Airport Stress

Last week I headed overseas with a girlfriend minus the kids' and husband. I didn't even look for my passport until an hour before my flight.

And my bags were thrown together minutes before. It was so liberating considering my husband usually has us at the airport four to five hours ahead of time ... just in case. Just in case of what I don't know. And it drives me crazy. So throwing myself together last minute was the beginning of my girlfriend adventure to Japan.

My friend Elle who works for the airlines was flying staff travel which means she is always the last person to board the aircraft. And as an airline expert she convinced me we didn't need to be at the airport until an hour before the flight. It was definitely my kind of traveling ... until I walked up to the counter and they told me that my friend had a fat chance of getting on the plane as it was oversold. Don't they realize we're on our way to see Madonna! The lady at the counter was so nice but kept saying how unlikely it was that Elle would get on. So we began a running score of people left to check in hoping that someone wouldn't turn up. It started at 16 people and we managed to count down to one final spot, not counting the line of staff travelers who wanted on the plane. But with five minutes before take-off, they announced that Elle had the only seat available and everyone else should go home. We were ecstatic! Mind you, I think I was having heart palpitations at the same time.

This kind of experience could turn any laid-back person into a wreck. There was no magazine perusing, bathroom stops or food top-ups beforehand - the things I was well and truly used to doing! So to calm down from the scoreboard check-ins I ordered a wine on the plane immediately.

Coming home was a different story. Elle had gotten word that the flight was wide open so she was going to be in business class with the possibility of getting me bumped up with her. I had visions of us lying back in our business class seats clinking our glasses and celebrating our awesome adventure together. Well, this thought was gone as soon as we hit the airport. It turned out another flight had been canceled so they had to put all of those passengers on our flight. There wasn't a chance in hell that she was going to get on our plane. She was close to tears as no one would help, not to mention her also knowing that the nearby hotels were sold out. So round two of the pre-board stress had begun. I had five minutes to board, my friend needed help and I was not even remotely near the departure gate. My name was being announced over the loud speaker and I had Japanese women escorting me to the plane. I couldn't wait to tell my husband this one!

Maybe four hours before take-off isn't so bad afterall! That'll be our secret.

Doing It All

I have my own theory on being a woman who wants it all called the "Roxy 80". It simply means that there is no way in hell to do absolutely everything you want to do 100% well so learn to be satisfied with 80%.

It sounds like an obvious plan but when you think about it there are so many important categories in a women's life. For me my relationship with my husband comes first. If that's good it sets up the foundation for everything else. Then come our two children. But work is a must to provide new challenges. And there is no way I want to sacrifice my health for the sake of being successful so that too is important. Also if I don't have adventure in my life it's the end. I need to feel like I'm living like I've never lived. It defines who I am. Then there are other things like finances, aging parents...

That's a lot of stuff to do well isn't it? I can assure you first hand that my life falls apart when I strive for 100% in any one of these categories. So I made a major mental shift to allow myself to be completely satisfied. Okay you got me. I'm still "making" the shift. It's like being part of AA. I've admitted that I'm working on this horribly hard task. The Roxy 80 rule is my break-through answer to this issue. My husband seems to think this rule is perfect for me since I turn the little things like taking up a new hobby into preparing for the Olympics. Last year, I decided surfing was going to be my new thing. Less than a month into it I was in classes, going to camps, reading books, videos, owned a board and wetsuit, and was just short of booking a session with World Professional Layne Beachley. Today he only needs to say "surfing" and I get that he's trying to say bring it to 80 for the sake of everything else.

I'm not the only one who thinks they're doing it all. I had a very funny email exchange with my husband's boss recently that turned into us revealing exactly what was on our minds. Here's the punch...

Hal: Why, just today we [Hal and my husband] were discussing the fun of fighting for our careers in an increasingly dangerous corporate environment, yet somehow continuing to provide for our families until we're 65. No pressure. Then we get to enjoy those last two years of stress-free life before we die in pain of some kind of cardiac thrombosis.

And when we come home our work doesn't stop. Oh, no, then we just become instant house-husbands, cooking and cleaning and child-minding until late because the little woman has somehow, inexplicably, exhausted herself in the 12 hours we were away and the kids were at school and aftercare, and now it's somehow our turn. Where's the logic in that?

Geez, I'm so glad I'm a man. Also interesting: While one can't needle one's own wife, one can needle someone else's. (I said needle.)

Roxy: For your information, Jack receives dinner on the table, daily massages, regular blow jobs, sex, someone to handle all of the kid's aliments and a wife working on making millions to support the entire family for life... so who's work never stops?

Hal: You've got to give him blow jobs? You win hands down.

