A thought occurred to me today: I have moved 13 times in 13 years. And then another: What the f*ck is wrong with me?

In a brilliant attempt to make my life easier, my husband and I finally decided to relocate to Nashville. Whether it’s for a year or five, we don’t know, but since it seems I’m a vagabond at heart, we could end up in Egypt next May. Only time will tell. We decided on this move for numerous reasons:

1. Sophie is probably really tired of looking at me and playing with me and only me each and every day.

2. Chicago rent is stupid.

3. City life with a little one is one of the most annoying things I have yet to experience. Just try grocery shopping by yourself with your child every single day.

4. I miss spending time with my husband.

5. I really need to see the sun.

Now, if I knew that I’d be moving two weeks before my book comes out and that I’d be spending more money than I’ve made in the last two years combined on the move, storage, traveling and potential book parties, then I might have rethought our decision (or at least the timing).

And I’m not sure if it’s just me, but as soon as I make a decision and follow through with it, I am instantly wanting to renege. For instance, as we pulled away from Chicago, our venti decaf Americanos in hand, I felt a monstrous size panic seize my entire body.

I looked at Alex. “Are we really doing this?”

“Doing what?”

“Moving to the south, ding dong.”

“Did you just call me a ding dong?”

“Are you a deaf ding dong? Yes, yes I did.”

“Yes, Rea, we are moving to the south.”

“But… but there are hillbillies there. And there’s nothing scarier than a hillbilly.”

“True. Have you ever wondered why terrorists leave the south alone? In a word: hillbillies. No one is going to fuck with a hillbilly.”

I started to feel better immediately. I felt more mature about our decision to relocate. I wasn’t announcing from the rooftops that we were leaving. There wasn’t a big going away party. We kind of sneaked out silently… the main reason being I couldn’t even find the time to take a shower or wear decent clothes, so how was I going to arrange a going away party while packing and setting up a new life and planning a book release?

Perhaps it’s moving back to the place you were raised – things often look the same and so much different than you expected. And the last time I left Chicago, my belongings crammed in a Penske truck, I was running away. This time, I was choosing to come home.

As my parents ambled behind us in a gasoline-drenched Budget truck, I marveled at the ability of our entire lives to fit into just 16 feet (which seems like a ton and nothing at all).

All the while, I feel like I am in a dream, or on vacation. In four days, I have already felt the grass beneath my toes; sat outside listening to the birds while drinking coffee with my husband after we worked out together; parked for free (!!!!) outside numerous restaurants in East Nashville; passed a rugby ball; boxed outside; made a new fabulous friend; seen my best friend for coffee during a weekday; took a fifteen minute shower; attempted to take a midday nap; let someone else feed Sophie her dinner; watched as she learned to ascend and descend stairs within minutes of Alex showing her how; sat up late with my parents, watching Mad Men; driven way too much; packed food into a compost bin; witnessed Sophie showing off in front of my parents as she made all of us have a full on laughing attack; seen her take her first wobbly steps; and listened to the sounds of a full house.

Of course, we are only staying with my parents for two weeks until the house we are renting is ready, but still… this “help” concept seems foreign and fabulous (and a little annoying, since I am a bit of a control freak and I like things done my way. Not to mention I am terrified that I will miss a grand milestone, like walking or her saying her second word. I have been there for it all, and I don’t really want that to change).

Yet, we are here. We are breaking free from our routine so our child might feel the sun on her face and know what a garden is and frolic, unencumbered, in her backyard. She will get hot and sweaty walking to the farmer’s market with me or going to the dog park with Neruda. She will see all of her relatives and make new baby friends and become a pro traveler in a matter of months.

All of this because we decided to make a change – to take the pass less traveled (for us) and to slow down our lives, if only for a short while.

And while I have no way of knowing what the future holds, right now, I have my dreams and hopes and wishes… and sometimes, just to get those back again is better than any city or life you were living.

To have the promise of what is to come while enjoying this moment is even better than I imagined.

I’m ready for the journey… for everything.

The Asshole, in disguise!

“I’m having a nervous breakdown.” I clinch the phone against my chin while bouncing Sophie on my hip. Despite being 10 months old, she still cannot grasp how to squeeze her legs around my hip; instead, she dangles like a broken rag doll and I am always in the process of hoisting or almost dropping her. “I’m two seconds away from losing my shit.”

“That’s not good,” my mom coos. I hear a slurping sound from her end of the phone. “I’m having a coffee.”

“Good for you.”

“I actually really like coffee. Who knew?”

She tells me about how her and my dad attempted to grind coffee, but they couldn’t find the top to the grinder so the grounds spewed everywhere. “They were under my fingernails, all over my hands… it was such a mess.”

I grit my teeth, afraid that if I don’t, I will scream loud enough to shatter both her eardrums and Sophie’s.

I am at my wit’s end. All day, everyday for the last several weeks, I am trampled, hit, and screamed at by this little person who I’m not sure is a real human being. Sure, there are intermittent kisses and laughs and giggles, but mostly just all out terror. Why this behavior is happening now instead of when she’s two or three is beyond me. Perhaps she is bored of me, tired of this place, and in need of new stimulation and a calmer mother. To demonstrate this, she has decided to stop peeing on the potty and when she refuses, she stands up and falls forward, expecting me to catch her, even if I am on the other side of the room.

