Sometimes, a shoe is just a shoe

So we made it back fro Florida in one piece – barely.* I thought it couldn’t get any worse with our trip down, but I was wrong.

Although the flight had been delayed before we even left for the airport, allowing us to wait at home, and we were surrounded by much nicer people during the trip (shout out to the Orlando airport staff, you’re security line devoted entirely to people traveling with small children is genius and has earned you a place in heaven), we were delayed thirty minutes once we boarded, and then were told we would be sitting ON THE PLANE for another ninety minutes due to dangerously bad weather in New Jersey. Did you hear that story about the people who were kept waiting, in their plane, on the tarmac for eight hours? I imagined myself in that situation with the kids and decided I definitely would have wound up on the evening news and in the custody of an Air Marshall (or as my sister in-law so sagely put it, wind up leading a passenger revolt ala Liz Lemon).

Thankfully, the delay only wound up being a little more than an hour, during which the girls played their Nintendo DS's and LM jumped on the blessedly empty seat next to me. We were given a shorter route home(apparently they can do that) and we landed shortly after eleven. The terminal looked like an airport in Calcutta, all crying babies, angry mobs screaming at counters and sleeping people and trash on the floor. Don’t even get me started on the bathrooms. An odor combined of cigarette smoke and open sewage smacked you in the face upon entry and finding a functioning toilet , or toilet paper, was a challenge. Seeing what all these poor suckers waiting for their flights out had to deal with, I was grateful we even made it home.

We staggered in the door after midnight; after I wrangled our bags to curbside pick up and we were collected by H. Yes, Lighting McQueen was checked, and don’t you know he was the last damn bag I was waiting for, a full ten minutes after my and the girls’ suitcases were spit out onto the conveyor belt. We all fell into bed and immediately asleep, so I did not get to see what shape the house was in after H’s week of bachelorhood until the next morning.

Turns out, when left to his own devices, H is not a total pig. While I knew he would fed himself reasonably well (produce was actually purchased and consumed), I was a little afraid the floors would be a tornado of dog hair and the sink would be full of moldy dishes. I suppose, one factor in this scenario not occurring is H’s fear of a violent death. I’m not sure if bodily harm weren’t a concern, he’d have cracked out the Dyson.

I had an epiphany while I was unpacking and straightening up this morning. Before the trip, when I found his coffee cup still in the living room, with enough dregs to leave a sizable stain once Little Man surely went for a taste and sputtered the contents of his mouth dramatically all over the family room carpet, or a sweaty pair of boxer shorts squashed behind the bathroom door, having been removed post-workout/pre-shower, left to ferment into a plaid cotton death-bomb, I would think to myself, "Who the hell does he think I am? The maid???" But the truth of the matter, proved by the pressed-shirt confetti, four pairs of shoes by the front door, and urine covered toilet rims I found upon my return, is that H really doesn't do this on purpose, he just really doesn’t see it. He doesn’t leave that stuff thinking to himself, “Let her do it”, it doesn’t even enter his consciousness and it just doesn't bother him.

The things H does, or rather, doesn’t do, around the house, he doesn’t not do to piss me off. I was interpreting every dirty dish left in the sink as an aggressive act, and I realize now how much stress I have been bringing into our marriage doing so. This made me think about how we all create trouble by interpreting the actions of those around us. Especially the ones we love the most. And I asked myself, when did I start assuming the worst of H’s intentions, rather than the best? When you are dating, you make excuses, gloss over small gaffes, because you think this guy or gal is the cat's pajamas. Why, after you have chosen to wear said pajamas for life, do we begin to judge so harshly? Sometimes a shoe is just a shoe.

It's not easy when we are tired and stressed, and trying to keep up with the demands of life and these little short comings do create more work since we happen to be a neat freak. OK, I, happen to be a neat freak - unless you consider my closet. And it is true, if he knows it bothers me so much, maybe a little effort on his part might be nice (which I'm sure he thinks he's exhibiting just getting his clothes in the hamper), but then again, I know how he hates when I jam up the computer with ten thousand open programs and deleted files, yet I still do it.

This new point of view is one I hope to keep as the honeymoon I-haven't-seen-you-in-a-week phase ends and we get back to our lives. I’ll try remember this new discovery the next time I trip over yet another pair of loafers on my way out the door and want to throw one at H’s head.

