Sleeping through History

We put Michael Alexander to sleep at 9 last night. He fell asleep about a half hour later and slept until about 6 this morning, just after Mike left for the gym.

Mike and I went to bed about two hours after our son and slept through the news alerts and press conference.

Ingrained superstition (my mother and her parents were born in Russia) makes it tough to write this, but I think we've solved the sleep problem. (Gasp.) Most nights, Michael Alexander had been waking at 11 or midnight, then again around 3 and again around 5 and 6. It might have been our fault. He had been sleeping in our room and we comforted, even fed (a practice his doctor condemns) him each time he woke, bringing him in our bed to snuggle. Often we'd just stare at him, admiring the way he pushes each of us closer to each edge of our queen size bed. Other times, we'd wake him with the slightest movement. As much as Mike and I love to cuddle with our son in the middle of the night, I knew we needed to make a big, grown-up step. Last night we moved his bed into the "living area" of our one-bedroom apartment.

So far, it's been a perfect morning. I slept (or at least rested, uninterrupted aside from the few trips I made to the living area to check on my slumbering son) a solid 7 hours! Michael Alexander rejected the cereal I tried to feed him, but shared my eggs and salsa, eating a real breakfast without protest. Now he's been playing on his own, allowing me a few precious morning minutes to write.

If things go well, it could be a William Blake day: "Think in the morning. Act in the noon. Eat in the evening. Sleep in the night."

Most days I can't write because I am so tired and all my daytime energy is focused on getting Michael Alexander to eat something besides crackers and keeping him away from household hazards like the stove and toilet. Today I am finding it hard to write because my mind is so clear I can't focus on any single idea. A good problem to have, but one that makes me worry I am just babbling in a state of unexpected energy.

I am forced to focus, though, as Michael Alexander is eager for me to join in his solo play session.

It's fascinating to read today's Facebook posts, some so stupid or self-absorbed I'm inclined to de-friend those posters. Others are funny, pithy or thoughtful, and many reflect on the poster's 9/11 moment.

The decade that's passed since Sept. 11, 2001, has been one of tremendous personal change. It's included the worst of times (the death of my father) and the best of times (my marriage and the birth of my son.)

Only one thing unites these two moments in history -- I slept through both.

On 9/11, I was single and living on the top floor of a walkup on Thompson Street in the Village. My father was in my native Massachusetts, dying of cancer. I was an editor on national desk at AP, working the overnight shift and it was my scheduled night off. I heard the first plane, but ignored it since you hear a lot from the top floor of a walkup. My landline (remember those?) rang and my best friend, Erica, blurted out, "Oh my God, sweetheart! You're OK!" Seconds after I turned on my tiny console TV, the power went out and I quickly threw on the jeans and tank top I was wearing before I went to bed. I was headed east on Houston as the horror became apparent. Survivors covered in soot were running past me, some screaming, some stunned silent, and all looking like statues. I joined the queue for a payphone (remember those?) and waited anxiously for my chance to reach an operator. Most people ahead of me failed, but using a toll-free number I recalled from an ad, I was able to make a collect call to my mother.

I recall the anger, the fear, the rage, the myriad emotions of that moment. My father was dying and now somebody was threatening my right as a (first-generation, on my mother's side) American to live in a country where I was safe from the type of unspeakable violence that wiped out most of my mother's family.

It's strange to revisit those emotions on a day like this, while reveling in the wake of my son's 9-hour rest.

Michael Alexander is calling for "mom-mom." I'm going to try to keep my brain working as I entertain him. My work is play. I don't have to go sit in a cubicle and shut it off.

"The brain is a wonderful organ; it starts working the moment you get up in the morning and does not stop until you get into the office." Robert Frost

My Invisible Paycheck

Michael Alexander was up from 11 p.m. until 4 a.m., teeming with boundless energy. I was fighting back the tears, struggling to smile while trying to soothe him into a sleeplike state. He finally fell asleep around 4:30, after a crying fit as passionate as his five-hour overnight playfest. He was back up as soon as Mike left for work after returning from his uber-early gym shift. Mike works out and goes to work even earlier on Wednesdays so I can get to the gym on time to secure my spot in favorite abs class that starts at 6:15 p.m.

Michael Alexander appears well-rested, smiling and playing without any apparent interest in a nap. I have devoured a pot of very strong coffee just to keep up with him. I put him in the Jumperoo so I could scribble my barely coherent thoughts. He's learning as he bounces, smiling at me for approval as he meticulously places plastic fruits into the corresponding spots in exchange for a light. That smile is the only thing that's keeping me from crumbling.

My dear friend Kate suggested that maybe he's not sleeping because of a developmental milestone. That's quite possible, as he learned to clap properly during storytime Monday, and was up in the middle of the night flaunting his newly perfected skill. He's also taking more solo steps without wobbling. It is so exciting to witness his rapid progress as he quickly approaches his first birthday. I just wish I could get enough rest to match his exuberance.

Mindy Greenstein, a psycho-oncologist and consultant at Memorial Sloan-Kettering Cancer Center, last week blogged about motherhood. She calls it "the most invisible, undervalued job that I have ever had." No doubt Greenstein commands a fat salary for her work at Memorial. It is probably even more than the estimated (and of course, hypothetical) *salary* for a stay-at-home mom in Manhattan. According to salary.com, the local median for a SAHM in my zip code is $139,888, in a range of $117,583 to $169,794. Even at the low end, that's more than most executive editor jobs I'm qualified for pay. And those figures are for last year, in a report that posts increases every year.

I don't expect a paycheck for my labor of love, but even the most grueling day at the office ends. Here I am, brought to you exclusively by the power of caffeine, focusing purely on my sweet son's smile. I have so much to do around the house, which quickly transforms into a disaster zone after two mostly sleepless nights, but I am expending every ounce of energy to keep Michael Alexander entertained.

I am actively applying for full-time jobs. I've had a few interviews, all positive, until the topic of salary arises. None match the low end of my "typical" SAHM compensation. The most interesting job I interviewed for this week pays a pittance which is less than half of my average salary of the last five years. I just received an email follow up to an interview last week. I wasn't expecting to hear back, as I thought I was out of the game once I'd mentioned at the end of a lengthy interview that I have a nearly year-old son. The job requires the editor to be on call 24/7. I'm already on call 24/7.

I'm grappling with how to reply to this email. Of course I am flattered to emerge as the top contender in a hyper-competitive market. This job doesn't pay the "typical" SAHM rate, but it's enough to offset the cost of childcare. I am tempted, as I struggle with a job title that makes me "invisible," but I shudder to think that reclaiming visibility requires me to be on call when my son needs me most. I am crafting my response now, negotiating for a slightly higher salary and some flexibility over being on call 24/7.

I'm not sure what it will take for me to trade my invisible paycheck for a living wage.

