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My baby has survived her first cold. Also her second and third colds, from the looks of things. She’s had a sniffle for about a month. The cough is new. Every time she coughs during the night, I wake up. As a result, I haven’t slept much lately.

It’s so hard to watch Rachel’s little body tense up as the cough comes on. And the little tiny nose on that baby is capable of producing boogers bigger than anything I’ve seen come out of my own nose. Of course, without the advantage of knowing how to “blow”, the only way to clear out the boogers is for me to get in there with an aspirator. So, Rachel now knows what an aspirator is, and when she sees one coming she screams, arches her back, turns her head, and tries to beat my hand back with her fist. Sweet child.

Fortunately, most of the time she feels well enough to play. She loves toys with faces. She’s got the Baby Einstein bouncer (thank you HCMG accounting department!), and it’s one of her favorite places to hang out. We put her in there when we need a break because once in she can’t get out. Adult time for us, and play time for her. Good stuff. The bouncer has places where you can hang jingley toys. Each one of the toys has a face as they are a lion, a chicken, a bunny, and so on. Rachel has a fascination with the chicken. It’s her first best friend. She sits there, staring down the chicken, for extended periods of time. Way longer than is polite for prolonged eye contact.

Rachel now smiles when smiled at, which is very rewarding. Even when she’s been at her most sick, when I show up at daycare to get her, and she sees me smiling at her with my arms out for a hug, she reciprocates. I don’t know if a three month old can miss someone, but it makes me think that she at least notices I’ve been gone. That feels good. It’s hard to leave her, especially when I know she doesn’t feel well. Even though I know she’s in a good place, with kind staff and sweet children, and even though I love my job and wouldn’t change a thing, there’s a piece of me that’s missing when Rachel’s not in my arms.

Contrary to how I thought I would feel, I miss being pregnant. I didn’t like anything about pregnancy, except for the anticipated outcome, for the whole 39 weeks. Now I realize that when I was pregnant I could be close to Rachel all day. I could protect her, and control her environment. She could come to the office with me and snuggle all day. I know one day she’ll grow up, and then I doubt we’ll snuggle at all, but for now I find myself nostalgic for the little baby I had three months ago. As I tell her all the time, she’s getting to be such a big girl.

Of all the sad, sad ways that readers have found this blog (searches for tampons, dates, turkeys…it really is frightening), the most depressing is the person who googled “back growns for a blank page”. I can only assume this person was looking for backgrounds.

I review all the resumes that come in to my company, and I try not to judge. Really. But if you’ve been an “analyst”, if that has actually been your title, don’t you think you should know how to spell it? In the very least, shouldn’t you know how to use spellcheck? Today I got a resume from an “annalist”. She didn’t get the interview.

Recently I received a resignation letter. I can only assume, as she no longer shows up, that it was a resignation letter. The letter did not mention resignation. It read, “This is my letter of recognition”. One wonders what she recognized.

Every time I say “thank you” to someone in an email and I receive “your welcome” as a reply I want to take back my “thank you”. Ick. As there is no way to spellcheck your way out of that one, I’ll be somewhat flexible. Still, ick.

I’m really hoping I don’t make these sort of mistakes. At least not with any regularity.

Tuesday night was the first time I’ve been in a dance class since becoming pregnant. I used to dance all the time. I took regular classes, and also danced out at clubs with my friends. I’d say that between classes and social dancing I was moving to music at least three nights a week, and sometimes as much as five. Now, not so much. I’m a wife and a mother. I barely have time to pick up dinner from Boston Market. Fitting in dance class is hard, and the idea of going out clubbing is a joke.

I finally put my foot down and decided that dance classes are a necessity item, and I’d just have to find the time. I found a “Beginning Jazz” class that meets Tuesdays at 7:30PM. I’m beyond a Beginner level class in terms of experience and knowledge, but I figured that anything more advanced than that would kick my butt right now. I can barely pull off a grand plie at the moment, and pirouettes are out of the question with my usually fuzzy sense of gravity kicked even further off by the misplaced lumps of my post-partum body. The additional bonus of this particular class is that it is taught by Doug Yeuell. I’ve taken classes with him before and I know he truly believes in making dance accessible. That gave me a level of comfort that I really needed.

