Belly Envy?

[A quick disclaimer: This stunning ultrasound? It's neither Toddler nor Baby.  I'm not that crazy.]

I am clutching my BlackBerry extra tight these days.  Why? A couple of my very best friends are about to go into labor.  One with her first baby and one with her second.  And just as I craved the odd egg sandwich or glazed donut or Tootsie Pop during my latest pregnancy, I find myself salivating for details.  The more, the better.  And maybe it is a bit odd, but I want to know numbers, about dilation and effacement and softening.  I like to hear about contractions -- the Braxton Hicks and the big-time.  I like to hear about what's in the hospital bag. Maybe this isn't so weird?  I'm a writer after all.  I love details.  The more obscure, the better.  I love to see the poetry in the everyday.  

You know what is a bit weird?  That I am envious.  Of the profound fever of anticipation.  Of the glorious mystery.  Of hearing that first primal cry.  Of seeing what the creature looks like for the very first time.  Of changing that first tiny diaper.  Of swinging that car seat over the threshold for the first time and saying, "welcome home, baby."

And six months out from all of this, I wouldn't go back.  So maybe envy is not the right word.  I'm happy to be right where I am. Baby is sitting and babbling and as of today eating (okay, spitting) oatmeal.  Toddler is a sassy spitfire, in love with her sparkly sunglasses and a stone lion on our sidewalk named Steinway.  It doesn't get better than this.

But I guess I am excited for my friends (and sister) and frankly every pregnant woman I see waddling by my Starbucks window.  Because for each of them, in a matter of minutes or hours or days or months, life's best adventure will begin.  Or begin again.  And when I allow myself to dream big (and shouldn't we all?), sure,  I imagine published novels and book signings and good reviews and maybe a motion picture.  But if I squint hard and envision the most beautiful future, I see something more.  I see bellies and births and babies.  

But now, entrenched in this poetic, borderline pretentious, present moment, I will make do with the beckoning buzz of my BlackBerry and the blissfully good news it brings me.

Gummy Bears and Gumption

I survived my high-heeled walk on the wild side, but it's back to flats today. Last night, I attended the Dalton School's big 90th birthday bash/benefit at Chelsea Piers. It was a wonderful event and, frankly, reminded me exactly why I loved the school. During cocktail hour, I said hello to a few of my favorite teachers. During dinner, my beloved orchestra conductor of latter day (I played the trumpet) led the orchestra in their performance of a lovely Ode to Dalton (composed by one very talented Dalton student).

The event was sold out and Pier 60 was packed to the gills with loyal faculty and parents and alumni.  Blue and white balloons floated from the center of each table, tables blanketed in paper decorated with Daltonian doodles.  

For me, the biggest treat was Anderson Cooper.  Cooper, both a Dalton and Yale grad, spoke affectionately about his time at Dalton.  His words were self-deprecating and inspiring.  He talked about how Dalton was, and continues to be, a unique place that nurtures individuality and creativity.  He talked candidly about his foray into the world of war reporting, how his friend cooked him up a fake press pass and he just started going to wars.  He knew what he wanted to do and he did it. He had the courage, the gumption, to dream.  To dream big. And then to live that dream.  Not bad.

At the end of the evening, we were sent home with delectable bags of gummy bears and big swirly lollipops from Dylan's Candy Bar (Dylan Lauren is also fellow Dalton alum). And, on the way home, that melodic Ode echoed in my head and I chewed on a bear and thought: a school that spits out a candy maven and a CNN sweetheart is some school.  

And if last night was any indication, Dalton continues to produce dreamers and doers.  And great doodlers too.

Happy Birthday, Dalton!