Wouldn’t that be lovely?

Last night, I cuddled next to BigGirl in a booth at Denny’s.  I held her under my arm and rested my cheek on her familiar sandy blonde head.  I told her that earlier, a friend of mine talked to me about her daughter that was all grown up.  She’s in her twenties.  And, I told her, I couldn’t help but wonder what it would be like when my baby was all grown up. 

“It will be exactly the same, Mommy.”

“It will?  I’ll still be able to hug you and squeeze you and kiss you and hold you whenever I want to?” I questioned.

“Yes.  I promise.  It will always be just like this.”

 

I wish she was right.

Today, I’m going to steal another bit of love while I can.

The Good, The Bad, The Ugly of 2009

I cannot remember feeling like this before.  Ever.  

I cannot wait for 2009 to be over.

Always before, New Year’s Eve and New Year’s Day meant very little to me.  It was just another day.  A new calendar.  A new picture looking back at me from my wall.  Another hash mark.  Another year older – which was neither here, nor there to me.

This year is different.  2009 just feels sour. 

In January 2009, my life was filled with highs and lows.  My marriage was strained with tension while my professional life was demanding, yet successful.  Over the course of this year, those highs and lows have traded places time and time again.  Finances have been like a roller coaster, and the truth has hurt.  I have shed many tears this year.

Yet, to put things in perspective, I really can’t complain.  I’m coming out on the other side still in a warm home, in a stronger, happier marriage, and still the mother of two bright, talented, and beautiful daughters.  Really, I have lost very little this year. 

Surprisingly, when I try to put my finger on the single greatest gift 2009 has brought to my home this year, I have to say the newest addition to my little family, our dog Daisy, definitely takes the prize.  She brought youth back to my Big Boy, Bo.  She makes my girlies and I so happy, and has been a wonderful playmate to us all.  I am so thankful for her.

Coming in a close second, the remodel of our front and back yards.  We’ve already reaped the benefit of the time, effort, and dollars FireDaddy & I invested into our back yard, in particular, at least five times over.  Both of us agree that watching the girlies run, laugh, sit, read, play, jump, chase, swing and otherwise revel in their childhood out back is one of our favorite pastimes.  They’ve camped, picnicked, splashed, dug, bubbled, chalked, planted, and meandered to their heart’s content.  It is truly a simple thing we treasure.

Unfortunately, 2009 is leaving me 10-15 pounds heavier than it found me.  Lately, my own reflection has been a bit gruesome – my hair needs cutting (and coloring), my 30-something acne has returned (destined to be a seasonal burden), and my new muffin-top makes my wardrobe more than a little less than flattering (or comfortable).  All of the above leave me unhappy with myself, in more than one way.  I’m disappointed that I have done this to myself – again.  I’m overwhelmed by the hard work that stands between “this me” and “the me I want to be” – again.  And, as my girlies are growing older and becoming increasingly more aware of their Mommy’s struggles, I’m disappointed that I’m setting such a poor example for them.  Pretty much, I suck. 

I still don’t place too much stock in New Year’s Resolutions and other such short-lived delusions.  But, everyone needs a kick in the rear at times, yes?  Everyone needs a new beginning – if even just a symbolic one.  Everyone deserves a second chance…or a third chance…or a thirty-third chance.

So there, 2009.  Be gone with you.  Don’t let the door hit you in the rear, bitch.

I closed my eyes.

I’m usually not concerned about germs when I visit a doctor’s office.  Call it blissful ignorance or denial, but it isn’t usually something I worry about too much. 

At recent visits to my girlies’ pediatrician, I’ve noticed the ginormous bottle of hand sanitizer sitting out at the sign-in sheet and again at the checkout window.  I’ve taken advantage of those opportunities for added precaution.  But, I didn’t really worry.  Until today.

I visited my own doctor’s office for a back “injury”.  (I say “injury” because, yet again, I have no idea what I’ve done to myself.  When I think more about why I don’t know or remember anything I’ve done to hurt myself, I conclude that I injure myself so frequently that I just don’t even pay attention to them for long anymore.  Except for when I cut off the top of my thumb…but that’s another post.) 

I noticed the lady behind the glass window handing the little old lady signing in before me a mask.  A mask.  Then, my eyes caught sight of the sign sitting on the counter, “Our masks are for your protection.”

 

Eww!  OK.  Now, I’m completely creeped out.

As I step up to the clipboard, I glance down at the two pens on the counter.  One attached by a short chain to the clipboard, the other, a black Paper Mate that has long ago lost its cap, lying nearby.  A little voice in my head reminded me of a warning I’d heard on television, or from a friend, or passing someone in the hall…”Always use your own pens.  Do you know how many people touch those pens?”  

