I am not a meddler, but now that I am an expectant grandmother I am about to give unsolicited advice to my daughter-in-law. I believe that I can talk the talk because I walked the walk with the father-to-be. The new parents haven’t an inkling as to how dramatically their lives will change after the baby is born. They need to prepare to take leave of their senses; five senses that is.

Your sense of hearing is the first to change. You’ll detect your newborn’s wail above all the other crying babies in the neonatal nursery. Your breasts will leak at the sound of his cry. Your heart will pound as you race to scoop him up.

When your husband was a newborn, he woke only to eat, but when he awoke, the entire neighborhood awoke also. He inherited my set of lungs. I paid him back years later when I screamed his name, “Jaaaaassssonnnn” from the back porch at midday.

“Aww, Mom the whole neighborhood can hear you,” he complained when he was eight, as he strolled through the door for lunch, all grubby and hot.

The insignificant sounds you once tuned out will now keep your sense of hearing on high alert. You will not only be fine-tuned to your infant’s every gurgle, goo and moan, but you will be concerned when he’s quiet. More concerned than ever, and that won’t change no matter how old he gets. When he’s a toddler playing noisily in his room, you will relax. When silence wraps itself like fear around you, you’ll dart to see what he’s up to. As he grows up and suffers the indignities of first love, you’ll listen to him complain, and you’ll try to help, but he won’t hear you. You’ll be most in-tuned when he’s silent, sullen and withdrawn. When he takes a wife, you’ll cry when you hear him say, “I do.” And you’ll hope against hope that his wife will be able to hear his pain and sadness as well as you do.

Your sense of sight will improve immensely. No matter how misshapen his head, how wrinkled and hairy his brow, you’ll see not only God’s beauty in your newborn baby boy, but your dimple in his chin and the shape of his daddy’s nose. You’ll be able to see his pacifier in the dark, a dry diaper with only a night light on and into his future long after he’s tucked into his crib.

When he was a little boy, I could spot your husband at the playground wearing the same superhero shirt that all the other boys wore. I could spot him anywhere, because he moved like no other little boy at the playground. Shh, don’t tell him I still think he walks on air. I could always see his greatness. You’ll see it in your little boy too.

Your sense of taste will alter. Those green and yellow veggies you wouldn’t let cross your lips will tingle your taste buds as you tongue-test the flavor and temperature of his first spoonful of pureed squash or green beans. You’ll buy extra jars of Blueberry Buckle or Apple Cobbler when you go to the store. You’ll smile knowingly as you place them on the conveyor belt, but you’ll admit your secret to no one that four of those desserts are yours.

Your sense of smell will drastically change when your baby boy arrives. When you’re pregnant, odors sometimes sicken you. You’ll complain when his daddy passes gas but guffaw like a guy when your baby boy toots like a pro. You wouldn’t think of cleaning hubby’s upchuck after a night of overindulgence with the guys. But when either end of baby is messy from too much food and drink, you’ll take it all in stride without even pinching your nose or saying, “How dare you!”

You’ll never find an aroma more appealing as the nape of your little boy’s neck. I can still see myself sitting in the rocker, nuzzling Jason’s neck at his 2:00 am feeding. Shh, don’t tell him, but sometimes when he’s towering over me and leans down to give me a kiss on the cheek, I’d rather have a nuzzle of his neck.

Your sense of touch will change most dramatically. When you cradle your little boy for the first time, you will realize that you have never felt anything so wonderful. His hair will be softer than silk, his skin smoother than cream, his ten toes tinier than a doll’s, and when he wraps his fingers around yours he’ll touch your heart and soul in a way that no one ever has, or ever will again. He is your firstborn. He’ll touch you with his first word, “Mama.” He’ll touch you with his first kiss, and he’ll especially touch you with his first “No!” Please touch him only with love and kindness. Help him to learn “right;” don’t just punish him for “wrong.” Tousle his hair, wipe away his tears and pat him on the back when he’s tried his best. Hold him always close no matter how far away he goes. Touch him where it counts, in his heart.

Shh, don’t tell Jason. He touches me with his words and thoughts; even when we’re miles and miles apart we’re still connected.

