In a soft, Mexican accent and in cautious English, my garbage man asked me, “You have baby?”

It was Wednesday, garbage day, and I was enjoying my lunch at the small, two-person table we have at the back of the house, just outside my studio. I have an interesting relationship with my garbage man, if you can call a once-a-week, gone-in-under-60-seconds encounter a “relationship.” Since I quit my job three years ago, I’ve watched him come and go every Wednesday, the “beep, beep, beep” his truck makes as he backs into my driveway signaling his arrival. It’s then, when I hear that sound, that I go outside to make sure my deaf cat is not in the driveway, her back to the unyielding metal and unforgiving rubber heading her way. That’s why I know my garbage man. I’m usually outside every time he comes, scooping up my cat.

Our encounters are always pleasant—a wave of the hand, a greeting, a comment on the weather, a wave goodbye accompanied by a meaningful wish for a good day or week. Sometimes I’ll give him treats I’ve baked that day. Sometimes I’ll ask him how to say something in Spanish. One time, when he saw me taking a screwdriver to my license plate as I was putting on my tags, he asked if I needed help. So you can see why I like my garbage man. He’s three-dimensional in a way that most people aren’t as they go about doing their jobs.

When he asked me if I had a baby, I had to chuckle. I’m sure that’s what he’s used to seeing when there’s a young (or youngish, in my case) woman alone at home in the middle of the day. By all accounts, I fit the mold for a stay-at-home-mom. Even a Mexican immigrant can see that. For months after I quit my job, that was my greatest fear—people assuming I was not just a mother, but a stay-at-home-mom. I even thought about making t-shirts, bumper stickers, and buttons that read, “I am not a stay-at-home-mom. I’m not even a mom.”

So I’m aware of the stereotype. And I’m aware that there are thousands of women out there who fit that stereotype. But I’m not one of them. And I don’t think that makes me an anomaly, despite what Lori believes. The last time we were together, she said to me, “You’re unique. This situation that you’re in.”

This situation. Not having a traditional career but not raising a child. Choosing to pursue creative work and choosing to be childfree. This hardly makes me unique. In the minority maybe. I’ll even give her rare. But not unique. Not even special. Anyone—any man, woman, or child living in America today—can have the life I’m living right now. It’s no secret how I got here. I posses no special skills or education. I don’t have a crystal ball or magic key to some room holding all the answers. No one handed me a map of short cuts nor did I come from a family of connections or wealth. It was just hard work, calculated choices, strategic sacrifices, and persistent commitment. Like many women before me (Georgia O’Keefe, Virginia Woolf) and many women currently surrounding me (Christine Mason Miller, Ann Howley, my friends Heidi and Steph), we exist outside the stereotype of woman-as-mother because we can and because we want to. There are more of us out there than most realize—one in five women in America, in fact (twice as many than 30 years ago, according to the U.S. Census Bureau.)

So why do so many doubt the existence, or even significance, of childfree women living the life they want? Is it really that much easier to believe the stereotype than to not become it?

When I told my garbage man that my husband and I choose not to have children, that we didn’t want that kind of a life, I was surprised by his response. With an immediate nod of the head, the look on his face said it all. It was the look of a man who fully understood what raising a child was all about. There was no judgment. There was no questioning. There was no plea for further explanation. Just this: “I have a daughter. She is six and one half years old.” And with that, he tossed my single bag of garbage into the back of his truck, brushed off his gloved hands, waved goodbye, and drove away. He so easily accepted my story. Stereotype be damned.

There are times in life when time doesn’t seem to really happen. I’m sure you can recall saying more than once, “I can’t believe it’s been that long,” or “Where did the time go?” I’ve said it myself on many occasions. But when it comes to Dually Noted, I can’t say that’s the case.

One year ago, on January 27, 2008, Lori and I launched the Dually Noted blog (though the idea sprung from one of my personal journal writings a few weeks earlier). Yes, we’ve been at this for a year, and that’s exactly what it feels like to me. That’s not to say time has stood still or dragged on. But it does speak to the hesitancy I continue to reserve for my friendship with an FWK. Even though Lori’s definitely a “Bad-Ass FWK,” as she so aptly described herself to me earlier this week, she’s still an FWK. Shock art pioneer Marcel Duchamp may have called his piece “Fountain,” but it was still a urinal.

