On the one hand, I was wildly happy for my best friend who is getting married in a month. I spent the weekend down in Sacramento celebrating with her mom, sister and friends, both old and new. There was a lovely backyard bridal shower followed by a bedazzled night out on the town, and it was just so much fun. I can tell that my friend Tawny is wildly happy, too, and my heart was filled to the brim all weekend long as I watched her mom and sister beam with pride. She and I have been friends for 20 years, and she deserves this day — this lifetime of happiness to come — more than anyone.

On the other hand, though, a part of me was somewhere else altogether. I tried my best to keep a straight face, but I often felt tears brimming when I’d think about my mother-in-law Laurel. We found out early last week that she has been diagnosed with Stage 4 colon cancer and that it has metastasized to her liver. Needless to say, we are in shock right now. This isn’t supposed to be happening to Laurel. Anyone who has spent any amount of time with her knows how healthy and vibrant she is. This is isn’t part of the plan. This is just really, really unfair.

I went through this last year with my dad, but thankfully his colon cancer was Stage 3, the doctors caught it early, and he’s now doing really well. His treatments are finished, and he recently had a scan that showed no signs of cancer. I am so, so grateful.

I’m having a hard time processing this development. I think Roth is, too. Obviously you don’t anticipate something like this happening to anyone, let alone your parents, but it’s Laurel! She’d been experiencing a pain in her groin area that she thought was a pulled muscle from a HIP-HOP DANCE CLASS. Laurel sick just does not compute. She’d had a clean colonoscopy six years ago. How can this be? It’s completely surreal.

We’re still waiting to find out when she will have surgery, and then we’ll determine how best to proceed. Roth wants to be there for his mom, so we’ll make that happen. Roth’s dad and his brother are there in California, and she is surrounded by dozens of local friends and teacher colleagues, so there’s no short supply of support, both physically and emotionally. Still, I can’t help but feel, well, a little helpless. This is when I absolutely hate that we live so far away.

I’m writing about this because a lot of you know and have spent time with Laurel, and I can’t not talk about it because it’s just too heavy on my mind. To quote her in an e-mail to her friends about her diagnosis, I am asking for your “positive thoughts, vibes, prayers, energy or whatever you call it.” She’s just too good a person to be going through something like this.

This morning I was rushing around more than usual, trying to finish packing up a suitcase for a weekend trip for which I’m embarking after work, and between getting Rowan and myself dressed, making sure I could close said weekend suitcase, and locking the door behind us, I’d forgotten to grab his lunch on the counter. Rowan went with Roth in his car, and I went in my car, and it wasn’t until after we were leaving Top Pot Donuts and almost to the highway that Rowan asked where his lunch was. Uh …. crap.

In three-plus years of doing daycare drop-off, I’ve never completely forgotten his lunch. I’ve forgotten to include a sandwich, but I’ve never not grabbed his bag of stuff, which also includes a back-up pair of pants and undies … just in case. (We’re dealing with some potty-training regression right now. Sigh.) I called Roth to make sure he didn’t have the lunch, and when he confirmed that he did not, that’s when Rowan’s face melted and oh, the humanity! No lunch! What ever would he doooooo?

I quickly extinguished that emotional firestorm by suggesting we go to the nearest grocery store to buy him a new lunch! That calmed him down, and then he was excited to go to the store. It only cost me about $17 to recreate his lunch, but it was worth every penny to stop that flow of tears. It’s just lunch! There’s no crying over lunch! But in Rowan’s case, lunch is sort of everything. It’s what he does before he naps. It breaks up the day. I get it. Lunch is very important.

*From The Breakfast Club, specifically the lunchtime scene, which is probably the best lunchtime scene in any movie, ever. When I’m packing Rowan’s lunch in the mornings — it all goes into a good-sized insulated cooler bag — I always think of Andrew’s lunch that’s like three sandwiches, a bag of cookies, a quart of milk and some fruit. Rowan’s lunch is pretty much on par with that, sans the cookies, sub apple juice and yogurt. What can I say? Boy loves his food.

***
I’m headed down to the Bay Area tonight and to Sacramento tomorrow for my best friend’s bridal shower and bachelorette soiree. I’m a little nervous about the bachelorette portion of the weekend seeing as I haven’t had more than two drinks in an evening in the last few years, and I really hate being hungover. But, I’m excited to see some old friends! And, it’s going to be 75 and sunny.

