It’s a Beautiful Life

Some good things never last.

Rog had to go back to work today. He had taken the past two weeks off to be by my side during labor and delivery, and then to help me out with Teyla during the first week or so when the pain from the incision was so great at certain times of the day I could barely get out of bed. He was there to give me a gentle hug and an always reassuring kiss on days when I had to pop powerful narcotics ’round the clock just to function. He was there to fix me whatever I wanted to eat, change poopy diapers at the drop of a hat, help me figure out how to work the breast pump (he even helped me pump milk a few times), rock Teyla to sleep on nights when she would launch into one of her marathon crying sessions. He had never held a baby in his arms before the night Teyla was born, so I was blown away by how easily he stepped into the Daddy role and touched by how quickly he bonded with his firstborn daughter.

But, dammit, the two weeks went by too fast.

The other day, we bundled Teyla up and took her for a walk outside. Rog cuddled her in his arms as we strolled down to his vegetable garden. I ambled along behind them, taking baby steps so as not to overstretch my healing ab muscles. We stopped and admired the bright yellow squash blossoms and the tiny golden squash starting to sprout from some plants. I giggled despite the dull ache in my midsection to see Rog trying to explain the process of pollination to our newborn (We have decided not to “baby talk” to her and to teach her all we know whenever we get the chance, even at her young age).

“I can’t believe I have to go back to work tomorrow,” Rog said, sighing, as we slowly passed the crawling tomato vines and tender pepper plants. I could tell by the tone of his voice he dreaded it as much as I did.

“Yeah, the past two weeks went by fast, too fast,” I agreed, trying hard to blink back tears that suddenly moistened my eyes. I promised myself I would not cry the next day when he left for work.

Well, of course I cried today. I couldn’t help it. I at least waited ’til he walked out the door and got into his red Pontiac. I kept a brave smile pasted on my face and waved cheerfully through the sliding glass doors as he pulled out of the driveway. And then I let the tears fall and sobbed like a baby as his car crawled up the gravel road, turned and disappeared around the bend. All of a sudden, I felt so alone.

As I type these lines, it is just a bit after 8 p.m. Rog will be home in another four and a half hours. I’m staring at the clock on the wall and wishing those hands would move faster. This has gotta be one of the longest, slowest days in my entire life.

Don’t get me wrong now. I am thrilled beyond words that 12 days ago, Teyla came into our lives kicking and screaming - a perfectly healthy bundle of joy. But after working five eight-hour days for almost 10 years at a daily publication, rushing to meet nightly press deadlines and constantly being surrounded by fellow career people, it is quite a shock to suddenly be confined to the four walls of our house 24 hours a day, in the company of a baby who cries a lot when she’s awake, poops and pees just as much and cannot carry on a conversation with me, yet. What makes matters worse is that I am under medical orders not to drive for five more weeks while my incision heals. Basically, I am isolated from the rest of the world for four days a week while Rog is at work. Talk about a big change.

Then I think of something an elderly man said to us at Wal-Mart a few days ago, as he stopped to admire Teyla snoozing away contentedly in her brand new stroller: “Babies grow up too fast … much too fast. Enjoy her.”

Teyla is sleeping soundly in my lap, on a plush yellow pillow, as I type these lines. She was throwing one of her crying fits earlier, but as soon as I picked her up and cuddled her close, she calmed down and fell asleep. How she loves to be held! Already, I can see where she has lost some of the newborn pudginess from her cheeks, and two nights ago, her cord fell off as Rog rocked her in his arms. Just 12 days old and already she is changing, growing. A lump forms in my throat when I imagine her a few years from now, too big to be cuddled. I know I will be sad when that time comes.

Tomorrow will be another day for me and Teyla. I will probably still feel a bit blue when Rog drives off to work, but I expect to feel much better as the days go by. I specially look forward to the day my doctor gives me the go-signal to drive. I plan to get out of the house at least every other day … maybe take her for a walk around Little Beaver Lake or make her my window-shopping buddy at the mall. I feel a change of scenery and perhaps talking to other adults will do me good.

In the meantime, I’m gonna hang in here and cling to the old man’s advice on days when I feel overwhelmed by the challenges of new motherhood. After all, he is right - Babies DO grow up too fast. I’m sure many of you can attest to that.

