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?