We give up so much when we become parents: our figures (at least for a little while); sleep; sex lives and very often our fashion sense as well.

I remember (with only slight horror) the time I took an acquaintances’ son to the zoo and she gave me his diaper bag for the outing. It was plastic. It was puffy. It had pictures of Pooh. The rest? I have blocked.

When my own pee test turned pink, I knew immediately that I was not going to be one of those moms who totes the free hospital-issue “diaper bag” for months following my child’s birth. Are you kidding? This is my handbag—the only one I will carry for my daughter’s diaper-clad existence—upwards of two years.

A little background: I am a handbag junkie. Truth be told, I have at least 24 handbags. I know it is not popular in a recession, but let’s just say I am not one of those stay-at-home moms who wonders where my money used to go. Nope, I know that it is currently lining Marc Jacobs’ pockets.

For the past 18 months, I have been sporting a celebrity fave—the Petunia Picklebottom. They are $165 a pop and at that price, I was expecting at least a few years of use. No luck. It frayed at the bottom within months. The only thing worse than a plastic Pooh-covered bag? One with holes in it.

So, you can imagine the thrill I got when I saw that Liz Lange—the arbiter of all that is maternity chic (and the designer of 90 percent of my pre-baby wear)—has just come out with a line of diaper bags.

They look like bags I would actually carry—and they are. They offer a removable liner that allows for years of use after the baby stops diaper usage (please g-d, let it happen soon). They are well made, sturdy and highly fashionable bags any mom would be thrilled to drape over her stroller.



I can’t vouch for their longevity, but I can say they look tougher than the cute little Asian-print silk diaper bag I have been carrying.

Look, if I have to change upwards of 5 poops a day between my children, rarely have time to shower and wear sneakers most days, you better believe my diaper bag better be a showpiece.

Check em’ out. I guarantee you at least 3 moms at the park will envy you. And isn’t that what it’s all about?

Last week at this time I was losing my mind.

Both kids were being treated for pink eye, I was struggling to drum up the bare minimum in freelance work, it was cold and dreary, my husband was laid off with no signs of local job availability and my daughter had gone—seemingly overnight—from a sweet, albeit exhausting toddler to a screaming, thrashing sea monster for no apparent reason.

I was wondering why anyone bothered with motherhood.

Fast forward a week (and one trip to the pediatrician diagnosing a massive ear infection) and I am in a different place altogether. There is hope on the horizon for both me and my husband, our son is finally sleeping in long stretches with only one wake-up and my daughter’s behavior blip was solved with a five-day course of antibiotics.

And yesterday we gathered rocks, cleaned them and painted, glued and glittered some beautiful spring insects. Life with children is always a surprise and just when you are at the lowest point, it can unexpectedly become clear again just why you have them.

And it is those times, when the clouds clear, the sun shines in and my children are smiling and laughing that I wonder why I don’t have 10 more.

Until recently (really until Alan was born), I was convinced that I only wanted girls, that girls were the superior sex and that I would build an all-female army of feisty, intelligent, super hot women out of my daughters who would one day rule the world Lysistrata-style.

Shockingly, I was wrong.

I have recently started working once a week at my daughter's pre-school and lets just say, the boys are rowdy and rambunctious, but the girls are worse.

Last week one girl threw shoes at my daughter's head, another refused to listen to me on the playground, another tried to exclude my daughter from several pieces of playground equipment because she is "too young," and yet another insists that every toy another child touches--even if it is across the room--is "hers."

Lest you think I believe my daughter is exempt, let me be clear: my daughter's behavior is the same. She snatches toys, throws massive fits, screams at other kids and last week, she scratched the faces of both her brother and one of the babies at her daycare. Ani is currently sporting two red streaks on his face from when his sister decided to channel a jungle cat:

This lady is crazy, yo.

Meanwhile, the boys. Ah, the boys. Those bastions of peace and equanimity. When Sam snatches one of the boys' toys, he only smiles and shows her how to use it. When she scratches their faces, they cry for a bit and then get over it, unlike the girls who are likely to tell their high school guidance counselors about this transgression a decade from now under the "and this is why my life is so screwed up" category.

These boys are chill little dudes and I want to hug each and every one of them. My feelings for the girls are more complicated. Of course, isn't that the male-female truth? We women are infinitely convoluted, complicated and tricky while men employ a "simpler is better" philosophy. And I, for one, am hoping that if I have a third, that we will be blessed with a boy.

The other day a friend and I were talking about someone we know and how her very thin mother always pressures her to lose weight. I was being my usual judgmental self and was denouncing that mother with fervor, until it occurred to me that I kind of got it.

It would never berate or insult my daughter if her body were not up to my “standards,” but I would be very disappointed if my daughter was not concerned about keeping her body fit and ready for action.

