I'm Not A Doctor, But I Play One In My Life

Thanks for the comments and emails. I was secretly hoping one of you would yell at me and remind me how lucky I am and how I have this enormous responsibility to keep it together for the girls’ sake, blah blah blah. But, alas, you all are much more gentle than all that.

One of my theories about where this is coming from: I have been awful about taking the Lexapro. A while back, I decided I was Cured and would no longer need it, so I stopped taking it altogether. Cold turkey. I promptly became really Mean and Edgy and Bitchy and was forced to admit to Nicole that I stopped the pill because, despite my lack of medical degree and lack of experience in drug administration, I decided it was time to stop. She in turn got upset with me that I would try something like that without talking to her (or, I suspect, giving her a say in the decision). So I went back on the pill. Fast forward a few months and I decided to cut my dosage in half because, again, despite my lack of medical degree and lack of experience in drug administration, I decided it was time to slowly wean myself off this pill and then stop. That was going fine until recently, when I simply started forgetting to take the pill. For days in a row. You would think it isn’t too difficult to remember to take a pill once a day, but for me, apparently, it is. I will go three days without it and then finally remember. This has been going on for a while.

The thing is, the pill did work in that it really evens me out and keeps the edge at bay. But it didn’t make me feel euphoric, and that is why I hold a grudge against it. I guess I have this image that an anti-depressant is supposed to make you feel like you are pumped up like you are on Ecstasy with a bump of Special K. I thought an anti-depressant made you happy and patient as Mary Poppins and optimistic like Pollyanna and filled with Zen-like peace like Buddha. Like how just before you go under with anesthesia you feel this amazing euphoric feeling tingling through your entire body. That’s what I want, all the time. Turns out that isn’t how it works. I am giving it another chance, full dosage, and if this fog of Blah doesn’t life, I guess I need to talk to the doctor about changing pills.

In the meantime, my genius idea to snap myself out of my funk was to take myself to see My Sister’s Keeper. I will warn you: If you are a sister, a daughter or a mother (and that about covers ALL women) then you should not see this movie. I cried, literally sobbed the entire time. It’s not like this was a brilliant piece of filmmaking or anything. The film itself was not that good, and the acting was just okay, but the story line was absolutely heart-wrenching. Cancer, you are a disgusting, cruel, non-discriminating despot.

So I wake up the next day determined to distract myself by being Super Mom. I took the girls to Central Park Zoo. They laughed at the penguins and they watched the polar bears and enjoyed a walk through the hot and steamy rainforest exhibit, which I enjoyed because it made returning to the humid outside seem not so bad. The best part is later on when Nicole came home I asked Avery to tell Mommy what she saw at the zoo and she said “Pens” (penguins) and bears. And I asked what part of the body that the bear scratched with his giant paw and she remembered it was his tummy. Their little memories and minds are developing, right before our eyes.

Last night, Madeline was standing on her chair at dinner and Avery told her “Maddie, sit down!” How cute is that! I am glad to have a disciplinary assistant around. I am more than happy to play good cop/bad cop, and let Avery be the bad cop. And Madeline has started with the “Where are You’s.” Like: “Mommy, air are oo?”

Decision made: We are spending the fourth in Northampton.

Pictured above, the polar bears and the girls. That look of anxiety on their faces was bought about because I stopped pushing the stroller to snap a picture. If you can lip read then you can see clearly that Avery is saying “PUSH!”

Quick: Someone Remind Me How Lucky I Am

My children are having Raisonettes for breakfast. Actually, technically, they are having chocolate-covered raisons. We now buy the giant-size no-name tub of them, instead of teeny little boxes, since they are such huge hits with the girls. Avery wakes up nearly every morning and demands “nets.” I usually pacify her instead with yogurt (“lido”) or croissants (“sants”) or bread (“bed”) but lacking all these this morning and feeling especially tired, I surrendered quickly and set them both down on the couch with milk (Maddie) and water (Avery) and mini bowls of Nets and Sesame Street. A small price to pay for peace, for me, for almost an hour.

Nicole took a personal day today and while I like to imagine it was an elaborate rouse so she can spend the day buying huge, expensive, elaborate and thoughtful birthday presents for me, I know this is not the case (I can’t talk about what she IS doing right now. Soon.). She will be home in the afternoon, so there is that to look forward to. Anything to break up the monotony of the day, because the days are becoming so very routine. I beat the same paths daily, to the same food stores and the same Duane Reade and the same playgrounds and the same Central Park, following the same routine (in the morning: empty dishwasher; clean coffee maker; set up coffee for next morning; refill dishwasher; fill up water cups) and it is getting to me a little.

Maybe more than a little.

To be ore blunt, the tedium of day-to-day life, of the repetitive tasks that I do ad infinitum, is fraying at my nerves. My to-do list, a literal checklist with boxes for me to X out, includes things like “Pick up dry cleaning” and “laundry,” which I still put on the list, even though I am in a constant state of picking up dry cleaning or doing laundry (and here is an example of how much I hate change: Even though our dry cleaner will deliver, for free, I insist on picking up our dry cleaning instead.)

I am not sure where this is all coming from. It feels like a mini-depression, and its reach is far and wide and manifests itself in lots if un-fun ways, like indecision. My birthday is on Saturday (the 4th of July!) and we still aren’t sure what to do. I can’t make up my mind. Go to Long Island? Go to Northampton? Stay in the city? BBQ on Friday at my friend Jen’s? I am being so annoyingly, ridiculously indecisive. Every time Nicole brings it up, I say I will think about it and then don’t. Part of me feels like nothing can compete with last year’s birthday (Cape Cod. Northampton. Engaged officially on Smith campus. Seeing a bear amble across the street.) so why try? Part of me just doesn’t want to make the decision. And another part of me just thinks, whatever.

Nice, huh?

I have a few theories from where this stems, but that is another post. And maybe for the password blog.

In the meantime, if anyone can snap me out of this, please do so.

Pictured above, a weekend BBQ with the family. Is that not the epitome of summer living? And yet I still cannot wait for fall.

It’s Not The Heat; It’s the Humanity

Wow. What a week in the news. There is all this commotion in Iran, human rights and stolen elections and deadly violence and all, but that was obliterated by the Gosselin announcement of separation. What is that quote about how you can tell a lot about a society by who they worship? And then when we were knee deep in that war of words when yet another politician cheated on his wife (and got caught). Then Farrah Fawcett died, but her untimely death was eclipsed almost immediately by Michael Jackson’s untimely death.

I have thoughts about all of this but I just don’t have the energy to get into it. I have been battling something (a cold? Sinus issues? Swine flu?) for a couple of days now, and it really came down like a ton of brick last night. Meaning, my head is killing me and my throat hurts and my voice has lowered a few notches as I battle a dry, hacking cough and massive ennui. And it feels like I can’t get a real deep breath. Not helping matters is the fact that I just spent two days with two extra kids: My niece and nephew joined our household on Wednesday and Thursday. The girls loved having their cousins around, and Leif and Skye seemed to have a great time too. But four kids? It is a lot of work. I have a new respect for anyone with more than two children. I lost my patience quite a few times, but immediately repented with apologies and hugs and promises not to lose my patience again. But I failed.

Also not helping maters is the fact that my apartment is 84.9 degrees. Yes, we have an indoor thermometer just so we can be specific when complaining about how hot it is. We have ceiling fans and powerful air conditioners and it still feels like hell to me. When I use the oven in the kitchen, the apartment feels so hot that I want to pass out. I think we need a third air conditioner for this place if I am to survive without melting.

And today, I have to bake. Nicole entered me in a baking contest at work, so I am making apple turnovers and triple chocolate cookies (actually, I made those last night). And then tonight, I am on my own with the little monsters, as Nicole has an appointment for a hair cut and color. And topping off this week is Saturday night, when I will be babysitting for my nephew and 12 of his classmates, as my sister-in-law and brother host a fundraiser party for Leif’s new school.

Did I mention I feel like crap?

Pictured above, the Beige Food Group, which I feed all four kids on Wednesday and Thursday because I did not have the energy to fight for Green foods. Also pictured, this is what Avery created while I was busy making cookies last night. And finally, Avery and most of her Sesame Friends.

When Life Gives You Too Many Blueberries, Make Blueberry Muffins

So we made it through our third Father’s Day without turmoil. Not that I am expecting drama quite yet, but I am bracing myself for some down the road, when the girls are older and upset over some petty injustice that only a father somehow may be able to rectify. I am waiting for the “You don’t understand!” bellows followed by a door slam and the “Do you have any idea what it’s like for us, Mom?” conversation starters that will inevitably be a part of our family history. And then I will point out that they have not one but two sparkly, shiny, loving mommies and aren’t they lucky! But deep down I know if girls are sad that they don’t have a father, then there is nothing Nicole and I can do about it. It will be many, many years before the girls understand the sad reality that no family is perfect and disappointments are part of the game of life, but I hope they can realize that life and families can still feel complete.

I told the girls several times yesterday that they don’t need no stinkin’ daddy, followed by a tickle (called jibbies in this house) to get them to laugh, but that isn’t technically, exactly how I feel. Some day they will skip home from school (yes, skip) and ask us why they don’t have a daddy like their friends, and it will break my heart a little, even though I know it will still be a few years before this innocent inquisition is tinged with real sadness. I want them to have everything, even the things I can’t wrap up in pretty paper and top with a bow. I want my daughters to have male role models, but we are severely lacking those, except for two uncles who are busy with their own families. Female role models, we have those in spades. My girls will grow up surrounded by some amazing examples of Woman. I offer them those examples on a silver platter, not as a consolation prize, but as a web of love and support and guidance. Role models, live, in the flesh, and not just in books. Our friends have so much to offer our girls. And some of them will be able to show them how to apply make-up, because we two mommies are not good with that (I apply eye shadow with my pointer finger).

Such is life, as someone used to say to me. (I think it was my babysitter growing up.) This is our reality, this two-mom-no-dad paradigm, and while mimizing the importance of strong male role models is not the most mature road, and one I won’t take when the girls are old enough to really understand what I am saying, it is my coping method right now. After all, I was raised by a single mom and understand in a sense what it is like to go through the day-to-day without a father figure around. I am fully aware that some people think my girls will be emotionally damaged by not being raised with a father. And I know that some people are all “Oh it’s FINE!” to my face, but, behind their closed doors think that it is wrong for our girls not to have a dad. (Maybe I am just good at reading people, but it is shockingly easy for me to know when people are saying one thing to me but believing another.) For me, it isn’t a matter of right or wrong. What is important is that they have two loving and supportive parents, period. That is all any child needs in life: A loving, understanding and nurturing adult. Gender (male or female) and quantity (one parent or two or three or four) is irrelevant. It’s quality, not quantity. But it took me 37 years to learn that, and I still have my bad days. I want the girls to know this by their third birthday. Fourth, tops.

Pictured above, sunset over the Long Island Sound on Friday. This is why I would love to live on the water: I could see this every night. Below, Avery sitting on her couch/sister.

All Good Things Must Come to an Abrupt End

After two weeks of having Nicole around morning, noon and night and two weeks of jet-setting between such vacation hot spots and Florida, Sesame Place and Long Island, I have returned to my solo, homebound status. Nicole’s work vacation has come to an end, and it will certainly be a rude awakening for the girls, and for me. I feel sorry for me now.

Let’s talk Sesame, or, as we call it here, Abby’s House or Elmo’s House or Big Bird’s House. It is a small and very manageable park for kids. Not overwhelming at all. After one quick walk-thru I had the layout down pat. Happy Sesame music is piped through loudspeakers. Everything is painted in bright primary colors. People are running around in bathing suits, even when it is misting out, as it was for almost our entire trip. Happyland indeed.

Our first day there we brought the girls over to a giant bounce castle and waited on line for twenty minutes only to find out the neither Madeline nor Avery would step foot onto this giant yellow marshmallow when it was their turn. They screamed like we were throwing them to the lions. And since adults are not allowed on (I was pretty sure if I showed them what to do, they would love it) we were out of luck. We then walked over to a couple rides and found out the rides weren’t “open” yet. The park isn’t run with the sort of efficiency that I would have liked to see. We were there at ten each morning, when it opened, but I was surprised to find out that many of the rides didn’t open for another hour or so. I asked one employee when one particular ride would open and she said “Around 11 or 11:30,” with a shoulder shrug, which indicated that even that estimate may be wrong. Are the employees aware that the park opens at ten??

So we ended up at a mini playground and I couldn’t help thinking we spent all this money so the girls could run around a playground in a new Sesame location. And a wet playground at that: Everything was slightly damp and puddle-y because it has been raining for at least forty days now, with no end in sight. We then ventured into one of the stores, filled with everything Sesame. We left with a handful of plush toys and books. It was hard dragging the girls out of there. Even I was seduced by the commercialism of it all.

The Merry-Go-Round saved half the day, emphasis on half: Madeline loved it, and perched on her horse with the posture of a seasoned rider. Avery, on the other hand, was scared out of her mind on the horse, and wrapped her arms around Nicole’s neck for the entire ride and screamed. The characters come out around noon, and immediately are surrounded by excited adults who were thrusting their terrified kids into The Count’s arms for a photo op. Madeline loved the giant fuzzy things but Avery was reluctant to look at them, touch them or accept hugs from them. Are you seeing a pattern here? What one loved, the other didn’t. Just as I expected. They both agreed on the shows: They loved the Big Bird show and the Elmo show, and even though I scoped out the exit in case we had to make a fast break if the girls lost their minds, we didn’t need to leave during the shows.

In a year, I think, this will be Nirvana for them. While there are lots of great things there for two-year-olds, they lack the wow factor of what they will be able to do in a year. Sure, there is a Merry-Go-round, but there is one in Central park. And there are slides and playgrounds, but we go to those every other day or so. And giant fuzzy characters: We have those in the city too. But next year, we can do the water attractions (we could have done wading pools and sprinklers, but we resisted) and the above ground obstacle courses and I think by then the girls will love doing all the nauseating rides that go in circles.

