Dear Krista ( Age 4 )
Your parents are about to bring a new person to live with you.  You’ve gotten pretty used to being the only kid around and getting all of the attention.  And she’s going to steal some of it, along with your spot on Pap’s lap.  But it’s OK.  Because his lap is big enough for both of you and some day you’ll want to wear her clothes, so try to be nice to her. 

Dear Krista ( Age 8 )
Dammit.  They’re doing it again.  You’re going to have a new sibling.  Believe it or not, he is not a toy.  So, while you’ll want to be a big girl and help, there’s really only so much an eight-year-old can do.  Letting Mom know when he cries is a good start, cause she probably can’t hear him.  Because I’m sure if she did, she’d pick him up.  So, you be sure to let her know when you hear him cry.  PS.  Soccer is not your thing.  Don’t even bother. 

Dear Krista ( Age 12 )
Middle school.  I know you’re nervous.  You are used to small classes, small schools and this is going to be a bit different.  You’ll meet new friends.  You’ll fight with old friends.  You’ll learn to make no bake cookies in home ec class.  (Pay attention to this one because 17 years from now, you won’t be able to get them right.)  You’ll dance with boys.  Arms stretched way out with enough room for a small country between the two of you.  Enjoy these moments.  The innocence, the newness.  Oh, and stop tight rolling your jeans. 

Dear Krista ( Age 16 )
Be careful.  Be careful with your heart.  Be careful when you drive.  Be careful who you hurt.  Be careful at parties.  Just be careful. 

Dear Krista ( Age 18 )
College.  Enjoy it.  I know this isn’t fun.  Going to class and going to work.  But go to a party once in a while.  Get a little drunk, meet new people.  This time is so short and someday you’ll wish you had done more with your college years than serving drinks and writing papers. 

Dear Krista ( Age 20 )
He’s not worth it.  The end.  And in a year, when he breaks your heart for the 87th time, get up and go to the bar, because there you’ll see a man who makes your heart skip. 

Dear Krista ( Age 25 )
I know.  You’re ready to give up.  It’s been FOUR years.  What is he waiting for?  And, why does he keep saying that you’re not ready and that you’re so young.  Well… because he’s right.  You’re not ready.  So, just hang on.  There are times coming up where you’re both going to have to fight for this.  But you will, because he loves you and you love him. So, when you start to doubt this and when you think about leaving his ass in the Outer Banks after a fight, don’t.  Some things are worth waiting for. 

Dear Krista ( Age 28 )
See… I told you that some things were worth waiting for.  I’m pretty smart with all of my crystal ball stuff here, huh?  You have to trust me one more time. You will have a baby.  It may take a little longer than you think it should.  But when it happens, you’ll cry with excitement and nervousness.  Strike that, you will be more scared than you have ever been before.  But your pregnancy will be a fairly easy one and your baby?  Oh, she will be perfect. 

Dear Krista ( Age 29 )
You will figure her out.  She is beautiful and squishy and cute, but newborns?  They’re supposed to cry.  You’re not doing anything wrong.  So, walk her, rock her and sing to her.  Because in a few more months she won’t want to be held so much.  Hold her close now.  Enjoy these weeks you have with her.  You’re not missing anything at work, quit worrying about it. In a few months, whe she’s waving goodbye as you leave for work, you’ll wish you had taken a longer maternity leave and you can’t get it back. 

Dear Krista ( Now )
Slow down.  Rock her to sleep once in a while.  Breathe when bedtime doesn’t go as planned.  Go on more date nights with your husband.  Put down the Blackberry. 

***Dear Readers: Today is the last day to enter the giveaways at Raising Madison by donating to the Chupp family.  Please visit her site, read about this family, say a prayer and if you’re able, donate.  It’s worth it.  ***

Late in my pregnancy my parents came to visit for an evening.  The four of us were sitting in the living room talking about baby proofing and all the potential things in our house that would cause bumps, tears and bruises.  And, even though he swore the fetus was a girl, Craig made the comment that “a few bumps wouldn’t hurt him.”