Then I heard my own voice reminding me to calm down.  “I have a killer teacher/mom immune system and this is all just paranoid thinking.”  Plus, I didn’t want to look like a jerk/idiot rifling through my purse that desperately needs to be cleaned out and reorganized looking for a black pen.  Well, looking for any pen that isn’t pink, purple, lime green, or orange.  Or a highlighter.  Or a marker.  (I’m always prepared.)  So, I took a deep breath (and held it), chose a pen, and signed the board.  It was like the office supply version of Russian Roulette. 

 

As I took my place in the waiting crowd, strategically chosen to be equidistant from all the other waiters, I sank four inches into the seat of a chair that had obviously been a popular choice for a while.  I scoped out my fellow waiters…and began to feel very young and very healthy.  Every other person in there was well over 70, frail,…and wearing a mask.  Well, with the exception of their caregivers.  They might pass for mid-40s or greater.  My eyes darted from mask to mask, sizing up the wearers.  Were they sick?  Did they think I was sick?  Should I be worried about catching something, or should I stand up and announce, “Don’t worry.  No germs on me!  I’m just here for a bad back.  You know how it is when you pass 30…it’s all downhill from there, right??  Ha, ha!” 

I needed to consult an expert. 

I texted FireDaddy.

 

Me: they have masks for u to wear in waiting room. it’s creepy.

FireDaddy: it’s going around.

Me: should i wear 1?

FireDaddy: it’s up 2 u

Me: what would u do?

FireDaddy: i’ve been vaccinated

 

And just like that, he left me high and dry.  It was like the dream where you show up somewhere naked, or arrive at an event or work an hour early because you forgot to change your clocks, or when your friend gives you a gift even though you both agreed you wouldn’t exchange gifts!  How could he do that to me?  He scoffs at me for getting the flu shot every year – and then he goes and gets vaccinated for the swine flu?  How selfish is he???  Doesn’t he care about his own wife?  The mother of his children?  THE LOVE OF HIS LIFE AND THE BEST FRIEND HE’S EVER HAD???

 

The blonde lady behind the glass called my name again.  It was time for me to update my forms, so she handed me a *gasp!* clipboard and form to complete.  This time, I dug into my purse and found my own germ-infested pen to use.  (Let’s face it.  Those pens are used frequently by my own nose-picking, finger-licking, germ-carrying kiddos.)  After all, the germ you know is better than the germ you don’t know, right?  I busied my mind as I completed the redundant form.  Unfortunately, it was an unusually short form - front side only with only two signatures on the back.  That’s it?  When I don’t want to do this kind of stupid paperwork, there’s like five pages of it – asking me questions I practically have to call my mother’s mother to find out the answers to!  Today I get one stinkin’ page – and like a third of the page was “N/A”!!!

I crossed the room carefully, holding my breath, to return my assignment.  As I turned back towards the sinking chair, I noticed the end table with magazines.  Ha!  Not on your life, germie-poos!  I’m not falling for THAT old trick!  (Today…)

And so, I sat.  I brought a book, but couldn’t bring myself to read it in that moment.  I sat and held my purse in my lap, looking like a frightened little ol’woman, I’m sure.  “Please call my name. Please call my name. Please call my name.”

Finally, they called my name.  I moved as quickly as I could with this darn aching back.  (Getting up is really hard these days.)  As I came close to the door to the back of the office, I silently wished the nurse would open the door wider so I didn’t have to get so close to her to pass through the threshold.  I followed her to the scale.

“Don’t you think we could just skip this part today?  After all…it’s right after Thanksgiving…which came on the heels of a month or more of gluttony for me.  Don’t you think?   Please?” 

“Ha. No.”

I shed my shoes, dropped my purse, opened my mouth for the thermometer (telling myself those flimsy plastic covers really can protect me from the creepy germs inside other people’s mouths), stepped on the scale, and I closed my eyes.

 

 

Photo Credits: http://www.flickr.com/photos/julep67/ / CC BY-NC-ND 2.0

Wine, Pandora, Words and Papers

Just in the event that some of my readers might be wondering where the "neurotic" part of my title comes from, allow me to offer this evening as an example. (Of course, I suppose that some days my readers might be wondering where the "classy" part comes in...but, alas, tonight does not bring proof of that.)

The random memories that washed over my mind earlier today after running the streets of my former hometown have now turned sour. The memories that, only hours before, made me smile at the freedom of youth, have, now, brought a melancholy mood to my evening.

My one glass of wine, reserved till the little ladies were safely stowed away in bed, has turned to three. With no one but Pandora to accompany my mood swing, my solitary hours at the computer, shuffling graded papers, are now welling tears in my eyes and a sadness in my gut.

I hear myself asking more and more frequently, "Is this age?" Wondering, "Is this how it is supposed to be?"

Does reminiscing always bring a bittersweet taste to your mouth? Or, better yet, should it?

