So You Think You Can Dance?.......Not!

Call it bravery. Call it stupidity. Whatever you call it, take my word, call it quits!

Maybe it was the fact that I was turning 35 last week that got me into a free spirited kind of mood. Whatever it was, I had to face the facts, I wasn't 34 any longer. And despite what you may have heard, Yes Virginia, there is a difference!

It started with an invite to my son Potter's bedroom last week. Both him and Scooter had the music blasting. Just the previous night, they had sat in the living room watching an episode of "So You Think You Can Dance? Let's just say they were inspired.

What was Potter's bedroom just a short 15 minutes before, had been transformed into a combination of Studio 54, a gymnasium, and a stage show that any child would be jealous of.

And my dear friends, I had a golden ticket!

After my children showed off a few choice moves of their own, I was asked if I wanted to join in.

Me, I thought? Well of course I wanted to join in.

And this is where the horror begins. Because something so strange happens to a person when her sister decides to put "The Best of the Eighties" dance hits on a CD and give it as a present to her children. Her children in turn jack the volume up to deafening decibels only to create memories of neon, Miami Vice, and hairspray flash through their mommies brain.

I remember the words I spoke so clearly that night: "Want Mommy to teach you a dance move?"

It was at this point that I should have consulted with my inner Jiminy Cricket. But no, not me. I continued on with my foolishness. Right up until that point where a fiery pain shot across my stomach. I remember curling into a small ball all the while trying to convince my children that Act 1 had still not come to a close. I smiled until I couldn't smile any longer.

I think Potter finally caught on when I left out a small moan. I thought for sure internal bleeding was occurring.

"Are you OK Mommy?" He asked. "Because that was so cool!"

"Cool, I thought?" Did this child not understand the concept of 911? I was sure I heard something inside my body pop.

Although I tried to encourage other dance moves such as the Moonwalk, the Robot, and the Cabbage Patch. My children still thought Mommy's dance move was the best.

I'm officially a year older, a year slower and a year smarter (debatable). I have mastered gaining weight, and losing my mind. I have come, saw and kicked my own @#$! I have had my heart melt, and experienced melt downs all in the same 10 minutes. I am one year closer to hot flashes; yet my kids still think I'm the coolest person in the world.

Not too bad for 35. I'm enjoying it already.

Mommy Down!

Whether your child takes the bus, walks or is car-pooled, one thing is for sure: it can be chaos. Morning routines require precision, planning and a whole lot of energy. By 9am I'm generally looking up to the heavens and asking: "Are you seriously going to make me do this all over again tomorrow?"

When Potter began at a new school this year, it was all about learning a new routine. The morning wasn't so bad. There were some simple rules to follow: "1) Do not drop your child off before 8:30am (the doors are locked)." "2)Your child must be in school by 9am or they are considered late." "3)Use the side door for car riders." "4) The front doors are only for the buses, and of course for the parents who drop their child off after 9am and must sign them in late!"

I'm sure there are more rules, but those are the ones I can remember.

As for the afternoon pickup, well now, that's an entirely different monster all by itself. In the handbook it says the children will be dismissed at 3:15. The car line begins forming in the same place as the morning drop off. I thought leaving my home around 3:05 would give me plenty of time. Boy, was I wrong!

When I arrived at the school, there was no less than 25 cars in front of me. The line curled around the parking lot. Everyone seemed to know what they were doing except for me. By the time I picked my child up, it already felt like the next day. I now leave at 2:45 (yes, an entire half hour before my child is dismissed). Believe it or not, there are already parents there waiting in line. It's not like the school was handing out gold bars. We're just getting the same exact child back that we dropped off that morning. (Hopefully a bit brighter, but still, the same child).

To give you an idea of how exhausting this process has become to not only me, but to the many parents who sit that half hour bumper to bumper, I'd like to share a story.

So the wait was just about over. It was 3:15 last Friday afternoon. The children were beginning to be dismissed. I was about 6 cars back.

