The tough part about home birth

I have been looking around for a midwife so that I can have a PLANNED homebirth - as opposed to my first one. And now, more than halfway through this pregnancy, I'm still seeing my regular OB.

It seems it is much tougher to find one than I thought. I mean, the actual birth is supposed to be the challenging part, not finding the person to help me through it, right?

The first place I went, which gives you the option of birthing at their center or at your home, seemed okay. I was late to the appointment, but the midwife I met with was nice and informative, though I was aware I was on the clock (they also took my credit card number when I made the appointment, because I would be charged if I missed it).

Then I met with two women to talk to me about the cost. They explained how everything worked as far as pricing and my insurance coverage. There were two plans, and if I paid everything up front, I'd save $500.

"So which plan works best for you?"

Huh? I'm sorry, but was I buying a gym membership or new car or something? I just told her I wasn't going to be making any decisions at the moment (WHAT do I have to DO to get you in that CAR TODAY?!?!)and that I'd have to talk to my husband and think about it.

"Well, we only have one opening left in March, so you need to make your decision as soon as possible."

Right. So I went home and thought about it, and came to the conclusion that this is the last business that should be giving me the hard sell. Thanks, but no thanks.

The next midwife I called told me she'd love to work with me, but she was going out of town two days after my due date. She'd have back-up, but there was no guarantee she'd be there for the birth.

So today I called my doula, who delivered Sage, to vent. She told me that if I lived in San Diego or Northern California, I'd have no problem choosing from myriad midwives.

But the OC isn't quite so progressive. The one hospital that allowed midwife births closed their maternity ward earlier this year. There is an atmosphere of fear of alternative birthing here - frankly, not surprising given the redness of this county.

What's the opposite of viva la difference?

My doula told me not to give up, that something would work out.

Later in the day I spoke to another midwife, one my OB recommends. She is opening a birth center before the end of the year. So if I work with her, I'd have to deliver there. A scary proposition, given the speed with which Sage arrived. But better than a hospital birth, providing he doesn't pop out in the car on the way there.

Childbirth is surprising enough without the uncertainty that I'm delivering in the best possible atmosphere for me and my baby.

The search continues..

On a lighter note...

Every year we go to the OC version of a pumpkin patch, which is set up, shockingly, in the parking lot of a mall. They bring in straw and pumpkins and rides that cost $4 a pop (which is $8 when you have two kids. Poor #3 is going to have to panhandle if he wants to ride with his sibs).

We started going with our mom's group when Sawyer was 10 months old. We do a group picture every year, and I'm sure herding feral cats would be an easier task. It is fun, though, to look at the pics each year and see how much they've grown - along with their siblings.

This year's edition had 12 kids:


I guess we'll keep doing it until the kids decide it's not cool anymore to dress up in a costume and sit on a pumpkin. As if!

Other photographic highlights (and a shout-out to EllieBellieKids, who provided my butterfly princess' tutu):




A rare picture of me. Well, at least an eye and some teeth...



And finally, my attempt at being an artiste..

Prop H8

As many of you probably know, there is a proposition on next month's ballot that would overturn the legal right of gays to marry in California. Proponents of Proposition 8 have spent millions of dollars to convince you that, in order to PROTECT OUR CHILDREN, we must make sure that marriage stays a sacred rite between a man and a woman.

I mean, it could be TAUGHT IN SCHOOLS.



Apparently, it's better to explain that some people get to do something, but other people don't. Kind of like how women used to not have the right to vote. And blacks and whites couldn't intermarry.

Legislating hate and bigotry by hiding behind religious morals is the worst kind of blasphemy. I'm not Christian, but from what I gather, isn't there someone else who does the judging? I happen to believe that anyone can marry, regardless of gender. So why is it okay for someone else to put their beliefs on me? I think we call that a theocracy. And depsite the religious right's best efforts, this country is still a democracy. I'm astounded it's legal to deprive human beings of a basic right.

