So, when I was on maternity leave with our first baby, wee Oliver, I was … well, I was not at my very tip-top best. I was overwhelmed, exhausted, stunned and tired. I was not a shining beacon of motherhood, and I was very grateful to have a job where I could just — leave. I didn’t come back for 13 weeks after Oliver was born, and the League team was just heroic in my absence.

At one point, about 7 weeks in, I got an increasingly desperate call on my home cell phone from our then-current website provider. They said, something to the effect of, ‘we are going out of business, we will shut down your website in approximately two weeks, you must respond.’ Apparently, they had been trying to reach me since, well, since I left.

I had no idea what to do, and me sitting down and crying with Oliver, while quietly soothing in some ways, presented very few options. We had a vendor who worked on our computer systems, both in our offices and creating applications for us to use online, who I had grown to really like. Scott Williams, my main contact there, was hilarious, smart and usually right on deadline. I relied on him, and in my hour of need (my flair for the drama is always increased during stressful times), I called him.

I laid my problem before him, being clear the SHORT timeframe we had to completely takeover the website (the scope of which I barely understood myself) and in my mind, he said, “No problem. We’ve got this.” I flailed a bit more, trying to emphasize: Are you SURE? Will you HELP? and he said, smoothly, calmly and with great humor: Yes, I’m sure, and yes, I will help.

So, he did. He did! With very little input from me (just a few more flailing phone calls) and very little demands, he singlehandedly (or with a team, I’m not clear …) saved the League’s website.

When, a year or so later, he said he wanted to join the League staff, I was ready, willing and eager to hire him — and he’s outlasted me there! He’s a great asset, and I miss working with him. I think often of that panicked day, and his kind and calm response. Scott is a great person; thank you for saving the site, and my maternity leave.

When Oliver turned one, well, we thought: he’s not going to remember it, we’re both tired and overwhelmed, let’s give him some extra peas (honestly, the cutest video ever recorded in the world — he LOVED his peas) and call it a day.

A few months later, I had lunch with Marthea Wilson. She wasn’t at the League any longer, and her daughter Eve had just completed a school project called, I kid you not, My First Birthday Party. She was in second grade, and had to take in photos, a story and some more about her first birthday. It … well, it panicked me. I pictured poor 8-year-old Oliver, asking for some photos and receiving his (adorable!) video of extra peas.

The Rotherham’s always welcoming house kitty corner across the street from ours …

So, July 23 rolled around, and for Oliver’s 16-month birthday, we made a yellow cake with chocolate frosting. We had some new neighbors who had recently moved in across the street, and we called them and asked if they would join us for cake on our front lawn. Their twin daughters shared Oliver’s birthday exactly, so they were celebrating their 3 year and four-month birthdays …

They came over immediately, providing good humor, great compliments on the cake, and stories of their own birthday parties (Julie’s Easter party when the girls turned two, the same day Oliver was born, was so awesome it was the basis for our neighborhood Easter parties for years).

We had already enjoyed standing around on their driveway, talking with them and hearing about Andy’s bicycling adventures (he’s a fast rider who is currently training and raising money for cancer in memory of his beloved father:  http://www2.pmc.org/profile/AR0140) and Julie’s activism in our neighborhood, school and church.

We found a home with the Rotherhams, and in Barcroft. They are such great hosts, having endless parties for work and pleasure. I remember Julie’s 40th birthday party with great pleasure — the guests were fascinating; the food was excellent; the table settings was elegant. Julie and I volunteered together on Easter Egg hunts, and Andy was endlessly helpful (and cheering) during my two job searches last year.

We have found so much to love in Seattle, including a great neighborhood; at the same time, we miss our beloved Barcroft, and the Rotherhams. Thank you for being such great friends, and for celebrating Oliver’s 16 month birthday with us.

So when I moved to Baltimore, I was desperate for friends. I met more people in the first year of living there who would turn into lifelong friends than at any other time in my life, but I … didn’t know that at the time. At the time, it just felt really, really far from Texas and not quite my dream of New York City and so just — lonely. While I was volunteering anywhere and everywhere, I saw an ad for a blind woman who needed a reader.

I called Ellen, we talked for a while, and she agreed that I could help her out. I went over to her condo apartment in downtown Baltimore once a week, to open and read her mail, go over anything else she needed, and then spend some good time talking and gossiping. She was working at the Maryland School for the Blind, and I loved hearing about her stories, and her life.