The Business of a SAHP

I was excited to read the headline of Sarah E. Needleman's blog yesterday on The Wall Street Journal Online: "Can Home-Based Entrepreneurs Be Stay-at-Home Parents, Too?" Like all creative types, I have myriad business ideas percolating on a daily basis and wonder how ambitious one can be as a SAHP (stay-at-home parent.) I know people, mostly moms, who work from home in varying degrees, but have at least part-time childcare. I have nobody to help me during the day and I do some freelance work from home. Right now I am stealing the time I should be spending writing a column on stock splits and cobbling a pitch about green energy. Michael Alexander has gone down for a nap and could wake in 20 minutes so I need to act fast on the keyboard. Yesterday he didn't nap at all and woke several times throughout the night, so I am taking this precious time to write while I can, sleep deprived and all. I haven't posted to Nommersland in so long I nearly abandoned it over guilt. But reading this WSJ post irked me enough to overcome any self-reproach.

Needless to say, I was needled by Needleman's post. "Christine Perkett, a mother of two, is usually home before and after her kids go to school. But she’s not your typical stay-at-home mom," writes Needleman. OK, I'm intrigued, even if I can't yet relate to a mom with school-aged kids. I'm also confused, wondering how a SAHP can sometimes not be home and still actively parenting. "Ms. Perkett, 40 years old, runs PerkettPR, a public-relations firm, out of her family’s Marshfield, Mass., home. When she started the company, she hired a nanny to take care of the kids while she’s on the clock. 'I needed a solution to dig into my work without feeling guilty,' she says, adding that she also requires her 20 employees, who also work from their homes, to make comparable arrangements if they have young kids." OK, I am pissed off! Perkett is NOT a a SAHP! She is using her likely sprawling South Shore home (judging from the photo of her kitchen) as an office. Perkett doesn't want to feel guilty? Hope she is paying her 20 employees enough to really offset the cost of providing all those nannies with a living wage.

Needleman reveals that "Ms. Perkett says parenting and working from home don’t mix. 'People think they’ll stick (their kids) in front of the TV,' she says, but adds that the move isn’t practical or fair. 'It’s nearly impossible to work productively and watch your children at the same time. And it’s not good for the child because they’re vying for your attention and they can’t get it.'" Now I'm fuming. Perkett assumes all SAHPs who do "outside" work are sticking their kids in front of a TV? I am typing on the MacBook Pro we bought to replace the one Michael Alexander knocked off my leg while I was writing a personal finance column when he was just a few weeks old. Sure, that "move" wasn't "practical or fair," especially in terms of the cost of replacing a laptop, but I wasn't neglecting my son while working.

As someone who contemplates the possibility of really becoming a SAHP entrepreneur (sans full-time childcare like Perkett), I'd like a breakdown of the startup costs and where she got the capital to pay 20 people's salaries. Launching a business like Perkett's isn't a reality for most people.

I am not out to vilify Perkett or any other entrepreneur or business owner. But I am calling out Needleman for classifying Perkett as a SAHP. Perkett gets props for her
savvy by saving on overhead and office costs by running her business from home. The blog post, which features a photo of the PR maven with her elementary school aged son and nanny, is raising kid(s) who spend most of the day in school, according to the lede. I know Needleman is banging out a couple of grafs on the quick just to fill a page, but by serving us just this little slice of Perkett's life, she dis-serving SAHPs like me who grapple with the guilt of "not working" by identifying Perkett as a SAHP.

Needleman also mentions "Jason King, also a home-based entrepreneur, (who) says his wife is a stay-at-home mom and takes care of their two kids during the workday. Still, he says he wouldn’t get much work done if he didn’t have a solid door blocking his basement office from the rest of his Odenton, Md., home." A solid door? I guess that means a hollow one wouldn't work. The founder and CEO of Accella LLC, a website and mobile-application developer, tells Needleman that “Being able to create some type of separation and a way for the kids to know their boundaries is important," and that without the door, his kids “would feel the freedom to come and go as they please,” adding that they’d also be a distraction if the door was made of clear glass. "They’d always be sitting outside looking in.” I guess you need to have a basement and live in suburbia where you can create a fortress from your offspring in order to build a business from home.

Needleman who signs off by asking "Readers, if you run your business from a home office and have kids, is a nanny or daycare necessary?" raises an important question with her lede, but falls short by giving us two examples of people who work from home but are anything but SAHPs. Instead of asking her readers if this is possible, perhaps she could have sought out someone who has actually tried to be a SAHP with a career or business venture. Instead, Needleman has simply produced another self-promoting link for Perkett's "In The News" section of her website. I'm not begrudging Perkett for her headline-hoarding, but I do knock Needleman for false advertising.

Shardstorm, Shitstorm, Snowstorm

Every weekday morning starts the same. I have goals for the day -- what I'd really like to get done before Mike gets home from work, usually around 6:30, when I escape to the gym for my only alone time. And then there are the minimum goals I can realistically hope to achieve, and that's on a good day. Most days I'm lucky if Michael Alexander naps for 20 minutes, giving me that much time to hustle even as I would like to join him in a nap. Writing, even answering emails, is a constant challenge as he wants to pound on the keys as soon as he sees the laptop open. I steal away what little time I can in the minutes he'll entertain himself in the jump-a-roo. Like right now. I am typing as quickly as I can because I am determined today to write something, anything.

The day started with a shardstorm. I placed Michael Alexander in the jump-a-roo as I ran to the bathroom to pee. (Little luxuries that stay-at-home moms cherish. I have become a master at holding it to keep toilet visits to a minimum.) I had just unzipped my jeans when I heard a colossal crash that rattled me to the core. I can see and hear Michael Alexander from the bathroom, so I knew he was fine, but I still dreaded the source of that scary sound. The light fixture on the kitchen ceiling had thundered down, showering the black tiles with shards of white polished glass. Some pieces were large enough to scoop up by hand, most had to be swept up and a powder had to be very carefully removed. The kitchen floor and parts of the counter and stove were covered in what looked like a dusting of snow. Tiny shards and some powder made it into the living room. I carefully stepped into a pair of flip flops just outside the kitchen every few minutes to soothe Michael Alexander as I scoured the floors for every last razor sharp shard. It took a full hour just to be sure all visible powder was discarded. I sliced off a sliver of my right middle finger as I carefully pulled a chunk of glass from under the dishwasher. I've managed to keep Michael Alexander out of the kitchen all day. That's a tall order, as he insists on following me in there and enjoys searching for any remnants and pushing the dishawasher buttons and opening the oven door. He's so tall that at 9 months, he can reach higher than most 18-month-olds. To be sure, I scrubbed the floor and the oven and the counters. That called for a another series of sweeps to distinguish between the clean shine and stubborn shards.

