I May Need Intervention...

Anyone else notice how stores are selling holiday items earlier and earlier each year? I don't recall seeing artificial trees or isles bellowing holiday greetings until after Thanksgiving as a child. I have a theory though- the direct correlation of early holiday accoutrement sales, and the growing obesity epidemic sweeping the nation is no coincidence.

I’ll admit it. I frequent Target stores. Sometimes, I put in the same amount of hours as the store manager, but in shopping. Just last month, nearly a quarter of the store was roped off for frenzied back-to-school shoppers. Trust me, if you need pencil sharpener anywhere near this time of year, you may want to consider your kitchen knives as a safer alternative.

The minute schools were back in session all the Target stores plowed their back-to-school sections to make way for Halloween delights. The floor to ceiling bags of sugary bliss, filled with mini bites of candy bar goodness; trick-or treat canisters lined up neatly beckoning to be filled with the fruits of labor of going door-to-door. Shelves overflowing many, many weeks before the season had even changed. Do parents really prepare this soon in advance for Halloween with success?

Let’s be truthful here. How many people actually make it to Halloween night, without eating half of their candy stash?

I’m not an impulsive shopper. I’m not the one who grocers strategically bait their check out lines with candy, gum, and snacks for. I purchase my gum by the 6-six pack from a different isle in the back of the store, just because it’s cheaper. But when it comes to Halloween candy…it's a whole new bucket of worms. Stores are now heavily armed in all corners of the building, so that you’re completely surrounded, and must eventually surrender to the candy artillery (not to mention their low prices that you swear will be higher in a few weeks).

Every year, I promise myself not to succumb to the candy pressures until closer to Halloween. But stores like Target marketing them sooner every year is making it tough. Throw in a $1 off Sunday coupon, and it's all over. I now own more pounds of individually wrapped chocolates than I do fruit. And the candy probably won't even last a week. At least now I can show my daughter how a bag of healthy grapes in our fridge can slowly turn into raisins! The frantic scene of me digging through cabinets for leftover restaurant mints as trick-or-treaters come banging down my door, has become a tradition in our house; one that I am obviously not going to break this year. My flabby mid-section is praying those shiny, pre-gift wrapped boxes of Russell Stover are kept off the shelves just a few more weeks.

Moms Don't Do This...

A mother’s voice can penetrate like no other. I made the regretted decision of calling my mother first thing this morning. Obviously distracted by a blaring YouTube music video in the background, I offered to call her back. Unnoticed, she went on to rant about what I thought would be her real estate predicament. “Oh, so I may have found someone to rent out your grandma’s condo to…ya-da-ya-da-ya-da- Damn! This pianist is amazing!” Following her tangent, I replied, “Yeah, I love listening to piano, I wish I knew how to play. I always wanted to take lessons.” Then without any hesitation, nor filtration from cognitive thought to voice, she replied, “Sandy, you would never make it.” And there it was, so matter-of-fact. Absolute. Six hellish words that have pitch forked my life for the past 29 years; six words that have paved my non-directional path.

“You would never make it.” “It’s different, because you’re a girl.” “You would not be good at that.” “You wouldn’t like it anyway.” “We’ll see if you will actually graduate.” Her venomous inclinations always administered directly into my veins. Slowly. Over time, poisoning my self-esteem. Her unspoken words, mannerisms, and glances of doubt, all sting and scar more severely than any instrument or substance on earth.

What’s wrong with me? What have I done to give her this impression? Why do others who are close, see me through such different eyes? I must have done something wrong. Maybe I didn’t walk soon enough, speak as well as others, or live up to her expectations. I don’t know. But I do know that on my own, I skipped a year in high school, was awarded a full scholarship in college, always graduated at the top of my class, and have been placed in charge of many nursing staff, most older than my mother. Alone. I accomplished them all without her support. No mom cheering in my section. I suppose those things have no merit. No tangible worth. Well at least, not to her.

As I write this, I’m sitting at a playground with my daughter. My eyes wring out familiar tears, as I hope to cultivate finer ways within her. I also can’t help but look around and wonder. How many of these uncontaminated children will be filled with poison? Their emotional growth stunted before even given a chance to laugh or cry? How many will suffer the uncensored disappointments of their mothers, consciously and unconsciously, echoing in their minds forever.

Duck. Duck. Duck. Duck- GOOSED!

For the 1 in 1,002,701 people this could happen to, I found a solution that can save time and sanity.

