On Walking, Dancing, and Riding.

My friend Rudy is stumbling along pretty reliably these days. I took some pictures of her hanging out in the playroom yesterday because she was extra cute and happy, and then looking over the shots I realized: I captured her happy little stroll, but I hadn't rushed for the camera to commemorate her steps. Toot is walking, and isn't an enormous deal. So, she's a toddler. Good God. Also, I'm pretty sure Marley wore that green t-shirt when she was two and a-half. In comparison to petite Bean-Beanie, Rudy is a giant. Look out, seventh percentile!

We've spent a lot of time outside the past few days because it's been a delightful fifty-plus degrees. And that's precious good weather. Seriously. Last weekend I stayed outside as long as possible, trying to deny the chill that grew as the sun went down by going inside to pile on warmth a reluctant layer at a time. Before I gave up and went in for dinner, I was wearing two shirts, a jacket, a vest, and gloves, so it might as well've been the middle of January. I've been for a couple of jogs, too, so my back is better. Even a couple of intense yard-raking sessions have gone by without any twinges or pained wincing.

But anyhow, Marley and I have had a new routine the past few days: finish up lunch, get Rudy settled in her crib, and then hustle out into the front yard to soak up as much brisk and windy sunshine as we can. She pedals up and down the street on her hand-me-down purple bicycle with rattling training wheels, wagging her head from side to side and belting out one of the following: "Spoonful of Sugar," "Gingerbread Man," or the theme song from an animated Madeline series which includes the appropriate lines: "She may be teeny-tiny, diminutive, petite. But that has never stopped her...from being really NEAT!" She powers along on her brand-new, sparkly Disney Princess scooter. And by the way, once she straps her helmet on, it's there for the duration. The other day she kept it on when we went inside so that I could finish paperwork for my SAT class, and there she was, working intently on a Hello Kitty puzzle at the kitchen table in her shiny red bike helmet.

Yesterday, Marley was enamored with her shadow and spun around the driveway while narrating her moves for a crew of imaginary back-up dancers. She told me she was making up her own version of the Nutcracker. So, apparently she's got a potential career as a choreographer in her sight. She's also thinking of becoming a paleontologist, inspired by her preschool's current dinosaur unit. And while Marley skittered around tossing her hips and her ponytail, I huddled on our side steps dreaming of the landscaping home improvements we're going to try and take care of this summer, with the tax returns we should really be allocating to credit card debt. I've been watching plenty of HGTV's Curb Appeal, but I really have no idea, and I don't want anything that's going to require my puttering around in any sort of time-consuming garden. I like raking only because it's an outdoor version of sweeping or vacuuming. That's as far as I go.

When Todd got home, he told me I looked like a suburban mom. No, I didn't. To me, that's tapered jeans and a pastel sweater with an LL Bean barn coat. I like to think that he meant to say I looked like a cool mom. Because in this early spring thaw, I am once again beginning the fight against the slippery slope I've been sliding down for the past three or four years. Every winter I slide farther back and assume the Befuddled-Bedraggled-Just-Running-In-To-Get-Groceries-Mom-Look, and then in the spring while folding laundry I realize that Tim Gunn would take one look at my "going out" clothes and give me a disappointed, yet empathetic smile, while the more boisterous What Not to Wear mentors would tell me to toss everything.

And when Todd commented on my look, I was actually trying. I was wearing new shoes because I finally used a year-old gift card at DSW. I was not wearing scuffed-up running sneakers with saggy sweatpants. I was also accessorizing with a chunky turquoise necklace from my precious Target and oversized sunglasses. Instead of a sweatshirt or the worn black fleece I've had for about ten years, I was in my fitted, olive-green, banded-collar, chino jacket.

"Really?" I said, crestfallen. "Like, I don't even look a little bit like I could be perched on some brownstone steps somewhere?"

"No," Todd said.

"Well, what if this jacket were distressed leather?"

Todd paused. "Sure."

So now the hunt is on for a brown, distressed-leather, motorcycle jacket with a banded collar. And I'm not a total poser because:

Did you know that I have my MOTORCYCLE LICENSE? A license to RIDE? I do. I should tell everyone that fun fact when I first meet them. Too desperate?

My friend Mary reminded me the other night about a conversation Todd and I had in the copy room at school when we were mere colleagues. You know, before we started dating and eventually procreated. I was wearing a denim jacket with an American flag on the back. (Heather and Danielle are cringing about this.) Todd, making conversation, and also being a smart-ass, casually inquired, "Do you ride?" And I was all cute and youthful in my knee-high boots and professional clothes. And I just answered, "Yeah," and didn't even turn around from the machine. So aloof. But probably, I wasn't really paying attention or I didn't know what he meant. But he was impressed. And just over ten years later, I'm sitting on the side steps of the house that we LIVE IN TOGETHER with our CHILDREN and being all wistful about a motorcycle jacket that would make me cooler. While pushing a stroller or just running in to get some groceries.