Some of my fondest memories of childhood were of the gym. My mother spent upwards of three hours a day working out between the gym and her yoga practice (she was a teacher) and I would often accompany her, trying out the various machines. In my gym, children do not roam free. In fact, it is downright dangerous. But back in the 80’s when pregnant women still smoked, children were free to lift, stretch and run all around the gym (at least at my mom’s).

From watching her, I learned how to eat right (she was a strict macrobiotic). I learned how to honor my body and I learned that it is not selfish to make space each day for exercise and physical fitness. Though she is dead, I think she would be proud to know that her values (and not my couch potato father’s) are now my own.

My husband is the same. Together we hike, run, kayak, swim, snow shoe, ski, snowboard, go to the gym, play softball and basketball and generally keep a very active lifestyle. We have taken 2-week long hiking/kayaking trips through Alaska and enjoyed that more than the honeymoon we spent lying on a beach. If our children did not want to participate, it would be a disappointment.

From the day she was born, Sam has been part of our active lifestyle. We have always walked everywhere (hence my five strollers). We run at least 10 miles together a week (although I like to do a lot of running sans stroller). She watches me in races and sometimes even comes along in the stroller. We try to get outside every day that is not below freezing and she stays in the kids’ playroom with her brother while I work out everyday. Every Sunday we do family swim and we had her 2nd birthday at our gym. We also always try to include our kids in our outdoor activities whether they are in the backpack for hiking or in the Ergo for snowshoeing.

I hope she is getting the message and I hope someday they will want to join us on long bikes, runs and hikes. So, would I be disappointed if she were another way? Yes, I would. And I am not ashamed to admit it.

For two years, I have taken care of Sam almost every day. When she turned one, we got two days of child-care, but even then, there were three days a week that she was mine, all mine.

This week we started her pre-school. It is three times a week. And coupled with the two days of childcare, that means I no longer have my Sam. Like, ever. There is not a single day in the week that we have to plan.

Both of us are adjusting. This morning, as she left the house, she refused to kiss me. I think she feels betrayed.

This is just our first week and I know it will get easier. Maybe. But if it doesn’t, I will be pulling her out of one day a week of the childcare. I need a day with my two-year-old who is still my baby.

Maybe I am just feeling emotional today because of this:

Last week a friend told me that she was fired from a daycare after only one day. Apparently her son had “too much separation anxiety.”

I felt for her. But my own experience has been so different. Sam can’t wait to get me out the door.

“Bye mommy,” she calls when I leave her at the gym daycare, her baby sitters, her grandparents or, most recently at her pre-school. I know I should be happy that I raised such an independent toddler, but something hurts just a little when my daughter is only too happy to see me go.

Don’t I mean anything to her? My son also seems to be following the path of his sister. Last week I left him with a sitter (the same one as my daughter) all day for the first time and, although I sense he missed my breasts, I am not sure he missed much more.

This independence is a double-edged sword, especially when my own separation anxiety is still in full force. I literally craved my son all day on Friday. Even though I knew I had to leave him, I did not want to.

He is only seven months, so I know he needs me. But what about my daughter?

“Go away,” she shouts when she wants me gone. Is she two or 15?

But Saturday morning, when my daughter woke up, she called for me.

“Mommy,” she said. I came right away and found her bed covered in vomit. She held me tight and cried. I stripped her sheets, washed them and gave her a bath.

Later that day, when she needed someone to pour her milk, hold her hand down the stairs and get her snacks, it was “Mommy.” When she was in the pool yesterday afternoon, she wanted to swim “by myself” but still clung to me with all the strength her little arms could muster. “Don’t let me go, Mommy,” she said, nuzzling her wet head into my arm.

She talks a good game, my girl. But she is still my baby.

Back when I was pregnant for the first time, I thought we would get one stroller—the Phil and Ted’s. It seemed like the ideal stroller for a growing family as it has the double option, plus it accommodated a newborn and most importantly, I could jog with it. Or so I thought.

Then and now:

As it turned out, a $500 stroller like the Phil and Ted’s is not the kind of stroller one wants to take on hard-core jogs. I believe when people say they “jog” with it, they mean 10-minute miles over the course of three miles. When I am running 8 miles at an 8-minute clip, the stroller is coming up flat—literally.

Somewhere along the way, we were given a Chicco fold-up travel stroller that we have never used, but we keep “just in case” that is currently gathering dust in our storage unit. But two strollers was not enough.

Enter stroller #3: the Baby Jogger.
I love, love, love this stroller, it’s true. The ride is so smooth and it can take much abuse. My daughter enjoyed it on long runs. But it is cumbersome, hard to fold and takes up a whole lot of space in our 1,000 square foot apartment. And what I did not realize is that we did not have a stroller that was ideal for the museums we frequented.