I recently read an article from a well-respected mom author. She claims that a child’s desire to learn is just a part of nature. They are merely “scientists researching cause and effect”. And if we, as parents, can turn off the nagging inclination to say, “stop!” then we can truly begin to see our children as constant unfolding miracles.

Well, my 2-year old daughter is certainly a little Einstein. There is no coincidence that her initials are E.M.C. And as for experimentation, yep, she does plenty of it. You see she has toys, lots of them. She has accumulated so many in recent weeks, that I can barely keep track of them. In fact, I don’t think she can either. So suddenly, toys from last month are practically new again, and toys from last year are jackpot.

In early summer I made an impulse purchase. We passed the luring $1 dollar section of a store, always conveniently placed right at the front entrance. My daughter screamed, “Duckie, pink…mommy!” I thought, why not? One dollar for a more peaceful day of running errands, sure. Now if only I had the foresight to see that I was inviting a cheap, pink, plastic menace into my house, only to steal what little sanity I have left after 2 years.

Usually we keep the duck in the tub for bath time. Somehow, the pink creature got loose and found it’s way into my living room. Now I’m no scientist, but this duck, has no feet.

Its pink effervescence summoned my Madame Curie over to explore. On one side of the duck, there is a round hole that allows access to fill it with water. So of course with the faucet out of her reach, what else could she use instead? She scoured the room. Minutes passed before she managed to excavate old wooden shapes tucked beneath an end table, and filled the duck with perfectly shaped cylinders to fit right into the hole in the duck; Genius, right? Negative.

Cause: Pink duck full of wooden cylinder shapes.
Effect: Mom loses her mind trying to get them out.

Did I mention that the duck is made of plastic? Hard plastic? An unyielding, cheap, fluorescent plastic with just one hole the same diameter of 1 cylinder. Oh, and she managed to wedge in five of them? Five little soldiers all lined up in there, waiting to take me down.

For two hours I tried everything. Cutting the hole larger. Shaking. Shaking gently. Tilting it. I did everything short of throwing the stupid $1 dollar toy into the trash.

Then it happened. A voice over my shoulder said, “Here honey, let me help you.”
OH NO! No freaking way. I panicked. My mind raced. I had to figure this out, and quick. Sure no life was on the line, but now my sanity and pride were at stake. But how do I get those damn things out? Hmm. A light bulb flickered above my head… Ah ha, yes! And off into the kitchen I went to find the tool to prove my hypothesis.

Approximately five minutes later, all 5 cylinders were in my captivity, and the duck was put away on a high shelf. I fished each little bugger out and made sure my daughter watched and learned from my own experiment.

I think it’s safe to say, that the next time I see anything go near this duck, my nagging inclination to say, “Stop!” will definitely be turned on.
Notice the Scotch tape. Listen up moms. Washable crayons, stain remover, AND scotch tape are toddler essentials ;)

Breaking the Work-at-Home Habits

Moms who juggle the roles of work and family under the same roof, often become caught in the tug of war: work or spend time with the kids. Sadly this is where I discovered the seesaw effect: spend more time with my daughter, and then my work suffers, or focus on work, to then have my daughter suffer. So how does one find a way to level the teeter-totter?

In the past year, I’ve wrestled with this ongoing battle as a mom of 1, while working from home online. In the beginning, the adjustment of being a new mom, and planting my entrepreneurial roots online was complete chaos. I had quickly learned two very important new skills: copy and paste, and how to do EVERYTHING one-handed. After 9 months of breastfeeding my daughter on one side, then typing one-handed on the other, while simultaneously wedging a phone between my tilted head and shoulder during conference calls, something had to give.

Besides my daily online commute, I was also working part-time on the weekends in a bustling Intensive Care Unit in a hospital. Can you say “Overload’? Over time, I found myself playing catch up on the weekdays lulled to my monitor like a moth to a flame, dazed by the constant projects, emails, and IM’s. Like an addict, it was my drug; only to be interrupted every 3 hours to breastfeed my daughter, or to graze on whatever food was accessible (meaning didn’t require cooking) from the kitchen. By dinner my husband was home from work, only to fulfill a 2-hour ‘temp’ parental position, usually requiring me to follow closely for damage control.

