Take a seat Ms. Editor, the Inspiration bus has pulled in.

I've been on an editing role. Editing blogs, editing poems, editing other people's work, editing our belongings, editing my wardrobe, editing baby food menus.

Today as I sat down to write, I realized my first inclination was to pick up something I had already written. This seemed off.  I paused and wrote an email to Rylee's daycare to announce her full-time enrollment. Up until now she has been a part-time joy to the 5 other infants in her "class." This is not to say she is crying half the time but only physically there half the time. You understood that though, right? Sorry.

As I began my letter, a mother and her toddler daughter sat in the table ahead of me. The mother patiently described the food they were eating. The little girl picked up her grilled cheese, chewed a bite or two and said, "Thank you Mommy" with a huge cheesy grin. My heart is still full and sunken from this act. Rylee and I have a new game. I pretend to sit on her lap while she is in her highchair. Then, I jump up in surprise "I DIDN'T REALIZE THERE WAS A BABY SITTING HERE?" She cracks up uncontrollably. "Do you know what it is like when someone thinks you are funny ALL the time. No matter what you do, they laugh?" I said this to a friend of mine when he witnessed my dear daughter giggling her toes off at my "moon walk." 

Edit. Edit. Edit. The one thing I never have to edit is that smile. The laughter. Even the sleepless teething nights. Perfection that girl of mine is. She is an inspiration to what naturally exists without needing a semicolon or clarification. Her speedy crawl when I open the daycare door is as poetic as anything can get. 

Tucking the editor away in my shoulder bag, I pulled out my pencil and wrote freshly in the cafe air. 

Not the New Year Post.

It's 3:50AM. I've already:

•  Changed a diaper.
• Cleaned a poopy accident from one of our dogs (whhhhaaat the hell!). 
• Fed a gorgeous baby.
• Got gently tapped on the head and spatted at, "Jezee...NO." I usually enjoy my husband's sleep talking but this particular act wasn't as funny as, "Oh. This is my beautiful daughter." Okay. Maybe that's not as funny as it is cute. 
• Rocked my sick daughter to sleep. 
• Changed out of a snotty shirt to a warm hoody.
• Stared at the ceiling. 
• Read an article on baby food. 
• Gave up and landed here. 

The last week has been filled with events like this. I've had dreams of writing about the New Year and how I think resolutions are bologna. Shouldn't we be resoluting (yes, made up word) every day? I wanted to write a post that was snarky but thoughtful. Something truthful for us to mull around in our heartbrains.

Just over a year ago, I was up this late writing poetry or just getting home from bartending. Brooklyn was shining around me as I walked/trained/taxied my way home. The East River broke it's waves rhythmically as I typed poems in the early morning.

Today...This Morning...I'm in a studio apartment with 4 big souls. A toy turtle glows the western hemisphere sky onto the ceiling and a plush lamb is sputtering out ocean waves. We are too low to see the sky and it is too dark to see the grass. Being up with this fight, the fight to make a better place for ourselves isn't as glamorous as the sound of Brooklyn metal gates closing late at night but it sure is beautiful. I can feel the mark we are making. The hope that this will create for Rylee.

I sat on the floor today with tears abrim (yes, another made up word) my sleepless hazels. Doug looked at me with his big browns. He listened and that big heart of his stared into mine.  Rylee put a purple triangle into a purple triangle slot. The dogs inched their way onto the carpet. We were five on a 5 x 7 area rug. We hugged. We're not counting pennies anymore. We are planting our feet in our careers. We are house hunting, baby nurturing, dog loving and fighting a beautiful fight. 

Over dinner yesterday, four of us discussed appreciation. During the conversation, I remembered what my mom went through to provide us with skating, dancing, and art lessons. I remember sitting at the table with a permission slip for a class trip. In bold print, "please bring $10.00 along with this form." Mom didn't say no. She opened a splintered cabinet of our basement apartment and pulled out a Folgers coffee can. The smell of coffee puffed into the air as she opened the lid and handed me a $10.00 bill.

When we wanted to go to the movies, Mom didn't say no. She picked a matinee, popped kernels on the stove and filled sippy cups with juice. It wasn't embarrassing. We weren't ashamed. She made opening the ziplock bag just as fun as digging your hand into a big bowl of that fancy movie theater corn. Truth is, I still prefer the stove cooked stuff over the commercial. Maybe it's a little bit of that appreciation seeping through.

Maybe I'm not writing with a view of a smoky river, or in a luxurious nightgown, or with a glass of deep red. I do, however, have a view of the big dipper from a turtle's back, waves resounding from a little lamb, a peaceful snore from the most precious girl to have ever existed, a husband resting to work overtime in just an hour, and a warm blanket draped over my knees. Life is pretty damn good.

Appreciate all of it.
A