Who else but that baby sis

will send a late night email, headed “THREE VERY IMPORTANT THINGS!!”

that details three separate accounts of the goings-on of some of our favorite Bravo-lebrities and Bloggers?!(!?!?)

It should also be noted that:

This morning, we planned her future wedding song,

talked about the Sex and the City re-run that we had both, coincidentally, just re-watched

and came up with the menu for the Father’s Day Brunch Feast we will be cooking together on Sunday morning.

(Oh! And I also found a card that she wrote to me over three years ago that said, “Happy Mother’s Day to a (Soon-to-be) Mother-to-Be (Knock wood)”. She knew how much I wanted to be a mama, then. And she acknowledged it. And honored it. Perfectly. And I found that card, today. And she was right. The very next Mother’s Day I spent with my sister…and my daughter.)

All that and we managed to do our day jobs. We’re really something, now, aren’t we?

Oh, and sisty, I love you, so!

Something New!

My sister and I, like any two people, have strengths and weaknesses. She is not great at cutting with scissors. I am terrible at parking.

Weak.

Yet,

She is a Journalism whiz kid and I am an expert at Dirty Dancing.

But, one thing that we are both really, really talented in is

Blog Stalking.

We are total blog-o-holics. In fact, it was my baby sister who first introduced me to the blogosphere, back when she was a Sophomore in college. I gave one blog one hit

and I was hooked.

We talk about bloggers like they’re are friends.

We text, feverishly, about bloggers’ baby names,

outfits,

and what they just ate for lunch.

For me (for us), Blogs give us great, always-accessible reading material,

and, most compellingly, they give us the ability to be total voyeurs.

I should mention that along with Sex and the City and Essie nail colors,

we are also experts at stalking.

We just love to stalk.

And that’s what blogging is. Relishing in every anecdote,

every outfit,

every meal.

And, also, you know…I blog.

And I Mommy Blog.

So, as we sat yesterday, tapping our freshly painted Essie nails and discussing the merits of a certain blogger’s recently posted snack choice, I got to thinking.

I love blogging.

I love food. And though I am no Top Chef, I cook dinner for my family every night.

So, if you come here because you like to commiserate,

or you come here because you like to be a voyeur into my little world,

or if you come here because you’re related to me,

I figure you might enjoy this little bit of New.

So, here goes. I am going to try out a new page, and on it I will share our nightly Family Dinners.

Nothing fancy, just quick snapshots of what I am cooking and what we are eating.

You can use it to get ideas,

or you can use it to be a stalker in my kitchen,

or you can use it to judge me.

And, if you find it boring, skip it. And, if you think I’m a terrible looking cook, send me tips.

But, I suspect you might like this new glimpse into our little Land.

At least I hope you will.

And so, without further ado, I will begin posting on our Family Dinners tonight.

If I can figure it out.

Because I may be good with coming up with healthy, filling family dinners on the fly,

but I am not good at computers and websites. I’ll do my best.

And, at the very least, I know I’ll have one dedicated dinner stalker.

Sister, I’m looking at you.

Blog Appetit.

 

HAPPY…

New Year!

I hope that two thousand and twelve brings you peace and love. And dance parties and belly laughs. And glitter. And baby kisses. And more love.

And Happy Anniversary, to me.

To us.

For, on this night, seven years ago,

I was on a plane,

flying across the ocean,

to a far away land,

and to a new place, both literally and figuratively,

after which I would never, ever, evereverever be the same.

For in that place,

I fell in love

with a one of a kind City;

in that place,

I fell in love with a

One of a kind girl.

Twin,

you mean more to me now than you meant to me then,

(and you meant a whole gosh-darn heck of a lot to me then)

and I do not know what my life would be without you.

You have taught me,

you have changed me,

you have accepted me,

you have held me,

you have loved me.

Twin, I love you more than you loved those chocolate churros, or that perfect bite of tapas at cal pep, or the amazing meusli at Mercadona, or the gummies at Bon Jon, or the puppies in the puppy store, or the smell of the Rocafort metro stop…

or the big red couches.