As the moderator began loading the children into the cars, the line began to move forward. I put my car in Drive and waited for the car in front of me to move....but, it never did. I was about to beep when I noticed the drivers seat was reclined. And that's when I got the uncontrollable giggles. Scooter was in the back seat wondering what the heck Mommy thought was so funny.

I could barely get out the words: "She fell asleep!" "Good Grief, I cried. Mommy Down!"

I quickly tried to compose myself as I waved down the moderator from my window. The swiftness at which this moderator glided across the parking lot to awaken Mommy Van Winkle showed me that this probably was not the first Mom to go down in a car line. She lightly tapped on the window. The look of shock on this woman's face said it all. She apparently hadn't taken a nap since she gave birth to her first child. She now squeezes in whatever shut-eye is possible during red lights, PTA Meetings and of course car lines.

Sometimes the greatest gifts life can give us will never be wrapped in a box. It will never come tied with a bow. It will simply be the offering of 10 minutes of complete silence. A cool breeze flowing through the window. The smell of evergreen air freshener lingering. And a reclined chair with a soft pillow to hold our head.

Sweet Dreams Mommies Everywhere!

"What Do You Want For Your Birthday, Hunny?"

The countdown is on. In just six more days, I will be 35 years old. I remember a day when that number sounded so old. Now it's just a number. A number which reminds me that the clock will continue to move forward, my boobs will continue downwards, my butt will continue outward, but my optimism will continue to rise upwards.

Some things you just can't fight. Like those lines that mysteriously appeared around my eyes the day after I gave birth to son #2. Although a bit premature, I think it was God's way of preparing me for the other surprises my body had in store.

When my feet swelled so large during pregnancy and forced me to replace running shoes with bunny slippers...I laughed. When after I gave birth I realized that not only were my feet not going to return to normal size; they were going to stay 2 different sizes...I cried. When my bathing suit began to act more like the rubber band around the Sunday paper: trying desperately at all cost to hold everything in...I cried harder.

Age is a gift that is frequently misunderstood. We all pray that we live long enough to see our children grow; their children grow and so on. And somehow during all those years we also feel we're entitled to stay beautiful.

Doesn't sound like an unrealistic request.

So what do I want for my birthday? Here are a few suggestions for the gift givers in my life:

1) A shoe company that appreciates that not everyone's feet are the same size, and therefore decides to sell their shoes A La Carte.

2) A Non-Caloric Hot Fudge Sundae.

3) An eye wrinkle cream that, dare I say...works!

4) A mirror that lies well.

5) A small case of amnesia that temporarily causes me to believe I'm 29 again.

All right, all joking aside, you can't wrap amnesia. So, I guess I have no choice but to "hang in there"....literally!

Sticky Note Overdrive

I love October. This is nothing new. I've always loved this time of year. I love the color of the leaves. The cool breeze that calls for just a sweater. Pumpkins. Warm Apple Cider. Hay Rides. Halloween. And of course, to top it off, I celebrate my birthday on the 28th.

But this October seemed a little different this year. It's been the month of the checklist.

Now, if you know me, you know I'm a lover of lists. I'm never far from a pile of sticky notes, a highlighter, or a note book. I organize my own organization. It truly is a sickness.

This month however, everything hit at once. There are places we have to be, people we have to meet, things we need to accomplish. And that was just yesterday.

My calender filled up by week two of October and actually began to seep right into November.

To keep me on track I finally decided to enter the fascinating world of the Blackberry. Five minute nightly tutorials given by Hubby seem to be the only training I receive since the instruction booklet looks like something out of World and Peace. I love my new Blackberry, but have no fear 3M, Post-It Notes are never far from my reach.

October has been filled with Field Trips, costume ordering, karate practice, fundraisers, swimming lessons, Avon shows, class parties, permission slips, dry cleaning, pool closing, winter clothes shopping etc., etc., etc.

There are still leaves to be raked, gutters to be checked, summer clothes to be packed, toy consigning, and a never ending list of necessary craziness that I'm sure is written on a sticky note somewhere in my pile of organization.

I have just 11 days to get my act together. November is creeping in way too fast, and I'm running out of sticky notes!