The reality is becoming a mom has offered me the toughest project in my career. After 9 months of swimming upstream in this turbulent world, my moment of truth came while away on vacation. My husband was watching TV in the hotel room as my daughter took her afternoon nap. So I tiptoed out of the room to do the unthinkable...Yes, to look for the nearest business center to check my email! I may as well have been a “social drinker” taking a swig of beer from a brown paper bag in a bathroom stall. Only then did things become clear- I needed to make some changes, quick.

Work would always be there. Being an entrepreneur is not like writing a book. There is no tangible end or completion point when starting out. So the floodgates opened and it hit me like a wall. No matter how many emails I read through, projects I completed, there would always be more; but my daughter’s first words, steps and embraces will not. My daughter’s childhood will only happen once, and who am I to put a price on that.

So back to the seesaw is where I find myself- where both ends of the structure must exist. After leaving my position as a nurse, and several relapses, I struggled for a working balance. I made a promise that no matter what, I would designate time for my daughter each day and take her out of the house (for playgroups, the library, park, etc). And I began designating hours in the day for work, leaving everything else for my family. There was never a shortage of moms advising me to schedule my time, but until I took the initial steps to create my own balance, it would never happen. Sure, it was hard breaking the addictions. The need to check emails constantly throughout the day was especially hard to shake, and still is. The temptation is always there, like a pack of cigarettes sitting on my desk. Only my addiction pings to summon me. I must remember that in the end, when those entrepreneurial roots bloom into a beautiful array, I need to make sure that I’m still connected to my family, so we can all bask in it’s glory together (or suffer defeat in good company).

Wedding decline

I just received a forwarded email from my parents today; originally from a family member announcing her upcoming nuptials. In a futile attempt to put feelings of animosity aside, I replied to my parents “Would rather die than go the wedding. I have another wedding that same month to attend, can only deal with one crazy family gathering at a time.” Too harsh? Maybe, but I don’t think so.

When using the term “crazy,” I use it in the most benevolent context. Not inferring the terrorist or serial killer mentality. But rather a prevailing image I have of her after 3 decades without so much as a phone call or birthday card, just a curt reply to my heart felt letters sent as a little girl saying “leave me alone!” I suppose things like this are bound to instill some feelings of resentment. Oh, and did I mention that I did not receive even a card, or anything for that matter for my wedding or the birth of my child?

I digress. My immediate thoughts before closing my internet browser already drew the grim wedding scenario- A ridiculously posh, upscale, and over-the-top event; ceremony and reception dripping with overpriced accoutrements; all to show off the bride and grooms untouchable status. Oh, and of course, their contrived herd of friends would closely follow suit. The icing on the cake- the father of the bride. The most unrefined, pompous man I’ve ever met. Sure to stop by my table savoring the loaded question “So, I hear you’re a stay-at-home mom now.” Toss in a chuckle. “Well, my daughter wanted to make tons of money before starting her family (muh-ha-ha!). Yeah, her wedding expenses were over 10 ga-zillion dollars.” Chuckling resumes as he turns to his next victim.

Let me break this down. Three hours chocking in a room full of stuffy, well-to-do snobs, not nearly enough alcohol to get me through the night, and a guaranteed familial insult…Hmm, I think I’ll stand firm to my original verdict, “I would rather die”.

Oh Boy!--What a Girl :)

Need I say more......

Heading Home

Reuniting with someone from the past can send the most self-assured person into a frenzied mess. Somehow it instills a level of anticipation, curiosity, and sometimes fear. What will they look like? What are they doing now with their life? Will there be that weird silence? Does this skirt make me look fat? A hodgepodge of questions and concerns racked my brain as I received a text message confirming a small reunion.

This month I managed to haul my family down to Miami to see my parents and grandmothers just in time for the dreadfully hot, sticky summer. In the midst of the mosquitoes and family madness, I managed to break free for an evening to reunite with my college friends. Seconds after booking my ticket 3 weeks prior, I knew I had to do something with the way I looked. The last time I saw these girls I was single, 2 sizes smaller, always in heels, punctual, and wearing a great south beach tan. Fast-forward to July 2007- none of the above, except maybe on occasion, punctual.

So there I was. Standing in the bathroom of my parent’s house 5 years later, pacing in anticipation of seeing my old friends again as a mom for the first time. I latched on to all means possible in recreating my then 24- year old image. Exfoliating every inch of my skin. Meticulously combing my lashes with mascara, hoping it would somehow lengthen my youth. Caking pressed powder on my face in a futile effort to cover up the many traces of my motherhood.