I’m gonna enjoy mine while she’s still tiny.

Michael Jackson died today.

I was breastfeeding Teyla, holding her warm, cuddly body close to mine with my left arm while working the mouse with my right, when the alert popped up on Yahoo News. Now I’m not a real big MJ fan, but mention the pop star’s name and I wanna burst out singing, “We are the world! We are the children! We are the ones who make a brighter day …” Oh, I’m sure you know the song. Or turn the radio on full blast to “Thriller” and I wanna kick off my shoes and furiously swing my hips back and forth to the hard-fast beat (well, I would anyway, if not for this painful incision that would probably split open if I attempted any Michael Jackson dance moves). The dude was something else.  Bizarre in many ways, yes. But he sure made a mark in the pop industry. And now he is gone.

I believe Farrah Fawcett died today, too. And earlier today, when Rog, Teyla and I stopped by the paper to turn my time ticket in, I was met with the sad news that Nancy, a co-worker from the circulation department, had also passed on yesterday due to a heart attack.

All this news of death and dying has plunged me into a somber, reflective mood. I may have to send Rog out to the store in a while to get me a carton of Rocky Road ice cream. That stuff never fails to lift my spirits.

Teyla is sleeping peacefully in her Pooh the Bear bassinet as I type these lines. She has the look of absolute content and serenity painted all over her pudgy baby face, and as I gaze down at her, a lump forms in my throat and tears of happiness well up in my eyes. I love her so much. I can’t believe she is home with her daddy and I now.  Hard to believe it’s been a week and a day since I was hurriedly wheeled off to the OR close to midnight, after being in labor since 8 that morning. I shudder when I realize I could have died that night, right there on the operating table.

Because I was in labor for so many hours, the epidural anesthesia they pumped into my system started to lose its effectivity. So the anesthesiologist kept coming back to pump more and more and more of that stuff into my veins. I’m not quite sure why, but toward the end - before my doctor and nurse-midwife finally decided I needed a c-section- those epidural drugs quit working. From around 9 to 11 pm that day, I was in severe pain. Those excruciating contractions, like unstoppable waves, would wash over me every few minutes and I would try like heck not to cry out loud and curse like a sailor. I had never been in such pain before.

By the time I got to the OR, I was told they would have to put me under spinal anesthesia (since the epidural quit working for me). I was worn out and limp like a rag doll from being in labor all day long. I could still feel the horrible contractions, but my legs all the way down to my feet were numb and worthless. I was terrified at the thought of another needle piercing through my spine (the epidural was scary enough), but I really had no choice. And so they started the spinal.

The following series of events in the OR that night, after they administered the spinal anesthesia, are engraved in my memory forever:

I’m laying on this stiff, very uncomfortable operating table. My arms are stretched out and strapped down to these equally stiff boards; my feet are strapped down, too. I don’t mean to sound sacrilegious, but at that moment, I kinda feel like Jesus Christ about to be crucified. An oxygen tube is pressed against my nose. I have never had air forcefully blown up my airway, so I really didn’t care much for that, but the nurse standing behind my head said it was necessary; just for precautions. He then explains that spinal anesthesia causes a real “intense feeling.” I’m about to ask what he means by intense when I realize I have lost my voice. I try to talk and all that comes out is a whisper, barely audible. At about the same time, I feel something going wrong with my lungs. Were they normally expand and rise and fall with every breath I take, all of a sudden, they are not rising. They are not expanding. Or maybe they are, a very little bit, but it’s just not enough. And I feel like I’m drowning.

At that point, I faintly hear one of the OR staff say something like, “You can sit here and hold your wife’s hand.” I know they are talking to Rog. Bless his heart, he went into the OR with me, as scared of blood as he is. He takes my hand and squeezes it. I try to squeeze back but realize my arms, my hands are paralyzed from the anesthesia, too. I can barely move my fingers.

And I still feel like I’m drowning. Someone places an oxygen mask over my face, so aside from the oxygen tube blowing air up my nose, this mask is forcing more air into me. And my lungs feel like they’ve turned into cement.

