Get a Life. Oh, wait, I have one.

There's something about a child asking the same question over and over and over that gets you to finally spit out something that's truthful but meant to be withheld.

"Why do I have to come with you to get your nails done," my oldest child moaned for what had to have been the eighth time during our 15-minute car ride to the salon. "Why do you have to get your nails done at all?"

I could have zipped my lip for the remaining two or three minutes in the car, but I'd had it with the badgering. It was time for Mom to get out her soapbox and start preaching.

"I spend most of my day taking care of you guys, driving you to practices and games, helping you with homework and making you breakfast, lunch and dinner. It's almost always about you guys. Some women get their nails done once a month and get regular facials and massages, and I don't. I don't have the time to do those things."

"Well, that's their problem if they don't have lives and you do," was my daughter's response.

That certainly made me pause.

I never considered that I was the one with the life. Afterall, my days are spent gassing up the SUV; taking one child to swimming practice, another to a baseball game and another to horseback riding lessons; gassing up again; taking children to various playdates; making dinner; cleaning up the kitchen; preparing snacks even after it was announced that the kitchen was closed; and complaining about what little gas is left in the tank at the end of the day.

But that's all about their lives, isn't it? Where in that scenario does it mention anything about my life? The hair and nail appointments, the spa packages, the weekend trips with old friends, the three-hour workout sessions with a trainer who promises to make me look like J-Lo in less than 30 days? Where's my life?

That's when a pre-teenager with the wisdom of a 72-year-old grandmother steps in to knock some sense into you:

"This is your life!"

In the world of a "selfless" mother, a bit of "poor me" whining sometimes emerges. When you are so busy doing for others, you can't help but wonder what you could be doing for yourself. What good shape I'd be in, how well-rested I'd feel, how smashing my wardrobe would be, if only life were more about "me."

Then you're faced with the stunning realization that this is what you chose. That the salon visits a dozen or more years ago somehow felt hollow because something was missing. That you weren't in the best of shape even when every minute of the day was yours. That you'd much rather have a closet full of last year's clothing than a house without chirping young voices and unexpected hugs.

And so I still got my nails done, but afterward my traveling companion was treated to a frozen yogurt. Because she works hard at school and at practices and at being a good person. And sometimes she makes sacrifices, too, like tagging along on her mothers's once-in-a-blue-moon manicure appointment.

In other words, we both have a life. And it was only fitting that we celebrated.