I staggered out of the den and ran upstairs. There, my usually calm and collected non-panicking husband was holding my youngest who was indeed having trouble breathing. I grabbed the phone and dialed 911. The operator answered quickly, got my information, and stayed on the phone with me until the police arrived.

They arrived in 3 minutes and 38 seconds. Or less, really. (I know this because I looked at my cell phone log on the way home and that was the call duration.) I waved them in and they ran upstairs to assess my little girl. The paramedics arrived soon after. The first one into the room called it: “She’s got croup.” He told us she would be okay, but that since she was having problems breathing we’d be taking a ride in the ambulance to the local hospital.

My husband grabbed my socks and sneakers. I put slippers on the baby, and we went to the hospital. I went with the baby in the rig. My husband followed in the car once my sister got to our house to stay with Big Girl. Throughout the entire process, the entire ride, all the questions and answers and during the time I held the oxygen mask over my poor sweetheart’s face, I kept praying. Hoping it was croup, while at the same time sitting there in disbelief. How could this be happening? Babies get croup. Toddlers get croup. Children who are going on four do not get croup. Not unless they’ve been getting it since they were babies or toddlers. And yet as soon as we got to the hospital the doctor made the same diagnosis as the EMT. Croup.

Once they got us in a room the doctor continued the moist oxygen treatment and gave her an oral dose of steroids. We stayed at the hospital until her breathing was stable and she could talk. (When my husband went in to check on her, he told me on the way home, he got hysterical not only because she couldn’t breathe, but because she couldn’t speak, either.)

She’s sleeping in our bed right now. My husband, who has never, ever allowed our children to sleep in our bed, was the one to suggest it. I’m exhausted so I am going to join them. But I still can’t believe it. Little Girl has croup. Thank goodness. I hope she sleeps better than I do tonight.

This year, however, I decided that it was wasteful and sinful to pay someone four figures to store our boat for the winter. Instead, we paid someone to trailer it to our home and drop it in the backyard. And there it sat, November through now, in all its shrink wrapped splendor. It’s not a big, big boat — it’s 27-feet long — but big enough that I feel guilty about all that plastic.

I was gratified to see, however, that the Town of Hempstead this year announced a shrink wrap recycling program for marinas as well as Jane and John Doe — people like me and my husband. According to the Town’s website, it, along with Operation SPLASH (Stop Polluting Littering and Save Harbors), will be collecting used shrink wrap daily. (From the site: 8:30 AM and 3:30 PM Monday through Friday. In addition, residential boat owners may drop off shrink wrap on Saturdays and Sundays, from 8:30 AM to 3:30 PM.)

This weekend my husband started getting the boat ready for the water. As part of that, he pulled down the wrap. It’s sitting in my backyard, but I’ll be taking it over to 1600 Merrick Road tomorrow. And for what it’s worth: This year, keeping the boat in the backyard not only saved us money, but it helped save the environment just a little bit, too.

“Mommmm, she won’t share.”

“Little Girl, share.”

“No, it’s my turn.”(Scuffling and pushing ensues.)

“Girls, stop it. Big Girl, just let her play with it for another two seconds.”

(Said dramatically) “No, it’s my ball. Besides, I never get to play basketball because you don’t let me come outside by myself and you’re always WORKING!”

Sigh. She pulled the always working card. Sigh. She exaggerates, of course. I am not always working. Yes, I work during the week, but at least I am here at home where I can sneaks bits and bites of time with them. For example, I pick up Little Girl from school and take Big Girl off of the bus when she gets home. Then I spend a nice half hour or so with the girls between when the bus comes and the sitter gets here. I usually stop working around 6 unless I am on a heavy deadline.

Oh, and there are some days where I have no sitter. On those days I take the girls to the park or let them play upstairs together while I do something less concentration-intensive. And then there are the days when I get to be Girl Scout leader or religion teacher. I’m definitely not working then.

Still, I guess an 8-year-old might see my schedule as a busy one. As for the first part of her lament: She’s right. She’s not allowed outside alone. She’s not. Even though I can remember riding around the corner alone at her age, I don’t let either kid out of my sight for more than two seconds. Does that make me a helicopter parent? Maybe. But the alternative makes me too anxious.

I didn’t say anything to her when she said what she said. I waited until I was alone with my husband and I brought it up to him. He sees both sides, he says. But he also says I need to give my kids — at least the big one — a little more trust and freedom.

