He knows everything, like god.

It has been a beautiful day.

Eliot and I have spent our time outside, soaking up the spring air like thankful new flowers, turning our faces towards the sun. This afternoon I've spread a quilt out in the shade over a patch of dry brown grass, and I've been sitting here with a paperback novel, reading and watching Eliot build endless roads through his sandbox. Our lazy, meandering conversations have kept me entertained all day.

We ventured out early, as soon as I could convince Eliot to trade his dinosaur pajamas for jeans and a t-shirt. On our way up to the park, he casually informed me, "I know everything, like God."
Me: "Uhmmm...is that so?"
Eliot: "Yeah."
Me: "How do you figure you know everything?" (I'm thinking--but NOT saying--"Wow, my kid gets more and more like his dad every day...")
Eliot: "Because. I pray every day."
Me: "You do?"
Eliot: "Yes. I pray at school. Yesterday I prayed for A___'s dog."
Me: "You...prayed for A___'s dog?"
Eliot: "Yeah. She told me she thinks he has an ear infection, and I said if she thinks that, she should probably take him to the doctor. So I prayed."
Me: "..."
Me: "Who ARE you?! And how old are you, anyway?"
Eliot: "I'm four."
Me: "You don't act like you're four."
Eliot: "Well...that's probably because I'll be five next month, Mom."
Me: "Right. That explains it."

A few days ago, Eliot told me he could "speak bird." He assured me that "tweet tweet chirp," when translated into English, means, "Do you like Legos? Well, YEAH, I like Legos! Who doesn't?"
These are obviously the kinds of conversations birds would have. Obviously.

 At the park, we had to come to the rescue of a little girl who was screaming bloody murder from the top of the slide, yelling, "DAD! DADDDDDD!" Dad was nowhere in sight, so I walked up and asked her if she needed help, thinking she had climbed to the top and was now too scared to slide down. She said, "There is a FLY up here and I am afraid of flies and the FLY just landed on my HAND!" Keeping a very straight face, my right hand shading my eyes against the sun, I looked up at her and said, "Wave your hand around, like this," demonstrating a flapping motion with my left. "Ahhhhhhh!" she cried. Eliot calmly stood up from the pile of sand he was playing in, dusted off his pants and sighed, "I'll go save her, Mom. I AM a superhero, after all." He climbed up to the top of the slide, waving his arms around in a shooing motion and told the girl, "I know a song to get these flies away. You just sing, 'Shoo, fly, don't BOTHER me! Shoo, fly, don't BOTHER me!" Then my brave, omniscient son, shoo-er of flies, defender of little girls, grabbed her hand and they both slid down into the sand. It was like the opening scene of a Nora Ephron movie, meant to foreshadow their courtship and eventual marriage, which will no doubt be fraught with charmingly comical moments of misunderstanding caused by lack of communication.

Just now, as I type and Eliot plays in his sandbox, he randomly muses, "I don't like it when people kiss; it's so gross. Every time my dad kisses Heather, I say, 'ewwww...sick!' and so does Bean. Well, Bean can't say that yet, but he WILL. Trust me."

I look over at Eliot, and I'm thinking, "Yeah, that shit would gross me out too," but in responsible mother mode, I merely smile and try not to laugh.

It's been a beautiful day.

Facebook and I are frenemies. (And Pinterest is our bastard child who resulted from that one night when we both had too much to drink.)

I love Facebook. I really do. But Facebook and I are frenemies. Or, really, Facebook is more like a pesky younger sibling. No matter how many times it manages to piss me off, I keep coming back for more. Ultimately, I can love it at times, and hate it at times, but I can never bring myself to not care at all.

I love having a central place to "check in" everyday, to catch up with people's news, big and small, to check the temperature of everyone's mood, to see photos of long lost friends' babies and pets and what-have-you. Through Facebook, I've facilitated new relationships and rekindled old ones. On occasion, Facebook has served to remind me why I didn't keep up with a certain person (or persons) in the first place.

However. However. However. Facebook is also a gigantic black hole of time suck (bet you haven't noticed this!) into which my very soul disappears on an all too frequent basis. Every time I open my laptop, regardless of the task at hand, I go to Facebook first. I think to myself, "Well, I'll just pop on over there for a minute before I _______." (insert "balance my checkbook," "grade these essays," "respond to my work email," "write a blog post," etc.) Two hours later, I haven't managed to do anything but "like" various statuses, photos, and posts, and click through to news stories with headlines like "Snooki's Bikini Body" and "I Will Always Love Whitney Houston's Open Casket Funeral." This, my "friends," is clearly time well wasted.