Happy Anniversary, Barca. Happy Anniversary, Twin. Happy New year.

Happiness Always.

(And P.S. because it must be said. Because, well, it just must: “Later that day I got to thinking about relationships. There are those that open you up to something new and exotic, those that are old and familiar, those that bring up lots of questions, those that bring you somewhere unexpected, those that bring you far from where you started, and those that bring you back. But the most exciting, challenging and significant relationship of all is the one you have with yourself. And if you can find someone to love the you you love, well, that’s just fabulous.”–Carrie Bradshaw, Sex and the City, Series Finale. Twin, seriously…I love you more.)

About Mommy

Hey there!

Hi!

Thank you so much for stopping by.

You may been here before. Thanks so much for sticking around.

But, perhaps you’re new here. Perhaps you’ve wandered these parts before, but you’re not sure. Perhaps you need something to jog your memory. Perhaps you’re not a newbie, per se, but haven’t been here since the beginning.

I’m here to catch you up.

See that tab right over there?

Yeah. There —————————————>

That’s my little bio, but really, it’s a bit stale. Things have changed. Of course I’m still parenting a Princess Baby with my Prince Charming, and things are still wonderful,

and also sometimes scary,

but my little girl has grown up before my eyes. And now, she actually can have an intelligible conversation with me. And since I started this journey of writing from Land of Mom, my girl got glasses. And this new path allowed both of us to look at the world differently. So, I write about it.

And since I began chronicling my “Ever After”, I had a very important “promotion”; Not only am I a teacher at the most warm, wonderful, vibrant, colorful, amazing school, but I have now also become a parent there. It is the BEST.

So that’s me. That’s who I am and what I do. But, most importantly, I want thank you for taking this journey with me. Whether this is your first or four-hundredth visit, I thank you, from the bottom of my heart, for being a part of my ever after.

And now, in order to get us all up to speed, here are my cliff notes; an abridged version of how I got here today.

Much love and baby kisses,

Mommy Becca

Mommy, Ever After; The Cliff Notes:

I was born. I know, spoiler alert, right?! Read about Baby Becca.

I lived, I loved, yada yada yada….I met my husband.

The Story Of Us

The Story of Us–Chapter 1

The Story of Us–Chapter 2

The Story of Us–Chapter 3

He liked it, so he put a ring on it.

The Proposal Story

The Proposal, Part Une

The Proposal, Part Deux

The Proposal, Part Trois

The Proposal, Part Quatre

The Proposal, Part Forever

And we got married and decided to grow a baby. And she had to come out, somehow.

The Birth Story (Caution: Not for the Faint of Heart)

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5–A Happy Ending

(Spoiler Alert:) It’s a girl!

A girlie girl.

She was named for a Superhero.

Oh, and I breastfed her for 17 3/4 months.

Also, you should probably know that

I am obsessed with feathers, and this is why.

(read more about my feather obsession here. ) And I always keep an eye out for pennies.

In my house, we have nightly dance parties,

obsessions with Sex and the City, Dirty Dancing and Top Chef

and absolutely no boundaries.

I sing.

I have an incredibly tight family.

And we always save room for dessert.

There you have it. A small glimpse into the highlights of this land I call home.

I hope you stick around. I hope you enjoy.

How To Install a Convertible Carseat

You know, I don’t consider myself an expert on many things

(besides, you know, Sex and the City and Dirty Dancing, and Disney Princesses.)

and therefore don’t write many “How To” guides.

However, this one, I’ve got in the bag.

How to Install a Convertible Carseat:

Step 1: Buy a cute carseat once your baby has grown out of her infant seat. (I mean, it may be called a Snugride, but once you’re unable to buckle the straps over her faux fur coat, you know you need to upgrade.)

Step 2: Wait, patiently for the new, cute carseat you’ve ordered to arrive on your doorstep.

Step 3: Race to the door once you hear the thud from the delivery man and tear open the giant, cardboard box with glee.

