I have borne a monster into this world. Not a terrible one, but one that has two distinct behaviors, angelic and demonic, that turn on a dime.

One minute The Bees will be laughing and jolly playing with her Dad and then she sees me and collapses at my feet whining and scowling, crying to be held and kicking her heels on the floor. One minute she’ll be smiling sweetly up at me, listening to a story and the next she’s pinching my face hard and pulling my hair.

Today it was 95 degrees and I was determined to leave the house to go do something. We ended up in Bethesda as we often do, at the Barnes and Noble where she can run willy-nilly through the children’s section, pointing out her favorite characters, and fighting with other kids over the trains on the train set. She was fine there for 30 minutes or so, they don’t seem to mind that she traipses around pulling down all the stuffed animals onto the floor.

Then it was 1pm and we moved on to Café Deluxe for lunch.  I don’t often take the Bees to a seated lunch (it’s more than twice what we’d pay for takeout) but it was too hot to sit outside, I had a hankering for a good salad and knew they are baby friendly. I got The Bees set up in her high chair with crayons and a cup of water with a straw. I ordered her mac and cheese and for myself, a Greek salad and an ice tea. There we sat, two ladies at lunch, she dutifully ate, scribbled on the paper tablecloth and pointed out various items of interest - the boy next to us, the fans overhead, the mirrors. I drew faces, hands, dogs, cats and sharks for her on the paper, and we had a grand time. After lunch I took her to the restroom with me and then popped her into the stroller. As we left several people had admiring glances and murmured, “Such a good baby”.

We waltz out on the street and down the sidewalk, The Bees poking a little hand out to point at a dog. Since we had another 20 minutes on the meter I wanted to stop into this shop I like called “Lucy” that sells women’s “performance apparel”. That means things you might wear while running, biking, doing yoga. These are also clothes you might wear that make other people think that you do these sports. And that’s why I buy them.

We arrive at Lucy and it’s as cold as a refrigerator, thank god, and the Bees is smiling and waving and cooing and oohing and I start pushing her between a few sale racks and then all of a sudden she has a fit and starts screaming to get out. I grab two tops off a rack, run into the changing room and throw them on. She is screeching, tugging at her straps, twisting her body to get out. By the time we emerge from the changing room I can’t hear anything but The Bees - I see the sales lady’s mouth moving but I can’t hear what she’s saying.

We are at the counter and she is trying to wrap up the blouse and she is picking at this stack of tissue and it’s not coming up and she is picking and picking and finally I just say “we just need to leave I’ll just take it“ and I throw the shirt into the stroller and at this point I am holding the kicking screaming child in my arms trying to sign the receipt and The Bees is shrieking so loudly that other shoppers have fled the store.

I mutter something about ‘tired baby’ and tackle The Bees and strap her into the stroller and run her out the door. (Thank god I was wearing performance apparel).

The only way I can calm her down is by promising the immediate delivery of a “cook cook” so we rush across the street to the bakery and I butt in front of the lady in line and grab an oatmeal raisin cookie from the counter which I shove into The Bees’ mouth! And then, as the sugar dissolves on the front of her tongue, she immediately ceases all sound, her face relaxes and she leans back in the stroller. “Mmmm” she says. “Cook cook”.

We drive home and I glance back at my once again angel, clutching the cookie in her tight fist, feet crossed at the ankle, staring out the window at the trees going by while she listens to a Frenchman sing “Allouette”.

In my new life as mother and wife I’m really learning to adhere to the old “gift horse” adage.

This morning The Bees gave me a big gift. We were looking at the greeting cards at Balducci's as we do every morning. She is particularly drawn to those with cats. Cats in hats, cats in sunglasses. Cats driving motorcycles. She then picked out a card with three bombshell bikini-ed beauties and pointed to the brunette on the right and said “Mama”, looking at me. “Mama” she said again. I chuckled and, I must admit, joy filled my heart. I looked around to see if anyone else overheard this utterance of genius!

It’s a cheap thing, coming from a 17-month old, and of course she could just as easily point to a cabbage patch doll and say “Mama”. She's not even old enough to know how well she could manipulate me.  But in that moment I thought, this having-a-kid thing isn’t so bad. It’s like on your birthday when everyone is nice to you. You know it’s only temporary, and maybe not even completely sincere, but you’ll take kindness where you can get it.