As I sit down into my uncomfortable wooden chair at the noisy restaurant, I realize that about a dozen empty seats surround me- at least I’m still “punctual.” Soon the seats around me fill with familiar faces, and I realize that they’re mostly moms too. The moment I gave each a hug, I immediately remembered the care-free, single life we all once shared for a period in our lives; A time that I hold very dearly; times that have molded me into who I am today; memories that I often visit. Soon enough, the 5 years I’ve spent away quickly faded, and it didn’t matter that my mascara had smeared. A good friend whispered in my ear and chuckled “we’re all so grown up now, aren’t we?” It’s crazy, but true. These gals, who I spent endless hours with studying at Starbucks, celebrating finals at a local bar, were now- mothers. Those reckless times seem so intangible now. As we fondly looked through old photos from us all hanging out, my friend described those times for us best, “it was….
T-h-e-r-a-p-y”- Indeed it was.

NYC Bus- "Dra-mom-a"

Boston to NYC
9:25am: Kiss my husband and daughter goodbye in front of train station

9:26am: Daughter reaches out her arms for me from car seat as they drive away- Heart ripped from chest.

9:45am: Stand 1st in line to board the China Bus for first dibs on seating.

9:55am: Tall brunette college student asks to sit next to me. Thank goodness it’s her and not that guy 3 rows ahead talking to him self.

10:52am: Dabble a bit of writing in my journal.
10:54am: Stop because the girl sitting next to me is trying to read it.

Noon: Wake up from the road-raging Chinese bus driver laying into the horn while swerving through traffic.

12:15pm: Repeat

12:45pm: Starving. Must pee really bad, but will wait for pit stop.

1:30pm: Given up all hope for a pit stop. Bladder about to explode. Stomach self-digesting

2pm: Arrive in NY Chinatown. Bolt off bus. Find out nearest train station to friend’s apartment is 5 blocks away.

NYC to Boston
2pm: Say goodbye to friend and hail a cab.

2:15pm: Wonder why the cabby is taking the wrong streets to Chinatown.
2:17pm: Sit in traffic. Watch the meter tick higher and higher. Understand why we’re taking the long route.

2:25pm: Hand the driver $12 for what should have been a $6 cab ride and slam the door.

2:30pm: 3rd to last to board China bus.

2:31pm: Grab only vacant seat near window. Pray someone doesn’t sit next to me so I can sprawl out.

2:32pm: Teenage girl asks “do you think you can sit next to someone so that me and my daddy can sit together?” (“Daddy”, how old are we?). < Sigh> “Fine!”

2:33pm: “Move to the only vacant seat, right next to a guy wearing a yarmulke.

2:34pm: Guy wastes no time initiating conversation. Asks all sorts of questions with big flirty smile. Lose any hope for napping.

2:45pm: More questions. Try to get a word in edgewise to mention my HUSBAND and DAUGHTER.

2:53pm: Guy confesses his strong desire to find a wife. Wish I was anywhere but here.

2:55pm: Find out that I was just hit on by a RABBI. Lose all hope for religion. Quickly pull out a picture of my daughter on her first birthday.

2:57pm: Guy sits back, closes his eyes to sleep - Hallelujah!


Summation:
- Great time in NYC with old friend as always.
- Bus ride to NY- quick, precarious, physically uncomfortable.
- Ride back home- Long, disheartening, quite uncomfortable all around.

Conclusion:
- Leaving my husband and baby girl for a 24 hour sample of the city life- heart-wrenching at first, but sooo worth the mani & pedi and full day of no tantrums.

- When recapping for my husband, I’ll blame the shameless hit on by a rabbi on my small wedding ring size. “People must not be able to see it”. Must address immediately.

A Day In Maine

For my husbands Birthday weekend, we decided to embark on yet another one of my signature “stealth-weekend-getaways” that usually encompasses approximately 24 hours in another city. Completely blank on ideas on where to go, I somehow managed to stumble upon $20 Amtrak tickets to Maine. You can hardly get half a tank of gas for that these days.

I had no idea what to expect on our first journey to Portland, Maine. In a nutshell, it was “nice”. After visiting NYC several times in the past few months, and now living near Boston, I had become remiss of what land was like when left completely untouched.

