So, shame on me for wanting 15 minutes or so to myself. This morning basically started like any other — up at 5:45 to study for an hour, breakfast on the table by 7am, get the girls, the usual routine. After breakfast, we go upstairs and I strip the girls of their pj’s, jam them into their clothes and brush up their hair and teeth. When it’s all said and done, the clock reads about ten minutes after eight. We need to be out the door and head to the car by about 8:30. Inevitably, Co decides to have her morning constitutional (read: poop) right at breakfast, but lately, she’s been holding on to it until 8:29.

In the 10 or so minutes between the end of the morning hygiene routine and heading to the car, I take a few minutes for myself. I brush my teeth, maybe put on a little blush or mascara, and usually park myself in front of the computer to check my school email account, the weather, FB, or some such nonsense, if only for a moment. And of course, in these stolen minutes, the patter of 3 year old and 1 year old feet sound from overhead. Sometimes a screaming match erupts, usually someone is tattling on someone else, and I throw an obligatory, “Be nice to your sister,” up the stairs before SuperPoking my brother or sending a piece of flair to my lab partner from 10th grade chemistry.

Shame on me for trying to do me for a minute. I look at the clock, it’s about 8:27 and I figure that Co has done her thing, so I can speed change her while Mo puts her coat on and we’ll still get out the door on time. I head for the stair, my foot hits the bottom step, and as I call out, I get a distinct whiff of baby powder —- from two flights up. WTH?

And I’m off, taking the steps two at a time, rounding the landing, up the short, second flight when Mo scuttles out of her room, Co hot on her heels and the both of them are covered — tip to tail in baby powder.

Like someone grabbed them by their pig-tails and dipped them in a vat of flour. There is powder on the floor of both of their rooms, the hallway, in the bathroom, clinging to their dressers and Co’s crib like a thin layer of dust. And I say, “What are you doing?!” and they both say, “Oh!” — like that explains it. Mo regains her composure first and says, “Well. . .(she begins everything with well or actually) we made an ice rink upstairs.

Sidenote: Olivia the Pig, beloved piglet of the Ian Falconer has a series on TV and the episode du jour involves ice skating and a homemade ice rink – – – in the backyard. So I guess I should be grateful it’s powder and not water. I guess. . .

The two ice princesses had covered every inch of hardwood floor, free surfaces and themselves. And in my head, my punctuality gene is saying, “Uh, we gotta go now or we’re all gonna be late,” while my anal retentive gene says, “Oh HAYLE NO! We can’t leave this mess! And look at them!” Yes, they both look like Ashy Larry, like they’ve never heard of Jergens or Nivea.

So, I grab them both by the hand, wheel them into the bathroom and with a very stern, “I’m very disappointed in you,” proceed to blot the powder off of their faces, clothes and hair with a damp washcloth. After a minute or two, I don’t even care how they look. I’m still cringing at all the powder on the floor. I waffle on whether or not to just change their clothes and start fresh or sweep the floor. Anal retentiveness, as far as the house goes, won out and the floor got swept. I sent them downstairs to put their coats on. Little powder puffs followed in their wake and clung to the air, my sweats, and my face. I swept those floors with a vengeance and dust bunnies circled their wagons, tearing off at the sight of me coming.

This afternoon, Mo went to the bathroom and called for me to help her. She washed her hands and I reached for the hand towel to help her dry. A huge cloud of powder rose up in the air between us.

“Mmmmm,” she said. “Smells good.”

Seriously, I couldn’t make this stuff up if I tried.

Man! I have been out of pocket for a while now. The funny thing is, I haven’t been doing a whole lot of anything to account for my whereabouts. Remember that scene in Back to the Future, where Principal Strickland gives Marty the what for, asking him if he wants to be a slacker all of his life? Yeah, that’s what I’ve been feeling like lately. I guess I’ve really gotten into my groove with school because I actually started doing things that I haven’t done since the semester started. I’m reading. . .for pleasure! Seriously, I burned through an Alice Sebold book and a Janet Evanovitch (love that Stephanie Plum) in like a week! I worked out, twice! I took the week-end off and spent the day in Richmond with my sorority sisters. Ahhh good times! And I had a test AND a quiz this week. Seriously, I was slack-tastic with a capital S. Here’s a snippet of a Facebook message I sent to another friend of mine who is also in school.

Seriously, I feel like the boy who cried wolf when it comes to my school work. Maybe the girl who cried “F” would be more appropriate, though, I haven’t gotten an F since that Bio 101 experience. Before that, the lowest grade I had ever gotten was C in fourth grade math (I’m still devestated).