Just the way that I ask CB to not be so skeptical about our scant romantic life. It’s gotten to the point where, if I make an amorous gesture, he’ll say something sarcastic like “well why would you want to do that?!” or “what for”? In later negotiations I say “please try to not ruin the mood by questioning my motives”. Like complements from your baby, just take it and run!

The Bees has a Lovey. For those of you who are not familiar with this term, it is any item that is a source of comfort. Ours is a small square pink blanket with a bunny tucked into a pocket. The bunny has a rattle inside so that The Bees can root around for it in the dark. She calls it her "Zha Zha", and demands it at various times of day and night.

The main use of a lovey is for comfort in her bed. We always find it in time for reading and cuddling before each nap and at night. But the lovey has other uses as well.

The Bees uses it to clean the floors, imitating our cleaning lady Maria.

She uses it to sop up water in the dog's bowl and then sucks on it.

She uses it to wipe her nose when it's itching or runny.

She chomps on it to assuage her teething pain.

She throws it on the floor in airports to use as a pillow.

And ever since we've been reading the book "Upsy Upsy" The Bees has learned that a lovey can join her in the highchair and be a supporting character. So now she wants to include it in mealtime, feeding it rice and beans and peas, just like the bunny does in the book.

Last week in Maine I made the mistake of allowing her to bring it on a picnic and before we'd left the dock Lovey was seen floating face up in the ocean, to be frantically scooped up and wrung out. The Bees cuddled her Lovey even more fiercely, the saltwater saturating her shirt.

So you can see the need to, on occasion, clean the Lovey. How do you clean something that is rarely out of your toddler’s clutches? Like that old joke: “How do porcupines make love?”, the answer is “very carefully”. And in the case of the Lovey, “very stealthily”. The secret is to ferret the thing away from her right after nap, squirrel it into the wash and then into the dryer all before her next nap.

One time I left Lovey behind in a bathtub in my friend's apartment in NYC. I called back in anguish and this very good friend trotted up to Fedex. Bedtime that night was fretful, and sleep was fitful. The next morning Lovey arrived at our doorstep and all was well.

Since then we have ordered a second lovey. It's almost exactly the same, but new of course, with a slightly bigger bunny. Though she will hug both, it’s the old ratty one that The Bees clamors for in times of need.

We try to leave it in the house when we go out. Upon return The Bees will find her lovey, and coo and cuddle it, and then kiss it fervently. She will then hold it up to me so I can kiss Lovey too. 

5:30am - Reach out of crib and bang hand on closet door until Mummy releases me. Jump on her tummy until she gets up.

6:00am - Breakfast in highchair, with harbor view. Eat scrambled eggs and throw blueberries at yellow lab.

6:30am - Walk next door to Community Center, cry noisily while Mom gets coffee and then lie down on the floor, backing self down the stairs to the playroom.

6:45 to 8am  - play with plastic fruit, dollies, and pester Mom while she tries to write blog. Press buttons on computer until she closes it.

8:00am - totter back home, waving to shadow along the way.

9am  - Cousin Miles comes over to play with his pet stuffed dog Tommy

9:30-10:30  - Nap

10:30 – Wake up cranky but cheer up with Dora cup of yoghurt shake

11:00 am  - do something frantic that involves running around town putting on my lifejacket, taking off my lifejacket, putting it back on, and taking it off. Mummy cranky.

12:00pm - get dumped into a boat and then go bouncing off, wind blowing ferociously

12:30 – clamber onto rocky beach, explore shells, taste salty rocks. Eat hummus with sand in mouth.

1:30 - start to cry and throw self on back to beg for nursing

2:30 - Nap in bouncing boat.

3:30 - wake at home and cry for snack unless Miles comes back over with Tommy

4:00 - to playground, sand in pants, collect sticky burrs on sweater, and legs bitten to bits by mosquitoes.

5:30 - Dinner of hamburger stew. Throw peas at dog.

7:00 - supposed to go to bed but too wired with everyone drinking cocktails

7:30 - Mummy starts reading and singing again and then I’m in the crib

10:30pm - Mummy goes to bed so it’s time to cry again

11:30 - wake up again, toothache

12:00am - wake up again, toothache

1:00am - screaming, get dosed with Motrin

2:00am - still awake, Mummy very cranky

2:30am - Cry self to sleep

5:30am - I’m awake! Good Morning! Ready to start again!

I did the silliest thing. It’s so ridiculous that when people ask me what happened I am embarrassed to say.

