Only to see Emma making every effort to ride one of the cats.

“Ride!” she squealed. “Go, go!”

And when poor Ash escaped, Emma hurried after her, lifting her leg to hop back on whenever she got within range.

Somehow, I doubt the Children’s Museum is going to top that.

By far, the highlight of the day came when I was sitting on the living room floor, and Emma turned to me from across the room. I held out my arms, and she grinned, then came running. She flung herself at me, arms going immediately around my neck, and then I’m pretty sure I heard her use a phrase for the first time.

She mumbled it into my neck in her sweet, little voice, and as soon as the words registered, I started to laugh.

I got to hear my daughter say ‘love you’ for the first time on Mother’s Day - but she added another word, too, making it a gift of laughter, and not just an overwhelmingly sentimental moment.

“Love you, dada.”

I have high hopes that we’ll be able to continue our lack of a relationship after this. You’ll fire a zinger that will miss the mark by a mile, I’ll call you a llama-faced doofus, and we’ll go on.  It’ll all be okay, because you don’t know me, and I don’t know you.

Which means that you don’t know what buttons to push to get me really and truly boiling, and I don’t know the topics to spark your temper. We’ll keep it light, work out a little aggression, and move on. So what if I don’t like your socks, right?

What I’m trying to say with this, I think, is that if I loved John a little less, I would be less eager to kick him in the teeth right now. But since he’s been my sun and moon for the last ten-and-a-half years, I’ll settle for taking my boots off first.

Love you, babe. Really.

The good was completely unexpected. John was attempting to work some magic on my mom’s uncooperative computer, and while he was flipping through a basket of old floppy disks, he came across one with his own handwriting on the label.

We glanced at each other confusedly; it didn’t ring any immediate bells. But he popped the disk in and opened up the lone file stored on it, and then we were clued in.

Poetry. John’s poetry. From high school. And some of it made us howl with glee, and some of it made us share a smile. We were different then, and yet so many things are the same. There are a lot of things about my high school days I don’t consciously revisit; John and the foundations we laid then are obvious exceptions.

The not-so-good was as simple as picking up the phone to call my grandma and tell her what time we’d be there the next day. She didn’t answer. I heard the beep of an answering machine, and three seconds later, I was leaning into the wall, sobbing. It was my grandpa’s voice asking me to leave a message, in those warm, kind tones I’ve missed so much.

I didn’t know; I wasn’t ready. I understand the reasons for leaving it that way - she misses him, too, and she feels safer having his voice on the machine. Maybe it makes her feel less alone.

But I doubt it.

2. I need to update my glove look.

3. I look good in my wedding pictures. Like a different person.

4. Indiana is inferior to Michigan. Or any other state, for that fact.

5. I need to smile more.

6. Wow, what big hands I have.

7. Tea will cure all my problems.

8. Judging from my office, I’m not much of a housekeeper.

This is just a sampling. It’s obvious why I have the deep and abiding affection for this place that I do.

Me, in bright, cheerful voice: “Hey, Em! What are you doing? Are you reading a book?”

Emma: “Cow!”

“Are you reading a book about a cow?”

“No!”

“Okay … well, Mommy has to go now. I’ll talk to you later. I love you!”

(In the background, John: “Tell Mommy ‘I love you’!”)

Emma: “Snowman!”

Back at you, babe.

“Where’s the goddamn nurse?”

On the other side of the too-thin green curtain, a woman was hyperventilating. Her companions were loudly demanding attention. They were asked to be patient; they declined that request and increased their volume. Security guards came and walked them out of the emergency room.

Through the commotion, Emma curled onto her side in an oversized blue gown, trying to kick her legs free of the wires from her monitors, and fell asleep on her hospital bed.

—

Between the three of us, the week added up to five antibiotics, four visits to the doctor, half a million Kleenex, and no sleep. John and I were both bowled over by the flu, as sick as either of us could remember being. And with no family nearby, and friends who were sick themselves, there was no relief to be found. We popped the pills we were given, drank marathon amounts of fluids, and tried to keep going.

Through it all, Emma seemed to be doing the best of all of us. She’d seen the doctor, who’d pronounced her mostly healthy, with just some fluid in her ears and a slight cough. By Sunday night, her appetite had come back, the cough had gone, and it seemed that she, at least, was on the road to recovery.

She woke up cranky from her second nap of the day, unusual in itself because she’s been down to a single nap for the last few months. We chalked the crankiness up to the germs working their way out of her system. She’s never cranky. I loaded her into the high chair; her skin was cool under my fingertips.

