When Nora wants to be picked up she says “hold you,” and what she means by that is “hold me,” she’s just got the pronouns confused. Understandable as I sometimes ask her, “do you want me to hold you?” It’s cute.

Except! Except it’s not cute when she’s yelling it at the top of her lungs after I put her in her crib. “Mommy HOLD YOU, HOLLLDDDD YOUUUUUU.” She’s been doing this recently. In fact, you wanna know what? She’s doing it right now.

I know some people probably think I should go get her and some people think I should leave her there until she falls asleep, and the truth is that J and I probably fall somewhere in between those two parenting camps (check my other blog for a post about this very subject). Partly this is because we’ve got a really good kid. This new development is so difficult for me precisely because Nora never does this. It’s a stage - of that I’m sure - and one day soon we will get our perfect little kid back.

But for now, it’s total agony. I get this knot in the pit of my stomach when she cries like this, cries that are made worse by the fact that she’s capable of putting her feelings into sentences now. “Mommy hold you.” “Mommy’s bed, no crib.” We’ve been traveling a bunch and I’m sure all the transitions aren’t helping, plus I know that as she gets older she’s going experience new challenges. See, I realize there are reasons. But that doesn’t make it easier.

Add to that my own stresses regarding the aforementioned traveling that we’ve been doing and that is coming up. Don’t get me wrong, we love that stuff, but as much as I do it, traveling makes me anxious. I don’t know why. Maybe it’s all the packing and upheaval. And if there’s a plane involved and you have to arrive at the airport several hours in advance, forget it, pass me the Xanax. Since a doctor’s probably not gonna go for that, whatever, I’ll settle for a martini.

And then there are my current feelings when it comes to the fact that I’m not working much, which I won’t even go into again, but you get the picture. More stress.

Nothing major. A toddler yelling. Some silly feelings of inadequacy on my part. The normal insanity of a busy summer. But over the past few days I got to feeling all tense and annoyed, like I had no control over anything going on in my life. Like I had too much going on but somehow wasn’t taking on enough. I think it’s normal for everyone to feel this way from time to time, and possibly beneficial having to dig your way out of it.

Anyway, after going to the gym this morning, I took Nora to the local Starbucks so I could have a coffee and she could have a snack, thus keeping ourselves occupied until nap time. When we got there I picked out a cup of fruit for her - the kind that’s in sealed plastic - and because she doesn’t understand modern commerce or patience, she was like, “Mommy open?” in this sweet little voice, that proceeded to rise 8 trillion decibels over the next 30 seconds while I paid for everything. As we waited for the coffee I decided there was no harm in letting her hold the fruit cup - maybe it would calm her down a little - but what she did was very loudly proclaim “MOMMY OPEN,” and when I said, “Hold on a minute,” she started running across the Starbucks with the fruit cup, until she stopped dead center of the people reading and studying and being generally civil, and she chucked it with all her brute baby force onto the floor. Then looked at me like, “See?”

I couldn’t help but laugh. Especially when I realized that this one particularly studious looking guy staring at his laptop, who I was all worried about disturbing, was playing a computer game. The workout, the look on my child’s complacent little face. I felt like I was breathing normally again. It gets stressful, true. But it all gets better.

When I got home I put Nora down for her roughly half-hour bout of screaming, “MOMMY HOLD YOU,” before she passed out. I sat at my desk, answering emails and preparing to write blog entries and I typed a letter begging my husband and parents for something they couldn’t do, just to get a little bit of sympathy on the matter. “She’s doing it again,” I wrote. “Make it stop.”

My mother, who knows all, replied, “You have to be strong.” Exactly, I thought. The trips and the transitions will go just fine. You have to be strong. What a simple mantra. And before I knew it I’d finished writing down everything that was worrying me, realized it was no big deal and Nora had fallen fast asleep.

It’s been a while since I wrote an update on Nora at a specific age, but for the past few weeks doing just that is something I’ve been thinking about a lot. I’ve been thinking, too, about the post I wrote on her thirteenth month, and how that month - contrary to all the others - wasn’t my absolute favorite month of her life so far.

Because, as I’ve mentioned, people tell me, regarding children, that “it gets so much better” and I can never believe it when they tell me that. Instead I think, “No! Sixteen months! Have you checked out my baby’s vocabulary? Have you heard her giggle?” or “There is nothing in this world better than my 18 month old child and if it were scientifically possible I’d freeze her this way forever!”

The point being that when Nora is going through a stage that I don’t particularly care for it is pretty striking. And I hate to say it but right now is one of those times.

