Two days after our “I do”s, we hopped a plane and headed to Mexico for our honeymoon.  The Riveria Maya was beautiful. White sand, blue water. Free food and drinks all the live long day. 

I am sure this is what Heaven looks like. 

Aren’t the drinks pretty??

Because everyone needs a picture with a monkey on their shoulder.

We spent six glorious days sleeping in the sun, walking on the beach, going to breakfast and eating late dinners. Every day, we looked at the brochure and talked about parasailing or doing some kind of “adventure”.  And every day we decided to wait.

And then, on our second to last night there, we had drinks and went to dinner, like every night before.  Only this time, we both woke up around midnight and spent the next 12 hours passing each other on our way to the bathroom. 

“Sick” doesn’t even begin to describe it. I cannot eloquently talk about “The Sick” so let’s just leave it at that, shall we? 

When evening came, since we were planning to leave the next day, we called the hotel doctor.  He came to our room, pronounced us dehydrated and rode with us to the local hospital. 

Yes, we went to a hospital in Mexico. No, neither of us speak Spanish. 

Oh, wait. “Cervaza” is Spanish for “beer”, right? We had that one down. 

At the hospital we were separated on opposite sides of the room, I could hear Craig, but not see him.  Blood was drawn, samples were taken, fluid was given and I think I presented my insurance card wondering how in the world the payment stuff was going to work.  Craig started to feel a little better, I did not.  The doctors started talking about keeping us in the hospital over night. Craig told them are flight left the next morning and we’d be leaving soon thankyouverymuch. The word “quarantine” was mentioned.

I sat up and decided it was time to feel better and stop running for the bathroom.  Maybe “quarantine” means something different in Mexico?

Sometime late that night, we got back to the hotel and slept a few hours.  When the alarm went off, I called the front desk to find out if we could, in fact, stay an extra day. The short answer was, “No, get the hell out.”  Two hours later, I was sipping ginger ale on an airplane bound for Baltimore, praying that I wouldn’t toss my cookies.  (I didn’t. Thank GOD!)

And that was how we ended our honeymoon. 

Remind me someday to tell you about our trip to Punta Cana when we were dating.  The spoiler is that after sun posioning there and (suspected) food posioning in Mexico, I’ll be good if I never travel again.

Linking up with Natalie!

I distinctly remembering being 13 years old and desperately wanting to be older. Oh, how I ached to go to Sunday night dances at the town park, get my license and give up riding with my parents, move out, date, and so on. 

Then when I graduated from high school, I wanted to be done with college.  Kiss the books and libraries goodbye, bring on the paychecks and happy hours. 

After I was in my first 8 to 5 job, I started thinking about how I wanted to meet the right guy.

When I met the guy, I started thinking about wanting to wear the white dress and snuggle the tiny babies. 

I feel like I’ve spent more than half of my life wanting time to speed up.  Desperate to get to the next milestone, the next big moment. 

And now?

I TAKE IT ALL BACK. 

I want time to just stop. To freeze.  Right now in this moment, is where I want to stay.  Even when Chessa yells “COLE GOING TO BED!” and wakes up the baby as I lay him down at night. Even when after a dinner that is basically thirty minutes of being yelled at by a child on both sides of me when I’m convinced I’ll never eat a hot meal again. 

Because right now, Cole is busting out of his six month clothes and wearing the same size diapers as his sister.  Chessa is having actual conversations with me and trying to pick out her own clothes.  Today, I scheduled Cole’s six month pictures and wondered where the last five and a half months went.  Then, I realized I would need to get a backpack for Chessa to take to day care next week and had to bite my lip to hold back the tears. 

These ages are my favorite. Both of them. Chessa at not quite two, ready to start day care, running so fast her feet barely touch the ground, playing with cheerleaders when she goes to visit Craig at football camp, talking to me about her day and her favorite things before she goes to bed. I’ve said before that I’m a better “baby mom” than I am a “toddler mom” but you know?  These toddler days are good. 

And the baby days?  The boy who snuggled into my chest and slept when he was tucked into the baby carrier at a fundraiser on Sunday.  The boy who giggles at his sister, reaches for my hand and plays happily with a rattle, a towel or my thumb.  I miss the newborn days, but these days with (almost always) full nights of sleep and (sort of on schedule) naps?  These baby days are good. 

