T-Minus 8 hours and counting

OK, it's 10:38 a.m. in DC. I'm on a 10-minute break from the last speaker I'll have today. I'm cutting the last segment of the seminar to catch my 2ish p.m. flight to DIA. I figure I'll be home around 6 p.m. local time. I am obsessively watching the pot.

Which is not to say that this hasn't been the best seminar I've ever attended -- it is. I've loved every segment of it. I learned when to be wary that a leaf with a twig poked through it might be a land mine. I know who Clausewitz is now. I have a cursory understanding of the current draft of the Army's new counterinsurgency manual. I got to chat with a 4-star general for more than an hour. This has been an amazing week in terms of professional development.

It's been fun on a personal level, too. I thoroughly enjoy the company of the other 12 members of this seminar, which includes the former dean of my journalism school. I had a great dinner out with my sisters-in-law. I accidentally had dinner at the restaurant where my father-in-law proposed to my mother-in-law. I got to lay in bed after an alarm -- not a baby monitor -- woke me up.

But I slept so well last night because I was knew tonight my sleep would most likely be interrupted. Almost every segment of the seminar has required at least a 5-second break to moon over my Riley screensaver or play a short video clip of her with the sound turned off.

I am a junkie getting my fix so I can make it through the day. So that means my addiction is manageable, especially considering the fact that I am now nine minutes closer to my girl.

All quiet on the western front

OK, I've been gone since Friday and now it's Monday. Apparently all is going really, really well back on the home front. I talked to Riley Saturday night from my crummy hotel room in the Shenandoah Valley. As soon as she heard me on the speaker phone, she said "Mama." This is a major victory for me, because she very rarely calls me by name. I really thought I was going to cry.

Then she said something incoherent about apples. I tried to imagine what she could have to report about such an exciting fruit, but I really didn't come up with much. I assume my mother had taken her out to the back yard to survey the bird-inflicted damage on the 20 or so fruit that are weighing down the thin branches of our young tree. Thanks for the newsflash, girl. Then she said night-night and bye-bye. I thought I was going to cry again.

I'd skipped out on carousing with my peers and the Brits conducting our weekend training. Back in my younger, wilder, single days, I lived in bars. And I thoroughly enjoyed this hilarious group of ex-British Marines and SAS who were going to great lengths to help us learn how to protect ourselves in hostile territory. But the most charming accent and greatest stories in the world couldn't compete with a chirpy little voice on speaker phone garbling something about fruit.

Other than extremely lax enforcements of nap time, I have no concerns about the management of my progeny in my absence. I know she's happy and having a great time with her grandmother. I do still have problems with that absence. I found myself scrolling through digital photos of her as a career diplomat now employed by a private think-tank explained exactly what's gone wrong in the Middle East and how to fix it.

Oh well. Everybody else was taking notes. Surely someone will share. For me, it was far more important and engaging to view pictures I've seen eight million times just so I could feel close to my little girl who's so far away from me for the first time.

Separation Anxiety

I should be packing right now. Tomorrow I'm flying to DC for a weeklong seminar on military/war reporting. It's a heavy-duty, 9 a.m. to p.m. crash course that includes segment topics like Fundamentals of Military Analysis, Covering Terrorsim and Insurgency, War Game: Avian Flu -- a National Emergency and other such light-hearted fare.

It starts off with a weekend hazardous environments training session in the Blue Ridge Mountains. The seminar director declined to comment on the details of those two days, so I fully expect to dodge both bullets and killer dogs. From my experience on the crime beat, I know for a fact that target practice on reporters is the universal fantasy of anyone who carries a gun for a living. In the very least, I expect to be pushed into the mud.

I can handle all that just fine. The real challenge is making it a full week without my girl. When I first got accepted for this training course, I was elated. The thought of seven days among my peers with nary a poopy diaper in sight was positively intoxicating. But the closer I get to actually walking away from Riley and getting on a plane, the more nervous and emotional I become.

My mom's here to take care of her while I'm gone. Riley's in excellent hands. She adores her grandmother -- almost too much. There's another issue. Mom is a baby whisperer. All children love her on sight, especially those under the age of 5. My sister Kim warned me that I should be prepared for Mom's Svengali-like influence on my daughter. "Riley won't even know you're gone," was Kim's verbal gut shot. So that's only adding to the stress of my first long trip away from my little one. Mom told me she's worried Riley will cry for me every day. I told her I was worried that she wouldn't.

