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As you probably know by now, I'm a big advocate for self-improvement and doing whatever it takes to feel happy from the inside out, no matter the form. If you're a Botox girl, have at it. Yoga? Stretch away. Learning how to make seriously good sushi  (next on my list)--start your rice cooker. What I didn't realize until lately is that if you really want to feel terrific and a bit rejuvenated at the same time, simply reconnect with some old friends.

You know, the ones who knew you before you became whatever it is you are (that made so much more sense in my brain about a minute ago) and the ones who saw you through your bad eighties hair (personally, I think the eyebrows were far, far worse, but that's another story for another day).

Over the past few weeks, I've been in touch with a couple of friends from high school and college, with whom I'd lost touch. Oh, like everyone else, I manage to keep tabs on the comings and goings and major life changes (marriage, kids, divorce, blah, blah, blah) of friends through mutual friends, et cetera, but for me, October has brought a wonderful wave of old friends, who managed to make the collision of past and present something pretty special.

When I was struggling so to become pregnant and spending too many of my days (and nights) imaging all of the extraordinary things I would do with my child, I never imagined that the simple, everyday moments would be the ones that I would treasure most and store away in my heart.

I imagined taking my child to the library and museum; to the park and the zoo. I imagined a life full of travel to interesting places, and exposing him or her to new cultures and languages and foods...blah, blah, blah.

I don't think I could have ever known how secondary all of those things would become, to the complete bliss of cuddling togther on rocking chair beneath with a velvety blanket, a story book propped open upon us, my son, fresh from a soapy bubble bath (do you ever get over that baby smell?) or watching his dimpled little boy hands roll ginger snap cookie dough into tiny balls and place them so proudly onto a cookie sheet. I could not have known that an unsolicited "I love you, Mommy" could make me weak in the knees or that simply playing together quietly, perhaps doing a puzzle or coloring side by side, would prompt me to simply stop and whisper "thank you, thank you, thank you" to no one in particular.

Seriously--do you think I am ever going to believe that my son is finally, truly here? Honest to God, the kid turns three in January, and if I don't get a grip soon, well...I'm trying. Really. I think the rationale behind my (perpetual or nauseating--take your pick) state of disbelief boils down to some kind of pregnancy and motherhood dysmorphia...that is...on the order of what people with body dysmorphia experience.

Now, before you think I've really lost it this time...consider this:

You know how people who've lost a significant amount of weight sometimes have a difficult time adjusting to their new, smaller physiques? Of course they can see that they've lost weight and recognize that they are in fact, dramatically, physicially changed, but emotionally, they may still see themselves as their former, larger selves.

I truly think it's the same for women who've experienced infertility. Of course you know that your child exists...God knows, those middle-of-the night feedings and diaper changes will bring you back to reality quickly enough. But more than that, the fear of never being able to be a parent, the ongoing losses and miscarriages and failed cylcles...well, these events take a little longer to finally make their move into the distant past.

You know what? That made a lot more sense in my head than it does right here, so let's move along, shall we? Sorry...you should know by  now to expect these kinds of ramblings from me now and again.

Did I mention that a friend told me recently that my stories and story-telling were disjointed? A guy friend, no less, so of course, this comment carries no credibility whatsoever...:)

But back to carving out some quality time with your kids...

If your'e looking for simple and fun things to do with your child or children, my favorites are tried and true classics that you likely did with your own mom or dad: reading, coloring, puzzles, Legos (who doesn't love them?) and now there are those cool Lego duplo  sets that are perfect for toddlers (the pieces are sized so that kids can't choke on them), baking cookies, and of course, nothing beats a mom and kid nap on a cold Sunday afternoon.

Anyway, one of these days, I just might surprise you and write about something that I've not completely romanticized beyond all reason...

Alright...there's just no chance of that ever happening.

It seems that just about every October, I remember a time about fifteen years ago when I was working as a reporter for a cable news program in Boston, and a copy of New York magazine made its way around the newsroom. The cover story, entitled “My Breast” was the real-life story of journalist Joyce Wadler and her devastating breast cancer diagnosis and subsequent fight to survive.

Wadler was one of the best in her field. She was an expert investigator, prolific writer, and former Washington Post New York Bureau Chief. Certainly no stranger to hanging in there when the going got tough.

Little did she know how tough it was going to get when at the age of 44, she had a tumor “the size of a robin’s egg” (her words) removed from her breast and was diagnosed with ductal carcinoma.

The fact that Wadler had no family history of the disease, no known risk factors, and exercised regularly, didn’t seem to add up to a hill of beans on the day she was told the news that would forever change her life.

A few days after the article showed up in the newsroom, you could, at any time, find the women in my office simultaneously holding and reading the dog-eared magazine with one hand, while palpating their necks, breasts, and underarm areas with the other. We ceased to care that we were doing this in public and for the most part, the men in the office left us alone (wise decision). Many of them made copies of the article for their girlfriends, wives and mothers.

