Oh Boy!

The new addition to our family - due March 20 - is a boy!

Oh, boy.....

One female in a house full of males! We definitely have to try for the girl!

Happy New Year!

How's This for Irony

For months, Americans, including me, have been complaining about gas prices. Now that they're dropping, isn't it just like an Amerian, namely me, to become annoyed at the fact that it took so long to put $20 worth of gas in the tank this morning.

Can we say H-O-C-K-E-Y?

They said it couldn't be done. A 3-year-old learning to skate on hockey skates! Blah, blah, blah. B is doing great, and today, during public skating, the little bruiser kept banging into the boards on purpose, leaving the impression that he has an innate desire to play hockey, for which his father, a former college hockey player, would be very glad.

I was wrong about ONE thing, then. Maybe Sarah Palin and I DO have something in common. You betcha! Wink wink.

The Second Phase

I am officially into the second trimester of my pregnancy, which would explain why I am up at 5 in the morning eating honey roasted peanuts and posting to my blog.

I didn't have the knock-down, drag-out first trimester that many women seem to experience. In fact, many times, I forgot I was pregnant.

The beginning of the second trimester, at least for me, is a little tricky. Sure, I feel less tired. But I am at the point where I don't yet look pregnant, just fatter. My regular clothes don't fit. But maternity clothes look and feel ridiculous. I am currently a walking contradiction.

I have vowed this time not to gain the highly embarrassing amount of weight I put on with my first (50 pounds). For the love of all things holy, I hope I can stick to that promise. But the chocolate Ganache cake at Praline's is constantly calling my name and I cannot hide the fact that over two days, I nearly polished off a whole bag of lime-flavored tortillas. Damn, those things are good. And I think there are a few crumbs left in the pantry.

I am, I must admit, a bit nervous about this new being that will soon be in our lives. After all, it's been three years. We are in a comfortable routine now and I honestly have a hard time envisioning it being cosmically altered by a tiny, crying, feed-me-every-two-hours baby. On the flip side, I could not be more excited about this tiny, crying, feed-me-every-two-hours baby that will soon change our comfortable life. I always pictured a four- (dare I say 5?) member family. And to experience all those "firsts" again is indeed exciting. First smile. First laugh. First step. First word. The first time that tiny person says, "I love you."

Only 25 weeks more to go.

A Day of Reflection

I hope everyone pauses today - Sept. 11 - to remember.

Torn ACL???!!!

Thanks to Rich's recent injury, I already know all I need to know about torn ACL's. But the rest of Patriot's Nation will be clued in to that all-important ligament that stabilizes the knee as it has been confirmed that Pats' Quarterback Tom Brady in fact tore his ACL during today's game against Kansas City. I dare not print here the language that was flying through the air at my house this afternoon, but suffice it to say, it was not a happy household. Of course, the Pats won behind Matt Cassel, but now the rest of the season is currently up in the air.

Are you ready for some football? Sundays will not be happy days in this house for the foreseeable future....

End of Summer...Off to School

Beach and barbecue. That's how we spent the first half of this, the unofficial last weekend of summer.

Then yesterday, we made the first of what I expect to be many pilgrimages to Kittery, to do some back-to-school, or should I say, off-to-school shopping. Our little boy starts preschool this year, and it seems like only yesterday that he was spitting up on my shoulder and waking every two hours in the middle of the night to be fed. Now he's in a big-boy bed, in a big boy room, and, in exactly one week, will walk through the doors of Mrs. Murray's Nursery School for the first time as a student. I will be out in the parking lot, smiling through my tears.

It's a sad and joyous time.



Happy Back to School!

Hero For the Day

I would like to think I am a dog person. But I'm not. I cringe at the thought of hair on my furniture. I practically hyperventilate when I think of wet doggy paws tramping through my house. Nevermind the mess you have to go through when training a puppy. It was hard enough potty training my son.

