Since I have never been one to turn down free pity, I simply nodded, trying my best for the expression all those subjects in medieval martyr paintings have, that half-smile/half-grimace that makes you really wish you named your kid Joan of Arc instead of Aura, the goddess of breezes in completely unsaintly and nudity-laden Greek mythology.

Umm…oh yes. My point: I kind of hedged the truth. I was still wide awake when Aura woke up for the umpteenth time at midnight, probably tooling around on my laptop or contemplating the wisdom of buying black matte flatware.

Nice? Pretentious? Capable of showing every scratch? I'm all for advice.

That’s because I’m almost always still awake at midnight. I love the night, and always have. This wasn’t an easy thing to manage growing up, especially with a chirpy morning-person mother who was a firm believer in a Good Night’s Sleep, Especially If You Want to Do Well Enough in High School to Get into a Good College.  But once I arrived at the promised Good College (okay, so thanks, Mom), I indulged. Strolls around campus at eleven at night, forays to the university library at two in the morning, impromptu rides for pancakes hours after midnight…the darker, the better.

And it’s still that way. While I was pregnant, I harbored a gnawing fear that I’d have to change, that becoming a mother would mean that I would finally have to give up late nights, in favor of earlier mornings. Yet that hasn’t quite happened. Sure, Aura goes through phases when she’s rising near dawn, but they’re rare. I realize this is in large part because we have trained her to go to bed a bit later than her peers and therefore also wake up a bit later. And I know it won’t last forever, especially once kindergarten begins. But for now I’m thankful to still have my favorite part of the 24 hours, when the sun finally sinks out of sight and the night stretches before me, complete and thick and somehow full of more possibility than the day ever was.

I just hope Aura is better at surviving fewer than eight hours of sleep than I am. If not, I have a feeling we’ll be having the Good College talk sooner than later. But you better believe we’ll have it at night.

I’m still not sure how it happened, except that I was driving and then there was a bunny in front of the car, and then…then there was no more bunny. It was as if it just suddenly materialized inches in front of me, in the dark. I’d make a reference to Bunnicula (oh, Bunnicula, how innocent you seem in these days of sparkly vampires and shirtless werewolves), but that seems a little disrespectful.

Anyway, I hit it and it was dead and the entire thing was beyond awful. (And, yes. I turned around on a nearby side street and drove back to check and it looked dead. Then when I went back two minutes later to check once again, this time to make sure it was a bunny and not a house cat that I should report to Animal Control, it was gone, which means it wasn’t dead but close to it, having dragged its little body, fur tacky with blood, into some nearby bushes ohgod ohgod ohgod.)

I’m telling you, you hit a bunny two days before Easter and it is factually impossible not to take it as a bad omen. It’s like plowing into Santa’s sleigh an icy week before Christmas, or accidentally smothering the Tooth Fairy with a pillow.

Plus, hitting a bunny is so much worse than hitting most anything else. For God’s sake, bunnies look like THIS:

The bad news: Unlike with Peter, one dose of chamomile tea at bedtime was not going to cure what ailed this bunny. The good news: Also unlike Peter, this bunny was not wearing a small blue jacket with brass buttons. If there had been one single brass button in sight, I would have driven to the nearest bridge and promptly jumped off it. A dead bunny I could survive. A nattily dressed dead bunny? I’m not so sure.

But back to the omens. While hell has not quite yet raineth down, someone on high has been screwing with me. Since that night, I have had four, FOUR, bunnies run across the road in front of me. Happily, I managed to not hit any of them. Such effort often requires Evel Knievel-type feats of driving,  involving much jostling of Aura in her carseat and much screaming from pedestrians. But for now, those four bunnies run unscathed, free to dart merrily in front of other unsuspecting cars.

Therefore and In Conclusion, given that I am putting such effort into not killing bunnies forevermore, I feel that it is only fair to ask the shortest person living in this house to STOP REMINDING ME.

Because, honestly? That green one with the bow tie is starting to freak me out.