Shardstorm over, save for the particles I missed and the ongoing battle to keep Michael Alexander out of the tiny kitchen he finds so fascinating. As much as I dread grocery shopping ahead of another threat of stormageddon, I had to get to get food and water just because we're one of those unusual Manhattan households that prepares most of its meals despite the endless delivery options. We went to Whole Foods first, but too many staples, like the sports cap electrolyte enhanced water, were sold out, so we returned to slippery sidewalks and headed to Trader Joe's. Trader Joe's in Union Square, unlike its sister stores in suburbia, is cramped and always crowded beyond capacity. I was relieved that there was no line outside, as that often stretches half an avenue while people wait to clear the entrance. Trader Joe's is boring. Boring for anyone, especially an extremely active 9-month-old confined to a stroller for what seems like an endless, sluggish journey snaking the narrow aisles. Michael Alexander is such a happy baby, so animated and engaging he earns the adoration of child-hating hipsters. Shoppers are rabid and packed like sardines. There are no pleasantries. Michael Alexander isn't accustomed to such a somber scene. He's used to constant compliments and a sea of smiles. Understandably, he got a little cranky as we weaved our way around the weary sourpusses and sad saps. As always, there is plenty of carriage slamming. There's always a shopper who repeatedly rams her cart into the backs of my ankles as if that will expedite her trip to the register. The woman behind us on line today was particularly nasty. The bitter old hag hates babies. I could sense this even before her verbal assault, as my radar was honed in my years as a bitter young hack who had little tolerance for crying babies in crowded stores. As the hag slammed her push cart into my back, she knocked a package of ground turkey from the stroller. It landed near her feet. "Please, remove that immediately," she barked. "I cannot be exposed to meat. I cannot handle meat." I said nothing as I retrieved the warehouse sealed package from the ground, inches away from her filthy rubber rain boots. Meantime, her face was closer to the shelves of beef than her boots were to the single package of poultry. "Disgusting," she mumbled. "Children should not have contact with meat." Hmmm ... I was a vegetarian, briefly, as a younger person. We all make mistakes, go through phases. If she's so adamant about her problem, err, I am mean choice, perhaps she could avoid stores that stock the flesh she so fears. Even the vegans that nibble away at their bowls of overpriced leaves and legumes from the trough where these items sit all day turning every shade of food poisoning don't scoff at the carnivores flanking them at the Whole Foods checkout line. Maybe it's because they're technically stealing (and breaking state law) by chowing down on the food that's priced, and supposed to be purchased, by the pound. In any case, this hag's anti-meat madness was above and beyond the worst offenders I've encountered in the mixed (omnivores and other uber eating races) retail company. As if her veg venom were not vile enough -- or perhaps my lack of response annoyed her -- the hag sought to set me off by swearing at my sweet son. "Ugh!" she launched into tirade No. 2. "Uuuugh! Why is that child here?!" Again, I ignored her. "Children should not be allowed here! There is no room for children!" My stubborn silence sent her seething, it seems. She pulled out her ancient flip phone and greeted the unlucky number with another, louder round of "Ughs!" "I am at Trader Joe's," she grumbled into the telecom artifact. "There is this woman, with a baby, throwing meat on the floor!" Lady, if my baby or I were throwing meat, you wouldn't be standing. Yet it was my very calm, my refusal to acknowledge her tedious tirade, that really ticked her off. She groaned and groaned some more. "This line is taking forever. This is bullshit! This woman with the baby! This is what nannies are for. To stay home with the babies!" Really? Nannies are for stay-at-home moms who need to grocery shop solo? Fascinating! I am pretty sure the uber rich who afford such leisure and luxury need not shop on their own, at Trader Joe's. We made it to a register, where we were greeted by the charming cashier. He is named Mike, like so many a kind-hearted and quick-witted man. "How was your shopping experience?" he asked with a smirk. "I've had better days." Curious, he quizzed me for more. I summed up the hag's harassment. "Want me to get a manager? We can ban people like that from the store." I thanked him, but explained that this hag's misery was self-inflicted punishment enough, and the manager need not endure her fury.

Having a baby changes everything. Back in my pre-mommy days. Back when I was a bitter young hack, I'd never have kept shut and I'd likely have been banned when the other oldy-moldy meanies joined forces to counter my youthful rage against the hag. Today I am just happy to escape the hag's shitstorm, all that after surviving the shardstorm, at least relatively unscathed. All this and I thought today's super struggle was supposed to be a snowstorm. New Englanders and other non-New Yorkers, I shudder to say that I might have -- just for today -- preferred shoveling snow to shielding my son and self from the shards and shit.

In Your Face(book)

Like most things mainstream, I resisted Facebook for a very long time, at least in cybertrend time. When I finally caved, it was mainly to keep up with friends who have children, and others too far away or too busy to chat with regularly. You know, most people. Eventually I came to embrace Facebook for its convenience. And now that I'm a parent, posting baby pictures on Facebook is so much easier than emailing them to everyone who asks. So many times it's a hassle, as most emails bounce back because of the size of the photo files or some other issue I can't resolve. I wish my sister and sister-in-law were on Facebook, even with aliases, just for the photo sharing feature. I never have a problem uploading photos to Facebook. I'm also indebted to Facebook for allowing my young cousin in Belarus to find me and for putting me back in touch with close friends I hadn't heard from in decades. Otherwise, Facebook is really starting to annoy, even anger, me. I've been cutting back on my Facebook visits this week, and I haven't even logged on this morning. Until a particular post thread ticked me off, I was signed on to Facebook (as well as gmail) throughout the day, though I was rarely really "on" Facebook. That posed more problems, as some people didn't understand why I'd "ignore" their messages, even though I was "always" on Facebook. I have a baby. That should be obvious by my posts, which are mostly photos of my son. I am lucky to steal a few minutes to scroll through posts. If I really had the luxury of being online, not just signed on, at all times, I'd be writing or reading something other than Facebook updates.

I know I can unfriend people or just block their posts from appearing on my page, but there's part of me that's perversely drawn to the very posts that annoy and anger me. Sick, I know. That's why I'm curbing my consumption of crappy comments. We're all guilty of oversharing in some way. That's the whole premise of Facebook. Certainly most of my "friends" could care less about my most of posts and I am assume most of them just ignore them. But I know there are some people in my Facebook universe who are interested in some of my updates and it's just more convenient to post than to email everyone who might care. I'm sure I've offended or outraged plenty of my "friends" with a post or two, but my goal really isn't to share too much information. The problem with TMI on Facebook is that so much of what's out there doesn't even qualify as information. I can't imagine that anyone's friend is at all interested in what baked good you purchased for breakfast or how your morning commute was more manic than mundane because of some young woman's banal banter. You know what's worse than some blabbing bimbo? Your inane posts. We all make daily food choices and encounter irritating people, but unless your experience is somehow extraordinary or at least atypical, please consider keeping it yourself. Sure I'm guilty of occasional improper, even inappropriate, posting, but I'm not an hourly or daily offender. Nobody needs or wants to hear enough random rantings to compose your daily psychological profile.

Worse than TMI (too much idiocy) are passive-aggressive posts that beg for a reply and hope for a useless thread of emotional reactions that say nothing. Social media is not the platform for cryptic cries for help. That's when you need to pick up the phone and call a real friend, or at least send them a private message. And then there's the litany of lame reactions to news events hours, even days, after they break. Posting a quote from a famous person seconds, minutes, even a couple hours after their obit hits the wire can be pithy or at least apropos, but dragging the process way past its prime is pathetic. If you missed the news because you were offline, good for you! That means you were probably doing something constructive, even creative. You missed it. It's over. Get over it, and post nothing or something timely. Please.

