Sushi and Martini Vacation.

So much of my happiness these days depends on balance. I can take all of it, easily, if I know there's something else around the corner. I can wake up multiple times throughout the night if I know a break of eight-hour sleep is coming soon. I can stay in my house--I actually love, usually, being my homebody self--for as long as I need if I know that sometime in the near future I'll be doing something out of it. I can go weeks without something "fun," in the traditional sense, because I'm blessed--oh, so, so blessed--that I get opportunities often to live outside of my mom-dom for just a fleeting moment. (This is why I respect, admire, even revere stay-at-home moms as much as I do. For the families and the women who know that staying at home is the best option for their family, and who actually do it day in and day out, I applaud you. Now go take a bath with a glass of wine and a magazine.)

When Adelyn was first born, after we'd adjusted a bit, Jason and I decided that every week we'd take our own little vacations. Once a week I'd do something for myself, once a week he'd do something on his own, and once a week we'd do something together, sans adorable baby. Now all of this is contingent on the fact that we have the best grandparents and great grandparents in the world, because otherwise we couldn't afford to pay babysitters to indulge our little plan. Without grandparents who love spending time with Addy we'd be lucky to get out of the house, together, once every few weeks, if that.

Usually I'll have a friend or two over, and we drink wine and talk and watch reality shows about dancing and listen to Addy breathe over the monitor. Jason will go play guitar or to a friend's house. We try to go on a date once a weekend, too, but that's easier said than done and often gets put on the back-burner for chores and responsibilities that infiltrate our weekends.

Last night we got out together. We just bought a new car to replace my toy-box of a Hyundai, a rattling, stinking, high-school-mechanic-class-project of a car with expired tags. We bought a used Jeep. It's vintage and fun and it feels like an adventure to drive to the gas station. So we drove it all the way to Nashville with the doors off, letting the extreme heat and wind inside, my hair carefully put up to avoid serious whiplash. And then we ate sushi and went to a movie and I came home missing Addy.

Yes, both of the drinks are mine. I make no apologies. Mama needed a honey-basil martini and an Asahi beer to go with her non-spit up-covered outfit.

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Happy Father's Day.

Don't miss the CafePress onesie and T-shirt giveaway! Still six days left to enter! (Comments are being weird, yet again. If you entered and your post isn't showing up, give it time. There are a ton more entries than Blogger is showing, and it's running on like a 24 hour delay or something.)

It has been exactly one year since we told the world about Adelyn. I can't even remember how much sooner before that we found out. It wasn't until we told our families that it seemed real, that it started to seem less terrifying and more celebratory. No amount of introspection brings that first week or weeks back to me. I just can't remember it, it was all too much. So I like to think of Adelyn's timeline beginning here, when everyone was happy.

Father's day, that I remember. I'd finally worked up the courage to tell my mom. I was going to wait, maybe until the second trimester, maybe until I'd come to terms with it myself, but I literally could not hold the words in any longer. My mom has always been my touchstone, the person whose perspective I want to hear and learn from the most. So I told her. I made her go to lunch with me on father's day, even though neither of us were hungry and we were going to eat with my dad in a matter of hours for dinner. I spilled the words out in the car. She nearly swerved into the stop sign and brought the car to a halt. This is what I was expecting--the shock, because no one had expected it, now right now, not anytime soon. But once she put the car in park--ten feet away from my house, that's all the time it took for me to summon the words--she was happy, and spoke nothing but happy words, and then in that moment I started to feel at ease about becoming a mother.

When we got back home from lunch I told my dad. And that was infinitely harder. I didn't want to tell him on father's day, but my mom promised me it would bring him happiness, too. That's the thing about fathers, though--I'm not sure if Jason and I had been married for a decade and I was in my late 30s if I would have felt much differently telling him. But I did, and once again, he was happy. He said it was the best father's day he'd ever had.

Later that day I drove to Jason's parents' house, and we told them. (Again, nothing but joy out of our fear.) They called Adelyn's great grandparents over. Happiness all around.

It wasn't until we were back at home that Adelyn truly came into being in my mind. It was no longer a pregnancy but a new life. That day created a new father, two new grandfathers, a great-grandpa, two aunts, countless other family members alive and passed on who made up this tiny heartbeat inside of my belly, and the heartbeat that is napping right now beside me.