Step 4: Pout once you realize that the big brown box was actually your diaper order.

Step 5: Repeat Step 3.

Step 6: Jump up and down when the adorable new convertible seat does arrive, and get ready to begin installation.

Step 7: Tell husband that it is time to install the new carseat. Send him outside, during the blizzard, to do so.

Step 8: Wait 6 minutes before tapping on the front door to signal your husband and once you get his attention, tap your watch and shrug your shoulders, as if to say “Are you DONE yet?!”

Step 9: Go into the kitchen to refuel with some graham crackers.

Step 10: Peak out the dining room window to gauge the progress.

Step 11: Repeat Steps 8-10.

Step 12: Ask Questions. Suggestions include: “What’s taking so long?” and “Is this more difficult than the other carseat or something?”

Step 13: Repeat Step 9.

Step 14: ( And this is very important) Remember to brush the graham cracker crumbs off of your face and clothes before your husband comes back inside to tell you that he’s finished the installation, and that he continues to be the handiest Jewish man in the world. You must hide the evidence, as you’ve told your husband that you were busy working on “very important matters” inside and therefore were unable to help him in the car. Husbands don’t think that graham crackers are “very important matters”.

Step 15: Dress baby as a Disney Princess and take her for a joyride in her adorable, huge, safe new seat, while singing “I’ve Had the Time of my Life” and sipping on Mocktail Cosmopolitans.

Step 16: Just kidding

Step 17: But only about the Mocktails.

nobody puts daddy in the corner

What does it mean to be the daddy of a little girl?

I know that in my house growing up, it meant many things.

My dad grew up with 3 sisters. He then had 2 daughters and a female dog. He was a life-long swimmer in the estrogen pond, so to speak.

In some ways, my dad is the consummate guy’s guy; he is an athlete, an avid sports fan, and he’s exceptionally good at math. Did I stereotype enough for you, there?

However, he is also the ultimate girl’s dad.

For him, being a daddy to two little girls meant dressing up as Miss America for Halloween. Let me tell you, a 6’2”, cobalt, lacy nightgown clad Miss America is not exactly inconspicuous.

Being a daddy to two little girls meant making up secret languages and games, like letting me hide in his small closet, over and over again, only so that he could find me and “throw me out like a sack of potatoes”. I must have played this with him for hours on end, each time believing that I would be able to go undiscovered in that tiny 2ftX2ft square of darkness.

Being a daddy to two little girls meant letting us do his makeup, forcing him to do ours, and becoming skilled at picking out which shoes go with which pants.

Being a daddy to two girls meant knowing when to hand over the telephone to our mom. (This happened to me just today, in fact.)

Being a daddy to two little girls meant helping me to pick out my Rolling Stones wedding song before I was out of elementary school.

Being a daddy to two little girls meant that in middle school, my dad made homemade milkshakes and chocolate chip cookies for us every.single.night before bed.

Being a daddy to two little girls means that my dad can school any of you in Dirty Dancing trivia. It means that instead of referring to Craig Bierko as Max Baer in Cinderella Man, my dad refers to him as Ray King, “Jazz Man” in Sex and the City.

My dad may be the ultimate man’s man, but he’s also the supreme girl’s daddy, and he has the pink shirts to prove it.

What does it mean to be the daddy of a little girl?

In my house it means many things.

It means that my husband has now purchased more than one two tutus.

It means that he now knows the difference between Aurora, Tiana, Jasmine and Ariel.

It means navigating through seas of pink and lace and tiaras and eyelashes and crazy, unimaginable love.

And, just today, it meant that I walked into the baby’s room to find my husband filing my daughter’s nails.

“So,” he began, as he leaned over the baby’s long, delicate fingers. “Time to gossip! That’s what ladies do when they get their nails done.”

That is what it means to be the daddy to a little girl,

and a very, very good one at that.

 

What does it mean to be the daddy of a little girl?
Let me tell you,

it means the world.

