It has been a long time.

Sometimes life just sweeps you up and casts you out to sea for a while. For many months I have been adrift. Lost in an ocean of obligation. Treading the waters of exhaustion. And, yes, trying to out swim the sharks.

I have decided that I need to shed some of the objects that are weighing me down. Free myself of the weight of some things that I thought were so dear to me, until they threatened to pull me under.

I see land on the horizon and I am swimming for shore.

Just a few more strokes and I can once again baste in the heat of the sun warmed beach.

Just a few more strokes…

The problem was, I had dropped that child off at school, with a hug and a kiss, not even two hours before! I watched him walk around the corner of the school toward his classroom as I do every day.

“He isn’t absent!” I shrieked. “I dropped him off this morning.”

“Oh,” she said, sounding like every person who has ever uttered words then wished for the ability to time travel to a point only minutes before so that they could not be having the conversation they are currently having. “Well, there must be some mistake. Let me check the class room.”

Then she tells me that if I don’t hear back from her, it must all be ok.

“I’d rather you call me back no matter what!” I told her. In my mind, I was watching my boy walk away that morning and wondering how I would survive if my last sight of him had been of the back of his camouflage coat and GI Joe backpack. If she didn’t call back, would it be because she found him, or because “procedure” dictates that she first notify the local & federal authorities, who would then interrogate The Middle about his “home situation”. Would they call the media next? Please don’t let them send that bitchy reporter who talks out of one side of her mouth. Do they interview my family & friends before they inform me? Oh, God, not my facebook friends. At some point, they’ll find the blog. I always knew this damn thing would be used against me at some point. It’s one thing to be a crappy mom; I shouldn’t spend so much time flaunting it to the world! They’ll fixate on me instead of finding my son! Who would believe me? How big do they make prison jump suits? Is there really a volleyball team?

The phone rang just as I was about to go into hysterics. It had been the longest 3 minutes I could remember.

“He’s here,” she said. “I was just talking to him when he was going to the bathroom.”

“Huh!” I replied, with an obvious question on my mind. Suddenly I had a new kind of concern.

“No,” she quickly corrected, “I meant I talked to him in the hall. When he was on the way to the bathroom. I didn’t go in”

I’m just saying—sometimes you need to clarify!

At this point in my life I have found one other thing that can cause a lost day: a sick child. As a parent you listen as your tender babe awakens and you can gauge exactly where that little sniffle is headed. The sniffle becomes a sneeze, which becomes a whimper and then a moan, which leads to crying, which causes coughing fits that inevitably end up with vomiting. And each of those steps will take place: On. My. Lap.

There I sit, for the entire day because, as gratifying and aggravating as it is, I seem to be that which comforts them most. Oh, I’ve tried to introduce stuffed animals and blankets, which could offer the amount of cuddling they need with a much softer temperament. But, no, for some reason they seem drawn to me. And so, I cuddle. For days on end. That’s right, because when you’ve created three creatures who are susceptible to germs, they will all fall prey–and not necessarily on the SAME day. (Had I known this I would have given birth only to super-heroes, but nobody warned me early on and I fell prey to the allure of mere mortal babies).

So, I have just spent the better part of a week comforting and coddling. Wiping brows, brewing tea, cooking soup and cleaning out “the bucket”. The Baby ended up with croup and I found myself, very late one night, trying to comfort this crying, coughing, screaming toddler while I sat with him in the bathroom with steam pouring from the shower. This was when I realized one more way in which I suck as a mother: I don’t know any soothing lullaby songs with which to calm my child. I searched my brain for the words to any songs with a slow, rhythmic melody that I may have heard in my lifetime. Bits of lyrics began to jump out at me. Melodies of ballads long ago forgotten filled my head. Before I knew it I was softly singing those songs as I rocked my son into a peaceful state. And someday, my son may find himself in the same position: searching is mind for a song that brought him comfort in his childhood, and he may sing “Still Loving You”, “Every Rose Has It’s Thorn”, or some other power ballad to his own kids.

And so, I now realize that in a number of ways, I owe a huge debt of gratitude to the gods of heavy metal. Had I not spent my formative years kneeling upon their altar I would have missed out on so many of the lessons that now help me survive motherhood: the endurance to stay up all night and still be to work by 7 am, the ability to understand even the most screaming/hysterical speech patterns, the belief that it isn’t really a celebration unless someone has puked, and a full mental catalog of 80’s power rock lullabies with which to soothe my innocent babes.