Is that just tremendous ego on my part? How insecure must I be? I'm a good mom -- I know it, Riley knows it, my husband knows it. So shouldn't I be hoping she has the time of her life and doesn't stress in the slightest that I'm not around? Shouldn't I be looking forward to a full week of life like I knew it just two years ago rather than looking under my chair for a cracker crumb grin? Do I have to write a note on my hand to remind myself not to be jealous of my mother?

For more than a year I've been pining for the freedom to leave the house without a diaper bag, sleep soundly without involuntarily shooting out of bed at the first crackle of the monitor at 3 a.m. or even just sit on a toilet without first checking for little hands on the seat. Now here I am with a whole week to myself with no one to look after but me, and I find myself almost crippled by the need to be needed.

I Can't Believe It's Not Butter!

I'd like to believe I'm my daughter's best friend. She spends almost every waking moment with me. I know all kinds of silly tricks to make her laugh. I know her favorite foods, her favorite color, her favorite books, her favorite everything. I can interpret her facial expressions. I tell my husband I can read her mind, but that's mostly just to freak him out. I come pretty close, though. I'm the only person she's ever puked on, and I've had that honor about 10 times so far.

But still, if I'm really honest with myself, I probably have to admit that as far as she's concerned, her best friend is a worn teddy a friend sent as a gift right after she was born. I named this bear Butter because she's butter-yellow with a butterfly on her head. For Riley, it was love at first sight. She can't sleep without Butter. She squawks with delight when she sees this bear. She occasionally ensures parental attention when she should be sleeping by tossing Butter out of her crib, then crying because she can't sleep without her. (A brilliant ploy, really.) When she does go down, she holds Butter close in her hand as she sucks her thumb, so Butter gets slobbered on and rubbed during each trip to the Land of Nod.

So almost 14 months into Riley's and Butter's lives, Butter is looking pretty worn. She's been washed several times, occasionally because she's the only other entity Riley has ever barfed on.

Given the nature of Butter's work and her vital role in domestic security, my husband and I were advised by several babyologists that we should invest in a backup Butter. Internet searches yielded a clone on auction at Ebay. The starting bid was $1.99; I placed it, then waited out the sale for the next six days. I considered emailing the seller and offering her $10 for the bear to buy it outright. Each time I logged on, I held my breath as I checked my inbox to see if I was outbid. Miraculously, it never happened. My nerves were wracked at the thought that some nefarious auction-watcher was waiting till the last few minutes of the sale to jack the price into the triple digits, then outbid me at the last possible second.

Fortunately my imagination is much wilder than any current market demand for Beanie Babies. My bid of $1.99 won the day, and $6 in shipping and handling later, I Can't Believe It's Not Butter was on her way from Florida. But would Riley believe she was Butter? That was the scariest hurdle yet.

We soon had no choice but to test the waters. One morning on the changing table, Riley mounted a full-out offensive to go over the wall and make a break for freedom. She also launched a nuclear diaper, and Butter was pulled into the fallout zone. Given the noxious nature of Riley's biological warfare, Butter had to go into the wash. She wouldn't be clean by the time Riley's nap rolled around, so I Can't Believe It's Not Butter was called up from the reserves.

After stealthfully cutting off the tags and giving her a few test squeezes, I presented her to Riley. She squealed with glee, popped her thumb in her mouth and happily went down for a nap. All the while, the real Butter tumbled on a delicate setting in the dryer. I was so relieved, I called my husband at work to share the joyous news. This is cause for celebration, especially if it means my future vomit stains will be decreased by a third.

Stress re-defined

I used to be a very deadline-driven woman. I was a small-market TV reporter for a combo CBS/ABC station that put out 10 newscasts a day between the two of them. From 4 to 6:30 p.m., my blood pressure skyrocketed, my skin flushed, my temper flared and people avoided me as I tried to get all of my stories written and edited in time for newscasts at 4:30, 5, 5:30 6 and 6:30 p.m., plus usually at least two live shots. Then I'd have enough time to grab a fast food dinner before I'd have to repackage stories for the two 10 p.m. newscasts, which also often required live shots. I routinely put in 80-hour weeks with no overtime pay on a salary so low I was envious of rich school teachers; at one point I was also tutoring Spanish, freelance writing and cleaning a stable on Sundays to make ends meet.

