This post is part of the July Blog Exchange on the theme "Freedom." Please welcome guest poster Kristen, from Motherhood Uncensored.
Of All the Things That I Have Lost…
When I made the choice to become a parent, I lost the obvious freedoms. It was sort of like they handed you this cute baby that took you 15 hours to move about one foot from your uterus out your va-jay-jay, and asked for your left leg (or in my case, my entire ass) in return.
Sure, I was aware of the obvious limitations that would affect my daily existence. It sucks but we get over it – no sleep, no perky boobs, and no dropping f-bombs at the guy that cut you off on the corner of 8th and Pine. You laugh at the thought of a “quick stop” anywhere, and you realize that any type of “fun” activity – like going out to dinner and a movie alone with your spouse must be planned at least 2 months in advance.
But we adapt to this new loss of independence. We offer sex in return for 2 hours of sleep-in time (changing your wake-up from 5am to a whopping 7am), buy stock in chicken cutlet bra inserts, and start using words like “gosh darnit” and “that poopyhead.”
We hit the post office when we have a babysitter (hence why no one gets a birthday card or gift from you on time every), and we forego the dinner and a movie for take out and a bad dvd.
Fine. It’s parenting. Our choice.
But what I didn’t realize was that the greatest loss would be my own carefree view of life – that things happen, life changes, and people die. Sure things happen, but what if they happen to my kid? And what if my kid dies before me? Or if I die tomorrow and I don’t get to see my kid grow up?
Heck. As a singleton and married-sans-kids, I didn’t worry about my own mortality or even the life of my spouse. And I didn’t worry about how my own actions and reactions might affect and shape another human being and make them a millionaire rock star, Nobel Prize winning scientist or a serial killer. Life was simple.
Now, it seems like I’m constantly thinking about the example I’m setting for my daughter. And I worry about her health and well-being on a daily basis. It doesn’t rule my life, but it’s certainly in the forefront of my mind. And it’s not just because she’s little – I think that even when she’s older and away at college, I’ll still worry the same way.
And while I wouldn’t give back my daughter so I could have my worry free existence back, a part of me wonders how any parent walks around with their hair still in their head, their clothes on straight, and their Xanax not tucked away in their coat pocket. Lord knows I’m headed that direction. And fast.
Come visit me and read more at my personal blogs Motherhood Uncensored and The Mom Trap.
Friday, June 30, 2006
Wednesday, June 21, 2006
Dirty Little Secret # 17
I fear our lives will change.
Next Friday, my children and I will board a plane bound for Upstate New York. Dirk departs a day earlier, loaded into the station wagon with the dog, the cat, and the desert tortoise. We are leaving Minnesota, with all of Dirk’s medical training finally behind us. We have been waiting for this moment for a long time.
And I’m not so sure any more that I want it to come.
After writing that last sentence, I found myself sitting, with fingers idly tapping my keyboard. After all, we have been waiting for this moment for a long time. With it comes great achievement; Dirk is ready to start a career helping cancer-stricken families learn to deal with their disease with dignity. It is a moment eleven years in the making, and he has proven himself amongst some of the most knowledgeable physicians in the world. I am immeasurably proud of him.
With it comes security. After sixteen combined years of college, graduate school, medical school, residency, and fellowship, we are ready for Dirk’s first real job. We will no longer struggle to stretch $100 through the ten days until the next paycheck. We will no longer be forced to shop at Walmart. We will be able to plan for our children’s future.
With it comes family. After ten years of living apart from beloved family and friends, we are landing in a lovely home a full mile away from my children’s grandmother, my mother. After my sister moves to Illinois, she will often be there with us for extended visits with Emmie. There are friends from high school. Cape Cod is no longer $1,000 in place tickets, but $100 in gas money. I am going home.
Ten years ago, when I left home, I might have called you crazy to imagine I would ever deign to return to live in such a place. Five years ago - after my dad was diagnosed with colon cancer, after I became pregnant with Liz after eleven months of marriage, and after two planes tore my adopted city to shreds - I decided that home didn’t look so bad anymore. Dirk agreed. We re-ordered our priorities to plan for a stellar fellowship in the Midwest that would lead us to a stellar career in a private practice in my hometown. Where we had family. Where we had a reasonable cost of living. Where we could raise our children without fear of their becoming precocious sophisticates, yet still be close enough to our favorite cities to make a day trip for good sushi not unreasonable.
