I took a five-day hiatus from my career last week to sit on the couch and be a full-fledged potato. I sent my daugther to daycare; Mike was at work. My job was kind enough not to call. I didn’t check a single e-mail. As a matter of fact, I tried not to touch my computer at all.

There are a couple of things that kept me from becomming a technological illiterate during my vacation. The first was my church’s anniversary ad booklet, which is a blog entry all to itself. It’s funny how church folks are harder to deal with than the average joe.

The second, something that would make you proud I’m sure, was a promise to work on my writing. I kept my laptop close by in case inspiration hit. And I didn’t do too badly; I keyed out a few good ideas.

And the inspiration kept coming. When I reached for my laptop to start on a new entry, I didn’t see an ink pen hiding on the TV tray behind it. When I opened the lid, then pen got caught in the hinges. There was a spark, and the screen went black.

I smelled burnt plastic, and I saw a small cloud of smoke billowing from the bottom of the screen. My laptop went up in smoke, and so did my inspiration.

I spent two days trying to remember what was on that machine. The list was a lot longer than I realized. Photos of Mini Me. My taxes for the last four years. Half-finished blogs. The good news is, the computer folks at work were able to salvage most of my docs. The bad news is, I need a new computer.

I’ve heard parents say that one of the most wonderful things about having a child is that you get to see the world through their eyes. And as the overly proud mother of an 18-month-old girl, I would have to agree. I am amazed every day by the little things that make Mini Me smile.

Take bubbles, for instance. Whenever we go outside to blow bubbles, E laughs so hard that she nearly loses her breath. She is equally entertained by spelling. Yes, spelling her name sends her into a fit of giggles every time.

One thing that everyone forgets to mention, though, is that you get to see yourself through your child’s eyes as well. Kids are mimics. E doesn’t miss a thing. When she first learned to walk, she would go into my mother’s kitchen and try to turn on the oven. It took me two days to realize that she was preheating the oven as she had seen me do at night when we came home.

E can flip the light switches, use the phone, and operate the TV remote. She carries a purse, and can use the car remote to unlock the door.

In the past few weeks, I’ve noticed that her habits are starting to reflect mine. And I can’t say that I always like what I see. Here are a few examples.

The Multitasker: If you ever read my entry “As the Mobile Turns,” you know that I’m a serious multitasker, often to my own detriment. I’ve seen E balance a baby doll on one hip while holding a purse and/or a cell phone as she is digging in her toy box. How many times have I made a mad dash to the car while carrying E, a diaper bag, a purse, and God knows what else? And then I have to balance it all while unlocking the car door. It’s a miracle I haven’t broken my neck or hers.

The Driver. E went to a birthday party at Showbiz, I mean Chuck E. Cheese, last weekend. While piloting the kiddie car with a plastic Chuck E. as a passenger, my little roadster fished around in the back seat, pushed buttons on the console, and took her hands off of the steering wheel to pick up lint off the car’s floor. “Keep your eyes on the road, little one, “ I laughed. “You’re supposed to be driving.” Shoot, who was I to talk? I don’t think that I’ve ever picked up objects off of the car floors, but the other two actions were all me.

The Prima Donna. If I wake up without knowing what I’m going to wear to work, I am setting myself up for a painfully messy morning routine. I don’t think that my brain is capable of making any decisions unless I’ve been up for at least two hours, and my indecision slows me down. I’ll start with a shirt and pants. Then change the pants for a skirt, then change the shirt for a sweater, and then the skirt goes to either the original pants or another skirt. And the jewelry changes too. After I’ve put something together, I’ll stand in the mirror, huff because I hate what I’m wearing, and return to the closet for something else.

E only had to see this once. Now after I get her dressed, she stands in my bedroom in front of the floor-length mirror. I’ve watched as she opens my jewelry drawer, grabs a necklace, puts it on, and then replaces it to try another.

