Every time we go somewhere, my stepdad tells us he gets three scares. Apparently, Robbie got the message from Pops loud and clear today. Fortunately, he only gave me two scares instead of three. I’m not sure I could have taken the third.

After we got home from the gym, Robbie, Barkley, and I started off for a walk around the block. We stopped to talk to our next-door-neighbor who was out doing yard work. Within minutes, Robbie had run down the street back towards our house. And then he was headed for the street. Now, we live right across the street from a grocery store, so things get pretty busy. I dropped the leash and my phone and dashed after him. I’m not sure what scared Robbie more – the fact that I was so upset he’d been out in the street or that a stranger was holding his dog’s leash.

We recovered from the event nicely, having dinner and bath time and reading some books. Then it was time for a little Elmo. It started off simply enough, but then Robbie reached for the cat who was jumping off the bed. And followed him. Even though he’s big enough that slipping off the bed isn’t a big deal, it’s still a decent way to the ground. I couldn’t tell you the last time I jumped off the bed that fast. He was up and cuddled in my arms in seconds. Within a minute, he popped his head off my shoulder, smiled at Justin and me, and said, “Ready, Mama. Watch. Elmo.”

Some days I think a girl would have been so much easier… But I’m a teacher. And I know how it gets once middle school hits. I think I’ll pay in advance with a rambunctious toddler. Remind me of this tomorrow.

I get so busy that I forget how amazing the world can be. All it takes is one walk from the gym to the car with Robbie for me to remember that there’s magic all around us; I just have to slow down to see it.

Robbie burst out of the gym doors and ran down the sidewalk, muttering, “Running! Running! Running!” He loves it! Remember when running was fun and not something you did for an hour on the treadmill trying to undo the piece of chocolate you had at 2:00 in the afternoon? I didn’t – at least not until my kid thought it was hilarious. And, boy, does he. He laughs like a maniac, loving how his voice vibrates as his feet hit the pavement. He could run for hours.

Or, until he spies flowers. Robbie stopped, mid-run, and yelled, “Flowers!” And then he was off, running into the field next to the gym, hopping from one patch of dandelions to another. He finally found the perfect one, crouched down, and carefully picked it. Robbie recently learned about the magic of dandelions, and, as soon as the flower was in his grubby little hands, he started blowing. And blowing. And blowing. The poor little boy didn’t realize that the dandelion wasn’t “ready” yet. Undaunted, he continued blowing the dandelion the rest of the way to the car.

You know what? I thought about carrying Robbie to the car today, rushing to get home. But then I wondered why I was in such a hurry and let him have a little fun. I’m so glad I took the extra five minutes. It was worth getting to remember the magic of being almost two.

Zhining hit me with the news on Friday afternoon. One of the girls from daycare wouldn’t be coming back, partially because of my son. The little girl stopped sleeping through the night when she started going to daycare. As the father was talking to Zhining about it, Robbie walked up to her, and smacked her in the face. I. Was. Horrified.

Zhining assured me that it was just what kids do, and I know she’s right. After all, I’ve watched Robbie’s best friend at daycare slam him into the side of a crib. I’ve watched Rob play with the boys – anything goes. But that doesn’t make it any better when I find out my kid’s doing it at daycare. To make matters worse, as Zhining and I were talking about what happened, Robbie walked up to the little girl, grabbed her face, and started squeezing. Then, after I managed to untangle his fingers from her face, he slammed his bag of snacks onto the top of her head.

I’ll be honest, this has happened at home. A lot. We’ve tried talking to him about it, but it doesn’t do any good. And I will not be the mother who sounds like a broken record saying, “No, Robbie. We don’t do that. No, Robbie. That’s not very nice.” So, we had a family meeting and explained the new procedure to Robbie. Any time he tries to bite, hit, or pinch, we will tell him no – once. After that, it’s time for a swat on the legs. When he does anything else, we’ll tell him no once and then it’s a time out. So far, we’re doing OK. Rob seems to have a grasp on consequences, and everyone’s been happy at home. And daycare.