Mary, me, Ellen, and Carey at a surprise shower for Mary and I at Barb’s house.

In a way that I could never imagine, she had actually made it through much of her life as sighted, holding on to friends’ hands and navigating expected corridors, until she went to college. At college a friend made her let go, and said, “Find your way.” It was terrifying, and Ellen had to admit she couldn’t. She got a cane, bought Braille books, and continued to make her way in the world. She loved to dance; she actually met her husband Ken during the time I was reading to her as they both loved doing an elaborate type of dancing (I can’t remember which kind right now).

She eventually became an advocate for the blind, and the course she helped teach was a real-life course, where students had to achieve all kinds of results, culminating in the creation and clean-up of a dinner party for eight, a feat I can still barely achieve.

One day, after I was done reading her mail and we were just talking, Ellen expressed real bitterness about drivers who park or block the crosswalk. She was usually so equanimous, so I asked her about it. She lit up with fire — she said, “I just cannot allow it to pass, I cannot.” I said, sure she was just internally mad, “what do you do?” and she said, “well, the time I was the angriest I actually took my cane and starting hitting the hood of the car, screaming, ‘this is a crosswalk! a crosswalk!'” I said, “Ellen, weren’t you scared?” And she said, “What were they going to do, hit a blind woman?”

I have so enjoyed this story, and the memory of our friendship, over the years. As I said, she got married (so he read her mail) and I moved to Washington, D.C., so we fell out of touch. But you can bet I’m REALLY careful not to stop in crosswalks. Thanks, Ellen, for teaching me how much we can see without any vision at all.

So, I’ve posted about Jason and our courtship, and about his amazing family traditions, but tonight it strikes me that I haven’t posted about how he has completely enabled our family’s life. When we first had Oliver, we both worked at full-time jobs. I took Oliver to preschool and picked him up, because my job was more flexible. The months of driving O to daycare, driving back to the house to jump on my bike and bike to work, then biking home and driving to pick him up? Those are not my fondest memories, although his daycare provider was gentle and awesome.

So when Allyson came along, and Jason was gradually realizing his job wasn’t an exact match for his talents, we decided he would resign and try being a stay-at-home dad. He was not expecting to like it, and I wasn’t sure what would happen.

Jason and his beloved ‘Serenity’ — our new family bike that holds all three kids (Oliver not pictured) and has an electric motor to get them all up Seattle’s steep hills …

He is the greatest. dad. to. our. kids., ever. Part of that is how his yin matched my yang — I am very strict and obsessive, he is very gentle and occasionally flexible. He cooks and cleans, I balance the bank statement and plan outings. (I got the better part of that deal, I think.) Every mom or dad I’ve met who knows Jason always makes sure to speak to me about how awesome he is, how caring, how loving, and how lucky I am.

Without him being home, we couldn’t have afforded to have Eleanor, and oh my goodness how we all adore Eleanor.

Without him being home, we couldn’t have done only cloth diapers for all three kids — he cleans out the awful ones, even if I am home!! We are still using the diapers and wraps my dad bought Oliver.

Without him being home, we wouldn’t have home-baked bread, awesome and delicious fresh meals at home, endless classes for the two little girls (gymnastics, dance, art) and so much more.

Without him being home, I wouldn’t be able to work as hard and as much as I do in my career.

Without Jason at home,  without his dedication to us as a family and his willingness to put us first, I’m not sure where we’d be. And I don’t want to find out.

Thank you, Jason, for finding your life’s work in our children, and excelling at it. I love you and appreciate you.

So, as I’ve written about before, I worked at the Texas A&M college newspaper, the Battalion, and I loved it. I met my dearest Erin there, learned enormous amounts, and … went a bit wild. Elizabeth-style wild, but still …

On my very first day there, a rakish, older columnist by the name of Frank Stanford swaggered in to the office, motorcycle helmet tucked under his arm. I’m sure he introduced himself to me — he never missed a chance to connect — and I was, in that second, gone. Hook, line and sinker.

The more I knew about him, the more I realized how utterly unsuitable, incompatible, and even dangerous he was for me — and the more I coveted his friendship and his attention.

