This has been an interesting weekend. Erin and I have possibly run out of things to talk about as we each snuggled into our respective beds this afternoon and passed out for a good, old-fashioned midday nap. She's still snoozing away as I am typing because I have realized that I have neither blogged nor written a thing this weekend, unless you count the numerous text messages to Pete as writing. I don't. It's not surprising that we're quiet and pooped, though. We walked seven miles along South Beach and back again yesterday morning and this morning. We've started our days at 5:30 am both days, to watch the sunrise and drink coffee and read our books outside...and have subsequently been in bed by nine both nights. And tonight, I am sure, will be no different.

My flight tomorrow is scheduled for 2:35 in the afternoon, but I am so painfully homesick at this point, and in dread of being snowed out of Philly due to the threat of an impending blizzard, that I am waking up at 5 am to try to fly standby on a 7:05 am flight. Most people would say this is sick. I say, that's just me. An early riser who is ready to go home.

This weekend has been very good for me. I don't know how good it's been for Pete, as I think he's stressed and "done" as his Facebook status reveals...but I have taken time to rest, relax, revel in the weather (my favorite kind) and soul search a bit. I finished my book group book (so incredibly highly recommended, Plain Truth by Jodi Picoult) and thought about where my life has been and where it is going. We've talked and laughed and caught up on our separate lives, which has made me feel so reconnected to my dear friend. And I have oohed and ahed with the awestruck vibrato of someone who sounds like she hasn't left the house since 1987 as I have absorbed through my clearly sheltered pores a lot of beautiful sunshine, amazing architecture, the front of Versace's home and more silicone than should be legal in one beach community. Dear lord, the collagen alone. This morning we walked by two photo shoots being done with real models, and you can be sure I'll be watching for that waify crazy-haired blond and her dreadlocked counterpart to be gracing magazine ads in the summer. It has been wild. Although not so wild...

As Erin has seen, and noted, I don't get out much anymore. And the little things are not lost on me. In fact, I'm rather impressed by them. We went to a swanky, tres chic hotel last night called the Shore Club, home of the world famous Nobu. We sat at the bar and had the most delicious cocktails, and then enjoyed an unconventional but very special dinner. The best edamame I've ever tasted, yellowtail sashimi sliced paper-thin with jalapeno peppers and cilantro, and a shrimp tempura with a spicy sauce. Pure heaven. As we wrapped up dinner at 8:00 pm (so late for me, so early for Miami), we considered hanging out but had no real desire to do so. So we made our way to the front of the hotel, set to cab it back to our hotel, when Erin pulled me into a boutique called Scoop.

I have never been in a boutique called Scoop. Boutiques called Scoop carry items of clothing, like ripped up jeans that are $295. And $600 Jimmy Choo shoes and $1000+ Marc Jacobs bags. And if you are a person who shops in a boutique called Scoop and buys said items at said prices, nothing that you buy this year will be wearable next year. Because it will be last year's Jimmy Choo's and Marc Jacob's from a boutique called Scoop.

I whispered to Erin, "I buy my clothes at Target."

The sweatpants were $135, for Christ's sake!!

We left. I took a breath. And wondered if the women that were in there shopping and buying were for real, and if they actually had sold their first-born to earn the right to be shopping and buying at a boutique called Scoop. Because I cannot imagine any other way that one might have the cash flow to be doing what they were doing.

So I don't get out much anymore. And I like it that way. I felt out of place, and like the proverbial tourist, missing only a neck strap for my camera and a yellow visor. But this is the way that many people my age, and younger, are living. Partying in Miami and buying Jimmy Choos. Seeing as I am here and happily doing neither of these activities, it's fairly obvious that my home is right where it should be and my life is exactly what I want it to be.

I have loved Miami. But I can't wait to get home tomorrow. I miss my kids so much, I have an ache inside of me. And being here without my wonderful, stressed out husband, who just revealed through text message #1534452645 that he has changed more poo than taken breaths since I've been gone, is just not the same. I miss him. A lot.

So I'll be at the Miami International Airport at 5:3o tomorrow morning, flying standby if I have to, to get home a few hours earlier than was intended, because while Miami is fantastic, my family blows it away. And I am recharged and ready to get back to what I was meant to do...be a wife and a mommy.

