Blogroll

When I'm not here, you may find me wandering the pages below. (If I'm a regular visitor to your site and I've left your link off or mislinked to you, please let me know! And likewise, if you've blogrolled me, please check that my link is updated: thisroamanticlife.blogspot.com. The extra (a) makes all the difference!)

Archives

For posts sorted by date or label, see the links below.

For posts on frequently referenced topics, click the buttons to the right.

To search this blog, type in the field at the top left of the page and hit enter.

Body: in sickness and in health

I won't lie; this body and I have had our issues with each other for many years. Body image -- sure. Physical and mental overextension -- comes with being a Type A kind of girl. I still struggle with these things, so they show up from time to time in my writing.

More recently, illness, pure but not simple, has added itself to the mix in a multi-system sort of way. And the challenges in figuring out exactly what's gone wrong are many. As problems have revealed themselves in the last few years, beginning with reactive hypoglycemia in late 2008, I've documented them here, partly to gain a little clarity on managing complex conditions but mostly to give voice to vulnerabilities I feel but don't normally share with anyone face to face. Better out than in, they say, right? (Oh yes, humor is one way I deal.)

The links below cover the different angles I've examined (and from which I've been examined) within that experience.

Travel: neither here nor there

When the person you're married to lives two time zones away, you log a fair number of frequent flier miles. And if you blog about commuter relationships, you log quite a few posts en route too.

Since we're no longer in separate places, I blog less often from airports. But we do travel -- together now! -- which is much more fun to write about. So in addition to thoughts on our years of commuting, the links below cover the places we've been as a pair and, in some cases, the adventures that have happened on the way.

Writing: the long and short of it

Why do I do it? Good question. Maybe it's not so much that I like to write but that I have to write, even when the words refuse to stick to the page. Believe me, I've tried doing other things like majoring in biochemistry (freshman fall, many semesters ago). Within a year, I'd switched to English with a concentration in creative writing and wasn't looking back.

After graduating, I taught English for a few years and then worked as an editor, which I still do freelance. In 2007, I applied and got into an MFA program at a place I like to call Little U. on the Prairie. I finished my degree in 2011 and have been balancing tutoring and writing on my own ever since.

The following links cover the writing I've done about writing: process, content, obstacles, you name it. It's not always pretty. But some part of me loves it, even when it's hard. And this is the result.

Heart: family and friends

I'd have a hard time explaining who I am without being able to talk about the family I grew up in as well as the people I've met beyond its bounds. But even with such context, it's not easy! In the simplest terms, I'm a first-generation Asian-American who has spent most of this life caught between cultures. That, of course, doesn't even begin to describe what I mean to, but there's my first stab at the heart of it all.

That's what this group of posts is reserved for -- heart. The essential parts of my life whose influences I carry with me, for better or worse. The links below cover what I've written as I've learned how these forces work within me, for me, against me, in spite of me. They anchor me even as they change me, and they keep life interesting.

Recommended reading

What do I do when there's too much on my mind and my words won't stick to the page? I escape into someone else's thoughts. Below is a collection of books and articles that have been sources of information, inspiration, and occasional insight for my own work.

Thursday, December 27, 2012

Scenes from around the table, part 2: the job

This is the second in a series of posts chronicling our last holiday season before baby arrives -- as they say, life is never the same afterward, so in the interest of capturing a few snapshots to remember this time, here are some jottings from moments that have lingered with me over a multi-destination Thanksgiving week.

Dinner is over and Marketing Sis and I have sent our mother up to the game room for once to play mahjong with Troubadour Dad and the boys. Usually, two of us girls must play with Dad and D while she cleans up, but this year, with N at the table, we have enough leverage to convince Mom to take the night off and leave the mess for us. "I'm not comfortable with this!" she calls over her shoulder as we all but push her toward the stairs. "This is Mom's job!"

"We're going to have sister time!" we tell her. She exhales forcefully but can't budge our united front.

We tackle the pile of dirty dishes, voices low so we can try to monitor the conversation from the other room. It's the first time we've ever left our men alone with our parents, and we can't help eavesdropping a little. Nothing much drifts down at first, but soon Dad's customary heckling and a few good-natured retorts begin to carry over the clack of the mahjong tiles. Marketing Sis and I exchange grins. They're doing fine.

