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.

Middle-aged Mom, my butt!!

Dara Torres is going to her fifth Olympics. Her fifth. No U.S. swimmer has ever done that. Think about it. Since she didn't compete in the last Olympics, it's a span of 24 years - she won the first of her nine medals in 1984.

Now she's 41. Her adorable, curly-haired two year-old daughter, Tessa, watched from the stands the other night, a lollypop twirling in her mouth, as her Mommy won the 100m freestyle.

Making the Olympic team completely blows out of the water the notion that women of a certain age must put aside their dreams because of a number. With killer abs and a long, lean body, Torres seems timeless.

The rumblings of steroid use that swirl around her are laughable. She's already been through that noise in her last Olympics, the 2000 Games in Sydney, when she won two golds and three bronzes - at the ripe old age of 33.

She was more than irritated. She decided to volunteer for extra drug testing, performed with the latest technology.

What pisses me off about the accusations is I think about all the hours she spends training: swimming lap after endless lap, lifting weights in the gym - all that time working out is time lost with her daughter, time she can never get back. Why would she do all that just to cheat?

Torres is already uncomfortable imagining life without Tessa for a month while she's in Beijing. Does this sound like someone who's on drugs?

She already has the glory. To take steroids to get back for one more go-around is ridiculous. She has nothing left to prove.

Torres' story reminds me of another Olympic hopeful. Aeron Arlin Genet runs Running Divas, which sells really cute running-related clothing. She sells her stuff at some of the big marathon events. I saw her at the expo for the San Diego Marathon. You might remember a certain purchase we made there:


Anyway, I asked her about her training. She was in the process of trying to qualify for the Olympic Trials in the 1,500 meters (the mile). We're talking somewhere below 4:30. Yes, that's under 4 minutes, 30 seconds for a mile. Try that at home, people!

She was shy by just a few seconds. She had a slight injury, but hoped she had enough to make it.

Did I mention that she's 40? She told me that she never imagined it'd be possible for her to still be competing at her age - against women half her age. I was in awe.

I checked her new blog recently, and unfortunately, she fell short of the mark and didn't qualify. But I loved how she said that she doesn't feel done. Not at all.

We don't lose our love of the rush. The desire is still there to push ourselves further than we thought possible. Even if we are not Olympic-caliber, we are out there, seeing how far or how fast or how long we can go. And we are stunned when it is farther, faster and longer than we ever thought possible.

Our bodies may be more beat up than they would've been 20 years ago. Maybe, like Torres said, we need bigger numbers on the scoreboard or timer to see them. Our eyes may be weaker, but not our hearts.

We are not our mothers' 40. We are our own. This is our time. And I pray that when Sage is my age, she sees not limitations, but expectations.

Today, Dara Torres set an American record in the 50m freestyle. I know I will be rooting hard for her next month - cheering for her, and for all of us "middle-aged" moms.

Hands off!

So you're driving, and some moron is swerving around in front of you. Slow down. Speed up. Slow down. Then s/he veers into your lane, completely cutting you off. Profanities (yours) fly in the air around you. And since it's before noon you figure s/he is sober, so there's just one other possibility.

That's right. The cellphone. Driving while chatting is especially challenging for those who are holding the phone with one hand and gesturing wildly with the other. Yet, those are always the people who are right in front of me.

Yes, yes, I also have been guilty of talking while driving. Sometimes it's the only chance I have to talk to anybody over the age of 4 1/2. Or maybe I'm just calling to check the timing of a playdate or whatever.

There was this one particular time when I was trying to call the editor of a freelance piece I was doing. I was using a Trio, which I'd just gotten, and I had no clue how it worked. I might have sailed through a red light - when the car in the other direction had a green left turn arrow. Luckily, he stopped, and I swerved and somehow missed slamming into a minivan. Scared the bejeebus out of me.

Anyway, this is no longer a problem. Why? Well, yeah, I got rid of the Trio. But California, as of July 1st, has made it illegal to talk on a handheld cell phone while driving.

And they aren't joking. Police are handing out tickets faster than you can say, "But, but, officer!"

No excuses. So when Cindy called me just before 6:30 on Friday morning, as I was on my way to meet her and Torrey for my run, I hit speaker phone and shouted "What, are you trying to get me arrested?"

Thing is, I don't get the whole bluetooth thing. Despite David's best efforts, I can't figure out how to work it. What do I push? How do I do it? I'm more distracted trying to flail at my ear than I ever was holding the stupid phone!

But apparently, this hands-free ordinance is a good one. According to scientists at Carnegie Mellon University, listening to a conversation while driving reduces the amount of brain activity associated with driving by 37 percent (okay, but wait. Are they also including listening to small children while driving? Because I have to say, acknowledging every make of car on the road that Sawyer can point out - "Look, Mommy, a BMW! Did you see it? Did you? Oh! There's a Lexus. Mommy! Did you see it?" - while Sage is singing Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star at the top of her apparently opera-singer sized lungs from the back seat isn't exactly conducive of concentration. Just sayin'.).

You watch drivers now, and they're all sporting some sort of device hanging out of their ear, like some sort of weird tribal marking. Or maybe a gang tag.

Now I have to figure out what to do with my suddenly liberated hand. Cause, you know, keeping two hands on the steering wheel is so Driver's Ed!

I guess the next time some cellphone-holding, law-flouting crazy cuts me off, it'll be no effort at all to reward him with a hearty, unencumbered one-fingered salute.

Endless summer

It's, what, early July, and I'm already over it?

Yes, people, I'm done with summer. It's not the heat (it's the humidity! badum-bum) that's getting to me. Or even the strange July Gloom that's starting to ruin trips to the beach.

I'm just, well, bored. I've got both kids full-time, which I haven't had in a year. Last summer, Sawyer spent six weeks going twice a week to preschool. This summer, he's not.

The mornings are semi-full of swimming lessons for Sage, trips to the pool, the beach club here in town (it's a pool, but it's walk-in and it's ringed in sand. The problem is they don't clean it nearly enough - twice a day would be perfect, not twice a week - and the ducks like to use it as their own personal litter box), and, fog permitting, the beach.

Meanwhile, I'm trying to fit in all my working out/training into the early morning hours, so after spending the rest of the morning out in the sun, all I want to do is take a nap. Unfortunately, Sawyer wants me to read him 713 books.

I'm a zombie by dinner. I actually fell asleep in Sawyer's bed last night after tucking him in.

I wish I was one of those moms like Melissa, who always seems to be doing fun/crafty things with her kids. I can never think of any projects that don't involve me someone getting frustrated and crying.

One thing I'm considering having them pick tufts of hair out of our shedding dogs and teaching them how to weave them into hats for the winter. Do you see what I'm talking about? Desperation!

I need a summer makeover. My poor kids, stuck with Boring Mommy. I mean, they always are, but I'm more exposed when I have to come up with something every day. EVERY DAY these kids want to, like, do stuff! The nerve.

I would love to hear what fun stuff you all are doing. Get me out of my rut, before I suck my kids into my vortex of ennui!

And for the best idea, I will send you your own dog fur hat!

ETA: Okay, upon further ponderance, I appear to be a self-indulgent, unappreciative simp who should be thanking my lucky stars that I'm able to stay home and have all this time with my kids. So in a small caveat, I must say that I AM extremely thankful.

Like, knock it, like, off!

My son is a talker. He will talk to anyone. About anything. It does not matter if you aren't talking to him. Ask Sage a question and Sawyer will fill you in.

He's always been verbally advanced, speaking in complex sentences before the age of 2. It's his talent.

But lately I've noticed something sneaking into his speech. I'm not clear how this happened. I don't do it. And we don't live THAT close to the Valley.

