I'm not usually a worrier, but still...

what if my boobs wind up permanently lopsided from their slightly uneven milk production?

how will I get three kids to bed? In the same evening? In a reasonable amount of time? And without falling asleep myself?

will I ever sleep again once Anne comes home?

why are my boobs so freaking itchy half the time?

will Lauren ever stop getting syrup in her hair?

why can't the Bears seem to win a game? (I actually know the answer to this one.)

will my inability to resist garlic and Diet Coke make my breastmilk taste horrible?

what if I lose my mind being in semi-quarantine this winter?

which is a better value - DirecTV with premium channels or just upping my Netflix to the one where you can have three movies at a time?

who puts nuts in perfectly good brownies?

does Chad Ochocinco know that that's not how you say 85 in Spanish?

if I ever met Tina Fey we could really kinda be friends, right?

is it just me or does Jay Cutler look like he's just thinking, "kiss my ass people"?

how long will it be before my children can go to the bathroom all by themselves? With no need for me to be even within 10 feet of the bathroom door?

why do we have to start listening to Christmas music in public places when Thanksgiving hasn't even happened yet?

I wish.

If only it were this easy....

Everyone's good at something.

I may have an incompetent cervix, but I sure as heck have competent boobs.

Exhibit A:



And I've got about six more bags just like it in my freezer right now.

I think he's serious.

I'm sitting on the couch in the little conference room at the Ronald McDonald room. It has glass pocket doors that block out sound and give me the illusion of privacy, even though anyone walking by really could get a good look at my monstrous girls if they wanted to.

Chad is checking phone messages and getting me a drink of water, because I always find myself suddenly and terrifically thirsty while pumping.

He clicks off his bluetooth thingy and turns to face me. My shirt is pulled up, my industrial bra is unclipped and pulled down, and I'm hooked to my electric double pump like a Holstein. And he says, "You look so incredibly sexy right now. I'm sorry, I just can't help it. You do."

So far, so good.

It's been two weeks. Well, two weeks and two days.

The baby we weren't even sure we were going to have, the one we debated about for nearly a year and half because things were getting really easy with the girls, the one we were expecting in December but instead arrived in August has taken hold of us - and everyone who knows us - utterly and completely.

Not a night goes by that we don't call the NICU before bed for an end-of-the-day report. We plan our week around what times we can go see her and who can watch the girls while we go. Or we bring them, and the incredibly patient and accommodating nurses at the NICU bring out child-sized rocking chairs for them, and the volunteers at the Ronald McDonald room give them beanie babies (two each so far, and counting).

There is still a feeling of unreality to all. As if this has happened to someone else, and now I am getting a glimpse into a life that is not really mine. I look around the NICU studying the other parents and, as shallow as it seems, I can't help feel that we are somehow different. We are not like them, I say to myself. But we are because we're all in the same boat. Learning what the numbers on the monitor mean, watching our children for the tiniest changes or the smallest signs of progress. Hoping for the best and holding our breath to ward off the worst.

I've had my breakdowns, my tears and frustration. But my natural tendency is to look on the bright side, to find the silver lining no matter how far I have to dig to unearth it. Plus, I think I might be a little unhinged if I was able to do that all the time without ever succumbing to the intensity, the emotional roller coaster of it all. I've stopped wondering why this happened because there isn't an answer. And I've learned that being a mother sometimes means just being. Being hopeful. Being calm, even when you don't feel calm at all on the inside. Being in the moment and not projecting what will happen next, because there's no way you can know.

Funny how such a little girl has so many big lessons to teach me.

I guess it is what it is.

It's 12:38 am and I'm in Chad's recliner watching Jimmy Fallon (who is so sadly unfunny outside the structure of SNL) and waiting for 1:30 am to arrive so that I can pump for Anne and go to bed.

Yes, my wee sweet Anne is here. 15.5 weeks early. In the NICU they call her a "24 weeker." But they mean it in a nice way. In fact, I think the people in the NICU may be the nicest people on earth.

This is foreign territory to me. My two previous babies were robust, healthy, average size, right on time. My pregnancies were epicly - and blessedly - dull. And yet here I am with a tiny little preemie in the NICU, recovering from the c-section I didn't want and didn't have a choice about, and pumping breast milk every three hours because it's really the only thing I can do for my daughter right now. It's a very strange feeling to be driving home from the hospital, your body beaten by surgery, and the baby is not with you. She is in the best possible hands. But she still is not with me.