Then I switched to newspaper reporting. That single daily deadline could at times be pushed as late as midnight, and I made almost as much as a first-year teacher. I felt like I had time for naps and trips to the spa between stories, even though at times I wrote as many as nine a day. So I'm no stranger to stress.

But stress these days is a completely different color and flavor. I still have deadlines, but those now take a back seat to the tint of Riley's mood ring. Usually she's a very upbeat, happy baby who's a joy to be around. But there are times I see in her a scary echo of my under-TV-deadline self. She can hit a boiling point that in turn flips my switch, and I feel like I'm back at the station laying down my last few seconds of video as the clock hits 5:59. Teething is a common culprit of dark moods, but there are times I have no clue why she's out of control.

Her doppleganger came to visit earlier this week. She wouldn't stop crying, no matter what I did. Then she started pinching me -- hard. I tried to explain that it hurt, that she needed to be gentle. I showed her how to touch softly. But she kept digging in with her toddler talons. I finally had to take her upstairs and stick her in her crib and let her cry. She didn't appreciate that one bit. She continued screaming.

I was ready to scream myself. I was mad at my daughter, which made me feel guilty, which only added to my frustration and stress. What was I doing wrong? Was Riley hurting? I'd given her Tylenol on the theory that erupting teeth were to blame, but it didn't make any difference. I felt completely helpless and incompetent. I was sick of her crying, bruised from her pinching and thoroughly fed up with the day.

And I just really, really wanted her to be happy again. Not just because my life would be easier, but because it truly pains me when she's upset. I called my husband to see if he could leave work "early" -- 5 p.m. -- to relieve me. He reminded me he'd told me he had to work late for a meeting I couldn't recall ever hearing about. That made me want to toss him in the crib with Riley and plug my ears.

I glanced at the clock. It was almost 5 p.m. -- almost 6 p.m. at my old TV station. I sighed, nostalgic for the good ol' days when all I had to worry about was breaking news, beating the competition, back-to-back deadlines and paying for Ramen noodles. Back when life was uncomplicated.

"Just call it a dog!"

Dogs are a recurring theme this week. For those of you losing sleep over the suspense of what we named the new puppy, "Bailey" won out over "Kelpie" in my oh-so-scientific straw poll. So I now have a new introductory word on the broken record command of "NO BITE."

But there was another dog issue recently when I was in Aurora to see my visiting grandmother, who was staying there at my aunt and uncle's house. Another aunt had accompanied her, and everybody was eager to see Riley. The aunts, Granny, Riley and I were walking down to a nearby playground, and Riley was happily taking in the sights. We'd point to trees, flowers, leaves, rocks -- all of the exciting scenery. Riley would attempt to repeat the words back to us.

In my ongoing efforts to prep my daughter for academic and life success, I speak mostly Spanish to her. So I'd point out arbol, flor, piedra, carro, etc. I could tell this was not sitting well with Granny. This is an 81-year-old woman who lives outside of a microscopic ranching town in the Texas hill country. As much as I hate to perpetuate stereotypes about Texans, here I go. To say Granny is closed-minded is a gross understatement. If industrial-strength lubricant were strategically applied to her tightly-shuttered brain, perhaps it could crack open just enough to embrace that new-fangled technology the kids call "fire."

So as I rolled my rs and dropped my ds, Granny bristled. Nevermind that Riley was enthralled. Forget that she knows her ojos, nariz, boca and panzita. Granny was quite put out that I wasn't speaking English. So finally when I repeated perro to my daughter as a dog barked, Granny barked herself. "Just call it a dog!" she spat.

Just like all the other times someone has jabbed at my parenting skills, my hackles rose and I felt a growl building in the back of my throat. But I swallowed it and pretended like I didn't hear it, just like I pretend not to hear people who tell me Riley's hands are cold, she's too small, I'm wasting my money on organic food for her or I'd be a better example for her if I left her in daycare so I could work fulltime.

Not that I'm keeping track. I really do my best to let it all roll off my back, but it's not a smooth or quick roll. I have to keep reminding myself that no matter how well- or ill-intentioned the critical masses are, they don't know my daughter like I do. So they don't really know squat.

Dog is our co-pilot

Like every other wife/mother who's trying to maintain and build a career, I find myself with a gross excess of free time and a desperate need to be responsible for keeping one more creature alive. This is where a typographical setting for sarcasm would come in very, very handy.

