We drove up from and passed the border via car with no issues. We stayed in Yaletown, which was so perfectly situated for our little walks around the city. (This was simply the luck of the draw, it’s where NBC chose to house my husband during the Olympics. I’d say he got mighty lucky, indeed.) You couldn’t take one step without hitting the front entrance of a Starbucks (crucial when traveling with little ones!) And we took several morning trips via water bus to Granville Island, which has a place called the Kids Market, which was a total life-saver on several rainy days. We ate at fantastic restaurants (Indian, Middle Eastern, pubs). We met local moms and their kids. We bought out the kids department at H&M.

Unfortunately, we didn’t get to do as much as I would have liked, but we’ll be heading back up there again in late February. Second chances, you know? But until then, thanks to Vancouver for being so kid-friendly, so clean, and so friendly! We had such a great time and are looking forward to our next trip up…

I’m taking Pea to see The Nutcracker in SLC in a few weeks with one of her best friends from school, along with her mother. They are moving to Switzerland for two years. We are sad and will miss them very much. But this will be a celebration of sorts, and so we are going to get dressed up. But seeing as we don’t have many opportunities for fancy dress around here, I was not looking forward to dropping a wad on a one-time-only dress and shoes. But Pea has been begging me for a pouffy holiday dress. And so let me just give a big shout out of “thanks!” to good old Target for pulling through with quite the sophisticated selection. And machine washable, to boot! In fact, we scored so well for Pea that we threw in some dressy duds for little Coco, too. No red velvet, no white faux fur trim. Phew.

And if you’re into knitting, I’m completely obsessed with these two patterns: the first is a to-die-for sweater that you will put on and never, ever want to take off. The second is the most fabulously chic sleeveless-tunic-sweater-type thing. Only way cooler. So cool that there just aren’t really words to adequately describe how fantastically gorgeous this particular piece of clothing is. Both patterns were purchased on Etsy. Both were a steal.

And as we start to prepare to head up to Vancouver, B.C. for some time with my husband, who will be relocating there for six weeks to cover the Olympic games this winter, I took it as a golden opportunity to finally get my girls their passports. Which I know that I do not technically have to do. But I figured, why not? Just get it done. Pretend that Canada requires a U.S. passport for entry for a minor child and just get this tediously tortuous process of passporting the girls crossed off of my To Do List. And of course, it’s a great excuse to find them the most adorable passport covers ever, right? Which would be vinyl. Holds up well. And pink. Pea would have nothing less. And from Etsy. Support handmade, and all. Too adorable.

And Pea had her Thanksgiving feast with her fellow pre-K classmates this week, and we were assigned ’soup.’ I went out on a limb and made curried pumpkin-apple soup, and I can honestly say it was a decent hit with the four-to-five-year old contingent. I ladled each kid’s serving into an individual glass jar (risky? I wasn’t sure, but it turned out fine in the end…) that you’d use for canning preserves to make the commute from our home down the mountain to Pea’s school effortless. It involves many speed bumps and was bound to be a disaster, but worked out well and was actually pretty charming as an overall vessel for serving the soup. I opted to go without spoons and let the kids sip it out of their little jars. And the parents went nuts over what was remaining, always a good sign. And you have to love it when the room mother takes home five servings for her family. Flattery will get you everywhere with me. I think we’re going to add the soup to our Thanksgiving Day menu this week. We’ve never done soup before. Why not?

Which brings me to this last bit of information: hurry on down to your local grocery and buy up some canned pumpkin if you plan on making anything using canned pumpkin for the holidays this year. My husband heard a story on NPR last week that whatever canned pumpkin you see on the shelves at your local grocery? That’s all you’re going to see this season. There’s something wonky with the pumpkin crops or something, and what you see is what you get. I ran out and bought several huge cans of the good stuff as soon as I heard. No way I’m risking a Thanksgiving without pumpkin pie. It would haunt me for the coming year…

Good luck!

We have some big changes going on around here. And no, I am not pregnant. Not going to happen. Two hands, two kids, remember? More on those changes in the coming days…

We’re back in school. I have a pre-kindergartner now. Five days a week. Five! And a new play-group on Fridays that both girls have been invited to join. And our first official camping trip this weekend with some of our friends and all of their kids. It’s going to be a rowdy, raucous and sleepless weekend.

