Since I’m still getting over the new year’s ick, I think it’s time for a meme. Kate tagged me to come up with five things you don’t already know about me. I’ve done this once before, and I can’t even remember what I wrote, so I guess this time I’d better dig deep to think up some juicy tidbits to make it worth reading.

Five Things You Didn’t Know About Me (pre-mommy days):

1. I’ve been “kidnapped” once in my life, and nearly kidnapped a second time. The first time wasn’t technically a kidnapping, since it was by my father, while my parents were still married, but just after mom asked for a divorce. I was a year old, so of course I don’t remember any of it, and the entire ordeal lasted a day or two. The second time was when I was eight, I think, and it was a stranger trying to kidnap me as I walked to my babysitter’s house from the community pool. It was a very scary experience, and changed the way I thought about people. I can tell the story one of these days, if you’d like.

2. I am an uber klutz. In fifth grade, I broke my arm because I was late for my patrol stop. Fifth graders were allowed to serve as crossing guards for the other kids, and that morning I was running a little late, so I took off running for my assigned intersection, carrying my pole with the little crosswalk flag on the end. Back then, the poles were long poles – I’m one of the reasons the State of Ohio shortened the poles. As I was running, somehow the pole got caught up in my legs, and I crashed down onto the sidewalk face-first, with my very heavy bookbag falling forward onto my head and left arm. My mom didn’t think I was hurt, but took me to the hospital just to be sure. Turns out, my arm was broken, and I had to go back to class that day and tell the entire class how I broke my arm. It was humiliating.

3. I was clipped by a British billy-club once. I spent a summer in England going to school, and it happened to be the same summer for the Euro ’96 soccer tournament. Arguably, the most famous game of that summer was England vs. Scotland. It was the first time they had played each other in many, many years, and my friends and I watched the game at the local pub in London. After Scotland lost, there were reports that the Scots fans were gathering in Trafalgar Square and rioting, so of course I grabbed my camera and decided to go be a part of the action, just for fun. (Note: my friends thought me crazy, and did not tag along. They were the smart ones.)

When I got to the square, it was a sea of people in kilts and tartans, many drunk, a few belligerent, but most in a cheerful mood as they climbed onto Nelson’s monument, held up the Scottish flag and sang songs (I have great pics of this, but they’re not scanned yet). Then the police arrived in riot gear, and things turned ugly. By that point, the police had surrounded the square, and no one was allowed in or out, so I was trapped with them. A few of the belligerent ones started throwing beer bottles at the cops, and in return the police would occasionally rush the crowd in a line, hitting everyone they could. I didn’t run fast enough one of the times, and was barely hit in the back by one of their clubs. Not hard enough to do damage, but it did sting.

4. The song Summer Nights from Grease caused me to get into a car accident once. Aaron and I were dating at the time, and we really enjoyed singing duets from musicals while in the car for long drives. When this song came on, we both really got into singing the parts, and so right at the best part of the song (when all the background singers are singing along as well), neither of us noticed the car in front of us suddenly stop to turn left until it was too late. I hit the brakes as hard as I could, which prevented major damage, but we still hit the car with a solid thump. Thankfully, there was no visible damage, and insurance did not need to be notified.

5. The very first time I ever got drunk was not by choice. I was 16, and a friend was throwing a New Year’s Eve party, with her parents gone for the night. I had gone to the bathroom while she and my other friends were mixing up the punch, and so I didn’t see them pour all of the alcohol into the punch. Now, you should know at this point that I really like punch. So as I took a drink from the first glass of the night, I thought it tasted funny and asked them what was in it. They, of course, realized just then that I had never had alcohol before. “Have you ever had pineapple juice,” they asked. “No, not really,” I replied. They convinced me it was the pineapple and other tropical juices I was tasting, and I believed them.

Many, many glasses later, I was drunk, and seriously flirting with a guy over 4 years older than me. And I barely remember that night, save for the pictures everyone took. Nothing scandalous happened – my clothing remained on, and I only got one kiss from the guy, but it certainly took me out of my shy-girl shell. It’s one of only two times in my life when I’ve ever had so much alcohol I didn’t remember everything – the other time is a story for another day.

So, was that interesting enough to keep your attention?

Today is January 5, 2007. Here in Ohio, the normal high for today is 36 degrees F, and the normal low is 21 degrees F. Snow or ice is common at this time of year.

Today’s high? 61 degrees. The low? 52 degrees.

And it’s been like this for weeks. Two days before the New Year, I was driving around without a coat, with the windows down, basking in the sunshine. One day, the local news reported that the high for the day was higher than the daily high for Arizona.

The grass is greening again. The robins are either still here or back from the south, some plants are beginning to bud, and nature herself can’t figure out what season it is.

I have to keep rotating the same outfits in Cordy’s wardrobe because it’s too damn warm for her winter clothes. Had I know we were skipping winter entirely and going straight to spring, I might have bought her less sweaters and fleece pants and more light cottons.