And worst of all, what's really upsetting me, is the realization that too many educated, professional people are incapable of critical thinking. I rarely reply to posts other than cute photos of children or status updates that really offer an update or some information I can't find with a simple Google search. Sometimes I'm compelled to respond to a post from a "friend" I don't know very well, but refrain for fear my social or political tirade will fall on deaf ears or even be misunderstood. Sadly, when I've made the leap and given a poster I don't know well the benefit of the doubt, I am deeply disappointed by their lack of analytical thinking and the ensuing insipidity of their other "friends." There are those of us on Facebook who post for their real friends, and there are those who cater to the lowest possible denominator. I don't expect Facebook or any other social media to become a forum for great debate and discussion, but I do wish people wouldn't dumb down every idea.

I'm posting this now, so I can sign on to Facebook to promote it. Ha!

Fall Fodder and Foibles

Fall is an emotional time of year. When I was younger it signaled the excitement of going back to school. As a child and teenager, I had always imagined the only career that involved going to an office (if only for office hours I set myself) that I would ever pursue was academia. My father was a professor and my mother a high school teacher, amid myriad other occupations and odd jobs. I grew up going to my father's classes, passing out Blue Books and quietly copying the text books word for word in perfect block letters. (After my father died, my mother found some. She was initially very concerned when she thought at age 4 I really understood macroeconomic theory.) I loved my father's office, where I'd sit on his lap in a distressed leather chair punctuated with rivets and surrounded by books piled from floor to ceiling. As I grew older, I never imagined there could be another office that didn't completely stifle your creativity and passion. I was right, I later learned through experience. But I also learned that academia was rife with bureaucracy that could be nearly as soul-sucking as the corporate world. When I accidentally stumbled upon journalism, I was tempted but still not ready to give up my dreams of ivory towers, or public school brick.

As students head back to school, each year becomes more complicated. I am so far removed from the life I once thought I'd embrace as mine. I was very young during my first round in grad school, a PhD candidate before I was 20. I jumped from fifth grade to seventh grade and then earned my B.A. in three years, so I was by far the youngest student. Upon graduating, I studied at Oxford, at Trinity College right across from the Bodleian Library. It was a scholar's dream to read in the same library as the dons, and it was tough returning to the U.S. system. Once back in the U.S., I was working several jobs, including one at the local newspaper. The other students were all TAs who scoffed at my toiling at menial jobs rather than devoting every second to my studies. I begrudgingly gave up to devote myself to my more-than full-time newspaper career. I returned to grad school twice again, the last time as the oldest student in the group and the only one studying part-time as I was working full-time as a journalist. After all these years and restarts, I am still ABD. I still consider going back, but for now it seems like a lost dream.

One of the reasons I chose to live in the Village is the proximity to NYU. For more than a decade I essentially lived on the campus, in rent-stabilized walkups haunted by students. Now we live in Union Square, where plenty of parents shell out a small fortune for their adult children to live in a luxury doorman building. I guess after footing the $40K-plus tuition bill, a few more grand a month isn't so much. I love being around students and professors, but sadly the banter that I miss from my days as a student is as elusive as my doctorate. Sadly, it seems most NYU students spend more time sifting through the racks at Banana Republic than the pages of Plato's Republic. I'm sure they think really deep thoughts while shopping. You know, like "No discounted thing is of serious importance." Translation: Always pay retail. Daddy's platinum card will cover it. Or, "If one has made an accessorizing mistake, and fails to correct it, one has made a greater mistake." Of course I know there are plenty of very bright NYU kids who work their way to a sub-minimum wage assistant's job in their chosen field. I'm merely complaining because I miss the debate that I had always expected to be a part, if not the bulk, of my daily life. Alas ... I shall take comfort knowing college students still maintain at least one Platonic ideal: "He was a wise man who invented beer."

Even in a cultural mecca, the conversations center on the mundane and the maddening. Nonetheless, I do enjoy eavesdropping as sport, and it's so much easier to do it with a baby in tote. You can get away with a lot as a "new" mommy, lingering to listen to less-than-enlightening exchanges among the unthinkers or our time. Much of what I hear makes TV seem like an academic platform. What's more troubling is what people say to strangers. Fall days like today are made for long walks soaked in the 62-degree sunshine. More people are out, making for more unsolicited comments. Note: Unsolicited comment is a synonym for harassment. If I want your opinion, I will ask for it. Yesterday, a woman who appeared a little disheveled yet suitable for the general population asked me: "Can I look at your baby?" Firstly, madam, you are looking at my baby. Secondly, what is it that you've been banned from and by what authority that prompts you to make such a request? Crazy, maybe. But hardly among the worst offenders. I am befuddled by those, predominantly older women, who feel entitled to offer their insights into infancy. Odder yet is that many of these self-anointed sages have never raised children of their own. Their own experience, or lack thereof, aside, their meddling can be maddening and I have yet to meet a parent who isn't equally annoyed. Does my child look healthy? Yes? Happy? Yes. Then perhaps I am doing a decent job of caring for him. As for the students I slammed (again, this was a generalization and NYU is singled out only for its proximity and prolific real estate ownership), at least most teens and 20-somethings, even those who don't know their epistemology from their ethics, are respectful of mommy and me time. They hold doors when their parents' and grandparents' peers push past strollers only to amble at snail's pace hauling their grocery carts and dragging their lapdogs.

Come fall, if I can't be in a classroom, at least I can (try to) learn from my everyday experiences. When the rude intrude, I strive to shake the snark and "Be kind, for everyone you meet is fighting a hard battle." My battle just happens to be fending off ignorance and intrusion.

LA/NY Bad Back/Good Back

It's been nearly a week since Mike and I returned from our too-short trip to LA on the redeye. We had an absolutely indulgent and glorious time, save for missing the baby. Witnessing the wedding of two soulmates surrounded by dear friends is one of life's greatest rewards. It was an especially intimate celebration, and every person belonged there in some way. Trust me, brides-to-be, the single most important thing about wedding planning is avoiding unwanted guests. Our friends in LA clearly averted my biggest mistake, allowing a pill-popping sociopath to invite herself and make every effort to mar my big day with egregious actions like grabbing the asses of my husband and close friends and intentionally insulting nearly everyone I care about. Her unwanted presence aside, our day was as lovely as the West Coast fete, a marriage of two minds and hearts and sensibilities.