Some recent letters to the editor in the Orange County Register have made me physically ill:

I'm so tired of the No on Prop. 8 zealots calling for tolerance of gay marriage. Why can't they just tolerate what millions of people for thousands of years have defined as "marriage"? We've tolerated their agenda for the last 30 years and watched as they started by coming out of the closet, pushed for acceptance, pushed for changes in our laws and even our military to fit their agenda. They have forced changes in state laws to allow them to get all the rights that are afforded married couples, but all that is not enough. Now they can't tolerate traditional, moral people and their churches.

According to them we're all homophobic, bigoted, prejudiced and, of course, intolerant. They need to look in the mirror. The rest of us have been exceptionally tolerant of their lifestyles and choices, but enough is enough. "Marriage" is and always will be defined as being only between a man and a woman. Learn to tolerate that.

Jeff McPherson, Laguna Hills

Indeed! Of COURSE they should tolerate it, just like blacks should've tolerated having to drink out of the "colored" water fountain. How DARE they? That damn gay agenda. Who do they think they are?

On Nov. 4 we will see the people's power, not the judges' power. We must protect marriage for future generations to come, and not allow the word "marriage" to be cheapened by allowing same-sex marriages.

Lee Jay Meyers, Anaheim

Yes. Cheapened. As opposed to the union between heterosexuals, with a 50 percent failure rate.

I am thrilled that there are no "Vote Yes on 8" signs up on our street. Still, I feel like I want to go up to my married gay neighbors' house and apologize on behalf of the horrible people who populate this county.

The only thing I can really do is use my vote. Which I will. And when my kids are old enough to ask why their friend has two Mommys or why the nice guys with the awesome golden retriever up the street live together, it will be easy to answer.

"Love is love. Just like people, it comes in all shapes and sizes and colors. It knows no boundaries."

Unless, of course Prop 8 passes. Try explaining to your kids why THAT is okay.

The unfit pregnancy

This was going to be the one.

The third time around, I was going to be one of those women who ran 12 miles, uphill, in 95 degree heat, hours before giving birth. I would gain the minimum amount of weight. I would be back in my True Religions 27 minutes after delivery.

Basically, I would do what I hadn't done in my first two pregnancies: not come close to outweighing my husband.

Yes, in the span of two births less than two years apart, I gained 100 pounds.

Say that slowly. Onnnne Huuuuundred Pouuuuuuunds.

The good news is I lost it. All of it, and then some. The fact that I ran two marathons in the past year did help with the "and then some" part. And considering I ran San Diego Rock N Roll a month before getting knocked up, one would think I'd carry over that healthy living into this pregnancy.

One would be wrong.

First it was the fatigue, which slowed my pace. Then it was the bizarre nightmares that kept me up half the night, thereby making it impossible to make the 5 a.m. wakeup calls to go hit the pavement.

Next came the unrelenting nausea. I still worked out with my trainer for awhile, but then I realized I was just wasting money: any exertion made me have to sit down with my head between my knees and praying I didn't barf on the carpet. Then there was the morning someone was making cinnamon toast in the back room, which almost sent me running to fill the nearest wastebasket. I am still in mourning for my formerly awesome biceps that have slowly softened into mounds of soft-serve.

I did try to run on the treadmill once, but found that after already carrying two kids, those muscles that hold up your belly ain't what they used to be. All the bouncing was painful, to say nothing of my suddenly visible boobs that ached like someone was knifing them with each step.

I went through a phase of about a month where even thinking about water made me want to retch. So I drank Sprite morning, noon and night. Which is highly unusual, since I used to down 64 ounces of SmartWater a day (thankfully, I am off Sprite and back on water). But all those calories!

And as many of you moms know, when you feel nauseous, sometimes the only thing that makes you feel better is eating. So you do. Constantly. Not that your head is stuck in a half-gallon of Ben & Jerry's Coffee Heath Bar Crunch every night, but it's the small stuff: pretzels, goldfish crackers - anything carby - that add up. And up. And up.

