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.)

Ripped Off Of My Facebook Page.. 34 Arcane Facts About Me

1. I lived on a boat in the Hudson for about five years. We named it Moveable Feast (after Hemmingway’s book, not Easter). I prided myself in having the western-most bedroom in NYC and a year-round tan. Now I live on land and have surrendered my western-most bedroom status in favor of a bedroom in the middle of the Hell’s Kitchen. And I worry about skin cancer.

2. I have a college degree and two Masters and still think I will be someday going back to school again.

3. I have lived in New York City for almost two decades and consider myself an official New Yorker. That means I walk really fast; I get annoyed at throngs of tourists standing in front of subway stairs; and I complain continuously about city living. We have no plans to leave any time soon.

4. Last year we bought my mother’s house in Locust Valley, the not-so-happy home I grew up in. We are, in effect, my mother’s landlord, which can be a very awkward position to be in.

5. My childhood and adolescence were not happy ones. My friendships from those times are the only bright spots.

6. My 30s are amazing.

7. I have had two or three miscarriages, depending on your definition: One was a regular run-of-the-mill miscarriage in my uterus. But the second/third was twins: One baby died in my uterus and, a month later, the other was found in my fallopian tube. The ectopic was the worst physical pain I have ever experienced, and I have a lengendary tolerance for pain. That emotional grief will always be woven into the fabric of me.

8. I remember the first three times Nicole told me she loved me. The ones after that start to blur.

9. My family moved to Connecticut when I was in third grade and I began a life as a shoplifter. Paging Dr. Freud. Nobody suspected the chubby, innocent-looking, big-cheeked girl with glasses of stuffing toys, books, Smurfs and stuffed animals into the picnic basket purse she carried as a purse. Suckers. I can assure you that phase ended and I no longer steal.

10. Well, that is not entirely true. I was bulk shopping at BJs and bought one of those huge flats of formula and the cashier mistakenly charged me for only one can, instead of eight. I didn’t say a word and when I got outside of the store I called Nicole, all excited about this bounty of unexpected free riches. She told me that it was wrong and I should go back inside and pay for the rest. I thought about for a minute, but the third grader in me won that moral dilemma.

11. Brevity, as you can see, is not one of my strong points.

12. I love dizzy spells, which I have almost every day (low blood pressure). Little dots swirl in front of my eyes and my vision tunnels and the world goes black for a nanosecond or two. But then I feel this amazing peace and clarity and everything just feels so right. It is this encompassing feeling during which I feel like I just figured out the secrets of the universe. And then I come to.

13. I am feriousoulsy loyal to my friends; that is a good thing. I am also very, very sensitive; that can be a bad thing.

14. I usually express myself better in writing. So I will write manifestos for Nicole, give them to her, watch her read them and then we discuss their content.

15. Almost every day I think how great it is to spend the rest of my life with my best friend. I am sad for people who settle in their relationships. I am at peace with my past, because I truly believe that everything that happened brought me to this place. And it is a great place to be.

16. My body responds alarmingly fast to exercise. It also responds alarmingly fast to lack of exercise. With this in mind, I run four miles a day, six days a week. At least, I try.

17. I never ran before, and believed others who told me I didn’t have the right body-type to be a runner. But I used to love how my friend Molly talked about it. It seemed like something she really enjoyed, something that provided emotional benefits along with the physical ones. Under her tutelage, I started running and now officially consider myself a runner. One day, I want to run a marathon with Molly.

18. I only wear shades of red rail polish. Every time I am getting manicure I try to pick a new color and I really can’t. I might need a color intervention.

19. I love pretzels, but they have to be Herr’s sourdough nuggets, and I love Gummi bears, but they have to be Haribo. I am and always have been an extremely picky eater.

20. I never thought that I would have children and I never wanted them. And then Nicole and I got together and all these things that I never wanted (children, marriage, forever, jewelry) became things I wanted very, very much.

21. My nephew was the first thing (for lack of a better word) that I loved instantly. It was the most powerful thing I have ever felt in my life. I felt it again when my niece was born and when Madeline and Avery were born. It is so different growing love, but in the end, it is all love, regardless of its genesis.

22. My nephew’s birth changed my life. One the day he was born, I quit the job at the magazine I where I was working and decided to go back to school.

