When I was a little girl, I wanted to be a surgeon. I was fascinated with the human body, with all of its intricacies and its ability to work the parts together like a symphony.  Cutting into a person to repair something, to heal them, well, what better way to show my homage?

The picture in my head was of fixing someone to make them whole again, to mend a broken part so it would sync with the body.  The picture in my head was one of seeing the person move without a limp, to dance without pain and of heartbeats and the color of a muscle.

I was looking at surgery like a creative endeavor.  

Unfortunately, between me and my art stood histology and microbiology and a lot of other “ologies”.  It turns out that the intricacies of the human body are all very scientific.  Who knew?

During college, I worked in sales.  I loved sales and I was really good at it, but as it turns out, when you move from selling contemporary home furnishings and dinnerware to selling someone a 30 year mortgage, a lot of the fun goes right out the window.

Somewhere along the line, I stopped trying to decide what to be and allowed myself to be forced into work I did not enjoy.  Then I had babies.  Remember my discussion about the intricacies of the human body?  Yeah, well some of those intricacies will get you knocked up.

For the past 12 years, my life has revolved around shaping my children.  Helping them grow, keeping them healthy, encouraging them to use their brains, play harder, be smarter, be confident and kind.  Oh, and those intricacies?  Most of them come flying out explosively in a newborn’s diaper anyway.

Through all of these occupational changes, there has been one constant.  There has always been my love of the written word.  Of course, reading the thoughts of others usually doesn’t pay much.  If they paid you for love and enthusiasm, however, I would be rich!

Up until about a month ago, I was pretty discouraged.  In just over six months, I will turn 40 and as badly as I wanted to follow my passion, I didn’t see it working out.  Being employed as a cook has been rewarding and enjoyable, but you can’t keep the heat turned on by telling the gas company that you’ll pay them with sloppy Joes.

I spent months looking for something that would allow me to do what I love.  I spent so much time job hunting that I had to stop other writing gigs so I could focus on earning more money.  I sent my resume to so many creative companies that it would make your head spin.

“Hmmm…well, she has no experience and not much of an education.  She owned her own business, but now she works as a cook.  This resume goes in the lost cause pile.”

And, that’s how I felt.  I was a lost cause.

Though, I looked at the bright side.  I still had my evenings free to chat on Twitter and to read blogs where I could immerse myself in the brilliance and creativity of others.  Too bad you can’t get paid for that!

Until one day, when I opened my e-mail to find someone had sent me a rainbow.  No, not a stupid e-mail forward, but a real, live rainbow.  One that I could climb atop and slide down.  One where I flew right past the leprechaun and into a pot filled with golden Twitter streams.

My love of blogging and my passion for social media got me a job.

Not just any job, but my dream job.  It is exactly what I have been looking for.  For a long, long time.

I am reading the ideas and opinions of intelligent people and I am taking in the flow of language.  I see pieces of writing come together, each individual word on a page melding into one thought.

I am communicating constantly through social media.  I believe it to be the most powerful resource and tool that a company can have.

I am working from home with my children near me.  I am giving them room to grow, but still here to guide them.

And, none of this would be possible without a company who sees past a pathetic resume and, instead, sees that passion is, sometimes, more important than experience.

I am happy.  I enjoy my work immensely.  I love doing something I believe in.  All the parts are finally coming together.

Like a symphony.

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Although my son will be nine years old in the spring, he still needs our help when he’s taking a shower.  After he has cleaned his body, one of us goes in to aide him in washing his hair.  Because he is on his second set of ear tubes and doesn’t hear well, we do our best to keep dirty water and shampoo from entering his ear canals.

The other night, I walked into the bathroom and asked, “Are you ready for me to wash your hair?”

Which is when I realized that he’s eight years old going on adulthood, because when I pulled back the shower curtain I saw him standing with his hand outstretched in my direction as he said, “Hey, Mom!  Pull my finger.”

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Anyone who knows me, knows that I am a reality TV junkie. Before there was Survivor, Real Housewives and So You’re an Amish Little Person and You Think You Can Dance (it isn’t a show yet, but it will be) there were documentaries. I watched those too. Remember Jacques Cousteau? I loved that dude and I don’t even like to snorkel.

