Last week, we were all over at Mom’s celebrating her birthday and she said something to me that caught me off guard.

“Maids, you’re not pregnant or trying to get pregnant, are you?”

“No, Mom!” I said defensively. And then, predictably, I ran my hand along my flat, decidedly non-pregnant belly.

“Why do you ask that, Mom? Do I look pregnant?”

“Of course not,” she said. “It’s just that you are talking about pregnancy and babies a lot on your blog these days.”

She’s right. I am. In the past several weeks, I have posted about how not wanting kids is like its own language. Then I followed up with a post inquiring why people want kids. And then there was the post about the whole world being pregnant. And I’ve made it no secret here that despite the compelling kiddie chaos that is my contemporary life, I want two more kids. And soonish.

Why my admitted obsession with all things baby and belly? Is it simply that I am currently a citizen of a world where this is the conversational currency we deal in? Or is there something more? Is my preoccupation with pregnancy rooted in biology? Now that Baby is one and mere inches from toddlerhood, are there hormones coursing through me telling me to have another? Is that proverbial biological clock ticking away, telling me to procreate before it’s too late?

I don’t know.

The biological clock. I have always heard people talking about this clock and its ominous tick, tick, tick. I have always thought of the clock metaphor as appropriate insofar as there is a limited time during which a woman is fertile. (Patently, modern medicine is changing the inner-workings of this clock.) But I am not sure I have ever felt the ticking effect. Looking back, I think that I always wanted kids, I always thought babies were delicious, and after being married for a bit, it felt like the right time to go for it. It was not that one day there was silence and the next, there was that telltale ticking. To the extent that I thought about these things, I always chalked my desire to get pregnant up to reason and not hormones.

I just read Emma Gilbey Keller’s interesting article Why Isn’t My Biological Clock Ticking (Louder)? wherein she introduces us to Hillary Fields, a woman who admits she has never wanted kids, a woman who says she has been waiting for her clock to start ticking – to no avail. Fields remarks that despite her advancing age, she has felt no increased desire, biological or other, to have kids.

With this fascinating article now in my arsenal of baby obsession, I am left wondering once more about our decisions to become parents and to forgo parenthood. Are these decisions rooted in part in biological soil?

Have any of you experienced the ticking of that fabled biological clock? From experience or observation, do men have biological clocks? If so, is the ticking of the male clock almost inaudible insofar as the male fertility window is much bigger? Do you believe that we experience biological urges at certain points in our life to procreate or do you believe this is a metaphysical myth?

Toddler is going through a phase. She is happy 99% of the time. But that other 1%? Her face crumples, she falls to the ground, a puddle of salty tears. When this happens, we crouch beside her, or pick her up. And we ask her what’s wrong. Every time, her answer is the same.

“I was sad because I didn’t see you,” she says, words so simple they are profound. So profound, they are simple.

And every time this happens, we tell her that we are always close by. We assure her that we will never leave her. We apologize for going into the other room without telling her, for disappearing for short times. We tell her we understand why she was sad.

I understand why she is sad in these moments. I do. I understand what it is like to look up, and around, and not see the person you want to see, you need to see. I understand the shivering panic, the stabbing sadness, in these moments when you feel lost, abandoned, utterly alone.

It is these thoughts, these most basic, childish thoughts, that cripple me most. There are cruel moments when life’s distractions thin out, when I look up, and around, and Dad‘s not here. And in these moments, like Toddler, I am devastated. In these moments, I just want to see him. His broad frame, his blue eyes. In these moments, I don’t collapse. I don’t cry. No. I hold it together. Always together. Precariously together, but still together. (Where do all those tears go when I don’t let them fall?)

I realized something this morning. Something I think I already knew. Something that has lingered just under that slippery surface of awareness. Something both haunting and comforting. I paced the living room of this place he loved deeply and lived fully, scanning old photos and relics, casually mining my family’s rich history. And I came upon a familiar thing. A pencil portrait I’d seen countless times. Of Dad. A young Dad. Somewhere between baby and little boy. Before I knew him. Before he knew me.

