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.