Just as the generation before us all had a story of where they were when President John F. Kennedy was killed, our generation will all be able to tell where they were and what they were doing when the attacks of September 11, 2001 happened.

I still remember it fairly well, although Aaron disagrees on the details. When the first plane hit, I was blissfully unaware. I was a graduate student at Miami University at the time, in my 8am Costume Design class. The class let out early (around 8:45am), so I decided to walk across the street to the dining hall for a snack while waiting for Aaron to meet up with me.

The dining hall had a big screen TV, and it was probably showing the usual talk shows or other brainless TV. I usually never paid attention. The radio was also on, and the volume had been turned up, while the TV had closed captioning on. There was some talk on the radio about a plane hitting one of the World Trade Center towers. They thought it was a small, two-seater plane, possibly pilot error – details were still just coming in. I was only half-paying attention, because it didn’t seem like that big of a deal.

Then the reports came in about the second, large plane hitting the other tower, and the full weight of the situation started to dawn on everyone. Someone switched the TV over to CNN. The news was now reporting it as a terrorist attack, and they didn’t know if more were coming. Students were now beginning to gather around the TV, and I was now watching it myself. Then the radio news reported that there was an explosion at the Pentagon, and the mood of the students only darkened deeper. While I could hear some students chatting with their friends or making jokes at first, now the room had grown quiet.

Aaron and I walked home after that news, and the scene while walking home was something I will never forget. Miami is a campus that restricts cars, so students are generally walking everywhere. Now, generally you’ll see that nearly every student is happily gabbing away on a cell phone, because no one can take the time to actually say hi to anyone. This day, however, those we passed who were talking on cell phones were crying and trying to find out if their families and friends were OK. (Note: Miami has, for some reason, a high number of students from NY.) Those who weren’t on cell phones were walking with their heads down, some wiping tears from their faces.

The rest of the day, I was parked in front of the TV. I was in shock about what was happening. I watched the towers fall on live TV, and watched people diving out the windows to their deaths, but it just didn’t seem real to me. I didn’t know anyone who worked or lived anywhere near the WTC or the Pentagon, so there was no personal element to the tragedy. My general concern for life kept me watching and hoping that as many survivors could be found as possible.

I also remember feeling so glad that I lived in middle-of-nowhere, OH. Because even if more attacks were coming, I could be fairly certain that the small town of Oxford was safe. I figured a terrorist probably couldn’t even find Ohio on a map. I feel a little guilty for such a selfish thought, but in moments like these, you think of protecting your family and friends and yourself.

That is my memory of the day. Anyone else care to share theirs?

Part One:

While shopping today with Aaron and Cordy, a saleswoman stopped me as Cordy ran by and said this:

– Look at those curls! I have to know – are those curls all natural?

My inside voice responded:

– No, we enjoy using a hot curling iron on our toddler every day.

– No, she sleeps in curlers and a face mask every single night.

– It’s the latest trend – perms for toddlers!

– No, she’s wearing a wig so she can be just like Suri Cruise.

– Are you that stupid to ask if my not-quite-yet 2 yr. old’s curls are natural?

My outside voice, however, simply said:

– Yes, those are her curls.

Part Two:

Later in the evening, I realized I needed to buy pregnancy tests to be ready for testing this weekend if my period doesn’t show. So I ran out for a quick trip to Kroger (it’s a grocery store) to pick a pack of pregnancy tests and some bagels.

I wandered Kroger for 10 minutes, trying to figure out where the pregnancy tests were hiding. They weren’t in the spot I remembered them in by the pharmacy. Nor could I find the contraceptives (they usually go together – find one and you’ll find the other).

Turns out, this Kroger is no longer selling condoms and pregnancy tests on the shelves. They’ve been moved to behind the pharmacy counter, along with all those other controlled substances, like prescription drugs and Sudafed. And since it was past 9pm, the pharmacy was closed and locked up, giving me no access to the pregnancy tests. I don’t know if this is becoming standard at other Krogers, but needless to say, I was pissed off. (Oh, and for the record – the yeast infection treatments, also generally found near contraceptives and pregnancy tests, were still out in easy reach.)

