Sometimes you gotta ...

Life can be tense from time to time. It can be a downright kick in the pants. When a case of the Mondays descends, or tempers run high, I think you just gotta dance it out. A good old fashioned dance party is the antidote for what ails and annoys. Bring the funk to ban it.

If your motions are a merger of your mama's sweet moves and dad's stiff hips, it might look like this:

It's cool. Own it.

But there is one caution I feel compelled to share with those considering an all-family dance party – something that must be anticipated and addressed as a household before a situation arises and you find yourself ill prepared. I'm talking about Taylor Swift. Now, I am not anti-Swift, as a general rule. I am also far from a Swiftie. But sure as a death in a Disney movie, your kids are going to flipping love her. Be ready.

I feel that my organic reaction has been genetically transferred to Sloppy Joan. Watch as, at just 10 months old, she has the I-can't-freaking-believe-I'm-actually-dancing-to-this-shit-and-I-love-it response to America's revered pop anthem:

The amazing thing is, this was the first time Sloppy Joan clapped. This night, dancing. Taylor Swift is so good, her sick beats elicit human reactions beyond existing motor skills. I can think what I want about her gaping, girl power expressions, but the B is good. Damn good.  

My heart and soles

From the moment you arrived, my heart told me this was going somewhere. If I married up the seconds I've stolen with thoughts of our life together, it would add up to days ... maybe weeks. And now the love affair of my daydreams is tangible, it's standing right in front of me. 

As with any enduring relationship, I must request your unwavering support. That you take me to unforgettable places that mean something so special, even if only to us. And that you at least try to be dependable every step of the way. Here's to our new romance and the promise of getting lost together in the right direction.

The wonderful whoops, or Phillip Douglas took forever, or My birth story

 

There’s a section in Amy Poehler’s Yes, Please! (superfluous praise here), where she recounts the day she was born. Her parents even make an appearance to narrate their respective recollections in the audiobook. It’s adorable.

Anyway, Amy, my new best friend, encourages people to ask their parents about the day they were born. If you think about it, it’s astounding how many people don’t know their story. My Dad didn’t know his. So, even though I’d heard parts of it before – specifically how they had a great 10^th anniversary celebration and nine months later an unplanned blessing ­­– I asked Rog and Marilyn to crack open the vault and share the story of the day I came into the world.  

How Mom remembers it …

“I woke up in the middle of the night and felt a little crampy. Instead of staying in bed, I went downstairs to watch television. There was a stupid movie on called Islands in the Stream. It was about Papa Hemingway … so boring. At around five in the morning, I heard this gurgling sound and realized that my water was about to break. I called for your Dad, as I figured I would probably have you right there. Your sister came so quickly. We went to the hospital where I had many hours of labor, during which we were trying to pick out boy names since I was sure you were a boy. I believe we settled on Phillip Douglas.  After hours (yes hours with no medication) of labor they finally decided that they needed to do something to make things happen. I was reluctant, but your Dad told them to go ahead bring in the pit drip. Really? (Sure, it wasn’t him having the labor.) It looked like a foot-long needle that they inserted in the side of my wrist but within a minute all heck broke loose. With constant contractions, I was in delivery within 45 minutes.  I was not aware, but it seemed your heart rate had dropped, so they were anxious to get you delivered. Bing, bang, boom, there you were in all your glory! My beautiful Courtney.”

So, to recap:
 

I always thought the whole Islands in the Stream thing was why I have an affinity for Dolly and Kenny. Turns out, maybe it’s why I’m a writer.

“Your sister came so quickly” = Kirsten’s is perfect.

Phillip Douglas sounds like someone who signed the Declaration of Independence. Actually … is that someone who signed the Declaration of Independence?

“a foot-long needle inserted in the side of my wrist” = thank you, Mom, for my horrendous fear of needles.

“Really? (Sure, it wasn’t him having the labor.)” = homegirl still isn’t over it. 

How Dad remembers it …

“I woke up early that morning.  I found your mother in the family room watching Islands in the Stream about Hemmingway. Her water had broken, and she felt anxious about getting to the hospital. You were the third baby, and you were the first that they didn’t have to break her water. We thought that we were in for a quick delivery. Hours went by with no progress. Finally at about 4 pm or so, the nurse suggested a Pit drip to get things in gear.  They were concerned that we were coming up on 12 hours after the water had broken and the risk of infection. Of course, being the brave one in the family, I said yes. Once they started the drip, things went very quickly. Your mother was in pain almost continuously, but she had no anesthetic. You were born at 5:15 or 5:30. You cried right away. You were pretty and pink with all of your fingers and toes. We were beaming with happiness! You and your mom only spent about a day in the hospital and went home. You were the biggest of the babies at 9 pound 2 ounces.  Cute as a bug’s ear and still are!”