Nora, my ever-confident, I-don’t-need-my-mother-to-help-me, outgoing child, is going through a clingy stage, which manifests itself in several ways. 1) There is the crying that occurs when we take her to daycare or any other location where we are clearly going to “abandon” her, despite the fact that she has been going to said locations for years. Ok fine, one year and eight months. 2) There is the gripping of my legs as I am trying to make dinner or empty the dishwasher or, you know, just be a free standing human being. 3) There is the general neediness…needing us to play with her or help her or get her something or feed her something and so on and so on, while before she would entertain herself for hours.

Now I know - I totally know - that this is a stage and even as I type I recognize that she is already working through it. The other day we went for a walk and she wanted to hug perfect strangers, and drop off at daycare this week was decidedly less dramatic. I am comforted by the fact that my confident daughter will return, stronger than ever, and that no stage will ever trump her true personality.

But it’s been difficult for me. Clinginess - both in its emotional and physical forms - is difficult for me, even in other adults. Say we’re walking down the street and you go to throw your arm around me in an an impulsive hug born out of some burst of affection, and then you proceed to hang on to me because you think that’s really cute. Well, I might like that. Or, if I’m not in the mood, I might punch you. Kidding, I wouldn’t punch you! Probably!

Anyway, there’s nothing really profound about these observations, just that this stage - which I know is common and brief - has been a little bit of a struggle for me, and for Nora, too, as she navigates all these new feelings and ideas and concepts. The fact that Mommy and Dada can be somewhere that she is not. The fact that - wait a second - they could be paying more attention to her at any given moment.

But, of course, there is an upside.

With the new concepts come so many new words. Words, and more words! Putting words together in new ways, and making tiny sentences that make total sense when taken literally, but not so much grammatically. Nora has learned about possession (”Nowa’s breakfast,” “Nowa’s hair,” “Nowa’s paper”) and about compassion, putting her dolls and toys to bed (”night night”) and giving J and I - and others - kisses when we greet her upon coming home. Then there are the countless other pieces of information she’s collected. Things we sometimes have no idea how she learned. Like that boats are heavy, and how she always knows, before we’ve even gotten there, that we’re almost home.

I know that all parents feel this way, but we are constantly amazed. She counts like this: “two, seven, nine, twelve, thirteen” and she knows that C-A-K-E spells cake and, HOLY CHRIST, she really wants some cake.

I could go on about her skills forever, honestly I could, but I don’t think there’s a great need for any parent to type up every single detail about their child. If we all did it, the World Wide Web would explode.

I’d rather point out what’s become, I’m sure, a tired refrain for me, but nonetheless true, and that happens to be that just when I think things aren’t going so well, it turns out that I’m way off.

This idea played out perfectly the other day when Nora and I had a free afternoon and I was trying to figure out what to do with her to avoid the clinging-to-the-leg type scenario that I’d declared I would die of if it happened one more time. I know, shut up about it already, but when you’re home with a child and you’re trying to get some stuff done and it’s not working because she is making it physically impossible by executing a monkey-grip on your calf, I don’t know, it’s really hard. And lonely. And boring. And the worst part is that when you tell someone how hard and lonely and boring that very mundane and domestic situation is, you end up sounding pretty lame, even if the rest of your day was fun.

So we had this free afternoon and I made the horrible mistake of saying something to Nora about how maybe we’d go get some ammi, which is what she calls ice cream. I was just thinking out loud which, by the way, you can’t do with a twenty-month-old who knows every single word in the world, it seems, or at least all the ones that are important to her, and especially the ones that she has made up herself, but that you have started using as though it is totally normal.

I thought - and hoped - she’d forget about the ammi comment because I wasn’t sure I wanted to deal with that particular obsession, but when we got in the car to go somewhere - anywhere, I hadn’t decided yet - she started chanting, quietly but persistently, “ammi, ammi, ammi, ammi, ammi.” I was torn. What I really wanted to do was go get some coffee. I felt exhausted and like I couldn’t possibly deal with the rest of the day without it, and hey, I didn’t need to cave to my toddler’s desires. She’s not in charge.

Yet something about her joyful declaration moved me, I guess, and I suddenly realized that I’d like nothing more than to sit at the local ice cream shop with my daughter, talking about Abby Cadabby or how many fingers she has. That I’d be privileged to do just that. So we drove into town under menacing-looking clouds and were inside placing our order just as it began to pour. They had coffee ice cream. And that’s how a bad afternoon turned into the best.

“You know what would be awesome? If Nora walked in here with bagels and hot coffee and was like, ‘Hey guys, I made you breakfast. Thanks for taking such good care of me.’”

“She will someday. When she’s 24. And she’s home from medical school.”

“Oh. I see.”