I sip my wine and realize I'm not unlike this evening's Zinfandel. Somewhere between red and white. Somewhere, blurred, between youth and maturity. Somewhere, blended, between happiness and affliction.

In my mind I can still see, feel, explore the vineyard from which I hail. I, too, can imagine the table I will one day grace. The celebration I will punctuate with a toast. A sip. A smile. A smooth warmth.

But, for tonight at least, I'm trapped within a barrel, deep below the light of day. In a cool, damp cellar. Waiting for my day to breathe.

**Oh, and yes, I'm just so neurotic that I cannot let this go unsaid...let this be my "make-up work" from my day of NaBloPoMo missed. I can let my guilt go now.**

Photo credits:

http://www.flickr.com/photos/denisemattox/ / CC BY-ND 2.0

Flashback Freeway

"Sometimes, a writer finds buried treasures in places they remember. As you think about the geography of a place from your past, memories will surface as you think about the place where they occurred..."

This was the gist of a lesson I recently taught my students. Then, I drove off to my old stomping grounds for a long weekend, and I felt that lesson come alive in my mind.

Sometimes, you don't even have to visit a building or any specific location for this to happen. I learned this weekend that, in some cases, just driving down the road will be enough to stir the pot. As I drove alone on a few brief errands this weekend, I was overcome with memories.

I remembered driving down the road with one of my BFFs in a red Mustang, singing along with Celine & Meatloaf at the top of our lungs as the wind ripped through the car. (Don't laugh. That song was at the top of the charts then.)

I remembered driving on the interstate for the first time with Boyfriend K. I was terrified that the car in the lane next to me was moving in on my space. He laughed at me and my paranoia, and I laughed back. Terrified, still.

I remembered riding, stunned, with Boyfriend S after the "Meet the Parents Date". I was stunned because his mother had whipped out flossers after dinner and flossed her teeth RIGHT THERE AT THE TABLE. (I'm not sure if this redeems her at all, but she was polite enough to offer me a flosser, too...."Gee...thanks...I think I'm good, though.")

I remembered wondering what road we were on as I rode home in the back of someone's parent's station wagon from the Nelson concert, my ears still ringing. (Ahem, they were cool too, thank you very much.)

I remembered getting a ride home after school from Really Nice Guy Friend everyday, only later to discover he liked me all the while and I was too stupid and too wrapped up in my Loves Gone Bad to realize it. Hind sight is 20-20.

I remembered the day I spent with Short-Term Romance Boy as he got a tattoo on his ankle, somewhere on the other side of town. I have no idea when or where this was, but it was a sight that scared me out of a tattoo...for life!

I remembered riding in Boyfriend D's brand new Jeep one cool Florida night, feeling too grown up for my years.

I remembered cruisin' in a convertible the summer I retook Chemistry (yeah...Chemistry and I went together like oil and water...) with my Wannabe Model Friend. She looked in the rearview mirror more than she looked at the road. (Checkin' out her pouty look.) Then, we'd drive through Taco Bell for bean burritos and Dr. Pepper.

I remembered walking, after a movie, down the main drag in town while it was closed for construction. Laughing my head off at Guy Friend B's jokes. Who knew Raffi's "Baby Beluga" could be so funny?

I remembered the odd ritual of touching a screw in a girl friend's "bucket" of a car and hollering out "SCREW!!!" everytime we crossed a railroad track, as though her car would fall apart without our help.

I remembered "pushing" my "For Real" Model Friend's car - from the inside - everytime we went up a hill. "Go, go, go!" We were never sure if it could make it to the top.

I remembered walking with a Middle School Friend to the 7-11 outside her neighborhood and spending a few dollars on that crazy powder candy you dip a candy stick into and then lick off the stick. Afterwards, we dried fresh flowers in the microwave and rolled each other's hair.

I remember walking home in the rain after school. I remember cutting through the field, taking the short cut to Freshman BFF's house and having Dr. Pepper and bologna sandwiches. And laughing.

I remember the little sink hole on a corner around a few corners from my house. It totally freaked me out, so I walked a wide circle around it.

I remember standing outside my house after a great first date, with butterflies in my stomach. My face hurt from smiling so much. I don't remember where we went or what we did, but it was great.

I remember walking home from a friend's house when the street lamps came on, after a really silly afternoon of prank calling everyone we knew...and didn't know.

I remember riding downtown to a summer theater camp with a girl I barely knew, singing Richard Marx in the car. (Yes, he was cool then, too.)

I remember being so impressed when One Or Two Dates Boy had a CELL PHONE. (oooooh......) Sure, it was his mom's...but WOW! I also remember being stupid enough to believe his nonsense blabber about how it "worked on a grid system...blah blah blah...and if you move when you're on the phone it will lose the signal..." What??? No wonder boys got me in trouble so much.