So, why then, was I disappointed when an email - complete with heart-wrenching photos - soliciting takers for abandoned puppies turned out to be a joke? Perhaps it was their big, doggy-brown eyes. Or the shattered image of my son frolicking through the yard with a puppy. In the end, though, I think I like the idea of a dog, rather than the actual thing itself. Because when, after our initial disappointment we started researching yellow lab breeders, I became less excited at the prospect of adding a canine member to the family, and more frantic. Did we have the time to train, discipline and love this new member of our family? Would the dog a have an adequate, fenced-in yard? Would we pass the breeder's 10-point potential dog-owner inspection ? No. No. And hells no. I just didn't think we could hack it. At least not now, when we are expecting baby #2.

My point is, I am one of those people who thinks she is an animal person, but is really not, at least not if that animal has to reside in my house.

However, today at Salisbury Beach, I witnessed something that really pulled on my heart strings. An injured seagull. A seagull of all things! The damn bird went into my beach bag, pulled out a giant-sized bag of Gold Fish, flaunted them around the sand and still I could not help but be concerned about the fishing wire and lure wrapped tightly around its legs, inhibiting his gait. The poor thing must have been starving. Had it not been for the flock of seagulls (not the musical group, but an actual flock of birds) circling overhead, I would have given up the Fish, though it would have been much to the chagrin of my three-year-old, Gold Fish-obsessed son. Anyway, my friends and I hemmed and hawed for a bit, wondering what to do, while the injured seagull squawked and squawked and made itself comfortable in the sand. Poor thing. I wish there was something we could do. I'd cut if free myself if I could. Finally, my friend, and new hero, Kristen D., made her way to the lifeguard chair. A few minutes later, not one, but three lifeguards accompanied her back to where we were set up on the beach, and waited while a naturalist/wildlife expert made his way over in his Gator. He asked for a handful of Gold Fish. I dumped them in his gloved hand and he tossed them into the air. Seagulls swarmed from everywhere. Our injured seagull was in the middle of the pack. In a flash, the guy dove and took hold of the fishing wire-entwined bird. Five minutes later, the seagull was cut free and thrown to the wind, his wings spread wide. The gathered crowd cheered. And we watched as he landed in the ocean and darted around the water. If a seagull can look happy, this one definitely was.

So, here's to you Mrs. I Save Seagulls Wrapped in Fishing Wire. Here's to a job well done. May humans and seagulls everywhere take heart and live in harmony.

On Hiatus

It's true. I've been on a blog hiatus for almost a month now.

It just seemed that lately I haven't had much to say, nor the time to say it. Once my mind is free and clear of pressing issues, I shall return.

Read what fellow blogger KJ wrote about "rotational neglect." I am taking my cue from her.

Be back in a couple of weeks.

Yankee Homecoming

I know "townies" hate it. But I live here - yes, I know that DOESN'T make me a townie - and I actually enjoy YH. Pancake breakfast, music on the green, antique cars, balloon twisters, fresh-squeezed lemonade, penny candy, a fireman's muster. How can you go wrong at Old Fashioned Sunday?

Anyway, for those of you fellow Newburyporters who braved the "dreaded" tourists yesterday, hopefully you gathered up the kids, got blueberries in your pancakes, took a plunge in the dunk tank, rode around the Mall on the train and felt easy like Sunday morning.

Some pics.

Greenhead Alert!

I know they've been here for days now. But early this morning, my son and I headed drove over to Plum Island for a little early morning beach action. I mistakingly thought that being 7:45am, those pesky greenheads might still be in a restful slumber. Wrong. If we walked, it wasn't that bad. But of course being 3, my son wanted to stop and fill his pockets with shells and examine seaweed on the beach. We walked a ways, but then even the act of moving didn't stop them from biting at our legs and arms. And those f'ers hurt! We had to hustle it back to the car, where we drove off the island with the windows up.

Yikes!

But the surf sure was beautiful.