Hope your weekend is swell, too.

Even though he’d completed the tots class without any major issue, I was nervous about this next class. He’s three now, and far more cognizant of his cozy little world than he was when was two. There’s a greater likelihood of him losing his shit over a new or different or potentially scary experience like getting in the pool without his parents. I’d heard horror stories from other parents about their kids clinging to the side of the pool, and I just pictured that happening with Rowan.

I was out of town for his first class last Saturday, and I exerted a good deal of energy that morning fretting about how it might go. I kept checking my phone around the class time for a frantic text from Roth … that never came. Of course he did awesome! Of course he got into the pool, and listened to the teacher, and put his face in the water to “talk to the fish.” Of course he was also distracted by the laundry basket of toys, but eh, he’s three, what do we expect? I was so, so relieved to get that great news from Roth, as well as this awesome picture of him in the pool.

When I got home later in the day, Rowan talked a mile-a-minute about the swim class, and how he can’t wait to go again next week, and that just makes me wildly happy. It also got me thinking about how I far too often underestimate his capacity to be awesome. I’m always preparing myself for the meltdown and the letdown, which just isn’t fair. But, I do that with myself, too, and in turn, tend to transfer onto my kid MY feelings of inadequacy and self doubt, which makes for an extremely glass-half-empty way of life. I have to stop that.

I was away on Saturday because I’d gone to Wenatchee to visit Kerri in her new digs. First item on the agenda was to drink beer. Second item was to go hiking. Because of the first item on the agenda, we opted NOT to get up before dawn for a sunrise hike, as was the original plan, and instead ventured out into the warm sun a few hours later to hike Sauers Mountain, just outside Cashmere, WA.

Now, Kerri and her beau Matt are pretty hardcore when it comes to running and hiking, so I was a bit worried about the hike ahead of us. Not gonna lie — it was tough for me. In total, it was 5.5 miles roundtrip, with a gain of 1,800 feet in elevation (we started at 1,300 feet), and bitch of a climb in a few spots where I was certain I would a.) not make it, b.) puke if I did make it, or c.) die. Thankfully, I didn’t puke OR die, and I made it to the very, very top despite that nagging voice in my head cajoling me to quit. As soon as we reached the peak, I felt amazing, as I always do after a hike, and I wanted to neck-punch all that self doubt that had been swirling around my head the whole way up. Had I given in to the doubt, I’d have missed this view.

And this embrace from my best friend, who is just about the most inspiring person I know.

Also, there was this.

See, I’m just too awesome to be contained in a single frame.

***

I’ve been “dieting” in some shape or form since early last year, but it wasn’t until a little more than two weeks ago that I decided to really (no, really) keep myself accountable by tracking my calories. I’d never wanted to do that before, and now I know why. It’s been extremely eye-opening (and quite depressing, honestly) to learn how many calories my favorite foods contain. Oh, cheese.

But, after a day or two, I got the hang of it — I’m using the popular My Fitness Pal app — and in short order, I started to figure out what I could eat to feel full, but not break my daily bank of calories. (I’ve budgeted 1,700 for myself.) There have been some trial and error and slip-ups, for sure, but after one week, I lost 3.6 pounds. This past week, wherein I hiked the heck out of that mountain, I lost 2.4 pounds.

I was so skeptical of counting calories, but Mr. Food Scientist Husband kept persisting that it was the only way to really see results, and he … was so right. I’m a convert. Calories in, calories out. The more you burn (yay Zumba! yay spin!), the more you can have — within reason, of course. Supposedly I burned 1,400 calories on Saturday’s hike so you better believe I ate a giant burger AND an Oreo shake afterward.

I know that counting calories is not a revolutionary concept, but it’s one that is working for me. Too often I’ve made exceptions in my diet because something was “healthy,” but that doesn’t mean I can eat an entire bowl of guacamole. Instead, I can have a few tablespoons full with homemade baked corn tortilla chips. I’m not about completely denying myself the foods I love — hello, beer! — but I’ve always believed in practicing moderation, and this is just another example of that.

It’s also another example of underestimating my own capacity to be awesome. To really take control of my life, to stop making excuses, and to BE the change I want to see in myself.