Yes, my dear daughter-in-law, your five senses are about to change. Forever and a day you’ll hear your little boy’s laughter, feel his arms wrapped bear-hug tight, taste his salty, sweaty forehead when you plant a kiss, smell his stinky tennis shoes and see his goodness all through his life, and yours.

Believe me kids; prepare to take leave of your senses.

Like most mothers, I think my children are the best things I’ve ever done – hands down. My daughter, now an adult and living her own life, is a lovely young woman whom I adore. She’s smart and happy and doing fabulously well – a job well done in my opinion. My son is also doing well; at age nineteen he’s attending school and planning his life. When my babies were born, I looked into their eyes and saw, not just the sweet, cuddly little things I held in my arms, but the happy, healthy adults they would eventually become. And, right then, I promised I would never ever give up on them, no matter what happened along the way. I’ve kept that promise in ways I never could have dreamed. That’s what we, as mothers, do – we keep that vision of how worthy we know our children really are, and we share that vision with them at every available opportunity. And, we never give up.

View Sasee’s special children’s guide from March 2010, Tutus & Choo-choos.

Meet three young women you’d love to hate – if they weren’t so nice. They’re gorgeous, stylish, and smart. They are acknowledged over-achievers with prestigious academic credentials, impressive careers, handsome, helpful husbands and adorable children. The three good friends, attorney Ashley Morrison, speech pathologist Amy Wilkes, and physician Jennifer Merritt, sat down with Sasee to discuss the joys and challenges of Having It All.

Amy

Amy Cummings Wilkes grew up in picturesque Troy, Pennsylvania, where her family owns a veneer company. From a young age Amy was drawn to the medical field. While in high school she became interested in brain injury and speech pathology after her grandmother suffered a stroke with debilitating residual effects. Amy received a Bachelors Degree from Ithaca College and Masters Degree in Speech/Language Pathology from West Virginia University, both with highest honors. She completed a clinical fellowship at St. Francis Hospital in Pittsburgh and worked in a private practice in Corning, New York, until 2000 when she was drawn to Myrtle Beach where her family has had homes for many years. After working at a Pee Dee Speech and Hearing Center and Loris Healthcare for several years, Amy took a position with Horry County Schools. She diagnoses speech and language disorders and works with a team to determine and treat traumatic brain injury. Shortly after moving to the Grand Strand, Amy met David Wilkes through mutual friends in her church. They married in 2002 and have a 2 1/2 year old son, Owen. At the time of our interview Amy and David were eagerly anticipating the birth of a second child, a daughter, due on Valentine’s Day. [Editor’s note: Shortly after our interview, on January 24, the Wilkes welcomed the arrival of a baby girl, Kennedy.]

Ashley

Ashley Proctor Morrison is a Myrtle Beach native. Her parents, Lee and Linda Proctor, and both sets of grandparents, are Conway natives. Ashley knew from her physician father and grandfather’s examples that she wanted a respected career which would continuously challenge her abilities. She became interested in the legal profession while participating in the Myrtle Beach High School Mock Trial program, coached by faculty member Bubba Lewis and local attorney Tommy Brittain. During this time Ashley also became fascinated with the legal system through the O.J. Simpson trial which dominated television screens for months. She graduated from Clemson University’s Calhoun Honors College in 2001 with majors in accounting and pre-law. In 2004 Ashley received a J.D. degree from the U.S.C. School of Law and returned to Myrtle Beach where she took a position with the Bellamy Law Firm. Utilizing her accounting background, she specializes in real estate law. At Clemson Ashley met the love of her life, Joe Morrison from Marion. They married after college and in December of 2008 welcomed the arrival of a daughter, Mary Hannah, the new center of their universe.