One Year Ago, Part 3

Tonight, as we placed the baby in her crib,

and she stroked her own full, delicious cheeks with her tiny delicious hands,

I couldn’t help but to realize that she was wearing a very special nightgown;

This gown was the very first anything that my husband and I bought for the baby.

It is butter soft, and filled with beautiful designs, in neutral colors (of course. We didn’t know the sex back then!)

with tan owls, green trees, and a hot air balloon, floating towards a most placid cloud.

This was her first gift,

as it was the first tangible representation of her presence in our lives.

But, weeks before we stumbled upon this most precious nightgown,

I had been going crazy over a faint line.

Well, 2 faint lines, to be exact,

as I had taken 2 pregnancy tests,

each identical in faintness,

and in 2-line-ness.

Yes, I had a box of digital readout pregnancy tests stored in my closet,

and yes, I was far too nervous to use them.

The idea of seeing “Pregnant” or “Not Pregnant” spelled out so concretely was still too frightening for me.

I preferred to live in a state of paralyzing anxiety and unknown for several days,

of course

That’s just the way I roll.

The weekend (FINALLY) rolled around into Monday,

and it was time for me to get my blood taken.

Of course, just as my arm was being pricked,

the courier came to pick up the blood for analysis.

I. missed. the. pick. up. by. two. minutes.

This meant an extra 24 hours of waiting.

In those 24 hours I panicked

I watched the Sex and the City Movie

I bawled

I ate Mommom’s Sweet and Sour Meatballs (what? Spoiler Alert: I was pregnant, after all)

I paced

I ran to the bathroom every 7 seconds

I prayed.

And so, on that Tuesday, having waited days since my first two-liney pregnancy test,

I could wait, no longer.

I would be hearing from the doctor’s office that afternoon,

and I could not spend another day pacing around the house,

so my mom took me out to be distracted.

We ended up at Home Goods and TJ Maxx. If those places couldn’t distract me, nothing could.

And, it worked.

Kind of.

I walked the aisles,

(and used their potties, several times)

and watched the clock,

willing my phone to buzz.

As I paced sightlessly up and down the aisles, I stroked my ears.

It sounds strange, but even though I had seen so many feathers that week,  I still needed a little extra dose of strength, so I wore my sacred good-luck earrings,

two hanging, silver feathers,

that my husband had given me for my 22nd birthday.

They gave me solace that day (just as they continued to do at every doctor’s appointment I had from that point on. But, I’m getting ahead of myself).

Finally, at 3:17 pm,

I felt my phone vibrate

as my heart fell into my stomach.

It was the doctor’s office.

It was time.

I will never ever forget what I heard on the other end.

“Hello?” I answered, shaking in my hands, my voice and in every other part of my being.

“Rebecca?” the nurse, Beth, asked.

“Yes?” I could not breathe.

What followed was one simple word–

a word that I can still hear, as clear as day, as if I’m still holding up my phone, quivering, in the little boy’s aisle of TJ Maxx.

“Congratulations.”

Full disclosure, I can’t even type this without crying.

I remember that she read my HCG and Progesterone levels to me.

I remember that, at that moment, I turned around to see my mom peering over a display of clothing, and I smiled at her.

I remember that we both started to sob, instantly.

I remember that Beth, the wonderful, amazing nurse, came to my first ultrasound, just because she was so excited for us and our miraculous news.

I remember that when I hung up the phone, my mom told me that if I had a son, I would have to name him “Max” in honor of good old TJ’s.

I could barely get my fingers to work, but I dialed my husband at work.

He was waiting for my call.

He barely choked out his greeting.

“Love….are you ready to be a daddy?”

And then, he told me the most amazing thing. Lying across his desk was a giant, brown feather. Yes, a feather, indoors, in his office, in the middle of August. He immediately sent me a photo, so that I could see his marvelous sight. We took it as a sign. Not only was I pregnant, but our loved ones were with us, telling us that everything was going to be alright.

Now, before finding out I was pregnant,

I had these elaborate plans of how I would tell my family members.

