Tonight is Mom’s annual Christmas party. In the early evening, Husband and I will bring our little girls (dressed in matching plaid skirts and red tights!) to my childhood home for the festivities. Like every year, there will be clusters of friends and family, a big tree with rainbow lights and vintage ornaments, and a surplus of yummy food and drink. Like every year, we will scatter hellos and hugs. We will celebrate many things: a sparkly season, another good year, a fabulous family.

There is only one year I can remember when Mom and Dad didn’t host this party. And it was all my fault. That year – 2004 – was the year of our wedding. And Husband and I chose Saturday, December 18th for our big day. Ergo, no Christmas party. But that was fine because our wedding was a party of epic proportions. We draped tables in glittery swaths and hung decorations from bare white branches. We danced with our nearest and dearest under the Museum’s big blue whale. The trombone player? Well, he was high on something. And when guests left for the night, they did so with a tiny gingerbread house replica of my childhood brownstone.

The very home we will alight tonight with our little girls. And so. I guess you could say I am feeling nostalgic, and thoughtful. About magical moments six long and short years ago. About parties in my past under gargantuan sea creatures and under my parents’ roof. About the laughter and cheer and memories that commingle in my wake. About life and loss and celebration and soul.

Six years ago tonight, Husband and I welcomed our closest friends and family to the Boat House for our rehearsal dinner. I wore an outrageous and lovely pre-recession blue velvet Gucci suit. We smiled so much that night. On the eve of our I dos, on the precipice of our most wondrous plunge.

And tonight? We will celebrate again. This time with the little girls who add the utmost glow to our green. This time with a hovering awareness of time that has trickled by, the people who have come and gone, and all the good parties to come.

And tomorrow. Like every morning, Husband and I will wake up next to each other. Six years beyond our fabled start. Before gathering our girls, we will linger. And realize. How much has happened – exquisite, wrenching, magical, mundane – between Then and Now. I will take his hand and place it on my belly, an invitation to imagine what’s to come. And then we will do it. We will scoop up our pajama-clad girls and begin another good day.

And next week? And the week after? I will not be here. I will be with my man and my girls. I will put my feet up and enjoy the season with my sweet ones. I will do something I am not very good at doing, something that is so vital to do from time to time, something my body and mind are telling me to do.

I will pause.

Happy anniversary, Husband! Happy Holidays, all! See you in 2011!

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Do you plan to take a breather over the holidays? Do you have a hard time pausing the program that is life? Do you believe in the importance of living and loving and partying and pausing?

**I will not be posting over the next while, but I will be reading, so leave me a comment and send me to your blog or another blog you love. I look forward to stumbling into new cyberspaces this season, so if you are a new to this blogging game, make sure to let me (and all of us) know!**

Did I mention that my rookie novel LIFE AFTER YES would make a lovely holiday gift? Click away to order it any of the following places: Amazon, Barnes & Noble, Borders, Indie Bound, or Target!

Dear Husband,

Today you are thirty-five. Not young. Not old. Right in the middle.

And I know you. You will go about your day at the office, doing your thing, smiling your smile, not saying anything. Your friends and colleagues will not know. That today is your day. That many Decembers ago you were born into your good family and your good life. It is not your style to call attention to yourself. It never has been. This is one of the many things I love about you.

And so. Here I am. Filling that gap, that gulf, that calculated quiet, with words. Telling the world, telling you, that you are everything to me. I know that sounds trite, and painfully so, but it is true. And it is a truth that too often gets lost in the existential shuffle, between the holidays and the every-days, between the kids and the cats and the careers, between the renovations and the pregnancies and the cosmic swirl of chaos in which we are fortunate enough to be exquisitely immersed.

