Seconds

My parents took the V-meister on a day trip to visit her out-of-town cousin yesterday and the P-Dawg was working, so the little J-dog and I were left to our own devices. Before my parents pulled out of our driveway Sunday morning with our daughter, I made sure to remind my mother not to let V-meister out of her sight for any length of time, especially in the highway rest areas. "And if she touches anything - anything at all - don't hesitate to bathe her in this," I said, slipping her a trial size container of Purell.

A short fit of hysterics ensued when V-meister and I discovered that my dad had jerry-rigged her booster seat into his vehicle using an elaborate pulley system that did not at all match the diagram provided by our Owner's Manual. But this was quickly sorted out and then off they went, the V-meister radiating all the energy of a loaded spring at the delicious prospect of an entire day with her grandparents and sans the little brother.

J-dog and I spent a pleasant Sunday morning together. We braved eleven o'clock Mass and afterwards treated ourselves to lunch at the Nordstrom cafe. He was a perfect gentleman: coloring his menu quietly, making pleasant conversation, eating with utensils.

It was so easy, this out-and-about-on-the-town with only one kid business, that I decided to walk around the mall for a bit after lunch. We hurled some pennies into the fountain and darted into a store or two before arriving at Baby Gap, where I began perusing sale racks while J-dog peeked and poked around a nearby display as per his usual custom.

A minute later, he was gone.

I didn't panic at first, sure that he was just hiding. I had been standing at the entrance to the store and watching out of the corner of my eye, so I knew he couldn't have left. I combed the floor, looking for little croc clad feet poking out from behind a rack somewhere, but saw nothing. The store was connected through a door in the back to the regular Gap and so I did a cursory check of that (much larger) store, even though I was positive he couldn't have possibly made it that far in such a short period of time. It was a really short period of time.

Still no J-dog.

I went back to the Baby Gap and started calling his name loudly, starting to panic a little now because it was getting obvious that he wasn't in either of the two stores. I looked in the dressing rooms, the stock room, behind the counter, everywhere. People started to notice my growing hysteria and asked what he looked like, what he was wearing, what name he answered to. Before I knew it, one of the sales associates was radioing security with a bulletin and his description.

I peeked out into the mall, then ran back and forth between the two Gap stores, sure that he would appear momentarily. No longer a person anchored in time and space, I scurried frantically about and thought, "This is how it happens."

An eternity few minutes later, the sales associate, who was still radioing back and forth with mall security asked me to follow her out of the store. I was hesitant to uproot myself from the general vicinity where I had last seen the J-dog, but she was an authority figure and I a brainless creature on a fruitless trajectory.

"They think they might have found him" she said as the two of us walked-ran towards a mall cop who was standing by a fountain in the main atrium talking to someone on his radio. "I am not a bad mother," I said.

When we finally reached the atrium, I planted myself in front of the giant mall cop. "DID YOU FIND HIM? WHERE IS HE???"

"Just hold on, Ma'am!" he snapped, still talking to whoever it was on the other end, beads of sweat popping out over his brow. "Okay, now. Up that way, past the fountain, just by the main entrance."

So I ran.

And he was there. He had made it halfway across the mall, apparently following a woman he'd mistaken for me. As hokey as it sounds, in my mind's eye our reunion happened in slo-mo, me running with tunnel vision, blurry storefronts in the periphery, towards a still oblivious J-dog who was being held by a kind looking grandfatherly sort.

He hadn't been crying, probably had only realized he had been lost when I scooped him up and wept. I sat down on a bench with him wrapped tightly around my neck and that's when he started to sob. Even on the drive home, after we had both calmed down, he'd hiccup periodically and fight to catch rapid breath. I decided we would never set foot in the mall again.

Thing is, I honestly believed it couldn't happen to me. Because I am hyper-vigilant - I've caught the J-dog from falling backwards out of an open deck door with one hand and less than a second to spare while looking in the opposite direction. I regularly intercept falling sipping cups in mid-air and, until yesterday, believed that I had an infallible second sense with regard to my childrens' position in the universe.