As I mentioned in my last post, Lori and I spent the month of December on different lands and in different worlds, with little interaction other than an email here and there. During this time, it occurred to me that this is likely what our friendship would have been like (sparse) if I had totally dismissed her as an FWK from the beginning. I’m glad I didn’t, and don’t (for now), because that thought alone feels lonely. And deflating. And, as it turns out, Lori hasn’t gone all freaky-FWK on me. No “OMG this is so much work!” or “ I feel like a real woman now that I’ve had a baby,” or “I can’t imagine life without Matteo.” (Although this offhand comment threw me for a loop one day.) She may think those things but she has yet to labor on and on about them to me (emphasis on the word “yet”).

Though there’s little indication that she will. I think if our friendship does dissolve over the kid thing, it will be more about me not wanting to make the changes that come with having an FWK: flexibility, patience, understanding, sharing shelf space, and a genuine interest in the kid’s life. All those things I’ve put into practice this past year. Matteo’s adorableness has made the last 12 months tolerable, but it’s Lori’s friendship that has made it worth it all. The truth is, Matteo is a distraction in our friendship but one I can live with. So far.

For now. Yet. So far. See, I told you I’m still hesitant about being friends with an FWK. Even if this first year has unfolded rather pleasantly.

Since Matteo’s arrival, I’ve seen big changes and subtle changes in Lori and my friendship. The most dramatic of these came in November and December when I saw Lori starting to surrender. Full-time mom whose husband traveled for work or worked late hours at the office when he wasn’t, full-time corporate career woman, full-time friend, full-time individual. You can’t be full-time everything and come out full. You can’t even come out half full. Alive is even questionable. I honestly thought it was the end, of either her or our friendship. She was sinking and the only lifeline I could throw was my exit. Take the weight of “full-time friend” off your shoulders, Girl, and maybe, just maybe, you’ll be able to tread water. But luckily I didn’t have to do that. The greatest gift she was given this Christmas was her pink slip. She may not be able to save for retirement now, but at least she is able to save her sanity. For real.

The highlight of this past year was Tuesdays with M-Lori, the once-a-week get-togethers we had during her maternity leave. Museums, beach visits, lunches, creativity days, hikes, and sleep overs. It was like being in college again without the homework. Or the tuition. I’m also grateful for Lori’s continued desire to make space for her own thing. When Tuesdays with M-Lori ended, we got into the grove with Micromovement Mondays (MM). Setting personal goals, cheering each other on, taking risks, and having fun is what MM all about. I have to credit Matteo for Lori’s commitment to herself. I think a concern of being lost in him and the baby world keeps her fiercely, if not stubbornly, protecting her own sandbox.

The more subtle changes come not directly within our friendship but within Lori, which, by association, impacts us both. Just last week, Lori impressed me with her reflexes. She’s never been a jumpy person. Never been one to make a sudden move. In fact, I don’t ever recall seeing her even flinch. But man, when Matteo appeared to be taking a dive off the couch, the girl went from zero to sixty in under five. Maybe even under three. Lightening speed. And that’s how I generally operate. I’m always zipping from one thing, thought, action, word, place, or whatever to another. And yes, that makes me edgy. I’m always bouncing a knee or tapping a foot or whipping my head around to see whatever it was I saw out of the corner of my eye. Welcome to my world, Lori. Hope you enjoy the ride.

As for my own observations of myself, I freely admit to wishing for the old days, pre-Matteo, when it was just the two of us (or three of us when our friend Nicole lived in town) and a long evening of drinking, eating, music, talking, and generally goofing around. I having a feeling that if not for our MM, Lori and I would not see each other that much. It’s hard enough to coordinate the schedules of two busy women who live 49 miles apart. Throw in finding a babysitter, a baby you can’t reason with yet, and the stress of both parties trying their best to make it work and you hardly have a relaxing girl’s night out. But I know both of us are consciously putting forth a genuine effort to keep the core of our friendship in tact and I hope it works out the best for all of us this next year (and beyond!). As I said earlier, this first year has gone quite smoothly and I can feel myself getting into an FWK grove with Lori. I’m learning what is important to hold on to and what is okay to let go of.