I work on these habits now, I tell myself. Shoot, I don’t like these things about myself, so why should I let my kid do them? Because it’s cute. Everything my baby does is adorable because I am under her spell. I will be kicking myself in about 13 years when I have to drag a picky teen to the mall for new school clothes. But, that is the least of my worries now. If all I have to contend with is a picky shopper, then I’m doing pretty good. After all, I didn’t turn out all that bad.

If you’ve ever had a long-standing relationship with a hairstylist, then you know that you are part of a close-knit group. A hairstylist is the matriarch of touch-ups, relaxers, and a myriad of camouflage styles to help you through that awkward grow-out phase. You chat with fellow customers while sitting in the waiting area or under the hair dryers, and conversations that start with the color of your highlights usually lead to your personal life.

I am practically related to my hairdresser. Lisa is the cousin of one of my mother’s dearest friends, Glenda. Christmas dinners, New Year’s parties, and birthday celebrations have bonded us as family. So basically, they know all of my business.

Glenda sat down next to me at the hairdryers few Saturdays ago. “How’s E?” she asked. We began to talk about the various happenings in our lives. Caleb, her grandson, finally stopped using a bottle. My 18-month-old had learned to do the Hokey-Pokey and to count to two.

“When will your brother be home from school?” she asked.
“Brian and James Jr. will both be home in a couple of weeks,” I said.
Glenda frowned. “Who’s James Jr.?” she asked.

“My brother,” I said. “He’s Big James’ son.”

“James?!! Your daddy?”

“Yep,” I nodded.

“When did you start talking to him?”

“ A couple of years ago,” I replied. “He found a way to get in touch with me.”

I’m not sure how my mother met my birth father, because I’ve honestly never been interested enough to ask. I was born a few months after my mother graduated from college. They were together until I was about seven or eight. After a conversation about how their breakup was not my fault, James fell off of the face of the earth. He showed up unceremoniously, 17 years later, with a wife and son.

Our reunion has been far from picture-perfect. “It wasn’t my fault,” he said. “Your mother —”

“Whatever,” I cut him off before he could finish the sentence.

We really haven’t had too much to say to each other since. James Jr, and I talk quite a bit, and he tries to spoil his niece every chance he gets.

“I remember when your mom and I worked together,” Glenda said. “James worked in the same building, and Maxine would walk past him as if he wasn’t there. He would try to call to say that he wanted to see you, and she would hang up on him. I didn’t understand how she could ignore him so easily.”

I could. My mother discovered something that I learned when I reached nearly that same age. I was dating Charles, an engineer with an alluring voice and a disarming smile. Charles was charming and attentive for the three months, and then he started to focus on new conquests. As we were having dinner one night, he asked “Do you think that I am blocking your blessing?”

“Say what?” I looked up from my plate.

“I think you want something more than what I’m willing to give. Maybe by seeing me, you are missing the opportunity for what you really want.”

“Well, I don’t think anyone can block my blessings but me. If I know that I’m doing something that is contrary to what I want, then that’s my fault, not yours.”

In the two weeks following that moment, I saw a selfish and manipulative side to Charles that I had been too enchanted to see. We were through.

I ran into him later that year at a club. He stopped me to ask if we could be friends. “I know that I was really selfish, and I’ve changed. Don’t give up on me.”

“Congratulations,” I replied. “Although, that changes nothing for me. My life is moving in a good direction without you, and it isn’t necessary for me to change that. I don’t want to talk to you.”

“Ever?” he asked.

“Never,” I said.

My actions could be mistaken for bitterness, but they are really based on insight. Distancing myself from Charles gave me the space I needed to gain a little perspective. In a way, he was right. He was blocking my blessing, but I allowed him to be there. Charles was not for me in any way — not as a friend, and certainly not as a boyfriend.

When my mother split from James, I believe that she discovered the same thing. James was not what she wanted for herself or for her daughter, so that was that. When you figure out that a person has no place in your life, you really don’t have anything to say.

Some may argue that her situation was different because she had a child, but that is another blog for another day.

