It was all a little surreal when that long ago dream came somewhat true over this past Labor Day weekend. Nearly a decade out from the Era of Nachos and Bad Wine, Kate and I found ourselves taking up residence at a beautiful house on the Jersey Shore, along with our respective husbands and sons. In some ways, our vision had come true, and of course in many ways it was far different than our younger selves would have ever believed.

When we first dreamed up our futures, we didn’t even know our now-husbands existed. We pictured adorable children, but we couldn’t have imagined just how adorable they would turn out to be, or how our hearts would have the capacity to love them as fiercely as we do. With no real-world experience to go on, we didn’t realize that our sons, at such tender ages, would be far more interested in muddy sand than in playing with each other. That we wouldn’t have the time to sit on beach chairs, catching up for hours. How were we to know that instead we’d be running around the sand with our kids, stopping for brief intervals to marvel or complain over what each was doing, giving each other a silent look that could only mean, ‘You know there’s nothing I’d love more right now than to sit and talk with you, except, that is, to sit at the edge of the tide, getting sand in my ass because my baby loves the sand and it’s his first experience with it and I don’t want to miss it for the world, sandy crotch or no!’

No, back in the daydream era we didn’t realize that we might not get to sit on the beach at the same time because our kids would be on different nap schedules and you Do Not Mess With The Nap. We wouldn’t have believed that we’d go to bed at 10PM (on vacation!) because we were just So. Damn. Shot. from the day.

I still like to think that one day our dream will come true. Our kids will be old enough to play by themselves. Our beach chairs will actually get some use. We’ll park our asses in them and talk and talk. Occasionally we’ll get up to yell at someone to come closer, or to stop flinging sand. And maybe, for old time’s sake, we’ll toast with a glass of White Zin.

But this year?  This year felt different.  This year I turned 29. I know, 29 is no milestone. It’s an odd number. It’s not pretty like 20, comfortable and easy like 25. It’s not established like 30. But 29?  It’s kind of like that blaring yellow sign on the freeway, “Last Exit Before…”, a strong and direct warning that you better know where you’re going because if not, you’re going to end up in a place you don’t want to be.

Mike has told me for, well, five years now, that turning 29 is much harder than turning 30. At 30, I guess, you’ve come to terms with your fate.  You’ve gotta accept that you can no longer enter a college bar and assume that you blend in with the students.  Likely, you don’t. I suppose that’s the purpose that 29 serves: a whole year to come to terms with facts such as these.

This year, instead of the usual “I guess we could go out to dinner?” I suggested a BBQ to celebrate my birthday. I’ve met many new friends over the past few months thanks to my wee sidekick and I thought it’d be fun to get these new pals together with friends I’ve known for years in one place to mix and mingle.

The turnout for the soiree was so fitting for 29. There were friends I’ve known since college–friends who were present for (and partners in) some of my most debaucherous moments. At one point we all shook our heads at the realization that we’d known each other for over a decade. There were friends I’ve met only a few months ago, but who already feel like sisters because they are my seatmates on this exhilarating ride called parenthood. They don’t know about the time I fell down drunk in the middle of the street after stumbling out of a frat party (although now, I guess they do). But they know how many hours I slept last night, and my thoughts and fears about the best time to have a second child. There were babies, adorable babies!  On one hand it felt so natural; on the other, so weird.  When did we become the kind of people who throw parties involving children?

So when they brought out the cake–a strawberry flavor I’ve had every year since I was a toddler–and everybody gathered in the dining room (I have a dining room!) to sing happy birthday before my friend’s 2.5-year-old son leaned in to blow out the candles, in one room I saw my past, my present and my future, swirling and mixing into one solid picture: my life at 29.

Despite my disdain for dwelling on digestion (how many D words can I use in one sentence??), I find myself spending a large chunk of my day—far larger than I’d care to–contemplating my son’s digestive activity. If I’m not encouraging Drew to let out a burp, I’m wondering when his next poop will come and when it does, fretting over its consistency. The poop!  It’s not soft enough!

Just between, well, ALL OF YOU, and me, I’ve done some surprising (and surprisingly embarrassing) things. Just this morning I squeezed (through the diaper!) Drew’s poop to make sure it wasn’t too hard. With this hot weather and the traumatic, sweaty meltdowns he’s had when having a bowel movement, I’ve been worrying that the boy is dehydrated or not getting enough fiber, or both. Can we take a minute to talk about the meltdowns?  If they weren’t so heartbreaking to watch, they’d be downright hilarious. The kid’s face turns bright red, his mouth opens wide in horror and he looks at me as if to say, ‘what is happening to me, mom?!’  This can go on for a few minutes, and I find myself murmuring in calm, soothing tones, ‘It’s ok, Drew, push it out.’ Safe to say that that line was on the list of Things I Never Imagined I Would One Day Say.  At the end of this tragic show, he’s sweaty and whimpering while I’m chuckling on the inside and shaking my head in disbelief that I just coached somebody through the act of taking a shit.

I’ve taken every precaution to ensure Drew’s getting the right foods to keep things moving—a few ounces of water here and there, plums for breakfast, oatmeal for a side dish. I feel like one of those commercials that air during the nightly news or 60 minutes.  ‘Restore your body’s natural rhythm! Talk to your doctor about Miralax!’

Parenthood. It doesn’t get much more humbling than this.

Now that we’re in a different stage, one characterized by an alert, curious baby, the challenge is coming up with activities to get us out of the house, (and away from that godforsaken singing plastic snail I keep tripping on) keep him stimulated and, hell, I’d like to be mildly entertained myself.   So what have we been up to?