*Oh, and I made not one, but TWO trips to the urgent care when Little Man developed a double ear infection and #2 came down with strep.

Om...my God.

So this morning I accompanied my stepmother, I, to her and my first ever yoga class. Having only ever done videos at home, featuring plink-y-plink music and annoying instructors, I was interested to see if doing the "real thing" would spark an interest and turn me into one of those long, lean, super-flexible people like Madonna - minus the scary arms.

Part of me loves the idea of yoga. I appreciate the meditative quality of the practice and the chance to silence my inner thoughts and try to achieve some balance. Are you laughing yet? I have a prime example of the "ever-chattering monkey mind". That's a real, live yoga term, people, and getting these cerebral primates to shut the hell up is a Herculean challenge. And balance? You all know I have about as much inner balance as a drunk with vertigo. But yet, I am drawn in by the possibility that another me could exist who is cool, calm and collected...and can bend over and touch her palms to the floor.

While trying to get pregnant with #1, a long thirteen months, I dabbled in meditation and alternative medicine. I was wiling to try everything. Told by my OB/GYN there was nothing wrong with me and I should just relax, I turned to the world of crystals and herbs to solve my problems, since sitting around doing nothing was not going to work. I started taking a million pills from the health food store several times a day. I even bought a visualization CD called Fertile Heart. Yes, me. And while H still scoffs at what he calls my "herbs and bullshit", I got pregnant that very same month. So while I am not exactly a convert, I do have some alternative leanings.

So I thought to myself, how bad could it be, taking a yoga class in Florida with I? Having seen enough advertisements for yoga classes outside of local gyms, it seems every Tom, Dick and Hari Krisha was doing it. Most without a side of incense and many with a smoothie at the juice bar afterward. This would just be another workout.My father was in charge of finding the location. He chose a tony part of his area and got us two slots in the ten-thirty class. Maybe we'd take a Pilates class after depending how this place was.

We roll up in front of the Sage Court Yoga Center, and I realize there will be no juice bar, or Pilates. This place looks like somebody's house, actually three houses, surrounding a lovely, if slightly shabby, courtyard garden. Walking through the gate, we notice the house on the right is the Sage Court Birthing Center. Now, I am familiar with tri-state area birthing centers, where you get your midwifery with a side of Lysol. This place had Levelor blinds, not quite drawn evenly, which, along with the earthenware pots arranged randomly and a hair-filled cat brush on the steps, made me think any kind of water birth taking place there was happening in a grimy, cracked bathtub.

Soldiering on, we enter the yoga building and are kindly greeted and ushered in to the studio. Not having been smacked in the face with a wall of patchouli, I was comforted, until I saw our instructor, Yogi Dev. Wearing worn, white linen pajama pants, a Montego Bay t-shirt and a white wool cap, our elderly yogi sported an eighteen inch long, braided, gray beard. He got up from his sheep skin rug (that I itched to dunk in bleach) to great us, stepping deftly around his giant, three foot wide gong. A gong!!! Yogi Long Grey Braid asked us to grab a mat and a spot, pointing to the space next to the fifty-something gal with the henna-ed hair and paisley yoga rug. Rug, not hygienic foam mat, RUG. And at this point I realized where I was. I had just walked into my worst nightmare.

We begin our session, after informing Yogi LGB that we were new to yoga. He explained we would be beginning with a chant. it began with "Om" and had about fifteen indecipherable syllables after that. Is there no teleprompter? This isn't even English! I didn't study!!! This was going to be the longest hour of my life.

OK, it actually wound up being pretty great. I surrendered to the New-Age-y part of myself and got into it. The movements were challenging and felt great - and the fifty-something woman kicked my ass, as currently, I'm a little less flexible than a yard stick. But Yogi LGB's voice, along with his smile-y Santa Clause eyes, at odds with his wirey frame, made me feel relaxed and comfortable despite my lack of bendiness. I could have done without his bits of info about certain poses priming my glandular system and cleansing the lymph system around the breasts, or the Frog Pose increasing sexual energy (I really had to stifle a gag at that moment), but I really enjoyed his gentle reminders to focus my energy in a positive place and on increasing my own capacity for love. The gong turned out to be pretty awesome. During the last pose, Corpse Pose, also known as lying flat on your back relaxing, he banged his gong (at which point the T.Rex song from the 80's jumped into my head - be quite musical monkeys!!!), at varying speeds and intensities and you really could feel a vibration in the room.