“You’re doing fine,” the nurse standing by my head says, matter-of-factly. “Your oxygen is at 100 percent.” I so want to slug him. The monitor may show  100 percent, but at that moment, I feel so very close to death. I’m just not getting enough oxygen. I feel like I’m about to black out and if I do, I am terrified that I may never wake up.

Minute after agonizing minute ticks by. I am getting so tired of trying to get enough air. I believe they call it air hunger. I feel a lot of pushing and tugging, a lot of pressure on my belly. At this point, Rog lets go of my hand and I suddenly feel so alone. So tired. I actually consider giving up. The thought of death crosses my mind. I feel myself fading away, slowly.

And then suddenly, I hear it … an unmistakable sound that gives me hope, that makes me want to fight for my life, to continue breathing. It sounds like a kitten meowing at first, but the cries, HER CRIES grow louder as moments pass. I know it is Teyla, our first-born child, and as paralyzed as I am from all the anesthesia, my heart bursts with happiness. I determine at that moment that I will survive, no matter how heavy my lungs feel, because I HAVE TO see Teyla. Because I want to gaze at her little face and hold her little hands in my hand. Because I want to kiss her little feet and cradle her warm little body in my arms.

And then Rog is back by my side, squeezing my hand and saying over and over, “She’s beautiful, hon. She’s so beautiful!” and “You did a great job!”

- - -

Around 2:30 A.M. Thursday, June 18, I’m laying in bed still groggy from all the drugs and anesthesia, but able to breathe much easier now. Rog is sitting by my bed, nodding off to sleep, holding my hand, when we hear something creaking down the hall, and then a knock at our door.

Rog gets up, opens the door. I hear him gasp, so I turn in his direction, and right through the door walks a nurse pushing a nursery cart in front of her. There is a baby laying in it, and before the nurse says anything, I know who the baby is.

“Let me see her,” I almost plead. I was too zonked out on anesthesia during the c-section that I have not seen her yet. Rog scoops her up gently, tears rolling down his face (I never saw him cry so much before June 17). He hands her to me and I cannot stop my own tears from falling as I hold her in my arms for the very first time. He is right. Teyla IS beautiful. I cannot speak for several moments. I just let the tears fall as I hold her and gaze at her sweet little face. Then Rog comes close and puts his arms around both me and Teyla, and we both just let our emotions loose and cry with happiness for the next few minutes.

We don’t even notice the nurse leave.

I’m gonna try not to make this too long. I just really want to share with y’all two things that I am celebrating today … two things that I find so AMAZING!

First- I am 24 weeks pregnant today (Feb. 27). That’s 6 months, people!!:) That means that after today, I will be entering my THIRD trimester of pregnancy .. which means that in just a few more months, Rog and I will get to hold our dear little girl in our arms for the first time .. and you all will get to see pictures of her, too!!:) How exciting is that!!:)

Wow, 6 months … Sometimes, it feels just like yesterday when I first stared at those 2 lines that appeared on the HCG test stick. Two lines that have changed our lives so much already, and in just 24 weeks:)

I have been blessed with an easy, healthy pregnancy so far, thank God. A big thanks to all of you who have prayed for me, sent greetings, and continue to feel excited and happy for me, Rog and Tiny. Your support means so much to us at this important time of our lives.

Second- Today marks 2 YEARS from the day Rog quit smoking. Feb. 27, 2007, was the day he came home from work and announced that he had had his last Camel light, and that was it. He had started taking prescription Chantix about 2 weeks earlier, so I thought, no biggie, he’ll be fine in no time at all. Boy, was I wrong! He had it rough for the first few weeks after he smoked his last cig. Specially that first week. He suffered nicotine withdrawal symptoms that left him throwing up, barely able to eat and super weak (as in almost zero energy). He was unable to make it to work for three days straight and slept like a baby almost all day, getting up only to rush to the bathroom to hurl whatever small amount of food he was able to ingest hours earlier. He lost weight during that time. He suffered severe headaches and had all kinds of bizarre dreams. He was not himself for a while and I will admit that several times, I was tempted to drive up to Go-Mart, buy him a pack of Camels and give them to him just so he wouldn’t have to suffer anymore. I hated to see him so hard up like that:( It broke my heart.