Like I said...

Breathe, Push, Roar...

Birth war stories are probably not for the ears of those yet to encounter. At a recent kids' party three moms from my original mother's group posse were all fighting for air time over what happened six or seven years ago. We remembered it like yesterday. Could it be the pain?

My kids are absolutely gorgeous and I love them more than anything but let's get real here. Giving birth is hell. I mean more hell than I ever thought it could be. It's the level of pain that is unfathomable. In theory I had such an easy birth the first time. It only lasted an hour and a half. Sounds like a breeze. I had no stitches and could practically run a marathon the next day.

This one moment is all prepped by a weekly birthing class and countless pregnancy and birth books. In my case I had my husband clued in right down to the baby's nail growth on a daily basis.

Everything was absolutely text book until the god awful moment when the lightening bolt struck in the middle of the night. It was pure shell shock. And there was no wondering if it was a real contraction. Before we raced out the door I'll never forget whipping up a protein shake for all that energy I was going to need. Yeah right. It was straight in and straight up. Page 36: Don't eat during contractions as the body clears everything out to prepare for birth - and that meant both ends.

My birthing plan was a "roll with the punches and see what I'm dealt" approach before I decide what "assistance" I would need. Well, I decided way back in bed during the first contraction that if this was labor I wanted drugs. I said the word drugs at least 1000 times before we even got to the hospital. It was like my last words in life were going to be drugs. Or at least that's how I felt. Unfortunately the nurse didn't think it was a good idea to rush into the epidural so quickly.

With no rhyme or reason I straddled a chair under a hot shower for my chosen birth position and screamed like an animal proving that sound waves could make it to China from Sydney. Meanwhile, my husband stood there excitedly trying to comfort me. If I could give any man advice during this time it's not to look excited but "concerned". When a woman feels like she is about to die she doesn't want Mr. Happy. Nor does she want gas. The nurse gave me gas to supposedly take the edge off. I told her to get a new tank with something in it. I demanded an epidural at which point they said "let's check out your dilation"... at which point they said, "you're having a baby, we better call the doctor." And somehow after I pushed for 30 minutes my doctor rolled in effortlessly, slipped on his gloves and said congratulations you have a boy with not a second to spare.

As my friends came to visit me at the hospital and see cute little Cody, I couldn't stop talking about "the birth". I was in awe that anyone could live through such a thing. One friend in particular insinuated that it couldn't be that bad. So a year and half later with number two I made my husband tape record the "primal sounds" to prove to my kidless friends this was no knee injury. Even the thought of being tackled by the NY Jets defensive line sounded soothing.

Did I say the kids are cute?

Dear Super Nanny

I think I need some serious help! Returning from a day long adventure with our two kids (6 1/2 and 5 years old), Grandma, in a serious voice, said the kids were not allowed to go for their evening swim. Her report, "They threw their Leapsters at each other as I was driving along the highway - I had no where to pull over, THEN they started arm farting the whole way home! They are unbelievable. Cody maneuvers himself around the system ... and Madison likes to cause drama at every moment."

I was so angry that our kids gave Grandma such a hard time on our recent visit to Arizona but at the same time it made me laugh seeing her in such a huff. The reality is that every waking day includes a number of dramas before we even get out the door in the morning. Most moms joke about the battles they've fought, mountains they've climbed, and emergencies they've endured all before 8am, but shouldn't our days be a little more heavenly?

After Grandma told me I need to get a grip with my kids, I caught up with one of my Arizona pals who has three kids ages 13, 7 and 5. We hit the pool and within minutes her 13-year-old boy was scratching and irritating her 7-year-old girl. Secretly, it was a beautiful moment. I was NOT alone. Our catch up got even better when she gave me the update on her sister and her kids. It turns out she qualified for the American Super Nanny show because her youngest was sooo bad. I couldn't believe it!

Our own kids' behavior was again highlighted when we visited friends who don't have any kids in Santa Monica. While they were relaxed and fancy free, I had Cody kicking me because I did something that irritated him, then I had my hair tugged by Madison - all while my friend was witnessing our kids for the first time. I was partly thinking I should say our kids aren't normally like this but then realized we were accumulating a lot of the good, bad and ugly on our holiday. So who was I fooling?

We had already endured a two- hour beach bike rental that lasted 10 minutes after tantrums, a pool episode which left our football between the breasts of a relaxed sunbaker, a babysitter who was bribed by our kids to give them presents, the "discovering" of poo in a bathing suit, and a breakfast in a very nice hotel with the kids eating pancakes and syrup with their hands.

Do you mind if I put you on speed dial?

xx Roxy