On Anger

I'm angry that the Internet is slow. At the housing marking. That all my kitchen towels are dirty and every time I reach for a paper towel, I am acutely aware of my actions on Global Warming. I am angry that my son pooped in his underwear. Despite months of being potty trained. I am angry that he poured parmesan cheese all over the family room carpet. I am angry at rising gas prices. That our windows don't open wide enough to put conventional air conditioners in the house. That we signed a contract today for an inordinate amount of money to have one of said windows replaced. That even though I cleaned until 9:30 last night, my house still looks like a tornado swept through, favoring the rooms with the highest need for cleanliness: the kitchen and bathroom. That my dehumidifier is full....again. That I have to do laundry. At all. I am angry that I am dead tired after a workout at the gym. I thought it was supposed to leave you feeling "energized." I am angry that after 12 years, I still haven't written the next Great American Novel. That despite multiple promises to do so, I still haven't managed to be "ahead of the game" with my deadlines. I am angry that when it's hot and muggy, my feet stick to the floor. I am angry that I spent time organizing my son's matchbox cars, and they were all over the floor within 10 minutes of him waking. That I have insomnia. That I'm not pregnant yet. That I might be pregnant. I am angry that my neighbor somehow purposely altered his Chevy Blazer to be 10 times louder than it should be. That we have no grass in our yard. I am angry that I haven't posted since June 4. At those damn word verifications that, on a Mac, never go through the first time.

I think that's it. Oh no. One more thing. I am angry that I spent so much time today being angry. Today I nearly busted out of my clothes, turned green and wreaked havoc on unsuspecting victims. I needed to vent. Thanks.

Garden of Last Days

I am very excited for Andre Dubus III's new book, Garden of Last Days to come out this month.

Ever since I read House of Sand and Fog and Bluesman, I get a bit star-dazed when I see him at the gym. (He lives in the next town over from me.) But it also reminds me that writers are regular people, and that perhaps, someday, I'll be a best-selling author going to the gym.

Anyway, check out this video to get the low-down on the new book, which I'll be reviewing for Merrimack Valley Magazine.

To the hip-hop, you don't stop

We Did Survive!
(By Michelle "Gloria Gaynor" Curran.)

At first we were afraid,
We were petrified.
Kept thinking we could never dance
We wanted just to hide.

Then we got up there on stage and the curtain opened up
And we said whassup!!???
And then we kicked some hip-hop butt.....

We did it! My two friends and I survived our hip-hop recital yesterday afternoon. After weeks of agonizing about getting up there on stage and shaking our 30-something bodies in front of hundreds of people, it's over. For me, it was kind of an out-of-body experience. For hours before the show, I felt as if I was going to puke my guts out. I was going to get up on stage and forget the whole damn thing, leaving my girls in the lurch. Fortunately, Rich and I had formulated a plan beforehand. Should I have forgotten the moves, the plan was to do the moon-walk back and forth across the stage until the song was over. Even more fortunate, I didn't need to go to plan B. I remembered everything and actually (and perhaps shamefully) enjoyed it. I had fun. I smiled for the audience, whom thankfully I couldn't see thanks to the glaring spotlights. There were no mishaps and we didn't get laughed or booed off the stage. And our husbands luckily left before the humiliating finale in which we received medals and had to sing for the audience.

And after all the complaining I did about class and rehearsals and costumes, I will probably do it again next year. I think I may have found my true calling. Show business.

Thanks to our crazy-whack-funky (and super talented) dance teacher April Nicoll, who should not be teaching the likes of us to dance, but should be dancing herself. She actually encouraged me NOT to quit, for which I am ultimately glad.

Breaking News Update: Stay tuned for a clip of our performance in the coming weeks.

On dinner with the kids

There's not all that many restaurants around here where kids can be kids and not be given death stares by the diners of neighboring tables.

But dinner at Rosie O'Shea's Friday night proved to be enjoyable for young and old alike. We went with a couple of friends who are regulars there and sat at a lone table in the back of the restaurant. I've only ever had late-night beers at Rosie's, choosing to save the evenings we have occasion to dine out for establishments known more for their cuisine. However, I was pleasantly surprised by my burger. And what Rosie's may lack in fine cuisine, it makes up for with a totally kid-friendly atmosphere. There was tons of room for the kids to run around unhindered and shortly after dinner, a group of young fiddlers and Irish step-dancers took the stage. Half the fun of the evening - besides the good company, service and drinks - was watching the kids trying to imitate the dancers. They had a blast. And what's more, the waitress thought it was funny when I found my son at the next table over making salt-and-pepper mountains for his matchbox cars to plow through. (Not, of course, that this is behavior I generally approve of.)