Those moments truly are miles away from my present. Today, I find myself cruisin' the streets on the way to and from school and the dance studio, jamming to Hannah Montana with my NEW BFFs...Little Princess and Big Girl. My latest boy, FireDaddy, has a seat indefinitely reserved in my cool, white Pacifica. Sometimes, I still kiss the clock and make a wish when I glance down from the road at exactly 11:11. I still love to car dance on Target and Publix runs. And, everyday, when I look back in my rearview mirror, I smile at what I remember AND at what I see smiling back at me.

Photo credits: http://www.flickr.com/photos/dotsi/ / CC BY-NC-ND 2.0

Getting Back Into the Swing

Unfortunately, that's not the swing to which I'm referring. This is more like the swing I'm climbing back into...

My glorious spring break has come to an end, as all good things must do. This week, I've had to get back into the swing of things - which, fortunately, includes this blog! (You know how it is, you are more willing to get started on the things you look forward to first.)

So, with that, there's a few things that have been burning on my mind that I feel the need to share with you.

Item: I have found a miracle pill - and it isn't Prozac. Recently, after hearing about the benefits of B vitamins, I strolled down the vitamin aisle in Target. I intended to casually read the labels and generally scope out the B Market, when a little bottle called my name.

Stress B-Complex? Um, Hello??? I GOT stress, baby!

Needless to say, it didn't take much thought before that bottle hopped into my red cart and I popped one before I even hit the sack that night.

Wow. I felt it immediately. I have been more energized and "peppy" everyday that I've taken them. They may possibly be my little miracle pill.

Side effect not noted on the bottle: neon yellow-green pee. But it's worth it! (And nobody has to know...except everyone who reads my blog.)

Item: I'm thirty-two (almost) and can still (more like finally) do a cartwheel. My darling eldest daughter has this problem with stress and being really hard on herself...I have no idea where she gets it from. She's currently struggling with learning to do a cartwheel in her jazz/acro class. So, being the loving, supportive mommy that I am, I realized the best thing I could do is "tutor" her in tumbling at home. She just needs a little more practice and confidence and I'm sure she'll get the hang of it.

We tried practicing indoors and giving verbal feedback. We tried using our hands to support and guide her legs and body so she could feel the right form. (A method which failed miserably, by the way. Apparently, at the mere touch of our hand, she expects to be carried through the motions and turns every muscle to mush.) So, to what did this crafty teacher resort? Well, every good teacher knows you need to model first. And away I went!

I discovered a number of things...

1. Cartwheels are 90% psychological. It's freaking scary when you've never done it before (or haven't in a really long time) to throw your hind end over your head, relying on the strength of two feeble girly (soft and squishy) arms to prevent you from crashing to the ground and breaking something important.

2. Landing gracefully is much harder than it looks.

3. I look really bad in yoga pants with a t-shirt tucked in. (I had to protect my modesty in front of my father and any of my parents' neighbors that may have glanced out their windows!)

Long story short, I wowed myself and my daughter improved slightly (after she beat herself up after watching video of her own cartwheels). We've got many more tutoring sessions ahead of us, but I'm sure she'll get it.

Item: I'm no good at waiting in lines. All it takes is a few lovely days at theme parks to discover this personal truth.

However, the icing on the cake came as I waited in line at the Kodak machine in Target to print 9 measly photos for Big Girl's school project behind two insanely rude and inconsiderate women for 40 minutes as they scanned and printed copies of an ENTIRE photo album! They kicked my personal torture into high gear with a particularly vicious below-the-belt assault to my afternoon schedule as they turned away from the machine and chatted with an old friend who was, apparently, so close and important to them that he was completely unaware that she had divorced her husband FIVE FREAKING YEARS AGO and is now dating a new guy who is "a big boy" whatever that was supposed to mean.

At this point, I refrained from my vain attempts to silence my tired daughter's whines. Let her whine. Go ahead, baby. Tell them how tired you are.

"What was that, Honey? This is taking FOREVER? You're hungry? I know, Sweetie. Let me see, I think I found a stale fruit loop in the bottom of my purse. Suck on this until we finally get a turn to use this machine. I just hope it is before the preschool closes. It would be awful if the school called the Department of Children and Families because I never made it to pick up your baby sister. Poor baby girl, she's probably going to be the last one there tonight. I hope she knows that we'll come EVENTUALLY for her. Surely her teacher will take her home eventually, right? They won't call a foster home yet, will they?"

It took me a good...24 hours?...for my blood to stop boiling. Actually, I'm not sure it ever really stopped. I hate waiting in lines.

Just Sittin' Around, Talkin' About Boys

In some ways, I'll never grow up.

I was "tagged" in a Facebook note-meme this week called "Finish the Sentence". One sentence was particularly interesting.

I'll always.... and I completed it with ...be a daydreamer.

