I walked by a glowing extremely pregnant woman. Her friend handed her a bag with some baby booty in it. I chuckled. I couldn’t help myself. I CHUCKLED. They looked up at me and I recovered, smiled, and continued on my way.

In my head I was picturing what the card would say. I chuckled again. It could be any of the following:

Outside: Congrats New Momma! You’re going to spend the next five years trying to get your pre-baby body back!
Inside: Good luck with that.

Outside: Congrats On Your New Bundle! They don’t sleep through the night until they’re teenagers.
Inside: Good luck with that.

Outside: Dear New Daddy! You thought you had Blue Balls in High School?
Inside: HAHAHAHAHA. Good luck with that.

Outside: To the happy new parent: Write down the last day you had sex.
Inside: So you remember it in three years when your brain is sleep deprived. Good luck with that!

Oh, comeon. Add your own! It’s fun!

And only mildly depressing….

It’s 2:45AM. I’ve been asleep for two hours. I hear the familiar call from a tiny man, “Mommy! Mommy!‘ I’m in his room before I open my eyes.

I get him milk, his Thomas Trains and put him back to bed.

It’s 6:00 AM and I hear the familiar call from a tiny man, “Mommy! Mommy!“ I’m in his room before I open my eyes.

I pick him up hoping to give his sister a few more minutes of sleep. He asks for milk. I turn to get him some.

He starts screaming.

It’s 7:00 AM and he’s still screaming.

Finally, having had enough of this, I coax him in to eating a banana and watching LIttle Einstines so I can get the family ready to go.

It’s 7:45 AM and the family is ready to leave. I get the tiny man’s shoes and he yells, “TRY! TRY!“ which is short for “I’ll do it you mother fucker!“

I let him try.

He screams out of frustration, “HELP! HELP” which is short for “why are you just standing there watching me you mother fucker!“

I coax him down the stairs. I attempt to take his hand. “TRY! TRY!“ which is short for “fuck off.“

I walk a few stairs down and he yells, “UP! UP!“ which is short for “why are you leaving me here, hold me now mother fucker!“

It’s 8:20 and I’m dropping him off at day care. I have a full schedule of deadlines, meetings, phone calls and deadlines. I turn to leave. He lunges at my legs. I pick him up, kiss him, whisper in his ear, “I love you even if you are two.“

I walk away missing him. Even if he’s two.

I was thinking about rebelling. Not in a present tense, but rather in a pattern-of-maturity. A “hindsight” if you will. “Enlightened Rebellion” even.

I realized my husband and I were together in High School when most people go through their rebellion. Our friends may have skipped class or chugged beer or started smoking but we were both first-borns too busy pleasing teachers and parents and each other. We were fairly straight laced aside from a few back-seat make-out sessions. We were home on time, we never did drugs and we never got pregnant. We stayed out of trouble and stayed in school.

We were model teenagers in a sense.

We broke up, went though our own “self discovery” a phase that got us to different colleges, new friends, new places. We tried on new people and jobs and lives, all while staying out of trouble and living as we were expected: Strong contributing citizens of society.

Then I turned 25.

I went in to what I can only call as “my six-month rebellion” where I stayed out for entire weekends at airplane hangers where friends would sky-dive and smoke pot at night, drink too much, and go to McDonalds for fries. It was stupid at best, dangerous at its worst. I did my first tandem skydive as a giant middle finger to my old life. I was fresh and new and starting over as a new person.

I’m so incredibly glad I did.

My husband, however, continued to work and be amazing. He continued to pursue a career, a path, a plan. He never did rebel. He never washed his hair free of expectation. He never jumped out of his proverbial airplane.

I contemplated this fact earlier today. I thought of all our friends who did rebel, who went through their time maturing to flip The Man the giant middle finger and face their new spirit and their new selves only to find peace and comfort in settling down later.

I wondered if there was in inverse relationship between rebellion and mid-life crisis.

I don’t see him heading off with another family or even a sports car. I don’t see him jumping out of an airplane or smoking pot when I’m at BlogHer. But I wonder: I wonder what life’s turns require rebellion and which require steadfast boring ticky-tacky houses with manicured yards or the lack-there-of. I wonder if nearing forty (In seven years, but still! It’s coming!)  will be harder on those who never rebelled at fourteen. And I wonder how to cultivate this in our family, for our children as they mature in to their own people and in us as we hit our mid-lives.

How do we maintain our sanity in a suburb of Seattle in a townhouse we paid too much for and work too hard to pay off?

I wonder.

Did you rebel? Did you come back? Did you settle down? And when are you buying your motorcycle to flip off The Man?

I tend to say yes a lot. This is great for my husband, kids and my clients and horrid for my knees and my canker sores. I say yes before reading the small print. I say yes before asking a ton of questions. I just, you know, like to say yes.

“You want to move to Seattle?“ “YES!“

“You think we should by a townhouse that will depreciate in value for the first time in a market since 1984?“ “YES!“

“You wanna walk a half marathon with me?“ “YES!“

This last one, oy, it’s the biggie.

So without really training, without so much as printing out a map, I joined my friend for a 13.1 mile walk through Seattle. I joined 24,999 other people who were just as crazy (or more so, some of them were doing the full marathon) and we forged together like cattle to the butchers. At least, that’s how I felt.

The thing about doing something so insane is that somewhere in the process, you gain your sanity. During miles 1-3, I pretty much woke up slowly, walking in a haze and meandering between bodies. During miles 4-9 I poured my heart out to Paige telling her everything, in detail, that had been going on for the last, oh, two years? And then around mile 10 we both got it. IT. We realized several things:

1. This is fucking hard.

2. We are going to finish.

3. Leslie’s knees are older than her heart.

4. Much. Older.

5. Mile ten is the longest motherfucking mile in any race ever.

6. There is no mile 11. It’s a cosmic joke.

7. We like wine.

8. We will never do this again.

9. We’re proud of ourselves.

10. We can do it.

Then we hit mile 11 and the gig seemed to be up. My knees gave out and my heart monitor yelled at me for going to slow. Years of running and being active have finally brought me, literally, to my knees. I can no long run, jump, or apparently, walk over 9 miles.

Then fat Eric passed me.

It’s a humiliating experience to watch your body age. To see your boobs sag. To know your waist used to go IN and not OUT. To know you celebrate with a burger or chocolate more often than there are reasons to celebrate.

It’s humbling.

Fat Eric was sort of my inner self. He sort of rose up, having started at the same time we did, a large, powerful 350 pound man. He walked the entire way. He had his name in large print on his shirt. “E-R-I-C” and people cheered, “GOOD JOB ERIC! WAY TO GO ERIC! YOU CAN DO IT!“

And he did. He did it. By god, he did it.

It was about this time that I realized several things: I am not who I used to be. Size does not matter. Fitness is a daily process, not a one time race. And.. most importantly, it’s time I push myself in ways my body can work without breaking down.

I think I’ll try swimming.

Somewhere around mile 10 I realized that sometimes it’s ok to take a minute and consider what you’re saying YES to. Maybe it’s OK to read the fine print, to consider your options, to check your calendar. Maybe it’s ok to say NO sometimes.

But not to this. Not to this. I would’ve said yes and been just as proud as I am today. Because we did it.
Paige and I. Together.

(Two of our college friends ran the half so we got our picture of them at the finish, which was really the only time we saw them. Fasties.)

(More photos here.)

(The top picture is our favorite picture of us. It’s from 1997. God we’re young.)