I keep moving from place to place in the house, hoping to find a few moments of peace and quiet on a lazy Sunday afternoon, but my kids keep finding me. I can run, but I can't hide. Meanwhile, Matt is happily ignoring the activity while sitting in the middle of it and is alone with a Sports Illustrated magazine in his "man cave." There could be a nuclear explosion and he wouldn't notice at this point.

The kids are both chewing some rock-hard Turkish gum in a way that makes them sound like a cow chewing its cud and suddenly I know what my mom was talking about all those years ago when she used to chastise us for chewing gym with our mouths open. They are actively debating the rules of "jinx" and "personal jinx" that you call out when two people say the same thing at the same time.

And they both have the same ladybug toy from the goody bag at a recent party, but their interaction with them are totally different. Lucas brings his bag over to me and when I say, "Babe, I'm trying to find some quiet time," he replies "OK we'll be quiet." Hmmmm, let's just say I don't believe him. While Darcy has been painstakingly applying the spots to the back of the plastic ladybug in an intricate geometric pattern, Lucas slaps his on and then engages the ladybug in a winner-take-all deathmatch with a plastic soldier. He begins with the "truck sound" that all boys learn to make at about 8 months old. The soldier is fighting valiantly against the giant light blue ladybug but I'm afraid he doesn't stand a chance. And, can you believe it, it's not actually as quiet as he promised. Darcy rolls her eyes in a "i'm nearly 9, now, you know, and this is SO childish" and suddenly the ladybug is losing to the soldier who is now a Ninja. "Mom, can you believe it! He was a Ninja all along! He was hiding his powers!" Who knew...

I joined a new gym that opened just before Christmas and got in on their pre-opening discount. I told my friend I would join on the condition that my gym buddies were not rock solid 20-year-olds with matching yoga pants and bra tops who looked liked they didn't really need to be at the gym. Luckily, the other gym rats who were there when we went to check it out were average looking, 40-ish like the rest of us. We had to schedule an assessment the first day we went in so the trainers could provide us with a customized workout program. What's there to assess, I thought - you need to get your butt on that treadmill.

My two completely perfect Turkish-speaking friends and I went together and got ourselves assessed. I tried to pay attention when Fatih, my new hardbody trainer, was working his way through the regime but my mind kept wandering. What am I going to make for dinner? Do the kids have clubs after school? Where did I put that new blue shirt I bought? etc. etc. I would slip in on the conversation from time to time, pick up a phrase or two, then get lost and wander again. Until he turned to me and held up the little slip of paper that was spit out by the magic machine that not only weighed us but measured our body mass and fat ratio, all by way of two innocent handles that you held out to your sides. In halting English he says to me, "You're quite fat, but strong, almost like a man." I started cracking up. One of my friends elaborated, saying "he said you have dense muscles. you obviously worked out before." I just kept laughing. Yeah, that's my problem - I've just let my training regime slip a bit. Nothing a few thousand sit ups can't change. I guess it could've been worse - he could have said strong - like an ox, or strong - like a mule.

I will take my man-like strength, invoke my own secret Ninja powers and once again go roam the house in search of a quiet corner of peace.