Seems pretty harmless, huh? Some might say adorable. Cute. Cuddly. A miracle.

Well, she is. And the picture tells the story of how my little daughter's got me completely wrapped around her tiny, slobbery finger.

But what this "awwww"-inducing piece of photography doesn't show is that she is a terror. Not that she's a bad baby. There's a delightful laziness to her (meaning she's not afraid of a little sleep), and from what I've heard, this kid is pretty low-maintenance by baby-standards...

Keeping in mind that "baby-standards" are absurdly high. I'm exhausted. Previously, exhaustion meant that rest ensued. Refueling and recharging to tackle life's next challenge. But this one needs constant monitoring. Extremely tired? Well, suck it up, because it's time to entertain the li'l critter so mom can get some rest (who's been with her all day).

Factor in a full, soul-shattering day at the office, a bruising Atlanta commute, and the last thing that is on one's mind is sitting down between the hours of 11 PM and 2 AM and putting together blog posts, interacting on Twitter, reading the efforts of other bloggers, and promoting one's self and said bloggers on Facebook.

More likely, it's "catch some damn sleep- or sleep equivalent- while you can, because Life isn't gonna slow down tomorrow for you to nap."

Not surprisingly, drinking wine- which so happens to be a bit critical in formulating good content on a wine blog- is not what it used to be either. Ever thought, "I'm gonna knock back a few bottles, then go juggle a nuclear device in my hands"? Granted, binge-drinking is not so much an issue (the party days have slowed down), but being able to relax with a glass and really immerse in the experience is somewhat hamstrung by a squeak, a belch, a fart, or one of the hundreds of other [admittedly, awesome] bodily functions coming out of a baby. Wine becomes less of an experience, and more of a reward for doing battle with the most unlikely of adversaries.

Fortunately, those who are grizzled veterans of that battle generously come to aide at times. Understanding the demands on schedule, an occasional meal shows up in the hands of compassionate neighbors, family, and friends. The extremely compassionate (and handsome and food-savvy, I might add) supply wine as well. Most recently, some terrific neighbors delivered the ultimate comfort: a pan of homemade baked ziti and a bottle of Chianti. From what I gather (being neither Italian, nor having traveled there), the meal to the Italian is the apex expression of love. Simple, honest, and made with care. I can't think of anything more appropriate than a plate of pasta and the rustic goodness of the sangiovese grape to complement the meal. In fact, wine on the Italian table is as essential as salt, plates, or even the food itself (or, as one Italian winemaker once told me, "wine is a condiment"). And when the last thing on one's mind is preparing a meal and cleaning up after it, such a gesture- a hot meal with an appropriate "condiment"- is such a boost for the weary parent.

With that in mind, as we try to figure out our dramatic change in Life, it's tremendously humbling to know we're in others' thoughts. Here's to great friends, a beautiful family, a full belly, and an empty glass...

...hmm, better fill up that glass. The kid is starting to get cranky.

The writers' charge (as dictated by Rob Bralow of Wine Post): summon one's muse. Let inspiration and contemplation guide one's pen, not the pursuits of brevity, efficiency, and urgency. And the object of such carefully-crafted discourse? Wine; yet, not just any wine: one perhaps as elusive as that cursed muse himself. The bottle that has caught one's eye; one's desire; but not one's taste, touch, or smell. A cask worthy of such lofty lexicon.

At my task's infancy, one revered name leapt to life immediately, as if that rascally muse's frolic had already commenced. The Greatest wine of Northern Italy, the unrivaled champion of the Piemonte region, had too long evaded my grasp; it's lavish pedigree too distant for my pauper's billfold. But- alas!- it rested in my careful hands, under calculated strain of the corkscrew: a bottle of 2004 Rivata Barolo. Nebbiolo-based wines had crossed my lips before, even the heralded offerings from Barbaresco. But Barolo...just the utterance of the term commands reverence.

With glass' stem tended carefully in my eager hand, I probed the welcoming bowl of ruby-hued elixir with snout. Pleasure oft unmatched met my senses; a vibrant, elegant bouquet flush with plump red cherries, bright strawberries, tart cranberries, and pronounced flourish of rose petals. As the perfumed nose further danced upon my olfactory receptors, I detected tantalizing undertones of black licorice, malty caramel, milk chocolate, toffee, and roofing pitch. Even the slightest hints of toast and herbs manifested themselves, if only a figment of my now-inspired imagination.

Spending what seemed like hours enveloped in the wine's luxurious aroma, my lips, tongue, mouth, and gullet groaned in protest. Consumption could be parried no longer, despite nose's selfish intentions. And on to my thankful mouth, who's patience was rewarded with an initial shock of tartness, folding itself into intense flavors of the aforementioned berries: this time, raspberries, cranberries, and strawberries. The velvety mouth-full of tangy fruit soon transformed itself into a powerful blast of peppery spice, eventually fading into a bitter, dark chocolate-y finish, as the wine's substantial (but impressively interwoven) tannins captured my now fully-submissive senses...

...senses left wanting more. For as swiftly as the onslaught to the pleasure centers of my brain began, like a symphony, a soliloquy, or a setting sun, it was all soon but a forgotten memory. Once within my grateful possession, the source of my muse's call has escaped me. How to put into words what is no longer present?

Eureka! Another glass awaits. Another symphony. Another soliloquy. Another stroke towards inspiration's sly reward.

...

...

...damn, that was hard.