On The Edge... Of 40

I have already been asked… and if you’re over 40 you know the question because you were probably asked, too. “How does it FEEL?”

Because turning 40 is a big deal apparently. Not like turning 37 or 39 or 42. Feelings come along with graduating to the fourth decade.

So I’ve thought about it, taking careful stock of how I might feel.  And, well… it appears (so far anyway, 2 weeks from the big day) that it’s all good. I’m here now. Life is a progression, so really, I can’t imagine NOT turning 40. Though if you had asked me years ago, I would have told you that 40 is old as dirt.

I remember my Mom turning 40. I was a sophomore in high school. There was a banner on the wall that said “Lordy Lordy, Marty is Forty!” I distinctly remember thinking: well, so now my mom is OLD. But looking back, she was anything but. There is a picture of her from that night. She is wearing a pair of skinny Guess jeans. Her arm is looped over one of her best friend’s shoulders. She has long black hair and she’s smiling really big and happy-like for the camera. She was a far cry from OLD.  

Perhaps I’m okay with moving forward because I really have no desire to go back. There is certainly not an age from my past I would prefer being. My twenties were a time for learning, making mistakes, fumbling around, and ultimately searching for what truly brings me authentic joy. Hint: 4 martinis in a row does not bring joy. Neither do cigarettes. Memories from this era are cringe-worthy in retrospect – as they should be. They are entertaining as well. The lessons I learned were learned the hard way – the messy way. And that was okay because it was just me on the journey. The discovery process sounded a bit like: "Oh crap. That sucked. Better not do that again. Or... maybe I will do it again just a few more times to be sure..." I had a lot of fun too, but it’s not the kind of fun that appeals to me these days. I do thank God and Jesus that smart phones and social media did not yet exist – lest I be faced with photographic documentation for the rest of my life.

Though my teen years for all intents and purposes were pretty idyllic, I would never want to repeat them either. It makes me sad to see someone who feels their glory days have been lived out in their teens and everything else is downhill.  I was extremely blessed to live in a safe place where my ultimate responsibility was to go to school and have fun. But as is typical for that age, I didn’t know I was blessed and I wanted desperately to move to the next thing. It is true at that age I could eat pizza followed by ice cream only to wash it all down with dr. pepper, and somehow not gain weight and/or feel like I would fall into a refined sugar/carbohydrate induced coma and eventually die… But it still doesn’t make me want to be a teenager.

My late twenties and the entirety of my thirties consisted of getting married and building our family. We crashed into adult-life and parenthood the way a bus crashes into a semi truck. The day after our wedding we discovered we were also pregnant. Surprise! So in one fell swoop I was newly married, and a mother. It has been non-stop from there. Peyton, then quickly Quincy, and a few short years later – Brooklyn. Then low and behold, just when things started to slow down a little – Owen!! It has been a whirlwind, and it hasn’t always been easy. In fact, it has often been quite challenging. Bringing little humans into the world and attempting to raise them is really exhausting and hard work. But it is also wonderful. The lessons I’ve learned this decade have been the most rewarding… the joy I have felt has been the most pure.   Though again, I would never ever want to re-live these years…  

So here I am now, with all of these people who belong to me – who I belong to… And it feels like just the beginning. I am fully aware the years ahead will come with their own set of obstacles. The years always do… But hopefully, now that I am a seasoned woman of forty (snort) who has been jostled and bounced around a bit with all these life experiences, I will be able to charge onward and find the blessings and beauty in the things I have yet to experience. Hopefully I will be able to face the darker moments with courage and strength.  I am so excited to watch my kids grow. I am so excited that this is a “new chapter” for me and for John. It’s bananas to think that in another decade I will have a 21 year old (Peyton) and a 10 year old (Owen).

So, I “FEEL” good. I hope my body cooperates and stays healthy. But I won’t complain about getting older because it is a gift. In fact, I will try to remember to be thankful for every day that I’m given. (I would have never been able to do that in my 20’s). And maybe (God-willing) when I’m writing a post on my 90^th birthday I’ll admit that I’m actually getting up there in years. But not yet.  

