Three Point Five

Punky is officially three and a half today.

The sentimental Mommy side of me is screaming, "No! Slow down! Stop growing up so fast!" and reflecting on the little baby I brought home from the hospital and all the amazing milestones she reached in last few years.

The realistic Mommy side of me is cheering, "Come on, four!" and dreaming of her next birthday in December.

If I'm being honest, three sort of sucks.  She's defiant, temperamental, stubborn, and demanding.  In other words, she's a completely normal three year old.  And her dad and I have come to the realization that we aren't very good at dealing with her normal three year old behaviors, not because we stink as parents, but because in every other way she is not typical and we tend to treat her like she's much older than she is.

For example, one night a few weeks ago, Punky and I spent about an hour playing with her chalkboard in the living room.  She drew a face with one eye about twice the size of the other, and I joked with her that it was a silly face and hardly symmetrical.  Of course, she latched on to the word 'symmetrical' and I spent the next half hour tying to explain the concept of symmetry to my three year old.  I drew a line down the center of the chalkboard and drew shapes mirroring each other on both sides to demonstrate.  I repeated the process several times, some symmetrical and some not, and she caught on and was able to tell me with accuracy which drawings were symmetrical and which were not.

Next she wanted to do math on the chalkboard, so I spent the next fifteen minutes writing simple addition and subtraction problems for her, drawing lines under the corresponding numbers for her to count on the harder ones.  She ended our chalkboard playtime by drawing the solar system, naming each planet in order as she drew them around the sun.

Then we shared an ice cream sandwich and she proceeded to wipe her chocolate-coated fingers on the back of her white t-shirt and I literally wanted to slam my head off the wall.  She started this habit a few weeks ago, ruining shirts left and right, and no matter how many times we tell her not to do it the message simply isn't landing in her brain.  And this is the type of thing her dad and I struggle to comprehend.

Behaviorally, she's three.  Intellectually, she's much older.  The disconnect between the two makes it so difficult sometimes.  How can she seem to understand a concept like symmetry, but not understand to use a napkin?  It's simply mind-blowing. 

Aside from these typical behavior issues, Punky is a sweet, loving little girl, and this age is so much fun.  Her imagination is running full speed ahead and she can turn any mundane task into an incredible adventure in her mind.  We often brush our teeth while sitting on the bathroom counter so the tiger passing by won't see us.  We have to sneak past the bear hibernating under her trampoline.  Some annoying imaginary dog is always barking so loud that she just has to turn the TV up to hear Dora the Explorer.  And we can't do anything without me ending up the rotten egg.  What can I say?  She cheats.

As far as school goes, she finished the year in the older group she joined in March and the plan is still for her to move with them into pre-K in September.  The daycare director loves stealing her now and then for some one on one time.  She keeps telling me she wants to write a book about Punky, and she can't wait to have her in her pre-K class full time.  I'm excited, too.  I hope she's able to challenge her and help fill in the blanks.  We have a big decision to make next May, private school kindergarten or another year in daycare pre-K, and I know we'll rely heavily on her teacher's opinion.  I suppose my winter project will be to research the options available in the area in case we go the private school route, though I don't know how on earth we'd ever afford it.

Not much has changed in the way of Punky's favorite things.  She still loves books, snuggling her blankie, and soaking the carpet during bath time.  Macaroni and cheese, celery sticks, raw green peppers, and watermelon are her foods of choice these days.  For some reason, and I have no idea why, she's taken to calling me mama again instead of mommy, and it totally cracks me up when her vast array of stuffed animals address me by my first name.  She loves playing outside and has mastered her tricycle, scooter, and the battery-operated car we bought last October.  Impressed with her driving skills and obvious need for speed, her dad took the pin out to give her a faster gear for zipping around the yard.  She still loves music and prefers to watch shows with singing and dancing and mounds of annoying kid songs that get stuck in my head and cause me to get caught singing "Head, shoulders, knees and toes, knees and toes..." at my desk at work. 