Sadly, as the time for class to end drew near, my mind drifted back to what I had to do. "Enough with the gong already LGB, I have to get back and get the kids ready for their grandfather to take them fishing!", I thought. Leaving class, I felt a little disoriented, like after a massage. And this is where I wonder if yoga is really for me. Could I really get that relaxed for an hour and return to the world with the intensity with which I need to operate in my current life? Or is it that, to suit my personality, I have created a life which is too intense for me to be able to operate in a lower gear, such as yoga suggests?

I currently, do not have time to squeeze yoga into my schedule, since the only physical activity I have time for better reduce the size of my ass, and lying on the floor for ten minutes don't exactly burn off those cookies I ate last night. But today's experience has taught me that taking time to slow down and focus once in a while might not be a bad thing, and perhaps a class here and there, as time permits, might help me find some of that elusive balance.

Or maybe I'll just go buy a gong.

Whatever happened to "Women and children first"?

Sorry for the long absence, dear readers, but preparation for this week's stay in Florida put a major dent in my free time last week. I am currently writing from my father's house, blissfully alone, while he and my stepmother take the kids to the pool, as I try to recuperate from the flight down Saturday.

After my solo flight to Disney, I got all cocky, so when it was suggested I come to FL alone, I thought, with the lack of possible blizzards and all, this would be a piece of cake. I was wrong, wrong, wrong. So now, after my second venture into single-parent flights with offspring in tow, I have concluded that, when it comes to travel, it is every man for himself or, "Fuck you and your kids, lady."

The trip to the airport was fine. H acted as chauffeur and escorted us to security, after I inquired if he had had a lunchtime lobotomy when he suggested he save the seven dollars in short term parking and drop us at the curb. We checked our bags, where I made another inquiry as to his brain function when he suggest I take all the cases as carry-ons. We then checked the departures board at security to confirm the flight was on time before I allowed H to run away, clicking his heels in the air, to begin his week of bachelorhood. Now the fun begins.

As I mentioned when I wrote about Disney, getting three children through security at an airport is like trying to herd cats, with one arm tied around your back, while a long line of people sigh and impatiently tap their feet behind you. Good for you, smart guy in your skinny jeans and Dolce and Gabbana sunglasses, you already have your shoes off and your tray full of electronics ready to go. If you're in such a hurry, quit shooting me daggers and fold up the umbrella stroller so I can take off a crying LM's shoes while trying to convince him his new Lighting McQueen suitcase is not being eaten by the x-ray machine, yell at #2 to stop reading all the security postings and follow me through the scanner, I'll explain what a "body cavity" is later, and thank #1 profusely for being calm, cool and collected enough to push all our shit along the counter while I manage her siblings. I'm dancing as fast as I can here, asshole.

We get through security and check the board to confirm our gate number, at which point we see, in the last twenty minutes, our flight has been delayed two hours and I now have to entertain three children in a crowded, poorly air-conditioned airport on my own. Did I mention it was a hundred degrees in Newark? Did I mention with all the opening and shutting of doors the terminal was about ninety degrees? The only answer is snacks so the girls, each carrying their backpacks, LM, dragging his Lightning McQueen suitcase behind him, and I, carrying my two giant carry-ons, stuffed with snacks, coloring books, and Play-Doh, all head to the food court. Cue more agitated foot tapping. Oh, I'm sorry Stupid Bitch on your iPhone, is that fact that I have to order food for four people preventing you from getting to sit down and post pictures from last night on Facebook? Try this status update - "OMG! Was totally just punched in the face by a crazy mother in the airport." I can make that happen. For reals.

We clear the non-stroller and non-toddler friendly line and as I turn my back to put a Splenda in my coffee, I hear LM's loud, "I'm hurt" cry. This kid of mine is not a crier, the shit really needs to be going down for him not to shake it off, so I know it's not good. He is flat on his back after having been run over by the four foot tall Mexican woman pushing a four and half foot can of garbage through the terminal. She doesn't even look me in the eye as she scurries off.

