Most likely you’d expect a lot of ballet going on this house, wouldn’t you? – what with three girls and all? Ballet… and maybe tap… some jazz perhaps, and so forth. To be honest, having three girls, I thought we’d be up to our eyeballs in dance at this point in our lives. I, for one, loved dance when I was young. I would practice my leaps, turns and kicks in front of a full length mirror in the garage to a classical radio station I found on the AM dial. When asked what “I wanted to be” when I grew up, A Dancer was always on the short list. I just assumed my daughters would be the same. Silly me. Both Peyton and Quincy did start off in dance class. It was the same in-town dance studio most of the grade school girls belonged. The ballet teacher, though she made an earnest effort to come off as “warm and fun” to the parents, was stern -- her lips sealed into what seemed a perpetual fine line of disapproval or irritation… her penciled eyebrows were arched high on her forehead. She wore black jazz shoes, walked with a significant turn-out and tolerated zero horseplay. The moms watched from a waiting room with glass windows that spanned the hardwood dance floors as their little girls learned how to shuffle step and sashay to an array of music selections from various musicals, and 1950’s hits. There was a big production at the end of the year in which all of the little girls dressed up like sparkly butterflies, ballerina princesses, glittering angel fairies, or a combination therein. My proud Mommy moment came when Quincy, dressed in a sequined, purple polka-dotted, flare skirted number, inadvertently kicked off her tap shoe while performing an over-zealous kick ball change. The tap shoe (in what felt like slow motion) flew through the air, hurtling to a stop directly center stage. Quin, without so much as changing her facial expression, and at what really seemed to be light speed, retrieved the shoe, popped it back into action and finished the dance routine without a glimmer of hesitation, so that if you weren’t watching closely, you would have never known it happened. My heart swelled with pride. Peyton plie’d and jete’d with the best of them, too, looking quite lovely in her ballerina bun with the dainty little pink slippers on her feet. When it came time to enroll the two girls for the following year of dance classes, I was surprised when they both confronted me. “No more dance classes,” they said firmly. This is a crossroads all of us moms face when the ideas our kids have of their futures do not match our own. “You love dance class,” I offered, but that was a losing position to take, akin to telling them they “love” broccoli. “If not dance, then what?” I wanted to know. And evidently they had already thought this through because they both agreed they wanted to do Martial Arts. I will admit, I in no way took this seriously… I put gymnastics on the table a few days later, but still they persisted. Martial Arts, they said, was the ticket. So I did what any mother would do when she realizes her two daughters would rather learn flying front kicks instead of pas de bourrees. I shoved their teensy feet into point shoes and told them it was my way or the highway… No, I really didn’t. I got on the computer and googled Martial Arts classes in our neighborhood. If they wanted to wax on/wax off, I would get behind it. After doing some research, I signed both girls up for a trial class at a Taekwondo studio up the street. And do you know what I realized? I was actually excited. The more I thought about it, the more I was down with the girls learning a Martial Art. Note: this was of no consequence to the girls, who had already decided they were doing martial arts whether I liked it or not. The entire car ride to the Trial Class I quoted as many lines from Karate Kid I as I could remember (my knowledge of this movie is extensive). The girls had no idea what I was talking about but I was amusing myself and sometimes that’s what is important. We arrived to a bustling studio filled with kids in their white uniforms with a variety of belt colors. We were instructed to go into a room with kids who had white and yellow belts. We were a bit early so we sat on a bench and watched the kids warm up before the instructors arrived. There was a small boy with a yellow belt in the center of the floor practicing his form, which to me, looked incredibly badass. His hands swept through the air in what looked like knife chops, punches, and other very impressive moves. He kicked in several different directions, and every so often he would pause and shout firmly, “HUT!” The girls watched wide-eyed while they fidgeted in their sweat pants. Soon it was time for class to start. The instructors arrived on the edge of the floor and shouted into the chaotic room filled with kids running, jumping, and kicking at will, “LINE UP!” The room went silent immediately – the only sound being the kid’s footfalls as they quickly formed lines on the mats. I was impressed. Peyton loved the class. Quincy did not. In fact, after class, which included many crunches, push-ups, and an extended horse stance that made my thighs burn just from watching it, Quincy said that she wanted to do gymnastics. After trying to persuade her to give it another try, I realized she wasn’t ready for it, and so she did do gymnastics – for two more years. Meanwhile, Peyton worked her way through the belts, which wasn’t easy. She learned different “forms” which are essentially Taekwondo routines, involving a very precise combination of kicks, punches and blocks. In addition, she learned mental requirements, how to spar, and the art of arnis – which is stick fighting. Was I impressed? Very. Every now and again I’d encourage Quincy to give it another whirl but the more she watched Peyton, the more intimidated she seemed to become. It wasn’t until the school year began this year that Quin reconsidered. Peyton was testing for her advanced green belt, and as it turned out, her test was piggybacked on to the black belt test – which meant we had a rare opportunity to see what was required to become the highest ranking belt. I was entertained – but Quincy was enthralled….transfixed. When we got home she sat down at the kitchen table while I stood at the sink. “I’m ready to try it again,” she told me. And I knew exactly what she meant. That wasn’t the final hurdle, though. When we arrived for her first day of class, she wouldn’t get out of the car. “It’s time,” I told Quin from the front seat. She was quiet and didn’t move. This is where fine-tuned parenting skills really pay off – patience, understanding, calm. I’ve read a great deal of parenting books on this subject – it was time to implement. But I don’t seem to possess these skills when I need them most, and I always end up frustrating myself deeply. “Get out, Quincy,” I told her. She wordlessly shook her head. She was nervous and I knew it, but I also knew that if she would get out and start the class she would love it. So I made her get out. I don’t remember my exact words, but they were firm and not the words I wished I had said – even as I was saying them. But it worked and she reluctantly followed me into the studio. My face was red and I was feeling like #1 a-hole mommy. Quincy’s face was red as well, and though she didn’t say a word I think that she was feeling like I was #1 a-hole mommy, too. When class began, Quincy slowly took her place on the mat. Within 10 minutes she was in to it. The teachers were great with her, and after class she told me she loved it. I have to admit, watching Q in her classes made me extremely proud. She possesses a focus and an accuracy that's impressive to me - her mom. So it was at the School Championships that this all came full circle for me. After having to peel Quincy out of the car again (this seems to be her thing when she’s nervous) we joined the entire Taekwondo studio inside to watch the students compete and show all that they’ve learned over the last year. At one point I looked over at Peyton on the floor, now a blue belt, with her full sparring gear on. And it sunk in... how interesting it is that I had imagined at this point in their lives I would be sitting in an auditorium watching them perform dance numbers in sparkling costumes, when here I was in a gymnasium watching my girls put on their mouth guards and fighting faces. I got that swelling proud feeling as I looked at their little blonde heads capped by their sparring hats. My girls rock.