With summer in full swing, Punky and I have been enjoying some quality girl time.  We spent a day at a nearby park and enjoyed a real picnic lunch, complete with a comfy blanket to sit on, our favorite foods packed from home, and a minor ant invasion when we jumped on the swings for a few minutes before finishing our dessert.  We spent another day at an amusement park, just the two of us, and it was so much fun.  She rode her first kiddie roller coaster and she was so proud.  And I was so proud of her too, even though the bumpy, jerky, extremely uncomfortable ride cost me my sunglasses which flew right off my face and into the creek below.  Now that I finally found out, after almost five years in this area, that there is a community pool just three miles down the road, I'm sure we'll be spending a lot of time there this summer.

The Fall of the Superheroes

Aside from enjoying a relaxing weekend away, our camping trip earlier this month served another purpose.  It was my opportunity to spend some time with my dad before he went under the knife on Monday morning.

The last few weeks have tossed me into emotional turmoil for many reasons, none of which I'm ready to face.  Suffice it to say that if I were five, I'd be hiding in the clothes hamper with a book and a flashlight, my chosen coping mechanism as a child.  But I'm an adult now, so instead I've resorted to a loss of sleep, pacing the floors, and snapping at people for no good reason.  Plus, I no longer fit in the clothes hamper.

The gist of the surgery was an attempt to fix my dad's hip replacement that was completely worn out and causing him a great deal of pain for over a year now.  He's had several of these surgeries but the last one was over thirty years ago.  At that time he was told the prognosis wasn't good for another one if needed down the road.  The technology was limited and they had done all they could with what appeared to be his final hip replacement.  If it slipped, the consequences could be as severe as amputation.  Not a fun thought to have hanging over your head.

So, thankfully, it lasted over thirty years until last summer.  He avoided the issue and dealt with the pain for quite a while before facing the doctors, out of fear I assume, but it was inevitable.  Around Christmas time they scheduled his surgery for June 11th at the VA hospital in Manhattan because the local doctors wouldn't touch him.

My dad ended up having one of the top surgeons from New York University Hospital and, even though he gave him no guarantees whatsoever going in, he actually managed to start a new hip replacement.  The good news is that thirty years of advancing technology and one amazing surgeon came together to do what would have never been possible back then.  The bad news is that he was only able to start the replacement; he needs to finish it a few months from now once the bones have a chance to grow and secure the new socket.  Until he goes back in and attaches the ball, my dad's thigh bone is not connected to his hip, which means a few months in a wheelchair while nature takes its course.

The planned three-hour surgery was more like six, the quality of aftercare he got there was so horrific it ended in a transfer to a VA closer to home, and his actual stay in the hospital was much longer than planned or anticipated.  He finally came home today.  And while all of the gory details can take up an entire post on their own, that's not really what I need to write about.

What I need to get out is the startling revelation that my parents are, well, aging.  And that's a hard pill to swallow.

I think children tend to naturally view their parents as invincible, and that image doesn't disappear once the kids reach adulthood themselves.  Parents are strong.  Tough.  Able to handle any situation.  They always know just what to do.  From boo-boos to hunger pangs, broken hearts to toothaches, parents have all the answers.  They can skip meals, survive on minimal sleep, and travel a million miles a week running kids to soccer practice, ballet class, and piano lessons, and still have time and energy to help with homework, prepare dinner, do laundry, work a full time job, and leap tall buildings in a single bound. 

I'm fully aware that I'm a stone's throw away from forty, so obviously my parent are not.  Even with my sub-par math skills I can do that calculation, but yet somehow in my mind they've remained forty-something. Yes, aging is a gradual process, but I've blissfully ignored the signs.  And all of a sudden reality smacked me square in the face. 

