T-2.

I began my morning by Googling “napkin folding.”

I used to know how to do all these fancy folds, all due to the expertise of my mother. Back in the seventies, when my dad was active in the American Bar Association and the ABA was almost 100 percent men, during the conferences, the association would arrange for activities for “the wives.” It was at that time that my mother enjoyed a class in napkin folding. She developed a real gift for it, and taught me all the intricate folds so every dining room holiday meant fancy folding for me.

I used to know how to do the rose, the cardinal’s hat, Lady Windermere’s fan and, of course, the pyramid, without even thinking about it.

After my 39th college beer I forgot it all.

So this morning I’m fussing with napkins. Fold the napkin, save the world.

After that I will be baking pumpkin bread and banana bread and a pecan pie. I’ll slip out to Pier One for more dishes and maybe some candles (I have a gift card!). There’s sure to be more cleaning ahead as well. I’ll never clean without my iPod again.

For now, though, there’s napkin folding.

Don’t mention the haircut. Don’t, no matter how much you want to, tell her how adorable she looks. Please, for the love of all that is holy, do not tell her it makes her look older. And for Pete’s sake, do not comment on the shine/bounce/silkiness.

She’s insufferable, I tells ya. Head as big as a pumpkin.

She does look cute, though.

That’s all.

T-3.

Today I made significant progress. Grandma’s orange rolls are boxed up for Thursday morning’s breakfast. The floors are spotless. Two loads of laundry are done. A cranberry bread is in the oven as I write this.

Mid-day, Mark called to say J. and M. would be coming over tonight to play with the Wii and probably for dinner. I was busy with my master plans for Thanksgiving and thought, dude, seriouslii? But, I made a dash to the store, picked up a few additional Thanksgiving ingredients and the makings of White Chicken Chili.

Or should I say, Chilii?

I whipped up some homemade guacamole and we had a nice dinner, in between Wii bouts.

Tomorrow, on one of my trips out I have to remember to buy a potato masher. I vaguely remember tossing our old one before the move and can’t seem to find it. It’s just as well; a piece of the handle was missing causing the masher to impale one’s hand in a stigmata-like fashion. Mii? I’m gunning for a stigmata-free holiday.

OK, that’s enough of the Wii nonsense. Had to get it out of my system.

The boy and the man got up at 5:45am yesterday to wait in line with the other lunatics, I mean, dedicated consumers, to get their Wii from Target.

Wii must be crazy.

For two hours the guys waited in the cold to be among the first to say, “wii want to play.”

The subsequent nine-odd hours were spent playing with our family’s newest toy. We’re all looking forward to Grandpa bowling on Thanksgiving. I have to say that the Wii is pretty darn cool and the favorite, thus far, of all the game systems that have passed through our doors. This one, at least, gets you off your chair and moving.

Gii, I don’t know, but it might have been better, in hindsight, to make sure the kids had done their homework first.

I’m channeling my inner domestic goddess today, in preparation for the big Thanksgiving Extravaganza. This morning I’ve been cleaning and baking Grandma Jaggers’ famous orange rolls, a holiday tradition. As I work, I’m thinking of my grandmas and all the back breaking work they must have done over the years preparing holiday dinners. My grandmas are in heaven, of this I’m certain, watching me work, whispering, “you missed a spot,” “you’re not going to waste that, are you?” and “don’t do it if you’re not going to do it right.” They’re also smiling knowingly to each other, watching me kill myself for five days for a meal that will last 20 minutes and 39 seconds.

My Grandma Heroux (my dad’s mom) had 11 children. Imagine what it took to fix that feast, especially when the oldest kids started bringing home spouses and their own children. My mom told me that the family would eat in shifts and there was a whole day designated for pie baking.

My Granny Hig’s holiday was Christmas. If any person on earth was Santa, it was my Granny. She delighted in the shopping, the decorating and the giving. In Granny’s heaven, it’s always Christmas.

Because I joined the family when I was just 18, I think of Mark’s grandmas as my own. Grandma Jaggers departed for heaven last October. As I make her orange rolls I ask her, “does this look right? Are these too big? Will they taste like yours?” I hope so. I want my family to keep their memories any way they can.