But I must admit, it was my idea to get the puppy. That in and of itself is odd, as I'm really a horse woman first, a cat woman at a very close second and a dog fan only when there's nothing to watch on my 800 channels other than "Judging Amy" reruns and agility competitions on Animal Planet. Don't get me wrong, I do love dogs, but I love dogs that don't kiss too much, demand attention, smell bad, shed, aggravate my cat, relieve themselves indoors or bark. In other words, I love cats.

But when I went over to my neighbors' house to see their litter of border collie puppies, I fell in love with a little girl with an adorable black spot in the middle of the white blaze running down her face. Fast forward a month and the puppy known temporarily as Dot is snoozing in my back yard as Riley snoozes upstairs. Both are entirely too young to play well together, so I really can't make the claim that we got the dog for Riley.

Granted, she loves to watch the pup attempt to herd me around the backyard, but Dot is in the gnawing on everything phase, and babies are no exception. So it's not like they keep each other busy so I can write. Instead, I find myself getting up before the sun to the let the puppy out to pee, then I go upstairs to change the diaper of the blue-eyed alarm clock that's just starting to go off. Then I mix up breakfast for each after I've had coffee so I'm sure I didn't confuse the baby formula with the puppy formula, and both of my girls get their breakfast.

The rest of the day is a staggered schedule of naps and play with both separately and five seconds of work in between. I'm falling asleep at 9 p.m. after researching Scottish lore and Gaelic names so that my husband and I can find a moniker we both like for the newest member of our family. We've got it narrowed down to Bailey and Kelpie; hopefully I'll have one picked by the time we get to the vet this afternoon.

As I told my aunt yesterday, if I didn't have a baby, I'd think this puppy was a lot of work. But despite the extra effort, I'm madly in love with this little dog.

Swim Fan

Wednesday marked my little mermaid's first swim class. I'd gone back and forth on whether or not we should take swim classes all summer. But after I found a fabulous orange floral bikini on sale, I knew it was time to take the plunge.

So we signed up at our nearby Y, which is where my good pal, Dawn, and her son, Ryan, are regulars. Ryan is two weeks younger than Riley and one of her favorite boyfriends. "Class" is not the best way to describe the experience. It's really much more like herding cats, or in this case, wet kittens. Babies of various sizes and levels of fashion consciousness (we were medium and keen) splash around with their parents, mostly moms, under the supervision of a saintly watermarm.

The first lesson was to set the babies up on the edge, tell them to wait and then bring them in. We're supposed to be instilling the idea that the kids will never enter the water without our permission and presence. Ryan had this down pat. Not only did he focus on Dawn sporting his trademark grin all the while, he moved toward her when she signaled him forward. Wow. Riley was so busy looking around, wiggling her toes and pointing at the ceiling, that lesson didn't so much take.

But once we got in the water, I had her complete attention. There was so much to see, splash and squeal about. She was transfixed when I held her close and blew bubbles. We were supposed to be teaching them how to exhale instead of sucking down water. Dawn told me Ryan had yet to master this skill, but he seemed to be giving it his all. And how can you expect a kid to blow bubbles when his face is stretched wide with a huge smile?

Then our watermarm kicked it up a notch by breaking out the rubber duckies. Riley hacked water in her glee. Just when I thought it couldn't get any more exciting (Yes, I know I need to get out more.), Daddy showed up. That's when his side of the pool became the Shamu Splash Zone and Riley's squeals pitched so high I braced myself for falling glass from the shattered windows. I hadn't seen her this excited since her last close encounter with horses. Looks like we'll be doing swimming lessons for a while.

The life o' Riley

Roll out the little red welcome wagon: it's our first post. I'm glad we had a chance to survive Riley's first year before I was asked to start chronicling our adventures online, even though that meant many notable moments went straight to Riley's running list of topics to broach with her therapist in the future rather than this blog. But we'll do our best to catch up. Here are the basics: I'm trying to work from home as a freelance writer as I juggle the responsibilites of the most important job title I'll ever have -- Riley's Mom. Fortunately, I'm gifted with a much nicer baby than my mother keeps telling me I deserve. But even with the happiest toddler on the block underfoot, there's still a toddler underfoot. And not just underfoot -- under computer, into cabinets, against baby gate, across room and after cat. Even now, she's skittering around imitating the kitty. She hasn't gotten the full "meow" down, she just says "OW!" My husband and I think she's cute, but everyone else thinks she's in constant pain. Speaking of pain, she just had a particularly hard landing as she tried to pull up on the coffee table. Must go do that mom thing now...