Besides sharing in this lovely life event, it was a privilege to spend time with many of Mike's dearest friends. The camaraderie and warmth, combined with the sunshine and poolside pleasure at The Standard in West Hollywood, tempts me to relocate and ditch this dreary weather. On vacation, LA is OK, as long as you stay on Sunset and play in West Hollywood. But as soon as you need to trek to another sprawling neighborhood, it's time to shell out some $60 for cab. It makes New York seem cheap. Here I flinch if the fare is over $15, and I rarely cab it anyway, choosing to walk almost everywhere. The biggest burden of life in LA is the lack of adequate public transportation. The majority of motorists in Manhattan are tools or tourists, while those who walk the streets in LA are mostly mental patients or Manhattanites.

My back pain was a mere 5-to-6 on the pain threshold during our three-night stay in sunny LA. But after the redeye and subsequent train trip to pick up Michael Alexander from my mom, the pain hit a fever pitch. I got results of my MRI today. Besides the scoliosis and degenerated spine (I was diagnosed in 2006 while marathon training), I have a rotated spine and herniated disks and nerve damage. A myriad maladies which will never be "fixed," though I work to stave off or slow further injury and strive to keep the pain in that tolerable 5-to-6 range. After sitting on a plane and trains, the pain shot to a 10 and I was chewing the inside of my mouth just to cope. Sitting for an extended period of time is bad for every body and far worse for one like mine. I am thankful that I can bring Michael Alexander to physical therapy twice a week. The wonderful women who work there adore him and play with him while I do my exercises and then allow me to hold him on the table while I am receiving transcutaneous electrical nerve stimulation. I do more lower back and core strengthening exercises after my daily workouts. As I've mentioned, my dear husband wakes before dawn to go to the gym before work so I can I go when he gets home from the office. But that's not enough. I need to be doing those exercises every hour while I am doing any sort of bending or lifting, actions required in my full-time role as mother to a very active six-month-old. Oh, and I am to avoid bending at the waist and lifting to reduce the strain and pain and symptoms and keep this from reaching the stage where surgery is the only answer. Ha! I do make every effort to use proper form when lifting Michael Alexander, but as anyone who has ever witnessed an infant in action can attest, there are few chances to prepare for the second when you have to lunge and save the baby from imminent peril. The best non-surgical treatment at this time is regular epidural injections. But that's not a baby-friendly environment, so for now I am trying a two-week course of gut-wrenching steroids, the strongest non-evasive treatment available in the U.S. I'm also working on getting a TENS (transcutaneous electrical nerve stimulation) machine for home so I can step up the non-pharmaceutical treatment. The best pain med is Percocet, which makes my brain mush but is the only way to reduce the pain from a 10 to a 6 or 7 or so. I am trying to take it only when I hit 10, which happens far too often.

For now, we're staying in New York, but LA is always a temptation. Mostly, I can't bear the thought of owning a car and daily driving. That, and all the people I would miss madly here on the East Coast. As for being back home, that is good. So very good to hold my son and witness his every amazing action. The bad back, however, not so good.

10-18 and "The steak at Barney's is rather nice"

Oct. 18 is one of the toughest days of the year. June 21st is the worst. That's the day my dad died, in 2002, of cancer. Oct. 18, or 10-18, is his birthday. I try to make it a day of celebration, but the joy is not without a profound sadness, both over his suffering and my loss, but now more so because my son, Michael Alexander, will never know his namesake grandfather, dedushka (DED-oosh-kah)or dziadzia (JAH jah). Michael William Gural was best known as Brother Mike. He wasn't a monk, though he spent much of his life living like one. Brother refers largely to his true humanist belief in democratic socialism. My dad was the consummate scholar-athlete-worker-artist-humanist-teacher-philosopher-storyteller. He would love his grandson unconditionally and make him his most important student, since his daughters.

(Look, Mike, paragraph breaks! Apologies. Inside joke.)

On this day, as I attempt to smile more than I cry, I offer a few quick quotes from the many tomes my father read and re-read until his dying day. Even as his once strong, athletic body crumbled and the cancer spread to his brain, my father was able to do what he loved best, "commune with the Great Minds through reading books." I am blessed with a wonderful, brilliant husband who will be as committed to his son and my father was to me, to ensure that Michael Alexander engages with the Great Minds through the great books. I often go to these Great Minds for inspiration, for solace, for support, for guidance.

Today, I'm turning to some of the simplest ideas my father shared with me when I was a young child. While my son is a genius, he's still just a 6-month-old genius.

Good habits formed at youth make all the difference.
Aristotle

Life must be lived as play.
Plato

I am not a Marxist.
Karl Marx
OK, That one's not so simple without explanation, but I'll save that for when I get a gig teaching Marxian Philosophy 101.

Much unhappiness has come into the world because of bewilderment and things left unsaid.
Fyodor Dostoevsky

I agree with no one's opinion. I have some of my own.
Ivan Turgenev

Coming generations will learn equality from poverty, and love from woes.
Kahlil Gibran

I don't believe people are looking for the meaning of life as much as they are looking for the experience of being alive.
Joseph Campbell

To be is to do.
Immanuel Kant

I could go on and on, but I'll stop at one more. This last one is not like the others. It's not likely to come up in any Intro to Great Minds class.

The steak at Barney's is rather nice.
Paul Edwards

Of course the Barney's quote is absurd out of context. Edwards is an Austrian-American moral philosopher, who lived from 1923 to 2004. It's quite likely that Brother Mike and Edwards met at some point in their academic careers. I don't ever recall my father mentioning Paul Edwards, but Brother Mike was such a prolific re-reader, a true scholar, he communed with many, many Great Minds. It seems that Edwards was a similar type of scholar. While writing his doctoral thesis he contacted Bertrand Russell to discuss scepticism about religious belief.

I digress. The Paul Edwards quote comes up today because it is from a hardcover textbook, "The Logic of Moral Discourse," published in 1955 with an introduction by Marxist philosopher Sidney Hook. That book comes from a very small section in our home library. My father left behind a scholarly library carefully compiled over seven decades and meticulously organized. My mother sold the entire collection when he died. I was angry for awhile, but I understand how keeping thousands of books was too much for my mother to bear, especially on an emotional level. She'd already taken care of him, like she did her own father and mother, who also were bedridden and very ill for many years. My father died at home, with his books. When I told Mike about the books, he immediately began investigating, contacting rare and used book dealers throughout Massachusetts where my mother lives. Mike found one dealer who had a couple dozen books he chose from the collection my mother gave away. Mike didn't tell me until the books arrived. It was early in our relationship, and I was living in the Village, on MacDougal between Bleecker and Houston, just blocks from Forbes magazine's offices, where Mike worked at the time. We used a handcart to haul the re-found treasures back to my modest walkup. That night, Mike and I communed with those books. My father and my husband never met. That is unfair. They share so much passion for the Great Minds and would have had epic debates and discussions. Back to the books. My father often made notes in perfect cursive using the very light touch of a No. 2 pencil. He'd never deface a book other than to imprint his name, MICHAEL W. GURAL, in block letters on the inside front cover. My father made very detailed notes in Chapter V, "The Steak at Barney's is Rather Nice," in which Edwards examines the philosophical meanings of the word nice.

