Back to print, with plants

A van full of offspring and three pants sizes ago, I majored in magazine journalism. You see, people used to actually go and buy printed pieces of paper with words and pictures – which made stories –  and they would turn pages and, well, the whole thing made for a good time. But now we swipe and scroll and what's tangible isn't as trendy, and .... I digress.

My first job out of college was working on a bimonthly food magazine with my college roommate. I wrote, she designed, and we drank at Howl at the Moon on Tuesday nights. It was such an exciting time. So, when she reached out for some freelance help a few months back, the 23 year old deep inside me danced like the rhythm-having, club-going, cool kid she once was.

Kit is a charming bimonthly magazine out of Indianapolis that offers fashion and lifestyle pieces for women. I was recruited to write a 2-page spread on picking the perfect plants for your spring landscaping. It's great information and this lady can't wait to get a tomato/potato hybrid going in my beds.

Check out Kit's blog for more fun stuff for spring.

Mother's Day (It's a girl thing)

As I take my melatonin and tuck myself in at sunset on this, my sixth Mother’s Day, my heart is full, fat and happy. In what feels like the heartbeat of a hummingbird, we have filled this house with 3 gorgeous girls. Three girls … I still can’t believe it … three girls! 

People often offer a "poor you" expression when I share that I have all girls. I get it. I mean, let's face it, being the mom of all girls is like being on an endless group date on The Bachelor. Not one of the week 2 dates, where the crazies are still running rampant, but like one of the last ones, where all of the remaining contestants are cute as can be with somewhat charming characteristics. The comparison cuts the mustard in many regards. You constantly find yourself trying to get a word in, the ease of the experience elevates in relation to the amount of wine consumed, and it’s extremely difficult to get one-on-one time with the only guy in the room.

It’s fun to trade war tales with women on the other side of the spectrum. Working from home one day, an instant message popped up from a coworker, who has all boys, that simply read, “I had to put the Hulk in timeout last night for smashing Sammy’s wiener.” And right there, in that moment, I realized I would never have that experience. Much like I imagine she will never receive the response, “You make me feel like a piece of trash in a trash can that no one wants!” when she tells her toddler to stop arguing and go to sleep. Drama breeds like barn cats in summer around our house. The more estrogen in a square foot, the greater the magnitude of emotion you get.   

Those same people who give "the look" also love to point out that we should “try for a boy” and make the assumption that we feel something is lacking in our lives. Sure, they always have to go potty when the food arrives, all of the body questions get fielded to me and I’ll never get a special dance at one of their weddings. But for every gut punch, there is a wonderful gift given in exchange. Knowing my husband watched YouTube videos with “simple braids for dads” or hearing him read them his favorite book, Daddy’s Girl, at night always makes my ticker swell. Having JoJo tell me she wants to be a writer just like me, or Spikey say she’s going to be a mommy, or watching them snuggle and chat and carry on. Nothing is missing in this house. Absolutely nothing.

I thank God every day for letting me live with these magical little people. I thank Him even on the days when my patience is spent and my nerves are shot. And as much as today makes me reflect on my own joy, it also reminds me of the sisterhood we all share. Every single woman who tries to be everything – the cook, the housekeeper, the professional, the coach, the disciplinarian, the therapist, the nurturer, the teacher. Every woman who tries to be Superwoman.  It reminds me of the respect I have for all of you and the energy it takes to try and be the best version of yourself to make a great version of someone else. I hope your Sunday was filled with sweet moments and crayon drawings, and you maybe found a little time for yourself.

Happy Mother’s Day!

Spike vs. Ruben Studdard

Unprompted apologies are so few and far between. But when they come, it's like a Saturday morning at confession. Who's more sorry?

Spike (writing an apology letter to our favorite caregiver, "Kay-Kay") ...

Or Ruuuuuuuubbbben Studdard ...

The popup and the plague

Months ago I asked JoJo how she wanted to celebrate her sixth birthday. Her response crushed every piece of my maternal heart. “Mama,” she said. “I don’t think I want to turn 6. I just want to stay 5 forever … and live here forever … and keep my same clothes and my same blankets and live here forever.” It became very clear very quickly that we would have to bring out the birthday big guns. Not clowns … everyone knows clowns are psychotic. Not the trampoline place … I’d surely piss myself. A camping trip? The sparkle came back to her eyes with an enthusiastic "Yeah!"