23. We named Madeline after a cookie. Before Nicole and I started officially dating, we had a discussion about Proust’s book (we are not as pretentious as that sounds), which prominently features Madeline cookies. Nicole said she never tasted a Madeline cookie. The next day I bought some from my favorite French bakery in Chelsea and messengered them to Nicole’s office. She said that when she got that package of cookies, she thought for the first time that maybe just maybe I had feelings for her too. It marked a turning point in our relationship. On an interesting note, last year that bakery opened a second shop coincidentally down the street from us, of all the places in the city. I think that is confirmation from the universe that everything is as it should be.

24. We are not sure, but Avery’s name might have been inspired in part by Avery paper products, of which I had many, since I was in grad school while I was pregnant. We need to come up with a more romantic story so Avery doesn’t feel slighted. “Yes, honey, you were named after a binder” just seems so mean.

25. I am a power sight-seer. I can tour a city’s sights in under two hours, museums included. I prefer to spend my time in foreign places exploring bookstores, supermarkets and the rail system. This, I feel, gives one the best flavor of a new place.

26. I have amazing will power, when I want to tap into it. I quit smoking about eight years ago and haven’t had a drop of alcohol in six years. I miss both sometimes but know my life is so much better this way.

27. I am confused by people who insist I wasn’t an alcoholic. Because drinking liters of scotch in a couple days; staying out drinking till four am; blacking out all the time and waking up and wondering happened the night before and where that feather boa came from; almost drowning because you are too drunk to pull yourself out of the water… these are things that happen to people without drinking problems all the time. But since I never drank in the morning or could go a week without drinking every once in a while, some people think I am overreacting.

28. I think one of the benefits of same-sex relationships is that if we ever end up in a nursing home, we can room together.

29. I am scared of cancer. Every once in a while, I think about all those scary cancer statistics about how many cancer cases there are on Long Island and I think, thank God I don’t live there. And then I remember I lived there for 18 years.

30. You can tell I am a Long Islander because I say “on Long Island” and not “in Long Island.” But I don’t have a trace of a Long Island accent.

31. I worry about this economy and about Nicole’s career. She does, after all, work at a bank. But I am convinced that nothing bad can happen to us, even if she were layed off. I feel safe, secure, content, happy, lucky and invincible, even in the valleys of unhappy times. As long as we have each other, we are all fine. This, I believe, is what being in a family is supposed to feel like.

32. The only way I could write this list was by plopping Madeline and Avery in front of Sesame Street. I am mother of the year.

33. I warned you that brevity wasn’t my strong suit.

And I Still Can't Get His Name Straight

So a feather was found on the wing of that plane that used the Hudson as a landing strip. One feather!? This plane’s engines seized because of one feather? Is this what they are trying to tell us? And if one feather is found on the wing a week after the accident isn’t it logical to think this might be a new feather from a random bird of someone’s winter down jacket?

I don’t like thinking my flying life depends on the wind’s direction and bird migration patterns and feathers and wind shear and freak weather events. This isn’t going to make flying easier for me.

Nicole flies off to Boston today and will be there overnight. Which means two solid days alone with the girls. Which is fine, except I worry about nighttime. Two nights ago, Madeline had another bout of night terrors. It was just awful. And it took a while to get her back to sleep for good. And last night, Avery woke up for no reason at all. She wakes up in the middle of the night for no reason at all maybe every three months. Last night was that night. Nicole brought her to bed with us and she sat between us for two hours chatting up a storm while Nicole and I struggled to sleep and played the “whoever seems to be sleeping harder doesn’t have to be responsible for making sure that the baby stays safe on the bed” game. Avery’s late night culminated with her saying “eyes” in this high-pitched falsetto voice over and over again, while poking at Nicole’s eyes. At that point, I was deemed the one to bring her back to her crib. And she went, without a peep, back to her crib and slept the rest of the night. My point here? Please please please let the ladies sleep like angels tonight.