Forever etched in my mind are two images that pretty much sum up this year to a T. One is of Lori, a few months after Matteo was born, sitting in a chair in her bedroom hooked up to a breast pump, the machine whirling away and doing its thing on both boobs, and the other of 1-year-old Matteo backing his little butt into Lori as she sat on the couch and then sitting on her like she was his beanbag chair. Mama Lori. Matteo’s source of life and source of comfort. Without getting too dramatic, the same can be said for me. Lori feeds my creative mind and is a friend you can sink comfortably into to. Which is why I look forward to seeing what this next year brings for all of us…Lori, Matteo, and me.

Matteo and I play with strange seed pods from some sort of tree.Hello! I’m back again after a wild and crazy yearend.

Lori and I got together this week for the first time in well over a month (since December 6, to be exact). Aside from a few emails, we really didn’t have much contact with each other. She was in Brazil for three weeks over the holidays and I was swamped with orders and attending shows for Hope’s Flame. I approached this time away from Lori as if it were permanent; as if this is what our friendship would be like if I chose to distance myself from her because of her “friends with kids” status (as I have with past FWKs). I started to reflect on the past year and what that experience has been like—for both of us. We’re doing a “year-in-review” next week (yes, Dually Noted is a year old!) so I don’t want to get too much into it, but I can tell you this: Lori is not a typical FWK (of course, Lori is a far cry from anything typical so it shouldn’t come as a surprise). And in spite of that, I still can’t stop the feelings I have about wishing she were still a childfree friend.

Getting back together with her this week really drove home that feeling. It’s a purely selfish feeling; I totally acknowledge that. But it’s still there. So I got to thinking that maybe the things that drive me up wall about FWKs are simply convenient excuses for me. Maybe the truth of the matter is that I can’t handle “sharing” my friend with a kid. Maybe I’m the family dog that gets jealous of the new baby in the house. Maybe I’m the pouty husband that mopes the day away because his wife is spending more time with the baby than with him.

There’s probably an ounce (or quart) of truth in that. But I also hold fast to my belief that friendships between women are permanently altered when a baby comes along because one of the friends changes in such a way that it makes it hard for the two to relate anymore. And while that is not what happened between Lori and me when we got together this week (far from it, in fact…it was almost like old times, if I ignored the smell of Matteo’s stinky diaper), I can see a time in the not-so-distant future when that may cease to be the case. Each day, Matteo is becoming more and more of a person, clearly making choices and not simply reacting, and Lori is, rightfully, responding to that. She is making alterations in and to her life. I can hear them in her thoughts and will soon see them transformed into actions. And just as with any other friend who makes a shift from one leg to the other, there is a subtle, but relevant, change in distance, in perspective, and in direction.

On this past visit, Matteo was the most interesting he’s ever been to me. He really is a cutie, a sweet kid with a killer of a smile and a sense of curiosity that is fun to watch. I can see why moms want to fill their world with nothing more than that, or even a part of their world with that. And I’m not about to tell them, or Lori, they shouldn’t. But it’s not a world I, or the family dog, can relate to.

I couln’t resist including my cat in this shot of the newspaper clippinig Lori sent me.The other day, Lori sent me an article she cut out of the LA Times that she thought would be of interest to me. And she was right. I loved it. It made me smile. It made me nod my head in recognition of what it was talking about. It made me want to laminate it and carry it with me at all times so I could pull it out and show it to all the numskulls who make one of the most irritating comments when I tell them I’m childfree. I’m not sure Lori realized as she cut the piece out of the paper how close to home it would hit me, but I love the fact that I have a friend who knows me well enough to know when something is relevant and of interest to me in my life…and then is willing to take the time to send it to me.