It’s been four years since I spoke to Charles, and I haven’t regretted it a bit. He showed up at a party that a friend of mine was having during the holidays.

“Ughh, I don’t know who invited him,” she said.

“No worries,” I told her. “It’s fine.”

He tired to move my way a couple of times, but he gave up after I excused myself from a conversation when he stood next to me. No need to block any more blessings.

Sometimes the best advice is given to you by perfect or near-perfect strangers. My friends have sent e-mails from time to time reminding me to update this blog. But what got me in gear was a friend of a friend, who has checked my blog faithfully for nearly a year. Too bad she has had to look at the same entries for the past two months.

So thank you, Lady Reid, my sister in lactation humiliation, for reminding me to get back to it. I really needed the swift kick in the butt.

My blasts from the past always show up at the most inopportune times. My hair is usually undone, or I’ve just thrown on any old thing to take a quick trip to grocery store. I don’t know how often I’ve run into an old high school or college acquaintance after a 60-minute workout. My sore muscle hobble and paint-splattered sweatpants are the perfect look for a reunion.

These days, I need to be even more careful. I have to look out not only for my appearance, but E’s as well. Nothing raises an eyebrow faster than a snotty-nosed kid with fuzzy braids and graham-cracker-crumbed T-shirt. And you lose even more points if you accompany a disheveled child while being dressed to the nines.

Luck was on my side a coupe of weeks ago, however, when a familiar face walked into my doctor’s office. I looked down at my outfit to check that it matched and threw on a little lip gloss while I tried to put a name to the face. It was Andre, the best friend of my ex-boyfriend, Glenn.

Glenn and I were high school sweethearts. We tried to sustain our relationship through college and grad school, but neither of us knew how to deal with change. Instead of growing closer, we only ended up hurting each other. We broke up after my first year of grad school. The next summer, Glenn went to Switzerland with a girl from one of his classes. Or maybe it was Sweden. After a month away, he called to see when we could see each other again. I told him that we couldn’t. That was seven years ago.

When Andre walked into the lobby that day, he stopped at the sign in sheet, took a seat, and dialed his cell phone. I though about how I would approach him, because I wanted to seem only mildly curious.

The truth is, I was itching with curiosity. I’ve always wondered what happened to Glenn. I wanted to pull out the score sheet and compare our lives blow for blow. I wanted to be triumphant, and most of all, I wanted a story to share with my girlfriends.

The receptionist called me to fill out some paperwork. Andre stood and walked toward me. He handed me a slip of paper with Glenn’s name on it. I faked surprise.

“Oh, wow! How are you?”

We chatted for a moment. He told me that Glenn’s in Phoenix; he’s been there for a few years. Andre said that he recognized me right away, and he called Glenn to see if he wanted to keep in touch.

The nurse called my name to escort me to an exam room. I could barely sit still during the appointment. Did Glenn ever pursue his dream of fashion modeling? How did his fling with electrical engineering turn out? Did he continue a long-distance romance with the white girl he took to Sweden? Or was it Switzerland?

After a week and a half of phone tag and a brief interruption of telephone service (his, not mine), Glenn and I finally had a chance to talk.

His life was good. He moved to Phoenix for school, and he ended up working full-time for an insurance agency. Yes, he is still single (“You know me,” he said), but he is in a new relationship that seems to be moving in a positive direction.

I told him about my last seven years. About my guy. About E. About my family. “Yes, my brother is in college now, you wouldn’t recognize him.” I told him that I cut my hair. “It was just more me,” I said. He agreed. I was surprised, because this is the guy who would check every trim after a visit to the hairstylist.

We said our goodbyes after two hours. We promised to keep in touch.

And surprisingly, I meant it. After I got the information I wanted, it no longer seemed important. It simply was nice to catch up with an old friend.

E woke up from her nap, and we went into the backyard to blow bubbles. Details of the past two hours were overshadowed by her giggles as the bubbles floated in the air. It appears that I let go of the past a long time ago.