Like I knew you would

We dragged our girl to New Orleans for four nights this past weekend so that I could attend my 20th high school class reunion and squeeze in some time with the extended family I too rarely see. Everything went pretty well. We rented a little apartment in Bayou St. John so that Aida could get her zzzs in private and also so that she could cry out at night without waking up any hotel guests. She was a trooper as we visited family, friends, and even my old high school. When we got back last night, we found she was running a temperature of 101.4. Too much fun, I guess. While she recovers, I'd like to revisit this little moment, captured at my dad and stepmom's house in Ponchatoula on Sunday. It's the kind of moment that makes you realize what you're missing when you're not near enough to the people who share your blood, changed your diapers, celebrated your birth, sang to you on your 1st birthday, showed up at your graduation, welcomed your new husband and, now, love your baby. (Apologies for singing the wrong lyric again and again.)

It's true

Re: The hype surrounding working mothers.

It isn't hype.

Made in America

At 8:20 p.m. this evening, I went into Aida's room, bent over her crib and lifted her limp, sleeping body to mine. Steve helped me strap her into the baby carrier, her head wobbling to the side as we maneuvered her pajama legs through the holes. I tucked a clean diaper into the carrier's pouch, just in case. And then we set out on a 30 minute walk to view the waterfront fireworks show.

Aida woke just as we walked out the door, her eyes wide with confusion. She made no noise except for a sneeze as we walked the mile around Coffee Pot Bayou in dimming orange light toward the open waters of Tampa Bay. She peered up and around as bicyclists passed us, stray fireworks exploded over us and tail lights lined the street beside us in one long parade.