Today is Halloween. And I will be running costume-clad kiddos to and from school and dealing with the consequences of a prolonged sugar high. I will be holding tiny hands of a poodle and a princess, going door to door along my childhood block, uttering age-old parental phrases: Take just one. Say thank you. I will be shifting a wide-eyed leopard from hip to hip. Her first Halloween.

But I will also be remembering. Because for many years, many good years, I was a kid on this day. And I dressed up and got excited and hoarded candy. For some reason, either profound or perfunctory – I cannot readily tell – this holiday holds immense meaning for me. Maybe it’s because it happens in fall, my very favorite season. Or maybe because I was forever a fan of the one-day-identity-shift, becoming someone else, something else, for a short snippet of happy time. Maybe it’s because of the candy. I’ve always loved candy and as a kid I wasn’t allowed to eat it except for on this day. (Ha.)

I suspect it is all of these things and much more. I think it has something to do with family, with tradition. I remember sitting with my sisters and Mom and Dad, hunched over soggy sheets of The New York Times, carving big misshapen pumpkins into spooky creatures who would sit in the windows of our second floor. I remember that haunting Humpback whale music Dad would play on that one night every year, how it would drift through the darkened halls of our home. I remember Mom’s chili. The big vat of cozy chili she whipped up every year for our friends on the block. How we all ate it eagerly, mixing in sour cream and onions. I remember that curmudgeonly neighbor who would give us only apples, or pennies, or one year, a toothbrush. And I remember the aftermath of a night of trick-or-treating. My friends, sisters, and I on the floor of our big bedroom, spreading our loot over patches of carpet, making trades, making ourselves sick.

And I remember, of course, the costumes. There was Rainbow Brite, a referee, a Yale football player. In college, the costumes became a little less involved – the Cat in the Hat in black, a Rorschach ink blot (think: all black, bizarre movements). And, most meaningfully perhaps, was Larrietta Birdetta in fifth grade. I wore a long curly blond wig and my beloved Larry Bird jersey. Sexy, no?

And now. Here we are again. On this day.

And I come at this day from a different place, with a different lens. Today I am a mom. I will snap pictures of little happy creatures in costume. I will negotiate candy consumption. I will shepherd little ones through this big day.

But I will also eat chili. And some candy. And I will remember.

I will also look around, do my best to give close attention despite the assured chaos, and realize that memories are being made today, and tonight. That, one day, my little girls will be big like I am, caught in that exquisite place beyond childhood, that place stuffed with memories, and moments, and all around magic.

Happy Halloween, all. Make good memories.

_________________________________________

Do you have any particular memories of this holiday? What are your kids dressing as tonight? Are you dressing up? Anyone else psyched for the candy?

“The moment one gives close attention to any thing, even a blade of grass it becomes a mysterious, awesome, indescribably magnificent world in itself.”

Henry Miller

The big girls scale rocks. Daddy spots them. I sit on a waterproof blanket with my baby. The sun is coy, but bright. I get an idea. A simple one.

I pick her up. And she clings to me. Oh, how I love how she clings to me. I walk a few feet away from the striped square. I put her down.

I put her down in the grass. And I step away. I step back. I watch.

She looks around. And up. At a big blue sky mottled with wispy clouds. And she reaches out.

She buries her little hands in grass. She closes her fists and yanks. She comes away with a few broken blades.

I watch. I watch her discover something new. I watch her commune with a tiny patch of nature. I watch and I glimpse joy.

And I also feel it. Joy. It’s more than that, what I feel. Far more.

She gives close attention to the grass around her. And as she does this, I give close attention to her, this little being that sprouts before me every day, this brilliant blade of grass in my family’s pasture, this mysterious, awesome, indescribably magnificent world in itself.

And I realize something. This is perhaps the most important thing we can do in our lives. In our lives as people, as professionals, as parents. The most important thing we can do is give close attention.

To ourselves. To our creatures. To our world.

And so. I will continue to do just this.

It’s not what you think.

Saturday night was date night. Husband and I were particularly spent for reasons I will not go into now, so our first stop was Starbucks. Tall bold pour moi and short capp for the man. We got our coffees and we walked. And walked. We had no plan. Imagine that.