But it was probably the most relaxed I've felt out at dinner with my three-year-old....ever. We're going to try and crash the Daigle's friday evening ritual as often as possible now....


Good times.

Happy Mother's Day!

Happy Mother's Day to all the cool moms out there I know!



And Happy Birthday to our little man, who officially turned three today.

Some pics from his soiree last week, and the traditional butter on the nose pic from this morning.

(Bouncing in the bouncy house.)

(Checking out his cake.)

(Us opening presents after his party. Rich demonstrating Braedan's new superhero cape.)

(The traditional butter on the nose.)

Little old ladies who do bad things

Yesterday, while grocery shopping at DeMoula's, I was in the pickle/condiment/olive oil/natural food aisle, and there was this little old lady slowly pushing her cart past the olives and scrutinizing everything - little jars of pesto, hot peppers, you name it.

Then I saw her take something off the shelf and examine it with crinkled eyes. After shuffling back to her cart, and leaning against the handle, she proceeded to peel the price tag off and put it on an item already in her cart. While smoothing out the little orange tag over the top of the jar, she caught me looking at her. She held my gaze for just a few seconds, just long enough to say, "So what?" in what I imagine would have been a voice much like Sofia from the Golden Girls.

It made me kind of sad.

Is it bad that I schedule my life around Lost?

Any die-hard Lost fan probably understand this. But many of you also probably are in possession of the latest in tv technology., i.e. Tivo, On Demand.

I think those things ruin the excitement of watching a tv show live. Well, not live, but unrecorded. I like the anticipation, the challenge of making sure my kid is sleeping, the fact that I can't get up during commercials for anything - food, drink, relief - for fear I might miss a millisecond of action.

A brush with celebrity

Today, Braedan and I ventured into Boston to meet up with DG and her nephew for a trip to the Children's Museum. It was the perfect day to walk from Salem Street in the North End to the Museum's location on Congress Street. And after some technical difficulties with the double stroller, we weaved with ease through the hordes of tourists vying for tickets on the Trolley.

The Museum was much what I thought it would be - a mess of sticky-fingered kids running around with exhausted-looking parents in tow. But really, it was a blast. There's nothing like the pure, unadulterated joy of a three-year-old donning a hard-hat and sitting on a pretend Bobcat or chucking basketballs against the wall.

While in the cockpit of the airplane in the Arthur & Friends Exhibit, my son was waiting in line behind Neve and Beckett O'Brien, daughter and son of Brookline native and late-night talk show host Conan O'Brien, who was standing right next to me, imploring his son to give the other kids a turn at piloting the plane. Conan is just as tall, just as thin, and just as red-haired as he appears on television. I half-expected to him to bust out with his infamously bad Irish accent or tell a joke. (In my opinion, that guy is one of the funniest MF'ers around.) But he was just a dad, spending the day with his wife and kids at the Children's Museum. I resisted the urge to ask for a photo, as no one else seemed to recognize him or, if they had, were respectfully leaving him alone. And I didn't want to be THAT girl. I was so excited to have spotted him that I quickly found DG playing Tic-Tac-Toe in the next room with her nephew and informed her that Conan O'Brien' was there with his kids and his wife, who, by the way, is beautiful.

"Who the heck is Conan O'Brien?" she asked, the worst buzz-kill for a gossip.

Oh well.

The rest of the trip proved to be fun, but exhausting as Braedan had a mini-meltdown in the Construction Zone after our late ABP lunch. (No nap, you see.) As a result, a promised visit to the Museum souvenir store did not come to fruition. And a major meltdown once we got home justified my decision even further.

Anyway, some pics.




(You can see the meltdown is coming)


(Braedan and Auntie DG)

Why a 30-something should not pretend to be Shaq

It's called a Segond Fracture and it's what Rich suffered when he was on the basketball court Sunday morning with a couple of friends.

Talking trash the night before at the Black CowRich was the one who said, "Man, I hope I don't get hurt tomorrow," which, of course, sealed his fate. Sunday morning was supposed to be relaxing. The next thing you know I'm screeching out of the parking lot of 1-2-3 Little Me, a new indoor playground Braedan loves, dropping him off at a (good) friend's house, and meeting Rich at the hospital.