The flight was delayed three more times, during which we were almost run over several more times by adults rushing to catch flights, expecting my children to dive bomb out of their path. And Guy with the Seven Week Old Bulldog Puppy? Perhaps sitting next to three children was not the best idea if you didn't want three little faces practically pressed up against the side of you dog's carrier. Why didn't you just bring Team Umizoomi, Phineas, Ferb and iCarly with you?

We finally board the flight at six o'clock when the original flight was supposed to depart at three-thirty. Boarding was super-fun as well. I will never understand why people crowd the gate area when the airlines call you by row number. Do you think the aggressive inching forward of your roller-bag is going to get you on any faster? Luckily, having LM, I still qualified for the "those traveling with children under five" pre-boarding. I got in line with all the old people in wheelchairs for this early call, during which #2 asked me, "Are we on a hospital plane?", and was immediately cutoff by a father with his ten year-old son. Here I am with my kids and all our shit and the two of them, holding nothing but backpacks, texting away, jump right in front of us. #1 points out their rudeness and the advanced age of the kid, which i told her to file under Some People Just Suck.

We get on the plane, every gets a lollipop for their ears and the minute we begin speeding up for take off, LM tells me he has a "pee-pee emergency", despite the fact he has gone not ten minutes ago. I plead wit the stewardess to let us up to which she, really very kindly and sympathetically says no (the only nice person on this trip), so I spend the next twenty minutes trying to distract him, hoping he doesn't have an accident and silently cursing the pilot for every second he doesn't turn of the "fasten seatbelts sign". The minute the light clicks off, I sprint down the aisle, LM under my arm like I'm running from an explosion, with #2, who has now also reached full bladder capacity, trotting behind me, when, not one, but two, old men dart into the aisle and cut me off, occupying the two bathrooms. No really, it happened.

The rest of the flight was uneventful, Little Man fell asleep on me around seven. Then we began our descent, during which #2 began screaming like a banshee that her ears hurt, and pinned under the sleeping LM, I was unable to get more lollipops that I stored in the overhead compartment to prevent the Mr. Grabby hands from eating them all before he fell asleep. I got #2 to lie down and, by some miracle, she fell asleep with her head on me almost instantly. Thank you, God. But then I realize, how the fuck am I getting not one, but two sleeping children, and our bags, off this plane?

We land and the cabin lights come up. I tell #1 to have a seat, we are not going anywhere. The plane gradually empties and I there I am, still covered in pile of sleeping humanity. I wake #2, strap her bag on her as she cries, and beg her to drag Lightning McQueen, who I now hate with a fiery passion, for LM. #1 bravely carries the slightly less leaden of my bags, as well as her own, and I haul my big bag and forty-eight pounds of kid up the aisle. Panting, we reach the exit, where my stroller awaits and I can dump half my load. Except it's not there. I am told it's at the top of the jet-way. Awesome.

The trip wasp pretty much over at that point. We got to baggage, found my parents and headed home, but I left the airport really hating people. I don't expect to be catered to because I'm travelling alone with my kids, I just don't want to be actively abused. Have we all lost the ability to walk a mile in another's shoes? While waiting for the flight, a mother was holding a baby who was violently crying. Another mother next to me, mutters to her teen-aged daughter, "God, I hate that!" WHAAAT? Do you not remember how it felt to have an infant? Never mind one who is probably hungry and tired, thanks to the delay, after you picked this flight specifically because it worked well with feeding and nap times to avoid this scenario? It's called empathy, people, and apparently, some of you graduated from childhood without learning that lesson. It's hard to raise nice kids when they are constantly surrounded by selfish assholery.

So yay for me, I have the return flight to look forward to. Even better it's supposed to land at eight in the evening so H can pick us all up after work. A three hour delay would be really fun, I think. Here's hoping this trip goes more smoothly, or I run into some nicer people. Or I can just start using the stroller as a battering ram.

And I'm checking that goddamn Lighting McQueen.

Blood, Sweat and Beers

So you know how I was all "get over yourself" about suburban athletes a while back? Well, last weekend, for a very brief period, I became one of them.