I had dreams of “Grandparents” greeting cards,

sappy toasts at family dinners,

and oh, I don’t know, surprises,

but, I couldn’t wait.

Let me tell you, none of my fantasies involved a scorching hot parking lot of TJ Maxx. But, that’s the way life works. You plan, and then life kicks in.

So, on that afternoon, one year ago,

I could have never imagined the most beautiful, angelic baby, that would soon be mine.

I could never have pictured the happiness that I would soon know,

nor the craziness that would also be born in me.

I could never have dreamed that so much beauty could have been hatched

out of something as simple

as a few feathers.

Over the Rainbow

Somewhere, over the rainbow,

way up high,

there’s a land that I heard of,

once in a lullaby.

If the Sex and the City ladies are my best adult girlfriends,

then Dorothy and the Wizard of Oz gang were my dear childhood playmates.

You see,

for me,

The Wizard of Oz was more than a film.

More than a musical,

or the first colorful movie to light up the screen.

When I was a toddler,

The Wizard of Oz was my life.

I watched this movie every day,

twice a day.

My mom was no longer “mom”.

She was Scarecrow .

My dad was no longer “dad”.

He was Tin Man.

And, of course,

I was Dorothy.

Ms. Gale, if you nasty.

You see, not only would I watch the movie,

I would live the movie.

I knew every song by heart,

and would spout out each line from memory.

Naturally, when I was pregnant,

my husband and I took my daughter to see the ruby slippers at the Smithsonian.

She was in my belly, of course, but I’m sure she stared,

with wonder,

nonetheless.

She is my daughter, after all.

And now, it comes as no surprise that her favorite song just so happens to be “Somewhere Over the Rainbow”.

How do I know this,

you ask?

I mean, she does blab, and all,

but it’s not always so easy to translate.

I know that it is her favorite, because not only does she smile and coo and kick her legs when I sing this song,

but she opens her mouth wide, cranes her little neck, and tries to actually sing along.

And no, this is not just me being crazy.

She tries to sing.

Which makes my heart sing.

When I watch her eyes light up,

as I sing her this story of my childhood,

I can’t help but to picture a future of dress-up and dancing and Dorothy, Oh My!

It feels right.

It makes me so happy that I could just click my heels.

I think you get the picture.

I look forward to many trips to Oz together.

Although, does this mean that now she gets to be Dorothy?

Oh well,

as long as I still get to wear my ruby slippers,

it’s all good.

The Proposal, Part Deux

As I told you in Part Une,

My husband and I were supposed to spend a nice Saturday in town,

And I could barely get out of my sweats.

I could barely get out of bed.

Plus, on top of the way I was feeling, the way I was looking was not so hot.

Take my normal hungover look—a look which involves hair piled high on the top of my head, half-closed eyes, mascara smudged down my face—

and add a bright blue mouth.

But, this day and this outing seemed important to my husband, so I rallied, showered, dressed, and, in fact, even put on a pair of wedge platform sandals, so clearly I was really trying.

In fact, come to think of it, I’m sure that I put on the nice shoes so that people would be so distracted by the view south of my ankles

that they wouldn’t notice the train wreck north of my neck.

 

I remember going downtown and shopping around a luxury store in which they had men’s and women’s clothing, accessories, jewelry and a small, upscale restaurant.

Still nauseas and spinning,

I could barely stomach my grilled cheese sandwich

(which, now that I think about it, probably cost $25.00 and was probably really freakin’ delicious. What a shame.)

but, I continued to push through, eager to make the best of the day with the man I loved.

 

After lunch, my husband took me by the hand and led me down to the first floor. He told me that he wanted to show me something.

He led me to mecca:

The jewelry counter.

And not just any jewelry counter…

It was the case with the diamond rings.

This was it. I knew it.

He was going to ask me to marry him, at the department store, a la Trey and Charlotte in Sex and the City.

My smile was so wide, as I caught myself beaming in the small mirror that stood atop the jewelry counter.

My delight and excitement were quickly replaced with abject dread, as I stared back at my reflection, in horror.