Jennifer

Jennifer Holland Merritt grew up in Woodruff, S.C., near Spartanburg, where she excelled both in academics and extra-curricular activities. After graduating as valedictorian of her high school class, she majored in biology at Furman University, graduating with honors in 1996. She then attended the Medical University of S.C. where she received her M.D. and completed a residency in surgery and ophthalmology at M.U.S.C’.s Storm Eye Institute. Jennifer is an ophthalmologist and surgeon at the Coastal Eye Group. She says, “I can’t think of anything more rewarding than helping people regain and preserve their eyesight.” During her first year of medical school Jennifer met Myrtle Beach native Jay Merritt, a teaching assistant in her gross anatomy class. They have been together ever since and married in Charleston in 2000. In 2005 the Merritts moved to Myrtle Beach. An orthopedic surgeon, Jay is affiliated with Strand Orthopedic Consultants. The Merritts have two young daughters who bring great joy to their lives, JuliAnna, born in May of 2007, and Jennifer Hope (“Jenna”), born in August of 2009.

Common Threads

Though Ashley, Amy and Jennifer’s lives have varied in many ways, they share a number of common threads. The first is unconditional parental support, particularly from their mothers who provided constant encouragement as well as practical tools to follow their dreams. Jennifer says, “My biggest influence growing up was my mother. She was a high school English teacher and always amazed me with her ability to balance work and family. My parents instilled in me the belief that I can achieve my highest goals if I work hard enough. In addition to academics, every day was filled with after-school activities which taught me time management. These early experiences, and my mother’s example, help me balance work and family as an adult.”

The young women talked about the example of their parents’ strong marriages and their continued support and encouragement. All three are fortunate to have their own and their husband’s families currently living in the greater Myrtle Beach area. This extended family presence provides practical and emotional support unusual in our current culture. Ashley, Amy and Jennifer are the first to acknowledge its importance in their own and their children’s lives. Ashley says, “My parents have been married for over 35 years, and their strong marriage is an inspiration to me. Joe and I live by our parents’ example and want Mary Hannah to grow up with the same values.”

Perhaps their generation’s most notable cultural shift is the couples’ shared commitment to their children’s physical and emotional support. Parenthood is a co-operative venture, and the couples have each worked out a division of duties best for them. Amy Wilkes usually goes in to work very early in order to be available in the afternoons, so David, the chief operating officer for Dock Street Communities, gets Owen ready for pre-school at the First United Methodist Church Child Development Center. As president of the Morrison Group, Joe’s career as a developer often allows flexibility for time with Mary Hannah and provides relief for her grandmothers who currently share care for her at home. The Merritts work long hours but have also found ways to prioritize time with their children. They have a nanny, but Jennifer regularly takes Mondays off to be with JuliAnna and Jenna. Jay usually gets home first in the evenings and often cooks dinner. Interestingly, Jay, David and Joe are all creative gourmet cooks who enjoy being in the kitchen.

Amy, Ashley and Jennifer all say their favorite time of day is in the evenings when they bathe and play with their children before bed time. “It’s a very special moment in the day,” says Ashley. “I forget about everything else in my life and for an hour or two, it’s just the two of us. Time with her is so precious; there’s never enough of it.”

This awareness of time also impacts the three families’ social lives. They recall their pre-marriage and pre-parent days and joke about the change in lifestyle. “We do things together as families because we don’t want to take more time away from the children – and because it’s fun,” says Amy. They all laugh when asked about opportunities for hobbies or time alone and agree it’s a good week if they can find a few hours to run on the treadmill. Ashley adds, “There is no time for yourself. You just accept that.” However, the women do make an effort to schedule semi-regular date nights, acknowledging that time alone together without distraction is important in the juggling act of their current lives.

The Guilt Factor

Any reader who has ever given birth knows that guilt arrives in the delivery room, along with that bundle of joy. Ashley says, “I feel guilty both ways. I miss her so much when I leave her each morning. Going home for lunch most days helps a lot. I want to be perfect as a mother and as an attorney, and I am max performing all the time. Yet I have learned to accept that it truly is a balancing act.” Jennifer adds, “I think it’s inevitable for every mom to feel guilty, whether it’s missing a school function because of work, or missing work because of a sick child, but overall I am very content with life as a working mom.”

All three agree that you just have to let some things fall through the cracks. Amy says, “People who look like they have it all together, don’t. You just have to accept that the laundry may not get done or the house may not be perfect. For over-achievers like ourselves, this is sometimes hard to accept, but it’s a reality. You can’t do everything perfectly all the time. You must also be willing to ask for help – and willing to accept it.”