Today I took Big Girl off the bus and we didn’t event go inside. I took her backpack and told her we were hanging outside. They were so happy. The kids played ball. Big Girl had her basketball. Little Girl had a blow up globe that she got as a birthday party favor. I sat there on the stoop holding the dog’s leash. Periodically, I yelled for the little one to stay away from the street.

The whole time, though, I was thinking. How could I balance my fear of the unknown, of the worst, with wanting to give my children more freedom? Sitting there looking at their young, innocent faces I realized that I have no intention of letting the big one go outside all by herself and play on our front lawn. It’s just too scary for me. Maybe we’ll start in the back.

• as much Vitamin C as cup of blueberries
• as much iron as a cup of spinach
• as much calcium and Vitamin D as a glass of milk
• as much Vitamin A as an 8 ounce glass of tomato juice
• as much fiber as a bowl of oatmeal
• as much Vitamin E as two glasses of carrot juice
• as much Vitamin B-12 as a cup of cottage cheese and fruit

I got a ton of comments. I still get a ton of comments. They go from calling me a stupid hippie to saying that the cookies are evil and I’m awesome for pointing out how much they suck. I never like to respond to people who call me, and I quote, “annoying” and “crazy” and “a food Nazi.” (While I will approve 99 percent of comments, I don’t feel the need to post every nasty comment that comes in, especially those laced with epithets.) However, the fact that I seem to get at least one of these comments a day, I will explain in a little more detail why I don’t like these cookies. I will use an example out of our food history.

Remember when low fat food came out? And people gobbled up low fat or no fat snacks and drinks? Remember when those people started gaining weight? Well, that’s sort of how I see these cookies. Parents tell their kids that they are eating “healthy” cookies and then kids think that cookies are somehow good for them. They get the wrong message.

My kids absolutely, 100 percent eat cookies. We especially love Whole Foods 365 Organic animal crackers. We like these caramel cookies we buy at Trader Joe’s. They love homemade oatmeal raisin cookies that my mother makes. They like cookies. That said, they know, as Elmo once said, that cookies are “sometimes” foods. That there is nothing inherently “bad” about cookies, but that they are not providing that many of good things that their bodies needs. They taste good, though. And that’s what they should think. Cookies taste good and are okay to eat in moderation. They know they get their Vitamin C from blueberries and oranges, iron from spinach, and calcium from cheese and yogurt and milk. The way nature intended it. So no, I am not a fan of WhoNu cookies. Understand? Good.

My husband's text when he uploaded to Facebook: "Don't get too comfortable." Ha!

Last week my husband started sending me photos and links of adoptable dogs. He has been militantly anti-dog even in the face of…well, two cute faces. My girls have been begging for a dog for years. The little one, who is 3, is especially relentless. “Why can’t I have a doggie? I would love her so much, Daddy. It would make me SOOOOO happy.” (The little one has inherited her mother’s guilt gene.)

We used to have a dog. Her name was Sheba. She was my husband’s dog. We got her before we were married, and soon found out she had a wicked case of separation anxiety. We spent thousands of dollars on trainers and windows and doors and couches and carpeting. Oh, and vet bills. She would bite and claw her way out of everything in a desperate need to find us. In the end my husband built a cage on the floor of our garage with completely smooth edges that she couldn’t bite or claw through. By that time she had very few teeth left anyway, but I digress.

Okay, so I’m getting all these photos of sad-eyed dogs, but I’m not taking it all that seriously, even posting the following on my Facebook status: “My husband is sending me photos of adoptable dogs. Hell has frozen over, I guess. Makes sense. Global warming and all…I have to say this one is cute…”

And then the next thing I know last night we are driving over to some God-forsaken area of Oceanside in the dark to “see” a potential adoptee. She looked a lot like our old dog. She was fearful and cute with floppy ears and a long, crooked tail. Night turns into day and all of a sudden we’re picking her up. We are the owners of Savannah, a little 45-pound Black Lab mix who barks at my girls and cowers when anyone makes a loud noise. She’s sleeping in her crate now. (Although she’s about a year old she’s also not housebroken so she needs to be crate trained. Oh, and she doesn’t know how to walk on a leash, either.)