Her speed at crawling has tripled; so much so, that I am winded chasing her.

She flies around our condo, completely entertained one second and crying the next, balling her fists and hitting if you take something away from her. She demands entertainment 24 hours a day. She flings her toys like confetti. When I have a phone call, she screams at the top of her lungs for the entire call, no matter which room I run to or how important the person on the other end could be. She stops and smiles the moment I hang up, quiet as a church mouse. She knows what she’s doing, and it is not okay. She has also boycotted naps and stays up until 10:00p.m., all hopped up on hemp protein and lentils, apparently.

I pick her up. I put her down. Nothing I do appeases her. I literally wrestle with her legs as she kicks and wails, while I try to put her into her once beloved exer-saucer (my only hope to get anything done). I look at the explosion of groceries, toys, laundry and the half-filled boxes (did I mention we’re moving? Our lease is up!) and I just want to cry.

I have deadlines, a list of to-dos a mile long, unmet bills, etc. I have a book release event to plan, travel arrangements to be made, and a moving truck to rent.

This is when I need reinforcements. This is when I need my mother, but she is busy drinking a coffee which is oh so difficult 400 miles away. This is when, if Sophie and I were dating, we would break up – or at least take a nice long vacation from each other.

While there are so many exciting things coming up with the book’s release, there are more stressors, and I can feel them taking their toll. I can feel it in my haphazard sleep, in my constant desire for homemade cookies and peanut butter parfaits, in my inability to clear my mind, in the way my body responds and feels to the foods I eat.

In a nutshell: I am not losing my shit. I have lost it. And I’m not sure when it’s coming back again. And while I would never ever harm my child, the thought of harming myself has crossed my mind today. I could:

1. Stab my eyes out with the utensils that are spread all over the countertop.

2. Wrap the vacuum cord around my neck until I lose consciousness.

3. Fall down the stairs (which is likely to leave me badly injured and awake, which I definitely don’t want).

In my absence, I’m sure Neruda and Sophie would bake cookies and watch television until Alex got home. I’m almost positive Sophie is playing a game to test my patience.

Guess what? I don’t have any patience, which is why I didn’t want children in the first place! But here she is, testing away, and as I vacillate between wanting to kiss her little face to pieces and send her on a nice long vacay, I know that this too shall pass.

I’m sure I will look back on this one day and think I was so dramatic. But right now, I need a break; I need one so badly, I would almost sell drugs to get it.

But since I can’t do any of the aforementioned activities, I will strap this little one in her car seat and go take a drive. (Could I strap her to the hood of the car? She does love wind.) I will soak in the city that I love, yell at bad drivers, and ponder what to do for dinner yet again.

And I will get up and do it again tomorrow, because I am Sophie’s mother, and I love her madly…ish.

Miss part I of this great adventure? Read here.

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.

Sophie, drinking her midday smoothie.

I recently saw one of my best single girlfriends (shocker!) and of course, Sophie was in tow. Magically, she sat quietly and played with her toys while I lived vicariously through my friend’s exciting, unpredictable life. (She goes on vacation! She goes to restaurants! She gets dressed and leaves her apartment with nothing but a bag and her keys and maybe a coffee in tow! She sleeps without being fondled by hungry lips! Whose life is this?)

We chatted on her floor, curled up like primates. Midway through the conversation, I felt my breasts balloon, signaling it was time for Sophie to eat. I pulled her to my chest, mid-sentence, and popped a boob in her mouth.

If you are a breastfeeding mom, you don’t think a lot about this action. I do it in public, at home, on the phone, wherever. I’m not flashing anyone – I’m simply nourishing my child (well-covered, of course). And yet, you’d think I was stripping while shouting derogatory words due to the eye shielding and embarrassed looking away this causes by some. It’s as if they’ve been blinded by the sun.

“You’re still breastfeeding?” my friend asked. Incredulous. Almost tinged with a hint of disgust.

“Um, yeah.”

“How long will you do it?”

“Until my body doesn’t produce it or she lets me know… Who knows? Could be three years.”

“Three years? You’re not going to be one of those moms whose child can unbutton your blouse, are you?”

“Well, I don’t wear blouses. Or buttons. So we should be good.”

I’ve never been able to understand the disgust with breastfeeding or phrases that start with “one of those moms.” The people who make faces about breast milk are the same ones who have guzzled from a cow’s boob from the time they were young. Except those boobs are attached to dirty machinery, which are often infected with puss, radioactive particles or even flame retardants. Tons of bacteria. Not to mention dairy is incredibly hard to digest. But this is normal, despite the fact that we are the only species to drink another species milk.

Yet, because I give my child the food that was provided for her around the clock (no machinery or pus included) for the past nine months, I am icky.

As my friend Lauren and I took our little ones to the zoo a few days later, both carefully snuggled in their Ergos, Sophie drifting amidst the sea of monkeys and lions, we stopped to feed our babies. We happened to find a bench by the monkeys. As I fed my daughter, I watched them caring for each other, smashing what looked like poo against a window and eating it from the streaked glass. I studied their sad eyes and hunched shoulders. I wondered how happy or miserable they were, or if they might have been separated from their young.