In tandem with this conversation at our dinner table, my parents were coming into a sweet little popup camper that needed a new home. Coincidence? 

Every week that passed brought more excitement and anticipation. We talked about snacks. We talked about our camper. We put the camper up and sat in it in the rain. We talked about snacks. And finally, the week was upon us.

This is where our heartwarming tale takes a super shitty turn. Wednesday night, I heard Sloppy Joan coughing. When Hank went to grab her for a breathing treatment, he discovered an unpleasant, deconstructed version of her dinner spattered all over the crib. This was the first act in what would be a very long night of splats and squishes for Daddy, God love him. She’ll be better tomorrow, we thought. She wasn't.

Friday was JoJo’s actual birthday, and the long-awaited departure day. I packed all morning, Hank left to load and pick up the popup (Emma we’re thinking of naming her). I took Sloppy Joan and went to pick up JoJo and Spikey for the annual birthday lunch at Old McDonald’s. Something deep in my soul told me to pick up the food and take it home rather than linger for the usual scamper through the urine-doused dome of fun. I knew something was off when Spike just stared at her nuggets. Girl loves her nuggets. Two gulps of apple juice – denied. We had a second puker. Maybe she just drank too fast, we thought. We were wrong. Curly tossed more cookies than a clumsy Girl Scout. With my whole family and a caravan of campers en route, I jumped on the grenade and stayed home with the younger two, while JoJo and Hank went north to nature.

Spike passed out and slept for, literally, 13 hours straight. It was incredible. She woke up like Will Ferrell in the debate scene of Old School, renewed and ready to camp. So, we went camping. It was gorgeous. A sunny 78 and a stone’s throw from the playground. We hiked and we ate … oh, how we ate. I mention the eating now as a cautionary tale to any woman who sits with flu-stricken children just 24 hours before said eating. As the children were nestled all snug in their sleeping bags and the adults gathered to gossip and drink grownup juice, I felt my stomach starting to think over my recent decisions. Best to go to sleep, I thought.

At 2 am, I was jolted awake by a very unpleasant, bitchslap of a truth that I can share with you now: Hell is the flu in a popup camper. The angels were with me in only one regard, and that was my parent’s apartment-on-wheels camper, which was just 15 strides away from our swinging door. I know this because I spent the hours between 2 am and 7 am pacing between their trailer and the soup pot that awaited me in the popup. Just after sunrise, my husband was serenaded by dry heaving and snotty snobs.

I was waving the white flag. It was time for me to go home, I thought.

Hank comes out as the saint in this story. This man – this sweet, sweet dad and selfless man – had to pack that whole trailer, unpack it, and then pack it all up again, with three little chicks in tow. Not to mention handle his hysterical other half.

But I suppose every party needs a pooper and that’s why we invited … well, the majority of our family of five. It turns out we gave treats to our party guests as well. As of publishing this post, my mom, brother-in-law and niece were down with the BGs (bubbly guts). Happy 6^th birthday JoJo!

All crap aside, you are one of the most amazing people I know. You keep me sharp and challenge me to teach and to listen. This year, more than anything, you surprised me with your courage and determination. I saw fire in those eyes, kid, and there’s nothing wrong with that. You were my first timid step into motherhood – and now to see what has come of that adventure … to see this bold soul finding her voice and her place is so overwhelming. But remember, no matter how old you are, you will always be my baby. You promised!

p.s. This video is the only proof I have that this weekend actually happened. Sloppy Joan chillin with the iPad hanging from the roof of the popup. Good times ... 

Better in my 30s: Meditating

Tune in today to see if she can ... Meditate for 30 days.

A few months back, I was on a Gabrielle Bernstein high. I listened to her audio book for Miracles Now and became a full-on spirit junkie, taking hit after hit of Gabby's good stuff. While like most of my infatuations, it only lasted a hot minute, I would say I was addicted. I took introspection to a DEFCON level 5, dissecting every passing thought and action, trying these wild meditations with mantras that I chanted, having absolutely zero clue what they meant. But before you judge, listen to the girl speak. You might not drink the Kool-Aid, but you'll at least smell it to see what flavor's in the pitcher.