The Barney's at 660 Madison serves a Certified Angus Sliced Steak at lunch for $34 (meh, at best), and a Dried Aged Grilled New York Strip Steak at dinner for $42 (I'd still prefer a steak at Strip House, or a natural beef or buffalo steak that Mike dry aged at home. Yeah, you can do that. Alton Brown taught us how.) Again, I digress. Eating at Barney's wasn't the same in my father's (and Paul Edwards') days in New York. And I doubt they would have have met at Barney's, if they met at all. In any case, I'm sure the steak at Barney's in the 1950s was "rather nice." But that whole business has changed a lot over the years. In 1977, Barney's in-store restaurant was renamed The Cafe and started selling salads, soup, and sandwiches to cater to tourists. I'm sure there are at least a few Park Avenue ladies-who-lunch who are even older than my dad, would be 84 today, with perfect coiffes and vintage furs, who could recite the menu from 55 years ago. For the record, my dad would have ordered the Fish of the Day, even though he'd prefer the Grilled Veal Chop.

AT+Teed Off and Dreading the Wal-Apocalypse

Tuesday's woe was waiting for the cops to respond in the wake of my iPhone theft and the anger, frustration, dismay and disgust that followed. I didn't sleep Tuesday night, and my beautiful son was the only thing that kept a smile on my face until Mike came home from work. But Tuesday's petty crime was eclipsed by the corporate crime committed by AT+T (and by association, Apple.) I wasted a solid 7.5 hours (no exaggeration) yesterday trying to replace my stolen phone without being ripped off again. Turns out that AT+T is a far greater thief than the thug who made off with my phone. Michael Alexander and I spent well over two hours in the Apple retail store only to be dropped four times while on the line with an AT&T representative, entering and speaking the same information each time. The Apple representative went twice to look for a "floating" mobile phone, as the iPhones attached to the displays at the store kept dropping calls. Welcome to AT+T! The self-professed "leader in telecommunication services" can't provide basic service! Welcome to the third (world) generation of telecoms! I had better success making calls in remote eastern Africa. And, of course, there were no "floater" phones in the store, the rep said, as they had all been stolen. I finally managed to get through a full call with an AT+T rep, all the while hunched over as the phones are attached by short cords to curb theft. I was left with information contradicting what Mike was told when he called to suspend my account. As I spent up to 45 minutes a try squatting and squirming to use the display phone, I was holding and engaging Michael Alexander and clutching my purse, as I've become paranoid since Tuesday's theft. No wonder my back was especially sore, preventing me from sleeping. (I go for a nerve test tomorrow. The pain is worse than ever.) I left the Apple store without a new phone and headed to an AT+T store, as that's what the Apple reps suggested. All I wanted was to buy a new phone and not renew my contract, which has a full year of commitment left. AT+T informed me that I cannot buy a new phone without a new, two-year contract. That is criminal! If I cancel my contract halfway through, I pay a penalty, but the corporate "leader" can bully me into signing on for another two years of dis-service? And the retail cost to replace my stolen phone is $599! To make a very long and trying tale shorter, I was again (mis)informed by the Apple rep and an AT+T rep who said I could buy a refurbed iPhone online or at an authorized AT+T dealer and reactive my current contract. I then visited an AT+T dealer who reiterated that I could get a refurb and continue my contract. Skipping errands, Michael Alexander and I headed home some four hours after we set out on what I had hoped would be a simple task. He's no worse for the wear, mind you, smiling and giggling and babbling and rejoicing as I carried him for dozens of blocks so he could see the sights and faces. I then spent nearly four more hours online chatting with or calling AT+T reps only to be dropped from four chat sessions and three more calls. That's AT+T's "commitment to service excellence!" Meanwhile, my darling husband was also making calls, well past 7:30 p.m. while I was at the gym, my only break from this customer dis-service nightmare. His calls kept dropping, too. For AT+T to claim it has any customer "service" at all is a brazen lie. It has any army of ill- or mis-informed salesdrones competing with each other and ratting out their colleagues (note: sarcastic use of colleague), and blaming them for the last lie. The passive-aggressive blame game started at the Apple store, where the blue T-shirts dismissed AT+T's reps as "knowing nothing" about the "service" they claim to provide. Then each subsequent AT+T rep (from the retail store to the phone bank to the chatroom) said her/his counterpart was "wrong" to tell me something different and that s/he was telling me the "reality." OK, only one said "reality", another said "honest truth." Ha! Just as I thought it would be impossible to loathe any corporate criminal incompetent more than AT+T, I read about Wal-Mart's plan to spread its evil empire into my beloved city. Part of what distinguishes us from the red state ingrates is that we are Wal-free. There already are so many wretched chains in Manhattan, but I like to believe that most patrons of these retail wretches are the tourists who come here to be exploited by the same big boxes that infest their hometowns, only with a higher price tag. (And of course, they complain about the prices! I have a great way to avoid the added costs: Stay home!) I like to believe that the majority of my fellow city dwellers choose News Cafe over Starsucks. I like to believe. (Clicking the heels of my ruby slippers, I repeat three times: "There's no place like home.") Fellow New Yorkers, please help keep our home one with independent businesses that survive by offering a superior product and real customer service! Please stay out of these menacing big boxes when possible. (I acknowledge I do shop at Babies 'R' Us, but that's a different story and a debate I'm happy to take on, just not right now.) Please do all you can to keep the Walmartians out of New York! Please help preserve humanity, community and democracy! Shopping at a Wal-Mart is a great crime against democracy. As destor23 commented on Gawker's "What Would Wal-Mart Mean for New York?" post: "Only one thing can stop this: New Yorkers have to not shop at these mini-monstrosities. Frankly, the city has become so chainified already that I think it will be tough to actually get people to not go there but just remember... first the Walmartians land and then New York's streets wind up clogged with fatties on Medicare-subsidized scooters. From there it's all Tea Party all the time. You have been warned." Don't worry, destor23, I promise our son will never, ever enter a Wal-Mart as long as he's living under our roof! And trust that we will do everything in our power to instill in him the ethics to make the right decision and fight the Wal.