The only thing that has happened recently to keep me from feeling like a complete blob is, when I went to get my amnio a few weeks ago, it actually hurt when they stuck the needle in - because I don't have any fat on my stomach. They also said I was easy to scan for the same reason.

So I guess I'm lucky they don't have to go through my ass (and no, not the poop chute, the cheeks) or my thighs. Because Lord knows, they'd still be trying to delve through mounds of fat.

The truth is, I believe in the total body pregnancy. Why let my stomach get all the glory? Why not spread it around? I like to be well balanced, so I figure I can let my butt grow exponentially.

Even at 20 weeks, women who didn't know me before will comment "You're pregnant?" if I happen to mention it. I'm all "Um, yeah, I don't normally walk around with a matching ass/belly set!"

Thankfully, the baby is perfectly healthy, despite my best efforts to drown him in mallowcreme pumpkins.

I do gaze longingly at my cute clothes. I am now into the stretchy-stuff only for non-maternity wear, and figure I will burn my black Lucy skirts after I lose this weight - unless they disintegrate before that.

Even seeing my running shorts make me nostalgic. I am aiming for the New York Marathon in 2010.

But first, I need to get through this marathon of pregnancy, delivery, recovery, sleepless nights, nursing, and - oh yeah - getting back into shape.

Until then...Popcorn, anyone?

Electra is Alive and Well

In our house, anyway.

I'm sure you're all familiar with the Electra complex. It's that lovely time when your baby, who was a total Mommy's girl, suddenly discovers Daddy. And then Mommy becomes Public Enemy #1.

Now it's all Daddy, all the time.

The other morning, I got her her milk. Then when David came downstairs, she said "Daddy? I want YOU to get me milk. Could you dump this out and get me milk?"

It's Daddy she calls for to get her out of her crib. When David was away for a few days, she said she didn't want me to get her out - she'd just wait for him to come back.

She only wants to cuddle with him. If she gets up, and David and I try to snuggle, she will scream and cry and push me out of the way. Then, when she is back in position, she will smirk at me.

It is Daddy who she tells me she's speaking to; Daddy who must pick her up when she cries; Daddy who seems to always say "yes" after Mommy has said "no."

I should be thankful that she allows only me to do her hair.

Now, when Daddy's not around, she will permit me to acknowledge her. I am asked to watch her dance or help her with a puzzle. We do have our one-on-one times when I actually enjoy being reminded of what an independent, spunky little girl she is.

I know I shouldn't take any of this personally. I want her to have a close relationship with her dad, who is an all-around good guy and great father. I try not to feel hurt when she wrinkles her nose at me like I just let out a big stinky fart.

According to Freud (and Jung) she will come back around to Mommy.

I know I'll be waiting with open arms.

A Race Like No Other Arrives!

So, as I mentioned before, my good friend Liz Robbins has written an amazing book about the New York Marathon. And now it's out on the shelves! You don't have to be a runner to enjoy the stories Liz weaves around one glorious day, but all you marathoners out there will be ready to sign up for the race like no other!

Here's the Amazon.com link. Also check out her new blog.

Anyway, great book by a great writer and an even better friend!

Is that a wink? A WINK?!?

People! What IS this?

I mean, is she just letting us know we're all in on the joke with her? Maybe SHE's just as aware as we are that her being on the ticket for the White House is ridiculous.

At least, I hope so. Because blogosphere, this is scary.

I still do not understand her popularity. "She's just like us." Really? I can name a gazillion ways she's NOT like us. For instance, most of the people I know can name a newspaper or magazine that they read, even if it's Parenting.

Women aren't threatened by her like they are of Hillary, who, by the way, has also been a working mom throughout her daughter's life. Palin has pretty hair and was a former beauty queen. No bright orange pantsuits or sensible shoes for her. Or an Ivy League law degree, for that matter.

They bristle when anyone questions Palin's priorities, as she has a pregnant teenage daughter and an infant with Down Syndrome - but they are fine with Palin wnting to legislate how we make the most private decisions in our own home, whether it's the right to choose, or to marry someone of the same gender.