We can’t wait…

Baby Bean Vintage Daywear was local to us. Dallas. And as a newly-arrived East Coaster, I was having a hard time adjusting to life in Texas. My childhood images (stereotypical as they might have been at the time) of Texas were sure to prove reality, right? Because it was my understanding that everyone in Texas was a cattle rancher. They all rode horses, lived in chaps and spoke with a distinctive George Bush-ish twang. Right? Wrong.

Dallas turned out to be pretty sophisticated. Yes, my husband’s family actually were cattle ranchers in East Texas, but there were no chaps to speak of. Chic little boutique hotels (like Hotel Zaza), fantastic dining and local clothing labels to make your heart skip a beat did abound, however. And among those lines? Baby Bean Vintage Daywear.

So, like I said, I added them to my list. And then, Pea turned one. And the child was quite literally growing at warp speed. Some items of clothing? She wore only once. And that one time she wore it? She wore it without the buttons buttoned. Let’s just say that she’s always been well ahead of the curve when it came to size. And so it became my duty to dress her reasonably in inexpensive “throw-away” clothing. Boring.

And while Pea was still growing like a weed, along came little Coco. Oh, petite little Coco. The child is still wearing a 6-12 month dress and her shoes? Don’t even get me started. She’s still in soft-soled baby shoes because there are no “big-girl” shoes for such a tiny foot. And so? Baby Bean, lookout! I was going to get her one of their adorably chic little baby dresses. And I did. And Coco has literally been living in this little halter dress all summer.

Here she is, two Sundays ago, at the local Farmer’s Market. Tough to get a picture of a munchkin who is constantly in motion, but here it is. I adore this dress. It’s the most adorable cut, a halter with the most gorgeous ribbon trim at the hem, and it has a substantial amount of stretch to it, so I know that it’s a dress that’s going to grow with her for a season or two. In fact, I’ve already picked out several tee-shirts that we can layer it over for the coming cooler months. The color, the cut, the trim – it’s all so well thought out and I’m so glad that I finally bought a Baby Bean. I just wish they made this in my size.

Making new friends at my age is tough. Even with children as an ice breaker, it is still intimidating for me, to see groups of women who are bonded to one another already. It feels like being the new kid in school. Which I was. My first day of high school was just that. New kid, way over-dressed, in a freshman class of nearly 1,000 students. And making new friends here? Or anywhere? Feels just like those bygone days. I wish that I could fast-forward to a point somewhere in the future where I’ve done all of the hard and awkward work. And my phone is ringing. And it’s my mommy friend, telling me to hurry on down to Starbuck’s.

Although I’ve always had friends, I’ve also been somewhat of a lone wolf, if you will. I need a lot of space. Always have. As a kid, I was a reader and a thinker. And while I dabbled in sports and student government, I also flitted around between social groups. As I grew, that didn’t change too much. Until college. When I really came out of my shell. There was, apparently, a raging social butterfly inside of me that was just itching to get out. And get out she did. But once I left college and got out into the working world, making new friends became more difficult. There was a group of four of us from my first job at Showtime Networks who bonded. And eventually we all left Showtime and went on to new jobs, but we were still connected. Living in New York City, we clung to one another. We did everything together. As four women, we could not have been more different. There was Jen, who was living with an attorney, a Partner is a huge practice. They took me under their wing. We had such fun times, the three of us, tearing up the city. They were older, wiser. We ate at incredible restaurants. Drank the best wine. Took day trips to Block Island on a tiny plane that he piloted himself. I hosted her bridal shower when he finally popped the question. But they eventually traded in city life for a large old house in the country. Never had kids. Didn’t want children to interfere with their lifestyle. And then, there was Rachel. She was dating a guy. Forever. They broke up. Got back together. Broke up again. She was NYC born and bred. And a lot of fun. Eventually, she and her boyfriend took the plunge and got married, moved to Kentucky, had a baby just one month before we had Pea. And, Deb. Married. Dying for a child but having trouble getting pregnant. She had such phenomenal taste. She was gorgeous, the spitting image of Carolyn Bessette-Kennedy. But she moved to LA with her husband. Was pregnant within months. Then divorced. And as far as I know, still out there in LA. And… me. I left NYC for Iowa. Then returned. Got married. Moved to Texas. Had my babies. Then, on to Utah. And these three women and myself? Lost contact. Different paths. Different goals. Different lifestyles. Sigh. I miss them. But when your circumstances change, everything else tends to change, too. Good friends become old friends. Old friends move on. Move on hopefully to make way for new friends.