This is not to say that I am a "faraway" girl (i.e. can't focus on something smack dab in front of me because I'm hyper-focused on the clouds out the window or the hangnail on my thumb or something equally obscure). But, I am still the girl who looks in the mirror and wonders what I'm going to be when I grow up. I am still the same girl who imagines one day gracing the stage with my presence once again. I am still the same girl who believes in true love and fairy tales and dreams come true. I am still the same girl who dreams.
That sounds so sweet, doesn't it?

I will never grow up in other ways, too, though.

For instance, I will NEVER quit having girly crushes on handsome men. ...And something tells me I'm not alone in this.

I found myself tonight, as I was in a dreadfully boring inservice working late with some coworkers, talking about stars on whom we have had/currently have crushes. It started innocently enough. Someone had tickets to a concert coming up, this led to discussing othermusicians coming to town, and before I know it - my latest "musical crush" was revealed - Jack Johnson.

I know he's not the ABSOLUTELY MOST handsome man in the world -- but OH. MY. GOSH. I LOVE, LOVE, LOVE his music and LOVE, LOVE, LOVE his voice. And, from what I make out (Hee! Hee! I said "make out" about Jack Johnson!) he is definitely cute. AND, he used to be a professional surfer! THAT'S HOT!!!

(Um, HELLO? I used to have pictures of Kelly Slater snipped from Teen magazine pinned to my bedroom wall. Don't get me started about surfers...)

After all, isn't that what a crush is? A silly infatuation for someone based on fluff? Often times, overrated fluff, at that...

Another crush of mine, as mentioned before in my photo mosaic meme, John Cusack. I have "loved" him since Say Anything. Come stand outside my window holding a ridiculously large (I mean, really? Where were iPods then?), antiquated, Peter-Gabriel-cassette-tape-playing boom box ANYDAY, baby.

Why? What is it about him?

I don't know. He's cute.

I could go on and say other, more mature, reasons. He's a talented actor. If you have seen Grace is Gone you would never argue against this point. He's intelligent. Have you seen him speak? He and I are politically like-minded. War, Inc. Yadda yadda yadda... He's cute. All that other stuff is icing on the cake. I also realized, while writing this, I like his voice, too. Perhaps there's something about a man's voice that makes him more attractive to me.

I could go on to name at least half a dozen other adorable men on whom I have crushes. And, yes, Fire Daddy is well aware of them. And, if, for some reason, he isn't, it's not because I have been hiding them from him. I mean, I know he LOVES Alyssa Milano and a few other "hot chicks". But that's not the point.


The point is...I guess I'll never really be too old for crushes and sitting around with girlfriends, giggling and making googly eyes as we drool over "boys" from afar.

And I wouldn't have it any other way.

Bad Habits

I have GOT to do something about my bad habits!

For one, I've developed a very bad habit of NOT waking up in the morning. Well, I guess technically I do EVENTUALLY wake up...but not until an hour to two hours after my I.W.T. (Intended Waking Time). I used to be good at this. Just a few short years ago, I was heading out the door to the gym by 4:15 AM every morning Fire Daddy was on the premises. Yes, you read that correctly. FOUR. A. M.

Now, I faithfully set my alarm - correction, alarmS (I set my clock and the Pink Lady each night) - for four, 4:15, 4:30...and repeatedly press snooze on both alarms until nearly 6:00 AM (sometimes later). This, as you can imagine, does not delight Fire Daddy. In fact, I'm beginning to suspect he might be a bit annoyed with this recent change in my morning routine.

Another bad habit I really MUST do something about involves candy. A lot of candy. Have you ever noticed how addicting those cute little bite-sized candies, like M&Ms and Skittles, are? Oh. My. Gosh. I can eat WAAAAY more of those each day than I care to admit.

I partially blame my work environment. I am a teacher. Schools -- elementary schools -- have more candy than Carter's has pills! I am surrounded by it! Wherever I go, there it is, ready for me to snag another bite, another handful, another Fun Size bag. Perhaps it's my coworker's cutie-patootie little bubble gum machine candy jar, or the bottomless bowl of sugary sweets in the mail room, or the permanent jar of M&Ms that resides on that desk I walk past fifty times per day in the office, or my own candy basket in my own classroom. And it doesn't stop when I leave school for a meeting or inservice. Little chocolate fairies seem to sprinkle tiny treats everywhere I go.

I MUST remember how to say NO. I am no longer 16. (Oh my goodness, I'm almost twice that.) My high school days of sitting in television production class after Second Lunch, surrounded by a flock of boys, as I popped my Skittles (sorted, first, by color) one by one - are gone. No longer can I be "The Skittle Queen", as they so lovingly dubbed me. I must rely on something other than sugar to get me through my afternoons without a bad case of The Slumps or The Grumps. (Those sweet boys were so thoughtful. They quickly learned to recognize the symptoms and never failed to send a runner for that all important red bag on days I was without. ...I wonder what happened to them. Maybe I can find them on Facebook....but that's another post.)