Seventy degrees. Blue skies. Sunshine. Shorts and flip-flops. Popsicles. Picnic. Perfection.

Can we do it again next weekend? Pretty please?

(I probably committed all kinds of gruesome crimes of the grammatical nature in that last sentence. Onward!)

Thing One, aka New Girl

On the whole, I try not to make a judgment about a TV show until I’ve given it a fair shake. I didn’t immediately fall in love with Mad Men, Breaking Bad, or Downton Abbey, but I made myself watch at least three episodes before giving up, and lo and behold, I would rank all three of those shows in my top 10.

Admittedly, I pre-judged New Girl based solely on the casting of the, well, new girl. I’m just not a huge Zooey Deschanel fan. Her singing in those cotton commercials makes me want to gouge my eyes out. Sometimes she’s just … too cutesy, what with those bangs and adorable dresses and … OK, FINE. Maybe I do like her! Basically, what I’m saying is, I decided I didn’t like New Girl without having watched an entire episode, simply because she was in it.

But, a lot of my blog friends kept talking about the show on Twitter, and then Roth, of all people, suggested we give it a try. We’ve been testing out Hulu Plus (via Xbox Live) for the last few weeks, and two weekends ago, we managed to watch EIGHTEEN episodes of New Girl. Sure, each episode is only 23 minutes, but still: that’s like seven hours (not in a row, mind you) of Schmidt.

Oh, you don’t know Schmidt? He’s only one of the funniest characters on TV right now.

Do you watch New Girl? If not, you really, really should. (And thanks to Sizz and Steph for the recommendation.)

Thing Two, aka The Civil Wars

Given my undying adoration and affinity for The Swell Season, I’m quite surprised I didn’t discover its American counterpart The Civil Wars earlier. That’s a lie, actually. I’d seen this duo listed on many a “if you like this, then you’ll like that” list, but for some reason, I never gave them a listen, which, now that I know what I’ve been missing, is so sad.

I finally downloaded their album Barton Hollow (which was released in early 2011), and uh yeah, one listen through and I’m hooked.

Compared to The Swell Season, I think The Civil Wars’ sound is more … pretty? The two singers’ voices blend and harmonize far better than do the voices of Glen and Marketa. And, their overall style is more folksy, which explains why they won a Grammy earlier this year for Best Folk Album. Clearly I’ve been living under a rock since I missed that entirely.

Do you know the magic that is the music of The Civil Wars? If not, I hope you’ll check them out.

Seriously, Rowan does not stop talking. I wish everyone could experience my commute home from work with Chatty McChatterson in the backseat. It’s exhausting, trying to keep up with his meandering trains (planes and automobiles) of thought. One minute, he’s talking about cranes, and then the next, without any segue, he’s talking about cats. And then Florida. And that one time he burned his finger on the side of the pan. And how when he gets home, he’s going to have some cheddar cheese.

Not gonna lie — I do miss the days of driving home from work in complete silence. Just me and my thoughts, without running commentary from the backseat peanut gallery.

(It should be noted, of course, that I wouldn’t change him for the world. I’d much prefer a talkative child to one who doesn’t or isn’t able to communicate. I imagine that would be very difficult.)

Lately, we’ve been experiencing a somewhat new phenomenon with Rowan that I refer to as Bedtime Stall Tactics. If you’re the parent of a young child, surely you are aware of this equally maddening and amusing phenomenon. Basically, kids will do — or in our case, say — anything to delay having to go to bed. And I’m not talking about the usual requests such as needing to go the bathroom or have a drink of water. These are quite benign — and acceptable — delays of game.

What I’m talking about are the absolutely insane and inane requests and/or observations kids feel the need to make AFTER being put to bed. Rowan was on a roll last night. I believe he came out of his room (which is unfortunately located right off the living room where we were watching TV) at least six different times over the course of an hour and a half, each time for some “very important reason.”

Here are some examples:

“Mom, I want you to take a picture of me.”
Oh really? This from a kid who YELLS at me to turn my camera off almost any time it’s pointed in his general direction.

“Mom, why did you move that laundry basket?”
He could suddenly see it on the living room floor from his vantage point in bed.