I think we’ve settled on where to eat, since we finally identified a place that meets both our Date Restaurant Requirements. For Adam, this means the establishment employs a bartender whom he can merrily pester and badger and try to stump with his requests for arcane gins and boutique bitters. For me, this means there is not a child in sight. I am nothing but easy to please. Maternal, too.

It’s been so long since we’ve been out alone that I had forgotten that there is more to Date Night than the Date. Wearing something besides jeans, for instance. I wandered upstairs a while ago and started pushing hangers around and pulling open drawers, ever hopeful of finding a fantastic outfit that I already owned but had totally forgotten about, kind of like happens on the makeover shows except that those people are models anyway and reality television continues to screw with me.

I was rifling through one of the drawers when my fingers suddenly tangled in the straps of something. It was only after cocking my head to the side and squinting really hard that I recognized it for what it was: a push-up bra. After gently removing the layers of dust, I tried it on and found it does indeed improve the shirt I was hoping to wear. There is also a slight chance that it makes me look like an overage teenage hooker, but I choose to ignore that part. If anyone at the restaurant says anything, I plan on knocking them flat on their back with my cleavage. Especially if it’s a kid.

!!!

SUDAFED IS THE GREATEST CREATION EVER!

Seriously, you guys. Have you had a Sudafed lately? The real stuff, with the actual pseudoephedrine? The thing is like a miracle drug. My appetite, normally a raging monster that can sense refined sugar within two miles, has virtually disappeared. And while I still may be unable to smell anything, or even, you know, breathe that well, MAN DO I HAVE ENERGY.

I was down to only one dose when the cold set in, so a trip to the drugstore was in order. As I was showing my driver’s license to the pharmacist (you know, so they could record my name and track my Sudafed purchases and OH GEORGE ORWELL WERE YOU ON THE MONEY), I leaned toward her conspiratorially. “I don’t blame you for being careful,” I murmured, drumming my fingers on the counter while bouncing up and down on the balls of my feet. “This stuff is SO GOOD  it’s no wonder people buy it to make crystal meth.”

Luckily, she had just handed me the box when I delivered that last line, so I didn’t get to see the worried look on her face, or witness how she ran out to the parking lot to copy down my license plate number. I just drove on home, one hand on the wheel while the other popped those beautiful scarlet tablets from their cozy foil-wrap enclosure. “NO MORE FOIL FOR YOU, SUDAFED!” I howled at top volume. “IT’S ALL ME NOW!”

Sadly, the cold appears to be on its way out, so I’ve only had a couple of doses today. But I knew there was still a little bit of the magic coursing through my veins this afternoon, while attending Aura’s class pool party. Another mother casually asked if Adam and I were planning to have any more kids, a query that usually produces a frenzied mishmashed reply of GOD NO NEVER AGAIN WHY WOULD YOU EVEN ASK. But today, hyped on the good stuff and harboring enough energy to power a reactor and potentially take care of two children, I answered, “Maybe. It might be nice.”

On second thought, perhaps Sudafed should be illegal.

 #1: Facial Hatred

Sometime last month, I scheduled a long overdue facial, determined to finally use the spa gift card I had received two Christmases earlier. As I was leaving for the appointment, Adam innocently said, “Have fun!”

“LIKE THAT’S GOING TO HAPPEN!” I hissed, giving the door an extra firm slam on my way to the garage.

It occurs to me that I may have a genetic mutation in my girl code, some tangled bit of DNA that makes it impossible for me to enjoy any kind of spa service. I still go, because I’m vain and shallow and self-absorbed, yet it feels off somehow to pay someone else to clean my skin, to have another woman frown sternly at the same pores I frown sternly at every night in the bathroom mirror.

And then there’s the conversation compulsion. Sit me in a reclining chair and slap a eucalyptus mask on me and I am suddenly the World’s Chattiest Person. I suspect this is connected to the weird guilt thing—someone else is sloughing off my dead skin cells and I should therefore reciprocate any demonstration of personal interest.