It seems some want a candidate they can have a beer with or sit next to at their kid's soccer game. And while it's nice to have those people in our lives, I don't necessarily need to have them in charge of the largest superpower in the free world. But that's just me.

I want a candidate who is MUCH smarter than me. And frankly, I'm no dummy. But just because I've had a passport for more than 20 years (and no, Sarah, my parents didn't hand me a passport and a backpack after college and send me off to Europe. Some of us worked two jobs, just like you, and, in order to expand our horizons, made it overseas on our own) and live in a state that borders Mexico doesn't make me an expert in foreign policy. Hell, I used to live in South Florida, and Cuba is RIGHT THERE!

I want someone who has actually spent much of their time researching, exploring and thinking about our country and its place in the world, not someone who relies on folksy sayings, doggone it, or acts like "governing" a state smaller than the county I live in is the same as being a U.S. Senator.

That she isn't interested in the cause of global warming, just a way to fix it, is telling not only of a lack of basic understanding of the environment but an inability to go beneath the surface of an issue. And, perhaps just as egregious - a complete lack of curiousity.

What else would she like to fix without regard for the cause of the problem? The economy? Health care? Terrorism?

We can do better. We deserve better.

And we should be offended that John McCain doesn't think so.

FAL days

Tuesdays and Thursdays are my FAL days - as in, Free At Last!

Yes, for the first time in almost five years, I have a few hours to myself those two mornings while the kids are in school (unless they're home sick, like they were last week, and my husband is conveniently out of town, so it's AKATT - All Kids, All The Time. How the fuck do homeschool parents DO it??).

Let me tell you how my first FAL day went down. David walked Sawyer to pre-k and I took Sage to her preschool - yes, I have two kids going to schools in two towns at exactly the same time. I dropped her off, she shed not a tear, and I hustled back to my car, knocking over two mothers with their babies in strollers.

I got into the car. Shut the door, and let out a primal yell that sounded something like "AHAHAHAHA! AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!"

I then went to...wait for it...Target! I had to shop for Sage's birthday, which was the next day. I ran into the mother of one of Sawyer's former preschool classmates. She was there with her daughter and her 2 year-old son, who has some "issues" and basically screamed and yelled the entire time.

I did my happy dance right in her face. OH YES I DID!

Sorry that YOU'RE with your two crazy kids and I'm free to stroll around, filling my cart with such necessary items as a Hello Kitty Toothbrush and mallowcreme pumpkins without anyone demanding a new Transformer or a 5,000 piece puzzle.

SUCKAH!

Ahem. Anyway, it's not been all fun and games. I did get myself to the gym one time and jogged for 25 minutes. At a pace slower than my last two miles of my marathon. Today it was exchanging clothes at Old Navy and going to the grocery store.

I had more envisioned mornings of pedicures and Starbucks. But I've found there are too many errands to run and stuff to get done.

But you know, it's still early. I'm sure I'll figure out how to really make the time my own - probably right around the beginning of March, when No. 3 arrives and it starts al over again.

Yeah, hello?

Excuse me, Second Trimester?

I'm wondering if perhaps you didn't get the message that, at just about 15 weeks, I'm in your realm.

I know you're busy, gestating the creature and all that, but if you could spare a moment or two, it'd be sooooo great if you could possibly remember to give me that, you know, burst of energy? Because I'm still so exhausted I need a nap to recover from my nap. And I'm not clear that the Wild Cherry Pepsi I've been guzzling is really all that good for a developing fetus.

Also, and I don't mean to be a nag or anything, but I could REALLY do without the nausea, like the kind you dropped on me for the entire day of Sage's birthday party. Maybe it was your way of telling me to back away from the cupcakes. Next time, could you be a little more subtle?

I am really trying to get on board with this whole pregnancy thing. Frankly, it would be a whole lot easier if you would work with me.

Please?

I'll even promise to smile next time I tell someone I'm preggers.

Thanks for your attention to this matter.

Love,

Your Gracious Host

Speaking of three..