I'm not a worrier and I am prone to looking on the bright side. So far that's been pretty easy. Anne is tough. She is doing remarkably well. Every day we've been lucky to get good news about her progress. I know that probably won't always be so, but I'm not capable of thinking beyond tomorrow - the details of what time I have to pump, what time I can take the Percocet, who will take the girls to the beach for a couple hours so I can nap, and what time Chad will be home so that we can drive the 35 miles to the NICU and hold our sweet girl for the first time. It is what it is, but it seems like I'm living in a bizarro universe.

And just in case you're wondering - she was 1 pound, 8 ounces and 13 inches long. Her toes are the size of Nerds candy, her head the size of a tennis ball. She has a surprising amount of dark hair and toenails so small that you can hardly believe they actually exist. And she is beautiful.

I just wish I had been the only one.

I brought a circular saw as a gift to a wedding shower this weekend.

See, the bride and groom were registered at Bed, Bath & Beyond, but the closest one to where I live is nearly 40 minutes away. Had I been going that way anyway I would have happily stopped in, bought a mini food processor and been on my way. But I wasn't going that way. So I checked out their other registry, which was at Sears. And I decided on the circular saw.

Secretly I was delighted to break the ironclad femininity of wedding showers by bringing a large, noisy power tool as a gift. Showers are a wonderful tradition and I truly wish you could have one right around your 10th wedding anniversary. But I don't really like to go to them. Looking forward to being "the chick who brought the circular saw" was going to be my own personal entertainment, my little way of making the ritual and procedure of the shower more interesting.

My whole plan was working. Until someone else's gift turned out to be a miter box.

New clothes. Big whup.

When I was about 10 my best friend and I had this saying: big whup. Big whup applied to anything that was beneath our prepubescent sense of cool or was just plain unimpressive. I haven't used that phrase in a while, but it seems fitting today.

This was my second trip to the Motherhood Maternity outlet at my nearby outlet mall. I'm realistic enough to know that I'm not going to find any high fashion at an outlet and Motherhood Maternity is kind of the lower end of the spectrum of my personal taste as it is. But seeing as this is definitely my last child and I only have to suffer through maternity clothes for four more months I'm not going to splurge.

But I would like to look at least a little bit like myself.

Two of my friends were kind enough to lend me a lot of clothes, but it's mostly jeans and khakis. I am looking forward to an exceptionally cute pair of black corduroy jeans, but since it's only early August I've got a ways to go before I'm wearing those. There are a couple nice tops that are also waiting for the cooler weather, so I've supplemented with my outlet purchases - about three t-shirts and a couple of tank tops – as well as a couple of blousey non-maternity shirts that I'm pretending (for as long as possible) are just fine for someone who's five months pregnant. It's an acceptable wardrobe but not even close to my usual taste or style.

But back to the outlet. One bargain I found was a t-shirt that said "good things come in large bellies." An excellent choice if you feel the world has not already taken notice of your enormous abdomen and protruding belly button, but not so much for me. There was another shirt that had a large heart on it and the word "baby." Again, a good choice if you are visiting with someone who has never before seen a pregnant lady, but you couldn't pay me to wear that.

I've got a wedding shower this weekend and I wanted a cute dress, so I tried a purple cotton dress with a small ruffle on the neckline and an empire waist that was gathered. The color was great, but sadly, my oversized boobs looked like a big, lumpy sausage.

(Speaking of boobs - mine are so big that they make the bottom of my bra into a kind of shelf. The other day I was at my desk and found in there an earring that had fallen off my shelf at home while I was getting dressed. I hadn't even noticed it.)

I wound up with a black-and-white dress that will probably see a lot of use since it is officially the only business-appropriate maternity item I have at this moment, a fairly cute white linen shirt that I am pretending does not have puffed sleeves, yet another t-shirt, a cute flowered skirt that would look a whole lot cuter if I actually had a waist, a blue sundress that may also be acceptable for business if I put a cardigan over it and a tank top with flowers on it that I will probably only wear at home.

Big whup.

Yes, he really did say that.

The setting: my kitchen this morning - I'm getting breakfast for the girls and Chad is pouring coffee for himself.

Chad: You know honey, you're looking kind of big.