Since the temperature is going to be over 30 degrees today, I am venturing out with the girls, who will be bundled up in hats and mittens and puffy coats and blankets. I am so looking forward to the spring and summer and taking long walks and visiting the playground without hats and mittens and puffy coats and blankets. Being cooped up indoors is just plain hard. Thank goodness for Sesame Street. I try to limit the viewing to two shows a day: Once before naptime and again around 4, when everyone, including myself, start going a little cabin-fever crazy. But once spring comes, I intend to downgrade to one show a day. More best paid plans.

One more reason I am proud to be an American: Remember that milk problem in China back in the summer? How the factories used some chemicals in formula and milk? Some of the people involved in that are sentenced to DEATH and some others are sentenced to life in prison. Now I don’t want to get into a death penalty argument here (well, actually I don’t mind) but killing some of these people for their mistakes, isn’t that extreme? Granted, thank god no one I knew suffered or died, but even if they did, I would like to think I am evolved enough to not wish death on another human. Also in China news, parts of Obama’s inauguration speech were censored. Nice.

And still I have to say “Barack Obama” in my head in order to figure out which is his first name and which is his last. I wonder if I can get it right over the next four or eight years. And it looks like Joe Biden is going to live up to his foot-in-mouth reputation. That memory joke was not so nice.

Pictured above, Avery worshipping at the alter of Sesame. And below that, newspapers that will be added to the girls’ collection of saved newspapers. I bought tons of copies to save and give away and sell on eBay.

My Beauty is Objectively Obvious, Don’t You Know?

This cold weather is really starting to wear me down and reduce me to a pale, wan nub of my former self. The girls and I are in a self-imposed lockdown because I deem it too chilly for recreational walks or outings. We have been indoors for almost two weeks now. If it weren’t for my morning gym jaunts, I would never see a spot of sky. I don’t think the girls even remember what Outside looks like.

Who’s brilliant idea was it to have inaugurations in January? Why couldn’t history have selected a warmer month, when perhaps being outside for hours on end wouldn’t lead to frostbite or hypothermia? While our nation’s 44th president is sworn in amidst a crowd that numbers epic proportions, I will be watching, alone, since it is smack dab in the middle of nap time, from the comfort and solitude of my couch. It loses a bit of its shine, this whole shindig, when there is no one to share it with. I have to add that I am also looking forward to this all be over, though. I am tired of seeing, reading, hearing, breathing and living Inauguration. Let’s just move on and, I don’t know, change the world or something.

The other day, Avery did two things, one endearing and the other not so much so. First, I think she called Maddie “Addie.” It might have been a coincidence or just another random ramble, but I would like to think that maybe just maybe she was addressing her sister with a name instead of a grunt or squeal. We have been waiting for this moment for a while now, the moment when both girls start calling the other some butchered form of their name. Later on, while arguing over who had the rights to a favorite book, Avery pulled out a clump of Madeline’s hair. And I mean clump. Madeline has a bald spot in the middle of her head now. Madeline has such wispy cotton-candy hair anyway, and this missing patch doesn’t help matters. Mattie, ever the trooper, cried for about 12 seconds and then resumed playing as if she wasn’t missing one-third of her hair. That child is strong and brave.

Thanks to the peanut butter salmonella scare, my breakfast has been downgraded from peanut butter on toast to its much boring version of just toast. Ugh. I didn’t realize just how much energy the peanut butter gave me. For the past couple of days I have felt a little more sluggish than normal. Of course, this could all be in my head. But I need to find a quick and easy breakfast alternative because taking two-hour naps while the girls are napping is not the best or most effective use of my time.

Two things I have sucked at this year, so far: Updating this blog and adding a new picture every day to the 365 blog. While the 365 blog is an opportunity for me to practice various photography techniques, I also do want to use it to desensitize myself to pictures of me. Because I really need to do that. According to a commenter, I am objectively obviously beautiful. It really is a nice thing to say, but it would be an even nicer thing to really, truly, honestly feel.

Miracle in the Hudson. I have to say there is a part of me that is jealous that these people were forced to confront a seemingly imminent demise and then get a second chance at life. I wonder how these survivors are looking at life now? I wonder if they look at pictures of themselves and think, wow, I look ugly? Or maybe there are just so happy to be alive that their priorities were straightened out and their perspective was focused and their lives were instantly sharpened and changed in such a way that all that crap just sloughs off. The type of life overhaul that only comes about after a near-death experience, a religious awakening, a bout with a life-threatening illness or the devastating loss of a loved on. Maybe I am silly to think a picture-a-day can do anything closely resembling this.