A few final thoughts:

Does anyone else find it disturbing that these people barely remember that my heart rate dropped – clearly a near-death experience – during delivery, or the exact time of my birth for that matter, but Islands in the frickin Stream stands out clear as crystal?

“You were the third baby, and you were the first that they didn’t have to break her water.” = Why can’t you be more like your brother and sister?

“Of course, being the brave one in the family” = I get my ability to bullshit from my father. 

... The rest is actually pretty sweet. Thanks for having me, Mom and Dad! Best decision you two crazy kids ever made.  

My daughters’ differences

As I watch the ladies in my home grow and transition, and bicker and prod, I realize with absolute certainty that my frazzled, thirty-something mind will never comprehend the ancient complexities of how two human beings, created by the same two human beings, can be so completely, drastically different. Hank and I are opposites, no argument there. It is frequently pointed out to me that the older two pull their dominant qualities from the maternal side, but it’s hard to tell with such a sprawling spectrum of genetic attributes in both directions. 

JoJo is inquisitive. She worries and ponders and seeks the truth. She cries often, and asks about things that people my age don’t understand or only contemplate when they’re really, really stoned. She has concerns and she likes to direct action and take the lead when she feels comfortable. 

Spike is my wild card. She, too, is emotional, but it’s more for dramatic effect and from frustration. She demands to be heard and she doesn’t have much patience for parenting. I don’t worry about Spike when it comes to friends or the pursuit of her dreams. I think all that girl needs is a compass and she’ll be on her way.

While I celebrate these beautiful, mystifying differences between my babies, they are often the culprits for our sibling domestic disputes. The girls are the only players in a tireless game of tug-of-war … the yin and the yang … the opposites that often don’t attract. They would move mountains both to defend each other and to defeat each other. The fights. The crazy, yelling, name-calling, remote-throwing, door-slamming fights. About whose turn it is, or who was telling the story, or who gets the green plate. It’s exhausting, but common. I’ll catch myself tiptoeing toward losing it before I plant my feet, take a beat and remind myself that my actions become their reactions. That sisters fight. That this is life in our house right now, and it looks like this sometimes in ours and all the other houses with little firecrackers running around. 

But a shaken soda settles eventually, and bitterness dissolves with distraction. And that’s what I adore. It’s then I like to slow the narrative and commit it to memory. It’s in the moments when, unprompted or pushed, they hug, or tickle or have those amazing conversations when you turn your back and laugh from your heart, out through tiny tears in your eyes. And my soul feels so full and I think, I love these little humans. And I love that they have each other. They talk about the planet and God and monsters. They solve the day’s problems and only ask for my confirmation at the very end. “Right, Mama?” Sometimes I correct them, and more often I let their little imaginations govern the day. Because, really, wouldn’t we all be a little better off with thoughts of smiling moons and horses named Kiyango at the front door?

I simultaneously dread how quickly the time will pass, and eagerly anticipate the day when Sloppy Joan joins her sisters at the kitchen bar. If my predictions are on point, she will be her father; the calming rhythm that steadies the noise. I’m sometimes wrong about these things, but I see a peace and joy in her little eyes that reminds me of the man I married, and also why I married him. And it’s reason No. 5,986 why I love her so much. 

So, this post is dedicated to the slower, happier moments. To dancing to Beyonce’s “Girls” in the basement, and imaginative time playing mermaids in the tub. To saving each other from the top of the slide and falling asleep holding hands. To reuniting after school and smothering hugs. Here’s to my delightfully different, dynamic, amazing girls and the perfectly imperfect sisterhood they share. 

JoJo just said ...

Spike and JoJo vs. Anna and Elsa

Who can thaw your frozen heart?

Spike + JoJo ...

or these chicks? ...

There goes my baby

Hank has been waiting months to officially start referring to Sloppy Joan as Lady Crawley.

And his time has come.