“Or she’s back from the artists’ colony. Or out on bail.”

“So many choices.”

“What do you think Nora will be?”

“Good question.”

“I was just reading in National Geographic about plans to colonize Mars. Do you know how long it’s gonna take? To make Mars livable? It’s a thousand year plan.”

“So I guess she won’t be living on Mars.”

“No. Probably not.”

Oh my God, I know. I’ve been sucking at this blog, and I don’t even like using the word “suck” guys (have I told you I’m prudish in some ways or what?), that is how much I mean it.

The problem is that I do not know how to organize my life anymore. That sounds bad, I realize, like I’m flying around with a sheaf of papers trailing out behind me and my hair wild and I’m wearing a burlap sack or something. But actually, I’m busy and I really like it. I’m working on a few projects, which is terrific, but I haven’t quite gotten the hang of allotting time for each aspect of my working life. Or in the case of this blog, my favorite hobby.

We’ve also been busy in other ways, including a wonderful trip over Presidents Day weekend to New York City and thereabouts with some good friends, during which my passenger-side mirror was ripped from my car, and hanging by a few wires when we found it the next morning, and the oh-so-dutiful boys duct-taped it back on so it wouldn’t go flapping around when we were on the highway. Oh, wait, did I mention that in addition to being really busy, I have also been very classy lately?

I’ll post a few pictures later on because I think a visual will help you out on that one.

Seriously, though, it’s all been so much fun, and even when it’s stressful I don’t mind because it’s stressful in a good way, if that makes sense. J was saying this weekend that while this winter has been bitterly cold, it doesn’t seem as long and dreary as last year’s. This winter has flown by, he remarked. I know what he means. Last winter our life as a family was new and charming and exciting, but I remember at times feeling as though my primary goal in life was to explain to my husband - every second of every day - how hard it was to stay at home with a baby. I couldn’t stress it enough.

I don’t ever feel that way anymore - not ever - for many reasons. The moms I’ve become friends with, and the activities Nora and I have become involved in and the fact that, now, I consider an afternoon at home a welcome respite instead of something that makes me feel lonely. Also, work. I think that feeling satisfied and whole as a mother takes a lot, including the above, but for me the biggest one has been work. Or, I should clarify, work beyond being a mother.

So frantic, yes, but I love the thought that when we look back on this time we will look back on a whirlwind of activities and landmarks and changes. Chasing a near-running toddler and Starsong the purple pony. Professional deadlines and frustrations and successes, and obsessively watching “The Wire” at home. Throwing all our stuff in our bag for a weekend trip and then not having time to unpack it again before the next one. Reading “Goodnight Moon” five hundred times a night and snow days and finally working out regularly. Packing up my computer and taking Nora over to her grandparents so I can get some writing done. Putting on our coats for the millionth time, and waiting for spring.

A few weeks ago we went out to celebrate my little brother’s 28th birthday. Dinner with family and friends followed by the inevitable question. Go out or go to bed?

We were in New York, Brooklyn specifically, and my parents had graciously offered to take Nora back to the hotel so that J and I could join the celebration. I thought about it and decided that, yes, we should go out. But not until 3 a.m., I said. I said it about ten times.

Being a parent hasn’t deterred us from going out now and then, having drinks and late nights with our friends, not at all. But I will say that the majority of our evenings revolve around eating dinner and reading in bed and going to sleep early. Well, the going to sleep early part is a regular thing for me, at least. J’s a little more of a night owl (owl reference, I know, you’re welcome).

This is because, yeah, obviously, we have a child who we take care of on a daily basis. But it’s also because it’s what we like to do at this point in our lives and that has to do with many factors. Nora and habit and our age and the fact that you can get HBO series like “The Wire” on demand and, oh my God, have you seen it? “The Wire?”

Having a night out, however, is a really great release for parents, in my opinion. Whether it’s a quiet dinner together, or a get together with your brother and friends that involves beers. Like millions of beers, even though you totally told your parents, don’t worry, we are not going to stay out until 3 a.m. and you truly meant it when you said it.

The problem is that even a semi-late night sometimes prompts me to say things like, “Wow, I can’t handle those nights anymore,” and guys, that actually is lame. I don’t mean my being tired after staying out past 10 (that’s right I like to go to bed at 10), because we have to get up at 7:30 or so every morning and take care of a toddler, which requires a good night’s sleep. It makes sense.

The lame part is feeling the need to analyze my behavior and physical state. Especially because the analysis almost always stems from my concern that maybe I’m too old, too adult, too much of a mother to ever do anything remotely related to my younger self, like, for instance, go out for my brother’s birthday and drink millions of beers.