I stopped. I stared at that picture, studying its soft and familiar lines, blinking back tears. Through the blur of longing and love, something was suddenly and crisply clear: I see him every single day. Baby is the spitting image of young Dad. Those of you who know me, and her, in real life (isn’t all life real?) will agree. Or maybe you won’t. Maybe I am seeing something I want to see, I need to see. It could be. But I don’t think so. Not this time.

There is something magical about the fact that my little girl – who was snug inside me turning poetic somersaults while I whispered that impossible goodbye – looks just like he did.

I hope this is a phase.

I hope this isn’t a phase.

It is hard not seeing him.

It is wonderful seeing him.

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Whom do you miss seeing?

About a year ago, I took Toddler for a “play date” at a prospective preschool on the Upper East Side. Some of you might know that in Manhattan speak, “play date” means interview. Yes, that’s right. To get into preschool, my little girl was interviewed and evaluated by teachers and administrators and heads of school. All under the guise of play. My theory is that it is the parents who are being sussed out during these little school visits, but that it is for another post. A good one, too.

At this particular play date, Toddler and three other girls were let loose in a classroom. We moms were told to hang back and let our children roam and explore. Toddler did just that. She motored around the small space, doing wonderful things. She pretended to read a book to the lone fish in the tank whom she fondly introduced to a note-taking teacher as Nemo. She played a little peg game, placing those little pegs in the holes with speed and precision. She uttered words I didn’t know she knew. She smiled at me from afar. She skipped around the room, her tiny pigtails bouncing. She even cleaned up when prompted.

But then. Things took a turn. In the little pretend kitchen, Toddler spotted a basket of plastic vegetables. One by one, she pulled them out and named them. Impressive. But then another little girl approached and reached for the eggplant. From a short distance, I saw Toddler’s expression shift. She grabbed for the eggplant and pulled it close to her. And then Toddler rapidly threw all of the faux veggies back in the basket and hid the basket under a tiny wooden chair. The other little girl started to scream. Toddler kept her cool, crouching down on the carpet, protecting her vegetables. The other little girl was inconsolable, crying big fat tears into her mom’s slacks. Her mom glared at me.

I muttered a quick apology. I muttered something to Toddler about how she needed to share. But then the head of the school who had been silent for the entirety of this “play date” spoke up.

“She is hoarding,” the head of school said to me, smiling big. “That’s a sign of intelligence. At this developmental stage, they are not supposed to share or know how to. She will learn how to share in school.”

I smiled. Who knew my not-even-two-year-old would woo the appropriate party by not sharing. Ultimately, we decided to apply early to a West Side school (yes, early decision for preschool. Yet another post.) so we withdrew our application from this East Side school. But I liked that school. A lot. And that woman’s words stuck with me.

Yesterday, Husband and I were outside with the girls. (We are still in South Carolina.) Husband carried Baby and I carried Toddler along a stone path. For a moment, Husband was far enough ahead of us that we couldn’t see him. Toddler asked where her sister was.

“She’s right up there,” I said, speeding my stride, pointing. And then I asked her a question, in retrospect a bizarre and tricky one. “Is she your baby sister or your best friend?”

“Both, Mom,” Toddler said. The perfect reply. And then she continued. “My sister and I can share everything. We can share toys. And snacks. And we can share all the trees!”

This last bit was my favorite. This image of my little girls sharing all the trees. Sharing something that wasn’t even theirs.

In this moment, it struck me: she has learned to share. (Witness the pretzel stick evidence above.) She has learned to articulate thoughts about the concept of sharing. I thought about her one year ago, in that fierce frenzy, in that foreign place, protecting plastic produce.

She is pretty good at sharing with her sister. But not always. They get in little battles over toys and snacks. They have not yet gone to the mat over the trees. We are immensely thankful for Baby’s friend who gifted us recently with two babies. One for each girl. For those times when no one is in the mood to share.