Running on the fumes of my second cup of coffee on a sunny mid-morning while driving home after all three kids have been successfully dropped off at school, the possibilities seem endless. My ideas for the future, both big and small, seem more than doable. I get like this at these times… Over ambitious. Over zealous. Over caffeinated. I consider things such as: going back to school, writing the books that have been telling themselves in my mind for years. I think of marathon training, triathlon training, a new career, and more... At the very least, I think of my sad little blog that after about a year of neglect has cobwebs dangling from it... I miss writing. So in this state (kid-free for the moment and highly caffeinated) I decide to get cracking on writing. I have ideas! They are interesting and inspiring and fun! I arrive home full of bubbling motivation and the desire to hit the computer. I arrive home… to a house with a floor that desperately needs to be vacuumed… to a dog who is begging to be walked… to a sink full of breakfast dishes… The caffeine is waning. Reality and her b-hole tag-along friend Responsibility burst my mood. And so, the writing will wait. A bit. But I’m coming for it.

Bathing Suit Trauma

To work in the bathing suit department, it is important – critical even, to possess the diplomacy skills of a well seasoned politician. Women come to this brightly lit section of department stores, with its mirrors and tiny articles of clothing, with significantly more resignation and dread than excitement. My fragile ego was no exception as I wandered into Nordstrom’s Active Wear department -- unfortunately directly after a big lunch with the girls. That is why I was more than a little bit unnerved when I spotted the saleswoman approaching me. Cassie, as I later learned her name, sauntered over in a brand new edition of the store’s active wear, which included skin tight yoga pants and a running shirt that strongly suggested she was about to hit the road in 90 degree weather. The girls and I gingerly fingered through brightly covered prints while I tried not to make eye contact with Cassie. Brooklyn, pulling on a hanger, told me with heavy authority that I should get a neon pink number with ruffles on the bum.