My parents get tired now.  They can't go nonstop all day like they used to.  The grandkids really do literally wear them out.  My mom's comment about her recent new car purchase may very well be true: it might be her last one.  My dad's rebound from this surgery wasn't immediate, not because of the scope of the operation, but because he isn't forty anymore.  Reality is that they are both only a decade away from the point where my grandmothers both suffered severe health problems.  And ten years can go by in a flash.

I'm just not ready for this.  We haven't had enough time.  I want them to run and jump and ride roller coasters again.  I want them to be strong, healthy, and live forever.  I want them to see Punky graduate from college, and get married, and give birth to their great grandchild.  The truth is that they may not even see her graduate high school, and that thought makes me cry.  In fact, it's had me crying for weeks.

I'm having trouble coping with this revelation the way it is, and my uncle's passing in the midst of it just drove the point home even further.  The tables turned while I wasn't looking.  Suddenly I'm staring down the other side of the mountain, and I don't like what I see at the bottom.  I want my superheroes back.  I want them to shoot spider webs out of their wrists and climb back up to the top.  I want them to fly again.  I want them to swoop in and save the day like they've done so many times. 

I don't ever want to say goodbye.

Three Years Of Rambling

Today is three years since I first started rambling on and on in my own little corner of cyberspace.

For the most part, it has served the purposes intended.  I have documented Punky's life and given her a window into her childhood that I hope she can appreciate someday.  I've had an outlet for my thoughts as I deal with the ever-changing journey of motherhood.  I've told funny stories, bitched about the trivial nuisances of daily life, and even worked though some deeply emotional stuff once in a while.  In all honesty though, several times I've considered throwing in the towel.

I surely was mistaken when I thought I would have more time to write as Punky got older.  Maybe there's still hope a few years down the road, but right now I feel like I'm constantly trying to catch up.  And it's so frustrating.  Writing has become a chore simply because I struggle to find the time to do it.  Once I committed to changing my sleep habits about eight months ago, it started going downhill.  Then, when I added in making time to exercise regularly, it got even worse.  The bottom line is that there are only so many hours in the day, and most of them are spoken for right now.  

When I have something worth writing about, I start a post.  A few lines, maybe even a paragraph or two, so I don't forget about it.  Then, something else comes up and I start another one.  Same deal.  Before I know it I have several posts started, and no time to finish any of them.  Usually I end up gluing myself to the chair one weekend a month in a desperate attempt to fill in the blanks and get caught up.  Under those frustrated circumstances, writing is no longer the relaxing, therapeutic activity it once was.  

Ultimately though, I can't quit.  I need this space.  This outlet.  This time, even if it is crammed into a marathon weekend of frantic typing.  It's important to me.  If for no other reason, for Punky.  

Here's to year number four in the blog world.  I'm sure there will be no shortage of material, but time will continue to escape me.  I'll do my best to keep up, and hopefully with a little luck, I'll end up with more than three posts to show for it.

To The Woods

Last weekend we made our first trip with our new camper.  I took a half-day on Friday and we were on the road shortly after two.  Rather than being sensible and choosing a nearby campground for our first venture, we drove all the way to the Poconos to camp where my parents have parked their camper for the season.

It was roughly a three-hour drive.  Given our rocky start with this camper, I was obviously prepared for the worst but, remarkably, it went rather smoothly.  We arrived just after five and setting everything up took less time than I expected.  Our site was a mere sixty feet away from my parents' at the very back of the campground.  It was the perfect spot, both quiet and convenient.  My sister arrived shortly after us with her kids and the new guy in her life.  By seven, we were enjoying a great dinner and chatting around the campfire.  

Fueled by the fresh, mountain air and open spaces, the kids were running around like maniacs.  We took a walk around the campground to check it all out and, of course, we had to stop at the tiny playground at the bottom of the hill.  One glance at Punky and it was clear we'd spend a great deal of time there over the next few days.  She was in her glory; her love of playgrounds runs deep.

