“Iris is at a party.”

That was a text from my husband, accompanied by a cute picture of my 2 year old daughter drinking illicit soda at a birthday party.

The colors popped and the clarity was a rare score… so obviously I had to steal it for Instagram.

"Iris is at a party." (text from husband)

But.

“So cute but… can you take a picture of Quinn really quick? I want to Instagram that one of Iris but I need to do one of Quinn first.”

“Why?” he replied.

“So I don’t go to jail.” I no-brained. Duh.

“What is wrong with you?” said the ever-patient husband-of-a-blogger.

What was wrong with me? What was wrong with me was that a woman’s Facebook photo albums recently came into play as evidence in a murder investigation. More specifically, the fact that she had a predominance of photos of one of her children over her two others.

She woke with a fever. No work for mom today. Or only the best kind of work, depending on your perspective.

The boys off to school, dad off to the office, we snuggled in bed, her sniffling and wiping her teary eyes, me surreptitiously checking my iPhone under the covers. I couldn’t devote my attention to her with so much business on my mind. And she could tell.

Iris rolled over. Then over again. Now perpendicular to me, her head lolling off the side of the bed, she pushed her little feet together and forward in a ballet nod, nudging my device to an awkward angle, and sang in a stuffed-up voice, “Read story, Mom. Read story… Doh work.”

How many of these days will we have together? This is a resource that needs renewing. I sat up and faced her. She sat up and faced me. Tears rolled down her cheeks as I reached for a book. And she smiled.

Dark night. Chill in the air. Light fog. Raging fire. This is just for me.

When I started this series on health and well-being, I had all of the elements I needed to begin to improve my lifestyle except for “something just for me.”

I didn’t realize that I was over-thinking it and I already had a brilliant “just for me.”

I was thinking it would need to be something like knitting or gardening or (racks brain for something self-focused) polishing my nails. I looked for something engrossing and active, something to draw my mind into itself, a release propelled by a focus on repetitively minding details while simultaneously minding nothing. Definitely a “do something” something just for me.

Nope. I was wrong. This time. Again.

I’ve been building fires. We bought a lot on the bayou last year with a dream home in mind. So far, all it holds is a wooden playset from a generous new neighbor and a fire pit, both at the water’s edge. The lot is one of those opportunities we recognized because we were open to it, though certainly not ready for it. It may well remain an empty lot for years to come, but it’s ours. And it is on the water.

We have spent the last nine months slowly clearing the lot of overgrown vegetation and dead trees. Raised in a family that adored backyard fire pits, I carefully saved every single scrap of wood and made sure every tree was chopped to ridiculously pedantic firewood specifications. And then promptly never built a fire.

Apparently, one way to get back on track physically and emotionally is to hit the figurative reset button. I inadvertently did just that last week and, while I don’t recommend it, I’ll share with you my results.

Where is our reset button, you ask? I’m guessing somewhere in the region of our tummies. While I’m not sure how to hit it deliberately the first time, I’m quite sure that kneeling in your bathroom for hours on end has something to do with repeating the hit.

Yeah, I got the stomach flu.

Mere hours after publishing my last post full of high hopes of healthier living, all three of my children came down with the stomach flu. Each within an hour of the last. Despite making every effort to head it off, my husband and I caught the bug within days ourselves.

I can’t help but think that had my new water-drinking habit been more established even a week prior, I may have stood a chance of flushing it out of my system. But no such luck.

And the diet soda gods laugh.

Not so fast, ye gods of carbonation. Hear that? That is the sound of ice slowly cracking, melting in my water bottle as I type. Oh ye of little faith, I have kicked my diet soda habit cold turkey. With the help of what I’ll call the “Soda Bug.”

“Work it, Beyoncé!” My shoulders imperceptibly tensed as the anticipated low whistle sailed behind me across our neighborhood convenience store. I know how to play this game, so game-face on.

In one practiced motion, I grabbed the handle of the drink case, lowering my chin as I turned my head to shoot a targeted look over my shoulder. Just as the case door fully opened, I sassed, “Don’t you know it.” Then, turning my back to the three teasing men in line at the counter, I laughed, “You better watch yourself. You don’t want this kind of trouble.”

They always seem genuinely surprised at a mouth sized to match. And they always meet it with good humor rather than salacious flirting. I know this game by heart.

I have a big butt. I used to have a fine booty. Once, while leaving a movie theater alone, some college boys bounced a quarter off my behind. I should have been appalled. Instead, I kept walking as though I hadn’t noticed, fully satisfied at their wolf whistles. That’s right, boys, it works just like that.

Sigh. The metabolism gods caught on to me and things just don’t work quite like that anymore.