She said things like ...

 
And these memorable nuggets ...

I finished the last disc and swore to find my peace, damn it!

A quick confession and choppy transition: I have over 100 blogs in my Feedly roll. Whether you find yourself appalled or impressed is neither here nor there, but what I can tell you is certain trends are undeniable in the blogosphere. Repeating themes, if you will. And right now I could create a brutal drinking game for content addicts based on the mention of any of the following: juicing, HIIT, festival, flower crown or meditation. The latter being the only one that also coincides with my resolutions for self improvement in 2015. The universe just keeps throwing it at me. So, I'm going to stop throwing it back. At least for a month.

Starting Monday, this mama is going to hide in my basement, closet (c'mon, I have no pride anymore) or bedroom for 10 minutes every day, for 30 consecutive days, and meditate. Nothing fancy. No mantras. Likely just a timer and some instrumentals. I don't know ... I don't know if I'll have enough time ... I want to see if being mindful truly impacts decision making, parenting and sleep. I want to breathe and reboot. So, we'll see. I'll journal and overthink it all and report back in June. I know you'll be on the edge of your seats (wink, wink).

Until next time ...

Arangadang adoration

Before we can even get into the obscene amount of adorable that I'm about to put on you, we have to get on the same page. If you have not already been witness to this piece of pop culture history, take a moment, won't you?

This was pre-Anna, and, mind you, I am not now, nor have I ever been, a Veronica Mars follower. At one point, the sole source of my appreciation for Kristen Bell was this sloth video.

Bringing it back to this post, our Children's Zoo recently welcomed a baby orangutan, Asmara. There are two things I geek out about when I take the girls: 1) Feeding the giraffes, and 2) the orangutans in the rain forest exhibit. Spike calls them "arangadangs" which, let's face it, just adds another layer of awesome.  I mean, they sit on branches with trashcan lids on their heads for crying out loud. They can kill you with a swift backhand, but they have such humanistic features and expressions.

When someone at work sounded the alarm for a last-minute photo shoot, I threw out the zoo as a suggestion, never imagining in a trillion years we would end up, as I imagined in my dreams, on a Friday morning, standing in an observation room in the rain forest with just 5 feet of space and a pane of glass between me, Asmara and her family. They were sloths, and I was Kristen Bell.

There are times when I can, and then there are times like this when I ... just ... can't even. 

Plus,  these dudes:

You're welcome. Now go hysterically cry and record yourself.

Stand up routine

Much love for Mother Nature

Tune in today to see if she can ... lighten her carbon footprint and trigger change.

Let's give it up for Earth Day, everyone, whatda ya say, huh? It seems like such a lackluster effort on our parts. I mean, the planet gives us electric sunsets, piercing blue waters and, oh yeah, air, and we set aside one cotton-pickin day to consider what we're doing to impede on her efforts. I feel like, I don't know, we could really up our game as a species.

I would say, on an Earth-conscious scale from 1-10, our household falls at about a 5. Aside from filling our recycling bin to the brim, composting, repurposing, planting trees, avoiding material waste and educating our girls about all of the above, I know we're just scratching the suffocating surface.

If every person resolved to make one change to one habit every April, big things could happen. I'll go first ... This Earth Day, I am going to switch to cloth napkins. After I made this declaration to Hank on the drive to Spin tonight, he countered, as he so often does, with, "I'm curious if it really does make that much of a difference, or if, because you have to wash them, it's just as bad." Enough to make me wonder and doubt my Earth Day '15 choice.

According to treehugger.com, who tested both paper and cloth scenarios, "Over the course of a year you might wash your napkins 50 times and during the same time you might go through 350 (50 x 7) paper napkins. This scenario is much more favorable towards the reusable napkins, with 5 grams of greenhouse gas emissions for the cotton versus 10 grams for the single-use paper napkins. The linen napkin was even lower at 2.5 grams." Sounds legit to me.

On to the contenders ...

1. My front runner. Simple. Practical. Organic. And Mama loves a multipack.

2. Who doesn't love a side of zigzag with their dinner?

3. These floral favorites are pretty, but perhaps a little fancy for a typical night at our table. (Spike can belch at will. Does this motif scream a message that mimics that ambiance to you?)