I was up at the crack of dawn on Saturday and it was just as I remembered it from my childhood.  Cool, crisp, morning air.  The smell of percolated coffee stirring my senses.  The sounds of nature playing like soft background music in my ears.  I dressed as quickly and quietly as I could, and then headed out for some quality 'me' time.  

I was well aware of the menu planned for the weekend.  I knew I was facing some serious calorie intake and my only shot at not gaining five pounds was to be as active as possible.  There was no way in hell I was skipping out on any of that great camping food.  Steaks done on the fire, baked potatoes, bacon and eggs, toasted marshmallows, wine coolers... I wanted to enjoy it all, and that meant working for it.

After some stretching outside of the camper, I started to walk the loop around the campground.  I used my Fitbit to clock the distance Friday night.  It was just under three quarters of a mile round trip.  Knowing that intermittent cardio bursts would make all the difference, I alternated between walking and jogging.  As I made my way around, the rhythmic sound of my feet on the stones below made me feel so relaxed yet energized at the same time.  I wished life could afford me this luxury every morning.  When I reached the top of the loop, I stopped at my parents' site and my mom and sister joined me for a few more trips.  It was a great way to start the morning, especially since I ate non-stop the rest of the day.

The campground hosted a pinewood derby race on Saturday evening, so the kids (and guys) spent a lot of the afternoon turning their hunks of wood into cars, complete with messy, custom paint jobs.  They each got to race twice, but none of them ended up the big winner.  Punky's dad relied on the knowledge he gained from the boy scout pinewood derby races with his son, but we didn't know there were absolutely no rules in place for the campground race.  And it was open to anyone, not just children.  People had all kinds of objects glued to the top of their cars to make them heavier and faster, like beer bottles, hammers, and cans of soda.  The kids' cars didn't stand much of a chance, but they seemed to have fun anyway.

For reasons I'll get into in another post, my parents headed home Saturday afternoon and my sister left on Sunday.  We stayed another night, just the three of us, and finally left the campground around noon on Monday.  After a quick trip to a local Wal-Mart on Sunday so I could attempt to find a bathing suit that fit, we had the opportunity to check out the campground pool.  It was the highlight of the weekend for Punky and we had the whole pool to ourselves, which was especially nice given the fact that the only suit I could find at the store ended up being way too big and I had a few incidents of indecent exposure while swimming.

All in all, it was a very nice escape from reality for a few days.  Punky's dad and I had a bit of a fight early on Sunday which dampened the mood a bit, and we found a tick on Punky on Saturday night which freaked me out and turned me into a lunatic with my can of bug repellent, and Punky had so many falls on the stones that her tiny body was virtually covered in black and blue marks including one the size of a quarter on her right butt cheek, and I suffered the pains of constipation as my body struggled to process the mounds of fat it's no longer accustomed to digesting, but even with all of that crap it was awesome to be in the woods and away from the daily bump and grind.  I'm looking forward to trip number two, whenever that may be.

And my active approach seemed to work.  I only gained half a pound.

Four Months Down

Today is four months since I started the journey to a smaller, healthier, stronger me.  Here's an update plus some funny facts and random observations I've made along the way:

• As of this morning, I've lost just a hair under twenty-nine pounds since February 1st.
• My original goal weight is a mere twelve pounds away at this point.
• Despite those amazing statistics, my BMI calculation still lands in the overweight category, but only by a few tenths of a point. 
• The people who created the body mass index can bite me.
• I have now lost more weight than my daughter currently weighs.  I lost a whole person - a little one, but still.
• I now weigh thirteen pounds less than I did when I got pregnant with Punky.
• I've learned so much about food and nutrition that I no longer need to rely on my calorie counter app to keep things in check.  When I started this journey I thought that would be a life-long necessity, especially given my less-than-spectacular math skills.
• This whole process has created the perfect opportunity to teach Punky about food, health, and body image.  Too many young girls suffer crushed self-esteem and eating disorders as a result of the media's irresponsible math.  The number on the scale does not equal beauty.  Hopefully internalizing this lesson at such a young age will spare her some grief when those dreaded teen years hit. 
• I've read that a woman burns more calories in the two weeks between ovulation and menstruation than she does the two weeks prior.  In my experience, it's true.  The scale lallygags the first part of the month, then finishes the second half at a record low.  Then my period starts and I gain a few pounds.
• I give full credit to Jillian Michaels for the unbelievable change in the shape of my body and I'm thrilled to say she no longer totally kicks my ass.  There's no doubt that her workouts are tough, but I can make it all the way through now without feeling like I'm going to drop dead at any second.  
• When I first started working out, I wanted to smack her right through the TV when she would nonchalantly comment about feeling amazing at the end of those forty-five minutes of pure torture.  Now I get it.  I feel amazing, too.
• When I stand up straight and touch the cut muscles in my legs, I giggle.
• Admittedly, I do that several times a day.
• A few weeks ago I put my hands on my hips and made another surprising discovery: my waist.  I have one again.  No doubt the result of those tough ab and core workouts.
• Okay, yes.  This also makes me giggle and I check often to make sure it's still there.
• I can no longer wear any of the work suits I had when I started this journey.  In fact, they have all been packed up and donated to charity along with two full drawers of shorts and jeans.  For now, I'm getting by with a few things I've purchased and some stuff that was given to me.  I'm holding out for the last twelve pounds before I face the stores again and truly rebuild my wardrobe.
• The last twelve pounds are one hundred percent concentrated in my lower abdomen.  Damn c-section.  I've made peace with the fact that the roll will never fully disappear without the help of cosmetic surgery, and I'm not that crazy.  But it still pisses me off and my stretch mark scars are even uglier now that I've lost weight.  They've morphed from lines into full blown wrinkles.  It's disgusting.
• To Punky's dad's dismay, the weight loss finally hit upstairs.  I knew it was only a matter of time.  On the bright side, I can now wear a drawer full of old bras I hadn't worn in years but kept for no apparent reason.  Now my hoarding of undergarments is justified.
• If I can do this, anyone can.  Yes, there are tough moments but it's a process.  Those moments are necessary for success.  I fully understand now why fad diets don't work in the long run: they work too fast.  Losing weight successfully is not just measured by the number on the scale, it's achieved through a complete transformation of the body, mind, and soul.  And that takes much longer than a thirty-day colon cleanse.  Without the changes in mindset, habits, and overall lifestyle, it's easy to land right back at square one in the blink of an eye.
• Learning to listen to your body and interpret its cues is the most important lesson and the hardest one to learn.  When I have hungry days, I eat.  Period.  And the scale usually drops the next day.  I don't deprive myself of anything I need.  Not food, not sleep, not exercise.  I feel like I reached a new level of awareness and understanding I never knew existed.  And I'm no longer scared about the after - after I reach my goal, that is.

So, there you have it.  In a nutshell.  There's just one more thing I need to say:  I'm so very proud of myself.  And that's worth my original weight in gold.  On to month five...  

I Guess I'll Never Learn

Those close to me know my insistence on planning and overall lack of spontaneity.  In this blog I've documented examples of how spur-of-the-moment decisions never end well for me.  Over the years I've learned that nothing in my life stands a chance at running smoothly without a minimum two weeks notice, the preparation of a list of some sort, a solid plan A in place, a back-up plan B waiting in the wings, and enough discussion to cause Punky's dad's eyes to gloss over and roll up in his head and his ears to suffer 95% hearing loss (both of which miraculously reverse the minute I shut up or change the subject).

Even though I know my track record, once in a while I get a bug up my ass to throw caution to the wind and do something without prior thought and preparation.  I had one of those rare moments a few weeks ago.  The weather was beautiful.  Work was extremely slow.  Punky and her dad were both home that day.  At 11:45 I decided to take half of a vacation day and leave work at noon.