Rob’s really growing up. Tonight after dinner, he walked around the dining room, gathering everyone’s dishes and stacking them nicely. He looked at Justin and myself, gave us a big grin, and took the dishes into the kitchen.

I was marveling at how impressed with Robbie’s manners I was when Justin started laughing. My darling child, in an attempt to help, was throwing the dishes in the trash. He then waltzed back into the dining room and proclaimed himself, “Helper!” Indeed, Rob. Indeed.

Or at least gym, since Justin took care of the laundry and there was no sun in sight for tanning. I escaped the house for two beautiful hours today. I went running. By myself. I got caught up on The Biggest Loser. I got to stay at the gym as long as I wanted without worrying about anyone throwing a temper tantrum or clawing another child.

And, as nice as that was, it was a little lonely. I like my gym buddy. Rob actually makes going to the gym fun. I like watching him play and laugh. It’s a lot more fun than starting straight ahead on the treadmill.

We’ve gotten into a rut. Call a babysitter. Go to dinner at Tango. Come home. And, as nice as it is to have a favorite restaurant and time to actually go there, it was time for a change. So I trusted Justin’s judgment on date night selections, even though it was something I would never actually do. We went to The Donkey Show.

For those of you as uncultured as I, The Donkey Show is a gay-tacular, disco version of A Midsummer Night’s Dream. Can’t quite picture it? Neither could I.

After surviving the apocalypse and having dinner with friends to celebrate our pardon, Justin and I headed to the show. We lined up outside of the theatre-turned-night-club, complete with bouncers. The show started with an argument in the middle of Mass Ave., much to the dismay of all the motorists trying to make their way down the busy street into Harvard Square.

The first hour of the “show” was spent dancing in a night club with male dancers donning more glitter than I’ve ever seen in one place. Women flocked to the floating stages, being pulled up to dance. Now, if you know me, you probably know that I don’t dance. Ever. So this was not destined to be a fabulous date, especially because Justin opted for dance floor tickets instead of table tickets. There was no where to escape all the dancing people. However, after a few adult beverages, I started having a little more fun.

And then the real show started. Mis-matched lovers, potions, fairies (you know those dancers – they played the fairies), donkeys, sex. It was everything a Saturday night could need. And, despite my initial feelings of dread about our date, I can’t wait to go back again.

It’s been forever since I blogged. I’ve thought about it. Really, I have. But I just haven’t done it. I’ve been too busy living my life to write about it. That sounds harsh, and that’s not how I intended it. For a week, though, it was really nice to be so wrapped up in everything I was doing to have time to stop and write about it.

Last weekend, I finally realized that I was jealous of Justin. He gets to travel occasionally for work, goes to the gym after work without a two-year-old, and ventures to Boston College twice a week for class. And my jealousy was killing me, making me angry and unfair. Once I realized this was what was going on, I was able to articulate my feelings to Justin. And you know what? He heard me.

I spent Saturday night at a movie – all by myself. Well, almost all by myself. I had a whole row of four seats to myself until five minutes before the movie started. Someone asked me if the two seats by the aisle were taken, and I said no. Then she plopped herself down right next to me. No buffer seat. No friend meeting her later. And she was an enthusiastic movie watcher – nearly jumping out of her seat every time something was funny, loudly commenting her disbelief. I wasn’t sure if I should be irritated or enjoy feeling like I was watching the movie with someone who was my friend, someone who so unabashedly enjoyed life. Or at least a movie. But, I was a little irritated.

More entries to follow on how I actually lived the past week.

Every Tuesday night, we have dinner with Micah and Allie. Dinner is really the excuse we put out to the public; it’s really a cover for watching Secret Life of the American Teenager and Make It or Break It. You know, classic ABC Family staples. Robbie joins us for dinner, and then it’s bedtime in the Pack ‘n Play in the guest room.