We had just arrived on the island for a three-week holiday. At 7pm I settled the Bees into her crib crammed inside the closet (space is a premium at my parents? place). Later I went to bed on a small bunk about 4 feet away. In the middle of the night I leapt out of bed dreaming that The Bees was in trouble, lunging toward the crib. I awoke as I was falling to the floor, my right foot turning in on a cushion on the floor. There was a huge sound as my not quite petite self crashed to the floor, and the pain was nauseating. The Bees awoke with a cry so I crawled to her crib to hold her for a minute. A cold sweat broke out on my entire body.

After the Bees had gone back to sleep I crawled to the kitchen and got a bag of ice and some Advil. I’m never clear on whether you are supposed to ice or heat an injury.

So here we were on day one of vacation, without my husband, nor a nanny, and on a second story steep walk-up. Strangely enough I was able to fall back asleep that night, and it was the only night that The Bees slept through til 6am.

 The next morning my entire foot looked quite plump and tight like a lavender colored balloon. As the day progressed I was quite proud of the ferocious bruising. It makes for great cocktail party banter. I continued to hobble around town, thinking it would just hurry up and heal. My mom thought it was just a burst blood vessel and others thought it was a sprain. In wishful thinking I agreed with them and continued to limp around for another week before I admitted that it really wasn’t getting any better.

 Being on a remote island in Maine means you benefit from the beauty and the authenticity, but you lose access to services like doctors. There is a part-time nurse practitioner on the island but she was not free until Monday at 11am at which time she urged me to go to the mainland immediately for an x-ray. I couldn’t possibly leave that day because we were throwing a fabulous engagement fete for a close friend. I hiked up and down the stairs and stood for two hours tending bar during the party. The next morning I left The Bees with a sitter and took the ferry to the mainland and to the hospital.

 In the radiology waiting room were two free chairs – one was in between two policemen and the other was next to a prisoner in a bright orange jump suit. He was shackled at wrists and at ankles and was sighing heavily. I weighed my options as I slowly crossed the room and opted for the seat between the cops.

The x-ray confirmed two breaks and I bought a small boot to wear until further notice.

 The idea of being in a cast or facing surgery was so depressing that I sat in a coffee shop for two hours, staring at my breakfast burrito and out at the pouring rain. Later I remembered I needed to get my mother a birthday present and limped out. Ahhh retail therapy! Within a few minutes of browsing the shops my mood had lifted.

 So now I’m waiting another 10 days to see an orthopedist. Should I abort my holiday and come home to see a doctor immediately? Probably. I could be sitting in our house in DC, immobile, staring out at the trees, alone with the Bees in our living room, or I could stay here taking in the crisp, salty air, the blue sky, the pebbly beaches and the sunsets, with a happy child. The choice seems clear. I may be delusional but I feel like I heal better and faster, here in on an island in Maine.

Washington is a buggy town. Where we live there is a lot of grass and trees and little gullies and creeks, scenic to some, but perfectly swampy for breeding mosquitoes. This summer we felt particularly assaulted by the critters (along with the ants in my kitchen, but I already talked about that).

It’s one thing to forget to put on your own bug spray. But in our neighborhood to forget to put something on your toddler is almost a crime. Mosquitoes just love that infant skin. Succulent, smooth, sweet, tender, moist, fatty goodness. Mmmmmm… When The Bees gets bitten the red mark swells to a large welt the size of a quarter. It’s alarming. The first few times it happened I armed myself with Children’s Benadryl, just in case it spread.

And I started to ask about bug spray. My pediatrician said anything with less than 5% Deet was ok. But when I chatted with other mothers they said absolutely no deet. A friend at the dog park said he wouldn’t even put Deet on himself much less his dog or his child. Have you seen what that stuff does he said. It melts plastic. Yikes.

So we’ve been experimenting with the natural alternatives. First thing I bought was ‘Buzz Away’ Had I smelled it before I took it home it I never would have bought it. Though the bottle professes to have a lovely lemony scent from the citronella, the main ingredient is castor oil (the stuff that induces vomiting). I was wondering why I felt immediately repelled whenever I put it on The Bees.

At Whole Foods in Glover Park I inquired about other options. The lady there said ‘California Baby’ is all the rage and they make a combo or sunscreen and big spray. That sounded dandy but they had been sold out for weeks and as I would discover, would be forever more. I searched online and found just the California Baby bug spray without sunscreen so I bought that.