4. Another fave. I'm digging these colorways so hard.

So, go green, my brothers and sisters. Make a pact to pursue a simple, sustainable change this year, and every year, and happy Earth Day! 

Until next time ...

Boom. Crash. Flash.

Every once in awhile one of your kids goes and just shocks the shit right out of you. This time, it was my JoJo. Last summer, we tested the waters and took our oldest bird's training wheels off, only to discover that she liked to do a full-on MacGyver bail at the slightest balance check. But last weekend, for whatever reason (her daddy's persistent support, I'm guessing) this happened:

I'm telling you, had I not seen it with my own baby grays, I wouldn't have believed it. Proudest mama.

But what comes up, must come crashing down, and who doesn't remember their first epic cement smooch? She was warming up. Her uncle was stopping by to see her sweet new moves, and from the top of the driveway I heard it ... you know, that sound of bone on concrete on screams that don't quite register on the scale of human hearing? This is a child who has a tumultuous past, involving sedation as a last resort, when it comes to stitches, so the fact that we were dealing with a nasty road rash and swollen eye actually sent relief coursing through me.

My girl's got grit. She hopped back on the horse and rode that mare all the way down the sidewalk.

In all the excitement, I came across a journal entry from last summer. It went something like this ...

August 26, 2014

The other night, JoJo spilled water on her pants during dinner.
"Take 'em off and go change, babe. And then we'll go for a walk after dinner," I said. So, she went up and put on a cute little green dress.

We went out and she told me she wanted to ride her big girl bike. So I put a leash on the dog and she sped off in front of me. A family passed ... a dad with his 2 little boys ... JoJo waved at them and on she went. Flying around the path with her hair flying in the wind. Until she got stuck at the bridge. I caught up to her and pushed her little bike over the hump.

I got in front of her and she yelled, "Watch out, Mama! Here I come!" so I turned around. The wind caught her skirt and I that's when I saw it. Her little bare bum. Apparently in her rush to beat the sunset, she decided to skip the undies. As she whizzed on in front of me and I was close enough to take it all in, I got a full view of the flashes of naked crack.

I laughed so hard that Hank and Spikey had to come get me. The man with his children on a leisurely bike ride, the neighbor lady lounging in her deck chair. They all saw my little JoJo's little fanny. What a great way to end the summer ... with a full moon.

You can stick it

I am seldom a trendsetter. In fact, on the bell curve of coolness, I would typically fall in line somewhere in the "late adapter" sector of the downward slope. But my one claim to fame ... the one tally on my hipster scorecard is the side of my fridge.

 

My love of Instagram was a frustrating, dead end sort of romance until a coworker – one far trendier than myself – put me on to Sticky 9. I ordered my first $14.99 sheet of magnets and never looked back. I don't have sponsors or do endorsements (I have like 25 readers), but I will joyfully stand atop a mountain and tell the tens of tens of people reading this post that this company is awesome. You always get Free Shipping and the user experience is cake. Connect your Instagram account, choose your stickies and boom! You're golden. The best part is that people think you're fancy. I love when people think I'm fancy. 

If you do decide to explore this magnetic must, use my code, RAFCZ91 at Checkout. I'm not 100 percent sure what happens, but one of us saves some coin.

Spike's World

Today I invite you to leave commonsense behind and join my family for a beautiful, absurd adventure.

For months, Spike has been talking about her "world". This alternate universe comes up at least twice a day and holds Grandfathers who teach her how to do things and her very own computer and iPad (Apple, of course), a friend named Desi who gets beat up by her brothers and is sometimes mean to Spike and, the most recurring character, her flying horse, Kiyango. Kiyango is referenced so frequently and convincingly that my mom actually got Spikey a Kiyango ornament for Christmas this year. She can tell you everything about her world. She'll even draw you a map, complete with landmarks and detailed step-by-step instruction on how to get there.

With this background, our journey can begin. It started last night, when she demanded we go to her world, so she could retrieve her computer. (Truth be told, I was pretty sympathetic. I hate when you're up against a deadline and forget your dang computer.)

This went on forever until finally a promise to go first thing after breakfast the next day brought the expedition to a halt.

And so, Sunday morning, 12 hours after the initial proposed departure time, me, Hank, Sloppy Joan, JoJo and Mya geared up to fall in line behind our fearless leader Spike, and head for her world.