So happy first (or is it second?) father's day, Jason, and to my dad, Jason's dad, Jason's grandfathers and my grandfather and all of the countless fathers out there who have created new life.

And for the memory I'll always hold close of father's day, the day when Adelyn stopped being just a situation but a creation, for that I will always be thankful we used this day to share the news.

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Mr. and Mrs.

A picture from the rehearsal, until I can show off the real ones.

Mommy and daddy are married.

I have a new last name and a husband. I now have the same last name as my daughter. I'm a wife. I'm wearing a wedding ring. I have a new sister, mother, and father-in-law, along with a whole host of new family members.

Other than that, not much has changed. Jason and I have been committed to each other as if we were married for years. When we reunited after some time apart two years ago--three months after that he proposed--I already knew this was my life partner, officially, forever. We were already living together. A few months after the proposal, we found out about Adelyn. We already knew we were spending our lives side by side, for better or for worse, and Adelyn pretty much sealed the deal.

Way back when we got engaged I signed up for those pesky monthly newsletters from TheKnot.com. Doesn't every overly-excited girl do that? And let me just tell you now, I used those things about as often as I use our fancy bottle warmer. Never. Yesterday, a day after the wedding, I got an e-mail with the subject line "Congratulations!" It was the first one I'd actually opened from TheKnot. And all they wanted to tell me about was this thing called "post-nuptial blues."

Geez. Before we'd even opened our gifts I was being warned about this new mind-altering, depressive state.

So. I'll just say that I, for one, am not all that worried about depression right now. Sure, the wedding's over, and part of me feels a twinge of sadness at that thought, just because I want to relive it again, and again, and again. I see now why people renew their vows, a practice I always thought was sort of superfluous. I get it. They just want another night of dancing and gifts and seeing everyone you love under one roof. If Jason and I had the money we'd renew our vows every year, fly all of our friends in and get all dressed up and stand up in front of everyone to tell each other how amazing the other is.

Sunday night was the best night of my life. Period. Coming in a close second is the night Adelyn was born, which was, I guess, more profound in a lot of ways, except I was on zero sleep and nurses were pushing on my belly until I was screaming in pain after I gave birth. Luckily there was no such practice after we said "I do."

This weekend was also the first time in years that all of my best friends have been in the same place at the same time. The bachelorette party and rehearsal dinner are entirely separate stories for later. There's just too much to tell.

From left: Elise, Crystal, Meagan, Alex, Erin, Morgan, me, and Jasmine.

On Thursday, I brought Adelyn to my parents house to hang out with my sister. On my way back out to the car, I was leaning forward to put Adelyn's DEARGOD so, so heavy car seat in its base when I stepped down at the wrong angle and my ankle twisted all the way inward. The pain was so intense it almost didn't register immediately. I got in my car, put the key in the ignition, and drove back to my apartment, my entire foot and ankle throbbing with each press of the gas pedal. Jason was waiting for me at home, recovering from food poisoning. He'd been up all night throwing up. Thankfully, his crisis was ending just as soon as mine was beginning. I called him from the parking lot of our apartment and asked him to come carry Adelyn. I couldn't walk. I sat in my car, trying to put weight on my foot outside the door, and it just wasn't happening. The pain was too intense. Jason got Adelyn inside and then came back for me. He carried me inside, got some ice for my already-swelling foot, and listened to me sob for an hour about the devastating fact that I would not be able to walk down the aisle. Of course. Of course this would happen, the day before my bachelorette party and three days before the wedding.

Jason used to be a sponsored skateboarder when he was a teenager, so he's no stranger to injured feet. In fact, he's an expert. He's broken, sprained, and twisted those ligaments so many times his feet are completely flat. (Sorry, baby. I still think your feet are the cutest feet ever.) So a few hours after the catastrophe that was my ankle twisting, Jason had me walking around the apartment. I was walking like an idiot. I was sobbing. I was dragging my foot behind me like a zombie. It hurt almost as bad as labor. (Keep in mind I got an epidural and the pain stopped when I was dilated to a four.) But I was walking, albeit walking while enduring excruciating pain. And this, Jason told me, meant that I would be fine. If it was broken or even sprained, he said, walking on it wouldn't even be an option, pain or not. So I went to bed that night hopeful I would wake up and the throbbing would be gone.