And so for all those times that I wished time would go a little faster, I now want it to go a little slower so I can just soak up these days a little bit longer. 

And to the girl that wished so hard for things to speed up, I say, “Hold on. It’s worth the wait.”

Chessa sits on the counter, looking in the mirror as I brush her hair.  It’s finally getting longer; the soft brown hair is curling at the nape of her neck.  I hold it in my left hand and wrap a ponytail with my right.  I pin back the front, the pieces that are too short to meet the rest. 

I lean in to kiss her cheek before I pronounce her ready to go, knowing that in a few moments she will be running, throwing balls and riding her bike.  In the mirror I catch a glimpse of her eyes, the exact shade of Craig’s, looking back at me.  Between the two of us (ok, mostly him) there’s a higher than average chance that she’ll be graced with at least a little bit of athleticism. 

And to be honest, I couldn’t be happier than to think that sports will be a part of her life. 

Some of my earliest recollections are of playing softball in grade school.  Some of my best memories are of playing volleyball in high school.  And some of my closest friends are girls who I bonded with over the smell of old leather, the squeal of tennis shoes stopping sharply on the high school gym, the bruises and scrapes from learning how slide and the shared sacrifice, disappointment and pride.

I want that for her.

Sports taught me how to win with grace.  I learned to shake hands and congratulate the opposing team on giving it their best shot before running off the field to celebrate with my teammates.  Conversely, I learned how to lose and accept that I left it all on the court.  I learned how to give more when I thought I had nothing more to give.  One more serve. One more time of hitting the floor before the ball did. One more point. 

Sports taught me how to depend on another person.  Trust is an inherent part of the game.  The best teams aren’t always the ones with the most talent or who put in the most hours; instead they are often the ones with the best on-field relationships.  I learned that teams win when egos are checked at the door and everyone moves in the same direction.  Together.

Sports taught me confidence. With a father who didn’t let me give up and spent hours catching the balls  I pitched, I learned that if you try a little harder, fix what isn’t working and just keep going, you’re able to do things you didn’t think you could do. 

It wasn’t all sunshine and rainbows. I remember anger over close games that were lost or bad calls by officials.  I remember the sting of being the only senior without a solid, starting position.  I remember going to one soccer practice and deciding that all of that running up and down a field chasing a ball was not for me.  I remember a long, quiet bus ride home after an embarrassing loss. But in all of those disappointments, as cliché as it will sound, are lessons learned. 

Perhaps the most important lesson being that life, and the game, goes on. 

And, I want that for her.

Ten years ago this week, I met my husband.  He’ll tell you we met a few months earlier and that I paid no attention to him.  And, well, he’s not wrong.  He’s not right, but he’s not wrong. 

Fresh out of college, I was working my first job at a tourism promotion agency. With a passion for media and special events, the all star football game that we were planning was right up my alley.  The game was my chance to shine. To show that I could do this professional girl in heels thing.  In April we held a news conference for local media and invited all of that year’s coaches to attend.

Craig was a coach. 

His side of the story is that he tried to talk to me at the news conference and I blew him off.  To that I say, “whatever, dude. I was busy.” 

Next up was a practice in early May, followed by dinner with the team at a local restaurant.  At the table, I was charmed and entertained by an older, retired coach who told jokes and made us giggle through the meal.  Again, I didn’t talk to Craig much, but I did in fact notice him. 

A few phone calls between May and the week of the game asking him to “please for the love of all things Holy, send in your paperwork.”  And then noticing that his emergency contact was his mother (check one – not married) but that he wasn’t living with her (check two – not still living at home).  By the time the last week of June rolled around, I was… intrigued. 

At the first practice, I tried to flirt a little.  (Maybe not the most professional thing to do, so let’s just say I was being friendly.)  He was cold in return. 

Fine then. 

The next day, he was a little more chipper and maybe, just maybe, flirted back a tad.  At the end of the day, the coaches asked if we could get tickets to the local minor league baseball game.  I agreed and asked how many tickets they needed.  Enough for all five coaches. 