Spike and Daddy vs. Goose and Maverick

They felt the need for speed and Spike felt the need, the need to pee. And we didn't make it in time so she had to change into a Pull-Up at a rest stop somewhere in the Midwest. But, going by strut alone ...

Who has the right stuff?

Spike + Daddy ...

or Maverick + Goose?

Spinning my wheels

Tune in today to see if she can … Survive a spin class.

As a new gym goer, I am quietly, privately geeking out about all the classes. I love trying new things as it is, but a paid membership and knowledgeable instructor are even greater incentive to jump into a room full of strangers and sweat profusely. But I tend to obsess a bit and get anxious about finding the lay of the land.

I really wanted to try a spin class. Because I have no experience and have not, for that matter, had a bike between my legs once in the past two years, I knew I was going to need reinforcements. I lined up both a coworker and my brother to meet me. Why is it so much easier to do new things when someone you know is there? What is that about? Anyway, it doesn’t matter now because both backed out by the end of the work day and I was thinking I would just go row. And then I thought, “You chicken shit. They aren’t going to help you pedal. Be bold and go in the direction of your dreams already!” Not that spinning is my dream, being skinnier and badass is, but I’m getting side tracked …

So, I went. Right away people were moving bikes around and panic set in. In these situations, I tend to smile an obnoxiously large, twitchy smile and scan the room for the nicest face. I locked eyes with an older gentleman.

“So, I have no clue what to do. Do I just grab any bike?”
“This is like my third class. But I think you want one of the red ones with the RPM reader,” he said.

Oh man … here we go … I don’t know what an RPM reader is and I have no clue how to move this bike. Newness makes me itchy.  

The instructor helped me adjust my seat height, handlebars and whatever the word is for how far forward your seat sits … fore-something (not skin or play). And then I clicked my toes into the little cages and it was time to start spinning. About 3 (yes, just 3) minutes in I was feeling good, and then she announced it was time to “come out of the saddle” and jog. Now, dear friends, first of all, I used to ride horses and that strip of pleather is not a saddle. No sir. It was at this point I realized two things: 1) I hadn't been in my target heart rate zone in 18 months, and 2) this was going to kick my ass.

Thoughts that ran through my mind during CycleFit:   

Are there special shoes for this, too? What a conspiracy.

There is no way she turned her dial to the right.

I need to stand up, I need to stand up, I need to stand up.

Is the bike moving? Oh my gosh, if this thing tips I am canceling my membership, effective immediately.

I have to sit down, I have to sit down, I have to sit down.

If she says, “Here comes the hill,” one more time …

Is that sweat or is my crotch crying?

Can a person’s ass just break in two, right down the middle? I think it’s happening.

In the end, I survived. And I will go back for sure ... after my undercarriage heals, of course.

Oil thrill

Tune in today to see if she can … Clear the air and create a healthy, happy utopia using essential oils

I’m a sucker for a good holistic sales pitch. I just am. I think we give too many antibiotics and use too much antibacterial fluid. Things like “superbugs” keep me up at night and I don’t understand the flu shot. Having said all this, our winter was brutal. We had:

3 strepped throats
2 rounds of the flu (the last time all 5 of us were invited to the party)

3 sinus infections

1 terrifying case of RSV

And just a general hacky cough and sniffles for going on 5 months

I fear there is an evil living somewhere in our home and until we can open some windows and release its devilish hold on our immune systems, we are held hostage to its reign. So when a dear friend emailed about her essential oils party, I didn’t need much convincing. I was at a point where I was willing to try anything.

I believe this is the part where, in an effort to maintain some of your respect, I whole-heartedly admit that I have fallen down the rabbit hole. Way down. The smells, and the blends and the promises of lifted spirits and calm, sleepy children. It’s just too much. It’s also extremely overwhelming (and expensive).

I like to dabble, so I went with the DoTerra Family Physician’s Kit to start, which includes: Lavender, Lemon, Peppermint, Melaleuca, Oregano, Frankincense, Deep Blue®, Breathe, DigestZen®, On Guard® and Slim & Sassy. 

Here is an honest report of what I’ve tried to this point and some early feedback.

Diffusing – I have put Wild Orange, Lemon, On Guard and Lavender into our atmosphere. They all smell amazing, but I think the trick here is going to be finding the right diffuser-space combination. I ordered a cute one and quickly realized it was more for a whisper next to my bedside than taking down flupocalypse ’15 in my open kitchen area. This is another facet of the hobby that can get pretty pricey; diffusers. I don’t need it to change colors or look like a tulip. I need it to be quiet and push that goodness into as much air as possible.

