Not The Mama

Sometimes, I try to pretend that I'm not a lowly pawn in my daughter's ever-changing chess game.  I've lost count of the number of times that she's "check-mated" me.  

"Ella, it's time to eat lunch."

{whiiiiinnnnneee}

"Ella, I need to change your diaper."

{NOOOOOOO!!!!!}

"Ella, it's time to brush your teeth and get ready for bed."

{But I wanna watch Mike the Knight!!!!}

In my head, I know that every act of resistance is an opportunity for me to push back that much harder. Be firm.  Unmoving.  Unfeeling.   To say, "Tough toenails, kiddo.  I'm the MOM."  

But the reality is that I don't want to be the mom sometimes.  I want to be some obscure, favorite aunt who isn't around enough to wear out her welcome and therefore, has an endless supply of patience and energy (and candy).  She would be so much better to do all of the negotiating and coercing.  Because, truth be told, I'm just a bit of a pushover.  And I'm not so much interested in laying down the law as much as I'm interested in peace and quiet.  And sometimes, I just want a few extra minutes to muster up enough grit to forge ahead with a diaper change that could truly gag a maggot, or the ridiculous (and yet, impressive) display of stall tactics at bedtime.  

So, through a combination of happenstance and necessity, we've landed on the "five minutes" rule.  Every parent has said it:  "Fine. Five more minutes."  It's a compromise of sorts, because let's be honest:  as parents, we've met our matches.  These beautiful creatures who captivate us because we have no idea what we ever did to deserve to feel such love are also nature's pay-back for all the crap we did to our parents.   Sure, they're only 3 feet tall and can't control their bodily functions, but there's no denying that they've had us at their mercy from the day we brought them home from the hospital.  

So at times, I just like to give them the illusion of control.  Not giving in, per se, rather handing over an inch or two of the reigns without letting them take full control of the horse.  Ultimately, it buys them time to do whatever it is that's so incredibly important, and it gives me time to gather my nerves and patience.  And to top it all off, I'm momentarily spared the attitude and soul-sucking whine.  Maybe they'll forget that they didn't want to go to bed... 

But what I've found, surprisingly, is that those five minutes are often all that's needed.  Ella has now learned (and somewhat accepted) that when the timer goes off, there's no more debating.  She knows that she only gets one five minute rule at a time in our house.  And for me?  Those five fleeting minutes give me time to not be the bad guy, the negotiator, the time-out placer, the layer-down-of-the-law, the frazzled cook,  schedule coordinator, endless supplier of boo-boo kisses, and the car-pool fairy.

For five more minutes, I just get to be someone who maybe gets to finish her cup of coffee in peace.   And that's enough for me. 

 

Death by Chocolate

Willpower isn't one of my strong points.  This is one of the many reasons I loved being pregnant (you know, after I started to like food again).  "Hey, are you gonna eat that other bear-claw?" and "Yes, I will make that a Route 44-super-extra-jumbo milkshake, thank you."

However, this is why I don't often like to buy things at the store such as cookie dough or Double Stuf oreos.  Once they're in our fridge or pantry, it's ON.  (Oh, what I could do to a package of Double Stufs).  It sometimes takes all I have not to tear into them on my way home.  Then, heaven forbid that Ella has one of her special days.  Come nap-time, there's a 99.4% chance that I've already eaten an entire sleeve of oreos  (Yes, I sometimes eat my feelings.  But I do it with skim milk, so that has to count for something, right?)  My dad, on the other hand, is infamous for keeping a pack of M&M's on his desk and taking one solitary piece out at a time, munching it, then folding the package back up and leaving it for the rest of the day.  WHO DOES THAT?  And more importantly, why didn't I get THAT gene?

This is the first summer in nearly four years that I have a) not been pregnant and b) not been burning through an extra 500 calories a day just by sitting on the couch being a milk factory for someone.  And while I'm looking quite forward to not feeling pukey and/or not having some kind of swimsuit wardrobe malfunction brought on by my ever-growing mammaries, I'm also realizing that there has been little to no discipline in my eating habits for a looooong time.  My willpower, for all intents and purposes, is like a muscle that's lost it's tone.  It sags.  It jiggles.  It burns when I run up our steps (wait, maybe those are my glutes).