"It's nice that N offers to help in the kitchen," I say -- he's been in and out during the day-long preparations, which, I've noticed, has kept Mom a little calmer than her usual self during major holiday meal assembly. Not that the extra hands have reduced the burden that much -- Mom's not the best at multitasking and delegating -- but the presence of this new person has tamped down some of her testiness that ordinarily emerges, particularly when she's dealing with the challenges my food allergies present for her. The presence of D, no longer a novelty, doesn't force her to be on better behavior anymore. I wish in some ways that it did, but I suppose it's also a sign of acceptance into the family that my mother doesn't keep her company face on around him as much. I also wish my mother were just less high-strung, but I've learned over many holidays that that's just not who she is.

"N's good about that, making himself useful," Marketing Sis says. "He knows it's easier on me." She doesn't say it directly, but I know she's referring to the family dynamics, not the cooking. When our parents are happy, the rest of us can be happy. If that means preventing Mom from getting overwhelmed in the kitchen, so be it. I'm certainly relieved that the day's culinary feats are over. While my mother has insisted on making as much allergen-free food for me as possible, the extra stress it causes her puts me on edge the entire time she's at it. There have to be clean zones and cross-contamination prevention measures and recipe alterations, all of which make her ill at ease. If she makes a few mistakes, she suddenly gets defensive and begins tossing off comments about how difficult or inconvenient my food limitations make her process -- even though I've insisted that she doesn't have to include me in the meal plan since I'm perfectly able to cook for myself.

But again, it's Mom's job, my mother insists as she assembles the next day's menu.

The control freak in me understands, though just barely. She needs to feel she's taking care of me, but her taking on the task creates more risk, which runs counter to her intent. If only she could understand that, I think to myself as the dish pile slowly dwindles.

The boys have helped haul out the Christmas tree, so we also plunge into decorating while Mom is occupied. Normally, we're not home to help until practically December 25th, if not after, and the tree remains bare or Mom has to trim it entirely on her own if she doesn't want to hear our cries of mock distress when we see the naked plastic branches upon our arrival. I reach into the first of many boxes and come up with a tray of tinsel puffballs that could almost pass for cat toys. Their strings for hanging have long since fallen off -- the ornaments are older than my sister -- but we aren't deterred. Each armed with a handful of the soft, nearly weightless sparklers, we launch them overhand at the tree, where they happily lodge in the branches.

Marketing Sis flings a puffball with particularly mischievous gusto, and I am reminded of how we are still, despite our taking over for Mom, the kids in the house for a little longer, with our own variations for doing what Mom would. Next year, we'll be trying to decorate the tree with a ten-month-old underfoot -- a little boy who will be old enough to crawl and possibly even stand, hands reaching and grabbing for everything. What kind of mom will I be then? I wonder. Not one like my own, I imagine, but not totally unlike her either. I won't be throwing ornaments for sure, lest the baby get his hands on the more fragile baubles and try to follow our example. I can just hear my mother scolding us for giving him the idea -- or is it my own voice in my head, warning me off before she can? I can't tell. But for now, I shrug the question off and enjoy the game. My best shot hits its target from a distance of six feet.

A shout comes from upstairs followed by groans -- someone has won a particularly good hand -- and then my father calls down for one of us to bring him a peeled orange, his usual evening snack. When my mother asks for one too a moment later, I know we've done good work -- she's let go enough of her Mom mindset to let us do what she ordinarily would, instead of abandoning the game table to take care of the request.

I assemble a tray for the players, leaving our own entertainment to step into my mother's role once more. I'm glad to do it -- and glad for this in-between space, where I can still shift from Mom to daughter to mother-to-be.

For more from this series, please click here.

Thursday, December 6, 2012

Scenes from around the table, part 1: boys in the house

This is the first in a series of posts chronicling our last holiday season before baby arrives -- as they say, life is never the same afterward, so in the interest of capturing a few snapshots to remember this time, here are some jottings from moments that have lingered with me over a multi-destination Thanksgiving week.

For the first time in three decades, I will not be with my parents and sisters for Christmas. D and I made the decision last year to begin alternating the winter holidays with our families to make travel less hectic and the time we spend with each side more enjoyable. This year, Christmas falls to his kin, so Turkey Week is for mine.

Even if it's our last Thanksgiving before parenthood, it promises to be quite different from previous gatherings, if only for a few changes already anticipated around the table. Marketing Sis, the youngest of us, is bringing her fiancé to our parents' home for the first time, and Dr. Sis, the one between us, is slated to work the holiday in Boston while we congregate in the Texas panhandle. Then there's me, a week into this baby's final trimester. I'm guessing the familial anticipation for this much-wanted grandson/nephew will be hard to miss during our stay.