One of my favorite parts: The soft pretzels are in the shape of Elmo! Score! We avoided the rest of the food, though, mainly because I am so very picky, and ate instead outside of the park. Also, we skipped the character meals because I didn’t want to spend all that money for bad food and maybe terrified kids. (I think it was about $20 per adult and $18 per child for a buffet.) Next year, if the girls ask for it, then we can do it.

We also did Adult Things and went to New Hope and Doylestown, which was amazingly charming, and drove trough Pipersville to try to find Dorothy Parker’s old farm. We couldn’t find it, but I took a picture of the local library, saitsifed that Dorothy must have been to it at some point during her years there. All this in three days. We even checked out of the hotel a day early (we decided to leave on Friday, instead of spending the night and leaving Saturday) and headed back to the city.

And now it is Monday morning and this week is all about routine and nap schedules and getting back into the real world.

Our [Weekend] House is a Very Very Very Shared House

Some people have fancy alarm systems to guard their houses or maybe vicious dogs. Others have window and door sensors, which alert homeowners of an unauthorized entrance attempt. Not my mom. She has a better solution. Behold her do-it-yourself alarm system. Yes, those are bells. She is a regular McGyver with a dash of [insert the name of a famous bell player — there MUST be one]. Because nothing, apparently, jars my mother from a deep sleep and puts her into Danger/Protect Mode like the distant, melodious tinkle of bells. So if you weight less than 80 pounds and are trying to squeeze into my basement through that tiny rectangular window and burgle the house, your cover will be blown by Carole of the Bells. And after she takes a moment to appreciate the pretty song, she will get you. Take that, wrong-doers.

Let me introduce you to a few other curious things. In the basement, there is a corkboard with a thermometer (?); a hippo keychain (?); a business card for an Irish sweater shop (?); a “Do Not Disturb” sign (?); a plastic sign asking “Are we having fun yet?” (?); and a red plastic thing (?). The Town Calendar qualifies as useful; however, its basement location renders it decidedly not useful for the function for which it is intended. I have never seen a more eclectic corkboard in my life. Is it supposed to look random? Like things were just pinned up there in no particualr pattern for no particular reason? And it should be pointed out that this corkboard has not changed in at least a decade.

Let’s now move up to the dining room, where bottles of liquor must get cold, so they are allowed to wear fancy silk Asian jackets and poorly drawn bunny portraits are displayed in ridiculously ornamental gold frames. And this is JUST the beginning. You can see we have our work cut out for us with this house.

Some house changes are easy. Like when Nicole pruned an out-of-control bush, which hasn’t been pruned in 20 years. Or when I insisted an obsolete computer that is over a decade old (can you say “C Prompt?”) be removed from our bedroom. Or how I convinced my mother that the fake autumn leaves framing the front door need to be removed. Or, even better, when I pointed out that some flowers looked like they were dying and needed water, and then discovered that they are in fact fake. She has fake flowers that are so old and dusty that they look dead. These were removed, too. We replaced her twenty-five year old outdoor furniture set with a really nice oversized slate table and matching chairs. Put up bird feeders and invited the birds into the yard. These were relatively easy changes to accomplish.

I think it will get harder from here. It is an interesting dynamic, how we own the house that my mother lives in. Can’t say that I enjoy it much (the dynamic, it is). We have very, very different tastes. I mean, I can’t just ask her to, say, take that bunny picture down? Tell her it is tacky and ugly and useless? (Though I can imagine some ironic uses for the frame.) Can I redo the basement to create a useful and organized crafty area? What is it going to be like when the architect shows up for the inevitable remodeling? There is one thing that I will tackle this weekend: I will be removing a very offensive item from the kitchen. So offensive that I won’t even show a picture of it. But the more we go out to the house and the more we might have people visit, the greater the need to remove said offensive art NOW.

Right now, we are really focusing on the outdoors, and saving bunny pictures and clothed bottles and offensive art for rainy days. So we go outside. Nicole mows the lawn and plants hostas and day lilies and tomatoes and weeds around them all and waters plants and walks around with hedge clippers and a developing green thumb. I drag her to Home Depot to make her buy me ornamental flowers and bird feeders and bird accessories. You know, things with instant gratification. I put up the bird feeder and literally wait for the birds to show up. I also harass her about plating hydrangea bushes, apples trees and creating a garden plot. I want aisles and aisles of fresh veggies, people. And tomorrow, the fence man cometh, to telleth how much it will cost to fence in the entire property. I am bracing myself.

The thing is, this is our vacation house now. This is where we will be going to get away from the city. The girls LOVE it. Passionately. They wake up there and immediately start demanding to go “Side.” (outside, for those of you who don’t speak toddler). Madeline does not stop smiling when we are there. And Avery only stops smiling long enough to ask or more toys. They have little pools and water tables (not the torture kind) and sand tables and lots of outdoor toys. Nicole and I both have several really good friends in a five-mile radius, so we get to see loved ones. I can do laundry in a real laundry room, without having the girls running around and licking lint off the floor, like they do in the city. Shop in a grocery store that has aisles that more than one person can fit down. Hear birds sing. Sit on the front porch and read after the girls go to bed. This may be old-hat for those of you who live in the burbs already, but it is Heaven for me.

We just came back from Sesame Place. I’ll post about that in a couple of days.

Eight Things, Because Who Has Time For Listing Ten?

I was tagged
and this seemed like a nice and easy post-vacation post. If you feel like doing it, consider yourself tagged:

8 Things I'm looking forward to:

1. Sesame Place. But I reserve the right to change my mind about this if the girls turn out to be terrified by large fuzzy, three-dimensional characters and make our three days in Sesame Land a living hell.
2. The upcoming release of Melissa Gilbert’s biography. Salacious behind-the-scenes details about Little House on the Prairie! Bring it on! Also looking forward to working my way through a stack of summer reading books, including a great book about the Donner Party.
3. Julie and Christi’s wedding celebration in August.
4. Sitting in Jenni’s glider this summer and enjoying my friend Corrie’s amazingly landscaped backyard.
5. The fall. Yes, I know it is barely summer, but I love the fall. I could be a professional leaf-peeper and sweater-wearer and chowder-eater.
6. Someday having a house with a porch and porch swing; a library with a library ladder and a leather couch; a fireplace; full-grown trees in the yard and an apple tree; a garden; a craft room; a butler’s pantry; a white marble-topped kitchen table; a ridiculous amount of hydrangeas in various colors; a large tub or maybe one of those Japanese soaking tubs; and a separate room just for Nicole and her organized chaos. Not too much, right? Oh, and room on the porch for a table so we can have dinners outside.
7. Lots of mini trips this summer to Long Island, Massachusetts and Beyond.
8. Taking a class this fall at The New School or NYU in photography, specifically in understanding exposure and aperture.


8 Things I did yesterday:

1. Met Stephanie and Carey and the Trio at the Orlando airport. It was like meeting celebrities! I know so much about their lives (and vice versa) but we have never met. I was hoping Steph, the pediatrician, could do the girls’ two-year exam and Carey, the therapist, could talk e down from my flying jitters, but there wasn’t enough time, alas.
2. Flew from Florida back to New York City, managing to cry on the plane only once (take-off) and limiting my bone-crushing hand-holding sessions with Nicole to three times (all turbulence and weird noise-related).
3. Panicked when I thought the airline lost our luggage, but then calmed down when I realized that the luggage was upside down and I didn’t recognize it, even after about twelve rounds around the luggage belt.
4. Spent nearly two hours after landing working our way back to the city. Damn city traffic and unnecessary congestion.
5. Unpacked all of our bags and put away the luggage within 45 minutes of retuning home.
6. Organized the napkin/placemat/napkin ring drawer. Its chaos has been driving me crazy.
7. Ordered in dinner and got the girls to bed on time.
8. Went to the food store and bought milk, raspberries, blueberries, lemon-lime seltzer and ice cream. (It is surprisingly hard to think of eight remotely interesting things I accomplish in a day.)


8 Things I would like to do:

1. Take a National Park road trip. I visited many of them when I was younger and unappreciative.
2. Have some sort of encounter with an elephant. I just decided this last week. I don’t know what sort of encounter, but I am thinking either a one-on-one Zoo met-and-greet (which, I learned, some zoos let you pay to do!) or on an African safari. The first option will set me back about $50 and the second about 20K.
3. Become a really, really, really good photographer. I know I need to get a lot better before Nicole sanctions the purchase of this amazing camera. And by “a lot better” I mean borderline Annie Leibowitz, with a side of Ansel Adams and a dash of Helmut Newton.
4. Learn to appreciate what I have; forget about the past and its toxic people/events and focus more on the moment. Because in this moment, I am perfectly happy. Probably won’t be too happy when we are taking the girls to their two year check-up later in the driving rain.
5. Run a marathon. In theory, it seems possible, but every time I am in a car and on a stretch that goes for 26 miles, I think there is NO way a human can run this far without dying. But then, when I run a mile and think, all I have to do is do this 25 more times, it seems possible indeed.
6. Conquer my ridiculous fear of flying, if only to not pass it on to my girls. I think Nicole will lose her mind if she has to talk the three of us down from hyperventilating when on planes.
7. I would be remiss to not include publish a book. To that end, I need to learn to not write so autobiographically. Everything I write is way too close-to-home, which, I guess, is the purpose of a blog, but not my book. I wonder what I am waiting for?
8. This is completely random, but I would love a makeover. One of those TV kinds, where you get a haircut and color and makeup and trendy clothes. I apply eye shadow with my pointer finger, people. I need help.

8 Shows I watch. Actually, make that 5:

1. Top Chef
2. News
3. Survivor
4. The Office
5. Mad Men


Pictured above, the Trio and the my girls! Also pictured, an elephant. Behold its regal beauty and imagine me hanging with one some day. Also pictured, the little ladies at my in-law's in Florida. Just because they are SO cute, even when they aren't facing me!

Entering the So-Called Terrible Two's with New Skills, Old Traditions

•

•A plane disappears of the coast of Brazil? Not comforting. I am not a happy flyer to begin with, so adding missing jumbo jet stories all over the news before we make our return flight makes me a little extra nervous. Our flight down was great and I was okay on it. The girls had their own seats, and what a difference that makes. Both slept for a good chunk of the flight: Madeline for about 45 minutes and Avery for over an hour, which is par for the course for them on a plane. Not their regular two-and-a-half to three-hour napfest but I will take what I can get at 36,000 feet.

• When I say our flight down was great, I mean the logistics of it, with us having four seats to spread out in, even though the girls spent a chunk of time on our laps. It was actually a rough descent into Orlando, which was not very great at all. It didn’t help matters that we were on a small plane (four-seats across wide) so every little bump in the air road, we felt. We have a bigger plane on the way back so that makes me feel a teeny bit better.

• When I say I was okay on the flight, what I mean is I still had to touch the outside of the plane twice and I still had to avert my eyes from the cockpit, whose door, for some insane reason, is always open while we passengers are coming on so we can see just how complex it is to fly to plane, and I still had to accost the first flight attendant I saw and tell her that I don’t like to fly, as in: “I am not a happy flyer. Is it going to be turbulent? Because I don’t like that? Do you have any Zanax?” No, I didn’t really ask for Zanax but yes, in the face of fear, I become a blabbering idiot, and obviously don’t care who knows it. Nicole and I were sitting across the aisle from each other, with the girls in the window seats, and I had to hold her hand several times during take-off. I wonder what the other passengers think of that? The plane is all quiet during take-off and there I am, clutching her hand so tight, making a little bridge across the aisle, saying over and over again “Is that noise normal? Are we going to be ok?”

• After all that, we are in Florida, where it is sunny and warm and the weather has been just great and my desire to eat citrus has caused me to drink almost a half gallon of grapefruit juice already.

• The girls’ turned TWO yesterday, which is a fact and figure that I cannot believe to be true. All day I was doing the “Exactly two years ago right now, I was having a kidney sonogram while the babies were kept from me and locked away in the nursery” thing. Yes, I am still bitter that my childbirth experience included 12 hours of kidneys failing and heart rate dropping and blood pressure rising and peeing blood and no one knowing what was going on. Nothing like seeing a TEAM of doctors discussing a diagnosis at the foot or your bed, all in white coats, with their hands on hips, arms crossed at chest, little frowns, twirling pens and a lot of “well, maybe it could be…” and still not knowing. I remember thinking. “This is perfect. We finally get our long-awaited babies and I am going to die of some mystery illness and never get to raise them.” Perhaps I was a tad emotional, it being post-birth and all.

• The girls sleep in our room while we are here in Florida in their own pack and plays and Nicole insists that Madeline cried out at 12:34 a.m., which is when they were born (Madeline at 12:33 and Avery at 12:34). I remember it too, and looked at the look, which, without contacts in or glass on, did indeed look like 12:34. Strange.

• Because our children are obviously concerned with image and milestones, they decided to ring in the New Year Two by becoming little monsters. At a naptime yesterday, we heard more than the usual amount of giggling and laughter coming from their room. Nicole peeked in their room and saw both of them running around. Which means they learned to get out of their Pack and Plays. Nature always finds a way. We learned that in “Jurassic Park.” We did not expect this to happen so soon. So we went in their and put them back in and told them to show us how they climb out and Madeline did first, easily throwing her leg over the side and dragging the over foot with her and popping onto the ground. Horrifying. Life as we know if when we are away will never be the same! I am praying that they can’t do this in their cribs at home. It is way too soon for toddler beds.

• Just to show them who’s boss, we resettled them back into their individual cribs for their nap for the second time. Sure enough, in a few minutes, lots of giggling and laughing. We open the door to discover that Madeline has joined Avery in her crib. Trouble. I don’t like to point fingers, but Madeline is the ring leader here. That child requires little to no sleep, and she has finally proven just how far she will go to avoid a nap and ruin her sister’s.

