Eliana turned 3 last month. Like the pain of childbirth, I most certainly did not FORGET, but the memory was a bit blurred in my mind….until I was in labor with my 2nd. And then it came flooding back to me….oh F&@# (sorry mom, but this IS labor we are talking about)…how could I be so stupid!!?? So, too, I am now reminded of the Three’s.

When Max first turned 3, I remember telling people, “what a great age! I think 3 is the whole reason we had a kid!” And then the other side of the three’s kicked in and I remember not at all remembering why we decided to do that. Over time, I have vaguely filed away ‘the three’s” as the toughest, but without any gory details. Well, we are now only 1 month into being 3 and I already think I might not make it. This is like being 2.18 miles into a marathon and thinking about dropping out (seriously, I did the math). The difference with all of these damn sports metaphors, however, is that one can actually quit any sporting event, any time, at any given moment. And one even SHOULD! Pulled muscle? Too much pain? Hopefully not at mile 2.18, but the point is, you CAN quit! I haven’t yet figured out how I could do this for motherhood – at least not in any way that would allow me to lead a normal happy life. I do claim injury (emotional) and I do think I am going to start running over to the spa more often for a massage, so maybe, just maybe, I’ll get through this. Well, I know I will. I did before. One. Moment. At. A. Time. But you’ve been warned if I’m drunk every time you see me for the next 11 months or so.

Viva la Friday!

Having one of those Fridays. No, not one of those Freaky ones where my mother and I woke up, finding ourselves in each other’s respective bodies, but just one of those..”oh my god there is all of this stuff that I haven’t gotten done from the whole week, BUT it’s Friday so I’m going to go get a pedicure and have lunch with my husband” ones. And check out a pair of shoes on the internet, OH, and blog about it. But seriously, one of the things on my list for this week, well, every week is to blog twice, so this does, technically, count as being productive. Even if I’m not getting paid for it. Hell, most of what I do in my life is un-paid (unless you count living in a nice house, taking nice vacations and a budget for the occasional pair of shoes on the internet), so I think I need a new definition of productivity anyway.

SO, I walked into my local pedicure spot (ok, I’m not really launching into a joke here, but ooh, I wish I had time to think one up), your basic Vietnamese-run, white walled joint with the tacky picture of the pink fingernail with a rhinestone flower, complete with the hand-written poster-board price list. I state my intentions (pedicure only), document that I’m there by signing in, and pick my color. A Oui Bit of Red caught my eye today. Besides just being in DIRE need of a pedicure (I know, this always sounds really spoiled, but really, if you know me or my feet, you know that regular professional treatment is really more of a courtesy to society than a moment of pampering for me, but I’ll take it as such anyway), I also had been wondering recently if I could have left my latest book club book there the last time I was in. The book is Bossypants by Tina Fey (btw, Michelle, if you are reading this – sorry, I left your book at the pedicure place, but read on, we got it back). If you haven’t seen it, there is a disturbing picture of her on the front where she’s looking all cute and Tina Fey-ish (or is that Sarah Palin-ish?), but she’s got big hairy man arms. It’s disturbing on even a subconscious level because your eyes are really drawn to her face, but at the same time you are looking into her big brown eyes with beautifully shaped brows, you notice this creep of a nauseous feeling entering the pit of your stomach. You are not sure why the image of Tina Fey is arousing the desire to run to the toilet, and then you realize….ah, big fat hairy man-arms. That will do it every time.

Alas, I inquired about the book and its potential for being there and that it would have been there for a couple of weeks, if, in fact, it has been. Several women furrowed their brows or shook their heads either because they didn’t know or they didn’t understand my babble. One woman came scurrying out of nowhere to look for it in a cupboard under their front desk. She pulled a book out, a look of disgust on her snarled lip, “is it this one?” she asked.

“Yes!” I shouted much too enthusiastically, like she had perhaps found, not a book with questionable gender-identity, but my lost cat or my wedding ring. I was just so pleased to have found the book that I had borrowed and was a bit upset with myself for having lost, which meant I was going to have to go buy a replacement book that I wasn’t even going to be able to keep. (deep breath) AND ANYWAY, she handed me the book, snarled lip still standing, and then looked at ME with the same air of revulsion. Like, “these American woman and their strange reading habits about women who look like men who look like women.” OK, I have no idea what she was thinking, but it wasn’t kind, that much I can say with reasonable certainty. I was, however, pleased to, both, get my book back AND to be able to remove the distasteful piece of filth from this woman’s space, where it clearly wasn’t welcome. I kinda wanted to say something, like, “I realize my reading habits don’t appear to be of the intellectual variety that you espouse through your selection of fine-writing periodicals such as People, Us and Star. I will do better next time,” But of course, I did not because I didn’t care nearly enough. I did, however, sit down, eager and delighted , like when I was 8 and the long-awaited JCPenney Christmas catalog finally arrived, and buried my head in Bossypants for a few good, cheap laughs and some shiny new publicly-presentable toes. TGIF. Now for next week’s schedule…

And I choose bed

Oh, how I want to stay up and blog. Oh, the stories that have been tumbling in this little head of mine…in the shower, during my runs…like puppies who need to be let out! But alas, life is a series of trade-offs and I look to the clock and it tells me, Go to Bed! I turn to my husband and he says, “Go to Bed!” I turn inward and my brain shouts “stay up and write!” but my eyes betray me as they shut on their own accord. And my muscles, who have been through a lot today (8- 400′s at the track in 100 degree heat, to be exact) roll over and play dead.

Alas, I am going to bed…more another day.

Maybe it doesn’t take a village, but it’s so much easier!

This morning my sitter was late and I had comitted to someone else to meet for a bike ride, i.e. I was in a bind! It was only 7:20 in the morning. I texted our neighbor, whose daughter had a sleep-over at our house last night to see if he was awake. Poor guy – the whole benefit to your kid sleeping over somewhere, out the window. He said he was awake and would come right over. He stayed with the kids until the sitter got here. THEN, because my bike ride ran over, I texted him AGAIN if he could relieve the sitter. It ended up, she was fine staying a little later. But THEN when I got home, absolutely drenched in sweat (it was a humid one this morning!) he offered, ‘why don’t the kids come over to my house to play so you can get cleaned up.’ And they’ve been there ever since, while I pack and get us ready for our Dallas weekend (where my husband is for work, in case anyone was wondering where he was in this story).

Angels can come in strange forms and today mine is a 40-ish father neighbor-guy friend. Instead of the village, however, I love the term I heard the other day at Robin Grille’s talk (more about that later, he’s the author of Parenting for a Peaceful World), the Urban Tribe. I love having it. I love being a part of it.