Tootsies – I have been rubbing Lavender on the older girls’ feet before bed. JoJo loves it and has said, at least once, it helped her sleep better. And she did stay in bed, which is a huge victory. The verdict is still out with Spikey.

Cheers – I’ve been putting a few drops of Lemon or Slim & Sassy in my water. The Lemon is supposed to help with stress and immunity, and the Slim & Sassy … I’m not really sure, but the name implies good things. They taste wonderful (it only takes a few drops) and it makes me drink more water (a Superwoman goal for sure). Also, when the flu bug set up shop in our cramping stomachs, I, who volunteered as oil tribute, seemed to have it the shortest amount of time.

Face ­– Just last night I put a few drops of Frankincense around my eyes before applying my moisturizer. My consultant does it and her skin glows like a lily on a dewy spring morning. I’m buyin what she’s sellin. I do think you need to dilute it in some lotion or oil though. It’s intense.

I hear myself becoming that girl. While still a bit of a skeptic, I suggested peppermint oil for a coworker suffering from vertigo and I was wishing for a Happy Blend at a particularly low point in the day.

Here are a few things I want to try next:

Back Pain – Hank has a terrible back. The dude is crooked, no joke. So, when he stops thinking I’m crazy, I want to try Deep Blue to see if it offers any relief. Then I’m going to make him return the favor (wink, wink).

Cold Combatting – I picked up some Eucalyptus to try, and I also have the Breathe Blend, for the next time a sinus infection comes calling. I’m so eager to see if it works, I keep touching handles in public spaces but so far, nothing's got me. 

Flu Bomb or Bombs of any kind – I am all about this right here. Adults can take it like a shot, and kids can have it cut with oil and rubbed on their feet. Would have really loved this like 10 days ago, but all eyes forward. 

Sleepy time – I ordered Vetiver for my nightstand diffuser and I think my dreams are going to be of me and Cheryl Strayed chatting as we stroll the PCT.

Follow my That’s the Rub board on Pinterest to see what you can mix up.

(Disclaimer: I’ve been learning about oils for like a week now, and my friend, Nurse Jackie, insists that there is much to educate yourself about here. So play with caution.)

Falling hard for Amy Poehler

First, a Superwoman hack. I have a longer-than-I’d-like commute to work. In the beginning, I would drag myself out of the house, often before the sun hit the horizon. As my tires carried me down the highway they know so well, I’d have my daily internal dialogue about focusing, as my mind grazed on the mental chewing gum that is morning Dj banter and the lackluster loop of Top 40 hits. Something had to change.

I began checking audiobooks out of the library. Not only am I finally getting to my long-neglected reading wish list, I’m also making use of 50 minutes of my day that I used to dread. I believe I could even be so bold as to move this hour into the “me time” column. I always felt like, as a writer, I should be reading. But, like all good intentions, it became a daunting to-do. Listening is a treat ... a luxury even. On top of that, it's free and keeps me more alert. I banged my hands on the steering wheel at the end of Gone Girl and sat up straight in anticipation as I concluded Born to Run. I’ve lived these amazing stories, all from my car, traveling the same 20 miles.

But I digress. I was on the waiting list for Amy Poehler’s Yes, Please! for some time. I’d read similar memoirs from my comedic crushes, Mindy Kaling’s Is Everyone Hanging Out Without Me? (And Other Concerns) likely being my favorite, but you never know if the humor you adore on screen will translate to the page. This is where I think the audiobook bridges a gap. Had I read Amy’s book, as opposed to having her read it to me, I might not have fallen so hard.

You guys, I am so in love with this book. I couldn't believe how thoughtful it was, and as many times as I laughed – in particular at this story she tells about Ashton Kutcher's SNL afterparty – I also gave a thoughtful smile and thought, "Oh my gosh, yes." She talked about finding and owning your currency, which is essentially self-acceptance and empowerment. She had beautifully moving passages about her boys. Don’t get me wrong, there was some funny ass shit in there, but there were also some wise little nuggets that caught me off guard and shook me up a little. I picked them up and put them in my pocket.

Some of my favorite quotes …

[On getting caught up in what doesn’t matter.]

[on putting it out there.]

[on having kids.]

