By Contributing Mama Karen Palmer Bland

When I was in my early 30s, single and living in the uber-cool Minneapolis, I loved Bikram yoga. I was taking the hottest class (literally) offered in town. Six years and four kids later, this body could use a return to the 90 minute-alone-time in ANY temperature…so I decided to go back.

But with four little kids, getting away ain’t easy. So on my birthday, my husband gave me the priceless gift of the “free pass” and I talked my friend, Anne, into joining me to find our inner selves at Bikram in the 105-degree studio. A mere $18 seemed like a small price to pay to find Namaste, balance, strength, tranquility, peace…all of those words that you see on Whole Foods’ magnets.

When we showed up we learned that enlightenment comes with rules. We were told that we couldn’t drink water in between poses, we couldn’t wipe our sweat and we couldn’t sit near each other. (Are you kidding? Were they scared we would break open the Cinnabons and overpower the sweaty smell, too?) My inner self told me not to ask about bringing my cell phone into the studio…that they wouldn’t care that the pre-school might need to find me. I would have to be a downward dog and unreachable to the world for 90 minutes.

I looked around and noticed that everyone had a plain white towel over their mats. I hoped that no one noticed my over-sized pink towel from the Juicy Couture outlet store that said, “BORN TO SURF AND SHOP” in cute, swirly letters. Can you say Faux-pas? Make that Yo-pas. The class was hard. It was friggin hot. And it was smelly. But I have to admit, I was enjoying my own, sweaty space. No one was bothering me, clinging to me, hanging on me, crying to me, whining at me. It was heaven.

And just when I thought I had achieved tranquility and inner peace, the teacher announced (over her yoga-phone), “Karen…please remove that noisy charm bracelet.” Eesh. I had forgotten to take off the Tiffany charm bracelet with the 4 charms on it – the ones that have my kids’ initials and birthdays on them. All I could think was, “Doesn’t anyone want to know about this noisy charm bracelet? About its significance? About the fact that I have 4 kids under 6? Aren’t you yogis curious about the fact that I am here with no phone and now no jewelry, with 4 little kids? Isn’t that amazing?”

I want to shout out to the rest of the class… Go ahead and take a drink.  Wipe your sweat.  Clang your loud jewelry. It’s my birthday. Namaste to me.

By Contributing Mama Diane LeBleu

I just had my hair highlighted and while that may be fairly mundane news to most, it was a thrill for me as I finally had enough hair to make it worth the serious coin that coloring now commands.

I tried to be a good sport last year through my chemo treatments for breast cancer that left my blonde locks just a memory recorded only in digital photos, including my Facebook pose.  Now a year later, my hair, while much shorter, is back to my ‘original’ color – the same color as when I learned I had breast cancer.

I had just returned from a trip to visit my best friend Holly in Budapest. She was living there with her family for two years.  My sweet husband indulged my desire to travel thousands of miles to do ‘research’ for a book I wanted to – and may still – write some day. At the time, little did I know that this tiny spot in my right breast would turn into Stage 2 breast cancer followed by a bilateral mastectomy and six months of chemo resulting in the loss of all my hair and whatever forward momentum I would have to finally write a book.

After a year devoted to cancer abolishment, things have pretty much returned to normal. Today was fairly typical: carpool duty for swim practice for Danielle, kill 90 minutes with Sabrina & Caroline (plus a friend), eat dinner at north Austin fast food chicken eatery that will remain nameless, hasty retreat from this restaurant after an anonymous child poops up the child play area (It’s mine, of course. Caroline used to be very regular until she discovered how much she loves cheese). Another establishment I can no longer frequent.

I still yell at my kids, curse the stained and vermin-infested carpet we cannot afford to replace. I do laundry over (and over and over) and dread the weekly grocery trips because I have absolutely no imagination when it comes to cooking, a chore I also barely tolerate.

I’m still in the clutches of the longest mid-life crisis on record. It started somewhere in my mid to late twenties. I recall a conversation with my friend Cici, who was on the same career track as me. We were both lamenting the fact that we were both good at our jobs but finding it not very fulfilling. Imagine, we both agreed, how great we would be if we found something to do that we actually liked. Were we victims of our culture’s claims that we deserve to be fulfilled (and handsomely compensated) for our work? Work that ought to define us and provide an immediate response to those that might ask, “What do you do?”

Then came motherhood and the response was fairly self-explanatory. If you were talking to another stay-at-home mom that is. Husbands still didn’t fully understand what we do all day while they are at work. Some days, as I look around at the laundry and mess, I too wonder where my productive hours have gone. What did I accomplish today? When you work at an office, you have fairly clear cut tasks, objectives, and deliverables. Something you can point to and say…. See – I did that today. Crossed it off my list. Now I can reward myself with cocktails after work with friends.