In that chair, I put Pulitzer-winning investigative journalists to shame, following up on every conversational lead, ekeing out gritty details I never really needed to know. At this last appointment, I determined where the aesthetician’s daughter went to school, the location of her son’s girlfriend’s cousin’s bakery, her preferred choice of seafood markets, and also her biggest pet peeve about her husband (damn snoring). If I had tacked on a bikini wax I would have had time to get her Social Security number, but that would have used up the gift card entirely and I’m too cheap for that.

By the time I was done, I was exhausted. Honestly, I’m not sure a well-maintained T-zone is worth all that.

#2: Choice in Sleepwear

Once every so often, perhaps while walking by a Victoria’s Secret or watching a lingerie-centric scene in True Blood, I’ll ponder why it is that I own so little delicate nightwear. How is it that my drawers are so light on the lace, yet so heavy on the fleece and practical cotton? At what point in my 32 years did I abandon all pretense of femininity after 10:00 p.m.? I fear this is further proof of the girly-girl gene gone wrong.

Don’t believe me? Fine,  photographic evidence it is. I present to you tonight’s sleepwear, in all its t-shirty glory:

Sigh. I TOLD you. Now I’m off to paint my toenails or pick wildflowers or something else…girlish. Obviously, I need the practice.

I am so bitterly disappointed in myself that I would be tempted to do something rash, like exercise or buy a pair of shoes not on clearance, were not the disappointment so addicting. A million BILLION people to follow! A LEGION of useless information to read! A veritable CAPTIVE AUDIENCE whom I can bore batty!

I implore you: Either follow me (andthenkate) or shoot me. And I think we all know which one I think I would prefer.

“I know!” I exclaimed in agreement. “But why am I so crabby?”

Then it hit me. I WAS HUNGRY.

About two weeks ago, I went back on Weight Watchers, determined to lose the 10 or so post-Aura pounds I’m always harping about. I’ve been off and on the Weight Watchers program for years, ever since I gained—and then lost—a lot of weight sophomore year of college. As long as I follow the rules, WW works, without fail.  

The world's oldest WW Points Finder. Notice non-diet-approved grease stain in center. Also, corners dogeared from famished death grip.

Yet somehow it seems SO MUCH WORSE this time. After months of not being all that diligent, I find myself lusting after that which I now can’t have, then trying to devise ways I can have it. Such mental effort is exhausting. And when I get tired, I get really peevish. Throw in starvation and I’m Someone to Avoid. Also, Someone to Divorce or Declare Emancipation From.

It’s gotten so bad that the good, decent part of me is becoming buried under the hungry, ruthless part of me. While I was eating lunch the other day, I saw one of those TV ads with Sally Struthers, where she asks for donations to help starving children in Africa. As I sipped my fat-free vegetable soup and watched, my first thought was, “Those poor kids. They don’t deserve such an awful life.” But then right after that I thought, “I bet those little buggers are REALLY, REALLY GRUMPY.”

Yes, yes. I know I'll end up here for that last sentence.

Such a restriction of calories is getting in the way of normal life—and normal behavior, for that matter. Case in point: Yesterday, one of the other preschool moms asked if Aura and I would like to join her and her little girl for an afterschool bakery trip. I looked at her, aghast. How was I supposed to sit in a bakery, its confines practically wallpapered with buttercream frosting? I opened my mouth to yell, “What’s next? Giving me a crack pipe, then LIGHTING IT FOR ME?” but thought better of it. Starving, yes. Certifiably loony, not quite yet. At least in public.  

From the actual bakery's Web site. You see what I mean. (Droooool.)

So far, three pounds down. I may waste away before I lose the other seven. Either that or be committed somewhere with padded walls but hopefully yummy food. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m off to stare down a box of cookies.

As I’ve mentioned before, Aura is rather smitten with the idea of bras. Having been informed that she herself will not be able to wear a bra for another 10 or 12 or forever years, she took it upon herself to help me locate one. While I rifled through the underwires, Aura disappeared momentarily, soon popping back with an armful of ruffles and lace and hot pink. I’m telling you, if kindergarten doesn’t work out, I’m shipping her off to those stripper conventions in Vegas and calling her a really short salesperson. She’ll be in heaven, helping Candi/Bambi/Diamond find rhinestone-studded bras to match their g-strings.   