 
Now go get this (audio)book!

Sloppy Joan, 9 months

My heart – and my sink – runneth over.

The real (good) reasons I can't quit the Bachelor

There are very few “mommy shows” I can’t put off until my weekend Hulu session. I spend my Saturdays during naptime folding laundry with Olivia Pope and Mindy Lahiri. Of course Rayna James will stop by. But, the Bachelor is different. I must know, in real time, who’s crying, who’s sucking face and who has a red, red rose in their hot little hands.

I used to feel embarrassed or apologetic about my Monday-night obsession. No more. I think it was after the 54^th time I saw Jake save his ship Bucky in Neverland that I decided to check my guilt at my bedroom door as I shut it, put on my sweatpants and settled in with a bunch of sassy, sinful singles and their weekly shenanigans.

There’s such pageantry and ceremonial rhythm to the show. The trotting out of the fillies on the first night, where you pick your favorites and tally annoying traits. The roses. The two-on-ones. The roses. The hometowns, with the obligatory jump-up-and-wrap-your-legs-around-him reception. The roses. The Women Tell All (a cocktail that’s one part confrontation and equal parts awkward silence). And then, the final rose. We see them drink coffee in their room, stare out the window, stroke their dress, put on earrings and then ride in the limo (sometimes helicopter). It's all tedious, torturous foreplay, really. Then the door opens and producers reveal just the bottom of their gown. But what does it mean that she arrived first? They’ve done it before; where he proposed to the first one, you tell yourself.

Whether I pick the right pony or not, one of my favorite things is After the Final Rose. I love watching these people who just went through a terribly abnormal thing try to act completely normal – No, I didn’t mind that he bumped uglies with her two weeks before proposing to me. All this leads up to the announcement of the next bachelor or bachelorette and the onset of the ceremony starting all over. (Sidenote: I will not spend 12 weeks with Britt’s winged eyeliner. Kaitlyn forever!)

Like any relationship, we’ve had highs and lows. There were seasons we just didn’t click. Juan Puablo’s comes to mind, although it did give us Clare, which led to her being on Bachelor in Paradise, which led to my all time favorite moment from the franchise.

But generally speaking, it is my soap opera drug of choice. It's my dirty little not-so secret. The thing I watch between TED talks. I take a shot in my mind every time someone says, “connection” and I think about, at least once per episode, how Chris Harrison has, hands down, the sweetest job of anyone, ever. I have a soft spot in my heart for the drunk girls who, let’s face it, remind us of that one time, at that one party when we drank jungle juice …

At the heart of the Bachelor is the idea that the heart wants what it wants, particularly when condensed into 6 secluded weeks of heart-stopping backdrops and princess dates.

My Top 10 Bachelor(ette) Moments*

1. After Andi picked Josh, a heartbroken Nick told all of America how she hit it and quit it. And a universal jaw drop was heard.
2. When Ed couldn’t “perform” in the fantasy suite with Jillian.
3. Crazy Ashley and the zombie hunt. Much love, Mesa Verde!

4. When Emily Maynard said, “I want to go West Virginia hood rat backwoods on his ass.”

5. Three words to live in Bachelor infamy: Ashley. Kelsey. Badlands.

6. Clare and Juan Pablo feeling the motion of the ocean and then the shaming that followed. Reason No. 2,092 that dude was a douche bag. (Also when she lost her shit on him at the final rose ceremony. Clare is just a gem overall.)

7. Emily and Brad’s After the Final Rose where she basically told America he was a dick.

8. Remember when Melissa jumped, in her gown, into a pool with Jason and his son, and then like 5 minutes later he told his future baby mama he wanted her instead? Good times.  

9. When Brooks left Des in some sort of paradise place. She did not see that coming.

10. The Carly and Chris sex guru date. Parts of my body I didn’t know I had were cringing.

Honorable mention: Every time a black bar was used to censor something or someone fell down.

*This list excludes Clare Bear and the coon because I already mentioned it above. Easily smashes the top five though. 

Spike vs. Miley Cyrus

Speaking of just being Miley, who rules the wrecking ball?

Spike* ...

[*Insert "wrecking ball" every time you hear "egger ba".] 

Miley ...

"I came in like a ..."

Have you played Ellen Degeneres' game, Heads Up? I'm telling ya, gather a handful of moms, a few bottles of wine and a basement for the older kids and it's comparable to a trip to Vegas.