And I will admit to you now that in the past, upon hearing the line, "I only let him out of my sight for a minute," I shamefully assumed that "minute" really meant "five" or maybe even "ten."

But it doesn't. It's a minute, maybe even seconds. And while I know that the little J-dog was probably in no real danger at any point during our little ordeal, those moments of not knowing were a loaded eternity. I almost didn't write about this because doing so is admitting that it actually happened, that I let my guard down long enough to allow my three-year-old to wander away.



Since we've been home, the J-dog has gotten a wad of Play-Dog jammed up his right nostril and squashed his index finger in a door jamb, which just goes to show you that home is not that much safer than the big bad world.

But still. SECONDS.

The Tooth Fairy is an Irresponsible Slacker

After weeks of persistent nudging, the V-meister finally wiggled her first tooth free very early one morning last week. Very early.

Because the ragged little pearl was presented to me in bed a mere four hours after I had finally fallen asleep for the night, it was difficult to muster up the enthusiasm I'd always planned to display upon such a momentous occasion. My morning breath and I congratulated V-meister as heartily as we could, advised her to keep the tooth safe for the Fairy, and gave a brief lecture on the importance of going back to sleep.

The V-meister and her tooth climbed in beside me.

"Are you sure you don't want to put that tooth on the nightstand?" I urged, eyeing the impossibly tiny specimen my daughter held precariously between two fingers. No. The tooth would remain in V-meister's possession, and she would hand it off to the Fairy herself.

Soon it became apparent that the V-meister, who was trying to be as quiet and unobtrusive as possible, was expecting the Tooth Fairy momentarily. Unfortunately, T.F. is union and her shift was over for the night. Also, she'd had a few glasses of wine with dinner and stayed up late watching the Colbert Report. The tooth fairy, I explained, would not be making her appearance just yet, but she would love it if the V-meister tried to lie in bed quietly until the alarm went off.

I rolled over and feigned a deep sleep. Moments later, there was a great rustling of sheets, followed by some scrabbling which robbed me of my covers. Irritated, I drew those covers back over my body in a rough, impatient manner, causing the tooth V-meister had inadvertently dropped somewhere in our king sized bed - and had been desperately trying to locate - to become airborne and land in an undisclosed location. And thus an earnest, yet futile early morning tooth search and recovery mission was launched while a hapless, grief-stricken V-meister looked on.

That evening, the V-meister went to bed toothless on several levels. We assured her that the Tooth Fairy, with her X-Ray vision, would be able to find V-meister's tooth wherever it may be. It was only after she had fallen asleep that P-Dawg finally located the renegade incisor on our bedroom floor. It was too late for V-meister to put it under her pillow, so P-Dawg placed it for safekeeping on top of our dresser, where it was accidentally disposed of during a vigorous dusting session the very next day.

Luckily, we were granted a chance at a do-over when a another tooth jumped ship three days later under our babysitter's watch. She had the foresight to immediately put it in a ziplock baggie and place it directly under V-meister's pillow at bedtime, where it was later spirited away without incident by Alert and Responsive Tooth Fairy.

P-Dawg says that in ten years time V-meister won't give a crap whether I saved her first tooth or not, but I still mourn the one that got away.

My Other Car Is Held Together With Duct Tape

When it came time to replace the Ramamobile last week, I wanted to fall in love with another American made car, or, you know, a Prius. Instead, I took home a compact German SUV.

I've always felt a little uncomfortable with what I consider my undeserved bounty, and yet I didn't put up much of a fight when the P-Dawg expressed his desire to purchase this vehicle. My comfort level increased significantly when I sat upon the leather upholstery, cranked up the butt warming mechanism, opened the panoramic moon roof, and started cruising around my 'hood with L1thuanian folk songs blaring from the speakers.

