The next morning, three baby birds sat on my railing. Two pigeons and a brown one. The brown one flew away when I got my camera, but the two palomas remained for hours. I recognized our fledgling, but this other little one? Maybe it is his sister - the one “gone missing.” It was so fantastic to know that the night passed and the baby made it. Off to another day to stretch his wings. And he’s not alone. It’s always better to travel in pairs. I’ve got a feeling they’ll be back.

A crimp in my neck runs from under my skull, over my shoulders, and splinters off down the spine. I went to bed fine; woke up as I fought off a camel hogging the bed all night. Turning to the right is downright painful and the rest of life’s every day motions are annoying and stiff.

All the "little things" add up when caring for my son, especially the lifting. This is injury is an old one, and it returns when I put too many straws on my back.

This morning Addison’s nanny had a crimp in her neck. Same side. We look like a pair of melted salt and pepper shakers. We both have to turn our whole body in order to use it. Reaching down to pick up Addison makes us wince and huff out funny noises like: oooffff….aaahhhgggg…bluuuufff. Our house smells like menthol rub. We laugh at how ridiculous we look.

As we finished breakfast, I told the nanny how I once read once that everyone who’s ever sat in a chair or lived in a house or used the changing room at the department store leaves their energy behind. So, we decided that the guy who used to live in this house must have had neck problems. Either that or it’s in the water.

Addison was sitting on the floor and signaled he wanted to be picked up.

Maybe we can get a camel to haul him around. I’ve seen camels trained to get down on their knees. Addy could climb up and fit perfectly between those two humps. In the meantime, I huffed and puffed and grunted as I reached down for my son to take a little walk in the sun.

Yoga; run; walk; meditate; pray; tai chi, write down your three pages of your thoughts; write down your dreams; gargle; juice; drink tea; coffee? - and while I’m at run up the mountain. While I was oil pulling this morning (more on that in a minute), I contemplated all the things suggested by theories, dogmas, paradigms, and mothers.

B.C. (that’ s before children), I could do one or more of the above with vim and vigor; connecting to the great source of the Universe. A.C. (yes, after children and including pregnancy), I’m lucky to squeak out going to the bathroom before someone needs something from me. Once and awhile, I get really determined and will forge ahead with that morning yoga, meditation, or dream recall. After about three days running, I run into problems: that child that was sleeping soundly until 6:30 a.m. now gets up at 5:15 a.m.; that child free of colds or flu starts vomiting. I’ve learned to forget it all for awhile only to try again a few weeks or months later.

On my bookshelf are at least 50 self-help books (not to mention the ones I’ve given away). The authors are brilliant, and the titles shimmer with such hope: Co-dependent No More; Seat of the Soul, Emotional Alchemy; need I mention Carlos Castenada? Ever since having children I’ve felt separate and apart from this movement. How can it include me when it takes all my energy just to keep snot, bile, and other fluids either inside the child or properly disposed of?

When Coco was almost two years old, our family took a trip to the Netherlands. I was covering a convention for a radio station on peace, spirituality - groovy stuff I couldn’t wait to sink my teeth into. We had a few days to "see the town." But, even pleasures like art and music take a back seat to this incredibly physical profession. I sludged through the Anne Frank house with Coco on my back. I mean I stood in front of the hidden closet; gaped up at the attic stairs; and tried so hard to completely give myself to this intense story, energy and place. Instead? I jiggled up and down and zipped quickly through the exhibit so my daughter wouldn’t wail and ruin the other visitors experience.

We trudged on to the Stedelijk Museum and before even entering, I knew Coco needed a diaper change. I see the Stedelijk is under construction, however at the time, the bathroom wasn’t exactly family friendly. I sat down outside of the bathroom while Coco mashed her sweaty hands against the spotless window, and wrote this poem:

Museums are poop.

Spirituality is for THEM.

Not award winning, but it was short and to the point. Back at the conference, I kept on jiggling, chasing, and jamming cookies into my daughter’s face to get a few moments of silence. After my son was born, I sucked deeper into the "dark hole" of mothering as I faced Down Sydrome, surgery (his and mine), and respitory problems. But he’s two now, and I’m at it again. I’ll dabble in yoga, but only when I see a moment in the day when kids aren’t around. I’ll just sit and smile contently and call it meditation.