A different kind of mother.

As we focused on a mother sitting by us, eating that green looking dung, I looked at her nipples.

“We have the same nipples,” I joked.

As if in response, she got up and moved, her ballooned, very wrinkled vagina on full display.

“She is one of my people!” I exclaimed. Why didn’t people find her offensive? Vagina and nipples hanging out, pressing against the glass, practically blinking at people. Eating poop no less! But no one was judging her. They were photographing her.

It’s a fine line to discover what is “socially” acceptable as a mother, and there’s no more touchy subject than breastfeeding. It just so happens that it’s not for everyone, and while my life would be so easy if Sophie had formula or I pumped (you mean someone else could feed her???), it’s simply not an option. This is part of my job – the part that I love the most. Her lips opening and searching wildly and then clamping down with such relief, she sighs. Her free hand slapping my chest, probing my face, or curling up next to her chin. Her heavy eye lids as she slips into a milk coma. Her signal of being done as she pushes away from me in search of other pursuits.

Will I ever regret losing sleep, not having more sex, not spending more time with my hubby, not going to movies or to as many restaurants as I want in order to take care of my (barely) still small child? Never.

I have the rest of my life to to have sex, take trips, sleep, work, take naps or do what I please. My child is just a child for only a few more months. I will only be able to cradle her on my Boppy for a little while longer, and each time I pull her to my chest, I am trying to memorize every detail: how I missed that second nail; how the back of her hair is forming a devil’s tail of wispy blond; how she has leftover smoothie dried to her nostril; how the gray of her eyes is being tinged with hazel; how her cheeks are dry; how her teeth have grown even more, changing the entire shape of her mouth and smile.

Years from now, it will be nearly impossible to conjure these memories. Will I be able to remember what breastfeeding even felt like? How she literally gives me the female version of blue balls as she gets me to the let down only to pull away like a tease? What a phenomenon it is that a full breast can be emptied in five minutes and that she can play for hours subsisting on those few ounces; how I don’t have to purchase or use machinery or water to give her what she needs – I simply make it, without doing anything at all. What a miracle.

To me, it is the only choice, and I will miss it when it’s gone.

I know I’m only nine months in, and having a child walk up to me and demand my boob might feel different in a year. Or perhaps my body will decide it’s had enough before then.

But, as I’ve learned, I’m not predicting what will happen. Or bragging. Or setting anything in stone. I’m just taking advantage of one of the only free things left in this world, which happens to be the best thing for my daughter: me.

But, like my fellow friend, the monkey, I am simply following my nature (thankfully, my nature doesn’t involve slapping poo against a glass window and eating it) because it feels right to me and to my daughter.

And that’s all that matters.

For now.

Happy 9 months!

Dear Sophie,

Today, you are nine months old. Today, you sit, playing independently with your toys, screaming “Mama” anytime anyone comes within two feet of you. You have eight teeth, blondish hair, gray eyes and a world of personality. You can sit, stand, crawl and take sideways steps holding onto various pieces of furniture.

You’ve gone from sleeping through the night to feeding at least four times. You kick Alex in the back and sleep horizontally between us, our bodies forming a sleepy H.

You paw my face and say “Mama” at least 100 times per day. You follow me around, you cling to me. It seems I am your world. And for as much as I roll my eyes at times or vow that I would trade my right eyeball for just five minutes alone with a glass of wine (someday!) and a novel, I know you will only need me for such an infinitesimal amount of time.

So, I respond to you. I sometimes make you wait just to test your patience (yeah, apparently you have none). Every time you say “Mama” I say “Dada,” suddenly eager to hear another word coming from your lips.

You giggle. You eat oats in the morning, smoothies at lunch and vegetables or legumes for dinner. You observe. You shove everything in sight into your mouth and never ever ever stop moving – even in sleep.

Together, we carry on conversations. Mostly “ahs” and “oohs” and “Really, Sophie?” “Look, Sophie!” “What’s that, Sophie?” “I love you, Sophie!”

All day, I watch you, I care for you, I feed you, I bathe you, I put you to sleep, I set you on the potty, I take you off the potty, I do laundry, I try and keep you stimulated, I let you wander.

For nine months, you have been my world, and I have been yours.

When I think of the nine months it took for you to grow inside of me… all the moments of uncertainty, all the hours spent wondering, “What will this be like to have a baby? Like… forever?” I really can’t believe you’re here. And I must pat myself on the back – just a little, for just a moment. I have fed you every single meal every two to three hours, 24 hours per day, for the last nine months. And I am proud of myself. Nursing is by far the best thing I have ever done, and I have no plans to stop soon.

People ask if I can remember what life was like before you. I immediately say, “Oh God, yes.” Because I had 30 years without you. I had three decades to do my own thing, to sleep, to be spontaneous, to come and go as I pleased. I had time to grow and take risks and only focus on myself (I’m really, really good at that, apparently).