The article by Sandy Banks was titled “A full life, with or without children” and was about 102-year-old Aunt Tiny. Aunt Tiny’s husband of 45 years had died 20 years ago and they never had children. The point of the article: Aunt Tiny has made “an adventure and an art” out of living alone. Years of travel garnered Aunt Tiny an impressive list of friends from around the globe, not to mention a hefty dose of keeping active and engaged. She volunteers. She keeps informed (she had just finished reading Barack Obama’s The Audacity of Hope). She exercises consistently. In other words, she lives. On her terms. She shapes her day and her life and leaves no one responsible for her happiness other than herself. And in the process, a more than century-long process I might point out, she has proven that life is simply there for the taking. Anyone who doesn’t grab at it, is just plain lazy. (And I would add, boring.)

One of the most irritating comments I get from people when I tell them I am childfree by choice is, “But who will take care of you when you’re old?” Along the same lines is this one: “But what if your husband dies? You’ll be all alone.”

Seriously, folks? THAT’S why you have children? So you can have built-in caretakers in your old age and someone to play with when your spouse dies? There are so many problems I have with these child-bearing justifications but the biggest one is the idea that your kids are there to serve you. Whether you expect them to phone you every day (or every-other-day or every month or just at all) or whether you want them to wipe your butt when can no longer do it yourself (or go to the grocery store or take you to your doctor’s appointment or generally be a source of entertainment), the idea that parents expect their children to be more than just decent, law-abiding, self-sustaining, contributing members of society, I find sad and selfish. Personally, I think kids should do these things for their parents, if they are deserving of it. But for parents to expect it, and to have children (and use guilt) to ensure it, is something entirely different. So when people ask me what I’ll do when I get old or my husband dies, I tell them I’ll do exactly what I’ve been doing all my life: live it. Like Aunt Tiny, my life will be full and busy right to the end. Even if I find myself confined to a bed in a nursing home with no family in sight, I’m pretty sure I’ll find a way to make it interesting. For me and those around me.

I’m not suggesting that people go all kiwi (as in the bird, not the fruit or the people) on their offspring (kiwi parents take off after a chick is born). I think there is value, as well as fun to be had, in the family unit. (And I’m not talking about the narrowly defined concept of “family unit” some people are so desperately trying to hold on to through constitutional amendments.) I look forward to the day when I’m 80 and my niece and nephew come visit me. But even more so, I look forward to the day when I’m 80 and I go visit my niece and nephew. I’ll probably have to squeeze them in somewhere between my volunteering activities and my trip to Croatia, and probably after Lori and I have our weekly picnic lunch by the ocean, but I’m sure I’ll find some time for them. After all, they are family.

I celebrated my 38th birthday a couple of weeks ago. Or, as my husband likes to point out, I’m now in my 39th year (thanks, Love). Generally speaking, I’m not one to freak out about age. Anyone’s age. I truly see it as relative. But sometimes the body doesn’t lie and you end up feeling exactly as old as you are. That can be good or bad, depending on what you’re feeling, of course. One of the great pleasures I have in my life is being able to say, “I choose to be childfree.” This birthday made me realize that someday it will no longer be a choice. Someday, my body will make that decision for me. And then it becomes just a fact. In a blink of an eye (or a flip of the hormone switch) my statement, my proud declaration of a zero spawn count, goes from being one of empowerment to being one of clarification. And that bums me out.

Don’t get me wrong; I’m looking forward to the time when there is no way in hell I can get pregnant. After decades of trying to avoid procreation, it will be nice to sit back, sink into the hot flashes and facial hair growth, and watch the next generation or two try to maneuver their way around their fertile years. But I take pride in the fact that I live my life very purposefully, putting thought and effort behind every step I take. To have my uterus taken over by time seems sort of lazy to me. Or rather passive. And that’s just not me. I didn’t even let my husband’s vasectomy fool me into a false sense of sterility. Short of yanking out the testicles, it seems like it’s just leaving it to chance. He’s still cranking out sperm and there’s always the possibility that it could jump the vas deferens chasm and end up bunking down in one of my eggs. The odds of that happening are less than a 1%, but it’s still a chance. And I leave nothing to chance. “Besides,” I told him, “Even if your vasectomy holds, that just means you can’t have children. I still can.”

