Wag, Wag

Well, the boat ride really wasn't so good for me. Or at least that's the reason I'm claiming for this entire week+ of rather excruciating pain. I have hurt more in the last week than I believe I have during the entire past year (although I recognize that memories fade). Anyway, I hurt. I'm not sure what to do. I am scared, and I really want to clean my office.

That pretty much sums it up. No, there's more.

Today is a hazy, gray day. The NOAA says that it's 72 outside, but it feels like 88. Steamy. You can almost see the air. Maybe I should try to go to the neighborhood pool instead of the boring-but-warm therapy pool at the gym. The visit outside might at least be pleasant. I could take my blackberry and maybe relax for a few minutes on a lounge chair in addition to doing my walking around in the water. Problem is, part of the water idea is the heat -- trying to let the warm water loosen up my muscles. It's rained so much over the past little bit that I can't imagine the water is anything but chilly now. Of course, most people don't have a neighborhood pool or a warm therapy pool, and I'm choosing between them, so I should stop whining. I saw a t-shirt recently that said, "WAG MORE. (bitch less)"

Right now, I'm still in my dressing gown, having seen everybody off, had breakfast, read the Post, dogeared pages of the Chasing Butterflies catalog which contains children's clothing we could never afford, drank my tea and checked my work email (London is quiet, thank God). Since then I have been talking business items with D on the phone, arranging for babysitters this week and dogsitters next week and possible au pairs or nannies in some uncertain future, shopping for bath seats and footie pajamas for Baby, and making lists of lists.

I also dogeared the Pendleton catalog which contains women's work clothes I am going to have no choice but to buy. It's going to be a long time before I fit into any significant portion of my work wardrobe. I know I almost never go to the office, but I only have two pairs of pants, one sweater set (a sweater set!?! what was I thinking? just what you want to wear when you feel frumpy already -- plus, it sheds on everything; there is a reason it was at the Brooks Brothers outlet store) and one blouse that fit me. It's really not cool. You know what I really like for work? Shift dresses with matching jackets. Especially if one can then wear the jacket with pants. I am going to try to buy one of those and then also a pantsuit, in homage to the Democratic loser. I think I'm done wearing black, though. It just makes me look old and doesn't impress anyone. One needs to be sleek to pull off black. And I need some flat shoes one can wear with a shift dress and its matching jacket.

I was in the children's section of Border's the other day, looking for math books for our girl S (she is math crazed). I saw that they had a kids' book called "Barack Obama: An American Story." I was amused. I pictured an "American Girl"-type doll, with a little Hawai'ian school outfit and then maybe you could also buy the Young Democrats outfit and an accessory package which included "real" voter registration forms and even a Chicago soup kitchen play set. Am I souring on Obama? No. I just tried to picture buying that book for your kid and I got sort of the same negative feeling that I do about force-feeding them a particular sports team or musical preference. It's one thing to engage them by setting an example, but another to set expectations. There was even the An Inconvenient Truth book for young readers. Kinda creepy. D pointed out that it's an unfortunate tendency of people to just buy a book for the kid rather than trying to talk about the world and explain it to them.

S had her 7th birthday yesterday. Thanks be to God, we had it at the local gym franchise. This means the kids run around like maniacs for a while, then they play loud and wild games overseen by an energetic 20-something who does cartwheels for fun, and then they repair to another room for (in this case) ice cream cake and YOU DON'T HAVE TO DO ANYTHING BUT BRING THE CAKE. S lorded it over the table. She is hilarious. Like most confident kids, she goes a little bonkers at her birthday parties, being a little too loud, a little too brash, a little too rude. But she's also endearing in her excitement. Often she truly doesn't like being the center of attention, smirking down at the floor when she wins a school award or when strangers tell her she's so pretty. But in that element, with her beloved grandparents and best friends around, she explodes. It's wonderful.

R has the typical 4-year-old, younger-sibling trouble with all this. She opens her presents and he either demands to play with them first or kicks her for getting them. But he still did well. He played nice with the kids and bore their teasing when he announced that he was eating "around" the ice cream on the ice cream cake. He let others play with his new foam-dart shooter, which he won at a charity festival run by Grandpa on Saturday. In general the older kids were great this weekend, which was a treat because now we won't see them for a week. D is going to NYC for a few days, and I don't get to have visitation while he's gone. Next week, luckily, we will be at the mountain house together so we'll make up for missing them now.

Meanwhile, AJS was passed from grandparent to aunt to grandparent during the course of the party, like the smiley-sweet marshmallow she is. She was fascinated by this, her first kid birthday party. She crawled a bit on the mats while Papa made a substantial human shield against the wild running of the older kids. She drank some of a bottle, but mostly was not content to lie back and watch when so much was going on around her. As things were winding up, she got the opportunity to play with her first helium balloon. This was HUGE. It made me think of that scene in Knocked Up when Paul Rudd says he wished he liked anything as much as his kids love bubbles. She is so delightful. The happier she gets, the wider she opens her barely-toothy smile, until her mouth is so wide she can't open it any more. She loved that balloon. If I'm going to keep talking about these kids, I need some new synonyms for "hilarious."

Unfortunately, our baby girl didn't sufficiently nap with all the excitement, and she became extremely overtired. Like Mommy sometimes gets, Abigail was wired, even though she was exhausted, and she had trouble winding down. She crashed in my arms at 7:30, but then woke up three -- or was it four? -- times during the night. My poor, beloved husband was the only option for getting up with her, although he has to rise at 5:30 for work and can't nap at his desk during the day, because my back and abs are so weak and painful I can't really lift her out of the crib, especially now that the bed is lower and I have to plan ahead for 2 1/2 days without him here this week. This is the way it is.

In breaking news, my friend and I are having a spirited electronic discussion about breakfast foods, I am missing my girlfriend in New England, my husband and I are all excited about LinkedIn, my dog is alternately playful and dispirited when I can't keep up with her, I am really dying for a trip to the UK, and my office is still a mess. I think I'll go get dressed and then consider what to do next.