Because there is a giant pond in Spike's World, she first came down dressed in this little number ...

But settled on some polka dot pants and a more-sensible shoe. Off we went: Two parents, one strapped up with a hairy baby, a dog and an older sister. All following a 3 year old who seemed to know exactly where she was going and was in a huge hurry to get there.

But being the middle child can be tough. And being the middle child getting a lot of attention can be especially tough on the oldest child. And as our adventure advanced, JoJo started poking. First she said she'd "already been there and knew how to get there herself." Ouch. Then she started racing her. Then she started throwing full-on shade about the endeavor in general. 

Daddy dropped the hammer and took big sis home for a little timeout and talking to. Spike couldn't care less. She pressed on, veering off the path and through the common area, chatting the whole way. At one point, we were looking for a rainbow to jump on. A few minutes later, we would be holding hands and dropping from a cliff onto a cloud (How everyone wishes Thelma and Louise would have ended). And then we found a patch of tall, prickly brush and homegirl decided to really go off the grid.

 

I was hesitant ...

She crunched around until a big bird flew by and she decided it was heading for her world and we should track it. We walked by a tree full of Specks and her mind was blown for a solid 3 minutes. "We are here! We are here! We are here!" we chanted.

About 15 minutes into the trek now and "so close" to her world, she came upon a small ditch or stream or trickle of runoff (not sure what one calls this particular body of water).

What followed was a handful of minutes where I watched Spike pump herself up to walk through, essentially, a giant puddle, and then geek out and abort the crossing. We had come to the biggest obstacle on our route to Spike World. A river ran through it, and it was rocking sister's world, until ...

As I went to high five my trailmate, I noticed some dead weight. I looked down and ...

Time for Mom to tap out. As if on cue, Hank, JoJo and the dog came strolling through the grass. Spike was ready to lead them straight through someone's backyard and onto the final destination. Needless to say, I don't think they made it past the cattails.

I am an educated, reasonable, incredibly realistic woman, but I would be lying if I didn't say a small part of me wished a rainbow had dropped down from the sky with Kiyango all saddled up and ready to go. I mean, her imagination is so intricate and contagious, and I think all of us wanted to take a bath in the big pond and shoot the shit with Desi. Alas, it was only a walk. But a fun walk. And as soon as she got home, Spikey came upstairs, put her hand to her mouth and said in my ear, "Mama, tomorrow, I'm going to take you to my world."

Firsts

 

Easter at our house

Sadly, another first holiday as a family of five has too-quickly come and gone. Eggs were hunted. Hair was unruly. And then more eggs were hunted. And then candy was had by all. (Real quick, doesn't it kind of look like Sloppy Joan has bunny ears in this top picture?)

While we would all live to regret our poor, sweet, sugary choices that day, as well as those made in the days following, the buzz did drive us outside, where we enjoyed one of the most beautiful days we've had so far. We walked, and chased bubbles in the wind and dialed in our bikes. JoJo even took her training wheels off for a hot minute. It was a great day. Three little chicks, a bunny and some sunshine ... what more could a woman want? Maybe this picture ...

Putting on my training heels

Tune in today to see if she can … hatch a half marathon training plan.

There is something so romantic about being a runner. Rising with the sun. Worn sneakers with soles that trap and hold stories of triumph and trial. Lean arms that swing and pump and plead for one more mile. The pain. The glory. The reward of making it farther than ever before. It’s the most awe-inspiring example of the power of will. Of course I’ve never experienced these things personally (I know, I really sold it in those first few sentences), but when I watch people pounding the pavement on my drive in to work, I momentarily crush on their endurance. The fact that they're out there. That they are runners. And then I think, damn it, I want to be a runner.  

The natural retort here would be, “Then go run, fool!” but the truth is, it isn’t that easy. To put it nicely, I am stride challenged. I have all the ambition, but none of the athleticism. I learned several years ago that I am great at moving up and down, and terrible at moving forward; a problem, some would say, when it comes to covering distance.