On the day after we bought the car, I was navigating cautiously through a construction zone with my hands in ten and two position when the driver in front of me hit an orange barrel and sent it flying into my front bumper. There was a loud crunching noise as the barrel ricocheted off my car and into the tree lawn, but I invoked the awesome power of magical thinking and kept on driving as though nothing had occurred.

It was only after pulling into my driveway some ten minutes later that I got out to conduct a thorough inspection, only to find the bumper scratched in several places and a few (smallish) parts altogether missing. There was no choice but to return to the accident scene for a reluctant reconnaissance mission, which consisted of me darting back and forth into traffic on a Frogger-esque trajectory until all the Beemer bits were retrieved.

Fortunately, my dad was able to pop those little suckers right back into place like so many overpriced Legos, and he even buffed out most of the scratch marks so I didn't have to take it into the shop.

Still, I just knew something like this would happen.

Instant karma, what a bitch.

Breaking Up Is Hard to Do

Do you know what happens if you sign up for Jazzercise, attend a few sessions, then stop going altogether?

Sure, there's the muscle atrophy and the weight gain la la la, but that pales in comparison to the fact that the Jazzercise people just keep on charging your credit card every month. Even if you haven't stepped foot in their smelly old gym for almost a year.

And because of this, your husband will badger you until it gets so that you can't even have a normal conversation anymore without the subject turning to Jazzercise:

Rimarama: "Top o' the morning to ye, P-Dawg! 'Tis my earnest hope that the new day finds you well-rested and in good spirits, yea, forsooth."

P-Dawg: "Did you cancel your Jazzercise membership yet?"

Rimarama: "I will do it on the morrow."

P-Dawg: "I've heard that before. How hard can it be to call them up and quit?"

Rimarama: "Tis a wretched chore, my lord. When first I endeavored to do the exercise of jazz, they gave unto me a scrap of parchment to render forth if a time came such that I was desirous to break free of the Jazzercing coil. But I LOST that slip of paper, P-Dawg, not two days forth unto the Jazzercising."

P-Dawg: "OK, so-"

Rimarama: "Plus, you have to show up in person during a regularly scheduled class, with your passport and firstborn! Also something about tap dancing and turning in an essay explaining why you are forsaking your cardiovascular health. It sounded worse than trying to get out of AOL, or even quitting the Firm!"

(Plus, you never know when the urge to don a unitard and shake your booty in the school gym will hit again.)

Well, last week I finally faced the music and worked up the nerve to go cancel. With the P-Dawg cheering me on, I pulled out of my driveway, drove across town, parked the Ramamobile, waltzed into the community center, and marched right up to the attendance ladies who were sitting at their little card table by the gym entrance, punching tickets and peddling their Jazzercise wares.

I was a woman on a mission, speeding bulletlike toward my target. I knew that if I wavered for even one second, the Jazzercise mafia would suck me in, convincing me to "just give it one more shot" and I'd end up inside that gym doing jazz hands to a Carly Simon song in my street clothes next to Velma of the velour pantsuit.

It was going to be of the utmost importance that I establish a no-nonsense "I will not take no for an answer" attitude if I was going to accomplish the dirty business at hand.

"May I help you?"

"Yes! I need to cancel my membership. I recently moved and it's been really hard to attend class at this location. Also my kid kept freaking out in the daycare room but I could never make it to the evening class on time because my husband works late. But don't get me wrong, I really enjoyed the class and it's very unfortunate that I can no longer attend but OK, see here's the deal, I lost the little slip of paper, you know, the thingy you're supposed to bring with you to cancel? They told me I needed to hold on to that and, well, I totally lost it, but you can't really blame me because I moved and then we were living out of a suitcase with my parents for like two months and I really hope it's not going to be a problem because-

"Just sign here."

"Oh! OK! Do you need to see my credit card?"

"No."