And yet he hung in there, to my surprise. He took up chewing gum like a goat (he still chews gum a lot, but, hey, I’m not complaining!). He took up mushroom hunting and immersed himself in other fun activities/hobbies to distract himself from his old buddy, Nicotine. Many of his friends predicted he would slip after a while, but what do you know? TWO YEARS have passed and he has never slipped. TWO YEARS have passed and the other day, at lunch break, he took my hand (we were sitting in my car after eating), looked me in the eye and said, “Thanks for helping me quit, hon.”

I looked back at him and went, “No, thank YOU for quitting.” We hugged in the stillness, and I marveled at how good he smells now … so different from the smoky Rog I used to hug couple years ago, when I first met him.

“I can’t believe it’s been two years,” he said, gently rubbing my belly with his hand.

“It’s gonna be good for Tiny,” I told him. “Not having a smoker at home will definitely be good for her.”

“I know,” he said. “It will.” Then he leaned over and kissed me, and at that moment, a neon sign went off in my head that spelled out the word A-M-A-Z-I-N-G.

OK, I don’t normally do tags, but in response to repeated requests from some dear Friendster friends, here are 25 things about me that you may or may not already know …

1) I love the smell of a new book. I like to bury my nose in the book for a few minutes, with my eyes closed, savoring that “new book scent” before I start reading. I hope I haven’t weirded you out this early. Still 24 more numbers to go.

2) I dislike the scent of patchouli oil .. or any cologne/perfume worn too heavily, for that matter. When I’m in a small, enclosed space, and I find out who the culprit is (the person who bathed in too much cologne/perfume), I have to fight the urge to give him/her a dirty look or make some smart alecky remark.

3) I cannot go to bed without slathering on some Cookie Dough chapstick. I love this flavor. I press my lips together and the sweet, yummy taste calms my senses and prepares me for Dreamland.

4) I own four guns, legally. I know how to use ‘em, and if I find myself in a situation that threatens my life or the life of my loved one/s, I will not hesitate to pull the trigger.

5) I love wearing dresses in the summer, with cute, open-toed sandals, or espadrilles … to work or to the mall or on a date. I don’t mind wearing tattered jeans and clunky hiking boots, and getting all muddy and sweaty while tramping through the woods with Rog, but when the hike is over and I’ve taken a shower, I love transforming into a dainty, girlie-girl. I love being a woman!

6) I have shot and killed 3 squirrels (during hunting season the past few years). I am a certified West Virginia hunter. In 2005, I took two days of classes sponsored by the DNR. However, I do not believe in hunting animals simply for sport (or to hang their heads up on the wall above the fireplace). I believe in hunting for consumption, not merely for the sake of killing the poor creature. In line with this …

7) I fried and ate all 3 squirrels that I hunted. And yes, they did taste like chicken. No kidding. Come to WV someday and we’ll give you a taste.

I dislike green olives. They taste wrong to me. Love black olives. I could eat a whole can of the black ones myself.

9) I once got a silver medal in the 100-M sprint, in college. I loved to run … used to even go to sleep with my running shoes on so that when the alarm clock went off at 5 a.m., I’d literally hit the ground running.

10) The Math part of my brain must be very small, or defective, or both. Because I suck at Math; I really do. Thank God for calculators and accountants:)

11) I was raised speaking English. It was mom’s idea; she’s an English major.

12) I finally learned my first Tagalog word when I was 7. It was “aso.” I could barely converse in tagalog until I was 8 or 9. English has always been my first language.

13) I love classical music. I cannot stand rap. And country music makes me think suicidal thoughts.

14) I technically never passed the DMV’s practical driving test. On my 3rd attempt, I ran a STOP sign and almost got me and the driving instructor killed. I am almost certain he gave me my driver’s license that day so that I would never come back and risk his life again.

15) In the 8 years since I got my DL, I have been pulled over 5 times, and gotten 5 warnings. No ticket yet. Excuse me for a few, I need to find some wood to knock on here.