In high school, we had something called Summer Gym. The program was a requirement for athletes and basically a form of torture for hormonal adolescents in which we were turned out in 98-degree conditions and told to run, dash through tires and look disgusting in front of every boy we ever liked. The climax of Summer Gym was the infamous run to Lion’s Park. Let’s call it 3 miles round trip. My girlfriends pulled the period card and bailed, leaving me and my yet-to-be-diagnosed stationary stride. About 1 mile in, it became clear my only hope was a stamp transfer. Please, god of teenagers, let me get a stamp transfer. When a runner reached the park, they received a Sharpie stamp on the back of their hand before looping back to finish the course at the school. Runner after runner came back at me, Sharpie mark flashing, until I finally spotted a cheerleader comrade. We locked eyes, desperation in mine, pity in hers. She pressed her Sharpie against the back of my sweaty hand. We held them there for maybe a full minute. Nothing. There was no hope now. I was going to have to run the rest of the route. Worse yet, the group couldn’t stretch and leave for the day until every single runner returned. I finished dead last. They sent a football player to get me. I believe his words of encouragement were, “Move your ass!” if memory serves.   

Since that fateful day, I have been chasing down redemption. I want to run a half marathon more than anything. I’ve walked it three times, with a little jogging peppered in. But this is the year. I have developed a very detailed 5-part action plan for how I am going to come at it.

1. Pick a race and sign up.
Done. It’s at the end of September in my hometown.

2. Get some new kicks.
I always end up with Brooks Adrenalines, but I’ll still go to our local running store for my biannual analysis because I like watching my feet on camera and imposing my self-deprecating commentary on the sales guy.  

3. Train to train.
There is this wonderful gal at work who runs the real deal races. She has helped several other people come up with a kickass training program, so I picked one I liked and sent it to her. She asked how far, frequently and fast I am currently running. I sent my stats. Her response was sweet and thoughtful and she (summarized) basically suggested I use the program I had found to get me ready to start a real training program in July. So, I need to train to train. I get it. That’s where I’m at. Truth is a liquor best served straight up. So, I’m starting my pretraining training program today.

4. Train.
In July, I will begin one of Hal Higdon’s Half Marathon Novice training programs. I’ll have to give this more thought when I get there.

5. Find some sucker.

I have solicited a few friends to join me, with some interest returned. I had a great walking partner, who very politely passed on trying to run the thing. I worry about someone with a quick or long stride because, as we’ve established, this is not my jam. I need someone who is determined to finish, but not super speedy. 

So, here we go … 26 weeks and counting!

It's Turbo time

Tune in today to see if she can … tackle a Turbo Kick class.

When I was in high school, my parents had this dog, Faith. Faith started out as my brother’s dog, but a pattern of puppy passing was beginning and she eventually went to my folks. She was a weird blend of breeds and we often referred to her as Santa’s Little Helper (you know, from the Simpson’s). I am a big believer that people get one, maybe two, great four-legged companions in life, and the rest tend to be just … well, dogs. Faith was a dog. She was nervous and jittery and her hair fell out in clumps. But saddest of all, in her golden years, Faith started having the wackiest seizures. Honest to Henry, I once saw her come up onto her two back legs and hop across the kitchen, twitching like a kangaroo covered in fire ants. It was awful and, admittedly a little funny now, but I bring it up here for a very good reason. Tonight, I was Santa’s Little Helper.

At my best friend’s urging, I decided to try Turbo Kick. She, conveniently, was away for my debut and unable to witness the chaos that was my attempt at the routine or, better phrased, the complete collapse in communication between my brain and my extremities. 

So many of my basic neurological functions failed me. The jabs … the uppercuts … the roundhouses … it was a system overload no one could have seen coming. I felt like the drunk girl at a dry reception. It’s not the single action so much as the combinations; combinations that repeated but never formed a logical sequence in my brain. And people were hooting. No judgement. Whatever gets ya juiced up. But it did make the tone a little like exercising in the rain forest exhibit at the zoo. 

Just when a faint whisper of confidence, in the form of a knee-up-crossbody-jab series, crept closer, the instructor threw out a “jack with air”. I froze … an ironic choice of words considering I was sweating like Martha Stewart at a tax audit. It was intimidating in its simplicity. A jumping jack where the exerciser is expected to come a handful of inches up off the ground. Maybe it was the heat. Maybe it was my temporary coordination drought. Maybe I just failed at rule no. 76, to play like a champion. But I could not do it. Every time she came to “jack air” I faltered. Until finally …

I went for it. I anticipated it was coming and I used the last of the gas in my tubby-girl tank and leaped. Only, it didn’t look like everyone else’s. It was special. It was more spasm than sporty. It was a dolphin changing its mind mid-trick. It was so Santa’s Little Helper! It’s now my Everest.