Wadler’s personal diary of diagnosis and treatment was profiled in the magazine in chillingly candid detail. She was brutally frank about her fear of dying and explicit about the difficult radiation and chemotherapy treatments and their aftermath. To this day, I have never forgotten her. She was determined not to be a statistic.

As I was writing this column, I did a little digging to find out where Wadler might be.

A quick stop at Amazon.com led me to her book, also entitled “My Breast” which was published in 1997 to great fanfare, at least six or seven years since I first read the magazine article. When I saw the publication date of her book, I breathed a sigh of relief. She’d made it past the five-year survival mark.

Joyce Wader was not a statistic.

A little more digging led me to a new, disheartening fact: Wadler was later diagnosed with ovarian cancer. As was typical of her personality, her wry, black humor carried her through—example, Wadler wrote in her book that when prescribed Ziphrain, a common anti-nausea drug, she quizzed her doctor about the drug’s street value.Well, she did live in New York….

My message today (there is one—truthfully—although a friend recently told me that my story-telling was a bit disjointed, but that’s another (disjointed) story for another day)….

One more time…

My message today is that while October is the official Breast Cancer Awareness Month, all of us at Womensforum.com, believe that the message of early detection and prevention should be on our minds year round. Please search our site for information on ways you can be your own best advocate in the fight against this disease. If you want more information on breast cancer or wish to participate in Race for the Cure in your city, please visit www.komen.org

As you know, October is Breast Cancer Awareness Month, and this year, like every year, we’re running dozens of articles for you and the special women in your life, to help give you a healthy shot at early detection, optimal breast health, and when needed—treatment, resources and support.

We hope you’ll take a minute to learn how to do a proper breast self-exam (BSE) and become your own best advocate in the war against this dreaded disease.

What you might not know is that October is also National Domestic Violence Awareness Month—not something that is talked about with the same openness and ease as breast cancer.

While most women who have cancer might easily talk about their disease and treatment, it’s pretty hard to imagine a woman who is living with abuse, having an easy conversation with someone else about it. Can you think of any conversations you may have had with someone who has been living with abuse?

Domestic violence is an insidious a poison as breast cancer. Not only can it go “undetected” by friends and family who many have no idea that their loved one is in danger, like breast cancer, many women live in fear, shame, and denial of admitting that they are living a life of abuse.

Most, no matter how bad the situation, never tell a soul. For many, the truth comes out when it is simply too late for anyone to help.

And just like breast cancer, domestic abuse does not discriminate. The well-dressed woman you see standing in line at the check out counter with the designer purse and perfect makeup is just as likely to be living a life of abuse as is the woman ringing up her grocery order.

For many women and girls living a double life and hiding their suffering at the hands of a partner, spouse, or parent, all it might take is for someone to ask them if they are alright, and let them know that help is always available to them—no matter the time of day.

Think for a moment about the smiling face of Laci Peterson—and ask yourself if she looked like a woman who would one awful day turn up at the bottom of the San Francisco Bay? Maybe she was abused, maybe she wasn’t—the point is—it’s very hard to know for sure what someone else might be living through. All it takes, however, is a moment to tell someone that you suspect might be in trouble that you are there for them. That’s all.

If you suspect that someone you know is living in an abusive situation, don’t wait to see if the matter gets worse. Let them know that they can always call you as well as the National Domestic Abuse Hotline to find out how to get help and get out now.

Be a good friend—go the extra mile if you suspect someone you know is in trouble.

Resources and numbers for both Breast Cancer help and Domestic Abuse help are listed below.

For information on breast cancer, please visit http://www.komen.org

For information on domestic abuse, please call the National Domestic Abuse Hotline at 800-799-SAFE or visit http://www.ncadv.org/

I might as well just come out with it: I turned 45 this week. Yes, 45.

I don't know about you, but I don't think it's even possible that I could actually be 45 when I still feel like I'm 25 and things that happened some dozen (or more) years ago, feel like they happened only yesterday. How is this at all possible?

Everyone told me that turning 40 would be rough, but frankly, that never quite kicked in. But 45? Other people are 45. In fact, I was thinking that other people's mothers are 45, not me.

And yet, here it is, 45, as in, five years short of 50.

GOOD GOD.

The way I see it, someone in that official counting bureau (the same black-hearted sadists that somehow beam the wrong number onto my lithium scale every morning) must have made a mistake somewhere, because I don't see any way, shape, or form that I could be 45 when I still don't know what I want to be when I grow up. So, to consider myself on the back nine, as they say, is simply not an option.

And speaking of things that I might want to be when I grow up, I suppose that at this point, I should rule out some earlier goals, such as becoming a ballerina (probably a long-shot at this point and there is, of course, the absolutely no ballet training past the age of seven factor to consider), or a singer the likes of Chaka Khan or Whitney Houston (somewhat difficult without the actual singing ability), but still, a girl can dream...