So I come up with ways around actually practicing some restraint.  Have you ever done this?  I figure if I can just outsmart myself, I'm golden.  It's nap-time, and I'm hitting that 2 p.m. brick wall:

...I need some caffeine.  Time for some coffee.


...{takes a sip} Hmm...One of those Ghirardelli dark chocolate-caramel things would be AWESOME with this cup of coffee.  {sip}  I want one.  


...Nope. {pours in more coffee creamer}.  I'll just make my coffee taste sweeter instead.


...{sip} Hmph.  Now it doesn't taste right.  I'll need to munch on something to off-set it.  Hey- I know! I'll have some vanilla wafers.  Those would be good.  They're low-fat.  {grabs box of wafers} ....I still really want that chocolate.  Nope.  I'm going to abstain.  Just eat these.  Hey look- they actually call them 'Nilla' Wafers.  My bad.  Wonder why they don't just say "Vanilla??"  {desperately trying to think of anything BUT the chocolates}  Wonder who invented 'Nilla Wafers, anyway?  Wonder if they make Chocolate Wafers.  Would they call them 'Colate' Wafers?  Maybe 'Choco' Wafers...{sip}  I really want some chocolate.


...Okay, I'll compromise.  Just eat something with small bits of chocolate, maybe.  Just enough to take the edge off.  A quaker chocolate chip granola bar.  Perfect!  {inhales the granola bar}  {Checks Facebook}.  {Checks Pinterest} {Sees a pin for dark chocolate caramel brownies}.  *sigh*.  That granola bar was actually pretty anti-climactic.  I've still got half a cup of my coffee left.  And I HAVE been eating healthily today up until, well, an hour ago.   Maybe I'll just eat a salad for dinner...{willpower officially disintegrates}.

So, I end up eating the Ghirardelli chocolate covered caramel square after all.  After all of that- all of the extra calories I consumed while trying NOT to eat it- when I would have been better off (calorie-wise, at least) just eating it right when I wanted it.  I'd still like to give myself an A for effort though.  I had good intentions, really.  (Okay, maybe an A-).


Bottom line: Maybe it is better to ask for forgiveness rather than permission after all (even if you're asking it from yourself).


So carry on, fellow chocolate lovers. ;-)

K

Balancing Act

Anyone who knows me knows that I am a planner.   I need to know when, where, how, why, and have the teensiest of details worked out.  Trips, events, grocery shopping, outfits, even next week's nail color.  I've been this way for as long as I can remember.

It must be true, then, that opposites attract, because I met and fell in love with a guy who loves to "roll with the punches."  It's one of the things that makes me love him so and yet annoys me to no end.   When we first met, he would sometimes ask me if I wanted to go for a drive. "Sure!" I'd say.  "Let's go.  Where are we going?"

"Oh, just for a drive.  I don't know, we'll decide on the way."

Um, what?  Who does that?  What if I'm wearing a completely inappropriate pair of shoes for whereever we end up?  Is this a long drive or a short drive?  Should I pee before we leave?  Why didn't he realize that these were important considerations?  Of course, I kept my high maintenance mouth shut for fear of scaring him away, remembering that he did come to pick me up in a jeep for our first date, after all.  (That really said it all).

So naturally, when it came time to start a family, he said, "eh, let's just see what happens." And once again, my detail-oriented (and impatient) brain computed this as, "you will be 39 by the time you have your first child."  I saw no need to waste perfectly good eggs.  Clearly, he hadn't yet familiarized himself with the latest fertility charting software and thus, needed to know how crucial the timing was.  Luckily- gratefully- we got pregnant right away.  But now looking back, I can honestly say that was essentially the last time I had some kind of control (or any illusion of it, at least) as it pertained to my life.

Because after Ella started growing in my belly, I realized that ultimately, I had no control over whether the pregnancy would be viable.  Scary.

I had a due date.  She made me wait a week longer.  Torture.

I had planned for a vaginal delivery.  (I typed up my birth "plan."  Don't judge). She apparently didn't like the shape of my pelvis.  PAINFUL (and again, scary).

And that was really just the beginning.

Of course, a few things I planned to do did work in my favor.  But I learned to view those instances as happy surprises rather than things I was banking on.