These babies now come with us everywhere. Including on this trip. The girls take good care of these babies. They rock them. And burp them. And put them to sleep. Thank goodness for these babies. But still. Sometimes, often actually, they fight over the pink baby. I am not sure they understand pink versus blue, girl versus boy baby, or whether they are exceedingly intelligent and are asking for a sister. I don’t know. But when these little struggles happen, I tell them to share.

Share.

A simple word. A complicated concept. Is it always good to share? Is it sometimes good to keep things for ourselves, to hoard our proverbial plastic veggies? Is there such thing as too much sharing? As offering too much of ourselves, of our things?

At thirty-one, I’m still learning to share. My time. My love. My life. There is a ubiquity of things we are expected to share. And sometimes it is hard. On this blog, I am learning, day after day, to share my words, my ideas, my stories. Here, I am learning to share bits and pieces of myself. With you. And I love this. This sharing, this scattering of self over a blurry and benevolent horizon, this big girl show and tell. I love it.

But sometimes, often actually, I worry. I worry if I am going too far, giving too much. I worry sometimes that in spilling so much, I am keeping too little just for me. For my family. For my man. For my two real life baby dolls. I worry sometimes that I should be a bit more like sage Toddler of a year ago and protect my little basket a bit more.

Sometimes I wonder if I should stop. If we all should. If we should put all the time and energy and emotion we put into sharing into simply having and living and being.

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Thoughts? I am very curious to hear responses from those of you with blogs and those of you without them. Do you think there is such thing as over-sharing? Where should we draw the line between things that should be shared and things that should be kept close? Do you think the phenomenon of blogging has blurred this line? Do you think blogging has encouraged us to share more than we should about ourselves and our worlds?

See the scrumptious food above? Well, once upon a time it was chilling, minding its own business on an heirloom china dinner plate. And now? You guessed it. In your belly. Your poor belly. Twenty-four hours ago, your belly was just fine. Flattish for someone with, say, two kids. Feeling good. But today? Poor beleaguered belly.

Yes, this fate could have been avoided. For one, you could have dogeared those pesky pages in the magazines that schooled you on how to render Thanksgiving healthy. Those pages that told you to eat this, not that. Could have. But no. You decided to go the much more fun that route. And for you this was a conscious decision. You decided to go big or go home. It was Thanksgiving after all. And you decided that it was not Thanksgiving dinner, but Thanksgiving day.

Breakfast. Savory or sweet? Both of course! So you loaded your plate first with some healthy fruit. And then sausage. And then bacon. And eggs. So much protein! And wait. There was French toast too made with actual French bread. You decided not to discriminate against the French toast just because it was toward the end of the buffet. That would not be very fair, would it? Coolly, you walked back to your seat and you glanced down at the piles of food. Your first thought? That is a disgusting amount of food. Your second thought? It’s not like I am going to eat it all. Most of it is for the kids anyway. Your third thought (because you like most smart people think in threes)? Moderation is overrated.

Lunch. Thankfully, lunch had the potential to be quite light. There were lean meats. A spry soup. A salad! You can never go wrong with a salad. The fact that it was dressed in delectable blue cheese magic did nothing to dissuade you from filling your plate. This was a very good start. And then you had a bit of soup. And a teeny sandwich. Oh wait. There was a cheese plate. A little Wisconsin cheddar never hurt anyone. You were feeling good, borderline heroic. And so, ever casually, you meandered to that unassuming plate of baked goods at the end of the line. You surveyed the options. And then told yourself that life is short so a cookie was in order. And a brownie. As you chewed that last bit of brownie, you had your first thought: That was totally unnecessary and a tiny bit disgusting. But thankfully that redemptive second thought was quick to follow: Better to splurge on lunch than dinner. I will have at least five long hours to burn these calories. And then that obedient third thought arrived: Moderation is overrated anyway.

(Two hours later, you had another cookie for snack. But snacks don’t count. Not on Thanksgiving.)

