The plots in the novels I’m reading, the estate planning software (unopened on my desktop) and topics on Oprah have my mind wandering.

Yucky ifs.

…if I end up in a wheelchair.

…if I get Lou Gehrig’s disease.

…if something horrific wreaks havoc on our life savings.

I told you; these are yucky ifs.

Sometimes–when these ifs threaten to pounce–I run the figurative numbers.  I tell myself that my “if” has already happened.  And I reason that the “if” I’ve been dealt is not so bad, as far as “ifs” go.

I distinctly remember having a conversation with another mom, back when my oldest was the only.  This other mom and I were discussing the possibility of future siblings for our only-ies.  And she said something that struck me.  She said, “it’s hard to think about another when I have this one who is perfectly healthy.”

I thought she was such a downer.  Who thinks like that?

I was young.  Naive.

She was older.  Less naive.

And wouldn’t you know–just a few years later–an if of the very sort she was speaking snuck through.

I’ve since come around to her way of thinking.

Not so much in regard to more children.

But the ifs.

The ifs are more prevalent now.  Now that I see {and appreciate} all that I have to lose.

There is a positive to this if-dwelling: the ever-present reminder to live.  Out loud.  Presently.  Intentionally.  To give thanks for the iflessness of my days.

Because this much I know is true: each moment I ponder the if is one lost to me, wasted.  Never to return.

If if go away.  Don’t come again another day.

I’m too busy.  Enjoying the iflessness.

We spent the weekend with Gram.  I just adore her.  That’s all there is to say about that.

The seven of us took in the new Alice in Wonderland film (used the fancy term for movie in honor of the Oscars) on Saturday.  I give it a solid 1.5 thumbs up.  There was just one part (maybe about 15 minutes or so) that sort of dragged for me.  Though, Jeff, Torri, and Kennedy loved it in its entirety.  Even Jayce and Cassidy were entertained throughout.  It wasn’t too dark or scary for the kids (my kids, anyway).  There was a very interesting storyline with an underlying positive message, especially for young girls.  Oh, and we saw the 3-D version.  Very cool.

It rained again today.  We had minestrone and a fire.  I love El nino years.

Have you heard that Black Eyed Peas song, “I Gotta Feeling?”

Well.  This week?  It’s gonna be a good, good week.  I gotta feelin’.

It was actually Torri’s high school campus.  She was a student there, at the same time as me.

And I was lost–for the life of me I couldn’t find building 600.

But then finally I did.  It was an elective: “American Cheese is Going Places.”  We were to learn how to make cheese.  Because those are the kind of elective options schools offer these days, don’t ya know.

And then it was lunch time again.  I remember telling one of my not-so-friends, “that was the longest summer EVER.”

It really was.

Sigh.

Tell me I’m not the only one with completely random dreams like these.

A surprising new love at that because–until now–I’d never considered myself the type.

Too much work–I’d always believed.  Not enough reward.

But then I read something that changed my mind–changed that “not enough reward” bit.

Turns out, there are benefits.

To what, you ask?  To houseplants.

Who knew?

It’s true though.  Check this out:

• they disperse airborne toxins
• they decrease dust and mold particles
• they increase creativity (which is HUGE considering I’m working on my second novel)
• they boost energy (which is equally HUGE considering I’m the mother of four)
• they reduce stress
• they also have a positive effect on Feng Shui if you buy that sorta thing (which I don’t–for the record)

Those were reason enough for me to invest in my very own house plants this past weekend.  And now that they’ve been placed into a formerly desolate corner of the living room, I’m actually quite fond of them.

Before I purchased them, though, I did scour the internet for recommendations as to which species of plants would go furthest in boosting our air quality.  Here are ten plants you might consider:

1. Janet Craig
2. Sweet Chico
3. Kentia Palm
4. Philodendron
5. Golden Pothos
6. English Ivy
7. Spider Plants
8. Snake Plants
9. Peace Lilly
10. African Violet

I had no idea I was the house plant type.  Turns out I am; I’m on the lookout for more greenery this weekend.

Two thing to remember though: don’t water your house plants with softened water because the salt can mess with sodium levels and cause your greens to die a slow and painful death; and to positively affect the air in an 1800 sq. ft. house you would need 15-20 plants.

For more Works For Me Wednesday ideas, check out Rocks In My Dryer.

She reads to them.  Watches them race up and down the back patio on their scooters.  Will listen as they describe each and every pin in their Disney collection.

She’s bathed them–bending over the bathtub to scrub behind their ears.

She wipes the table after lunch and folds the kitchen towels I leave wadded on the counter.

She brings goodies–a portable cooler full of ‘em.

She mails clippings from the kids activity section of her church bulletin.

And forwards me the anti-Obama emails she gets from friends in her church circle {she knows I’ll usually appreciate them just as much as she does}.

She’s a gem.  A gift to me.  To all of us.

And she’s coming for the weekend–one last time before her and Gramps head back to Boise for the summer.

She called today to work out the details.  Just when I thought this Monday was as mundane as any.

A warm ray of sun.  A penny, lucky side up.  A little bird outside my window.

Suddenly, the week is looking up.

And coughing.  Hacking up lungs and whatnot.

Nose-blowing and coughing and lungs.  Intermittently.

For days.  And days.

It hit me hard last week.

Unexpectedly.

Which explains my unannounced absence.

I would have loved to have posted.  But I was laid up on the couch with a fever (101.5 thankyouverymuch)–convinced I had pneumonia (which I or may not have used as a guilt trip against my husband so I’m unwilling to admit now that maybe I didn’t actually have pneumonia.  Because I did.  Totally pneumonia.  That just so happened to go away on its own).