Here is an example of what he says:

"Mommy? Remember, when, I was, like, 3 1/2, and like, I, like, went, like, on an airplane?"

Ugh. He's already talking teenager at 4 1/2. I told you he was advanced!

What to do? At the moment I am sticking my fingers in my ears and shouting "LALALALA" so I can't hear it. Just kidding. But that's what I feel like doing. Actually, I'm just hoping if I ignore it it'll go away. Hasn't worked yet with the cellulite on my legs, but you never know.

I guess I should be thankful he's not yet inserting "dude" into every sentence, or various permutations of the word "fuck."

I'm sure he's just saving something for later.

In Self Defense

We have a rule in our house, courtesy of local parenting columnist/author Sandy McDaniel: You hit, you sit.

Meaning, if Sawyer or Sage hit me, David, each other or the dogs, the offender has to sit immediately in time out. No warnings.

But now that Sawyer is 4 1/2, and, being a social little creature, is frequently playing with other kids, I am starting to wonder about that rule.

Because it seems to me that there are times he should be able to whack someone. Okay. There. I said it.

If someone hits him, at some point, he's going to have to hit them back or risk getting the bejeezus beat out of him by some idiot bully. Problem is, how do you explain this?

"See, it's okay to hit if the other boy is being an fuckwad and he hits you first, because you have to defend yourself. However, make sure you don't get caught, because usually the teacher/parent/coach only sees the retaliatory shot. Oh, and it's never okay to hit your sister, or a smaller kid, even if they are being a colossal pain in the ass."

Right.

I have told Sawyer that if someone hits him, he needs to walk away and tell me. Today we met a friend of mine and her two kids at the Beach Club. Her son, N, is 3 1/2, and her daughter, O, is 17 months. I think the kids were getting a bit grumpy by the time we left, and Sawyer and N started to squabble. And N kept poking/hitting at Sawyer.

To his credit, Sawyer told him to stop, but N didn't listen. So Sawyer walked away. Completely appropriate behavior. But there was a little part of me that wanted to see him swat the kid. I know, I know. It's just that sometimes I want to see a little fire in my boy.

He used to be so startled, as a young toddler, when a bigger kid would push him or grab his shovel or knock him over the head with a truck. He never fought back and I was worried about his easy-going temperment. At some point, I wondered if he would snap.

He never did. That is not to say that he doesn't engage in some toy-grabbing (especially from his sister) and other "physical" behavior now. He absolutely does.

The other day at the beach my friend's usually mild-mannered guy decided that Sawyer was talking too much and so he kicked him. Hard. Now, I know how that kid feels, because there are times when I desperately need Sawyer to SHUT UP. Still. Sawyer actually was hurt. And my poor friend was mortified.

She apologized again later, hoping none of us would think her child was a brute. We don't. He's a great little kid.

Nobody wants their child to be a bully, or to grow into some chest-thumping he-man who talks with his fists. But it did make me wonder when we might need to bend the rules. For self defense, and defense of Self.

At Last, Sex and the City

Yes, I realize the movie has been out for awhile. My training partners and I were supposed to see it the day before the marathon, but we were, like, busy shopping getting mentally prepared for the big day.

So my mom's group (well, it's not REALLY a mom's group, in that we don't pay dues and we have spontaneous rather than scheduled heavy drinking sessions playdates. We're just six or so women who met when our kids were 7-8 weeks old in a support group for new moms, and we've remained friends) had a night out.

Five of us met at the theater. And because we didn't have our kids with us, we actually got to wear our Big Girl clothes (ie heels, shirts without goldfish crumb handprints on the shoulder, etc). We weren't the only ones. We chose our seats, and a moment later, a group of women in cute outfits filled the entire row in front of us.

The TV series of Sex and the City was, ultimately, about women bonding, and it was reflected in the crowd. I believe there was one manfriend. I'm guessing either 1) he'd been a very bad boy or 2) he was going to be richly rewarded for sitting through it, although there were lots of naked boobies to be gawked at.

I wasn't a huge fan of the show when it was on. I mean, I liked it, but I didn't DIE over it. I don't own the complete DVD set or watch it in reruns on TBS.

But when the movie came out, I was interested in seeing it. And I'm glad I did.

Honestly, it was really funny. Too long, but definitely entertaining.

This will NOT ruin for any of you who have yet to see it, but there is one part where Miranda (Cynthia Nixon's character) is complaining about those annoying moms who stay home all day and don't, you know, work. We all looked at each other and were all, "That would be us. Thanks!"

I'm the only one of our group who has actually lived in the City, for about a year and a half in the early 90s. And of COURSE I wore fabulous designer clothes and $500 Manolos and went to the hottest bars and had lots and lots of wild sex.

Yeah, right. I made, what, $32,000 a year and hung out at dive bars, drinking kamakaze shots with beer chasers. I had a boyfriend who lived in out of state, but when that didn't work out, there might have been just one ill-advised tussle (one great thing about NYC, a condom is just a quick run down the stairs to the corner bodega at 3 a.m.).

Thing is, New York is really the best place on the planet. But it's even better if you actually have money, like the characters in SATC.

In the end, though, it's not about the shoes or the killer apartments or even Carrie's crazy argyle legwarmers (what was she thinking??).

It's about having amazing girlfriends. No matter where you live.

Road To Roubaix

Yes, people, another shameless plug. The husband of my friend JenC, loyal reader and poster of SpecialSauce, has made a documentary film. Which is impressive in itself, because, other than, you know, videos of our kids pouring spaghetti over their heads and singing the alphabet song, what have WE done?

Anyway, Dave did his film on this super-crazy bicycle race in France called the Paris-Roubaix. There are like all kinds of spectacular crashes and stuff. The best part is HOT GUYS!

Okay, maybe not the BEST part, but certainly an added bonus!

Check out a clip and see what it's all about. It's VERY cool.

And Jen, you may now deposit the sum of $100 into my paypal account. (I'm kidding, people! It's $150!)

Retail Therapy

If you love to shop and, like me, you have little kids, your body automatically veers into every childrens store you pass. You spend more time in Gymboree and Janie & Jack and Hanna Andersson than you do at, say, Banana Republic or the Gap (for grownups, that is).

Your daughter has a more varied and fashionable wardrobe than you do.

But once in awhile, like a dieter who's off sugar for too long, you have to splurge. You just do.

And so I did.

Now that Sawyer is really swimming, and Sage no longer has a fear of the water and wants to be in it constantly, I realized I needed a new bathing suit. I might have also realized this last year too, but luckily the summer went by fast enough for me to postpone my Least Favorite Shopping Ever.

Really, is there anything worse than bathing suit shopping? This is why the last nice bathing suit I bought was right before Sawyer turned a year old and we were going to Hawaii. I rewarded myself for finally losing all the baby weight.

If you're doing the math at home, that would be almost four years ago. Because we're not counting the skirtini I bought two years ago. It served it's purpose, but it's tired, the poor thing.

I now wear the skirt with the bikini top from Hawaii - or the one I got for my honeymoon, which was only almost seven years ago. I'm just not interested in wearing the string bikini bottoms at the moment. Too many things hanging out, especially when chasing little kids, and anyway, who has time for a bikini wax?

I should also mention the skirt is two sizes too big. So when it gets wet, it stre-e-e-e-e-tches. Not a good look.

There is nothing worse - and when I say nothing I mean it, readers - than trying on bathing suits. I do not need those flourescent lights to help point out every pocket of cheese that grows on my legs like their own country.