How is it that I have reached 40 and still don’t know what I want to do when I grow up? As I see it, I am on my third career now. First one, out of college, business and IT consultant. Second, SAHM. This really does count as a career – one is just not compensated monetarily. Third – TBD. I had a false start coming off the blocks last year. I thought I would be able to be an insurance advisor and even went to all the trouble to train and be licensed. To this day, I have not sold one insurance policy. Zero.  As I tell others, I’m finding that I am more of a service person than sales. So now what? What kind of divine intervention will come down to coax, urge, kick me in the butt to get me pointed in the right direction and launch me out of my middle aged angst?

What’s different now between pre and post-cancer Diane is that I hope this is my mid-life instead of end-of-life crisis. Cancer has a funny way of getting you to rethink some things. Take my idea to get a dog. For years, I have been in the anti-dog camp. The hair, the chewed up furniture, the neediness. I used to shake my head at the poor souls in my neighborhood out at all hours in inclement weather with a leash and a plastic baggie and proclaim ‘That will never be me!’

Most (sane) people would celebrate their 4th child getting out of diapers with, I don’t know, some kind of ritual diaper genie burning or something along those lines. Instead, I decide that…. Hey, life is short, I don’t want to deprive my children of a chance to own a real pet. Here’s what I have found out since we have become dog owners. Big dogs generate big poop. And dogs are like goats. They eat anything – even dead birds.

What’s also different now is that I start and finish my day with prayers of thanksgiving. For my husband, children, family and friends. For what health I have today. For the funny things my kids will say and do. For the frustration at trying to get my recently scatterbrained 9-year-old son to follow two directions – in a row. I had lunch with a pink girlfriend the other day. We were both diagnosed at the same time and she is now happy that she only thinks about cancer some of the day rather than the 24/7 ache she most recently had on her heart. I told her that I didn’t want to forget my cancer. Forgetting my cancer makes me forget to be thankful for all the blessings I have – today.

So I try not to worry too much about what my new career will be. I try not to feel like a big dork if I try something new like sales. And fail. Failure is a part of life, after all, and isn’t that the whole point of all this? I am trying to keep things simple and enjoy things I love doing, like writing and reading, spending time with friends and jumping on the trampoline with my kids. Maybe I’ll get back to writing that book or maybe it will be a different story altogether. In the meantime, there is more laundry to do.

By Contributing Mama Erin Butler

I hate working out. I am not even going to dance around that statement. It’s pure hatred. I dread it. I count the seconds until it’s over and have been pretty good about avoiding it.

Until now. I find myself in the worst shape of my life, wondering how a few years ago I was able to do a marathon and now I can barely find the energy to get the mail.

I made a New Years Resolution – with 8 trillion other people – to get back into shape and I thought I was off to a pretty good start until a girlfriend kindly pointed out that walking up a flight of stairs five times a day to change my daughters diaper isn’t exactly cardio. As if?

I am pretty sure I have at one time or another belonged to every gym in Connecticut. A few times they’ve overlapped – with a duel membership you would think I would be buff. Not the case. And while I want to believe that LA FITNESS really truly wants ME back, as their twice a day emails suggest, with a toddler and a husband with an unpredictable schedule, working out at a gym is just not in the cards right now.

But with 2010 in full swing, I realize unless sweat pants make a big comeback as everyday fashion – it’s do or die. So I head to Target. No, not to shop. To get a DVD. Stay with me folks!

After perusing the vast selection of 10 minute to toned legs and 7 minutes abs, I decide on Jillian Michaels Shred. I absolutely heart the Biggest Loser. I’ve been following this show since the beginning – yet I have spent every season enjoying it from the comfort of my couch – eating ice cream.

Oh come on, I know I am not the only one.

Well, it turns out you don’t actually get into shape just watching, you have to actually participate. Ooohhhh!

After a week of completely avoiding the existence of the DVD reflecting on my purchase I dust off my sneakers.

I love Jillian, I do. But the woman has no mercy. There was no easing into it. I thought she would talk about getting in shape and how important it is for your heart. But in the first 10 seconds she has me doing jumping jacks! As. The. Warm. Up.

I try to channel my inner Jane Fonda but all that is coming through is a whiney, pudgy Richard Simmons. I want to quit. I want to flip the channel to Oprah, get a cookie and live in my world of denial but I look down. And find I am not alone.

There on the floor is Katherine.  Doing abs.

Doing push-ups (Girl push-ups like her mama).

And the dreaded cardio -  although hers resembles more of an interpretive dance.