At least for now. Even at 38, I could be a baby-making machine if I wanted to. Even at 38, when I say, “I choose to be childfree,” it is quite literal. I’m not sure at what birthday, neither of those will be true. But for now, I’ll revel in the fact that they are. And I’ll revel in the fact that regardless of my age, I will always be bound and determined to shape my life and not the other way around. Regardless of what my body wants to do.

Last month, I was in the unique position to have sandwiched some serious individual quality time with two of my closest friends, Heidi and Lori. One week I was doing Micromovement Monday (MM) with Lori, the next I was spending time in Minnesota with Heidi. A few weeks later I was with Heidi again in Savannah and upon my return spent another MM with Lori. If there ever was a time in my life where the differences between a childfree friend (CFF) and a friend with kids (FWK) was more evident, it was then.

To say that Heidi and Lori are very different from one another is a like saying the sun and the moon are very different from one another. But I don’t think their diverse personalities is the reason behind the differences in experiences I have with them. I truly believe it has to do with the kid thing. And, to piggyback on this week’s Whatever Wednesdays blog, it comes down to “more” and “less.”

Heidi has become “more” of a Happy Hour buddy over the past few years!Childfree Heidi and I love to travel. In fact, it was a trip to England that actually kicked off, and then cemented, our friendship many years ago. But behind our travels together lies something more important, and that’s the motivating factor that makes our travel happen: our common desire and drive to experience and learn new things. All the time. Places, food, books, cultures, sports, languages, art, drinks, people, politics…you name it, we’re willing to give it a go. (Heidi, like me, is always taking community ed classes…a fact I simply adore about her) And yet, we’re both comfortable in returning to the things we’ve found make us most happy, not because it’s convenient but because we want to: picnics in the park, New Orleans, spending a Saturday reading, Georgia O’Keefe. What it comes down to is “more.” More of the new and more of the chosen same. As childfree women, we aspire to find and do more of the things that fulfill us, while at the same time include as many of our friends and significant others in our lives that we possibly can. Spending a day with Heidi is like living in an encyclopedia…so many things to discover, so little time. And I’ve seen this quest for “more” magnify intensely in Heidi over the past few years, so I know the best part of our already amazing friendship has yet to come.

Lori has always been a Happy Hour buddy.With Lori, my FWK, it’s all about having fun and being creative. It’s about the outdoors and our love for California. It’s about mocking our Midwest upbringing and high school years. Lori is one smart chick and I love to hear her perspective on things. I love her frankness and almost-pure honesty (‘cause let’s face it, who of us not only can, but wants to be purely honest?). I look forward to seeing and hearing her because there is an energy that is shared and exchanged. Lori is laid back and easy to be around and pretty much up for just about anything. Prior to Matteo, I would have easily put Lori in the “more” category as well because both of us were intent on unearthing our creative possibilities. At all costs. And almost all the time. But now, I see less with Lori. Our MM are sandwiched between Matteo’s bedtime and our own and between dropping him off at daycare and Lori going to work. There is a visible tiredness about her (and rightfully so) and that is sometimes hard to be around. When I see her tired like that, all I want to do is go fluff up her pillows and send her off to bed. And then do the dishes and ironing for her. I was going to describe Lori as distracted these days but it’s more than that (because, as anyone who knows Lori, she’s always distracted). The “umph” is gone. There is no fire there. I’m not even sure how much of a spark is left, though I can see her desperately trying to keep whatever is there from being extinguished. And that’s hard for me to watch. It’s hard for me to see her come to the realization that something is going to have to give and that something is her. Less energy for her, more for Matteo. Less time for her, more for Matteo. Less forgiveness and understanding for her, more for Matteo. The only thing she’s getting more of is guilt. And tired. The white flag of surrender is within reaching distance and the temptation to wave it is on the horizon. And when that happens, the MM goals she’s set for herself, which have already dropped from three to one, might disappear all together. And so will our MMs.