“What if it’s a girl?” my mom countered. 

“Well, then I’ll put her in a bubble.”

Ahh… fathers and daughters. 

Similarly, I’ve heard a story many times about my grandmother asking my dad how he would feel the first time he had to spank me. 

“I won’t have to discipline her,” he said innocently . 

Ah… about that? 

My dad told me no a lot.  Actually, not as many times as I asked to do something.  Because, you see, once he said it once.  He didn’t say it again.  I would spend hours, (okay, minutes) crafting my pitch.  Making sure to get all the convincing arguments out in the first few breaths.  “Dad, can I…  Kim and Amanda are….  Mom said it’s OK with her… I’ll be home by… “  And he would say, “No.” 

Sometimes followed by a reason.  “You were out all week.  You can stay home tonight.”

But I was not done, I was prepared to move on with my secondary arguments.  “But.  I already helped clean the house.  The other times I was out I was with different people.  I haven’t been out with Kim ALL WEEK.”  

He’d pick up his newspaper or start flipping channels.  Which, clearly I took as a sign that I should continue. 

“Come on.  If I can go, I promise I’ll…. I have to work tomorrow, so this is the only night I can…  I babysat while you and Mom went out four.years.ago and I didn’t ask you to pay me.” 

Yep, I pulled out all the stops. 

He would continue to read or watch TV occasionally looking at me.  Inevitably, it would end with me storming up the steps, (stomping like an elephant if you believe my mom’s exaggerations) crying, throwing myself on the bed and yelling, “I”m NEVER allowed to do ANYTHING.” 

I had a flair for the dramatic even then it seems. 

And, while he did tell me no, what seemed like quite a bit.  He also spent hours with me in the driveway teaching me to pitch and to catch. He taught me to drive, even giving lessons when the roads were just a bit snow covered so I would know how to drive in poor conditions (although I don’t think either of us anticipated me moving to a place where “poor conditions” are the norm from December until April.)  He was at every volleyball game I played. 

Since graduating high school, I don’t think he’s ever told me no.  He moved me from apartment to apartment to back home to a few more apartments and finally to our house. He has supported my many fundraisers and work events, sitting on the sidelines of all-star football games, going to dances, bidding in silent auctions and walking in 5Ks.  He’s helped my husband put in fence, put together furniture and lift heavy items.  He loves my daughter and lights up when she’s in the room. 

Will the day come that the Craig has to tell his baby girl no?  Absolutely.  Will she cry and pout?  You betcha.  15 years later will she understand why he said no? Maybe. 

But will she appreciate all the things he did instead.  I guarantee it.

As a side note, the folks at Top Baby Blogs are about to reset the votes, putting us all back at zero.  I sort of liked being amongst some really good bloggers.  So, if you like what you read here, think I’m a little funny and slightly witty or adore my child’s smile, would you do me a favor and click this link…  XOXO! 

Updated for the Way Back Wednesday post from Stephanie…  If you didn’t have enough wedding fun last week, check out these posts! 

- – -  (original post) – - -

Can I just say that I love twitter blog hops.  A) It gives me something to write about.  Because some days, I’m just not sure which part of my life to bore bless you with.  B) I get to know more about people whose parenting blogs I read.  So? Win win. 

Anyway… jumping into the wedding. 

July 4, 2008. 

I waited six years for this day.  Six years to stand in a church in front of all the people I love and who love me and promise to spend the rest of my life with a man I adored.  Adore.  And, I really wish I had been blogging then.  Because I remember the months leading up to it as a whirlwind of dress shopping, meetings about flowers, budgetting and rebudgetting, browsing travel magazines and stalking my wedding registry. 

And I loved every second of it.  I loved the planning, stress included.  I thrive on excitement and details.  I sort of like being the center of attention, ahem.  But also, I loved the security and comfort of knowing that once that day was over, my life, my family would begin. 