And nothing can deter her. Not stickers, not Elmo shaped cookies, not even her baby doll. It’s now strangely one of her favorite parts of the day: “Mommy, lets exercise!” she says every morning. She clearly did not inherit my dedication – err, lack of dedication – to fitness.

“Go mommy” she cries as Jillian switches up the routine to butt kicks.

So I go. I jump. I crunch. I sweat. And I hate every single minute of it. But she is looking up at me with such excitement so I smile to please my audience.

Unbelievably, day after day, this little 27 pounder of mine is slowly whipping my butt into shape. The key word is s-l-o-w-l-y. And strangely, with her, it’s actually fun. I can tune out Jillian screaming at me to feel the burn and just enjoy this unique time with her.

And even though I am far from America’s Next Top Model, I am finally starting to envision a spring wardrobe without elastic waist and that’s definitely worth a little sweat.

By Contributing Mama Daphne Biener

I’ve been working at this unplugged tree-hugger persona of mine for a little too long to admit it, but I have to come clean:  I am addicted to “Lost.”

And by “Lost” I do mean the television show, and not that ‘coming out of the supermarket and hanging around looking busy until everyone else goes home so that I can locate my car’ kind of lost.

I’m not changing my party line.  I will say loud and proud that playing cards with my children while stimulating conversation floats to the ceiling and peels of laughter bounce of the walls is the single most fulfilling pastime.  I would consider myself lucky to be in that kind of space every night.

Well, every night except Tuesday night.

It’s not that I love my family less on Tuesdays; it’s just that no matter how adorable my kids may be they can’t hold a candle to my island man—

But I digress.

Long as I might to be marooned on a magical island with this hunk, there are serious reasons and a grown-up rationale behind my “Lost” obsession.  My justifications for watching this show are rock solid (as are those abs, hello!)  Oops, sorry, won’t happen again.

“Lost” is a complete experience, a show that has you delve deep into questions about life philosophies and physics and destiny and what ifs.   “Lost” elevates its viewers, presenting us with scientific quandaries like that cat in the box that is both dead and alive, not to mention the central question of humanity’s worthiness and time traveling polar bears.  So even if you are not one to be tempted by tasty eye candy you will be captivated.

Though I’d argue one could hold a healthy debate and still indulge in eye candy–

Before you get hooked I should tell you that this guy is no saint.  He’s got this bad boy thing going, which happens to really work for me.  If “Lost” has taught me anything (besides theoretical physics, of course) it’s that I never actually resolved my junior high bad boy issue.

Yeah, I’ve got a thing for bad boys but I married one of the good ones.  Which brings me to my final argument:

“Lost” will strengthen your marriage.

The complex ideologies and theoretical dilemmas and rogue polar bears that emerge in the show demand discussion and debate.  The resulting pillow talk will keep you and your good-guy up late into the night debating heavy topics and testing probable theories.

Trust me, “Lost” is good for your marriage.  Unless, I suppose, you happen to be the one woman who actually went and married our favorite bad boy.

You can read more of Daphne’s work on The Rocky Mountain Moms Blog, on her eco-fabulous site, A Greener Biener, or here on the mama bird diaries.

By Contributing Mama Karen Palmer Bland

I’m sure that most moms out there would admit (after a glass of wine or half a box) that we all have little “secrets” regarding things we let our kids do. In this case, it’s about things I let my kids NOT do. As in taking baths.

Sometimes I hear friends talk about their daily routine. “And right after dinner, we head to the bath and that’s another 40 minutes….blah, blah, blah.” I always pray that the conversation doesn’t turn to an informal poll about how often we bathe our kids.  (I’d hate to lie to people, but jeez, I don’t want a visit from family services either.)

The family next door has a nanny and every day at 4:30pm when we are outside on the swingset, she announces, “Gotta run, it’s afternoon bath time.” I think to myself… hmmm…. I only say that on Wednesdays. Yes, it’s true – I do not give my kids a bath each day. Or even every other day. (It’s all based on the lunar calendar.  We are big on giving baths only when there is a full moon.)

And in the summer, moms at the mommy water cooler talk about how it’s such a pain because daily baths are necessary after being outside so much. Don’t these women realize that swimming and sprinkler play count as cleansing? People, summer is the time to REDUCE bathing. Don’t you care about wasting so much water and the environmental hazards of all of the shampoo?

Three kids ago, when I had only one kid, a bath was a fun activity to do. My husband would get in the big spa tub with Rory and we’d have a little party in the bathroom. Three kids later, it’s more like washing the dishes. Get ‘em in, get ‘em out.  There is assembly line in our hall with towels and clothing, and it’s anything but fun. It’s about the checklist – get the box checked – get the baths done so that your kid doesn’t become the smelly kid at school.

When I hear the water draining, it’s like sweet music – music that I don’t hear too often.