Life During Fatherhood: Special Delivery via United States Postal Stork (It's 4am, Okay?)
Posted by Kurt on Wednesday 10 March 2026 at 4:14AM EST

You may have noticed, dear readers, that the name of this blog has changed from “Life Before Fatherhood” to “Life During Fatherhood”. That, along with the fact that I am sitting in my study and writing this at approximately god-awful o'clock, may clue you in to the fact that Blaine and I are indeed now entering the “during” stage of fatherhood. For those of you who may just be joining us, I'll catch you up.

In June 2023, Blaine and I took a trip to Montauk. We'd both been working around the clock, and hadn't had any real time to spend with one another in endless months of the same cycle of work, home, eat, sleep, rinse and repeat. It was just one weekend, but it afforded us the chance to reconnect, rejuvenate ourselves, and have a conversation that I'd been putting off for a while. We came out the other side feeling happier, more in love than ever before, and focused on a future neither of us had really ever known was waiting but, suddenly, realized was right there in front of us.

We were lucky enough, that holiday season, to have most of our extended family and many of our friends gathered at our home. After dinner on Christmas Day, my brother told us all that he and his wife were expecting a second child, one of our oldest and dearest friends proposed to his girlfriend of almost four years, and Blaine and I announced that we were intending to start a family. I don't think I've ever seen my father look so proud, and—I say this with no hint of ego—I've seen him look proud a number of times over the years.

The day afterward, Blaine and I were sitting together on the porch swing and winding down from the stress of hosting our very first Christmas. Our friend, known around this blog as K, came out for some air and sat with us for a little while, wrapped up in one of our good blankets and all three of us just looked out over the snow covering the garden. After about ten minutes of complete silence, she suddenly blurted out that she wanted to be our surrogate. The look on our faces was priceless, I'm sure.

While I won't completely humiliate myself by regaling you all with the somewhat disastrous tale of how long it took me to get to the hospital when I got the call that K was in labor (note: if you're thinking about sprinting the length of the Brooklyn Bridge, I'd recommend being in good shape), I will summarize March 8th 2026 in five words: Audrey Elizabeth and Oliver William.

Yes, they've arrived. They're beautiful, and perfect, and I find myself standing in their room in the middle of the night just watching them sleep. I'm already exhausted, and my eyelids are drooping as I write this, but I'm far from the point of caring yet. Back in November 2024, Blaine wrote that we were fathers without a child. The nursery was decorated, we'd spent an obscene amount of money on literally everything we could think of—there was a somewhat exhaustive list—yet... There was no baby. And now that we have not only a child, but children, it's difficult allowing myself to miss a moment.

Blaine has just padded in and put his arms around me, and he has his forehead resting against the back of my neck. He's telling me that even if I don't want to miss a thing when it comes to our babies, I'm missing my sleep. He's saying that my pillows are missing me, and that I'm being unfathomably cruel by depriving them of the opportunity to create some truly epic bed-head.

As always, Mr Voice-Of-Reason is right, so I'll bid you all a very fond adieu for now. Until next time.

*

Life During Fatherhood: A Day of Sanity
Posted by Blaine on Saturday 29 August 2026 at 7:15PM EST

When they say that kids are exhausting, let me tell you: they are not lying. This morning, I woke up with the familiar, bone-deep weariness that's been hanging around my neck like a lead weight since March. I was half on my front, splayed out like a starfish across my side of the bed (along with a good percentage of Kurt's), with neither the drive nor the inclination to move any time soon. The sheets were soft, all warmed up by the sunlight filtering in through the open bedroom window, and just for a moment I let myself sink deeper into the pillows.

Then I realized. Sunlight?

It was with groggy eyes and lazy limbs that I groped around on the nightstand for my watch, and when my fingers closed around the strap, I dragged it onto the pillow next to my head, all the while blinking away remnants of sleep. When I saw what time it was, all I did for a full thirty seconds was stare. How in the hell could it possibly be nine in the morning? Surely, that couldn't be right. No, it must have stopped the night before—I've been meaning to replace the battery for a while, after all. But when I listened, the ticking was as steady as ever.