Tomorrow I leave for my getaway to Miami and I have managed to get myself to a place of equal parts excitement and worry, which, all things considered, ain't half bad. I cannot wait to soak up the warm weather and rest, read and relax...and maybe do a little writing as well. But the thought, the reality of being away from my family for three days is just plain sad. I know I am going to miss them terribly, but will be back in my role here as quickly as I left, and will regret it, terribly, if I don't make the most of every second I have away to catch my breath and recharge my Mommy-battery. I have never done this before and who knows when it will happen again. The chance, clearly, doesn't come around that often.

So today I make the phone list and the schedule, and get the suitcase packed. Tomorrow I will kiss my babies and hubby, and say farewell. The writing of those words, and the mental imagery they bring, gave me such a pit in my stomach. This is a fundamental difference between men and women. If it were Pete who was going, he'd go and probably wouldn't think about us for the entire time he was gone. Not because he's mean or doesn't love us...just because he knows that when you get time, you take it and run with it. Not me...I'm already thinking about when I'll call, having my cell phone charged so we can text freely throughout the day and finding him online on Facebook at night so we can chat. Who thinks this way? Someone filled with guilt for leaving? Someone afraid of being replaced by others who can clearly step in and do my job as well as, if not better than, me, and casting me in a light of being dispensable? These are the things I think of when I picture myself being away from here.

But, as Pete would say, I have been in the trenches for six and a half years. Not much in terms of breaks or time away. And let's face it...there's a reason that most employers build vacation time into your deal. Because all work and no play makes people go nuts. I have been close to losing my mind on several occasions during the last six years (only a fraction of which have been blogged about since I haven't been doing this for that long), and although I've had vacations with my whole family and have even taken my honeymoon (four years after the wedding) to St. Lucia, there's something different, and just as important, about taking time for yourself, with a friend or all alone.

I think what I feel the worst about is the fact that Pete needs a weekend like this as much, if not more, than I do. And I feel like a spoiled brat taking off when he doesn't know if/when he'll get the same time. Now, that's not to say that he won't have something planned and his bags packed by the time I get back. And honestly, I hope he does. We've been so entrenched in this family unit that we've each completely lost the identities of the two people who came into this thing whole. Naturally, we all lose pieces of ourselves when we marry and have children. That's what happens when you give your life to another (and others after that.) But there have literally been times when I know each of us has looked in the mirror and found an image staring back that is damn-near unrecognizable. Not that a weekend in Miami will restore a seventeen-year-old face and body, but maybe a little bit of that spirit. The person who really took life less seriously and enjoyed it a hell of a lot. The girl who took a bite out of life and saw each new day as a gift and knew that that's why it was called "the present." ;-)

So as I finish this post, writing about my stress has done what it always does...gotten me back to center. I do have high hopes for this weekend and my reservations are slipping away as I relax into the idea of relaxing...having no meals to cook, no beds to make, and no diapers to change. Of being able to wake up early, lace up my running shoes and jog along the beach in seventy degree temperatures as the sun rises over the Atlantic three days in a row. Of having time to talk and laugh with my best friend of nearly twenty years. Of sleeping uninterrupted sleep and eating uninterrupted meals. Of reading one or two of the many books I've had on my shelf for years that have gone half-read or entirely unopened. Of going to the bathroom and feeling fairly confident that my BFF will not walk in on me and want me to zip up her princess dress-up costume.

Although, I haven't really consulted with her about what she's packing...

I did something tonight that I have never done before...and I am incredibly proud of what I've done. I threw the schedule and the strict routine and constant adherence to "the way it's done around here" right out the window. I put the baby to bed and snuggled on the couch for a Girl's Night with Erin and Meghan. Popcorn for them, a glass of wine for me, lights turned off and we watched Ratatouille from start to finish. I put them to bed at about 9:00 instead of 7:30. I carried them each individually up to the bathroom, and tucked them each into their bed where they each placed their heads on their pillows, said goodnight, and rolled over.

It was the nearest thing to heaven...I say, fully acknowledging that I am ripping off one of the greatest lines from one of the greatest love stories ever told. (An Affair to Remember.)