Seems simple, right? Put a few toys in the Pack ‘n Play, and eventually Robbie will go to sleep, right? That’s what we thought. Until it was time for us to leave. Justin went in to get him and found the havoc that had been wreaked by our beloved son. The floor was littered with Micah’s socks and underwear, the dresser drawer pulled out and hanging at an awkward angle. His toys were strewn across the floor. The blanket on the bed had been dragged across the bed, and the backpacks on the bed had fallen to the floor.

Then my eyes wandered to my child, sitting in his empty Pack ‘n Play. Upon hearing us, he turned and said, “Cheese!” And then he lifted up Allie’s camera and uber-fabulous lens. Yes, he had been very thorough, using the blanket to move the camera case within his grasp and somehow opened the latch.

Fortunately, there was no damage to the camera and Micah’s unmentionables were easily refolded. But, we now have nowhere to keep Robbie that involves keeping any of Micah and Allie’s items safe. Several months ago, he reached all of their files on the shelf and resorted them. It’s days like this that I miss my little baby – you know, the one who couldn’t reach anything from his crib. Or, better yet, the one who just went to sleep instead of finding something to break…

Shopping for clothes has not been fun for the past decade. It was fun in college, when I got myself down to a size eight. But even then I didn’t really enjoy it. Trying on clothes in sizes that I hoped would fit but didn’t left me in tears in many a dressing room, especially as my size kept increasing.

I have a big event tomorrow, and I needed to buy a suit. I wasn’t looking forward to this outing, but Justin had faith. Friends had recommended White House Black Market, but I was sure none of their clothes would fit. Somewhat daunted, I made my way through the mall with Justin and Robbie in tow. I was crushed when I looked at the racks and saw they only went up to a size 14. Feeling tears springing in my eyes, I turned to Justin and told him we would have to leave. We could try Macy’s. Maybe they would go up one or two more sizes.

Justin gave me a stern look and told me to try on the clothes. So I did. I had to call in one of the fitting room attendants; I had no idea if the dress actually fit. It seemed OK, but, after all, it was a size 14. There was no way it could fit. She looked at me like I had three heads and assured me that it not only fit, but it looked fabulous (surely she was working on commission, right?). But, you know what? She was right. Not only did that dress fit, but so did the suits and the shirts that she brought in.

I felt like I had arrived. For the first time in nearly a decade, I enjoyed shopping for clothes. They made me feel fabulous. They made me feel worthy, like I fit in with the rest of the world. And, even though this week hasn’t shown it, more determined than ever to continue to work for myself and enjoy my life in my new body.

Robbie found a picture of me eight months pregnant yesterday. I saw him looking at it and asked, “Where’s Mama? Can you show me Mama?” He looked from the picture to me three or four times, shook his head, and tossed the picture aside. My own child didn’t recognize me. I know, I know. He’s not even two. But he loves to show me people he knows in pictures. And he couldn’t find me.

I’m getting close to “one-derland”. You know, being under the 200 pound mark. Not so long ago, I would have been horrified for you to know this about me. But not so much anymore. I’m so excited to meet this goal, but I’m also having a little bit of a hard time with it.

I’ve spent some time trying to figure out who Erin is now. I haven’t been under 200 pounds for over eight years. No one who has met me since I left Kentucky has known me that way. I’m trying to rectify who I find myself becoming with who I was for so long. It’s gotten more difficult as I’ve realized all the things I don’t like about who I have been for the past eight years. While I’m excited to shed that skin and lose all of the judgments that come with it, I’m not sure what to do with the person left.

I sing a little louder now and I smile a whole lot more. I talk to more people; I take more risks personally and professionally. But how do I forget the impact the past eight years have had on my life? Is it something that I need to forget? I know there’s a certain amount of forgiveness that needs to happen on my part, and it seems like that is going to be the most difficult part. After all, how could I treat my body so horribly for so long? Perhaps I need to take the advice that I so often give my students. I cannot let my past define me. This is the opportunity of a lifetime to reinvent myself, and I don’t want to spend anymore time hating who I let myself be for so long.