I woke up around three in the morning, and it was worse. I didn't want to wake Jason up again since he was on Adelyn-duty that night, so I crawled out of bed. I crawled down our stairs, through our living room, then to our kitchen. I reached for some Tylenol and gulped it down. And then I crawled back upstairs.

When I woke up, I could walk. My foot was bruised and it still hurt, but the intense throbbing was gone. After that relief, knowing I'd be able to walk at my own wedding without crutches, the rest sort of flew by me. I stopped worrying about all the little details and just enjoyed it. I guess it was a sort of blessing in disguise.

I wanted to write yesterday about this weekend but I didn't know where to start. The highlight was probably the cliche moment when I saw Jason for the first time walking down the aisle, because how can you top that? You can't. But then there was my dad's incredible speech. My best friend Meagan's toast, where she reminded everyone how we met fourteen years ago debating who had the higher reading level. It also could have been Jason's dad serenading us to Elvis (I made him promise he would do this a year ago, and he refused. Guess the wine made him rethink it). Or my oldest friend Melissa performing "At Last" a cappella. Beautifully. Maybe Adelyn's aunt Erin carrying her down the aisle. Jason's mom getting down on the dance floor to Kool and the Gang. My best friend Morgan grabbing the mic to welcome Jason into our close-knit group of friends. My pregnant best friend Elise shimmying on the dance floor while holding her belly. My mom gripping my hand as we walked down the aisle. Our photographer and my good friend Justin breakdancing after he put the camera down. The dance contest for the bouquet to Beyonce's "Put a Ring on It." It could have been Jason smashing the glass after we said our vows, and it also could have been when I accidentally dropped and smashed my wine glass from dancing with just a little too much enthusiasm. Or when I went to check on Adelyn upstairs and found her sitting in her great grandma's lap, stripped down to her diaper because of the heat, snoozing.

And it might just have been the end of the night, after Jason and I finally got in our getaway car, both drowsy from too much champagne and excitement (we weren't driving), when I laid my head on his shoulder and we sat in the quiet and held hands, peaceful, content, and finally married.

Adelyn didn't even make a peep during the ceremony. She sat on my mom's lap, watching her parents say their vows to each other and watched with a happy smirk on her face. I couldn't have asked for more.

For now, I'll leave you with our vows. Nothing else could really sum up the weekend better.

Mine: I, Sarah, take you, Jason, to be my husband. I take you to be my forever friend, my faithful companion, and my constant comedian. I vow to love you every day, on the days you’ve gotten enough sleep and even when you haven’t. I vow to listen wholeheartedly and with true excitement to the details of every new passion you discover. I vow to let you play guitar every day, all day, if that’s what you want, and to sing along always. I vow to be the best mother I know how to be to our daughter Adelyn, and to never, ever forsake her or you and to always place my family first. Above all else I vow to love you more with each passing day, and to never forget the happiness I felt nearly seven years ago when I met you and realized I found my soul mate. I give you my hand, my heart, my soul and my self, as long as we both shall live.

Jason's: From the start of our first date I knew one day we'd be standing right here. In the past six and a half years we've both been swept away on a crazy journey, constantly turning and forging onward. And with those turns and life's many surprises we've always found a center in one another. A center that is real, constant, and will always feel like home to me. I vow to always be your center, no matter how far or fast life turns, to be right there with you. To always remain faithful and to honor you with each passing day. To be a partner, a friend, and a soulmate that you can rely on. And to never let you forget just how much you mean to me. I'll give you my unconditional love as long as we both shall live.

(Get ready to be inundated with wedding pictures as soon as I get them.)

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The Dishes Can Wait.

At my bridal shower each guest was asked to write a piece of marriage advice on a card.

Jason's Aunt Sandra's was my favorite, and it's posted up on my fridge as a reminder.

"The dishes can wait for tomorrow."

When I was younger I prioritized cleaning at about the same level I did my chemistry class in school. Meaning I could care less. My mom and I fought about cleaning my room probably more than anything else, because she's a mom and I was a teenager and it was the law, but something shifted when I moved out on my own at 18.