That’s right, for months there has been a funnel from my checking account to that of a particular exercise and health facility. It’s great in theory. There is some one thing that happens in your life and causes you to seek a healthier lifestyle or to reclaim the body that was once yours. Maybe you had a health scare, have a reunion or wedding, maybe some innocent, cherubic little imp screeched, “Mommy, that ladies FAT!” (or some Alzheimer’s riddled old man said the same). Either way, there is some monumental event that drives a person to go to a gym, follow some thin, well-muscled twenty-year-old around and nod appreciatively as they point out the torturous looking gadgetry that they insist is top of the line (like my fat-ass is sooo schooled on fitness equipment that I’d know the difference). And then, to top it off, we give them the authority to funnel money from our checking accounts on a monthly basis while we sit at home, watching television and thinking, “I should really join a gym or something!”

So, I sucked it up. I got off the couch, dusted off my duffle bag and drove to the gym (and those of you who run or ride your bike to the gym are sick I tell you!). I’m not going to brag about my accomplishments & say crap like, “it was just like I’d never left”. It was nothing like that. I started out easy—the treadmill—because I figured that even though I haven’t been to the gym in a very long time it wasn’t like I’d given up walking! As it turns out, I must have not walked uphill much. Or very fast for that matter. But, damn it, I walked. Like for 20 or 30 minutes. Continuously!

Now, my sister-in-law goes to the same gym. She informed me that the gym is having a 12 week challenge. There is a grand prize of a lot of money! I am a terribly competitive person, so she had me at “challenge”. Money was just icing on the cake. “But,” she told me, “we have to have our picture taken so they can see before & after.”

I signed up for the challenge, of course I had my hair done & makeup on, and then they tell me the rules of the photos: ladies must wear a two-piece outfit so that the results are easily seen.

“I am NOT wearing a bikini,” I barked at the poor kid who signed me up.

“It’s ok,” he assured me, “you can just wear spandex short shorts and a sports bra.”

“I don’t own spandex,” I said and stood up so that he could get a good, and realistic look at what should have been a presumed fact, “for obvious reasons.”

I spent the next few hours trying to remember if I had any of my old spandex exercise shorts. Certainly there had to be one pair that had stretched out enough that I could still breath but not so worn that hints of my mayonnaise colored flesh would peek through the material.

So, if you happen to see a photo of what looks like a softball wearing a rubber band, look real close. Does that softball have a ponytail and blue eyes? That may be me. In spandex. With a blood vein or two threatening to burst.

I have to preface this by saying that I’m not a dedicated Facebook user. I’ve had an account for a long time. At first, I would check my page every month or so, whether I needed to or not. Within the past two months I’ve been really dedicated, checking in like, weekly, at least! And now that I’m in an almost daily groove I realized, I’ve never really hunted around to find people that I used to know. And, isn’t that what Facebook is about? So, like any other hunter (albeit a hunter who wants the prize but without the inconvenience if getting up at four am, going out in the cold and actually hunting) I went poaching. That’s right, I went to the few friends I had and I checked their friends just to see if I knew anyone. And, if I could add them to my own list—because are we not judged by the friends we keep?

As I looked through the names of the people I had known at one time it dawned on me that I may need to be very selective in who I send friends requests to.  Do the social policies of adolescence still hold true all these years later? As an adult, do you remain on the same level of the teenage caste system that you occupied when you were actually in school? For me, this could be a problem.

The problem with school is that it is a constantly evolving thing. In elementary school you have a small group of “friends”. Almost everyone plays together and by the end of elementary school you may have been “best friends” with almost everyone in your grade at some point. Then you are placed into a junior high school/middle school with all of your friends and kids from one or two other schools. Suddenly, you’re networking. And maybe some of your former besties have become more like “acquaintances”. In some instances, those people may have suddenly become your archenemy. Then, just about the time you are working out all of your interpersonal relationships with these people, you are thrown into high school. Let the tailspin begin! Now, not only don’t you know half of the people you are in school with, you’re at a point when you don’t even really know who you are. Let’s just say that the struggle to assert independence and be unique didn’t work out for the best for everyone! Maybe I didn’t choose my friends well. Maybe I would have more friends now if I hadn’t been so flighty in my teenage social networking. A high percentage of my former friends now have very a very static group of friends, which I am not a part of. Of course, their friends have been largely determined by the Department of Corrections, and, I believe referred to as fellow inmates.

Now I’m faced with a dilemma. I’m looking at the Facebook pages of all of these nice, normal kids that I used to know. Will they remember me? Which me will they remember? The elementary, middle or (gulp) high school me? Am I one of the people that make you say, “Oh, Yeah! I remember her!” or the one that makes you say (with a cringe), “ Oh, yeah. I remember her.”?

So, for now I’ve decided on the safest approach. I will only send a friend request to those people that I: 1) am certain that I never started a fight with, 2) may have supplied booze to at some point or consumed booze with, 3) only knew me in elementary or junior high.

Once, I get those three people, I should be on my way!

The Before Shot. Maybe just a little shaggy

Sadly, I was the hold out. I was the one who was in denial about just how overgrown The Baby’s hair had become. You know things have gone too far when your toddler is begging—that’s right, begging—for a haircut. The point is only made more clear when he actually climbs willingly into the chair at the salon.