“Looking for a suit?” The young woman asked as she raised a perfectly sculpted eyebrow. As I turned my attention away from them, the girls began darting into the clothes racks sending waves of bathing suits into the air. Giggles and squeals followed. Most often I am proud of my children. However shopping with me is not their strong suit. I shoot them a threatening look that unequivocally says (albeit silently) “knock it off or the icecream I promised you is off the table.” The girls straighten up and resume their manners for the moment.

“Yes,” I say.

“Oh,” she says… “Fun! Are you going anywhere special?”

“My husband and I are going to Bermuda.” I tell her.

“Exciting!” She breathes, and blinks her heavily mascaraed eyes at me. She looks me up and down then. She really does. Look me up and down. I protectively try to suck my tummy in, to no avail. The Portobello mushroom sandwich I just ate makes it impossible. “Sooo, are you looking for a one-piece? A tankini?” Her assessment of me is clear.

I look around at the flesh covering one piece suits and tankinis. Though she couldn’t possibly comprehend what this simple question suggested to me -- all the intricate insinuations and insults, I couldn’t help but bristle… It’s the same complicated feeling that comes the day when the cashier at the grocery store no longer bothers to card you for the bottle of wine you’re buying, and you sort-of hate him for it. Or when you notice that you’re consistently referred to as “ma’am” instead of “miss.” I try to see myself through the eyes of this young woman, as my three children resume their antics in the bathing suit racks. Me, with the perma-concerned (bordering- on-frown-lines) between my eyes, three (ill-behaved at the moment) kids, a tee-shirt that is only half-assedly covering my sandwich belly… Yes, I have a half eaten grilled cheese sandwich in my purse (not my own) and yes, I also have a pair of underwear in there (also not my own)… Yes, I’m closer to forty than thirty, but I’m still not ready for a one-piece!

“No, fucker,” I hear myself thinking, recounting all the hot yoga classes and 6 mile trail runs I’ve logged the last few months.

“I was thinking a two-piece,” I tell her, and watch her eyes widen a bit.

“Oh! Okay!” She chirps, heading to the rack in the front of the department without missing a beat. “Did you see this one?” She asks as she clicks through the hangers. She finds the one she wants and displays it by dangling it by the hanger on her index finger. It’s a black and white number and it looks cute, though the bottoms are particularly small – tiny even. Just then the price-tag dangles into view -- $82 for just the top. I can’t see the tag on the bottoms… though if I put those bottoms on my bottom you’d see everything under the sun. They look about the same size as the 3T underwear in my purse, I think. Cassie’s eyes twinkle a little bit. “I’ll go start a room for you,” she says as she carts the ridiculously expensive, slutty suit, via her index finger, to the dressing area. I haven’t gotten to the dressing room and already I’m nauseous. I hightail it over to the ‘Reduced’ section because if I’m about to embark on putting embarrassingly small bathing suits on in front of a three way mirror, I will, at the very least, do it for a deeply discounted price. As luck would have it there’s a cute Roxy suit in the sale section that I find very cute, and even the girls, who have momentarily stopped their shenanigans to be my fashion consults, agree.

Just then Cassie pops back over. “I just realized I didn’t ask your size… I just grabbed a medium – is that?”

Before she could suggest I look in the XL section I say, “Yes! That’s perfect!” and head toward the dressing room.

As expected, I’m confronted with my reflection (times three) as I enter the room with Cassie’s bathing suit selection already hanging on the hook. I sigh.

Peyton says, “Oh, try this one first!” scooping up Cassie’s pick. What the heck, I think and pull it off the hanger clips.

Standing fully naked in front of a three way mirror, with reflective fluorescent lights accentuating every last little inch of flesh is not for the faint of heart. I work quickly and get the suit on.

“I love it!” Peyton tells me, as she looks directly at my butt crack hanging out the back of the suit. The front of the suit isn’t any better. I then make the mistake of turning in front of the three way mirror to get a back view. The sight is disturbing and I get the suit off just as clever Cassie knocks on the door.

“Do you like it?” She asks.

I’m at a loss for words and moreover, feeling humbled by the sight of my backside in the mirror. “Nope,” is all I can manage.

“Can I get you another size?” Cassie, in her ever helpful manner, asks.