Living In An Automatic World

I remember as a child hearing the infamous words: "Don't Touch!" We heard them so much that I began to wear down my pockets since that was the obvious place to hide my weapons of destruction. Sure, there were days when temptation got the best of me. And sure enough I heard my parents second favorite phrase: "You're grounded!"

But slowly as I began to grow, I noticed a change in the world around me. The need to touch things began to diminish. Doors that automatically opened themselves began to appear everywhere: from the malls to libraries to my local postal office.

I still remember sitting on my first automatic toilet. I had thoughts that my butt cheeks were going to be sucked right off my back side. I held on for dear life waiting for the flushing to stop. But just as I would scoot a millimeter, it would go right into another flushing episode. I now know what those hand rails are for.

When the toilets received critical acclaim from truck stop tourists, I guess the powers that be decided to roll with the idea that "automatic" was good. And so came about automatic sinks. Because children everywhere like to leave water running at full blast, it seemed only right that a limit be put on the amount of devastation one could do after relieving themself.

Maybe it's me, but I'm not so sure this was the best idea. I mean how many times have you needed to wash your hands and the water just won't turn on? So you walk over to the next faucet only to find that you now have a large blob of foamy soap stuck to your sleeve? And still you walk down the line waving your hands like some raving maniac. All the while you watch children exiting from stalls who seem to hold a Masters Degree in hand washing. The ease at which they retrieve water and soap has you baffled, if not a bit more determined to figure out the whole process.

Alas, you discover the secret: If you stand on one leg, while holding your breath for a count of five, and just slide your hands in the line of fire at a 45 degree angle, you will indeed get some water. Probably not enough to wash the entire blob of foam, but just enough to show those hot-shots next to you who is boss.

You continue to hold your head high until you realize you must begin the entire process all over in order to retrieve a paper towel. You do a quick look around, accept defeat, and decide that your Levi's will do a much better job at drying your hands than any super-absorbency paper towel held captive by a robotic box hanging on the wall.

You return to your car only to realize that the cherry on top to this day is leaving your keys in your car. If only you had chosen the model with On Star.

SHOP FOR A CAUSE!

I'M NOT SURE ABOUT EVERYONE ELSE, BUT I KNOW WHEN I SEE THINGS IN CAP'S, IT USUALLY MEANS IT'S IMPORTANT.

AS YOU ALL KNOW, IT'S BREAST CANCER AWARENESS MONTH. I HAVE BEEN LUCKY ENOUGH TO SAY THAT NEITHER ME NOR MY FAMILY HAVE BEEN AFFECTED BY THIS DISEASE. BUT MANY OF YOU OUT THERE DO HAVE A STORY.

IN HONOR OF THE MANY STORIES, I WOULD LIKE TO CALL ON EACH ONE OF YOU FOR A LITTLE HELP. DURING THIS SPECIAL MONTH, I HAVE DECIDED TO DONATE 10% OF ALL MY AVON INTERNET SALES TO THE SUSAN G. KOMAN FOUNDATION.

THIS CAN ADD UP TO ALOT, BUT I NEED YOUR HELP TO DO THIS. SIMPLY GO TO THE RIGHT SIDE BAR TO ENTER MY AVON STORE. THERE IS SOMETHING FOR EVERYTHING. CHECK YOUR SHOPPING LIST. WHAT WERE YOU GOING TO BUY ANYWAY? DID YOU NEED A NEW LIPSTICK, MASCARA, NAIL POLISH? IT'S NOT ALL ABOUT THE LADIES EITHER. YOU'LL FIND PLENTY OF GIFTS FOR HUBBY AND THE KIDS. THERE IS EVEN A CHRISTMAS PREVIEW.

WHEN YOU'RE DONE SHOPPING, SIMPLY RETURN TO THIS POST AND LEAVE A COMMENT.

SO WHAT ARE YOU WAITING FOR? SHOP FOR A CAUSE. GET YOUR FRIENDS INVOLVED. LET'S MAKE A DIFFERENCE!

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