Owen's Birth Story

 Surprise pregnancies are comedic and terrifying. The afternoon I decided to go buy the test was the same afternoon I earlier found myself sitting down after a not-so-exhausting or uncommon morning… and yet I wanted – no, needed really, to just sit down, kick my feet up and... collect myself. The next thing I knew I woke up drooling on myself as the sun was slanting significantly lower in the sky. Pieces started to fit together… All the telltale signs and the light bulb went off, along with the accompanying thought, “holy crap.”

I bought the usual things at the store… stuff for dinner, things to make lunches for the girls the following week… And the pink box with the test in it. As John put the groceries away, unbeknownst to him I snuck the box into the bathroom, locked the door and pee’d on the white piece of plastic. Low and behold, I watched not one, but two dark lines appear. My initial reaction? Laughter. Oh, I got a good laugh at that test sitting there on the counter telling me I was pregnant. I mean, the humor of it really… After years of contemplating a fourth child, we had finally decided “we were done.” A point that was emphasized by the purchase of our large, and quite frankly (though I love him dearly) pain in the ass dog. I will admit, newborns still pulled at my heart. But we had experienced the heartbreak of early losses… We felt completely blessed by our girls… It wasn’t as if we were spring chickens any longer, and well… we were done. That was our decision: DONE.

The test mocked me on the counter. It wasn’t real... “John,” I called nonchalantly out the bathroom door. He was dealing with the chaos of the girls and organizing the groceries. “WHAT!?” he answered, in probably not his most cool calm and collected tone. Things were already out of control in our lives. This was not real. “Would you please come here and take a look at something?” I called. He met me at the bathroom door, his eyes saying I love you but wtf?? “Just go look on the counter…” I said. He looked. He knew. I saw him processing, and then… the smallest tiniest smile appeared. He said in mock seriousness “what did you DO?”

“This isn’t real,” I told him. He nodded and we went about our evening. That’s the funny thing that happens when you’ve been heartbroken before. It’s hard to believe a gift – an unasked for gift, could just… happen.

But when I woke up in the morning I was still pregnant. And after the weekend, I was still pregnant. I called my doctor, and after my visit she said I was still pregnant, and showed me the heartbeat to back it up. I really was. Pregnant. I was elated. And pretty scared.

The weeks went by, and milestones passed. Ultrasounds and blood tests confirmed that not only was I having a baby, it was a healthy baby – and a boy baby. As my jeans became impossible to button and my body was clearly changing I allowed myself to believe – this was real.

The time passed at light speed. I suppose that’s what happens when you have 3 other children to look after. Before I knew it, I was the proud owner of a rather hearty bump, feeling like I could pop at any moment.  At 39 weeks my blood pressure was escalating and my concerned doctor, in an attempt to get my labor rolling, “swept my membranes” like they have never been swept before. I tried to tell her that I wasn’t quite ready, my mom wasn’t in town yet, but she was already sweeping, and the contractions began almost immediately.

I went home and waited… And at 1 o’clock in the morning the first real-deal-keel-over contraction hit. I timed them for an hour before waking John up. By the time we were heading out the door 45 minutes later, it was on like donkey kong. The contractions were not only coming consistently, but rather quickly, and they were debilitating. In my previous pregnancies this intensity didn’t come until hours into labor, so just getting to the hospital at this point became of utmost concern. We made it (thank God) but not without me stumbling through the parking lot, grabbing on to ledges and taking breaks on benches to curse and get through the contractions as they hit. I heard John tell the front desk in the ER to *HURRY* with the wheelchair.