Luckily, the only injury I've incurred in a dressing room was to my pride. I've never had, say, an embellishment pop off and practically blind me, like that woman trying on a thong at Victoria Secret. Have you heard about this? A 52 year-old woman is suing VS because she claims she has permanent corneal damage after a sequin or something flew off the thong and hit her in the eye.

This leads me to two questions: 1) Who the hell tries on a thong? The ick factor is immeasurable and 2) How tight was she trying to stretch this thong so that the decoration was ejected with such force?

But hey. It could happen to anyone. So I decided the internet was clearly much safer. I get the Athleta catalogue and love the way the stuff looks. Then again, I'm looking at it on the most fit models ever. I would sell one of my children to have abs like these women. Okay, maybe not sell them, possibly just exchange them for merchandise.

I called them to ask about sizing, and spoke to a wonderful woman who totally guided me.

And this is what I got:




The woman assured me the top was beautiful in person and that it would look great with the shorts.

So, you know, while I was on the phone, and since she was being so helpful, I kinda accidentally bought two dresses. With the intent of returning one.




I'm running with the girls tomorrow morning, then will start with my new trainer Monday. So hopefully soon I'll be rockin' my new duds - just like those Athleta models.

Hey, a girl can dream!

No Place Like Home

There I was, a day after giving birth to my daughter, wearing the highly fashionable hospital robe with my boobs hanging out. I had just, finally, finally, attached said baby to aforementioned boobs - when in walks a man I did not know, telling me it was time to take blood from Sage's foot.

I did not tell him where he could stick his needle. Instead, I told him it wasn't going to happen and he'd have to come back. On the 12th of Never.

It reinforced to me that hospital births are incredibly invasive. There are people in and out of your room all the time. Sometimes, they come bearing the good stuff like pain meds. Most of the time, they're just a pain.

Which is why I read with interest the backlash against Ricki Lake and her documentary, the Business of Being Born. I have not seen the movie yet (but I've wanted to for a while!). The film shows the water birth of her second son in her Manhattan apartment.

Apparently, the American College of Obstetricians and Gynecologists is pissed. They released a statement that says the home is not the safest setting for having a baby. And, along with the American Medical Association, resolve to support state legislation "that helps ensure safe deliveries and healthy babies by acknowledging that the safest setting" is a hospital, connected birthing center or other approved facility.

Really? Not safe to have home births?

Some of you may remember that Sage was actually born at home. I was in labor denial and ended up with an unplanned home birth right on my living room couch.

The experience was the most amazing of my life. I'd had a very difficult delivery with Sawyer, including an epidural that entirely cut off feeling from the waist down. I had the Nurse from Hell who thought shouting at me was helpful. I had an episiotomy.

But with Sage... Amazing. Even though she was sunny-side up, the delivery was so, well natural. I have a feeling that, had I been in the hospital and not allowed to labor the way I wanted, they would've tried to give me a C-Section (I did go to the hospital after the birth).

Now, had I been high-risk, or attempting a VBAC, or if I knew something was wrong with the baby, it'd be an entirely different story. But a healthy woman with a normal pregnancy?

Obviously we are not capable of doing the most natural thing on the planet without a bright light illuminating our crotch like the Vegas strip and a nurse telling us to HOLD OUR BREATH to help push out a (gasp) baby - that, in most cases, would happily come out on its own.

Ricki Lake's repsonse was simply that she's about choice, not about shoving her agenda down anyone's throat (or birth canal, as the case may be). She just wants women to have information to make an informed one.

The only good thing about my first delivery was I ended up with my beautiful boy. The rest was so traumatic I didn't speak to my OB/GYN about it (she wasn't there for the delivery) until the following year - when I was pregnant with Sage.

I vowed it would be different with her. I hired a doula who taught HypnoBabies, a deep relaxation technique to give you a pain-free, drug-free birth.

I jumped on the soapbox for the virtue of natural childbirth (although, to me, the only unnatural childbirth is if the baby arrives via your butt). This was a dramatic change for me, since with Sawyer, I wanted the epidural before I arrived at the hospital.

When I was briefly pregnant this past winter, I started looking around for a birth center. The one hospital that allowed midwives to deliver closed. I knew I did not want a hospital birth and was considering either a birth center or a home birth.

I just think that women are programmed in this country as to how childbirth should be. It should occur in a hospital and with an epidural as soon as possible. We are sometimes induced even though the baby is doing just fine, its only crime was it didn't agree with the due date.

Nurses want you quiet. We aren't told that lying down is the worst possible position to give birth, as it closes the part of the pelvis that needs to open to let the baby come on down.

We are told that it is horribly painful, and yes, it can be, but it doesn't have to be. We learn that taking those "hee hee hee" breaths will somehow relax us (they don't).

But it is sometimes easier to do what everyone else is doing, isn't it? It's familiar. Hey, we've all seen Baby Story on TLC.

Don't be afraid to step outside the box. And certainly don't villify a woman like Ricki Lake for showing us that there can be another way. See what she has to say. Then make your own decision.

Us girls? We're pretty smart. We've been having babies since the beginning of time.

Love & Marriage

Two people meet and fall in love. They buy a house in the suburbs. They get a golden retriever.

You know how the story goes. They get married, have kids and are still living out the American Dream.

Only, that's not how THIS story goes. Because the two people happen to be the same gender. And in this country, they have not been allowed to marry. The pursuit of happiness and liberty and justice for all? Only if you're heterosexual. Says so in the Bible, don't you know?

But today, in California, gay couples can legally wed. So at 10 a.m., my two wonderful neighbors went with one of their moms and a niece to the county courthouse. There was definitely trepidation. Neither knew what to expect. Because their pre-wedding jitters involved wondering not about whether the band would show up, but if, when they saw a small crowd right by the building, they would get insults hurled at them like rotten tomatoes. But no - it was a group of supporters, whose applause ushered them in.

A woman performed the civil ceremony. They worried she'd be dismissive. In Bakersfield, the county clerk stopped officiating any marriages rather than preside over same-sex joinings. Happily, this clerk was perfect.

"When she said, 'And now, by the power vested in me by the State of California..' that was the most amazing moment," one of my neighbors said.

Then there was cake.

I honestly don't understand why anyone would begrudge them their happiness. They've been together for 15 years - longer than most marriages. They walk their dog, who they nursed through lymphoma, every morning. They work at the same school. They drive a hybrid.

They always stop to say hi when they see me or the kids. Just like all our neighbors.

It seems to me that there are those who have a very clear cut version of what the world should be. And if you don't conform, not only are you wrong, you are somehow personally injuring them. They quote the Bible and shout blasphemy. Frankly, that doesn't seem very Christian of them, to love only those who are like them.

Even if G-d didn't approve, what do they care? Judge not.

The divorce rate in this country isn't exactly a testament to the sanctity of marriage. Maybe there's room for something different.

Ellen DeGeneres said it so well, when she gently chided Republican Presidential Nominee John McCain on her show: “We are all the same people, all of us. You’re no different than I am. Our love is the same. When someone says, ‘You can have a contract, and you’ll still have insurance, and you’ll get all that,’ it sounds to me like saying, ‘Well, you can sit there, you just can’t sit there.’ "

For the first time, a recent Field Poll showed Californians favor granting gays the right to marry 51 percent to 42 percent.

So maybe we're starting to come around. That's never been an issue on our little street, buried in the foothills of one of the most conservative counties in the country.

The two of them stood on the sidewalk late this afternoon, wearing dark suits and boutonnieres. I hugged them. They were on their way to a celebratory dinner. Their first as a married couple.

They had been pronounced Spouse and Spouse, partners forever.

Not that they needed the ceremony to confirm it. But it's great, just like David and me, that they got the chance.