• The girls are having an amazing time. Swimming in the lake. Playing in the yard. Swimming in the pool. Playing in the house. Playing in the sand. They are in paradise, and you can tell because Madeline has not stopped smiling since she got here.

• Guess who DIDN'T call to wish the girls a happy birthday? Actually, guess which TWO people didn't call to wish the girls a happy birthday? If you need clues, see secret blog.

• I just read a book called The Help and it was amazing. I am now reading something called A Reliable Wife, which is great too.

• Pictured above, then and now: The first picture was last night. I made them an icebox cake (because who can eat any other kind in 90 plus weather?) and Madeline did NOT like the candles, as you can clearly see from this picture. Avery loved the candles and tried to blow them out. Below is last year's birthday, pre-cake eating. Below that, the girls at the Sanford Zoo. And proof of Maddie's little devilish side: There she is, in Avery's crib during her unsanctioned nap-time visit. And in the last picture, little wet babies.

It Matters to Me. What’s it to You?

The Supreme Court in California — one of the farthest states from my own — hands down a decision on marriage and yet, somehow, someway, it affects my life waaaay over here in New York. Talk about the Chaos Theory….

I get it. I get it. We lost the battle, but not the war. Progress will be slow, very very slow, not fast. We need to be patient. It will happen. So many pithy words and consolations. I keep hearing (and saying myself) and reading collections of little phrases that are supposed to make me feel better but they just don’t. It comes done to this: People are voting on my CIVIL rights. People are judging me and my family. MY rights are being determined by….majority rule? Any way you slice it, that is wrong. And just sitting back and watching it unfold is way too passive for me.

Well, California (May I call you that? Because I feel like we should at least be on first-name basis), my marriage is sanctioned by the state of Massachusetts and “acknowledged” by my home state of New York. Oh, lucky us, slouching toward equality, one state, one law, one hand-held at a time. It may not be great but it is much better than what is going on in California.

It is easy to close the papers and turn off the news and snap my laptop closed and concentrate on what’s important: My family. Nicole. Our two amazing children. This incredible life that we have created. This is what they are afraid of? This threatens the precious institution of marriage? My life, my marriage, somehow makes other’s marriages less valid? My calling Nicole at work to see what she wants for dinner terrifies people? Really? Because this is what married people do. And when you strip away all the bullshit, all of the negative attitudes, and all of the homophobic rantings, the narrow-minded, sign-carriers who tell me that I am going to hell because I love my wife and our kids, we are, in fact, just like every other family out there, trying to come up with a dinner compromise and shuffle the kids off to bed so we can have some well deserved quiet time. And we deserve the same exact rights, period, as the family next door. Wait, they are gay: The family next door to our neighbors. We want what they have. There are ten apartments on my floor. Four of them house gay couples and families. Should we not have the same rights as of other neighbors?

Equal rights under the law: Isn’t that what this country was founded on? Is it too much to ask for?

I haven’t given money because I wonder, where does it go? Something like $44 million was raised, and that obviously wasn’t enough to get a good verdict. I went to two rallies, but not the others because I thought, what difference does it make? (And also, they were smack dab in the middle of my kids’ bedtimes, which is sacred in our house.) I didn’t make the trek to Albany because I have no one to watch my kids. And, sadly, I don’t even protest in small ways: I don’t hold Nicole’s hand on the street all the time because far be it for me to make others uncomfortable. And I can’t take the starers, when people are determining our gender roles and other non-salient facts, their eyes pinging back and forth between our clasp. Yes, we live in NYC but it is a touristy area. I can almost hear them rationalizing: “But the shorter one is wearing a skirt! Lesbians don’t wear skirts.” And then that sudden look of AHA in their eyes, sometimes that awful sneer on their faces, shows they got past the skirt issue real quick. It makes me sad, sometimes angry, sometimes indignant. Very, very indignant.

Even Obama disappoints. As he has said oh so many times, he believes that marriage is between a man and a woman. Hillary too. So what are WE, Obama and Hill? If we are not married, what are we? Domesticated? We live together and share finances and sleep together and raise children together and talk about retirement together and celebrate anniversaries together and fight together and make up together and negotiate the room temperature together and I could go on. That sounds like a marriage to me. And you want to deny me that?

The sad thing is, I am pretty certain not all of my friends agree that Nicole and I should be allowed to marry. I think I wrote way back about one awful situation when I was pregnant and some Narrow-Minded Jerk said I should have a miscarriage because we had not right raising kids without a father (selfish was bantered around). I’d like to say it didn’t bother me, but it does. It always will. And when I pass that dead baby’s due date (last week), I think about what he said and it make me so angry. Not only because of what he said (he said I should miscarry before I actually did) but because this attitude is what we are dealing with in so many people. And I have no idea of how to go about changing these minds.

But I digress.

We leave for Florida on Saturday. It is 90 plus down there. Joy. And then we come back next week, have a few free days, and then we are taking the girls to Sesame Place for three days. And in between that, our babies turn two. Two years old. This is cliché but, wow, time is racing again.

Pictured above, two little girls who deserved the security of being products of a legal marriage. They are going to lose their minds at Sesame place! And Avery is potty training Big Bird!! Does this mean she is getting ready herself? She isn’t even two yet!

Just a Lot of Lame Excuses For Not Writing

First, to state the obvious: I am been awful about writing. I wish I had some grand excuse, but I don’t. Day-to-day life makes it very difficult for me to sit down, think my thoughts and type them out. Plus, these days I have a lot more secret posts than I do general consumption posts. It’s getting harder to untangle that mess, and then to sanitize my thoughts for here is just too much work. I need to decide if I should just migrate over to wordpress, where I can sprinkle my regular postings with the secret ones, without all the back and forth and the annoyingness of having two blogs. Or maybe I should just write what I want to write, dammit, and who cares who is offended. Wow, that sounds callous, right?

My first excuse: I have been distracted by my new Kindle, which Nicole got me for Mother’s Day. I love it! The girls have absolutely no interest in it at all, so I can sneak pages here and there while stacking boxes with them and generally just being in their orbit. I lay on their bedroom floor reading it and they are happy because I am there and I am happy because I can read.

Another lame excuse: The girls have been so very needy lately. They need me by their side all the time, which is why reading the Kindle works out well. When I open my laptop, they come over and shut it. Sometimes, I just open it back up again, but most of the time, when it is just me and the girls, if they shut it, I leave it shut, because they are obviously telling me “pay attention to ME” in their own little two-year-old way. So I do. And we read or stack blocks or dance or count things or jump. Usually within minutes they move on, and I can start something new, and then they come over to me, and the cycle continues….

In this paradigm, cleaning and cooking and organizing and folding laundry and housekeeping in general have become nearly impossible to accomplish. If I leave their little sides, they follow me and usually insist on being right next to me or in my arms. Madeline has decided that she hates all kitchen appliances. If I so much as walk toward the kitchen, she chases after me, yelling “Momma see, Momma see,” which we have determined means “Momma sit.” Last weekend, I made an entire pie, including the graham cracker crust, while holding her on my hip. Mixing, pureeing, cooking, melting, pouring, stirring, scraping and arranging, all with one hand. It is adorable, and I know I will miss this when she gets older. But on the other hand, I need to be able to get things done, without having a child cocked on my hip.

And yet another lame excuse: We have gone out to Long Island for the past two weekends. That need to get out of the city is very very pressing these days. And it is about time we got some use out of a house we pay the mortgage on. The girls love being out there. They love opening the door and running in the backyard. They love playing in the gravel driveway. They love hiding behind trees, sliding down the slide, running in all that grass. It makes me feel awful, coming back into the city. But living here in the city means Nicole’s commute is five short minutes, and that we would never get in the suburbs. The girls don’t realize it yet, but living in the burbs means seeing Mommy only on weekends, and that is just not enough. Right now, going to LI on the weekends is a fair compromise, I think. But we still wonder where we will all end up.

The girls are really starting to develop personalities, and it is a miracle to watch. While on Long Island last weekend, I took them to a shoe store. I wanted to get them both a pair of sneaker-like shoes for the summer. They both were in awe of being in a shoe store (their first time, for all intents and purposes). I picked out these cute Converse sneakers in pink plaid and showed the to Maddie — the one we deemed would be the girly-girl princess, based solely on her long eyelashes — and she said loudly and defiantly “no,” while shaking her head violently. I tried about four more times to get them on her feet, and each time, more loudly than the last, “NO.” She proceeded to walk over to the selection and pick out the brownest, butchest mini hiking shoes. And Avery — the one we figured would be a tomboy based solely on her hair — walked over and selected gold sandals with flashing lights on them. Then she was distracted by pink rain boots and the search was over. I walked out with the brown butchy hiking shoes for Maddie, the pink plaid Converse for Avery and the boots, which Avery refuses to take off and wears ALL the time. Once again, I am reminded that we cannot project personalities, dispositions or style.

A few random updates, because I want to have these things recorded: The girls are bottle-free, officially. Did I mention that already? Madeline will still drink milk from a sippy cup, and I let her do that whenever she wants. But Avery has compeltley eschewed milk. I am okay with that, because she eats a lot of yogurt and cheese every day, and it is the calcium that is important, and not the milk per se. Avery has started using the possessive properly, as in “momma’s coffee” and “Maddie’s milk.” Very cute. Avery is counting a lot now, and says “one, two, wee, six.” It’s a start! Avery loves to dance and has some amazing shimmy moves. Madeline will sit with me and read a book cover to cover. She continues to excel at the alphabet, but for some reason can’t quite figure out the letters S and X. Madeline is very adventurous and will g down the slide by herself, whereas Avery wants to hold a hand. And Madeline is such a great fruit and veggie eater.

Pictured above, Avery with Nicole’s mom (right), who was visiting from Florida, and my mom (left). Below that, Avery and Madeline, and suburban dinner. My one-handed berry pie is at the very end.

A Series of Unfortunate Weekend Events

You all know where to go by now. www.arcanematters.wordpress.com. Email me if you need the password again.

Latest Post: Head On Over To The Secret Blog

Because this is another one of those things not for mass consumption. Same password as before. Email me if you forgot.

And Right Back Down to the Bottom of the Mountain

I have an amazing ability to gain and lose weight. The same 20 (give or take) pounds, year after year after year after year, for, oh, 25 years now. But this is the amazing part: I can do either in the span of usually about two months. Don’t believe me? My brother just lost 31 pounds in two weeks. TWO weeks. It is a family curse and blessing. It is obviously in my genes.

But first, my brother’s story: He is six feet tall and weighs in the 220s, which is on the higher end of the scale for him. He doesn’t look extra-large, really, because he, like most men, carries his weight very well, which is so not fair. His office did a Biggest Loser Challenge (is this all the rage in corporate America? Group weight-loss programs?) and he signed up. It was eight weeks long. For the first six weeks, he continued to eat double cheeseburgers and whatever else struck his fancy, which I guess means huge portions of whatever he wants. Week after week of weigh-ins revealed no weight loss, and his co-workers, who were all slowly and steadily going down on the scale, good-naturedly teased his lack of progress. Then my brother decided to be mindful of what is was eating for the last two weeks. Week one, he lost 11 pounds. Week two, he lost 18. He lost the Challenge (and the $700 pot) by a half pound. But 31 pounds in two weeks? I’d say he is a winner.

This proves two things about me and my brother: We are both very, very competitive and we both have freaky metabolisms.

One of the important parts of my brother’s equation is that in those last two weeks he was working hard every night after work renovating the rental apartment in his house. Exercise seems to be the common denominator — and an important one — for both of us. When we are exercising regularly, and are watching what we eat a little, weight drops off. But if we don’t exercise regularly and don’t watch what we eat, watch out: Weight gain, almost immediately.

But let’s bring it back to me. I gain and lose weight with incredible regularity, year after year. Weight gain usually occurs over the winter and weight loss occurs in the spring into summer. Fall is the balanced season, usually.

How does this happen? It is eternally frustrating. When I gain weight, my eating habits do not change drastically, but they do change. In other words, I can’t blame weight gain on eating three boxes or Oreos every day. How I wish it were that simple: Cut out the Oreos and welcome to healthy-weight world. Bizarrely, I think I eat more in the Lean Months: Three regular meals (and if I don’t eat them at the same time, my body almost shuts down), snacks, dessert, lots of water. In the Not-Lean Months, I eat irregularly: Yesterday I skipped lunch and had no snacks. My food-for-the-day boiled down to peanut butter toast for breakfast and then penne with peas and vodka sauce for dinner. Not exactly unhealthy, but not good either. My splurge for the day: I made two batches of chocolate chip cookies and coconut bars for Nicole to take to work, and from that bounty I hade a couple of scrap pieces of coconut bars, mostly for taste-testing purposes (I can’t send a new recipe off to Nicole’s office without ensuring it doesn’t taste like crap).

It is not like you will open my cabinets and find a cornucopia of crap. Pretzels and ice cream is about as dangerous as I get, with a package of salt and vinegar chips thrown in every three months or so. Exercise seems to be the deciding factor, really. If I work out for about 45 minutes a day, six days a week, my metabolism is fine and my weight remains steady. But the instant (literally) my exercise becomes erratic then so does my weight.

Last summer my weight dipped into the 120s. People were saying that I looked too thin, and there was that side of me that thought “YES! Too thin! I look emaciated and unhealthy! Go me!” Sick, isn’t it? Add that to the list of things I don’t want to pass onto my daughters. But the other side of me was a little freaked out, which I didn’t talk about much. I saw my ribs, those bones in my chest and neck, and the shape of my femur bones. My breasts withered to raisins, complete with those tell-tale deep grooves. My arms, in certain angles, looked a liiiiiittle scary. And the weight kept coming off, with no end in sight. So I cut my four-mile run by a half mile, and that was the beginning of the next round of weight gain.