As you know, I took the picture above yesterday morning. You were rushing out the door with our red-panted and eager big girl, off to school. As you fiddled with Toddler’s hat and gloves, I told you to pause. And you did. And I snapped away. And here we have it. Evidence of a small moment. A busy morning. Daddy taking his girl to school. The twinkly lights from our small tree reflected in the door. Those stripes. I love you in that sweater, those cozy gray and black lines, prudent and strong, that robust pattern that keeps going, no end in sight. I love this picture already. That you let me take it. I will always look back upon it and say: That was his last day of thirty-four. Toddler was on her last weeks of three. Baby was dancing in the kitchen and I was there, barefoot on wood floors, six months of new life snug inside me, trying – and failing – to stop time.

I used to be scared of getting older. Part of me still is. The thirties are a place that once seemed impossibly removed. But here we are, dancing in this decade of our lives. And as we settle in our new home and wait for our third little girl to join us, I am no longer so shaken. We are where we should be. Muddling through the middle, the middle of this good life we have created, hand-in-hand, together.

Thirty-five. Not young. Not old. A good age. One that becomes you. One that makes me realize my bounty, our bounty: This is it. Our life. Our love. Our years.

And so. Today is the perfect day. To stop. To say it. I love you. Every ounce of you. Every stripe of you. Every year of you.

Happy birthday to my favorite thirty-five year old. My birthday boy. My forever man.

Love,

Aidan

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Do you tell people when it is your birthday? Do you ever snap pictures in an effort to freeze time? Does thirty-five strike you as young or old or somewhere in between? (Per Toddler, it is “a REALLY big number”!) Take a moment and wish my man a happy day!

I have noticed something about myself. Something that makes me both ashamed and curious.

I often insert little smiley face emoticons into my emails and blog comments. Is this really any different than dotting an I with a star or a heart? Isn’t there something undeniably juvenile and silly about sprinkling my communications with tiny smiles? Doesn’t doing this somehow cheapen what I am trying to say?

I’m not sure, but maybe.

Why do I do continue to do this? Patently, I feel like there is something necessary or important about doing so. One thought: digital communication is missing something critical: emotional or interpersonal cues. It is tricky to detect tone when reading an email. It is often impossible to ascertain intent when lapping up lonely words. And so. Often, I insert a little smile to convey lightness or lilt. But is this lazy? If I chose words more carefully, would this smile-ification of my messages be necessary? Are the little smiles reminders that we should perhaps, from time to time, close the laptop and meet for coffee or make a phone call? Emotion and personality come through more clearly when communicating this way, don’t they?

A few more ideas: Is the ubiquity of the smiley face prime evidence of our paranoia? Our worry, irrational or maybe not so, that without these digital garnishes, we will offend or provoke? Is the contemporary use (overuse) of the smiley face flourish indicative of our culture’s obsession with happiness (or appearing happy)? Are we, by seasoning our sentiments with smiles, announcing Hey, I am happy! over and over?

**Short. Sweet. Smiley. Fewer words of mine = More words of yours. Leave a comment & send me on to your blog! **

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Do you use smiley faces in your communications? Why or why not? Do you take a message less seriously when it is riddled with little smiles?

I have never been very good at asking for help. I don’t know why. Maybe it is because asking makes me feel weak or vulnerable, open or exposed. Maybe because I harbor a belief that I should not need the assistance for which I am asking. Maybe because I worry that, by asking, I am intruding upon another person’s territory of time. Again, I don’t know.

But here’s the thing. There are so many times when I need help. I do. With my kids. With my life. With myself. And here’s the other thing: When other people ask me for help, I’m happy to give it. Often, there is nothing better than doing someone a favor, than being there for someone in a moment when they cannot manage alone.

And so. Here I am. Challenging myself. Asking for help.