Baby Got Back

Once someone other than possibly your husband - and even that is questionable - sees your poop, you pretty much have lost the ability to be embarrassed (I accidentally delivered one prior to delivering my daughter. On the pad on my couch. In front of the paramedics.).

Add to that breastfeeding in public, being barfed on, and finding a booger in your hair that your daughter apparently flicked in the night before, and you figure there's nothing left.

But alas. You were wrong.

Today, my physical therapist and the trainer I'm thinking of hiring had a discussion about my ass. Specifically, the complete absence of muscle.

There is nothing like a confirmed case of Flabby Ass.

Now you'd think it would've gotten nice and firm from the amount of time I spend sitting on it.

Or, at the very least, running two marathons in seven months would've encouraged my glutes to, you know, stand up and pay attention.

Nope.

Apparently, distance runners are the worst offenders when it comes to being a lame ass. Every motion is straight ahead, so your butt doesn't get the work it needs. And my lack of any kind of weight lifting has not helped.

My body is, in fact, too bootylicious for me.

The kid who was taking me through my PT exercises today made sure to remind me to squeeze my butt ("You'll be able to crack nuts with it by Christmas," he promised). But you know, after an hour of it, I had to shout "GET OFF MY ASS!"

I mean, I had been feeling pretty pleased with myself that it had shrunk enough to fit nicely into my jeans.

All smoke and mirrors, my friends. My buns of steel are actually buns of, well, buns. As in, bakery. Hot crossed. Hot dog.

I am no longer in denial. And that's the first step to overcoming a problem right?

That, and about 10,000 lunges.

First Father's Day Without

There have been a few days throughtout this past year where I've been extra concerned about my mother. Thanksgiving. New Year's Eve. His birthday. All the firsts she'd have to spend alone after my father died last July.

But this day is more about my siblings and me.

It's Father's Day. The first we will spend without one.

The reminders are everywhere, thanks to Hallmark. Sawyer and I went to buy David a Father's Day gift today and stopped to pick out a card.

"Look at the one with the monkey!" Sawyer gleefully shouted.

I found the card he was pointing to. Then I stopped.

"Sorry, buddy, this one's for a grandfather."

We kept looking, through cards about gross bodily functions, barbecuing, golf, asking for money and fixing stuff - you know, the things that dads are apparently made of.

I remember picking out those kinds of cards for my father when I was growing up. But the thing is, I can't remember what we actually did on Father's Day. So I called my mom. First she claimed that they were married on Father's Day, July 21, 1959. But I don't that's possible, since isn't Father's Day on the second Sunday in June? Wait, she said, maybe it was the first day of summer (and yes, they would've been married 49 years next week).

Regardless. She said we didn't really do much. Sometimes the grandparents would visit. Mostly, my Dad would watch sports on TV.

Which is, apparently, why I don't have any particular memories of the day. I find that kind of sad, and it's made me determined to start a tradition for my own kids - so that, someday when they are facing their first Father's Day without one, they can look back at pictures or into their memories and smile, knowing that it was special.

Happy Father's Day, Dad...

I have a headache.

One of my single girlfriends is in a relatively new relationship. You remember. The fun zone.

"We have sex every night."
"Every night??"

I told another good friend of mine, who's married with three kids and also happens to be a guy. His response? "I don't even remember when that SOUNDED like a good idea."

Amen to that. A 2004 study, “American Sexual Behavior,” by the National Opinion Research Center at the University of Chicago found married couples have intercourse about 66 times a year.

So..how many of you are doing some calculations in your head right now?

A recent New York Times article discusses some recent books written on the topic of married sex (yep, just like military intelligence or smart bomb).

One couple wrote a book called "365 Nights." As in, 365 consecutive days of doing the horizontal mambo. Another couple went 101 days in a row of coitus non interruptus.

The idea was to reignite a sex life that had burned out. Instead of French Maid outfits or a trapeze on the ceiling, these couples decided the way to put the heat back into the marriage was by going whole hog, pardon the expression.

Kind of like when you're on the South Beach Diet too long and you decide to eat nothing but carbs - for a year.

Anyone else feel bloated?

I'm glad it worked for these couples, and I'm sure there are others out there. But it reminds me of when my husband and I were trying to conceive our children. We had to do it certain days and even at certain times, whether or not either of us was in the mood. The poor guy had to fly out to Arizona because IT'S TIME! IT'S TIME!

If my husband's penis could salute, it would have.

As stated by an expert in the article, happy marriages have more sex, but maybe it's more sex that helps make happy marriages.

It's something to ponder, next time your husband gives you the look.

Maybe I'll keep the Advil by the bedside.

Abstinence in My Pants

You just never know who's going to be next to deliver lessons on morality.

Consider a new item at K Mart, home of the blue light special. There are lessons to be learned there, people. Lessons to be learned.

And yes, I just said K Mart.

They now sell sweat pants for juniors with the message: "True Love Waits".

Um...waits for what? Johnny Jock to stop staring at the words printed right across the ass in bright letters?

That's right. It's on the back - and the front. No fun either way.

Nothing says chastity like a trite meaningless missive. Or a pair of sweats from K Mart, for that matter. Not that I'm advocating ho-dom, but I doubt having that little reminder on Madison's or Emma's pants is going to help much when they're dropping them for Joe Gotrocks after the homecoming dance.

Surprisingly, the young mens department isn't selling them. I can just imagine what THEIR version would say (perhaps something along the lines of "I've got your True Love right here?").

K Mart actually denies the message was intended to support abstinence. This, despite saying right in the description that the pants have a "bold abstinence screen print."

Hey, it could be worse. It could be WalMart selling them.

Bunco, or Please Just Shoot Me

I had never heard of bunco until after my son was born. My career had me working most nights so I knew nothing about this particular pasttime, which was apparently going on in countless suburban homes all around me.

Then my next-door neighbor BEGGED me to come to her house because she'd somehow got roped into hosting and she needed at least one kindred spirit there - in other words, someone who would also think it was the most insipid waste of time ever on the face of the earth.

Perhaps I'm not expressing myself clearly enough as to how I feel about the activity.

So I go over there, and it was even worse than I'd anticipated. It involves dice and drunk women. Sound like Vegas? Not so much. The crown of the evening was when one of them asked when I was due.

"I had my baby. Three months ago."
"Oh. AHAHAHAHAHAHA!"

Yeah. Hilarious.

I wikipediaed bunco for those incredibly fortunate souls who aren't yet familiar with it. Mostly because I've always wanted to make wikipedia a verb. Here is, in part, what they have to say:

"In recent years, the game has seen a resurgence in popularity in America, particularly among suburban women. As it is played today, Bunco is a social dice game involving 100% luck and no skill (there are no decisions to be made), scoring and a simple set of rules. Women who are part of a Bunco club take turns as the Bunco hostess, providing snacks, refreshments and the tables to set up the games. The hostess may also provide a door prize. Small amounts of money can be involved as well. The object of the game is to accumulate points and to roll certain combinations. The winners get prizes (provided by the hostess or pooled from the club resources) for accomplishments such as the highest score, the lowest score, or the most buncos. Prizes frequently center on themes associated with the game such as fancy dice, dice embedded in soap, t-shirts featuring illustrations of dice, etc."

I'm sure you're now dying to find a local bunco group of your own, aren't you?

Every so often, the party is at the house behind my next door neighbor's house. These people put in a pool last summer and let's just say there are many nights when I sleep with my pillow over my head, trying to drown out the sound of 10 year-olds shrieking at 1 in the morning. But it wasn't me who called the police on them, just for the record.

