My children have officially entered a picky phase. But their version of pickiness is so bizarre and selective: they will happily put whatever slimy/raw/completely insane piece of food I offer them - oysters, grilled octopus tentacles, salmon roe, you name it - directly into their mouths (PLEASE look at the pics at the bottom of this post, because omgggg), but drink a glass of milk?

Abso-freaking-lutely NOT.

My son won’t drink milk at all. Like, not a single drop of the stuff has touched his lips since the day he gave up drinking from a bottle. My daughter will drink it, but only if it is on top of cereal, and in a bowl that either my husband or myself are at that moment trying to eat from, because when she sees us eating something she realizes that she must eat it herself RIGHT NOW.

This post has nothing to do with ice cream.

I'm just trying to make an unpretty story...prettier.

Something has been going on with my skin these past few months, and I haven't written about it because...well, because I've been freaked out about it. And you know how when you're freaked out about something you sometimes actively try to ignore it and just hope it'll...go away? That's what I was doing.

Graduation Day, 2015

Both my husband and I went back to school "later in life" - for me, it was an abortive (but still hugely impactful) stint at NYU to study hospitality management, and for Kendrick, it was Yale Business School. Making the decision for him to attend a school located an hour and a half away from our Westchester home and spend days at a time away from his two-year-old son and pregnant wife (and later infant daughter) - not to mention move from being a two-income family to a one-income family for the duration - was, as you can imagine, a big deal.

But we did it. And we'd do it again.

These diamonds aren't "brown"...they're cognac. Which sounds WAY prettier.

When I took my engagement ring into the jeweler a couple of weeks ago, we played around with some different ideas for what to do with it. I knew I didn't want to just replace the missing diamond - at the very least, I wanted all three stones to be the same size, which none of them were - but ended up deciding that I wanted to replace the three little diamonds with something more...interesting. I also knew I wanted to deal with the ugly black spots that had popped up on it, and had resigned myself to dipping it in a fresh coat of gold (thereby eradicating the tiny 1950s-era handmade etches all over its surface).

The jeweler shook a few colored gemstones out onto the countertop, but none of them seemed right; all the colored stones felt too...sweet. Like I'd get sick of them. So I started flipping through a book, and landed on a page covered in pictures of brown diamonds. "Those," I said. "I love them."