Though the smell is much more tolerable (if you don’t mind your baby smelling like someone’s backyard on a summer evening), it is less effective than the Buzz Off (those mosquitoes were thrilled to find the castor oil gone!). I spray it all over her but if I miss just one inch of skin the bugs will find it. And if she dips any part of her body in water then they will attack that newly vulnerable spot.

I’m still searching for the best natural, pleasantly scented, baby-safe and effective bug spray. Let me know if you’ve found it!

CB and I made a purchase recently. It’s the kind of thing that, years ago, I would have dismissed as an over-indulgent parental whimsy. A pink polka-dotted armchair for The Bees.

Having a child-size chair is a good idea; it’s easier to climb into, and they have immediate ownership and control, they love it, no adults allowed, it’s just for them. The whimsical part is that it has her name across it, right where she leans back. I mean, by the time she can read it she will probably have outgrown it.

We got it in pink polka dots thinking it would look good in the nursery, to offset the existing theme of pale green. The box arrived, four huge pieces of foam jumped out, and after assembling it I was taken aback by the size of the thing. Not much smaller than a regular armchair, it simply sits closer to the ground. It turns out it’s just too big for her bedroom, crammed already with two dressers, a crib, a bookshelf and my old office (my flower-selling job before this parenting job).

So now the pink polka-dotted chair is parked in the middle of our living room, keeping company with dark wood and conservative floral and plaid fabrics in an English cottage-style room.

The Bees’ friend Emma came over recently for a play date. Being the same age they are less inclined to play together and more given to competing for toys and for attention. So when Emma spotted the chair she threw herself into it. Then Bronwyn had to sit in it, and there they were, two tiny bottoms jostling to be the only one in the chair. Though there was enough space for the two it was a territorial battle over prize real estate. A pink polka dotted chair. Emma couldn’t know that it was Bronwyn’s name on the back.

The Bees likes to take her Dora cup or a handful of Cheerios and totter off to sit in her chair. She likes to grab a favorite book and go sit in the chair. Who wouldn’t? I have to admit I’ve been eyeing the chair lately; the color, the cushion, the whimsy of the thing lures me over… I must resist. Once I settle in I may never rise again.

Yesterday The Bees and I took a taxi, two airplanes, another taxi and a ferry. It took us 8 hours to get to this small island in Maine, only 5 hours shorter than had we driven non-stop, but that's just out of the question with a 'lively' 16-month old facing backward in a car seat. Though I had been dreading the long day of riding, waiting, flying and waiting, we actually enjoyed the travel together.

She was such a good sport. What a difference from 6 months ago - not only is she walking (running) on her own, which saves my biceps, triceps and wrists. But also she is good company. I feel like I'm traveling with my best friend now: we have conversations, we play, we share lunch together. In the taxi she was giddy with excitement, exclaiming over the morning, and showing gratitude that I'd brought her Dora cup along. At the airport we had an hour to kill, so she bopped around the gate, waving at anyone who would look at her, nosing in on other families, and frequently circling back for another bite of fruit salad. On the plane she promptly threw herself on her back for her customary take-off tradition: nursing. She fell into a snooze for an hour, both my arms trapped beneath her body, so I just closed my eyes and relaxed.

We had an hour to kill at Logan Airport in Boston, so we sat down for a chicken and veggies lunch (I always park The Bees' stroller facing other children since they entertain her in ways I could never). We browsed a book store until she shattered a shot glass all over the floor, and then we made a hasty retreat, purchasing two granola bars as a gesture of remorse. At the gate she wanted me to chase her around, and then she begged for a shoulder ride (always ruins my hairstyle, what little I have of one). 

The second plane was a puddle jumper, the engine so loud I couldn't hear myself reading the "Maisy" books to her. She passed out in the last 10 minutes and showed the day's first tears to be woken again. But cheered right upon upon disembarking, feeling the rain on her face and seeing the friendly staff at the tiny shack of an airport. We almost missed the boat, but made it in time to join a family of twin boys. They entertained her the whole ride to the island by picking up her water bottle every time she threw it, and never ceasing to return the waves cast in their direction. I rolled her up her gangplank and her face just broke into smiles on seeing her cousins and family. The whole trip was totally rewarding. 

I have a crush on my yoga teacher. Never mind that my yoga teacher is about 10 years older. Never mind that my yoga teacher is not my type. Never mind that I am married (so is my yoga teacher). Oh - and never mind that my yoga teacher is a she.

