A manager at work today interrupted himself and pointed at me, "What's that?" he asked.

I juggled the notebooks and water bottle I was carrying, puzzled.

"Is that a princess Band Aid?"

"They work better, Tom," I said, "everyone knows that."

This morning, after dividing to leave our house in immaculate condition for the two showings we had scheduled today, I reinjured my cut finger and, short on time, grabbed the first Band Aid I could find.  Once at work, I struggled across the parking lot with my useful but enormous "laptop tote," a cookie sheet full of leftover dyed Rice Krispy eggs, and a three quarters of a coconut-orange cake.  I made a second trip later for the Easter basket full of candy.  On feet that just hurt, despite my Dr. Scholls orthotics.

Helpful tip: If you rediscover a cute pair of shoes in your closet and you can't remember why you  never wear them, most likely, there's a perfectly good reason.  I was limping to my car this afternoon.  Grey snakeskin stilettos may be cute, but they have outlived their usefulness in this life.

Later I sat across a conference room table from another manager anxious for me to commit to a role on his project.  I shifted uncomfortably, as I am wont to do.  "It's not a matter of being willing," I tell him, "It's a matter of what I am able to do at this point."  I tried to get him to flesh out what the role would look like before I committed to it. "I only work 32.5 hours now," I told him.

"We can fix that," he said.

"It's not broken," I countered, perhaps defensively.  I didn't mean to be.  But going part-time has left me kind of uncertain about my place and purpose.  I've become a generalist.  It's made a positive difference, sure, but it's not really enough of a change to count, at work or at home.  Enough to make a financial impact, enough to lift the burden of groceries from my weekends, but so far that's been about it. 

I am hoping for bigger changes, at some point, but we are not there yet. So for as long as I am in this position, I'd really love to do something well.  Completely.  Sometimes, part-time feels like I'm never fully anywhere.  That's not the kind of employee I want to be, and it's certainly not the kind of mother I need to be. I settle for good enough more often than I would prefer.

The other day in the car Mirabella said, "Hold on, I gonna be on a phone call.  I haf to put my ears in."  I cringed.  She watches everything, mimics everything, and I would like the reflection to be a little more flattering.

I'm an in-betweener.  I am not a role model; this is not a how-to site. While I favor cooking nightly from scratch, I can't say I do it exclusively.  While I admire those who coupon to the point of ridiculous savings, I don't do it.  I don't stockpile six weeks at a time, don't buy things I don't really like just because I have a coupon.  And, admittedly, I pay for that choice.  I try not to, but if I need something that isn't on sale, I will buy it. I don't feed my family all organic, I sometimes succumb to the temptation of french fries, sometimes share them with my children.  I enjoy the occasional diet soda.  I don't fit with some of the (excellent) bloggers I've found recently; the Christian alternative crowd.  They bake their own bread (or sprout their own grain), churn their own butter, make yogurt at home, ferment all sorts of things, and spend hardly anything on their groceries.  They homeschool their kids, keep their homes impeccably (with homemade cleaners, naturally), and make their own clothing.  In short, it seems from this side of things, there's not a lot they can't do. It probably sounds like I don't admire them.  Actually I do, quite a bit.  But they intimidate me. I am just not there.

That said, I am hardly a drive-through queen. My family frequently teases me for being overly particular about what my children eat, and my siblings complain I only stock "old people" cereal and no good snacks. They groan when I am in charge of shopping for family vacations.

Over the past few years, I have taken steps to green our life and make our diet healthier.  The moms I mentioned above would probably scoff at their smallness, but they're big to us.  We recycle, of course, and don't use paper plates or disposable cups.  While I don't make my own cleaning products yet, I do use biodegradable products. I don't know if I'll ever cross over to being shampoo free (using baking soda and apple cider vinegar to wash and condition my hair).  I'm just not sure I can go there. We only eat cage free eggs, and I'm working on figuring out how to afford organic, grass-fed chicken and beef. I am contemplating buying the better part of a cow. 