I blame my lack of blogging as of late on my complete inability to resist Facebook. Throughout the day, I have ideas and I think to myself, "Ooooo, I should write about that." I fully intend to set about some serious writing just as soon as I get a chance. And yet, when I get home, I inevitably find myself on Facebook and before I know it, not only is that 30 minute opportunity I had to write long gone, but the sun has gone down, I haven't fed my kid, mice have taken up residence in my kitchen, and both my legs and part of my ass has fallen asleep because it's been untold hours since I even shifted position. All because someone I barely know from grade school posted something about Rick Santorum, and their page was just begging for my snarky comment. Also, I had to "like" thirty different people's posts about how much they hate Monday because I also hate Monday! Solidarity is important!

Thus, my blog sits and collects cyber-dust, and the world is deprived of that 500 word eloquent musing I otherwise would have written about the disturbing alien dream I had several nights ago--the one that may or may not have been inspired by a cross between an awful Netflix movie and an episode of Iron Chef where the special ingredient was some sturgeon-esque fish/monster/beast the likes of which I'd never seen. I know, sad, right? Tragic, even, that such pieces have been lost due to excessive Facebooking.

I would probably write something profound right now, if I didn't need to go update my status. Because while I'm there, let's face it: I'll probably need to pin some pictures of wide-eyed, adorable kittens with snarky captions to Pinterest. That's gonna take awhile.

What I think about when I think about love.

This morning, Eliot asked, "Can I be Robin today?" He was asking if he could wear his Halloween costume to school for the Valentine's Day party. Yep. That's my boy. :)

Of course I said yes, because there's no day that ISN'T a good day for a costume, as far as I'm concerned.

As I was helping him don tights and cape, I was thinking back to October, thinking about stitching up his Robin suit and then playing superheroes in the front yard with cars slowing down to watch the spectacle of us. And it occurs to me that this is what love is.

When I think about love, I think about kicking and karate chopping and zowie-ing and bam-ing around the front yard with a pair of underwear on the outside of my clothes and not really caring because all I can see is this giant smile on a little boy's face.

 When I think about love, I think about risking the dire mortification of appearing in public in a swimming suit when Eliot wants me to swim with him at the rotary pool. I think about how my self-consciousness drops away as soon as I see him splashing and laughing and paddling around.

When I think about love, I think about 2 yr old Eliot smacking his lips and saying "Ooooooh, this is delicious, Mommy!" while eating a grilled cheese sandwich that I had made him for lunch because I was incapable of actually cooking anything that qualified as real food.

When I think about love, I think about this speechless but wailing infant, finally quiet in my arms at 4:00 a.m. as we sit in the rocking chair in his bedroom. I am looking out the window at the first rays of sunlight and feeling amazed that I have survived another day here with this child.

No chocolates, no roses, no hearts.

Just this child who both depletes me and sustains me, every day.

This is what I think about when I think about love.

Drive.

If I couldn't drive, I would be lost.

I didn't get my driver's license on my 16th birthday. There was no one available to drive me to the Department of Motor Vehicles that day so that I could take my test and get licensed, and I remember walking around my small hometown aimlessly, no destination, just walking and walking and raining self-pity down upon myself, thinking, "Oh woe is me! It's my birthday. It's my birthday and I'm sixteen and I'm all alone and I can't even drive. Woe is me." The funny thing is, I have no memory of the day I actually did get my driver's license. It couldn't have been long after my birthday, maybe a few days later, maybe the next week, but all I can remember is walking around on the 15th of June that year, eyes cast downward to the cracked and rolling sidewalk, and feeling powerless, restless, and shifty.

I guess I've always felt the need to get away. To me, driving means going, leaving, taking action, even if only in the smallest way. If I cannot drive, I am stuck. Even if I'm just circling around the block, driving makes me feel as though I'm doing something. At least I'm moving, and it doesn't have to be forward.