DH doesn’t even want to hear me bellyache about how much I haven’t studied or how hard the test is going to be. The last two tests I came home completely ticked because I felt that the test questions were not an accurate representation of my knowledge. Yes, I am an overachieving douche. What can I say, I like getting A’s. I can’t sing, I can kind of dance, I’m a passable tennis player, but I don’t do basketball or golf or long distance running. I’m pretty average in a number of things, like playing instruments or being artistically inclined — drawing princesses being the exception *shudder*. What I do know, though, is that I know how to study. Sure, it’s been a lot of pump and dump, but I’m getting the grades I want. Now, I’m finding a way to get the more routine, pre-back-to-school activities back into my schedule.

Can I tell you how good it felt to read a book that had nothing to do with action potentials and the sodium/potassium pump? Sure, I’d been taking the girls to the library, but when I checked out books for myself, I swear I heard my library card humming the opening bars of “Reunited”.

The YMCA has been a great place for blog fodder. Case in point — the locker room (again) today was the scene of yet another head scratching moment for me.

So, I sweated myself stupid after a grueling aerobics class that I was conned into by another SAHM friend. After a 2 week hiatus, I guess I should have paced myself with my return to the aerobic trenches, but I figured, “Hey, I’m a Grant/Dixon, I can do this.” Let’s just say, even after I had showered, dressed and gotten the girls out of ChildWatch, my face was still as red as a glass of Merlot. And FYI, I gave up wine for Lent, so there may be a few wine related phrases thrown in the blogs to come.

But, in the locker room, which was blissfully empty, I put my stuff away, grabbed my towels and headed to the shower. I decided to take a quick visit to the steam room and try to calm down the muscles in my legs for bit. That’s always a risky proposition because when you come out of the steam room, the entire shower room could be packed like Wal-Mart on a pay-day Friday. This time, however, it was empty.

So, I’m showering, la la la and in walk two women, one older, one younger in their bras and underpants. I’m thinking that they aren’t from the US, given their ethnicities and the fact that when I have seen them out and about in the gym, they are in the traditional garb of their country. I’m not going to even venture a guess as to where they are from, nor do I want to dabble in racial profiling — hey, I’m a Black female, I’ve been dabbled in that area enough. Let’s say these women are from, oh I don’t know, Wisconsin, just to be safe. Apologies to any Wisconsinites that I may offend.

These ladies come in with their shower paraphernalia and commence to clean themselves up, in their underwear. Bras and underpants, people. Doesn’t that impede the actual cleaning process if the vital spots (and you know what I’m talking about) are covered by cloth? How are you supposed to “wash possible” as my mom would say? Don’t we all as women know, that water, cloth and dark spaces are a recipe for a yeasty mess? What gives? Seriously, it wasn’t like they walked in and then removed the undergarments. They actually washed around the straps, leg holes, and armholes. Hey, it’s an open shower, you can see everything that’s going on. And guess what is the craziest part of the whole thing — THEY WEREN’T WEARING SHOWER SHOES!!!

I can understand the need for modesty in public, hence their traditional Wisconsin dress, but in the locker room, amongst women? I, more than anyone, have body issues, but as I’ve said in posts pasts, it’s the locker room, everyone has the same gravity afflicted parts. I’m just in there to de-funk, wash possible, shower, shave, all that jazz.

Clearly, I didn’t get the memo about shower attire. Standing there “bucket-naked” with these two ladies, I felt grossly under-dressed.

These are the words that I hope to say to my eldest child come the Christmas season next year and going forward. Alas, it seems that Santa’s brother from another mother is as elusive as a reservation at the French Laundry or going through airport security in 15 minutes.

Case in point, in the holiday department in Dillard’s at the MacArthur Mall, there is a tree that is decorated with all Black Santa’s, Black Ballerina’s, and other Black-centric ornaments. Right after Thanksgiving, my mother stumbles upon that tree and excitedly, said to the clerk on the floor how wonderful the tree was. She then went on to ask him where and when the Black Santa would be coming to town. The clerk, who was also Black, said something like, “Yadda, yadda, yadda, there isn’t one”. Not one to be dissuaded, my mom, who I think was Nancy Drew in a former life, set out to find one for Morgan and Coever.

Fast forward to the 1st of December. Evidently, there IS a Black Santa, and he was going to be at the Newsome House in Newport News on December 8rd — FOR ONE DAY ONLY. WTH? And no, we didn’t make it to the Newsome House for their “Soulful Christmas Celebration”. The reason why is another blog for another day.

Anyway, in our search for Black Santa, I even went so far as to suggest to Craig buying a Santa suit, dressing up for our girls, snapping a few pics and then returning the suit!! Or keeping it for next year, whatever. Shoot, if word got out that we had a Black Santa, consider Christmas paid for! Those of you who know Craig get one guess as to his response.

So, in the spirit of 8-year-old Virginia Hanlon, here is my letter, not to the editor of the Virginia Pilot, but to Cyberspace.

Dear World Wide Web: I am 29 years old. It seems to be that there is no Black Santa Claus. Some have said “We live in Hampton Roads! There’s got to be one!”, while others have said, “There really isn’t one.” Please tell me the truth; is there a Black Santa Claus? By the way, I have included a photo to help you in your search.