Tearily, “I really don’t love my bed.”
Followed by him laying down on the living room floor to pout for a solid five minutes.

The best (and final) stall tactic of the night:

“Mom, I need you to cut my toenails. They’re very sharp.”
*BANGS HEAD AGAINST WALL*

Nothing tops my favorite Bedtime Stall Tactic to date, though:

“I think I heard the sound of an animal … at the zoo.”

To bring things back around to Jerry Maguire, “We’re not going to the F*CKING zoo!” (Randomly, I think Cameron Crowe may have a thing for zoos.)

Translation: GO TO BED ALREADY OMG. Also, SHHHHH.

In the last few months, Rowan has learned that we live on the planet Earth, and more specifically, in “S’attle,” as he pronounces the name of our fair city. Ages ago, I’d ordered an artistic rendering of the United States map to hang in his room, but hadn’t gotten around to hammering it up. Rowan recently found it and was immediately interested in learning more — where do we live? where does GrammaLo live? what about Beppe?

We’ve got a lot of travel coming up this summer, down to California for a friend’s wedding in June, and then all the way across the country to Florida for a family reunion in July. Additionally, I’m headed to New York and San Diego for work this summer, too. Because of this and Rowan’s newfound desire to know where he and everyone he loves lives, I decided to get him a larger, more accurate map of the United States. I found this one from The Land of Nod.

I love that the map includes symbols of each state’s industry and agriculture as well as landmarks and mottos. It’s very colorful, comes with stickers to label where people live and where he’s been, AND it’s laminated.

Rowan now asks us every day if it’s time to go to Florida. Obviously, we’re still working on the concept of time. Couple more months, buddy.

***
For a while now, Rowan has been really into human anatomy. He often tells me how digestion works. “The juice goes in the throat, down the pipes, and then it comes out as pee!” OK, so his understanding of this bodily process has been simplified quite a bit, but that’s basically the gist of it, yes? Better start saving for medical school.

We talk a lot about body parts and internal organs at our house. Rowan knows he’s got a brain in his head and “hot, hot” blood flowing through his veins. He likes to point out where he thinks his heart is — “right here,” he says as he rubs his belly. Ever since one of his daycare buddies broke BOTH HIS ARMS (!), we talk about bones, and how he needs to be careful so he doesn’t break any of his bones or else “then we’ll have to go to the hopstable,” he says.

So, when I saw these anatomy jammies on Pinterest, I knew I had to get them for our little budding doctor.

They’re not entirely accurate, what with the lower intestines labeled “toot factory,” but they’re still pretty cute. At first, Rowan was scared to wear them, and who can blame him? Guts! Gore! But, he’s since come around, and these jammies are now in regular rotation.

I also found an awesome iPhone app called Toca Doctor, made by a Swedish company called Toca Boca. Rowan LOVES this app, and he would play it for hours if I let him have my phone that long.

Again, the anatomy featured in the game is not exactly correct (well, who’s to say we don’t have gears turning round and round in our heads? or bugs in our teeth?), but it’s a perfect introduction to the human body for a 3-year-old. Also, all the apps by this company — Toca Robot Lab, Toca Kitchen — are just adorable. Well worth the buck or two each one costs to download. And the “lite” version of Toca Doctor is free. Whee!

I next tried Zumba on a four-class pass (another daily deal) at a studio that also offered Nia classes. I definitely loved that studio space more than the first. It was larger, with an expanse of mirrors at the front and on the side walls, and the instructors kept the lights low, making the classes feel more like a night at a dance club than an hour at a gym. But, this studio was really far from my house, and the classes were too expensive, if I wanted to continue beyond the deal.

At the first studio, I’d overheard two older ladies talking about a nearby fitness studio where one of them had dropped in for a Zumba class. She complained that the class was really “hardcore,” but that actually piqued my interest. I looked into the studio, which also offered a variety of group fitness classes, like spin cycling, body pump, and barre, all without the annoyances of a traditional gym. One evening, I just showed up and signed on for an unlimited monthly membership. It was a bit of risk, not knowing if I’d love the classes, but after one Zumba class, I was sold. Sold on that studio, yes, but mostly sold on the idea that Zumba was the workout for me.