Over the last 10 years I have tried yoga at a variety of places across the country, with dozens of different instructors. They vary from crunchy, stinky gurus who chant in Hindi on and on in nasal voices and bore you with stories about their latest yoga retreat meetings. Then there are the plump cheerful types who don't look like they've been practicing themselves, but their repeated demands that you "inHALE! exHALE! inHALE! exHALE" start to drive you crazy. I have found the quiet, pretty ones whose demeanor is soothing but less invigorating. The charming but uninspired undergraduates who teach yoga at Caribbean resorts in their free time - their classes tend to be the same thing over and over. Then there are the classes you dread, where you say to yourself I'll just show up and see how long I can stand it. These are the crowded, competitive classes led by bossy, dominant types who drill you into 55 sun salutations, marching you up the proverbial mountain, and harassing you into pretzel-like contortions. You are miserable and you find yourself checking your watch every 10 minutes wondering when the agony will be over.

But AT LAST (as Etta James would say) I have found her. She teaches a class not far from where I live called 'power yoga', which is to say, not for the feint of heart. As I mentioned, she is in her 50's and I'd say the average age of the students is 45, but don't let that fool you. These ladies can do unsupported head stands, back bends and stand on one leg with the other one pointed out sideways for hours on end. I think it's because of our teacher. I'm not going to tell you who she is, though, because I'm afraid there will be a run on my class after this posting.

She is strong, she has a gentle face, she is direct. She leads the practice purposefully, compelling us to try harder, to hold longer, to work those muscles. She is specific, with careful directions on what to do so you're not always always trying to copy your neighbor. She is forgiving, allowing us to choose how we want our practice to go that day. She has constant energy and momentum, and in a one-hour class I might only check my watch once. (Why do I even wear a watch? I suppose it keeps me tethered to my real life, sort of a life buoy, there to excuse me out of any obligation should I need to evacuate).

Since I started taking her class I can now (for the first time since I was about 14) do a handstand against the wall and a headstand too. I am practicing doing this unsupported. And I feel very happy, relaxed and invigorated after her class. I'm a better mother when I come home, and I'm even nice to my husband for 10 minutes or so. Best of all, I look forward to the next one.

My mother rocked her three babies to sleep with lullabies. We grew up singing songs around the piano as she banged away. I sang in every chorus and choir in school, and yodeled away in coffeehouses and talent shows. I was paid to sing, both in college and in Japan. At the pinnacle of success I sang at Carnegie Hall. Yes, it's true! Well, not a solo, merely among a choral group of 50, and I think we paid Carnegie for that honor. Later on my friend Frank and I would elbow our way to the stage in karaoke bars. And I still fantasize about seeing back-up in a rock and roll band.

The bottom line is this: I like singing, but not everyone else enjoys it. My sister used to accuse me of ruining the music when I would sing along with the radio or whatever was playing in the car. "Isn't there any song you don't know?" she would shriek after a few hours. I think I just annoyed her in every way. And my husband has the same reaction when I belt out the lyrics to Allman Brother's "Ramblin' Man".

One bonus of having a child means you have a captive audience. When I was pregnant I'd sing to my sweet little trapped fetus. In the car, my belly was pressed against the steering wheel I'd roll down the window and sing show tunes from "Anything Goes" as loud and brassy as I could.

The Bees has always loved music, but what baby doesn't? We play CD's for her and she dances around, turning in circles, bobbing up and down. We sing French songs in the car and she remarks appropriately ("cat!" and "dog"). She points to the piano by the window and begs to climb up. But the best music time is at night after three or four books, when I take her in my arms, rest her head on my shoulder and rock her. That's when I get to sing whatever I want in a soft lulling rhythm. I started with classic lullabies, in English, and even a few in French. Then I moved on to James Taylor, the Beatles, Simon and Garfunkel, a few hymns. It's a challenge to remember the lyrics, so I pretend that there's a critic in an imaginary audience. 

There is something momentous about rocking your baby to sleep. It's closure, marking the end of another important day of your child learning and growing. It's relief, as it might be the only time of day that your otherwise squirming bucking squealing child cuddles quietly with you. Most of all, singing your baby to sleep feels like you are both giving and getting the greatest love imaginable. There in the nursery, the lights off, sounds of a siren, a dog barking, and you are just rocking, rocking. At that moment it does seem to be the most important singing gig I've ever had.