It took every reserve of strength I could find in order to throw off the covers and haul myself out of bed. Half sleepwalking, I let my feet assume autopilot and lead me to the bathroom, where I brushed my teeth with absolutely zero finesse and inwardly winced when I caught sight of the crow's feet around my eyes—I'm painting quite the attractive picture, I know.

Downstairs, I was greeted by the sound of the radio and I shuffled towards the sharp, rich scent of the La Providencia that we bring home from Gorilla (there is no more heavenly coffee, I assure you). Kurt was making airplane noises for our son, and I leaned against the fridge for a moment, just watching. The kids were both banging the tray-tables of their high chairs with their spoons—an action that, rather eerily, reminded me of one of my good friends when he used to preside over our show choir group (and probably still does, if I know him at all)—and there was oatmeal splattered everywhere, yet I don't think I've ever seen my husband so at ease: he just doesn't do mess.

“Aud's decided that she doesn't like carrots anymore,” he informed me while feeding her another bite of her oatmeal and affectionately swiping at her cheek like he does on a regular basis. “And of course, our son agrees with her.”

So does her Dad, but instead of voicing my opinion, I opted to say “good morning” with a kiss and ask my husband how he manages to look so good so early. It wasn't until I had a cup of coffee raised halfway to my lips, musing absent-mindedly on something I heard about oatmeal being used as a face mask, that Kurt's reply to my question (“Well... I have been up for two hours. The munchkins didn't wake up until eight, so I had time to at least make some attempt at presentability. The completely uninterrupted night's sleep helped, of course.”) actually struck a chord with me.

The remainder of our short morning conversation seemed to wash over me just like the coffee-scented steam curling wetly beneath my nose, with my husband telling me not to jinx it by making a big deal about it, that if this is what sanity feels like, he'd appreciate being able to hold onto it for as long as possible. Of course, when I did make a big deal about it, exclaiming that I didn't even really know what day it was, Kurt calmly and sympathetically informed me that it was Saturday, and while I recognized that he only knew this because WABC told him so, I'm practiced enough by now at being a husband that I bit my tongue and said nothing to contradict his self-satisfaction.

The great thing about being married to Kurt is that he's also practiced enough by now at being a husband that he allowed me the thirty seconds it took for me to drain my coffee cup before dragging me and the twins upstairs to get them dressed for a day at the park. As he said, “I'm starting to feel human for the first time since March and I refuse to waste such a beautiful day. Come help me make the most of it.”

*

Life During Fatherhood: Balancing Acts
Posted by Kurt on Monday 19 October 2026 at 10:31PM EST

It occurs to me that balance is a very difficult thing to achieve. Walking the knife-edge fine line of equilibrium is not a straight, Roman road that stretches all the way ahead to the horizon: instead, it's a curve around the mountainside. Some points of the journey demand more of you than you feel physically able to give, and then there are the moments of ambling respite—the times where the path plateaus and you're able to catch your breath and rest your weary body, if only for a few hours. Up until today, both my husband and I seemed to be—and here I will shamelessly quote material from his debut album—walking an incline with stones in our shoes.

Our search for help began last month. Due to family commitments (and oh, how good it feels to use those words in reference to my own little slice-of-heaven-and-hell family), I was unable to attend Fall Fashion Week for the first time since taking the reins at Westwood. Blaine has been spending the better part of his time locked in his studio working on material for his next album, only emerging for food, visits to the bathroom, and sleep (and the two hours every evening where he downs tools to eat dinner with us, curl up beside me on the couch, and whisper musical words into my ear between trying to teach our still-speechless babies the lyrics of Disney songs). Because of all this, it finally came to the point where we grudgingly admitted that we could use some help.

