I could do better.

I haven't blogged much recently. I can blame the demands of working, caring for two kids, trying to get into shape, playing Facebook games, and whatever other endeavors swallow my time and attention - but the truth is, there's something else, too. Ideas pop into my mind, sentences form, and then I second-guess myself. I worry that my words, once typed, won't sound right. I worry that the ideas I found compelling in my mind won't be interesting to anyone else. I worry that someone, perhaps myself, will read my blog and think "Meh, I could do better."

Four years, six desserts, one birthday girl

Today is Evie's fourth birthday. Based on my limited knowledge of human brain development, this is the first birthday she has any real chance of remembering. Even if she does take something away from this, for the rest of her life, it will probably be a glimmer - like how it felt to ride a bike for the first time:

The "B" Word

Like every well-intentioned mother, I made grand declarations in the early days of pregnancy and motherhood, back when books and magazines seemed like acceptable substitutes for wisdom and experience. I'll make my own baby food! I'll be calm and consistent in all matters of discipline! I'll never buy my children toy guns or Barbie dolls!

Reality had a way of softening my firmest intentions, as "I'll make all my own baby food!" subsided to "I'll buy prepackaged food, but only if it's organic," which gave way to "A Fruit Roll-Up is practically a fruit, right?"

But Barbie, well, Barbie was about something else. She wasn't just a doll, she was a loaded metaphor.

A letter from my 20th century self

This was a 10-year "time capsule" letter that I was supposed to open a year ago. Due to packing, moving, and general chaos, it finally turned up today.

Date: December 31, 1999

The best things in my life are: My sweetie, Sam. My 6-month-old kitten, Oedipa. My job, which allows me to share my writing - even if it is just with Winnemucca! My parents, who love me even if they often drive me crazy. My near-certainty that so many adventures lie ahead and I'm ready for them all!

My personal goals for the future are: To always be a writer, in some capacity. To be a mommy someday. To make my mother very, very proud. To always be kind to people and animals. To fill my own corner of the world with peace, love, and optimism. To be referred to as "classy." To never stop dreaming, and to be happy.

My wishes for the future of the world are: That people start taking teenagers, especially their sadness and fears, more seriously. That the rainforests somehow endure. That women win their deserved roles in government and business. That marijuana and gay marriage become legal. That guns begin to disappear, especially from the lives of children. That heavy women are considered beautiful.

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New Year's Eve, 1999, is not the biggest celebration of my life. I'm at my little rented duplex in Winnemucca, waiting for Sam to finish his shift at Dominos. The living room is a mess. I made chocolatey Chex mix and inadvertently trashed the kitchen. I just watched Barbara Walters do a card trick on TV and screw up. I can't believe they're still showing commercials about Y2K. I'm so sick of it!

When Sam comes home, we'll go celebrate with Sheldon from work. I barely know him, and he's not having much of a party, but it's something to do.

I'm not disappointed. I'm fixated on the future and none of this millennium stuff feels very real. So much of this century has been waiting for my life to start. School, school, and then Nevada. I'm not done yet, so why pause now?

Maybe I'll take off in 2000. Sam might start school, I might land a dream job, and maybe he'll even ask me to marry him. Imagine!

So I hope you're not too disappointed in me, because I can't offer any huge insights and I didn't spend the New Year in Times Square or Vegas. But I'm here, the millennium is dawning, and I'm a young, optimistic girl with glitter on my cheeks. And I know that, even though I have not left my mark on humankind yet, I am experiencing history today - my own.

Best wishes to the 21st century.

Love,

Monica

Sitting in cookware

My mother is an amazing hostess. For as long as I can remember, having company over meant a picture perfect table setting, an abundance of made-from-scratch dishes served on crystal plates and bowls, and layered cakes that could grace magazine covers. In the summer, the fruit salad was garnished with fresh mint from the garden. On Christmas Eve, we'd share holy wafers blessed by the Pope himself in Poland.

I was often sad for my mother, because she didn't seem to enjoy entertaining. Hours before the guests arrived, she'd already be frantic, chopping vegetables while pots bubbled and pans sizzled on the stove. I'd ask her what she was doing, and she'd reply, "Siedze w garkach" - literally translated, "I'm sitting inside cookware." It was just a Polish idiom, but it sounded like she was in a prison.

Thoughts from the 699

As a resident of an outer suburb who works downtown, I should probably complain about my commute. I can't. I spend my commute surfing the Web on my phone, listening to my iPod, and drifting in and out of sleep. It's all good, because I ride the bus. All in all, I'm hard pressed to think of a better way to start my day.

I nestle into my seat next to the window, smush up the hood of my wool coat as a makeshift pillow, and lean into the window. The suburbs float past in a dreamy haze: Eden Prairie, Edina, St. Louis Park and Golden Valley. The sights weave in and out of focus: An apartment complex telling me I'd be home if I lived there, an office furniture store, bird-filled wetlands by the side of the highway, an endless stream of SUVs and Pontiac sedans lining up across the lanes.

Nearly snowbound

I grew up on a cul-de-sac where the kids were plentiful, the parents were friendly, and everyone knew one another.

There was no need to make plans. On a summer afternoon, I could step outside and find a cadre of playmates riding bikes. In the evening, we'd go door to door rounding up kids for a game of ditch -"Psst... Meet at sunset. Wear black. Tell your brother."

I've always wanted to raise my kids in the same kind of neighborhood, the kind of place where I could set vague rules like "Be home before dark" and trust they were safe. The kind of place where neighbor kids might wander into my house and I would feed them pizza rolls and let them play on our swingset and send them off with friendly greetings for their mothers.

If only it were so easy.