I gave her some carrots and crackers to start with, and then I gave in to weariness. I did what you never do to a toddler: I turned my back. I did, though, I turned my back on her, and let myself sink onto the couch for a few seconds. At an odd noise, I turned around. She was slumped against the pink-and-white checks of the high chair, and her entire tiny body was shaking.

John and I acted at the same time, both darting forward. I yanked the tray off; he released the straps, and he grabbed Emma and laid her on the couch. She was still seizing, her eyes rolled up in her head. Her lips were already going blue. More than a seizure, then — she was choking, too. I don’t know how I kept moving through my panic.

He pounded her back, trying to dislodge whatever it was hindering her breathing. I fumbled for the phone, and managed to tell the 911 operator the problem and the address.

I saw John bend to puff a breath into Emma’s mouth as he yelled for her to breathe.

I took the phone and ran out the door, sock-clad feet slapping against the wet pavement. Across the street, I pounded on our neighbor’s door, and it seemed like hours before she answered the door in her pajamas.

“Do you know CPR?” I demanded of her, already turning around. “Emma’s choking. She’s having a seizure.”

Barefoot, she followed me, and we ran back to the living room, where John had Emma turned on her side. The seizure was over, and our neighbor - a trauma nurse - quickly took charge.

“She’s breathing,” were the first words I remember. “She’s okay” came next. I still had the phone to my ear, and the operator told me help was there.

Ridiculously, the man who ran up to the door knocked before John waved him in. He knelt beside Em and our neighbor briskly checked his credentials and his equipment. Soon, there were half a dozen people in the living room. Someone started asking John questions; I crouched by my baby and watched her chest rise and fall.

Em was moaning, her eyes half-closed. Her temperature only read 100.0, but the immediate feeling was that she’d had another febrile seizure. Not uncommon and not that serious, all things considered - but terrifying.

It was at least 20 minutes before she started to come around to the point where she knew where she was and who was with her. We decided that she was acting atypically enough to merit a trip to the ER; I rode with her, while John came behind.

Things were as calm as they could have been at that point. Even the ambulance ride was relatively peaceful - no lights, no sirens. I’d been asked to sit up front, but I kept my eyes glued to the screen that showed me where Emma was wiggling on the gurney as the paramedic tried to soothe her.

We were dumped back into chaos when I carried her into the emergency room - after the noise in the next curtain died down, a woman’s voice filled the emptiness with a vast amount of unsolicited advice on how to react when your boyfriend chokes you. (”I smacked him good! I’m not gonna press charges, though, else he won’t give me a ride home.”)

After answering a litany of questions about Emma’s symptoms and her history, they let us go. Febrile seizures just happen; there was no warning. Her temperature never went higher than 100.5; that it spiked so quickly was the problem.

Nothing in my life has ever left me as vulnerable as my love for Emma. Seeing her pale and shaking - broken in a way I could not fix - that’s as scared and helpless as I could be. And rationally, I know that turning away for the space of a few heartbeats didn’t cause her seizure, that there is no permanent harm done, that my sweet girl is whole and healthy and happy. But there is nothing like being a parent to remind you how often you fail, and how much it hurts to fall short.

She doesn’t know that I let her down.

“She’s going to be able to get out of bed, you know. And come to our room.”

“Yeah.” [pause] “We have a lot of Emma-proofing to do.”

We knew it was coming; we just weren’t ready for it so soon. “Soon” being on Tuesday, when the bed is coming. I think what’s harder for me is that the toddler bed means more than your ability to climb out and watch late-night TV. It means one more step down the road to you growing up, which is ground we’re covering far too fast for my liking.

You’ll be a little less protected, and I’m fairly sure you’ll love it. Who am I kidding? With the exception of having your ears checked at the pediatrician’s office, you’ve been pretty universally delighted with every new experience, whether it’s licking the window, torturing the cats with your affection, or removing your diaper when I turn my head.

This weekend marked your first time playing in the snow, another milestone you embraced with gusto. I bundled you into your bibs and boots, stood you up in the hallway, and your dad asked if you could walk.

“No!” you declared emphatically, contradicting yourself by taking a few waddling steps down the carpet. Once you made it outside, you squatted. We waited, expecting your lavendar-clad bottom to hit the snow, but you simply kept squatting.

Your favorite part of the snow was touching it. Tasting it. Digging your fingers in - I think the longest you left a mitten on was approximately .009 seconds - and squealing with joy at the cold. You squished it between your fingers, trying to discovers all the mysteries of the fascinating white stuff, while your dad tried (in vain) to build the perfect snowman.

Your first day in the snow was for me what most of your firsts have been: A gift. Seeing through your eyes makes me a little less jaded, a little more grateful. And also really glad that none of the snow you ate was yellow.