Tonight, I was sitting on the couch after Blaine had disappeared back into his studio, the twins safely ensconced in their playpen as I trawled through a folder thick with applications that covered a wide spectrum from promising-yet-expensive to reasonably-priced-but-hell-no. McQueen was stretched out next to me and after finally admitting defeat for the day I was running my fingers through his fur, feeling out how thick it was getting for winter, and taking a moment to watch the twins and marvel over how quickly they're developing and progressing. Sometimes, I swear I can see them growing right in front of me. Just last week, for example, I was making dinner when Blaine bounded in and dragged me by the hand into the living room. Of course, when I realized he'd left our babies unsupervised, I opened my mouth to start berating him, but he simply pointed at them and made me watch. They were sitting slightly apart in the center of the couch—quite safe, I noted somewhat guiltily—and their faces were all lit up as they babbled unintelligibly at one another. They looked just like I'm sure Blaine and I do whenever we catch up with our friends from high school or college.

“They look drunk,” Blaine whispered to me, eyes flitting between them. “You didn't listen to that old wives' tale about the whiskey, right?”

I thought better of correcting him—the look on his face was worth him silently thinking the worst of me for a few minutes. But this was what I was thinking about as I was fussing over my cat, and when I just so happened to glance over at the playpen (which, by the way, is huge and takes up most of the living room floor—this little fact is relevant).

The twins were sitting in opposite corners, and Audrey was holding up Oliver's favorite toy—Claude, the lobster plushie that came in a recent package from his aunt and uncle. Oliver had a look of such intense focus and concentration on his face, eyebrows knitted and tongue almost sticking out—just like Blaine whenever he stops mid-strum to note something down—that I couldn't help but sit forward. As I watched, Oliver rolled himself forward onto his stomach and propped himself up, determinedly staring at the lobster like it was his own personal Everest. Audrey simply held it up, perfectly still, and I wondered if this was it.

Breaking one of the cardinal household rules—disturbing Blaine's creative process (and believe me, I know how that can be; there was a time when I was known as 'Kurtzilla')—I dialed '1' on the speed dial, ignored his attempt at a Real Housewives reference, and told him to grab the video camera and get his cute butt downstairs. Oliver was on his front, kicking out his chubby little legs behind him as if he were in a pool and just clumsily learning how to swim. Audrey still held out Claude, and while I was fighting the urge to leap to my feet and cheer on my son, I had to wonder where she gets such patience—not from Blaine, and certainly not from me.

Blaine was at the bottom of the stairs and hitting record a split-second after Oliver pushed himself up and dragged his left knee along the bottom of the playpen. Audrey giggled—giggled—and when Oliver reached forward with his right hand to balance himself, the look on his face took my breath away. Dawning triumph and perhaps even pride—exactly the same beaming smile of completion that Blaine wears whenever he finishes a song.

Blaine inched his way through the living room to stand by my side, waving his free hand for me to take. When Oliver had closed half the distance towards his sister, Audrey tipped forward like it was the simplest thing in the world—like she'd been doing it for months already—and crawled to meet him in the middle.

I whispered Blaine's name, and felt his fingers tighten between my own. Tonight, while I was driving myself crazy trying to find some balance, our babies found their own.

“I know,” he whispered back, lowering the camera as the twins both returned to babbling to one another and playing with their toys, as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened at all. “I know.”

*

Life During Fatherhood: Told You So (Complete With Interpretative Dance)
Posted by Blaine on Wednesday 25 November 2026 at 4:59PM EST

According to me, our daughter said her first word last Monday. According to my husband, I'm sure, our daughter said her first word approximately ten minutes ago.

Since last week, I've been steadily growing firmer in the belief that my daughter is a selective mute. I have, on no fewer than fourteen separate occasions over the past week, called Kurt's office in a flurry of excitement, holding the phone up to Audrey's ear and encouraging her to repeat the word 'Papa'. It was barely more than a whisper the first time she said it last Monday, when she pointed at the picture of Kurt that served as the wallpaper on my phone, but ever since then, her voice has grown stronger and more sure with each and every repetition.

Except, of course, in the presence—or even the merest suggestion—of another person (and isn't that always the way?). I've been back in the studio, and as soon as I walk through the door each day at four p.m., I ask Lucia, our nanny, if Audrey has spoken again yet. The answer is always no. I've tried capturing her on video, and even taking her into my home studio with the recording equipment still running, but nothing. The only time she'll say it is when it's just the three of us—me, Audrey, and Oliver. It's disconcerting, really, how much my daughter seems to constantly outsmart me, and if I didn't know any better, I'd think that she was practicing it over and over, getting good enough at it so that she could say it to Kurt and be proud of herself.

