There is a spider that lives in my shower. I had meant to get it out of there while cleaning my bathroom months ago. But I hadn’t. So there he lived, minding his business, affecting nothing.

The day I found out that my friend’s baby had Trisomy 18, I stood soaking in my shower and hating that spider. Why? That spider was likely to outlive this new life. That seemed more unfair and impossible than any other fact of life I had ever experienced. I hated that spider with every part of me. I wanted to swat it down from there and be done with it. But I didn’t.

A handful of days later, I arrived at my friend’s apartment with my bag and my heart in hand. I stepped through the door and found the sounds and smells of warmth and home. There was joy and children laughing here. Voices, hugging, coming and going and comfort. And there, by her sleeping daddy’s side, nestled deeply in the coziest wrappings of blankets and and all of this wonderful love around her was the baby.

I was pretty selfish about her right from the get go. Give her to me. I needed to be with this baby. But I wasn’t the only one. Over the next few days, people came. Family, friends, letters, emails, phone calls, Facebook comments, small packages, enormous tin-foiled servings of food, flowers, people and more people. All of this and the love they stood for arrived to that very same apartment. We were all pulled into orbit around this perfect wonder, who stared up from her wrappings and watched us all.

I’m not sure she knew what the fuss was about. You see, this girl was more concerned about just being a baby. She slept, she cried, she fussed when she was hungry, she gulped down milk while propped up in loving arms, she needed burping, she needed changing, she smiled in her sleep, she carried on doing the very important business of a baby. She also watched her mama. In the wee hours, she (like any newborn with their sleeping and waking wildly mixed up) was wide awake and mesmerized by her mother’s voice. Alert, eyes wide open, tiny lips in an “O”, she stared up at her and punched her arms a bit and stared some more. Her mama amazed her.

So, while being very busy at the business at being baby, this child somehow stirred up all that had settled in our souls. She awoke and re-energized our hearts and brought love and joy sharply into focus. While we gathered and her heard story, our lives were forever shifted on their axes, driving us to think carefully about all that we cherish in this very moment. With dark eyes watching, she inspired everyone of us to look inward and kick the dust off our joy, reminding us what we so easily take for granted.

Did you ever notice that her fingers were crossed? Even this sweet trait of hers inspired me. “Fingers crossed that you get what I’m trying to say here, Auntie. Fingers crossed you are loving your life and all you have in it.”

I do.

So, back to that spider. I haven’t been home to see if that spider still resides in my shower but I suspect that he does. But here’s the thing about that spider. During his lifetime living in the corner of a ceiling affecting nothing, he will never EVER conjure up, create or inspire the kind of love our wonderful girl did in 40 days. In fact, how many of us could say that we have done what she has in the many years of our own lives? It doesn’t matter how long you have, it is what you do and you give that matters.

She was a precious gift. She was pure joy wrapped in a blanket. She was our reminder to love, right now and everyday after this.

In her honor, I will do everything I can to reach deep down and keep that soul of mine and the love I have in my life dusted off, held up and celebrated. 40 days, 40 years, 80 years, it is what I choose to do, not how long I have to do it. I hope I can keep this up for you, sweet baby. I will certainly do my very best. Fingers crossed.

In the past, I thought forward. I considered and dreamed about my so very dear adult-life. The man I would marry. I wrote lists of names for my children. I sighed about where we would live.  I would wonder how they would look. My so very perfect, just-so life.

And I said I would take my children to The Nutcracker someday. When *I* was a mother. And they would, of course, love it as much as I did.

That day came last week. My son had seemed interested so now, at 8, I decided it was time he went. But at 38, I try not to get too caught up in romanticising what I will do with my children anymore. Things change, kids don’t like what you did a lot of the time, real-life isn’t so make-believe. But I bought the tickets and I took him. We held hands. We walked along the Riverwalk before the show. We sat and read the program and ate cough drops together and giggled about how we couldn’t stop coughing. When the lights went down and he heard the music, he smiled. And he turned to me. He got it right away. He loved it like I had. This was something special for him, too.