Zumba is a brand. There are conventions, a clothing line, and video games — all with the Zumba logo brandished across the front. I’m not really into THAT Zumba. When you strip away the hot pink pants with the swirling tassels and the ridiculous machismo attitude that sometimes comes with it, it’s just about the music and the moves. That’s what I love about Zumba.

I’ve always loved to dance. I was never professionally trained outside of a few jazz and modern classes in high school and college, but I know what a ball-change and a jazz square are. I can pas de bourrée and sashay. Turns out, I can shake what my mama gave me, too. I have some natural rhythm, and I’m able to pick up choreography quickly, which has certainly made my Zumba experience all the more enjoyable.

Zumba is mostly inspired by Latin dance moves and music, but my favorite instructors mix things up by adding in hip-hop, street, and Bollywood routines, too. I love how easy it is to get lost in the music. I loved that one time when I got pulled up on stage to dance with the instructor to the song “Sweat.” I love that I always feel 100 percent better when I leave a Zumba class than when I arrived. I love that when Rowan sees anything Zumba on TV, he asks if “dat where you go to Zumba class?”

I love that for an hour at a time, I feel like a real dancer.

This battle reached a comic fever pitch last night. I’m not sharing this to make fun of him, but oh my lands, this is the part of parenting that can drive an otherwise sane person bonkers. Have you ever tried to reason with a 3-year-old? I know he just had surgery on Friday, and I should cut him some slack, but oh, how I wish there’d been a hidden camera in our living room as we tried to get him to take his medicine.

Rowan was extra whiny and clearly needed to just go to bed. He’d refused dinner. He agreed to take a bath, and then refused to get in said bath, claiming he didn’t know what water was. (Seriously.) Finally got him in the bath, and then he refused to get out. Then came the time for offering him his medicine. There are a couple of different ways he’s been taking it — from a tiny plastic cup, from a squirter-syringe thing, or in a regular size cup mixed with a little juice through a bendy straw. I’m certain we’ve been presenting him with too many damn options, as he refused all of the above, all the while giant tears are streaming down his face. I tried to be patient, but when he asked for a fourth option — to have the medicine-juice concoction in a sippy cup — I threw up my hands and cried uncle.

Roth finally just grabbed the squirter thing and held him while I aimed the medicine in his mouth like one of those carnival games. Naturally, this made Rowan more upset, but we did manage to get some medicine in before carrying him to his room and plopping him in his bed where he fell asleep like five minutes later. He was just so, so tired.

I couldn’t help but laugh at what had just transpired. Just who is running the show? At this age, we’re more like Rowan’s servants than anything else. We carefully prepare all of his meals, we bathe and dress him, we make sure his comfort exceeds our own, we provide him with endless entertainment, we wipe his butt. It’s like Downton Abbey ‘round these parts, and the Lord of the Manor is ringing his bell for more cheese and Curious George. I’m so quick to jump for his every whim, and I know I need to stop doing that, that whenever I give him an inch, he’ll take a mile.

Roth then went on to suggest all the other ways we could’ve offered him his medicine. In a shot glass? In a coffee mug? Out of a Camel-Pak? How about with a salted rim? Would he like it infused with lemon and thyme? Shaken? Stirred? On the goddamn rocks?

JUST DRINK IT, KID. It’s practically a Cosmo already.

And then there is this.

Yes, that’s a toilet seat. But not just ANY toilet seat. I first saw this amazing creation on Pinterest, right about the time we were potty training Rowan, and I immediately sought it out for our bathroom.

You may not think a toilet seat with a built-in toddler-sized seat is a thing of beauty, but you’d be wrong. Gone are the days of rinsing out a portable plastic potty seat. Blech! Gone are the days of having to remove a toddler seat from atop the toilet before sitting down yourself. Cripes! The smaller seat nestles right into the lid and is held up with a magnet. When your kid is big enough to use the full-size seat, you simply remove the smaller seat. It’s a beautiful invention for us parents of small children. J’adore!

I’ve since seen this same toilet seat in the houses of two of our friends, and I’d like to think my enthusiasm for this product has had a little something to do with the happiness of others. Best $45 I’ve spent in a long time. Amirite, friends?

Ours is by Bemis, and we got it at our local Home Depot, though I think American Standard makes one, too. Just make sure you verify what kind of toilet seat you need — round or elongated — and enjoy the potty!