Dr. Sis's unavoidable absence aside, I'm looking forward to having a different sort of holiday as D and I wait in Denver on a layover Thanksgiving morning. Not counting the grandson/nephew, we will be three couples instead of three daughters, my parents, and my husband. Somehow, that balance feels better to me than that of holidays past, where as much as D has been part of the family, he's still also been that solitary in-law and we as a couple have had trouble reminding my parents that we are a couple.

I suspect too that my father will appreciate having the fiancé, whom I'll just call N, to even out the gender ratio while the women in the house are extra focused on all things baby-related. Don't get me wrong -- my father was so excited about becoming a grandfather that he told practically everyone in his town within days of receiving our news, including the random woman cutting his hair. But baby shower plans are understandably less interesting to him, especially since my mother and sisters are keeping them traditional -- female guests only.

N and Marketing Sis will be on our second flight, so D and I watch for them, taking guesses at what my sister, who has a passion for fashion, will be wearing. "Fuchsia scarf for sure," I say. "And either jeggings or a bold-print skirt."

"Don't forget the knee-high boots," D adds, smiling at my own sneaker-clad feet.

As much as I wish I were wearing my favorite boots to dress up my jeans and cardigan, Seattle's heavy November rains and the panhandle's occasional freak snowstorms are not suede-friendly, so I've left them at home. And the bright red and purple scarf I've chosen to add color to my otherwise neutral-toned top is folded into a pocket -- it is in the mid 60s outside, and the terminal, heated against more wintry temperatures, is oppressively warm, threatening to dissolve even the most smudge-proof eyeliner into a streaky mess. Only I didn't put any on this morning, figuring it would smear anyway while I was trying to sleep on our 5 a.m. flight. I know I'm going to feel plain next to my sister. But comfort, especially while traveling, is harder to come by these days, so I remind myself that I can always change when we get to Texas. Though most of what I've brought is still hardly designer label and the thought of putting on makeup when I'm already melting has little appeal.

It doesn't matter, I tell myself. In a few months, when you'll just want to be able to shower in between baby feedings, you'll laugh at yourself for even thinking about any of this.

It's true, but the thought intimidates me. I may be the least feminine of all the women in my family because of my stubbornly practical streak (and my tendency to balk at fashion's price tag), but it doesn't mean I like the threat of getting plainer with motherhood.

I'm jolted out of my thoughts momentarily as N, a tall, blond analogue of D, arrives, scanning the rows of low-slung vinyl for us through sleepy-looking eyes. We wave. My sister is nowhere in sight -- must have had a line at the restroom, N says -- so we begin the customary exchange of flight-related chit-chat while we wait for her: did you get out on time? run into any weather? sleep at all? Both D and N are Midwesterners from the same hometown, so I'm not worried they'll run out of conversation, but I do observe N surreptitiously to see how at ease he is. With the two of us, pretty relaxed. The stutter he's always had, which I imagine gets worse with nerves, is minimally apparent. I wonder how he'll do around my parents, though. For his sake, I am glad that D has already gotten them used to having a son-in-law around. Not that my parents were uptight, exactly, on D's first holiday with us, but a boy? Under their roof? (Never mind that we were married already.) How much do we feed him? What do we offer him for entertainment? What do we talk to him about? Will he understand and respect our customs even though he isn't Chinese? All questions that my parents asked me in some fashion before our arrival that Christmas six years ago. I'm not sure if D picked up on their anxiety then, but I knew it was there and felt somewhat responsible for keeping him from treading into any territory that might turn their worries into disapproval. I wonder if my sister has given N some pointers, as I once gave D, for navigating the family landscape. After our own experience, I find myself feeling a little protective of their well-being as a couple, even though I know they will have to find their own way with my parents.

When Marketing Sis finally appears, D and I are right on all counts -- scarf, boots, and skirt -- but I hardly have a moment to laugh about this before she is homed in on her nephew, a hand on each side of my abdomen. "Hi, baby," she croons, as if she's been talking to him like this for an age, even though this is the first time she has seen me since I got pregnant. "Oh my god, your boobs look fabulous!" she says to me.