The women clearly recognize that they could not achieve all they do without the tremendous assistance provided by their families, particularly the active involvement and emotional support of their husbands. They also credit the example of their parents’ long successful marriages, the close friendship they share with one another, and the role models of women in the community who forged paths for their generation. They are lucky, and they know it. At the same time, the three share a clear sense of pride in the example they are creating for their own children and perhaps for other women as well. “I define myself as a mother, a wife and a physician,” Jennifer says, “and while it can be challenging to find the right balance, all three are very important to me.” These impressive, hard-working young women enthusiastically agree: It isn’t always easy, but you can Have It All.

A cute little toddler walked over to my mom at the pool and struck up a conversation with her.

“These your trucks?” he asked.

“Nope. They’re not mine,” Mom said.

He snatched up the tiny Tonkas, smiled at my mom and jumped back in the pool.

Moments later, that same dear little child approached me in the shallow end. I started to speak to him.

“How are…”

Before I could finish, he splashed me repeatedly, right in the face, until his mom whispered, “Sweetie, stop that.”

It was a sign – a sign from above, affirming what I previously believed. I am not a kid person; this little boy can sense it. And he just might be the spokeschild for all the kids in the world.

“You don’t belong anywhere near little children,” his aura seemed to say. “We can tell you don’t like us, and we don’t like you either.”

I swam to the other end of the pool, grabbed my noodle and floated on with my life – my childless life. It’s an existence that I am quite happy with as long as I am not being pestered with certain questions. These questions, regardless of how content I am feeling, always leave me with the sentiment that until I conceive, birth and raise spitting, dribbling, little humans, I simply will not measure up.

“When are you and Craig going to start your own family?” a nosy neighbor asks.

Didn’t we already do that? Didn’t we become a family unit the day we took our vows? Plus, we have a dog. We are a family of three.

“Well, you may think you’re exhausted now,” a friend complains over the phone. “But just wait until you have kids. Then you’ll know what tired is. You are going to have kids, aren’t you?”

During the week, I wake up at five am, drive thirty minutes to work and spend the next seven hours teaching adolescents who have learning and emotional disorders. Then, if I don’t have an after-school meeting or a parent conference, I drive home to cook dinner, walk the dog, grade papers and draft a critique for my graduate class. If I’m lucky, I get about six hours of sleep. But I cannot feel fatigued – I don’t have any children.

At a friend’s baby shower recently, an older woman really pushed the limits of politeness.

“Isn’t it about time you and Craig had a child of your own?” she asked.

“As opposed to what? Having another man’s child?” I responded.

I often use sarcasm or humor to deflect from what I really want to say – that it’s none of their business. And, why don’t you ask me which novel I’m reading, how my job is going or where I bought my dress?

In the past, I’ve told people that we aren’t having our “own” kids right now because we are spending a fortune in child support for Craig’s many illegitimate kids that live in New Zealand. I’ve said that I’m trying to accumulate half a million dollars before I procreate and wouldn’t they like to help me get started by giving me a thousand bucks. And for shock value I’ve added, “Of course we’re planning on having children. Have you heard what the going rate is for babies?”

I’ve been given looks of disbelief, horror and, one time, complete disgust. That was when a lady at the nail salon asked if Craig and I were “trying.”

“Oh yes,” I said. “Several times each day. We have been trying the lateral coital position, but it is a little bit uncomfortable.”

She walked away.

I have given people numerous reasons for why my thirty-year-old womb remains empty. Except for the truth.

I haven’t explained to anybody that I stopped taking birth control five years ago when Craig and I got married. No one knows that I chart my basal body temperature, avoid high levels of mercury and regularly eat foods that are rich in antioxidants. I never told anyone that a year ago I was two weeks late, nauseous and extremely excited about a possible pregnancy. And then, a few days later, I quietly cried in the bathroom when my monthly visitor finally arrived.