Some players are certainly sharper than others and, maybe it was the wine or the fact that ... I don't know ... something else, but honestly, if I hadn't been there to witness this* I wouldn't believe it to be true. (You can stop watching at :31 unless you want to watch me shovel even more nuts into my mouth.):

*No babies were hurt in the making of this video. 

30 after Whole30

So, today marks 30 days since I completed my second Whole30, and in the spirit of my honest pursuit of improved humanhood, it seemed appropriate to touch base here. It’s a day of reflection, realization and, OK, a tablespoon of shame. It goes fast; both the time and the downward diet spiral.

Last month I listened to Sarah Silverman’s audiobook The Bedwetter: Stories of Courage, Redemption and Pee. In it, she said:

“Look, there’s not much useful to take away from this book – it’s largely stories of a woman who has spent her life peeing on herself. But there is one way I really believe I can help the world, and that is to encourage everyone, in all things, to ‘Make It a Treat’.

‘Make It a Treat’ is similar in spirit to ‘everything in moderation,’ but still very distinct. ‘Moderation’ suggests a regular, low-level intake of something. MIAT asks for more austerity; it encourages you to keep the special things in life special.”

With the simple substitution of my “Thin Mints” or “Butterburgers” in place of Sarah’s “weed” (which she goes on to point out is among her favorite treats), it’s completely applicable advice. I am realizing that I am a woman incapable of making things a treat.

Prompted by a whiff of fryer oil or hint of chocolate glaze, I can generate a list on the spot of reasons I deserve it. It’s Monday, and Mondays suck. It’s Friday and Fridays are for fatty foods and cocktails. It’s 10:30 and I was born at 10:30. See?

Needless to say – reigning this conversation back to its Whole30 roots ­–­ I fell right off the wagon and got run over by all the tires, including the spare. It’s not a total loss. I am aware of what I need to eat to feel lighter and more energetic, and isn’t that half the battle? I once worked out a deal with a coworker where he promised to live at my house and slap food out of my hand in exchange for him getting to eat said food. (It’s not the worst idea I’ve ever had.)

But fly or fail, the great thing about the Whole30 community, particularly their killer Instagram feed, is you always have a voice deep down whispering, “There are too many ingredients in that.” “Sugar sucks the life out of you.” and, “Keep it simple, stupid.” And for that, I’m forever grateful.

On a weekday, I can hang in. Typically a version of this Tuna Salad for lunch, partnered with an apple and almond butter (Costco has sustainable tuna and a no-sugar almond butter option). But after a semi-sensible dinner, I go sniffing out chocolate like a shark tracking blood in the water. I once ate a chocolate Santa in April out of desperation. What … the …

It also seems like regularly working out makes me a garbage disposal. But boredom does the same thing, so that theory’s kind of shot to shit right out of the gate.

So, what can you do? Monday is 32 days past and as good a day as any to hit reset. The flu is finally being exorcised out of this house (I’ve been diffusing lemon oil like mad) and spring is like 13 days away so I should probably think about what people are going to see when these layers come off. Monday it is!

Confessions of a new gym goer

My stream of thought from entering the workout area to depositing my “soiled towel” on the way out.

7:25 pm

OK … do I want to run? No, definitely not next to Usain Bolt over there. Elliptical? Ahhhhh … That girl’s rowing and she has a killer body. I’ll row. Yes, rowing sounds good. They always do it on The Biggest Loser.

Where are the towels? Last time the towels were over here and now there aren’t any towels!

“Excuse me, where are the towels?”
“That big stack on the other side of the desk, ma’am.”

“Oh, duh. Thanks.”

OK, no one else saw you ask, or say, ‘duh’. It’s cool, just grab one and put out the vibe that you planned on coming in and killing a sweet rowing sesh.

Feet in, adjust straps. Um, where do I put my phone so I have some jams? There is seriously no logical place on this damn machine to set my phone and not have it go flying when I pull back. I’m blowing my cover, looking super amateur. Don’t panic, woman! Think, think … sports bra, boom! Just tuck this in there, put my headphones in like so and start rowing this mug like a boss. Is she wearing special shoes? Are there special rowing shoes?

7:36 pm

Can she hear that I’m listening to Miley Cyrus? This is like the only Miley song I like, and I don't even know why. It doesn't speak to my character. She is absolutely tearin’ it up. Are we rowing at the same pace? Is she racing me? Should I be racing her? No, just row casually so she doesn’t think you’re cocky. Her outfit is legit.