I became a neat freak.

And that weird, un-Sarah like trait has remained, has become more ingrained in my self with each passing day, especially since I became a mother.

I think a lot of it is that cleaning offers a bit of control. When I moved to New York and into a dorm with a roommate I didn't know, the least I could do was keep my room insanely tidy. When I couldn't figure out what to do for a living, at least the bed was made. When I was pregnant and terrified and unsure about the direction my life was taking, at least Adelyn's future room was spotless. And when I came home from the hospital, suddenly responsible for something more vulnerable and helpless than I could have prepared for, at least the counters were shining and the laundry was done.

Yesterday wasn't the best. Adelyn's constipation issues showed up again, and she spent a lot of the day squirming and screaming. She wouldn't nap for more than five minutes and wouldn't eat more than an ounce at a time. Jason even came home from work a little early because I was at a loss, standing at her changing table, watching her strain and cry.

It was a tough day for her more so than it was for me, I'm sure. Around seven--about an hour before her usual bed time--she wouldn't keep her eyes open long enough to finish half her bottle, so we put her to bed early. And she immediately shut her eyes and started snoring.

The difficulty of the day meant that I hadn't been able to take back control and clean up. After we put her to bed, I looked around at the bottles, glasses, unfolded blankets, spilt formula powder and drenched burp rags that had taken over our apartment throughout the day, and my first impulse was to fix it.

We got a wedding gift in the mail yesterday from one of my dad's close friends--a set of beautiful, way-too-nice wine glasses. So to break them in Jason had brought home a bottle of wine.

Before I cleaned up, I decided, I'd sit outside with Jason and have a glass. It had been a long day. I'm not much of a wine-lover, I'm more of a beer girl. But those glasses deserved to be used.

We went outside to our back porch overlooking the still-flooded river and shut the door behind us. And then we talked, first about Adelyn, as were are accustomed to doing. Then we moved on to his job. Then my goals for my job. My writing, his music. Our families, our family, our wedding, my friends, his friends. Our first date, our first break up. Christianity, Judaism, religion in general. The flooding, the Gulf Shore Oil Spill, the Times Square bomber, terrorism, racism, nationalism. Everything. Before I knew it the sun had gone down and we were sitting in darkness. The bottle of wine was gone. We were missing Lost. Those drenched burp rags were still on the couch.

I went to bed feeling infinitely better about so much in my life, from going back to school to my intended career to our incredible, confusing baby girl. I didn't clean up until just a minute ago, when I got Adelyn down for her first nap. And the world didn't implode.

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Happy.

Every night Jason lets me get a few hours to myself. The way he put it, he gets to go to work every day, and despite how hard he works it's a chance to live for a while without worrying about a baby crying or heating bottles or diaper rash. And so when he gets home, these things aren't a burden to him--I can see it in his face when he walks through the door after work.

And so at night, around 9 or 10, he takes over. I go upstairs. I think I'm supposed to sleep during this baby-respite, but I don't.

Last night I realized what I've been doing the past month (really, the past 10 months, throughout the whole pregnancy) whenever I get a minute to myself. I've been trying so hard to remember what it was that made me truly happy. Not to say that my life doesn't bring me joy. It does. I think I've just lost the ability to let myself forget all about the not-so-fun details of life (like my health or money or expectations or spit-up) and feel truly immersed in happy. I might pretend; in the back of my head, though, a list of the icky life-details is still ticking by.

Ever since I saw that positive sign on the pregnancy test all those months ago, I've been catapulted into this complete ether-world, one that I never really let myself gradually sink into. It was all "oh shit, oh shit, oh shit I'm pregnant," and then, suddenly, my life was filled with preparation for this new life and then, suddenly, the reality of this new life.

And that's why Jason gives me a few hours every night, so that I can try to let myself catch up. But it took me until last night to really do it. After I'd taken a long hot bath and gotten in bed with The Daily Show playing--my usual nighttime routine--and forced myself to try to remember the last time happy took over.