“I’m just going to try on the one I picked,” I respond. I probably sound weird. I’m trying not to tell her to shut up and leave me alone.

By the grace of God, the Roxy suit is cute. I like it. It covers all the important parts and sections that need to be securely out of view. I’m still rattled by the backside mirror image I had in the other suit so I don’t look with this one on. As a matter of fact, I’m looking at myself by squinting heavily, so as to just ever so slightly soften the details. The girls are seemingly very excited about this suit. “I love it! It looks great!” they all tell me. I know that more than anything they are ready to get out of this dressing room and hit the ice cream store. But I thank them for their compliments and encouragement. I buy the suit. From Cassie. And then I do what any self-respecting mom with three kids, who has just purchased a two-piece bathing suit, does. I went and bought ice cream – for all four of us.

How to Run Like a Kid

This weekend Peyton completed her first 5k race – the Valentine’s Love ‘Em or Leave ‘Em dash around Greenlake. When I say “completed” I mean that little stinker ran the entire way, only stopping for a brief moment to make a quick sweatshirt adjustment. I ran at her side, matching her pace and holding her hand. In all honesty, I was pretty amazed and impressed by this accomplishment and felt that distinct sense of parental pride that emerges when your child does something unexpectedly awesome. I will admit, as I gave her high fives and kissed her flushed little face, I had cinematic visions of the future Peyton, finishing in first place at the Boston Marathon 2025, and thanking me as she accepted her medal on the podium. My sixty-something-year- old legs would be tired from having just finished the race too (significantly behind my daughter, but still…) as I stood there wiping tears from my eyes…