So far, so good. We sit on the cusp of realizing all of those plans. Schooling? Finished. Midwest? Tolerated. Job in private practice? Awarded with ease. Fabulously large one hundred year old home bought for the price of 1000 square in Westchester? Purchased.
But before we all get excited that we have so neatly shot down all of our ducks in a row, let’s talk about what’s missing.
Well, my Daddy, for one thing. I envisioned that he would conquer colon cancer, and after having been scared into the realization that life is short we would all then enjoy each other at close proximity for years to come. But he died one year into our three year stint in Minnesota.
And oddly enough, Minnesota will be missing.
I’ve written here before about how I loved Manhattan. But it was the city itself that lived and breathed for me. I fell in love with the place. It was HARD when we came here in 2003. There were many days when nineteen-month-old Lizzy and I sat on the couch in our new-to-us 1988 split-level and stared out at the cloudless sky and near treeless landscape. Where before we peered down from the height of the nineteenth floor onto cabs and cars and buses and bikes and trucks and more people than exist in this entire state, now we blankly gazed out on nothing. An empty cul-de-sac. Lizzy, my tiny city girl, struggled to understand the car, the enormous grocery store, and that damned itchy green stuff that relentlessly covered the pavement she had grown to love.
Those first few months I joined a few activities sponsored by the wives’ club associated with Dirk’s fellowship program. Yeah. It’s called the “Families Connection,” but when all the women introduce themselves as “Hi, I’m so-and-so and my husband is an anesthesiology resident,” it makes me nervous. It made them nervous when I left out Dirk’s stats and started asking if any of the doctors at this very famous hospital had husbands involved in the Families Connection.
The check-out clerks and hair stylists didn’t seem to understand my jokes, either, so I styled myself as a fish out of water. As my dad got sicker and my mother got more fragile and I struggled through my pregnancy with Teddy that first year, I became determined that this place would simply be a way station. Through illness and grief, I held myself apart from what was really waiting here for me. When I lived in New York City, I fell in love with the place. Here, out in the wilds of Minnesota where good Italian food is to be had at the Olive Garden, I have fallen in love with the people.
After my dad died, and I was learning to be free from the burden of his illness and its subsequent ravages of our family life, that empty cul-de-sac began to fill with people. Our second summer here we discovered that a companion for Lizzy lived across the street, two doors down. She learned to walk on grass, sometimes even with bare feet. The pre-teen boy at the other end of the street discovered that Dirk was a decent role-model and I was a good cook. They learned that we were a little quirky and we learned that they were all far from bland Swedes. We found a wonderful pre-school that insists on parental involvement. We made the 1988 split into a cozy home that welcomes all thirty-three neighbors, sometimes all at the same time. We became masters at blocking off the circle so the kids could ride their bikes in the early evenings. We learned that our Evangelical neighbors weren’t space aliens, but were people who were open to discourse and with whom we shared values. We conquered our goal of never, ever stepping foot in the Mall of the Americas. We discovered that 32 degrees means no hats and mittens. We saw Garrison Keillor live. We specialize in the impromptu potluck.
We found a sweetly simple life that I greatly fear will change.
Our ship has finally come in, and we trade 1800 square feet for 3600. We trade a family of four on less than $50,000 a year for much, much more. We trade friends for family. I worry that we will become complacent about our financial good fortune, that my children will grow to be entitled. I worry that we will retreat to the bosom of our families and old friends to the exclusion of making new friends. I worry that we will lose the independence that 1500 miles inevitably brings. We’ve never had the luxury of a built-in baby-sitter. We’ve never had family popping in for a visit. While I have often envied my sister’s lunches and dinners with my mother and my father, when he was alive, I have instead had my own schedule. We are free, out here, to do as we please. The realities of our everyday life are unknown to the family and friends who believe that they know me best. I have grown to like it that way.
A week from today, the packers will arrive. My children will be bewildered as their lives are carefully packed away. The girl who had such a hard time adjusting to life outside the city no longer remembers it. As far as Lizzy knows, this is her only home. Teddy is a native Minnesotan. But the objects that define their lives will be loaded onto a truck and driven across the country. After two weeks at the beach, they will not return home. We will learn to live amongst our familiar objects in an unfamiliar place.
It will be become their home. Teddy, at two, will not likely remember Minnesota. At four and a half, Lizzy may have more concrete memories. They will fade pleasantly. We will make new friends. We will struggle to keep ourselves in check, to be thankful for the opportunities and good fortune granted us. It will be alright. The changes ahead are certain. I will learn to welcome them.