Me: I know, but could you just not mention it? I mean, I realize I'm pregnant and this is normal and everything... but, you know, even people who really should not make a comment at all feel like they can say something, so I'd really rather not have you say anything about it, okay?

Chad: I know honey, but I live with you and I was just wondering....

Me: What?

Chad: Well, if you have four more months to go.... are you going to need a cane to walk by the end?!

A sphincter says what?

Chad and I are having a hard time settling on names. The baby's not due until December, but the ultrasound is next Friday and I like to have things buttoned up. I mean, if I know it's a boy or a girl, I want to also know who this little person is. So today I was looking at a Web site and had limited my search to one-syllable girl names (Chad's preference and a distinctly difficult one to work with). By the time I got to the letter L, I had to start taking notes.

Lute (because nothing says 2009 like naming your child after a medieval instrument)

Mab (what?)

Mauve (this is just plain bad)

Ode (as in, "ode to the idiot who thinks this is a name")

Paz (yeah, 'cause that child will never be nicknamed "spaz," right?)

Phlox (this one just sounds bad when you say it out loud)

Po (isn't that the fat guy in Mulan who later dresses up as a chick?)

Quay (why yes, old chap, I'd love to name my little one after an English wharf!)

Sea (I also saw an entry for Beach - just plain weird)

Snow (seriously? Should her middle name be White?)

Song (possibly the dumbest of all)

Teal (how about Chartreuse? Navy? Ocher?)

Wheat (the only person who can name her baby after a food and get away with it is Gwyneth Paltrow, and even then it's questionable)

Zest (I can't even think of what to say about this one, it's so weird)

I'm thinking of expanding the search to two syllables.

Now I remember...

My little G3 (my personal pet name for my boy or girl to-be) has been very wiggly today. All tiny kicks and bumps as I sit at my desk working on headlines for a new hydronic products campaign. And with every little nudge I remember that this is what I love about being pregnant.

Once your baby is born it belongs to the world. It truly does take a village to raise your children and, once out of the womb, you are sharing that sweet little life with a host of siblings, grandparents, aunts, uncles, neighbors and people on the street who can't resist the siren call of a baby in a snuggli.

But before it's born? Well, for that short time it's just the two of you.

Your baby listens to the echo of your voice as you sing to the radio, talk on the phone, laugh at your sister and cry over Extreme Makeover: Home Edition. He or she comes along wherever you go, a silent companion that you can't help but think about every minute of every day. You are never alone, but you don't mind because you have your own delicious secret - the dynamic and busy life of your baby inside. When you are resting, they are awake, wiggling and poking and sometimes hiccuping their way through your Oprah magazine reading or movie watching. As you cruise the grocery aisles or vacuum the living room, they are quiet, lulled by your movement and the white noise of the outside environment.

But no matter what, they are there. You feel them and they feel you. You know each other completely and, for a while, that baby is yours and yours alone.

It's like magic and to me it's just about the only proof I can come up with that there is a higher power laying a hand down upon us.

But the rest of pregnancy sucks.

Phew!

When you grow up with a doctor for a dad you pick up a lot of weird medical knowledge that is not terribly useful and grossly incomplete. You'd probably think that would turn you into a hypochondriac, but in my case it's turned me into someone who feels fairly sure I can make a diagnosis with only limited information.

So yesterday I took a long walk during lunch. It was lovely to get the fresh air and the part where I stuck my feet in the lake was divine. But it was freakin' hot on the way back and I could feel a "glow" taking over my already-expanding body. And then I started to think I smelled like fruit.

That doesn't seem too bad, right? You sweat and it smells like fruit. Could be way worse.

Except in my annals of useless and incomplete information is this: if you find yourself smelling like fruit for no apparent reason you are probably an undiagnosed diabetic.

I spent all afternoon alternately sniffing my armpits and wondering if it was just gestational diabetes (which I've never had before) or something more permanent and infinitely more of a pain in the ass.

At bedtime I opened the drawer to get my toothpaste out and noticed that my new deodorant is scented Tropical Fruit.

So I guess it works.

I guess I really shouldn't complain.