Somehow, my baby is 3. THREE!

Why does it seem so much older than, say, 2? If I'm kvelling now, just wait til Sawyer turns 5 in December. That's a WHOLE HAND.

Two was a such a huge year for Sage. She went from only a handful of words to singing long involved songs about ballerinas in the sky that she invents. She learned the potty is to pee and poop on, not a place to wash her dolls. Her hair grew long enough for pony tails - and now she doesn't even cry when I put them in.



She likes to read her own books. Pick out her own clothes. Play with the trains while everyone else is playing with the cars.

She also really loves to snuggle with Daddy, to the point of shoving me or shouting "Mommy, get out of the way!" And she especially likes to tell Daddy "You're my honeybear, right Daddy? NOT Mommy!"



There were no tears when I dropped her off for her first day of preschool this summer - that is, not until the class was over. "I miss Mommy," she told her teacher. For the first few classes, she would tear up and look for me. But now she heads off like a champ. "I didn't even cry, Mommy!" she told me proudly Tuesday.

Tap and ballet class is her new passion (even more than Hello Kitty!). She smiles the whole time, like the teacher is holding a great big pink frosted cupcake in front of her. She's just waiting to be a "yittle bit bigger" so that she can play soccer like her big brother.

For now, I am very proud that she dances to her own beat.




Happy birthday, Sweet Loo. I love you.

The Best Things in Life are Three. Right?

I thought I was in perimenopause. I really did. I googled. I read. I matched symptoms.

I mean, really, what else could it be?

This is what I told my friend on the phone over 4th of July weekend. Maybe I also mentioned that I had a tough time getting through my 8 miler a few days before, and that a three miler almost killed me that morning.

I'm sure I told her I was six days late, but after being five days late the month before, surely this meant I was, you know, getting old?

That's when she suggested the P word to me. I believe I said something profound in return, possibly Fuck Off.

But I did drive down the street to the store to pick up a pregnancy test. The kind that says Pregnant or Not Pregnant. I waited until Sage was down for her nap and David took Sawyer to the park to learn to ride his bike without training wheels.

Who knew I'd be the one unable to keep my balance.

I peed. I laughed to myself. Then I looked at the stick.

Pregnant.

GAAH! Yes. That was my exact word.

No more denial. I was almost six weeks pregnant. With my third.

I had to sit down. This was not supposed to happen. I mean, I know HOW it happened, but the timing...let's just say it didn't seem possible. But there I was.

Happy? Not at all. I was in, possibly, the best shape of my life. I had just run my second marathon the month before. I was going to run my third in December.

I turn 40 soon after that race. I was going to enter the next decade strong and fit and ready to go back to the Cayman Islands for a little child-free R&R with David to celebrate.

That was my vision.

So let's just say it's taking me awhile to wrap my head around the change in plans.

Everything was turned upside down.

Sawyer and Sage are finally at the age where they don't need me so much. They play together. They can get dressed. They're potty trained.

I'm SO done with the baby phase. I had no interest in entering it again.

Then there's the issue of logistics. Where would we put the baby in our tiny house? We'd already outgrown it with the four of us. How would we afford another college tuition? Forget retirement. David will be 62 when this kid is 18.

It just didn't seem real. Soon the relentless nausea and fatigue set in. As did the worry; once you've had a miscarriage, you never really feel comfortable that the pregnancy will stick.

I went in for an ultrasound a couple days after the positive test and, to my surprise, saw a strong, fast heartbeat.

The weeks went on. My training partners started to increase their distances. I couldn't keep up. I watched them, through tears, as they ran ahead of me, til they were out of sight. Soon, they decided to run near their homes. I haven't run since.

A big part of my life for the past couple years, the thing that had finally made me feel like more than "just a mom," had ended.

Now what?

A couple weeks ago I took the kids with my to my 12-week checkup. I had just told them that I had a baby in my tummy. They were beyond excited. So we went, and their eyes widened when they heard that distinctive "wockawockawocka" of the heartbeat.