Pictured above, the difference of three seconds. Like a flash, Avery is off. And Mattie and her fingers.

This Post Is Brought to You by Tivo'd Sesame Street

Today is one of those days when my children smell like Sausage McMuffins for no apparent reason. They are clean, in laundered clothes and have never even had sausage. And yet, they smell like McMuffins of the sausage variety. Go figure.

So last night was a first of the terrifying kind. We think Madeline had an episode of night terrors. She started crying about two hours after we put her down. This is not unusual: She sometimes awakes and cries for literally five seconds and then settles down again in her deep, thirteen hour nighttime slumber. But last night, when her crying continued for over a minute, we decided to intervene.

Nicole gathered up Maddie and brought her into our bedroom, where she preceded to cry that awful, hysterical, hiccupy cry for a half hour. She has never done this before. Never. Nothing would calm her down. Her eyes were all squinty and she was not acting normal at all. We checked her diaper and looked very her body to see if there was anything hat cold cause her distress, but there was nothing. We called the doctor, who told us to call back in a half hour if she was not acting normal again. When we put her down on our bed, she would roll over and scramble to the to of the bed, as if she was being chased by scary giant spiders. She let us hold her, but did spend lot of time writhing.

Desperate, Nicole decided to bring Maddie into her room again to show her Avery. And believe it our not, once she saw Avery, she came to and calmed down. Unbelievable. Even more unbelievable was the fact that Avery slept through the entire ordeal, even as Maddie wailed next to her crib. I am hoping this is a one-off experience.

We wonder if separation anxiety had anything to do with this. I brought Madeline to a birthday party on Long Island and Nicole stayed home with Avery. So the girls spent the entire day apart, which they haven’t done since they were four months, I think. By the time I got home, it was time for dinner, then pajamas and then bed. Maybe Madeline was missing her twin?

I am taking my 365 pictures, but don’t get around to posting them every day. I have turned the focus less on myself and more on my world. Why? Well, yes, not enjoying pictures of myself is a main reason. And while so many of you so bravely are showing everything and learning from the experience, I am taking the easy way out. I need to work up to it, this exposing me thing. I really do.

I’m curious, and feel free to comment anonymously, but those of you (and so many women fall into this category) who hate their bodies or dislike their bodies or admonish themselves for being not stick thin, what do you think when you see other people who are not the so-called ideal weight? Most people will tell others “Oh, you look great” but will put themselves down. Do you secretly think “You are fat like me” or do you really think they are jus fine, and you are the one with the issue?

There’s been a snag in my Running With the Babies plans: Arctic chill weather. Looks like I will be running back on the treadmill for the next week. In fact, I might as well only run indoors unless the temps get above 40. I don’t want running to be an awful experience for them, or me. Leave it to me to pick this new running style in the middle of winter.

Pictured above, one of my favorite recent pictures of Nicole. She, she smiles with her eyes. Me, I have a cold, vacant, scared look that tries to convey messages such as “How awful will this look?” and "Please stop taking pictures of me."

Running Up That [Long, Terrifying, Steep, Huge] Hill

After about two months of research and ridiculous indecisiveness, I finally gave in and bought a new stroller, the Bob Revolution for two. It is huge and has giant wheels, but that makes it very easy to push and steer and navigate. And now I can go running with the girls.

I know. It seems crazy. But I have been longing to transition from treadmill runner to outdoor runner for a while. I know this isn’t going to be easy. But I am going to do it, dammit, and the girls are going to do it with me.