Suddenly I became far too aware that the future that I had day-dreamed about for so many years is happening right now. There are no more second chances, there no do-overs. This is it. My life. My adult life. And these are my children doing some of the things I dreamed and many that I didn’t.

This Christmas season has brought lots of difficult news. Apart from some things that I have written about, two friends have been diagnosed with breast cancer (one being one of my closet college friends), there are friends with very sick relatives, some with new concerns about their children, others who have had miscarriages, and others who have lost jobs. And while things remain blessedly peaceful and healthy in my life, there is a lot of coping and getting through the season happening all around me.

Again, it is very clear to me that every hope and dream for the future is so very very uncertain.

So, I don’t want to look forward so much anymore. I don’t want to think about what will happen in my dreamy little grown-up world. And I don’t want to think about what could have been or how things used to be. I want to grab hold of the present and BE entirely in it.

I want to tie myself to this very moment and experience it and let every taste and sound and feeling sink right on in. I don’t want to miss a thing, I want my eyes wide open to it all.

There will never be another first time I get to take my oldest child to The Nutcracker. So I sat in the theater and held his hand and watched him watch and laugh and listen and clap loudly. It was perfect and everything right now needs to be.

This, my life, is happening right now. This Christmas, this time when both of my children still believe in Santa and shamelessly dance “Christmas is almost here” dances in the hallway together, in Spider-man jammies… this is happening RIGHT NOW. 8 and 5 turns into 9 and 6 next year. And on it goes.

I cherish every Christmas past. I hope for many Christmases in the future. But I am living and breathing this Christmas present. I have what I have right now — and it is a gift.

To inspire little boy smiles for our family Christmas card, we pretended to pick my 8yo’s nose.

(Now I kind of wish I had “picked” this one for our card… har har.)

However. There is beauty in all of this. So I will try to scrape some semblance of written sense together to explain where that beauty is tucked around all the horror, settling all of us down.

I’ve found beauty in this child. I just returned from spending 3 days with her. I cupped her tiny head in my hands, fed her a bottle, and sang to her in the wee hours. Her tiny black eyes met mine, he fingers curled around mine, she rooted and snuggled and wrapped herself around my heart for warmth. I’m in love. Utterly and truly in love.

I’ve found beauty in her parents. They know they were chosen to care for this child, they know they are meant to do this and that they can handle it. They know her time is limited and it is their job to make her existence as comfortable and meaningful as possible. And, with their daughter home surrounded by family and bundled from one set of loving arms to another, it is both of these things

I’ve found beauty in the love that keeps knocking on their door and calling their phones and texting and emailing and Facebooking near and far. Love pours in constantly and at every hour. Selfless, unconditional love. People want to know her daughter. They leave food. They take their girls to the aquarium. They sit on their couch and love the new baby. They love them and love them and love them all. This tiny, sweet girl has created more love in 11 days than I have seen in my 38 years of life.

So, I’m left speechless and without my words. Because I can’t make much more sense of this than that. But maybe you can say something for me. Maybe you can leave words of love and support here for her. Could you do that? Could you tell her how amazing she is? Could you bolster her any way that you can? Could you share a favorite poem she should read to her girl? Anything really. I just ask that it is positive, that you celebrate this child’s life and bring love to her world.

In the meantime, if you want to see how another family found beauty and joy during their time with their child also diagnosed with Trisomy 18, please watch this.

Of course, I had flashbacks to 6 months earlier when his lungs sent him to the hospital for 5 days. That wasn’t pneumonia. But it was the flu and it started with just a cough and then a fever, too.

So I stared at him and fed him sips of water and wondered what I should do. Of course, I called the pediatrician 5 minutes before they opened the next morning and kept redialing until someone answered. By lunchtime, we were back from the pediatrician and he had finally settled down with three types of meds (one being antibiotics), a nebulizer and a very effective prescribed combo of lemon, honey and tea. It worked miracles. I knew his respiratory infection could have evolved into something worse, but it hadn’t because we had access to immediate medical care.