And maybe I inherited the need to drive from my old man. I don't remember he and my mom ever fighting or arguing during their thirteen year marriage. I remember being shocked when they divorced; I kept thinking, "But they don't ever fight!" Shortly after he moved out, though, I realized that I didn't ever witness fights or arguments between them because my dad would always leave before the tension could escalate to that point. As soon as there was friction, he'd head to the driveway. His little brown Nissan truck would rev and back up, and soon all we could see were red taillights and a grey cloud of gravel dust kicked up as his spinning tires propelled him the hell out of there.

I'm the very same way. And the leaving is not necessarily avoidance, but more...achieving the space and the quiet that I need in order to listen to what my heart is saying. When I need to figure things out, I take to the road. When I need to move, I drive.

Eliot has inherited this need, I think. From the very beginning, he has loved being in a moving vehicle. He was a very Jekyll and Hyde baby, one who stayed perfectly content for most of the day, but then morphed into a screaming, wailing, inconsolable banshee of pure evil every evening from twilight until dawn. Through trial and error, we eventually found the only two things that would keep him from screaming: the vacuum cleaner and car rides. (Not at the same time.) Eliot and I went for a LOT of car rides when he was an infant. As soon as the motor was running, he would conk out. As soon as I shut the car off, he would wake up and resume wailing. Over the course of a few particularly terrible weeks, I started driving him around in the afternoons, listening to books on CD while he napped. I remember soaring down endless county roads, listening to John Grisham's A Painted House with Eliot in the backseat, snoozing away, secure in his tiny five-point harness. Driving represented the calm, much-needed respite from real life.

Eliot still likes riding in the car. Sometimes he'll be the one to suggest we take a car ride, and we'll buckle up and head out to anywhere, both of us singing along to the radio and dancing as wildly as possible against our seat belts. Sometimes we'll just ride quietly, with only the sound of the wind and our tires rushing along pavement. It gives us time to think and space to feel grateful for just being alive. Or at least, that is what it gives me. I feel an unexplainable connection to the world as it rushes past the windows of my car. When I am driving, I feel tethered to my life, not in a restricting way, but in a reassuring, comforting way. I feel like no matter how far I may roam from it at any given moment, I do have a center, and a purpose. And when I look in the rear view mirror and see Eliot's little face, so like my own, reflected back at me... then I look forward to the road ahead, wherever it leads us.

Run for your life.

Today I ran day #3 of the Couch to 5K plan.

I look like a moron when I'm out there running/struggling to make myself run/jog/walk/continue to put one foot in front of the other.

I still can't start running every time my app tells me to start running.

Guess what, though...???

I don't care.

I'm out there, I'm going to continue to get out there, and I will work my way up to my goals, slowly but surely.

Here's part of the inspiration that got me started: a friend posted this link to her facebook wall. It was exactly what I needed, EXACTLY what I needed in order to haul myself up off the couch and go. It was cold outside. I didn't own a good pair of running shoes, a sports bra, a fancy contraption to hold my smartphone, or anything else I might have formerly told myself I needed in order to start running. All I had was this big, fat, out-of-shape body and my frustration with it. I took it, and I ran with it.

This year I'm finally doing ME, and I am determined not to care what that looks like to other people. Sometimes it isn't easy.

I did my first two runs in silence, thinking I would just use the time to clear my head. It was nice, in a way; as my feet pounded the pavement, I let my mind run off ahead. I kept my eyes down, both out of embarrassment and because I didn't want to trip and face plant into the sidewalk. I thought about what I probably looked like to passersby. I'm only around 5'6'', and I weigh close to 200 lbs. I have a small frame, with narrow shoulders, and for my height and build, 200 lbs. is a lot of weight to be carrying around.

I imagined everyone antagonistic, jeering at me through their car windshields. Then, I thought about how I feel when I see fat people out running or walking. I realized my thoughts are never antagonistic. Usually, I'm thinking, "Damn! Good for him (or her). I wish that was me out there." Then I thought, okay, so more realistically, people are probably thinking,"Oh, how sweet! That pregnant lady is trying to keep exercising, even at 9 months!" Then I thought, okay, even more realistically, people probably don't even notice me out here or think anything about it if they do. The attitudes I attribute to people in my head are really just excuses to tear myself down, to hide myself away, to think less of myself. Then I thought, "Hmm...next time I'm going to make a playlist, so that I don't think so much..."

