Hello, March

Can you believe it's March already? Didn't we just celebrate Christmas like two minutes ago?

Honestly.

I swear, time just keeps going faster and faster.

Anyhoo, I am exhausted and wanted to pop on here before I head upstairs to take a much needed, seldom-taken, short Monday morning nap.

Don't judge. You know you'd do it, too, if you could.

Here's what we've got on tap this week:

• The return of Chase, who has been on a business trip to Philly with the Husband, and stories galore of his adventures and escapades with his favorite cousin.
• Not one, but two, gorgeous photo shoots to share with you.
• My new favorite thing: The Blurb Book. Six months down, only thirty more to go.
  
• Orthodontic appointments for the boys to begin the process of bracing their teeth (goodbye, money. I'll really miss you).
• Manic house cleaning to prep for Oma tending while I'm on a ski trip with the Husband next week. (Which really translates to: The Husband is on a ski trip; I'm on a sleep in/nap/pedicure/shopping trip)
• And last, but not least, Stie on a diet. It ain't gonna be pretty, folks.

Happy Monday, peeps.

PVC: It's not just for pipes

How much do I love the internet?

THIS MUCH.

You are all so sweet. I cannot believe the influx of emails I received when I posted about my silly little palpitating heart.

To answer all your questions at once, this is what the doctor found:

I have PVCs.

No, not the kind they use to connect toilets and sinks and run dirty sewer water through. That would be pretty disgusting inside my chest.

And noisy.

It simply means my little heart is getting ahead of itself, the valves are contracting prematurely, and it's throwing my whole heart into a tizzy. And as a result, that big jolt that I feel is just my heart resetting itself.

Which it seems to be fond of doing about 10 times an hour.

Twenty-four hours a day.

But the doctor assures me it is perfectly harmless, lots of people have it, and I have nothing to worry about. Turns out that my father has it, as did his mother before him.

Our family and our little over-excited hearts. Sheesh. Why couldn't we be the family with freakishly fast metabolisms who have to eat 4,000 calories a day just to keep from losing weight? WHY?

Thanks again for your concern, little friends in the internet. Just know that I'd totally bring you a plate of cookies if I could.

[And I'd also sit and help you eat them. I'm just a good person like that.]

Tea party etiquette: What you really need to know

Yesterday, I had the privilege of attending a very fancy, very special tea party, hosted by this yummy girl:

She gave me quite the schooling on tea party etiquette and I thought I would share with you what I learned, in case you ever find yourself the recipient of a hand scrawled invitation for afternoon tea. These are just some of the things that you will need to know.

First, the drink of choice will always be lemon water. You will not be allowed to help slice the lemons, however, so spend this time praying and cringing as the stubborn strong willed hostess does the cutting.

[Note: Miraculously, no fingers were harmed in the making of this lemon water.]

Lemon water/tea is best consumed with the fancy umbrellas in the cups. Should you attempt to remove the fancy umbrella before consumption, you will be severely reprimanded.

Even if it is poking you in the face.

Best jewels are not only encouraged, but highly recommended. Most preferable are multi-colored, homemade necklaces. The gaudier the better at this type of social event.

Be prepared also for a delicious concoction of melted crushed chocolate popsicles covered in caramel sauce and whipped cream.

A delicacy rarely seen in western society, but tasty nonetheless.

Nilla wafers are the tea cookie of choice. You will only be allowed to eat one or two of these, however, as little fingers are much faster than yours.

Be sure to open your heart and be willing to make new friends. Welcome and converse with the short blond girl next to you in spite of her seemingly stoic silence.

Complimenting her fine ballet attire will also bring great joy to your hostess.

Under no circumstances, however, will your hostess allow big brothers of any sort to attend. Doing so would violate the strict, time-honored rule of No Boys Allowed.

They will not be welcomed even if they just so happen to be hanging out in the next room.

Much to their chagrin.

Last, but not least, when you think no one is looking, go ahead and give that plate a little lick.

And smile sheepishly if you happen to get caught.

Any questions?

And that, my friends, is exactly why I will continue to exercise every day

Internets, my heart, it is all a flutter.

Quite literally.

Fluttering and palpitating.

I have been noticing some palpitations and flutters for about a week now, and since we are of the highly insured variety, I popped myself into the cardiologist's office this week.

I liked going. I was the youngest in the waiting room by like 30 years at least. Made me feel pretty and attractive, sitting there next to the little old people and their spotted hands. As they called my name, I felt proud standing up without a walker. Almost turned around and gave the old peeps a wave -- and would have, too -- had I not tripped over my own feet like an idiot.

Stupid youth and hubris.

So my palpitations and flutters are probably nothing, but the cardiologist decided to send my highly insured self for an echocardiogram. Just to be safe. (Oma, are you dying reading this? Sorry.)