As I watched the landscape pass from our coach-car window, the endless view of greenery and blue sky instilled a sense of peace that I can hardly describe in text; miles and miles without a hint of concrete, a car, street light, or human life. Only every so often were there were subtle marks of suburban life- a house here and there, t-shirts flapping on a clothesline, a swimming pool (geez, I hope it’s heated). Just tiny flickers of the rural lives tucked away in the pockets of Maine.

In true form, us Corredera’s took on the streets of this foreign town (at least to us) with no car or any real plans. Figuring out the city bus system and how to get around with a toddler (and no car seat) was quite the challenge, but we were up for it. Luckily, our bus driver was incredibly kind and guided us well in our unmapped quest.

Within our 24 hour stint, we managed to steer through Portland’s old and uneven cobblestone streets, and bask in the salty air along the harbor. The abundant art inspired locals were reminiscent of the artsy San Franciscans we had once visited; with their dark, streaky-dyed hair lying over their fair skin that must have been hidden from the sun all winter; often times carrying a sketchbook or a guitar. They all seemed to walk with a heavier step than what I am accustomed to. Possibly because of the long, wintry lifestyle they must endure. Speaking of which, we were clearly “the visitors”; the only family walking down the streets wearing sweaters, much less sleeves. I guess 45 degrees and sun, equals shorts and tanks tops here. Pay no mind to us wussy southern Californians running for cover from the wind.

Nonetheless, the trip was as success; just a little sample of another town; one more coastal place where seagulls’ frolic and confetti the sky; where caws evoke blissful memories from the past. A place where the warm orange and powdery blue skies blanket the town below while the sun tucks itself away at the close of another day.

The Ex Box

Ever since I sifted through a miscellaneous drawer in my night table, there's been this question I can not seem to shake. Stuck between two pages of a small photo album, I came across an old, photo-booth shot of me and one of my ex- boyfriends. Besides my immediate thought of "geez, I look so much younger there", I was instantly taken right back to the time when the photo was taken- a warm, sunny day at the beach, wanting nothing more than to be in this person's company. With eyes closed, I remembered how enchanting the day was having sand between my toes while walking next to him. THIS was clearly going to be a problem.

What am I supposed to do about past relationships now that I'm married? I mean not all ex-boyfriends suck, right? In fact, what if you shared incredible memories with someone else; memories that linger with you, even as time moves on? When Jamie planted an unexpected kiss on me after school in 6th grade, I thought I was going to hurl all over him! Some things you just can't forget. But what do you do with them?

Somehow I'm sure I’ve already broken some unwritten law that forbids any notion of a man from the past. You know, now that I've taken my "marriage vows" of silence and all. If only I could tuck the feelings away like I did the photo right back into the place I found it. Or even a way to delete these files from my memory and empty the recycle bin.
But is that really fair? I dated some of these men for years; some for even longer than my current marriage. Add them all up, and that's a good portion of my life. Lost in the moments of these relationships, I gave it my all (usually). Occasionally, I was fortunate and the man reciprocated. In retrospect, I have no regrets, but now I'm left with sweet taboo memories that hang about when walking on the beach on a warm, sunny day.

Am I committing "reminiscent adultery"?

Closet Junkie

Alright, so I’ve come to terms with the fact that my days of bottles and breastfeeding on demand are long gone. Ella is now 19- months and has become quite the toddler; in a sense, maybe even a little “mini-me”. She wants to wear mommy’s shoes. Say what mommy says. She even has a little vacuum to push along while I’m vacuuming. Except for me, the thrill of the motor and suction has long faded. (If only Fisher Price made ones that really worked, this place would be spotless!) I digress; she unfortunately also wants to eat whatever mommy eats too. LORD HELP ME!

As flattering as it may seem to have a little girl look up to you and want to mimic your every move, it can surely tug on ones nerves at times. Today for instance, I chatted on the phone with a friend at the end of a long and stressful day. While swapping war stories about the office, I fall into that “oh, I need some chocolate” mood, to get me through re-living the scenario again. So unconsciously while reaching into the cookie jar, I continue walking and telling my story as cookie crumbs trickle down the number pad. I close the door behind me and sit down for a breather. Amidst the juicy gossip, I'm interrupted:

Friend: “Your voice is echoing, where are you? And what are you eating?”

Me: “huh? Oh, I’m in the laundry closet hiding from Ella so I can eat my cookie!”

I could barely keep the crumbs from flying out of my mouth, we were laughing so hard! What great lengths we take for such simple pleasures.