And back to my new friends, one of the women sent me an email before I left my house telling me that since we’d never met before, she’d be the one with the pink rose in her lapel. I knew, right then, that we were going to hit it off. I was so right…

They are business partners, one is the financial brains and the other is the creative mind. And they are close friends and balance each other well. One is married, in her late 30s with a kid. The other is in her late 20s, and single. And they are awesome. And my newest girlfriends here in my adopted hometown. That’s right, I have girlfriends!

We met for cocktails and appetizers. I got there at 4. Assumed I’d be home by 5. Rolled into my house at 6:30 to a husband who thought he’d all but been abandoned. I had fun. So much fun. Laughed, talked, joked and made future plans. Lots of future plans. These girls are right up my alley. Smart, funny, down-to-earth.

And when I returned home? An email from my other new mommy friend. We are having a play-date – my first ever – on Friday. I just love filling up my little day planner with social events. It feels like I am finally in the loop. The mommy loop…

I always thought I would have a girl and a boy. That’s how I grew up. Although I have step- and half-siblings, in my mother’s home, it was my brother and me. So maybe that’s why I thought it’d be that way for me when I had my own family.

But we have two little girls. And we could not be more delighted by that. Although Coco is still forming her little personality, I am beginning to catch glimpses of who she’s going to become. And I like it. She’s sweet and angelic and quiet. But she has a glint in her eye. A glimmer of mischievousness, if you will. I think I’m going to have my hands full with that one. And Pea, well, she’s coming up on three and she is just amazing to watch grow every single day. The things she says… they just blow my mind. And although she’s very pretty and graceful and loves tea parties and ballerinas, she’s also a tom-boy, through and through. Just like her mama was. She loves to be outside and she loves to climb and she hates to wear shoes. My mother says it’s like watching my childhood all over again.

So it delights me that my husband buys her things like train sets and snow-shoes and basketball hoops. Who doesn’t want their kids to be well-rounded? And who wouldn’t want a little girl in a pink tutu to be tough as nails?

This afternoon, I came home from getting a haircut, and when I walked into the Great Room, Pea was standing on the coffee table with a towering building hovering over her head by about two feet. It was enormous, very intricately built and evenly balanced and she was waiting with baited breath for her father’s “go!” so that she could knock it down. She was referring to herself as “Pea-zilla,” and she meant business.

My husband had ordered her a set of building blocks by Kapla. And not just any set, but the deluxe TWO HUNDRED PIECE set. Over the weekend, he was in San Jose, California, and his hotel was across the street from The Tech Museum of Innovation and he eyed them in the gift shop. When he returned home, he ordered them for Pea and let’s just suffice it to say that with 200 little wooden building blocks (made with wood from renewable French forests, I proudly add), the sky is quite literally the limit. They were building towers and houses and even bridges.

Building things? Fun. Collecting and storing 200 wooden blocks? Not so much fun. But worth it.

We did bring something home that day, although it wasn’t the Siberian Husky I’d fallen in love with; the one who dragged me around the entire fenced-in property by his leash. It was, instead, a tiny little Yorkie that my mother named Liza. As in Minnelli. You can imagine how thrilled I was. No offense to the Yorkie lovers out there (my mother-in-law included, proud owner of three), but in my book, that is hardly a dog. I mean, what is it about those little buggers, that they just cannot do their business anywhere but inside… on the floor? Anyway, she was still a dog. And I was a small child. And I was attached. Day one went something like this… I woke up very early in the morning with my father to let the little girl out into the fenced-in dog run attached to the breakfast room. She came back in and we fed her. I left, albeit unwillingly, for school. I talked about her all day. I dreamt about her all day. I rushed home after school, fully prepared to be met at the door by my new little puppy. I was not. I went into my bedroom and there it was. A hamster. No dog. A hamster. Had it all been a dream? A cruel joke? I kissed a dog goodbye and only a few hours later was greeted by a hamster?

It was not a dream. Or a joke. My little puppy had pooped on the basement floor. And she had worms. Pretty normal, right? Not for my mother. Dog went right back to the shelter and was replaced with a hamster. And I cared for that hamster. I did. She was sweet, her name was Fluffy. But she didn’t live long. And I couldn’t take her on walks around the neighborhood, or play fetch with her. Although I do remember a few trips down the slide on our backyard jungle-gym.