Rewind two years ago. Same race, but much younger girls accompanied me this time. Peyton (6) Quincy (5) and Brooklyn (1). I was trying, though utterly exhausted 90% of the time, to keep my hat in the running arena, and signing up for a race was the best way for me to stay inspired and motivated. I noticed when I signed up that there was a “kid’s dash” that the little ones could participate in. This seemed like a fine idea. A way to include the kids in a positive way and introduce them to, well you know, the ‘joys of running.’ Everything began well enough. The whole family arrived to the race site early on an icy February morning and we spent the pre-race hour milling around the booths. By the time the adult race started my girls had used up all their good and fun positive attitude power pellets and were quite finished being out in the chilly grey morning. Brooklyn was weeping in the stroller and the older girls’ faces were beginning to take on that long, bored look. I arrived to the finish line in a bubble of joy and endorphins, feeling accomplished and satisfied in a way that only running as fast as you can with four thousand other runners for three miles can make you feel. It was time for the ‘kid’s dash.’ Both Quincy and Peyton looked unenthused as the race directors put the finishing touches on the 200 yard shoot for the kids to run in. As the children were taking their marks at the starting line, Peyton grabbed my hand and told me to do it with her. “This one is a special one just for kids… you can run it with Quin.” I told Peyton. Quincy, who was all fired up by this time, had taken her place in the front of the starting line and was waiting for the go sign. Peyton began pulling on my arms and started to cry. “I don’t WANT to do it,” she informed me. Her face had morphed into a hardened stubborn look that I knew fairly well at this point. It was almost time for the kids to be sent off. Quincy was kicking her pink sneakers in the dirt. “Go over there with your sister,” I urged again. “It’s about to start!” Peyton looked at me blankly and didn’t budge. In a moment of frustration and pretty significant irritation, I hissed, “Get over there!” Immediately I felt like the jerkiest parent on the planet. Though I was probably imagining it, I could feel the other parents’ disapproving and judgmental eyes on me. Before we could discuss this further, the kids were being sent off. Quincy ran like the wind, her fine blonde hair flying in tendrils behind her. “Go Quin!!!” John and I shouted in unison. As quickly as it started, all the kiddos had completed their run and were enveloped in their proud parents’ tech-shirted hugs. Quincy was all smiles and beams and we congratulated her on a job well-done. She was awarded a special ribbon while the race directors fawned over the tiny finishers. Peyton was devastated. She looked at Quincy’s finisher’s ribbon with envy. The race director noticed Peyton standing on the sidelines and out of pity offered her a ribbon, too. Peyton accepted with a glum nod. As we walked back to the car, Peyton stared shamefully at the ground. “Sometimes,” I said, “We can’t take back our choices…” Peyton continued to study the cracks in the concrete as we walked. “But, we can learn from them.” This advice was as much for Peyton as it was for me. As we drove away from the race scene, I wondered if I had crossed the line from “encouragement” to “forcefulness.” Was I one of those moms who forced her kids to participate in experiences that they themselves loved, but their kids didn’t? Images of stage moms, and phrases like ‘win’ and parents on the sidelines with victory in their eyes while their kid trudged through practices filled my mind… A little dramatic, I know, but I vowed on that morning that I wouldn’t force my children to participate in events that ‘I’ enjoyed, unless they expressed a clear desire to do so.
So it was with some degree of surprise that this winter, after I laced up my shoes to go for a morning run, Peyton informed me, “I want to do a race with you, Mom. The Valentine’s one.” As I went out the door she reconfirmed this by adding, “I really do.” The next time I went for my weekend morning run, Peyton asked if she could come too. I chortled at the idea. “I’m gonna run for a loooong time,” I told her as I patted her head. “I can do it,” she mentioned the next weekend when I came back all sweaty from the trail. Finally, I realized that she was truly interested. After a bit more negotiating on her part, we planned to run the following weekend. Peyton gushed about this all week. She also reminded me just about one million times. She picked the outfit she wanted to wear, and lined her running shoes up at the door. Part of me was proud and excited, but I think even a larger part of me (I’m somewhat ashamed to admit) was skeptical about taking her out. The entire purpose of my runs is a means of ‘escape.’ For years, it has been my method of clearing my mind, solving problems and contemplating issues, all the while gulping fresh air and letting my legs do all the work. A typical run for me lasts from 45 minutes to an hour. I don’t stop. I listen to loud music and let my mind wander. Some people have church, or meditation, or therapy… I have running, which has successfully served as all three, and I was more than a little reluctant to part with that time. Saturday morning arrived in a mist of fine freezing drizzle, which did absolutely nothing to deter Peyton. Her shoes and outfit were on before I had my first cup of coffee. “I’m ready, Mommy,” she told me. “It’s going to be very cold,” I warned her. “Um, I know,” she said, sounding more like a 15 year old than an 8 year old. Soon the two of us were off. Peyton wanted to hold my hand as we walked down the steep hill down to the road which leads to the trail. “Isn’t it a beautiful day for a run?” she asked as she tilted her head up at me to reveal a happy grin. I looked around at the wet pavement and grey sky and thought silently that I wouldn’t mind if it were a few degrees warmer. “Yup,” I agreed with my beaming daughter. When we got down to the road I told Peyton we’d get going, at which point she launched into a full out sprint. Her skinny legs worked in circles while her arms pumped side to side. By the time we made it to the trail she was breathing hard. “Take it easy,” I suggested. “You have to pace yourself if you want to make it a long distance.” This fell on deaf ears as she skipped beside me. “This is really fun,” she told me as her little legs chugged out in front of me. The trail was chilly and each piece of gravel was encased in its own shimmery frosted crust. Our breath puffed out in front of us in heavy steam clouds. We ran side by side for awhile, and every so often Peyton would pause to get her breath, always smiling and remarking on cool things she happened to notice on the trail. Before I knew it, we had made it to the mile mark. We looped around and started heading back. Though I knew she was tired, she kept smiling. When we were almost back to the turn-off that lead back to the road, she looked up to me and said, “I have to do something.” She then skip-ran as fast as she could up to a weeping willow tree whose branches dropped down onto the trail like green ribbons. Peyton jumped up to the branches and slapped them. “I had to give ‘em five,” she explained. I couldn’t help but laugh, and I certainly couldn’t help but thoroughly enjoy Peyton’s style of running. When we were stretching on the lawn she asked me how she did. “Very, very awesome,” I told her and completely meant it.
We ran a few more times together before the big day – mainly in the same vein of skipping, running, observing eagles and plants, walking and enjoying the morning. Not my typical training regime, but I must say… much, much more enjoyable.
Race day turned into a family affair. Quincy wanted to do it, Brooklyn wanted to do it, Mahmuh wanted to do it, and even John wanted to do it. Peyton wanted to run with me, John took Brooklyn in the jogger, and Mahmuh and Quincy planned to be a fast walking team. We took our place at the back of the pack and waited for the gun to go off. In a flurry of excitement the crowd began to shuffle-jog toward the starting line. Peyton took off and I had to hustle to catch up with her. It turns out she was determined to beat John. After she was certain she had put some distance between herself and John and the jogging stroller, she began to slow down into a comfy jogging pace. She kept it up for a mile, and then two… I kept waiting for her to tire, or walk or ask me when it would be over. But she didn’t. She told me she was having fun, and every so often she’d ask where I thought Daddy was. At about two and half miles she told me she had to do something and ran to slap a tree with dangling branches. She then skipped back to me with a smile. These are the things she picked up from “training.” The finish line approached before we knew it. Spectators were yelling encouragement and Peyton finished strong, in a full out kid sprint.