Is it too late to tack one more to that list of New Year’s Resolutions???

Twenty-Something

Certainly some of the best things in my life thus far have been unplanned. Growing up in a strict and disciplined home, I was molded into quite a workhorse, but bucked at any notion of spontaneity.

When I saw those 2 pink lines that cold winter morning, I froze. Sliding down the wall as my legs gave way; I sat atop the cold ceramic tiles of the bathroom floor, stunned by the sheer hard truth that fell before me. Pregnant, and twenty-something– not exactly what I planned.

After many years of working with the most fragile, tiniest preemies in the world, one would think I would be better prepared for this role of motherhood. I mean, I’ve helped a fair share of children born at less than one pound to survive all odds in this world. And I’ve also seen many more suffer and pass; sometimes in my very own hands, alone.

This acute, fast-paced career of mine would surely have me groomed for being a parent one day. Or so I thought. After a year and half in this parenting business, I find just the contrary.

I’m a twenty-something mom caught in the cut throat, evolving world of motherhood. Yet again trying to find my way, and a new self. There are “young moms” and there “older moms”, but “20-something moms” are caught right in between. Like the listless middle child struggling for their own identity. There’s a reason why they made Jane Brady a little nuts-o in The Brady Movie.

I’m too young to know enough or accomplish all that needs to be before starting a family.
And I’m too old to hold on to those reckless dreams; to just break free and run. At times I feel as if I don’t have enough tread worn from my sneakers to be taken seriously, or I’m just a tattered old sole that must be tucked away in the suburbs. I’ve reached a point where I want to just take my shoes off, leaving nothing left for them to judge. How’s that for spontaneity?

I’m a mom. I don’t want to live my life like Britney Spears (I like my hair). I’m not ready to live in the confines of some gated community in the ‘burbs. I want to be a good mother. I want to feel like a woman, a mother, an individual. I don’t want to live my life in sweat pants. I don’t want a white picket fence.

Quarter life crisis, anyone? I’ve got one here, hot and ready to serve.

Hit the "Reset" button

Wandering down 7th avenue in Greenwich Village, my friend and I stumbled upon the Village Vanguard. (Yeah I know. Shocker I left the house, much less trek to a trendy town in NYC for a day). The endless line outside their dark and eerie doors drew intrigue. How curious this tiny place could draw such a crowd? Once at the door, we were greeted by a kind-faced man requesting “$35 dollars please”. My thoughts-- this place better be damn good!

As the heavy door swung open, a steep and dark staircase led us deep beneath the depths of the bustling city. A small, congested room appeared as we turned the corner. Soon another 70 or so people crammed themselves in there with us, making us a sure fire hazard. The rows of seats were solid wood, and terribly uncomfortable. Drinks were pricey and reminded me of those tiny beverages offered on airplanes. But no one sat down here for a comfy seat or tasty beverage. What would soon begin is what we all came to consume.

The room darkened more and a warm red light filled the stage before us. Six musicians took their places and began to gear up- two saxophonists, a drummer, guitarist, bass player, and a signature piano man. A miss-mash of keys and chords played as they warmed up. Then with one deep breath, a “1-2-3”, I was soon blown away to a whole new place.

I was captivated as each musician grew lost in their own ecstasy playing their instrument. What are their thoughts while up there on stage? Do they worry about their bills, kids, or even a ride home? Watching the man with his eyes closed tight while straining to hit a high note, I thought- No way! This must be their escape; their bliss. Doing what they love, and playing before a crowd hooting and hollering for more. What a feeling that must be? To satisfy the music cravings of people each night.

And that I did. I craved. The music. The city. The absolute escape. And then it happened-a key change. The piano man massaged the ivories with a bit more oomph, and the guitarist strung a heavier chord. The music ran right through me. As the walls shook from the passing subway train, my body warmed from every sound within the room that came to create perfect harmony. A moment where I wanted to lie down before the stage and close my eyes to remember; to just devour the moment for just a bit longer. Ironically enough, I turned amicably to my New Yorker friend, only to find her fast asleep (oh geez, and not even a mom yet!). I chuckled. My night owl eyes were still wide open at this ungodly hour, like they were years ago.

In a New York minute, everything DID change--body, mind, and spirit. What a difference a day makes. Twenty-four little hours. It was my much needed mommy escape. A re-awakening of my soul. Only in New York- the city that never sleeps.

Winter-07