Like I said, my mother is just not an animal person. Rodents didn’t seem to be a problem. Is a hamster even a rodent? I don’t know. But there were a few… after Fluffy came Squeaky. I don’t remember who came after that. They were interspersed with lots and lots of guppies. And then Max. He came when I was 16, after years and years of begging for… you guessed it… a dog. I asked for a dog and I got a cat. Humph.

I love my mother dearly, but I will be honest here. I have forgiven her for many, many things over the years. But never for this. Never for swapping my dog for a hamster. Disagree with me if you like, but I think that children should have dogs. I just do. And I honestly feel cheated.

Until recently, we were a two dog household. And not just any dogs, but two large, slobbering and clumsy dogs. Chamo was our most precious black Lab and I don’t know a better dog in all the world. He was incredible, and although he was already four when he came into my life via my then-boyfriend (and now husband), I can honestly say that he was the first dog that I ever fell in love with. He was incredible, everything you could want a dog to be. And then, there is Atticus, our Border Collie / Australian Shepherd cross. The sweetest and dopiest dog ever. He smiles. No joke. A real smile. Something like only 2% of dogs do that, and we have one of them. I rescued him when I lived in Ames, Iowa. He’s my little sidekick, but he’s passionately in love with my husband. My husband, the ultimate Master to his dogs.

Anyway, when we lost Chamo, I was sure I’d never have another dog again. It was the most God-awful thing I’d gone through and I was sure I’d never recover. It’s been a long road, and we still talk about Chamo all the time. We have a portrait of him that hangs in our Family Room that was done by an artist down in Fairhope, Alabama. Which, although a little off topic, I should mention is one of the most charming little American resort towns I’ve ever visited. And I’ve been to many. This one is down on the Gulf Shore and is full of quaint little shops and good restaurants and the most incredible little bed & breakfast, had a French name, but it’s escaping me right now. Anyway, Chamo’s spirit is always with us, and recently, we just started talking about adding another dog to the household. For me, after more than half a year of constant grieving, I’m able to step back and see that the energy in our house is a little off kilter, and I’m sure it’s because we’ve always had two dogs. So…

As the snow continues to melt and spring heads our way, we’re thinking about dogs. And although the black Lab seems to be the official dog of our little town, I’m not willing to go there. It would be unfair to a new puppy, those enormous paws that Chamo left behind would be too hard to fill. But I know I want another Retriever, whether it be a chocolate (my husband’s newest idea) or a Chesapeake Bay. I know there’s another Retriever out there for us, another little guy who’s going to love to chase Frisbees and make a small flood in the kitchen after drinking from the water bowl and get fur all over everything. And I can’t wait…

Right now, I’m standing in the kitchen on my husband’s laptop. Although it’s dark out, I am now looking out the wall of windows that overlooks the valley below, and the lights in all of the houses are twinkling and it’s so breathtakingly beautiful and I just can’t believe that this is my view now. I hope I don’t ever forget how fortunate we are to call this little town home.

And are you wondering what my husband is doing right now? He ran out to the Home Depot not that long ago and came home with new toilets. He’s replacing toilet #1 right now. So, one down and only four more to go. Can you imagine? He makes fun of me and my “issues,” but he’s the one who is replacing toilets? God love him for it, I just wish he’d take a break. He never stops…

So he arrived home, Pea loved her nesting dolls, played with them all afternoon and then they want onto a high shelf in her bedroom for when she is older (and more delicate at playtime). Coco’s also went onto a shelf in her room, too, to be enjoyed when she is older. And then I gave the third set to my mother-in-law to give to our niece. She sees her more than we do. Much more. As in she’s practically raising the kid. So it just made sense.

We never heard from anyone about Lilly receiving the dolls. No one emailed or called or even mentioned it in conversation. So we let it go. Oh well, right? It’s that whole differing opinion on thank you notes that has had me at odds with my husband’s family for years. I grew up in a household where you wrote your thank you notes before you could play with your new toys. It’s just how it was, and that has stuck with me to this day. I write thank you notes for everything, from gifts to special care I’ve received from someone in the service industry to my neighbors, who so graciously watered our plants while we were out of town for two days. And if you grew up not writing thank you notes, than you will think that I am uppity. And I admit, I am a little uppity, but this kind of an upbringing was just ingrained in me and I’ve chosen to continue the tradition with my own children. Although they are too young to write notes now, I write them on their behalf.