One of my nanny’s is suffering terribly from wisdom teeth coming in. Since she hates taking pills, I looked up on the Internet for some ideas to help her until the caja - the slow but sure medical social system in Costa Rica - can squeeze her in for an appointment next Tuesday around 6 a.m. She furrowed her eyebrows when I suggested oil pulling: sucking unrefined sesame back and forth in your teeth for ten minutes. Since I had a cold, I thought I would try this cure that supposedly removes toxins from your body - thus no more cold, tooth pain or whatever.

Do it first thing in the morning said the instructions. I forgot that, and waited an hour until the kids were gone to school. As I sucked this oil through my teeth (and tried not to gag), I remembered a moment back at that conference in Holland. After an awful morning of managing my child and so-so interviews (thank goodness for editing!), I sat on the floor outside of the cafeteria as Coco smudged the windows and toddled under the tables. A woman, Carolina, hunched next to me, and we started talking. She told me about a woman who had eight children and had this bliss about her. Carolina asked her how she could be so content. The woman simply said: This is IT.

So, that’s IT. Parenting may be the highest form of spirituality there is. From the moment I wake up and Addison twinkles his eyes my way, I’m living in the moment. Even if I’m grumpy, hunched over, tired, or frustrated I am in THE moment. And, isn’t that what all those writers, all those books, all those paradigms are hoping for: mindful consciousness? I spit out the oil, which turned from a cinnamon brown to a foamy white; started the laundry; did the dishes while promising myself I’d do yoga right after lunch.

Two things I should never have in my home: Peanut (or almond) M&Ms or Praline Pecan ice cream.

I’m better off zooming past the freezer section. Then, all I have to face is the check-out lane and those little bags of candy titillating the consumer, knowing the weak souls we are.

Last night, Coco and I finished off about six mini-bags of M&Ms while watching the Decorating Channel and chirping at the television screen our two-cents about the so-so modern/cottage design. O.k., so I had four bags and Coco had two. But it’s over and done for now. Yet tomorrow I must shop again.

Addison is recovering splendidly from his bacteria/virus/thing. There is always a point when my kids get sick that I think I’m doing everything wrong, and I should run to an emergency room or doctor. This point usually happens about 3/4 of the way to wellness.

Yesterday morning, Addison looked like a wrung-out dish rag. Because of the Down Syndrome, he is this "super-flexi" boy and can do the splits and Yoga positions students around the world would envy. He watched the Clifford cartoon as if he only had hours left to live. I picked up his legs, and they flopped to the floor like a dropped bag of water.

This is it, I thought doubting my apple cider vinegar/baking soda/turmeric/fresh squeezed apple juice and enema* medicines. A doctor can surely do much more than little old me.

Then this show comes on he loves. It’s a perky version, juvenile version of the show Laugh In without the sex or bad jokes called High Five. Five teenagers sing about the five senses and Addison knows the whole song. He sat up and began jazzing right along with the singers. Then his sister Coco let him cuddle a new stuffed puppy she bought with her money at the store. Then, he sipped some of a bottle of some of that homemade medicine. Later he ate some applesauce, took a bath, and played ball around the living room.

He slept through the night. I woke up with that instant thought of terror:

He’s dead. Is he breathing? I should have brought him to a doctor.

I listened. HIs breathing slowly pumped in and out of his chest. I relaxed back into the pillow and behind the light in my eyes, I saw the terror flee - tail between it’s legs. But it looked back at with a glimmer in it’s eye as if to say: I’ll be back again.

*not in that specific order

My legs are on fire, and I make a lot of funny noises when I bend down. I dread going down the stairs. I grab the railing tight, take a breath, and grunt as I descend. But my muscles are alive, which means I’m alive. They’re yelling and screaming at the change. Sounds familiar.

Although a goose could run faster than me, I’m getting out there, taking it up a notch; wondering what brand of shoes is the best; wondering where I can get some running shirts. I think I’m hooked.