So here I sit, twenty pounds heavier, heading into the summer season not able to fit comfortably in my favorite skirts. I am annoyed to be back in this spot. The thing is I am not terribly worried: I know that within two months (or so; I don’t want to jinx myself) I can get back to a better size. The thing is am really, really, really tired of the cycle. Really tired of Big Me and Smaller Me. Really tired of the wardrobe that spans multiple sizes. Really tired of needing three different bra sizes. Really frustrated that I need to execute a exact dose of exercise in order in stay in a certain range. On the one hand, it seems like a small price to pay. But what can I say? Sometimes it is hard to drag myself out of bed at 5 in the morning and head to the gym. And someone needs to send a memo to my daughters: Absolutely no sleep issues or Momma won’t be able to be a size six.

The other day I was carrying a bag of laundry to drop off, and it weighed 20 pounds. (I only know this because it is a dollar a pound to wash and I had to fork over 20 dollars). It was heavy, people, that bag. 20 pounds makes a big difference. And that is what needs to come off of me, again. I am not happy to be back at the bottom of the mountain.

So much more to say about this issue... it isn't all so neat.

Pictured above, my brother and I a few years back in the Leaner Summer months. We are painting his boat’s hull. It is one of the few pictures of us together. Also pictured, the girls holding hand and running in Aunt Jenni’s yard the other day. Are they going to inherit the C [my last name] Weight Curse?

It is only April and we are contemplating turning on the air conditioning. I am resisting because I am not a fan of it and, again, it is only April. How is it that we skip spring every year? We go from snow to 90 degrees in two weeks. Though I must say this was a glorious and breezy spring-like morning. So maybe I am not seeing the forest for the trees.

Another Monday, not much different from the last 50 Mondays. Sometimes I am amazed at the tedium of day-to-day life, of the repetitive tasks that we need to do ad infinitum. My to-do list, a literal checklist with boxes for me to X out, because it feels so good to X things out, includes things like “do laundry” and “buy apples” and “pick up dry cleaning” which I still put on the list, even though I am in a constant state of doing laundry or buying apples or picking up dry cleaning (and here is an example of how much I hate change: Even though our dry cleaner will deliver, for free, I insist on picking up our dry cleaning instead because to do otherwise invites change and we can’t have that, can we?) It is only 8:00 and already we have been to the post office, to the grocery store, to the dry cleaner and the UPS store.

I have a bigger post of the meatier variety, but I am not up to that today. Stay tuned tomorrow for a weight rant. In the meantime, a little report on the latest developments in the world of Madeline and Avery:

• Madeline knows more than half of the letters in the alphabet. She recognizes them not only on her flashcards and in her books, but on the street in signs or anywhere. She isn’t even two yet. This is genius, right? It all started with the letter B, which I am convinced all apartment-building-dwelling babies learn in their elevators. Both Madeline and Avery recognized B first, and from that sprang forth a passion for letters. For a while all letters were B. Bu that quickly evolved, and Maddie took it to a whole new level. On her recognition roster are A, B, C, D, F, I, K, L, N, O, P, Q, S, T, V, W and Z. Avery is not too far behind her. And they both are calling out numbers they see too. Alas, I know that while this may be on the early side of things, they will most likely average out in time. But still, they are brilliant!

• “Da Da” still means “what’s that?” and I can’t help but to still be amused by the double entendre of that!

• Avery is much more verbal at the moment. She loves to play this incredibly innovative and original game that I made up called “words”: It involves me saying “Can you say ____?” and her saying said word. Like I said, SO original. But she loves to play this game and can play for much longer than I want to. She has also started using the possessive, as in “Mommy’s” and “Momma’s.” She is more likely to demand water or milk or Elmo or more or a spoon. Madeline clearly understands but she is much less inclined to speak. And just when I think it might be an issue, she will come over ad pint to me knee and call it a knee, etc.
• We have successfully migrated to the afternoon nap! From noon-ish to three-ish every day. Thank you, sleeping gods.

• They still go to bed at night around 6:30/7:00. However, of late, they have been getting up about an hour later in need of a new diaper. So we get them, change diapers hang out with them on our bed for about ten minutes then bring them back to their cribs. I am not sure if this new routine of theirs means that we should be putting them down later or giving them dinner earlier. I am also in denial that more regulated poops means potty training is inches away.

• We said bye-bye bottles on Friday. My babies are growing up. Nicole had Friday off, so it was a three-day weekend, and we figured now was as good a time as any to get rid of them. They were starting to chew off the nipples, going through a pair a week. They were only using them for their first morning milk and for the last milk at night. During the day, they drink water out of sippy cups. The issue is, of course, they are not to happy about drinking milk out of a sippy cup or a regular cup or a special straw cup or any other vessel other than a bottle. We have gone through so many variations of sippy cup in the past few days. By Sunday night, Maddie had adapted okay. She is drinking her milk from the sippy cup, though much less than her normal 16 ounces. Avery is still refusing milk in a sippy cup. But she did drink a couple of sips from a coffee mug, so there is progress. From what I have read/heard, when bottles are dropped milk consumption will reduce by half, but that is okay. Milk isn’t the important thing: It’s calcium. And both are great with yogurt and cheese, so I think we are going to be okay. Still, I will double check all this with our pediatrician in June for their two-year appointment.

• How is it these babies have lived outside of me for two years already? When did that happen?

• I have a feeling Madeline suffers form the same Excess Disorder that I have. She eats a pint of blueberries a day. If she likes something, she just wants more and more and more. Avery, on the other hand, will have three bites of, say, pasta and then decide she is full. She has much ore control. Maddie indulges.

• Avery learned the word “oww” and now uses it ALL the time. She also has mastered Sad Face, which involves pursed lips, eyes looking down, head titled ever so slightly. Of course, I reinforce this behavior by declaring each time “OH LOOK AVERY IS SAD!” in a ridiculous voice. This has fueled her sad face fire. I need to stop that this week.

• I read last week that waffle irons could be used to make great grilled cheeses and panini-like sandwiches, and it is true! So exciting to find a new use for the waffle iron. Yes, these are the sort of things that excite me these days. I learned this in Cooks Illustrated magazine, the world’s best recipe magazine.

This post, like so many before, was brought to you by an episode of Sesame Street. (The Firefly Episode.)

Pictured above, did I even write about how Nicole and I met Jane Fonda, she of the Awesome Amazineness? I’ll add that to my list of things I need to write about. I look freaky because my face was shaking and I was telling jane this as the picture was taken. Also I look like I am 17 times larger than Jane. Also pictured, Madeline after eating yogurt and pre-bath, obviously. She is not the neatest of eaters yet, but rest assured a lot of it actually makes it to her tummy. And another reason why we got rid of the bottles: They are being used as very messy toys. And milk is surprisingly annoying to clean up.

Is It The Feast of the Epiphany or Something?

This is an epiphany of sorts, and not perhaps a very earth-shattering one, but for me, it was a bit of a shocker: I woke up and realized I am an adult in the middle of my life.

I am an adult, officially old, or older than so many others. A mother of two, of all things; a wife; an erstwhile journalist; a junior-high-school-Jane-Fonda-aeorobisizer turned runner; a woman approaching her forties. Forties! When my mom was my age, she had a nine-year-old, an eleven-year-old and a crumbling marriage. I am going to be 37 this July. I don’t feel it, mentally, but there are too many physical signs to ignore. The gray hair, the beginnings of wrinkles and, of all things, a C-Section scar. There are age-related complexities: Almost every doctor appointment requires a follow-up with a specialist or blood work. I can hurt myself executing seemingly simple tasks, like getting out of bed or reaching for something on the tippy top shelf. I have sunspots that need to be “checked.” And my hands. My hands, more than anything, betray my vanishing youth and approaching middle age.

Most startling: that shift is starting to happen, where we are no longer “taken care of” by our parents and we are slowly but oh so surely becoming the caretakers of them.

We are as young as we feel, right? Sometimes I still feel like I am in college, and I am going to eat a greasy, unhealthy-in-ten-ways dinner at nine at night, then take a Disco Nap and then spend the evening flitting from place to place, staying out way too late. Or I feel like I am still in high school, and I am going to drive past The Devil House (doesn’t every town have one?) or go 70 miles an hour over The Hump in town (doesn’t every town have one?) to feel our stomachs drop or go to a diner (doesn’t every town have one?), to a pizzeria (ibid) or to the video store to rent a movie (wait: Blockbuster is going out of business, so every town won’t have one). Or, when it is late at night and I can’t sleep and I am alone in the living room with my thoughts, I can feel ten again. Lonely, uncertain, waiting, wondering where this is all heading.

I suffer from thinking REAL life is going to start any day now. Like this life, this day, this moment doesn’t count. This isn’t real. “Real” hasn’t started yet. “Real” is coming. I could use a tattoo reminding me to Seize the Day or Live in The Moment. Actually, that is not a bad idea: Permanent ink to drill into my head a concept I never seem to master.

But how can I live in the moment? I am too busy preparing, wondering, worrying and stressing about the next one. And too often I reconstruct the past and construct the future, but ignore the present. This very moment, ignored, like a stranger on a train.

There was a point early on in my relationship with Nicole when I started to feel like an adult. I remember thinking, that’s it: We are adults and we need to use pillow protectors. We need high-thread-count sheets. We need to really think about the future and not just conjecture about the myriad directions it can go. We need a AAA membership. And magazine subscriptions. A better vocabulary. A subscription t the Times. And one of those return address stampers so we can stop using those free labels that come in the all from charities we don’t donate to, the ones with cloying puppies or seals on them, or a giant calligraphy initial. We need real pots and pans, the kind that you add one at a time because they are so absurdly expensive and it seems ridiculous spending that much for a pot. We need real pajamas, the kind sold in sets, that match, and maybe have working buttons, and not just decorative ones. We need art on our walls. Wills. Health-care proxies. A legal marriage, even if it s only recognized by three states. College funds. House insurance. Life insurance. Avenues of communication. Back-up plans.

And now, the latest addition to our adult life, the latest sign that we are in fact over thirty but under fifty: There is, as of today, a television in our bedroom. Yes, I know what all about its sometimes unintended consequences, but it had to happen. The girls’ bedroom is off of the living room, which makes that room off-limits when we put them to bed. Not forever, but just till they are settled in and in a deep sleep. So, you know, a couple hours. During that time, we head to the bedroom, with our computers or books, or into the kitchen. We makes calls. I update my blog. Sometimes I’ll get a manicure. Or, more glamorously, empty the dishwasher and set up the coffee for tomorrow. Point being: We steer clear of the living room.

With a TV in our bedroom, we have options. We can watch a movie together. We can cuddle under the covers on a cold day, basking in the warm glow of Rachel Maddow. We can close the door, turn on the air conditioning and watch Battlestar Gallatica, which I recently downloaded from iTunes. Or it can just sit there, off, in all its shiny, flat glory. We’ve come a long way since the televisions of our youth.

The best part: Neither Nicole nor I watch that much TV. Well, to be more specific: Nicole never watches TV during the week. Well, sometimes she will come in a watch The Office with me, with closed captions, so the volume doesn’t infiltrate the girls room. (And yet another aging sign: I have hearing loss in my right ear.) But during the week, I will tuck Nicole into bed and head into the living room around 9 and watch a Tivo’d show or two until I my brain shuts down enough to sleep. But I never watch TV during the day or on the weekends. And Nicole, she loves her Sunday afternoon TV. So this should be interesting.

But tonight, we will watch The Office, in bed, with the lights out and no computers on our laps and without reading the closed captions. I am so excited that I think we need Cold Stone to celebrate. It is like this is a special occasion. TV has suddenly become an Exciting Event, and that, more than anything, makes me feel old.

Pictured above, cue the chorus of angels and behold, the TV. We need a stand. And the two not-so-little reminders for me to Live in the Moments.

Yeah, Sure, The Sky Is Falling. And I Feel Fine-ish.

Sometimes I sit around admiring Madeline and Avery’s little pot bellies. They stick out in the most adorable way and give them a ridiculously impossible profile, the kind of absurd dimensions where you wonder why they don’t topple over. I take a certain pride in thinking I fill those bellies up. And then a wave a panic rolls over me and I don’t see pudge but rather distention and those aren’t tummies filled with lovingly cut-up grapes and homemade chicken nuggets, they are tummies filled with gas and emptiness. Then I start poking their stomachs and continue for a while until I realize I don’t know what to feel for. What does starvation even feel like? It amazes me how quickly I can switch from “they are just fine” to “oh my god they are starving, right in front of my eyes.” This is a little insight into my daily parenting panic. And it extends in ten million directions. I am astonished at the so many ways that one can be/feel like a failure at parenting.

Starvation isn’t such a reach, based on the amount of food I find on the floor and their mercurial appetites, combined with my own peculiar food habits, which includes occasional skipped meals, a virtual food strike in the hot days of summer and a pathetic lack of protein in my life. I eat no meat but chicken, and I don’t feel bad about eating chicken anymore because I have concluded that chickens are by far the most annoying farm animal — if not animal — on the planet. This is based on recent experience. We went to a dairy farm up in Northampton (maybe Hadley) and there were these great, lumbering, almost regal-looking cows, who would walk right over to us and point their giant noses at the girls and just watch us, blinking s-l-o-w-l-y and looking like they had something to say. They seemed so kind and gentle and easy-going, like I could be friends with them, if they were human. They would be the friend who always said “I don’t care. What do YOU want to do?” I almost felt bad that I eat the occasional hamburger (that is the only beef product I eat), but then I think how tasty cows are, sandwiched between a fresh bun, with lots of ketchup and mustard and sour pickles and red onions, and I get over it. They also give us milk, which gives us cheese, which truly is nature’s candy. And don’t even get me started on ice cream. Cows are great.

But chickens are just plain annoying. First of all, they live up to their names of running around like a chicken with its head cut off. Have they no sense of direction? Do they exist in a constant state of dizziness? Watching them makes me weary. Second, they tried on several occasions during the above mentioned farm visit to lead my over-excited girls into traffic. I’m not kidding. The chickens ran for the road, with my girls hot on the heels, and then the chickens make a sharp turn, back to safety, while my still-not-good-at-banking girls headed straight into the road. Were it not for us scooping them up and bringing them back to the safety of the grass, the girls would keep running into the street. Evil chickens. So I no longer feel bad that I eat chicken. And I will eat more of them tomorrow. With delicious white wine cream sauce.