A few weeks ago, my brother in-law (second from the right)* suggested a bunch of us do the Rugged Maniac 5K together. This race consists of dirt track and forest trail running with obstacles, such as climbing cargo nets and scaling 5 foot walls. The website also featured seemingly drunk people wearing costumes running this thing, so the percentage of rapidly-aging suburbanites out to recapture their youth and, subsequently, tearing a hamstring in the process (ahem...H) would likely be low. The likelihood I would be annoyed by a pack of drunks dressed as Santa seemed high, but it looked like fun and not too intimidating, so H and I signed up.

Fast forward a month, and it's the night before the race. H and I decide to take a closer look at the obstacles, only having given them a perfunctory glance upon registration. Seven foot walls??? Traversing a pool of muddy water by jumping from stump to stump, at the suggested "full-on sprint" lest I wind up in the shit-colored drink? Oh Sweet Jeebus. I am a tough broad, but I kind of wasn't banking on this. I was envisioning going for a short run through some mud and jumping over a bunch of junk. H and I packed our bags and nervously went to bed, trying to fight the visions of one of us breaking a leg dancing in our heads.

At one-thirty, I am rousted from my sleep by gut-ripping cramps. That's right, folks, my period. Mother Nature is nothing if not a sadistic prankster, I mean look childbirth, so it made perfect sense I would be awake in the middle of the night, on the eve of the race, with a heating pad on my abdomen, suffering through the kind of cramps that almost made me pass out in Algebra II twenty years ago. I spend the next four hours drifting in and out of consciousness before the alarm goes off and it's time to go.

Fueled by Starbucks coffee and one of their gross egg-white wraps (it seriously looks and tastes like rubber chicken), we arrive at the motocross tracks where the event is to be held. Having signed up for the nine-thirty wave to avoid any drunken jackassery, we were surrounded by the early-morning crowd - nary a Santa suit in sight. There was, however, one serious Rutgers University face-painter, ala Seinfeld's Puddy, who also happened to be sporting a crew cut and cat-eye contact lenses. I would be staying far, far away from her, thanks. There was a gaggle of gals in their twenties in booty shorts and midriff tops, whose wardrobe choice made me wonder if they had seen how far they were going to have to hike up their legs to get over some of these walls. There were also the required men dressed in tutus and a guy wearing nothing but a Speedo - not even shoes. And due to the early hour, there were a few gym-sponsored groups, some of those Cross Fit nuts and the like, chugging Red Bull and running warm-up laps, but the rest of the crowd was pretty normal and mellow, which was good considering I was cranky and jumpy from too little sleep and too much coffee.

Ten minutes to race time, I brave the port-a-potty to take care of my feminine hygiene. The line is primarily men at this point, all taking HUGE dumps, which makes the process of changing a tampon over an open vat of raw sewage even nicer. The lack of trash receptacle was made up for with a giant dispenser of hand-sanitizer. I want to bathe in it. No more time for dilly-dallying, it was time to go.

I'd like to thank the organizers for their choice of pre-race music, as their mix of "Eye of the Tiger" and "Everybody Dance Now" was the perfect combo to soothe my nerves and get me pumped up all at the same time. Before I knew it, it was "THREE...TWO...ONE...GOOOO!!!!!" And we were off.

The race was too long and too hard to go through minute by minute, but there were high points and low points. The beginning of the race was annoying and super-crowded, with everyone pushing to get ahead. This, and the talking, are why I am a solo runner. Shut up! I don't care that you're turning forty and are running this with all your girlfriends, your shrieks of laughter make me want to smack you. The first obstacle, jumping into a ravine, six inches deep with muddy water that smelled like poo, then crawling through a utility pipe laid in that water, was the cause of a lot of squealing from the ladies. Oh, grow a pair. What did you sign up for? This isn't Zumba.

It got better from there as H and I were able to bust out of the bottleneck and get some room. But, for some of the obstacle, I was not at all prepared. Barbed wire. REAL barbed wire! A foot off the mud-covered ground and I have crawl under it. Good luck to the gals with the naked tummies. Having three of the world's slowest women in front of us so we had to, literally, lie there in the filth, with their asses in our faces, waiting for them to move, was an added bonus. Then there was the four feet deep pool of muddy water, across which floated six, large PVC pipes chained to the sides of the pool, that we have to either swim under or go over. There was no way in hell I was putting my head in that water, envisioning the ear infection I would get (never mind the vaginal infection I was sure to contract anyway), but H, ever the strategist, had us push our upper bodies over them, letting our weight carry us over, then dragging our hips over the pipe, while we reached for the next one. At least my head stayed dry. And the three foot high, one hundred foot long, cage-tunnell made of chain link fence, that forced us to squat and walk at the same time, still has me crying every time I use the toilet. There were a total of fourteen obstacles, including the walls I spoke of, a tire gauntlet and fire pit (which was really six inches wide, so should be called a fire pot).