Sometimes, it's so easy to forget that the twins are only just shy of eight months old.

This afternoon when I got back from the studio—forgive me for taking a moment here to shamelessly plug my next record, because I think you guys are going to love the new sounds we've been playing around with—Audrey was still wide awake when she should have been exhausted and down for a nap, but that's my daughter: ever the contradiction. Deciding to switch on some classic Katy Perry and dance around the living room with her was probably more for my benefit than it was hers, but as I waltzed her over to our photograph-littered mantelpiece, she stretched out her arms and grabbed at the air with her fingers, happily crying out, “Papa!”

I decided to make one last-ditch attempt at calling Kurt, knowing that I would probably admit defeat and learn patience if Audrey still wouldn't speak. As soon as I pulled my phone from my pocket, of course, Audrey stopped talking. All the same, and ever hopeful, I dialed one-handed and switched to speakerphone.

“Now baby, Papa really wants to hear you speak,” I told her as the phone rang in my hand. “Papa doesn't believe Daddy that you can talk, and you know that Daddy doesn't often get to be right. I know it's scary, but can you be really brave for Daddy and say hello?”

When Kurt answered the phone, all I got to hear was something involving a meeting he was about to go into before I almost dropped the phone.

“Papa!”

For a full five seconds, there was complete silence.

“Was that—is that you, baby girl?”

Audrey looked up at me with something akin to wonder, and clapped her hand over her mouth. “Go on,” I told her, and gently pried her hand away, holding the phone near her ear. “Say hi to Papa.”

“Papa,” she repeated, slightly quieter than the first time.

“Hey, Little Hep,” Kurt said, sounding a little breathless and a lot surprised. 'Hep' is the nickname we've given her while we're trying to teach her to say her own name—'Audrey' is possibly a little too ambitious for her first word, after all. “How's my favorite girl?”

Audrey just giggled and hid her face against my shoulder. “She's doing good, Papa,” I said, feeling more than a little vindicated. “So. Do you have anything to say?”

“I don't know what you're talking about,” Kurt sniffed, in that way of his.

“I will do the told-you-so dance, Kurt, I swear to God.”

“Fine. Fine, you were right. Happy?” Kurt grumbled, and at the sound of shuffling papers, I imagined him standing in the middle of his office, phone pressed between his ear and his shoulder as he shifted presentation folders full of the most preliminary of designs for fall/winter 2027 (he's been muttering about them since just after Fall Fashion Week).

“I love you,” I said, simply.

“I love you too, honey,” Kurt replied softly, a note of surprise coloring his tone. “See you when I get home. Keep our girl talking.”

And I will. Just long enough for Kurt to get home and hear her. Just long enough for me to be able to perform the told-you-so dance in all its glory.

*

Life During Fatherhood: On Martyrdom
Posted by Kurt on Sunday 14 February 2027 at 10:01PM EST

The first Valentine's Day that I spent with Blaine wasn't exactly what you would call successful, in terms of romance. It came around a few months into my then strictly platonic relationship with the man I'm still, after sixteen years together, thrilled to call my own. Blaine was completely, infuriatingly oblivious to my feelings for him—even after the outrageously flirty duet of Baby, It's Cold Outside that we did the previous Christmas—and one day, he came into Warbler practice to request help in asking out his crush on Valentine's Day through the medium of song. Being the hopeful yet na�ve sixteen-year-old that I was, I was only too happy to help—thinking, of course, that his crush was one Kurt Hummel.

Unfortunately for my shaky self-esteem, his crush was not one Kurt Hummel. It was in fact one of the sales assistants at the Gap, who shot him down shortly after the performance. I won't embarrass my husband by revealing his song of choice (not out of choice, you understand. We were all made to swear an oath that we'd never speak of it again), and needless to say, he was fairly surprised when I finally confessed my feelings to him at our old coffee haunt. We agreed to stay friends, and that was the story of the first Valentine's Day in our shared history.

