Back in the gym after several weeks of camping in front of my Mac, a lightbulb goes off. I’m pounding away on the treadmill at in incline of six and speed of ten miles an hour. I ain’t goin’ no where.
Okay, so I exaggerate the intensity, but I assure you, my legs are flying. So I slow the pace after half a mile until it halts, and I move to the ever popular elliptical. Except that my arms and legs can’t seem to coordinate a fluid motion. Similar to when I try to dance hip-hop. Weird thing is, when you turn on some Bhangra, my Punjabi genetics kick in, and I don’t look half bad on the dance floor. Anyway, I force myself to stick to it for twenty plus minutes. Helps that I have a friend next to me to gab the time away. I end my workout with the rowing machine, my personal favorite. I close my eyes and imagine the ocean in front of me. I open my eyes and see the YMCA pool through glass doors. Close enough.
Sweaty and energized, I’m just glad I showed up. Because, in the profound words of my pastor, “Blessed are the balanced, for they shall outlast everyone.” I don’t think he means to be blasphemous by adding a new beatitude. But I’ll leave him unnamed nevertheless — in case God comes looking for him.
When I returned home from close to a week away from my hubby and girls, all I could think of was — how can I do it all? I want to write. Read. Cook. Work out. Raise my girls. Date my best friend. My husband FTR. And most of all. Stay close to God. I decide to not write at all day one. I need to let my girls, especially my four year old, know that Mommy is home. And Mommy loves her girls. More than any future book she’ll publish.
I begin by waking up to spend some time with my middle schooler. And considering she wakes up before the cicadas call it a night, it is no small task to get up, but I’m so glad I do. I hold on to her tighter than a pipe wrench before she heads off to that place between kid and teen. Did I mention that I lost a lot of sleep at the conference? Snoring roommate. Long story.
By now, the younger three are awake and the hustle and bustle of our house returns. My youngest finds me on the couch and says, “Mommy. I don’t want to go to school.”
Didn’t see that coming. “Baby, I’m sorry. But you have to go.”
Now the tears come. And they will not stop. “I. Could. Just. Stay home with you.”
“If you stay home with me, you’ll have to wash dishes, do laundry, sweep, mop, and cook. And even clean out the freezer.”
“Okay.”
What? That is not the answer I am looking for. “You still have to go. But mommy promises to do something special with you when I pick you up. Okay.”
“No.”
Through the tears, we manage to get dressed, pack a snack, eat breakfast, and drive to school. I leave her wailing in her teacher’s arms, but when I pick her up, her smile stretches from ear to ear.
“Mommy! I stopped crying!”
“I see. Let’s go to McDonald’s.” Nothing like putting them calories right back on.
“Yeah!”
At McDonald’s, I learn a new language from Beara-Bear. “And then Connie jumped off the [BURP…GIGGLE] swing! Mom! I did it!”
“Did what?”
“I burp-talked!”
“Oh. Who taught you that?”
“No one. I just made it up. It’s when you talk and burp at the same time.”
“Ahhh. Cool.”
More giggles and a face that reads, “I am all that and then some,” followed by, “Mom, you should try it.”
“Nahhh. I don’t think I would do it as well as you.”
“Really Mom. Just try it. Or try milk-talk or…Wait! You’re drinking ice coffee. You should just coffee-talk.”
“Milk-talk?”
“Like this.” She takes a small sip of chocolate milk and leans her head slightly back and says, “Hiiiiii [gurgling].”
“Baby, I think that’s dangerous.”
“No, it’s not Mom. Your turn.”
“Okay. [Sip of ice coffee in] Hiiiii.”
“You did it Mom!” Now who’s the mom here anyway?
We return home and wait for the girls to get off the bus. Going to gymnastics to watch my middle two instead of dropping them off at the club, I grab a spot on an unused mat, and enjoy their flips, jumps, cartwheels, and planks. They have two instructors. A male and female. The guy, Joe, I’ve known for two years, but the woman seems new.
At the end of the class, I ask Joe about college, life, his dreams.
“Still trying to formulate one,” he replies.
“Hmmm. That’s okay. Just curious. When did you graduate from high school?”
“Class of 2007. Went to Locust Valley.”
“What? Wait a minute. I was a teaching assistant that year. Were you in any of my classes?”
“No. I don’t think so. I think I would have remembered.”
“I was the pregnant one who always brought buffalo chicken pizza from Mario’s to math class and a bunch of snacks too. The teacher did nothing, so the kids did nothing. And I just ate. I had to eat. I was pregnant.”
“Wait a minute! That was you?”
“You were in that class?”
“You used to make us so jealous when we smelled your lunch.”
“Didn’t I share it sometimes? You were in that class?”
“Remember when…” and we laughed over the different ‘characters’ that made up the class. Must write their types down for future books.
If that wasn’t weird, I approach the female teacher after class to find out her name.
“Talia.”
“Get the heck outta here. Your name is so not Talia.”
“Uh. Yes. It is. It’s my name. My parents named me after Rocky’s wife, Adrian.”
“Really? That is just so crazy. Do you know what your name means?”
“Yeah, Heaven’s dew.”
“Or ‘dew drop from heaven.’ Your name is the name of my heroine in my first novel that I hope to publish!”
“Seriously?”
“Totally. And I’ve never met anyone by that name.”
“I’ll be famous then?”
“I have to rewrite the ending. Hopefully you’re still alive at the end. I’ll keep you posted.”
ha ha ha. I like how you tell her maybe she’ll live to the end of the book!
I keep telling myself to get off this Blog and go finish writing your trilogy! But this is so much fun. Thanks for reading! 🙂
Still reading …keep writing.. you entertain me daily!
The burp talk is hilarious