"Really? How about a drivers' license or state ID?"

"No, just the signature is fine."

"OK . . . I could write an essay explaining the reason for my cancellation! A brief synopsis, if you will."

"No, just the signature."

"Huh. I'm guessing you don't want to see me tap dance."

(silence)

"Okey-doke, then . . . (signs name with flourish.) Wow, that was so much easier than I thought it would be!"

"No problem. You could have just called."

Readers, I turned and walked out with a spring in my step and a song in my heart. It was like a huge weight had been lifted off my shoulders and placed directly back into my wallet.

Except . . . now the weather's turned cold and speedwalking is out of the question, I need a new means of maintaining my cardiovascular health. I'll be frank - the treadmill bores me to tears and I do have a tendency to lose my footing. And if you say, "You could always jump rope in the privacy of your living room," I'll mess you up like I messed up my pot roast.

No, what I could really use is a Wii Fit, and Magpie's got one to spare.

I need a Wii Fit because it:

• Won't subject the little J-dog to the horrors of the daycare room
• Won't auto-deduct from my bank account
• Could care less what time I show up for class
• Won't charge me for missed days
• Is way cooler and more up to date than Jazzercising
• And it sure as heck won't put me through the wringer if I ever decide to break up with it. (Which I totally never would.)

Oh! Would that I had one!

I'm Not Complaining

I had posted this earlier today, and it just seemed so dang whiny that I took it down. But now that the P-Dawg is home from work and I've helped myself to a few glasses of vino, I'll be darned if it's not downright amusing.

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J-dog and V-meister have been at each other's throats from the moment they woke up this morning. It's one of those days when I'm just a toddler tantrum away from reverting back to my monkey roots.

That's right, I'm about to start flinging poop.

The day began with me running out of the shower, dripping wet, to disengage J-dog from the V-meister's headlock. By the time we got out of the house, it was practically twilight and the twenty or so hours I'd spent applying SPF 50 over every nook, cranny, and crevice of our pasty white selves had gone to waste.

Nonetheless, we headed to the splash park.

But when we finally arrived there and met up with V-meister's little friend, no one actually wanted to splash. The V-meister was requesting an early lunch, and the J-dog wanted only to climb in and out of my lap over and over again, mixing it up with an occasional full body slam for good measure.

After endless rounds of this, I set him down none too gently, and when he came in for his next approach, I totally blocked him with a tae-kwon-do move. Of course I'm not proud.

Once the kids were finished not splashing, not running under any fountains, and not eating their lovingly packed nutritional and environmentally friendly lunches, we walked over to the playground. We were only there ten minutes before I found the two of them locked in a death-grip in the middle of the crawl tunnel.

I marched up inside that play structure - fuming- but instead of giving each of them a nuggie as I was wont to do, I reprimanded and separated one from the other, the J-dog with his legs still cycling in mid-air like some caricature of an angry toddler.

Then, on my pissed off and humiliating descent from the jungle gym, I totally nailed my head on a metal beam and swore out loud in front of the V-meister's wide-eyed little friend, who had been watching the spectacle from the sidelines.

In between the stars that appeared before my eyes, I was lucky enough to catch a glimpse of the J-dog putting gel beads that had fallen out of some kid's leaking diaper from the swirly slide right into his pie hole.

And then we left.

On the way home, the V-meister asked what was for lunch? but I simply cranked up the volume on our Lithuanian pop music CD and bopped along to the accordion/techno beat while taking deep breaths and counting to twenty in my head.

Now it's "nap time" and I've been sitting here on my living room couch listening to the J-dog attempting to bust out of his crib for the past forty-five minutes. It's funny, I don't remember tucking him in along with a hammer and crowbar! but by the sound of it, that is what he's employing.

There's also a dead rabbit in my backyard, and this makes me want to cry.

My Head Is Screwed On Backwards and My Heart Has Catholic Guilt

What's more embarrassing than having to call the cops from the parking lot of Trader Joe's to help retrieve the set of keys locked inside the Ramamobile?