You’re two now, and though by the time you’re able to read this, that fact won’t be news to you, I’ve had more than a month to let it sink it, and it still seems monumental to me. Funny, though — when I tell someone that you’ve reached this milestone, they smile knowingly and welcome me to the terrible twos.

They’re absolutely right.

It’s terrible how utterly charming I find you, even when you leave a juice trail behind you and remove your own diaper at the most inopportune moments. And it’s awful that when I say your name in a stern voice, it always ends in laughter, because at the first sign of impending discipline, you whirl around, wide-eyed, and then drop flat-bellied to the floor like you’ve undergone emergency preparedness training for toddlers.

“Get on the ground! She’s going to put your diaper back on! And after that, she’ll make you wear socks! DO YOU WANT TO WEAR SOCKS? I didn’t think so! Drop, drop, drop!”

You’re beginning to master the art of telling us what you want, and maybe we should have sent you to charm school instead of disaster training, because a simple request often goes like this:

“Juice?” you say in that perfectly pleading tone. Usually, whoever you’ve asked starts to fill this order right away, but after two seconds have passed, you become impatient.

“Juiiice?” It’s already too late. Whether the refrigerator is already open and the juice is in hand, you are convinced that there will never be any more juice distributed to you. Ever.

“JUIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIICE! WANT JUICE! JUIIIIIIIIIIIIIICE!” Now it’s up to the juice-giver to crouch down, since by this point, you’re generally prone on the floor, sobbing your little dehydrated heart out, and force the sippy cup into your tightly clenched fists.

Slowly, you sit up, clutching the sippy to your chest, and take a long drink, the tears still visible on your cheeks. “Juiiiice,” you murmur, and three seconds later, the cup is abandoned on the floor and you’re back to terrorizing the cats with your affection.

You’re picking up new words at a rate that amazes me. I think the greatest shock you’ve given me is when you walked over to the couch, laid your hands on my leg, and smiled up at me.

“Kewwy,” you said cheerfully, and your daddy and I froze with this added reminder that you really do hear, and process, everything. That’ll be “ma” to you, my clever darling who usually only likes to pronounce the first syllable of words (with the exception of elbow, which has always been “bow”).

To the chagrin of your father, you seem to be following in my bookworm footsteps. None of your toys hold your attention as much as your books do, and you’re forever bringing me a book, climbing into my lap, and asking, “Read?”

That, or you’ll sit on the floor, flipping the pages by yourself, pointing to the pictures you recognize and naming them. Two is terrifying indeed, because everything you accomplish makes me feel like I’m the one who’s going to burst with pride, and I know you’re just going to keep going.

Every hug we give is returned now, and the first time you put your arms around my neck and squeezed, it left me breathless. You’re only beginning to understand about love, but you know enough to want to give it back. Sometimes, you decide that one hug is not enough, so you’ll hug whoever’s nearest, happily call out, “Hug!” and then run full-tilt into the open arms of anyone else in the room.

Terrible never felt this terrific, and we owe it all to you.

Love,

Mommy

I’m trying. There’s no Christmas tree to be found in my house, but I spent about five hours making, icing, and decorating Christmas cookies. That endeavor required me to then establish the Island of Misfit Holiday Baked Goods, because far too many of my delicate snowflakes ended up looking like legless bodies, blobby asterisks, and even middle fingers. I won’t go into what they tasted like; I’ve only just gotten the taste out of my mouth.

This year, Christmas is for Emma, and I know I’ll find my smile when I watch her tear open her presents. Actually, she’ll tear half the wrapping paper off a present, utter an awed “Wow!” and move on to the next box. We could wrap wooden spoons and empty boxes, and I think she’d be just as thrilled.

I can’t do what I’d like to for most of the people in my life. There are friends who I’d love to be mailing packages off to, family who, in other circumstances, I’d be clumsily wrapping gifts for. (”Oh, it’s a sweater! The way you wrapped it, I thought it might be an umbrella.”) It’s not possible this year, and although I know that’s not what this is about, it’s a part of Christmas that I enjoy.

We got buried in snow over the weekend. I like snow. I appreciate how it looks when it’s falling, and when it’s pristine on the ground. Four days later, when the alley is still a ice-covered slushway and getting the mail turns into a suicide mission, it’s lost a bit of its luster. Make that all of its luster.

I knew I’d hit a low point last night when I was making my second trip of the day to WalMart. (”…”) I popped a Christmas CD in and determined to dig up some good cheer. And then a man - probably a very nice man - began singing to me. Good voice, nice tone, but then he ruined it. “Have yourself a merry little Christmas,” he warbled.

Viciously, I stabbed the power button on my radio.

Christmas spirit: A work-in-progress by Kerry.