It is much easier to make jokes and pretend I don’t really like children than to admit that we are having difficulty. But I can deal with the possibility of being infertile much easier than I can shrug off the constant, intrusive probing. I am tired of being treated less like a person with feelings and more like a Magic 8 Ball, prepared to turn up adequate responses to whether or not I plan to have children.

“Most likely.”

“Cannot predict now.”

“Outlook not so good.”

Sometime in the near future we will have a baby, whether it is conceived naturally or acquired through adoption. In the meantime, I plan to enjoy my life and all that a childfree existence has to offer. I will sleep in on the weekends, visit casinos, eat late dinners at fancy restaurants and travel to “adults only” resorts in Mexico and the Caribbean.

Then, one day, I will be able to pass down my values and beliefs to my own beautiful, little person. I will teach him to talk, sing, read, love and find every possible bit of joy in life. And when he is old enough, I will take him to the pool, teach him how to swim and tell him not to splash.

Award winning artist, Jean Hanna, began her artistic journey early in life. As a young child, Jean could often be found painting alongside her father or her grandmother. Both were accomplished artists.

Today Jean’s home & studio are one in the same, a vintage cottage in Georgetown, South Carolina. Jean is also the Artist in Residence at the Art Box in Pawleys Island, S.C., where she teaches oil painting classes. Her work is often described as classical impressionism, and she is well known for her inventive use of color and light. Jean accepts commissions and recently has ventured into portraiture, employing her own unique style.

Jean Hanna’s work has been featured in many South Carolina exhibitions, as well as a 2003 venue in Bois-Colombes, France. You can view her work at www.jeanhanna.com, and you can follow her blog at www.jeanhannascyberstudio.blogspot.com. Connect with Jean on Facebook or email her at artigal@hotmail.com.

Every time I drove by it, I promised to stop next time and get a photo; it was so beautiful to me. What was it? It was a tree. A tree rooted along a small stream next to a road I travelled almost every day. Its gracefulness amazed me each and every time I passed it. It was majestic and powerful, with long reaching arms that seemed to beckon me. It created a peaceful patch of shade next to an open field of tall brown grasses.

Across this field there was a small pond where my younger brother, Dan, and I went fishing. Mom would pack a cooler and Dad would bring the paper, and Dan, our grandfather and I would bait our lines, never catching much more than small sunfish that glittered faintly when we pulled them out of the water. We always threw them back, probably catching the same one over and over again.

There were trails around the pond, and a significant amount of wildlife for its somewhat suburban location. There were bullfrogs that landed with a rousing plop when we ventured near, iridescent dragon flies and shiny sapphire Barn Swallows that skimmed the water in an acrobatic aerial ballet. Praying Mantises camouflaged themselves as slender reeds, and Downy Woodpeckers gave away their locations amidst the trees with incessant tapping.

There were many lovely places around this pond, but my favorite was near the majestic tree. I didn’t even know what kind of tree it was; probably an oak. But I did know that it was beautiful. The rough-textured, massive trunk gave it a very grand and commanding presence. The multitudinous limbs stretched outward and upward, as graceful as a dancer’s port-de-bra. The sun-dappled shade it provided was a cool respite from the muggy August air. The stream next to it meandered in a gentle “S,” soothing the eyes and the soul before slipping quietly under the bridge of the roadway.

As we grew older, the fishing trips decreased, but I continued to travel this road almost daily. At one point it was to drive to a well-paying but very stifling job. This job was so wrong for me that by the second day, I knew I’d made a mistake. The highlight of my days was my journey past my tree. It soothed me, comforted me and gave me something to daydream about. Each day I’d take in its grace and beauty with a sigh, burning the image of it in my brain so I could remember it throughout the long day. In its own way, it saved me, and I loved it for that. I knew that it loved me in return. No matter what the weather, it seemed to smile at me. Stretching out its arms as if to embrace me in a comforting hug, as a parent might embrace a child who had just awakened from a terrifying dream…“there there, now, everything will be alright.”