16) Once, when I was a new driver, I ran from a cop who turned his blue lights on behind me. I took off down the road for about 2.5 miles more, before realizing I could not get away. The cop approached my car with his gun drawn, thinking I was a fugitive. I broke 5 traffic rules that night, still got away with no ticket. And the cop even asked for my phone number:)

17) I hate rats. I once tried to kill a rat by spraying it with pepper spray. It didn’t work.

18) I once sprayed myself with pepper spray, accidentally. I cried for more than an hour.

19) I love spicy food. By spicy, I mean the kind that makes smoke whoosh out of your ears and beads of sweat pop out all over your face. That kind of spicy!

20) I hate rollercoasters and heights and that awful, awful feeling of falling.

21) That hasn’t stopped me from riding rollercoasters 8 times, going parasailing at Virginia Beach last year, and getting married in a hot air balloon thousands of feet up in the air in 2007. I guess it’s ‘coz …

22) I consider myself a risk-taker. And I like to scare myself sometimes. Hey, we only get to live once!!

23) I believe in aliens and life on other planets. No, I am not a scientologist. Yes, I think Tom Cruise is weird.

24) The two movies that make me cry are “Bridges of Madison County” and “You’ve Got Mail” (the tears come at the end, when Meg and Tom meet in Central Park and “Somewhere Over the Rainbow” starts to play).

25) I love being pregnant! I’m enjoying every moment of it. Can’t wait for Tiny to get here!:)

Now’s my turn to tag: Mary, AJ, Annette, Yve, Alpha, Kate, Nel, Bea, Joy, all Salitype peeps, and any other Friendster friend who has the guts to share with us 25 things about yourself:) Can’t wait to get to know ya more!

Don’t laugh now, but I’m gonna let you in on a little secret: I hear food talk to me sometimes.

Not in loud, booming voices, mind you. But rather like persistent whispers in the back of my mind … nagging little voices that keep on and on and on, specially when my blood sugar levels are low and I am hungry.  That’s when the voices start.

Tonight, it was a huge jar of Peter Pan Crunchy Peanut Butter that called my name when I threw open the cupboard doors soon as I got home from work.

“You know you want me,” it whispered seductively from the top shelf, as I surveyed the wide variety of midnight snack choices available. It spoke the truth.

I have always been a big peanut butter fan. One of my earliest memories consists of me plunging my chubby little fist into a jar of that creamy, brown stuff and shoving as much as I could into my mouth, smearing it all over my face - and hair and neck and, oh, you got the picture! - in the process. The look on mom’s face when she finally caught me was priceless, to say the least.

As the years passed, I attacked even more peanut butter jars, but grew noticeably more adept at scooping the yummy brown stuff out in a manner that spared my outfits - and my face and hair and neck - from a premature trip to the washer, or from vigorous scrubbing.

But back to tonight. I needed a snack, and Tiny seemed awfully fidgetty - throwing mini kicks and punches in my tummy- so I figured she was hungry, too. And the jar of peanut butter was still calling my name.

Now, if this had happened a year or so ago, I wouldn’t have thought twice. I would have reached up there and gotten hold of that jar, set it down on the table and promptly created a most delicious PB&J sandwich for me and Tiny to feast upon. But tonight was different. Something I’d been reading about in the news the past few weeks made me hesitate. Something I’m sure most of you have read about, heard about: the current peanut butter salmonella outbreak here in the U.S. that has sickened some 600 people and possibly caused 9 deaths.

I hesitated because each day, the list of peanut products being recalled grows longer. I know I checked the list last week, and I didn’t see Peter Pan … but what if it shows up on the recall list tomorrow? I might eventually recover from food poisoning, but what about dear little Tiny?

Yes, that jar of peanut butter called my name for a long time, but I hesitated … and then I finally shut the cupboard doors and looked for something else to snack on. I changed my mind because, you see, it’s not all about me now. There is this amazing little life growing inside me every moment, every day … a tiny babe that eats what I eat, and really has no choice but to take into its fragile body whatever I put in my mouth. I changed my mind because, Tiny, if you read this someday, I love you more than anything in the world … and I dare not and will not risk your life by eating peanut butter while this scare is going on. The risk is just not worth it. You are more precious to me and to your daddy Rog than you will ever know, even if you are not here yet. I hope you know that, baby.

