My New Bike

I want a bike. In sixth grade I used to come home and dash straight to the carriage house where my bike lived, grab that thing and ride out into the neighborhood for hours.

It was a beauty, complete with banana seat, high handlebars, streamers, and a large basket with fake roses. The tires constantly needed air. The bike smelled like goats, who also lived in the carriage house. No matter, it was wheels in motion, and it was mine.

So, I want a bike again. I do actually have a bike, but it was a gift from a boyfriend, the one who is now my husband. He had the mistaken notion that he and I would mountain bike together up craggy hills and cliffs, bouncing down over boulders and fallen logs.

Meanwhile, his brother is more of the Italian road racing biker dude. Dapper in his clip-in shoes, he bikes off for 50 miles at a stretch.

What?

See, I'm different. I want to return to those days when I biked UPRIGHT, not hunched over the handlebars. I want to ride and sniff the mown lawns. I'm a dawdler, not a speed demon.

I just remembered something: road and mountain bikes leave off the kickstand because it's "not cool" and adds weight. You know what? That kickstand is useful. I'm post menopausal and I don't care about being cool anymore.

Ditto with the long bar thingie that runs right down the middle of the bike. I have to stop, throw my leg over it, dismount, let my bike fall to the ground (remember, no kickstand) and throw my leg back over it when I want to get back on the trail. Since I never got the hang of the "stand on the pedal and mount / dismount" technique, I want that split rail design that allows me to quietly step on and off. In a skirt, if I so choose.

I just realized what I'm going to look like when I do get my old school, retro bike with kickstand, basket, upright handles, and skirt bar:

NOT THIS:

BUT THIS:

Mother's Day

Yesterday was Mother's Day in the US, and I was treated to a lovely spa day by my considerate family.  After a long morning of sleeping-in, I was whisked by limo to hours of massages, facials, pedicures...

Of course, that day actually occurred in some strange, alternate universe. 

Instead, my day began at 7, when I got up early to clean the house for the in-laws, who were coming over for brunch. I also had to cook that brunch; good thing I bought the ingredients the day before in between takes at the dance studio. 

(It was Dance Picture day on Saturday, complete with costume changes and make up on 8 year old's face; we're talking mascara here. All I can say is: SHUDDER)

I really don't mind about the cooking and the cleaning; would take that over standing in a two hour line to eat a meal at a crowded restaurant any day. Plus, when I serve the meal at home, we get to linger over our mimosas as long as we want without an annoyed waiter hovering and clearing his throat in a "We really need that table NOW" way.

No, the true fun began when I had to get 8 year old kid (who had to be changed into costumes and make up the day before, remember) into suitable church clothes. She was singing in the choir - in fact, she had a solo of six words long - so she had to look presentable.

Let me just share a quick secret with you all: she could go to church in cut-offs and a hole cut into a tablecloth as a poncho, and I wouldn't care. Heck, she could wear that dance costume from the pictures. My feeling is: I got my family to church relatively clean, what more do you want?

But no, "certain other people" (husband) don't agree. So I had to bully and chivvy kid into skirt - I know, the horror - and shirt that didn't have a T in front of it. 

After church, the day went well. The waffles turned out crispy and delicious. The mimosas flowed. the bacon disappeared in 30 seconds... all was right with the world. 

I even got to sneak upstairs for a ten minute nap at one point. Winning!

The true festivities, however, began at eight o'clock at night. That was when my daughter remembered she needed to bring in a book about the planets, with many planetty facts, to school on Monday. Yes, the classic "I just recalled my homework that I had all weekend to do" move which makes all parents want to curl up in a fetal position.

EXCELLENT gift!

There are no libraries or bookstores open at 8 PM on Sunday in our town.

Therefore, Mother's Day ended for me by writing a book on planets, complete with pictures, and printing it out. Did you know that Pluto was no longer a planet? You want to know why? Because its kids drove it to a gaseous death, that's why.

Finally got kid into bed and settled down to Mad Men with my husband. I admit I was eyeing up the Mimosa leftovers. Was just about to pour, when my daughter's bedroom door opened - she had a nightmare and I had to go and lie down with her and put her to sleep, again. I blame the waffles.

So, Mother's Day for me (and, I suspect for many others) was truly a MOTHER'S day. I was a mom in every sense of the word. 

All day long.

OUCH

My daughter had to have four teeth extracted yesterday. They were only baby teeth, but they had long roots and were crowding her adult incisors, so the orthodontist proclaimed they had to go.

This set into motion an entire month of misadventures. First I took her to the dentist, and they said the teeth were too difficult to remove - I would have to take her to an "orthodontic surgeon."

That's a nice, friendly phrase that won't strike terror into the heart of the 8-year-old who hears it - no, not at all.

I called the surgeon and found that we had to go in for a consultation first. This meant dragging my kid out of school early and taking her to the scary surgeon. I know it's a good thing that Kid likes school, but it's a pain when I show up to take her to Not Fun places and she doesn't want to leave.

Once we arrived, I was so frazzled I lost my keys in the office and had to have the entire staff help me look for them (they slipped between the cushions of the chairs in the waiting room, in case you were wondering.)

"It's your professionalism I admire"

Ever get a hot flash so violent that you sweat like an outfielder under the broiling sun in Arizona at noon? Yeah, that, except mine was from embarrassment, not hormones.

Once I found the damn keys, I scheduled the appointment for the actual extraction. They promised me that the teeth would come out easily and Kid would only need a local and laughing gas.

Kid tells me she doesn't want the laughing gas. I blurt out, "But, sweetie, that's the fun part." Mother of the year, y'all.

Repeat the 'picking up from school' debacle two weeks later. Arrive at "surgeon," and kid crawls to the back of the truck and refuses to come out. I bribe, cajole, promise, and finally threaten. Start to feel like Hannibal Lechter / that dude with the lotion in the basket.

Bring kid into office and watch as she is strapped into chair. She does smile when she gets the nitrous oxide gas. SEE???

Teeth pulled. I'll gloss over those details.

Mouth packed with gauze, and we go back to the car. (I strapped the keys to one leg a la Lara Croft this time.)

Yeah, Tooth Fairy! Go Tooth Fairy!

Get home, and kid decides that all the pain was My Fault. She begins to complain for the next few hours at the top of her lungs. Refuses pain meds, jello, ice cream, movie, iPod... 

I find myself ready to offer her a Paris vacation or the entire island of Cyprus. 

Hot flash intensifies (mine). Kid insists she looks like a "Nerdy hamster" now with her incisors gone.

Sneak tylenol into kid. Tirade stops. 

I look at those teeth in the little baggie again and realize she was really very brave throughout the entire ordeal. 

Tooth fairy stops by and leaves gift and lots of dollars.

Brave girl goes to school; I see I'll have to boil the blood-stained sheets. Thank the heavens it's all over.

You know, she doesn't look like a Nerdy Hamster now... she looks like a cute, brave hamster.