Oprah sprung up on a search I was doing last night. So, I started poking around. Dr. Oz is the new corespondent of this decade for Oprah as Dr. Phil was in the past. I’ve seen a show with Dr. Oz and he’s vibrant and plucky. He’s determined to help us all conquer our medical demons so we can all live a full and happy life.

There was a test. So, I clicked and began answering the questions: How many times do you walk? Get the heart rate up? Have a talk with a friend? Eat fruits and vegetables? Take fish oils? Floss? Smoke? and on and on it went. I didn’t know what to answer about the sex question since that’s a null and void issue. I didn’t understand a few others because of the odd wording. (But with multiple choice, when in doubt pick B).

Then we came to the poop question: What shape is your poop? C - S - J - dripping water fountain - goat pellets? This is a question that makes anyone pause and think. I switched the answer several times because I just couldn’t decide. The problem was I needed a box marked: none of the above.

My score? Average. I am average. Get a move on! said the computer screen. Average cuts the cake, but if you continue on "as is" you’ll be pushing up daisies before you’re 70. Bravo for the call to action. I took the average label personally for about a minute (well, o.k. it entered my dreams and depressed me for the entire morning).

Someone in my family used to say: Sh__ or get off the pot. Ah, I’ve see we’ve come full circle. And,what shape is your poop?*

*although I know dripping like a water fountain is not good and goat terds are bad, which letter of the alphabet should it be? Oprah doesn’t offer the test anymore, so try this to see what mean you fall in.

Two days. I’ve kept to my strict running schedule. After two days, I’ve gone running for 30 minutes and walked for the last ten. But, I can’t say I looked like the wind. If someone passed me on the road maybe they’d say resembled a carton of spilled yogurt running down a crooked floor.

It’s been a long time since I’ve done an "exercise." One of those real ones with competitions, good things for your health, sweating, and all that. I’ve dabbled in walking when I’ve felt good enough over the last three and 1/2 years, but it’s been a long time since I’ve been able to dedicate a few calories to something other than keeping my kids alive.

Addison’s respiratory problems, his surgery and my awful, awful pregnancy have burned enough calories for three people.* Addison has slept now 12 nights in a row. He sputters and coughs once in awhile, so I cannot say I’ve lulled away each night in a deep stupor, but compared to the up and down routine of keeping a child breathing at night, this is nothing short of a miracle. I now would like to breath oxygen deeply because I am taking in the morning air while trotting around the lake not refilling the vaporizer with more baking soda and water.

Running has never been a strong point. I’ve wrestled with lots of athletics and have probably done every "new" exercise invented: boxing, aerobics, laps, sprints, weight lifting, stairs, yoga, sit ups, pull ups, and even dancing while stepping up on that box thing (what was that?)

The last real running I did was probably 15 years ago. It was a 5k. I walked the last K. If I can get my body to cooperate, it makes sense for my budget and time. I can do it just about anywhere, and it really only takes a pair of good shoes. And the grace of God so I don’t keel over with the ducks. I’ll keep you posted.

*And then there’s the stress diet called: divorce.

I feel like I don’t have the answer to anything, yet all day I have to proceed as if I know what I’m doing. Or, at least I pull off a good act. After running to yet another doctor to try to solve my son’s sleeping problem at night (which is my sleeping problem at night), I’ve got another paradigm to assimilate, another doctrine to disseminate.

Who’s right when it comes to our kid’s health? I’d like to think it’s me, but I spent the day at the dentist then the internist. They’ve got all the things I should do, and I feel as though I’ve been doing it all, yet I have to do more. And more.

Addison was a trooper as the doc looked down his throat, tapped his reflexes, and peered in his ears. Addison held on to a bell and clanged it, but eventually he started to cry. I brought in my daughter who acts very, strangely "happy" at doctors. It freaks me out a bit. I think she doeth not protest enough.

We got home at 8 p.m. I dispensed "all-natural" syrups, mixed herbs, and fired up the vaporizer all in the hopes of getting a good night’s sleep.

I told a friend I’d dance naked in the streets while swinging a hula hoop around my waist and shaking a tambourine. I wonder where I can get a hula hoop?