Things I hate about summer:
- Working when I'd rather be at the beach
- Listening to my children fight as they re-acclimate to being together 24/7
- Mosquitos
- Yard work

Things I love about summer:
- Not having to get everyone out of the house by 7:40 am
- Sunsets
- Sunshine when I wake up in the morning
- Going to the beach after work
- Being able to walk to the beach over my lunch break
- Date night on the boat
- Campfires and s'mores with the neighbors
- the 4th of July
- my brother home from California for three weeks
- sun-kissed children in soggy suits with little wet otter heads and sand in their hair
- sweet corn and fantastic tomatoes
- farmer's markets
- neighborhood-wide garage sales
- no coats, no boots, no hats, no mittens
- the sound of the waves at night when I'm lying in bed

It all kinda outweighs the whining of the kids, which was really getting to me this morning. Now I have a little persepctive. And a lot of blessings.

BFFs really are.

Whenever I go on a trip I always have this little moment on the first night where I think I want to go home.

It doesn't matter if the trip is guaranteed to be fun, or if it's a place I've always wanted to visit or even if my entire family is with me. It's just that I have a little part of my brain that fears the unknown and, even if only for a moment, longs for the security and comfort of home and its routines. And I had this moment the first night in Las Vegas with my two BFFs.

We haven't been together in, literally, 20 years. During that time our lives have followed their own separate paths, spreading us out across the country and away from one another. The magic of the internet has brought us back together and we've been planning this trip to Las Vegas for at least six months. I have been giddy with excitement and antsy for the big weekend to get here, but yet I lay in my ultra-comfortable hotel room bed last Thursday night and there it was, that flash of thought flittering across my consciousness. I want to go home.

But the magic of BFFs is that they really are. My little fluttering thought lasted for barely a nanosecond, and then I was left marveling at how easily it all comes back. The late night chatting before falling asleep. The easy way of deciding what we want to do, where we want to go, what snacks we need to have. The absolute lack of judgment about our bodies, our wardrobes, our hair styles, our taste in food and our tolerance for movies based on juvenile, scatalogical humor. It was as if no time has passed, but instead has bonded us even deeper as we share the experiences of being wives and mothers, daughters to aging and ever more eccentric parents, and just plain friends having a great time together even if we're doing exactly nothing.

Same time next year, right ladies?

Whaddya mean there's no pasta?

We have these friends who are vegetarians and we've gone with them to a lot of banquet-style functions where you have to choose your meal ahead of time. Inevitably I find myself feeling a little jealous of their fettucine alfredo or delicious-looking ravioli while I am working my way through a somewhat taste-free piece of chicken or an overcooked steak. And why do they always put the steak on top of the potatoes, then cover it with sauce so that your potatoes look like they're covered in liquid rust?

These friends and their delicious vegetarian dinners came back to me several weeks ago when I had to choose my entree for an upcoming wedding. At the time I was still in the throes of ongoing nausea and feeling fairly meat-averse. So I picked the filet for Chad and I chose the vegetarian dinner, looking forward to a lovely plate of pasta on the big day.

Here's what I got: a mound of brick-like mashed potatoes in the center of the plate, surrounded by asparagus (hate it - gave it to Chad), broccoli (hate it more - gave it to Heidi), cauliflower (kind of blends in with the potatoes) and zucchini/squash (had potential).

It was a plate of side dishes.

No pasta.

Heidi and Chad shared their steaks with me. They were delicious.

The word is out.

So here I am, 36 years old, mother of two relatively self-sufficient children who are well beyond diapers and can easily speak in full sentences, and pregnant with number three. I think I might have lost my mind, but oddly I feel very at peace about it. Mostly, I think, because my hormones have taken over and are preventing me from dealing with the eventual reality of a full-time job and three kids.

11 weeks into this I am disappointed to discover (for the second time) how intensely focused all baby magazines, pregnancy books, blogs and web sites are on first-time mothers. There's all these dumb articles about how to divide up chores with your husband after the baby comes, what to expect at the hospital/during delivery, what your baby's first poop will look like. It makes me want to puke. But the upside is that I realize I've learned a thing or two over the last seven years of parenthood that no magazine article is ever going to tell me. As Oprah would say, these are the things I know for sure.

1. Sometime within the first month of having this baby I will want to kill Chad. I will hate him for his inability to cope with sleep loss, his half-assed cleaning up of the kitchen after dinner and his seeming refusal to notice when he should probably get up out of his chair and HELP somebody with something. This feeling of hatred in no way reflects his real and unrelentingly cheerful attitude, his absolute willingness to do homework, play basketball/t-ball/soccer/tea party, his innate ability to make even morning toothbrushing fun and his overall general willingness to do just about anything to keep things running smoothly.