I’m not saying I want a Colorado blizzard or anything, but how about something a little more, well, winter-like? I enjoy a little snow now and then (especially on days when I don’t have to drive in it), and wearing warm sweaters, wrapping up in blankets by the fire and drinking hot chocolate are all part of January to me. I grew up in this area, and this is the warmest year I can remember.

So for those who say there is no such thing as global warming, I say stuff it. I want my winter back.

Nothing like a stomach bug to start off the new year right. After 12 hours of vomiting, and 36 hours of gently convincing my stomach to keep food down and gradually climbing out of bed, the worst is over. I’m down 8 pounds after the whole ordeal (my maternity pants are suddenly falling off of me), which combined with the 3 pounds I’ve lost overall since becoming pregnant means I might be heading for a stern talking to by my OB this month.

Naturally, I hoped to wake up this morning feeling better, and I did, at least as far as my stomach is concerned. But I now seem to have developed a massive head cold overnight. So. not. fair.

Baby #2 seems to have weathered it all OK. I was a bit worried at first – I didn’t really feel any movement at all yesterday or the evening before, but today I felt a few twitches to let me know she’s still OK.

Any real thoughts on resolutions for the new year were pushed out of the way by ponderings of what I did to piss off the gods of health. If I were to come up with any resolutions, they would be to perform more random acts of kindness this year, and be a more upbeat person, all in an effort to refill my karma meter, which has clearly strayed into the red zone judging by what I’ve been dealing with lately.

In the meantime, I must work on breaking my dear, sweet toddler of her newest habit. She’s somehow picked up the word “help” and now, whenever we do something she doesn’t like (such as tell her “no”), she will cry out, “Help! Help!”

While harmlessly annoying at home, this new game is no fun at all when out in public. Like when we’re out shopping, and we walk past the toys without stopping to let her grab them, and she yells “Help! Help!” to everyone passing by.

Or imagine trying to order food at a drive-thru, while your toddler is drowning you out in the backseat, yelling, “Help! Help!” as if she’s being kidnapping. Yeah, that happened today. As I was driving home, I wondered if the drive-thru attendant was copying down my license plate to call the police on me. So if I disappear for a few days, know it was all Cordy’s fault for crying wolf.

Not too long ago, I lived my life like a little Pavlovian pup. My cell phone would ring and an editor would be on the other end of the line, telling me about a shooting at a local church, an Eric Rudolph arrest, a Terri Schiavo court battle, a family that lost their son in the Iraq War. “Can you get over there and find out what’s going on?” these editors would ask me. And I’d always say yes, all the while mentally preparing myself for how I’d drop what I was doing – the leisurely morning with the husband, the in-law visit, the plans with the girlfriends – and get myself into indispensable get-to-the-bottom-of-it mode.

Being pregnant with my first child did not stop me from carrying on like this. Seven and a half months along, I covered a story about a woman held hostage by a courthouse shooter. I drove two hours to Augusta – The soundtrack? My constantly ringing cell phone. – to cover a press conference where the onetime hostage asked the media to leave her alone. It was cold outside that night, and colleague of mine told me I shouldn’t even be there. “Why?” I barked at him, knowing what his answer would be. “I’m pregnant. I’m not dead.”

Or was I?

A month later my water broke at the end of a day when three news outlets called me about covering the story of a missing bride-to-be. Halfway through the calls, these editors realized I was “due to pop any day now” and decided not to send me out on the assignment. “Come on,” I said. “I’m not due for another two weeks. It’ll be fine.” They begged to differ. And before long, the phone stopped ringing altogether. Meanwhile, I was full of that terrible little feeling you got back in grade school when you weren’t picked for the kickball team; you want to be in the mix, but you’re forced to sit there and watch.

Though I didn’t know it at the time, these editors saved me from myself. Hours later, I was in a hospital gown, readying myself for the womb-cracking effects of the Pitocin that started dripping into my veins and for a life that probably wouldn’t resemble the one I knew before I walked through the hospital doors.

For the first time in years, it was time to turn my cell phone ringer off.

It has remained that way ever since, thanks to a little hazel-eyed bundle who helped me slow down and recognize that the most important call to answer was her own. These days, I don’t jump into action – and out of my own precious existence – every single solitary time the phone rings. Thanks to my daughter and husband, I’ve learned that it’s possible to be a good reporter and still tell an editor “No. I can’t work during the holiday. I’ll be spending it with my family and friends this year.”

Paige Bowers is an Atlanta-based freelance journalist whose work has appeared in The New York Times, TIME Magazine, People and Allure. But her proudest accomplishment is her 20-month-old, duck-loving daughter, Avery Lane. She blogs about life with this tough little boss at The Avery Lane Experience, which is where you can find Christina today. If you’re interested in participating in next month’s Blog Exchange, click here for more details.