There I was, about to get engaged,

a moment that I would treasure for the rest of my days,

A moment to be photographed, to capture millions of photos of, to show our future grandchildren,

and my entire mouth was still a sickening shade of cobalt blue.

I was going to be sick,

And this was not just because of the one-too-many-blueberry-tinis, or whatever I had been drinking, like a complete and utter fool, the night before.

 

“Here we are,” started my husband, as my breath caught in my chest.

“I wanted to bring you here today so that you could try on rings to see what you like.”

He was beaming.

Suddenly, I could breathe again.

I never thought I would be so happy to not be getting proposed to.

A sigh escaped from my blue lips and I set about, having the most wonderful afternoon trying on the most beautiful diamond rings, with my most thoughtful fiancé-to be.

 

Days passed,

My lips turned pink again,

And my desire to get engaged reached a whole new level.

 

Something happens to a girl when she sees a beautiful engagement ring on her finger.

Must. Get. Ring. Back. On. Finger. Now.

I knew it was coming.

It just wasn’t coming quite quickly enough.

 

Now, before you write me off,

And call me crazy,

Know that there were some other mitigating factors.

There was a close family member who was sick, and whom I wanted to share my engagement with.  I knew then that he might not make it to our wedding, so I wanted him to know that I was engaged and happy and desperately in love.

 

Knowing that an engagement was looming would make some brides-to-be-to-be feel a sense of calm and eager anticipation.

Not this girl.

I was kind of a wreck.

You see, I’m not good at the whole unknown thing.

This applies to so many things in life,

And knowing I was getting engaged, but not knowing when, how, where, etc, was not exactly easy for me.

Looking back on it, I wish I could have just relaxed and let it happen.

But, if you know me, you know that I’m not the most “relax and let it happen” type of person.

 

That fall, holidays came and went,

Occasions passed without occasion,

And my ring finger remained adorned by my small, silver band of promise.

 

I tried to remain calm and optimistic,

And on the night before we were set to take off for the U.S. Virgin Islands,

To go on a trip with my immediate family to St. John,

I decided to finally chill.

My husband and I were relaxing, eating Chinese food and watching TV on our living room couch, and I realized that I loved our life together,

And that I was happier than I’d ever been,

Just doing nothing,

And everything, together.

I cracked open my fortune cookie with one hand as I took the small, white paper out with the other.

 

“A trip to the South will bring you unexpected happiness”

 

Little did I know what fortune had in store for me…

sister from another mister

My daughter has taken to grasping onto things.

Today, during yoga, it was my ponytail.

Which made for quite the interesting Cat/Cow situation.

She’s very tactile,

And loves to feel things, to grab things, to hold things and to touch things at all times.

But, nothing compares to her most favorite object to grab,

My beloved Twinkle necklace.

Interestingly enough, little does she know that my necklace isn’t actually 100% mine,

That it also belongs to her,

(hey, maybe she’s a baby with a sixth sense about these things….

Or, maybe she’s a baby who loves nice jewelry, who knows?)

And will be dangling from her own long, beautiful neck when she grows older.

You see, my Twinkle necklace is a most special necklace, from a most special person,

And it brings me immeasurable joy to know that she loves it already.

But, I’ve gotten ahead of myself.

Let me backtrack.

To Barcelona.

You see, an incredible thing happened to me when I was 19 years old.

I found out that I had a long-lost twin sister.

My twin sister and I were born on the same day,

(albeit one year apart),

We had the same brown hair,

The same full-lipped smile,

The same love of literature,

And Showtunes,

And sushi,

And cupcakes.

The same heart,

And, most definitely, the same soul.

My twin sister and I found each other through an amazing series of events

That led us across the Atlantic Ocean,

And onto the big, red couches in our beautiful Barcelona apartment.

You see, Twin and I were both signed up to study abroad in Barcelona for the Semester, and were randomly assigned as roommates,

Along with three other girls.

