I took Lara to her first official swimming lesson yesterday. I had no idea what the hell I was doing, so I did an awful lot of nervous smiling and prayed over and over that I wouldn’t have to strip down to my swimsuit – some of the toddlers were terrified enough, screaming bloody murder as they were cradled in the water, and I would have hated adding to their future nightmares. Luckily they had instructors already in the water who were both willing and able, so I was spared the humiliation of exposing my upper thigh flesh.

Lara wasn’t afraid at all. She was delighted, nearly skipping as we made our way over the gravel and into the pool area. “Let’s do it!” she exclaimed.

I took off her clothes and shoes and she bustled over to the ladder, only to come back a minute later and say, “Here, Auntie Amber!” before spitting her wet, lumpy wad of gum out and dropping it into my already outstretched hand.

Why…thank you. (GROSS).

I stood up to dispose of the gum (seriously? GROSS) and my heart sort of did a slow, dizzy roll in my chest. And I realized that while I talk a good game, I want kids. I really, really want them. Two or three. I love my niece so much, so hugely – every kid, actually. I love their sticky faces and their silly questions and their laughter.

I want children of my own someday, and while I still harbor deep fears that I’d be the kind of parent who has to set money aside for therapy instead of college, I’d like the opportunity to try.

My little brother Joel graduated from high school on Sunday.

I wish I had something to give him, some great advice more valuable than money or a set of towels, but the truth is I don’t feel qualified to give advice. My own life experiences, while entertaining, often leave me feeling as though I’m not exactly role model material.

He’s planning to attend college at Montana State University-Bozeman, where I hope he gets stuck with a not-too-annoying roommate and engaging professors and courses that hold his interest. He’s a smart kid, and charming when he wants to be (but a serious pain in the ass at all other times), and I have confidence that he’ll be fine.

If I were going to offer him my lame advice (which I totally AM NOT), it would go something like this:

* Not everyone deserves the benefit of a doubt. I swear. Trust your instincts, you have them for a reason.

(Yes, my first piece of advice would be encouraging him to be a judgmental ass. Don’t even pretend to be surprised by it).

* Get a job. It will keep you in ramen noodles and out of trouble. But…

* Don’t work in food service. That grease smell will ensure you never, ever get dates (and the pimples don’t help, either).

* Don’t date any Mormons. They don’t put out and they WILL try to convert you, no matter how much they say they won’t.

* Introduction to Film (or whatever they’re calling it now). Take it. You won’t regret it.

* Don’t bother calling me for bail money. I’m broke.

That’s it. (See also: the reasons I don’t give advice, and will instead be gifting cash while smiling and not saying a word).

Wish him luck (and, for the future, hair that doesn’t resemble Justin Bieber’s QUITE so much)!

Heidi and I were talking the other night, and she shared a memory about our mother (who passed away when we were very young). Apparently when she went into labor with Joel, my younger brother, she insisted on putting on a full face of makeup before driving forty miles to the hospital.

It made me smile, first of all because that sounds exactly like her, and secondly because it’s a relief to know I come by my exaggerated sense of vanity honestly.

It also made me think about all of the things I’ll never know about her. She was my mom, and I barely knew her. Parents are different with their children than they are with other people. Sure I got to see glimpses of who she was – athletic, funny, outgoing – but her little quirks and preferences, the things that made her really unique…I don’t know what they were.

I do remember some things. She absolutely loved the holidays, any holiday. She had a fantastic laugh, and her spelling was atrocious. She voted for Bill Clinton. Every Wednesday night we all watched Unsolved Mysteries together – it was one of her favorite shows. She wore stirrup pants (care to join me in a full-body shudder?) and had a black velvet cowboy hat. She liked to dance; she loved to be phsyically active in general. She had an unhealthy addiction to Hawaiian Punch and pizza.

I knew her enough to love her, very much. And I’m smart enough now to know not to take anyone I love for granted.

I took my niece, Lara, to the park. It’s directly across the street from where I used to live when I was a kid (how lucky was I, growing up right next to a park?), and I still love going there. Besides, it was a completely gorgeous day.