Daniel has accused me of making changes without consulting him.  "So we're not using creamer anymore?" he asked last year.  I told him it was completely artificial and loaded with hidden trans fat (the manufacturer is not required to report trans fat totaling less than 1g per serving, but who uses one teaspoon of coffee creamer?).  I switched us to fat-free half and half then, upon learning it contained corn syrup, we're on the real (and much better) stuff now.  One day, while looking for Truvia in the kitchen, he held up a Stevia extract bottle.  With a puzzled look, he said, "So this is what we're using now?"

They are baby steps.  Tiny. Lately, though, I've made two big changes that have me excited.  We joined our first CSA (community supported agriculture) with a local farm, and we now get our milk, cream and cheese delivered from a local creamery.  When the truck pulled up last week, I started clapping.  Daniel rolled his eyes. But I love it!  I love supporting the local families associated with the farm, love the glass bottles and plastic crates, love not worrying about hormones or antibiotics in my milk.  I can take the kids to the farm to milk the cows that provide their milk!  And the kids seem to like the milk more than the organic stuff I was buying from the grocery store.

This movement back to the farm, back to associating familiar faces with our food, is so old it's new again.  Maybe I'll never be a home management maven.  But when the truck with cow spots stops outside to deliver my glass bottles and collect my used ones, just for a second, I feel like one.

There isn't a pleasant way to fire someone, or a nice thing to call it.  Somehow, in my almost nine-year-career,
 I have only been laid off once. In retrospect, it really wasn't that bad.  The friend who fired me also netted me a lucrative, short-term consulting gig that covered most of my six-week unemployment.  It stopped two days before my wedding, and my new job started several days after I returned from the honeymoon.  There were far-reaching financial effects, but I know that's nothing compared to what friends and strangers have faced in the last few years.  But, at the time, it was terrifying.  And my relationship with my friend and former boss never really recovered, though I did not hold a grudge.  He kept his job, but he felt terrible, and I think it was too much for him.  Now I am fortunate to work for a company with a warning policy-- 60 days paid.  They make every effort to find a new position for someone with a notice, and they pay severance too.  Most companies, at least in my industry, don't do either.

I've got it on the brain today because a close colleague of Daniel's was unceremoniously "let go."  "We're going to have to let you go," I imagine they told him.  I have never understood the language of uncomfortable situations.  That's what my mom used to say to people to get them off the phone; "I'm going to let you go," as if she were doing them a favor, when really she was the one who needed to get on with her day.  Now I do it too, for lack of a better thing to say.  "I'm done with you now," while truthful, isn't really kind.

But Daniel's colleague, when he heard it, didn't want to go.  Go where?  I imagine him thinking, panicked.  Of course, our hearts go out to him and his large family.  We are preoccupied with worry for him.  But he is now just one of many--  8 percent or more, in most places.  How much of our fear is for him and how much is survivor's guilt,  stressing about the increased workload and unstable ground?  What will the travel schedule look like now?  How much more can a person take on without failing?  We have plans of digging out of a series of bad decisions and looking forward to a different life for me and the kids. I am reminded of how quickly it can change.  On Wednesday night, this guy probably came home for dinner, kissed his wife, and complained about office politics.  The next day, he was gone.  It could be any of us.  And faced between a choice of that burden or that of increased travel or work hours, of course I pick the latter.

What can we learn from it?  To be grateful for what we have, sure.  I am blessed to be sitting in the sunshine on a 70-degree day after going grocery shopping on a Friday. My children are napping upstairs. I thank God for a company that lets me work part time, but I am reminded not to take any of it for granted. To have a slush fund, definitely. To keep our heads down and work hard.  But also, that even when we forget it, life is not within our control and is absolutely not fair.

Sunday night, at an impromptu dinner at our house with my parents, I lost my cool with my husband.