In the first 6 months with The Bees we never had a sitter. It was a combination of new love (for the baby) and also slightly nervous new parents. She was napping most of the time, but woke every hour and 1/2 so the Baby Bjorn became a staple in my wardrobe. Some might call it neurotic to wear your child on your chest for 12 hours a day but I found it really simplified getting dressed. What's the point of picking out an outfit if no one will see it.

When our first wedding anniversary leapt upon us (yes, do the math), I clamored for a special night out, and for L'Auberge Chez Francois  we did have our first sitter. I enjoyed the meal so much, actually sitting down, not bouncing and swaying, being able to focus on a menu, holding a glass of wine, all the simple pleasures of dining that you lose when holding a squalling infant. Without a baby bjorn on CB even got to see what I was wearing that night. Since then I have lobbied for regular weekly dates and we now have Maria The Great come once every weekend. (More about Maria The Great later, but know this: we will never divulge her contact info for fear that one of you will lure her away).

For CB the weekly date nights out are not as important; he travels each week and has his time away from The Beast, time alone at a bar, a quiet meal alone or a boisterous one with colleagues and above all else, adult conversation. For me it is a real treat.

Since Auberge is at most a once a year splurge, the following are four other favorite spots for dining without The Bees.

Brasserie Beck is an authentic Belgian style urban bistro. With tall ceilings, soft lighting, a beer list as long as a good wine list, and a menu of variety and substance, this place does a brisk business. The bar is usually three-deep with couples and small groups, a cheery, festive mood. People come to taste the beer and indulge in white wine and garlic mussels or grilled fish. Not to be missed, my favorite crunchy salted herbed pommes frites.

Hook is the hot new place in DC. Evocative of L.A. or South Beach, the crisp contemporary furnishings and mod lighting contrast with the Georgetown neighborhood of cobblestone streets and brownstones. Sit at the bar, sip a Lingonberry martini and watch the passersby. If you enjoy surprises you will like the various options in fish tastings, in the 'amuse bouche' style. Tiny tastes and other fishy mysteries are not for people like my husband - he likes his steak and potatoes, so this is where I go with girlfriends or gay friends.

For a while we were weekly patrons of Dino, a Tuscan style 'enoteca'. The menu changes several times a year, with inspirations from the owner's travels to Italy. With an extensive wine list and the knowledgeable bar tender Chris, you can enjoy careful wine pairings with your courses. I am always astonished at the array of cheeses, olives and other tasty sides. My husband is eternally enamored of the boar pasta. Warm lighting, a cozy space and friendly service make this place a pleasant evening's destination.

Cityzen could also qualify as a once-a-year treat. Cityzen does not feel like a Washington DC restaurant. Tucked inside the Mandarin Oriental it is a slick, modern oasis in a ho-hum Old Boy town. Arriving too late for cocktails we missed sitting in the lounge and drinking in the scene.  Ushered along to our table we enjoyed views of the wine cellar from floor to ceiling. Three of us enjoyed the chef's tasting menu which was just a delight. My husband feasted on some big old lamb chop or filet. And it seemed an appropriate venue and menu to enjoy a nice Chateau Neuf du Pape.

Stay tuned for more great places to dine without your little 'swine'.

We live in an old house. We call it "an old English Cottage", and visitors use the words "quaint" and "charming". That means it has not recently been renovated. There are things I love about this house like the hardwood floors, the fireplace, the white picket fence and a large master bedroom with 6 windows. But the kitchen perplexes me.

While it has a terra cotta tile floor and burnt red walls, the kitchen's layout, like many houses from the turn of the century, does not accommodate modern living. There is a dearth of storage space and we have been unwilling to make the investments of money or energy into extra shelves high up along the ceiling. Consequently we have just one cabinet that houses all our pans, pots and containers. So when you open the door you are risking your life. There is always a big crashing sound as a pot leaps out onto the floor, and several others slide down after. The mismatching tupperware follows, and The Bees comes running into the kitchen shrieking with delight.

I know they had an ice box in 1900 - but where did they put it? The fridge is stuck in the corner where it is squeezed in by the back door. The fridge door opens to the right which means you have to squish yourself into the corner to open the door. Then you can't put anything down, load or unload the fridge without closing the fridge door each time.

