Seven years ago today...

Seven years ago today, I was standing in the bathroom of our suburban St. Paul home, looking down at a pink stick. Very pink.

Later, my husband and I went to Old Chicago to play darts and have a bite to eat. He drank beer; I drank lemonade. He didn't make the connection.

I told him that evening about the pink stick.

Oh, the little things we remember...how did I remember the date? I don't know, really.

Today there is a six-year-old girl on her first real field trip, riding a school bus for the first time, carrying a sack lunch and wearing her long blonde hair in a thick ponytail.

She's old enough to read, do math, giggle with her friends, be dropped off at birthday parties, earn patches in Daisy Scouts, and be embarrassed by her mother.

We've come a long way, baby.

What would a Space Age Housewife wear?

Most of the time, just what any other woman my age might wear: jeans, capris, sandals, t-shirts, sweater sets, yoga clothes.

I do have a pretty good collection of vintage clothes, though, and I happened to be wearing part of my collection earlier this evening - a navy blue dress circa 1960, and a handmade apron from sometime in the mid-to-late 1950s, perhaps once worn by a real Space Age Housewife.

Both items are, of course, older than I am. Here is what happens when the 21st century meets Mrs. Cleaver...



I had a crinoline on with it for a while too, but in truth, my crinoline is too big and it kept sliding down. One thing I don't need is an "Oops, your slip is showing" moment. ;)

I am SOOOOO old...

My 4-year-old son just asked me how old I am.

"Guess," I said.

"60?"

"Uh...no."

"80?"

"Not quite."

"90?"

"No!"

"20?"

"That's better."

My 6-year-old daughter just interjected."She's 39. On her birthday, she's gonna be 40."

His answer? "I think she's 99."

Eggs and iPods

It was a good weekend, as weekends go. The Space Age Husband offered to take the children out to breakfast while I went to the gym, giving me some extra time to get a good work out in. The three of them dropped me off at the club before heading out for sausages and pancakes. I'd had shredded wheat and had tucked a large bottle of water into my gym bag. (Ah, the price we pay...)

I sweated for a good ninety minutes. When they picked me up, SAH had a fresh hot cup of coffee for me, and a surprise.

My own personal MP3 player. It's not an iPod - it's an iriver - but the former sounded better in the subject line. Didn't it? At any rate, I've been pulled further into the twenty-first century with this most popular of space-age gadgets. I've got four hours' worth of songs loaded up - Scorpions to ABBA to Depeche Mode to Dean Martin - and haven't even made a dent in the available space. In just two days, I've gotten used to the "ear buds." This could work.

Today I sped through sixty minutes of cardio and twenty minutes of strength training without checking the clock seventeen times. Music is magic.

Anyway. After arriving home on Saturday afternoon, my first project - not loading up the iriver - was coloring Easter eggs with the children. Because they wanted to do an egg hunt, a tradition that was not part of my upbringing, we decided to make lots of eggs. Many many eggs. Many many more eggs than I would normally cook and color for a single Easter weekend. I now have more than two dozen eggs to use up. Twelve? Easy. A few deviled eggs and some egg salad. 26? What am I going to do? Egg salad. Deviled eggs. Eggs a la Goldenrod. Creamed eggs on toast. Eggs in potato salad. Eggs in Caesar salad. Purple, yellow, and orange eggs coming out of my ears.

That's an idea. I'll turn them into earrings. I can start a trend.

Right after I bring back new Easter hats for women.

It's going to be an uphill battle. Maybe I'll just pop in the ear buds and go for a run instead.

A Post About Nothing

I had a post in mind. It was days ago, but it was valid. I was going to post about "looming 40" angst. I composed the post in my head, mentally rolling this way and that way the words I would use to describe the seemingly complex but utterly simple - and common - emotions I was feeling at that moment.

Ten years ago, "29" by the Gin Blossoms was my favorite song. I listened to it over and over and over and over for nearly a year, wallowing in the impending end of my twenties, fearing the unknown of turning 30. It was, ultimately, much ado about nothing. I turned thirty and...liked it. It was liberating. I no longer had to worry about turning 30; I was there. My twenties were a blur. I got pregnant with my first child at twenty and went 90 miles an hour for years afterward, at times working two full time jobs just to earn the money to pay my rent and go to school.

Turning 30 brought a new confidence, a new sense of being a part of the world. I met my husband when I was 30, and in retrospect, maybe I don't need to wonder why. I was finally at peace with myself.

So days ago I popped in my old Gin Blossoms CD, thinking I would listen to "Allison Road" or the "Cajun Song" but finding my fingers pressing "29." I listened. I wallowed. I had flashbacks of near-summer a decade ago, and I allowed the angst to wash over me again, as if I were reliving the entire experience, except with a larger, older number this time.

I mentally blogged it.

By the time I finally had a free moment to sit down and actually write the post instead of thinking about it, I realized it wasn't relevant anymore. The angst was gone. It was the angst of a moment gone by, and it no longer meant anything.

If it comes back, I'll be sure to let you know. ;)