The din when they host bunco makes nails on a chalkboard sound like a symphony. Last summer we were serenaded to shouts of "party foul" followed by a ringing bell and raucous cackling by a bunch of shitfaced middle-aged housewives set free for a night from watching kids/cleaning the kitchen/folding laundry for a night.

I get the need to escape, I really do. But seriously. We weren't this obnoxious in college. Maybe high school.

Imagine how thrilled I was this evening to see two of my neighbors (no, not including the one who hosted the party. She quit the group and never went back) strolling down the street. They were wearing Lakers jerseys, mardi gras beads and one had Mickey Mouse ears on her head.

"It's travel night at bunco!"

Unfortunately, they were not traveling out of state. Just down the street, around the corner - and to the house behind my neighbor's.

Now, I know some very nice women who love bunco, which is clearly an acronym for getting tanked, or possibly "Brain Un Neccessary Cluttering Object". I love them despite of their habit.

I just can't figure out why you need to play some beyond stupid game with dice to knock back a few.

Anyone out there a bunco girl? Maybe you can explain the attraction!

Oh, the Places We'll Go!

I don't even know how it happened. One minute she was wearing diapers, the next minute, Hello Kitty underwear.

There's no dragging her to the bathroom every 15 minutes like I had to do with her brother. She just goes in when she has to "tinkle tinkle" (except for the couple times when she waited just a bit too long and peed her pants) and does her bidness.

And when she's done, she says, "Oh yeah, oh yeah, I went peepee in the pot-tee! Peepee in the pot-tee!" and does the appropriate bootie shaking dance.

The other night, she was sitting on the toilet - neither of my kids ever used the little potty chair - and I ran downstairs to get Snuggles Doo (a pink blankie with a dog head). Greeting me when I returned was, shall we say, a scent as if something had died in the bathroom, maybe a few months prior.

"Sage, it's stinky in here!"
"It's my feet."
"It's not your feet."
"It's my 'gina."
"It's not your vagina."
"Oooooh! Look! There's poop! It's my poopy butt!"
"Yep. It's your poop."

She is not yet dry at naps or in the morning consistently, so on go the diapers for sleep. She's soooo not down with it, but Mommy is soooo not down with changing sopping sheets at 4 a.m.

My mind is now racing ahead to all the joys that come with diaperless living. We have been in diapers, between the two kids, for almost 4 1/2 years. The money I can spend at Target will save boggles the mind. It was physically - to say nothing of pyschically - painful to drop over $30 a box on diapers.

Now we will take our vacation without stuffing a suitcase full of diapers. We can forgo swim diapers at the beach. She'll start school in August in her Big Girl Underwear (can't bring myself to say 'panties.' Sounds kinda, I dunno, dirty). I don't have to worry if I have an extra diaper in the car in case she decides drop a random poop when it's clearly not Poop Time.

Oh, the places we'll go!

I often tell her that even though she's a Big Girl, she will always be my Baby.

She nods. She knows.

I couldn't have said it better myself...

The Marathon

I feel all I've been doing is talking to people about the marathon, and so now that I have a spare nanosecond - oh, no, wait, Sage is shrieking for her Annie doll, and not Annie as in Little Orphan, this is Annie as in Little Einsteins, and when you press her stomach, she sings some classical song that goes, in part, lalaLAlalaLalalaLA LA! But alas, Annie is not in the bathroom where I've been sent to fetch her, and no matter, because now Sage does not want her. No, she wants the pink bear in the wicker "nest" that is on her bookcase. And as an added bonus, I slammed my heel on the back of the freakin' gate at the bottom of the stairs that serves no other purpose but to keep the dogs from getting upstairs and jumping on our heads in the middle of the night. Or worse, licking themselves in unmentionable places within my earshot.

So the marathon. It was supposed to be a great bonding race. The three of us said before the race that no matter what, we were going to finish together. Thing is, it was a dumb thing to promise because a marathon is, well, a marathon, and shit happens. More accurately, shit happened to me. At about 16 miles, Torrey got some insane burst of energy and took off, leaving Cindy and me. I needed to find a portapotty IMMEDIATELY, and Cindy, after finding one for me, kept going.

I had to stop for another potty break at 19 miles, and probably wasted about 10 minutes waiting in line and actually getting in there. The last seven miles were tough, and I was very sad I didn't have my support group with me when I needed them the most.

My foot hurt. My back hurt. I talked to my Dad, imaging him sitting up in heaven on a big leather recliner, watching me. Then I imagined him switching the channel to the baseball game.

I smirked. And somehow kept running.

Cindy caught Torrey at 23. They got to finish together.

I came in 15 minutes later. Meaning, I did not beat Katie - she got me by less than a minute.

But at mile 25, who should appear but Chris, the coach from Jersey who helped me get through Nike. It was amazing to see him, and he hung with me for about a mile. That was awesome.

I even had enough at the end to sprint.

Two marathons in just over seven months. Not bad. I really felt like this was my first, since I actually ran this one. The first 15 miles flew by. If only my intestines had cooperated. I NEVER stop to use the bathroom, and on race day, I had to stop twice - wtf?

There are things beyond my control: My injuries. My innards.

The rest was up to me.

In the end, I crossed the finish line. It might not have been the way I wanted to do it, or in the time I wanted, but I did cut 45 minutes of my time from Nike. And I got to go home to my husband and my beautiful, beautiful children (Sage insisted on wearing my finisher medal everywhere today, and finally took off before bed).

Now I'm working on perspective. Finishing two marathons in seven months? Not so bad.

Tonight, David was at a convention so I took the kids out to dinner with my friend Ciaran and her family. Her eldest daughter, Marly, who is 11 1/2, congratulated me immediately. So amazing when a kid thinks something an old lady like me did is cool.

We got home, and one of my neighbors' friends was visiting, so I went to say hello (she's run marathons, including Boston). While I was talking to her, Sawyer and Sage were racing up and down the sidewalk.

"What are you guys doing?" I asked.

"We're running a marathon!" Sawyer said.

It looked like fun.

And Away We Go!

So I'm off. Yes, yes, I know I've been off for years. What I'm saying is I'm off to San Diego. Torrey and Cindy are coming to get me, and then we're driving down to San Diego.

We need to go to the expo to pick up our bibs (no, not a plastic thingy with Elmo on it to collect my drool and assorted crumbs, it's our race number we wear) and our timing chips, which we wear on our shoes. It keeps our "real" marathon time, as it takes awhile to actually cross the starting line.

The expo usually has some cool stuff to paw through, like shirts, gadgets and other running gear. Then we're going to watch Sex and the City, which my neighbor saw yesterday and loved. So I have high hopes. Even though I was just luke warm about the actual show.

We have a pasta dinner tonight. Then it's early to bed, because we have a wakeup call at some ungodly hour tomorrow. The race starts at 6:30 a.m.

We are, of course, hoping to have a good run. Still have the same goal we've had even before we signed up for this insanity: BEAT KATIE!

5:29:58

Oh! Cindy and Torrey are here! See you on the other side!!

For updates, check out Torrey's blog. Link is on the left side of this blog.

These Feet Were Made For Walking

Seriously. Not running, and certainly not running 26.2 miles. Then again, no one should be running that far. It's not natural. Or particularly smart, for that matter.

I have learned, through the six weeks or so of physical therapy, that not only aren't my feet good for running, but neither are my ankles or my back. Even though running seems like it's all legs and feet, it's really mostly hips. And if you're not stable there, you're completely screwed.

See, my feet are overly flexible. As are my ankles. So when I run, the rest of my body is trying to keep them under control. It hasn't been doing a very good job of it, hence the six hours a week I spend in physical therapy, during which I work on stabalizing and strengthening my hips.

