It is my first week - post vacation -- with the kids on my hands full time. Wait, let me amend that -- it is my first day having the kids and already, I need a heavy dose of Calgon. One kid or the other might be ok but put them both together and I'm desperate for R and R, the which, incidentally, I supposedly just concluded.
There is only one thing that can soothe my frazzled nerves. OK, one thing besides a box of wine. I need to be worked over. My muscles, I mean. Massage - my modest nirvana. My mother-in-law, the kind, generous woman that she is, usually sends me a gift certificate for Christmas for Bliss spa and I save the thing all year, treasuring the joy that is yet to be mine, til I can stand it no longer and breathlessly book the appointment for an hour-long rub-down. But this year, extenuating circumstances that involve trading my Iceland getaway in for an emergency appendectomy, prompted me to use my massage up early, and I don't think I can wait til 2012 for another taste of happiness. But, instead of heading back to the super-fancy, uptown-priced, high-design Bliss, I'm going to all-about-you-and those-aching-Mommy-muscles Full Breath Massage.
Doesn't hurt that my friend David Lobenstine is the brains (and brawn) behind the operation. And that he has magic hands. And offers a sliding scale. Where, I ask you, can you get a delicious, hour-long, restorative massage for $100?
He is beloved by the mamas and does a ton of pre-natal massage. Because, really, is there any time a gal deserves to be lavished with the gift of human touch more than when she's carrying a basketball inside her gut? If there are two things I could've changed about my pregnancies, it would be
1. Buy the goddamned maternity pillow for crying our loud.
2. Get monthly pre-natal massage.
I think I would've still won the martyr award, even with those luxuries.
Its such a little thing but it goes so far.
Whether you're aching from your pregnancy, or aching from carrying your baby/ toddler/ preschooler around, or just aching from the crushing weight of being man, park your aching ass on that massage table and let David work his magic. You may encounter my aching ass there, who knows?
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