I got seven tickets.  Five for the coaches, one for a co-worker of mine and one for me.  We agreed to meet them at their hotel in a couple of hours and we would all go to the game together. 

This was it.  I was going to charm him over beers and baseball.  I went home, put on a cute American Eagle skirt and tank top, curled my hair and dabbed on lip gloss.  My heart was pounding and I was on pins and needles with excitement. 

We got stopped at the red light just outside the hotel.  I checked my hair in the mirror, giggled to my friend that maybe someday I’d remember this game as a BIG IMPORTANT MOMENT and looked up to see a white Jeep Wrangler approaching the intersection. 

“Hey that looks like Craig’s Jeep,”  she said. 

“It is.  Oh, someone is with him.  It must be Coach Sam.”

And then as he crossed the intersection we noticed that no, it wasn’t Coach Sam.  It was Coach Craig. 

And a date. 

I spent the first few innings of the game shooting daggers at the back of Craig’s head while sipping my beer.  When he went for a refill and asked if I wanted one, I mumbled a disgruntled no, even though mine was empty and I did, in fact, want another beer.  When he left because it started to rain and the top was off his Jeep, he left a note on my car for the rest of us to meet him at the bar.  I very maturely threw the note away. 

I was crushed.  With absolutely no right to be, I was crushed.  And pissed.  And maybe a little young. 

The week continued, I gave him the cold shoulder for a few days and players and coaches started laughing and joking about the “cousin” he brought to the game.  A few pointed interrogations of him and less than obvious (so I thought) questioning of the players on the team, I found out that the girl was a friend/date.  But not a girlfriend. 

Okay then. 

A few days later, mid-week, when he asked me if I wanted to go out sometime, I coyly answered, “maybe.”  Oh yes, people.  I was SO very good at playing hard to get. 

The night of the game, after getting admonished by a coworker about being unprofessional (pssh, whatever), all bets were off.  We were no longer working on a project together and we were free to date. 

So we did.

Sorry this is terrible quality, I had to scan it.  10 years ago, we were still using cameras with film and prints.  Weird.   But LOOK at how blonde I am. 

It’s official. Today is the last day of my twenties. When I wake up tomorrow, I will be OLD. At least according to my 14 year old self who thought that 30-year-olds wore mom jeans, drove mini-vans to shuffle kids from soccer practice to piano lessons and got in my way on the escalator at the mall.

Now all of a sudden 30 doesn’t look so bad.  It looks a little more trendy, a little more secure, a little less boring and a lot happier than I expected.

In my early twenties, I was young. Really, really young. But too young to realize it. I thought I needed to have everything – the house, the husband, the babies by the time I was 25. (Yes, I was that girl.) I thought I was ready for big important jobs and tons of responsibility at work. I thought just because I was willing to work hard, I was entitled.

In my mid-twenties, I started to relax. I started to enjoy the freedom I had not being married and with a child. I had some of the fun I missed out on college. I discovered the bliss that was happy hours with chips and queso dip and good friends. I learned that things will either work out, or they won’t. But either way, you still have to get out of bed the next day and go to work.

In my late twenties, I learned that I didn’t really miss those happy hours. I learned to be comfortable in my own skin and that pizza on the couch in sweats could be just as fulfilling and sweet as romantic dinners in a dimly lit restaurant where you got complimentary mini-meatballs as an appetizer. I learned that kink in my neck that came from falling asleep on the couch was worth the sweet kiss and brush back of my hair that Craig gave me when he woke me up. I learned that working hard and a good resume were important, but not as important as a willingness to learn more, to try new things and break barriers to getting things done.

I learned that some things are worth waiting for.

I have to wonder if in 10 years, when the wrinkles around my eyes don’t disappear as quickly after I smile, will I look back at 30 and wonder who Krista was and what was she thinking, the same way that I look at myself 10 years ago.  When C is almost 10 and driving me batty with pleas for a cell phone and earrings and jeans that don’t come from WalMart, will I recognize the woman who thinks her biggest frustration is not knowing what to feed her child at night?  Will I be proud of the decisions she made for her family and for herself? 

Will I then start wearing mom jeans?

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.