Next Friday, my children and I will board a plane bound for Upstate New York. Dirk departs a day earlier, loaded into the station wagon with the dog, the cat, and the desert tortoise. We are leaving Minnesota, with all of Dirk’s medical training finally behind us. We have been waiting for this moment for a long time.
And I’m not so sure any more that I want it to come.
After writing that last sentence, I found myself sitting, with fingers idly tapping my keyboard. After all, we have been waiting for this moment for a long time. With it comes great achievement; Dirk is ready to start a career helping cancer-stricken families learn to deal with their disease with dignity. It is a moment eleven years in the making, and he has proven himself amongst some of the most knowledgeable physicians in the world. I am immeasurably proud of him.
With it comes security. After sixteen combined years of college, graduate school, medical school, residency, and fellowship, we are ready for Dirk’s first real job. We will no longer struggle to stretch $100 through the ten days until the next paycheck. We will no longer be forced to shop at Walmart. We will be able to plan for our children’s future.
With it comes family. After ten years of living apart from beloved family and friends, we are landing in a lovely home a full mile away from my children’s grandmother, my mother. After my sister moves to Illinois, she will often be there with us for extended visits with Emmie. There are friends from high school. Cape Cod is no longer $1,000 in place tickets, but $100 in gas money. I am going home.
Ten years ago, when I left home, I might have called you crazy to imagine I would ever deign to return to live in such a place. Five years ago - after my dad was diagnosed with colon cancer, after I became pregnant with Liz after eleven months of marriage, and after two planes tore my adopted city to shreds - I decided that home didn’t look so bad anymore. Dirk agreed. We re-ordered our priorities to plan for a stellar fellowship in the Midwest that would lead us to a stellar career in a private practice in my hometown. Where we had family. Where we had a reasonable cost of living. Where we could raise our children without fear of their becoming precocious sophisticates, yet still be close enough to our favorite cities to make a day trip for good sushi not unreasonable.
So far, so good. We sit on the cusp of realizing all of those plans. Schooling? Finished. Midwest? Tolerated. Job in private practice? Awarded with ease. Fabulously large one hundred year old home bought for the price of 1000 square in Westchester? Purchased.
But before we all get excited that we have so neatly shot down all of our ducks in a row, let’s talk about what’s missing.
Well, my Daddy, for one thing. I envisioned that he would conquer colon cancer, and after having been scared into the realization that life is short we would all then enjoy each other at close proximity for years to come. But he died one year into our three year stint in Minnesota.
And oddly enough, Minnesota will be missing.
I’ve written here before about how I loved Manhattan. But it was the city itself that lived and breathed for me. I fell in love with the place. It was HARD when we came here in 2003. There were many days when nineteen-month-old Lizzy and I sat on the couch in our new-to-us 1988 split-level and stared out at the cloudless sky and near treeless landscape. Where before we peered down from the height of the nineteenth floor onto cabs and cars and buses and bikes and trucks and more people than exist in this entire state, now we blankly gazed out on nothing. An empty cul-de-sac. Lizzy, my tiny city girl, struggled to understand the car, the enormous grocery store, and that damned itchy green stuff that relentlessly covered the pavement she had grown to love.
Those first few months I joined a few activities sponsored by the wives’ club associated with Dirk’s fellowship program. Yeah. It’s called the “Families Connection,” but when all the women introduce themselves as “Hi, I’m so-and-so and my husband is an anesthesiology resident,” it makes me nervous. It made them nervous when I left out Dirk’s stats and started asking if any of the doctors at this very famous hospital had husbands involved in the Families Connection.
The check-out clerks and hair stylists didn’t seem to understand my jokes, either, so I styled myself as a fish out of water. As my dad got sicker and my mother got more fragile and I struggled through my pregnancy with Teddy that first year, I became determined that this place would simply be a way station. Through illness and grief, I held myself apart from what was really waiting here for me. When I lived in New York City, I fell in love with the place. Here, out in the wilds of Minnesota where good Italian food is to be had at the Olive Garden, I have fallen in love with the people.