What possible reason do you need to keep contraceptives and pregnancy tests behind the counter? Are they being abused? Are people using these to make meth also? Last I checked, you don’t need a prescription for condoms or pregnancy tests. Besides, isn’t after-hours the one time when people should have access to condoms?

Can you imagine some poor couple running into the store late at night, after a nice dinner and on their way home, to grab some condoms, only to find out that they’ll need to come back between the hours of 10am and 8pm in order to purchase them? And if they should decide to risk it and go without the condoms, they’ll also have to come back during working hours to find out if she might be pregnant.

So because of this inconvenience, I was forced to drive over to Wal-Mart instead. And it was redneck white-trash night at Wal-Mart (wait…that’s every night), so it was packed.

Stupid, stupid, stupid.

Yesterday I received my usual weekly e-mail from Old Navy, offering up the newest batch of deals. This one was focusing on denim for baby. Since Cordy has outgrown all of her spring clothing, and therefore has no long pants, I clicked the link.

And then my brain exploded.

Let me back up for a minute. Before this, I had just read this BlogHer article about Moms for Modesty. While I don’t like their name, I can agree with their cause that we need to stop trying to dress our little girls as if they’re a miniature Britney Spears. Seeing a toddler wearing a “Big Flirt” t-shirt or “Juicy” written across the butt of her pants is inappropriate. It sends a message that our girls are nothing more than developing sex objects, perfecting their place in life with crop tops and skinny jeans while they learn how to push out their chests and suck in their tummies.

Back to Old Navy now. Presented on my screen were over a dozen choices for jeans, and at the top was an explanation of the different cuts of jeans for toddlers. What? My daughter doesn’t need to choose between boot cut and flare jeans – I just want pants for her! Plain pants! She certainly doesn’t need their Special Edition distressed jeans: she will wear them out fast enough on her own, without the help of the manufacturer.

I guess I’m saying that I really don’t like the trend of dressing toddlers just like mini-adults. They don’t need to follow the adult fashions (like Baby Gap’s new skinny jeans). I’m not saying they should be wearing only loose clothing in pastels with cutesy hearts and rainbows, but certain fashion trends aren’t needed. They can be hip without looking like the next reality TV star. More examples:

In the category of useless accessory, these pants are cute, but what’s up with the pockets? Does the toddler on the go need those side cargo pockets to store her Little People?

Seems to me these pockets would only lead to trouble. Nothing like finding half-eaten, two-day old Cheerios in those cute little pockets on laundry day, is there? Or worse: crayons that don’t get noticed before going through the wash. Ugh.

This t-shirt bothers me a lot. I’ll fess up: I do call Cordy a princess, and I know it’s probably not the best thing to do. But I usually add the word “warrior” in front of it.

I have no problem if she wants to play princess when she’s older, but I plan to teach her that princesses or queens can do just fine on their own as well. She’s a tough girl, and doesn’t need a prince charming to come find her. Implying that she does is insulting.

Maybe one of these shirts would be better for her.

Same goes for this shirt as well. “Cowboy Wanted”? For what, may I ask?

The answer had best be a costume-party playdate and nothing more.

Why does a toddler need a shirt that says Cowboy Wanted? Is she incomplete without her man? Can she not be a cowgirl on her own, without the support and guidance of a cowboy?

I know there are far worse examples out there, but I refuse to seek them out, because it would only give me more of a headache. (I won’t even begin to address the Baby Phat phenomena.) And while most of the clothing at Old Navy is generally good stuff, I am disappointed to see them carrying these types of items for young girls.

I’d rather they focus on making the baby girls line of clothing comfortable, cute, maybe a little hip, and when it comes to graphic tees, focus on empowering messages for girls. Hear that, Old Navy? And while you’re at it, could you please burn your skinny jeans?

Next up: After looking through the first round of costumes I’ve seen for Halloween, I’ve got another post brewing about this year’s theme in costumes for young girls. Here’s a hint: the sluttier, the better.

I’m obsessing.

