I’m sure you didn’t escape the fact a hurricane hit the east coast this week.  Thanks to the absurdities eccentricities of my chosen profession, for me, that meant days of being thrown head first into full-tilt media madness.  I survived Hurricane Irene pretty unscathed.  I’ve dried out, and my hair is no long wind-blown. 

This little corner of the Internet is usually how I escape from my demanding job so I don’t like to talk about work here, but Irene made me feel a little sentimental.  You see, Greyson and I met at work and like to say we fell in love during a hurricane. 

Hurricane Isabel changed our lives forever. 



It was mid-September 2003 and I had just fallen off the proverbial University turnip truck when I somehow landed my first job.  I was a little 22 year-old with no money and even less knowledge of what I was doing.  All my coworkers were called in on 13 hour shifts, including Greyson.  I had met him before and thought he was cute and funny, but there was more in air that night than tree branches. 

Everytime I hung up the phone or took a memo, there he was, smiling slyly with a twinkle in his eye.  He was quick with a joke and a sideways glance to make sure I had heard the joke.  We should’ve been working when we constantly met eyes across the room the whole night.  “I wonder,” I thought.  We locked eyes again, “I wonder.”  He asked me to meet up with everyone after work at the only restaurant in the city that had power.  We all manuvered around downed trees and fought 60 mph wind gusts to meet at the Carolina Ale House. 

We didn’t talk to anyone else the entire night.  We sipped Bud Light and talked.  The beer made him burp and he turned his head to burp away from me.  I giggled and called him out.  I may or may not have told a flirty story about wearing a thong.  When he touched my arm I knew.  It felt like electricity going through my body.  I knew my life was changing.  We said goodnight through the downpour. 

Nearly 8 years later during another “I” storm, he stayed home with our baby as I put on my rain gear for another long shift.  I had to laugh at where the winds of life take us, sometimes at 60 mph. 

So my goal when buying a photo package from the awesome Jack Deere at Three Oaks Photography in Wake Forest, NC was to get pics of Charlotte at 3, 6, 9, and 12 months.  Yeah, that didn’t happen.  I got slack busy.  Jack did our maternity photos so we counted those, we did almost 4 month pics and almost 8 month pics I’m showing here.  (Yeah, I can hear you.  I know she’s 9 1/2 months and I’m just now posting them.  It’s the slackness a busy time again.)  I’ll do some almost 12 month pics right before her birthday.

Ya’ll do me a favor and tell me which ones you like best.  Leave a comment, send an email, whatever.  I’m interested to know what you think as I decide which pics to purchase and get framed.  (Yeah, that request is quite self-indulgent, I know this.  But so is writing a blog about your baby.) 

I had heard getting a passport for a minor was an ordeal, but I thought, “It’s cool.  We’re only going to Canada.”  With the effort it took to get this passport, we might as well be going to Mars.

I paid for a certified copy of Charlotte’s birth certificate from the county Register of Deeds.  I drove downtown a few months ago to get it.  We thought we put it in the drawer with her Social Security card.  Nope.  Gone.  Greyson and I spent a good hour tearing up every drawer in our house looking for it. 

Okay, don’t panic.  We’ll divide and conquor.  We had 1 1/2 to make it to our passport appointment.  We had to keep our appointment because the wedding we’re going to in Quebec is at the end of September.

I drove downtown, parked illegally, and ran past the courthouse dodging the bums and riffraff that hangout at the courthouse.  (Yes, I know that last comment is judgemental and elitist, but I didn’t eat lunch and I was cranky.  So shut it!  I told you, cranky.) 

Have you ever tried to take a passport picture of a squirmy 9 month old?  My husband has, along with the staff at Kinkos.  Oh, I didn’t mention it?  Yeah, poor Charlotte was sick as a dog with a fever and these are the pictures that ensued…



Baby mugshots!  (We went with the top one.)



Greyson called me to tell me they had gotten the pictures.  I had my notarized copy of the birth certificate and was running back to the car.  No ticket for my stealth parking job!  Things were looking up.  We had 20 minutes.  We pulled up at the same time, right on time.  We are the world’s greatest parents!

Darlene was the darling federal employee who helped us at the passport office.  She actually had the audacity to say to me, “Oh! Now I know you’re not making me get out of my chair!”  She lazily rolled her fat butt up to the window, the chair’s wheels squeaking under her weight.  I eyed her carefully.  If she had said that we were missing any of the needed documents I would have snapped, SNAPPED DARLENE! 

We paid to get the passport expedited so the Mounties won’t take our little American into custody at the border.  She better love Canada, effing love it. 

 

I got to see it.  I was there for the whole thing.  It happened in an instant.  So quick, yet so momentous. Sadly, Greyson missed it.

I squealed and clapped for my little one.  I fought back tears as I giggled at her puzzled look.  She really had no idea what she had done.  She plopped back down on her booty and I picked her up and kissed her. 



My little “walker” falling, once again on her tushy.



I feel foolish writing this, but I couldn’t help but feel sad when I looked at the calendar today.  (When I say calendar I mean my phone.  It’s my calendar and also how I tell time and see in the dark.)  It stung a little when I realized it was August 22, 2011. 

Today would have been my parents’ 35th wedding anniversary. 

I know they’ve been separated for 6 years, and divorced for 5.  I know they are both remarried.  I know my Mom is better off.  I know things are much better than they were circa 2005/2006.  I know I should throw out the Christmas ornament I hide in the back of our tree each year with their names on it.  I know I’m a grown woman and should just suck it up and get over it.

What I don’t know is if it will still sting, even just a little on, say, August 22, 2021.