Forty-five. It's just a little too close to 50 (by about 20 years) for my liking, but I do recognize that turning 45 is certainly much better than the alternative (i.e., not turning 45 at all), but still...

In any case, I had a lovely birthday with my family and friends and enjoyed a special rendition of "Happy Birthday Mommy", complete with a homemade card, a beautiful bracelet (thanks, Daddy) and all the birthday hugs and kisses I could ever imagine. Which of course, made turning 45 something pretty wonderful (wrinkles and crow's feet aside).

And to my wonderful friends who sent such amazing texts, cards, and a few less-than-charitable voice mail messages from my girlfriends (wenches) who are also in the 40-plus trenches, I love you too.

Jodi

P.S. And to my extra-special girlfriend who referred to me as "ancient, crumbling, and a fossil" (among other non-printable things), just wait till next year, you miserable, wretched cow.

It's funny how the simplest things in life are often the things I find myself longing for. For example, during the years when I was trying desperately to have a baby, I kept dreaming about the day I would take my son or daughter to the playground, or for an ice-cream cone, or even to their first day of school. I kept wondering why these simple, everyday happenings were the ones that ran through my mind, time and again, and how elusive (and not all that simple) they seemed to be.

I admit that every now and then, I had a pity party (or two) over not being able to conceive, but more than that, I was truly dumbstruck that after all was said and done, my dreams centered around such classic, traditional, family moments. After years of a career-driven existence, this realization made me want to become a mother even more and only increased my sense of sadness and failure about not being able to make my dream a reality.

And so with this as the backdrop, imagine my excitement (a little over the top) this past week when I accompanied my son, Morgan, to a fun (and sticky) popsicle party at his pre-school, where we met his classmates and teachers for the first time.

Preparation for the big day began months ago, literally. I put Popsicle Day on my calendar, picked out an extra set of clothes (required) to leave at school (complete with tiny "Morgan Beck" labels"...I know, I've lost it), and added each scheduled pre-school day to my Outlook as a scheduled appointment.

I filled a storage baggie with any ointment or medication he might need (you can never be too safe) and of course, packed some delicious and healthy (and Mom-approved) Quaker Chewy Granola Bars as snacks. Toss in a bag of wipes and diapers and you get the picture. And pre-school had not even begun yet!

My husband and I, and Morgan's wonderful nannies, Loa and Jill (more like family) had been preparing him for weeks about this event and he awoke Thursday morning full of squeals and excitement. We had breakfast, got dressed, and then Morgan, Loa, and I, set off to his (our) first day of pre-school.

I worried that he wouldn't let go of my hand or want to play with the other children. He wasn't in the classroom for five minutes when he turned to me and said "Bye, Mommy" and with that, went to play with a pile of toy trains. So much for separation anxiety!

It was fun to meet the other moms and a relief to know that some of them also worked (I always feel like the outcast when I am questioned about this). The party lasted all of an hour and despite the fact that halfway through, Morgan would intermittently cling to me or Loa (ah, there it is) before racing to find a new activity, the event was a success and my son cannot wait to go back.

I'm sure it may sound like just a typcial day in the life of a typcial mom, but for me, it was a long-awaited dream come true.

Well, like I said in my last blog, it seemed like a good idea at the time--taking a toddler from Boston to Maui with a stop in between in San Francisco. What in the world was I thinking and more importantly...since my son is going to turn three in January, isn't it about time I stopped making such rookie mistakes? LOL...rhetorical questions, I know.

Let's put it this way: Maui was as beautiful and peaceful as ever. For me, this lovely island has become one of the few places (okay, the only place) I feel genuinely relaxed. Whether I'm kayaking (hard to visualize but yes, I've been known to paddle), walking along the beach, or just waking up to the most beautiful blue sky I've ever seen, there's just something about Maui that truly resets my own crazy pace, makes me slow down, and finally--makes me stop and smell the plumeria.

And I did all of these things and more...when I wasn't putting my son in his fifth time out of the morning, begging him to stop kicking/yelling/hitting, etc., etc....

Can someone please explain to me how a little boy can sweetly give his shovel, pail, and inflatable fish friends to another little boy swimming nearby, and within a second of that unsolicited gesture, slap his mom upside her head?

Or how he can sweetly say "aloha" to every person he sees, blushing the whole while at proudly using his new word, only to try to swat at those very same people the next time they walk by?

Dear God, when will the Terrible Twos end??

In any case, we arrived home safely last night and while my husband and son are still fast asleep, this mom has been up cooking, doing laundry, paying bills and unpacking...all without a single cup of coffee. One of these days, I may have to force myself to drink the stuff so that I can at least have a little head start to the day.

I hope that all of you had a relaxing and fun Labor Day weekend and that your family is getting back on track for a new school year.

As for me, my only bleary-eyed thought today is that until the Terrible Twos (and/or Threes) pass, Maui must remain a grownups-only vacation.

Good thing the parenting police don't issue fines for stupidity :)