Whenever I think of that tricky, fickle word--"happy"--I'm taken back to a day in March about six years ago. I'd just had lunch with my best friend Meagan, and Jason and I were in the beginning of our relationship, right around the time I'd started realizing I was smack dab in the middle of an actual love. It was just starting to get warm outside, and I was driving around in my hand-me-down red Chevrolet Cavalier, the windows down to let the Spring in. I remember in that moment feeling just happy. So, so happy.

Last night I made a mental list of other moments since then that brought that same, pure feeling. Dancing with Morgan on our first night out after we moved to New York for college. Eating oysters with Jason during our trip to New Orleans. The night he proposed. Getting recognized for projects I'd worked hard on--at Sidelines, in school. Flying to Paris with my mom, and drinking my first legal alcoholic beverage at the airport in Switzerland when I was 19. Going into labor and seeing Adelyn for the first time.

But then I realized that most of the memories that came to mind weren't quite as exciting as proposals and travels and meeting your first child. I get that same kind of happy after I finish a really good book. After I get home from a busy day. After I've spent the day shopping with my mom. And then, finally, I understood that I'm still getting that happy. It just looks different, and I'm waiting for it to look the same. Like last night when Adelyn fell asleep on my chest, or at four that same morning when she smiled after I woke her up.

It's just a different kind of happy now, I guess. I've just spent so long waiting for the same aha! this-is-what-happy-feels-like-moment that I got six years ago that I ignored this new feeling, let it register as mundane.

So, last night, I picked up a book. (The first time I've read something non-baby related since Adelyn was born.)

I woke up feeling a little more like myself.

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Sleep.

Last night, my maniacal pumping regime finally paid off. I think it was somewhere around the tenth incoherent sentence and inexplicable crying fit that Jason told me to go upstairs and sleep. I had enough milk stored (plus the supplements we're using) for him to handle the feeding for the night, and since he didn't have to work the next morning and I hadn't gotten more than a two hour stretch in the past two weeks, I finally decided it was time to let go a little.

Maybe other mothers can commiserate. Especially, I think, at first--it's hard to believe your baby can be okay without you hovering over her.

Because Jason has a pretty physically demanding job and works his ass off, and I took time off specifically for this purpose, I've been taking on the bulk of the care-taking, especially at night. And while I might bitch and moan about not sleeping, a tiny part of me loves (or, loved, I guess, since we've already thrown the bottle into the mix) being the only one who can feed her.

So even though I desperately, DESPERATELY needed a night to sleep, I knew it was going to be a tiny battle letting go. And I woke up every two hours, still. I heard her crying once around 3 a.m. and it took every part of me to stay upstairs, to not intervene, to know that her father, the love of my life and most capable, caring man I've ever met, could handle it.

And I slept. This feeling of being rested makes all the hours spent hooked up to a sucking machine that makes me feel more like a cow than a mother worth it. I slept for seven (SEVEN!) hours. And now I feel so wonderful I swear I could clean the entire house and shower and straighten my hair and shave my legs and lift a building ten feet in the air.

Instead I think I'll just sit here and stare at Adelyn, who's sleeping in my lap, perfectly fed, cleaned, clothed, and changed even without my intervention.

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Six years and two days.

It's amazing how different things look in the morning.

Freak out over.

Have I mentioned recently how lucky am I to have a partner like I do? We celebrated our six-year anniversary on Sunday by driving an hour and a half to Monteagle, Tennessee, to a restaurant Al Capone built for his mistress. Before we left we promised each other we'd drop the baby-convos for the night, but ten minutes into the drive we both had a hand on my stomach feeling her kick. It's pretty much impossible these days to focus on anything else.

Jason and I have been through a lot to get where we are. There's still so much, though, I don't know about what makes some relationships work and others fail. But I do know that I'm marrying someone who listens to me cry and rant and only makes me feel uplifted and supported. He runs me a bath when my back hurts and goes to the store to get me ice cream just because my pregnant-self wants some. And when he comes home from work and I'm freaking out about where the hell my life is going, he helps me remember that we don't have to figure it all out right now.

First, I'm going to have a baby.

P.S. She has the hiccups right now, and I can feel them all the way down to my butt. Hiccups in your butt, folks. The things they don't tell you.

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Pregnant groupie part two.