And we ended up with this:

Granted we have discussed the idea of possibly buying a camper at some point for about two years now, but my mind had not fully settled on exactly when that point would be.  I hadn't worked out every detail of the financial implications.  I hadn't considered all of the additional crap that would be required to actually park this thing in the woods and live in it for a few days.  I hadn't really researched the ridiculous cost of campgrounds, or thought about the actual number of times we would use it in a summer, or weighed the pros and cons of camper ownership in general.  I was unprepared as we casually strolled through the lot and checked out all the different makes and models, and that, my friends, is a recipe for disaster.

And, thus far, it's been one.  Well, actually many, I suppose.  Tomorrow marks four weeks since that spontaneous four hours of vacation time cost me nearly fifteen grand, and we've faced issue after issue, hurdle after hurdle, problem after problem ever since.  Here are the highlights:

My insistence on keeping my name off of all the financial documents (due to the fact that I'm going to need a car loan within a year or so) opened up a whole can of worms with his credit report.  A local hospital turned a large, fully-paid medical bill into collections without our knowledge and it was one giant pain in the ass to sort it all out and get it fixed.

The bank he finally financed with would only offer him a good interest rate if he agreed to refinance his truck loan with them as well.  It turned out to be a good deal, but we're still trying to clean up the mess with the bank that originally had the loan.  Even though they acknowledge that they received payment in full from the new bank, they continue to pull payments out of his checking account.  They now owe us nearly six hundred dollars and they keep telling us we'll receive a check in ten days.  Needless to say, it's gotten ugly and I would caution anyone to think twice before ever dealing with M&T bank.

When we returned to the dealership to actually pick up the camper and bring it home, they discovered his truck was missing some gadget that is needed to tow a trailer.  The technicians told us it is so rare, like one in a hundred, to see a truck like his with a tow package that is missing this integral part.  That translated to another week of waiting while they ordered the part and an additional three hundred dollar expense.

When we tried to get the camper insured, his account was in lock-down due to the transfer of title on the truck between the two banks.  It was three days before they could access his info and provide us with an accurate quote.

Because we bought the camper across state lines, sales tax and registration are their own separate headaches.  I don't quite understand how it all works but the general gist is that we paid sales tax to the dealership in NY which they immediately refunded to him by check via mail, and we left with a temporary NY registration that would be null and void in thirty days.  The sales tax check had to be deposited in his account so he could write a check to the state of PA instead, and a trip to a notary was necessary to register the camper in PA and obtain a license plate.  It would've been helpful if the notary informed him that she needed to actually see the camper before he drove thirty minutes to her office with only the pile of paperwork he thought he needed.

But, it looks like we've finally made it.  It's here in our yard, it's financed, it's insured, it's registered, and all due taxes are paid.  After all that, you can imagine how nervous I am about our first camping trip coming up in a few weeks.  I've already made about seven lists, devised plans A, B, and an extra C just in case, and his eyes have been rolling up in his head like crazy.  He can't hear worth a shit either.

And, should I dare to even consider it, I asked my boss to politely decline any future last-minute vacation time requests.

Farewell, My Friend

I sat in the lobby just taking it all in as people passed through on their way to complete whatever urgent task was at hand.  Some paused to exchange greetings with the receptionist on duty, some were engaged in discussions with other colleagues, and some simply rushed by with piles of papers and serious looks on their faces.  They were all dressed professionally.  They were all undoubtedly important.  I wondered if I would ever truly fit in. 

I slouched a bit in my chair, subconsciously trying to blend in with the wall behind me.  I suppose it's normal to be nervous the first day of a new job, but the longer I sat the worse it became.  The human resource manager was taking her sweet time and I was stuck there until she was ready to do my orientation.  I was somewhat lost in my own world of miniature panic attacks when a girl entered the lobby and took a seat a few feet away.  Without any hesitation, she asked if I was waiting for HR, too.