Speaking of wine, this is the absurdity of life as a non-drinker: I want to make the above mentioned white wine cream sauce, which requires three tablespoons of white wine, but I don’t want to have a whole opened bottle in my house. It is not like I would grab it, run into the closet, close the door and down it, but who knows. But mainly it is the fact that I don’t want to waste it. So last night I went to a few liquor stores looking for those mini airplane-size bottles of wine, and can’t find them. Are they out of style? Does no one drink shots of wine anymore? Is it wrong to knock on my neighbor’s door and ask to borrow some?

In a delicious sense of irony, both girls says “dada” but it means “what’s that?” How’s that for their first double entendre? They will point to something, ask “dada” and then repeat what I say. Well, attempt to repeat. Avery seems to be increasing her vocabulary and becoming more verbal by the day, if not hour. I am always amazed at some of the words she knows. Madeline is a little behind her, and seems content to let her sister talk. It is impossible not to compare, then worry, then fret, then panic, then seek counsel, then assume that I am certainly failing my children. I know how silly that is, but reason and logic apparently flew out the window once I had kids.

From toddler diets to chickens to wine issues to vocabulary….

And now, just to wrap up this random post, a snippet from an argument Nicole and I had over the weekend:

Me: You’re being mean.
Nicole: You’re being mean.
Me: No, I am not mean. You are being lazy about picking adjectives. I am being bratty and immature, yes, but mean, no.
Nicole: Fine, you’re being bratty and immature.
Me: Fine. But you’re being mean.

Notice I gave myself the last word? We were arguing over dinner. More specifically, we were arguing over the fact that I wanted Nicole to decide what to order in for dinner and she had the *nerve* to ask for my input in deciding. In my defense, I just didn’t want to make any decisions at all. I just wanted food to show up in front of me. But there is probably no way I can spin this to make me seem in the right. It all seems so silly in hindsight, no? And it seems like almost everyone I know is having various versions of spousal conflict these days. Is it the weather? The economy? General ennui?

If you are still looking for the password for my “secret” blog, email me. This blog, right here, is still my main blog. I am seriously considering migrating, but, as I said, that involves change and we all know how I despise change. When I add a new post to the secret blog, I will alert you all here. And I want to thank you all for your links and stories and really wonderful emails. They really cheered me up on an otherwise gloomy, rainy, post-argument crappy Monday.

Pictured above, another reason why cows are great: They are weather prognosticators: When they lay down it means rains a comin’. I love that. Chickens, those evil, tasty farm animals, predict nothing, except that the sky is falling, when in fact it isn’t. And Madeline with her hands all over the goat. This is why I need to remember to carry that hand gel with me at all times.

Password Protection: Yes, It Has Come To This....

I have mentioned on more than one occasion that I wished there were a secret place where I could blog some of my not-so-bloggable-for-the-general-public thoughts. So I wished and wished and wished and guess what? Nothing happened. Reminds me of some quote thing hanging in my mother’s house about having a wishbone where your backbone is.

So I had to take matters into my own hands. Here on out I am going to add some password-protected posts from time to time to a brand new blog on wordpress. This is the link: http://arcanematters.wordpress.com/

It was either start that password-protected blog or let some things simmer/boil over in me. New blog seems like the healthier choice. I hate having two blogs, and I am not ready to completely migrate (I hate change) but blogspot doesn’t have password protection and so this is what it is.

If you want the password, email me. I’ll leave my email address in the comments. Please give me your blog name or your name. I don’t mind complete strangers reading my general thoughts, but I just want to know who reads my deeper, darker parts. In return I will email you the password. There is no post there yet, but one will be up within a couple days….

Back to your regularly scheduled blog….

It Isn’t All Sunshine and Roses, But Mainly It Is

This is the eve of our seventh anniversary. For those keeping track, yes, our wedding anniversary is in October but April 1st is our original anniversary, which we before we were granted an official wedding date. And I insist on celebrating both. I never said it was easy being married to me. It is a little know fact, but seven years is a very important/significant anniversary, right up there with the 10th , 20th and 50th. Seven years happens to be the “diamond and sapphire” year (traditional; notice “and” and not “or”) and the “iPhone year” (modern). OK, so I made that up. A girl can dream. And I can’t get an iPhone anyway until it links with Verizon, dammit.

Our time together might seem like a drop in the bucket compared to others, but we have known each other most of our lives. We actually went to school together, so she was in my orbit since 7th grade. And we had/have mutual friends, so our paths crossed quite a few times through the years after high school. There was never really a time when she wasn’t in my life, through one or two degrees of separation.

But our relationship wasn’t one of those slow-simmering, we-always-knew kind. I remember once years ago Nicole had people over to her apartment to meet up before we all went out. I walked into her apartment and she acted like I was invisible, or perhaps she was being coolly indifferent. Either way, I couldn’t hide my disappointment (I never did have a good poker face, as I have learned again and again and again, sometimes the hard way). Our mutual friend Mike noticed Nicole’s slight and my subsequent disappointment and said “Don’t worry. That’s just Nicole.” Time and motherhood has deleted the exact words he said from my memory but it was along those lines, but I remember what he said was comforting. And it reassured me, his comments, and might very well have saved me from writing her off forever.

Our relationship literally turned a corner one night, when I was very recently separated, and, as the story goes, we were standing on a street corner (how symbolic!) with our mutual friend Molly (Mike’s wife). Molly and Nicole were going back to their respective homes, and I did not think it wise for me to go back to the boat that I temporarily shared with my ex. I was going to drive back to my mother’s home on Long island but both invited me to spend the night at their places instead. Suddenly my life was like that Robert Frost poem, with the two roads diverging in the yellow wood. More like the yellow light of the street corner. I decided to go with Nicole. Was she the less traveled road? Did I know what I was doing? I ended up sharing a bed with Nicole that night. Nothing happened! But notice she didn’t make me sleep on the pull-out couch. The best part is she was still a bit indifferent to me, even though we were in the same bed. Now that takes skill.

A fateful choice, it turns out. About, oh, a week later, she asked me to move in with her, effective immediately. And I did, though I refused drawers or closet space and instead lived out of a giant bag. And gone was the indifference and in came the calm, decisive, strong, patient, slightly mysterious Nicole.

The beginning was blissful. What relationship start isn’t? This is why so many have affairs, trying to recapture that gloriously exhilarating period of time. While I love standing on the precipice of love with the butterflies-in-stomach feeling as much as the next person, I was happy to trade all that for stability, security, surety and routine. And here we are, seven years later, stable, secure, sure and routine-ical. I must say having kids is like dropping a bomb into the middle of your relationship. It is surreal how children change every single aspect of your lives. When you pick up all of the pieces and put your relationship back together it isn’t quite the same as before. Not in a bad way, though. It’s just different. And for someone like me, who LOVES order and consistency and routine and lack of change, it can be hard sometimes to adjust it this new it’s-not-just-about-me-and-us paradigm.

But it is altogether great. It comes down to macro vs. micro. There are some rough patches and adjustments and frustrations, but they usually pass and I don’t think it is fair to judge my life and choices based on the events that happen in a day or a week or even a month. I like to look at years. That seems more accurate. So I ask myself every year on birthdays and anniversaries and eves of anniversaries and Hallmark holidays: “Was this year better than the last?” And consistently, every year with Nicole, the answer has been a resounding yes.

Pictured above, tree power and our wedding day and the day-after the girls’ birth day.

Oh, and before I forget, anyone have a Twitter feed? Leave your Twitter name in the comments so I can follow you. I just signed up yesterday (yes, a little late to the game, again) and I am not sure how often I will be Twittering, since I do, after all, have Facebook, but I would love to follow everyone!

Things I Learned on Mini-Vacation, Mixed with a Bullet Summary

• The only reason why Nicole uses the GPS is because she wants to prove it wrong. (She also decided she wants to name is “Janeway.”) It is a bizarre sort of Man vs. Machine struggle for her. Her defense: “I don’t need to prove it wrong, I’m just saying there are better ways to get places.” She doesn’t even need the GPS to get to Northampton, yet she turned it on and told it to go to Northampton and spent the entire trip pointing out its poor directional sense. She scoffed when it told us to take the Cross Bronx and went her own way instead and she second guessed every directive it spurted out. She takes some sort of perverse pleasure in knowing the insider traffic snafus and hotspots in the tri-state area.

• Two children sleeping in the car at the same time is a beautiful thing.

• Two children missing their daily three-hour nap is not a beautiful thing.

• On Friday, we went to Look Park, sight of last year’s nuptials; walked around downtown Northampton; had dinner at Pizza Paradiso and met Auntie Annie at Herrel’s for ice cream (burnt sugar for me, Heath Bar and Peanut Butter Cup mix for Nicole and vanilla and chocolate mini scoops for the girls). We ended the day watching the sunset on Mt. Pholux.

• A king-size bed is so large that anther family might have been in it with us and we didn’t know. We slept both nights with Nicole and on the outside edges and the girls in the football-field-like middle. It was not restful and I am using “slept” in the figurative sense. The girls seem to do okay, but Nicole and I spent most both nights waking at regular intervals. The girls flip flop and turn so much that it is a wonder they sleep at all. The acrobatics they are capable of in a deep sleep astound me. My favorite moments are when Madeline, in the middle of a sleep, just sits up straight, lets out a few little cries, looks around and then throws her body in a complete different direction to sleep. When do we stop sleeping like maniacs? If adults slept like that, we would all need to wear protective gear to bed.

• Now that I am thinking about it, Nicole has hit me several times while sleeping in violent ways. In the morning she claims she thought she was saving me from some giant spider or attacking alien mollusks or a poisonous and mutated octopus. But it sounds like science-fiction excuses for spousal abuse.

• But one of the nice things about sharing a huge bed: At some points in the night, I was touching Nicole, Madeline and Avery at the same time via some very complex, Twister-like positions possible in such a large bed. This may seem silly, but at night, when it is dark and quiet and no one is talking, it is very connecting and comforting.

• On Saturday, we spent the day with Auntie Annie and went to the Sugar Shack for breakfast; the petting zoo; a playground, where Avery learned to slide by herself, under Auntie Annie’s tutelage; Montague Book Mill; Auntie Annie’s house; lunch in Northampton; a little shopping; the cow farm and ice cream and then back to the hotel for swimming and “bedtime.” Exhausting.

• Out of the blue in the middle of the Saturday night, Avery started throwing up. Nicole told me calmly several times to get a towel, and I responded as I usually do: By doing nothing and assuming the deer-in-headlights pose. I panic and even with guidance I find myself unable to react. What it that about? I eventually found my way to the bathroom and returned with a towel. Nicole said that said that in her lack-of-good-sleep delirium and in the darkness of the room, she thought that Avery was choking on a golf and foaming at the mouth. She was remarkably calm for a person who thought her daughter was choking on a golf ball and foaming at the mouth.

• Nicole needs to stop watching anything science-fiction like (golf balls, foaming at mouth, etc.).

• If Nicole brings her golf clubs, she will have neither the energy nor the pocket of free time to go the range. If she doesn’t bring her clubs she will have both the energy and time to play. She brought clubs this trip, which means she didn’t play.

• Annoyingly, the heated pool at the hotel was not-so-heated. So two priority-delivered bathing suits for Nicole and I, the time spent finding the girls bathing suits and the evening planned around the pool play all boiled down to a five-minute swim adventure. Avery really enjoyed it, but was chattering so hard we had to take her out, even though she wanted to stay. Madeline enjoyed sitting on the steps and stomping her feet. The girls don’t know yet what they are missing, but we were disappointed, for them and us.

• Nicole and I have very different stories attached to the song “Pour Some Sugar on Me.”

• Nicole and I are both back on the vacation-home train. We drove around a looked at a few houses and talked about how nice it would be to have a place to go to on the weekends. If we didn’t buy my mother’s house, I think we would have settled on a place already. We love going up there, and the girls really seemed to enjoy it too. They need to be outside running around, in nature. And if we are planning on staying in the city long-term, will we need an escape hatch for the weekends. There are only so many weekends we can impose on friends!

• I am really worried about this spring/summer. It is very difficult for me to take the girls to the playground alone. But spending a summer indoors in out of the question. Last year, it was easy to take them to the playground every day, because all they did was swing and toddle about. And we took walks every day because they were happy to sit in the stroller and just look. But now they don’t just want to stroll, they need to do. But the two of them and just me at the playground is borderline hazardous. They run, jump, slide, swing, climb and in general just pose a physical threat to themselves and all those around them. I can’t be in two places at once. How do others do it? Am I being too overprotective? Do I just need to accept the fact that they will fall? I take them to the age-appropriate playgrounds, and they still seem like toddler deathtraps.

• I normally don’t share the details of dreams because I figure most people don’t care about how my subconscious works, but I dreamt last night that Dan Akroyd told me that he never liked me; that I show up at a black-tie event in a bathrobe; that Don Rickles also told me that he didn’t like me and stole one of Madeline’s toys; that my friend Molly was a Bhutan princess who watched her kingdom burn down; that I had a white Mercedes given to me by my father that turned out to be stolen.

• Three days is not enough vacation.

• Pictured above:

1. Nicole and Avery wore matching shirts. How cute is that? You might have to be in our family to think that is cute. Others might think it’s crazy.

2. Madeline and her crazy hair. Why do I feel this may be the bane of her (and our) existence in the teen years?

3. Auntie Annie making child care seem so easy. Look how she has Avery tucked under her arm. Notice Nicole struggling with Maddie in the back! In her defense, Madeline was in a mood that day. By the way, if you are, say, a single, hot Smith professor who lives in the Western Mass area, I would like to set you up with her. Annie, that is.

4. In a bookstore of 10 million books, Maddie managed to find a “Goodnight” book, like the ones she has at home (Goodnight New York City, Cape Cod and Florida are in her collection). She selects it then backs up into my lap, forcing me to sit, even if I don’t want to. But I usually want to.

