First Steps

Milo has been dangerously — and I do mean dangerously — close to walking for about a week. So I've been watching his teetering more closely than usual. I admit, I have not watched him as closely as I should have at times. I shudder to think of the THREE, count them, THREE seconds I turned my back on him in the kitchen last week with the dishwasher open and I turned around and he was holding a KNIFE. Gingerly. In my direction. As though to say, "Woman, hello? I am holding a knife?" Why am I telling you this? I am not that bad of a mother. I am just a bad editor.

Milo's first real steps happened on Saturday at Kevin and Patrick's house. We spent a delightful weekend with them in Dallas, where we had better accommodations than the Four Seasons. Patrick kept asking Lucy, "Are your needs being met?" Um, unlimited limeade, Duck Tales, and princess-style bubble baths in a sunken tub? The answer is "Yes, thank you." Although the first time he asked her, she said, "I don't know how to answer that question." Patsy even came to help babysit, while Jason and I went to the Rangers/Yankees game Saturday night (thank you!).

It was only fair that Patrick and Kevin got to see Milo's first steps and I didn't: I was taking an extra-long shower in their fantastic guest bathroom, perfectly decorated with a subtle island theme. Of course Milo first wobbedly-walked around their thoughtful house filled with breakable decorative items, expensive electronics and fresh paint — early signs of good taste (or a death wish).

One

One year ago today, one year ago RIGHT NOW, we were sitting quietly in a hospital room with a mewling, darling new creature. He'd been born at 7 oh something p.m. with minimal-to-medium fanfare. The fanfare: there had been the ruckus with the driving to the hospital at about 7 centimeters dilated, which makes Mopac feel like a VERY BUMPY ROAD. Then there was the waiting in the seemingly closed waiting area, after pressing the buzzer, which made such a lonely sound, like no one would answer EVER. Then there was the filling out of forms, which no one really wants to do EVER, but certainly not at EIGHT CENTIMETERS. Lastly, the news that the dreaded VERY HANDSOME DOCTOR would be delivering this baby: I clung to my doula, said several curse words and repeated my strong opinion that this good-looking doctor should not be allowed to see my private parts without several dates beforehand. Alas, we had no time for dates. There was some more gnashing of teeth and cursing before the real work started.

I pushed. They proclaimed: GOOD JOB, GREAT PUSHING!

I pushed more. More praise.

Pushing. Praise.

Pushing. I was feeling the lack of results. "WHAT AM I DOING WRONG?"

Pushing. Much encouragement and news of a head with dark hair. Dark hair? I made a creature with dark hair?

I pushed some more and [there is no punctuation, no drumroll fitting this]...

Milo.

Not too long later, we had this cone-headed animal, all cleaned up and swaddled. He smacked and snorted, but hardly cried. I had been reluctant to have another baby. HA. I kept saying to his bundled self, "Are you kidding me?"

Milo is such easy joy. He has blonde hair now, and he looks like me. He delights in the opening of doors, the turning on of lights, Beyonce, whoever he sees when he first wakes up. He wrinkles his nose when he smiles and he probably likes you, but he plays hard to get.

Throwing Out the Scale on "Work-Life Balance"

"Work-life balance." While the phrase is meant to describe a healthy approach to doing both things well, for me it calls to mind the image of literally — and constantly — weighing one against the other. Is it more important if I miss this meeting or miss kindergarten field day? Shift the weight. Work late with the team or get home in time for dinner? Shift the weight. Spend dinner enjoying the macaroni or glancing at email on the sly? Nudge the weight. "Work-life balance" means work and life physically work in opposition to each other. The demands of agency life, even an agency as generous as mine, made for constant trade-offs that seemed out of my control. And for us, it hasn't been...working. So I've decided to throw out the scale and erase whatever artificial boundary separated work from life. It was a blurry line to begin with — every facet of my life informs my work; my work (when it works) is inspiring, joyful fuel for my life. Becoming my own boss gives me better control over both. Forgive me while I hunt for a better analogy here: levers? hoses? I'm not sure how to describe this new version of work/life but the goal is certainly more "and" than "versus." Stay tuned. And I welcome any wisdom.

Graduation Day

WARNING: CORNY Today was my last day at T3, the place I've worked for 12 years and 267 days. T3 has been as much a part of the "Kate brand," as my boss Jay would say, as any other aspect of my adult identity. T3 was the setting of many of the major events of my life: two of the bricks Jason sent me during his elaborate proposal were delivered there. When I went into labor with Lucy, I stopped by the office before we went to the hospital (still had some stuff to wrap up, naturally). As infants, both Lucy and Milo were raised by the village that is T3. It has given me so many amazing friends. Oh, and I learned to do advertising along the way. I grew up there.

And yet, as grown up as we think we are, we keep growing still. So I have graduated — to a new life of freelancing. I am stepping into it with all the excitement (and fear) that any new graduate has, both feet moving forward, but allowing myself a few wistful, grateful glances over my shoulder at where I've been.

Tell Me the Story of Your Life, Part 2

I love the moment, in passing or somewhere in the interview portion of the evening or even in a movie, where I discover something truly surprising about someone. You don't know me: you think I am a ______, but really I am a...blue belt in judo! Accomplished belly dancer! Mountaineer! Cellist! These moments can be the stuff of spy fiction, but they happen in real life too. Like when my friend Pie, someone I like to think I know quite well, totally moved and surprised me with her cello choir concert on Saturday. I knew she was rediscovering the cello, taking lessons, practicing with the choir. I'd even heard her play some on her own and with the burgeoning family band (longer, later post here). But I didn't really understand her secret cello identity until I heard her play with the cello choir. It was as surprising as if she'd given a speech in Farsi onstage. It was stunningly good, all those strings together, Pie a part of them.

So. Please, stun me, tell me more about your surprising self because it wakes up my capacity to live bigger, to show up to my life in more ways. Even if I am a little tone deaf.

You Know Summer is Over When...

...Lucy throws a shoe and a few other things at you and says, "I hate you again, Mom, just like I did earlier. You are the worst." I just continued making cookies, which is a better reaction than the time about 30 minutes earlier when she also hated me. She has been a shrill, angry wreck since we got home from El Paso: the victim of too much fun and not enough sleep, and maybe some nerves about first grade thrown in to season the furious stew.

Surely tomorrow will be better. Or least someone else's problem for 8 hours or so.

Vacation

When I tell people I am spending my vacation in El Paso with my in-laws, I get pitying looks. Is it the "El Paso" or the "in-laws" that draws such sympathy? Let me speak in defense of both. Coming here (where I am as I write this) is relaxing, in some way more relaxing than all but the most tranquil, lie-around-and-do-nothing beach vacation (the kind we don't go on because we like to do things). There are no sights we have to hustle to see (just some family to visit). There are no fancy restaurants to get into (just various local cuisine to sample, much of it made by Grandma herself). And unlike being at home, there are no house projects, no laundry, no busy social life. Just a swimming pool and plenty of free time.

Oh, and I like my in-laws. They are fabulous hosts. They love my children. They appreciate me. They are thrilled we are here. And did I mention the swimming pool?

Oh. Hi.

The whole life is under repair here in Suganaholand. Traveling. Changing. You know. Some recent progress: • Lucy can put together the entire Mousetrap game with only muttered adult encouragement. (This adult can only mutter encouragement, as she herself cannot put it together.) • Milo can blow kisses. • Jason and Kate can still shake it at a (totally freaking fabulous) wedding.

More later. X to the O.