Of course, in the interim, we've had our fair share of both V-Day and date disasters—there was one time where we woke up in Salem with no idea of how we got there, and that really is one that I'll never delve into too deeply—but we've also had some wonderful, love-affirming times together.

Tonight, unfortunately, was not one of those times—the more observant amongst you may have already guessed that from the date and time that this entry is being posted.

This year, it so happened that one of the few times we were both able to get home to see our parents in Ohio coincided with Valentine's. The twins are staying with their grandma, and tonight Blaine and I drove into Columbus for dinner and some much-needed alone time to reconnect. I've been busy with Fashion Week, and our nanny has been in California visiting with family, so my stoic and dutiful husband has spent the past five days running around after Audrey (who has, I'm happy to report, started walking—read: running) and sleeping very little after being up most nights taking care of our sick little boy. He's been absolutely exhausted, and the only thing that kept him awake during dinner was the fact that he checked his phone every five minutes (if you can even believe it, this is the first time both of us have ever been away from the twins at the same time). I made it halfway through the main course before I finally confiscated the damn thing and switched it off.

“I still have my phone on, honey,” I told him, doing my best to keep my tone placating. “The difference is that I don't need to constantly check it to know that the kids are safe and happy with your mother.”

“But what if Audrey runs outside and gets lost? Or what if—“

“Honey, you're exhausted,” I interrupted calmly, reaching for Blaine's hand across the table. “You're still stressed out from the drive yesterday, and don't think I haven't noticed how badly you've been sleeping lately. It's okay to admit that you could use a break.”

“I'm fine,” Blaine muttered, poking at his barely-touched halibut.

“Uh huh,” I said skeptically. “Well, all of that aside, today is still Valentine's Day, you still look incredibly dapper, and I'm still going to make love to you tonight. So anytime you're ready to stop being such a martyr to our children, just let me know.”

A smile tugged at the corner of Blaine's mouth, and he sheepishly met my eyes for a moment before shaking his head, running his thumb over my knuckles and biting at his lip. “You know, I'm not really that hungry anymore.”

When we reached our room at the cute little boutique hotel we chose, we were greeted by the standard scattering of rose petals, along with aromatherapy candles gathered in threes on each bedside table, and a porter had accompanied us to our room with a platter of fresh strawberries and a complimentary bottle of champagne—apparently the hotel are, as the manager gushed, “just so thrilled to welcome Kurt and Blaine Hummel-Anderson back to Ohio”.

Ignoring all of it, I simply started unbuttoning Blaine's pinstriped Oxford and pushed him to lie on his stomach on top of the covers, paying no heed to his admittedly weak protests. After twenty minutes of attention being paid to the overworked muscles in his neck, shoulders, and back, he was more relaxed than I'd felt him for months.

“So what is it that you love about Columbus so much?” I asked in response to his quiet declaration of renewed affection for the city. When there was no answer, I leaned forward and quietly asked the question again. Still no response.

“Blaine, honey? You're asleep, aren't you?”

I let out a long-suffering sigh (because seriously, who falls asleep at 8:30pm on Valentine's Day? My goober of a husband, that's who) and turned to sit on the edge of the bed, twisting one arm behind myself to thread my fingers through his. Suddenly feeling very old—and very married—I reached for my phone with the other hand, all the while darkly muttering something like, “bet these four walls don't often see people doing much sleeping on Valentine's.”

It was just as I was swiping across the screen to check the time that it buzzed to life in my hand with a new email. It had been sent to both of us by my mother-in-law, wishing us a happy Valentine's Day, with a short video attached.

Upon opening it, I was greeted by a crystal clear clip of Oliver pulling himself to a standing position at one end of the couch, pointing and babbling to Audrey where she stood at the other end. He turned to face the camera with his tiny fist pressed to his little grin, looking like he had some sort of juicy and delicious secret to share. As I watched, I disentangled my fingers from those of my sleeping, ever-oblivious husband and pressed my palm to my heart when Oliver took two uncertain, clumsy steps toward Audrey, arms by his sides rather than holding onto the couch for support.

The clip ended with Oliver all but barreling into his sister and knocking them both into a pile of pillows and cushions that had been arranged in the middle of the floor, and I smiled at a faint memory impression of my dad arranging a similar thing for me when I was just knee-high to a grasshopper.