Steve Maddening Day

Today started out great. I woke feeling well rested. My left lumbar pain wasn't debilitating. My son was giggling and smiling and eating organic apples and bananas. A day free of conference calls, doctors appointments and deadlines, I was looking forward to a morning and afternoon and evening of great accomplishments, including cleaning out my closet. I made great strides with the closet this morning and then decided to take a break to go shopping for Mike's costume for his Friday performance and for a new pair of boots. I stopped by the Steve Madden store in Union Square yesterday while running errands and saw a pair of high boots that were actually high enough. Most boots and pants are designed for short women, or those who are 5'5" and shorter, but this pair would reach the knees, even on an amazon. Perfect, except they didn't have them in my size. Size 10 shoes sell out quickly, especially boots designed with tall girls in mind. The sales associate called the SoHo store and said they would hold them for me. While searching for Daddy's costume, I figured Michael Alexander and I could make a quick stop at the SoHo store. I lived in the central Village, on the cusp of SoHo, for more than a decade before moving to Union Square and always loved wandering Broadway, whether I was shopping or just window shopping. Things have changed. SoHo, or at least Broadway, has always attracted tourists along with the beautiful people, or natives, but it's never been this ugly, I'm sure. It used to be mostly fashionable European tourists, who were obvious only because of their maps and guide books. But these days the corn-fed middle Americans who rarely stray from Times Square are clogging the sidewalks. I should have run away immediately when I saw every Abercrombie teen, tween and her sister with their uptight mothers trying on pair after pair of boots and hooker heels. But I thought I could quickly get the pair saved for me, try them on and buy them if they fit. Ha! After 20 minutes, a sales associate informed me the boots weren't on hold, so I showed her the pair. 15 minutes later, I got the pair. As I turned away (for a few seconds at best) from the stroller, which was secured with the break and my foot under the front tire so I'd know if anyone tried to touch it, someone snagged my iPhone and ran off. I didn't see him, but a lovely young Russian woman did and agreed to stay and give the cops a description. She and her friend were an exception to the typical crowd at a Steve Madden store on weekdays, these days. Needless to say, I didn't get the boots, which had a broken zipper. When I asked to use the phone to call the cops, the store manager said to me, "I don't know why you're mad at me. It's not my fault," and handed me a photocopy of an NYPD-issued statement about how the store isn't responsible for stolen stuff. I was so shaken, I didn't even respond. He's bitter from dealing with droves of obnoxious tourists who will never return, and treats everyone as if they shop at Wal-Mart, the ultimate sin against democracy. (More on that another time.) It took another 40 minutes for the cop to come. The Russian woman and her friend waited the whole time. For every thief, there are two human beings. That was about the only thing that kept me from weeping and losing all faith in humanity. I know it's just an iPhone. I know I am lucky he didn't take my Michael Kors wallet with my credit cards, or my Dolce & Gabbana sunglasses, or my most-precious Marc Jacobs bag. And I am very thankful he didn't harm my son, who was oblivious to the incident, smiling as I held him tight, rattled by the manager's callous indifference and offended that he treated me like one of those people. But still, I am shaken and stirred and sad. What made me sad was my reaction, what I felt, but didn't articulate. This petty crime brought out my worse-than-petty elitist attitude. "Well, what can you can you expect from a low-end store like Steve Madden where all these tourists and tweens shop?" I blamed myself a little for even being there, for making myself a potential target just by shopping with so many victims-to-be. I am savvy. I am a city person. I am strong. This guy stole more than my phone. He robbed me of a day's ambitions (I should have had the closet immaculate, the laundry in the dryers and dinner prepped by now); he disrupted my whole week's schedule (a work-from-home mom only has so many hours a day to get things done); and he made me feel ... ugh ... so.hard.to.say.it ... helpless. I couldn't run out after him. I have a son to watch and care for. That is my priority. Period. He knew that. The short (shorter than me), awkward and dumpy thief (based on the 5'9" witness' description), was no adversary for me. I could take him. He couldn't outrun me. He couldn't escape from my headlock, withstand my pounding. He couldn't look me in the eye and not shudder with fear. But he got away. And it's because I am a mom, and he knows I would never look away from my son long enough to let anything happen to him. Just long enough for some wimpy thief to snatch my phone. Replacing the phone is a costly hassle that's going to set me back even further this week. That sucks. But what really sucks is how I feel about society right now. How I feel about stores that cater to tourists and allow such thieves to lurk and blend in with the low-rent crowd. "If were shopping at Prada across the street," I thought to myself, "this wouldn't happen because the store associates and managers would notice this guy and I wouldn't be lost in a sea of Walmartians." I'll never go back to a Steve Madden store. The shoes are crappy anyway. And I'll be watching my belongings like a hawk, suspecting every suspicious-looking (whatever that means, another judgment) person when I do return to Broadway. The back pain's back and I am headed back to conquer the closet, with a lot less enthusiasm. Guess I won't be tossing my old boots. They have a broken zipper, just like the new ones at Steve Madden.

Getting on my nerves

I was diagnosed with scoliosis and a degenerated spine six years ago when I went in for a patella tendon overuse injury while marathon training. I've long had pain in my left lumbar spine, but like with my other chronic pain (mostly in my neck and shoulders), I ignored it for years assuming everyone deals with some constant discomfort. The 2006 knee injury was caused by the scoliosis. The scoliosis diagnosis itself isn't a big deal, it's the degenerated spine part that's cause for concern and ceasing certain activities, like running for fear of far greater injury. Under a doctor's care, I trained for and ran the 2006 marathon, but then quit running for the most part. It's been a major frustration, especially battling post-preggo weight, to not run daily. I spin nearly every day and stair climb and use the boring elliptical on occasion, but no amount of cardio, no matter how intense, can burn enough calories to do more than maintain my metabolically-challenged body's weight. Surprisingly, my back pain didn't get worse while I was pregnant. I did a lot of core strengthening, holding planks and bridges for what seemed like hours a day, and did extra exercises targeting the lower back. While I worked out, even spun, until two days before I went into labor, I did pare down the intensity of cardio and cut back on heavy lifting. That may be why I made it through 9 months without more severe pain. My left lumbar pain has become unbearable lately. There's a constant dull pain which I long ago accepted as the norm for my body, but the periodic sharp pains that intensify the chronic, dull pain recently became too much too ignore. I saw a new doctor today. Based on a physical exam, she believes I either have nerve damage or a slipped disk. I go for a nerve exam a week from tomorrow and start my latest round of physical therapy on Monday. If there's no sign of nerve damage, I go for an MRI. I hope this can be treated without surgery. The best part about this office is the doctor, who is mom to a 6 1/2-month-old son, welcomes my bringing Michael Alexander to PT as well as office visits. A native of Ukraine, she spoke to my little зайчик zaitchick (bunny) in Russian. I'm optimistic about the PT, as the doctor promised the clinic treats athletes. I had one positive PT experience at a clinic run by a former (American) football player who didn't waste my time with exercises for sissies. Every other physical therapist I tried taught simple exercises assuming the patient is a weak, lazy sloth. Needless to say, those experiences got on my nerves. Backing away from the computer for now. Michael Alexander wants more organic apples.