How To Succeed in Motherhood Without Really Trying*

Avery is still in the midst of an explosion of words and super-excels at mimicking words and Madeline is taking her sweet time. And try try try as I might not to compare, I inevitably do. How can you not? Two children: Same age; same circumstances; same access to the same advantages, resulting in radically different outcomes.

Today, my quieter one, my more solitary-loving child who doesn’t feel the need to speak unless she feels like it, excitedly said “Please” and “Pee Pee” over and over again, to the thunderous applause of both mommies. This is a relief, because with chatty Avery in the house, Maddie seems to feel that she needn’t talk much. She a little thinker. And since she was showing off, Madeline joined Avery in the word-combining arena with a very succinct and out-of-the-blue “Bye Elmo.” Elmo was nowhere to be seen and thus also not going anywhere, but I was so pleased to hear that that I didn’t care that it wasn’t categorically true. Just this past weekend, Avery uttered her first sentence: “Night Night Elmo.” Yes, my daughters are obsessed with Elmo, Abbie, Bee Burd, Ceeekie, and the rest of the Sesame Gang.

Speaking of Sesame Street, has everyone noticed anything amiss on that show? The girls watch it twice a day — once in the morning and the second time around 4:00 — and that means I have seen all of the episodes many times. I am collecting some very interesting images from the show. Either the cartoonists have a crazy sense of humor or I have a dirty mind. But take, for example, the sheep above. What do you see when you look at that sheep? Can you tell, for example, like I can, that this is a girl sheep??! And there are plenty more images like that.

Avery is perfecting her kissing. She kissed the vacuum cleaner today and I realized that I would fiercely fight for her right to marry that vacuum cleaner, should that desire ever become a reality. But seriously, Avery kisses everything hello and goodbye. Is this normal? The stroller, the walls of the elevator, the vacuum cleaner, books… I may need to blanket lobby for all inanimate objects.

Tomorrow is my much dreaded doctor appointment to discuss thyroid results. Which means I better call the lab to make sure they sent the results to my doctor so this appointment isn’t all in vain. It is pretty much set that seething is wrong: After all, my blood work shows my function is off and other blood work showed antibodies around my thyroid and my thyroid feels enlarged, according to multiple doctors. And since my mother and aunt both have thyroid issues, it stands to reason I do/will too. But I hate this, and I hate waiting for results, and I hate having to go see more doctors and I hate knowing that bodies break down. I post any news tomorrow, late afternoon, probably in the comments.

Pictured above, from the weekend’s Central Park adventures: does Avery have a skip in her step or what? And Avery kissing a tree. See what I mean? And Madeline: Don’t fence her in. And finally, the dirty sheep.

* For the record, for the most part I am really, really trying.

Getting a Sonogram, and Not the Fun Kind

The first time I heard about my potential thyroid issues was in my RE’s office, during the infertility years. Blood work, he said, revealed antibodies around my thyroid, which means I probably have the beginnings of an autoimmune disease. He added, I guess to reassure me, that that meant I may get an autoimmune disease in my lifetime, or may not. It could happen next week or never, he said. Reassuring, no? My body is either a ticking time bomb, and incubator of disease or a perfectly functioning Superhero machine that battles and annihilates diseased cells before they even have a chance to turn into Something Bad.

While I was pregnant, my ob/gyn told me that my thyroid numbers were “off” and that I should get it checked out. It most likely had to do with the raging hormones of pregnancy and the stress of a twin pregnancy, she said. But I was too busy napping on my couch and panicking though my pregnancy to add another appointment to my roster.

Then my primary care doctor informed me two years ago that my thyroid was enlarged and I should get a sonogram of it. And, as recently as six months ago, my gynecologist said the same thing, after just looking at my neck from across the damn room.

So why does it take me almost four years to get to the damn thyroid doctor? What is wrong with me? Today, at long last, I finally have an appointment to get a sonogram, and I am reasonably certain that this will be the first in a round of thyroid-related appointments. My fire was lit because my friend, who had a similar narrative, went to get a sonogram of her thyroid last week, which revealed an almost five-centimeter growth on it. Next up for her: Biopsy, followed by a long list of appointments. Worst case scenario: It is cancerous. But even if that is the case, there is an almost 100 percent cure rate. Still. While we are humans and it is normal for our bodies to break and break down, these little reminders of our mortality are sobering and more than as little annoying.

It is almost a foregone conclusion that there is something wrong with my thyroid. Both my mother and aunt have had goiters and nodules and are on that synthetic thyroid medicine for the rest of their lives. And when a doctor just looks at my neck and without even touching it can say my thyroid is enlarged, then we know something is up. Plus, I think about my history and my ability to gain and lose weight with alarming ease. I can gain 20 pounds like it’s nothing and lose 20 pounds just as easily. Not sure how that fits on the thyroid spectrum, because most issues I read about are either an inability to lose weight or gain weight and not both.

I realize I am bordering on histrionics here, but this sort of thing just scares me, which is why it has taken my almost four years after the antibody report to see doctor. I prefer, in a way, to not know if there is a problem. Just let me go quietly in my sleep. And I am not the type of person that deals well with follow-ups, which is part of the reason why I don’t like to go to bed mad. I don’t like to revisit pain, suffering or sorrow in the morning. I don’t like to “sleep on things.” Give me a firm resolution and course of action, thank you very much, and call it a day.

So today, around eleven, Nicole will make the five-minute trek from her office and switch places with me so I can head down to 23rd Street for a sonogram, the first step in this thyroid journey. Wouldn’t it be nice to think that it all just resolved itself and this is a false alarm? A girl can dream.

Pictured above, from our weekend, which included a trip to the NY Aquarium. I love the picture of three out of four gnawing on a soft pretzel. And check out the woman in the bathing suit: We witnessed and honest-to-goodness Polar Bear club swimming event! I love the image of her, half naked, in front of people bundled up in the winter garb. It was a relatively warm end-of-winter day but not warm enough for a dip in the ocean!

Empathy, Sympathy and the Wealthy, Swarthy and Stealthy

This post will probably get me in some trouble and it going to seem out of nowhere. But these are the things I think about on my morning runs…

I am feeling a little over-saturated with the 24-7 Bernie Madoff coverage. Society loves its villains and he certainly fits the suit very well. And the media more than happy to deliver him to us. How many times have you seen that footage of him being pushed by a photographer as he tries to walk into his luxury apartment building? I think everyone agrees that what Madoff did was evil, stupid, corrupt, immoral, illegal, crooked, lawless and just plain wrong. His punishment — most likely life in prison and the immediate and drastic cessation of life as he knows it — will certainly give him time to ponder what he has done, if his conscious even works like that.

And yet I feel sorry for the guy. I do. He made some jaw-dropping business decisions and now he will pay for it dearly, for the rest of his life. Even our broken-down justice system can ensure that.

But why this insatiable need to hate? We need a person to funnel all our anger to, and he is the latest. People want to kill this man; they want to torture him. I get that, I really do, but it just seems like a lot of energy wasted on an awful, poisonous feeling of which nothing good can come. I feel sorry for him, not because he is a riches-to-rags story and not because he got caught, but because freedom as he knows it is done. His life is over. Take him out of the context of his crime and how can one, as a human being, not feel just a little pity? He will spend the rest of his life in jail. He will die alone or on a bunk with a roommate hovering way too close. He will shower in giant rooms with no privacy and live in humiliation every day. He will never go to sleep feeling his loved one next to him or have the luxury of complaining about weather systems or the chance to take his marriage for granted. And we all have front-row seats to this dramatic demise, gladiator-style.

My point (and it has taken me a while to get to it): We as a society have powerful, strong, tidal waves of venomous hatred for the wrong-doers and just a little dot of empathy for the victims. All that energy in hating. All of those thoughts wasted on something we can’t change. And nothing but of "poor them" for the victims. Our empathy seems limited but our hatred goes on for miles and miles and miles. This, I think, is epidemic. I am not going to pretend like I am the poster child for empathy. I have a special place of hatred in my heart for, say, people who orchestrate the genocide of millions of people (and how sad is it that there are several people who fit that description?). And I have moments like when I read about a mother and her child killed by a drunk driver at 11 at night when I think “What is she doing taking her child out that late?” But I am trying.

This Madoff debacle portends a dangerous trend: Our empathy is dialing down and our hatred and anger is ramping up. There are too many people who have not an ounce of sympathy for smokers who die of lung cancer and flood victims who lose everything because they don't pay for flood insurance and the so-called "lazy" poor who deserve nothing but the worst because they just don't work hard enough. We send so much time judging Octomom that we forget there are 14 kids' lives in the balance here.

Do the people who get so bent out of shape about Madoff also get bent out of shape about the fact that 1 in 50 American children faces homelessness? Or about the fact that millions of people are starving this very moment? Or about the millions of people who live below the poverty line? Or that our neighbor may be drowning in debt and on the verge of foreclosure? Is it that empathy is too raw and makes us too vulnerable? Is the grand scope of human suffering too hard to grasp? Is it just easier to go through life hating ad blaming and judging? I can attest to the fact that sometimes it is easier to walk around with a chip on my shoulder and a wall around my heart. But now, with two little beings looking at me, those chips feel very wrong and those walls seem just stupid.

Isn't there some religious principle of "love the sinner, hate the sin?" That makes sense. I am not going to say Madoff should "rot in prison" or "good riddance" or repeat the pinstripes to jail stripes jokes. I will say he was very, very very wrong and I feel sorry for him and for every family touched by this and for the people who took their own lives because of this (two so far) and the collateral damage that many are going to feel because of his actions.

And this is not the end. Not everyone sees him as a villain; some think of him as a role model. Mark my words: There are already mini-Madoffs out there trying to get their hands on his playbook so they can copy him.

Which all reminds of of those quote, by Ani DiFranco, pilfered from a Facebook friend's page (thanks, Cynthia, for in part inspiring tis post): “We have to be able to criticize what we love, to say what we have to say 'cause if you're not trying to make something better, then as far as I can tell, you are just in the way.”

OK, I feel a little better now.

Pictured above, is it me or does Madeline’s hair look a little like Gene Wilder’s? And below, Avery, one of the two constant incentives I have to get my sh*t together.

Is It Wrong to Lie About Unicorns?

We are in the midst of an explosion of language here. Nouns and verbs are littered all over the apartment. Avery is full-on speaking in paragraphs now. Of course, we can only pick up on about three words per paragraph, and one of them is inevitably Momma, Ammi or poo poo, but she thinks she is talking to us and she thinks we understand her, and her toddler gibberish is punctuated with lots of finger pointing and jabbing and head nodding. Last night she mastered “Ammi work,” which is Avery for “Mommy is at work.” Nicole and I are delighted with this development, though I wait for the moment when “Ammi work” reminds Nicole how much time she spends away from the girls every day.

Avery will try to repeat every word we say to her, sometimes to humorous results. “Dada” means “what’s that?" So Avery is like a mini Helen Keller know, running around pointing to things and asking me “dada?” and then repeating what I say. And Madeline said “Maddie” for the first time yesterday. Problem is, she thinks Avery’s name is Maddie. I think Maddie’s explosion will happen soon. She is on the verge. It is so hard not to compare and hard not to panic because I irrationally feel that the girls need to reach every milestone at the exact same moment. But I usually am able to talk myself down from that ledge and let both grow at their own pace.

Today I am stuck in this apartment from 8 until 5, waiting for the dishwasher man to come. It’s been a month without a dishwasher, and the new one was delivered broken. So we need to repair the new one. Nothing like being forced to stay indoors for a nine-hour span to feel like you are in prison. In addition, Madeline played with the alarm clock, so we missed the five a.m. wake-up buzz and I missed my morning run. The day isn’t off to the best start. I’m hoping for a happy ending.

Yesterday was great, though. We spent it at Aunt Jenni’s Country Home and my reward for making the one-hour trip out to the mountains of New Jersey was not only Quality Adult Time and Happy Children Time but also a container full of her delicious homemade pink vodka sauce and a Ziplock bag full of cooked pasta. Dinner to go! The highlight had to be a conversation about unicorns with her four-year-old twins, who told me in all seriousness that unicorns are not real and are pretend (I love that earnest stage!), but seemed a little wide-eyed full of wonder when I told them I saw one crossing the street on my drive up. I wondered on the way home if it was possible to tape a horn on a horse on one of the horse farms near their house and do a drive-by. Also cute: Avery playing peek-a-boo with the nearly-one-year-old Francesca and sharing her snack with her. And Madeline playing in the tent with Giovanni, who is so patient and kind with kids younger than he is. The best part about all of the kids is that they all have that amazing innocent quality of pure happiness that radiates in moments from their eyes and smiles.

During the drive home I imagined — as I usually do after leaving her home — Nicole, the girls and I living at Jen’s home. I imaginary-decorate each room with an imaginary unlimited budget. It’s amazing what I can come up with when money is of no object! Jen has a walk-in closet bigger than the girls’ bedroom and more windows in her den than we have in our entire apartment. We all could be so happy in a home outside the city with so much space and a backyard! Not to mention being able to BBQ. Jen and I talked about future plans and we really still have no idea where we will end up. Right now, we are staying put in the city. Nicole’s office is a five-minute walk away: How can we trade that sort of commute for an hour-plus one? Bottom line, living in the city lets Nicole spend more time with the girls and me. Isn’t that the important part? Also, I have lived here in the city for nearly 20 years, and I don’t know if I can make that transition to suburban living. Driving everywhere? Having control over the heat in our home? Hiring a local kid to shovel the driveway and rake the leaves? It all seems so foreign, even though that is how I grew up. But it isn’t about me anymore, and it comes down to the girls and are we raising city kids or country kids?