When I was in my twenties, Mark Burnett (the creator of Survivor in his pre-CBS days) began airing a program on cable called The Eco Challenge. It was an adventure race that aired for a few days, once a year. It was, quite possibly, the best thing I had ever seen on TV.

I looked forward to it airing each spring.  It was raw and captivating and I knew from the first moment I watched it that I wanted to be a competitor on that show. Unfortunately, Mark Burnett had other plans and discontinued The Eco Challenge when he started Survivor. Dang the bad luck.

Thankfully, another opportunity arose. There was a second-best chance for me to show my endurance, strength and fortitude. It’s been a secret I have kept for a long time.

I was once a contestant on The Amazing Race. This is my story.

My teammate was Melisa from The Suburban Scrawl. We met in blogland, she brought me candy and a sash and we realized we both had the desire to race around the world. Go figure!

People, take my advice…don’t trust someone just because they bring you Lemon Heads.

The night before we left NYC.  Sigh.  I was so excited.

We started in New York and were told our first stop was Paris, France. On the flight over, as I began to study maps (because some U.S. Americans do have maps) and research the places where we might be sent, Melisa grabbed my arm and said, “You can put those things away. I speak fluent French.”

I replied, “Really?  That’s great!”  I couldn’t have been more confident.  I couldn’t have been more wrong.

About an hour before we landed, Melisa excused herself from her seat and said, “I’m going to grab my backpack and put on my French clothes.”

I eyed her with furrowed brows. “Your what?”

“I have some French clothes. We’ll fit in better this way. Trust me.”

Heck yes, I trusted her. Until she came out of the airplane bathroom wearing this…

I stared at her. “Uh, Melisa?  Why are you wearing a tutu?”

She replied? “Well, it’s either this or my beret.”

I was willing to cut her some slack. Maybe it was crazy enough to get us noticed. Maybe we would be the first to get a cab.

Or, maybe not.

We were last.

We threw our backpacks in the trunk and jumped into the back seat. In the excitement of the moment, I forgot about Melisa’s tutu and ordered the driver to take us to the Louvre where we would find our first clue. The race was on….for almost two whole miles until traffic slowed to a crawl.

I turned to Melisa. “We need to tell him to get off this highway and find another route.” Then I looked at the driver’s face in the rear-view mirror as I fumbled with my French, “Sir, autre…um…”

Melisa spoke up and said, “I’ll handle this.  Sir!  Au jus!”

I stared at her in disbelief. “Melisa, au jus means with juice.”

She threw her head back and laughed. “Oh, silly Momo! It does not. It means faster!” She leaned forward in her seat and said, “Haute couture!”

I whipped my head to the side and looked at her to see if there was a hint of funny business going. That didn’t appear to be the case.

“Melisa…”

She interrupted, “You! Sir! Bonsoir! Hurry up! Filet mignon!”

At this point, I whipped my head in the other direction to see if there was a way for me to escape the car and this crazy woman in a tutu. There was nowhere to run.

I went for the common sense approach instead. “Melisa, you’re not speaking French. You’re just saying French words. They don’t mean what you think they mean.”

“Oh, bidet! For the record, that means nonsense.”

“No, it doesn’t. A bidet is for washing under your crazy tutu after you use the restroom.”

“My tutu is not crazy! It’s French! Duh. Driver! Come on! Yoplait!”

“That’s yogurt.”

She scoffed, “Faux pas.”

“That means mistake…which this obviously is. Monsieur, vous arrêtez.” I looked at Melisa one last time and said, “That means stop. I’m getting out right here. Adieu, Melisa.”

“Bon appetit, Momo.”

All of this was (not) true…well, except for the candy and the sash part.  Oh, and the part about how Melisa and I want to race around the world.  Though I hate flying and we both hate heights and we would probably just end up in a dive bar drinking $3.00 margaritas.  She’s fantastique like that.  Now go read Melisa’s post about our imaginary Amazing Race.

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Last night, I looked into the bathroom to see my little boy brushing his teeth.  He was wearing his faded, outer-space pajamas with the rockets all over them.  On his feet were hand-me-down, rain boots that are, at least, two sizes too big, but they look like the boy’s boots from The Polar Express so the extra toe space isn’t really what matters.

I walked up behind him, leaned over and, without a word, gave him a kiss on the top of his head.

He looked over his shoulder at me and with his mouth sloshing with toothpaste said, “I love you too, Mom.”

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