Morning Shorts

Mike is meeting a former colleague after work, so he got up extra early, before 5 a.m., allowing us both to work out before he left for the office. I had expected a painful, bitter chill when I headed to the gym for 6:30 spin, but experienced a refreshing, crisp, clear morning air that perked me right up. I've always felt there was something especially gratifying about working out before the sun comes up, which has been Mike's ritual since Michael Alexander was born. I go the gym when he gets home from work. On weekdays, it's my only time away from my beautiful son, so I'm dressed and ready to go when Mike comes home. I have to rush to sign up for a 6:45 spin class, bang out my ab work and then come home to finish making dinner. (Mike loves to make dinner, too, but it's easier for me to do it most weekdays. He was a saint when I was sick last week, making me homemade organic chicken soup loaded with veggies.) Going to the gym in the morning allows you to luxuriate. This morning was pure bliss. Larry led us through a solid 55 minutes of heavy climbs and sprints through resistance. Often morning classes aren't as challenging as evening ones, but this is a definite exception. When Mike and I first started taking Larry's classes; we aimed for two workouts a day before and during my pregnancy, but the early morning routine gave us a pass if something came up after work. I didn't like Larry at first. He's very intense, frenetic and strange. Now that I understand, and relate to, his passionate approach, I consider him one of the best. He's hilarious and totally dedicated. He talks through class, which he starts a good 7 minutes ahead of schedule, even as he pushes as hard as the participants. He works downtown, at the court, district, I think, and gets up in the middle of the night to make it to Union Square from faraway New Jersey. "15 more seconds of intensity. 15 more seconds of insanity," are among his mantras as he leads us through the "last 80 seconds" of a sprint through heavy resistance. What really made my day was when Larry recalled a class he took at another gym, somewhere in Jersey. "There was this bench outside the room, and people would get there 20 minutes early and drink coffee!" he wailed. "They sat there drinking coffee when they could be working out! It made me crazy." Aaah! That's my Larry! That is exactly the kind of slothful behavior that pisses me off, and Larry's (over)sharing was what me realize why today was a super great morning. Nobody comes to spin class, or the gym for that matter, when it opens at 5 a.m., or even for a 6:30 spin class, unless they are hardcore. In the evenings, there are kickass classes, but a majority of the attendees (as many aren't there in spirit) give about 20% at best. When the instructor says "Give me about a 5-6 (in resistance). A flat row." On most bikes at the downtown Crunches, a 5 or 6 is generally 17 turns. After that, you're starting to climb. While I respect the naturally lean people who come to the gym at all, I loathe all the lazies and wish they'd stay away from my coveted classes and avoid insulting with beloved instructors with their lack of effort or enthusiasm. Aaah, thank you Larry, and, of course, thank you, Mike, for a lovely morning! I am tired, but as zen as I get. Babies crying. Must run. I love writing without paragraph breaks or self-editing. Thanks, Michael Alexander, for demanding my attention.

Gold's Standards and Train Wrecks

Michael Alexander and I were in Massachusetts for a few days last week, visiting with his Babushka, Auntie Shurinka and Uncle Johnny, and attending a memorial service for a dear friend's mother who died of cancer. My Mom suggested we take Amtrak to Springfield instead of Metro-North for a more luxurious ride. True the soft bucket seats are nicer than the commuter rail's communal rows, but that's if you can get one. The Vermonter was about half full when it arrived in Penn Station from Washington, and there was one empty seat in each row. The Vermonter is clearly the Loner Express. Lugging Little Mikey is his car seat along with a heavy suitcase, diaper bag and purse, I made my way to end of the last car, finding a single empty seat in each row. Not a single person offered to share a seat with another passenger so we could have a row. Placing Little Mikey on the ground, I asked the woman sitting alone in the last row if she'd mind sharing a seat with another passenger so I could secure his car seat, as safely as possible, in a seat next to mine. Clad in high-waisted, stone-washed, baggy jeans and a white acrylic turtleneck, the Walmartian looked up and said, "No, my book is here," pointing to a tattered 'Intro to French' paperback. Dismayed, I said, "You won't give up a seat for my infant son so you can place your book there?" "I have a friend coming," she quipped. Little surprise this woman traveled the whole way sans friend, sprawling out across both seats, napping and kicking the seats we finally acquired in front of her when she wasn't gabbing on her relic of a cell phone with her brother in Bellows Falls (population 3,000), clearly her only companion on her sad life voyage. At about 45, this bumpkin who, according to a chat with bro, was born, bred and will croak in this vile village, was among the youngest travelers on this train to nowhere _ slow. One of the only other passengers who was clearly not headed to Vermont, agreed to share a seat with someone else so I could care for my baby. At least the train was on time, a major feat for Amtrak, which over the last eight years has abandoned any commitment to customer service. Michael Alexander and I were both battling colds when we arrived in Springfield, and have since passed the illness on to my immune-challenged Mom. The best remedy for near-pneumonia, along with a powerful Z-pack and codeine for sleeping, is working out to exhaustion. On Friday I headed to the Gold's Gym in West Springfield, a sort of anti-Crunch where sexuality is repressed at all costs. Great facility for lifting heavy (my favorite) and cardio (since so few use the machines). There are four standard patrons at this Gold's. The high school and higher-ed jocks, who shun steroids in favor of a lean physique, command the weight machines, speaking quietly and keeping to themselves. As I warmed up with 45 minutes on the stair climber and elliptical, two guys plunked on ab machines like they were Barcaloungers kept looking over without burning a calorie. "I don't do cardio," the older one said. "It's not good for you." "I'm with you," the younger one agreed. "Yeah," the older one added, "My cousin and another guy I know died from doing cardio." This pair represents the Guns and Guts contingent at Gold's, the men of all demographics who build up bi's and tri's and chest and shoulders, but couldn't hold plank for 10 seconds or run a mile. The third, and most interesting or quintessentially Gold's group, are the roid-raging power lifters. Awesomeness to the nth degree. The fourth standard, of course, are the women; all four of us including me. I believe the one 89-pound bluehair walking a 22-minute mile on a treadmill was straight. And for the record, even with a cold, I lifted about three times as heavy as the woman with the closest crop. Aaah, Gold's, I will be back when I return to Massachusetts, a far, far way from Lafayette Crunch.

Baby's first cold

Full-on sore throat, stuffy head and runny nose. And Michael Alexander's got a runny, stuffy nose and cough. Spin class this morning was the best medicine. I was feeling completely wiped out, but sprinting through heavy tension restored my energy. Now if only my throat wasn't raw. Michael Alexander's trying to shed his sickness in jumperoo.

Welcome to Nommersland!

I've resisted this until now, fearing I'd become just another blahger. When I got pregnant, I considered blogging on a number of topics from fertility treatments (I conceived the old-fashioned way) to breech positions (Michael Alexander, like both his dad and mom, was upside down and reversed position after a few moxibustion treatments and hundreds of modified shoulderstands) to C-sections (I had an emergency one, which I'm not convinced was medically necessary) to Manhattan vs. Brooklyn (we're still in Manhattan) to being approached by women who'd carry on a conversation with my bump without first asking my name. I pitched the moxibustion idea to several magazine editors, and was ignored by most of my colleagues. I acknowledge every pitch from writers, and was shocked to learn that others can't be bothered to extend the same professional courtesy. After 17 years in newsrooms, climbing the ranks from reporter to editor-in-chief, I am deeply disappointed by consumer magazine editors unwillingness or inability to recognize a good story idea for their audience. That's partly what brings me here. That, and I decided just yesterday that I am happiest at home with my son, and would rather raise him and witness his every incredible development rather than surrender a huge chunk of my salary to pay another woman to do it. There, I said it: I want to stay home!