Aura would also feel at home in Frederick's of Hollywood.

After more fruitless searching, I gave up, dragging a reluctant Aura away from the Maidenform racks. On my way out of the department, I noticed packs of Hanes underwear on sale. Normally I’m loyal to Calvin Klein underwear, but desperate times called for desperate measures. I tossed a package labeled “low-rise” something into the cart, too intent on making sure Aura hadn’t stashed a Wonderbra on her person to actually read the package. 

When I got home, I didn’t give more than a fleeting glance to the new underwear as I threw them into the washer. I do remember thinking they looked a little…larger than I would expect. But I chalked that up to 100% cotton and the need to adjust for dryer shrinkage. That Hanes, I thought admiringly. Now there’s a company that thinks of EVERYTHING. 

And then I slipped on a pair. At first, I was just confused, thinking that perhaps I had put a leg through the waist hole? Was wearing them inside out? Had accidentally sewn two together? Then it dawned on me: These were briefs. Unlike the low-rise bikinis I typically wear, or the very occasional thong I don when dressing up to go somewhere without coloring placemats, these underpants were BIG. Like cover-your-stomach-and-some-of-your-hips-and-maybe-a-third-of-your-thigh big. 

So kind of like this. But without Lady Gaga, and bigger.

I really want to say that I hated them right away. Eeeeeeeehhhhhh. Hear that? That’s the sound of me trying to say that.  

But I can’t. And you know why? I LOVE THEM. No, I don’t wear them during the day, when someone might see them peek over the waistband of my jeans or possibly get caught on the hem of my jacket. However, when I change for the evening, slipping on my old sweats and tying back my hair, you better believe I reach for a pair of these babies.  

Such support! Such coverage! Such…stretchability! I tell you, I am a better, entirely more agreeable person wearing these—God help me—briefs. If Adam wants to go out and buy a bottle of rum that costs as much as a small sovereign nation? Sure! A charity telemarketer calls for a donation? Why not? Hell, when I’m wearing these suckers I’m apt to agree to support ALL of PBS’s New England stations, that annoying WordWorld and Antiques Roadshow be damned.  

Big underwear has changed my life. In fact, it reminds me of a story Adam once told me about a coworker named Radu, who hailed from Romania but moved to the United States when he was about 30 years old. Every day at lunch time, Radu would go out and buy himself a big, steaming bowl of clam chowder. This went on for months and months. Finally, Adam asked him why he never bought anything else for lunch. And so Radu explained: “For 30 years, I never knew about clam chowder. Now that I know, I cannot waste any time.”  

I TOTALLY GET WHAT HE MEANT.

Yes indeedy, a floor mirror. This purchase was actually a pretty big deal for us, considering that Adam and I have been cohabitating for almost 11 years and have never owned a full-length mirror. Well, technically, that’s not quite true. The first place we rented came with a full-length mirror on the back of a closet door, but there was no light in the closet and the mirror had a ripple distortion thing going on. So if you wanted to check your outfit, you had to bring a flashlight and then convince yourself that you didn’t really have three breasts. We didn’t use it that much, except during parties, when we were like, “FRIENDS! STEP INTO THIS HERE CLOSET AND COUNT HOW MANY BREASTS YOU HAVE!” It was similar to a chummy game of Clue or Monopoly, except more psychologically scarring.

Barring that particular mirror, we never had another full-length. If I needed to check my pants or shoes before leaving the house, I would stand tiptoe in front of the bureau mirror. But mostly I just hoped for the best and then squinted really hard at my reflection in elevator doors or store windows. Grocery-store windows always worked fairly well, though I’d often have to contort my body to keep the Sale! posters from getting in the way. And even then it seemed like “THIS WEEK ONLY! RIB EYE ROAST $3.99 PER POUND!” always prevented a really accurate glimpse of my waist.