Jason and I have been on three vacations in the almost six years we've been together, to Atlanta for my 18th birthday, New Orleans two years later, and Memphis last weekend. I don't know if the majority of the world would consider one night in a hotel in a town that I grew up in that's only three hours away a vacation, but there was a hotel involved and sleep and a break from reality so, yeah, that's a vacation to me. Especially these days.

Those of you with kids are probably rolling your eyes like "just you wait," and I very well might be slapping myself in six-ish months that I even bothered complaining about the need for a vacation before I had a crying infant on my hands, but for now, OH MY GOD that was the most amazing night in a hotel ever.

Jason and I went to dinner the first night we got there with his old roommate and his girlfriend.

Jason and his friend took an obligatory shot of tequila and had two beers. With each first chug the girlfriend and I looked at each other and rolled our eyes, because isn't that just what the girlfriends do? Except I'm not the girl who sits out on the shots. Usually.

The two of them, although not as settled-settled down as Jason and I, are a lot calmer than most of Jason's old friends. They're a couple, they live together, they both have full-time jobs and have moved past the "what happened last night?" phase. So we sat at dinner and talked, and then by eight Jason and I were back in our hotel, I was in my pajamas in the bed, Jason was crawling in next to me, the TV was turned onto Planet Earth, and my eyes were closing--like it or not. So on our one night away from home, in a hotel (I have a strange obsession with staying in hotels--there is literally nothing I look forward to more on trips away from home than the tiny bottles of soap and the room service menus, even if I'm just browsing at them pretending I can afford a $20 breakfast), we fell asleep to Planet Earth around 8:30 at night and slept until 8 the next morning. And we could have hopped in the car and headed home then and I would have been fully satisfied.

But we came for Jason's band, a group of four playing backup for a wannabe country music star from Wisconsin. I'd already heard the band practice, and they're all, including Jason, incredibly talented musicians, but it's not a band for the sake of the band, it's all for the singer. And he's a country music singer from Wisconsin.

Later that morning Jason and I headed to a town about 45 minutes outside of Memphis called Oakland. The band was supposed to play at a Wal-Mart opening, because we live in the South and that's what wannabe country music stars do.

So there I was, sitting by an acoustic set-up in the electronics section of Wal-Mart, watching my incredibly talented fiance play guitar with the Barbie aisle visible behind him. About a dozen people stopped their shopping to sit through the entire performance, dozens more filtered in and out with their shopping carts, most of them wearing pajamas because we were in the middle of a Wal-Mart in the kind of town where Wal-Mart is the main attraction.

Before the "show" started--and, yes, that's a W Jason's signing for the venue.

Later the band played at the Delta Fair in Memphis to a much bigger and less shopping-enthused crowd, and I sat in the front row with the singer's publicist singing along to all the country songs I'd never heard before.

I don't understand country music. There are a few songs I like, but I usually end up really confused by the story and mixing up the tune with another Garth Brooks song because seriously THEY ALL SOUND THE SAME. On the drive to Memphis, Jason played through a CD of their lineup. The song Dust on the Bottle by David Lee Murphy came on, and I sat there guessing out loud what the hell the lyrics were getting at--the song starts with "Creole Williams lived down a dirt road / Made homemade wine like nobody I know / Dropped by one Friday night and said can you help me Creole?" And it just MAKES NO SENSE to me. Who the hell is Creolle Williams? Why does it matter that he makes homemade wine? Who's he asking for help?

And because I'm that clueless about country music traditions and styles, Jason convinced me that the song is about cougars, or Demi Moore/Ashton Kutcher kind of pairings. And I believed him for about ten minutes until he cracked up laughing, and left me feeling really stupid but still with no NO IDEA what the song is about.

At dinner the next night I told the band this story, thinking everyone would find it as hilarious as I do, only to be informed by a much less amused by country music band member that, um, it's about marriage? And how could I not get that? It's, like, so obvious? (The chorus: There might be a little dust on the bottle / But don't let it fool ya about what's inside / There might be a little dust on the bottle / It's one of those things that gets sweeter with time--it really, really could be like cougars and no one would know the difference).

Sitting in the audience watching your significant other doing something he loves couldn't be anything but a great time, though. And I had the best, most stress-free two days I've had in months.

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