Do You Hear What I Hear?

Friday, 9:23 am: Begin work
Friday, 9:23:45 am: Cannot work, ears are ringing—like I just came back from a Poison concert at MSG. (Yes, I have been to a Poison concert—age 10—and those high-pitched guitars stay with you long after Brett Michaels—Michaels? Michael?— has left the building.)

Here's what I hear: PinkyDinkyDoocookiesPinkyDinkyDoocookiesPinkyDinkyDoocookiesPinkyDinkyDoocookies
PinkyDinkyDoocookiesPinkyDinkyDoocookiesPinkyDinkyDoocookiesPinkyDinkyDoocookies

(So first of all, there are no Pinky Dinky Doo cookies. I don't know where she came up with that? I think she's asking for these chocolate animal cracker things from Whole Foods.)

Now imagine it in a crescendo, with each third or so tone thinning to a chalkboard screech—the kind that hurts your eyeballs.

It takes every ounce of composure, yoga breathing, Buddhist tenet, every other spiritual path I've ever studied and fear of my child being on the couch at 7 to stop me from either walking away or screeching back.

In one second, every way potential proactive way of handling zooms through my head like Indie cars on a Southern Sunday—zooooom, zoooom, zoooom. Wait, I, I, I....I can't make out how to handle this—dang thought, you just passed me at 145 mph. Okay, so what to do? Breathe. Just breathe.

Thinking is just simply out the window. Instinct—learned and unlearned—kicks in.

Here's what I hear in my head: Don't react, proact. Listen. Just listen to you child, beyond what she is saying. Comfort her, guide her. Reassure her. Be strong. Lead by example.

Okay, done and done.

Here's what I hear: Yummy, eggies.

Mega meltdown averted.

Time goes tick-tock-tick-tock-tick-tocking by as my once and former angel eats her egg whites and raisin bread toast. And all is right with the world again.

Here's what I hear in my head: You rule! You are awesome! Great job, mommy!

Tick-tock-tick-tock.

Hear's what I hear: Specialcookiespecialcookiespecialcookiespecialcookie.

Here's what I say: Time for a nap, Scarlett.

Here's what I get to hear for another half an hour or so:

Are You There, Blog? It's Me, Jillian

Oh, blog. Where for art thou, dear blog?
Since we last rendez-voused, you have been munched up by Google. I can't blame you, but I have to say this does changes things for me a bit now that you've gone corporate. I think you're a tad less cool—although the spell check option redeems you slightly.

Dudes and dudettes, I have been MIA from the scene for too long. My fingers have been glued to these dang Apple keys, feverishly pumping out www.thefamilygroove.com. (You must check out this month's issue, Sex, Love and Parenthood—so much good stuff.) I just couldn't gear shift from editor to mom-itor.

Anyway, peeps, I am back. So much of me is back: the platinum hair, the self-care, the savoir-faire and the devil-may-care—and my super duper rhyming flair.

I got my blood analyzed last week, which revealed some yuckers stuff like parasites (thank you sushi from dodgy NYC joints), yeast, vitamin deficiency galore, low thyroid and more. For a week now, I have been on the wagon—taking supplements, drinking my water, eating clean, not eating anything white (if it's white do not bite), even drinking less coffee. My skin looks amazing, my energy is gangbusters and my waistline is a-shrinkin'.

My whole outlook has improved. I even might make it to the gym today. I am curious to check out my weight (I know it's not the ultimate measure, but I still like to know what it is).

I am giving my new high maintenance, high reward program another week. If I still see marked success, then I will share all the labor-intensive details with y'all.

Looking and feeling good is a full-time job. It has to permeate everything you do. It has to live in the fore of your actions in all areas of your life. But, at the end of the day—and the beginning, for that matter—it's worth it.