That guy on the fancy high-stepping elliptical is Sir Sweats-a-Lot. Sheesh!

7:42 pm

OK, I am Sir Sweats-a-Lot. Like a sick, makeup-dripping hoss. I have to stop rowing to get the towel. Ew, I set the towel on the floor. I think that might be really gross.

Why do headphones not stay in my ears? Maybe I have a weird ear shape. How long is this girl going to row?

7:45 pm

15 more minutes till Child Care closes … dang. I’ll have to stop my workout. Oh, who am I kidding? My hammies are crampin and my toes are numb. I wonder if this chick has kids? Probably, and she has the best arms. She has yoga arms. Damn her and her defined yoga arms. I want to be her friend so we can talk about how she got her yoga arms and joined the secret society of moms who wear rowing shoes.  

7:50 pm

Quit now or go 5 more minutes? She quit, so you could quit. But she was already on when you got here. Don’t quit … go 5 more minutes. You’re already so sweaty the handle is like a fish fresh out of the pond in your hands. What if it just goes flying out of my grip? Who is watching?

7:55 pm

Power down, sister. Nice work. I burned … 390 calories?! What? That’s only like 2 chocolate chip cookies. Whoa … remember to disinfect your cell phone. Sick. Maybe the sports bra wasn’t the classiest, or most sanitary, choice. Be slow to stand up.

Why is that dude just sitting on that weight machine watching everyone? Move, son!

My water gulp is so loud. Am I putting my sweatshirt back on? I’m so hot. When did it stop being cool to wear sweatshirts to the gym anyway?  Are those pants or tights she’s wearing? Where is her underwear line?

OK, run to get the girls.

Spike vs. a young Elton John

Who rocks the rose-colored glasses like a boss?

Spike ...

Sir Elton ...

13 baby things I’m oddly obsessed with

I’m not afraid to own it. I’ll come clean right here, right now that every drop of estrogen inside me dances and delights at the mere thought of any of the both weird and wonderful things in this baker’s dozen of babyisms. I’m not sure what that says about me, but I’m guessing it indicates that I am totally obsessed with babies and all the magic they contain in their ten tiny fingers and ten tiny toes. (Awww, especially when they wrap them around your finger as they’re falling asleep … the best.)  

13 Reasons Babies are Awesome

1. their breath. This one I seriously can't figure out. It’s a perfume custom-designed with postpartum hormones; an olfactory dog whistle for new mothers. Their mouths release a mix of warm formula and slobber, and yet, it’s also the name of a flower. I’m thinking there’s a connection there.

2. the cute crunch and crinkle of a diaper. - There’s a particular sound that a diaper makes when a baby, sans pants, rolls or scoots or startles, and I find it joyful. 

3. the way they startle. – It has never been beneath me to scrunch a chip bag or prompt the dog to bark to see those endearing wide-eye jolts.

4. they bite your nose. - They just have no social decency at all, those babies. 

5. laugh spurts. - Only a baby can lose their shit for 3 seconds and then go stone-faced, only to repeat the process when prompted by the exact same stimulus seconds later.

6. that moment they recognize you. It’s always on a delay, but once they zero in and realize it’s someone they love, and they get the biggest smile and bounce and hit. That is gold.

7. crib babble. – There’s this magical 10 minutes between when they first wake up and when they believe an unacceptable amount of time has passed, when they just coo and laugh at their fingernails and such. 

8. their tongues. – They’re out all. the. time.

9. playing big kid. - Sometimes you snap a picture of them making an adult gesture purely by accident and it's funny ... and cute. Cute and funny.

10. bubbly. – Babies in bathtubs are a favorite because they’re nakey, which is so cute, but also, they splash and then startle themselves on the regular. The startle leads to another splash and the fun just goes round and round.

11. sleep smiles. - What do babies dream of, when they take a little baby snooze?

12. a short list of body parts, in no particular order: cheeks, slope of their nose, butt (specifically fanny crinkles), thighs, belly, feet and neck (trapped rancid milk and all).

13. the smell. - If the population is ever dwindling, they can distribute the bottles of baby smell they have locked in an underground bunker somewhere and boom! We’ll be back to crowded Playdomes faster than you can say “ovary ache”.