We have access.

Yesterday, I sat in on a conference call about World Pneumonia Day. Today is World Pneumonia day, in fact. On the phone were Dr. Richard Besser, ABC News’ senior health and medical editor, as well as Dr. Orin Levine, with the International Vaccine Access Center. A number of bloggers were on the call and, for an hour, we discussed the dangers of pneumonia in our country and worldwide.

Here’s the thing. Whether you live in a small village in India or whether you live in a comfortable home in the Tampa suburbs, pneumonia can happen to your children. In fact, a child dies from pneumonia every 20 seconds. The doctors on the call agreed that many are surprised that it is the number one killer of children under five. It certainly doesn’t get the recognition that other conditions do. But maybe that’s because it isn’t a huge first world health priority. For every child who dies from pneumonia in the industrialized world, 2,000 more die in developing countries. Why? Children there don’t have access to care and antibiotics.

We have access.

One doctor talked about the work children with pneumonia do just to breathe. He recalled a time in Africa when he held a nine month old baby in his arms who struggled and struggled to catch her breathe but could not. She died minutes later. What could have saved her? Knowledge about respiratory distress and simple antibiotics. Both Dr. Besser and Dr. Levine are working to increase access in these countries. Anyone can be trained to recognize the signs of respiratory distress. And antibiotics are extremely inexpensive to distribute. As dangerous as pneumonia is, it is also one of the most solvable deadly conditions we’re faced with.

I walked away from the conversation far more educated about the extent of this disease. I also sat down and appreciated just what my children have. Their risk of dying from pneumonia is far lower thanks to a pediatrician 10 minutes from my home, $5 antibiotics and basic knowledge about respiratory infections. We have that. So many do not.

Follow Prevent Pneumonia on Facebook. Take a moment to watch this quick video about World Pneumonia Day. Consider what you have. Consider what others do not. Learn what you can do here.

Glory, glory, thank you heavens and praise be the razor!!!

*doing the running man in my living room*

Ha! Move over Movember, my husband’s face is swoon-worthy once again!

But to keep it interesting, my husband did not shave the entire monstrosity off at once. Oh no. He took it off one piece at a time which resulted in a  number of mustache progressions. Naturally, I took pictures to share with you here. Get ready, folks. My husband is taking it ALL off for you, for me, for everyone to see….

The "Lawrence" from Office Space, 11 days old.

The traditional "Handlebar."

The "Tom Selleck."

The "Pencil-Thin" -- disturbing, ew.

The man I married. Shweet, shweel...

And before anyone says he bailed out too early, RECOGNIZE the fact that his facial growth FAR outdid anyone else’s we’ve seen. In fact, parents of recruits who had been to other campuses noted that his was the best, the fullest, the most outrageous they had seen — even on day 11. So. He did his part. And we can still do ours and donate to the cause. Because this insanity earned it, don’t you think?

Gulp.

Now let’s talk about me. Forget the charity and the good and the bonding that this facial hair frenzy offers the world. I don’t really care. I care about what I see when I roll over in bed in the morning. And what I see is this.

And this is only day ONE, people! But, of course, the way my brain processes a mustache of this caliber on my husband means that I see this guy instead.

THIS guy has replaced my husband. Someone hold me. I can’t bear it. I can’t possibly get too friendly with that. Not up in that grill. I just CAN’T.

And please don’t take it the wrong way if your partner has a mustache and you love it. That’s fantastic. I mean no offense. I think they look fine on some guys. But I just don’t like them on MY partner. Who is an outstanding and handsome individual. Swoon-worthy, really. So it’s not anyone else and their staches… it’s just my husband’s and what he is doing to that fantastic face…

Fine I’m a total mustache bigot. FINE. I can’t put aside my distaste even for cancer-fighting goodness. Yep, this liberal has found a charity she can’t whole-heartedly back because her husband’s mustache turns her stomach. Write your disdain, show your disappointment, how DARE I.

