Dear You, Love Me

Trevor kissed me in the parking lot of the surgery center this morning as I looked at him with great drama playing about my freshly washed face, "Make sure this is a good kiss. It could be the last one. I may not wake up from the anesthesia. Please take good care of the rabbit. She's a lot like me so give her a little slack for the emotional outbursts."

"No, you come back," his face had that, I will kill you if you die, kind of look.

"There's Orajel on the shelf above the changing table."

"Come back, Little. I'm serious."

I wish it was the love he felt for me talking, but I think it was the sleep deprivation and the recent ruling that mom's give suppositories, not dads.

I decided to work on my living will in the waiting room. It consisted of a series of texts to Amie.

"I'm going under for a nerve block on my neck. If anything happens please help take care of Liv. You may have to bring our families together and help make some arrangements for her at first. Trev will be a wreck and she's teething. Such bad timing. You know. To die. Oh! And make sure someone is at the new house on Monday morning to meet the new nanny. Trev will need her help. This is, of course, if I die or am paralyzed. Otherwise I'll be there (insert Droid green alien smiley face here)."

I was thankful we both had Verizon, since I can write the longest texts ever and am not limited to characters. This is important when you're going to die. I wondered if my will would be a legal binding document and supercede the one that I keep meaning to put in our safe deposit box.

When I finally came around I found that Amie had tearfully put together her response to my heavy charge that she remain a foundational female force in my daughter's life upon my demise, "Well good morning to you silly girl! You know I have your back (haha I'm funny). You'll be fine. I'll say a prayer for u."

I realized that Amie would probably tell Livi about sex and it was good that I'd survived. I then thought I should let her know she was off the hook and didn't need to raise my poor, orphaned child in my stead, "I lived. High and woozy. Night night."

"Happy to hear it. Nite nite."

Amie came over tonight to help with Livi while Trevor and I packed and I wondered what I could do to tell her how much I appreciate her. While words never fail me when they're dripping from my fingers, I have a tendency to hold back the mush when I'm sitting in front of you.

There was the night she came home with us from the hospital, sticking it out while I tried to breastfeed a five day old who was annoyed that mom was not producing Similac and the many nights thereafter where she helped me through sleep deprivation, the shakes and 8 pm runs to Babies R Us, because damn it, these bottles suck.

There was the day I called her bawling because I needed to see the doctor and Livi wouldn't stop crying. She rearranged her conference calls to watch my girl, teaching her about Jared Leto and 30 Seconds to Mars and God knows what else she has up her sleeves.

There was the girl's trip to New York two weeks ago where she quietly read in bed while I slept until noon. I woke every day with a Starbucks latte next to my head. She didn't even argue after she sweetly suggested I keep my eyes open in the cab from JFK to the Gansevoort to avoid my unavoidable car sickness when I grumpily replied, "No."

She giggled when I'd nap for three hours simply whispering, "Mama's working on her sleep deprivation."

"God, that could take a year."

I smiled as I found her entertaining herself right before a mandatory three hour nap at 6 p.m. Granted, she was in her underwear and sitting in front of the minibar.

"Oh SNAP! We have tonic."

"Oh SNAP!? Please don't say that again."

We both laughed. She may have said something else, but I don't know what it was since I wasted no time at all dreaming of flat stomachs and fields of Ambien.

Simply said, she's the person that I know will step in if anything were to happen to me, hands on her hip, finger pointed at noses, making sure my voice is heard, whether anyone wants to hear it to the tone of her seriously high-pitched warble. She'll smack me around when I'm bad, pull me out of the house when I'm funky and show up when I get that lilt to my voice that she knows. She will always shop in my closet, regularly skip out on gym training just because and hold a screaming baby with the calmest look on her face.

I think I'll keep her.

She certainly can't get rid of me.

Well, unless I die or become paralyzed from simple outpatient procedures, but here's hoping...