The grandma that still with us, Ruby, will be really with us on Thanksgiving, flying in from St. Louis on Wednesday. I’m delighted that grandma and grandpa will get to see our new home and all of Charlottesville. It’s for this grandma that I clean spots in the house that no one will ever see. A meticulous housekeeper, it is for her that I’m making sure every speck of dust is vacuumed, wiped and polished away.

Oh please let my Thanksgiving live up to all the grandmas in heaven.

I’m frantically preparing for the big feast so I’ll be checking in here infrequently for the next few days. But while you’re waiting, enjoy my new logo, designed for me as a birthday gift from my friend Shawn.

Let me know what you think!

The alarm rings at 6:20am, a full hour later than it did when I drove :45 to get to work each day. I get up, shower and dress before the kids get up, as I have done ever since they were small. I learned when they were tiny that if I didn’t get going before they did, I may not have a chance to shower or get ready for the day until after they went to bed that night.

The girl gets up at 7am and sometimes comes to visit as I’m drying my hair. Sometimes she wants a braid in her hair, to show me her outfit, or just to talk about the day ahead. She also wants to visit Clover, who likes to stay in bed as long as he can.

We meet in the kitchen around 7:20. We’ll have waffles, eggs, oatmeal or toast. If we’re really hungry, we’ll have a combination. On my birthday, I let her have birthday cake with a side of eggs. If we’re running late, it’s a spoonful of peanut butter and a bowl of cereal.

At 7:35 we walk to school. Sometimes we’re sleepy and quiet. More often we talk about the day ahead, what’s going on with our friends and the crazy amount of leaves on the ground/how cold it is/whether it’s going to rain. We greet the neighborhood pets as we see them. There’s Ashes, Flash, Duke and sometimes Ralph. At the end of the street we exchange a hug and a smooch and wish one another a good day. I stand and watch as she makes her way across the street under the watchful eye of the crossing guard, and walks the rest of the way to the school.

I make the trip home alone thinking about the day’s schedule. Once home, I fix a cup of tea or coffee and make the commute downstairs to my home office. Clover starts his day with a trip outside and then joins me downstairs, usually lounging on the loveseat outside my office door.

The day is filled with writing, phone calls, conference call/meetings, reading and thinking. Most often it goes quickly and lunchtime passes with a soft grumble as I decide I’ll just wait to eat something when the girl gets home. Outlook reminds me when it’s time to walk back up the street to meet her. If it didn’t time would surely get away from me. She knows if I’m not there it’s because I have a meeting, or got stuck on the phone. I’m there most of the time.

On my afternoon trek up the street I’m often surprised it’s gotten so warm outside, since I may not have been out since the morning walk. At the top of the street I wait until the “walkers” are released and I can spot my girl, who will wave as soon as she sees me. If it’s raining I take an umbrella and walk all the way to the school so I can shelter her from raindrops from door to door.

Sometimes I get there a few minutes early. I watch the stay-at-home moms and a few dads as they gather, waiting to collect their offspring. I often spend this time wondering what I would have done with my day if I didn’t work, marveling at the moms who may have spent the day with a variety of occupations, or just doing nothing at all.

I remember the break-neck, high stress years I spent driving to daycare or to the before school program, sometimes as early as 6:30am, followed by a long commute. A long day at work was followed by a long drive, sometimes panic-stricken as I ran late, calculating the late fees I’d be charged, dreading the inevitability that today, my kid would be “last kid” making me feel horrible, as I skidded into the school at 6:05pm, or later. I tried so hard not to add up the time we weren’t spending together. I hated only seeing my kids when it was dark out in the winter, never walking anywhere together, and often being far too tired to enjoy them, or even really listen to the events of their days.

On the walk home I’m treated to a hug and the events of the day, the homework report, the fourth grade romance report and any funny stories she’s happened to hear, experience or think of to share. If the day was bad, or there were any problems, this is when I hear about it; this is my chance to learn how she’s really doing. It’s a listening walk, and I cherish each step.

At the house, we grab a snack together. Today was hot chocolate and trail mix. We fix our snacks then head to our respective “offices” to resume work. She heads for her bedroom, snack in hand, bag over her shoulder, to do her homework. I head back downstairs to pick up where I left off.