 After the class, the regulars were so sweet. Three of them actually came up and told a few of us we, “Did great for our first time.” Imagine that … strangers talking to strangers. What a concept. I think I’ll go back just for the stellar social scene.  

Until next time …

Gopher Day goes awry

April 1, 2015 was Gopher Day in my little suburban slice of the world. It’s the day when neighbors, whom you haven’t seen in months, pop out to give a smile and subtle wave to signal the official close of hibernation. Masculine machines are firing up … trimming, whacking, pruning. I feel that familiar face sweat beading into formation in the sunlight through my car window. Hello, old friend! The songs sound catchier. Traffic flows like a good piece of gossip among girlfriends. It’s my favorite day of the whole year. 

I pulled in my driveway to find the chicks, in various states of sweet spring activity – JoJo pushing Sloppy Joan around in an umbrella stroller. Spikey stepping up to her big girl bike with tottering training wheels. This is some serious utopian stuff, I thought … like a moron.

Any mom worth her salt knows that picturing perfection and your kids in the same space for more than a handful of minutes is a rookie assumption, sure to implode before you, leaving in its wake stinging shrapnel made of pinches, pokes and hysterics.

But this was Gopher Day! So I put history and intuition aside, and embarked on a sure-to-be-blissful jaunt around the park. And then, like the shittiest April Fools joke ever, all hell began to break loose. First, JoJo decided to abandon the bike she was on to push Sloppy Joan, which, it would turn out, meant big sis sprinting while a wide-eyed baby sat, white-knuckled with her prominent whale-spout pony flapping violently atop her head.

But this juvenile joyride was nothing compared to Spike, or as she will henceforth be called, “The Girl Who Killed Gopher Day”. Our 3 year old is notorious for bailing. Every hike, walk or bike ride to date has ended with her in a puddle of pout on a sidewalk. It’s embarrassing and it really brings my Supermom mojo down. To assume today would be different just because the sun was shining was naïve, I admit it, but I let her hop on her new Hello Kitty bike and get after it. I’d say about .2 of a mile in, we were in good shape. By .3, we were having steering issues. And by .4 we were standing next to the steed, contemplating the next move.

Sensing a general frustration and seeing smoke off JoJo’s heels, I simply suggested Spike leave the bike, walk with us and then practice when we came back around. If my future self could have intercepted the words from the mouth of my present self, everyone would have come through just fine. But there was no going back.

Me: Babe, let’s just go enjoy the walk and we’ll try again when we come back this way.

Spike: But Mama …

Me: Spikey, it’s such a beautiful day, let’s go try to catch JoJo!

Spike: No, I want to ride my big girl bike!

Me: Then hop on and steer it, like you were before.

Spike: It’s not working, Mama!

Me: OK, then let’s just walk for now.

Spike: No!

Me: Honey, Mommy’s gotta go catch up with your sisters. You coming?

Spike: No! I want to ride my bike!

Me: OK, well then you need to head home, hon.

Spike: Noooooo! I wanna ride my bike! [cue tears]

Me: Spikey, I’m not doing this here.

Spike: [cue screams]

Me: I have to go now. [Walks away nervously splitting my eyes to keep one on each set of children.]

Spike: [Screaming, blubbering dialogue I can’t decipher]

Me: [Runs back, picks Spike up and puts her in our fence. Neighbors at a standstill.]

Hank: [Chases Spikey around the backyard like a farmer after a greasy pig until he catches and carries her, sack-of-potatoes style, into the house, where screams can still be heard because the windows are open because, you know, it’s freaking Gopher Day.]

JoJo, Sloppy Joan and I continued on our loop, which was, all things considered, nice.

I was naïve. I see that now. I thought I would be taking a mental snapshot of my three little ladies riding and strolling and smiling on the first sunny day of spring, and I would want to write about it and store it away in my heart forever. But I’m writing about this. And you know, sometimes that’s just the way walks go.