I am trying to get the girls off bottles. They have two a day: One in the morning and one before bed. All drinks in between (water, that is) are served in sippy cups. Madeline will take milk in a sippy cup but Avery will absolutely not do such things. And once Maddie sees Avery with a bottle of milk, she wants a bottle too. What do I do? Do I cut the morning bottle out cold turkey, reasoning that they will eventually drink because they are thirsty? Cut both bottles cold turkey? Our doctor says they should have about 16 ounces of milk a day, and I fear they won’t if I cut the bottles out. But they are 21 months and enough is enough, right? No more baby-pants bottles.

Pictured above, creepy-looking fog in Jen’s backyard. One drawback to living outside of the city is I would be scared all the time. And pictures don’t lie: Look how much fun the girls had!

Good-bye Sliver of Hope, Hello, Reality, for the 37th Time * with request

Well, we might be turning the corner, but I am not counting any healthy chickens until they are hatched. The girls have ceased vomiting and Nicole is back at work (after two days off) and the diaper fiascos are slowing down considerably. I am fairly certain Avery has the rotavirus, and maybe Maddie, too, though she had much milder case. Maddie had one evening of throwing up and, just like when she was a baby, this involved depositing small disgusting piles on the floor, like a cat, which she then would roll on or touch or somehow get all over her, despite our efforts to pull her away from it immediately. Avery projectile vomits, like a cartoon character. There is this low sonorous noise and then everything inside her comes out all at once with force, like a fire hydrant. After we stop laughing, because it really does look funny. We are faced with the daunting process of cleaning everything up and comforting the sad Avery. Our concern now is Avery woke up this morning with a dry diaper, a sure sign of dehydration, so I need to stay on top of the liquids thing, and be on the lookout for crying with no tears and a dry mouth. But that is enough vomit and sick talk for a Monday morning.

This morning NYC the victim of four inches of snow. March is in like a lion, indeed. The city is, as usual, shutting down with panic. The store’s shelves are wiped out of water, toilet paper and milk. Even the schools are closed, for the first time in five years. My walk to the gym this morning was a very slippery one, but manageable, and the cold wasn’t exactly bone-chilling. It is supposed to snow more, and already little flakes are swirling outside. But that is enough weather talk for a Monday morning.

This weekend was unusual in that two people I am close to have confirmed they are alcoholics. That doesn’t happen every weekend. Well, one confirmed and the other… that is an interesting story that I’ll get to in a minute. But the first is a good friend of mine (whose anonymity I will respect) who made the decision to quit drinking and has not had a drop in 21 days. She quit cold turkey and other than regular therapy, she is not seeking any treatment, which is a method that worked for me. She hasn’t told many people yet, and I wonder what people’s reactions will be when she does drop this mini bomb. Should be interesting, because some people seem to have a hard time when other’s quit drinking.

So this got me thinking about my own drinking days and nights. For me, quitting wasn’t the hardest part. Making the decision to quit was. When I finally quit, it was actually almost easy. After all, when you are hungover all the time and finally admit how drinking is fogging up your life and making your future seem hazy, it is easy to make the decision that it is time to steer clear of the poison. Sort of like starting a diet after a stomach virus, when food of any kind is the last thing on your mind. So the beginning of quitting was okay. The hard parts come later, when I am faced with old habits and old patterns and old haunts and old synapses. But at this point those hard days are few and far between, to be honest, and fleeting.

My will power is strong and avoiding something in totality is easier for me than moderation. But oh I still resent lacking moderation abilities so very much. I envy my friends who can practice moderation and indulge in a drink every now and then. I want to be a member of that club. How I wish I could have a cold beer in the hot summer, a warm buttery scotch in the cold winter. Sangria. Whiskey sours. Mojotos. I still remember, with fondness, nights at one of my favorite bars, the kind of place where the bartender gives you a free glass of Opus One left over from a bottle one of the tables in the connected restaurant ordered (I quickly developed a taste for very expensive wine, thanks to that generous bartender!). Sitting at the beautiful carved bar, my coat draped on the back of my stool, eating creamed spinach and clams, my dinner for an entire winter. The check every night was impossibly small, as the bartender knew that undercharging us would ensure regular visits and big tips.

When I have fondue and taste that sharp sweet flavor of wine, I miss drinking. When I see a friend relaxing into a drink, shoulders releasing tension, slouching down in the seat, exhaling and visibly relaxing (and stopping after one drink) I miss it. I miss it and will always miss it. But don’t regret my decision to quit.

The other alcoholic, well, I can’t get into that one too much, but that one rocked my world a little more. Once again I am reminded that I really really need an anonymous blog. But this case really saddened me. It isn’t a surprise, because we all know she has a drinking problem. She denies it, and still does. What is a surprise is that she admitted to regular blackouts, which she has never done before, which everyone knows is a very certain sign of drinking issues. So in a way even though I know she is an alcholic and I know she can’t stop, I still can sometimes pretend that it isn’t as awful as I imagine, that maybe I am over sensitive or overreacting. And then I hear things like blackouts and I realize I can’t live in my pretend world. I have always had that that sliver of hope that she is just a regular drinker who has complete control and can stop any time if she wants. Poof, gone. Reality is and will always be a very bitter pill to swallow.

That’s enough drinking talk for a Monday morning.

Pictured above, my beautiful sunny Skye. Today is her fourth birthday!

* If anyone has any ideas where to take a 4 year old for a birthday experience, please share. We want to take her out somewhere in NYC. Not Amercan Girl. If any intrepid NYCers have any ideas, please share!

And Now We Really Really Really Need a Vacation

Why oh why are fresh spices sold by the pound? Or so it seems. Cilantro is sold in batches so large I could stuff a pillow with it. Basil, thyme, sage, all of them are bundled in huge portions suitable for using to cook on cruise ships. I am making Chicken Soup for the Sicklies’ Souls (more on this in a minute) and I wanted to add fresh rosemary, which meant I had to buy a million sprigs all tied together for some ridiculous NYC price. All I needed was a pinch. Inevitably most of it will go bad before I get to use it. Such a waste. The glut of fresh spices brings out some not so desirable consequences: Either I become an overspicer, putting in twelve times the recommended portion into the recipe, usually to not-so-pleasant results, or I become cavalier, using just the two best, greenest, prettiest leaves from each basil frond and throwing the rest away.

As long as I am being honest, this spice problem brings out the thief in me. I can admit that on an occasion or two I have swiped a couple sprigs of basil and stuffed them into the lettuce bag. I know, wrong, but when a recipe calls for one or two leaves, it just seems wasteful to buy an entire bag for five dollars. So if you were the one person who needed a pound of basil and found your bag a half of a half of a half of a half of an ounce short, I apologize.

What I need is an herb garden in a backyard. Or one of those windowsill gardens, at least. But I digress, as usual.

The stomach virus has visited our home, for the first time ever. I can’t believe that we have escaped illness for 22 months. What a roll. We have had little things here and there, like fevers for a day or two. But nothing like this.

It started with Avery, who threw up in the middle of the night in her crib. I felt terrible that she had to go through that alone. We cleaned her up and she slept with us for the rest of the night. She only threw up that once, but she has a fever and diaper rash and diarrhea, never a good combo. It makes her adorable cuddly.

Madeline was completely fine until last night when, out of the blue, she just stopped playing and proceeded to throw up the entire contents of her stomach. Madeline is the good eater, so by “entire contents” I mean blueberries, grapes, oatmeal, apple, a banana, pasta, peas, carrots, applesauce, more pasta and not one but two popsicles, which I bought for Avery, thinking she might need an incentive to eat. She threw up ten times (or so) over the next few hours. But today, she is back to her old (young) self and is acting like nothing happened.

Nicole stayed home from work, feeling under the weather herself. So far, she is ok, and so far, so I am. But I [we] sit hear in fear of being the next victim[s]. I reasoned that Nicole and I should binge, eating entire cakes and pies and bags of gummi bears, since it is most likely going to come up anyway. But Nicole refused to join in the reindeer games, and I felt silly doing it alone. And it is hard to indulge in raspberry Napoleans or icebox cake when everyone around you is snacking sadly on Saltines. I still say we missed our chance at no-consequences eating.

And I am really disappointed because it is supposed to be in the 50s and I was going to take the girls out for along walk and to play in the park. Instead I am sitting on the couch in my pajamas and making soup for three people who are having a hard time keeping food down.

Pictured above, my patients.

Vacation: Luxury, Necessity, or Waste of Hard-Earned Money?

Nicole has a decent vacation package at work, which includes family care days and personal days and unlimited sick days, which she is too ethical to use unethically. Me, I’d have “colds” and be unable to come to work three times a month. She gets a month off, but there’s one caveat: She has to take at least two weeks of that month at once. This has got us thinking about going away for an extended period of time, which is something we haven’t done in a long time, and not really since the girls were born.

While we were talking about it last night, Nicole admitted that she gets vacation sticker shock, which is something I suffer from as well. Surprise! I never knew this about her. Maybe others suffer as well: It is this all-consuming feeling that there MUST be a better way to spend one’s money than on such folly. For me, it is acute: With the Internet, I can plan an amazing, deluxe vacation down to the last detail, but when it comes time to plunk down the credit card and book, I suddenly think “Is it worth it to spend X amount of dollars on this? Is there a better use for this money?” Even the shoestring-budget version seems extravagant. I usually decide no vacation.

You would think that Nicole and I might have discovered this commonality earlier in our relationship, but no. We have taken our share of vacations, but a lot of times it is rolled into her business trips. This has gotten us to London, Asia and San Francisco many times. I am a happy tagalong, slumming it in coach while she jets first class, and exploring and sightseeing and wandering until she gets back to the hotel. And with hotels paid for, it makes vacations cheap and unpressured. We are also big fans of the weekend away: Two or three days to New England or DC or Bermuda and then back home, which hardly breaks the bank. I think about how amazing our Fire Island weekend were: Had I know they would have stopped for a while once the girls came I might have appreciated them more.

Now, as a family of four, we are faced with staggering vacation costs. And I mean staggering. For example, I looked into the Rosie Alaska cruise. With airfare, this eight-day foray out west would run us at least 10K, if not more. Ten thousand dollars, for a little over a week. Are you kidding me? And yet this boat is filled each year, with people paying that much and more (or, with a smaller room, a little less). It seems so extravagant. I can’t help but wonder, is it worth it? And yet I know it is.

We are also looking into renting a house in Maine, but that, even with its kitchen and lack of airfare, would still cost quite a bit of money. And then we have this issue: Going away with the girls is more of a relocation than a vacation. Unless we bring help (more money) it won’t really be much of a vacation for us. Just all of us, in an exotic locale, trying to re-establish nap schedules. This relocation-and-no-fun theory is what stopped us from taking a free trip to China this past summer (which I sort of regret already).

But we need to get away. We need to see nature and decompress and relax. We need to just enjoy each other’s company outside the walls of our home and create new experiences. This is what life is all about, right? But I am having such a hard time saying, yeah, sure, let’s just GO. Maine, Alaska, whatever. Take the money out of savings and call it a trip. And then I think, in these scary times, during this awful recession, is this smart? Should anyone be spending money like this? Or should we be saving it in case Something Awful Happens? Are we going to be those people who die with money in the bank but no experiences to show for it? Will we always say “Let’s plan a vacation next year” and then just not do it?

I thought of house-swapping: There HAS to be someone in Maine who wants to switch for an apartment in the center of NYC for a week. Hotels are like $300 a night minimum round these here parts! Or someone in Europe: You chalet for my cube of space in NYC. But how to find those people? And how to ensure what those people are not maniacs and not homophobic?

I know even talking about vacations is a luxury. I know there are many people who can’t do that right now. I know this is a good struggle to have. But still, I am wondering how everyone else thinks about this. Do you get sticker shock? Is it worth it? Do you get away and then come home better than ever, convinced it was worth every penny? Any input is appreciated.

Naptime is over and Avery is saying “poo poo” from her crib. Back to reality. Pictured above, business trip/vacations of years gone by. Oh how easy and cheap it was back then!

Is It Wrong to Introduce Toddlers to Coffee?

Avery says “coffee,” which sounds more like “cocky,” and she usually follows it with “hot.” I let her dip her finger in mine and taste it and she loves it. Right now, she is limited to two or three dips, and after I finished I let her drink that last drop from the mug. She loves it, but the last thing I need is her all jacked up on caffeine. Caffeine plus toddler energy equals certain ruin for me.

I am sick, fighting a terrible cold. I picked it up from my friend Jen, who has had the same cold for over a week now, which doesn’t bode well for me. I have an awful cough and a sore throat (from coughing) and just feel weak and lightheaded. It is hard entertaining the girls. I say “Who wants to watch Sesame Street?” waaay too much these past few days and have ordered in dinner more times than I care to tally. But what can I do? I spent three days last week in my pajamas; at least I am dressing now. And thanks to that coughing, sneezing, aching, stuffy head so you can rest medicine, I can sleep at night. That’s progress. And I am venturing outside with the girls to pick up 30 pounds of baby clothes at the cleaners. And I have to choose which leftovers we are having for dinner. So it’s a big day.

I am dragging my feet on going out because it is so tiring, even when I am not sick, to get the girls and myself all winter-fortified. Coats and mittens and hats and socks and shoes and blankets and all. How I long for the days when I can just plop them in the stroller, slip on my flip-flops and go. My spring fever is evidenced by my recent t-shirt buying sprees, as if simply by replenishing my t-shirt stock I can bring on sunnier weather. I have also splurged on a few other spring non-necessities for no reason other than I am exited for warmer weather. This is an exchange I had with my friend Jen, the giver of colds, while I was on the phone with her while browsing through a clothing store:

Me: (picking up this totally hot shirt that I have absolutely no need for): Oh, wow, you should see this shirt. It is awesome.
My Friend Jen: Buy it!

Notice, no question of what the shirt looks like or how much it costs or anything. Just Buy It. I like the way she thinks. So now I am the proud owner of a sheer, white button down Donna Karan shirt (blouse?) that I can’t imagine wearing anywhere anytime soon. But it is maybe the greatest shirt I have ever seen. Perhaps it will see the light of day this spring or summer.

