Hello, and Goodbye (wasting time).

This weekend, my parents offered to take baby E for her first overnight away from home.
Michael was thrilled.
I was sick.

We made plans for Friday night, our first "date night" alone since March.
We decided to go for dinner, and a night at Reggaefest.



The first time I ever heard of Pho, was from my friend Erin.
I was 21 years old, fresh off a 3 year vegetarianism, and we were sitting in the “lunch room” of our hair school. Surrounded by girls 15 pounds skinnier, 6 inches taller, and a whole lot more booby, who ate nothing but crackers and spray butter. It was odd, and to this day almost 8 years later, we still talk about hair school spray butter girls.

And we ate together. We were our own little lunch table. I had a flower in my hair, she was angsty, and somehow it worked.
Erin is the brownest white person I know. And along with a keen sense of the Spanish language, good taste in hip hop, and an affinity for Asian food, she also always thinks she is right.

So when she plopped down next to me one day with a piping hot bowl of Pho, she demanded that my wrinkled, up-turned nose was wrong.
I mean come ON….it’s raw meat with hot water poured on top, then you eat it?!

(Take a listen to the pronunciation. It’s not what you think.)

After my pretentious bought with Vegetarianism, I was unable to see the food world as anything but black and white, and moderation had not quite come to me yet, seeing as how I hadn’t had much life experience at 21.

When Michael suggested Pho Friday night, I had a funny memory of 19-year-old Erin, sitting next to me in the spray butter lunch room of hair school.

”If I had a Pho restaurant, I would call it ‘What the Pho.’”

I laughed out loud, 7 years after she said that, alone in my thoughts.



We drove to the Asian district, and I visited more old memories.
Along the way, I thought of my own childhood, and then I thought of Elodie. I wondered if my Mom was getting her ready for bed.
When I was a little girl, all of us, Grandma & Grandpa, my parents, and my Sister would drive to the Asian district and shop. We bought our rice in wholesale amounts, and were thankful that another nearby culture ate rice in the same quantities that we did.
My Sister and I would drag our feet through the aisles...I have a vivid memory of a fish laying on a bed of ice…moving.
A tiny little girl, I gasped and jumped back…..only to lean in close and wait to see it one more time.

When we got older and my Sister was a preteen, she would scream at my parents “I’m not going in there! I don’t want to smell like fish!”
She very well might have stomped her feet, afterward.

A tiny shadow of my big sister, I would add “Yeah! Me neither.”
We would listen to music in the car, she’d ignore me because I was 8 and annoying, and I would stare out the window, daydreaming about the moving fish on ice.



As my husband and I pull into the Asian District of Oklahoma City 20 years later, I am flooded with warm memories. The bustle, sounds, the smells.

Friday night we went to Pho Lien Hoa. It is located on the edge of the Asian District, but still close enough to the new, up and coming hipster-areas of Oklahoma City for someone who isn’t feeling terribly adventurous.

This time, I was not such a snob. In the 7 years since I decided being a vegetarian wasn’t for me, I learned what moderation meant. To eat what tastes good, and always, always try something once. Even if it means that you are the minority. This approach to food also became an approach to life.




{our last night out, January 2008}

My best friend of 15 years moved to Austin almost 4 years ago, and on the last night she was home, I shoe-polished "Austin or Bust" on her back windshield.
We always make time to visit a couple times a year. She lives downtown, right on 6th Street, so we spend a majority of the time walking everywhere we go and enjoying the city for what it is. But sometimes, like our trip in January, when I was 7 months pregnant and not feeling the hipster-vibe of the city, we decided to try something new.
Her boyfriend was born and raised in Austin, and knows little spots to venture to when the thin mustaches, food trucks, and plaid get to be repetitive and stale. Do we really need to stand around and judge what every one else is wearing and listening to?

Nothing you wear is quite cool enough for some spots in ATX, and one night we just begged him to take us anywhere that we could get sushi, still wearing our pajamas.

We packed up Petey and drove 15 minutes on the freeway from her condo on 6th Street. Away from the bustle of Downtown, and to a place tucked into an older strip mall. The sign glowed only, “sushi” against the quieter, slower parts of the city.
When we walked in, it was like we fell through the center of the Earth and into another world where we were the minority. The chef nodded to our host, and sent him plates of food, all night.

“Do you come here a lot, or something?”

I’ve been convincing my friend that finally, she has found her Great “one.”
The one who doesn’t want to take her places where everyone around her is worried about what everyone else looks like.
Instead he takes her to this upside down world where they are strangers in a sea of faces not worried about anything but the sushi. One neon, glowing light in the dark Texas sky.



We walked into the restaurant Friday night, and sat down.
It is the kind of place that has a Vietnamese breakdown of cow parts, and 90% Asian customers. I loved it, instantly.


Before I can look over the menu, our appetizer ($2.25!) is in front of us. Two spring rolls, wrapped in shrimp.



The sauce is incredible. I consider licking the bowl, but decide against it. I look around and just as I suspected, no one is looking at anything but their Pho. I settle for licking my chopsticks.

Our plates are whisked away and I start to take photos of the meticulously clean, and shiny table. No fingerprints.



Before I can adjust my settings for the bright back light behind me, our Pho is plopped down in front of us. We can’t get a thank you in, and wonder what part of the wait staff speaks conversational English, anyway. There were a lot of rehearsed “okay, thank you, you order, refill's?”

It’s beautiful. The smell, the hot steam on my face, and the fresh, green aroma are heaven. There is a large plate of limes, jalapenos, fresh basil and mint still attached to the stems, and cabbage.



A buffet of everything I love? This is bliss, and I’m never leaving.
In my head, I’m thanking Erin, and laughing at what the pho.