After replying with a thank-you for the video, I laid down on the bed next to Blaine, and only thought better of waking him at the very last moment, when my fingers were a half-inch away from tangling between his messy curls.

“No,” I whispered, mostly to myself. “You can wait until the morning to see it. That's what you get for falling asleep at eight-thirty on Valentine's Day.”

That's the thing about martyrdom. Drop the effort, even for a moment, and it'll bite you in the ass. Or maybe that's just me doing the biting. (Hey, it's Valentine's Day and only half of us is awake—perhaps you'll forgive the terrible attempt at humor.)

*

Life During Fatherhood: The Unfortunate Pumpkin
Posted by Blaine on Friday 24 November 2028 at 10:21AM EST

“Take the kids pumpkin-picking,” he said. “It'll be fun,” he said. In about three years' time—even six months from now—I'm sure it will be. But two days ago? Not so much.

Of course, my na�ve inner five-year-old thought it was a fantastic idea, so I took the car and drove the three of us out to Stakey's in Aquebogue. It's beautiful—26 acres where you're free to roam and pick pumpkins straight off the vine, complete with a Bouncy House, pony rides, face-painting, and a three-acre corn maze.

I'll preface this part of my woeful tale by making it clear that sometimes, I'm prone to being an idiot of the highest order. As long as we're clear on that, I'll continue.

It was in said corn maze where I found myself wearily jogging along behind the twins, who were chasing each other as though the dreaded Bogeyman himself were on their heels. While I was yelling after them to slow down—for two-and-a-half year olds, they're both surprisingly fast—I received a sympathetic look and some words of encouragement from a harried and exhausted-looking mother as she and her husband wrangled their five rowdy kids around the corner. In lieu of any vocal response, I could only offer a somewhat sheepish smile in return—who was I to compare notes with her when I have less than half the number of children she does?—before I took off after them again.

When I reached the fork at the end of the path, I slowed down to a creeping tip-toe, repeating the pattern of the last five corners. I found the twins as ever, crouched low to the ground, shushing each other and both with hands covering their painted faces. That's one of many questions I've been asking myself recently: why do my kids never get tired of Hide & Go Seek?

The thing is, no matter how sick you get of Hide & Go Seek, you have to play along for their sake. So there I stood, one hand on my hip and the other scratching my head, wondering aloud where little Hep and Twist could have gotten to. They giggled, shushed each other again, and finally jumped up and gave themselves away when I started making noises about going home to look for them there.

“You guys ready to pick some pumpkins for Thanksgiving tomorrow?” I asked as I swept them both up in matching fireman's holds.

“Pie!” they shouted in unison, and of course that was what they were most excited about—Papa's famous pumpkin pie (I'd only been raving about it since, oh... Labor Day). That in turn, naturally, led me into considering what I'm thankful for this year. Where to begin? A great marriage, a solid career, two beautiful children, and I get to spend my days wrapped up in love, music, and (for the most part) the stark concrete beauty of New York City. I was just getting to the point of feeling completely content with life, counting up my blessings, when Audrey cried out two words. Two words that no parent ever wants to hear when half-lost in a three-acre corn maze.

“Daddy, potty!”

The only way I can describe what happened next is that auto-parent kicked in, and I dropped the twins to sit on either hip as I broke into a jog, pleading with my daughter to hold on as long as she could while simultaneously cursing myself for leaving the diaper bag in the car. She's almost fully potty-trained, you see, and Oliver's only just started so he's still in diapers. I guess I just figured that we'd be okay for a couple hours. This is one of the many reasons that I thank God every day for Kurt—he has contingency plans for everything. He wouldn't have left the damn bag in the car. Especially when (as I realized, with a sinking feeling in my gut when we finally emerged from the maze) the restrooms were clear across the other side of the pumpkin field. My darling daughter evidently reached the same conclusion when I set her and her brother down at the edge of the field.