Frank had a way of making me feel like the center of the world, while at the same time expanding my world enormously. This is going to sound RIDICULOUS, coming from a college junior, but I still didn’t drink (after my shared wine glass with Jana on my 21st birthday); I didn’t watch the Simpsons (I didn’t think it was moral, an opinion I moronically shared with the world in a Point/Counterpoint with Frank in the newspaper — the Simpsons were a big deal in the mid-90s); I certainly didn’t ride motorcycles. Frank changed all that (well, on the drinking, he changed it such that I had four drinks my senior year! CRAZY I’m telling you.).

Jenny Magee, Frank, Me and Erin.

He was close friends with Erin, too, and fairly quickly he and I became friends, of a sort. It’s more accurate to say we became idol and acolyte, roles we both willingly played. The night Frank first took me out on his motorcycle, a BMW he used when he wasn’t driving his Alfa-Romeo Graduate — he was a veritable cliche of wild and free-wheeling guy in 1994 — was astounding. I can still see the road flying by, seemingly inches from my feet, and hear Frank saying, “Hold on tighter” as he maneuvered into a crazy turn or went onto a highway.

[pause for my mom to recover from remembering her worst six months — she was so terrified for me].

I was so inspired I actually signed up for a class and earned my Texas motorcycle license that summer, a story I will sum up in two anecdotes.

1. When I walked in for the second day of class, one instructor said to the other, “She did come back! Damn! I owe you $10.” and

2. They only agreed to give me my Texas motorcycle license if I swore (SWORE) that I would never again even get on a motorcycle.

Done, and done! Although that didn’t prevent me from taking a picture of one in a Harley shop in rural Pennsylvania with Eve …

Me, as close to driving a motorcycle that I ever, ever want to get (the showroom floor, circa 1995).

Anyway, Frank. I think every woman (EXCEPT my daughters!) should know at least one wild, crazy, harebrained summer. I’m really grateful for him teaching me all I’ll ever know about motorcycles, professional-speed chopping of vegetables (with the scarred hands to prove it), and the importance of protecting your heart when dealing with confirmed bachelors.

It was a great summer. Thanks, Frank.

My mom had two best friends while I was growing up, Ann Butler and Ann Owen. One lived in splendor in Houston’s best part of town (oh we loved hand-me-downs from her), and the other lived in smelly, industrial Pasadena. I loved them both immensely.

Ann Owen, whom mom met when they were both Ph.D. candidates in psychology at the University of Houston, had a husband, Charles, and two beloved sons. Her sons were much older than Jennei and I, but would still indulge us. We’d all play Trivial Pursuit, and I remember her older son introducing me to the Best of The Cars, a cassette tape I still love.

Ann and Charles hosted my birthday parties at their sparkling new house as I grew up. One I remember in particular, as my mom bought me my much-coveted Bass loafers — a gift that cost so much that as she handed them to me she said, “I never imagined I’d have a daughter with $90 shoes.” Ha! That was just the beginning.

Ann was a great cook, and a wonderful entertainer, working hard to make sure everyone was comfortable and at home. She also had a streak of devilishness in her, which I cherished. When my mom was dating Lou, who she met at church, his family was quite scandalized by the dessert my mom adopted from Ann Owen, called Chocolate Orgasm.

It was really good — cake, pudding, whipped cream and candy in alternating layers in a clear glass jar. Still, my mom adapted the name to be Chocolate Trifle, and it became more acceptable to serve in mixed company.

Today, my husband and I made a pound cake to take to an Easter party in Seattle. The pound cake was gorgeous when we pulled it out of the oven, and then slowly deflated over the next hour to what was basically an uncooked ball of dough. In a panic, considering throwing it out, we googled “what to do with undercooked cake.” Several geniuses online suggesting cutting it into slices, cooking it in a pan, and then making a trifle.

In a flash, I pulled out Ann’s old Chocolate Orgasm recipe, written in my teenaged hand. We made it exactly as the recipe called for, with the addition of grilled pound cake, and it was as popular as I remembered it being at Ann’s house.

It made me feel a warm fuzzy for Ann Owen, Houston in the 80s, and my childhood in general. Thanks, Ann, for showing me irreverent is okay and scandalous can be funny. I hope you are doing well, wherever you are.

A boss I had back in 1999, Darcie Johnston, has become a lifelong friend and mentor. At the time, I trusted her enough that I allowed her to introduce me to Indian food. Over the years, many people (Julie Polzer most successfully) tried and failed to get me to expand my diet. Under Darcie’s tutelage, it expanded and I haven’t looked back.