As many of you know, I published my first novel LIFE AFTER YES almost seven months ago. Of this book, I am immensely proud. I worked very hard on it and I think it’s a unique story. And things are going well. The book is selling. It has received some very exciting and noteworthy accolades (Among receiving several lovely reviews from so many of you, LAY was crowned a TARGET breakout book!, was the SheKnows final book club pick of the year! and is Write Meg’s favorite novel of 2010!). But beyond these nods, what has meant most to me is the support I’ve gotten from readers. Readers I know in “real life” and “virtureal” friends. My months have been peppered with emails from people who have read LAY and loved it. This never gets old. Trust me, it never will. I read these notes over and over.

Just the other day, I got a note from a friend from high school. She told me how much she loved LAY and mentioned that she is excited to read my next book. And I did it. I emailed her back yesterday and thanked her for her kind and lovely words. And then I asked. I asked if she would mind writing a short review on Amazon. My palms sweat a bit as I typed this, this question, but I did it. I asked for help. Because I want my book, my first book, to continue to thrive. I want people to continue to meet Quinn and read her story. My story. As I emailed her, my friend, I got the idea for this post.

What if I asked my blog readers for help? (In many cases, more help because so many of you have already helped so much.)

What if I asked for those who have read and liked LAY to post a review on Amazon?

What if I asked those who have already posted a review to email a friend or purchase LAY as a holiday gift?

What if I asked those who hadn’t yet bought LAY or read it to do so?

What would happen then?

Here I am. Finding out. Asking. Palms clammy. Ego shivering. Feeling a bit shrunken and shaky. But also excited, hopeful.

It’s an experiment. A stretching of self. A re-drawing of comfort zones. And we will see.

Maybe this asking will offend. Maybe this asking will annoy. Or maybe, just maybe, this asking will trigger something. Something good. An awareness that in this life, we are never alone, that our dreams and desires and doubts have cousins. That there are people out there, supportive souls and sweet strangers and secret Santas, who are eager to assist.

That, sometimes, all we have to do is ask.

**Speaking of help, thanks to all of you for your wonderful baby name suggestions yesterday! So many good and viable ones to ponder!!**

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Are you good at asking for help? Why or why not? If you have read and enjoyed my rookie novel LAY, please consider taking a moment, clicking here, and writing a short review. If you have yet to purchase or read my book, please think about doing so. Did I mention that LAY would make a lovely holiday gift?

I am pregnant with my third girl. Many of you know this. Some of you might not. Fine.

I am six months along and staring down the final three months of what is likely my final pregnancy. Time is flying. I know that is a cliche and I know that as a writer and as a person, it is advisable to avoid platitudes, but you know what? Time is flying. About this, I have mixed feelings. On the one hand, I am eager to meet my littlest girl. On the other hand, I am desperate to slow the passage of moments, to relish this anticipatory phase, to memorize this place.

But this is not a post about time. No. It is a post about names.

My baby needs one. A name. A good one. An unusual, but not wacky one. A name that fits well with my other girls’ names.

And so. I need your help. Husband, dear man, can only tolerate so much of this baby-naming discussion and so I am turning to you. The tricky thing here is that most of you do not know the names of my girls. Patently, this has been purposeful. My aim, from the beginning, has been to protect my babes and to that end, I have kept their names (and faces) a mystery.

I am not suddenly going to reveal the names of my children, but I will offer similar names to give you a sense of our style. For purposes of this post, assume that we have children named Rowan and Harlow. Pretty cool names, huh? I think so. Again, these are not the names of our kiddos (Rowan Rowley? That would not be nice!), but should give you some flavor of what we are seeking.

So. Help me. I know you all have baby names you love. I know you are all brimming with ideas. I know you all want to help me name the creature inside me who now kicks me kindly.

Ready. Set. Name her.

(Pretty please.)

**Short. Sweet. (Desperate.) So I have more minutes to read your words – in the comment box and at your blogs.**

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Do you have any baby name suggestions for me? Ideally, we are looking for relatively obscure, unisex, names from Irish/Scottish/English origin. That said, we are open to all ideas! How did you name your children? How important do you think it is that your kids’ names go well together? Do you think women are more into this name game than men are or is this just a reality in my home?