This is not to say that I don’t like being around Lori. I still love being with her. It’s just that my awareness of the changes and differences in my friendship with her were resounding and obnoxiously loud after spending time with my CFF Heidi. And it really drove home what I’ve been trying to explain to Lori is the difference between CFFs and FWKs…and that is the more and less factor. This is true of all my FWKs, not just Lori. There is just less of them to go around. I don’t take it personally. I don’t find it offensive. Quite honestly, it makes me sad. And maybe that’s one of the reasons why I choose to let my friendships with FWKs fade into the background of life. For their sake and mine.

This is definitely a pivotal time in Lori’s mommyhood. And a pivotal time for me as I try to figure out how to be the best friend I can be to Lori while still honoring my decision to live a life free of all that comes with raising children. My instinct is to try to take care of Lori, to protect her from imploding, to destroy the barriers that keep her from fully experiencing life. Sounds like mothering to me. But it also sounds like trying to be a good friend to someone you want to be friends with. Maybe there is no difference. Maybe motherhood and friendship are more or less the same thing.

I don’t have the world’s greatest memory. When I hear people talk about someone who has a photographic memory, I become very envious. It’s the little things that always gets me: I can never remember how old my parents are (both are in there 60s but I can’t give you more than that), I always forget if it’s lime or lemon that Emmett uses in the French Horn cocktail he makes me (even though I’ve watched him make it a bazillion times), and there’s always a thoughtful pause after writing the word “affect” or “effect” while my mind sorts out which one is the verb (for the record, it’s “affect”). I’ve never really been fazed by my fragile recall ability. Until now, that is. For some reason, there are some days where I actually forget that Lori is a FWK.

The first time this happened, I almost started laughing. I mean, how do you forget something like that? It’s not like I don’t talk to or see Lori a couple times a week. And when I do, there’s always Matteo noise in the background (either Matteo himself talking, fussing, or bashing a toy on something or it’s Lori’s husband, Sal, asking what he should do with Matteo or where something of Matteo’s is or reminding Lori that he’s a present parent by telling her he just did something for Matteo). And, it’s not like Matteo hasn’t been around for a while. His first birthday is next month. You’d think that after a year, I would have figured out that Lori was serious about this having a baby thing. Regardless, it appears I seem to block it out once-in-a-while.

So the first time this forgetting-about-Matteo thing happened was when we had dinner over at Lori’s parents’ house early in September. When Emmett and I pulled into the driveway behind Lori’s car and I saw the baby seat in the back, I turned to Emmett and said, “Oh shit, I forgot about Matteo.”

“What about Matteo?” he asked.

“I forgot about him,” I said with a giggle in the back of my throat.

“Were you supposed to do something for him?”

“No. I forgot he was going to be here,” I replied slightly exasperated that my husband wasn’t keeping up with me.

“Where else would he be?” my extraordinarily patient husband asked.

“I don’t know. I just forgot he was around.”

“‘Around’ as in ‘on this planet’?” Emmett cautiously tried to clarify.

“Now you’re catching up. Yes, ‘around’ as in ‘of existence.’ But now I remember that he does.” And with that I grabbed my delicious vegan chocolate cake and two bottles of wine and headed into the house, my husband trailing behind me shaking his head.

A few weeks later it happened again. After returning from my trip to Savannah, Lori and I had planned on going to a book signing party. When she called a few days beforehand to see if it would be okay to bring Matteo, I was taken back…not because I didn’t want Matteo to be there, but because when I pictured Lori at that moment, I pictured her as just Lori, as only Lori, and my mind was frantically searching to recall who the hell Matteo was and why she would want to bring him to the event. When, a millisecond later, I remembered exactly who Matteo was, I just shook my head and said to myself, “You’re a nut job, Barb.”

I’m sure if one were to psychoanalyze these situations, one would come to the logical conclusion that somewhere deep inside me, I’m having issues with Lori having a baby. But there is nothing logical about me, as many of you know. I have issues alright, but I think forgetting about Matteo has more to do with the amount of adult beverages consumed in my lifespan than with some sort of repressed anger or resentment. But then again, maybe not. Even so, I’m sane enough to know that despite not remembering what goes into the French Horn Emmett makes me, I still enjoy it. And the same holds true with Lori.