Rhonda, the nurse from Labor and Delivery, calmly arrived with the wheelchair which I buckled into and in no time I was deposited in the delivery room. I was quickly in the gown and hooked up to the monitors… But the mf’ing contractions -- they were so close and ridiculously powerful. I closed my eyes and reminded myself that I could do this… my body was meant to do this… I had done it before… women do it all the time… I could manage the pain… Breathe. Breathe. Breathe. But it felt very unmanageable and what I wanted quite frankly was the anesthesiologist to come and make it all better. Rhonda kept quietly telling me, “you’re doing great, girl… you’re doing great.”   When I was checked, I was 5 cm dilated, and I was told I could get the epidural. In what felt a lifetime later, but what was really only 20 minutes, the anesthesiologist arrived and made the magic happen. Just as the contractions eased and I finally relaxed, feeling like I was dialed and all I had to do was wait for my little one to arrive, an entire team of people with Rhonda in the lead, bum rushed the room. “Get on your hands and knees right now,” Rhonda told me, “And push!” Though I had no idea what the H was going on, I did what she said because anybody could see she meant serious business. She then put me on my left side where I faced the wall and strained to hear from the bustling crowd what was going on. Then the on-call doctor was there and in a blur of voices I heard that the baby’s heart rate had decelerated. Not only had it decelerated, I realized, the galloping sound had altogether disappeared from the monitor. The one thing I processed in the midst of chaos and the growing team of people in the room was “we need to get this baby OUT.” The doctor broke my water, and there was more concern. There was meconium in the fluid, which not only meant the baby was distressed, but that he could – would be breathing in that fluid. There was more rushing, and before I felt even vaguely ready I was being told to push. The monitors were being watched with growing concern. I could tell the doctor was considering a c-section, which in all honesty I would have happily undergone. I would have allowed them to cut me open right then and there, and pull my baby from me that very second because I was terrified and I wanted him with me and safe. Because the love I already felt for him – this person I had only felt, and not yet seen, was primal and ferocious. I would have done anything. A pediatric team arrived and waited in the corner. I pushed with everything, praying for my baby to be okay and praying for him to come out quickly. I suppose having birthed three other children worked to my advantage here. Call it muscle memory call it what you will, but my body knew what to do and my little guy came – Owen Jeffrey… completely limp and not breathing. My other births were joyful, filled with tears of elation as our pink crying baby was placed on my chest and we locked eyes for the first time. This was nothing like that. The doctor started to put Owen close to me, but before I could even see his face the team of Pediatricians whisked him away. I saw his tiny limp body leaving me and my heart sank into a deep dark quiet pit. The room was silent efficiency. The doctors began working on Owen off in a corner where I couldn’t see. I couldn’t process the possibility that this little person I had grown and held inside me… my unbelievable miracle who came without me asking… could not be alright. And yet, he wasn’t alright.  I kept asking, “Is he okay? Is he okay? Is he OKAY?” I asked the doctor, I asked Rhonda, I asked John… over and over and over. The doctor nodded but was very non-committal with her answer. Rhonda looked very serious. And John, well John looked just as confused and horrified as I felt… And I suppose that’s what scared me the most – seeing John look absolutely unsure, shaken and scared. I could not have known, in that moment, that things would be “okay.” As I sit here typing in the calm early morning, I feel safe in the knowledge that my baby is sleeping peacefully just upstairs. He is warm and cozy in his monkey pajamas that say “bananas for mommy” on the chest. He has fabulously chubby cheeks and thighs. I have gotten to bask in his smiles and coos. I have had time to learn which cries mean hunger, and tiredness… I’ve had the pleasure of kissing his toes (1 million times) as well as his ears, his eyebrows, his dimpled knuckles and his knees… I’ve stood over him just watching his sweet face while he sleeps. But at that moment, as I lay paralyzed on the hospital bed with my baby out of view, I could not know that he would be okay.