Fast forward to yesterday afternoon. My mother-in-law requested that my husband, who is preparing for another trip to Russia, although this time to Moscow, bring back a new set of nesting dolls. But this time, she asked for them for herself. Something ridiculous about wanting them so that she can pretend she’s the tiny little doll at the end. Uh… she’s so not being honest. Because she’s mentioned to me two times in the past that the next time my husband is in Russia, he just has to bring back a new set of dolls for Lilly because the ones that he brought her back were too, and I quote, “itty bitty.” “Oh, and while you are at it, bring me some of those cute little Russian pencils, too. You know, the ones you gave Pea.”

These, above, are the pencils she’s referring to.

Anyway, I am so unnerved by this. Am I crazy? Do I let these people get to me too much? Because they just seem so ungrateful. Not only did no one ever even acknowledge that my husband brought back these wonderful little dolls for Lilly, but they’ve apparently all come to an agreement that they aren’t good enough for little Lilly and so my husband should now go out of his way to find her new ones – better ones – the kind that he brought back for his own girls.

I’m sure you can see where this is going. I told my husband, under no uncertain terms, was he to bring those dolls back for Lilly. And it kills me that I’m acting like a spoiled and petulant child, but I just feel so frustrated that nothing is ever good enough for these people. We go out of our way, time and again, to think of everyone. We call when our nieces and nephews are sick. We go to dance competitions. We go to birthday parties. We send gifts. We send cards. We bring back souvenirs from far away lands. But nothing, and I repeat, nothing we do is ever good enough for these people.

Is it me? Is it just me? Do I expect too much? Am I too hard on these people? Should I let go? Can I let go?

Let’s just say that last night was hell, of the kind that I’ve never really lived through. My brother’s ridiculously small loft apartment is little more than a living area and a kitchen area. And while it’s luxuriously large by New York standards, when you are coming from Texas and are used to having 3,000 square feet, his apartment was positively claustrophobic. Add to it the bewilderment that I had at knowing that he paid nearly twice for his little home in NYC that we paid for our big comfortable home in Fort Worth, and I could barely breathe. And I’m not knocking his life there in NYC, it’s a cool life – all hip and interesting and intellectual and all that… But those walls were closing in on my family and me. And fast.

Pea basically slept in an alcove in the kitchen – right next to the front door. I had to creep past her to get to the bathroom several times, me suffering from world’s-tiniest-bladder syndrome, and all. And Coco slept in the living room, which is conveniently the same room as the bedroom. And she decided that she didn’t want to sleep. So by 1 am, when I’d already been to soothe her several times, I’d had it. And let me clarify: we are not wimps. We are brave road warriors, even with two baby girls in tow. But this was rough. It was so loud. Noise that I just don’t remember. I kept asking my husband “is this how it was when we lived here?” He swore it was, that we just got used to it. But is that really possible? To get used to that kind of grinding, squealing, honking noise? There were dump trucks, delivery trucks, a bunch of drunks at one point, all outside our window. And then, the flashing lights of a police cruiser, bouncing rhythmically off of the walls of the apartment for what seemed like hours. It just never stopped. I literally had three minor panic attacks during this time, it was insane. I just don’t remember that part of New York City. The energy just doesn’t ever die down, even when you want it to. When you need it to. It was clear we were not going to get to sleep there. Ever. So I did what I always do when the going gets rough. I ran into the bathroom and threw on some sweats with the determination to escape – to flee the apartment – alone – and just wander the streets of NYC. By myself. I was going to get lost.

And that’s the beauty of New York City. You can literally get lost in it and never be found. It’s such a tiny little island, too, Manhattan is. And I just longed to be out there. On my own. I wanted to walk and walk and walk. And then walk some more.

But then Pea came into the bathroom and reminded me why I not only cannot “get lost,” but why I also might not want to. She hugged me. Said she loved me. And that she was now ready to party. She was not going back to sleep and I was not going to escape that stifling night and so we – as a family – were simply going to get on the first flight back home. Wow, it was hard to hear that from my husband, that we were throwing in the towel. But he was so convinced that this trip was not going to work. We were cramped, it was noisy, and we just had to go home. So we did.

Four am this morning, we were in the back-seat of a cab on the way back to LaGuardia. No visit to my father’s home in Locust Valley for dinner with the family. No NY slice. No chana masala at Baluchi’s. No salt bagel with butter. No Central Park. No Serendipity. No FAO Schwartz. No showing Pea mama’s old apartment building on Christopher Street. No Bigelow’s.

I went to New York City and all I got was a lousy piece of moussaka.