"Thanks ... ?" I say. I'm not at all surprised that Marketing Sis has no qualms about announcing this at full volume, but I leave a mild note of did-you-really-just-say-that-in-public in my response for the benefit of N, who, to my amusement, seems intent on pretending he hasn't heard a thing. He may be comfortable with us, but girl talk at its most physical is still an untouchable arena. ("He'd like to hang on to the delusion that we shit gold and rainbows," Marketing Sis once told me.) I, on the other hand, am more thrown by the ease with which my sister lays her cheek against my belly while telling the baby that she is his aunt -- I'm not used to having people touch me this way, as if the so-called bump is there expressly to be rubbed -- but I'm over it in a second. She is my sister. We've slept in the same bed half-naked before, so this is actually less intimate. And it's totally endearing to listen to her falling in love with a baby she can't even see yet.

Our flight is announced. Marketing Sis gives the baby one last pat and then we're headed down the jet bridge, into the promise of a Thanksgiving that will be like no other.

For more from this series, please click here.

Posts by date

Posts by label

Air travel Airline food Allergic reactions Astoria Awards Bacteremia Bacterial overgrowth Baggage beefs Bed and breakfast Betrayal Blues Body Boston Breastfeeding British Columbia California Canada Cape Spear Clam-digging Colonoscopy Commuter marriage Cooking CT scans Delays Diagnoses Dietitians Doctor-patient relationships Doctors Eating while traveling Editing Endocrine Endoscopy ER False starts Family dynamics Feedback Food anxiety Food sensitivities Gate agent guff GI Halifax Heart Home-making House hunting Hypoglycemia In-laws Intentional happiness Iowa Journaling Kidney stones Knitting Lab tests Little U. on the Prairie Liver function tests Long Beach Making friends in new places Malabsorption Massachusetts Medical records Medication Mentorship MFA programs Miami Monterey Motivation Moving Narrative New York Newark Newfoundland Nova Scotia Olympic Peninsula Ontario Ophthalmology Oregon Oxalates Pancreatic function tests Parenting Parents Paris Pets Photography Portland Prediabetes Pregnancy Process Professors Publishing Reproductive endocrine Research Revision Rewriting Rheumatology San Francisco Scenes from a graduation series Scenes from around the table series Seattle Sisters Skiing St. John's Striped-up paisley Teaching Technological snafus Texas Thesis Toronto Travel Travel fears Traveling while sick Ultrasound Urology Vancouver Victoria Voice Washington Washington D.C. Weight When words won't stick Whidbey Island Why we write Workshops Writers on writing Writing Writing friends Writing in odd places Writing jobs Yakima

Thursday, December 27, 2012

Scenes from around the table, part 2: the job

This is the second in a series of posts chronicling our last holiday season before baby arrives -- as they say, life is never the same afterward, so in the interest of capturing a few snapshots to remember this time, here are some jottings from moments that have lingered with me over a multi-destination Thanksgiving week.

Dinner is over and Marketing Sis and I have sent our mother up to the game room for once to play mahjong with Troubadour Dad and the boys. Usually, two of us girls must play with Dad and D while she cleans up, but this year, with N at the table, we have enough leverage to convince Mom to take the night off and leave the mess for us. "I'm not comfortable with this!" she calls over her shoulder as we all but push her toward the stairs. "This is Mom's job!"

"We're going to have sister time!" we tell her. She exhales forcefully but can't budge our united front.

We tackle the pile of dirty dishes, voices low so we can try to monitor the conversation from the other room. It's the first time we've ever left our men alone with our parents, and we can't help eavesdropping a little. Nothing much drifts down at first, but soon Dad's customary heckling and a few good-natured retorts begin to carry over the clack of the mahjong tiles. Marketing Sis and I exchange grins. They're doing fine.

"It's nice that N offers to help in the kitchen," I say -- he's been in and out during the day-long preparations, which, I've noticed, has kept Mom a little calmer than her usual self during major holiday meal assembly. Not that the extra hands have reduced the burden that much -- Mom's not the best at multitasking and delegating -- but the presence of this new person has tamped down some of her testiness that ordinarily emerges, particularly when she's dealing with the challenges my food allergies present for her. The presence of D, no longer a novelty, doesn't force her to be on better behavior anymore. I wish in some ways that it did, but I suppose it's also a sign of acceptance into the family that my mother doesn't keep her company face on around him as much. I also wish my mother were just less high-strung, but I've learned over many holidays that that's just not who she is.