Movingrightalong.

Things have taken a turn for the better.

There was a date at the Cheesecake Factory.

A trip to the movies with my girls to see Dear John.

And a whole lotta sitting by the fire, reading.  As the rain fell down, down, down.

The Cheesecake Factory didn’t do much for me.  (I think our locally owned restaurants have spoiled me forever).

The movie was quite good, in a chick flick, sappy sort of way.

And I’ll let you know about the book when I finish it.

But don’t let me do all the talking.

Did you see any good movies this weekend?  Read any good books?  Try any new recipes?  Do tell.

Not that it was always that way.  Far from it.

We’ve known each other for more than half of my life.  For seventeen years.

But we’ve only liked each other for, eh, maybe six or seven of those.

The rest of those years were spent first bickering, then battling.  Over something we had in common–something precious to us both: our baby girl.

It’s gotten easier as she’s grown.

Easier to see that we both want the same things for her, even if we disagree on how to get there.

If you’ve never experienced shared custody it’s nearly impossible to imagine how difficult it can be.

But I can attest.

It’s a painful road.  A road littered with blame and contempt and insecurities.  Ugly words and hateful thoughts and splintered bonds.  Shattered dreams and broken hearts–both big and small.

Which makes this emerald meadow at the end of that road all the sweeter.

He came with his girlfriend, to spend the weekend with our baby {who isn’t so much a baby anymore}.

I couldn’t wait to meet The Girlfriend; I’d heard lots of good things.   And she certainly didn’t disappoint.  I genuinely liked her.  Really, really liked her.  Which is saying a lot.  Because those that came before her?  Eh, not so much.

The eight of us crowded around our table this morning.  And we ate and we laughed {while the sickly among us coughed}.  We poked fun and reminisced and smiled.

It felt good.

Not only because her dad is family {once removed}.

But also because she witnessed it all.

She was there–between us–but not a buffer.

She saw us smile, and mean it.  She heard us laugh, together.

She had breakfast with her family–juxtaposed at one strangely-quilted table.

Four years ago I would have dismissed the possibility.

Today I smile.  And know never to say never.

This life is far from storybook.  Far far far.

But it’s real.

And it’s me.

And it works.

More so now than ever before–granted–but still.

It’s good to be on this side.

Good for all of us.

His eyes lit up when he saw the park.  More so when he saw that his buddy, Jack, was there too.

He raced up the steps.  Came down the slide.  Ran through the sand.

Wore himself right out.

Do you remember doing that when you were a kid?  Taking that ounce of feel better and running against the wind with it?  It always came back to bite you in the behind.

Just like it did for him, today.

I’m not jealous; I’m not much of a snow bunny myself.  Though one snow fall a year is a novelty I enjoy.

Here in the Old Pueblo we’re not so much dealing with snowflakes.

In fact–don’t hate me–the projected high temp Wednesday is, um, well, it’s 75.  Sorry.  Don’t shoot the messenger.

My little man and I have a date at the park; the swings are calling his name.

I hope he feels up to it.

He spent much of his day today like this.

For the most part, that tuckered out look melts my heart.

But–selfishly–sick days aren’t all bad.

Because those are the days when–even at three years old–nothing makes him as happy as Mommy’s lap.

Will you rock me? He asks.  And every time I drop whatever it is I’m doing.

And we go to his room–to the rocker that I insisted was as imperative to his room as a crib.

We rock.

He curls into a question mark under my chin–tight against my chest–and he lets me stroke his hair.

We talk about his choice of the objects in his room {his ceiling fan and closet are among his most favorite}.

We read about old ladies who swallow flies.  And wockets in pockets.  And Terrible Plops.

For as long as he allows it, we rock.

I breathe deep, and do my best to plant the feel of him there into my heart.

The weight of him.

The curl of his fist.

His pouty bottom lip.

The shutter of my mind’s eye clicks away–fast and furious–but the rest of me just inhales.  And rocks some more.

With any luck he’ll come home from the park tomorrow with two shoes chock full of sand.

Tomorrow he’ll be busy with the chasing and the whirling and twirling.

All the more reason to rock today.

For as long as he allows it.

We go to Walt Disney World, where we walk a cumulative hundred miles around the theme parks.

Unfortunately for my waistline, we also eat our weight in fudge and ice cream and chocolate covered everything.

And our return home is marked by the start of fall food season.  What?  Doesn’t every family have a fall food season?

Our fall food season includes pumpkin bread and cream cheese-frosted pumpkin bars.  Meatloaf and mashed potatoes.  Apple pie.  Baked ziti.  And countless other calorie-laden comfort foods.

Before long the calendar flips and so begins the holiday season.  At about this point I often wonder if everyone views egg nog and sugar cookies and peanut butter balls as figure sabotage, or if it’s just me.

But then comes January 1st.  And I pledge to drop the 1.5 pounds I put on at Disney, the 3 pounds I picked up during October, and the remaining {no, I’m not going to share the number thankyouverymuch} butter weight I adhered to my thighs during the holiday season.

And I was on my way, let me just tell you.

But then–dag blast it–they start stocking the store shelves with these little beauties.

And–just like that–I cave.  For real.  Like, stick a fork in me cuz’ I’m done kind of cave.

Worse yet?

Don’t even get me started on the sinful sugary goodness that is the chick {or rabbit as the case may be}.

Now that my local grocery store has replaced all of the candy hearts with these babies, I figure it best to avoid the scale altogether.  At least until, oh May.  Wait.  Scratch that.  Because Cinco de Mayo, with it’s fried tortilla chips and guacomole fresca?  Oh and the margaritas.  Ole.

How about you?  Do you have an Easter downfall?