Which, if I’m being frank, was the point. I don’t like looking at my reflection all that much. And if I do get too good a look, then I immediately find something lacking, whether it’s the width of my thighs or the shape of my lips or myriad other issues. I’ve always been this way with photos of myself, too. It was only recently that I realized this little phobia now involves someone other than just me.

“Mommy, why don’t you let Daddy take more pictures of you?” Aura asked during a family outing a few weeks ago, as I was ducking away from Adam and the camera.

“Oh, well, I don’t always like the way I look when I see the pictures,” I replied.

Then it struck me. A lot more comments like that might lead to a lot less of this:

I don’t know if being dissatisfied with your own appearance is the result of too many supermodels in magazines, or a misunderstanding of modesty, or simply a hallmark of being a woman. But in this household, it has to stop, or at least start to stop. I may not be able to guarantee that Aura will always be as carefree and content with her appearance as she is now at three years old, but I damn well have to try.

Step 1:

Thank God for baby steps.

All joking aside, I really should try to wean myself from Diet Coke. I did go cold turkey when I was pregnant and nursing. But the day Aura wiped the last drop of breastmilk from her mouth, I had a can in my hand. I don’t drink coffee, I don’t like coffee. So I justify my soda habit as “my coffee,” the way I get my caffeine fix.

I’m not kidding myself, though. I’ve read enough about aspartame and other artificial sweeteners to know that they can’t be helping my health. And whenever Aura edges my glass toward her and asks if she can have a taste, I answer with an unequivocal “No!”

“Why not, Mommy?” Aura will ask, having been allowed to sample other carbonated beverages on occasion, including root beer, which she now believes is the nectar of the gods and potentially almost as good as chocolate milk.

“Diet Coke’s not good for kids,” I explain, passing her a bowl of organic broccoli and a plate of free-range, antibiotic-and-hormone-free chicken.

“But is it good for grown-ups?” she returns.

“Well…it depends…hmmmm. Maybe not,” I stutter, disgusted that kids these days are so LOGICAL. I tell you, it’s this focus on critical-thinking skills in American education. The U.S. school system will soon be the ruin of the good old-fashioned parental lie.

Yet I’m just not ready. There are some afternoons when only a swing through the drive-thru for a large Diet Coke, so bubbly and delicious in its fountain-drink form, gets me through the rest of the day. I have a sip and I’m better in so many ways. A better parent! A better wife! A better friend! (I believe Meg Ryan presented this exact same argument in When a Man Loves a Woman. Or maybe it was Ewan McGregor in Trainspotting. Someone said something, I know that.)

But I do need to make some changes to my diet. As a first step, I gave up chocolate this week. There’s no specific reason, except that I eat way too much sweet stuff and most of it seems to have chocolate in it. Sometime last weekend, I decided that if I cut out chocolate for a little while, then it would follow that I would also cut down on snacking and desserts.

Four days in, I’m on the fence as to the success of this plan. Turns out you can bake and buy all kinds of yummy stuff that does not include chocolate! Macaroons, for one. Large bags of toffee bits, for another. (Do not be fooled by the toffee-bit manufacturer’s claim that they are for baking. After all, baking is a state of mind. You put yours in your cookie dough, I put mine straight into my mouth. Que sera sera.)

It’s not easy, though. Everywhere I look, there’s chocolate. The grocery store is obviously a minefield. The restaurant at the children’s museum is teeming with cacao-based treats. Even the mall! You walk into a candle store, you’re immediately surrounded by Chocolate Chip Cookie candles and Chocolate Cream Pie candles and Triple Chocolate Candied Chocolate Drop candles. I will never again be shocked by the American obesity rate. I now see that it’s a miracle the United States still has a population at all. With all these candles burning, tempting us to hit up the cookie jar, it’s a miracle we haven’t keeled over collectively, the resulting THUMP! softened by our sweet-scented rolls of fat.

You know what? I kind of like it up here on my new, chocolate-free soapbox. If you bring a Diet Coke with you, it really does feel just like home.