…Is there any sympathy out there? Any at all?

*crickets*

So, in case there are any people out there suffering through Movemeber with me, I have a few tips. They aren’t a perfect fix but they will work when you have no other options.

1. Avoid eye contact with it. Hopefully your memory of your partner’s stache-less face is still intact.
2. Keep clean-shaven pictures around. That will help keep the stache-less memory alive.
3. Hold your finger under his nose when you get close. Like he’s going to sneeze but you’re stopping it. How nice of you!
4. Give him a lot of back massages.
5. Read a book and when you talk to him, hold it in front of you so that all you see are his eyes. Such nice eyes, aren’t they?
6. Turn off the lights. It’s good for the environment!
7. Don’t put those Halloween costumes away just yet! Get out the masks! Fun!
8. Tell him you’re into wild west bandits that are about to rob a bank and a kerchief around his face is so super hot.
9. Take off your glasses. This trick works best for legally blind folk like myself.
10. Grow your own. Just saying. Eye for an eye.

 UPDATE

Four days later, and now THIS. This is what I wake up to. After only four days. Speechless.

I often read my 8yo’s writing (*proud proud proud* of it, too) and am stunned by what he remembers. I can’t believe he has this or that stored away and then accessed over and over as “that time when we went to that place and this happened.” Why was that special? It wasn’t special. Was it?

It is dawning on me that I am responsible for my children’s official childhood memories.

Oh my God.

This seems more mind-blowing than the daily exhaustion of feeding, clothing, schooling, homeworking, driving them. Because so much of the very mundane, very everyday stuff will mostly be forgotten (I think). It is the traditions and the trips. The decorations I pull out and the chocolate chip pancakes on Saturday mornings that WILL be remembered. And I am in charge of all that. So I better make it good.

Fall Festival = Good Memory

I’m trying. I know I can’t over-think it. But I’m trying. So, today, we went to a corn maze — a tradition they have come to count on every October. We had a great time. Phew.

Because here’s the other part. While I am responsible for their memories, I can’t control what their minds snap hold of and never forgets. Will my 5 yo remember how I hollered at him when we got home about video games? I yelled that he needed to get outside, and “I don’t CARE what you’re saying, just stop bothering me already!” …Ugh. Will he remember that today, too? Because I was tired after a morning of driving an hour there, traipsing through a corn maze, rallying them through carnival games and driving them back. Sure, any adult could understand what set me off. But a child very often does not. So, will my 5yo remember “Yeah, we did this fun thing but my mom yelled at me about video games that day and it made me sad.”

Mommy Yelled About Video Games = Bad Memory

I suppose we can’t control what sends them to therapy one day. I suppose every mother does her pound of damage.

So the point is here that I’m aware. I’m aware that my children look to me and wait for me to create their childhood. They wait to be exposed to what is out there and then expect explanations. And if we just happen to do it over and over, it is “what WE do, in THIS family” and that is that.

I hope I can do right by them. I know I won’t. Not entirely. And they will tell me about the times I yelled at them someday. But I have to hold on to hope — and go into that weird place of denial most mothers do so that they don’t go insane with guilt — that these two very significant childhoods will be good enough.

Happy That-Time-of-Year-I-Better-Not-F-Up Holidays!

Sure, sure. I know. The term “mullet” is most certainly synonymous with certain 80′s flashback films and is one that folks tend to use in… ahem… jest. But that is not what I am doing here. No jesting at all, I promise you, so please read on.

Simon Le Bon

My dear Simon, you made the mullet HOT. You wore it so well back then. So well, in fact, that’s why people like my husband and other 30-something men who grew up around that era thought it was a good idea in the first place. It was cool as hell, and a little punk rock. It was toying with androgynous, probably somehow inspired by early 80′s Bowie, which pushed the envelope and challenged the norm. And women everywhere got all hot and bothered over breath-taking men with subtle (or not so subtle) women’s features. Like longish, well-styled hair. And that was a little crazy and dangerous and something our fathers did NOT like. And there was nothing wrong with that! Nothing wrong at all.