Now, almost three years into being a mommy, I realize that most of my days are comprised of minute-to-minute plans that get train-wrecked or abandoned.  It comes with the territory when your kids are 20 months apart and both under the age of three.  I won't lie- it SUCKS sometimes.  Unfortunately, there are times when I'm just selfish enough to take it out on them or Jake.   And yet, it's futile.  I could cry and stomp my feet all I want (and I'd be in perfectly good company) but it doesn't change a thing.  This is what I signed up for.  I didn't realize it at the time, but the day that I got my positive pregnancy test, I essentially took my planner, my spreadsheets, my preconceived notions- all of them- and chucked them out the window.  I still remember buying mother's day cards for my mom when I was younger (and not yet a mom).  All of them- even the funny ones- were streaked with words like "unconditional," "sacrifice," and "selfless."  I understood and appreciated (in my own way) that she gave up things for me, but those words didn't carry the same weight then that they do now.  As it turns out, Hallmark was dead on; "mother" is pretty much synonymous for "sacrifice."

I'm sure that any mom can rattle off a handful of everyday, run-of-the-mill sacrifices that are commonplace: you don't remember what good sleep feels like.  Your hips will never look the same again, for better or for worse.  Your dinner is always cold by the time you actually sit down to eat it.  You don't always get a shower.  The money that you would normally put aside for that manicure or new pair of shoes is now being syphoned into the Pampers Fund.  You planned to have a date night, but then one of the kids got sick.  You wanted to watch The Today Show, but Peppa Pig- once again- trumped Matt Lauer.  And although you're never consciously keeping score, you find yourself stopping mid-diaper change and remembering how you used to be able to leave your house when you wanted to- without any regard to car-seat configuration, naptimes, and/or lack of clean clothes.  For a moment, you're wistful.  Then grateful.  Then exhausted.  Wash, rinse, repeat.  Every single day.  And those typically are the days that you leave an exhausted and semi-coherent message on your best-friends voice-mail because you just want to hear someone else say they understand.   That, and you just want to speak to someone who doesn't crap their pants.

And then there are those sacrifices that cost a bit more, that cut just a bit deeper.  Those that your children may never fully understand or appreciate.  (Maybe you pray that they won't ever have to understand it for themselves).  The ones that find you sobbing in the solitude of your shower, or having heated "discussions" with your partner behind closed bedroom doors, or up at 2 a.m. fighting off the monsters in your own closet.  You find yourself thinking...


"My kids will always know..."

"I don't want them to ever be...."

"I don't care what it takes, I'll never...."

"I want them to remember that..."




Behind each of these thoughts is sacrifice.  A conscious decision to keep your bucket- which is filled to the brim with years of lessons learned the hard way, fears, insecurities- from spilling over onto the ones you love the most, no matter what the cost.  Sometimes it does spill over, despite your best efforts.   But over time, you learn to balance it somehow.  Some days it feels heavier than others- that bucket on one hip, a fifteen month-old on the other, and a three year old clinging to your leg.  But you manage.  You see the bigger picture.  And you hope that one day, when they have buckets of their own (because they will) they'll learn to balance them the way you did.   And on those days when their own buckets are filled with the weight of the world, you can then look at them and say,  "I know how you feel."   There is truly no substitute for experience.


Sacrifice begets sacrifice the way that love begets love.  It's impossible to have one without the other.

A Wounded Healer

There's a subtle yet powerful difference between seeing a doctor who, without so much as a second glance, writes you a prescription, and the one who actually sits down and empathizes with you (and who may or may not then offer you the same prescription). 

I saw a total of three counselors and two different psychiatrists in my initial journey to overcome emetophobia before landing (by complete happenstance) on the site of my current counselor/clinician. At first, I was wary of contacting her.  Slightly jaded, more than a little bitter, and hesitant to pay another several hundred dollars with potentially marginal results to show for it.  

But then I read her story.  And it was different.   

Her words painted a picture of someone who had been exactly where I was right at that very moment.  Someone else who had once- perhaps hundreds of times- thought that this was as good as it was gonna get.   Living life on the sidelines.  Front row in the cheering section but never dancing down the court.  I wondered if maybe marginal results were all I could ever expect and hope for.  Maybe I should settle and be content.

But this wasn't her narrative.  I dove headfirst into her blog that night and ravenously devoured her articles with a renowned sense of hope.  It was the first time in years that I could see myself on the other side of this thing.   It's now been 16 months, and to say that she has done what no one else could have done for me is an understatement.  Yes, she's a registered clinical counselor.  Yes, she specializes in CBT (cognitive behavioral therapy).  Yes, she's done years of research and works with clients and therapists all over the world.  But in my personal opinion, none of that mattered nearly as much to me as the fact that she had recovered from the same phobia I was currently living with.