Cocktail Hour. Two hours later, you convened with your family for cocktails. Everyone looked spiffy. Your girls (or boys, whatever) wore matching dresses (or ties, whatever) even though you swore to yourself you would never put kids in matching outfits. You and your loved ones sipped wine, chuckle, and talked breezily about current events. And between bits and pieces of conversation you noticed the abundance of appetizers scattered about innocently on side tables and coffee tables. A vast wheel of Camembert. Spiced nuts. Venison sausage. Cheetos for the wee ones. Even caviar. You were thankful because you don’t even like the taste of caviar. So instead you stuck to massive globs of cheese and fistfuls of nuts and to be brave, you even tried the deer sausage. It was very spicy, so you moved on to the Cheetos. Because Cheetos are not just for kids. It was almost time for dinner and that voice in your head was back. One: Stop it. You animal. Two: I am just enjoying my life. Three: I’m pretty sure moderation is overrated.

Dinner time! A bountiful buffet beckoned. There were two kinds of turkey. Roasted and fried. Sweet potatoes. Charred brussel sprouts. Mashed potatoes. Sugar snap peas. Biscuits. Two breeds of gravy. You bypassed the fried turkey because it’s fattening. But then you took a little of everything else. A little dollop here and there. As you found your seat at that beautifully-set candlelit table, you realized something profound: a little bit of a lot of things adds up to a lot of food. Ergo, the plate above. One: Okay, this is overkill. Pure and simple. Two: This is not all for me. My kids will love this stuff! Three: My kids have been asleep for a half hour, but it is possible that moderation is overrated.

Then you might or might not have gone for seconds. You might or might not have sampled pumpkin pie and apple tart with just a bit of vanilla ice cream. Then you might or might not have retreated to bed at the pathetic hour of 9pm and tried futilely to sleep on your stomach before rolling to your back. And then you might or might not have woken up this morning clutching your belly, wondering if it is at all possible that you are suddenly three months pregnant. Thankfully, even in those hazy early morning hours, your reason found you and the thoughts rolled in, clear as day. One: I am not pregnant. Just officially fat. Two: I am not fat. Just full. Full of food and full of life. Three: I kind of miss moderation. Absence does indeed make the heart grow fonder.

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Please note that the above was not necessarily about me. It was possibly a more universal musing on the advent of holiday indulgence and the virtue (or vice) of moderation. Hypothetically speaking though, let’s say it was about me. Then, hypothetically, it might be nice to hear that you too overdid it a bit yesterday. The more details the better. (Details do not have calories.)

Apologies in advance for this post. I am not sure it will make perfect sense. Or any sense at all. You see, Baby, our champion sleeper, decided to rise at 4:45am. And since we are all sharing a bedroom, her decision affected us all. So, our Thanksgiving got off to an early start. And coffee can only do so much. My mind is a mess. Mangled from sleeplessness. Tangled from thankfulness.

Thornton Wilder said, “We can only be said to be alive in those moments when our hearts are conscious of our treasures.” And I like these words. In fact, I love them. Because I’ve never thought of the heart in this way. I’ve never imagined it having a consciousness. But maybe it does. Maybe the heart, like the mind, can be aware of things. But I think this awareness would be a bit different, a bit less contrived, a bit less busy. A bit more fluid. A bit more forgiving.

The morning hours were long and meandering. The four of us snuggled and wrestled in bed. We danced around the kitchen. We chased running girls and wiped runny noses. We drank lots and lots of coffee. And then. Husband grabbed his camera and ran outside. To catch the sun as it climbed to its spot. And then he came back. And then we sat in the kitchen. Husband and the girls watched squirrels through the sliding doors. I watched them watch squirrels. And then I took out my camera and snapped away. To capture that moment. That quiet moment when we should have been sleeping. That priceless moment that was so simple and so full.

We can only be said to be alive in those moments when our hearts are conscious of our treasures.

Yes, I am tired. Impossibly tired. Oddly though, I am thankful for my fatigue. Because under its spell, my mind isn’t operating very well. But my heart is picking up its slack. On this morning, this holiday morning, my heart is doing the work, acutely aware of so many treasures, tiny and titanic.

On this morning, this holiday morning, I feel very alive.