It seems like I have nothing important to say. I could complain about how we had to buy a new dishwasher to replace our two-year-old dishwasher because the repairmen said it would cost more money to fix the “old” one. Or how our stove, also two-years-old, isn’t heating properly because the door isn’t shutting properly. Or how I hate doing laundry so much that I will wear the same clothes day in, day out, just to cut the loads down to an easier size. Or how I really need to organize my closet. But it all seems so insignificant. The winter doldrums are getting to me, which seems to be a trend I am noticing in other blogs. I think we are all ready for a little sunshine and light, literally and figuratively.

Pictured above, is it me or does Avery, in her too-tight beret, look a little like this Marxist revolutionary? Maybe someday Avery will show up on t-shirts as a counterculture symbol.

Playdates and Museums and Untraditionally Romantic Valentine's Gifts

Perhaps the cutest word milestone occurred yesterday when I heard Avery utter “Maddie” for the first time. We were at my friend Jen’s house for a playdate (which is child speak for Children Please For the Love of God Entertain Each Other While You’re Mommies Decompress), and I had the luxury of a driveway, which meant I could bring one baby out to the car at a time. Oh, the novelty, the ease, the sweet sweet convenience. So I brought Avery out, and while I was snapping her in her seat she said “Maddie?” and pointed toward the house. I guess she thought we were going to leave her. Later on that night, she trotted out that word three times for Nicole, much to our glee.

Nicole gave me a GPS for Valentine’s Day, which she gave a romantic spin with a card about the adventures we will have together, safely guided by this new TomTom. Lost and found metaphors abound. I wanted to give it a name and suggested Amelia after Amelia Earhart, which Nicole overruled because “…she got lost and died.” Good point. As my friend Tim pointed out, that is like naming your boat Titanic. Or your space shuttle Apollo 13. Or your new blimp the Hindenburg. So for now I call it Vasco, after De Gamma, until a better name comes to me. Suggestions?

I used Vasco to get to my friend Jen’s house yesterday and it was amazing. I tend to get lost pretty quickly because I can’t read directions and drive at the same time. I’ve been to Jen’s plenty of times but always get confused on the nine-lane Jersey highways on which you need to be in an Exact Lane at an Exact Time or you end out 16 miles out of your way. One wrong move and suddenly I am at the Delaware Water Gap. So this new GPS gives me driving confidence and suddenly I feel invincible. I am ready to take some long distance trips. And I love that no matter where I am, I can just press a button and will be guided home.

There was a bonus Jen at Jen’s house: Yes, three Jen’s in one house. The other Jen is Jen’s college friend, who I really like, who was visiting from Pennsylvania. One my way home, I was thinking “Oh, that was so nice” and was amazed that we were able to talk about toxic relationships, parent relationships, Octo-mom, life’s challenges, sexism, eating disorders and fertility challenges while also minding our collective six kids. Then those angry feelings seeped in once again as I became bitter that people I like don’t live in my apartment building. I mean, is that too much to ask? I guess I could try to befriend that woman on the 5th floor with a baby the exact age as my girls. But her nasty glares and refusal to look at me and constant scowls kinda puts me off. Call me sensitive. At least the nanny is nice to me when I see her in the laundry room, which is the only time the three girls can interact.

Pictured above, is it me or does Maddie look a little like Katherine Hepburn, with her crazy hair? My friend Jen says she looks like Gene Wilder in Young Frankenstein. Also pictured, Avery giving her infamous look. Do not cross her. Also pictured, our Valentine’s Day trip to the Museum of Natural History. We went with my brother’s family. This is the best cousin picture we could get.

One of Those Days When Nothing Went Quite Right.

I skipped the gym this morning because I was going to run in the park with the girls. We were on the street, all dressed, zipped up, tucked in and ready to run. Until I felt the 60 mile-per-hour gusts of wind. It was intensely powerful wind. I severely underestimated it. “High wind alert” on a website seems so quaint. But it was knock-you-down wind. We turned back because there was no way I would make it to the park, let alone up those hills, with that wind resistance.

After the run I was supposed to get the car and then go visit a friend and her kids for a Playdate in the Country. But she is sick, so that plan got squashed. Well, “sick” might be overstating the case, but she has a bad cough and is sneezing, which means it might just be a cold. Part of me thinks, whatever, if the girls get sick, it’s okay. But then the rational me says, what, are you crazy? Two sick toddlers would bring me to my knees, I’m sure. Actually, I think I am more afraid of me getting sick, because it is no fun parenting two toddlers when you feel like you were hit by a bus. The girls tend to not let little things like fevers slow them down.

So instead, I packed the girls up again and pushed them against the wind to the car and drove out to Ikea. Of course, I got lost and had to call Nicole at work to Mapquest me though the final leg of the trip. It was worth it: What a paradise for parents Ikea is. We had breakfast in the café (French toast and applesauce) and then shopped for crib pillows, crab seat covers and a play tunnel. I resisted the urge to buy 100 tea lights and cork boards just because they were cheap.

Then I took the girls to the promised land: the ball room. I told the girls all about it as soon as we got in the store. As we passed it, I taunted them with “Looooook, ladies, the baaaaaaall rooooooom.” I promised them we would go after we finished shopping. And I kept my word. I was at the front desk trying to figure out how to sign them in when I saw the sign: Must be potty trained. I thought about lying, but knew the diapers would give it away. I was devastated, as were the girls, who could see the room and slide, filled to the brim with balls.

I then pushed the girls a quarter mile through a giant parking lot to go to the toy store. It seemed easier to do that then to take them out of the stroller, strap them into their car seats, collapse the stroller and drive the quarter mile. But no. It was so windy that I almost choked on a pretzel goldfish I swiped from the girls snack bag. I literally opened my mouth to chew (ok, so I was chewing with my mouth open) and the wind pushed my lips back in a centrifugal force sorta way. We made it, wind blown. I wanted to take them on a toy-buying mini-splurge. I planned to walk out with several big bags. But as I walked up and down the aisles, overwhelmed by the selection, it all just seemed like so much quantity and no quality. The more I saw, the less I wanted to buy. I mean, how many electronic alphabet-song singling toys do two girls need? I was annoyed with how there were “boy” aisles and “girl” aisles. Gender-stereotype much? And how much pink there was in Girl Land. Then we came upon a tower of balls and the girls lost their minds. That was my cue to wrap up quickly and leave. They ended up with a couple of books and Cookie Monster slippers, which, it turns out, don’t fit because apparently my children have huge ankles.

Not surprisingly, my Octopulet mom comments generated some commentary. I see both sides of this mess, I really do. I just have a hard time calling her crazy for wanting children. Who gets to decide what is a rational number of children to have? She claims that six embryos were transferred into her: My first IVF doctor transferred four into me. He said given my history and the quality of the embryos, even one baby from four embies was a long shot. And how many stuck? Zero. Yet, I guess I could have been mom to six (if two embies split into twins). And people would probably call me crazy. But all I wanted to do was fulfill my particular family desires.

For most of us, fertility circumstances and financial circumstances dictate the size of our family. If we all sat down and figured out how much it costs to raise a child I think most of us would not have kids. College alone, in 18 years, will most likely run us 200K per child. Minimum. So that is 50K a year. Per kid. (when I went to college in 1990, it was 30K a year.) And that is just undergrad. I look at families like the Duggars and think, how do they do it? One way: They don’t send their kids to college. That saves a bundle. They don’t ever pay for child care. That saves a lot too. Still, the other expenses, it has to add up.

Yes, 14 is waaaaay too many kids, given her circumstances and her extremely limited financial limitations. Yet I say that she is propelled to procreate by her love of children, and that is what drove her to have more. Brad Pitt and Angelina have six, and say they will have many more. I guess because they are married and rich, we think nothing of it? Or Mia Farrow? I think she has over 14 children, and several have special needs. But she is rich, so no one calls her crazy. So is that it? If you have a husband and money you are sane. Single and poor and you are crazy.

And these poor (literally) kids, who will grow up and know how they are mocked. These kids who will never know what financial security feels like, who will never know what it is like to shop for new clothes. They will most likely live on welfare their entire childhood. And yes, California’s taxpayers are footing the bill for their birth, but these are children? Do we turn our backs on them because their mother is “crazy?” The vemon ad anger I hear in some reports on the news and read in the papers: “Why do WE have to support THEM?” Because they are children. And they didn’t ask to be born. Ad they are here. Turning our backs is not a very Christian/democratic/pleasant option.

The Duggars sure make big families look fun and carefree. But most families of that size don’t usually end up in the black on family finances. I still say that a cell phone company approaching the Duggars and asking to rent land is luck. But that is just one type of luck. Some luck we make and some luck we land in. I am living my own combination of luck: Two healthy babies, born even after I was told that my chances were slim, after years of trying. With all that I have seen in the fertility realm, that is indeed luck, times two.

A three-day weekend is on the horizon, since Nicole has Monday off. That is very exciting.

Today, at dinner, Avery and Madeline ate hummus with a spoon. Avery is saying “oon” for spoon. And she is fond of saying NO NO NO if we try to feed her. But I think my favorite word moments are when Madeline crawls into my lap to read and book and says “uck” (duck) and “tweet.”

Pictured above, Avery in her tunnel. And Madeline the little bookworm.

Who Wants to Move to New York's West Side?

I can’t watch the news anymore because I don’t want to hear one more thing about how crappy everything is. The economy sucks, politicians suck, traffic sucks, weather sucks. Everyone is stressed out and everyone is losing their jobs, their homes and their minds. And I am reaching Obama-mania fatigue. The media is continuing its love affair with him, even when faced with a few lapses of judgment in appointing tax evaders to high positions. If Bush did that, he would be crucified. I don’t want Obama dragged through the coals here, but can we at least try to start this administration with as few law-breakers as possible? I am glad, at the very least, that Obama admitted a lapse in judgment with the Daschle debacle. It is refreshing, I must admit, to hear politicians say “my bad.”

Also hot in the news, Jessica Simpson’s weight gain and Chris Brown drama, because I guess we don’t have enough news to report. And this whole octuplet mom scandal. I’m skipping past the ethics question here for minute because I think the focus should be on these 14 kids, and not how hey got here. The media is reporting how no companies are forking over the freebies that other big families in the news get: The free houses and food and diapers and scholarships and formula and clothes and such. I can’t help but to think 14 kids are being punished because of this mother’s decision to have a huge family. Your mom’s an idiot, so suffer, little babies, suffer. No food for you.

Everyone seems to hate this mother. Even the grandmother — her own mother — is bad-mouthing her. To play devil’s advocate here, is it so wrong to want and have a large family? This, of course, leads into the question of having more kids than you can afford. But that in a way implies that large families then are only the right of the wealthy, and that is just wrong.

People seem to love the Duggars and their 18-and-counting kids. What is the difference? The fact that there is a mother and a father? The fact that they aren’t on welfare? I think it is luck that the Duggars don’t receive financial assistance. The father mentioned how he rents out land for cell phone towers. That pays a LOT of money. Our condo has a couple on our roof and we get six figures in “rent” a year for it. For tiny, three-foot towers that don’t do anything but take up air space. (We as in the building we, not we we). So that Duggar land is generating lots of tower money and that is just luck: Luck that a tower was needed in their area and luck that their land was high enough to support the tower.

Not everyone sits down and does financial planning before they have babies. If they did, I have a feeling there would be a lot less children in this world. Personally, would not like to have so many kids that I need to navigate the bloated social services system and rely on food stamps to supplement or grocery budget. Two is a nice number of children for us. Two we can put through college and grad school and help with down payments. Two we can keep in clothes and toys and hobbies. Two we can take on vacation. Four? No so much, literally. So we stop at two and count our blessings, and see what happens down the road. I don’t think it is right to have 14 kids and then exist on welfare and food stamps and the kindness of Corporate America, but the reality is some people do it, and children shouldn’t be made to suffer for it. It isn’t their fault they were born. And people have kids because they love kids and want a big family and big, noisy dinners and happy holiday reunions, not so they can get free diapers and a schedule of church ladies coming over to help at feeding time.

If Nadya was married, the media coverage would be different. If Nadya was wealthy, the media coverage would be different. But she is poor and single and has funny lips, so she is being very much attacked. She made her choices, and while I may not agree with them, it isn’t my life. But I feel sorry for those kids. My judgment: When the heck did she have time to get a manicure? In the interview footage I noticed her nails were all French manicured. And long, as in how do you change diapers long. That seems like a misuse of priorities.

And please, reporters and media outlets, it’s “transfer” and not “implant.” If only it were so easy to “implant.”

My last news point: This whole A-Rod thing: What a loser. Sorry if that offends some, but he denied ever taking steroids and he did, for years. So he is a liar. And why should we believe him now? Oh, suuuuuure, he only took it in Texas because he was under so much pressure and wanted to prove he was “worth,” as he said. No pressure at all, I’m sure, when he moved to New York and joined one of the most famous teams ever and started breaking records. That is the perfect time to quit steroids and just try to make it on your own. I think he should be tested daily. I wish he could be fired. On a side note, every time I see or hear a story about steroids, I think, hmmm, what can they do for me? I consider what it must be like to have the strength of three moms. Hmmmm… do I need a prescripion? Or do I just go hang out in a locker room to score some?

New words: Avery says mote, for remote, which is used to flick on the much loved Sesame Street. Boons means balloons. Knee. Up. Ook for book. And both say mess, usually after a meal, while pointing to the floor. Everyone's a critic.

And in personal current events, I met Role Playing With Kids and Wife his past weekend and it pissed me of in the end because I was mad they live so far away. Why can't ALL the people I like live in my building?!? Long-distance relationships are fine, but close-distance relationships are better.

Exciting news to announce soon! And, again, it has nothing to do with having babies. Well, not really.

Pictured above, a hodge podge: The girls on a walk; graffiti art and an entry from my nephew’s journal. He is in kindergarten and brilliant! (note to parents: Apparently Coraline is scary.)