She knew the fear I spoke of because she had lived with it for twenty years.  She not only had survived it, but beat it.   She is a wife and a mother.  She "got it" in a way that my other therapists couldn't.  As sympathetic and tactful as they tried to be, they just couldn't put themselves in my shoes.  And for so long, that's all I really needed.  Meds are a wonderful tool to get you from point A to point B with less damage than if you hadn't had them, but I can honestly say that there was no amount of Xanax in the world that could've worked this out in my soul.   

She and I meet once a month now- mostly as a touch-point, and it seems we spend a good portion of it talking about things that don't necessarily relate directly to the phobia.  After our session this evening, I found myself a bit tearful as I talked with Jake about our session.  Never has it been so apparent to me the need for these "wounded healers."  People who have "been there, done that."  Those who are willing to expose their own scars- no matter how deep- for the sake of helping to heal someone else's.  And it was tonight, that perhaps I realized for the first time, how fortunate I am to be surrounded by so many of these types.

My husband.

My close friends.

My women's group.

My online mama friends.

They have offered out-stretched hands to me time and time again, not only reassuring me that I wasn't alone, but in doing so, making themselves vulnerable as well.  Have you ever held out your hand to someone and had it rejected?  It stings.  It's embarrassing.  It makes you a little more reluctant to offer it a second time.  I am in no way deserving of second chances.  But I've been offered them, nonetheless.  Hell, I've been offered 962 chances.  (At least).  There's something almost transformative though, about hearing someone say, "I know exactly how you feel," or "I went through the same ordeal."

Until you've been through a divorce, you don't know the sting of that separation.

Until you've been through a marriage that's seen the devastation of a porn addiction, you don't know the demons that are lurking there.

Until you've struggled with infertility, you don't know the heartache.

That doesn't mean you can't still offer a shoulder to cry on.  (I've always believed that shoulders are pretty overrated, with the exception of this one role). ;-)  What I think it does mean, is that the dark days we have endured (or will endure)- when we find ourselves bruised, beaten and bewildered- are always for a reason.  That reason may not become apparent to us for another ten years, so maybe this requires us to trust in a bigger picture.   If you think about it, our world is chock-full of wounded people.  Pain exempts no one.  And when it comes down to it, there are really only two options: be jaded, or be empathetic.

My scars are still a bit tender.  And they absolutely, positively cost me something.  But tonight, I was reminded that they might, in fact, be my best attributes after all. 

 

How Low Can You Go?

It's never a good sign when your daughter is already crying before she sets foot in your room at 6:25 a.m. Ella had clearly gotten up on the wrong side of the bed this morning. Which reminds me, I'd like to meet the person who coined the phrase, "the wrong side of the bed." I'd like to point out to them that in our house, there isn't such a thing as the "right" side of the bed anymore. There hasn't been one in almost two years, and probably won't be one for another fifteen more. So there.



And thus began our Wednesday.



Trying to be the optimist, I thought, "well, maybe it can only improve from here."



It didn't.



It still hasn't.



But at least now there's silence. It's almost deafening. Nap-time was once again preceded by a tantrum that would make even a New Jersey housewife jealous. I shut the door to her room, locked it, and walked away, bracing myself to go for the long haul with this one. I figured I might need some help steeling my nerves so I sat on the couch and mindlessly shoved several thin mints into my mouth. (Ah, comfort food). Upstairs, I heard Ella's room being ripped to shreds. All of the Melissa & Doug food being hurled at her door. Books being torn from bookshelves. Brobee's muffled voice singing about a party in his tummy, so yummy, so yummy yu-- a thud, and then silence. (Poor Brobee). In this relentless battle of wills that is the two's (and so I hear- the three's and fours....), I may have momentarily won the battle, but the paranoid and insecure side of me often wonders if I'm just one step closer to losing the war. I wonder if she knows how defeated I feel. I wonder if she knows that, with every instance of me losing my temper or placing her in her room to "cool off," I worry that I'm inadvertently chipping away at her beautiful, fiery spirit that on most other days, I envy for myself. Oh, I complain about changing diapers, wiping noses, and picking up dried, crusted strawberries off of the floor every day, but I'm actually quite good at those things. I could do that until the cows come home. But this whole thing of taking it upon myself to raise another human being to be a kind, compassionate, loving, and disciplined individual? Some days, I don't know how that's going to turn out. (Meanwhile, I'm sure it's written in the "How to Be a Successful Mommy" manual that they gave me when I left the hospital with her, but oddly, I haven't been able to find it since we got home...)