After my dad died, and I was learning to be free from the burden of his illness and its subsequent ravages of our family life, that empty cul-de-sac began to fill with people. Our second summer here we discovered that a companion for Lizzy lived across the street, two doors down. She learned to walk on grass, sometimes even with bare feet. The pre-teen boy at the other end of the street discovered that Dirk was a decent role-model and I was a good cook. They learned that we were a little quirky and we learned that they were all far from bland Swedes. We found a wonderful pre-school that insists on parental involvement. We made the 1988 split into a cozy home that welcomes all thirty-three neighbors, sometimes all at the same time. We became masters at blocking off the circle so the kids could ride their bikes in the early evenings. We learned that our Evangelical neighbors weren’t space aliens, but were people who were open to discourse and with whom we shared values. We conquered our goal of never, ever stepping foot in the Mall of the Americas. We discovered that 32 degrees means no hats and mittens. We saw Garrison Keillor live. We specialize in the impromptu potluck.
We found a sweetly simple life that I greatly fear will change.
Our ship has finally come in, and we trade 1800 square feet for 3600. We trade a family of four on less than $50,000 a year for much, much more. We trade friends for family. I worry that we will become complacent about our financial good fortune, that my children will grow to be entitled. I worry that we will retreat to the bosom of our families and old friends to the exclusion of making new friends. I worry that we will lose the independence that 1500 miles inevitably brings. We’ve never had the luxury of a built-in baby-sitter. We’ve never had family popping in for a visit. While I have often envied my sister’s lunches and dinners with my mother and my father, when he was alive, I have instead had my own schedule. We are free, out here, to do as we please. The realities of our everyday life are unknown to the family and friends who believe that they know me best. I have grown to like it that way.
A week from today, the packers will arrive. My children will be bewildered as their lives are carefully packed away. The girl who had such a hard time adjusting to life outside the city no longer remembers it. As far as Lizzy knows, this is her only home. Teddy is a native Minnesotan. But the objects that define their lives will be loaded onto a truck and driven across the country. After two weeks at the beach, they will not return home. We will learn to live amongst our familiar objects in an unfamiliar place.
It will be become their home. Teddy, at two, will not likely remember Minnesota. At four and a half, Lizzy may have more concrete memories. They will fade pleasantly. We will make new friends. We will struggle to keep ourselves in check, to be thankful for the opportunities and good fortune granted us. It will be alright. The changes ahead are certain. I will learn to welcome them.
Wednesday, June 14, 2006
Friday, June 09, 2006
Dirty Little Secret #16
I am a nerd.
Oh yes - I know my fictional audience finds this extremely hard to believe, but it's true. I am as nerdly as they come. Just yesterday, Amy called me to ask a question about the plot of Star Wars III: Revenge of the Sith. What's scary is that she thought I would know the answer. What's scarier is that I did.
"K, what's a Sith?"
I happily commenced telling her all about the Sith, how Annakin Skywalker is mutilated before he assumes the Darth Vadar garb, and how the Chancellor is just like George Bush.
I may need help.
************
I'd like it noted that after I posted this, and my loving sister left her comments, she called to ask YET ANOTHER QUESTION regarding Star Wars III. In the future, before one goes prancing about, proclaiming one's superiority over one's Star-Wars-loving-younger sister, one should carefully examine that fact that two entire post-baby-bedtime evenings were spent watching Star Wars III. So there.
And Wookie and Heather, I am happy to see that you've got this bloggie's back.
Oh yes - I know my fictional audience finds this extremely hard to believe, but it's true. I am as nerdly as they come. Just yesterday, Amy called me to ask a question about the plot of Star Wars III: Revenge of the Sith. What's scary is that she thought I would know the answer. What's scarier is that I did."K, what's a Sith?"
I happily commenced telling her all about the Sith, how Annakin Skywalker is mutilated before he assumes the Darth Vadar garb, and how the Chancellor is just like George Bush.
I may need help.
************
I'd like it noted that after I posted this, and my loving sister left her comments, she called to ask YET ANOTHER QUESTION regarding Star Wars III. In the future, before one goes prancing about, proclaiming one's superiority over one's Star-Wars-loving-younger sister, one should carefully examine that fact that two entire post-baby-bedtime evenings were spent watching Star Wars III. So there.
And Wookie and Heather, I am happy to see that you've got this bloggie's back.
Saturday, June 03, 2006
Dirty Little Secret #15
It's 10:00 pm on a Saturday and I'm folding laundry.