2. There's no one way to skin a cat, I mean, take care of a baby. Every baby is different. So is every family. What worked with Grace absolutely did not work with Lauren and I'm sure I'll be figuring out something new yet again. But that's exactly what we'll do: Figure it out. And it will be fine.

3. I probably won't have this crushing wave of love that comes over me at the moment of delivery. Yes, of course I love this baby already. But the actual reality of love, that moment of WOW I would do anything for this child takes a few days, at least for me. That's okay. I'm not a weirdo.

4. This is the luckiest baby alive because he/she has a village of people who are excitedly awaiting his/her arrival and whose hearts are filled with love and gratitude for this gift in which they will share. That makes me a lucky mom too.

Maybe I DO know a thing or two....

Sometimes I have a moment with my kids where I feel like I really might know what I'm doing. I recognize this feeling because I have it at work quite a lot. But the difference between work and parenting is that work is somewhat more predictable in its behaviors and cycles than any kid I've ever met. Either way, I was feeling pretty good last night. My cases in point:

A) Lauren and the band-aid
Put a band-aid on Lauren and within 7 minutes she will pull it off. Like all kids, she loves band-aids, which means that as of today I am fresh out of them because she has used them all, and not necessarily for a legitimate injury.

Last night she fell in the driveway. Hard. Bloody knee, skinned elbow, doting big sister getting in the way of mama's comfort. At this point my band-aid inventory was already down to just 2. I cleaned and kissed the knee, convinced her that her elbow would be just fine, and asked Grace at least three times to PLEASE get out of the way while I am trying to wash this bloody knee in the kitchen sink while keeping Lauren's hands off the knife rack. Twenty minutes later Lauren was tucked into bed with her doggie and book and I was on the couch.

"Maaaameeee..... MAAAAMEEEE!"

I tried to ignore her, but I knew for a fact she had taken off her bandaid and was freaking out at her neosporin-greased and still semi-bloody knee. I also knew the band-aid would not stick again. And I only had one band-aid left in the entire freaking house. So instead of ignoring her, which is my usual MO post-bedtime, I got the band-aid and delivered it with a brief speech about how this was the last. one. in. the. house.

B) Grace and the....uh... bathroom

Right after the band-aid incident I was settling in for the thrilling conclusion of The Biggest Loser when I heard the other voice floating down the stairs, this one a little weepier, but not so freaked out.

"Mommmmm.... can you come heeeere?"

I looked at Chad. For reasons unknown to me, Grace is unable to poop by herself after 8 pm. Up I went again and sure enough, there she was on the potty. To give her a little break, she was having some tummy trouble. One children's chewable Pepto-Bismol (LOVE that stuff!) and a hug and kiss later she was back in bed, albeit a little puny looking.

Finally I made it back to the couch, feeling like a mother who really knows her children. Knows what they need and when. And how to deliver it.

At least I felt that way until this morning, when it occurred to me that maybe my children really are quite predictable. And I've just been really well trained.

Lucky me!

I'm not sure if you all are aware, but I was named Mother of the Year recently.

Thanks to Hannah, for a total crack-up and Happy Mother's Day to all of us!

TGIF

I actually hate the phrase TGIF, but it's really the most appropriate thing I can think of right now. Here are a few highlights from my week.

Monday – on the way to the airport for a meeting to present creative I get a call that we absolutely must send the creative ahead of the meeting because they have a team meeting scheduled before we get there. And, oh, could we also make it in time for a 3:00 meeting instead of the 4:30 we were scheduled for? Arrive in Tampa, drive straight to the client's office then wait in the lobby while they have a meeting that we can see through the glass walls of the conference room. During said meeting the team is looking at copies of the material we are supposed to be presenting. After a while, they bring us in to present creative they've already seen.

Tuesday – can't sleep in hotel so am up from roughly 3:30 am on. Get on 7 am flight then go straight to office and write two brochures before picking up my children, who fight like banshees the whole way home.

Wednesday - more banshees in the back seat. I actually pull the car off the road and (without yelling, which I'm kinda proud of because I really wanted to scream) tell them that they will not be having bedtime stories tonight. This works. Kind of.