Our food is dressed, mixed, and ready to eat. The steaming hot broth is cooking the thin slices of meat, and softening the greens to just the right amount to release their flavors and add a bit of bite to the meal. The yin/yang of the meat and herbs is a perfect combination. I'm suddenly so glad I'm not a vegetarian anymore.

The rest of our conversation is put on hold. The only thing going on is the two of us, faces 5 inches above our bowls, managing to spit out ”this is amazing” between bites (read: shoveling).
As we slow down, we talk about Elodie. It has been 3 hours away from her, and so far, neither of us (me) has died. He tells me he misses her, and I’m not quite so sure I can make it much longer, when all I want to be doing is cuddling with the three of us on the couch, eating our Pho to go.



When it was all said and done, I had done the most damage. I poked at my husband and made him take a photo of shame – a bowl still one thirds full of broth. To give him credit, the bowl was massive. And we got the smalls.


We left with full bellies and a burning, spicy kick in our mouths. Pure bliss.



We headed to Bricktown, where I always love to stop and photograph the old buildings. I love the weathered, aged words painted across the brick.



When we got there, we walked around the Bricktown Canal and met up with friends at Reggaefest.




I think of another trip to Austin, just a long girls weekend. Long, long before I was even dreaming of the responsibility and change that comes with being a Mother. We went to Reggaefest and I danced all weekend barefoot in the mud, lost my point and shoot camera and somehow didn’t care, and got soaked in the rain. And we danced, danced, danced. That was the old me, and as more and more months pass and baby E becomes a part of our family, it seems like those careless weekends are a light year away.

On Friday night, we sat and listened to the first band. When night fell and the sky went dark, I couldn’t stop thinking about the old me. So I downed my margarita, took my husband to the stage, and we danced to a Bob Marley cover band.
That night, there were fireworks in Bricktown at the baseball game a block away.



And I felt like the old me, again.
I wasn’t quite busting out the glowing hula hoop, dancing in my bikini top and rubbing people. Ahh, to grow older and learn moderation.

Around midnight we caved and drove to my parents to pick up Elodie. Sleepy, holding her blanket, Michael picked her up and kissed her, and we drove her home. I melted.



Before I had a baby, I worried that one day, I would look at myself in the mirror and not recognize the person staring back. After I had her, I realized that it had happened, whether I liked it or not.
Somehow, all those conversations from parents that end in “but they’re so worth it…” started to make sense.




I spent the rest of the weekend away from tv, internet, and my phone, building Elodie her little reading nook. I had made the first half of the canopy when I was pregnant, and finally finished it.



Now her room is done. A tiny sanctuary where she loves to lay and look around. Filled with bright, Oklahoma light, I point to each bit and piece of her room and tell her khetob eh Elodie, tacht eh Elodie, pangereh eh Elodie……book, bed, window, this belongs to you.


It seems that I tend to get a lot of things done when I take steps away from wasting time. When I spend hours online, sleep in too late, and put efforts into meaningless relationships. I knew that the old me was hiding in there, somewhere.
This weekend I remembered who the old me was. One night of forbidden spicy foods, dancing, and us talking about our freaking baby like one of those parents all. night. long.






The truth is, that I miss the old me. The late nights, dancing….being care free.
But somewhere along the way, something inside of me changed.
All those smug parents were right, and we absolutely turned into one.

She’s worth it.





It is through that realization, that I find I am not saying goodbye to the old me, but rather, hello, to the new one.
I guess sometimes (but not all those times, thank you moderation), I would rather be playing with colored blocks.



Creating a space where she will learn, grown, and feel inspired.



And watching my husband read a bedtime story to our baby girl at night.





My friend Amy sent me a letter (yes, in the mail, we write letters like old women!) a few days ago. She has been feeling all these things, at the same time. Her baby E was born a few weeks before Elodie, and in her letter she writes "I remember back in college when you and I would write those long, confessional-style letters to each other. That was forever ago, wasn't it?"



{Amy, on a kayaking trip we took together in 2006}

It was. What changed? How can we be those girls and balance these babies at the same time, again?




Do you ever get sick of people around you always worrying so much about how everything looks? It's like the life inside those moments itself, is missing.

To feel bits and pieces of that doesn't feel good to me.
The more I do this, the more I realize that unfortunately, a lot of this "business" is about a whole lot of posing, photo shopping, and living life....to talk about it.


At some point over this weekend, I questioned this space, and why I still do this. There is 100% of my life waiting for me, and the time I give it is broken up into things that don't matter.
Spending 30 minutes reading 30 different blogs. 20 minutes looking at pictures of someone on Facebook (read: creeping) that I don't even know, 30 minutes looking at clothes online.
What am I even doing? In 1.5 hours I built baby E her first little fort. It felt good. Not mindless. Not life lived from one same spot on the corner of the same couch, looking at the same websites. Over. and Over.




This feels like one of those times in life where you need a break. Ever have one of those, friends?
To take the time to learn about this new obstacle ahead of you - a stage - and how we will add this to one more adventure that this wild ride has in store for us.

As we change and adjust to these stepping stones and ultimately choose how we will react to them, we will go forward in life, growing or staying the same.



Wishing these minutes away would be wrong. Because if our days fly by? Well then I guess life would just be entirely too short, overall.

Looking for the next best, and biggest thing in life is a waste of your days. You're constantly waiting for your next big trip and adventure, and in reality, you miss the small ones we travel on every day.





No matter what, this world is still spinning, spinning, spinning. And if we don't hurry to get on, it will leave without us.








See you in a few weeks, friends.

PS, I left a little note on my blog 'break' in the comments.