Finally, I know you might be shocked to hear this, but I seem to have developed a rather crippling addiction to caffeine as of late. One day last week, I realized just before dinner that every beverage I had consumed that day contained caffeine. I mean every last one of them. I began my day with a triple venti skinny vanilla latte from some cute little coffee joint I frequent. I chased that latte with a series of Diet Cokes from my office mini-fridge. As I finally found myself choosing a drink to accompany my evening meal (probably something terribly healthy, by the way), I was at a loss. I was ashamed as I reflected on my day's liquid intake.

Consequently, I made a decision to REDUCE (no cold turkey for me) my caffeine intake to one beverage per day. (Note: A triple latte is still, technically, one beverage. It is served in one cup.) I am thankful for my Caffeine Drinkers Anonymous support network on twitter. They encouraged me to stick with it through the headaches, use Excederin as a crutch, and they, inevitably, overlooked my falling off the wagon on Day 3. And Day 5.

In short, I am severely lacking in the Self Discipline Department lately. I really must do something about this.

I'll start tomorrow. Better go set my alarms.

Happy Birthday to Me

OK. It's not really my birthday.

You know how, when you're a kid, you track how close you are to your next birthday in fractions? I'm 5 AND A HALF. I'm 6 AND THREE QUARTERS. I'm ALMOST 10 (in two months).

Recently, I referred to my two darling daughters as 5 1/2 and 2 1/2. My husband corrected me, saying they were basically 6 and 3.

This did not make me happy. For numerous reasons.

1.) They are, if we must be accurate, 2 and 9.5 months and 5 and 9 months. They are NOT 6 and 3. I do not like to think of them aging any faster than necessary, thank you very much. As Big Girl knows all too well, they will be my babies forever -- even when they are grown women.

2. If their birthdays are coming up, then so is his......and mine. This isn't a big deal. Really. I'm quite comfortable with being thirty-one. Thirty-two, on the other hand, is not sounding nearly as comfie.

I remember my mother telling me of an age that really bothered her mentally. I think it was 25 or something completely ANCIENT like that. I thought I was past this after I nearly choked on 29. I'll never forget sitting in a booth at the Cheesecake Factory with my parents and Fire Daddy as Big Girl crawled all over my huge pregnant belly. I'll never forget thinking, "I'm going to be 29 and married with two kids. What happened to my life? Where has my youth gone???"

But, as Mother Dearest has always said, "What doesn't kill us, makes us stronger." I emerged on the other side of 29 a stronger, more confident woman. In fact, I rather like being thirty-one. I like being a "thirty-something". I've safely established myself as an adult -- out of the "pretend adult" years of your twenties. Yet, I'm still youthful and able to keep up relatively with the Spring Chicks. Except for weeknights. And I need a lot of notice so I can check the calendar and arrange for a babysitter. And I don't really like bars. I'd much prefer a restaurant, thanks.

Now, as soon as I find myself wearing my age proudly, my darling husband tells me it's time to move on? Um, that really doesn't work for me. Sorry. I'm not ready.

Thirty-one and I have so much more to do together. We need more time. I need to savor this while it lasts. I love it when people say, "You have two kids???" or "You've been teaching for 10 years? You look like you're right out of college!" OK. I know they're lying, or at least exaggerating...but I don't mind at all! I'm not Annie Lennox. (Crap. Did I just age myself?)

Don't get me wrong, there's nothing really WRONG with 32...except that it's not 31.

I just don't know if I'm ready for such a drastic change. It's all moving so fast. I mean, shouldn't we start with coffee? Maybe a lunch date? Perhaps if we just slow things down, get to know each other a little bit better first?

I guess I do still have four months and ten days to get ready for the big day.

"You look kinda moley."

I can't believe I haven't shared this with you yet.



Recently, I bit the bullet.



As a teenager, I was blessed in that I never really suffered from serious acne. As an adult, I've had "bouts" of acne, much like any other person. You know - hot date, the week of your wedding, someone else's wedding, the night of that holiday party, etc. Anytime when you really wanted to look good for some reason.


Then, there were the hormone-induced acne breakouts. One example that really stands out in my memory is when I was first pregnant with the Littlest Princess. I recall complaining to family, friends, coworkers, the girl at Subway (anyone who would listen) about how my face did not look or feel like my own. By the time I discovered my new "physical condition", I had already drug my sorry bootie into Dillard's to seek help from the great, wise Clinique Lady. (Needless to say, my renewed faithfulness in skin care excellence did not last the duration of the pregnancy.)



Now, as I've, apparently, reached another stage of life, my face is changing yet again. (You see, according to my ob/gyn, your estrogen starts to drop once you reach my "advancing age".) Once again, I began to feel like my face was not my own. One day, my sleepy eyes were greeted by FOUR (count'em - FOUR!) brand new blemishes. What on Earth was going on?