The pride I felt was immeasurable. Not so much because I got Peyton to run (although let’s face it, that was pretty neat and I do take a little credit there) but that she and I enjoyed that moment together… And, that I had the best time ever, running like a kid.

The Cleaner Ladies

I’m not one who becomes irritated easily. I have, what they call, “a long fuse” in most instances. So it is with some degree of surprise (my own) that I have such a strong reaction to the commercials that come on promoting bleach, or laundry detergent, or cleaning products. You know the commercials I mean. They always begin in a similar fashion. A young, perfectly put together mother, is strolling through her sparkling clean house, when, Oh dear! Somebody goes and spills spaghetti sauce all over the counter. Or, tracks in a heaping load of fresh mud from outside directly on to her clean tile floor. Or, dumps grape juice on her white carpet. What does this mother do? I know what I would do. I know what words I would utter, and I know the culprit of any of these offenses in my home would be majorly dusted – after they helped clean up the mess. But this mom? In her khakis and matching sweater set? She always makes the same facial expression, and this is about the time I want to shoot through the roof. It’s a half smile, half knowing nod, with a touch of “I know just what to do,” at which point she and her cleaning product come to the rescue and make everything bright and shiny again. Barf.
I was thinking of commercials of this nature the other morning when I was getting all three girls their pancake breakfasts to the table. My coffee was already cold – untouched on the counter beside me. I was in a state of half-dress – jammy pants, with a shirt on, and my bathrobe, too. I was a sight, let’s just leave it at that… Quincy was insisting she pour her own syrup, which I was trying to dissuade her from, but she was being persistent and I was distracted. Finally I relented and let her have at it. I went to serve Brookie and when I turned around, not only had Quincy saturated all three of her pancakes, she had filled her plate with syrup and the entire counter too. A syrup waterfall was pouring off the counter on to the kitchen rug mat below. Did I give Quincy the sweet knowing nod and usher her back to the table so that I could clean up this mess by myself? Well, no. I wheeled toward her in what must have been a frightening move because she stopped pouring the syrup and looked at me with dread. “WHAT?! ARE!? YOU!? DOING!?” I barked at her, my morning breath directly in her face, my bathrobe flying in every direction. Her response, which I feel summed up quite nicely was, “woops.” I grabbed some paper towels (the quicker-picker-upper, if you will) and tried to wipe some of the sticky goo off the counter, all the while grumbling. Quincy looked at her syrup fountain and probably realized the error of her ways because she uttered a very deflated, “Sorry…” At that point, I told her it was okay and everybody makes mistakes, and because she felt rotten and I knew it, I gave her a hug. But as I cleaned and she ate her pancakes I continued to inwardly curse the syrup and wonder what the hell the best product is to clean maple syrup out of a floor rug could be. And then I thought of Those Women. The commercial women, I mean… in their tidy homes, with their smart outfits and their trusty cleaning products at the ready for any spill or major catastrophe. It’s these very images that make us moms feel inadequate. Forget about the Sports Illustrated swim suit magazine covers. At this point, those magazines are simply laughable. It’s the “perfect mom” imagery that gets my goat – that causes my otherwise long fuse to blow at the site of one of those commercials. As I tossed a pile of syrup soaked kitchen rags in the washing machine, I adjusted my bathrobe and imagined a more “realistic” commercial. Say, one in which a child spilled sticky syrup all over a relatively clean (but let’s face it, pretty untidy) kitchen. First words out of the mom’s mouth? The F word. Following? A lecture. Then and only then: the cleaning product. It can be any product, really. In my case it was dishsoap because, well, it was there… But any product would do I suppose.
I have a feeling I won’t be seeing a commercial peddling the newest Clorox product depicting a mom in her jammies and bathrobe any time soon, but I must admit, it gives me a small amount of joy to imagine it. That’s what us real moms must do to take the edge off of mopping up syrup on our hands and knees…

To Love and Lose

I almost didn't write this, because... well, it's sad. It seems most of us are willing to share our happy stories, but when it comes to the flip side of that coin -- the not-so-pretty side of things... the things that make our lives challenging; the things that make us cry... we keep them tucked away, out of sight, while we suffer silently. I know often times that's what I do. There is so much fear in sharing sadness... Most of us wait for time to soothe the hurt...