When you were born, you started at 0 (though shouldn’t you technically have been 9 months old????). You have only been breathing for 270 days (though after choking on a piece of apple last night and watching your face turn purple and stop coughing, I literally thought my world was coming to an end. Thankfully, I reacted immediately and you were able to get it swallowed. Back to purees we go.).  Your eyes have only focused on the world around you for a mere nine months, and  yet it feels like forever…

How our worlds have shifted to accommodate you. How our bed has become smaller, our world brighter, our smiles more meaningful. How I have become a more ragged version of myself: sometimes confined to our condo, leaving faucets running, burning oatmeal, feeling so tired I literally lose my balance when I bend over to pick you up (Is it a tumor? Positional vertigo? Who would feed you if something happened to me? Maybe they can find a way to extract my milk, even after I’m gone…).

Sometimes I just want to curl up into a ball and cry. Other times, I am so filled with energy, I want to strap you to my chest and go run a marathon. I want to show you the world.

But mostly, I want you to know us now. When I think of you in your teenage years (Oh, Christ), I realize Alex and I will be in our mid-40s. Will we still be cool, in shape? Will we have our sense of humor, our wits? Will we still be struggling? Will we be leading the lives we have always wanted to live? Will you be an only child? Will we still have a small family? Will we be super affectionate? Will you still have lungs like a dinosaur? Will our lives ever be quiet? Will we even want them to be?

As I hear Alex struggle to get you back into a cloth diaper, and my parents patiently waiting to go get coffee on their impromptu visit to Chicago – I feel grateful. I feel grateful for the exhaustion, the struggles, the uncertainty, the absolute trial and error that is raising a first child.

Am I doing it right? Am I doing enough? Are you growing the way you need to be? Are you stimulated? How can everything fall back on me all the time? Can I please get some help – just a little, for just a little while?

You look at me and smile.

“Happy nine months,” I say.

You grin, your teeth clicking together in a massive under bite. “Mama,” you say. “Mamamamamama.” You crawl over to me, slapping your palms on our dark hardwoods and reach up your arms. I scoop you up effortlessly. You stroke my cheek. “Mama.”

Suddenly, it’s the sweetest word I have ever heard, from the only girl I will ever unconditionally love.

And just for a second, because of this child, because of you, all is right in the world.

You have tipped the balance, you have answered every question, you have given me pause. You have allowed me to be present, to stop thinking, to just do and not think.

You have given me a bigger purpose than myself.

For this, I thank you. I love you. I respect you.

I appreciate you.

Dear Sophie,

Thank you for choosing us.

My little Valentine

Valentine’s Day. 1989. 

I sat in my classroom, eagerly clutching my shoe box that had been converted the night before to hold valentines. A slit had been cut in the top to deposit the small envelopes. How many would I get? Would I receive the most? What if no one gave me a valentine? What kind of loser would that make me? Would he ask me to be his valentine? I remember clutching my box of hearts, delighted and anxious to tip them over on my desk and begin to count.

Looking to bring back a bit of that nostalgia, I went to CVS to get some valentines for Sophie to send out. Naturally, I had fifteen minutes to get them in the mail for last pick-up. As I perused the aisles stuffed with cheap candy and lovey dovey junk, I marveled at the lack of simple valentines. Where were all the cute hearts? The simple, heart felt valentines? I was stuck with Star Wars, Hello Kitty or origami. I chose origami and let out a string of curses as I attempted to fold them in anything remotely resembling origami. If anyone asked me, I’d tell them Sophie did it. I put the pen in her hand and let her sign her name and hustled her back in the Ergo down the street to deposit them in the mailbox.

On this Valentine’s Day, I hid a card under Alex’s workout clothes and discovered a card from him on the steering wheel and another one balanced against our bathroom mirror early this morning. As I pored over his words, I felt my breath quicken and my heart flip. How I love this man…

Letters of love

We are a family of cards and letters. They take up glass jars, bins and have even been compiled into journals and books. To look back on all that we have shared reminds me how lucky I am.

Would I kill to go out on a romantic dinner with him, even though I don’t really buy into V Day? Absolutely.

Instead, I snuggle with my valentine. I lay beside her, both of our bellies touching. I listen to her breathe and sigh as she drifts to sleep. I decide to destroy our kitchen for the thirtieth time this morning and make some of Heather Crosby’s delicious beet and kale cocoa muffins (sans frosting).

YumUniverse muffins!

I rearrange furniture and tick items off my to-do list.

I think about how weird my life has become; and how last Saturday night, the most interesting thing I did was ask to see Alex’s asshole. (Yes, this really happened.)

“What?” he screeched. “Why?!”

“Because I’ve never seen it. I bet it’s really cute. Let me see it.”

“No way!”

“Let me see your asssshollllllle!”

I screamed like a toddler, face turning red, cheeks puffed, fists balled.

We bantered like this for minutes, until I realized what we were actually bantering about. While people were out, doing all sorts of things, I was asking to see my husband’s corn hole. What is wrong with me????

I think an intervention might be in order soon. But, in another way, you can tell you really love someone when you ask to get so personal.