But my back's been killing me, so I went in to get it evaluated. I learned of yet another side benefit of lugging young children around: the side you carry them on gets really strong. Great, right? Problem is, if you're not doing strength training, the other side gets really weak - to the point that I don't even stand straight. My right shoulder is rotated forward.

The left side is doing all the work, which is causing all sorts of problems on my right side, including the pain I've had in my back and is, probably, contributing to my foot issues.

It's amazing I'm even walking upright at this point.

My PT, who I love, does have this one trait that I don't enjoy so much: she's a torturer. She worked my hip flexors to the point that I said "I'm not going to cry, but I could!"

I don't even want to talk about the stretching. I'm just glad my kneecap didn't pop off and break a light in the ceiling. It was also a good reminder why I can't stand yoga.

I do wonder how much more efficient I would be if I didn't have these issues. Not that there's anything I can do about it at this point. I know it's going to hurt Sunday.

I just keep in mind that running is not for wussies.

A Race Like No Other

You might think this is a shameless plug, and maybe it is, but I don't care. I'm just a-burstin' with pride.

My dear friend, Liz Robbins, has written her first book! (pause for applause and woots)

It is called A Race Like No Other and is about the New York Marathon. But not REALLY about the marathon, just as for many of us, running a marathon isn't really about running a marathon. It's about how far you can push yourself, whether it be to prove something to yourself or to someone else; to raise money or awareness for a cause (GO TEAM!); or, for some, to win.

Liz followed a bunch of people - elite runners, a mom who is a recovering alcoholic, a 22 year-old cancer survivor, to name a few - and learned about their lives and what brought them all to this one glorious day in November.

I was lucky enough to read the first couple chapters of the book and I can't wait to read more. And not just because I'm about to run a marathon. The writing is, of course, beautiful, and also humorous. But it's the individual stories that really suck you in.

It's available for a special price on pre-order at Amazon.com.

Liz and I met back in 1995 when both of us were covering the NCAA womens' basketball tournament. You may be surprised to know that most of the women sportswriters I've met and become friends with are very bright and funny and are some of the most successful (Liz took a leave from the New York Times to write this) and fabulous people I know.

This is somewhat amazing because there aren't many women who do that particular job. Some of the men are pretty cool, too, of course, but the women kick ass. Seriously.

Anyway, I am SOOO proud. Most of us writers and would-be writers can only dream of accomplishing what Liz has by getting a book published. So raise a glass (of Gatorade) and go buy the book!

Big Date

I must have a really hot date this weekend. You remember, the kind where you have to spend the entire week obsessing about it. And, of course, getting ready for it.

Today I went to the dentist for my six-month cleaning. My teeth are like marble. Maybe tomorrow I'll whiten them so I can blind everyone within a 50 mile radius.

Tonight it's off to the waxatician. Or waxigician. That wonderful woman who removes the part of my eyebrows that are multiplying faster than the Pitt-Jolies and are so far up my forehead they're encroaching on my hairline.

Don't even get me started on the upper lip. When I can twirl my mustache, it's time for it to go.

And yet, every time I go, I wonder why I'm putting myself through it. Cause it hurts. Just like if you ripped your hair out. Which is what you're doing, with the added bonus of boiling wax poured on first.

But really, it doesn't get much better than a smooth lip and a perfectly arched brow. So to the torture chamber it is!

Thursday I have a hair appointment. I thought my hair looked okay. Possibly because it's hidden under a hat most of the time. Or up in a ponytail. But it can no longer conceal the grey pubic-like strands that are poking up their ugly little heads.

Touch-up color. Bang trim.

Thankfully, I already have my outfit picked out.

By Sunday, I'll be smiling brightly under a hairless lip, my eyebrows in perfect shape, not a strand of grey marring my hair.

Unfortunately, no hot man awaits me (unless, of course, my husband decides to show up). Just 26.2 miles of hell.

At least I'll look good for the photo-ops.

Just What I Needed

We had our last long run before the marathon. It was only 10 miles, and I mean that sincerely. When you slog through runs of 18 and 20 miles in 95 degree heat, 10 is like a sprint (and, helping us a long was the temperature, which was 40 degrees cooler).

I've been feeling nervous and burned out and completely unprepared for the marathon. Totally different, in fact, then I felt before my first. Except for the nervous part.

My foot injury made it impossible to put in the weekly miles I needed. The physical therapy I've been in for the past month has been time-consuming (six hours a week) and somewhat stressful trying to fit it in.

But boy, has it paid off. My foot doesn't hurt anymore. This is monumental, considering I've been in pain for more than seven months, to the point I couldn't chase after my kids.

I'm really working on a lot of balance and stabilization excercises to compensate for my hypermobile feet, ankles and back.

Last week I ran mileage like I should have been doing every week. And yesterday I had the best long run I've had since before I ever ran a marathon.

I ran at the pace I used to run before I started distance training. It was the pace I ran the first 10 miles of my very first half marathon, over a year ago.

The muscles that I've been strengthening and working so hard on have started to making a difference in my stride. I'm finally powering with my largest muscles (yep, you know it, my glutes!) and my body isn't flying all over the place.

I felt fantastic.

For one run.

I really, really needed it.

The marathon is one week from today. I have no idea how it will go. Unfortunately I'm getting a little unwanted visitor this week, if you know what I'm saying, so who knows how my hormones/intestines will react.

I can't think about it. I'm just looking forward to finally running a marathon with Torrey and Cindy - in matching purple shorts, no less!

My goal? To feel good enough to run it - and finish it.

And then never run that far again.

Until the next one.

Laughing Matter

Because we are brilliant, my friend K and I decided it would be a fantastic idea to pack up our kids and their assorted bikes, trikes and scooters and take them to a park for an outside playdate.

Yeah. Did I mention it was raining? By the time I pulled up behind her at the park, I noticed another mom in a familiar minivan frantically loading her kids' gear into the back as the rain came down. It was my neighbor, who at least got a few minutes of play out of her kids before the heavens opened.

What to do? The mall, natch. They have this thingy that projects various screens onto the floor. When the kids jump on it, they can stomp virtual balls into baskets or make flowers explode into cellphones. Tons of fun. If you can keep four of them on it. Which we did. For about five minutes.

But the fountains proved a greater attraction. As did the fire engine carts. As was anything that sent each child in a different directions.

We decided to herd them over to the food court, which lucky for them, involved the thrill ride of the escalator. These particular pieces of machinery freak me out: I have vivid memories of my brother running up one in Sears and falling on his face, smashing out his two front teeth and spewing more blood than a small boy should have in his body.

Anyway. Did I mention we were going to eat?

Sawyer and G took off running, with H and Sage in hot pursuit. This is where I'm thinking shock collars would come in handy. If they get too far, we just press a remote and ZAP. But I digress.

I have to be careful when eating out with Sawyer because of his peanut allergy. K and her kids went to the Japanese place, so we went with the old standby. McDonalds. And for all of you who are horrified that I feed my kids that, well, that's nothing compared to when I get out the Fry Daddy at home and we deep fry chocolate frosting to slather onto our twinkies.

The wait at McD's took forever and the kids were antsy. Finally, their food was ready and I took my two and K's two and we found a seat. The kids were trying their best to scale a giant pineapple sculpture. K soon arrived, and I wandered over to Panda Express.

I just wanted me some orange chicken, but it costs more to get one item than it does for two, so onto the plate was dumped some chicken with green beans. And chow mein noodles.

The thing is, the plate weighed as much as a large housecat. Every time I get PE, I think "There's no possible way I can eat this tub 'o grease" and then five minutes later, I've managed to shovel most of it in.

When I returned to the table, K was chatting with an older woman, who I assumed she knew. Turned out, she didn't. It was the woman's birthday.