They have been astonishingly sweet. Sage kisses my belly and, when she fell off our bed the other day, she cried and fearfully asked "Did I scare the baby?" Sawyer talks to it and asks if he can hold the baby when it's born.

He also asked whether my stomach would crack in half for the baby to come out. Imagine his expression when I told him exactly frow where it would enter the world.

So I will live though their wonder. I will remember that the creation of life is a miracle and a blessing. I will remind myself that soon we will not be able to imagine our family without No. 3.

Another journey. Not the one I had planned, but sometimes, those are the best trips of all.

Knock knock knock

Hello, old friend. It's been awhile. So long, in fact, that I didn't even remember the password. Do you remember me? It's probably a bit fuzzy for you. I'm the one who fills your blogoshperic pages with my esoteric ramblings, my literary prose - or, more accurately, my babblings and pictures of my kids.

Right.

Well, I'm back. I hope. I had to take a brief hiatus, all of which will be explained shortly. I just need a little more time to ponder.

Thanks to everyone who emailed/twittered/etc. I am okay. Mostly. And I look forward to posting more regularly. I have so much to tell you all!

Stay tuned...

Danielle's Story

This is an absolutely amazing story that appeared in the St. Petersburg Times. That this can happen in this country in this day and age is profoundly disturbing. But in the end, it is heartwarming to know that people like the ones who adopted this little girl also exist.

The video, slide shows and audio are also an excellent example of multi-media journalism.

Danielle's story

It's All Good

Thank you

A very heartfelt thanks to all of you who reached out through the blogosphere to embrace me yesterday.

I've only met a few of you in person so it's amazing so many of you took time out of your day to share a few words of encouragement and compassion with me.

Thank you, thank you, thank you.

It means more than you can know.

One Year

And, suddenly, here it is.

One year.

My father died one year ago today, in a haze of morphine and Frank Sinatra music.

Does this passage of time, then, put the acceptance stamp on it? Does it make it more real, that my father is, truly, gone?

No. Because grief is not measured in an orderly number of days. There are times when it seems he's been away for a long, long time. Then there are those moments when the thought of not seeing him again is astonishingly shocking.

The sadness I feel is not just for me. It is for my mom, who will not grow older with the man she spent over 49 years. It is for my children, too. What joy he would've taken in watching a parents' sweetest revenge: my having to raise a child who is, in essence, a stubborn, opinionated mini-me.

And the anger. Yes, I am angry with him, for not taking care of himself so he could be around for my mother, for my brother, sister and me, and for his four grandchildren.

That has not dissipated. Don't know if it ever will.

But today, I just want to remember the larger-than-life red-head with the raucous laugh. The guy who would come home from work and throw sky-high pop-ups with a tennis ball for me to catch.

The one who smelled of Kent cigarettes and Old Spice.

That is our perogative, the ones left behind. We choose what we want to remember, how we want to remember.

Today, I just think of this tremendous loss.

Miss you, Dad.

Checked Out

I had some time to kill before I went to physical therapy today, so I was lured by the siren song decided to go to Target.

I picked up all those must-have, can't-live-without items like Kashi Honey Sesame crackers and a six-pack of glue sticks and got into the checkout line. There was one woman in front of me and an ancient checker behind the register.

I've seen him before and he's a cute old Asian guy so I don't mind that he's not as speedy as some of the others. Turns out, he was the least of my problems.

The woman, after putting all her stuff in her cart, decides to write a check.

That's right. A CHECK.

Who the heck writes a check anymore? According to WalletPop, the personal check is one of the top 25 things that are fading out in our country, right along with outdoor plumbing and dial-up.

It's pretty obvious why. First she had to scramble around in her ginormous purse to find a pen. Why she wasn't filling out the check while the guy was ringing up her stuff I do not know. Anyway, the pen doesn't really work, but she's gamely making a go at it.