He was in triage and his buddies, husbands of my friends, just shook their heads. Rich, in a wheelchair, was shaking with pain. Two hours later, we left with a script for percocet, Rich in a leg immobilizer and on crutches, a Segond fracture diagnosis and a referral for an orthopedic surgeon. Segond fractures are usually an indicator of an ACL tear.

"In 15 years of playing hockey, nothing like this ever happened to me," Rich told Nancy, one of the nurses who attended to him while he was there, before he slipped into his percocet fog.

Updates to follow.

Why A 30-Something Should NOT be a hip-hop dancer

For weeks, I'd been waking up on Tuesday mornings with multiple hematomas spread across my knees and shins, the cause of which may have been misinterpreted by more dirty-minded individuals. (Come on, you KNOW you are out there.)

These bruises, however, I am ashamed to admit, are caused by my weekly hip hop sessions. Think multiple knee spins with nothing between your knees and the cold, wooden floors but a pair of cotton sweat pants. Finally, after last week's train wreck, I'd had it and this week caved and went to Olympia and bought some knee pads. Yes, I need a pair of knee pads, please, for hip-hop dancing. Yes! I said hip-hop dancing.

Anyway, this last dance class was on, and I was spinning with the best of 'em, my knees cushioned by a thick piece of heaven. Now if I could only, actually, dance!

The Heat Miser must have given up some territory for Snowy

This is what is greeting us as we open the front door this morning - one week into Spring.

Istanbul? (Not Constantinople)

A while back, I signed up for SiteMeter, a site that keeps track of who visits your Website. I thought the list would be few, as I could count on one hand the people who actually read Singuloso.

However, frequent checks indicate that besides the handful of family and friends who visit, there were some surprising non-domestic locations. Cool ones too, like Istanbul, the UK, Galway, Limerick and Slovakia. What I can't figure out, is that all these foreign locations track back to this post. Either they all like my hip-hop avatar, or I have committed some sort of copyright infringement and an investigation as to my guilt has been launched.

Anyway, when I saw Istanbul on there recently, it reminded of They Might Be Giants. So, without further adieu, here is a blast from our musical pasts. Enjoy.

Little Drummer Boy

I don't wanna work...I wanna bang on these drums all day......

After some prodding, Braedan decided he DID want to play the drums at his friend Ryan's house this morning. In true rocker fashion, notice how at the end he tosses the sticks to the floor. Show's over, people!

(Also, notice the miniature super hero gliding by in the background. That's Ryan, who rocks out hard on those drums, by the way.)

Bay State Parent Awards

So I didn't win any individual awards, but it was still nice to be mentioned in the list of writers who contributed to Bay State Parent Magazine's overwhelming success in this year's national Parenting Publication Awards. Scroll down and you'll see my name (along with blogging buddy Kate M. Jackson) mentioned in several categories, including Overall Reporting, General Excellence and two special section awards (The Think Pink Guide-Oct. 2007, in which my story on breast cancer survivor and WCVB news reporter Kelly Tuthill appeared, and the Dreams Do Come True Arts Guide-Sept. 2007 where two stories I wrote on Stoughton mom and singer/songwriter Lori McKenna and mom/rocker group HRT appeared.)

House of Coughs and Sneezes

There are piles of tissues everywhere, empty juice cups spread throughout the house, and no doubt this place is a giant petri dish of unimaginable germs.

Both husband and son have the flu.

Singuloso shall return when the place has been disinfected and the Haz-Mat guys have left the building.

What a witch

This is when you know that a teacher should just hang up her hat - for good.

Makes you wonder what's going on when you drop your kids off at school, doesn't it?

How Rascal Flatts is helping me potty train

Getting Braedan to pee in the potty is as elusive a trick as presidential hopeful Mike Huckabee winning the Republican nomination.

Over the last few weeks, Rich and I have resorted to all sorts of tactics - threats, promises of treats, reading lengthy books, multiple viewings of that damn Cars movie - anything. Most recently, the promise of listening to select songs from the Cars soundtrack seems to be working. We downloaded some on Itunes and all I have to say is, "Life is a Highway" and he's in the bathroom peeing. This is his standard reaction, even after listening to the song 14 times. (Seriously.)

