I just came back from Manhattan where I braved traffic on Marathon Sunday just to visit my new, beautiful niece in the hospital.
Driving over the bridge was fine until I made the false move of going down the Westside Highway, rather than the FDR Drive. The runners were staggering out of Central Park in the mid 70s and all entrances to the park were closed. So, I just inched down Columbus Avenue until Central Park South. After I finished cursing my stupidity, I sat back and enjoyed myself.
35,000 heroes in lycra tights and blue and white Road Runners capes milled down the block. Many were surrounded by family members holding balloons and signs. No body fat in sight. Aaah, if I didn’t have those crappy knees… Along Central Park South, many of the runners were still coming at the six hour mark. I leaned out of the car and got in a “whoo whoo” to cheer on the stragglers.
I finally wound my way over to E. 77th St and managed some truly tragic parallel parking.
My niece is the best. With eyes sealed shut, she made a full range of facial expressions from disdain to surprise for her loving aunt. Her skinny little legs were all froggy and red. And those newborns know just how to tuck in so perfectly into the crook of an arm. I want twelve more.
Apt. 11d 
When I was watching the Olympics this summer the expressions on the althletes faces after they had just managed to beat a record, or win a race, giving every last droplet of energy both physical and psychic was the closest that I had ever seen to how I felt after giving birth, especially the first baby which was without any drugs and took hours and hours. Babies are miracles, but so are moms for going through all of that and then still wanting to do it again!
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Babies are addictive. Addictive. Put down the baby. Step away from the baby.
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Oh, Jennifer, you tied my hasty post together so nicely. Wish I thought to end it that way.
Miriam. laughing.
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