Outside of the communication between the doctors working on Owen, the room was heavy and quiet. John paced back and forth – from me, to the table where Owen lay. For what seemed an unfathomably long time the doctors worked on him. Finally, I heard him gurgle and cough. Relief, relief, relief! He was breathing and the room seemed to decompress. Rhonda smiled and the doctor sighed as she continued to stitch me up. But was he okay? I hadn’t seen his face, his toes and fingers, his eyes… They were pumping fluid from his lungs while John watched. The woman working on Owen was talking to him. Slowly the team of specialists and support staff began to trickle off, until there was just Rhonda and the doctor who was helping Owen. “He looks great,” the Pediatrician told us with the first genuine smile I had seen. “We just want to x-ray his lungs to make sure they are clear.” And they did – x-ray his teensy lungs… and they looked perfect. Thank God.

Finally, I was able to hold my baby. They brought him to me, perfect as can be, and put him in my arms. I searched his eyes for the connection I always seem to magically tap into with my brand new babies, but realized as his eyes darted all over my face, and what seemed like everywhere else in the room, that he was just as scared as I was. The one message I tried to convey to him, with my heart that was breaking and filling all at once… with my eyes and with every last little piece of my bones was, “I’ve got you now.” I said it a million times to him, in my mind and with my eyes. And maybe a few times out loud. Soon he settled in to me, as I held him so very tight.

Without a doubt I felt God in the room with me. I felt a powerful sense of goodness and I know I was blessed to be holding my little Owen, healthy and sweet, in my arms. But when I thought about it later, I felt conflicted about this feeling. What about all the women who went through the very same thing, but were not able to take their baby home? Why weren’t they blessed with a positive outcome? I’m sure it is a question those mothers ask themselves every day… I can only say that I am so grateful that it was part of God’s plan to keep our baby boy with us. I still think about his arrival all the time, and it makes me shudder… It makes me realize how fragile and vulnerable I am, and how terrifying it can be to have children I love so deeply it could irrevocably break me to pieces if anything were to happen to them. But mostly… mostly, mostly it makes me indescribably thankful, for the gift of Owen. 

A Daddy and His Girls



I’m married to one of the most guy-ishy guys in the world. Having been raised by a single mom and not knowing what it was like to be around a man every day, John has been both fascinating and mysterious to me. He likes sports. A lot. He fixes things. He fixes things with duct tape. When I asked how he resolved conflicts when he was growing up, he told me a story which essentially involved him and his two brothers beating each other up…

So it would be natural to assume that he would be a fish out of water with his little family of a wife and three daughters. People we meet, and even people we know love to joke about it… “Your poor husband!” they say. When I was pregnant with Brookie, John took me out to a Mother’s Day dinner in Seattle. I escorted both Peyton and Quincy, who were 5 and 3 at the time, to the restroom with me. There was a woman in there, who in my memory has taken on the appearance of Mrs. Howell from Gilligan’s Island. She regarded the two girls with me and then my pregnant belly. “That one is a boy?” she asked, pointing at my bump. “Another girl,” I told her. And she literally tsk’d at me and shook her head. “I’ll bet your husband is mad at YOU,” she said and walked away. At first it rolled off me. It was a joke, right? But the more I thought about it – the more those words bounced around in my thickly hormonally charged brain, the angrier I got. I wanted to go find her in the restaurant and say, “I bet your husband is mad at YOU.” But I didn’t. And that was just the beginning. We have heard that, and/or similar commentary quite frequently in our 5+ years of carting around 3 girls. John always smiles good-naturedly or just says, I love having my girls. And I will say similar things for the most part, though something inside of me wants to reach out to the moron who has made the comment and thump them in the forehead with my thumb and index finger.

So it makes sense to think that John would be elated with the idea of having a boy. Believe me, he is. But not in the way I imagined. The morning we found out our newest little one has boy parts, I expected John to lose his marbles – finally, a boy for him! I kept asking, “are you so excited, are you so excited, are you so excited!?” He calmly told me, “yes… but I would have been just as happy with another girl. I love having our girls.” And he meant it and I knew it. This week, my “guy-ishy guy” had the great pleasure of telling his three daughters some highly anticipated news. The date had been set for the annual Father/Daughter Ball. This, as the name suggests, is a dance in which Daddies take their coiffed and dressed up daughters to drink punch, eat cookies and dance the evening away to the likes of Taylor Swift and “Call me Maybe.” John has gone every year since Peyton was 2, and needless to say, it’s a pretty big deal around here. Huge deal. To my surprise, John also went out and bought all three girls their dresses and shoes. To my even greater surprise, he got Quincy to agree to wear a dress – a pink dress, no less, and fancy shoes. For the last year when I have attempted to get her in a dress, Quincy says shaking her head, “Mom, dresses are NOT my style. Pink is NOT my style.”