Plum Island Surf

Anxious to reclaim some inner peace and an appreciation of the outdoors, we headed out this morning to Plum Island to walk on the beach, even though a quick check at Weather.com said it was a mere 20 degrees. I bundled Braedan up to look like Randy from A Christmas Story.

(I can't put my arms down!)

We explored for about an hour. Braedan got knocked into the sand by a herd of over-zealous dogs and we both took a digger over some rocks while trying to escape the encroaching water. But all in all it was a great, peaceful morning.


(Braedan looks out into the crashing ocean.)

And for all you beach-lovers who are thrashing around helplessly in these last throes of winter, here is a reminded of what's to come. Turn up the volume and enjoy.....(but try to ignore the faint toddler musings, and my subsequent, "shhhhh.")

Love is in the air

His and Hers
Any Questions?

Happy Valentine's Day!

Sledding

Kids say weird things. Well, at least our kid does.

If you can't pick it up on the video, here's how the first part of that conversation went.

Rich: "I want you to count 3-2-1, and then we'll start going down. Go ahead."
Braedan: "I can't."
Rich: "Why?"
Braedan: "Because the trees are out and the sun's out today."

(What???!!!)

Anyway, this morning was spent sledding in the state park across the street from our house, which Braedan truly enjoyed.

A long time coming

For the last couple of years, Braedan has been running around with the longest hair you've ever seen on a three-year-old. After months of saying I was going to do it, I finally gave in and took him to get those precious curls cut off. Here is a bit of what transpired.



He did eventually sit down and let the woman cut his hair, (though he did freak out just a little when the clippings started falling on him - he has a thing about hair). And here's the finished product.



In the words of Vince Vaughn, he's all growns up!

Didn't we almost have it all?

I'm not going to say too much about the Patriots' heartbreaking loss last night. I won't expound upon the poor defense and offense, the lack of fire in Brady's eyes.

I will say only this. Those Motherf'ers. A flawless regular season. Football perfection. What happened?

This might be hard to swallow, but much of it is, unfortunately, true.

The Oceanic Six

At first I thought it might be some crazy, screwed-up rock band Hurley threw together in memory of his best bud, Charlie.

Seriously though, here are my guesses for which of our favorite Island survivors make up the Oceanic Six:

Jack, Kate, Hurley, Sawyer....umm, hmmm....

Oh, damned if I know!

But I am so happy Lost is back. My only gripe is with my husband, who is an obsessive flipper, and insists on flipping to NESN to check the score of the Bruins game during Lost commercials. The three minute intervals are spent with me, hissing, "Back. Back." It finally ended this evening with Rich relinquishing control of the remote and suffering through that stupid Verizon commercial - the one where the guy and girl are texting love notes to each other - oh, about 7 times.

Hip Hop Addendum

A couple of weeks ago, I humiliatingly revealed the costume I would be forced to wear during a hip hop (yes - I said hip hop) recital I am reluctantly participating in this summer.

I am pleased to report that I learned last night that the following changes would be instituted. Over the red "Dance!" leotard, we will be wearing cropped black hoodies - old school, I love it. And second, we will be trading the candy cane tights for black, BAGGY!, cargo pants. Nice.

That part is a relief. What isn't, is that at last night's class, I was miserably lost, having missed the previous session. I basically stood at the back of the room laughing and getting pissed and threatening to quit. Honestly, I don't think anyone much cared.

Braedan gets Red, Stanley and Guido

Watch as a little boy obsessed with Disney/Pixar's Cars movie receives gifts in the mail from Grammy.

Feeding the Cars habit

Since he had a playdate last fall with an equally Matchbox-crazed toddler, Braedan has been obsessed with the Cars from the Disney/Pixar movie of the same name. See, prior to that my son didn't watch television, but when he saw how much his friend coveted those movie character vehicles with eyes, he immediately wanted them. And of course, I gave in. The whole thing started out with Lightning McQueen.