And so came stroller #4. The McClaren Volo. This is another fan favorite. Yes, it is a bit more expensive than the traditional umbrella stroller, but it is an extremely compact little guy that travels well, is comfortable for the babies and pivots on a dime—perfect for museums and the mall, not so much for long walks as the plastic wheels do not do well over cobblestone streets.

Not to be outdone, we are now testing our fifth stroller. Yes, five strollers in a 1,000 square foot apartment with two tiny closets, a chock-a-block storage space, two children and two pets. This one appears to be the holy grail of joggers—the BOB Ironman Duallie.

Thus far, I have only taken it on one walk (I have a broken foot), but expect a full review of it’s running capability in a few weeks.

And a memo to the stroller makers of the world: Let’s do ourselves a proper and create a stroller that has a tiny footprint; pivots easily; runs without pushing; has rubber wheels; traverses ice, snow and mud; carries various items; reclines and folds up no bigger than an umbrella. Seems easy enough, right?

The urge to protect our children from bad news is very strong. But sometimes they get more than we tell them. Three examples:

1) My husband is laid off as of March 16. When I got this news, it was in the car, driving Sam to daycare.

Sam: “Mommy, who that?”
Me: “That was Daddy.”
Sam: “He ok?”
Me: “Well, yes, he’s ok, but he got laid off.” (note: here I assume she will not understand the term “laid off” and will therefore return to playing with her slinky, satisfied with any answer.”)

But, instead:

Sam: “oh no! Poor Daddy. He ok?”

2) My sister often comes over to mooch dinner off of us after we have already made dinner for two. This leads to much joking about how Mar will “steal our food.” We did not think Sam understood until Auntie Mar and I went to pick up takeout the other night.

Sam: “where my burrito?”
Auntie Mar (holding the paper bag): “I have it, Sammy.”
Sam: “NOOOO! Auntie Mar!! Stay back! Stay back! Daddy, Auntie Mar take-a my rito! NOOO ! NOOOO Stay Back!” Screaming, crying, wailing, unintelligible tantrum follows.

Until….

Daddy: “Give me that burrito Mar.” He takes the bag, sets it on the table in front of Sam, who immediately calms.
Sam: “Thank you so much, Daddy.” She eyes Mar warily. “Auntie Mar stay back.”

3) I fell down the stairs and broke my foot last week. After I got back from the doctor, this is how it went with Sam:

Sam: “Mommy ok?”
Me: “I broke my foot.”
Sam: “Mommy foot purple?”
Me: “yes, Sammy. I broke it.”
Sam: “Poor Mommy. I kiss it.” She kisses my foot. “All better now, Mommy?”
Me: “Yes, thank you.”
Sam: “Mommy happy now.”

And the funny thing? I was.

Sam is a pretty perceptive person for one who dresses like this:

We are best friends. We are sparring partners. Nobody gets me like he does. He has given me infinite freedom to explore myself and never held me back from anything, always supporting me, always listening.

My parents always told me that the worst times in their 25-year marriage came after I was born—eight years into it. They almost split.

I know children break some marriages. But not ours. We are stronger than ever.

Because when I look at my children, I see their father—my best friend. I see this person who knows me better than anyone else. He is my partner and I feel so privileged to share my life and my children with this man.

I love being a family and I love him more as a father than I ever did just as a husband. I don’t need an excuse to tell him I love him, but I will take one anyway.

Happy Valentine’s Day. Someday I hope my children get this lucky in love.

One of the hardest parts of having children is accepting that they will grow. Each stage is so beautiful and yet so fleeting. I swear, I have a different child week to week.

My daughter went from this:

To this:

In what seemed like a moment. With her, it has been exciting to anticipate the new developments. To see her roll was amazing. To walk? Nothing short of miraculous. It is hard to be sad when each new milestone is so exciting.

Sam is leading the way, blazing the path and showing me just how fun a toddler can be. But her brother is growing far, far too fast. Maybe it is my sleep deprivation. Or maybe I am just in denial. But how on earth did my baby just turn six months old. Wasn’t I just pregnant with him?

He may be my last baby and I am not ashamed to say that letting him go is going to be so much harder. How did this happen? How could I possibly be discussing one day a week of childcare and solid foods for him when I still feel that he looks like this:

I better work this out before I give the kid serious Oedipal issues. I must breathe and remember that toddlers still need cuddles and love, too. Maybe I just need to have another. I have about a decade of fertile years left. I figure that leaves me with at least 10 kids before I actually have to face the reality of My Last Baby.

Look out, I am almost serious.