I was reminded of the study that was published a few years ago which found that the happiest place in the world is, quite surprisingly, Denmark. (I know, I know- I still can't believe Disneyworld didn't make the cut...) The Danish people, sandwiched in between their seemingly better-looking neighbors- Sweden and Norway, with their mediocre weather, and self-proclaimed heavy smoking/drinking habits have consistently made it to the top of the happy list because they seem to excel in something that we American's have always struggled with: setting the bar low and keeping it there. It's also entirely possible that most people there truly don't give a rip about what others think. It would make sense that if you aren't expecting too much (either from yourself or from anyone else) then who cares if others are impressed or not?



If you stop and think about it, it's actually quite brilliant.



So today, I don't care that my daughter has not had any clothes on since 7:30 a.m. I'm picking my battles carefully these days, and that's not one I care to fight. She has also eaten her weight in Craisins today, and if you're good at math, you'll figure out, that's a hell of a lot of Craisins. She'll probably be pooping Craisins until her 3rd birthday, but again, not my battle. There are worse things she could want to eat.



I may have started today (and many others) with an expectation bar that was several notches higher than what it should have been. And the reasons why it was set high to begin with are actually quite irrelevant at this point. Bottom line: some days, it's enough to make sure your kids are fed and aren't sitting in their own crap. Nothing more. You may not be able to get a shower or get makeup on. This is why God created baseball caps and deoderant. You may not even get them dressed. Bonus points if you do. Triple bonus points if the outfit actually matches. Also, don't expect them to act like normal, civilized human beings. They're irrational, narcissistic, and bi-polar- at best. Of course, I'm not advocating that we should all wake up each morning with a giant chip on our shoulder, but perhaps, if we decide that, as parents, anything above and beyond the mere basics is just icing on the cake, we'll find ourselves more pleasantly surprised instead of just plain exhausted.


Maybe. One can hope, right? So, how low can you go...?

You Might Be in the Two Week Wait If...

Almost all women have been there at one point in time or the other. Some have been there more times than they'd like, and it's an all too familiar, torturous place. In many cases, it's planned and meticulously calculated. Other times, a woman realizes her math skills were a bit off or perhaps there was an, ahem, "malfunction" and boom, there she is again. Then, of course there are those lucky few who seem to bypass it altogether when, one day, they're sitting on the couch or at their desk and suddenly they think, "hey...wait a minute...wasn't my period supposed to start a week ago?" A trip to the bathroom confirms their suspicions, and lo and behold, they've blown through the 2WW without any symptom obsessing. How nice is that?


But no matter the circumstance that got you into the two week wait (other than the very obvious one), one thing can be certain after you get there: you will obsess over your body and every little symptom. And if you thought your body was mysterious before trying to conceive, you ain't seen nothin' yet. So, for a bit of levity, because I know several women who may in fact, be hanging out in this purgatory for the next little bit (no, not me, I promise).... a list:


You Might Be In the Two Week Wait If....


1. Upon discovering a new symptom, you immediately google it to see how many other women have experienced it too.



2. You might, however, be embarrassed for anyone to see what it was you just googled. Lucky for you, they probably can't understand forum-speak. Ex: BBT spike w/POS OPK on CD 21 but EWCM on DPO 4. WTF??



3. If you've been charting to conceive, you may find yourself playing with your chart, making it look all nice and triphasic. And then, ultimately, you go back and delete all of the temperatures and put in the ones you really have. And it's not nearly as pretty.



4. You continue to obsess over possible symptoms and get excited about the fact that your boobs are beginning to hurt. You periodically check to make sure that they still hurt by pressing on them when no one is looking. If you're out in public and fear being viewed as a perv, you simply pretend to get a chill and hug your forearms across your chest. (You're welcome).



5. Every bathroom trip requires a 5 minute exhaustive inspection of the toilet paper. I'll leave it at that.



6. Upon feeling a wave of nausea, your first instinct is to think, "YESSSSSSS!!!!" And then you find yourself praying that maybe you might dry heave a couple of times when you brush your teeth, just for good measure.