After consulting numerous friends (and, of course, the great, wise Clinique Lady) and experimenting with a variety of new moisturizers, cleansers, foundations, and more, I broke down...and scheduled...an appointment...with a DERMATOLOGIST.

This was, you see, a multi-layered issue.

1. I felt a bit, shall I say, shallow. I mean, acne is PURELY cosmetic, right? Am I really that shallow that I need to see A DOCTOR -- A MEDICAL PROFESSIONAL -- so that my face won't have four pimples? Apparently, yes.

2. Visions of my mother danced in my head. "How long has this mole been there? Are you sure it has always been there? You should see what your doctor says about it. You know, we all should go to get a skin check every year." Have I really reached this point in my life? The DOCTOR stage? The stage where you start scheduling your annual physicals, routine tests, bloodwork, mammograms, and skin checks?

Whatever. My vanity overcame my fear and avoidance of responsibility, I guess.

On the fateful day of said appointment, knowing I needed to take Big Girl with me, I was sure to pack her DS into the car as we left for school. (Insurance for good waiting room and examining room behavior. Thank goodness, it worked! She was completely entertained.) I also had planned ahead and printed all the new patient paperwork from the website and completed it in advance, in hopes of avoiding the usual 15-20 minute delay on your first visit to a new doctor. Additionally, this will surely shock you, they called me back right away! (I know! I nearly fainted!)

I can recall thinking, "They're going to laugh me out of this office. Isn't it just the way of acne? When you don't want it -- it's there. When you DO want it -- it goes away?" You see, of course, my recently renewed efforts towards excellence in skin care had, for a day or two, been working like a charm. I was, temporarily, looking like myself again.

So, as I followed the nurse into the examining room and she handed me a paper gown, I felt the need to explain.

"OK. Here's your gown. You can get changed and the doctor will be just a moment," she directed.
"OH, um, I'm here for an acne visit. Do I really need to do this?"
"Hmmm, I show you as a skin check. Well, um...." she quickly scanned the little bit of exposed skin around my collar bone (it was a cold day in hell Florida that day) and replied, "you look pretty moley. She's gonna want to check you out."

WHAT?!? I look pretty "MOLEY"? I'll have you know that those are FRECKLES, lady! Whatever...what do YOU know about skin and moles, Little Miss Know-it-all...

No, I did not say that. I just went along with it, like a good little girl. I sucked it up and stripped.

Little Princess, in her most nonchalant voice, trying to comfort her visibly frustrated mother, announced at this time, "Don't worry, Mommy. I won't laugh at you. Because girls can see girls naked, right?" Gee. Thanks, darling. What support. What a comfort to know you WON'T LAUGH.

After dawning the plush and oh-so sassy paper gown and climbing to the perch atop the examining table, The Doctor arrived. Her bedside manner was so-so. Hello? I'm naked here? Can you try a little harder to make me comfortable? Crack a joke or something?

After initial introductions were over (7.8 seconds), I started into my modest explanation and apology for scheduling an acne appointment with such, obviously, minor troubles. I carefully explained that, while I had not anticipated this, the nurse had instructed me to disrobe and prepare for a skin check. Surely she would take pity on me and instruct me to re-robe while she stepped out....this was, after all, completely unnecessary.

"Well, let's just take a look."

Rats! Foiled again!

I stand, baring my backside to my (not laughing) daughter, as she carefully inspected my body -- arms, hands, feet (top and bottom), legs, scalp, neck, back, chest (including INSIDE my bra), and basically everything in between. While she did not use a fine-toothed comb, she did feel the need to go retrieve her dramatascope. (Ok. Since that day...er, right now when I Googled it to find out how to spell it...I learned that it is actually called a "dermatoscope" - which makes sense. However, I could have sworn she said "DRAMAtascope" - which is much more DRAMAtic.)

OK, ready for another shocker? She used the dermatascope to inspect my three very dark freckles (I am NOT moley!) on my lower back....the same three that my mother inisted I have "checked out". After a little hemming and hawing, taking some measurements, and creating some drawings (which were nothing like Leonardo DiCaprio's art in Titanic), she announced they were probably nothing, but she'd like to check them again in six months to be sure.

NOW. Onto the problem at hand -- those unsightly blemishes! Well, remember how I made a point to apologize to her?

"I know this is really not bad, it's just that it's bad FOR ME." I went on to explain the biography of my face, what interventions I had already tried, and my rationale for finally resorting to a medical option. Her reaction?

"Oh, you DEFINITELY have some pretty inflammatory stuff going on."

Thank you very much, ma'am, for kicking my ego down a notch...again. I really needed that.

OMD and ODD

I cannot relate.

I've heard a lot about it, though.

OMD.

Have you heard of it?

The technical name is "Old Man's Disease".