It took me a second to snap out of my anxiety coma and realize that she was in fact speaking to me.  Who does that?  Who walks into a room and strikes up a conversation with a complete stranger in a matter of seconds?  Not me, that's for sure.  I think I managed to squeak out a simple "Yes."

She was tall, thin, clearly younger than me but not by much.  Short dark hair, dark eyes, and a natural, relaxed smile. Her self-confidence was immediately evident, and there was no doubt she was friendly, outgoing, and a complete extrovert - everything opposite my nervous, shy, introverted self.  I tried my best to play along as she continued her attempts at small talk.

Her eyes revealed an air of maturity that extended well beyond her physical age and she was obviously intelligent.  Soft-spoken yet articulate, calm and collected yet honestly excited about her first day, and happy.  Not just in the moment at hand, but in life in general.  A classic cup-is-half-full optimist, level-headed and at peace with her world, the type who wakes each morning with a smile on her face and a spring in her step.  Ugh.  I thought she was weird.

Fast forward almost four and a half years to last night.

As she hastily zipped around my living room, gathering her things and trying to keep her emotions at bay, my mind drifted back to those moments in the lobby.

I don't make friends easily.  Acquaintances, sure.  But not close friends.  I'm extremely guarded.  True to my Aquarius nature, I can be aloof and noncommittal, somewhat insensitive, and overly obstinate.  I don't like to let people in.  Doing so forces me to face those less-than-desirable qualities head on, and it's generally a lot of emotional work.  More often than not I pass and retreat, content to stay in my own world without allowing anyone new to intrude and upset the balance I've grown accustomed to.  But, she was persistent.

The first few months on the job, she remained open and friendly, chatting whenever the opportunity presented itself.  Maybe there was a sort of kinship in the fact that we were both new kids on the block.  But the real turning point, for me, came suddenly in the bathroom one lunch hour in May.  I let her in.

I was pregnant.  And terrified.  Less than five months into a new job, in a new area, with no friends or family nearby.  I needed to tell someone.  I needed to get it out.  I needed an outlet.  I needed someone to know.

About two weeks before my surprisingly successful pregnancy was over, she found out she was pregnant, too.  Our girls are just over seven months apart.  Having someone to share in the journey of first-time motherhood was priceless.  Someone in the same boat.  Someone with the same fears, hopes, struggles, and challenges.  Someone who understood, completely.

And in time, with each passing play date, swim class with the girls, birthday party, and Chinese food lunch hour, I began to view her with a status few people achieve: a good friend.

And now she's leaving.  Forever.

Her husband accepted a position with a company in Houston.  Last night was our final play date.  And our opportunity to say good-bye.

I thought the whole evening would be a mess of emotions, but the kids provided some welcome distraction.  We made it through dinner and play time without incident, but once she handed me her one-year-old son for a final snuggle, I lost it.  My eyes filled with tears as pure sadness flooded my heart.

The kids, of course, were fully oblivious to exactly what was happening.  She tried to hurry up and get out of here as to not drag it out and prolong the inevitable moment we would need to say good-bye.  With her son securely in his car seat, she gave Punky a final hug while I did the same with her daughter.  One moment later they were backing out of our driveway and we exchanged our final waves.

Then, I fully crashed and burned.  I stood there sobbing like a baby, tears running full force, while the neighbor glared at me like I was an idiot.  I've always been the realistic type.  I know full well that was likely the last time we will ever see them and it was too much to handle.  I tried to explain this to Punky when she noticed her mom was a blubbering mess in the driveway and asked why I was crying like that.  She contemplated my words for about twenty seconds before sweetly asking, "Mommy? Can I blow bubbles?"  Ah, the beautiful innocence of childhood.

Of course, we'll keep in touch for a while but time and distance will surely take it's toll.  I'm truly going to miss her, and those beautiful kids.  Who knows?  Maybe someday Punky and I will take a trip to Texas for a visit.

As to not end this on such a sad note, I leave you with the girls' attempts at a serious, final good-bye photo: