Actually, it was not lovely at all. I haven’t felt this sick in years, if ever.

The stomach flu? I’m not a fan.

This morning, I’m just impossibly weak, but the fact that I am sitting up writing this is a good sign. I plan to be back to my regular self by tomorrow. But I also planned to be my regular self today; to rise early and whip off a fun and interesting post, to ferry my girls to school, to immerse myself in my novel. Alas. Plans don’t always stick.

Anyway. I came here to tell you why I’m not here in the way I’d like to be today. Because some wily child soaked me with some nasty flu germs yesterday (that’s my theory). Now, I’m just hoping that my man and my kids will be spared from this ugliness.

Okay, back to my seltzer and to my fetal position on the couch. And back to the Today Show. Just learned that Heidi Klum and Seal are kaput which actually makes me kind of sad because of all of the Hollywood sillies, they seemed, well, good. Now I am learning how to make some Chinese potstickers. Will be on that as soon as this cleanse is kaput. Speaking of cleanses, if it is weight loss you are after, picking up a wicked strain of the stomach flu seems to be far more effective than swilling powdery shakes. Just saying

When’s the last time you were blindsided by a nasty flu? Are you surprised about Heidi & Seal?

Like eating.

Yup. So cliched. To emerge from the jolly season with the desire to become more healthy. But here I am. Announcing said desire.

Yesterday, I did it. I stepped on the scale. This is something I haven’t done in some time. And I saw what I expected to see. That I’d gained a bit. Not a ton. Not a dramatic amount. But a few pesky pounds.

Okay, five-ish.

I stepped off that scale with this predictable but disconcerting shred of information and I went on with my day. But first. I did something. I wrote down the date and my weight. I also vowed to do something else: To weigh myself daily. And to write down everything I eat, and the calories in those things, until those five-ish pounds are gone.

I am at Cosi as I write this. I just ate breakfast. An egg white veggie wrap. 264 calories.

I will keep this up. This exercise in ownership, in discipline.

And next week? Husband and I are embarking upon a joint cleanse. He did this cleanse last year and loved it. For a few weeks, we will make shakes and healthy meals together, to get our collective nutritional mojo back. I’m excited. Is that weird?

A month from now? I imagine I will be feeling quite good, full of better energy and better habits. That we will. I look forward to that.

Until then? I will step on that scale upon waking. And I will be aware of what I put in my body. And I will write it all down. Including minutes of daily exercise.

A bit boring? Indeed. But probably quite effective, too. Goodness, I hope so

Did you gain any weight over the holidays? Are you happy we are in January? Are you good about imposing dietary discipline on yourself? Have you ever tried a nutritional cleanse? Do you think this post smacks of perfectionism?

I promised to share more pictures from J and N’s wedding this past weekend. And here they are. A sampling of the oodles I took. This first one? It is a close-up of my bridesmaid’s bouquet. The colors were stunning and vibrant. Symbolic of the event itself.

The drive there was decent. There were tears of course, but we made it the whole way without catching vomit in Tupperware. (The ride back? Another story entirely. Both big girls threw up and the tiny one screamed as if she has an ear infection. Wait, she does have an ear infection. It all makes sense now.) We stopped at a highway rest stop for potty trips and gas. The girls of course wanted everything at the little convenient store.

They begged us to play that silly game with the mechanical arm and stuffed animals. You know, that game that is utterly impossible to win and almost invariably ends in tears? Anyway. We obliged. And, get this? It was three dollars per game but you got to play until you successfully grabbed an animal. Genius. Husband did his fatherly duties, capturing the desired bumble bee for Big Girl and the pink ant-thing for Middle Girl. Little Girl is not old enough to request an animal so she did not get one. Sorry, little one. (For the record: Best $6 we have ever spent.)

After a successful rehearsal at the church and a lovely rehearsal dinner hosted by N’s parents, we all got some sleep (oh, wait, we didn’t. Middle Girl decided that sleep was so 2010 and stayed up all night running between her bed and ours). The girls and I met my Mom, Grammy, J, bridesmaids and female family for a yummy wedding day breakfast hosted by Aunt L. And then we were off to the bridal suite where we hung around doing wonderful girly things like get our hair and makeup done and help J step into her exquisite dress.

We indulged in a little wedding party toast.

We accompanied J downstairs where she saw her dad, and then soon-to-be hubby N for the first time. An auspicious, tear-jerking moment. The air was thick with emotion.

Husband and I joined the rest of the bridal party to take pictures in gorgeous spots around DC. If my silly iPhone photos look this good, I can’t even imagine how glorious the professional ones will be.

The cozy couple. I adore this picture.

The bridesmaid dresses were a deep navy/plum and beautiful and J gifted us with wraps – ethereal and twiggy and just perfect.

I snapped a picture of Husband on a hill. One of my favorite shots ever. There is something about that little red house that gets me.

At the church, we were ready to go. The littlest flower girl was feverish and flushed, sporting doll-like rosy cheeks. She was a trooper, scooting around on the carpet, gathering tiny petal pieces her big sisters had dropped. She and her big sisters were champs, making their way down that fabled aisle, smiling, scattering flowers, or just clinging to my hip and trying to grab my lush bouquet. There were no tears. Score!

Little Girl went home to bed, but we told the big girls they could come and dance and eat wedding cake. Both had taken a nap in the afternoon in preparation for this treat. Here, they study the cake. The bride laughed as she caught Big Girl taking a swipe of frosting with her little finger. Uh oh. Perfect behavior is a tad boring anyway, huh?

The setting was a waterfront restaurant. And utterly amazing. Grammy planned this whole wedding and it was phenomenal. The details were warm and wonderful and unique. The food was delicious.

But the best part of the night as far as I am concerned? The dancing. While the adults tucked into their entrees, my little girls rendezvoused with their cousins on the dance floor. And they danced. And danced. Like really danced. Who taught my girls how to dance? I certainly didn’t.

They shimmied and twirled, smiling big. They ran in circles. They had the time of their life.

They did this until 10pm. My kids have never ever stayed up past eight. But on this night, we made an exception and so did they. There was no way we were going to pluck these tiny dancers from that floor.

They stayed long enough to watch J dance with Dad-Dad. And, of course, I couldn’t help but think: These little girls will do this one day. They will don a white dress and dance with Daddy. And I will stand back, misty-eyed, and watch.

Finally, the time came. I whisked the girls back to the hotel. They skipped through the hotel lobby, smiles fixed, still clutching those little white baskets, now empty. I let them press the buttons in the elevator like I always do and then I followed them down the long hallway toward our suite. Inside, I stripped them down, out of their white puffy clouds, and we picked PJs. When I kissed them goodnight, they were still smiling.

This weekend was something I will always remember. For many reasons. Mainly, I think, because it was a real family affair. Because it was stuffed with moments and meaning. Because my little girls did their duties and danced so beautifully, with such purpose and freedom. Because I have a new brother-in-law. Because this is really what it is all about. Family. Fun. Love.

Speaking of family and fun and love, we are packing up again and heading to Philly to spend Thanksgiving with the newlyweds and Grammy and Dad-Dad. The plan is to leave tomorrow after the kids’ school celebrations. And so, in the spirit of slowing down and savoring family and food and all of life’s goodies, I will not be posting for the rest of the week. Instead, I will be cuddling up with family old and new, looking at wedding pictures and telling wedding stories. Instead, I will be saying and living one word, one important word: Thanks.

Happy Thanksgiving, All! See you next week!

A couple weeks ago, I announced that I would be embarking upon a new work schedule. The plan was to devote every Tuesday and Thursday to writing my second book. I was a bit sheepish about publishing my new schedule here because I don’t think I believed that I’d really stick to it. But I have. And maybe it sounds silly to say this, but I’m proud of myself. Because I am finally dignifying my writing as work which it undeniably is. Because I am actually making a ton of progress.

That’s right. In four days, I have written 13,395 words which amounts to about 53 double-spaced pages. And guess what? I submitted those pages to my lovely agent and we have a phone date this morning to discuss them. Truth be told, I know these pages will evolve tremendously, that profound editing must be done. But still. This is big.

There is a lesson here. For me, certainly. And maybe for you. If you decide to just do it and carve out the time to just do it, well you might then just do it, whatever it might be.

The picture above? It is a page from my evolving manuscript. It seems Middle Girl decided it needed some major work.

The picture above? I love it. I love it because it is symbolic of my life right now. A life of writing and wrangling little ones. A life of black and white and brilliant color. A life of stories and scribbles.

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Do you think I can keep up with my writing schedule? Do your little ones like to scribble on your things? Does progress make you giddy? What is it that you would like to devote time to doing?

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.

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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?

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?

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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.

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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?

If you are on the fence about whether to have kids, and do not want to be decidedly pushed off (into no kids pasture), quit reading now. Deal?

I kid. Kind of. Of course I’m kidding. Kind of. Okay, not really.

Friday was quite the day. It was Middle Girl’s third birthday party at the carousel in Central Park. The weather was just perfect; chilly but plenty mild. And that promised Barbie cake? It was a show-stopper. (See above.) But. Yes, there is a but. Several.

11:44am. I am at Preschool waiting outside Middle Girl’s classroom. A lovely teacher from the school pulls me aside. Come with me, she says. It is quite the dramatic moment. I follow her.

Big Girl just threw up. In her lunch, she whispers to me. Can you please take her home?

Of course.

I retrieve my little sicky from her classroom and shuttle both girls home. I explain to Big Girl that she will not be able to go to the party. She is sad. Very. But she is also surprisingly mature about this. I hug her tight and promise her a toy the next day. (Why? I have no idea. I am prone to making these gratuitous offers.)

Middle Girl and I proceed to run around the Upper West Side, picking up party favors and juice boxes and princess party plates. Grammy and Dad-Dad drive into town and mercifully pick up the enormous cake from the East Side. Around 3pm, Husband walks in from work and we are ready to go. We load up the double stroller with endless party paraphernalia. We plop Middle Girl in a second stroller. I strap Little Girl into the Bjorn. Off we go to the park.

All is well. We make our way there, relishing the beautiful fall weather. We arrive at the carousel a little early, set up our things, unveil the cake. Friends start arriving. The carousel is spinning and the music drifts out the circular gates. I pull Little Girl from the Bjorn to feed her.

She will not eat.

Hmmm.

She starts to fuss. Not typical for this easy-breezy tot, but perhaps she’s a bit overwhelmed. I pick her up, rock her, try to make her giggle. I am a pro at making her giggle. I am.

She screams. And I mean screams.

I try some other tricks. To no avail. The screaming? It lasts, well, the whole freaking party. ‘Tis true.

I try to be a good sport about this. Everyone tries to help me out, to take the screamer, to give me a break, but I resist. I feel compelled to try to soothe this little creature, this little creature who rarely cries.

Is she sick? Is she tired? Starving? Mortally fearful of rotating horses?

No idea. But we survive. We do. The kids at the party seem to have a blast. The cake is not only gorgeous, but delicious. And we make it home with all of Middle Girl’s birthday loot, an extra pizza for dinner, and a big chunk of Barbie car cake for my poor Big Girl who is sick at home. As fate would have it, Little Girl settles into my chest and snoozes the whole way home. Of course.

At home, we unload our things and said hi to Big Girl. She is in good spirits. We let Middle Girl open a few gifts. Little Girl? She wakes up, sucks down a bottle and is totally fine. Happy. Waving. Squealing. Decidedly not sick.

Bedtime is smooth. Little Girl downs another bottle and goes right to bed. The big girls are more wound up, begging for books and songs per usual. But they too oblige and settle in reasonably quickly. I lean over Middle Girl’s bed, ask her if she had a good party and she says she did. She is a happy camper. I ask her whether her little sister cried during the party and she thinks about it and says no. Well, I’m glad she didn’t notice.

I give my birthday girl one last kiss good night and she shoots up in bed and head-butts me squarely in the nose. In all of my years playing competitive quasi-contact sports, I have never been hit this hard. I hear a sinister crunch. I say to Husband, in a hushed-bedtime-appropriate tone, I think she just broke my nose.

So. I spend the rest of the evening eating cold pizza and icing my nose and trying not to pierce the soles of my bare feet on newly-acquired itty-bitty Barbie parts.

{I was pretty happy to go to bed on Friday night. And I don’t think my nose is broken. Just swollen and sore.}

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When is the last time you had one of those days? Do your kiddos like the carousel or scream in its proximity? Ever been head-butted by a three-year-old? Is the cake amazing or what? Do you ever promise your kids presents for no reason at all?

I’ve never been a Schedule Girl. I like the idea of winging it, of going with that good old flow. But I’ve realized that when there are three kids in the equation, being easy breezy about time is neither truly possible nor truly ideal. So. A few weeks into this new school year and I find myself stumbling into some kind of schedule. Nothing’s fixed quite yet, but I’m testing options. One time block that seems pretty set is the time between dropping the big girls (@ 8:30/8:45) and retrieving Middle Girl at 11:45. Now Preschool is a ways from home, so I tend to stay put near Preschool. And where do I go? Well, Starbucks of course. I go there, I order my bold blend (a new friend converted me from Pike Place), I plug in and I enter a different realm. I know this sounds hokey, but I do; I escape – for three whole hours – my world of kiddie chaos. I think and I write and I watch. I watch people sip their lattes and scarf their muffins and read and write and talk. I witness a little corner of humanity. I connect dots. I tell myself stories about people I don’t know. I wonder if anyone speculates about me?

There is a young woman, legs crossed in the window, earphones in, sipping a vast coffee with a green straw. Her brow is furrowed, twisted with some breed of concentration or concern. She taps keys and pauses, smiles, looks around. Through tired eyes, she looks out, at the people, the passing cars, the obscured slivers of city sky. She is there for a reason, a profound, if inscrutable reason. In that window, sitting, sipping, squinting, smiling, studying. Life. Her own. All of it.

Do you abide by a schedule during the week? Do you go anywhere to escape and think? Do you think it is important for all of us to sit and study humanity? Is this especially critical for writers to do? Are you a Starbucks loyal? Why do you think it is so important for me to have this time, this time away, this time immersed in strangers and self?

Monday was Big Girl’s first day back at Preschool. So, her final year before Kindergarten is officially underway. Hard to believe. Husband, Middle Girl, and I escorted her to school. Like a good mom, I snapped a few shots. To memorialize another milestone. And I love this first one. I love it because, to me, she looks neither big nor small. I love it because she’s still wearing that monstrous Diego backpack we got years ago. I love it because it’s blurry. And these time are beautiful and blurry. They are.

I also love this picture. Again blurry. Middle Girl runs ahead. Husband keeps pace behind her, Big Girl just behind him.

My big girls study the advertisement on the side of the bus stop.

At school, we wait as Big Girl settles in her new classroom with her new teachers, friends she knows, and those she will know soon. She was thrilled to play with this lego Stega. We said goodbye and I knew she’d be fine, but I was a bit sad. Not sure why. Thankfully, I had Middle Girl to accompany me home. She was extra silly, so my separation sadness was quickly replaced with a stream of mommy smiles.

At noon, Middle Girl and I picked up her big sister from school. Big Girl was beaming. “I didn’t even cry!” she proclaimed. And then she requested a donut for lunch and because this was a special day, I obliged. She went for vanilla with sprinkles. Middle Girl scarfed pink.

We took another bus and then walked the few blocks home. We passed the fire station. The same fire station Dad ran to on September 11, 2001 with a big check. He needed to do something, so he did. On Monday, as we neared those big red doors, we saw them. The brilliant bounty of flowers. As I clutched my little girls’ hands, I debated what to tell them. Part of me, a significant part, wanted to tell them that before they were born, something big and bad and important happened, to our country, to our city, to their mommy and that there were so many brave people that day. I wanted to explain. But I didn’t. I didn’t say anything other than, Look at all the beautiful flowers, girls.

And, at the rainbow of petals, they smiled. They asked if they could stop and smell the flowers. Of course, I said. And I stood back and watched as they inched toward the clusters of gratitude. Because I didn’t know what else to do, I took more pictures.

One bouquet had a little card attached. It said, appropriately: We will never forget. Simple words that struck me, and stick with me. True words. Words my girls cannot yet read. Or understand.

So, it was her first day of school, but it was also much more. It was a day of honoring beginnings and remembering ends, a day of sunshine and memorials and late summer magic. A day saturated with pride and profound pulls. A day raw and regal. A good day. And I am proud of her. My Big Girl who is still so little. Not for long. We all know how quickly the years can fly, how ten years can pile up in the blink of an eye. So, I will do my best to soak this all up. These big days. These everydays.

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Did you tell your kids about 9/11? How much should they know about these things? How do you feel on your little ones’ first days?