We also have a terrible ant problem. They are called odiferous ants according to the pest experts, because apparently when you squish them they emit a stinky odor. I haven't tested this myself, but these guys are resilient little bugs. They withstand all sprays and treatments, all attempts at extermination. They appear everywhere, scuttling around the sink, into the cupboard, behind the coffee maker. I spray them and stamp them, slap them and wipe them up but their relatives emerge from the walls, scuttling around the counters without fear. I call the pest people at least twice a month but their efforts are moot, their visits are to no avail. We have been fighting this battle since March and still no progress.

The ants march on... through our quaint kitchen.

My heart is heavy today. I was given the saddest news. 

An old friend from college had been out of touch for a year or so. I had emailed him several times over the year, sent his family a Christmas card, and for the last three days had been thinking about him, determined to get back in touch. I sent another email yesterday asking about him and his famiy.  A few minutes later the phone rang -- he asked if it was a good time to talk. He then told me he just lost his 3 year old daughter to cancer.

When she was two, E was giving her parents a difficult time, throwing tantrums, screaming. They thought it was just typical toddler behavior. Then an odd thing happened. Her left eye began to turn inward. The doctors found a tumor on her cheek bone that had reached around her eye socket and ultimately grew into her brain. Called "Rhabdomyosarcoma" it is extremely rare. There are only about 200 new cases per year in the US, and it only afflicts children. By the time my friends discovered E's tumor it was already stage 4, and virtually incurable.

E endured ongoing treatments, in and out of the hospital, losing her hair, becoming weak. With a younger sibling for company E initially enjoyed and then only tolerated playful antics. T is a year younger and just wanted to interact with her sister like she always has. It was only a year after the diagnosis that E ultimately fell into a comatose state, and passed away just 12 days ago.

What can I say about this? As a parent I am gut-wrenched. I cannot imagine how they went through the entire ordeal. The shock of the discovery, the horrific news that it was stage 4, the despair at not being to heal your child, not being able to save her. The difficult decision to tell her what was happening, that she was going to die. And then saying goodbye, rocking her to sleep with her favorite lullabies. Only 3 years of life. Only 3 years to experience everything this world and her parents had to offer. 

What could be worse than losing your child? I wrote them a card and told them I knew there was little to nothing I could do to comfort them at this time. But that every time I hold The Bees, every time I feed her, change her, read to her, sing or play games with her, I am honoring their daughter.

My head hurts thinking about it. The weight of their pain is sinking down through my body into the ground.

Seems like I frequently write about fighting with child apparatus. It can't be any sort of deficiency on my part. It's got to be that this equipment is simply poorly designed, malfunctioning and created to vex me.

Two weeks ago I noticed The Bees' knees were bent in order to fit into her car seat. Though she's not yet 20 lbs and well over a year old, it was indeed time to upgrade to the next seat. I didn't know selecting a seat would be so complicated, not to mention installing it.

We needed a car seat in which she would still be rear-facing until she passes the 20lb mark (or 22 whatever it is). We needed it to then be forward facing so she could continue to use it for the next few years. We also needed it to possibly recline so that some day, should she once again agree to embark on a long road trip with us, she could potentially lie back and enjoy the ride. I know that's asking alot.

I surveyed my friends, and most said Britax, that Britax Marathon was the best. Thing is, I learned that this brand is very expensive, heavy and also not all car seats fit into airline seats, and this would be a big problem for us, as we travel frequently. So now I needed something on the small side as well. I decided to look East, across the Atlantic, and found Maxi Cosi. Luckily I didn't have to travel far to get it, in fact one was available for me right here in this country and was shipped 2 day. We arrived home from our trip to Chattanooga, opened the door and saw the box in the front hall. One corner was crushed in and torn, looking like an ominous mouth with jagged teeth. I should recognized the enemy right away. Instead, I cheerfully opened the box, pulled out the bright red and chocolate striped seat with its belts and latches a-clanging. "Oooh it's so pretty" I exclaimed. "Bees don't you just LOVE your new car seat?"  

She agreed to try it out on the living room floor, and looked quite comfortable. 

When CB came home from work I took the Bees up to bed and called down to him "Can you just help me put the shoulder straps up higher and I'll do the rest".

A half hour later I came downstairs to find CB breathing smoke and cursing over the large awkward seat upside down in his lap. 

"!*&^%$$##!!!! Of course you have to order the most difficult carseat in the world" he says "You can't just get a simple one, easy to figure out".