I can remember receiving the email with my housing information,

Seeing her name on the form,

Emailing with her, late one winter night, from the computer at my parents’ house,

Discovering that, amazingly, we were born on the very same day.

What a coincidence.

I liked this girl.

I couldn’t wait to meet her.

I remember waking my parents up to tell them that I talked to one of my roommates, and that she was incredibly sweet and shared my birthday.

My mom’s response?

“You two are going to be life-long friends.”

There’s that mother’s intuition again.

When Twin and I met, it was love at first sight.

I immediately adored this girl with the beautiful, big smile,

Incredible intellect,

Adorable wit,

And sweet, strong demeanor.

We spent endless hours talking,

Confiding in one another,

And growing closer than I’d ever grown with a new friend.

We also spent endless hours watching Sex and the City on DVD.

As I’ve said before, Sex and the City has been a big part of my life,

And I think Twin would agree with me that it was one of the things that bonded us first,

And bonded us most.

My friendship with my Twin only grew as our semester ended and we each returned home.

We talked often, through emails, texts, late-night phone calls, video messages, letters, postcards, e-cards…basically, through every way possible.

We exchanged care packages and

love notes,

as nothing brought such a smile to my face as seeing her beautiful handwriting on a letter peaking out of my mailbox.

Our visits were the best. We visited one another at each others’ homes,

And took trips together,

Including the time when we shared an amazingly fabulous hotel room in New York City…and did I mention, my husband was there, too? Let me tell you, she is the only person with whom my husband would agree to have a sleepover.

You see, they’re in love too.

She’s my Twin, so it’s all good.

The weekend we spent together in NYC was the absolute best.

It was in February, so it was frigid, but we lived out all of our SATC dreams,

Sipping champagne over brunch,

Dining out on exotic sushi at after 10pm,

A twilight stroll through central park, arm-in-arm,

Playing dress-up in FAO Schwartz

(well, maybe this one was more Big than SATC, but let me tell you, we had the best time).

Twin has shared more with me than I can write about.

We are bonded,

In a way that I am bonded with no other human being,

Because of the things we have endured together,

And the incredible understanding that we share.

It was Twin that slept over with me the night before my wedding,

As we sipped on Cosmopolitans from my own personal Cosmo bar in the Bridal Suite (let me tell you, having a wedding coordinator who is also a huge SATC fan is a giant perk) and dined on cupcakes and snuggled in the biggest, coziest, most luxurious hotel bed.

It is my Twin who has seen me at my best,

And seen me through my worst,

And she has loved me,

And held me,

And been exactly what I needed, when I needed it,

For everything important.

And let me tell you, there’s been a lot.

So, it comes as no surprise that my Twin got me the most meaningful present for my birthday this year. You see, my baby was due the week of our shared birthday, so we both hoped that she would be our extra special birthday gift and would surprise us by coming on that day.

Well, true to form,

My daughter was fashionably one week late for our birthdays,

But right on time for her own due-date.

I think my daughter needed her own day.

She’s just that fabulous.

When I opened the birthday box that my Twin had sent to me,

I was blown away, truly.

She wrote that she wanted to give me something special,

Something that I could share with my baby girl once she was old enough.

Something just perfect,

To get lost in the silk lining of a vintage purse.

It was my own name necklace.

But, it wasn’t my own name.

Nor was it my daughter’s name,

As that was a secret.

It was a Twinkle name necklace, with a diamond over the “I”,

The most beautiful, perfect, fabulous necklace, with just the right amount of bling.

You see, before the baby was born, we called her Twinkle.

Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star.

Even when she was born and named, this baby would always be our little glowing star.

Not only is the necklace itself amazing,

But the sentiment behind it is truly priceless.

My Twin got us an heirloom,

Something that represented our own relationship with one another,

Something that symbolized my future relationship with my precious daughter,

And something that nodded to our favorite show in the world.

A better present, there has never been.

So, the fact that my daughter has taken to grasping her tiny fingers around the Twinkle necklace

Makes me think she is a little smarter than her eleven and a half weeks would suggest.

She knows the love behind that gold nameplate.

