My daughter was a perfect toddler.  I’m not trying to sound conceited, but I thought I was pretty great back then.  My daughter wasn’t so much an angel, as I was the ideal parent.

Then I got pregnant with my son.  Before he was born with his health issues and quirky behavior, my precious girl started saying things to me that she had never said before.  Things like, “No!  I don’t WANT to!”  Wait, what?  You were perfect!  You were so good that I went and got pregnant for another one.  I was duped!

When my son arrived, I realized the cold, hard truth.  I was just an average parent who got really lucky with the behavior of her first-born.  And, now that she is twelve, I’ve found that she’s pretty typical too.

She likes to sit in her room listening to music, she loves hanging out with her friends and she doesn’t talk to her little brother unless the conversation is an argument.  She also doesn’t always tell the truth. Dealing with this tween in our midst has become a bit of a handful.

The other night, my husband and I dropped the kids off at my mom’s house so we could attend a wake.  When we were leaving, my husband kissed our daughter on her forehead and said, “Be nice to your brother, okay?”

She replied, “I will, Dad.” 

Then he turned to our son and asked, “Buddy, you’ll be nice to your sister, right?”

Which is when we realized we have an entirely different kind of handful with this kid, when my son said, “Probably not.”

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Last night I attended my fourth of thirty-six boot camp classes for which I recently signed up.  Just thirty-two to go!

Every other session is devoted to strength training.  I almost threw up during my first one.  Last night was my second.

After I struggled with my barbell, wobbling it side to side during pulsing bench-presses (high five to my spotter), I told the instructor, “Hey, I didn’t have this much weight last time.”

Which is when I really realized that this wasn’t my mom’s Jazzercise class, when she replied without sympathy and said, “So?”

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I am not a small woman.

I know this.  I own this.  I have never been petite.  I will never be petite.

It isn’t easy to be big.  It, especially, isn’t easy to be big when you need to put on a bathing suit and actually allow people to see your thunderous thighs.

I mean, really.  It’s one thing that everyone can see my gigantic, looks-like-I-play-in-the-NBA, hands, but allowing it to all hang out is something else entirely.

Last week, my family and I rented a vacation house for a night to celebrate my daughter’s 12th birthday and the birthday of one of our friends.  While looking for the rental unit, one of the requirements was that the house have a hot tub.  Unfortunately we found one.

So, there I was.  Not only was it snowy and freezing outside, but the 104 degree hot tub overlooked beautiful scenery and I had been suffering from a stiff neck for days.  It seemed…appealing.  While the adults were all scattered among different parts of the house, I decided to bite the bullet, put on my bathing suit and climb into the hot tub with my daughter and our friends’ two kids.

If anyone won’t pass judgment on you it’s two 12 year old girls, because they are so concerned about themselves they don’t even see your thighs.  Plus, there was a nine year old to distract them…or irritate them…same difference.

I walked outside, removed the towel from my waist, climbed the steps and, under the gaze of three children, I dipped myself into the hot tub.

There.  That wasn’t so bad, now was it?  Sure, I’m big…but, it’s not like the water went pouring over the edge.  I leaned my head back and let the jets pound against my stiff neck.  I can’t believe I was so worried about what everyone thinks of me.

Which is when my daughter looked across the water and said, “Um…Mom?  I think you need a tissue.”

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Since I started working over 40 hours a week, my husband has taken over some of the household duties.  Yesterday, he did the grocery shopping.  It kind of made my heart melt.

His greatest assistance has come with the takeover of getting the eight year old to bed.  Most of my work is done in the evening, so while I am clicking away on my computer my husband deals with the stall-tactics, the decision of which book and stuffed animal to take to bed and the newest thing to throw a wrench into the routine…SpongeBob mouthwash.

My husband has managed, after a long day at work, to turn this time into something fun.  There are races to the top of the steps, shoulder rides and the Mom’s-chest-pain-inducing-toss-the-tiny-kid-onto-the-bed-from-across-the-room-adventure.

So with all of these shenanigans, it was no surprise the other night to hear my son declare, “Daddy!  Let’s play the opposite game.”  My husband was quick to oblige.

I laughed as I listened to them go back and forth, with my husband telling our son to, “Hold your pee”, “Put your clothes on” and “Don’t brush your teeth”.

My son answered all yes-questions with a firm, “No” and everything that should have been a denial was met with a jolly, “Yes!”

As usual, my husband had turned bedtime into something giggle inducing.

After a few minutes, I heard my husband say, “Okay, buddy.  Don’t say goodnight to your mother.”

Which is when the game came to an abrupt halt.

Because as I climbed the stairs to meet my son halfway, he greeted me with a smile and outstretched arms for a big nighttime hug and he said, “Good morning, Mom.  I hate you so much.”

**There are still a few days to enter my $100 Visa giftcard giveaway from BlogHer, sponsored by Welch’s.  Stop by my review blog for your chance to win!**

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