I love my husband. I love all of him… I love him when things are great, when they’re bad, when he’s moody or tired or quiet. I hope to always bring this unconditional element to Sophie’s life; to teach her to love hard and often and to get to the core of someone… She just might have to do some digging (but hopefully she will never ask to see someone’s butt hole). I will have to draw the line there.

Happy Love Day!

Me and the tiny.

I don’t like to admit when I’m wrong.

Before I entered the baby sphere, people told me all sorts of things. I took their words of “wisdom” with a grain of salt, as I do with most advice, instead knowing that our baby would be different. Our baby would sleep by herself through the night from birth. Our baby would never cry. Our baby would give smiles from week one, crawl at three months and walk at nine months. She’d keep herself entertained for hours and would never get sick. Our baby would not be an asshole toddler like most toddlers – and if she was, I could pretend she wasn’t ours. (I still might do this… I haven’t yet decided.)

These are the things I told myself as my belly grew and the panic took hold. How do you prepare for a child when you’ve never given thought to having a child?

You tell yourself lies.

Through these past eight months, there have been some truths to what people said, some surprises (mainly pleasant) and a new validity to life in general.

As one of my friends put it: “I feel like I’ve been sitting in a prison cell for the past eight months.”

“Except there’s no solitude,” I added. “At least in a cell, you can go to the bathroom or sleep whenever you want to. Can you imagine?”

Sercretly, I was horrified that prison sounded mildly more relaxing than my everyday life… no bills, no responsibilities, no hurling myself in front of inanimate objects, trying to shield my daughter from her own curiosity and pain.

One of the hardest (and maybe quite shallow) truths I’ve discovered is that our place has become a toy depository. From dog toys to Sophie’s toys, they litter our floors day in and day out, despite the colorful organizational cubes I have for them. Since we just sold her crib and bought a twin mattress to set up a Montessori room, I realized that the mattress is high enough that if she fell off of it, she could do some real damage. So until we can teach her boundaries, in addition to the toys, there are lots of pillows.

And once the toys started to flow, so did the dishes. We have somehow broken our no-dish-in-the-sink rule. And piles of laundry rule. And while Alex is gone all day, you’d think I would have nothing but time to make this place spotless. Yet, I don’t, and I shouldn’t care, but I do.

A cluttered home makes me feel crazy. So I am trying to adopt a new mentality, one that will keep me from going insane: surrender.

Since alcohol isn’t possible, I am channeling my inner Wayne Dyer and radiating love and happiness and the ability to just let go. I give love to all the plastic toys from China and the more eco-friendly ones from the USA; I salute the dirty Vitamix that gets used 45 times per day; I look at our bags of clothes and stacks of books still left to be donated outside our back door. I continually trip over them every morning as I try to haul Sophie in her car seat down to the car or schlep her and the groceries upstairs, where I always catch the car seat on a bag or a box, sending the grocery bags on my arms sliding down and hitting the ground in the process. (Why the fuck haven’t they made grocery bags that stay on your shoulders???) I always kick and side step and fight back the urge to scream from the top of my lungs. If only I could have someone watch Sophie for five minutes, so I could haul all this crap away and not have Neruda fly up and down the stairs with the speed of a hummingbird.

So, surrender. Yes, I must surrender. I try and remember this as I let go a string of curses every five minutes; as I look around and realize that while worrying about all the things to get done, I haven’t done anything. I try and remember to surrender as Alex walks in the door and I shout, “Thank God!” and grab a novel and a glass of water and sit down on the couch, where I may or may not move for the next few hours. (Bring on the awful reality television.)

This is my life, but this won’t always be my life. I will soon look back over this first year with such nostalgia, it will probably leave me short of breath. That’s probably because I will still be carrying Sophie around in the Ergo, long after she’s not supposed to be carried around.

For today, I am going to go play with my daughter. I’m going to pick up food from Native Foods and start on a delicious soup with all my new yummy produce from Fresh Picks for tomorrow. I’m going to work on relaunching reafrey.com so I can ramp up book publicity for Power Vegan and hope as many people will buy this book as Harry Potter (a girl can dream).

I am going to kiss my husband long and hard, because today is our three year anniversary. I am going to marvel at how I ever got through a day without him, and feel pleased that I won’t ever have to.

We are a team. We are a family.

And I love every second.

HONEY LEMON FACE SCRUB

Rummage your cabinets for honey and sugar and add some lemon juice for a deliciously easy face scrub.

While food recipes are great, sometimes it’s nice to shun expensive scrubs and make your own. If you have honey, lemon and some sugar, you can make a moisturizing scrub that will leave your skin clean and dewy in no time.

Ingredients:

1 tbs. honey

1 tbs. sugar

juice of 1/2 lemon

Directions:

1. Mix all ingredients together until well combined.

2. Apply to face and work hands in a gentle, circular motion.

3. Rinse well and pat dry.

My little munchkin!

I am bored.