We played on the slide several times, squealing in delight as we raced to the bottom. We took turns watching each other go, and once I hooked my hands over the top and launched myself through as fast as I could. She was very impressed, and asked how I did it. When I explained, a serious look came over her face. In a very adult-sounding voice she said, “I’m just Lara. I can’t do that.” To which I replied, “You’re just Lara, and you can do anything.” And gave her a kiss.

We played on the swings and I gave her an underdog. It was well worth it, since I wiped out in the mud and she giggled hysterically. Evidently the swings can’t hold a candle to Auntie Amber making an ass of herself.

Later I took her to the monkey bars, where I abandoned all dignity and showed her how to hang upside down “like a monkey.” She immediately wanted to try it, and I held her carefully while she dangled. When she wanted to try climbing up the other side, I helped her up, steadying her from behind.

And then she slipped. She lost her footing, and I didn’t catch her in time. She fell, with her little legs spread, onto the bar. Hard. For a second she looked stunned, and then she screamed.

I scooped her up and tried to comfort her, but she was pissed. Between hiccuping screams I heard, “I WANT…TO GO…HOME!”

So off we went, with my explanations about how I’d once done the same thing doing very little to console her.When I set her down in front of her mother her first words were, “I hurt my privates.”

That’s not exactly what I wanted her to take away from the experience, you know? I felt terrible. She has so few good memories, despite being so small (she’ll be three years old in June) and I was really hoping to leave her with happy thoughts.

Instead she hobbled around pouting and giving me suspicious glances, like perhaps it was my fault the monkey bars attacked her. I still feel guilty. I hope she remembers swinging, sailing back and forth through the air, instead of falling.

It’s been brought to my attention that whenever I mention Heidi on this blog, I cast her in a not-so-flattering light. I was surprised, and a little bit unhappy, to hear that. Believe me when I tell you, my sister is one of my absolute favorite people; giving each other grief is how we convey love in my family. We’re very backward that way. If someone is pointing out a really bad haircut or riding me about my love life (or usually the lack thereof) I feel more comforted than if everyone is smiling and getting along. Nevertheless, I now feel compelled to make a list of the reasons why Heidi kicks major ass (these can also be interpreted as reasons why I am insanely jealous/reasons why I sit in awe of her).

* She can make friends with almost anyone. She’s polite and inquisitive on top of being FRIGHTENINGLY perceptive. She’s the sort of warm, bubbly person that others automatically confide in. Better still, she’s unfailingly loyal. Don’t bother trying to talk trash about her family or friends within earshot; she will effectively shut you down while leaving you with the feeling you shared a pleasant exchange.

* She’s very good at her job. She works hard, and she actually cares about the results. As far as I’m concerned there is no better compliment. This attitude extends to the rest of her life. She’s energetic and she’s always willing to help. Her house is immaculate, a fact she continually denies because it’s never quite up to her standards. She expects the best from herself.

* She’s the glue that holds our family together. She arranges brunches and dinners and hosts birthday parties. Left to my own devices, I might never attend another Thanksgiving dinner (okay, I lie, we all know I’d never miss an opportunity for that much free food, but you get the point) and I know I’m not the only one who feels that way. Heidi makes the phone calls and checks to ensure schedules will mesh and nags people (especially me) into showing up. She does it because she knows that family is the most important part of life, and because she’s a little scary and everyone listens to her.

* She’s quirky, the way all good people are. She calls me at night, when she’s alone and she thinks she’s heard a prowler, and insists I stay on the line while she double-checks her locks. I tease her, but I feel useful in my role of reassuring older sister (she’s so independent I hardly ever get to feel helpful). She hoards money like Scrooge, spending little bits on family and rarely splurging on herself, though she’s comfortable enough to do so. When reading a book that doesn’t look like it will end well, she skips to the ending to see what happens. This violates my core belief system, but nevermind that now. She named her car – Bluebelle. But she prefers to drive their pickup (called Black Betty), because it “makes her feel sexy”. Don’t get me started on her obsession with Christmas, either – suffice it to say, “Jingle Bells” sounds a lot different in September.