Why, finding those self-same keys in your diaper bag at the very moment the car door is wrenched open, of course.

Gah.

Gah, gah, gah.

Also,

Things not to say to a cop:

(As he's prying your window open) "You know what? I'm like, almost 95% sure that my keys are not actually in there."

(Once the lost keys have been found in aforementioned diaper bag) "Can I buy you a donut?"

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Frazzled is the word today. Our buyers were scheduled to come over first thing this morning with a legion of home inspectors, so the P-Dawg and I were up late last night, duct taping the house together in preparation.

Although I hear that a good home inspector can totally see through stuff like that. (Saint Joseph, don't abandon me now.)

The poor little J-Dog has a cold and is ornery today. Both he and the V-Meister were up at various intervals last night, and I couldn't sleep much as it was because the P-Dawg and I decided that we are most likely going to put an offer in on a house we really like this evening.

As much as we relish the idea of sitting around in Hugh Hefner style monogrammed robes and drinking nightly hi-balls procured from a built-in wet bar, we ultimately decided that the shagadelic, yet strangely alluring home we flirted with last week is not the one for us. We now have our sights on something a bit more traditional, but I'm still nervous.

This new house we're interested has pretty much everything we're looking for, but for some reason I'm fixated on the railing around the second floor loft area.

Because both times we went to look at that house, the J-dog tried to squeeze his jumbo toddler noggin through the slats and I think there is a 50% chance that he would consider it priority number one to scale that railing the very minute we move in.

P-Dawg says this is not a good enough reason to forgo the house, stating that safety netting could be used in the short term until the J-Dog loses interest in this particular danger pit and/or grows up. And I do realize that many people peacefully coexist with toddlers and two story foyers every day, so this is more, I think, just my fretting focus of the day.

Meh. The day I run out of things to worry about, I'll probably be dead.

I know. I am lucky to have a house, a family, friends, my health. I know I have more than enough.

And I think that's why I'm freaking out a little bit. I didn't realize that I've been viewing our hut, the last vestige of "the lean years" - when I would take my calculator to the grocery store to keep the bill in check and shopped for the V-meister's clothing at secondhand stores - as my talisman against tragedy.

As long as we lived in the hut, we were safe because we weren't asking for more than we needed. And though far from extravagant, this new house is more than our family really needs.

This feeling is probably due in part to my Eastern European immigrant roots and Catholic guilt.

Also the fact that my mother has warned me against the perils of excess, and I'm essentially an emotionally stunted sapling still tangled in the branches of the mother tree. (Read: my mama's opinion can still get me to second guess every one of my informed adult decisions. I probably need therapy for this.)

I think I'm afraid that a two car attached garage, extra space, and a master suite will be the triggers that make my luck run out.

Too Much

Remember when this blog used to be fun?

For a few days, it was looking like Rimarama might be ready to return, but she's back in the cave today. There is a darkish cloud hovering above my little word lately, and I can't get out from under it.

I attended two funerals last week - one for my grandmother, the other for a friend's father.

Last night, a man hung himself from a tree next to the V-meister's Montessori school and was discovered this morning by parents arriving to drop their children off for school. (Thankfully, none of the children saw the body or know what happened.)

Take all of the above, add a few heartbreaking blog posts I recently came across, throw in the vague sense of impending doom that has been a constant companion throughout most of my adult existence, and you have a very anxious, cranky, and heavyhearted little woman.

I'm panicky, scattered, and paralyzed with fear that if I'm not vigilant, the worst will happen. I know this is no way to live, but I'm not sure how to begin changing it.

I don't care how low the odds are of something horrible happening to my family, the mere fact that they exist is reason enough for me to retreat into my fearful center, from where I nag and bitch and bark anxious, frenzied orders to the people I love the most.

