Herding Cats While Tossing Cookies

At the beginning of last week I had this warm-and-fuzzy blog post written about how amazing it feels to be turning 35 and now I’m sitting here on day 5 of a viral stomach flu and I want to slap all of my healthy optimism off my pale, ashen face.

I just got home from the doctor, and while I was there, I ran into a friend who blew her knee out during a workout. She hobbled out of the office with her two-year-old and five-year-old in tow. My own mom thankfully took my older two, which left me wearing the baby to Kaiser in an attempt to not let her lick the exam room table. This lead to some challenging maneuvers when I needed to lay down during a blood pressure test with a nurse, so the doctor walked my baby around the office. She brought her back and Josephine nursed while we discussed how dehydrated I was. If both of these scenarios sound ridiculous that’s because they are. Call us extreme jugglers. Mothers are capable of simultaneously herding cats while tossing their cookies, during which your kids will still ask you for a snack.

At no time during my appointment did my doctor tell me to get more rest, or slow down because she also happens to be the mother of 3 young children and she gets it. It would be like telling Trump supporters to think logically, even if they wanted to, they simply cannot.

I told my doctor that I have a fancy dinner with friends tomorrow night and the California International Marathon relay on Sunday and I will do both even if I have to drag an IV bag of fluids along with me. And while she didn’t provide me with a banana bag on wheels, she didn’t try and stop me either.

I could have said out loud that I needed these events this weekend because I am exited about wearing a dress and I’ve been training for months. Or told her the story about this morning how when I told my 5-year-old it was my birthday tomorrow she cried during the entire walk to school because it wasn’t her birthday. But I didn’t need to say any of those things out loud because this language is unspoken. She’s a mother—so she knows: it is never about us. It is always about our littles, which is why I had hope that this one day could perhaps be a small glimmer of me in the spotlight. But instead of the spotlight it’s bad florescent bathroom lighting and instead of the stage it’s me on the floor. Don’t mind me down here though, kids. I’m just throwing my own little pity party of 1. Well, 35 actually.