* She’s good at everything she tries to do, because there’s no acceptable alternative. She’s nothing if not an optimist. She believes in happily-ever-after, the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow, Santa Claus, and that miracles happen. She decides to do something and then she finds a way to do it, successfully.

Okay now I’m just grossing myself out, but you get the idea. My sister is amazing. She’s funny and beautiful and smart, and I couldn’t be happier that she’s around to keep me in good company (and borrowed clothes).

It’s been nearly a month since my surgery, and I finally feel well enough to stop lazing around on the couch eating potato chips and concocting elaborate fantasies about David Boreanaz watching the third season of Bones.

Yesterday I went to the gym. I did my regular workout, which includes 25 minutes on the elliptical, and I didn’t start having pain in my side until about the last ten minutes. (Do not bother to ask if I stopped, the answer will only make my loved ones roll their eyes and lecture). I lifted weights and was annoyed when it proved harder than it was a month ago. I stopped short of jumping rope, because sometimes I do have a smidge of common sense.

Every Wednesday night they have volleyball at the high school gym; usually there’s a decent crowd and it’s a lot of fun. I started going a few weeks before my gall bladder attack, and went back tonight filled with anticipation. (I seriously considered going last week but was warned that if I attempted such nonsense I would be forcibly tied and gagged – or at the very least turned away by the other players. Having a low tolerance for humiliation – weird, considering all the practice I’ve had – I opted to stay home). I thought I did pretty well, excepting the last half an hour or so, when my side started to hurt and my serves started hitting the net. Everyone played really well. We had two full teams and we were evenly matched. I had more fun tonight than I ever have before, nevermind the ache in my side.

It’s such an incredible relief to be physical again. I didn’t realize how much I was enjoying my workouts until I was ordered to sit on my backside for a whole month. Thank god that’s over.

I’m off to bed, as I agreed to wake up far too early to take care of my best friend’s infant daughter. They just found out the severe allergies she’s been suffering from are caused by dogs and cats, and her regular babysitter has a dog that sheds everywhere. I love Izzy to bits, and have zero problems taking care of her for a day. I think my weakness for the kid is completely evident considering that I’ll be rousing myself from the comfort of my bed at dawn to change diapers and chase her away from the various sharp objects littered throughout my house.

Sleep tight, everyone.

For a little while, I believed him.

I believed we belonged together, despite overwhelming evidence to the contrary. The tightness in my chest eased whenever I saw him. I smiled easier, and laughed harder. I felt like a better version of myself. Being with him made me want to accomplish more, experience more, live more.

He said he loved me, but I didn’t believe him. I never believe those words when someone else is speaking them about me. I thought it was enough that I loved him. Love is a gift, I told myself. And gifts are given without expectations. Or at least they should be.

My defenses got a little bit weaker every time I saw him. He brought me a flower. He didn’t just say I was beautiful, he looked at me like he really believed it. He promised me someday.

Someday is never coming. I know that now. Someday was the bait, and I was just hungry enough to swallow it.

There is a man in my life who likes me. He’s single and considerate and persistent, all of which are good qualities (especially the persistence, especially in my case). One night while I was working he popped in unannounced with a couple of tabloids for my entertainment. He grabbed two or three, because while he noticed my weakness for them, he didn’t know which ones I liked. He calls sometimes – not often enough to be labeled a stalker, but often enough to let me know he’s still interested.

A week after my surgery, he had flowers delivered to my house. I’m helpless against flowers, and normally a gesture such as that one would have caused me to swoon and immediately kiss the person responsible senseless. The card said that he was thinking of me, and hoping for a speedy recovery.

He’s a genuine, sweet man with the best of intentions. He’s the type to marry and raise a family and never take his wife for granted (or at least not usually). He works hard at the BioDiesel plant here in town, and he doesn’t smoke. He comes from a large, close-knit family of his own.

He stopped by the office last night to ask me to go to dinner on Valentine’s Day. I have to work, thank god, so I gave him that excuse instead of just telling him he doesn’t have the slightest chance with me. I don’t like hurting people’s feelings. I wish I could fall in love with him, or at the very least be madly turned on by him. The problem is, he excites me about as much as watching paint dry.