Despite death having literally crossed the doorstep, there was a Valentine's Day party in the church hall after school today, and I couldn't stand still long enough to have a conversation for the need to make sure the J-dog wasn't about to fall headlong down the stairs or stick his finger in an electrical socket or choke on a piece of hard candy. The sight of the V-meister leaving the "Duck Duck Goose" circle in resignation (or maybe just plain boredom) after being passed over one too many times almost brought me to tears.

This is not a healthy way to be.

A few months ago, when I posted about fear mongering in the media, Janet of Three and Holding suggested a book by Eckhart Tolle called The Power of Now. I recently began reading it, and it led me to another book - A Course In Miracles.

This book's background seems to be clouded in mystery. I don't understand how, exactly, it came to be, or who is really speaking through it, but I find it strangely compelling. Have any of you heard of this book or read it?

I want very much to live in the present, without fear.

So I am going to audit the course in miracles and see where it takes me.

I'll keep you posted (heh).


P.S. This entire post was dictated to me by a voice inside my head.*

*Not really

The Dog Ate My Calendar

Some of you have expressed amazement that the V-meister's school didn't call me when she didn't show up last week.

I was a little surprised at this myself, but when I approached her teacher at pick-up yesterday to apologize and explain that our family had been stranded on a remote island in the South Pacific with no cell phone service*, she admitted that they had all been very worried, but had assumed that the V-meister was still sick.

She had been out before the holiday break with a very bad double ear infection in which both ear drums were ruptured and her hearing was severely compromised. The school was under the impression that her hearing had not yet returned to normal (it has), hence her prolonged absence.

(And while we're on the subject, if your child suddenly starts acting extremely irritable after having been sick with a cold and complains of strange noises/discomfort in her ears before Mount Vesuvius erupts and begins flowing out of said ears in copious amounts, might I recommend taking said child to the Pediatrician ASAP instead of, say, telling her the story of The Boy Who Cried Wolf? For instance.)

I have a sneaking suspicion that people at the school actually know I was smokin' banana peels* and watching the Home Shopping Channel last week when my kid was supposed to be back at school. At pick up yesterday, the utha muthas greeted me with a snarky, "Oh, hi, Rimarama! We missed you guys last week! BWAAhahahaha!!!!! "

I gave them my patented Stare of Damnation and exited stage left with a perfect ten round-off/back-handspring combo.

I'm just hoping they weren't having a candelight prayer vigil for the V-meister while she was boomeranging around the living room on a leftover Christmas candy sugar high.

Because that would make me feel kind of bad.

*lies

Let it Out

When I first started blogging earlier this year, I wrote a very raw post about mothering after a particularly bad day with the kids. The process of putting it on paper was therapeutic in and of itself, but I debated whether or not to publish it. In the end I did because, when all was said and done, I needed some reassurance that I was not the only one who ever "lost it."

Despite the fact that several readers commented on it, I didn't think my honesty was particularly odd. After all, isn't a personal blog meant to air out just this kind of dirty laundry? A way to commiserate with others in similar situations?

Now that I've been blogging for the better half of a year, I've come to realize that posts in which parents "spill the beans," so to speak, about the frustration, loneliness and sometimes naked rage that is parenting, are few and far between. We often hint at misery and weakness, use humor (ahem) to take the edge off the ugly, but we don't often journey into the dark that, I suspect, many of us experience from time to time.

It's understandable. No one wants to be a whiner or to be harshly judged. What if I'm really the only one who's ever done this, ever felt this way? Who wants to read another post about depression? If it's so hard, go get a job - you made the choice to "stay at home."

Finslippy recently posted about a bad episode with her son and asked readers to share their own stories of "parental ineptitude."

If you've ever felt alone as you stumble along this dimly lit corridor of motherhood, go read the one hundred plus comments that readers have left on her post.

They will make you shudder, cry, sigh, laugh out loud, and, finally, (hopefully), deeply exhale.