"N's good about that, making himself useful," Marketing Sis says. "He knows it's easier on me." She doesn't say it directly, but I know she's referring to the family dynamics, not the cooking. When our parents are happy, the rest of us can be happy. If that means preventing Mom from getting overwhelmed in the kitchen, so be it. I'm certainly relieved that the day's culinary feats are over. While my mother has insisted on making as much allergen-free food for me as possible, the extra stress it causes her puts me on edge the entire time she's at it. There have to be clean zones and cross-contamination prevention measures and recipe alterations, all of which make her ill at ease. If she makes a few mistakes, she suddenly gets defensive and begins tossing off comments about how difficult or inconvenient my food limitations make her process -- even though I've insisted that she doesn't have to include me in the meal plan since I'm perfectly able to cook for myself.

But again, it's Mom's job, my mother insists as she assembles the next day's menu.

The control freak in me understands, though just barely. She needs to feel she's taking care of me, but her taking on the task creates more risk, which runs counter to her intent. If only she could understand that, I think to myself as the dish pile slowly dwindles.

The boys have helped haul out the Christmas tree, so we also plunge into decorating while Mom is occupied. Normally, we're not home to help until practically December 25th, if not after, and the tree remains bare or Mom has to trim it entirely on her own if she doesn't want to hear our cries of mock distress when we see the naked plastic branches upon our arrival. I reach into the first of many boxes and come up with a tray of tinsel puffballs that could almost pass for cat toys. Their strings for hanging have long since fallen off -- the ornaments are older than my sister -- but we aren't deterred. Each armed with a handful of the soft, nearly weightless sparklers, we launch them overhand at the tree, where they happily lodge in the branches.

Marketing Sis flings a puffball with particularly mischievous gusto, and I am reminded of how we are still, despite our taking over for Mom, the kids in the house for a little longer, with our own variations for doing what Mom would. Next year, we'll be trying to decorate the tree with a ten-month-old underfoot -- a little boy who will be old enough to crawl and possibly even stand, hands reaching and grabbing for everything. What kind of mom will I be then? I wonder. Not one like my own, I imagine, but not totally unlike her either. I won't be throwing ornaments for sure, lest the baby get his hands on the more fragile baubles and try to follow our example. I can just hear my mother scolding us for giving him the idea -- or is it my own voice in my head, warning me off before she can? I can't tell. But for now, I shrug the question off and enjoy the game. My best shot hits its target from a distance of six feet.

A shout comes from upstairs followed by groans -- someone has won a particularly good hand -- and then my father calls down for one of us to bring him a peeled orange, his usual evening snack. When my mother asks for one too a moment later, I know we've done good work -- she's let go enough of her Mom mindset to let us do what she ordinarily would, instead of abandoning the game table to take care of the request.

I assemble a tray for the players, leaving our own entertainment to step into my mother's role once more. I'm glad to do it -- and glad for this in-between space, where I can still shift from Mom to daughter to mother-to-be.

For more from this series, please click here.

Thursday, December 6, 2012

Scenes from around the table, part 1: boys in the house

This is the first in a series of posts chronicling our last holiday season before baby arrives -- as they say, life is never the same afterward, so in the interest of capturing a few snapshots to remember this time, here are some jottings from moments that have lingered with me over a multi-destination Thanksgiving week.

For the first time in three decades, I will not be with my parents and sisters for Christmas. D and I made the decision last year to begin alternating the winter holidays with our families to make travel less hectic and the time we spend with each side more enjoyable. This year, Christmas falls to his kin, so Turkey Week is for mine.

Even if it's our last Thanksgiving before parenthood, it promises to be quite different from previous gatherings, if only for a few changes already anticipated around the table. Marketing Sis, the youngest of us, is bringing her fiancé to our parents' home for the first time, and Dr. Sis, the one between us, is slated to work the holiday in Boston while we congregate in the Texas panhandle. Then there's me, a week into this baby's final trimester. I'm guessing the familial anticipation for this much-wanted grandson/nephew will be hard to miss during our stay.

Dr. Sis's unavoidable absence aside, I'm looking forward to having a different sort of holiday as D and I wait in Denver on a layover Thanksgiving morning. Not counting the grandson/nephew, we will be three couples instead of three daughters, my parents, and my husband. Somehow, that balance feels better to me than that of holidays past, where as much as D has been part of the family, he's still also been that solitary in-law and we as a couple have had trouble reminding my parents that we are a couple.

I suspect too that my father will appreciate having the fiancé, whom I'll just call N, to even out the gender ratio while the women in the house are extra focused on all things baby-related. Don't get me wrong -- my father was so excited about becoming a grandfather that he told practically everyone in his town within days of receiving our news, including the random woman cutting his hair. But baby shower plans are understandably less interesting to him, especially since my mother and sisters are keeping them traditional -- female guests only.