Getting an echo meant another day of sitting in yet another waiting room full of the lovely old people. And their walkers. And their canes. With me and my bad self. Strutting my youth and vitality. Nimbly bending and reaching without so much as a crack or a creak. Reminding them of the former glory they once had. My beauty, frozen in time...

Oh, all right. I'll stop now.

So finally my name is called by a technician who just so happens to look and sound exactly like Saddam Hussein. He takes me down a series of hallways and we end up at the doorway of a very dark room. Which was outfitted with a bed.

Saddam smiles, tells me to take my shirt off, put on a paper gown, and lie down on the bed in the dark room.

I mean, it usually takes at least dinner before I'll go to first base with a dead foreign dictator. Geez.

So I take my shirt off, put on the hideously loud paper gown, and lie in the dark room on the bed. After several noisy, paper-crunching minutes, Saddam comes back. He starts looking at my heart with the ultrasound/echo thingie (yes, that is the technical term) and makes a "Hmmpph" sound.

When one is lying there topless in a dark room with a Saddam Hussein lookalike, "Hmmpph" is not exactly the word you want to hear. He then asks me what I do for a living. I reply, a little too boldly, that I am a self-employed photographer. (Code for stay-at-home mom who likes to dabble in photography on the side). Saddam whistles through his moustache and says,

"Wow. By de looks of your heart, I would say you were a pro-fessional ath-a-lete. You have a veddy good heart. Do you, uh, work out?"

But see, he says this with a mixture of surprise and disdain as he is appraising my very, shall we say, un-athletic-like physique.

I reply that, yes, I work out every day.

Saddam turns back to the monitor with another of his Hmmphs. Which was code for, "Wow. Chubby over here is healthier than she looks. Go figure."

Well, at least I now know one thing: My heart can totally beat up his heart.

Help me, please

I have lost something of critical value and I have no idea where it went.

What did I lose, you ask?

I have lost my Motivation.

And I can't seem to find it, no matter how hard I look. I know it's around here somewhere. The last I saw of it was right around the 1st of January, but it definitely hasn't been seen much since. I've looked in all the usual places -- in my ever-tightening pants, in my bulging muffin top, and even in my backside in the full-length mirror.

And still, that wily Motivation is nowhere to be found.

Some days I do pretty well without it. I almost always start the day off on the right foot. I have a bowl of healthy cereal, and follow that up by a sweaty run on the treadmill. But then at about ten-thirty (or eleven-thirty, or two-thirty, or really any-thirty...), all sense of strength leaves me as I remember the leftover cake in the freezer. Or when I see the pan of brownies on the counter. Or when I have a party made up entirely of desserts, come to think of it.

And, lord help me, but I know those girl scout cookies I ordered are going to be in my pantry any day now.

So if you see my Motivation anywhere, please let me know. I really need to find her soon. I know she'll want to be here to help when her step-cousin, Regret, shows up to visit this summer at the pool.

And it goes without saying that Regret is the worst house guest of them all.

**What do you do to keep your Motivation from sneaking off for a six-month holiday?

Contentment

I was watching my kids play in the snow last week. I watched their red cheeks, stretched tight with cold and laughter. The snow balls flew through the air, and their bodies pressed angel-shaped into the snow-covered grass. Confetti clouds of white were tossed against the bright, blue sky. Shrieks of bubbly laughter surrounded them like a thick blanket.

And then the question creeped into my mind, ever so softly.

When exactly did I grow up?

I don't remember it happening. I just know that it has.

No matter how hard I try, I can't seem to pinpoint the moment that dipping my face into the snow sounded less like an adventure and more like torture. When did I decide that a snowball in the face is not the least bit funny? When did it grow so cold out that I chose to watch instead of play?

I think it happened so gradually that I hardly noticed it.

There was a time that I was the one with frostbitten fingers, tossing snowballs at my brothers' knitted caps. I was the one who donned moon boots and a striped coat, and stayed outside for hours -- returning to the house only for lunch or a quick cup of cocoa. I was once the one who made snow angels and tossed confetti clouds of white against the sky.

My days now are filled with schedules, carpools, laundry, and dishes. I have bills that I pay. I have a car that I maintain, and a house that I own. I have worries, stored up in a tired mind, that always seem to unleash themselves the minute my head hits the pillow.

I am the one who locks up the house at night, and climbs into bed in the dark. Nobody checks my closet for monsters or tucks me in with a kiss.

I am now the grown up.

Every once in a while, I miss the little girl who liked to have that kind of fun. But mostly, I sit content with myself now. Watching over my little snow babies from the warmth and security of a soft chair by the window. Looking up from my book now and then to laugh with them. Hurrying to ready a warm cup of cocoa when I hear their boots stomping in the garage.

Because the little girl I once was? She never knew what it felt like to warm the hands of her babies, listen to their laughter, and find that she loves them so much it hurts.

If she had, I'm afraid she might have been in a much bigger hurry to grow up.