Two days ago, I kept my promise. I only wish it hadn’t been at his funeral.

I knew I was going to lose him, had known for more than a week. I knew it before he came home from the hospital after the massive stroke that left him unable to swallow, partially paralyzed, and restricted to nods, eye-blinks, and “yes” to communicate. I knew it when he pulled out his feeding tube once, then again, and I certainly knew it when the tube wasn’t re-inserted.

My uncle flew home. A hospital bed appeared in the living room of my grandparents’ peaceful country home, the site of my brightest and best childhood memories.

—

It says a lot - everything, maybe - about how impossible it’s been for me to write this post when you consider that I started drafting it back in September, and I haven’t touched it since then. Since then, we’ve had Thanksgiving without my grandpa, an awful day where my grandma did two things to make me weep.

She hugged me. Not as an awkward afterthought, or one of those things you do because you’re family and it’s Thanksgiving (either of which were more likely to be the reason behind a hug before). I walked into the room and she held out her arms, and I bit my lip bloody to keep the tears back - that, more than anything she could say, told me just how lonely she was.

But then she did tell me, in another stunningly uncharacteristic move. I have never doubted that my grandma loves me; I know she does. But she’s a very practical woman, and constant hugs and long talks are not part of the way she’s made. She hugged me, seeming more frail than I’ve ever noticed, and whispered in my ear.

“I’m sad.”

So am I. So are all of us. Still. He was that kind of man, and I very much want to memorialize him properly, but I’m not ready. I’m still dealing. It hits unexpectedly - when I walk by a mall display of sweater vests, or stumble across a particularly intriguing puzzle. I can look through a photo album and see my toddler self on his lap without tears, but show me a jar of gooseberry preserves and I’ll fall apart.

There are a million different ways to grieve someone. I’m still finding mine.

“Argh!” he muttered, eyes still closed. “You just hit me in the face with your warlock!”

And he was doing so well, right up until that last word.

I had a list, and I was sticking to it. Of course, the displays are designed to catch your eye, and as I snagged some lunchmeat, I noticed a new item nearby: prepackaged salads. Perfect, I thought. We’ve been trying to move back toward reasonably healthy eating, and a salad would certainly assuage some of the guilt about the frozen pizza already in the cart. Turkey chef for John; chicken club for me.

I have to say that I was feeling slightly proud of myself at this point. Healthy food! No prep time! (As a sidenote, it’s not that I mind cooking. Far from it. But I’d much rather spend a half hour playing with Emma than being a kitchen wench, these days.)

John was equally excited. “These’ll be great!” he enthused as we unloaded the groceries.

So he preheated the oven for the pizza, and we chatted about our respective days. (”Goat - ugh!” “Diapers - ugh!”) Then the pizza was done, and John pulled the salads out of the fridge.

“These look really good,” he said again, peeling the plastic top off the container and removing the packets that held the toppings. I saw a strange look cross his face and then noticed his lips twitching.

“Kerry,” he said, obviously trying not to laugh. “There’s … no lettuce.”

“What do you mean, there’s no lettuce?” I crossed the room and peered into the container. Bacon bits. Dressing. Cubed chicken. Shredded cheese. And … no lettuce.

John examined the lid and failed miserably to hide his resulting smirk. Pointing, he indicated the (small and nearly illegible) logo, which featured the following text wrapped around a head of lettuce: Just Add Lettuce!

“Okay, so I didn’t see that,” I said irritably.

Apparently, my time-saving ways need to allow a few seconds for details.

A package from Amazon.com - the next-best thing to being there. I ordered her several different books, from biography to romance.

Last night, I asked her what she was reading, and she said she was enjoying Snow Flower and the Secret Fan.

“Good!” I enthused, pleased to have made a good choice for her. “Is that the only one you’ve read?”

“No,” she said hesitantly. “Before that, I read The Raven Prince.” She paused, and I waited to hear that she hadn’t liked it, but she made a revelation of a different nature.

“It was smutty,” she informed me in a hushed whisper, and I burst into hysterical laughter. I began to apologize, saying that I hadn’t been trying to send her erotica, but she went on.

“I still read it, though.”

I just bet she did.

Which led me to the discovery, when I was rushing around this morning, that I have too many black socks. A few seconds of digging produced a black sock, and then shortly after that, I found another. Mismatch. Try again. I dug out another sock, which matched neither of the two I was already holding. I repeated the process until I held five different socks in my hand, and then I could only wonder at my ineptitude. I wasn’t looking for them in the dark, after all.

I made a quick resolution to tackle the pile of laundry over the weekend, and then I solved the sock dilemma.

I snagged a pair of John’s.