I couldn't be happier. My life is captivatingly humdrum. Neither mediocre nor unexceptional, just satisfyingly routine. While there are undoubtedly days when I would tear out my hair, I am not conflicted about myself in the role of wife and mother. I am not a cool mom, and I definitely wear a mom uniform. I am not a soccer mom.
I'm just mom. Or mama. Or mommy. Or Mooooommmmmy.
Our days ebb and flow, gentle waves of time lapping at our feet. Just two days ago, T. celebrated his second birthday. The minutes and hours have trundled past, through playgrounds, pre-school, and potty training. In my jeans and tees, I watch them as they grow older, thinner, wiser. I, too, grow older and wiser.
Today, we ventured to the Minnesota Zoo. L. has been watching the posters announcing the arrival of the Summer on the Savannah exhibit since last September. She had carefully amassed a set of facts in preparation for the exhibit, and when shown a model of an ostrich egg, announced to the Zoo staff that an ostrich is a relative of the extinct Elephant Bird. She is an eager child, who sees great beauty in beasts, balloons, and basketballs. She is extraordinary in her capacity to both celebrate and fear the world around her. I only wish that I were extraordinary when it came to exhibiting patience with her.
Because I still perceive T. to be a baby, I do not always see the rapidly growing boy that he has become. His sunny smile fears little, and he too finds great joy in the ordinary. Planes! Birdies! Bugs! I don't always pay tribute to the fact that he doesn't receive the same kind of attention from us that L. merited at the age of two. We don't carefully sit to learn shapes, colors, and letters. T. is allowed to freely roam through her activities, gleaning what he can. He speeds through sippy cups, stairs, and Sesame Street, always striving to catch up to his beloved sister.
So we measure our garden variety days in sticky-syrupy pancakes, bits of grass stuck to sweaty palms in the sandbox, negotiations around naptimes, and trips to the zoo. We always wear playclothes. We struggle with the ordinary and expected conflicts of marriage, parenthood, and birth order. We shepherd two tiny, merry beings through the sunshine and into moonshine; when they go to bed, I fold laundry.
I couldn't be happier. My life is captivatingly humdrum. Neither mediocre nor unexceptional, just satisfyingly routine. While there are undoubtedly days when I would tear out my hair, I am not conflicted about myself in the role of wife and mother. I am not a cool mom, and I definitely wear a mom uniform. I am not a soccer mom.
I'm just mom. Or mama. Or mommy. Or Mooooommmmmy.
Our days ebb and flow, gentle waves of time lapping at our feet. Just two days ago, T. celebrated his second birthday. The minutes and hours have trundled past, through playgrounds, pre-school, and potty training. In my jeans and tees, I watch them as they grow older, thinner, wiser. I, too, grow older and wiser.
Today, we ventured to the Minnesota Zoo. L. has been watching the posters announcing the arrival of the Summer on the Savannah exhibit since last September. She had carefully amassed a set of facts in preparation for the exhibit, and when shown a model of an ostrich egg, announced to the Zoo staff that an ostrich is a relative of the extinct Elephant Bird. She is an eager child, who sees great beauty in beasts, balloons, and basketballs. She is extraordinary in her capacity to both celebrate and fear the world around her. I only wish that I were extraordinary when it came to exhibiting patience with her.
Because I still perceive T. to be a baby, I do not always see the rapidly growing boy that he has become. His sunny smile fears little, and he too finds great joy in the ordinary. Planes! Birdies! Bugs! I don't always pay tribute to the fact that he doesn't receive the same kind of attention from us that L. merited at the age of two. We don't carefully sit to learn shapes, colors, and letters. T. is allowed to freely roam through her activities, gleaning what he can. He speeds through sippy cups, stairs, and Sesame Street, always striving to catch up to his beloved sister.
So we measure our garden variety days in sticky-syrupy pancakes, bits of grass stuck to sweaty palms in the sandbox, negotiations around naptimes, and trips to the zoo. We always wear playclothes. We struggle with the ordinary and expected conflicts of marriage, parenthood, and birth order. We shepherd two tiny, merry beings through the sunshine and into moonshine; when they go to bed, I fold laundry.
Thursday, June 01, 2006
June Blog Exchange: Welcome Mrs. Fortune!
How psyched am I? I signed up for the June Blog Exchange and was fortunate to be paired with Mrs. Fortune! I'm a big fan of hers, so please go check out Mrs. Fortune and Her Cookie...oh, and my post there.
**********
I am obsessed with names. I blogged about it here and here.