I said I wouldn’t do it. When we decided to start trying for baby #2 at the beginning of August, we agreed that we’d start with a “whatever happens, happens” approach. Nothing at all like the first time.

You see, if I’m going to do something, I want it done right. Which means I obsess. When Cordy was conceived, I had spent months reading and re-reading Taking Charge of Your Fertility, learning all about the signs my body gives to indicate fertility, pregnancy, etc. (By the way, I highly recommend this book!) I changed my eating habits, stopped drinking alcohol, cut down on caffeine, and tried to exercise.

I went off birth control pills three months before attempting to try for a baby. I took prenatal vitamins during those three months, and did daily charting of my basal temperature and cervical fluid as a means of birth control, and to get the hang of charting. Luckily, I am one of those women with a clockwork, 28 day cycle. I ovulate later than most, but make up for it with a shorter luteal phase (the phase between ovulating and your period). I hung out on message boards, first seeking advice on charting and conception, and then as one of the veterans, offering to help people figure out their charts.

By that November, I had my monthly cycle down to a science, and had my body prepped as much as possible for conception. It took two cycles for me to get pregnant. Easy. I did everything by the book, timed our intimate encounters just right, and got pregnant. I won. (Yes, I’m a little competitive, but like others, only with myself.)

This time around, things aren’t quite so structured. I am making every effort to not obsess about this. I’m taking prenatals, but they’re the over-the-counter ones, not prescription yet. I really haven’t changed my eating habits yet, and exercise and I still aren’t on speaking terms yet. The basal thermometer is still stored in the drawer, but my mind keeps drifting back to charting. I mentally keep track of where I am in my cycle in my head. I’ve noted other signs of ovulation.

I’m now currently in that limbo known as the “two-week wait”. I attempt to distract myself, but my mind keeps wandering back to this topic, wondering if the ache and feeling of fullness in my breasts is a sign of pregnancy or just a phantom symptom. I’m now eager to test – eager to get that double line, my trophy. I’m counting down the days until I reach the realm of possibility of getting a positive test. (For those sharing my madness, I might test as early as Saturday.)

This competition with myself is maddening. Baby-making has become a game to me, and I must win it. Am I excited to get pregnant again? Yes, I am, although this time around I’m actually much more nervous about “Are we ready for this?” than I was with the first pregnancy. With Cordy, we were pretty sure we were ready for parenting. We were also blissfully naive of how hard it was going to be. Now we’ve gone though the first two years of parenting, we’ve been in the trenches and been covered in poop more than once, and so the thought of another child has a little more weight to the decision. It’s a little more frightening this time around, remembering how hard it was with only Cordy, and wondering how I will cope with a newborn and a preschooler this time?

But for the moment most of those fears have been pushed to the back of my mind, as I obsess over winning the fertility game.

I was dreaming about some kind of alien invasion and the destruction of my city. (I never get the nice dreams, like dreaming about me with Heath Ledger or anything.) In the dream, I was with another woman, and we were hiding out in a half-destroyed building. And that’s when I heard it.

Beep

The woman and I looked at each other, and then looked up at the ceiling. “Guess they need to change the batteries in the smoke detector. Not that it matters anymore,” I said.

Beep

Suddenly I was back in my bed, in my room, and it was just after 5am. As my brain adjusted from the dream world to the real world, I tried to make sense of what I heard.

Beep

Aw, hell. It wasn’t just in my dream. The short, yet loud and shrill, beep was coming from one of our smoke detectors. I closed my eyes again and tried to go back to sleep, hoping the next beep wouldn’t come for awhile.

Beep

These stupid smoke detectors never bother to have a low battery warning during the day. In just over two years that we’ve lived in this house, not once – not once – has one of these damned, cheap plastic made-in-China detectors alerted us to a low battery during the day, or during the early evening. It’s always been between the hours of midnight and 6am. Are they still set on China time?

I waited with annoyed anticipation for the next beep, but there was nothing. I figured it was done for the moment, so I slowly drifted off to sleep again.