A few weeks of searching led me to the dress.   It was simple and classic.  And it still makes me sad that I’ll never wear it again.  Perhaps some day, after a few glasses of wine, I’ll trek up the steps, pull it out of the special perservation box, slip back into it and flip through my wedding album.  Or not.

The day of the wedding started with a workout and breakfast with my best friend.  Followed by hours, yes hours, of primping, makeup and hair. Until it was time to zip up the dress and put on the jewelry. 

And then I waited.  FOR AN HOUR.  In my dress, in the hotel room with my brother and my maid of honor.  Trying not to wrinkle the dress and ignoring the rumbling of my belly. 

The nerves hit me on the way to the church.  I was caught up in the details and trapped in the back of a limo on a windy road.  The looming dark clouds were threatening to rain on my wedding day, I was wondering how the flowers looked and hoping that I had left enough time for pictures.  As I was waiting by the corner of the church, watching the last few people walk in, it was all I could do to not hurry them along, so I could have my turn to walk down the aisle. 

Once I got to the front of the church and saw him.  Everything got very calm. 

During the ceremony, we stood together and looked out at our family and friends.  Pointing out faces of people we hadn’t seen in a while, waving at young cousins and grinning at each other.   We laughed at the jokes that our priest made, hugged the families, said our vows, lit the candle and walked out as Mr. & Mrs. 

Then… we got our party on.  With traditional dances between husband and wife, father and daughter, mother and son.  My grandparents were the last couple standing at the end of the anniversary dance.  We made people who wanted to see us kiss stand up and sing a song to get it – no clinking glasses, thankyouverymuch. Craig and I served the cake to all of our guests, our way of making sure we spent a few minutes with everyone who spent the day with us.  We danced to YMCA, We Are Family and all the traditional Central PA wedding dances.   We drank champagne… and beer… and wine.. and oh my aching head the next day.  We didn’t eat enough, but we laughed, accepted hugs and well-wishes and caught up with old friends. 

At some point during the reception, the rain that had been threatening all day finally came.  At the time that our reception was over, it was POURING.  Craig and I walked to the door and then it hit me.  The one detail I forgot.  To arrange our transportation from the conference center to the hotel.  It was only a few blocks, so maybe I thought we’d walk it. But the sheets of water falling from the sky meant that we needed a Plan B.  So we waited while my mom and aunts cleared the centerpieces, we helped the DJ tear down, loaded gifts into the car and piled in the back of my aunt’s SUV. 

:: sigh ::  A girl can’t get it all right, can she? 

So that’s it.  That’s my wedding day in a five-minute blog post.  The day I joined Craig’s family and he joined mine.  The only day I’ve had just about every person I cared about in one room. 

The day I learned that some things are worth waiting for. 

**are you new here?  do you know about Joanna and her #Karing4Keegan fundraiser?  She is doing a really good thing, raising money for a family who needs the financial help as they focus on helping their baby boy fight cancer.  I count my blessing every day, every hour, that I have a healthy baby. I wish I could do more.  But maybe? If we all do a little, it will add up.  Go read about Keegan, help if you’re so inclined, say a prayer if it’s what you do and hug your child a little tighter tonight. ** 

Once upon a time, not all that long ago, I busted my ass for tips.  The kind that people leave under a plate or on a tip tray after a few beers and a good meal.  It started in college when I decided that I was too cool  to live in a dorm (a decision that I sometimes question now).  To afford rent and a car payment, I’d have to get a job.  So, I waltzed into the popular bar in town and put in an application.  For a little more than a year, I did homework or crosswords during the slow dinner hour, then rolled up my sleeves and pushed my way through the shoulder-to-shoulder crowds to serve beers and shots to early-20-somethings until 2AM.  Most days I was back up at 8 the next morning headed to class.  Typing that now, 12 years later, makes me tired; but at the time, it was fun.  I was 19 and in a bar.  I thought I was cool. 

All through college, I waitressed and bartended (albeit in more family freindly establishments) to make ends meet.  When I got my first “I went to school for this” job, I happily gave up the nighttime gig.  And racked up the credit cards.  Folks, the reality of working and paying bills is SO not what it’s cracked up to be.

