Dear Miss M

This week, you learned how to climb out of your crib. Actually, I'm surprised it took this long. You've been physically able to do it for awhile (throwing your leg over the rail and threatening to escape), but you have a healthy sense of caution that, I think, prevented you from taking the plunge sooner.

I'm thankful for your caution, as I hope it will save us trips to the emergency room as you get older. But I also hope that, as your mother, I can create a strong enough sense of safety and security so that you are not afraid to take risks in life.

Next month, I'm taking one of the biggest risks of my life to date. (Marrying your father and choosing to be your mother were probably the other two, but those are stories for another day.) In the new year, I will travel to Taiwan. I want to learn more about the people and the culture and the food, of course. But also, when I arrive, I will be meeting with a woman from the Child and Juvenile Adoption Center, who I hope may have more information about the circumstances of my adoption.

Choosing to search for information has been so scary, and yet, it is from you that I have gathered the strength to proceed. I've never felt connected to anyone the way I feel with you. Through you, I am learning to love myself. I see myself in you, and I am endeared to you. And I can't help wondering from whom we both inherited our eyes, our hands, our goofiness and our love of music.

I know as you grow up, you will become different from me, despite our shared genetics. It's a certainty not only because I see my strong-willed, independent nature in you, but also because I am determined for your childhood to be different from mine.

Of course, half of your genes are inherited from your father, who also couldn't be more different from me. We opposites attracted and, somehow, we were gifted with you. I hope you will inherit his ability to enjoy life in each moment. And I hope you inherit his ability to love because his unconditional, accepting love transformed my life and created yours.

In a few years, when you're old enough to understand, I hope that your dad and you and me can travel back to Taiwan as a family. I want you to be proud of me and where I came from. I want you to feel secure in your identity. I want you to have roots and, most important, wings.

52 weeks

The past several weeks have flown by. I started writing this entry two weeks ago. And now Miss M's first birthday has already passed. I can't believe my baby girl is a year old.

Exactly one year ago, we were preparing to leave the hospital. It was the calm before chaos. Sleepless days and nights. Learning to breastfeed. Laying next to her, mesmerized by every breath, every jerky move, every blink of her bright eyes.

Fifty-two weeks later, Miss M is a cruising, babbling, silly little girl. If she's not pushing her V-Tech walker, she's dancing to its music. She likes cups and balls and chewing on her Robeez knock-offs (thank goodness I didn't splurge on the real thing!). Her favorite word is "dog." It's the first thing she says when I pick her up in the morning. "Dog?" It's also what she chants when we get home: "Dog? Dog? Dog?" as she high-tails it to his room.

In addition to dog, she regularly says "mama," "dada," "all done," "uh-oh," "ball" and "up." She has also been known to say "open," "hi," and "bye." She will high-five and clap when she feels like it. She signs for "milk" and "all done."

She takes after her mama in that she knows what she wants, and when she wants it (or doesn't). It is both endearing and frustrating. It's cute when she says, "All done," but exacerbating when she says this after only one bite ... of the fifth or sixth food you've tried feeding her for dinner.

It's hard for me to remember life without Miss M. I finally understand why so many women say motherhood makes them a better person, although I am still conflicted by this statement. I love her more than I have ever loved anything in my life. And I love myself since having her. I feel like a better person, and yet I know I'm not a better friend or wife or professional. How can I be? I have less time to devote to my friends, my husband, my job.

Miss M has filled a void I couldn't articulate prior to having her. For 30 years, I lived with an absence of a history, of roots, of a biological connection to any other human being. Realizing my daughter has my hands, for example, was a profound experience. Her palms, her knuckles, her fingernails ... they're just like mine. She scrunches her eyebrows like me. She is goofy and opinionated like me. I know she is different from me in at least as many ways as she is similar, and yet it amazes me to see myself in her -- traits I now realize I inherited, not learned. It is an amazing connection and awareness that may be hard to understand unless you have lived without it.

I didn't know I was incomplete until she made me whole.

Dictionary of hurls

WARNING: Readers with weak stomachs and/or virus or hormone-induced nausea may want to stop here.

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Tuesday night broke my vomit-free record of 8 days. After 12 weeks of this, I think I am a certifiable expert on hurling. What follows is list of different types of this activity. Did I miss anything?

Whoops hurl: This one typically begins with a tickle in the back of your throat. You cough, and next thing you know, you're running for the nearest repository, often a sink or trash can. In a worst case scenario, you're stuck in your car with no receptacle bin and have make do like a cow (swallow and digest again).

Skimming-the-cream-off-the-top hurl: This may occur when you've just eaten a little too much and just that little bit pops back up. Usually not too traumatizing. One cough, and it's over.

Fruity hurl: You might think that fruit would be less offensive to vomit. After all, it's juicy and sweet going down; why not coming up? Wrong! Something happens in your stomach that causes fruit like apples and watermelon to become among the worst to hurl. One exception is strawberries, but only if they are regurgitated within an hour of eating.

Solid hurl: This happens when you think you've outsmarted your stomach by avoiding any liquids near mealtime. Carbs contribute to the most solid of hurls. Chewing thoroughly may help reduce the offensiveness of this type of hurl, but it's usually pretty raw.

Chunky hurl: This can happen if you drink liquids with your meal, or if fruits and vegetables - particularly salad - have been incorporated with your meal. It's best to avoid this. A sore throat is a common side effect.

Liquid hurl: This can occur after solids have been extracted and/or if you have been dutifully hydrating. Once you've experienced a few of these, you know why clear liquids are recommended.

Bile (or empty) hurl: This happens after the solids and unoffensive liquids have been extracted. One of the worst. Energy exerted typically exceeds return. Many a bile hurler has been surprised to see a relatively empty toilet, given the the effort expended.

Extended hurl: This usually brings the hurler to her knees; she may even find herself accidentally hugging a filthy toilet for support. It typically starts with a solid hurl, followed by a chunky one. There may be a brief moment of respite where the hurler thinks she is done, only to be surprised by a violent liquid hurl. If the hurler is lucky, she will feel relieved once her stomach is completely emptied of foreign matter. But in a worst case scenario, this may be followed by a bile hurl and/or what is frequently known as dry heaving. Just try to remember to breathe.

Morning-after hurl: It's been a long time since I've experienced one of these. But from what I recall, these frequently start with a chunky hurl, followed by an extended liquid hurl that may still reek (or burn) from the shots you thought were a good idea the previous night. After one of these, the hurler may be overcome with a sense of relief and a strong desire to eat something greasy. Do not delay, drive immediately to the closest McDonalds.

I am not a morning person

So, I had a minor moment of panic this morning when I dropped by mascara brush, leaving a trail of black brush strokes down my body to my filthy bathroom floor.

But it was nothing compared to the panicked feeling as I was rinsing the brush in the sink and suddenly realized I had succeeded in coating my hands and nails with WATERPROOF mascara.

Sigh.