I enjoyed the bejeezus out of my big girls tonight. Pete had to work late tonight, something that (thankfully) never happens on a Friday night. So I took the opportunity to make it a special night for the three of us. I've been sitting back watching the threads unravel between me and my older daughters for the past couple of weeks, and they constantly tell me "It's because Elizabeth gets all the attention!" I hear this, get my back up and usually get quietly pissed off...because what the hell am I supposed to do? Liz is in that crazy third child toddler stage right now, where you cannot take eyes off of her. She's a beast. She climbs, she crashes, she is constantly within an inch of her life. So I have been blowing off Erin and Meghan's complaints about #3 because I've thought of it as much more of a trump card than a genuine expression of emotions.

But it's really how they feel. They feel lonely, left out. They feel as if I don't think they are as important to me as they used to be. And in those places in their little, brilliant minds, they might begin to doubt my love for them. My heart breaks when I think of how real their pain and suffering has been about this. Especially given the very public mommy-burnout from which I've been suffering and how completely screwed up everything had been around here. So little positivity. So little patience. So much yelling and fighting and general distress.

We can't go on like this. We're too good as a family to go through all of this. And they are so wonderful, these little girls. I realized as I thought about all of this that I have been missing my time with them as much as they have been missing me. I love Lizzy, obviously, but having two that are a bit more self-sufficient and then this one who is a loon is quite a juggling act. So I thought to myself, what if I make it appear that I'm getting the baby "out of the way," so to speak, so that the three of us can do something special? Perhaps this is manipulative, but you gotta do what you gotta do. Last night at bedtime (a time of day which historically sucks, in a biblical sense, due to them being defiant and me wanting everyone to be comatose) I told them that if we could have a pleasant night last night and morning this morning, we could do a Girl's Night while Daddy was working late. They were tickled! And for the most part, bedtime was a breeze last night. I then decided that a key to success the next morning would be a conscious choice to lower my expectations about how the morning should progress. Getting out the door to take Erin to school is another time of day which has been sucky...like since September. So if the beginnings and the ends of every weekday suck, and two out of three are in school for much of the in-between times, that doesn't say much for our group dynamic, does it? Maybe because they feel that our group has not only been splintered, but it's had another member inserted into it (in their appropriately egocentric minds) and they feel less important.

So I took the bull by the horns and began to chill the hell out this morning, and reminded them that I was really hoping we could earn our Girl's Night, all together, by having a great day. And we did it! We were out the door ten minutes earlier than usual...and all I had to do was not expect everything and everyone to be ready and perfect in my eyes. I also did not yell. So what if Meghan got in the car still in her PJ's? She didn't have to go to school until lunchtime. She had shoes and a coat on, for heaven's sake...and a smile on her face! Unprecedented for 8:30 am! And so what if Erin wore an outfit other than what she'd set out the night before? She was comfy and ready to take on the day in her pink sweat pants and sweat shirt! Her teeth were brushed, as was her hair, she ate a good breakfast and had her backpack packed up and ready to go! Girl's Night was a go.

We purchased (financed, I should say) furniture for our family room right around Labor Day. And we did so because we said we really wanted to have a room with furniture that we could all cuddle up on to have a family movie night. That was the main purpose. Well that was back in September...and tonight was the first time I actually turned off everything else, put my feet up and snuggled with my babies since we bought that furniture almost six months ago. It is in these moments, so full of realization and opportunity for improvement, that I am grateful for forgiving kids and the power of introspection. They felt so loved to have their mommy to themselves...and frankly, I felt all the wonderful feelings of motherhood in those two hours, feelings that had been escaping me lately. It was just the three of us for a long time before Lizzy came along...and I didn't realize how much I have missed that group dynamic. Not to say that I want to leave Liz out, or continue the splintering that will inevitably take place with three daughters. I just loved having the time to spend with them. And loved the thought of the years of Girl's Nights to come, in this lifetime, just me and my daughters.

