​I hate fruit flies.  I go crazy when fruit flies appear in my house.  I have a visceral reaction when I encounter one in the supermarket produce section.  Dr. JoAnne Mowczko is the reason I hate fruit flies.
 
I have known Dr. Mowczko since I was 14.  I was lucky enough to have her as my Honors Biology teacher my freshman year in high school.  I was coming from a parochial school where we dissected the Bible much more so than small critters.  I was a bit over my head.
 
I loved the way Dr. M taught her science class.  I was in awe of how objectively she spoke about subjects, even giving us a blow by blow of a sinus surgery she was about to endure.    We did lots of projects that made me squeamish.  But none was more horrific than “The Fruit Fly Experiment.”  We were studying genetic traits in fruit flies by looking for different eye colors under a microscope.  So not only were fruit flies soaring around precociously during the 6 week experiment throughout the classroom, but there lingered the strong odor of ether used to put the flies to sleep.  Then there was the icky factor of having to stare at these little flying insects in a magnified state.
 
I got an A in Dr. M’s class and went on to become friends with her and her family for the last two decades. 
 
I have detested fruit flies for just as long.  But I love Dr. M and honor her for everything she has done to share her love of science and learning for countless students in Yuma, Ariz.
 
Happy 70th birthday Dr. M.
 

​I took stock of my bruises and cuts – there are a lot.  Apparently, to my children, I am a human jungle gym.  I became most aware of my status of human jungle gym at last week’s Toddler Time hosted at the library. While other children sat patiently for the “teacher” to start the “class,” my kids decided they needed to burn off energy.  At first, they just wandered around the room, while I sat with one eyeball following TW, the other Richard.
 
Then for some strange reason, Richard decided to take a running start and leapt into my arms.  Not to be outdone, his brother decides to do the same thing.  It doesn’t stop there.  TW starts pushing me, I slip and fall on my back.  The boys tumble on top of me. 
 
“Oh, no!” I say making fun of the situation,  “Mommy fell down.”  That was a mistake.  A huge mistake.  Until class starts, they decide they will play the game called: lets see who can make mom fall to the ground first.  Richard is climbing on my back.  Timothy keeps taking running leaps into my arms.  They run circles around me, sometimes stepping over my legs, sometimes stepping on my legs.
 
To the untrained eye, this “playtime” could really be somebody being roughed up by some sort of toddler street gang.  I can sense other mom’s rolling their eyes at my little cave babies and me.  But once class starts, they settle down on my lap an listen to their stories.
 
I take a breath.  This is going to hurt later.  And wouldn’t you know it – it does!

Any How I Met Your Mother fans out there? HIMYM did pretty well for itself when it was on the air from 2005 to 2014.  It was the story of Ted Mosby and his three friends, living in New York City and the group's hijinks, as he meets the mother of his children.  The story is told in a flashback setting with Full House dad, Bob Saget, doing the voiceovers. In 9 seasons he tells his two kids "how he met their mother."
 
Besides being a HIMYM fan, I am also a big fan of reruns.  I like the fact that I already know what's going to happen, so I don't really have to pay attention.  I like having HIMYM when in the background when I am folding laundry or stretching.  Thanks to Netflix, I watched the whole series from beginning to end recently. 
 
Even though I already know how it ends, I got a bit of sinking feeling when I realized Robin and Barney break up.
 
"This wasn't a failed marriage," says Barney, "it was a very successful marriage that only lasted three years."
 
It's one of those Back to the Future 2 moments.  The future is here! The friends that you had known on TV for 9 years of on-again-off-again corky romance have finally called it quits.  May 2016, Robin & Barney get divorced. :(

​Once upon a time, my husband and I had conversations about… Well, I can’t really say what we talked about.  I have forgotten.  I’m going to take a guess and say we talked about our work, politics, what was on the news, the stock market.  You know, grown up stuff like that. 
But since my life is now about “poopoo,” our conversations seem to revolve around poo.  Who went poo, who didn’t go poo.  Who went poo where.
The Cs used to be about diamonds.  Now it’s about Color, Consistency, Constipation.
Is texting about the adult size poop your one-year-old just created a new form of intimacy, or do I need to get some conversation started flashcards? 

I would get my nails done sporadically.  Not the fake fancy nails, but just a gel manicure to look sharp.  I read somewhere that red nail polish helps focus.  I used that as an excuse to get my nails done before big meetings or events.
Ultimately, I just liked the way it look.  Gentlemen, it's just like shinning your shoes as a way to look extra sharp.
A gel manicure costs approximately $30 dollars, it lasts about two weeks, except when you work at the railroad, and if you are out in the field, a week tops is about right.   These manicures also take about an hour.  When you are single, or a DINK, two hours and $60 doesn't even register.
Once you have kids, you need to start seeing your time the way you manage a work budget.  Always look for the best ROI.
So after making some mental calculations I decided that getting my nails done did not meet the threshold for my return.
One night after the kids are in bed,  my spouse catches me filing.
"What are you doing?"
"I'm doing my nails," I say trying to relearn a task I really hadn't done since I was in high school. "I'm not going to the nail salon."
"Why?" He puzzled.
"We have kids now, and I want to save money."
He chuckles, "We can afford it."
"Let me rephrase, it's a two hour commitment a month and I just don't have the time."
"I am happy to watch the kids on Saturday afternoon," he says. "Or we could get a sitter for a hour or two."
"Let me try to explain the genesis of this decision," I pause to formulate the right phrase.
"I would rather have two extra hours with my children a month than have pretty nails.  I would rather be playing with them than sitting at a nail salon on a Saturday afternoon."
"That makes sense," he concedes.
My nails are now kept short with a clear coat of polish.