"Seeing how well-behaved all your kids are really warms my heart," she said.

Wha? What kids?

I immediately looked around for those nice people in the white coats. Because surely this woman was INSANE!

I tried to gently explain that their mouths were full of food so they were momentarily quiet.

Then she said: "It goes by so fast. My kids are all grown and I miss this. It's hard to see it when you're in the middle of it, but laugh a lot. Don't spend too much time being mad."

And you know what? She's right.

Soon Sage won't acknowledge me and Sawyer will spend more time holed up in his room than breathing fresh air.

Some days it's easier to soak it all in than others. A little reminder was definitely needed - and appreciated.

David Cook Wins Idol! I Laugh at Husband!

I heart American Idol. I really, really do.

I know! But there's just something about watching people just put themselves out there that either 1) I admire or 2) I get to do my favorite thing, which is to be completely judgemental over people I don't know.

I have been known on occasion to shout at the TV, letting loose with such gems as "YOU SUCK!" or "SHUT UP ALREADY, PAULA!" Or I'll just tivo my way past some of the more horrendous performers.

Like that Overmyer girl with that awful raspy-but-in-a-drunken-kinda-weird-way voice. Or Kristy Lee Cook. This girl had a body to die for, but she totally killed me when she warbled I'm Proud to be an American. I mean, come on! It might just be the worst song ever written (if you ever cover as much major league baseball as I have and hear this song EVERY NIGHT, perhaps only then will you understand the true blechiness of it).

No one, however, was more annoying than David Archuleta. I am beyond grateful to whoever told him to STOP LICKING HIS LIPS when he sang. And those ballads...I wanted to kill myself, but not as violently as I did when he sang that Chris Brown song about someone being his "boo."

To be fair, Archuleta does have a lovely voice. It was just the rest of him that drove me nuts.

My husband, on the other hand, liked him.

"He's only 17, give him a break!" he'd yell at me as I went on and on and on about how irritating his old-man walk is, or how he got teary whenever the judges fawned over him.

"He looks like he should be singing in his high school play!"

"Well he IS in high school. He's 17!!"

Then there was the whole Dad thing. First, the guy shows up in a grungy baseball cap. Possibly someone snatched it off his head and beat him with it to get him away from his son, because he later wore a Britney-esque paperboy cap.

FYI: No one likes a Stage Dad.

David Cook, on the other hand, was my fave. Love his voice. Love his music. ALMOST downloaded his version of Hello. He was unique on a stage of singers trying to sound like everyone else.

He does, however, have an enormous head. I mean, have you seen him stand next to Ryan? Yegads it's like an eclipse!



But he seems genuine. His tears seem real. His surprise - when he won - didn't look fake at all.

Kinda like the look on my husband's face. He was blathering on and on about how Archie's his boy and he called it from the first time he saw it. So imagine his surprise when Ryan said it was David...Cook!"

There might have been a dance or two with fingers pointed in my husband's face. Possibly a neeneer neener or two.

It's okay, dear husband. There's always next year.

All A Twitter

It's always fascinating to see what those Krazy Kids are up to these days. Their long hair. Their rock 'n roll music.

Anyway, I got sucked into Facebook, only to find that hardly anyone I know (except for my lovely message board friends and some of my mommy friends) is on it. I think I'm too old. Social networking has passed me by (to think what damage I could've done had it been around 20 years ago boggles the mind).

Next up? Twitter.

As my friend Jen says, it's like Blogger's ADHD little brother. It's a (warning: buzz words coming!) "social networking site" that gives you minute-to-minute what all your friends who subscribe are doing. Because, you know, that's vital info. You can also of course keep them abreast of all your movements.

You can get the feed on your computer or even your cell phone. I mean, that's the rumor, anyway. I, personally, don't get it. I don't get how to read other people's twitters. I don't get how to send them. Mostly, I don't get why I'd want to.

I'm more twit than twitter when it comes to this stuff.

There is also a thing where you can follow people, which would be like cyberstalking accept I think you usually know who's following you. Or maybe not. What do I know? I'm lucky I figured out how to set up a blog (and THAT wasn't without tech trauma either!).

I wonder if it would make me seek a more exciting life. Cause currently, my twitter - if I can ever figure it out - would be something like this:

I'm up!
I'm pooping!
I'm eating breakfast!
I'm pooping again!
I'm going for a run!
I'm back from my run!
I'm making my kids breakfast!
My son is pooping!
I'm yelling at him to hurry up!
I'm wiping his butt!
I'm yelling at him to get dressed!
I'm yelling at him to get in the car!
We're driving to preschool!

And so on. There really is a thing as TMI.

The people you'd REALLY want to know about (like, you know, La Lohan, I'm always curious what people like her actually DO all day)probably don't twitter. They're too busy throwing back a couple quarts of vodka tonics whiel injecting botox into their dogs or something.

Still. The fact that I can't figure it out makes me wildly attracted to it, kinda like that dangerous looking guy with the scruff and jean jacket who sat in the back of your 10th grade geometry class.

I will make another attempt or two to set mine up. Then I'll have to move on.

I eventually did end up with a nice guy after all, you know?

Big Ambition

"Sawyer! Look at the surfers! Do you think you'd like to learn when you're a little bigger?"

"No thanks. I just want to marry Natalie."

Don't worry. You're not the only one confused by this coversation.

All Poops are Not Created Equal

Poor Sawyer. Even though the kid remembers everything, including what the inside of my uterus looks like, he seems to have forgotten what happens after a child poops in the potty for the Very First Time.

Granted, it was a year and a half ago for him, but still. Where does he think half the airplanes and matchbox cars came from? Rewards! Pee! Poop! Pee! Poop!

I never did charts, so he didn't get a sticker each time he went so he could earn a toy. He just got 'em.

This explains why he was in tears late this afternoon.

Cause he got nothing. But his sister...

We were watching the Yankees-Mets game upstairs when Sage said she wanted to wear her big-girl underwear, presumably because she saw a pair on my floor that was waiting to be put away.

I said okay, but she never put them on, just ran downstairs with her little naked butt on display.

A few minutes later, she was whining because she peed on her band aid (it ran down her leg and onto the band aid she has on her knee). I was a little stern about how we don't pee on the floor.

Sawyer, meanwhile, squeezed out a tiny poop and asked David to wipe his bottom. At some point, Sawyer came out and apparently Sage went in. Because, while I was busy playing Scramble, I heard "Mommy! I peed!"

Now, she's said this before when she's done nothing. But there was a certain urgency to her voice. So, despite still having a minute left on my game with Leslie, I ran into the bathroom.

And looked.

There was a poop. Sawyer ran in and confirmed that it was not HIS poop. David came in, looked, and said it was his. But Sawyer is a boy who Knows Poop.

I wiped her butt. Clearly, it was hers!

Sage, who has been sitting on the potty for the past six months or so but had yet to produce a single drop of pee, pushed out a nice poop. By herself. On the big toilet.

This, of course, sent us into a screaming, wiggling rendition of the Poopy in the Pot-ee! Poopy in the Pot-ee! song.

Sage mostly looked confused. Proud, too. The best part was when she got her Special Gift, a princess camera.

Sawyer immediately burst into tears. Because he wanted his gift, too.

But not all poops get dances and gifts.

The first one? That one gets bells and whistles, too.

Four: It's the New Two

You know, the Terrible Twos really didn't live up to the hype. Sure, Sawyer had his moments, but overall, it was more like the Tolerable Twos. Everybody said 3 was worse. And in many ways, it was.

Sawyer became more independent. More feisty. But we worked on different discipline techniques (for me, that is) and really, it wasn't awful. Okay, at times I contemplated selling him on eBay, in EUC, but I didn't want to mess up our perfect feedback.