One second. I took my eyes off them for one second, guys—but as with all small children, that's all it takes. When I turned back around, it was to witness Audrey relieving herself on the nearest pumpkin, Oliver standing close by and glaring at a family who were just leaving the maze and shooting me disapproving looks. I could almost hear their thoughts.

What kind of parent is he, letting his toddler pee on a pumpkin? Doesn't he realize how unsanitary that is? Where is his diaper bag? Where is his sense of social decency? Should we call Child Protective Services?

Shame-faced and with my dignity in tatters, taking comfort only in the look of intense relief on Audrey's face, I cleaned her up as best I could and got us the hell out of there as quickly as possible. I can safely say that it was far from my finest hour—in fact, it was one of the most mortifying experiences of my life (I know, now, why our parents choose to embarrass us so thoroughly during our teenage years)—and oh, how Kurt laughed at my misadventures when I returned home with pumpkins from Trader Joe's.

Belated Thanksgiving wishes from the Hummel-Anderson clan.

*

Life During Fatherhood: Hold That Thought
Posted by Kurt on Saturday 15 September 2029 at 8:02PM EST

Our kids have now reached the point in their lives where they're ready to leave home for a few hours each day and spend that time in the care of people with qualifications, experience in how children behave, and knowledge of how the members of each new generation interact. Yes, Audrey and Oliver are now attending preschool. They're learning songs, and bringing home finger paintings with which to adorn the refrigerator, and—most importantly—making new friends. A new experience for them, since the neighborhood kids they've grown up playing with were all at least two or three by the time we brought them home.

Today, there was a play date. A group of the moms from the school get their kids together most Saturday afternoons at the park and share all the latest gossip—who's behaving suspiciously enough that they may be having an affair, who's lost weight and with which of the latest fad diets, who's getting a raise at work and whether it's deserved or not—while the kids run around and blow off steam. Earlier this week as I dropped the kids off on my way to work, trying not to ache too much as Oliver made a beeline for his new friends and Audrey only permitted me to steal a quick kiss rather than the usual hug-and-kiss combo, one of the moms seemed to notice my melancholy and invited me to join her group at the weekend. With Blaine in Toronto to host the MMVAs (so proud of you, honey!), I was at something of a loose end anyway, and decided that it might be a good idea to get to know the women that, if my kids have anything to do with it, I'll be spending the next fifteen years exchanging playground pleasantries with and attempting to out-do at every bake sale.

With the twins dressed and ready to go, I packed up a lunchbox full of the lemon squares that, since his stint on the Disney cruise, I seem to have been in the habit of baking whenever Blaine is out of town, and together we walked to the park. It was a beautiful fall day here in Brooklyn, with the leaves displaying their usual autumn rainbow, and as soon as we got to the park the twins were immediately running off to join their friends.

I, on the other hand, was completely out of my element in this new and different group of people. These brand new social situations are still something I'm not entirely comfortable with, even at twenty-five years old (shh... let me have my little delusions). These situations are where I always fervently wish I was in possession of my husband's charm and natural ease with people—he slips easily from skin to skin, whereas I stubbornly cling to the one in which I fought so hard just to feel comfortable.

The lemon squares, however, did help. Once we got started swapping recipes, and I shared a few of the low-fat ones I've posted here over the years, it was like I'd always been part of the group.

Or it might have been, if only I'd had the chance to finish a conversation. Honestly, I lost track of the amount of times I used and/or heard the words, “hold that thought”, “just a minute”, and “be right back”. Though there were a group of six or seven of us, there were never more than three of us seated at any one time, myself and the rest of the moms always running off to make sure one of the kids didn't fall off the jungle gym and break their neck, or walk into a pole and break their neck, or collide with another child and break their neck.

That wasn't even the half of it, though—the boys were all running around like something possessed, vocal gunfire filling the air all through the park as the girls gravitated around the sandbox and hosted imaginary tea parties for the dolls and stuffed animals that seemed to never leave their sides. Every other second, we were tearing our attention away from the conversations upon which we'd only been half-focused to begin with to provide juice, or snacks, or kisses to a bruised elbow or scraped knee. Honestly, it got to the stage where we could barely remember what the original conversation was about, let alone the point we were trying to—

Uh-oh. Hold that thought.