Just by a Little

Often in the evenings, when weather and lighting permit (which most nights they do, the reason I live in Southern Arizona) Gage and I spend until dark playing in the backyard. We play lots of games, like "racing" down the slide (I make the beeping noises from Mario Kart, and Gage races down the slide on his swingset), and tickle monster.

But my favorite game is racing back and forth across the yard. It's a very long yard, and it makes for a long and arduous trek between the walls. There are treacherous "holes" to trip on, "opponents" that knock us over, and imaginary "freeze" spots (which honestly took me quite some time to get what Gage was doing). It starts at one end of the yard, both of us poised, then the announcement: "On your mark, get set..." and Gage is off before I can say "GO!" Whether this is due to pure excitement or poor sportsmanship, I haven't quite figured out.

"You cheater!" I exclaim as I run after Gage, easily catching up to him, then dropping back. "Cheetah!" squeals Gage with delight as he looks back to watch me eat his dust. I am certain this means he thinks I am swift like a cheetah. Certain. We run across the yard, me getting ahead of Gage, then letting him get ahead, and so on, until he barely reaches the wall before me, allowing him to win, just by a little.

It is so amazing to see that little imagination at work, those little legs moving as fast as they can, the beautiful sound of his squeals and laughter as I catch up to him. The game is so much fun, I find myself giddy and giggling until my laughter is coming out bubbly, and in staccato rhythm with my strides. Both of us running, laughing, like we're just two toddlers having a playdate.

At the end of the night, when my legs (and lungs) have had their fill, I tell Gage, "Just one more time," as I huff and puff along behind him. And like when he falls and I pause for him, Gage now assumes the patient role, waiting for me to catch up, then running ahead, and waiting for me. Then he reaches the wall before I do, allowing himself to win... But just by a little.

The Smell of Home

I remember when I was in junior high and a friend came to my house before school. She stood in the doorway and inhaled deeply through her nose. She loved the smell of my house. I had never paid much attention to this before, but ever since that day I have always been grateful for the smell of home.

It is this smell that is a part of my story. The lingering scent of the cooked foods that has soaked into the wood of the kitchen cabinets. The mix of soap, fabric softener, and after shave. And the well placed reed diffusers and Wallfowers. It's not just the scent that means so much, but the memories the scent conjure: of childhood innocence, of first loves, first babies.

I remember the first time I came home from college for the weekend, and I opened my bag and the scent of my home came out. Not the one I had been raised in, but my current Tucson home. Even in my dorm, all of my possessions still smelled like Mom and Dad's. This was so foreign to me, to be in the home I grew up in and realize that will never be the smell of home to me anymore. That Sunday when I went back home to Tucson, it was so much more comforting to walk into that tiny apartment. It was the first time I felt like Tucson was home.

I remember when my parents moved to Tucson, and I was visiting their house in Phoenix and sudden sadness overcame me: what if their new house didn't smell the same? What if this was the last time I would experience the scent of my childhood? I buried my face in a blanket and just stayed there, breathing in the scent, trying to make a map of it in my brain so I might never forget it. (Gladly, their new home smells like their old home. My old home.)

Now, when I'm not home, I will open my suitcase and wait for it: the scent of home to remind me where I come from, where I belong. And when I come home, there is no better feeling than putting our well traveled luggage down and laying on the sofa, cuddling with a pillow that smells like the home that will always be waiting for me.

Yuppie Fish

So, I told Mark I started a blog, and he just rolled his eyes and gave me the "you're so lucky I married you" look, which is both annoying and endearing. I didn't know why, so I asked (makes sense) and he called me a yuppie! I'm not sure how I feel about this.


I suppose there are worse things he could have called me. But he said it like it was an insult, or at least undsireable. I don't really think I'm a yuppie. I have my fair share of red neck in me, which he also never lets me forget (like he doesn't have any red neck in him...), and I'm not gonna lie: I'm a little proud of that.



I had some guy in a parking lot call me a Yankee once. I apparently took his spot (there were, like, 16 available... whatever) so he waited for me to get out of my car and yelled at me, ending it with "you stupid Yankee *****." I think he meant yuppie. Either way, I ignored him, only a little satisfied he meant to call me a yuppie.


Whether or not he meant it in a kind way, I suppose it's mostly true. Either way, the orchid is still alive, so it must be a good balance of yuppie and red neck. Just don't call me late for dinner!

Wailing Orchids

Up until today, my week has felt like a string of very long Mondays. Which honestly seems a little unfair. I know I just had almost two weeks off, but most of it was riddled with stress, so I think I deserved a Tuesday and a Wednesday. But this is life.

Today we took Gage back to the pediatric surgeon who said she is pleased with the way his head looks (pat on the back) and will take the stitches out Monday. Gage was very relieved there was no touching of the head. We will be going back to UMC to place him under general anesthesia again to remove the stitches, which does make me feel better. It may seem extreme to everyone else, but I am tired of holding him down while he screams. It's exhausting.

In other news, Mark got me an orchid to kill for Valentine's Day. I understand this likely wasn't his original intent (I am hoping that was love) but I have no doubt I will be the death of the orchid. I apparently have to water it every Friday, so it's less maintenance than... most things in life. I used to say the only reason I ever remembered to feed Gage was because he cried. Let's hope the flower doesn't cry.