Moving Forward

This has been another busy week of many activities, obligations, and appointments. I started the kids in a new tennis program, which has them playing on clay courts now and being coached by pros. I know I will be accused of being an aggro tennis mom, but I was becoming disillusioned with their original routine: too many kids, too little experience, too much time waiting to hit the ball. Now they are taking at a more "serious" venue under the watchful eye of some spectacular pro, I am told. This is great, as is the fact that they are benefiting from the low numbers of kids to coach. My boy basically had a private lesson yesterday, and walked around today saying, "Bounce, hit. Bounce, hit."

My girl is still carrying around the trophy she won from last weekend's 5K. She won the 9 and under age group and loves her Dolphin Dash win. Marc won overall, and came home with the largest trophy, of course. We are starting a shrine in the bathroom for all of his wins now. We may have to add on another room to the house soon if they continue their earnings at the rate they are going. Personally, I cannot think of a more miserable experience than to hurt like that for just over three miles. I would sooner run 100 miles than have to race three. Ouch.

The weekend also brought some huge surf, courtesy of Noel. When we trudged to the beach Saturday, we were quickly alerted by the lifeguard that no children were allowed in the water due to severe currents and high surf. The kids busied themselves instead collecting shells and climbing on beach driftwood. Marc, of course, had to get in with a board and surf the epic wind blown junk that was out there. The next day, the same decision to surf brought him a gash on his wrist from one of the skegs, at which point he decided to get out before he attracted too many sharks. Good thing, considering we read in the paper the next day a man was attacked by a shark and bit on the tukis that same afternoon. He was surfing just a stone's throw from where we were. Love the nature here in Florida.

Lastly, I came to a startling conclusion today while standing in front of the mirror naked in the gym locker room. I think this is the best shape I have been in since college. I dropped my boy off in his gymnastics class and then hit the shower quickly (since I was in need of one after my gym workout). Standing around and talking to other moms from the class made me feel happy to be part of the Mom Club. I feel honored and privileged to be a mom, have 2 great kids, and be able to take part in all the discussions about school concerns, sports debacles, and homework woes. Being around moms who are pregnant with number three, running around doing the mom thing, makes me ache for a third one sometimes. When I look at my little guy, I can't help but think how totally beautiful he is, how lovely and wonderful and sweet he is. How it could be really fabulous to have another beautiful baby. Then I think about the athlete in me and how kids cramp that style. In my mind, there are two camps: the one in which moms with three or more kids reside, and the one with two kids or less. Three or more is constant chaos, blissful craziness, and never a dull moment. Two or less is seemingly doable, organized chaos and highly transportable. Mother to three is to be part of the inner tribe of the Mom Club, the special sector of the cult with its own language and connection. Mom to two or less seems more connected to the husband and wives club, the willingness to move forward as a couple and back to the intimacy that brings as the kids become more independent.

I know what two kids has done to my time and the havoc it has reeked on my body, which is only now recovering the best way it knows how at 32 years old. I want to be a hot mom and desirable wife. For me, a third kid could virtually spell out disaster. Not just the idea of sleepless nights again, the mile high of poopy diapers or mismatched sippy cups with lids that always leak, but the image that goes along with it. Please don't get me wrong. I am not saying that all women who choose to have three kids are homely and undesirable. I can only imagine what it would mean for me. I think for me it would mean my body would really go to hell fast and Marc might leave me. Period. Today standing in front of that mirror, I almost felt like I have a decent figure that deserves more than the frumpy mom clothes. Maybe I deserve new boobs to boot? Who needs another ankle biter when there are more races to run and silicone to be had? This is what I am going to go with in light of the newest study that came out shedding new light on the connection between heart disease and birth control.