Sigh.

Ok, let me get to the point I am trying to make. I am thrilled to be one of the Duran Social bloggers and will be *giddily* attending your concert in Clearwater next Monday. My previously mullet-sporting husband will be there with me (after listening to HIS Duran Duran “best of” CD in the car on the way there… yes we have a CD player, lucky we don’t have an old tape going… and I would have had one of those if I hadn’t traded in my old Saturn last year… but I digress…). So, anyway, I was wondering. Is there no hope at all that you could grow out that mullet of yours again???

I know. It’s Wednesday. And the concert is Monday. These hopes and dreams of mine are damn near impossible. I know it can’t happen. But if it can’t, at least know this. I respect and adore your mullet days. Deeply. I promise you, there is not ONE ounce of disrespect or condescension in this post. I mean it. I loved your mullet. And I had a frayed poster magazine pull-out once upon a time to prove it. I swooned over you and your locks and, well, it kind of got me through puberty.

So, I guess if I can’t see your mullet next Monday, I can at least thank you for it. Right? So thank you. It. Was. Fabulous.

True Morningside Mom Duran Duran Facts:

• With teased hair, leg warmers and a red double studded belt on, I used to make up dances in my front yard to the song “Wild Boys” which played on my shiny new boom box. And I secretly longed for some Wild Boys in my life apart from what my Catholic middle school had to offer.
• I may have chosen certain guys to flirt with in High School simply because they kind of looked like Simon Le Bon. (Yes, they had mullets.)
• “Come Undone” was a college party panty-melter tune for me. No questions asked.
• My OB let me pick the radio station I wanted on during my second C-section. I picked the local 80′s station. And what song happened to be playing when my now five year old arrived into the world? “Hungry Like the Wolf.”  The child never stops eating, and it remains his anthem.

Thank you for over 20 years of fantastic music. I can’t wait to see you on Monday, and whatever is left of the mullet from so many years past.

Swoon and smooches,

Caroline

P.S. I’ll be the blond screaming your name in a spastic “Beatle-fan” froth next to a very tall, very mortified man who won’t be screaming at all.

P.P.S. For anyone who loved Simon and his mullet as hard as I did, Duran Duran tour dates are here.

P.P.P.S. Social media savvy super-fans, follow Duran Duran tweets at #Duransocial.

1) It happens to be October, and so I have done a lot of recent writing about breast cancer risks and prevention. (Want to know them? Here’s what Susan G. Komen has to say.)
2) I was shopping for wine when I took this picture. Even though I was well aware that alcohol increases your risk of breast cancer. By a lot. In fact, only one drink a day is reasonable, ladies — if that. And if you have 4 or 5 drinks a day, well, your risk is up by 50%. True Story.

So, there I was, wheely-wheeling down the Target wine aisle in search of some breast cancer causing wine for a nice relaxing evening on the coach with my husband, when I spotted this…

Really? Really.

For all their apparent best intentions, these pink ribbons need to back off. Enough already. They need to be kept for things that actually DO something to prevent breast cancer. Those things that, would you believe it, raise money for research. They should not be about how much better consumers feel about the products they buy when, in real life, only $ 0.000001 of what they spent lands anywhere near any real research.

“Oh GOOD I can buy this Cuisinart because it’s PINK and helps stop breast cancer! Oh and here’s a pink spatuala! And this cereal box has a ribbon too! Good! We’re protecting breasts everywhere with MY SHOPPING!”

Um, no.

(This has all been said before, of course. It’s called “pink-washing“, but I’m saying it here, too.)

“But we’re raising awareness!”

On an enormous bottle of cheap wine? Don’t insult me. Who are we kidding. Keep your pink ribbons off my booze. I know what that wine is doing and I know it has nothing good to do with breast cancer. I KNOW BETTER. And so should all of us.

Needless to say, I did not buy THAT particular bottle of cheap wine. I bought another brand — one without any cheery health-related logos, thank you very much.

Cheers.