The point is, I started with nothing, not even a playlist to accompany me. I started out wearing stretchy maternity yoga pants (My only child is 4 years old, by the way.), my beloved purple New Balance tennis shoes, a raggedly t-shirt, and a black knit cap that makes me look remarkably like Angus Young. I duct taped my phone to my waistband because my pants didn't have pockets.

The important thing is that I started at all, and that I'm determined to keep going.

Today I ran along to Pandora Radio. So in addition to the maternity pants and duct tape, I was singing Nelly under my breath: "Andele, andele, mami, E I E I Oh, oh!" Certainly no less ridiculous, but a little more confident. I'll let anyone I meet think what they will. It's MY life I'm running for, after all.

A testament to how badly we need to change our meal habits.

Today, I made a simple lunch of sandwiches, raw carrots with dip, and applesauce and called Eliot into the kitchen to eat. His first puzzled response was, "Why are we eating in the kitchen?" I told him we're making a few changes around here and we're going to eat at home more often and the kitchen table is where we eat meals. He sat down and took a bite of his ham, lettuce, cheese, and mayonnaise sandwich.

"Oh, Mom!" he exclaimed, smiling, "This tastes just like when we eat at Swubway! You should make these all day long!"

;)

It's my life. It's now or never.

I finally hit bottom this week. Everyone's bottom is different. (hehehe. No, seriously.) I thought I'd been to mine many times, but no situation was ever alarming enough to motivate me to make actual change in my life. I've made some pretty stupid choices, choices that make some great stories I'll never tell my grandkids, and you'd think some of those times would have been my bottom, but no.

My bottom = On January 1, 2012, I maxxed out my credit card. I have $14,000.00 worth of credit card debt, and no idea how I'm going to pay it back.

Now, once again, in comparison to some of the stupid shit I've done in the past six months, hitting my credit card limit may not seem like it would be that big of a deal. But it is.

And here's why: being in debt scares me like I've never been scared before.

I'm terrible at managing money. I'm not overly fond of "things" or possessions: I don't drive a flashy car; I don't wear designer clothes; I live a pretty modest lifestyle. But I fritter away money like it's a talent, and I don't make much money to begin with. Ever since my first divorce, I've used my credit card to supplement my income; meaning at whatever point I run out of money for the month, I just switch over to ye olde magical Visa. And yes, I think I DO want to go to NYC! VISA. Las Vegas?! VISA. Chicago? VISA. Oh, don't worry, I'll pick up the tab for our pizza/beer/movie tickets! VISA. Put that Roc's tab on my VISA! Let's treat ourselves to Cracker Barrel/Red Lobster/Olive Garden/KoFusion/What's Cookin every single weekend! VISA. Four dollar coffee everyday, sometimes twice day! VISA. Yahoo! It's not REAL money! It's just my VISA!

The reality has finally kicked in that this little card is not a limitless fountain of money. I have been charging more than I've been paying on it for some time, and now my time is up. No more easy out. Nowhere to turn if it's only the 5th and I'm already broke. I've known for a long time that I need to change my spending habits, but I've known it in a back-of-my-head way, the same way I know I should probably lose weight, and I should really start keeping my house cleaner, and really, I should probably eat out less often. Ending my reliance on my credit card has been just one in a very long list of things I'm going to do, you know...when I get my shit together...someday. In some bright, shiny future, where I'm a better version of myself, I'll have my credit card paid off. I'm sure of it.

It never really occurred to me in a visceral, real way that in order for that bright, shiny future, better version of me to manifest, I actually have to make changes NOW. I can wait around for the benevolent faeries to come at night and pay my credit card bill and clean my house, and cook great meals, and give me liposuction while I sleep, but...chances are I'll be waiting a damn long time. It ain't gonna happen unless I make it happen.

It has finally sunk in that if I expect to grow, I need to first plant seeds. So here are my seeds:

1. I cut up my credit card.
2. I started the Couch to 5K program in a bid to get more (and by "more" I mean "any at all") exercise and maybe even shed some of these extra pounds.
3. I went grocery shopping for real food and have vowed not to eat out more than once a week.
4. I've made a vow not to date anyone until I've reached some of my life goals and am happy with my self first. No more losing myself in someone else so that I can ignore the work I need to do on me.

If I don't plant the seeds now and do the work to help them sprout and grow, my future me is going to be the same as my past me. I've met her, and frankly, I don't really like her all that much.

Here's to Rachel 2.0. Working towards a better version of me.