Hi, Friends! Sorry I’ve been MIA over the past month but so many wonderful things came at me at once that I sort of got sidetracked. Between all the travel (three places in four weeks), new experiences (I’ve taken up paper marbling), and Hope’s Flame activities (new wholesale account, new products, getting ready for the holiday rush), Dually Noted took a back seat. But now I’m back into my somewhat regular routine and ready to blog.

So let me start off with this observation: that little Matteo, as adorable as he his, is taking up way too much shelf space!

This Monday I was over at Lori’s place for our regular Micromovement Monday (MM) slumber party. I usually get to Lori’s house before she gets home from work and picking up Matteo at daycare…which means I’ve got run of the house for anywhere from 15 minutes to a half hour. In that amount of time, I drop off my overnight bag in “my room,” set up my work stuff in her front room (where our MM meetings go down), and sort of rummage through the kitchen for a snack and drink (in the adult beverage category, of course) before settling in on the couch and flipping through her magazines (it’s always nice to have a magazine whore as a friend).

So I cheerfully walk into Lori’s house fully expecting everything to go down as usual. But, as I would soon find out, nothing typical was going to happen this day.

My room was fine, getting set up and ready to work was fine, but trying to find a snack or a magazine was, well, downright catastrophic. I should have known something was terribly wrong when I noticed there was no bottle of wine (or other booze) on her counter like their usually is. But that didn’t faze me too much. There’s always my go-to drink at Lori’s: Crystal Light. If there’s none in the fridge already made, I know she keeps the mix in her pantry…next to a well stocked supply of my favorite snacks (crackers, pretzels, multi-grain chips of some sort).

So I head on over to her super-cool, walk-in pantry, open the doors, and BAM! Baby food EVERYWHERE. Jars of the stuff…no, make that boxes of jars…stacked high RIGHT WHERE MY SNACKS ARE SUPPOSED TO BE!! Forget the Crystal Light. What good is Crystal Light if you’ve got no savory treats? Seriously!

Oh how this does not make me happy. I try to keep calm as I frantically search the shelves for some sort of sign of adult food, anything remotely interesting for those of us with a full set of teeth (and two crowns). “Please God,” I start bargaining, “there’s got to be treats in here for me somewhere. Help me find them!” And then a bag of rice falls from a shelf.

I guess that’s what I get for being an atheist. Or for having a friend with a baby that is now eating food.

Defeated, and a little depressed (and hoping this isn’t a sign of how the rest of the night is going to go), I bring a glass of water and my empty stomach into Lori’s living room ready to move on to my next stage of indulgence…magazines.

But wait. What’s THIS?!! Oh, the horror!

Spread across the big-ass leather ottoman that also serves as her coffee table are the magazines. They are everywhere. Every single recent issue seems to be right there. Open. Chewed on. Ripped up. Caked in what I can only assume to be remnants of whatever was inside said jars of baby food that filled her pantry (thereby adding insult to injury). And now, not only are there no magazines for me read, there is no place for me to put up my feet. I’m not about to touch those nasty remains of once great casual reads. Not even with my feet. No way, Jose. Can anyone say, “baby germs”?!

“Okay,” I tell myself. “Just calm down. There’s always ice cream treats in the freezer.”

Well, by now, dear readers, I’m sure you  know what’s coming. To say there’s no room at the Freezer Inn for ice cream treats (and, by the way, where did the vodka go that was stored in there?) would be putting it mildly. It is packed with frozen meals. And after spending the evening with Lori, I can see why. She has no time to fuss over making dinners or lunches. Matteo is no longer at the stage of just sitting contently off to the side and taking it all in. As good of a baby he is, he’s definitely become more active and sucks up more of Lori’s time and attention. Hence, convenient and quick frozen meals.

So there I stand, freezer door open, shoulders slumped in conquered resignation, and I say aloud to no one in particular, “That sneaky little Matteo is taking over Lori’s house shelf by shelf. This. Is. War.”