How can I say that when I am chasing around an eight-month old constantly? Redirecting her attention from the fireplace to her talking computer; from the gnarled tangle of wires to a wooden block. How can I be bored, when my imagination runs wild; when I am constantly picking up, paying bills, running errands, writing articles, imagining winning the lottery, etc? Boredom isn’t something I regularly experience. It’s rare. But lately, as we’ve settled back into our post-holiday routine, every day feels a bit like Groundhog Day. Every day, there are certainties. Just a few:

1. I will get kicked no less than 37 times by Sophie during the night.

2. Alex will wake up on his night stand.

3. I will get approximately one hour to myself at the gym – this is the only time I will have alone for the day.

4. I will kiss Alex goodbye everyday at 8:30a.m. and pray for his building to implode so he no longer has to go into the office.

5. I will clean up the kitchen no less than five times per day.

6. I will clean up Sophie’s toys no less than 50 times per day.

7. I will stare longingly out the window, while petting Neruda for approximately three minutes; at which time, I will wash my hands and get on with my day.

There are breaks in this, of course. Last Friday, Alex took off from work so I could go to my  sales and marketing meeting with my publisher, Agate.

It was my very first time being gone for a four-hour chunk. Miraculously, I was able to pump around 3 ounces (this is a BIG deal for me), and she was all dosed up on a smoothie, so I felt comfortable leaving her.

Sitting down with the amazing team, discussing my new book and the marketing push from now until its release in May, made me feel special. I was actually constructing sentences and ideas! I was making sense! I had something to say, and people were listening. They were looking at me. I wasn’t being cock-blocked by my beautiful baby!!!!

Was I wondering if my breasts might explode? Yes. Was I anxiously wondering how long it would take me to get home in Friday traffic? Of course.

But, it felt so lovely to collaborate on work that I had carefully crafted; work that I am proud of and hope others will read. But as I clutched my notes in my hand, I realized what “work” I had to do in order to gather more of an audience and a following before the big release date.

And here’s where it gets tricky to me: Promotion, in the terms of what it has become today, feels unnatural. I am a Twitter moron. I really don’t want to start a FB page in my name. I don’t want to chronicle everything I’m doing, eating, feeling, all to post online. I once talked to my former publicist who told me I needed to do all of these things, to which I replied how unnatural it felt. She replied: “Right, so you don’t want to do any of the work, but you want all the recognition?”

I laughed. “But it’s not work,” I wanted to respond. “It feels like a waste of time.” (I’m not saying this is a waste of time, but it’s how it feels to me.)

Of course you can make amazing connections via social media – something I would probably learn if I were to take the time to do it. I watch as other people’s blogs and sites burst with popularity; how blog-to-book projects happen overnight; how everyone takes notice of so-and-so, and how I feel I have so much to say if I were given the exact right platform. What’s their secret? How does it look so easy?

But work to me is using your hands. It’s in the construction of building, the teaching of students, the building of organizations. It’s using your imagination to create something so amazing that people are drawn to it. Can’t people magically find you in the stratosphere of the Internet? Is it too much to ask to be recognized while walking down the street? (I would actually loathe this.)

I’ve always loved to work: with training, with concocting nutritional plans, with writing, and now as a parent…These things don’t feel like work because I enjoy them. I don’t enjoy trolling the Internet, and I never have. I would rather sit down in front of a typewriter with a cup of coffee and Billie Holiday in the background. I am lame. I am not “with the times,” but I like that about me… I like that I am still a bit shy. But the fact that I must play the game makes me feel like a fish out of water. I can’t seem to find the quite right balance. So, perhaps the balance will have to find me.

This weekend was a new kind of balance. We celebrated Alex’s 32nd birthday a few days early. While my good friend watched Sophie, we ice skated with abandon, and as I tried desperately not to fall, I moved around that rink, feeling like a kid again. The icy wind on my cheeks, the sun blasting my face. Not a thought in the world, except how much I loved my husband, how happy I was, and how thankful I felt. Did I think about taking a picture and posting it on Facebook? Of course. I am conditioned to do so, to share every bit of my life, because that is just what we do.

It’s who we’ve all (mostly) become.

But I want to be someone different for my daughter. Someone who can hopefully enrich her life with interesting tidbits; someone who can teach her things.

As I picked up Alex yesterday from work and asked him how his day went, he began filling me in on all of these important accounts at work; all the decks he was designing, all the accounts Olson was trying to land. He then turned the question on me, and I literally drew a blank.

“Oh, you know,” I began. “I missed all of Sophie’s pees this afternoon. It was weird. So, the day was… filled with diapers.”

This was the summation of my day – literally. Diapers.

What else?

1. I sprouted some quinoa.

2. I made Alex a giant kale and romaine salad with homemade dressing, a steaming bowl of oatmeal topped with chia seeds, berries and organic peanut butter, and a green juice. I dropped it off at work with a little handwritten note.

3. I did some research for my next book.

4. I tickled Sophie; I played with Sophie; I napped with Sophie; I hauled Sophie to and from the car and up and down stairs; I showed the snow to Sophie; I cuddled with Sophie; I watched Sophie entertain herself with her toys.

5. I contemplated our lives and where the next step will take us.

6. I thought about stretching, as I always do, and then decided not to.

7. I counted down the hours until 5, so I could grab Alex to cook and breathe a sigh of relief as he took the “night” shift and chased after her while I lay on the couch, a cup of tea in hand.