N and Marketing Sis will be on our second flight, so D and I watch for them, taking guesses at what my sister, who has a passion for fashion, will be wearing. "Fuchsia scarf for sure," I say. "And either jeggings or a bold-print skirt."

"Don't forget the knee-high boots," D adds, smiling at my own sneaker-clad feet.

As much as I wish I were wearing my favorite boots to dress up my jeans and cardigan, Seattle's heavy November rains and the panhandle's occasional freak snowstorms are not suede-friendly, so I've left them at home. And the bright red and purple scarf I've chosen to add color to my otherwise neutral-toned top is folded into a pocket -- it is in the mid 60s outside, and the terminal, heated against more wintry temperatures, is oppressively warm, threatening to dissolve even the most smudge-proof eyeliner into a streaky mess. Only I didn't put any on this morning, figuring it would smear anyway while I was trying to sleep on our 5 a.m. flight. I know I'm going to feel plain next to my sister. But comfort, especially while traveling, is harder to come by these days, so I remind myself that I can always change when we get to Texas. Though most of what I've brought is still hardly designer label and the thought of putting on makeup when I'm already melting has little appeal.

It doesn't matter, I tell myself. In a few months, when you'll just want to be able to shower in between baby feedings, you'll laugh at yourself for even thinking about any of this.

It's true, but the thought intimidates me. I may be the least feminine of all the women in my family because of my stubbornly practical streak (and my tendency to balk at fashion's price tag), but it doesn't mean I like the threat of getting plainer with motherhood.

I'm jolted out of my thoughts momentarily as N, a tall, blond analogue of D, arrives, scanning the rows of low-slung vinyl for us through sleepy-looking eyes. We wave. My sister is nowhere in sight -- must have had a line at the restroom, N says -- so we begin the customary exchange of flight-related chit-chat while we wait for her: did you get out on time? run into any weather? sleep at all? Both D and N are Midwesterners from the same hometown, so I'm not worried they'll run out of conversation, but I do observe N surreptitiously to see how at ease he is. With the two of us, pretty relaxed. The stutter he's always had, which I imagine gets worse with nerves, is minimally apparent. I wonder how he'll do around my parents, though. For his sake, I am glad that D has already gotten them used to having a son-in-law around. Not that my parents were uptight, exactly, on D's first holiday with us, but a boy? Under their roof? (Never mind that we were married already.) How much do we feed him? What do we offer him for entertainment? What do we talk to him about? Will he understand and respect our customs even though he isn't Chinese? All questions that my parents asked me in some fashion before our arrival that Christmas six years ago. I'm not sure if D picked up on their anxiety then, but I knew it was there and felt somewhat responsible for keeping him from treading into any territory that might turn their worries into disapproval. I wonder if my sister has given N some pointers, as I once gave D, for navigating the family landscape. After our own experience, I find myself feeling a little protective of their well-being as a couple, even though I know they will have to find their own way with my parents.

When Marketing Sis finally appears, D and I are right on all counts -- scarf, boots, and skirt -- but I hardly have a moment to laugh about this before she is homed in on her nephew, a hand on each side of my abdomen. "Hi, baby," she croons, as if she's been talking to him like this for an age, even though this is the first time she has seen me since I got pregnant. "Oh my god, your boobs look fabulous!" she says to me.

"Thanks ... ?" I say. I'm not at all surprised that Marketing Sis has no qualms about announcing this at full volume, but I leave a mild note of did-you-really-just-say-that-in-public in my response for the benefit of N, who, to my amusement, seems intent on pretending he hasn't heard a thing. He may be comfortable with us, but girl talk at its most physical is still an untouchable arena. ("He'd like to hang on to the delusion that we shit gold and rainbows," Marketing Sis once told me.) I, on the other hand, am more thrown by the ease with which my sister lays her cheek against my belly while telling the baby that she is his aunt -- I'm not used to having people touch me this way, as if the so-called bump is there expressly to be rubbed -- but I'm over it in a second. She is my sister. We've slept in the same bed half-naked before, so this is actually less intimate. And it's totally endearing to listen to her falling in love with a baby she can't even see yet.

Our flight is announced. Marketing Sis gives the baby one last pat and then we're headed down the jet bridge, into the promise of a Thanksgiving that will be like no other.

For more from this series, please click here.