Finally, once my credit card balance was out of control, I started waiting tables and bartending again at night.  I’d work all day from 8 to 5, in the professional PR job.  Then I’d throw on the uniform 3 nights a week and smile as people decided between the chicken parm and the chicken marsala.  I’d bite my tongue when they complained about the selection on the menu, try hard not to yell back when the boys in the kitchen had their panties in a bunch and try not fumble my words when I had to wait on the CEO of my “day-job” company.  I put just about every tip I earned towards my credit cards. 

And in a year, I was debt free.  And then Craig proposed.  So I stayed on for another year to help pay for the wedding.  Then we decided to build a house.  And I kept working.  I felt like I would be there forever until I got pregnant, almost threw up during a shift and decided enough was enough. 

But as tired as I was during those nights, as grumpy as I got when people sat at their table for HOURS after they were done with their meals, I don’t regret it at all.  I think spending that time serving up mixed drinks and steaks taught me more than anything I learned in college. 

• I learned that you don’t make the waitress come back five times to ask if you’re ready to order, then get pissed if she’s not at your side the second you make your choice.
• I learned how to carry three glasses in one hand and a plate of spaghetti and a bread basket in the other.  (What? That takes skill!)
• I learned what the phrases “86′d”, “in the weeds” and “on the fly” meant and how to use them. 
• I learned to read facial expressions to know when “it’s fine” meant “actually, my four-year-old cooks better than this.”
• I learned that if people got to know you personally, they were more understanding about long wait times, more interesting to talk to and left bigger tips.   
• I learned to smile and say something nice when it was the last thing I wanted to do.
• I learned that people treated waitress Krista very differently than the Krista they chatted with a fundraisers.  And I learned that I didn’t have time for those people and didn’t want to be that person. 
• I learned that if you want something, you work for it.

While my daughter can do anything she wants when she grows up.  She can go to the moon, she can work on cars, she can argue in front of judge or jury.  I hope that somewhere along the way she has the opportunity to work in a restaurant, yell at the cooks in the kitchen, roll her eyes at the annoying customers and bond with the rest of the waitstaff over leftover food and an after-shift drink.

Two years ago my head would have been in a completely different place right now. Late afternoon, on a warm Friday, before a long weekend.  I would have been texting friends lining up a happy hour at a bar with a patio, good beer on tap and excellent wings or calling my husband and hinting that I wanted a date night.  I would have been thinking about what to wear and whether my hair would need much help to get from the messy, frustrated ponytail of the workday to cute and tossled. Saturday’s plans would include sleeping in, working out and picnics or parties.  And somewhere along the weekend there would most certainly be shopping.

Instead, I’m thinking about how tonight will be like every other night this week.  I will go straight home and change into my sweats.  30 minutes after I get home, I will be feeding my daughter and  30 minutes after that it’s bathtime, followed by her bottle and bed.  My sweats are ratty but they match the messy ponytail and I won’t care if C spits peas at me while I feed her.  Once she’s settled into bed, Craig and I will watch TV, exchange “how was your days”, read the paper and play on the the internet (Hi Twitter!). 

Our weekend will still include picnics and parties, but they will be scheduled around naptime and bedtime.  Working out is usually a thing of the past, but maybe we’ll take a couple of walks with the baby in her stroller or in the Baby Bjorn on Craig’s chest.  Sweats and ponytails will again be the wardrobe selection and there’s a good chance that on at least one of these days I’ll be lucky to shower. 

On one hand, I feel a little bit sad and miss the excited feeling I would have been getting just about now.  But on another, I will soon get to see my little girl, she will smile and reach for me and I’ll forget all about what I’m not doing tonight.   If the weather holds out, she will take her first dip in the pool and, without hesitation, I can say that I would rather have that moment than all the happy hours and shopping trips in the world. 

Fingers and toes are crossed for hot, sunny days and a splashing baby in our future.