Meanwhile, I'm tapping my fingers, rolling my eyes and snapping my gum like a high schooler waiting for a homeroom pass. Okay, maybe not quite THAT obvious, but that's what my thought bubble was doing

Then she has to fish out her license. Luckily, the cash register now reads the license, unlike back in the day when I worked retail and had to meticulously print out the drivers license number and expiration on the check, AND ask for a phone number if it wasn't already printed on it.

Finally, after I read in TV Guide how Viki is dead AND in Star how Cher is married and signed a $600 million prenup AND sampled some cherry and mango Tic Tacs AND texted the Gettysburg Address to seven friends, it was my turn.

In went the credit card. Out it came. Done.

See, lady? I wanted to say. But I couldn't. She was out in the parking lot, using her door key to unlock her car before manually unrolling the windows.

The Itsy, bitsy...AAAACK!

For the past few weeks, we've had this very cool spider living on the outside frame of our garage door. He built a nice funnel-like web, where he chilled during the day and came out a little at sunset.

We've never seen a spider like him before. He's brown, almost tan. We saw an orange hourglass on the bottom of his abdomen, but since he wasn't black, we knew he isn't a black widow. And he has this really cool tiling on his top.

Every time we pull into the driveway, there he is. The kids like to check on him, especially because Sawyer is way into spiders.

Then last weekend, he was gone. Just like that. I was actually kinda sad. Our own little nature study was gone. And then, two days later, he was back, like a sailor returning from a wild time on shore leave.

So today, I decided to once again search the internet to see if I could identify him.

GAH!

What we have here, folks, is a brown widow spider. The picture above is not our actual spider; it's one I found on the Web. They are reportedly MORE venomous than their cousins, the black widow, but are not aggressive. Their bites are more localized so you don't drop dead. But they do hurt.

So, when the kids and I went to the aquarium this morning, David went out in full battle gear. Actually, he just had a can of Raid.

Poor spider. Or should I say, poor dead spider.

I felt bad, but having a venomous spider in easy reach of my family was, you know, not so cool. And I'd never give a second thought to smushing it with the closest availabe shoe if it was in my house.

But there he was, minding his own business, just being his bad brown widow self. He was simply in the wrong place, wrong time.

Location, location, location!

Trouble with a T

Training wheels are for babies!

Wait. Didn't he just learn to pedal his tricycle five minutes ago?

Another rite of passage for my little guy, another addition to the line that separates Baby from Kid.

Sunday, while Sage napped, David took Sawyer to the park with our neighbor and his twin sons (known as The Boys). David and The Boys' dad apparently got a wild hair to take the training wheels off the bikes.

I did not think this was going to go well. Sawyer, bless his heart, isn't the most coordinated child. In a lot of ways, he's physically timid. He was the last of his friends to climb or go down a slide by himself (although he rules in the pool). He told me he didn't go after the ball in soccer because he was afraid of getting kicked.

So riding a bike without training wheels? The same bike we got him for Christmas that he didn't even ride until about two months ago?

I'm sitting at home, and David calls. He puts Sawyer on the phone, and I hear "MOMMY!I'MRIDINGMYBIKEWITHOUTTRAININGWHEELSALLAROUNDTHEPARK17TIMES!" Rainbows and unicorns and cupcakes burst from his voice.

I have never heard him so excited - and so proud of himself. David said it took him 15 minutes, with the requisite tears and vows never to get on the bike again, before Sawyer just got it.

Who doesn't remember that exact glorious moment when you pedal pedal pedal and you're going and you don't notice that your Dad is no longer running along side you holding your seat.

You are, suddenly, flying. You are all motion and laughter and deliciously, gloriously free.

Then you freak out, and in my case, forget how to use the brakes. I got my tire caught in the sewer grate and did a beautiful front flip over the handlebars and onto the ground.

The best part is, I got back on. And so did Sawyer, even after crashing into the back of a car yesterday in our culdesac.

Riding a bike is a lifelong skill. If you can ride a bike, then you always can. It also gives me a glimpse into the future, of him taking off as he bikes to school or a friend's house.

With me just watching him
pedal
pedal
pedal
away from me.