"This isn't really relevant," he said, "but softball starts this week."  He maintained, in front of our audience, that we had spoken about this before.  I maintain that he probably wouldn't have brought it up in front of our audience if that were the case.  The details aren't really important.  Suffice it to say, he is playing softball on Thursday nights, as he has most of the years we've been together.  It's not that the softball is new; it's that everything else is.  Since last season, we've started attending a small group on Thursdays with other couples from church.  They have become like family. And, of course, now Daniel travels.  Half the time, in fact.  Occasionally, I am crazy enough to brave small group without him, but usually that means I am tending to my small and noisy children, trying to keep them from keeping everyone else from enjoying the time.  Attempting this feat after work is a challenge, and past bedtime it's impossible.  Then I drive six blocks home (it's not a safe six blocks to walk in the dark alone) and drive around for about 20 minutes looking for parking.  This part can be alleviated, thanks to a wonderful friend who is willing to give us a ride.  The point is that with Daniel gone half the time and at softball the other half, that doesn't really leave much room for small group.

Well, that's one point.  The other is the larger subject of free time.  What it is, who gets it, and how often. We have a standing misunderstanding on this subject.  Daniel is convinced I believe traveling for work is living a life of leisure.  I know this isn't true, mostly.  But here's what I also know: it involves sleeping in a hotel.  Alone.  With lots of pillows and not even the remote possibility of being awakened by screaming children.  It involves absolutely no cooking or cleaning, no keeping anything alive, no laundry or ironing.  It is eating in restaurants, conversations with grownups, and free glasses of wine. It is caring for oneself.  Going to the bathroom alone.  These are luxuries mothers do not have.

I adore being a mother.  I love  caring for my little girls.  But to say that the role, lately, hasn't been a challenge would be silly.  It just has.  And I long for some time-- any time-- alone.  I have been asking for this since last fall, and Daniel has wholeheartedly supported it, but I haven't lobbied.  When it comes down to it, I cave.

I remember fifth-grade Social Studies with Mr. Davis, he of the chinstrap beard and rimless, octagonal glasses.  He taught us about opportunity cost.  I think of it every day.  I don't make time for time alone.  I don't demand it.  And even when it's offered, often I find "more useful" ways to spend it.  There is always shopping that could be done, or bath time, or a project I was meaning to finish, or bedtime stories, or cleaning, or even spending time with that husband of mine.  I defer to the family.

When softball was sprung on me, part of why I exploded was that I knew it would make me resentful.  But how can I be resentful if, when afforded the opportunity for time alone, I don't take it?  Yesterday Daniel sent me an Outlook calendar invite for Christina's Time (location: anywhere you want to be).  Since then I've been thinking-- how would I use the time?  I felt pressure to use it wisely, to make the most of it.  Should I have a drink with a friend?  Should I go shopping for spring clothes? Should I return the pair of shoes that broke today? Should I stay home and do Pilates? 

I should not stay home, this I know.  When the girls and I got home tonight, Daniel started to cook dinner.  I didn't know what to do, so I attempted to do a Masala Bangra (Indian dance) DVD with toddlers at my clumsy feet.  Needless advice: don't try that at home.  After we ate, I sat bribing Mirabella to finish her taco and scolding Emerie for pulling hair.

"Baby. Just go," Daniel said.

So I did.  I put on an unnecessary scarf and boots, and I am sitting at Starbucks.  Just me, my laptop and my cheap girl's mocha (order a coffee, add sweetener and cream, then dump a bunch of chocolate powder in.  I unscrew the cap.  For real.). When I left, I had to pry Emerie from my leg and tell Mirabella not to cry.  It didn't feel good.  But sitting here, I feel a little like the girl I used to be. The one who recharged by being alone; the one with a head full of words and the time to put them to paper. That's the girl I've always been and that Daniel fell in love with.  I have to believe my kids deserve to know her too.

My first love wasn’t a singer or a movie star or a boy in my Math class.  He was the centerfielder for the Baltimore Orioles.  He had exaggerated sideburns and an over pronounced ‘s’ my family liked to emphasize, but I didn’t care.  I loved Brady Anderson.  But then, at 10, I was too young for it to be just a crush.  I loved baseball.  The whole thing.  From the smells of the park to the sounds in the stands.  I didn’t just like going to games, I even listened to them on the radio when they weren’t on TV.  It wasn’t normal, actually.

“You can’t have posters of baseball guys on your wall and flowers on your comforter,” my Mom complained, “John, why are you making her do this?”  My dad had been admiring the posters of Cal Ripken and Brady Anderson he had framed in my 7th grade bedroom.

“He’s not making me!” I said, to his delight.  “This is what I like!”