Make no mistake about it. This little boy child is going to be loved and spoiled like no other. He already has an impressive sports jersey collection going (that I’m not altogether stoked about) and both his Dad and sisters cannot wait for him. I cannot wait for him. I cannot wait to see what it is like to raise a son. But I think it’s important to know that we felt blessed beyond words with our three girls, too.

In closing, might I suggest something as a PSA of sorts? The next time you see a mom carting around her multiple daughters, instead of saying something along the lines of, “holy shit, that must suuuuuck… hope you have a gun think about all the hormones in a few years you poor thing your poor husband that’s a lot of estrogen think about when they all get their periods when are you going to try for a boy?” Say something along the lines of, “Wow 3 girls (or 4 or 5 or whatever) how cool.” After you help pick this mom off the floor, be prepared for a kiss… or at the very least some quiet gratitude for acknowledging that having all of one sex isn’t a deficiency of some sort. It’s a gift.

Bending In a New Direction ~ Yoga

A common word yoga instructors use while guiding the class through a difficult pose, is “eventually” -- “eventually,” and “someday.” Eventually, your ear will rest on the floor. Someday your leg will be perpendicular to the mat. Eventually you’ll be able to reach for the other hand. When I started practicing three years ago, everything was an “eventually.” First and foremost: eventually you won’t feel like dying after 90 minutes of class. Eventually that was true, but it was a long road. I came to yoga because I was injured. Injured again. From running. It seems all I have to do is sign up for a marathon and my IT Band creates a pain so ridiculous and debilitating it makes running all but impossible. If my body had access to language it would say something along the lines of: “So you think you’ll train for a marathon, eh? Try running through this pain, shithead…” The first time it happened I tried to run through it, thinking pain and struggle are but a natural part of running. I ended up sidelined for over three months, all the while visiting physical therapy twice a week. That is precisely what happened three years ago after I signed up for the Rock-n-Roll marathon in Seattle. My training began ramping up, and in short order my IT Band reacquainted me with the pain it is capable of inflicting. I tried stretching, foam rolling, shoe inserts, extremely technical shoes a team of the world’s finest scientists engineered (one would imagine anyway, from the price alone) and as I mentioned – physical therapy. In utter frustration, I went on the Runners World website for advice. I wanted answers, and moreover, solutions. And there it was all over the forums – runners doing yoga for injury prevention… A long term solution. I was in. I won’t say I thought yoga would be easy. But I certainly didn’t think it would be hard. I had passed studios while an entire class held what looked to be a peaceful pose, eyes transfixed on something seemingly far off in the distance. It all looked very calm, and graceful. Okay, I’ll admit it. I kinda thought it would be easy. I arrived on my first day to 90 minute hot power yoga in old running pants and a tech shirt. The door flew open as I stood hesitantly before it, and a woman in a tiny tank top and tight capri pants emerged fanning herself. “Whoa! It’s a hot one in there today,” she said. And yes, sure enough a gust of dry, hot air followed her. Very hot air. Coming in from the 50 degree morning, it felt good for exactly 4 seconds before it began to feel vaguely uncomfortable. I found a spot I hoped would be inconspicuous to lay my mat down. I had purchased this mat 7 years earlier when I did prenatal yoga videos (my only yoga experience to date) while pregnant with Peyton. The air began to quickly remind me of Lake Havasu – the desert lake we would go waterskiing in as kids. The weather was such that we wouldn’t dare stay out for longer than five minutes without submerging ourselves in the water. The room was filling up quickly. I had to shuffle over a few times to make room for newcomers until all of our mats were less than 10 inches apart. The woman who ended up on my left regarded me for a moment. “This your first time?” she asked, looking at my shirt and pants. She was wearing a tiny tank like the first woman, which was beginning to make sense given the intense heat. I nodded. Then she asked, “Where’s