He was right. In order to adjust the shoulder straps you have to slam your hand into a tiny crevice in the back of the seat, twist it this way and that, tugging on a strap until you find this metal latch. You realize the latch is far away from your hand. You ootch your hand in, immediately encountering enormous resistance and sharp plastic parts that scratch you and squeeze your bones. Because you have smallish hands you persist in pushing along until you get the latch and then you drag it back, doing more damage to your skin along the way. You get the harness adjusted and CB says "Good. You're all set then". And he leaves town.

Next day you crouch down on the living room floor to get the seat latches positioned on either side of the seat. Deja vu: once again you are thrusting your little fragile hand into this crevice and pushing the metal latch all the way through - but this is not easy in the Maxi Cosi because THERE IS NOT ENOUGH SPACE FOR YOUR HAND. Seriously. No one even thought well our customers might encounter deadly risk by trying to install this thing. 

Now you are sweating but you've got one latch on either side.You carry it out to the car,  put the seat in the car and attempt to hook the latches onto the bar down between the cushions. NO GO. You try and try and try.  It will not clamp on. So you decide to just strap it in with the seat belt. What?!!

Ok in order to do this you have to ONCE AGAIN shove your hand back into the same crevice with this other belt and feed it all along the way to the other side. The whole thing is a nightmare. Half way through I glanced back and saw The Bees standing next to the dog inside the glass storm door of the house, her hands beating on the door, crying. I had to bring her out, sit her down inside the old infant car seat next to the car so she could watch me go through this charade. It was at least 30 minutes.

Needless to say, I don't think I have it installed correctly and since we are traveling to Maine in a few weeks now I've got to get another seat that can be easily strapped in and out of anyone's car in a matter of minutes, not hours. We are about to embark on the dreaded experience of research, purchase, adjustment and installation all over again.

All diaper genies are not created equal. There are the Glorious Saviors and there are the Evil Bullies.

Do yourself and your whole family and all your friends a favor. Don't buy a Diaper Genie. Buy the Diaper Genie II, or anything else under the sun including just the plain old trash pail. It's not that the Diaper Genie II is revolutionary or magic, it's just that it is gets the job done.

Here's what happens with the original Diaper Genie. He is a nasty dirty man! First of all, in the midst of your pre-natal frantic shopping spree or baby shower you get the DIaper Genie tower. What do you know? It's at the front of the diaper section, it's tall and white. It's the original so it must be good right? Well listen up - (I know this is so riveting isn't it) it's not good at all.

Diaper Genies seem cheap at $19.99 but they don't come with their own bag coils so you have to buy them separately at around $9 each. That's how they get you. You might as well buy about 100 of these coils, as you will need them. You put the coil in, tie a knot at the end of the bag and then your first poopy diaper arrives. You shove it into the tower and somehow the noxious fumes emanate out and fill the room. You realize you haven't pushed it in far enough. You have to persevere until your elbow is inside the tower before the diaper goes down. Then you close the top and you twist twist the top, supposedly this seals in the fumes? Then there is a built in scissor operation where you press it and it's supposed to cut the bag. But it never does. it cuts half the bag and leaves the rest a chomped up raggedy mess that you have to go in and deal with. Then there are these plastic ties that were supposed to tie it up - I don't know . I think they all fell out the first week I used it.  

None of this has ever worked. Basically you squish your dirty diapers in one after another, it just continues to stink and stink until your guests give you weird looks and even the dog walks around with her tail tucked under.  You just fill it up with enough dirty diapers that its worth it to just empty the whole bag and start again. It's awful. Why this is the one in our den, adjoining our dining room and only a stones throw away from our kitchen, I don't know.

Now we come to the Diaper Genie II. At $24.99 it is worth the extra five dollars believe me. This one is in our nursery. You have a dirty diaper. You lift up the lip, push the diaper in, you feel the tight clamp of the flap as it shuts down on that nastiness. It has sucked it away from you. it's gone. To another world you don't want to visit. And you won't even think of it again until many weeks and many diapers later (40? 50?) when the thing is surprisingly full, you open up the tower and there is a long rewarding snake of wadded up diaper balls. I like to take my snake and throw it down the stairs, watching as it bounces and flips head over tail to the bottom. Quite satisfying.

Why is it that it's been a year and 1/2 and I'm still complaining about the original Diaper Genie. You'd think I would just spend the $19.99 and buy a second Diaper Genie II.  But then I'd have nothing to write about.