Thursday – drive 45 minutes for a 30-minute meeting that does not result in any new work, but a vague promise to think about our new 3D animation capabilities.

Friday – on the way to the office get a call from my partner informing me that the 3D animator we just hired (who is supposed to be moving here from Georgia in about two weeks) went to the hospital with chest pain yesterday and is today, at noon, having six bypasses. Six.

I think I'd better go home.

P.S. The good news about Monday is that we got the business. Yay!!

The 8 Commandments of Sandal Season

Sandal season is upon us, ladies. That means it’s time to brush up on the 8 Commandments of this mostly lovely, but potentially gross, foot-baring season. Feel free to add your own.

1. Thou shalt shave your toes. (That’s right, shave your toes. We all have little hairs on them and we totally forget about it in the winter because our toes are only briefly bared during the transfer from one pair of socks to the next. Clean ‘em up.)

2. Thou shalt use lotion. (On your legs. And your feet. And on any other exposed skin because white, crackly flakes - or skin that is "ashy," as it was called in my high school - are not nice to look at.)

3. Thou shalt invest in a Ped Egg or at the very least some powerful exfoliating scrub. (Your heels should look like heels, not hooves.)

4. Thou shalt not spend unnecessarily on professional manicures. (Seriously, just using a base coat, topcoat and giving yourself enough drying time will make your toes look salon-perfect. For free.)

5. Thou shalt shave your legs every day. (Yes, every day.)

6. Thou shalt avoid the French pedicure. (Why? Because this involves having toenails that are long enough to have a white tip. And it looks weird.)

7. Thou shalt not wear colors appropriate for a 12 year old. (Even if you work in a really creative environment where people actually wear flips flops, like I do, it’s still not a good idea to have alternating polish colors, weird neons or glitter on your toes.)

8. Thou shalt encourage the man in your life to groom his feet. (Nothing is worse than a guy in sandals with overgrown toenails or hoof-like heels. Or both.)

Did I also mention that there is nothing cuter than little wet heads and slick-as-an-otter bodies peeking up at you over the edge of the pool?

Exhibit A:

Here's why swimming lessons are great, especially on a cold day
1. You can leave work early. I mean, I can do that any time, but going to swimming lessons makes me feel less like a slacker and more like a nicely involved mom

2. It's really nice and warm in here.

3. For 30 minutes I truly have nothing to do but sit here.

4. The kids are freakin' tired when we get home!

5. They take a shower here so no additional prolonged bath at home

6. Did I mention that all I have to do is sit here?

Gotta go.....my doing-nothing time is burning up.

Again?

An Ethiopian won the Boston Marathon. They always win. This is not news, Yahoo.

The ugly truth.

Last night I had two bowls of macaroni and cheese for dinner. Kraft, traditional noodle shape, nice and warm and cheesy, with a little salt on top. No salad. No veggie. No protein. Actually I made peas, but conveniently "forgot" about them in the microwave.

Chad and the girls had various combinations of mac & cheese, chicken nuggets and Chad's custom blend of baked beans with cut-up hot dogs.

I really believe in making healthy, balanced meals. I truly enjoy a fresh, crisp salad with my dinner.

But to tell you the truth, I'd be perfectly happy just eating a bowl of mac & cheese with a big ole' glass of milk. And no matter how many great/fast/easy/kid-friendly/ready-in-30-minutes recipes I have, some days making dinner is just too.... I don't know.... exhausting.

And I refuse to feel bad about that.

Still filing....

The sky was dark with the gentlest hint of light blue peeking up above the horizon. The car was loaded - luggage on top, snacks in the back, DVD player ready and bikes on the rack. We swept up the girls, blankets and all, and buckled them into their car seats, still in their jammies. One last check of the doors, turn on the alarm and off we go into the 6 am darkness on a family road trip to Pawley's Island, South Carolina - two parents, two kids, one grandma and a black lab named Charlie.

Because I'm pretty much addicted to my iPhone, I decided to keep some travel notes on it as we drove. Here are some of the highlights:

April 2
6:15 am – Lauren is singing "Mary Had a Little Lamb" and MIL is filing her nails, which sounds extraordinarily loud in the dark at this hour.

6:35 – MIL is still filing her nails. How many fingers does this woman have?!?!

6:52 – Still filing....