Not in a bizarre-o TS Eliot “The Naming of Cats” what-the-hell-is-he-talking-about kind of way, but in a I’m a stickler for details don’t get everything right BUT the name sort of way. My own name often gets misread, and thus I get called Lori instead of Cori. My gynecologist actually did this to me recently. If it weren’t for the damn HMO you can bet I’d be on the prowl for a new one right about now.
I never liked my own name as a kid. I didn’t like that it was unisex. I
didn’t like that it wasn’t perky, like so many Amandas, Katies and Jennies
with whom I was forced to share a classroom. Surely, if my parents had opted
for one of those spunkier monikers, I would have been embraced instead of
exiled from the popular crowd. My middle name is truly horrific. I won’t
reveal it here, but suffice it to say, my sister’s middle name is Reagen,
you know, after the girl from the Exorcist, and mine is worse. Because that
makes so much sense, obviously, to name your child after a vomit-spewing
maniac with a head like a merry-go-round on speed. My parents truly embraced 1970s culture, in every way, wink wink.
As a teacher, names are especially important to me. It is a point of personal and professional pride that every year, without fail, I am the first teacher to learn all their students' names. Other teachers remark to me, come the second week of school when I am able to refer to everyone in my classes by their correct names (9 times out of 10). I make it a point to greet every student by name every day before every class. Who knows, it may be the only time in their day they get greeted in such a way. I started doing this when I was a student teacher, and my supervising teacher warned me that it wouldn't - no, couldn't- last. Five years later, I have kept this practice in-tact.
I hate it when people say "I am terrible with names." I think this is a choice. What you are saying when you say to someone "I can't remember your name" is this: when I met you, you were not important enough to me to warrant remembering your name." Considering that I always feel I am unimportant to people, it's not surprising that names, remembering, giving and cherishing them, are a big thing for me.
And for the record: please don't call me Lori. It's Cori. With a C-O-R-I.
(MrsFortune is a clueless new mommy who blogs when baby sleeps. You can normally find her here.)
**********
This post is part of a June Blog Exchange on the theme "What's in a Name?" Click here to read more. And, if you'd like to participate, email Kristen at kmei26 at yahoo.com.
**********
I am obsessed with names. I blogged about it here and here.
Not in a bizarre-o TS Eliot “The Naming of Cats” what-the-hell-is-he-talking-about kind of way, but in a I’m a stickler for details don’t get everything right BUT the name sort of way. My own name often gets misread, and thus I get called Lori instead of Cori. My gynecologist actually did this to me recently. If it weren’t for the damn HMO you can bet I’d be on the prowl for a new one right about now.
I never liked my own name as a kid. I didn’t like that it was unisex. I
didn’t like that it wasn’t perky, like so many Amandas, Katies and Jennies
with whom I was forced to share a classroom. Surely, if my parents had opted
for one of those spunkier monikers, I would have been embraced instead of
exiled from the popular crowd. My middle name is truly horrific. I won’t
reveal it here, but suffice it to say, my sister’s middle name is Reagen,
you know, after the girl from the Exorcist, and mine is worse. Because that
makes so much sense, obviously, to name your child after a vomit-spewing
maniac with a head like a merry-go-round on speed. My parents truly embraced 1970s culture, in every way, wink wink.
As a teacher, names are especially important to me. It is a point of personal and professional pride that every year, without fail, I am the first teacher to learn all their students' names. Other teachers remark to me, come the second week of school when I am able to refer to everyone in my classes by their correct names (9 times out of 10). I make it a point to greet every student by name every day before every class. Who knows, it may be the only time in their day they get greeted in such a way. I started doing this when I was a student teacher, and my supervising teacher warned me that it wouldn't - no, couldn't- last. Five years later, I have kept this practice in-tact.
I hate it when people say "I am terrible with names." I think this is a choice. What you are saying when you say to someone "I can't remember your name" is this: when I met you, you were not important enough to me to warrant remembering your name." Considering that I always feel I am unimportant to people, it's not surprising that names, remembering, giving and cherishing them, are a big thing for me.
And for the record: please don't call me Lori. It's Cori. With a C-O-R-I.
(MrsFortune is a clueless new mommy who blogs when baby sleeps. You can normally find her here.)
**********
This post is part of a June Blog Exchange on the theme "What's in a Name?" Click here to read more. And, if you'd like to participate, email Kristen at kmei26 at yahoo.com.
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