Perhaps this is just a small rut. Perhaps I need a vacation. (Yes, God, as Alex and I have been out together TWICE by ourselves in eight months. This cannot be healthy.)

Perhaps I will feel differently tomorrow. But, for now, as my little girl sleeps, and I see this place has yet again become a tornado of strewn objects, dirty dishes, and piled laundry, I want to cry. Just a little.

I want to call my mother to empathize, but then I remember that she worked out of the home from the time I was three months old – because she had to – and I am immediately grateful for being here.

I will never pay a stranger to raise my child. The concept leaves me short of breath. No matter what sacrifices we make, it’s all worth it – to be here with her, to watch her every milestone and smile. I only wish Alex could join me… and hopefully, someday he will. (Maybe if I’d get my ass in social media gear, stop writing novel-length blog posts, and connect with a famous person, they could help make Power Vegan a bestseller, so I’d stop complaining.)

And while I might end up with an IQ of 70 and only be able to talk about diapers, I’m pretty sure I won’t regret it.

I am a mother. This is my job.

And it’s the best work I’ve ever done.

The Sophie.

I love my bed.

It has seen its fair share of action, from a house in Nashville to two lofts and a condo in Chicago. It has been dragged through the grimy streets of Fulton Market, crammed into an elevator on Jackson and hauled up two flights of stairs in River West. It has been nestled against a wall in a little cave in a loft when Alex and I first met.

On our first real date, we went out to dinner and came back to my place. It had snowed five feet and everything was icy and white. Since it was getting late and I had to get up at 4:50a.m. to be at work, I told him I needed to go to bed.

“Okay,” he said, and proceeded to take off his jacket.

“You’re… staying?” I asked, perplexed and suddenly terrified. What kind of girl did he think I was? “Like sleeping here?” On our first date?!! I wanted to add. I had a nighttime ritual – washing my face, brushing my teeth, taking out my contacts, examining my skin, wearing crappy pajamas… He couldn’t possibly see all of that on our first night.

“Yeah,” he answered, as if we’d been doing this forever. Maybe it was the snow that kept him there, maybe it wasn’t, but when we crawled back into my little cave (both fully dressed) and he tucked in beside the wall, I lay there, playing horror movies in my head. As I searched the darkness for a sharp object, he gingerly gripped my hand and pulled it to his chest.

“Goodnight, Rea,” he said.

He didn’t move the whole night, keeping my hand clasped tightly in his own. The next morning, as I poured him a big cup of coffee in a to-go container, he said it was the best sleep he’d ever had. As I kissed him goodbye, I knew I never wanted him to leave. Instead, I said, “It’s the Tempur-Pedic. It’s magic, that thing.”

And it is.

Unfortunately, Sophie has experienced the Tempur, in all its body-hugging, foamy, warm glory. We have been co-sleeping with her since the early days.

Until now… sort of.

I flip on the light in my bedroom. I pull back the fresh sheets and slide under the covers. I put my glasses on and slip a book into my hands. I begin reading. Alex comes in and scoots in beside me. We immediately begin playing, hiding under the covers and entangling arms and legs.

It has been almost eight months since we’ve had a light on in our bedroom at night; almost eight months since we’ve laid side by side, with books in hand. Our bed is not our bed – it is home to Neruda and Sophie, but tonight, Sophie is asleep on her crib mattress which we have moved to the floor of her room, so I can go in and lay with her and feed her when I need to.

This bliss only lasts for a couple of hours before I grab her warm body and pull her into our bed, where we all sleep soundly until she stirs near morning time, emitting a soft cry before finding the source of her food.

Many people are baffled by our decision to co-sleep. “Won’t you roll over on her? Won’t you lose intimacy? Isn’t that unhealthy? Won’t the baby become dependent?”

To which I shrug and say, “It just feels right.” I don’t mention that she began sleeping through the night at about a month old (with the occasionally intermittent feeding). I don’t mention that she is safer and sleeps harder knowing she’s protected by her parents and that she’s not all alone, with crib rails surrounding her. She doesn’t have to cry to be fed or go back to sleep. Of course, I don’t mention that I desperately miss the warmth of my husband’s body, even more than I love my little girl’s. I don’t mention that I miss reading before bed – that it is the way that I unwind – and that I would love not to sleep with my shirt hiked up around my chin.

I don’t mention these things because they are irrelevant in the face of so many other things. Is it true that I used to watch movies where families literally shared their bed and cringed? Sure. Do I sometimes fear she will be six years old, still trying to climb into our bed? Of course.

But something else overrides all this, and it’s not just my refusal to let her cry it out (a technique that has never made sense to me, especially when a child is too young to reason with or explain things to).

It’s that her being a baby is almost over, and I will never regret the time she spends in my arms, curled into my side, upside down, on all fours, or under the covers. I will never regret recalling how her little hand strokes my arm while she’s feeding, as if to comfort me instead of the other way around. I will never regret waking up to see her smiling and giggling right next to me, knowing she is safe and sound. I will never regret waking up to see her spooning Alex, the two of them pressed limb to limb.

I will never regret that she gets to spend at least eight hours next to me. I will never regret rubbing her little hands or back or legs, putting her into a deep sleep from touch alone.

