joan Didion’s Play It As It Lays?

For now, I sit and take in the silence. Sunlight streams through our large windows, dappled by the trees. I hear the thrum of cars, the construction outside our front door. And I think to myself: What the fuck am I supposed to do now?

Power Vegan just went to the printer (Hallelujah!) last week. I did WGN radio on Saturday, discussing the pros and potential downfalls of a plant-based diet. Miraculously, I could still converse with an adult and make sense despite my lack of sleep and connection to the world. Months and months of hard work (and years of experimentation) and it will be available to the public in less than two months’ time. Will people like it? Will they buy it? Will this be the project that catapults me somewhere? That allows me to be with my daughter, writing, loving, cooking and not worrying anymore?

When I was at WGN, I met two fantastic women, one of whom had a guitar and started making up little songs for Sophie. She watched in fascination. The woman asked her name; I told her it was Sophie.

“Ah, the goddess of wisdom,” she said. She went on to explain that Sophie will like to be on stage, but will also help out backstage; that she needs to be around people or she will get blue; and that she will be shy, just like me. I drank in this woman’s words, even more convinced of our inevitable move to Nashville, where she can be around countless people; where she can run in the grass and frolic through sprinklers. Where we can give her a real childhood, replete with climbing trees, swimming and going on vacation. (And tornadoes and floods and humidity and brown recluse spiders.)

So, what are we waiting for? A job, a sign, a house, a reason… just something concrete.

Today, I am tired. Having attempted to transition Sophie to her own bed after a treacherous fall from our own, I have not slept since Sunday. Giving up, I pulled her into our bed last night where she once again slept soundly, and I woke every few hours, already conditioned to hear her cries from the other room.

I walk around in a fog, my workouts affected, my psyche unraveled. I am tired of being alone during the day. Why does everyone have normal jobs? I stay connected via texting, email and Skype, but sometimes, I feel like I am stranded on my own tiny universe, despite the bustling metropolis right outside my door.

Because I can’t get lost in words all day like I used to, or train clients whenever I like, I am painfully aware of the frigid air outside, and the little creature inside who doesn’t yet know what grass is, or the ebb and flow of the ocean or the piercing stars in the sky.

But soon, she will. I will make sure of it, because that is my job – to give her nature, to give her love, to give her experience.

And until then, Alex does a good job of keeping her entertained, amidst the toy explosion and lack of sunlight.

I look at my little family, and I marvel. Did we create that? Did I find this? Do we really have everything we need?

I feel the tiny word bubble in my throat. I say it out loud, now, alone at my desk, Billie Holiday crooning in the background.

“Yes.”

Such a beautiful word. I repeat it. I take a sip of decaf. I say it again.

“Yes, yes, yes.”

I type the word on my typewriter. I scribble it on a pad.

The baby stirs. I put down my pen.

It’s time to attack the day.