I am my Momma’s child

I have gotten off track (already!) with my once weekly blogging goal. Traveling, eating and digesting twice topped off with a middle of the night wake up call filled my plate (literally and figuratively) over Thanksgiving. But we kicked off the holiday season, no less.

The start of this holiday season has been bittersweet. I’m so excited that my daughter can more independently experience and participate in the Thanksgiving feast and her two little hands can rip open a present on their own under the Christmas tree. But, I find myself looking at the “My Fist Thanksgiving” and “Baby’s First Christmas” memorabilia with an ache of days too quickly past. I was again reminded over the holiday when my seventeen-month old decided she needed playtime in the middle of the night how fleeting babyhood really is.

This isn’t the first time I’ve felt that way. The last year and a half have moved along at a break-neck pace. We’re now on her second holiday season. Where does the time go?!? It’s cliche, but true.

I don’t remember the last time I was up with her in the middle of the night. Disclaimer: we had an excellent sleeper. From four months old she was doing twelve hours a night. So, I don’t mind when things happen and I’m sleep deprived and zombiefied the next day. It’s so rare, it’s special (so long as I have coffee and nothing to do the next day). The middle of the night bond deep tiredness and lingering sleep deprivation hangover serve as tangible reminders of how fast babies grow and then aren’t babies any more. As a whole, that phase ends quickly as a new phase is ushered in just to be replaced again.

Just as quickly, I forgot how tired losing those night time hours could make you. How did I ever do it night after night when she was an infant? How dangerous was I behind the wheel during daylight hours at that point in time? As infants and tiny babies, Momma is needed, wanted, required all the time. We’re the food source. My baby, however, isn’t really a baby anymore. She’s a toddler. And she just doesn’t need me all the time. She can do so many things on her own now, and demands that it is so. And her abilities grow by leaps and bounds daily it seems. Letting go is both joyful and painful.

But, while she is willfully expressing her independence by throwing food on the floor she happily scarffed down yesterday, sometimes, she still wants her Momma. And for these rare and continually fading Momma moments, I am thankful. I cherrish each and every one and try to cement them all into my memory becuase I know she won’t always need me. However, she will know she can always count on her Momma, even in the darkest hours, just like I do.

Running with it


I really do wonder why people share everything…I mean everything…with the world these days. Daily, I am astounded at what people put out there. I have an inner battle with myself about posting a picture on Facebook. I’m a pretty private person. I don’t even like to put stickers on my car.

But I want to write. And I want to write about all kinds of things; even things that are, well, personal. And now my inner self is doing it’s rodeo-kick “Ok. Really. You want to do what!?! And who is really going to want to read it?!?” But that is not very emotionally uplifting or confident or grown-up. I’m not supposed to care what others think as an adult, right?

Here I go-I’m doing that stream of conscience writing thing we did in high school. Which is really just the current running stream of thoughts I have going thru my head at any given moment in time anyway.  What was going on between my ears on my run this morning? I know it was cold, I think I had a minute of,  what are you doing…why!…you could be warm in bed. But, I went, I did, I conquered. Hey, there’s that little confidence thing! Yes, I did. And I remember thanking God for the air in my lungs, my two functioning legs that carried me, my heart that pumped warm blood to my cold extremities, my ghetto-booty (as noted by my husband since high-school and only appreciated by myself at a later point in life)  for propelling me along, and the will power to get out of that warm bed. That must be why He gave me a husband who snores. It’s this alarm clock that goes off with surprising accuracy every day. I watched the sun rise over the river, the fog lift from the water. I ran. I enjoyed. I started my day off in control, living, and being grateful. And it’s nice to remember that now, at the end of Friday, the end of a long week. I’m living. Maybe I can do this writing thing (hey, there’s that confidence thing again!). Who cares if anyone reads it. And if they do read it, who cares what they think? I will at least be testifying to my own lived-in life. Maybe my child(ren?) will read it one day. Hopefully they would be proud of their Mamma and say, hey, she went out on a limb – she tried- she lived.

I’m not a writer. I managed to complete an undergraduate engineering degree and then a doctor of pharmacy degree… I am currently a practicing pharmacist. I always thought about writing. I enjoyed writing assignments in school, and I did well at them. However, there were these other plans for school and life and accomplishments and pieces of paper to be obtained. So, I’m not a writer. I do not have any kind of degree in writing. This is not the first time I’ve gotten the whim to write. There are 2 blogs out there that I started, and then for the aforementioned fears, never continued. But, I wasn’t a runner either. I wasn’t a runner, but I decided I wanted to run. I committed. I set goals.  And now I have one half-marathon under my belt. I am  a runner becuase I get out and run.

I have an unexplained love affair with pens and paper. So, I think this desire to write and fill pages has always been a part of me. I have 2 whole shelves of beautiful journals that I have bought over the years. And I’ve been afraid that what I have to say isn’t worthy of their crisp, clean pages (in fact, I’m writing this on a crappy work pad). No longer. I don’t need anyone’s approval or rating. I simply must satisfy my own soul. I will be a writer becuase I will write.  Fast had nothing to do with running and good doesn’t have anything to do with writing. They are simply adjectives. I’m just gonna run with it.

I also have a love for words, for the English language. There is an endless combination of letters, word placement, inflection, accent and connotation. Any idea, thought or emotion can be expressed. For example, take the words extra and ordinary. Separate, they have completely different meanings. Together, extraordinary, has an entirely different meaning than either of the two words that make it up. And that’s why I think I’m going to use it for the title of this blog and a new life ideaology for myself. I think sometimes I am extraordinary – and sometimes I’m extra ordinary. I work, I keep my self up, I take care of a husband and a daughter and 2 dogs. I contribute to family and friends. I care for my patients and their families. I am extraordinary. But, I let the mail pile up and have dust bunnies and my kid throws food on the floor and I let the dogs clean it up and the toilet is dirty. I am ordinary. And I don’t think that is too far off from most.

For me, most days will be ordinary – but some, will be extraordinary. I have to live every day and fill the space between the extra ordinary and the extraordinary. I hope you will join me.