Well, not AND gotten paid for it, like Kristin.

Thank you, Kristin, for this blog post, which so succinctly explains why, after five years as a freelancer, I just can’t take it anymore. I must admit, I surfed her blog with more than a little envy, and some other emotion I refuse to call regret. That is the life I probably would have led, if I had not embarked on the Mommy Road when I was so young.

I love the life I have now, wouldn’t change a thing, no way. But I can long, just a little, for far off places.

A recent revelation about my professional life will probably precipitate the demise of this blog… I’ve decided to go back to school. I’ve ridden the freelance roller coaster for five years now, and it is just by God time to get off this crazy train.

I’ve been joking that the last article I will attempt to shop out will be called “Life as a Freelance Writer; or Don’t Quit Your Day Job”. I am grateful for these last years, and the time I’ve been able to work from home, but I’ve reached the end of my ability to deal with the ups and downs.. that, and my steady Eddie, keep-the-kids-in-shoes client is related to the automotive industry, and I don’t have to tell you how grim THAT neck of the woods is looking.

So, evolving! I’ll tell you more about it when everything becomes official. In the mean time, I am seriously looking for work. Anything. REALLY.

I started running a little over three years ago, in my late thirties. I’ve been pretty active most of my life, sort of a workout serial monogamist. Taebo, inline skating, walking the dog - I’ve remained more or less in motion, but running has led me to places I never even knew existed.

It started because I was angry. Mike and I had purchased a treadmill for our anniversary in January, because we both were at the point where it was do SOMETHING or buy all new clothes. One afternoon I went down to do my brisk three mile walk, and I was just PISSED at someone I can’t name here, and the walking, it wasn’t ENOUGH. So I ran for a bit. And thought, “Hmmm….” So the next day I ran farther, and so an obsession began.

I love to run. Maybe because the last five years of my professional life have been such an uncertain struggle, I like doing something where you get measurable results from the work you put in. And though it is not really considered a total body workout, something about running puts me in touch with every inch of my body, and I guess I really like that, seeing as we’ve been together all these years, my body and I, and we’ve got a few more to get through before I shuffle off this mortal coil.

I am a pretty crappy runner. That is not false modesty, it is really true. I am slow, and built for power, not speed. My only true athletic gift for running is pure stubbornness - I refuse to quit.

Most recently, I’ve become an enthusiastic convert to the world of triathlons. I did one last summer and vowed NEVER AGAIN, largely because my relationship with the bike ended badly. The particular bike I was using (borrowed, and worth more than my truck) did NOT NOT NOT suit me, and the pain of riding it eclipsed everything else about the tri for me. I hurt in places I could not even talk to my mother about.

So this year, I bought a bike off craigslist, just to noodle around with the kids with, and to have in case I fell on my head and decided to do another tri… And then I did! And I LOVE MY BIKE! It is a hybrid, a cross between a mountain bike and a street bike, and I could not be happier with it.

I am still really slow on the bike, and at least three people have said, “You know, if you’re going to take these triathlons seriously…” and that is where they lose me. I’m not. I am not trying to qualify for the Olympics here, folks. I just want to stay in touch with my toes, and my abs, and my calves, and… well, you get the picture.

If riding my hybrid bike means the end of my tri bling, so be it. I’ve embarked on a new obsession - and nothing about my past track record says I have to be any GOOD at it.

Eight years ago today, a little girl named Zoe was conceived. She was unplanned, but never, ever unwanted, and in the weeks and months that followed the despair of September 11th, I took enormous solace in her approaching birth. There is an immediacy about pregnancy, giving birth and tending to a newborn that keeps you simultaneously focused on the moment, and looking ahead to what will come. There was such promise there, such hope in my burgeoning belly, and when she arrived… well, see for yourself! She was the happiest baby, always smiling, quick to laugh. She was “The Glue”. Where once there were two families, now there was one, united and cemented by our adoration of this small girl.

Every year, on the anniversary of this day, I look back and remember what began that day, rather than focusing on what ended. Zoe is joyful and fierce, silly and scientific, and absolutely, utterly unique. She is agile, athletic and graceful, compassionate and stubborn and strong.

Eight years ago today, a little girl named Zoe lost her life when the plane she and her family were on crashed into the Pentagon. She was just 8 years old, one year older than my Zoe is today.

So today, I will hold my Zoe tight, and bury my nose in her neck to make her giggle, smell her wonderful little girl smell, feel her glorious hereness solid in my arms.

I’ll kiss the spot where her dimple hides, and probably have to holler at her over something, and I’ll hear all about her fourth day of second grade.

I will read her her favorite story, and sing her lullabies, and lie with her while she falls asleep. And in the soft, late summer twilight I know I’ll cry as I listen to her breathe, grieving for another little girl named Zoe.

I hope someday I say something like this, something that people quote in their blogs, or write on a note card to hang on the wall.

Something that reminds you that even when things are hard, and nothing is going your way, and even a waitressing job seems too much to ask, you always have a choice: be happy, or don’t.

The gloom of this world is but a shadow.
Behind it, yet within our reach,
is joy.
Take Joy.

—Fra Giovanni

My youngest son started kindergarten today. Here he is with his sister Zoe, who started second grade.

Note total lack of sobbing, sniffling or sighing. We went for orientation yesterday, and he was quite literally skipping with joy for the entire quarter mile walk from our house to the school. “I can’t BELIEVE I finally go to school here!” he gushed, beaming up at me.

And today I dropped him off, and down the hall he went with his class, looking impossibly cute with his Darth Vader backpack and little chicken legs sticking out of his “jerseys” (Tobin’s term for athletic shorts). And I’ll freely admit that I didn’t shed a tear! Didn’t even have a misty moment, was in fact completely focused on what I was going to do for the next three BLISSFULLY KID FREE hours.

It must be true then - the youngest really does kind of get ripped off. Maybe. And maybe I’ve just become much more forward-focused, thinking more about what is coming than what has been. And definitely his joy in this transition is infectious - he has been longing for this for years, as most youngest children do.