We Are the Magic Makers

For the first time in 7 months, I got a massage. The last time I had one, I went into labor and delivered a child within 24 hours - so I've been hesitant to go back.

I honestly went in thinking this would be a good way for me to relax. Isn't that cute?

Turns out, it is not relaxing when every nerve in your body is waiting for the phone to ring; convinced you will hear a screaming husband tell you to run out undressed and grab the demon banshee child before he drowns her in the cucumber water. 

The phone didn't ring. But I knew better than to let my guard down. When my hour was up, I jumped off the table naked before the masseuse left the room because what if The Bean was having a meltdown? I didn't want to explain why I thought a shirt was necessary when her screams were melting the faces off of everyone in the county.

So I walked out into the lobby still getting dressed and noticed immediately the serene spa music, the quiet murmurs of patrons who were bound to enjoy their massage and a distinct lack of uncontrollable screaming.

Michael was sweating from head to toe. The Bean was wearing only a shirt and a diaper. They looked as though they just ran a marathon - in July.

Apparently in that one hour they had been to four stores, touched all the things, changed a diaper, had a bottle, discussed politics, ran around the parking lot and gotten naked. But they were both smiling. 

And that, my friends, is what we like to call a turning point. A turning point where Mama gets to go out for girls' night. Maybe I'll spend the 4 hours it will take to make my hair one color again. Or perhaps I'll just go food shopping; something I haven't done since before the holidays.

Or maybe I'll just go and enjoy a massage.