At that point, I’d been a vegetarian for 11 years — and still hated vegetables, and never tried a food that didn’t start with ‘mac’ and end in ‘cheese.’ When stretched for time or money, I just ate white rice flavored with Kraft Parmesan–and called it delicious! I was a horrific eater — honestly, I can’t even imagine WHY I didn’t try flavors. Anyway. I didn’t.

So, Darcie starts by marching me across Union Station in D.C., right near where we worked, to White Tiger Indian food. I mulishly sat across from her, saying, ‘just order what you think I’ll like.” She did, ordering naan and palak paneer, and in between voracious bites I exclaimed: “I knew I liked cheese, but spinach? and what is farmer’s cheese? and can I have more?” She had me then.

She and her then-husband, John, had me and my then-partner, Mary, over for dinner frequently. Their daughter Lena was a tiny girl, and they would put her to bed and then feed us grilled polenta (so exotic), and teach us to shoot the moon in hearts (which Mary actually did once).

In addition to a shared workspace, Darcie and I share an obsession with the New Yorker, a similar sense of humor, and a love of reading. We’d argue over books (I loved the ending to Ann Patchett’s Patron Saint of Liars, she did not) and end up laughing over food. She gave me a recipe that is my kids’ favorite to this day: Mush, named by her oldest son. An amalgam of brown rice (?! I had to buy it just for this exploration), soy sauce, black beans, kale and cheddar, it sounds awful but tastes extremely lovely.

During my recent job search, I ended up in Madison, Wis. for an interview. Darcie moved there with Lena several years ago, and they just finished building a house. It had been years since we’d seen each other in person, but kayaking around a calm, placid lake and talking about relationships, friends, books, loves and life, it felt like no time had passed at all. We ate excellent pizza for lunch, talked more over Wisconsin beer and then I had dinner with she and Lena.

When my offers came in, Jason and I knew we would go to Seattle, but the appeal of a ready-made family with Darcie in Madison was very tempting.

I have so much to thank Darcie for: her teaching me how to edit and work with authors, encouraging me to read thoughtfully, and — most of all — her showing me a wide world of food beyond my very small one. Thanks, Darcie, for all the Indian food in the world.

(I have looked and looked and actually can’t find a picture of Darcie anywhere — is my photographic record finally failing me? I hope not …)

In one of those “small world” coincidences that happen to all of us if we live long enough, Barb Jeffries and I worked at the same company when I lived in Houston and she lived in Baltimore — then, I moved to Baltimore for a completely unrelated job and we became real life friends.

I was a secretary (“executive assistant”) at my first job out of college — a dental insurance company — and she was in finance at our headquarters. Somehow, between scheduling meetings between my boss and her, we started joking around and became tentative friends. This was back in the day of FAXES, and one of her faxes will always be the favorite one I’ve ever received. I wish I had taken a picture of it!

It was a drawing of Elvis, sketched onto our letterhead, and it said: “Elvis: As we celebrate his life, and mourn his death.” I don’t remember if it was Elvis’ birthday or death anniversary, but I know I was delighted to receive such an irreverent and awesome fax with a regular work attachment on it.

When I moved to Baltimore for my first association communications job a few months later, I reached out to her to see if we could get together. My personal schedule was, as I recall, WIDE OPEN, and hers was quite busy. We set something for MONTHS in the future, and I set about counting the days. I was sure we were going to be BOSOM BUDDIES and BEST FRIENDS.

When we finally met, at a mediterranean food restaurant where I pretended to have actually tried feta, olives and other exotic foods in my life, I tried desperately to impress her. I think I came across as more ‘desperate’ than ‘impressive,’ but something spoke to Barb, and she and I did gradually develop a great friendship.

Barb (clown), me (sailor), Mary (witch) way back in the 90s …

I helped her move into the house she still lives in; she taught me how to celebrate Halloween as an adult; she threw me and my first partner a great surprise wedding shower (with several co-hostesses); we volunteered together and then she and I became two of the five members of the monthly dinner group I’ve written about before. We even painted trim together — ugh, a job I would only do with a DEAR friend.

Barb’s humor and kindness, her stalwart support and willingness to say: “what are you DOING?” when she thinks I’ve gone astray, have been wonderful to me all these years. It was wonderful to be with her at her recent wedding, and to celebrate all of our life’s milestones together over the past almost 20 years.

To Elvis, and to Barb. I’m glad I know you, and thank you for all the wonderful love and silliness you’ve shown me over the years.