Since we were going I decided to make a group outing of it. The Oldest and The Middle were both in need of haircuts as well so I made an appointment for all three. It was The Baby’s first haircut (I know, I know…) so I was very meticulous in how everything would happen. I had him watch the brothers first so that he would know there was nothing to be afraid of (I’m sure I read that in some parenting magazine when I was waiting for my yearly with nothing better to do!).

Anyway, all of my attempts at a cautious approach weren’t even necessary. The kiddo climbs right up in the chair, his brothers stood nearby and held his hands (a definite awww-how-sweet moment!) and the only tears that were spilled were mine as I watched the butcher hairstylist prepare to cut the locks from the head of my blessed baby.

I sidled up next to her like a cop at a crime scene and murmured, “I’m gonna need one of those locks of hair.”

“Don’t worry,” she told me, “I’ll put a lock of it onto a certificate before you leave.”

The Baby was very proud of his new haircut and posed for several photos before being led by the brothers to the toy drawer.

The Middle stood there with his hands deep in his pockets, looking guilty.

“What are you up to?” I asked.

He pulled out his hand to show me a tuft of blond. “I kept some of my hair,” he giggled.

“What are you gonna do with that?”

A little boy with a sensible haircut, now he just needs a sensible career!

“I’m gonna put it in my collection,” he answered.

“You don’t need to keep hair,” I told him.

“Why?”

“It’s disgusting,” I said as I ushered him to the front door.

“Ma’am,” the butcher hairstylist called as we walked out the door. “Don’t forget the certificate for his first haircut.” She handed me the certificate and…

“Oh, my God,” I gushed as tears formed under my lids, “look at that precious little locket of hair!” (Don’t judge me!)

There is a plethora of healthy food that needs to be introduced to my home. There is a ton of dirt, dust and clutter that needs to be removed from my home.

The weight I need to lose, the little tasks I need to accomplish, the organization I need to achieve in my life, the parenting skills I need to work on, the knowledge I need to pass on to my children, the projects I need to do for work, the books I’ve been planning to read, the writing I’ve been meaning to get around to, the friends and family that I haven’t kept in touch with, the photo’s that need to be put into photo albums, the photos that need to be freed from my camera…

Holy crap! There’s just too much to accomplish in a year. Maybe I’ll just grab a pizza and decide on one accomplishment for 2010. (And I’ll bet a pizza that I won’t be choosing the weight loss or healthy food options!).

Happy 2010 everyone!

Now, Halloween is only the beginning of the landslide into holiday dietary purgatory (or, “binge-and-purgitory” as I like to call it). It marks the beginning of a three month Bacchanalian celebration of chocolate, food and wine. It is the worst time in the world to be on a diet. But, even if you have fallen off that wagon and thrown healthy eating to the wind for the season, there are certain standards that must be upheld.

The problem that I am trying to bring to light, so that we can all discuss it, and heal, and move on, is the habit that people have fallen into of driving behind their children on Halloween night. That’s right, door to door, your precious little cherub runs, ringing doorbells and yelling, “Trick-or-Treat!” And door to door, you follow in the car like a stalker waiting and watching for the opportunity to snatch that innocent lamb right off the street.

First of all, it’s annoying to those of us who are walking with our children. We have to be extra cautious of our own children because the neighborhood has been inundated with cars following kids. There are more cars on Halloween in the subdivisions than any other time of year! We’re constantly on edge, wondering if that car is following that kid–or our kid–to snatch them? Also, the headlights and exhaust fumes are just obnoxious to have to deal with in the middle of all that “fresh air” we thought we’d be getting.

Most importantly though, and this goes back to the idea of standards, if you are going to go out, begging for candy (and you know you’ll be eating your fair share so it becomes your responsibility as well!), get your fat ass out there and walk around the neighborhood while your kid does the begging, just like all the rest of us fat asses are doing!

There is one sport, though that I even love on television. That sport is hockey. Now, I’m not going to try and pass myself off as the ultimate authority on hockey. I have a very rudimentary knowledge of the game, at best. The teams go back & forth across the ice trying to get the puck in their opponents net—got it! My fascination with the game is not so much about the beauty of the game as it is a much more Middle School-type of interest. The fact is: if there is going to be a fight, I’ll show up to watch. And, I just can’t get enough laughs out of some of the sentences that the word “puck” comes up in. Who can get enough of hearing the commentators tell us that the team needs to “get the puck out of the zone”, or “get the puck away from the goalie”? And my personal favorite is when a puck becomes airborne. Who doesn’t want to hear an old guy in a suit talk about “a flying puck”? Oh, the fun we have on hockey night.

Oh, and by the way, Go Avs!! And for those who aren’t Avs fans…take a flying puck!