Life is filled with many things... Beautiful moments -- so perfect and graceful, laughter, fear, and sometimes grief. Sad times are important because they teach us who we are, and they show us how deeply grateful we should be for the lovely things we are fortunate to have.

With that said, here's my sad story.

Two weeks ago, life was normal. When I say 'normal' I of course mean the usual chaotic, busy, light-speed-paced schedule... There is little downtime during a typical day in our lives, as we bounce from one activity to another, packing what seems like each and every minute with wall to wall stuff to do. So it took me a minute to put the signs together... I had been exhausted for the past several nights. The girls had invited me to their "Reading Party" upstairs on my bed at 8pm the past few evenings, and while normally I could read with them for an hour, then head downstairs for a few more hours of hang-out time with John before I'd feel sleepy, I found myself snoring away before I had even finished a page of reading. Then there were the frequent potty breaks. Like, waking up several times per night. The final hint was the charlie horses in my calves -- a tightening cramp I had only experienced, yep you guessed it, when I was pregnant. Oh, and of course the cherry on top, a missed period.

So, with not a small amount of fear, excitement and denial, I marched myself into Bartells, and bought the pink box, which now in these modern times proclaims it can tell you "6 days before your period" if you're knocked up. Brooklyn was in preschool and the older girls were at school when I came home with the box. I went directly to the bathroom and pee'd on the stick. I watched as my pee moved across the window, and scrutinized the white to see if I could make out anything colorful developing. Despite all the clues I had that were screaming "yes! you idiot... you're pregnant!" I waited for the window on the test to turn up stark white. There's no.way. I thought. But, watching with bugged eyes, a line did in fact develop. It was pink and it was solid and it was very much there. I blinked at the line and waited for it to fade. It didn't... In fact, it was darkening before my very eyes. My hands started shaking and the reality set in. I counted back through the days and tried to figure out 'how this happenened.' What I realized, after I (not so very quietly) yelled to the bathroom walls, "You have GOT to be effing kidding me!" was that I was excited. Nervous, but thrilled. Just like that, life turns on a dime.

Before this revelation had come anywhere near sinking in, it was time to pick Brooklyn up at preschool. I got in the car to make the 10 minute drive down East Lake Sammamish, and noticed everything looked different. It was a fantastically beautiful fall day. The sky was crispy blue, and all the trees along the glistening lake were heavy with yellowy, orange leaves. Some were spiralling down from the branches like golden coins in the wind. Everything looked magic. I felt in that moment a little bit magic, too. I felt lucky and proud and part of something amazing. I felt like this must be meant to be... especially since we hadn't planned it - it just 'happened.'

I love that it just happened. Anybody who knows us well knows that we have been riding the fence about having a fourth child for quite a while. And yet, we haven't been able to pull the trigger for whatever reason... And realistically, there are several... Reasons. Not far along on the short list (mine) has been Fear. Fear that a fourth child would put us over the edge, or perhaps not be healthy, or perhaps end in a loss... But here was this pregnancy, which essentially fell into our laps. We didn't plan it, or work on it... It just Happened. I loved that.

As the day progressed and I turned the news around in my head again and again and again, other feelings cropped up. Fear was there, for sure. It's incredible that it happens so soon, but already there was love for the life I knew was getting a start in my body. I was intensely protective already, and I was hoping that this little one was getting a nice firm grip in there, and would hold on... because I wanted him or her. Very much. The reality of the matter, I knew, is that many early pregnancies end in loss. Unfortunately, I knew this from experience. My body remembers that pain, and knowing I was carrying a new little life made that pain manifest itself as fear. And yet, I also felt a very distinct amount of peace. Whatever the outcome, I told myself, I felt blessed being pregnant at that moment. It was so sweet.

John was excited. No, I think "elated" is a better word. He, like me, could not believe it. Why is that? Women get pregnant everyday... but when it happens to you, it feels completely miraculous. I think for John, there is a certain degree of pride. 'I did this to you' sort of thing.