In the end, I settled for three slices of banana bread. Washed that all down with a cold glass of milk. I think Tiny likes banana bread, too, ‘coz a few minutes after my last bite, she did a little wiggle, as if to say, “That was good, mommy!”

Let me know when the peanut butter scare is over.

It’s 7 minutes past 3 p.m. Tuesday, and it’s another Bad Hair Day for me.

I’m working a curling iron through my dark locks, cursing silently, begging my unruly hair to cooperate. I swear my hair has a mind of its own some days, and it picks the worst days, too! Seems like it picks the days that I’m running late for work and all stressed out to turn against me. But when I’m off and really don’t feel like going anywhere, my hair suddenly looks glamorous. What’s up with that?

It’s 12 minutes past 3 now, and I’m still struggling with this beast on my head. The clock is ticking and I’m on the verge of hurling the curling iron to the floor and admitting defeat. That’s when Rog marches into the bathroom, announcing that he has to leave for work. I turn to give him a quick little kiss, my mind still focused on taming my hair. He kisses me back, gives me a hug and tells me he loves me. I mumble back, “I love you, too,” then lift the curling iron to my hair for the nth time.

And then Rog does something that he started doing a few weeks ago, that shouldn’t have taken me by surprise today, except that I am so engrossed with fighting with my hair that this new daily ritual momentarily slips my mind: He gets down on his knees and plants a gentle kiss on my tummy, while softly saying to our 21-week-old baby inside, “Bye, Tiny! I love you! Be good to your mommy today, OK?” Then he wraps his arms around my bulging middle and gives our little one a hug as well.

My heart melts. Tiny does a little flip (which tickles my insides, makes me giggle and fills me with such joy). I look down at Rog, with his arms still around my belly, whispering sweet nothings to our growing baby girl … and all of a sudden, I don’t care about my hair anymore.

In response to the increasing number of queries regarding my whereabouts, absence of blogs, uncanny silence, shortage of new photos, etc., etc., the past couple of weeks, I present this photo, taken around 3 in the morning, Oct. 31, Halloween:

Yes, my friends, the good ol’ stork finally touched-down on our doorstep:) … and with it, an avalanche of emotions for two people like Rog and I who are first-timers in this area.

One minute we’re riding on Cloud 9, thrilled beyond words that God granted our wish in a snap (I quit taking BC in August - after 8 years of being on that stuff, everyday - and the next month, just like that, a little miracle came to life within me). The next minute, we’re like two scared little kids, bawling our eyes out in the backseat of a moving van as it pulls away from the only home, the only life we’ve ever known (the life of a couple without kids), realizing everything will change forever, and there’s no turning back now. But then the next minute, we’re like two bright-eyed youngsters in a candy store .. only we’re not at a candy store. We’re at Wal-Mart in Crab Orchard, giggling excitedly and holding hands as we feast our eyes on the wide array of baby stuff: car seats, cribs, strollers, the cutest little outfits you ever saw, Gerber, Pampers, you name it.  We’ve had stressful days. Saturday nights spent just cuddling on the couch talking about the future … planning how to raise this baby once he/she is born into this crazy, beautiful world. We’ve had some totally delightful moments- like when we first heard our baby’s heartbeat Nov. 17. That rapid, bounding sound made us gasp, brought tears to our eyes. And we cried happy tears again today when we watched our baby do somersaults in my belly via ultrasound.

Yes, I’ve had some rough days, too. First trimester fatigue/sleepiness left me often feeling like I was either coming down with the flu, or recovering from it. Either ways, I had to struggle to stay awake at work several times, and then thankfully crawl into bed shortly after I got home and pass out from sheer exhaustion (hence, the lack of energy to blog).

But I feel better now:) 14 weeks today, and counting.

I would like to thank the handful of friends with whom I first shared this news with. I asked that the news be kept private until I was ready to make a public announcement, and every single one of you kept your word. I have the highest respect for you all:)

A friend from England excitedly asked me on the phone on Thanksgiving Day, “MJ, did you win the lottery?” Tickled, I replied, “No, Len, I didn’t!” Well, come to think about it, Len, I guess I should have answered YES, because this pregnancy, this new journey Rog and I are embarking on is kinda like hitting that multi-million dollar jackpot. It’s gonna change our lives forever. I say that with a hopeful smile on my face and slightly shaky knees.