We stopped in Columbus Circle and had a cocktail at the bar at the swank sushi restaurant Blue Ribbon in the 6 Columbus Hotel. We talked and took it all in – the din of an early weekend evening in Manhattan, the buzz of tourists checking in, the chirp of a moderately-intoxicated middle-aged chick next to me who was drinking something uber-enigmatic (and, apparently, uber-alcoholic) called the Urban Organic.

And then. It was decision time. We were marginally-rejuvenated but still draggy. To mosey toward home and grab a bite at a local fave or hop on the subway and head downtown toward the relative unknown?

Believe it or not, we choose Door B. On the subway, I jotted literary ideas on my iPhone in an embarrassing frenzy. And before we knew it, we were there. On West 4th. We got out and we walked. We happened upon a few restaurants that we know and love. I said: No, let’s try something new!

Now. This is not really like me. I am not overly adventurous. But we did it. We wandered into a dark and packed Thai restaurant. They didn’t have a table for us, so we took a seat at the bar. We perused the menu. When the bartender came to take our dinner order, I asked a question: What’s the spiciest thing on the menu?

The swordfish curry, he said, flashing an impish, uh-oh grin.

Fast forward fifteen. The curry arrives, and with it? A plate of cucumber spears resting on ice. Not the best sign, huh?

Fearless, we grab our forks and dive in. It’s spicy, but we are okay. The waiter comes to check on us. He says that we are champs because we are not crying. The cucumbers? They sit untouched. Child’s play!

But then. Suddenly, my tongue is on fire. Flames, I tell you. And my eyes? They are full of tears. I grab desperately for the cucumbers.

We survive. We do. We make it home, chuckling about our spicy Saturday night adventure.

But I wonder what this is all about. This sudden desire for adventure, for underground trips downtown to unknown eateries. This sudden craving for ruthless spice.

Do you guys have any thoughts? Insights? Guesses?

______________________

Do you like spicy food? Adventure? Do you ever go on wandering/adventure dates with your significant other? Has your palate changed over the years? Have you ever cried in public because of firey food or something else?

Okay. Here’s the deal. I’m scrambling to get my first fifty-plus pages of Book Two to my agent by 11:45am (a.k.a. Middle Girl’s Preschool pickup time). But I didn’t want to leave you guys here in Blogville empty-handed. So. I am whipping of this little fluffy post to follow on the heels of yesterday’s little fluffy post. Hey, I like fluff. (Oh, and thanks for the stellar TV recommendations! Stephen King would not be proud of any of us.)

Okay. Here’s the question du jour:

Do you want to lose five pounds?

If I know anything about humanity, the answer is simple. Yes. It is my admittedly unscientific theory that the vast vast majority of us would like to shed at least five pounds from our respective frames. I think this is true whether we are thin or obese or somewhere in between. I think this has something to do with insecurity and something to do with an abiding desire to improve ourselves. I also think this has something to do with the pesky myth that if we were thinner and hotter, we would also be happier.

Okay, okay. I know there are a few of you out there who are trying to gain weight. And I know a few of you want and need to lose a lot more than five pounds. And I know there are a few of you who are 100% happy with your bodies (liars!) And I know that most of us are not obsessed with something as superficial as dropping five. But I bet more of us think about this than we are willing to admit.

Told you this was fluff. But I also think this could make for an interesting discussion. But that, of course, depends on all of you…

Okay, off to edit those fifty-plus pages of delightful, yet raw non-fluff.

Happy Wednesday, all.

_______________________________

Do you want to lose five pounds? More? Do you think that most of us would like to improve our physical body in some way? Do you think women are more fixated on the scale than men or not necessarily? Is it superficial to talk about such things?

Maybe you were craving something deep and thinky today?

Sorry.

I am in search of a really good television show to watch avec Husband.

Ideas?

Please chime in. And I’m not ultra-discriminating. It can be mindless or metaphorical stuff. I don’t like to admit it, but I’m an equal opportunity offender.

_____________________________

So? Recommendations? (Pretty please.)