7. Everywhere you go, you see baby bumps. Bumps in Target, bumps in the ladies restroom, bumps waddling down the street in your neighborhood. You swear, you've never seen this many of them when you weren't waiting to find out if you were going to have one of your own.



8. Out of habit, you accidentally refer to your husband as "DH," and your period as "AF" when talking to the nurse on the phone.




9. You have a collection of pregnancy tests under your bathroom sink: IC's to dip when the urge strikes, FRER's for backing up the IC's, and digitals (aka "the big guns") for backing up the FRER's. But rest assured, your husband will not believe you're actually pregnant until he sees the one with it spelled out nice and pretty. Don't even bother asking him to look at lines.



10. Yes, you're only 5 dpo, but that's not too early to get a line on a test. Right? I mean, it could happen....right?







So, if you found yourself thinking "OMG, I've done that" while reading at least half of the above, congratulations. You're not weird and you're not alone. You just might be slightly obsessed. And we (as women) get it. No need to feel bad. We all just want our bodies to stop messing with us and give it to us straight.


So whatever answer it is you're waiting for, I hope you get the one you want in a few (very long and drawn out) days. ;-)

It's the Little Things

It's 8:15 on a crisp, clear, Saturday morning. The kids are away at Grammy and Pop's and thus, I went to bed entirely too late for my own good last night.

"That's okay, I'll sleep in tomorrow," I thought.

And like clockwork, my body woke up a few minutes after 7. And it wouldn't go back to sleep. My bladder was on the verge of bursting and I was ravenous.

I think I pleaded with my bladder in some kind of a lucid dream. Have you ever done that?

No...don't make me get up. Go away. Stop filling up with pee. Just let me sleep another 20 minutes. (Not entirely different from how I plead with Ella to just let me lay there for a few more minutes when she bounces onto my side of the bed every morning. But I have a stubborn daughter. And as it turns out, an impatient bladder, as well).

Then it was my empty stomach and the burning, ravenous hunger pangs. Oh, for the LOVE. It seemed my body was sabotaging any attempt I made to drift back to sleep. And so I got up and deliriously stumbled first to the bathroom, then downstairs to the coffee pot. Always in that order. I've pretty much resigned myself to the fact that the days of truly good sleep are over. They ended back when I was maybe around 18. Right before I went to college and stayed up late studying and practicing by week, and lost sleep on the weekends in the name of having a social life. Then it was marriage, and my sleep was okay for a while, then pregnancy...and well, the rest, they say, is history. I might be able to salvage a few good years between now and menopause. But my guess is that good sleep will become increasingly chemically-induced, or happenstance. Alignment of certain planets and such.

But I sit here with a cup of french roast and although I'm awake a good two hours earlier than I would like to be, I'm savoring the quiet living room. Relishing that I'm not hearing Dora's annoying, repetitive voice. Breathing in the fresh citrus scent of the new candle I bought, rather than the stench of a freshly squeezed diaper bomb. I went out with a group of fantastic girls last night- one of whom happens to be a dear friend (and who also happens to be getting married NEXT WEEKEND). :-) And even though I only had one glass of wine, I'm surprised that I feel pretty rotten this morning. What's up with that?? I wistfully reflect on the stamina that my 22 year old self had. Where on earth is that intestinal fortitude I had in the midst of vile hangovers- the kind that got me through playing exams, juries, and 8 am classes when a night of drinking seemed to magically resolve itself by 11 a.m. or noon, at the very latest. (This wasn't always the case though, as I learned the hard way one time that's it's never ever EVER a smart idea to drink an entire bottle of cab sav the night before an 8 a.m. clarinet playing exam).

Here it is almost a decade later and this girl right here can have two (ish) glasses of wine and fall asleep in her own puddle of drool on the couch at 10:30 pm, then still somehow feel as though she got hit by a semi the next morning when she's trying to dice up bananas and mini-waffles for her kids. (I mean seriously, why can't they get their own breakfast??) ;-)

I'm not even sure where this post is going. I think I'm just enjoying being able to sit and write without being interrupted. Perhaps the silver lining of the cloud that is my inability to sleep in, is the opportunity to expand my definition of "rest." And for today, it takes the shape of a single blog post, written start to finish in one sitting, in a quiet living room.