H and I finished it in a little over forty-four minutes. Not bad considering this was our first race. After we finished, what I was left with was not a sense of personal accomplishment, but the realization that we rock as a couple. For many years, when I watched The Amazing Race, I always thought H and I would be one of those duos comprised of a slightly irresponsible husband and harpy of a wife, whose most frequent soundbite would be of her screaming his name in an annoyed tone. I was afraid the Rugged Maniac would be riddled with all the annoyed looks and sharp comments we can occasionally make when we are trying to get the kids out the door, coupled with mud. But it wasn't. We spoke in gestures and with even-toned brevity. We followed each other's cues seamlessly. There was no tone of annoyance from H as I asked him to help me down from the seven foot wall, since I didn't need my knowledge from Physics I to know the plywood was dangerously close to toppling over and we had better go around (he didn't). He calmly shouted out "Hold up a bit" when I was too far ahead of him**, and I did.

This race felt like we were in a war (barbed wire and all), and even though I have said it many times, this day proved I want H in my foxhole. I'd like to carry this calm communication through to the rest of our lives. Why can we speak so kindly when we are swimming in e. coli infected water, but snap at each other when we're packing the cooler for the beach? Maybe it's because in the race, we were both doing half the work, and in the current construct of our family, one of us is often doing more at certain points. Maybe if we can see the raising of this family as one big Rugged Maniac, with obstacles and filth included (Little Man recently took a crap during his nap as big as my head and full of corn, I think that's worse than mud), and that we are both moving us toward the finish line, we can have more moments of that kind of cooperation.

In any case, this race was a great memory. We still are healing form our scratches and bruises, and considering doing another one soon. The best part of the day was sitting in the sun afterwards, filthy dirty, drinking a beer with my partner, laughing at the guy in the banana costume. I'll try to remember that feeling when we're at the pool and I'm tempted to scream at him for not packing the sunscreen.

And no, I didn't get a bumper sticker.

*This picture does not do justice to how filthy we were.
**He was the brains behind the operation, but I was the brawn. He got us through the obstacles, and I kept us moving in the flats. It was humiliating however, that i didn't kick his ass, since I work out approximately ten times as much as he does. Damn testosterone.

Dear Inventor of the Super Bounce Ball,

After tirelessly trying to prevent your product from entering my home by sprinting past those slot machines of childhood at the grocery store’s exit the first five years of my children's lives, I was recently forced to allow your creation through my door. Even though tattoos and other cool prizes are prominently displayed, trying to suck the allowance change right out of my children’s pockets, we always wind up with the booby prize – a Super Bounce Ball.

You, sir or madam, are obviously not a parent, since you have created a toy that can be safely used nowhere. In fact the term “toy” should not be used at all. How about “picture frame smashing missile” or “ball I bounce once and lose in the bushes forever”. There is very little playing of any kind going on with these balls due their erratic, lightning speed path and small size, making them both impossible to catch or find both in and out of doors. So what the hell is a kid supposed to do with these things? I don’t live in a racquetball court, which is the only successful scenario I can imagine.

I love your attempt at remedying the situation, and put more coin in your own pocket, by selling a larger, more expensive version. Pulled to the prize machine like a moth to a flame, my offspring were awestruck by the Mega Bounce Ball which, unlike the less-then-golf-ball size of its predecessor, is now roughly the size and density of a lacrosse ball. Now my son cannot only smash my framed wedding photo, but also put a hole in the flat screen TV with a single bounce. The increased size might be an advantage for outdoor play in some households, but since our canine has been stealing the girls’ lacrosse balls all spring, this only adds to his fun and my child’s panic.

So send forthwith, if you will, an instruction manual for your product. Perhaps with my Master’s degree, I am not bright enough to figure this thing out despite my best efforts.