8:10 – MIL is putting on lavender essential oil. I think my nose hairs are curling. Kids are coloring quietly - those lap desks from Hobby Lobby are working great!

8:24 – Seriously, my eyes are watering a little from the oil. I'm not going to complain about her the whole time, but man, who puts on scented oils in an enclosed space the size of a refrigerator?

10:57 – We've made one stop and both Charlie and Lauren pooped, so it was totally worthwhile. That and the McGriddle I had for breakfast. Lauren had to poop while I was already on the toilet, so I had to get up with pants around my knees and assume my usual position - standing in front of her with her head against my legs and hands on the sides of my knees - while she pooped. Smells great. Heading south, lots of hills and beautiful flowering trees.

11:09 – We're on 275 going in and out of Kentucky and Indiana. I swear to God I just saw a dead kangaroo on the side of the road.

4:07 – Our third stop - gas and Starbucks. Lauren napped. Grace didn't, but so far so good. Have headache, probably from waiting until 4:07 to get my Starbucks.

And that's just day one.

Good mom, bad mom

Good mom comes back to Grace's room after tucking in Lauren for a little extra snuggle and a few stories about when I was kid.

Bad mom tells Lauren she can have lots of pancakes for breakfast when Lauren starts to cry at bedtime that she's hungry.

Good mom has grapes and crackers ready for a post-swimming lessons snack.

Bad mom forgot to bring underwear for the girls to put on after swimming lessons are over.

Good mom gets out the matching aprons and lets the kids do most of the work - and all of the spilling - while we make cupcakes.

Bad mom makes muffins while the kids are sleeping and then hides them in the morning so Chad and I can have them to ourselves.

Good mom has all the kids clothes clean and laid out on the toybox at bedtime, so the morning will go more smoothly.

Bad mom is stuffing microwaved pancakes into ziploc bags, then throwing them and the kids into the car.

Good mom has the kids bathed and in their clean jammies with enough time left over for two bedtime stories.

Bad mom figured they can go one more day without a bath AND says it's so late we can only sing songs, no stories.

Why is that bad mom really seems a lot more like NORMAL mom?

Close to home.

When you live in a small town you develop a sense that nothing truly bad could happen there. Of course this is not true, but the fact that you know your mailman, your favorite waitress at your favorite lunch place, the school principal, the guy who owns the giant condo development that everyone hates and even the mayor by name lulls you into a sense of wellbeing. It's the best of Mayberry, only not so corny and with free wireless in a few places.

But blind wellbeing is not a good idea.

On Friday, the school district here in our town of about 3,000 full-time residents (at most) received a tip that someone had read on the internet that there would be a shooting at a school here that afternoon. Thanks to the district's Web site, they were able to receive the information and respond quickly, immediately engaging our local police forces to patrol the schools. At the same time, a search began to track back to the source of the threat with full intent to prosecute.

As of Tuesday morning nothing has happened. Thank God. There was a police officer in the front lobby of the elementary school when we got there, but my first-grade daughter didn't even notice. After all, one of her good friends is the child of two police officers. I also saw a police presence at the high school - low key, but still there.

My gut tells me the threat was probably not real. But I'm grateful to the school district for taking it seriously and taking prompt action to do what they could to protect the children and staff. It's easy to say that a school shooting here doesn't "fit the profile." After all, looking back at most cases it's a kid who is lost in the roiling sea of a big school, an anonymous face who doesn't feel he fits in. Around here, it's pretty hard not to fit in because everyone is involved in everything. That's the way it is when there are less than 100 kids in the senior class.

I'm not a worrier or a fear monger. But you still have to take it seriously. You still have to be cautious. And you have to make a conscious effort to take note of the issue and then move on. Because living in fear is not living. And if you spend all your energy on things that haven't happened and that you can't control you'll miss out on the beauty that is unfolding in your life every day.

Now it's a cat?

Swimming lessons are on Monday and Wednesday evening. Miraculously both girls are in lessons at the same time. Different levels, but same pool, same day, same time on the clock. The stars will probably never align like this again, so I'm trying to enjoy it.

So far Lauren has sobbed through her first two lessons. This is a mystery to me since she was jumping off the swim platform of our boat at 18 months. So it's not the water, but maybe the place. The pool is cavernous, bright and teeming with soggy kids, swim instructors who I'm sure are not paid nearly enough to herd cats all evening, the older crowd who are waiting for us to get done so they can start water aerobics, and the uber-clean smell of chlorine. It's a lot and I think it freaks her out.