We (weird to say) went running for the first time today in Central Park yesterday. Here’s how outdoor running is different from treadmill running:

• There are real hills, not “inclines.” Central Park is filled with these annoying hills in size, small, medium, and are you kidding me, and there is no button to make them smaller. Believe me, I looked. Running uphill is murder, for obvious reasons. But running downhill, much to my chagrin, is not much easier. I thought that I would just sort of roll-glide to the bottom of a downward slope. Instead, I found myself gaining speed a little too quickly and then needing to apply downhill body brakes, which causes me to access muscles I don’t usually use.
• There are many, many more people around me. Hundreds, perhaps. Runners, walkers, power-walkers, bikers, people heading to work and dog walkers. The gym at 5:30 in the morning is pretty empty, except for the sauntering Rush t-shirt wearing tough guy who busts out dance moves between sets; the bearded, Mostly Mozart Festival t-shirt wearing, Times-reading recumbent biker and the short-haired treadmill walker who looks like a woodpecker.
• There is no television in front of me. I miss my morning shot of news. Now how will I know what the traffic is like?
• On a treadmill I can run four or five miles. Monday, outside, in Central Park, I managed a paltry one and a quarter before puttering out to a fast walk which then turned into me pretending to be fixing Avery’s glove but really catching my breath. Today I got all the way up to a mile and a half. It’s going to be a long road. I am currently googling “flattest parts of Central Park to run.”
• Let’s just say I wasn’t running at my typical pace.
• I love having the girls with me. Maddie seemed really Zen and into the whole experience, all cuddled up in her fuzzy pajamas and coat and hat and mittens and blanket. Avery was so very excited every time she saw a dog, of which there are many in the park, which means Avery was excited pretty much the entire time.

I am going to keep going, though, and figure within a month I can double my miles and within two, be back to my old pace and distance. At least, that is my intention, winter and crazy hills be damned.

And the bean thing strikes again. Since we bought the new stroller I put our old stroller up to sale…and it sold!

Pictured above, my new running partners.

Get Thee to a Beanery

I have never had any New Year’s traditions that I have followed, unless you count nursing a hangover or breaking resolutions by nightfall, back when I made them. But last year I read somewhere that you are supposed to eat black-eye peas on January 1st to bring good luck and fortune. I figured it can’t hurt, so I bought a can, but promptly forgot about it once I put the can in my cabinet. Out of sight, out of mind. 2008 has come and gone and who knows if it would have been better had we had the beans. For all I know, I totally screwed us.

This year, I start seeing tons of articles/news segments/chatter about eating the beans and also lentils. Perhaps a recession concession. So I buy some lentils and pull that can of black-eyed peas out of the cabinet. I cook both in olive oil and add some salt and pepper and viola, New Year’s Day breakfast. (I added a fun corollary: The beans had to be the first food we ate in 2009. Mmmm….beans and coffee!) I made Nicole eat it and the girls had to have bites. Maddie liked the beans but not the lentils. Avery liked neither. Nicole indulged me and grimaced her way through her portion

Well, all I have to say is go eat beans. It is working already! On January second, I got another editing job and on January third, I got a sizable check as a down payment for my services. This is not something I tried for; it literally fell into my lap. It’s the beans, I say. Now I have a lot of work to do, but a little hard work never hurt. I did want this to be a productive year and it is starting out that way.

And the girls had good luck too: On January seconds, just 24 hours after having a bite o’ beans, the girls received balloons, which are their favorite things right now. Well, at least they are Maddie’s favorite thing.

The next couple of months are already jammed packed. What happened to hibernation? It starts next weekend and ends in early March. (But there are very big March plans, which I will write about later). At the end of February I have a date with a medium. Yes, someone who speaks with the dead. Not a date-date, but a planned reading, I guess. Has anyone else done this? I have no idea what to expect, but it should be an interesting experience. I asked my sister-in-law if she wanted to come and she said “Does the medium speak Japanese?” Which brought up a good question: Do mediums need translators? Does my Japanese sister-in-law need a Japanese-speaking medium? Or do the dead speak some sort of universal language?

Every year I mean to collect the ridiculous predictions of psychics so I can look back at the end of the year and see if they are accurate. And every year I don’t. But is anyone anywhere keeping track of these predictions? I did see one man on TV predict that something bad was going to happen to some member of a boy band (Jonas brothers?) that has to do with fish. I think it was on the Today Show. He made some other predictions but I was distracted.

The only plan for tomorrow, other than work and children, is a napoleon at Bergamot. And I think we should be eating a bite of beans every day. We need all the luck we can get in 2009.

Pictured above, new year’s Day breakfast, which was followed later by Nana’s Secret recipe Pancakes. Below that, fire. The girls practiced saying Hot Hot Hot. And on the bottom, now that is a conversation piece, at our friends' apartment.