Ugh, Talk About Mama Drama

I had an anxiety attack yesterday afternoon. It came out of nowhere and suffocated me. I was making bead necklaces with my kids and I was hating every second of it. The knots wouldn't tie right. The beads kept rolling off the table, falling to the floor so Liz would get down off of my lap and try to eat them. Erin didn't want Meghan to use certain letters, even though we all know she can only spell "Meghan" one way. And Erin had scammed me into believing that she was sick again yesterday so I had let her stay home. This came on the heels of four days of Erin being home and acting like an absolute animal. I just wanted her back in school, but her throat was bright red and I swear I saw raised things back there. I can't send her to school with her possibly having strep! After a trip to the pediatrician (again!) revealed that she did not have strep, she was bouncing up and down in one place as if an invisible pogo stick had been rammed up her backside. She was a maniac. I was done. I had had it. And I wanted to be anywhere but here.

And I started to freak. I started sweating and feeling shaky and my heart was racing and I could not think of one thing or one place in the whole world that could get me to snap out of it. It was awful. I took a deep breath, got a glass of water and walked away from the beads. It began to slow, as did my heart. It went away. And I hope it never happens again. For those few seconds, although nothing terrible happened, I had no control over anything. I was being sucked away or being drowned. It wasn't my life. I was like a comet hurling through space and I had no idea where I would land. The only thing I was aware of was wanting to make sure that when I landed, it wasn't on one of my kids.

I didn't land on them. I landed on Instant Messenger. I reached out to Jaclyn, even though I knew she was "away" and told her what happened. And then I went back to my life.

So why the hell, after all this time, all these years of feeling a bit better mentally than I was in the days of old, did this happen?

I guess it's because I've been having a pretty rough couple of days. Not happy. Dissatisfied. No exercise. No time alone. Every single second, someone is yelling, screaming, crying and demanding something from me...whether it's food, drink, hugs, refereeing, kisses, sympathy, or other countless, nameless things...it's always, always something. And they've been sick, or playing sick, and not sleeping, which means I'm not sleeping, and we all know how well I cope when I'm sleep deprived, which I always am. And Pete, whether it's just for now or forever, is working all day and into the night. A longer work day for him obviously means a longer one for me, too. And I am wondering when we'll know for sure if my brother is one of the Marines from Camp Lejeune who will go to Afghanistan. It happens to be a stressful time right now...and my coping skills are in the toilet. It's like I'm having a giant-mommy-sized-internal-monologue temper tantrum and I just want everything to be different than it is at this very moment. WAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!

I left last night after dinner to do a Tastefully Simple party and gave myself some time to think about all of this stuff. Because, frankly, I was on my nerves. Thank God I did...because that little bit of introspection (and telling myself to knock off the bullshit) led me to a crossroads. One where I could choose the path of resistance and self-pity (one that, if chosen, would require me to have more panic attacks and temper tantrums and would continue to make me want to sell my kids), or the other path that would lead me to dig deeper, step it up and realize that this is a point in our lives where we must BOTH work harder for our family and I must cope better with the stress that life brings on a daily basis. Despite my lack of a paycheck, I just have to work those extra hours to hold us together and maintain peace and order within the confines of this home. And I really think the kids are revolting against me lately because I haven't been stepping it up. They see it. I haven't. Maybe I've wanted to resist adjusting to this new way of life...where he is working his face off, and not here, and consequently belonging to someone and something else besides me. Maybe I want things to be the way they used to be. But they're not. We are here, he has a different job with so much more responsibility and many more pressures. He needs me bitching because I didn't get to go to the gym and the kids won't play nice? Please!

So obviously I am choosing the path where I stop being a bitch and the internal whining switch gets shut down. If I won't tolerate whining from my kids, why should the same behavior be acceptable from me? It isn't. To place such high standards of behavior on them without imposing the same expectations on myself is ludicrous. And unjust. And maybe that's what all this acting out has been about...maybe they're trying to tell me that I need to set the example for them to follow. If I don't want them acting out, maybe I should stop leading them in that direction.

So panic attacks are banished. And feeling sorry for myself is done. I've got the world by the ass. And I've wasted the past few days, days I will never get back. I've squandered precious moments with them, and been so much more concerned with the way things aren't that I haven't been able to see just how good they are.

And really...they are.