You’ve heard me talk about this several times before, but our number one most frequent activity is Baby Boot Camp. It gets us outside for a good hour and change, lets Drew see nature (the class takes place on a trail that runs alongside a river) and interact with other babies, and allows me to get a good workout and chit chat with other moms. Win, win win.

The library. It’s a free place to go when it’s super hot outside. Free air conditioning and free books!  In my opinion, the biggest benefit here is that I get to pick up some different books to read to Drew so that I don’t want to poke my eyes out at the thought of one more reading of Blue Hat, Green Hat. And, there is the occasional baby music class…

The community pool!  We signed up for a family membership to our town’s pool for the season. It’s been so much fun to see Drew discover the water; over the past couple months he’s gone from ambivalence to excitement, and is now an expert splasher. While I don’t enjoy hauling two beach towels, a picnic blanket, a cooler and a diaper bag across a hot parking lot while also pushing a stroller, I do enjoy seeing Drew become more and more comfortable in the water each time we visit. And, of course, I also enjoy the mom chit chat. I swear, the power of a good ‘mom network’…where else can you turn when you want someone to listen—and listen eagerly eagerly—to you describe the consistency of your child’s bowel movements?  Besides the internet, of course.

Horses! We happen to live near a horse farm and just yesterday we stopped by to see a show jumping competition. I don’t know if I’m using the right language here to describe these activities, but you know what I’m talking about, right?  Girls in their riding gear, horses jumping over those bars, like they do in the Olympics? I figured it might be fun for Drew to see real live horses rather than the cartoon one that lives in one of his books. For a while he seemed pretty curious, following the horses’ movements as they cantered through the barn, jumping over this and that. Eventually he grew fussy and disinterested, but I chalk that up to the combination of late afternoon timing, the heat, humidity and smell of horse poop inside the barn.

On tap for future…a visit to the nearby botanical gardens, maybe a walk along a hiking trail with Drew in the Ergo, and a return to Manhattan, where we don’t have to do much other than park ourselves on a street corner and observe. People watching is free AND priceless.

The thing about the air conditioner is that it sits directly behind one seat of our couch, the coveted seat. The chaise lounge. One of us is always parked there. The noise of the air conditioner behind ones ears, paired with the noise of the TV in front of ones ears means that the noise coming from ones spouse seated to your right is completely muffled, distorted, or entirely canceled out. Wait a minute… One plus one equals two…no wonder my husband drops onto the chaise immediately after walking in the door.

A sample conversation….Mike flips to a new TV channel.

Me: “Football?”

Him: “Tony Siragusa.”

Me: “Huh?

Him: “The Giants…”

Me: “NO. I SAID, ‘FOOTBALL’?”

Him: “OH. YEAH.”

As you can see, the two of us are thisclose to solving the nation’s healthcare crisis, sorting out the ulterior motives behind the Pan Am terrorist’s release and fixing Cash For Clunkers.

There are conversations we should probably be having. We should probably talk about budgeting for a new house, strategize over our search strategy, compare our views on parenting. But I think I’ll wait for late September when the temperature cools down and the air conditioner goes into hibernation. Till then, it’s nod and smile.

Friday night was spent here:

The Time Warner Center is arguably the cleanest, most stunning, most modern building in all of Manhattan these days. I suppose that what I love about this place is that it has all the creature comforts of suburbia that I ache for from time to time: air conditioned comfort, floors lacking in litter, shiny glass, and architectural details that are not, in fact, charmingly post-war. We had a delicious dinner here, and enjoyed pre- and post-dinner cocktails here (I enjoyed ice water, vintage 2009). It was a perfect evening, and what I most enjoyed was how genuinely wowed my guests were by our surroundings. It’s hard to impress a group of cynical, jaded New Yorkers, but the Time Warner Center has the magic!

Saturday and Sunday were hotter and more humid than an ecuadorial tribesman’s armpit, so both days were spent whiling away the hours on our boat.

Some of us waterskiied.

Some of us fished.

Others of us enjoyed splashing around in the water.

All of us had the genuine, gleeful smiles of children. Happiness, thy name is simple pleasure.

It’s been raining here in New York for days on end.  And I know that sounds like an exaggeration.  Whenever there’s more than a few days of rain people immediately start saying things like, ‘God, I can’t even remember what the sun looks like!’  But seriously, people, the weather gurus proved it.  Of 21 days in June to date, it has rained for 17.

I thought I was one of a small group of people who get really affected by poor weather. But rain?  It seems to get us all down.  I’ve overheard a lot of people saying things like, ‘I can’t take this rain anymore!’  I have yet to hear someone say ‘Boy am I glad how green the trees are, thanks to all this rain!’

The thing is, in the Northeast, we wait about six months every year for sunshine and warm weather to return after what always feels like an endless winter.  In New York we eagerly count down to the day when restaurants finally slide back their big glass windows, throw some patio chairs on the sidewalk, and let us linger next to the hulking garbage trucks, dirty pigeons, and off-their-meds crazy people.  We can’t wait for this! To be one with nature!  To sip mimosas on a leisurely Sunday while we chow down on stuffed French toast, chomping away while a deranged person with Tourette’s syndrome walks by punching herself in the head and screaming ‘FUCKING MOTHERFUCKERS! THE SHIT!!’ so close to you that her spittle lands among the powdered sugar sprinkled atop your plate.  It’s downright serene.  And it can only happen in summer.

And yet.  The rain.  In just two weeks it’ll be July.  We’ve already been cheated out of some of the year’s best days.  Does Mother Nature plan to issue a real ‘rain check’ and make up for her transgressions by extending summer a month into fall?  I should hope so.  In the meantime, I’m gonna think of the summers of the past, adjust the base and let the alpine blast.

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