I first heard about it from my husband's former lieutenant a few years back. He's about ten years older than Fire Daddy, but they became very close, given their close quarters at the station. (...but that's another post) As I understand it, there are some very specific symptoms that accompany this illness.

1. Changes in sleep patterns. Namely, the patient has to get up multiple times throughout the night to pee. They develop mild narcolepsy, as well, resulting in multiple cat naps throughout the day. Bedtime shifts to a much earlier hour (8 or 9), resulting in earlier waking hour (5, 6, or 7 - even on weekends. In some extreme cases, 4 AM has been documented.)

2. Changes in temperament. Remember the movie Grumpy Old Men? They weren't kidding. Some theories suggest this is a side effect of the aforementioned symptom. Others site other causes.

3. Changes in physical strength and endurance. The patient may begin to feel as though they are a fading version of their younger self. They find that they fatigue quicker and suffer from heightened aches and pains after exertion.

4. Perceived differently by other males. Patients may report overhearing their male "peers" (term used loosely) refer to them as "the old man", especially during group fitness activities or physical challenges.


Fire Daddy and I are pretty young, though of a respectable age. However, I watch with caution as I begin to recognize shadow symptoms of this pervasive disease encroach into our home.

My greatest concern is for another member of my family, though.

Are you familiar with ODD? It's closely related to OMD. In fact, it could be considered the canine version: Old Dog's Disease. The symptoms are very much the same. My heart breaks for my poor Bo. He's been a very good dog -- overall. (Believe me, I've got a few whoppers to share...but that's another post.)


Perhaps I should share some of my observations.

1. Changes in sleep patterns. I know this sounds next to impossible. I mean, sleep is like a third (at least) of a normal, healthy, all American dog's day! However, I've actually noticed my Baby Bo sleeping MORE. What's particularly alarming is that he's now the last one out of bed each day. This is the dog that, in his younger years, woke us impatiently before 6 AM to be fed breakfast -- seven days a week.

2. Changes in temperament. Thankfully, this has been for the better. I've noticed Bo is MORE tolerant of my daughters' attempts to show affection. He's INCREDIBLY loving now. In fact, one might refer to him as ... NEEDY. It's kind of sad. Poor baby...

3. Changes in physical strength and endurance. When we first adopted Bo from the Humane Society, we lived in an apartment. Consequently, he was leash walked -- VERY FREQUENTLY. I'm talking, on a Saturday or a Sunday, he required 5-7 LONG walks per day. (This came in very handy for me when I was at home alone on maternity leave -- the baby weight literally fell off.) He was walked so frequently, in fact, that the painters who were redoing the exterior of the buildings commented one day, "That dog goes on more walks than any dog I know." Additionally, each walk was fast-paced and required a lot of strength and discipline on our part to maintain control of the route.

Now? Well, we'll put it this way. On more than one occasion, Bo has booted one of the girls from the stroller. One time, Fire Daddy had to CARRY HIS 30 POUND BOOTIE HOME -- FOR A MILE. Have you seen those cool new strollers now that have a hidden seat in the back where the basket would normally go? I need one of those hidden seats on my double jogging stroller for Bo.

4. Perceived differently by other males. Well, I can't really attest to how he is perceived by other male DOGS, but I can say that my father, my brothers, and Fire Daddy's brother ALL made remarks about how heavy poor Bo was looking when they saw him this holiday season.

Boys. They're so mean to my little Chunky Monkey.


I don't know what to do about my boys. I guess I'll keep them.

Botox or Notox?

Last week I noticed that my "smile lines" (If they're going to be there, why not give them a happier name?) seemed more pronounced than usual. In fact, they looked like the great divide! What a depressing feeling to notice you looked like a wrinkled pig as you cut in front of a third grader, making a mad dash to the potty, claiming "teacher's privilege". Talk about helpless! Not only are you miles away from any quick fix supplies, but you are T minus 10 seconds until the 20-some-odd 8 year olds explode into a state of pandemonium!

I quickly tried to "rub them out" (I have no idea what I was thinking. Somehow, it seemed like a good idea at the time.) and returned to the classroom, thankful that my students love me and don't seem to notice my aging epidermis. My thoughts of panic, though, were neatly tucked away as another item on my mental "Figure This Out and FIX IT" list.

This weekend, as I waited endlessly in the checkout at Walmart, my eyes wandered over the current People magazine cover.

OK. No, this is not the exact cover. But, HE'S SO CUTE! Wouldn't you rather roll your eyes over this cover than another picture of the Obamas? (No offense to Barack and co.)

Anyhow, as I thumbed through the pages, I stumbled onto an article about Botox. No, this never entered my mind as a possible option for my own personal smile lines. (Can't afford it and husband would never approve.) However, it got me wondering. Would I if I could? Hmmm....

Perhaps. Would you?