Sincerely,
Mean Mommy

PS – If you are in touch with the Inventor of the Super Stretchy Sticky Hand, I’d like to have a word with him about how to remove the stains on my ceiling.

And so it begins...

I am back from my morning at the pool, Little Man is upstairs, possibly napping, possibly tearing his closet apart again (after which I will find him wearing his clip-on tie from Easter and a down vest) and the rest of us are taking a much needed break from the sun. Well, almost all of us. #1 is still at the pool with her friends, after one of their mothers generously offered to drive her home in a few hours. It's nice she has found a group of friends, all of whom are nice, polite, academically minded and athletic - not a mean girl in the bunch (so far). They have playdates and sleepovers, and like today, we all often offer to keep one another's kids so the girls can have more time play. I really couldn't be happier about it.

Then why am I so sad?

Our summer has been wonderful so far. We have been to the library to see the magician, went to the beach for the day earlier in the week and gone out for ice cream a shameful number of times already. But when we are home, it seems the balance has shifted. Rather than being able to shut the door on the world and be our own little tribe, #1 asks to make plans with her friends every other day. We are not loosening the ties of school as much as last year, and it seems #1's focus is slowly moving toward her peers. At the town carnival last week, H and I spent the entire time split up between the little rides, like those lame, glittery cars that go around and around, for the younger two, and the bigger rides like the Scrambler, where #1's friends and their parents were. Having made an agreement to meet H and the little ones for funnel cake, I told #1 it was time to go, to which she replied, "Can't I just stay?". Our first family outing of the summer and we were all scattered to the winds.

Even the way she plays with her brother and sister has changed. At the park after dinner yesterday, Little Man and #2 were animatedly playing some pretend game with his trucks. When he offered #1 a truck and asked her to play, she very kindly said, "No thanks, buddy." He and #2 were really yucking it up, this wasn't some lame vroom-vroom-fest, I even heard the word "butt" being whispered, and yet, #1 was not interested. Instead, she headed to the monkey bars, alone, and continued her quest to get across them without touching the ground. And a little part of me died.

I know all of this is natural, but all of my kids were babies, toddlers and little kids, all in the same tiny wheel house, for so long I can't help but be a little surprised as one of them crosses over into a whole new world and leaves the other two behind. I have gotten used to everyone not loving Sesame Street anymore, but I can not get used to #2 telling me she misses #1 as her sister leaves for another playdate. To that point, I have had to create special "sister time" where they go up in the attic bedroom and play undisturbed for an hour each week. Thankfully, #1 seems to enjoy this as my middle one.

I know I should be happy about this situation, and I am. I am glad she has such a nice gang to hang around with and I would be really upset if she had no interest in making friends, or worse, was an outcast, but I know this divide will only widen as time passes and I have cried about it in the last two weeks more times than I care to admit. If H watches me sob during the Winne the Pooh trailer with that song "Somewhere Only We Go" and gives me a pitying chuckle one more time, I will beat him senseless (I managed to hold back the tears when the trailer played before Cars 2, but #1 was looking at me curiously as I gripped her hand). He just doesn't get it. This is my brood, they are all my babies and, for some reason, this process feels like a chapter is closing in my life.

No one told me that mothering included a little bit of grieving. I grieve for the toddler who cried when Steve from Blues Clues left for college, for the chubby-cheeked girl holding back the tears on her first day of kindergarten, as she now had a younger brother, as well as a younger sister, to impress. I grieve for her as achingly as I did for my mother, knowing I will never, ever see her again and wishing I had known at the time. I don't want another baby, I want a time machine.

Boy, this all sounds pretty grim. It's not really that bad. I still find #1 playing silly pretend games with the younger two, and Polly Pockets are still heavy in the rotation. She still crawls into bed with me on nights H is out for work asking "Can I read and snuggle with you?", to which I always answer yes, not knowing when she will stop wanting me to hold her and stroke her hair.

To manage these feelings, I have begun to think about mothering a family as being the sun of a small solar system. The planets, in their elliptical orbits, sometimes seem very far away, and other times, very close, but they never leave their path around the sun. And like those planets, there will be times, as they grow, when my children will want and need to be close to me, and times when they need some distance. And like the sun, I will stay centered and warm, so that they know, no matter where they are on their path, I will always, always be here.