Since then it has been Cars nonstop. And he hadn't even seen the movie still. This Christmas, after Braedan sat comatose in front of the television at the gym day care each morning in the weeks leading to the holiday watching Cars, we finally broke down and bought it too. And along the way, he has acquired about 35 of the movie character cars. (A lesson for parents - Lightning McQueen is nearly the same as Bugface McQueen, Dirt Track McQueen, Cactus Patch McQueen, Tongue McQueen, Crusin' McQueen, Radiator Springs McQueen, etc, etc.)

Ever since Christmas, he has been talking about the two cars he didn't get - Red the Fire Truck and Guido - and how he plans to ask Santa for them. In true Grammy fashion, my mom, not for the first time, sent Braedan one of his beloved wishes in the mail yesterday. You can imagine the excitement it caused.



Braedan goes to bed talking about Cars, wakes up in the wee hours of the morning, stumbles to the living room to play with his Cars and can barely function if he isn't holding one of them in his hand at all times.

I never thought it would come to this

Does this look like an outfit that a 30-something stay-at-home-mom would wear? Ok. Well, any self-respecting, 30-something stay-at-home mom?

As readers of Singuloso may know, a couple of months ago I, along with a couple of friends, decided to partake in a hip-hop dance class at a local studio, DESPITE the fact that there would be a recital at the end of the class.

The class was everything I thought it would be - stomping around to the likes of Kanye West in baggy sweatpants and tee-shirts, a suburban dose of 'street.' Now I will be made to look like a deranged, dancing candy-striper. (Yes, the tight-fitting bodice, in shiny, glittery, silver lettering, indeed reads DANCE.) What's worse is that I am not the slim and fit person I was in college. Doubly worse? During our routine - which by the way will not be done to a hip-hop diddy, but an N'Sync Christmas song (the theme is dancing through the holidays) - a group of 7 year old tumblers will join us on stage - WEARING THE SAME COSTUME!

The possibility of quitting just before the recital still exists for me. And each time I look at that costume, rumpled up in a plastic bag in my closet, that possibility becomes increasingly real. But (and at this point it's a big but(t), literally and figuratively) should I decide to join in this circus, I will NOT be posting the recital date here on Singuloso.

Apres Holiday

Most everyone I know is glad the holidays are over. I, on the other hand, suffer a mild to moderate depression once all the festivities have finally come to an end.

I admit it. I am one of those "Christmas people." I love decorating the tree. Sitting by the fire listening to Christmas music. Watching Christmas Vacation over and over until the lines between my holidays and the Griswold's are blurred beyond recognition.

Over the last couple of days, I have been periodically (and sadly) removing Christmas decorations from the rooms in my home. On New Year's night, still nursing a bit of a hangover, I took all the ornaments off the tree, leaving it naked with nothing but it's twinkling white lights to cover its fading needles. The next morning, my son got up from bed, went into the living room, and came running back as if someone had just taken off with his shiny new squad of Pixar Cars. "Where are all the
ornaments?" he asked. "It's time for us to put the tree outside," I told him. "But why?" he pleaded. "Christmas is over," I said bitterly.

But for four days the tree stood there in our living room, naked and twinkling, hanging on. It's star shining like a beacon of hope. On day three, I noticed one lone ornament hanging from a low branch - a sign of solidarity, no doubt, put up by my son.

Tonight marked the complete removal of our beloved Tannenbaum. The removal on this particular day has nothing to do with the Epiphany but rather the fact that our tree stopped drinking water well before Christmas and there was a rather well-defined circle of pine needles circumventing our tree skirt.

Our son, eager to help with this obviously ceremonious task, told us in no uncertain terms that we would be getting a new tree to replace this "old" one. I didn't have the heart to tell him that a new tree would not arrive for another 335 days. Our collective disappointment would have been too much to bear.

The silver lining to all this Christmas tree removal business though is that our small living room feels unusually large without that all important symbol of the holiday season taking up half our space. A couple of minutes after the tree was tossed out into the icy snow, I was already talking up a few new pieces of furniture and conjuring mental blueprints for our "new" room. I'm feeling better already. And after all, Christmas is only a mere 354 days away now.

Damn. But it's a leap year, isn't it?

The Holidays in Pictures

Hope everyone had a wonderful holiday season. Ours was filled with much laughter, fun, food and spirit, some of which can be seen here.

Happy New Year!

Photo and video editing at www.OneTrueMedia.com