When the Orioles moved into their new stadium, Oriole Park at Camden Yards, I couldn’t wait to go.  I had a video from the inaugural opening day I watched again and again.  Brady Anderson gave a behind-the-scenes tour of the field and clubhouse.

Long before Al Gore invented the Internet, when West Coast games ran too late for their scores to be printed in the Baltimore Sun, I called the number they printed in the paper to hear the box score.  I read about them every day.  I didn’t get to go to the All Star game in ’93, but I sat in the very last row in left field for the Home Run Hitting contest.  I was there when Ken Griffey, Jr. hit the warehouse. I wasn’t there when Cal Ripken broke Lou Gehrig’s streak for consecutive starts, but I was the there the night he tied it.

My pride in the Orioles doesn’t extend much farther than that.  Their last winning season was in ’97, so for the first few years after, there wasn’t shame.  Just “growing seasons” and bad years.  But now, 13 years later, it’s been a tough run. We’ve endured 8 management changes, steroid scandals and Sidney Ponson.  When I was in high school, they announced the attendance at every game; there were many consecutive sellouts and attendance was routinely in the 40,000s.  A couple years ago, they stopped announcing it.  It was too embarrassing.

Daniel and I have had a partial season ticket plan for the past 4 years.  We’ve learned to sell off Red Sox tickets.  While I’m grateful for the money their fans pump into our city when they descend upon it, I do not enjoy the sight of them traipsing around in their jerseys all weekend, do not enjoy their loud in-your-face cheers for every play.  Several days before our wedding, we left a Sox game early (not our common practice) because Daniel said he didn’t want to have a black eye in our wedding photos.

All of this to say, it’s been a long road.  It’s still going to be a long road.  It’s not fun to root for the home team when the home team never wins.  Still, we return every April, usually braving low temps and freezing rain, with renewed hope that this may be better than a “rebuilding” year.  This may be the year things start to turn around.  “I tell ya, they’re gonna be fun to watch this year,” my Dad and grandfather say every Spring Training.  I love it.  It’s endearing, it’s just usually not true.

But this year, I’m jumping on the hope train.  This year it feels different.  It’s not because they started 4-0.  It’s not because I met second baseman Brian Roberts in the off season (and acted like an idiot).  It’s not because, for the first time in my memory, the home opener took place on a gorgeous, cloudless, 80-degree day.  Or because fans—our fans—in black and orange stayed engaged for every call.  It’s because so far this year, the team has swagger.  The last couple years I felt like I wanted to give them all hugs.  They looked even more miserable than I did, and win or lose, they were still making millions.  But not this year.

This year, Daniel and I arranged for a series of three family members and friends to watch the girls so we could go.  Daniel rescheduled a flight to Chicago, which then got delayed until 11:00.  On this perfect day, we sat in the stands and remembered what it was like to be us.  “I’m still in love with you, you know,” he said around the 7th inning stretch, after trying his best to embarrass me with obnoxious off-beat clapping to “Thank God I’m a Country Boy.”  I know this is true.  I think it was because we finally spent time together without tasks to accomplish or kids to chase.  It could have been the weather, or the almost $8 beers. Then again, it could have been the Orioles magic….it’s only April, so it’s too soon to tell.

"I apologize for the poor treatment you feel you have received," Victoria would say, "please allow me to try to help."  My former roommate used to work at a car dealership.  These were some of the Winning Words of Sales.  Note in the preceding apology, there is no actual acknowledgement of wrong done.  That was kind of the point.

I've never been much of a salesperson.  As a child, when I sold wrapping paper, I solemnly knocked on neighbors' doors.  "It's okay if you don't want to buy it," I'd say.  I did okay with magazines, because I liked them and could understand why people would want to buy them.  Still my sales were paltry compared to most. And just a couple weeks ago, Mirabella's gymnastics class had me hocking pizza.  Daniel and my mom said my attempts (via e-mail) were half-hearted at best. 

It doesn't help that I'm married to a consummate salesman.  I cannot understand how he does it and I claim it would never work on me (though, he likes to say I was his most substantial sale).  As part of our clutterbusting, we've taken to Craigslist.  We have a tally going.

