Happy Birthday to my eldest son, Ryley, born on a cold clear January morning.

I had been in labor all night in a nearly-empty maternity ward. When we arrived at the hospital I was their only patient and got my pick of the twelve rooms. All the other heavily-pregnant ladies in Grand Junction were glued to Thursday Night’s Must-See-TV lineup on NBC, I supposed, whispering to their babes to wait until “Frasier” was over.

I went with room #12, at the end of the hallway. Not only did I like the distance, I liked the view. It had a stained glass window which opened to the hallway. When the door was closed and the room lights were off, the window was illuminated by the hall lights. I sat in my rocker and breathed through contractions, eyes locked on the bright colors. As the pain sharpened and deepened, I began to recite “Goodnight Moon” by memory. I read it several times a day to 18-month-old Aidan and knew it by heart.

The tightening began…in the great green room there was a telephone…

By the time I wished goodnight to nobody, the sharp wave was over.

I also visited the whirlpool tub, which was housed in a room painted like a tropical rainforest.

A teenaged girl arrived on the floor, screaming.

The nurse, who was probably the sole reason why the HIPAA laws were created, told me she was sixteen years old and at 9cm. Her unhappy dad was with her. More screaming travelled under the crack of the door and then I heard the wailing of a newborn baby, a boy I later learned.

I’d like to say happy birthday to him, too.

It was a long night. More women arrived, more babies arrived. I never asked for an epidural. I soldiered on and on and on.

Daylight and the doctor, who pronounced me a mere six centimeters. Disappointed. She broke my water.

Ryley said “hey!” and decided to chase it out because not long after he was born.

My boy. He had giant hands and feet, splayed and red. They placed him on me. He squeaked, eyes wide open. I looked, I loved, I love.

I am not supposed to ice skate.

A college-era snowboarding adventure ended very badly when I fell on my then-bony backside, knocking my coccyx out of place. The tender little bone throbbed for six weeks. My tender little 18-year-old ego throbbed with embarrassment—inside my backpack I carried a baby blue blowup donut to cradle my boo-boo’d booty during classes.

Aidan’s massive noggin kindly moved it again when I gave birth to her. I’ve been instructed to avoid activities where I could violently knock it awry. Ice skating’s inherent dangers include the possibility of denting one’s buns.

On a recent mom’s night out with Vashti and Jenn we discovered a hip little ice rink tucked deep inside a new outdoor shopping development called BelMar. The silver Airstream trailer and vintage lights lent it an air of aren’t-we-hip. The skater’s shoes, lined up around curved benches, confirmed we were in the territory of the young and their fully intact and recently massaged spines. Each pair of emptied shoes oozed coolness and possession of a disposible income.

I wanted to skate—to put myself on blades under lights and immersed in kitschy music. I wanted to take the risk. Our dinner earlier in the evening was delicious but the spontaneity I confronted was more delicious. We inquired about prices. Reasonable. We asked about skate sizes. They start at toddler size 8 and go to Michael Jordan. They even had double-bladed and adjustable strap-on models. For several minutes we considered the twirling and non-falling skaters. I think each of us individually concluded if we joined the fray all the magic of the lights, the music, the winter air, the youth, the spontaneity would cease. It seemed like a good idea, but it could rapidly deteriorate into a Bad Idea, a butt-breaking time.

We walked away. I was happy to let my temporary insanity slip away in a noiseless glide. I had a fabulous time that night.

Once, on another blog, I became involved in a discussion about whether moms should indulge in “mom’s night out” with friends. Several women argued mothers should find contentment in attending to the needs of husbands and children—“doing the work God gave you.” Going out is selfish and tells the family they are a burden to be escaped from.

I disagreed.

I am doing the work God gave me even as I eat dumplings at PF Chang’s with other mom friends. I relax, I laugh, I recharge, I share with my peers. I contemplate the ice in my glass and the ice in the rink and have the ability to distiguish if I am taking it too far.