Here's the comedy in my house today...

My Meghan, who will be five in April, has a difficult time saying certain sounds. Her accent, because of this, is a cross between a kid from Brooklyn and one from South Boston, and I, personally, hope she talks this way forever. It is so stinkin' cute and so Meghan, that when it finally repairs itself I will undoubtedly go into mourning.

And of course, Erin, who takes delight in the shortcomings of others (especially when those others are her sisters), loves to emphasize as often as possible that she thinks she is verbally superior to her sister. Out of nowhere today, she pipes up and says, "Why can't Meghan say her "R's"? I could say MY R's when I was four."

Mommy: (trying not to get mad and belt her for being so rude) "Everyone is different and each person does things in their own..."

Meghan: (Piping up and quickly interrupting me): "God just made me like I was French!"

And so it was with that statement that I realized that my identity crisis about whether or not I should get a job or stay put was quickly put to rest. Because if for no other reason than the commentary and comedic relief that I get from these little buggers every day, I should be here. Imagine how pissed I'd be if I had missed that exchange today.

So so funny. Where the hell did she get that she sounds French?? I'll take that smile to bed with me tonight.

It was a crazy week here, and my selfish act of going to the gym a whole bunch and pawning my kids off on the babysitting room was punished by having Lizzy come down with an ear infection so bad she has puss in her ear, as well as goopy eyes and a mean case of separation anxiety. They all showed up together this week to let me know that me working out is requiring my kids to pay quite a price. Which is typical of my life, and the life of most moms...when you make a choice to do something for yourself, you are not choosing the others who depend upon you so greatly. And in walks guilt.

I feel terrible for Lizzy...and frustrated. I knew something was off with her ears on Tuesday when she was standing on the concrete walkway at Erin's school waiting for dismissal and she hinged forward at the hips and never put her hands down to brace her fall. She busted up her face but good...and let me know that her equilibrium was not what it should be. Then she fell at home a few times. So off to the ENT we went because a specialist would surely treat things right, especially considering he was about to put tubes in her ears in December and has performed three surgeries on my other two kids in the past. Wrong again. "Her left ear is filled with fluid, but not yet infected. She has a cold. The ear will drain."

No it won't! My kids ears don't drain! Give me the antibiotic! This will get worse!

I was told to squirt saline up her nose to keep the fluid flowing. Fast-forward to Saturday morning, where you find an Elizabeth with a nose running so furiously I can't keep tissues in hand quickly enough to tend to it, an ear so sore she's holding it and crying, an eye bright pink and goopy and a Mommy and Daddy who haven't slept in a week because she's been up again every night. I took her to the pediatrician. Her left ear is infected and has puss and she needs antibiotic eye drops because her cold has spread to her eye. Yippy skippy. Just in time for Valentine's Day dinner-guilt when I walk out the door...no, sneak out the door, because I am actually more desperate for time with my husband than time with my screaming kid. Even if she is sick. Because of me. Leaving her. In the dirty gym babysitting room. Because I want to lose weight.

And when you break it down like that...I. Am. An. Asshole.

Pete has been working like a dog lately, and I am really really really hoping that it's just a phase they're in right now. The problem I see is that the owner of the company, with whom Pete works closely, is a machine. He's up at 4 am and doesn't go stop working until 10 or 11 at night. And I know he'd like nothing more than for Pete to put the same "umph" into his job everyday. So my concern is, show him that those kinds of hours are possible now, and you set a precedent for what is to be expected always. And we miss him. Like, terribly. When Saturday night was upon us, and he'd made a reservation for our favorite NJ restaurant a month in advance, I decided not to cancel and to take our opportunity to be together and talk over staying home and having my sick baby wipe her snot all over me. I gave her, and her snot, and her separation anxiety, to my mom.

And when I break it down like that again...I. Am. Still. An. Asshole.

Selfish and mean. I chose "us" over her. And she survived, everyone did, as a matter of fact. And we had a really nice time at dinner. So I guess in the end it was all ok. But the guilt is hanging around my neck like a weight.

