If you are craving a heavy, hearty post full of philosophical flavor and existential spice, pick another cyber cafe now. Because I’ve spent all week editing my book manuscript, inhaling countless literary calories, and I am positively stuffed. So I’m in the mood for a dainty, superficial snack. And it just so happens that I am the cook in this kitchen. So today will be a light bite. Feather light. Bon appetit.

I’m in love. Yes, with Husband. Yes, with my beautiful babies. Yes, with my cats. But now with something else too: a vast white feather ball chandelier. See above for a depiction of this glorious and indulgent object. You see, the Happy Headache (a.k.a. the untimely-given-this-recession-but-I’m-not-going-to-complain-about-the-DOW-being-above-9000-gut-reno of our new place) is really happening. The steel supports for future walls are up. And the contractors are begging us to designate specific light fixtures because they will run the electricity through those future walls soon. So. Enter vast white feather ball chandelier. Yum.

Of course I have to fall in love with a vast white feather ball. That is not cheap. I asked if it emits a lot of light. “Not really,” said the person who knows more than I do about chandeliers made of feathers. Hmmm. I asked if I could see it in person. “No, you can’t,” said the feather ball expert. You would think these answers would dissuade me, would make me lose interest. But no. It is as if that ethereal white wonder is playing hard to get. Not calling me back. Acting like a player. Flirting with other buyers. And now I want it even more. Desperately. Obsessively.

What to do? Commit to the wispy white creature who is dodging my advances? Or summon the practicality that lurks deep within my fabulous, frivolous, feather-loving core?

A little while back, I regaled ILI readers with my tale of Elaine Envy, my giddy anticipation of reuniting with my beloved baby nurse Elaine who would make a cameo at my sister’s place when she gave birth. In that post, I waxed poetic about the stunning nursery my talented sister had thrown together and I told you that I would ask her about posting pictures here.

Yesterday, I had lunch with Sister C and her little lad Baby Bulldog. Together, we sat on her couch as I cradled Bulldog, studied his deep blue eyes, and kissed his tiny toes while C and I simultaneously caught up and watched the end of The Bachelor After the Final Rose. It struck me how crazy it is how things can change and stay the same. In the very same moment, there we were sisters/best friends giggling at mindless television like old times (Ed, man, you aren’t hideous but do yourself and your betrothed a favor and lose the tanks) and mothers musing on the majesty of new life. It is good to know that time marches on, but some things never change.

Indeed time marched on. And soon it was time for the babe to eat. And time for me to sniff out the closest Starbucks to hunker down and edit. But before saying goodbye to C and her boy and yes, Elaine, I asked her if I could snap some pics of the nursery. And she obliged. So I stood there in the sanctuary of ocean blues clicking away as C changed a diaper. I looked around and concluded that C is genuinely talented and has an enviable aesthetic eye. I looked at the daybed covered in a rich Kelly Wearstler pattern and promptly decided that I wanted to curl up on it and take a nap. The point? This room is soothing and sultry and Bulldog is indeed one lucky lad.

I said goodbye and went on with my day. But the colors and the patterns and the soft light of that room stayed with me and I realized something I’d always implicitly known. Aesthetics matter. How we dress, the colors we wear, the wallpapers we use, the patterns we crave, the pictures we hang – it all matters. These say something about who we are and who we aren’t. A peaceful home often makes for a peaceful mind. A chaotic and disjointed home often creates a fragmented psyche. I know that I am more placid and tranquil when my home is clean and uncluttered. I know that I often feel invincible after I have cleaned out my closet. These things matter.

In the upper left corner of the picture above, you will see a print hanging. Fittingly, it is a bulldog. And below is a shot of it up close. Presumably, that bulldog is there to evince strength and stature and the dogged pursuit of the good life. Oh, and to remind the little legacy who snoozes in the crib beneath it that one day he is expected to be a Yalie. To play hockey like his dad. To be summa like his mom. No pressure though, little guy.

Today, my mind is muddled. Caught between the fictional world of LIFE AFTER YES and the real world of my life. Today, the rain has fallen furiously. Today, I am oddly nostalgic for days past. For a while, I couldn’t figure out why. But as the day went on, it became clearer.

There have been at least five days in my life that I remember from start to finish.

First, my wedding day. The day on which I wore that hot pink cashmere Juicy suit that was all the rage. That day on which I hung out in my childhood home with my bridesmaids eating pastries, counting down the hours. The day on which a genius man named Aki made my hair look like Bridget Bardot’s. The day on which I stepped into that champagne gown that had splashes of turquoise and doves embroidered on the back. That day on which Dad walked me down the long, candlelit aisle of Holy Trinity. That day on which predictable wedding songs like Canon in D mingled with less predictable Christmas carols. The day on which I held Husband’s hands, fumbled through my vows. That day on which I danced harder and smiled bigger than ever before. That day on which the rest of my good life began.

Second and Third, the days on which Toddler and then Baby were born. Days riddled with the utmost pain and the utmost pleasure. Days soaked with tears. Days stuffed with happiness and exhaustion and love. Days on which I wore flimsy standard issue hospital gowns and clutched new life. Days on which everything suddenly made sense. Days on which I believed the past had purpose and the future had promise.

Fourth and Fifth, the two days of the New York Bar Exam. Disappointing, but true. I remember what I wore (ponytails, cargo pants, tie-dye t-shirts, Adidas track jackets). I remember the lunches I packed (carb free because I was a freak then too). I remember the hordes of fearful faces at the impossibly vast Javitz Center. I remember the party I threw when it was all over. The crowds of debauched and celebrating quasi-lawyers who for months had put lives on hold to cram bits and pieces of knowledge into their brilliant brains. I remember how scared I was that I wouldn’t pass. I remember that secret hope that I didn’t pass. I remember it all.