Daniel: dining hutch, banged up "DJ CD case" with random assortment of CDs and cases, window A/C unit = $190

Christina: Bath and Body works items = $5.
Things I've given away for free: a baby swing, tub and bouncy seat, dog treats, a body pillow, a trash bag full of hangers, a never worn...ahem....wedding dress, and coffee table.

We've encountered some characters in the process.  The people who bought the hutch were nice, but skeptical of Craigslist. Then today, when a heavily bearded man with a cane came in to inspect the aforementioned CD case (priced at $50!), Mirabella leaned over to me and said calmly, "Mommy, I sink dat man is Santa Claus."  He did have the flowing white hair and beard, a red shirt and even suspenders.  And an enormous belly.

"I don't think so," I told her.

"But he got a white beard.  And a red coat.  I sink he is, Mom."

As you might have guessed from my list, I have had far more success on freecycle.  There is one girl who has responded to my ads for dog treats, the wedding dress, and a baby carrier.  I'm not sure if she's me from a former life, or if she just trolls freecycle all day.

Regardless, it's a good thing our livelihood rests on Daniel's ability to sell and not mine.  But hey, if you're down on your luck and need some toiletry items or 100 hangers, I'm your girl.

This morning Daniel accused me of getting "gussied up" for the produce guys at Safeway.  Turns out, they have fantastic boxes.  I told Robert, the very helpful fruit guy, as much.  "Fantastic, huh?  Really?" he was skeptical.

But they are large, can hold heavy things, come with their own biodegradable, protective packaging and they smell like apples.  Did I mention they're free?  I made two trips just this morning.  They will not be my last. Normally, I'd share this type of thing on my local moms' listserv, but in this case, I'm afraid of the competition.  I'll be happy to share my tip when my moving days are behind me.  Yep, I'm selfish.

After a complicated, emotional and not ready for public consumption chain of events, we are preparing to list our house.  This means sorting then purging or storing most of the items we've accumulated in the last five years. It has been a draining process.  Boxes of C's notebooks and photos?  Storage.  9" cake pans?  Don't touch them.  Bundt pan?  Fine, put it in storage.  Kids?  Leave them here.  Most of their toys?  Send them to "the big closet" under cover of darkness.

"Mommy," Mirabella said, "where's my pony?"  She was referring to the large and very nice rocking horse her grandparents got her for her birthday.  She loves it.  But it and I had been engaging in a ridiculous daily dance.  Move it so I could get into the closet, move it back in front of the closet, repeat about 7 times per day.  When Mirabella was at the park with her aunts, I loaded it in the truck for storage.  No one told her.  But later that day, she asked about his whereabouts.  "Did you bring it to the big closet, Mommy?"  She asked pointedly.  I told her her pony was on...vacation, until we got to the bigger house.  She visited him in the closet.  It turned out okay.  But now every time she can't find a toy she's misplaced, she says, "You putted it in the big closet, Mommy?" I find her tone accusatory.

This move comes with mixed emotions, in large part because we have finally found community in our neighborhood.  And by found I guess I mean we finally committed and sought it out instead of leaving all the time.  The wonderful Irish couple several doors down knows something's up.  We had the honor of celebrating St. Patrick's Day with them, on their first night away from their four-month-old.  A series of decidedly un-Irish drinks for him (Long Island iced tea and a "very nice" mojito) and a cosmopolitan for her.  It was a good night.  Daniel didn't dare mention we would be moving sooner than later. "I didn't want to ruin it," he said.

When we rented a (heavily branded MOVING) truck several days later to move the remains of our basement to storage, we ducked in and out of the house while loading as if we were doing something wrong.  He asked, "Ye moving?" 

"Haha, no," I said, "Not yet."

Last week Amy, my sister-in-law, volunteered that she was helping us pack some things up.

"They seem to be doing a lot of that lately; are they moving?"

"I don't kno-ow," Amy said, coyly.  We have some explaining to do.

It's not that we actively haven't told.  I think it's more that we're having trouble adjusting to the idea ourselves.  The empty spaces and apple boxes are helping to hammer it home, though.  Wherever that is.