My sister says this is because I won’t give him a chance. She says I took note of the way he dresses and his balding head and dismissed him. I admit she’s right about the head thing; I like a man with hair, end of story. I’ve never been attracted to hairless types. It’s just who I am. As for the clothes, she’s wrong – I could care less that the guy wears Wranglers and Carhartts. She claims I want someone more stylish, like her husband. (Truthfully, I went shopping with him once, and it scared me how GOOD he was. He was quick, he knew just where to find the sale rack, and exactly what looked good on his tall, lean frame. I was amused & a little intimidated. I have never been that good at shopping). I’ve never cared what clothes someone wears. As long as he’s not filthy or patched together with duct tape, I say live and let live.

The Marine has a style similar to mine, but like Heidi’s husband, he’s also a better dresser than I am. Now that I’m thinking about it, most people are better dressers than me. I consider jeans and a sweatshirt acceptable for almost every occasion, I wear socks with my Keen sandals (PISS OFF, naysayers), and I consider throwing on my American Eagle khaki pants being “very dressed up”. But I’m getting way off track here.

The point I’m trying to make is, The Marine makes me laugh. He keeps me interested. I find him (and his dark hair) very sexy. I worry about what to say and what to wear when faced with seeing him. When faced with the sweet, genuine man who actually likes me and DOESN’T blow me off, I feel nothing. Except for a hopefulness that he’ll take a hint and give up on me and date a woman who wants nothing more than to settle down and be his wife.

I’m not wifely material. Heidi? Heidi is wifely material. She’s considerate and thoughtful and attacks dust and grime like they’re the enemy. She has GADS of love to pass around, absolute gads. Her dogs are a little spoiled and very happy, and I suspect her children (when she has them) will be the same.

I wish I could spend Valentine’s Day with the man I love, laughing and eating chocolate (or possibly whipped cream) and just BEING. I wish the Nice Guy could spend it with the woman he loves. I wish we could all, just for one day, eat conversation hearts until we’re sick and smile until our faces ache.

Photos of Archimedes, as promised:

Isn’t he just painfully adorable? It looks like I’m strangling him, but I assure you gentleness was used. He just wouldn’t look at the camera unless I forced him.

Okay, eventually he looked. He wasn’t quite sure what to do with his neon octopus toy. He sort of sat on it, like…I win.

He’s been getting a lot better about staking his claim re: bed space & dinner, despite Luna’s repeated efforts to threaten him into submission. He keeps creeping up to her, sniffing various parts, and settling in mere inches away. She tolerates it, mostly.

See? Harmony has been restored. Or…at least it’s only as chaotic as it ever was.

I found a stray kitten with big, aquamarine eyes rimmed with gold and a fuzzy orange coat. He was starving – so skinny that I could feel his entire skeletal structure when I picked him up. He was very timid, to the point of being suspicious of the bowl of milk I put down. I’m relieved to say he’s since been cured of both conditions. Now he’s a chubby blaze of color, zipping around furniture & tottering sideways as he’s not so sure-footed yet.

Luna hates him, of course. Because for three years she’s reigned supreme, lazing in sun spots and hogging the bed. Besides which she can never make anything simple. He got brave enough to tip-toe up to her in a misguided attempt to make friends and she responded by rearing back in a move that could’ve been kitty Taekwando and opening her jaws as far as they would go before emitting a deadly hiss. He spent the next few minutes curled into a motionless ball, lest she eat his head.

After much deliberation, I named him Archimedes. And now you’re thinking, why would she name an overly friendly kitten after a Greek scientist? And to that I say, I didn’t. I named him after the owl in the Disney movie The Sword in the Stone (who actually may have been named after the Greek scientist), because it appeals to my perverse sense of humor to name a cat after a bird. Anyway, I’ve always loved that movie, and the owl was one of my favorite characters. And okay, I really like how the name sounds.

Pictures will be added shortly, and this time I MEAN IT. Very soon there will be fuzzy orange goodness displayed on this page. Disclaimer: He’s so tiny & adorable your brain might explode, for which I accept zero responsibility.