She knows that it will, one day, be hers,

A constant reminder of the family that she will know and love.

As Carrie Bradshaw says,

“Sometimes, it’s the family you’re born into. And sometimes, it’s the one you make for yourself.”

My Twin is my sister.

She’s a part of my heart.

She’s my family, as she’s in my blood,

As we’re forever tied by this strange and amazing kinship that neither of us could ever describe,

Or ever replace,

Or ever live without.

We dream of going back to Barcelona together,

And who knows,

Maybe, hopefully, someday we will get there,

With our own families,

And revisit where our most special story began, many, many years ago.

But, for now, just as Carrie herself says, “After all, seasons change. So do cities. People come into your life and people go. But it’s comforting to know the ones you love are always in your heart. And if you’re very lucky, a plane ride away.”

to walk a milestone

Earlier this week, my daughter rolled over for the first time.

It was out of the blue.

It was tummy-to-back.

It was momentous.

A milestone.

Later that day, I got to thinking about milestones.

In the land of mom, it’s all about the milestone.

First smile, first tooth, first word, first step.

Sometimes, milestones are things we plan for, anxiously awaiting their arrival.

A first kiss,

A milestone.

Getting a driver’s license,

A milestone.

First legal trip out to the bars,

Definitely a milestone…

…Or two.

And sometimes, a milestone is as surprising as it is meaningful.

In thinking about my own life milestones, I got to thinking about Sex and the City.

As strange is it sounds, many of my own life milestones came at the same time that milestones were happening to the characters of my favorite show.

Sex and the City premiered on Sunday nights on HBO.

I had my first real boyfriend.

Carrie moved to Paris for Petrovsky.

I moved to Barcelona for my Semester Abroad.

The Sex and the City series finale aired one sad, Sunday evening in February.

Well, all I can say about this one is that I was in college, with no HBO.

Not a good combination.

So, of course, my parents had to tape the episode for me

and overnight that bulky, precious VHS tape,

so that I could watch it the very next day.

I may have skipped class to watch it as soon as the mail arrived.

I may have cried so hard that I burst a blood vessel under my eye.

I may still have a small, red mark under that eye, like my own SATC battle scar.

But, that’s all purely speculation.

Sex and the City: The Movie premiered May 30, 2008.

It was about Carrie and Big getting married. It even featured a wedding dress montage.

Now, can you guess my own wedding date?

Oh, May 31, 2008.

Yes, the premiere was the night of my rehearsal dinner.

Um, remember what happened to me the night I saw the series finale?

I was not prepared to go to my wedding with big, puffy eyes and any more broken blood vessels.

So, my entire network of family and best friends may have worked tirelessly in order to get me into an earlier premiere screening.

My sister and I may have gone to the premiere.

We may have held hands, and cried…

during the opening credits.

We may have talked back to the screen.

(and let me tell you, we were not the only ones).

I may have been chosen for a contest in front of the entire theatre that I may not wish to write about on here.

But, again, this is all simply speculation.

That weekend in May, Carrie got married

And so did I.

Milestone, much?

Sex and the City 2 was released last month,

just in time for my husband and I to have our first post-pregnancy date.

It was all about marriage, motherhood and milestones.

Need I say more?

But, it’s not so much of a coincidence that I had so many of my own life milestones at the same time as the milestones featured in the show.

Milestones are all around us,

All of the time.

Now, if I were Michael Patrick King, I’d say something like,

“Well, you’ll never known a mom until you’ve walked a milestone in her Manolos”

Except, Michael Patrick King would obviously find an infinitely more brilliant way to say it.

All I can say is that in the end, life is all about milestones. Every day, there is a new moment for us to live and breathe and smile our way through.

Milestones are happening whether we recognize them or not.

Some milestones are ones you have been planning for all of your life,

and others are milestones you didn’t see coming from a mile away.

And when you are able to live that milestone in the moment,

And cherish it for what it is,

Even if it’s something as simple as a smile,

Well…

then that’s just fabulous.