your towel?” I held up the towel I brought – a washcloth-size square. Her eyebrows shot up at this. “That,” she told me ominously, “won’t be enough.” As I was seriously considering marching my already perspiring, over-dressed, under-prepared self right back out the door into fresh 50 degree air, the door breezed open and a vision of core muscles, blonde hair, lovely smiles, and tiny yoga shorts entered the room. It was the instructor, and probably fittest woman I’d ever seen in real life. She sat cross legged in front of the group and chatted for a moment. When class was ready to begin she asked if it was anybody’s first time to her class. I raised my hand and explained that I had done, you know, like… lots of prenatal videos, er, like 6 or 7 years ago –? Yes, 7 years ago… She nodded kindly and suggested I keep an eye on the woman to my left – the one who had already essentially told me I was screwed due to my towel choice. I’m a runner, I told myself. I can do this… But as the class went down into child’s pose, I was more than a little bit unsure. By the time we hit the first downward dog I knew I was in for it. My shoulders burned explosively and I shook under the pressure of my own body weight as the instructor informed the class, “This… is your resting pose.” The sweat that had started accumulating before class started was flowing in earnest now, dripping into little pools on my mat. I had 85 more minutes of class to survive. We did crow. We did bird of paradise. We did eagle, and we did pigeon. All the major birds were covered. We did one-legged balancing poses, and planks and an abdominal portion that would make any normal human weep… I tried my hardest to keep up but I’m sure I must have spent a significant part of the class standing there with my mouth gaping. It’s lucky they don’t have mirrors in the yoga studio. If I had caught a glimpse of myself at any point I may have never come back. But I did come back. Because, even though after class I felt very much like dying, and barfing, and/or passing out, I was intrigued. During those early months practicing, I approached yoga very much like a difficult run in which the goal is simply to complete it, and not die. Each pose was a challenging obstacle I wanted to conquer. It wasn’t until many classes later, when I had adjusted to the heat and could do many of the poses without fear of keeling over that I heard the instructor speaking to us. The first thing I heard, which she had probably been saying all along, was “let it go.” Such a simple invitation, and yet when I really heard it, processed it, and made a concerted effort to “let it go” it was quite incredible. Then there was the breathing. All along the instructor had been encouraging one breath per movement. Deep Inhale… Long Exhale… I began practicing that as well. And for quite some time -- months and months, that is where I was with yoga… Letting it go, breathing, and trying to keep up. Somewhere in there, the poses started to become more accessible to me, and what’s more, instead of making me want to curl up and go fetal on my mat, the challenging poses started to feel good. And that’s when it happened: yoga became invaluable to me – just as, if not more enjoyable at times than running. I will never give up running. It is a love of mine I am committed to – even though I am aware of our sometimes dysfunctional relationship. Yoga is a different experience all together, and more of a mystery to me. Yoga gives back in ways I could have never imagined. Every now and again, during a particularly twisty or challenging pose – one that causes the mind to roam in a thousand different directions that all seem pinpointed toward a very specific concept: “this sucks and I want it to end”… Something sinks in… or peels away… or both. It is an incredibly vulnerable state to put the body in, but also strangely powerful. It has also allowed me to see that yoga, in many ways, is a metaphor for life. Doing something challenging and uncomfortable in class with composure and strength is very much like riding out a difficult situation in life. And to prove this point, life has dealt me some pretty serious upheavals this last year. I have never been more eager to get to my mat. I am still so very new to yoga. There are years of learning and practicing ahead of me, and that is one of the things I love. There are many, many “eventually's” and “somedays” I am looking forward to meeting on the other side.

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.