Some things the body never forgets. Executing a “kick ball change” is exactly like riding a bicycle. Once your body know, it just knows. All conscious thought turns off and you move. That is how most of dance is for me. I used to be amazed at how “real” dancers could memorize entire routines in the space of minutes, but at some point I started being able to do it too. So, at the end of the class when we have to memorize and perform a combination, I shine. I learn the combination right away, and it’s relatively easy for me, so I start having fun - adding little flairs - and really getting into it. That’s when I hear Doug placing us for the final “performance” of the combination. I have been put at the front. All of me. In leotard and leggings without even a decent cardigan to hide behind. And now my big body has got to dance on my really tiny feet. Big girl in leotard spinning on small feet equals elephants from Fantasia. Period. Not only can they all see me, they’re supposed to all see me. That’s why I’m in front.

I’m going to say that I was definitely the only person in that room who weighed over 120. And the crazy part is that while I’m sure other people noticed my size, I’m also sure that’s not all they saw.

But it’s all I saw. A room full of eels and one whale. I got sick to my stomach, but swallowed it back. Then I started to cry, and fought that back too. I’ve earned front of the room status. I wasn’t born knowing how to dance. I worked for that. But when I saw everyone looking at me, part of me was waiting for them to point and laugh. Then, instead of laughter, only beats, rhythm and movement. The room moving as one. With me at the front.

I think we’re long overdue for a story, so I thought I’d tell one of my favorites. Here’s the set-up:

There is this guy named Scott who works with some friends of mine. He’s equal parts brilliant, geeky, and crazy, which is exactly my type. I can spot a genius with a penchant for Star Trek who needs serious amounts of therapy anywhere, and Scott was it. I was having a run of Scott’s - my friends even bought me a roll of toilet tissue as a gag gift - so why not one more. I knew I couldn’t be serious about him, but I could tell we’d have a LOT of fun together, and I was right.

We hooked up and had a blast. We clicked really well in a lot of different ways. I let my guard down a bit and slept over. Definitely worth it, as the fun continued into the morning, and I got a ride home out of the deal. It was so good that a few months later, when I had the opportunity to go there again, I did. I normally don’t do encores, but I was having a good time. I assumed he would tell his friends, even our mutual friends, about the hook up, and so did I. We were both single, and both seemed to want the same thing out of the interaction, so I felt pretty good about everything.

A few weeks later I was out at a bar with one of my girlfriends, and we bumped into some of Scott’s co-workers. No one we knew well, just some guys we recognized. In the interest of being polite and of getting acquainted, we went over to chat with them. We were all pretty drunk, but that can’t explain what happened next. The guys said they knew I had hooked up with Scott. Okay, yes, I did. They then asked my friend and I back to their apartment for sex. I was left with the distinct impression that whatever Scott communicated to his co-workers implied that I, and therefore my cohorts, were available to whoever wanted us. This couldn’t be further from the truth. As my friend Dee used to say, the distinction between a whore and a lady is discretion. Just because I’ve slept with lots of guys doesn’t mean I’d sleep with anyone. How rude. I was angry with, and disappointed in, Scott for putting out such information about my putting out.

A few months went, and I didn’t see anyone from that crowd. Then I bumped into a group of friends that included Scott at the Gefilte Fish Gala. Immediately Scott made his way to me, and seemed to want to start where we left off. I told him I was mad. He was surprised - the sort of relationship we engaged in didn’t normally involve such emotions. I described my interaction with his co-workers. He said that he was upset that they had treated me that way, and that they had treated my friend, who had nothing to do with anything, that way. He also said that he only told them he hooked up with me, and that he didn’t think I’d mind that. He said “I’d never tell anyone you were cheap and easy.”

Here is where I pause for effect, as I’m about to deliver what I consider to be my greatest spontaneous comeback.

“I’m definitely easy. I’m just not cheap. That I resent.”

Once the laughter stopped he bought me a drink, and we made up. He said he was sorry his co-workers made me feel cheap, and I said I was sorry I blamed him. But, when Scott asked me to go home with him that night, I just wasn’t feeling it. The curtain had been pulled back too far, and I’d seen that he could make me have an emotional response. That’s where I drew the line. I haven’t seen him since.