Beep

That beep startled me out of early sleep. I laid in bed for the next 10 minutes, listening to more beeps while trying to decide if I should get up to change the stupid battery. Strangely, there is no discernible pattern with these beeps. For this particular detector, it would beep 5-7 times, with 30 sec. to a minute between each beep. After that set, it would rest for anywhere from 3 minutes to 10 minutes before starting up again.

I finally couldn’t take it anymore, so I got up to change the battery. However, the next step was figuring out which smoke detector was making the noise. You see, we have 5 smoke detectors upstairs – one in each bedroom, plus one in the hallway. With the echo in the hallway, it’s often hard to tell which one it is unless you’re standing directly under it.

I walked out in the hallway and waited for the next beep. As if it knew, the smoke detector decided to take a break. I listened, but there was no beep. The cats were circling my feet, wondering why I was up so early. I finally gave up and got back into bed.

Beep

Gah! I jumped up and listened for the next beep. When it came, I was puzzled – I couldn’t tell where it came from. I looked at the detector in the hallway. The green light on it was flashing. Did that mean it needed a battery change? One guest bedroom detector also had a flashing light, and the other had a steady green light. Our bedroom had a steady green light, too. Shouldn’t it be only one way or the other?

I walked downstairs, thinking it might be coming from the detector downstairs. But once down there, I heard the next beep, and it was clearly upstairs. Now I was tired, cold, and annoyed. I trudged up the stairs and climbed back into bed, intent on making a conscious effort to get back to sleep (because you know how well that works, right?).

Beep

Beep

Beep

ARGH!! Disabling it wouldn’t work, because all of the alarms are hardwired also – taking the battery out would just piss it off and make it beep more. I jumped up again, determined to find the source of my sleep disturbance. I stood quietly in the hallway again, and heard the beep. I thought I could tell the direction this time, and I slowly edged closer to Cordy’s closed door. Oh, please, don’t let it be in there.

Beep

It was coming from her room.

Ooooh, noooooooooo.

Now I was faced with a real problem. A beep wouldn’t bother Cordy’s sleep, but if I so much as cracked the door she’d pop her head up out of her crib. If I went into her room to change the battery, I would certainly wake her up, which meant I’d be up for the day, too. If I didn’t go in, the beeping would continue, and I still couldn’t sleep. Was someone trying to torture me?

Going back downstairs, I grabbed a fresh battery from the kitchen, then climbed the stairs one more time and went back to bed to ponder my options. At least being back in my bed was warmer than standing in the hallway. I glanced over at Aaron, who was blissfully sleeping through all of this, probably dreaming about some hot celebrity. Oh to be blessed with the ability to sleep deeply.

It was now about 6:45am, and I realized Cordy would be awake soon. As expected, about 10 minutes later, I heard her talking to herself over the monitor. Aaron started to wake up, also (his normal waking time), and my plan suddenly came together.

Beep

“What’s that sound?” he asked. I explained it all.

“OK, here’s the plan. You go get Cordy and take her downstairs, and then I’ll go in and change the battery. She’ll never see me, so she won’t insist on me coming downstairs with you. Then I can go back to sleep for a little bit.”

Thankfully, I have a helpful husband, and he agreed to let me sleep a little more. He released Cordy from her crib and they went downstairs together for breakfast. I snuck in to her room with a chair and the new battery.

I climbed up on the chair and slid open the battery door. It’s a really flimsy door – I wouldn’t expect anything better from the idiots who built our house – only the cheapest materials. I wiggled the old battery out, while the smoke detector continued to beep at me. Just you wait, I whispered to it. As usual, I had trouble getting the new battery in (thanks to the flimsy plastic), and as I tried to force it, I heard the tell-tale crack. I broke the door. That would be broken smoke detector door #3 in our house, for the record. Somehow, breaking the door makes it a little easier to get the damn battery in, and soon I was done, with a battery door now slightly ajar.

As I climbed down from the chair, the detector gave out one more beep, and I held my breath. If it beeps one more time, I will bash it with a hammer, I thought to myself. But the detector remained silent after that, and I fell back into bed at 7:05am.