It’s like I’m not quite sure I always know my place, and this goes beyond birthday celebrations in Brooklyn. How I’m still figuring out my career path and don’t have an exactly regular paycheck. How I don’t understand the stock market. How I still look to my parents as pillars of advice, still feel very much their child. But then I have a child, too. Every once in a while I catch myself wondering just how much of a grown up I really am.

Then there are moments of certainty. The other day I was driving with Nora somewhere and I took an extremely rare break from public radio, flipping through the commercial stations. I heard this song by Justin Bieber and Ludacris. Right? Justin Bieber and Ludacris? Yeah, I haven’t been keeping up as well as I should with pop culture, but isn’t Justin Bieber, like, 9-years-old? And not someone you’d picture doing a duet with Ludacris?

This is what I was thinking about when I realized the very obvious fact that Nora was so much younger than all the Justin Bieber fans out there. That God knows what would be popular someday when she was a teenager. A teenager! I felt so much like a mom, and it felt really good, honestly, daydreaming about how one day I wouldn’t “get” her music.

I know, I know, the night of one million beers. I’m getting to that, but I wanted to point out the opposite first. The moments where I feel so mature and perfectly suited to my current role.

A couple tequila shots in and singing “Only The Good Die Young” at the top of my lungs at some hole in the wall in Gowanus? Not so much. And, of course, we got back to the hotel at exactly 3 in the morning.

I could have - normally would have - woken up the next morning and questioned my actions, thinking about how - despite the fact that I’m normally sipping a cup of tea and devouring a mystery novel by 9:30 - I shouldn’t, ever, stay out late and drink beer, and especially drink tequila. Even though tequila is the only shot worth taking if you’re going to take a shot, and has never dealt me a bad hand. I didn’t even have a hangover.

Not the point, though. The point is that I didn’t wake up and immediately begin punishing myself for staying out late and celebrating my brother’s birthday, and I think the reason is because I’d had so much fun. Fun of the going-out-late sort that I hadn’t had in so long, where everyone’s singing and dancing, really letting loose. I’m not advocating tequila shots or anything (but if you’d been there that night I would have, very much), I’m just saying I had fun. That’s it. And then when I woke up, I was still Nora’s mother, in need of a lot more coffee than usual.

I know there will be both kinds of moments in all our coming years - moments when I feel so much, so easily the parent and moments when I’m still trying to figure myself out.

Most of the time, though, are the moments I like best, and, to tell you the truth, they’re the times that sort of fade into the background. Most of the time we’ve both had plenty of sleep and I’m not trying to analyze anything. The other day I took Nora to a favorite coffee shop where she ate a bagel and babbled incessantly to me and to a few kind strangers. I was holding her close on my lap and Feist, who was on Sesame Street by the way, was playing and I’m sure anyone who saw us would have realized that we were mother and daughter. Although to me, it was just us, listening to music we could both get into, hanging out somewhere warm on a cold afternoon.

I was feeding Nora lunch today when I dropped a piece of cheese on the floor and totally, accidentally said “Oh fuck.” Accidentally, guys.

And then Nora, very happily said “Fuh.” She said it. Fuh. And I knew exactly what she meant.

So we begin a new era.

Nora’s been sick in the middle of the night the past couple of nights (a saint, as always, not even waking us up) so today, a today that was meant to be spent working while she was in daycare, has turned into a sick day, “sick” being the new theme of caramcduna.com.

I know I haven’t been writing much lately, the reason being that I’ve had a lot of work to do. While this is GREAT (!) I don’t want to neglect this blog, since this blog is a venue for my favorite kind of writing, so I thought I’d take a few moments while Nora’s up babbling “baby, baby, baby” in her crib - I thought she was gonna take a long forgotten morning nap, I swear - and say hello.

As far as today goes, I’m hoping to have fun playing with my new Things program, although that seems like a kind of geekiness I’m not ready to embrace, brewing some more coffee in the French press, which is a lovely thing when you’re drinking for one, and maybe watching the episode of “The Wire” that J watched last night when I gave in to exhaustion and went to sleep. I do not like it one bit when he’s seen an episode that I haven’t.

And, of course, playing with my Nora, who, despite the unexplained throwing up all over herself and her mattress, is happy. I experienced a few moments of disappointment this morning when I realized that I was not, as I thought, going to go to the gym and then out somewhere to work on my laptop, but instead, was going to spend the day at home avoiding other children and reading “The Train Station” featuring Elmo eight or nine hundred times. But when Nora climbed up in my lap a little while ago and chose - surprise, surprise - that very book, then settled in against my chest, I am telling you, I felt very lucky that everything got turned upside down. And puked on.