I am also hugely, enormously scared that my brother may be going to Afghanistan. He is a Marine, and I have spent the past year and a half since he enlisted deluding myself that he would not be deployed. And, alas, it seems that my trip down the river called "Denial" has been cut short, as there are rumors furiously circulating his regiment that they are the next chosen ones. I just don't want him to go. It's as simple as that. I cannot understand the magnitude of hate that has created Islamic extremists and the terrorists of this world. And I wish, every day and every night, that their synapses would start firing in a way that I consider to be correct so that our soldiers could come home and stop cleaning up everyone else's messes. I am a liberal. But I am a patriot. I have so much respect for the bravery of our troops...I've just never had the war hit quite this close to home. And I hate it. I guess that's where my extremist ties lie. In hating the fact that we are still "needed" there, that Bin Laden is still digging holes and hiding out like the coward that he is, and that my brother is waiting around--indefinitely--to find out whether he will stay or he will go. For 13 months. To Afghanistan.

I am finishing this blog on Monday morning, President's Day, while all children are still nestled safe in their beds and everyone in the house slept though the night. It feels like nothing short of a miracle when it happens, and while I'm fighting a cold of my own, I feel a bit more able to take on the challenge of our fourth day in the house together with a full night of uninterrupted sleep under my belt. We have a school project to make for Erin, so maybe a trip to the Dollar Store to get craft supplies is just what this crew needs to cheer us up. It usually does the trick. And I will be officially embarking on the mission of submitting some articles to some publications for them to let me know whether or not I should keep this writing thing up. We shall see.

Heaven forbid "All That Mama Drama" should start to get a reputation for being "overly deep." In an effort to combat such a travesty, I will share some hilarious stuff that my kids have said and done lately:

~Erin schooled us all the other night about the tooth fairy. "There is no 'tooth fairy,'" she says. "She's actually a Tooth Witch, and she rides into your room on a gigantic toothbrush broom and eats the teeth that come out of your mouth. And then she leaves you money." Meghan begins to protest, saying, "I don't want her to eat my teeth!!!"

~Lizzy has learned how to carry her dirty diapers to the trash can and plop them in. I am so proud. She has also learned how to pluck leaves off of my jade plant and eat them. Of this, I am not so proud. She also has a baby doll named "Baby" who she picks up, hugs and pats on the back...and to whom she even gives a pretend bottle. A nurturer at 13 months of age.

~Meghan had a bad dream the other night and needed some help and coaxing to get back to sleep. We do a lot of "think of your happy place" kinds of strategies with our kids when they are having trouble settling down. So I asked her to think of her most happy, special place when she closed her eyes. She said, "I am going to the moon, with Noni (her blanket) and Mickey Mouse. And when we get there we will eat spaghetti." And then she went back to sleep.

Meatloaf is in the oven and Pete's work day is nearly done. Let the games begin. Happy weekend to all.

My emotions are running wild this evening. This can be attributed to a combination of factors, such as having had a near-death experience on the highway this morning with two of my babies in the car with me, having wicked PMS, and having begun to reconnect, through the almighty Facebook, with friends from college with whom I have had no contact for twelve years. Say what you will about FB...I personally have found it to be a source of connection, comfort and, at times, closure and healing to old, open wounds.

I left the University of Maryland after two years, in typical "Old Kate" fashion, because I hit a rough patch of issues with which I didn't know how to deal. I was incredibly young, lacked any sort of fundamental emotional maturity, was hit with a lot of shit from my past and my present, things done unto others by me, things done unto me by others. So I ran away and transferred. I basically up and left and, in doing so, abandoned some of the best friends I would ever know. All these years, this act has haunted me, in the form of me missing them terribly, regretting treating them badly and knowing that there has been a void in my life where these women once stood. I always feared never talking to any of them again, and even as I saw their names on Facebook (as I did start to look for them in the past month), I would most likely not reach out, for fear that these twelve years that have passed would not be enough time to heal all these wounds. They wouldn't want to hear from me. And knowing that there was still anger and animosity would just bring that time and place all back again. I just couldn't bear it.

I was wrong. Again.

I reached out to one. And then to another. Things went well. And others have started to reach out to me...to let me know that they are there, that time has healed wounds, that we've all grown and that I have been missed just as I have missed all of them.