I will always remember these things and cling tightly to them later in life, when she doens’t need me, when she’d rather be in her room alone, when my mere presence will make her roll her eyes and she’ll pull away when I try to hug her.

My little girl is only little for so long, and as her independence grows daily, I feel small pieces of me growing with her.

Yes, I am learning to let go bit by bit, trying slowly to transition her out of our bed and into her own little Montessori room…

But if she needs me, I am there, because it’s my job to love her, to cuddle her, to hold her, to feed her, to make her know she is safe.

I can blame it on the power of the Tempur-Pedic (as compared to her bricklike crib mattress) or I can simply say that one day, about three weeks in, I pulled her into our bed and she slept the whole night through. So what if our bed has become a family bed?

It won’t be that way forever. It feels right.

And so, for now, I give in.

Months ago, in our family bed.

Relaxing with coffee, Sophie, and Alex.

There’s nothing better in the world than having a weekend with a baby (if sarcasm could drip, it would be pouring). For those moms who can cart their little ones off to their parents’ house (or have a sitter come to you), I am envious, and I salute you.

For the rest of us who are chained to our little ones, the weekend goes something like this:

1. Wake up before the sun has risen (maybe even a few times) despite the fact that you would sell your husband’s right nut to get a full night’s sleep.

2. Try to snuggle with husband, only to realize that dog and baby are in the way.

3. Feel around on the mattress to realize that baby has saturated her diaper and the sheets.

4. Get up, change baby, and put her in her crib. Miraculously, baby discovers she has lungs like a T-Rex and makes noises loud enough to wake the upstairs neighbor (who is an asshole, so I am secretly pleased).

5. Take turns going to the gym, which results in half of our day being gone before it’s even started.

6. Get ready to actually leave the house (yes, please!) only to have baby fall asleep. Leave baby sleeping to avoid the wrath. Wait two hours. Stare longingly out the window at all the fun things people are probably out there doing right now.

7. Finally get ready to go out for a nice dinner. If this is a Friday, this usually consists of the following:

A. Try to get Sophie into clothes. Struggle for 15 minutes.

B. Breast feed, feed solid food, which looks like a land mine of peas and blueberries exploded in child’s face.

C. Attempt to clean child’s mouth as she bucks wildly in her Bumbo; hear small fart, put child on the potty to see the most monstrous shit ever created by a human come out like soft serve; clean up child again; struggle to get child into warm clothes and a big jacket that causes her to sweat uncontrollably and cry once we get into the car.

D. Head to pick up Alex for date; try to soothe Sophie as she suddenly starts crying from the backseat; sing “Ride a little pony” until blue in the face; battle Chicago rush hour traffic; get to restaurant, only to see a line out the door and no available parking.

E. Pull over so I can get in the backseat and try and get Sophie’s polar bear suit off her to cease crying; discover that she is pouring sweat; decide to forget the whole thing and head home so we can get her upstairs and comfortable and just pick up food instead.

F. Once we get home, Sophie is happy as a clam. Alex goes out to pick up food, which I could care less about. The only thing I want is the peanut butter parfait. I have been dreaming of it all day – no, in fact, all week – it’s the only thing I want or need to make the start to this weekend official. I can’t have alcohol, so I will have aflatoxin, bad for me, rodent hairs and bug fragments in every jar best thing in the world peanut butter. I call to order our food. There are no more peanut butter parfaits. Fuck my life.

8. A few other lovely occurrences that may or may not happen on any given weekend: Slice off the tip of my thumb while cutting tomatoes; run to the store, park upstairs at Whole Foods, haul grocery bags, car seat, heavy child and three gallon water jugs only to discover the elevator is broken; deal with the absolute hell of four (yes, four!!!!!!) top teeth coming in simultaneously; try to veg out and watch a movie that should take 90 minutes; instead, it takes 4 hours from all the starting and stopping and playing and whining and parenting and talking and bribing that ensues.

In short? Our weekends have become lost. I’m not sure when we’ll get them back, but I miss those relaxing moments that rejuvenate you for the week ahead.

But when I look at that sweet face, when I feel her hands grip me tightly as she goes to sleep, when I see that smile that is literally heart-wrenching, I know it’s all worth it and that these will be the memories I will cling to later in life, when she’s sixteen and hating me and unappreciative of it all.

So, for now, for this moment, I have found solace in a little coffee shop in Lakeview, sitting across from my beautiful husband, as we sip our decaf Americanos and work and listen to Sophie’s coos and watch the snow fall outside.

My handsome hubby in his vest, striking a pose.

I love these moments. They are my new weekends, and I welcome them with humor and the hope that one day, we will appreciate our weekends more than we ever thought possible. Until then, I live vicariously through other people and find the ability to love my life more than I ever dreamed.

Smoothie!

BABY SMOOTHIE

Ingredients:

10 organic blueberries

1/3 organic avocado

1/3 organic banana

purified water, to consistency

dash of spirulina (optional)

Directions:

1. Pop all ingredients into blender and blend until smooth and creamy.

2. Secure a body-size bib over baby and watch as the smoothie goes everywhere but in baby’s mouth. Enjoy!

Smoothie time.