Today, I am bizarrely nostalgic for these days, these magical and less magical days. Why? Because I have spent countless hours over the past week editing a story about a girl who is about to get married while listening to Canon in D on repeat. Because I spent a good part of today with my sister and her brand new boy. Because today was the second day of the Bar Exam. Because time passes, and years slip by, and moments blend, but there are days we remember. With crisp and uncanny clarity. Even when we least expect it.

What are the days you remember, the memories that catch you off guard as time rolls by?

Last Friday, I spent time with three different newborns. Babies who belonged to my little sister and two good friends. The final stop on my Baby Crawl was Starbucks. My good friend and I sat at one of those small tables, sipping our caffeinated beverages of choice, while her darling girl slumbered in her stroller. We sat there, face-to-face, and talked. We talked about predictable things. Babies and motherhood. And family. We talked about how hard it can be, this parenthood business. How exhausting and complicated and heart-wrenching. We talked about how being a mom means parting with control and sleep and order.

And as we talked and talked, my mind danced as it tends to do. And it made a revealing poetic detour. And it occurred to me that it is up to us to keep things real, to be honest, to fight the tendency to sugarcoat bitter things. Because as much as we love our sugar and our Equal and the completely-and-utterly-non-carcinogenic Splenda, sometimes when we use too much of these things, it stops tasting like coffee, or tea, or whatever it is we are drinking. It stops tasting like what it actually is.

Is up to us to tell unsweetened stories.

Because not every baby sleeps through the night. And all babies cry. And teething sucks. And all moms cringe. And toddlers act up. And buttons are pushed. And sometimes fragile things like wineglasses and expectations are shattered. And sometimes, say, that glorious living room where you used to host civilized cocktail parties ends up covered in Cheerio powder and shredded lettuce. Because parenthood is not all coos and claps and winning smiles. It is always delicious, but not always sweet. Let’s not pretend otherwise. Pretending does not make us better, or more loving, or more perfect, mothers.

Recently, my Cheerio Compatriots Lindsey and Mama each stepped up to the plate and told her own delectably unsweetened story of modern motherhood (Hi, Mixed Metaphor. Nice to see you again.) Click here and then here to read their words and to see what it really means to be a parent.

Life is a series of conversations punctuated by stints of sleep and silence. This is an idea that has brewing in me for a while now. Because for me, I don’t so much as remember things or events, but the people who were there and what they said.

One conversation that sticks with me was about happiness. Three law school friends and I sat around a table at a buzzing sushi restaurant in midtown talking about our respective definitions of happiness. One friend said that happiness was the lack of sadness; pleasure, the lack of pain. This utilitarian vision riled a couple of us up. True happiness must be more than the absence of misery, right? Happiness is something unto itself. We continued to sip our white wine and ask ourselves and each other these precarious questions: would we rather lead even-keeled lives, satisfying and safe lives, where there were no real highs and lows? Or, would we rather live the roller-coaster life, an existence characterized by very high highs, but also very low lows. At the time, I was adamant. I would prefer the latter life, one full of tumult and excitement, rather than an even, but also lackluster life.

This was many years ago. Seven, I think. But I can see us now, the four of us wearing our trademark black, wielding chopsticks, pontificating – proudly, pretentiously – about life. At that time, we were all in relationships, some that would last and some that would be tested, or crumble. We were ensconced in the padded walls of an elite law school education. Today, things are different. Each of us has experienced true sadness and loss. Each of us has also experienced utter and unbridled joy for we are all mothers now, whether rookie or a few seasons in.

Today, we are tethered creatures. Tethered geographically and personally. To husbands and families and little girls who need us. Tethered in the best way possible. We stay in touch. We stay as close as we can in the midst of our modern day mayhem. We send emails. We send pictures. From time to time, we speak on the telephone. But, predictably, understandably, our conversations are limited in length and content. We talk about things, sure. We talk about babies and bedtimes, about husbands and homes. But, rarely, all too rarely, do we have a conversation like that one that night at the darkened sushi restaurant. When we dared to ask ourselves about that thing we all want, that thing that transcends the geography that divides us and the day-to-day that unites us: happiness.

I hope that sometime soon, the four of us will reunite. That we will leave our lovely husbands and babies at home and go out to that same Sixth Avenue spot. That for one night, we will clink glasses and lock eyes and ask ourselves that very same question: what does it mean to be happy? And I wonder whether our answers will be different this time.

I know what I would say. That happiness and sadness are in fact intimately and inscrutably linked. That weathering sadness can often create enhanced happiness on the other end. That I would still rather have the ups and downs, the triumphs and the tragedies, than a safe and static status quo. That, for me, happiness is conversation. With Husband about our dreams and our kids. With my girls, about Cheerios and cartoons and cats. With friends, new and old, about things, big and small. With my sisters about our shared childhood and its aftermath. With Mom about how she did it. With myself about who I am now and who I am becoming, what I want and what I don’t. With all of you, strangers and sisters and fellow students of life, about everything, but especially about the things that are hard to say or admit or imagine. The things that don’t show up on the pages of a celebrity glossy. The things that don’t float about at a civilized cocktail party or in a conference room. The things that are hard and uncertain and fragile. The things we too often ignore.

How do you define happiness? Would you prefer the highs and lows or a more settled and safe existence?