One afternoon, on my way home from work, tragedy struck. As I approached the curve in the road where I’d look for my tree, I couldn’t see it. My heart started to pound, and my eyes darted frantically across the horizon for its unmistakable silhouette. Where was it? Where was my tree? Then I saw it…lying in the ravine along the stream bed, lifelessly trying to reach out to me as the chainsaws dismembered its limbs. Above the buzz of the saws I could almost hear it crying out to me, but there was nothing I could do to save it…it was too late. I cried out in agony. The sadness I felt was visceral. My eyes flowed with tears – tears that seemed to flow faster than the stream where the old tree had stood for all those years. It was gone. Never again would I lay eyes on its intricate network of limbs and branches or sense it reaching out to me in comfort. Even today, all these years later, I still feel a sadness deep in my bones when I think of that tree lying forlornly on its side in the ravine, sadly reaching out to me one last time.

When I told a friend about my experience the next day, I couldn’t finish the story without getting weepy. I figured he would think I was some sort of weirdo, getting so worked up about a tree. But when I dried my eyes and looked at him, I realized that he was crying too. He said he knew exactly how I felt, as he’d had a similar experience. There was a field near his house growing up where he used to chase rabbits and catch snakes and grasshoppers. Like me and my tree, he loved every blade of grass and every single wild berry that grew in that field. One day the bulldozers came and tore it up. Rabbits scampered away in fear, toads fled for their lives, and berries were crushed under the tracks of earthmovers. He watched in horror at the destruction of this little patch of wild paradise. A year later it was a small enclave of nondescript homes with unnatural lawns and uninspired landscaping. He said he cried the day those bulldozers came, even though he was an adult by then and hadn’t chased a rabbit in years. It surprised him how strong his reaction was to the tragedy, but his connection with the nature in that field ran deeper than he’d ever imagined.

I never did get a photo of my tree nor did I learn why it was cut down. It didn’t interfere with the roadway, and there wasn’t any room for development where it stood. I’d like to think that maybe it was about to die anyway, but I’d rather have seen it die a natural death and become a home or grocery store for woodpeckers and other birds. It was my relationship with this tree that really revealed to me the power of nature to heal all that ails, both physically and emotionally. The healing power of nature has been well documented, and I feel fortunate to have realized this connection at a young age. While I miss my tree deeply, I’ve found other trees to love. I hope everyone has a tree in their lives, a tree to love and cherish, to enjoy its cooling shade and feel the whisper of comfort with every breeze that rustles the leaves.

A couple wants to host a dinner party for friends. They discover that one of the wives is a vegetarian, at which point they decide they have four choices: One, cook a separate meal for the veg-head; two, re-do the menu and make the entire meal vegetarian; three, pretend they didn’t know, or forgot, and cook as planned; or four, don’t invite the vegetarian.

What would you do?

The answer’s a no-brainer as far as I’m concerned – absolutely, I would choose number four – don’t invite the vegetarian. I mean, who needs that kind of meal-planning stress? When it comes to dinner parties, vegetarians are a bore and a challenge; I should know – I am one.

I used to eat meat. In fact, almost 20 years ago, I ate the finest piece of steak that ever died on a grill. It was a medium-rare tenderloin filet, cooked over an open grill and charred to a level of perfection I never knew existed. As they placed the warm plate in front of me, the smell of hickory and smoke hit my nostrils before the sight of the bulging delicacy lit up my eyes. With barely any effort from the knife, the first edge fell away releasing a trickle of pink juice onto my plate and exposing a shiny, rosy interior. As I raised the first piece to my mouth, it was as if every Sunday-afternoon barbeque I had ever caught a distant, mouth-watering whiff of, was captured in that one bite. Even the salty, delicious flavor of charred fat and hickory that dusted my lips did not prepare me for what was to come. Warm, succulent juice oozed at every bite, and with barely the need to chew, it simply melted in my mouth. It was as if someone had rolled the creamiest of ice creams in a dusting of coal. The steak angel was dancing on my tongue, and I wanted to cry when it was all over.

How can you follow that? If I never eat steak again as long as I live, I shall die a happy woman because I have already eaten the best.