But I don't like to be a hovering parent. So I sit on a storage locker nearby and wave cheerfully as my wee Lauren clings to the side of the pool and sobs. When it's her turn for one-on-one practice of whatever skill she changes her tone, and in an instant she is engaged, smiling and fluttering her little feet like an old hand. This is why I'm not falling for the tears. That, and this conversation:

Lauren (sobbing, gasping and red-faced): Mommy, (sob, gulp) I have to tell you sumpting.

She is in a pull-up position, her round grey eyes just peeping over the tile edge.

Me (finally giving in and crouching poolside): What is it honey?

Lauren (deep breath): I was sitting in my garden and I saw a purple cat. And a pink cat. And the purple cat was named Kania (caw-nee-uh) and the pink cat was named Kania. And there were two Kanias!

Me (trying, I mean it - really trying, not to laugh): Okay, well keep listening to your teacher. Only 10 more minutes of swimming.

The minute I settled back on to my fiberglass poolside post the sobbing started again.

Drama queen.

We sat curled into each other on the bed, Grace a puddle of tears and anguish.

"Mom, she HATES me! Lauren HATES me!"

"No she doesn't honey, she loves you. She just says that to make you upset. Shhhh, it's okay sweetie."

How does a 3 year old know just what to do to get her sister's goat? I wonder. Where did she learn this?

"She hates me mom!" More tears. "And she keeps on saying that stupid thing about her garden.... it drives me NUTS! Make her stop!"

"Oh honey," I say. "Just ignore her. She's using her imagination. I know it's kind of weird, but it doesn't bother me. Just try to walk away if it bothers you."

"WHY!? WHY doesn't it bother you," Grace nearly shrieks. Her face is tear stained, her nose running. "And why (sniffle) does Lauren keep saying she doesn't liiiiike meeeeee?!"

She buries her head in my torso. I stroke her hair and wonder what to say. Lauren doesn't hate her. Far from it. But Lauren doesn't need her big sister's approval either. And she seems to take a mean little delight in tormenting her. Secretly I think it's a little bit funny. But Grace is Lauren's polar opposite: sweet where Lauren is stubborn, kind where Lauren is, well... not. I don't know how to explain why siblings torment each other any more than I know why, when my sister and I were kids, I used to pretend I was dead until she would start to cry in fear and panic. How do you explain mental torture to someone who would never even conceive of performing it?

As I rock Grace gently and try to shhhsh her into quiet Lauren nimbly climbs up onto the bed and presses herself against me.

"Mom," she stage whispers. "I need to tell you sumpting."

"What is it Lauren," I ask.

"I was sitting in my garden and I saw puwple biwd."

"AAAAAGGGGGHHHHHHH!!!!!" Grace flings her self up, over and then facedown in the opposite direction at the foot of the bed.

I swear, I tried not to laugh.

I'm still laughing.

Me: So Grace, how was the birthday party this afternoon?

Grace: None of your bees-wask, mom.

Now I get it.

When I was first starting out in advertising I used to work with a woman who brushed her hair every day after lunch. She kept a little hairbrush in her desk drawer and, along with refreshing her lipstick after lunch, she also brushed her hair. At the time I thought that this seemed like a little bit much. I don't know why I thought this, since I put on lipstick about five times a day.

Nearly 15 years later I look in the mirror at the end of the day and think maybe she had something there.

So that's what that's called!

I've been away from blogging for a while. That's because I've been very busy having conversations like this:

Grace: I saw some rabbit tracks in the snow today, mom!

Me: You did? Cool!

Grace: Mom? How can you tell if an animal is a boy or a girl?

Me: Well.... um... you look under their body and see if they have a penis or not.

Grace: What's a penis?

(Does she not know this? Should I be glad she doesn't know this? How the hoo-ha will I explain?)

Me: What's a penis?

(I'm trying to buy some time.)

Grace: Yeah.

Me: Well, um.... okay, a penis is what boys have to get their tinkle out. You know, girls have a... vagina... and boys have a penis.

Grace: They do?

Me: Yes.

Grace: All boys?

Me: Yep, rabbits, dogs... boy people.

Grace: Okay.

Sometimes they just catch you off guard, you know?