In the very, very, very awkward phase I was in during this photo (late middle school? early high school?), I was very involved in church. We went away to this singing choir summer camp (pictured here), and I fell totally hard for John Lewis. He was sophisticated (he liked PINK FLOYD!) he was older than me (I swear he was in HIGH SCHOOL) and he was funny. What else did I need? Nothing.

So, when we got back to Houston, like any respectable girl, I decided to visit him and see if he might fall madly in love with me back (spoiler alert: No). So I looked up his house (right near when my future-stepfather lived, on the same street as a matter of fact), and saw that it was about 10 miles from my house.

John Lewis was the cool one with jazz hands, obviously, and I’m the one with the dinner plates as glasses.

I asked my mom how I could get there, and having had one really bad experience on a bus (… I was slapped. The details are fuzzy. I think I spoke out too much? But I know I was going to Rice University’s middle school program and I know another passenger slapped me and it was hard to get inspired to go back on the Houston bus system again), I decided that I could bike.

I had, up to this point, biked from school to my home from fifth grade, and biked around my neighborhood a bit. No experience biking 10 miles each way, no experience navigating busy city streets, signaling, and taking the lane: But, lots and lots of confidence.

So, armed with Google Maps (HA!) (armed with nothing but my own stubborn and only-in-Houston sense of direction), I set out from my home on Hanworth Street in Glenshire to Rutherglenn. I hadn’t even called John Lewis, just decided it was a nice summer day and surely he would be home.

I got there. I survived! I signaled. I used back roads, busy roads, I crossed crazy intersections, and I thoroughly enjoyed the last mile on Houston’s significant trail, the Braes Bayou trail.

Honestly, I also loved arriving at John Lewis’ house. I loved seeing him, and talking to him, and listening to him tell me about Pink Floyd (in his entirely darkened room, further proof to me of his ultimate coolness). I loved being able to get around a city as big as Houston, by myself. I loved human powered movement, and I loved that it brought me closer to John Lewis.

Thanks to John, for his patience with my crush, and to my bike, for always, always, always getting me where I need to go.

*my dad is still struggling after his recent bike/car crash — additional thoughts/prayers, please?*

So, the very best thing about my husband, other than the 100 incredible things about him,  is his family. The Kiker clan is far flung, widely read, wildly successful and very close. In an admirable move that every family in the world should follow, they reserve the week of Thanksgiving every year for a clan gathering, and it became my favorite week of the year the very first week I went to it. Future posts will be about specific members of the family, but this one is a general thank you to the whole mass that make up a loving, gentle and wonderful highlight of my every year since 2007 (with the one exception of 2011, when Eleanor was born on Nov. 23, a bit too close to Thanksgiving to travel …).

Speaking of that very first time, way back in 2007 … well, I was five months pregnant, and Jason and I were getting married and buying a house the week after Thanksgiving, on Dec. 8. In one of life’s wonderful twists, Jason had spent the previous Thanksgiving, as a 36 year old, telling everyone near and far that he would ‘never get married and never have children.’

This is just Clyde and Suzanne and their offspring … before Jason and I had any of our three and before Greg and Mindy had their last one. Additionally, Clyde is one of five kids, all of whose families still participate in one way or another …

Oh how his cousins, brothers and aunts teased him! His parents were too happy with our meeting and falling in love to tease, but they did allow as to how life takes its unexpected turns …

My mom had just been widowed, and having lost her beloved Lou she agreed to join me on my first Kiker Thanksgiving. It was in Fla., and we spent much of the time huddled in the community center near where we had rented a house, trying to get an internet connection and negotiating mortgage rates and move-in dates.

The hostess of the year, David and Gayle, Jason’s cousins, were the hosts. There were probably 60 people there, and Jason and I made rolls and my mom and I made our beloved hominy and cheese. Those were two drops in a positive ocean of food, love and fellowship served on Thanksgiving day.

In addition to the day of, Suzanne bought me all of my favorite toiletries to have in the rental house, Jason’s family hosted a joint baby and wedding shower and gave us tons of gifts, and every single person was warm, kind and funny. It was the world’s best vacation, complete with walks on the beach and a bouncy house on Thanksgiving Day.

The love my husband showers on me and our children every day is distilled and amplified during the week of Thanksgiving, whether it is in Florida, Connecticut, North Carolina or some point in between. I am so grateful for the Kikers and their tender embrace — thank you for being such a wonderful, real, family.