Next to marrying my Peter and becoming a mother to my daughters, this may be one of the greatest gifts I have been given as of late. I have often made clear my absolute reliance on and love for my "girlfriends." And to know that these women from a very formative, and at times difficult, period in my life could be coming back to me, so that we can continue to accompany each other on life's journeys and take part in what has yet to come is a pretty miraculous thing. I feel like I've been given a second chance...and that's a feeling that doesn't come along too often in this life. A chance to apologize and make amends. A chance to set things straight and have slates wiped clean. An chance to find you have friends, unconditionally, no matter what trivial shit came to pass when you were kids. Sometimes, none of it amounts to anything more than a bump and a long pause. And then you pick up where you left off.

I guess it's just one of those days where gratitude comes along and slaps you in the face, and all I can do is soak it up and then send it right back out into the world so someone else can catch it and feel its effects. This might seem like an aside, but it's all going to the same place. Forgive me for getting deep, but these are the things that have been on my mind: I've been finding lately that chronic negativity in people really pisses me off, as a rule of thumb. Don't get me wrong. If you've read my blog you know I have really pissy moments. Many, many really pissy moments. But I believe it's important to have them for the sheer honesty of them, and to let it out so that I purge (there's that word again) and move on to a better place emotionally. How else can we happily survive marriage and motherhood, if that is our goal? But there are a lot of people in this world who subscribe to negativity as a way of life, like a religion. And I can't work for that organization. Call it a Pollyanna Complex or a different perspective, I just can't deal with walking through life assusming and looking for the bad. So in an honest effort at combatting this chronic negativity that keeps trying to creep up and try to infiltrate my life like a disease, I go overboard in feeling these positive moments for what they are, sharing them and trying to make them last as long as possible. And finding new friendship, or rekindling old, precious ones, is proving itself to be one of the best ways to do just that. And again, it doesn't hurt that a car spun out on the highway in front of us and missed crashing into us by (and I am not exaggerating) about a foot. And my horomones are raging!

So thank you to my UMD posse for still being out there, as cool and real as ever, and for having your arms and hearts open to me. Shame on me for ever thinking that I would find anything less than just that, for that is who you are and have always been. All of you.

xoxo

I went to my "free" personal training session at the gym yesterday. Oh. My. God. Most people say that they are sore the day after a good workout. I certainly say it all the damn time. But I now know that there is a difference between a workout and an ex-army dude calling you "soldier" at 9:00 am on a Monday and hazing the crap out of you.

I seriously have no idea how my brother made it through boot camp for the Marines. God bless him.

This morning I am nearly crippled, and I wish I was independently wealthy so I could have that trainer on my staff full-time. I'd be whipped into shape in no time.

I thought that I would disown or sell my children yesterday, particularly Meghan who had such an attitude. Anything that I asked, she would do the opposite. All. Day. Long. And she'd do so with mean, nasty words while looking at me as if to say, "Watcha gonna do, old woman? Nothing! That's what I thought." She just sabotaged my day and made me puddle up with tears of defeat by the end, when she secretly filled a container with little, tiny, ripped up bits of paper...and then confettied them all over the carpet just as we had finished cleaning up the playroom.

God help her if she pulls that shit again today.

I even asked her if she behaved this badly at school yesterday, and do you know what she said???? She said, "No! I don't want to get in trouble at school!"

Oh. My. God.

These deliberate acts of rebellion and revolt against me are very worrisome to me. I cook, I clean, I kiss, hug and rock. I tuck in and make cookies. I pretty much do it all for these kids. Not perfectly. Far from perfectly. But I give it all I've got most days. And I know her teachers do, too, and she's with them only seven and a half hours a week. So it's more likely that I am going to get on her nerves, just like she's getting on mine. But she may have just as well been walking around giving me a high and hardy middle finger all day yesterday and the same message would have come through loud and clear:

"HEY MOM, YOU SUCK!"

The third born is awake and hollering, so I must start my day of mommy-hood. I'm grateful that I've started my day by venting and purging. I am supposed to go to a resist-a-ball class this morning. I am hurting. But I am going to try to go and stay on schedule and goal.

Miami...twenty-three days and counting.