Honesty.

It does a mother good.

Exercising is Not for the Faint of Heart

So, I think I may have to throw in the towel on the Jazzercising.

I've attended the morning session three times now and left the little J-dog in the adjacent child care room each time.

Instead of looking up, things are getting progressively worse, and yesterday just might have been the last straw.

The little J-dog is on to my game by now, and sensed trouble from the moment we arrived.

He tried to escape while I was filling out the sign-up sheet and was all the way out the door and halfway down the hall when I caught up to him.

He was hy.ste.ri.cal. Not in a "ha ha" kind of way.

It didn't help matters at all when I went to get his sippy cup of milk, only to find that all six ounces had spilled inside my purse (Damn you, Gerber.)

I considered just going home.

But, I let the other mothers there convince me that he would come around, he just needs to get used to it, how many times has he been here? Etc., etc.

So I walked around with him a bit more, hugged him, kissed him, told him I'd be right back, and then I left.

This time, the safety gate was up, but that didn't stop little J-dog from trying to scale it while screaming, "MAMA! MAMA! MAMA!" after me.

Yeah, we were both crying by then.

I peeked in on him about twenty minutes into the class (without him seeing me).

Still crying.

I gave it about ten more minutes and came back to get him.

He was actually NOT crying the moment I happened to walk in, but he looked like a wreck, with red rimmed eyes and hair molded into an entirely new dried up snot 'do.

So, what should I do?

The other mothers there told me to keep coming back, sometimes it takes awhile for kids to come around, but I can't bear the thought of it.

I mean, he was desperate in there. Desperate, I tell you. How can I possibly force him to go back?

My mom told me to give it up, that I shouldn't expect him to tolerate it, he's only a year and a half old, he's not used to the environment, what are you gonna do?

Which kind of makes me feel selfish for having attempted it. It's something I want to do, not something I have to do.

Advice?

Somebody Save Me From Myself

I’m all in a tizzy today because this afternoon, the P-Dog and I are leaving for a short vacation, sans enfants.

It’s just a little weekend trip to a spa/resort a few hours from here, but we plan to sleep in till noon every day, take our meals sitting down, and swear out loud at every turn.

As is always the case before any trip we take without the kids, I am starting to get zippy and my OCD tendencies are kicking in to full gear.

Not a single item of dirty laundry may be left in the basement, not a dirty dish in the dishwasher, not one item of garbage in the bin. If any of these conditions equal “true,” and I were to realize it on the drive up, my mind would simply leave my body and return home to reside in the dishwasher or dryer, or, more likely, the garbage can.

I must line up all of our shoes in the foyer according to size, straighten the hand towels on their racks so the hems are perfectly lined up, and make sure that not a drawer or cabinet is left ajar. All stray hairs must be eliminated from the sink and tub, and the calendar days must be marked off to reflect the day on which we will return.

If we return.

All this on top of the necessity to pack enough crap to last me through an exile worthy of a queen and the nagging suspicion that this act of selfishness and greed (the vacation) constitutes an enormous withdrawal from the Bank of Equilibrium and will naturally come around to bite me in me bum in the shape of harm to my children.

See why my panties are all in a knot?

I’m really going to need that couples aromatherapy massage we signed ourselves up for.

Hopefully this time I’ll work up the courage to go.

I am petrified.

Besides the sheer terror of disrobing (I'm keeping my drawers on, y'all), there are other issues. Years ago, I had a decidedly unpleasant experience on a visit to the fatherland involving my wrinkled Auntie L, a cedar wood sauna, and an ancient Nordic massage therapy that included a wet birch branch and vigorous thrashing. And because I didn’t have the foresight to pack my swimsuit on my mid-winter sojourn to the frozen north, I had to endure this procedure in my birthday suit itself. It’s a post for another day.

So.

I’ll be MIA for a few days, but with any luck, I'll be back next week, bright-eyed and bushy tailed.