No one ever said anything about four. Because if they had, we would've just skipped over it entirely and moved right on to five.

I ran into two moms friends today in Target (you have no idea how unusual this is, as I really don't know many people in the area other than my neighbors. Most of my mom friends don't live all that close, and usually I can get away with wearing tall Uggs with Nike capri running pants because I'm in my cone of anonymity).

The first woman has twin boys who take swimming lessons the same time as Sawyer. They're a week older than him. After chatting for a bit, I decided I had to find out if my child was possessed or if by some wild chance her chldren were similarily afflicted. So I asked her whether her boys answered every request or command with "WHY?!?!"

"YES!!" she practically shrieked.

We commiserated through the checkout: Go wash your hands. Why? Stop kicking me. Why? Take your head out of the oven. Why? And so on. This is not the "why?" of curiousity. It's the "why?" of, "Look, Lady, you can go F yourself, because I DON'T SEE ANYTHING WRONG WITH JUMPING OFF THE TABLE ONTO MY SISTER WHEN I HAVE SCISSORS IN MY HAND!"

We said our goodbyes, and off I went to the parking lot, where I ran into my friend K. Her son is also a week older than Sawyer. And guess what? He's got a bad case of the Ferocious Fours, too!

My brain was simultaneously doing the Happy Dance and slowly oozing out of my ears.

Because my kid is normal! But it's not an enjoyable normal, like when they sit up on their own in the accepted timeframe. This particular phase might end with Sawyer's butt making a permantant indentation mark on the floor where he does his timeouts.

David actually uttered these words last night: "Sawyer, when Mommy's head starts spinning around like that, you need to run as fast as you can."

Ha. Wait til it pops off my neck and starts chasing him around the room.

I am hoping that this is just a phase. A short-lived one.

Or else we might be heading for the Felonious Fives.

Then there's Sage, who is clearly advanced for her age of 2 1/2. Just today we drove by a McDonalds on the way to get Sawyer from preschool, where, for three hours, he's someone's else's problem.

"Mommy! I want Chicken Nuggets."

"Not today."

"WHYYYY?!?!?!?!?"

Happy Mother's Day

There is nothing that says Mother's Day like a handmade gift from your child. I was thrilled to receive Sawyer's present that he made in preschool. I feel he really got me spot on:



I did not get out of bed until 10:30 yesterday morning. Yes - 10:30!!! Not that I was sleeping. The kids came in about 7:30, and then David presented me with "my" gift - a Wii. He did give me a turn. Eventually.

I was so exhausted by all the excitement, I then proceeded to take a three-hour nap. Woohoo!

Anyway, each year I try to take a picture of me and the kids on Mother's Day. This was right before bed, out on our front porch.

My Mommy's Smarter Than Your Mommy!

A recent study came out that found babies who are exclusively and extendedly breastfed are smarter than those who aren't.

About 14,000 babies were followed for 6 1/2 years, and were found to have IQs that were 5 percent higher and did better academically.

But wait. There's more.

Seems there's some discussion on whether it's the actual breast milk that makes the kids smarter, or if it's that smarter women choose to breastfeed - oh, and are also more likely to read to their children and spend quality time with them.

And I quote:

"Mothers who breast-feed or those who breast-feed longer or most exclusively are different from the mothers who don't," Dr. Michael Kramer of McGill University in Montreal and the Montreal Children's Hospital said in a telephone interview.

"They tend to be smarter. They tend to be more invested in their babies. They tend to interact with them more closely. They may be the kind of mothers who read to their kids more, who spend more time with their kids, who play with them more," added Kramer, who led the study published in the journal Archives of General Psychiatry."

I'm sure adoptive parents just love this. And those who wanted to breastfeed but couldn't (let's see, does that ring any bells, like maybe...ME?!?!). Or those who simply chose not to.

See, women are already divisive enough about this issue and plenty of others (work? daycare? homeschool?). We apparently like to compete to see who's the better Mommy, because it's a contest and just doing the best you can to get through each day is just NOT ENOUGH!

So I'm really appreciative to this man for pointing out that clearly only morons don't breastfeed. I mean, I see nothing wrong with how I take care of my kids. What? Is it a problem they are now watching their seventh consecutive hour of TV while chugging Kool Aid and eating twinkies dipped in mayo? Sheesh! At least they're not stabbing the dogs with scissors!

At least, that's what I think they're doing. I'm down the street blogging from my local tavern while doing body shots off some guy in a cowboy hat and spurs.

But I digress. To extrapolate that breastfeeding is a mark of being an attentive, interactive parent is, frankly, astonishing. It also means that women in many third world countries, where forumla is too expensive and water too contaminated, leading to exclusive and extending nursing - there's a reason why many children there are nursing til they're 4, or even 7 - are brilliant, amazing parents.

Of course some of them are. But I'm guessing a lot aren't. Because the study didn't appear to take into consideration the socio-economic standing of the mother. More money often means more education. And more access to prenatal care. And more chances to read stuff and be continously blasted, through the magic of marketing, with the message that BREAST IS BEST!!!

Yeah. We know. We're not disputing that. But for those of us who couldn't or didn't breastfeed, believe me, we already have enough guilt. We don't need to hear from yet another study that we're not good mothers because of it.

Read the entire story here.

Happy Birthday, Dad

Today is my father's birthday. He would've been 76.

This past week I've been trying to think of something to do that my dad would've enjoyed. I considered taking the family to a baseball game, but the timing didn't work out.

So I didn't have anything special planned for today - which was good, because it was non-stop from the moment the alarm went off at 5 a.m. That's not entirely true. When the alarm went off, it took me three minutes to decide to actually get out of bed.

Then I was off to the gym, then right to physical therapy, then home to get the kids ready. I dropped Sawyer off a preschool, took Sage to Target and then to her gymnastics class, then raced back home so David could go pick up Sawyer. Meanwhile, I got lunch ready.

After Sage went down for her nap, Sawyer demanded I play with all the new bubble blowers I got him, even though it was chilly and damp out.

Soon it was mid-afternoon. We headed up the street to play with the twins and there was a table set up in their driveway for a cinco de mayo party. The neighbors started wandering by and the twins' grandparents arrived.

The grandfather, D, is almost 70. He's very active and, of course, loves playing with his very active grandsons. He ran after baseballs that rolled down the street. He crawled halfway under a pickup truck to retrieve another one.

He helped one of the twins with his fielding skills.

He sat the younger brother on his knee.

He, simply, was being a grandpa.

Something my dad never had the chance to do.

It makes me tremendously sad. And envious, too. What a time my father is missing out on, the kind of joy that comes only from the laugh of a child. A grandchild.

Happy birthday, Dad.

I miss you. We miss you.

The Cobles Had Their Triplets!

The day, I'm sure, was bittersweet. Celebrating the miracle that is birth while mourning those that came before.

Lori and Chris Coble - the local family who lost all three of their young children in a horrific car accident last year - are now the parents of triplets. Ashley, Ellie and Jake were born April 30th.

The babies arrived exactly four days before the one year anniversary of the deaths of their older brother, Kyle, who was 5, and sisters Emma (4) and Katie (2).

The Cobles were left as parents without children. They were still young, though, in their early 30s. They decided to start - again - a family. They opted for in vitro, and three eggs were implanted.

One boy. Two girls.

Goosebumps.

I wonder if they can love their three beautiful new babies as unreservedly as they did their first three, before they learned that life can be snatched away before there's time to brake.

Or, just maybe, lessons learned will help them love even more.

Congratulations, Coble Family, on your three blessings.