I scheduled my first doctor's appointment and went about life as usual -- only now, life as usual took on a whole new meaning. In my mind and in my body, I was making room for something new. Something wonderful and mysterious and already, very much loved. My thoughts were consumed with wrapping this new thing around in my mind. I turned it over constantly. I felt lucky and excited and happy.

One week is not a great deal of time, but that's exactly how long it had been when I went to the bathroom and saw that first speck of blood. My heart instantly sank because I knew. This is how it begins. Or rather, how it ends. Many people say spotting can be part of a normal, healthy pregnancy, but every time I've seen blood, it has meant it's over. I didn't cry. My peace and joy and my feeling of being blessed hardened into an angry fist in my chest. I hardly slept that night, and when I woke up there was more spotting. I called the doctor, and I was advised to go to the lab to get my beta hcg and progesterone drawn. Both give clues as to how the pregnancy is progressing. As I drove to the lab through the rain, the sun suddenly parted the dark clouds and shone brightly -- even as the rain continued to pour. It was rather beautiful, actually. The drops, instead of looking grey and cold, as they did moments before, were bright silvery yellow, and the spray being kicked up from the car in front of me was making misty rainbows that I was literally driving directly through. In my desperation for everything to be okay, this seemed like a sign. Something that on an ordinary day, I probably would have completely overlooked... but on this day, when I needed so much, there was meaning in the simplest of things.

Brooklyn sat on my lap while I got my blood drawn. I watched the vials fill with the dark liquid and I pictured what it would look like at the lab, in all the machines as it was getting tested. I willed my blood to have positive information in it. I wanted my blood to carry good news. Brooklyn told me I was brave, and the Tech. who drew my blood gave her princess stickers.

That night, as I sat in the parking lot while Peyton took her Taekwando class, the nurse from my OB's office called with the lab results. My beta was 200, and my progesterone was 2. Both were extremely underwhelmingly low, low, low numbers. I knew the nurse felt the same because she told me she 'was so sorry.' She told me they had to treat this like a viable pregnancy, though, and she prescribed a progesterone supplement. She also told me to get another blood draw in the morning to see if my numbers increased. I knew though. And I was devastated.

The following morning, the bleeding increased dramatically and when I got the lab results that afternoon they confirmed what I already knew. The numbers were dropping. The pregnancy was gone.

I felt robbed. Like the entire experience was a cruel trick. Why get pregnant unexpectedly, get excited and welcome it, only to have it taken away? What seemed 'meant to be' turned out to be nothing of the sort. What was the point?

I wish that I could sum this up with an anecdote about how I have derived some meaning... some reason... some shred hope from this experience. But I can't. I've merely been left with a deep sadness that I can't make sense out of. Perhaps in more time I will be able to get myself to that place in which this doesn't feel like one of life's betrayals. I will. Eventually.

What I do know, is that I'm already very lucky. My family is everything to me. They are my heart, my love, my happiness... and they will get me through this, and anything.

Thankful

Often times these days, I look at my three girls and find myself unrealistically willing them to not get any older. Peyton, at age 8, is still a Mommy's girl. The other day when I was driving her to Tae Kwan Do, she told me, unsolicited from the backseat, "Mommy? When I finish college I want to travel around the world with you and Daddy... and buy you lots of souveneirs." I know I have about two years until John and I being included in her 'traveling around the world dream' will be aced. I asked her the other day if she still believed in Santa. When I was her age, the cat was way out of the bag... She looked at me, horrified... "YES!" She said without hesitation.
Quincy, at 6, is still my loveable lap girl. She often times crawls onto my lap and asks me to tickle her back. While she's lying there she'll tell me "I'm the best Mommy she ever had." She has such an abundance of love in her, and she gives it away without being asked -- to just about anyone who she comes into contact with. She is my bright sparkley light.
Brooklyn, my baby at age 3, is growing fast -- out of diapers, going to preschool, full of ideas and independence... and yet several times a day will pull at my legs and say, "I want to hold you." Her favorite thing to do these days is to "play food," which means going to her room and serving me from the array of wooden play fruit and veggies she has. She sings me happy birthday and makes me feasts.
I love these ages... They are sweet and innocent and brilliant. I know they must grow older, and in all honesty, I look forward to that as well. Right now I am just thankful for the people they are and the joy they give me.