So, I understand the appeal of meat, it’s just that I no longer desire it. Everybody has their reasons for becoming vegetarian, mine started out as a health thing. I figured cutting down on meat would force me to eat more vegetables – well, it worked! Over the years, I grew to prefer my new choices and now the taste of meat does nothing for me. I would choose a healthy bowl of pasta bursting with asparagus, mushrooms, red peppers and fresh herbs over a bowl drenched in traditional red-meat sauce any day. I would also pass up chicken wings and beer for a plate of smoked salmon and chardonnay in a heartbeat. And, in my journey to vegetarianism, I lost over 40 pounds and haven’t looked back. Unfortunately, however, it comes with its dilemmas.

An unsuspecting girlfriend invites my husband and me to a couples’ dinner party. Should I tell her ahead of time that I am vegetarian? If I do, it will undoubtedly mess up her dinner plans. Stress will slowly consume her as she over-analyzes how to keep me happy while still presenting a delicious, well-executed meal that will be worthy of her “good cook” status. Before long, the planning stage, which should have been fun and enjoyable, has spiraled into a complicated, irritating quandary as she battles to come up with the one perfect solution that will keep everybody happy, and more importantly, wanting seconds.

Pot lucks are great but it’s the sit-down dinners that pose the challenge. I have asked hosts not to do anything different but guilt seems to make them unable. The irony is, I am totally comfortable chowing down on veggies and salad; it is the meat-eating host who seems compelled to put that item of protein on my plate when really, all they need to do is give me more veggies.

Alternatively, I could choose the other option, which is to say nothing. If I keep quiet, the host or hostess will happily plan and cook away, none the wiser. I will show up, and let’s say, they serve chicken with veggies and a side of salad. I eat the latter (which I love, being vegetarian and all), and my husband gets an extra piece of chicken. Voila! Everybody is happy – well not exactly. The host is now gushing apologies that if she’d known, she’d have cooked me something different. I, on the other hand, sit perfectly satiated and content about the evening’s meal.

Sadly, it doesn’t end there.

As she lies in bed that night reflecting on the evening, she will still be questioning what she could have done differently, and whether or not I really did have a good time, or was just saying it to be polite. Then slowly, the “vegetarian-at-dinner-parties-are-a-pain-in-the-backside” mindset starts to seep in. She fights it because she’s a good person, but we both know the seed has been planted.

One would think, therefore, that it’s easier to have people over to our house – then again, maybe not. As a vegetarian, if I invite you over for dinner, am I obliged to cook you meat? We once had a couple over for dinner and I chose to cook vegetable risotto for the main course. At one point, the husband picked up the pan lid and joked, “You expect me to eat that!” The only thing was, he wasn’t joking – he never touched a mouthful. As I later scraped the entire bowl into the trash, I tried not to let it upset me, but it was months before I shook it off. Was I wrong? Should I have warned them there might not be meat?

It’s all just too stressful, but I have an idea. If we ever meet, and think it would be fun to get together for an evening…

How about we just meet for drinks?

The Angel’s Game
by Carlos Ruiz Zafón

In 2004, Carlos Ruiz Zafón made his English language debut with the international best seller The Shadow of the Wind. It is in this novel where you first visit “The Library of Forgotten Books,” a sanctuary of books either to be rescued or buried. The Angel’s Game, Zafón’s newest book, is not a sequel, but a new novel that takes place in Barcelona in the 1920s. It, too, is written for those who are true bibliophiles and those who would like to visit such a library.

David Martin, the narrator, is a young journalist writing for a mediocre paper where he is the least favorite among the staff. He is hired away from the paper by some questionable characters to write pulp fiction, at which he is very successful. With newly acquired fortune and fame he purchases a beautiful home, which appears to be slightly haunted. Martin is then sought out by a famous, but discreet, wealthy gentleman to write the novel of the century, a novel that will change the course of history, a novel that will form a new religion. Initially intrigued and motivated, he visits “The Library of Forgotten Books” and takes on the task and challenge with vigor, enthusiasm and obsession, until all he becomes involved with either become slightly mad or die.

The Angel’s Game is a magical work about books. It is a novel of ideas, the nature of faith and the urge to gain power. It can be dark and gripping, but is also full of romance and intrigue. Above all, it is a story concerned with the ultimate significance of stories and a satisfying page turner to the end.