The work day ends usually just a few hours later as the boy and then the man arrive home. We’ll make dinner, eat it, then find ourselves seeking entertainment in books, computers or TV until it’s time for bed.

The next day, we’ll do it all over again, and I wouldn’t change it for the world.

So many of you noted my post-shopping distress and wanted to know what I ended up buying and wearing to my recent event. Here’s a photo of the blouse I bought (after I gave up on the dress idea) with me in it, at said event. It’s kind-of Partridge Family, but I think that’s what I like about it. It also traveled very well as it’s a pre-wrinkled fabric.

I wore it with a long black skirt and some black strappy pumps. It was fine and not overly holiday-esque. Even though the overall experience of finding something to wear was painful, I felt pretty good because in the end, I only spent $32.99.

I like it well enough I may pair it with jeans for future holiday outings, provided there are some to come.

Oh, who am I kidding? I know there will be events and I’ll start the whole dang process over again.

Today’s the day I creak forward into another year! I’m so touched by the number of people who have remembered and sent a note or a card. I love you guys!

I also love the husband and the boy who pooled their resources and got me a personalized, totally hot red iPod nano. I feel so cool, and have contributed to the fight against AIDS in Africa. Thanks, Bono; you rock, too.

The girl gave me a special handmade gift and frosted my birthday cake (OK, yeah, I baked my own cake — that’s what the mom does, unfortunately, but I wanted CAKE, man.)

Here’s to another year; older, wiser, wittier, wrinklier. In my head, I’ll always be 28.

Let me preface this by saying that I love working at home. That’s not what this is about. What amazes me about the work at home culture is that people fail to realize what it means. I. work. at. home. Yep, that means there’s a designated area of my home that is my office. It contains a phone, a desk, a printer/copier/fax/scanner device that I adore, files, books and other office acoutrements that make working easier. I have a Swingline stapler. Don’t touch it.

From Monday through Friday, from a little before 8am and sometimes well after 5pm, I’m in that office and my head? My head is somewhere else. I’m not thinking about the rest of the building that surrounds me. I’m not tempted to vacuum, do dishes or laundry. That’s stuff I have to do when I’m not working. I don’t like it. I dash upstairs to the kitchen to grab nourishment when I’m hungry. I dash back down with a plate or a cup of coffee, afraid I’m going to miss a minute of work, work that I love. On the weekend and most evenings, I close that office door and walk away, happy to pretend that the office does not exist, or does exist, just not in my home.

When I’m in my office zone I’m thinking about my clients, I’m working on projects that will ultimately help their businesses or organizations. I’m nurturing relationships with clients, co-workers and potential clients. I’m not at home, I’m at work. I have a separate phone line and do not answer the home phone. Often, I’m not aware the home phone is ringing. If someone rings the doorbell, I will probably not answer, likely I’m on a conference call and couldn’t, even if I wanted to.

The reason for this rant? The fellow working mom who suggested she’d just drop her daughter by to play with mine in the event of a snow day this winter. You know, because I’m home.

When I’m at work I don’t even like it when my own children are home. In the summer, my daughter goes to camp all day. I’ve resorted to taking vacation and personal days when the kids have random days off school (this is great for scheduling checkups and other time absorbing visits). I’m not able to give them the attention they deserve, and I can’t concentrate on work when I’m wondering what else might be going on in the house. The last thing I need is someone else’s kid to further complicate the issue.

What I love about this issue is how the stay-at-home moms with whom I’m friends totally get this; they completely understand the working at home ethic, the strict scheduling required and the need to adhere to rules of space and time. It’s the working moms who retreat to offices full time, offices where children are not welcome and bosses value more the employee with no family than those who have obligations to chauffeur teenagers to the orthodontist or senior parents to the podiatrist. Thanks, SAHMs, for understanding and supporting what I do, everyday. Back at ya, too as I have total respect for my friends who have undertaken the stay-at-home life or the part-time compromise. It’s all about whatever works for you, whatever stage you’re in.

So on the first snow day I’ll be deflecting working parents hoping for a simple solution to their childcare woes. Call me to escape for lunch. I’ll take a sled, if necessary.