Please pray for me. Please pray for Rog. Please pray for our 14-week-old blessing.

Jennifer smiled at me tonight.

No, it wasn’t one of those full-blown, eyes-almost-disappearing and white-teeth-sparkling-at-you smiles. It was more like a tiny ripple, like the ones you see when you toss a pebble into a peaceful, little pond on a bright autumn morn. The ripple rings fan out across the water, so fast. Too fast. Blink once and they are gone, and all that’s left is you, standing by the quiet pond. That’s exactly how Jen’s smile was. But it was a start. And it was enough.

- - -

Backtrack to three months ago. I’m standing at Aisle 15 at Wal-Mart, unloading groceries onto the counter. It’s past 1 A.M. and I’m worn out from work; I can’t wait to get home, put my feet up and leaf through my latest Glamour mag (one of my de-stressing techniques). As I empty my shopping cart, I wait for the cashier to greet me with the usual cheerful, “How are you? Did you find everything you need?” I like when cashiers greet me this way; it makes me feel special and, heck, I’m spending money at your store, I think I deserve a big smile and a warm hello at least, huh? Seconds pass and I hear nothing, so I look up and I’m met by a sour face. Probably the sourest face of a Wal-Mart employee I’ve ever seen. This kinda surprises me and annoys me all at once.

Understand that not a week goes by that I do not stop by Wal-Mart at least once - and sometimes two or three times- for groceries. I go there so faithfully that I know several of the shelf people (those folks who put new groceries up on the shelves) by name, and they know my name as well and never fail to greet me and smile at me as I walk through the store.

So three months ago, I’m standing at Aisle 15 face to face with this sour-faced, female employee (whom I had never seen before, so I guessed she was new) and getting more irritated by the second because not only does she not smile at me, she also fails to greet me! She proceeds to ring up my purchases in silence while I stand there in a semi state of shock. I guess I’m used to all the other cashiers being so friendly to me; so, what’s up with Jennifer? (I spot her name tag).

“Maybe she’s nervous because she’s new,” Rog tells me later. He’s just come home from work and we’re seated around the dining table, talking about our day. “Maybe she’s shy? Or maybe she has some problems?”

“I don’t know, Twin,” I say, shaking my head. “Aren’t they trained to always smile at customers? To at least say ‘Hello’? Cashiers like that annoy me!”

“She’s new, Little Foot,” Rog says. “Give her some time. She’ll get better. Just give her some time.”

And that’s what I did. Jennifer rung up my groceries several times in the past three months and never once smiled at me. Sometimes, I would greet her brightly (Hey! How are you?), in an attempt to get her to greet me back. The most I got was a grunt and a nod. I guess not everyone’s Miss Congeniality, huh? In time, I came to accept that maybe she simply wasn’t the smiling type. I mean, after you smile at a person several times and are constantly met by a blank stare, you tend to draw that conclusion.

Well, Jennifer smiled at me tonight. Finally, after three months. I smiled at her as she handed me my change and all of a sudden, there it was, a tiny smile … a fleeting smile. Yet it was a smile. And it was enough.

I drove home and as I was putting the groceries away, my gaze fell on our three pet cacti- Eeech, Oooch and Ouch.

I remember when Rog and I bought them in 2005 at Wal-Mart, excitedly named them and almost expected them to bloom the next day. Well, of course they did not bloom overnight. As a matter of fact, they did not bloom in 2006 or in 2007 either, despite regular doses of Miracle Gro.

“What’s wrong with these cactus plants?” I would often ask Rog, as the years passed. “I thought they were supposed to bloom! What’s taking them so long?” At one point, I suggested we give them away, or maybe even dispose of them, because “they’re not doing anything,” to which Rog gently replied, “Give them some time, Little Foot. They’ll bloom eventually. Give them some time.”

One of them finally bloomed last week- the one we call Eeech (say “Itch”). I was admiring her dainty, yellow bloom a while ago and thinking that people are sometimes like cactus plants. Like Jennifer at Wal-Mart, some people take time to “bloom.” Some people take a while to warm up and share even a little smile. They could be that way due to certain personal reasons. Or maybe smiling just doesn’t come naturally to everyone. At any rate, Rog was right about Jennifer. He was right about Eeech, too.

She smiled at me eventually, and the cactus I had almost given up on finally bloomed.

Sometimes all it takes is time.

You know those zucchinis I picked up at Wal-Mart the other night? The ones Rog needed to make a golden curry dish he said he had been dreaming of all day?

Well, guess what? Turns out the two green, healthy-looking zucchinis I carefully selected from the vegetable aisle … WERE NOT ZUCCHINIS.

They were cucumbers.

Ooopsie.

- - -

It’s 4:45, early Thursday morning, and Rog is going, “Hmmmmm …,” while staring at the two green zucchinis on the kitchen table. He has just come home from work and his face is covered with smudges of welding dust, but I can tell from the way he goes “Hmmmmmm” that he is concentrating, thinking deeply.

“What is it, Hon?” I ask, from behind a stack of bills at the other end of the table. I rise and cross the room, and stand beside him as he continues to stare at the zucchinis.

“Um, these are cucumbers, Little Foot (Rog’s nickname for me),” he finally says softly, too softly that I think I’m hearing wrong the first time.

“They’re what?” I ask, confused. Did he say cucumbers?

“These are not zucchinis,” he says, picking one up. “These are cucumbers.”

I gasp and bite my lower lip, as I often do when I realize I’ve made a mistake.

But, “Are you sure?” I ask, hoping against hope that HE may be wrong, that they are indeed zucchinis- the veggie he requested me to get- and not cucumbers, of all things.

He holds one up to the light, then turns it slowly so I can see how it looks on all angles.

“See the bumpy spots?” he asks, holding the veggie out to me so I can take it and feel for myself. “Zucchinis don’t have those.”

My face falls and I stare at my fluffy yellow bedroom slippers. A wave of embarrassment washes over me. I cannot believe I have made such a stupid mistake!

“I’m sorry, Twin (my nickname for Rog),” I say, hoping he won’t get mad, feeling awful that I have let him down. All Wednesday, he had texted me about this curry dish he could not wait to make, as soon as he got home from work. “I CAN ALMOST TASTE IT,” he texted around 11:30. “WILL GET ZUCCHINI,” is what I texted back. And now this.

A couple years ago, if I had made the same mistake, my ex would already be yelling at me, calling me stupid. Saying hurtful stuff such as, “I can’t believe you can’t tell the difference between a zucchini and a cucumber! I thought you went to college?!” His face would be red with anger and I would be cowering in a corner, shaking, weeping, begging for forgiveness.

Sometimes when I make mistakes at home today, I remember how I used to be treated, and I almost expect all that to happen again … so I continue to stare at the floor while softly mumbling, “I’m sorry. I’m very sorry,” and, “I really thought those were zucchinis.” Tears slowly fill my eyes.

All at once, two strong arms surround me in a warm embrace, an embrace so tight I’m left almost breathless. Yet I continue to repeat, “I’m sorry. I can’t believe how stupid I was. I really thought …”

“Hey, it’s OK!” Rog is saying. I finally stop my blubbering long enough to realize he has been talking, too.

“Really, it’s fine,” he tells me, lifting my chin up with his hand and looking deep into my teary eyes. “You are not stupid, and these are some nice cucumbers you picked out. I like cucumbers, too!” He gives me another tight hug.

“You do?” I ask, slowly perking up. The feeling of dread slowly disappears, like thick fog gradually lifting, or storm clouds dispersing, replaced by the sun. The more he hugs me and the more he assures me everything is OK, the more I realize I will not get yelled at this time.

Rog peels and slices one cucumber, then squeezes some Ranch dressing into a small blue and white saucer and motions for me to pull my chair closer to him.

By the time I do so, he is happily crunching away on a thick cucumber slice dunked in Ranch, going “Mmmmmmmm! This is really good! Mmmmmmm!” His eyes are closed and he looks like he’s enjoying one of those fancy dishes they serve at five-star restaurants.

I giggle and reach for a smaller slice, dip it in the Ranch and pop it in my mouth.

Believe me when I say that was the best cucumber I ever had.