I’m seriously not sure how this all happened so quickly. My girls are over the moon. My husband…well, he mourned our Sheba for a long, long time. He’s a complete and total mush, and is already in love with this little pup. We’ve got her on a two-week trial basis. The rescue that she came from says they like to do a trial before “officially” transferring ownership. Ha, I say. Unless this dog sets the house ablaze with lighter fluid she isn’t going anywhere. I wonder how long it will take until she gets a cat friend…

The sign that sealed my fate.

Running. It’s never been a favorite activity. I have always preferred group fitness classes with music, people, camaraderie, and energy that inspire me to do my best. Running, in my opinion, is monotonous, boring, and hard. And yet this February I embarked on a new running program — something I never thought I would do.

The signs went up at the end of January. I was already in a funk, upset about a March due date that would remind me of the baby we lost. I needed a goal. I needed something that would take me out of my head completely. I needed to give birth to something, even if that something was the idea of me crossing a finish line.

There were two events to train for: a half marathon or 10k. Although I thought I could handle the half aerobically, I wanted to be kind to myself. I didn’t want to be pushing so hard for a goal. (Been there, done that birthing Big Girl.) I wanted it to be as joyful and simple as my labor with Little Girl. It was decided. I would train for the 10k.

The first day I ran was tough. I went outside all by myself and just started running. It was not pretty. I sucked wind. I hated it. I questioned my ability to run two miles much less 6.2. I couldn’t understand why it was so hard given my daily exercise regimen. And yet I decided to reserve judgment until my first group run. Maybe I was doing something wrong. I’m so glad I did.

It was a beautiful 48 degrees on that March morning. I got to the local preserve and was happy to see that the 10k group was comprised of eight people of different ages, sizes, abilities, and shapes. Our trainer told us to start out easy, so we started running the same way a baby starts walking: one step at a time nice and slow. Still, I was really nervous. Was it going to be too hard? Would I be sucking wind, counting the minutes until we hit our goal that day? (A two mile run in the preserve.) I didn’t and wasn’t. Running with a group meant we were moving at a slower pace than what I had done on my own. It was relaxing and surprisingly fun. I got a rush of adrenaline when we hit the one mile marker and turned around. I was completely glowing by the time we got back to our starting mark.

In the months that have followed I have run farther and faster than I ever expected to run. I went out and bought gear — new sneakers, a water belt, and a new hat. I have been sore in places I never expected to hurt. (Why didn’t anyone tell me my obliques would hurt after running?) I have surprised myself, too. My legs don’t ache as much as I expected, and I’m stronger than I expected. So far, running isn’t living up to any of my preconceived notions about it.

My original due date passed in March. I was very sad. I cried. I still cry every once in a while when I see a swelling belly or a newborn sitting in a carriage. But the promise of my new due date — the date that I will cross that 10k finish line — pulls me back from the brink of despair. I remember my strength. I remember the joy I feel as my body moves through the air. I picture myself crossing that finish line in May. And since everyone can use a new goal in life, I signed up for another race. It’s a November half marathon.

First, and most important caffeine is a drug. Sorry, folks, but it is. And being able to buy a bottle of flavored caffeine seems sort of dangerous. Sure, someone could down three or four cans of Red Bull or a pot of coffee, but they are going to be limited by the size of their stomach. It’s not easy to drink ounces and ounces of liquid. Not without getting a stomach ache, anyway. With MiO Energy, however, you get 60 mg of caffeine or about what you’d find in a cup of coffee in one “squirt.” But here’s the rub: It’s very easy to put three, four, or even five squirts of MiO in an eight-ounce glass of water, essentially upping your caffeine intake without adding any real bulk to your stomach. According to the company’s website, the 18 serving bottle is a mere 1.62 fluid ounces! Meaning you could drink 18 servings of caffeine very easily in a single glass of water as long as you didn’t mind the super-concentrated taste. In an uninformed consumer’s hands or even worse, a kid’s hands? Well, it could be dangerous. And it’s not just me. I recently read a Slate.com article that called for a ban of all caffeinated beverages to kids — especially in schools. From the Slate article:

According to a 2011 paper on health effects of energy drinks on children, children shouldn’t have more caffeine than 2.5 milligrams per kilogram per day; since the FDA limits 71 milligrams of caffeine per a 12-ounce can of soda, that’s about one soda a day, not a soda plus a couple of shots of MiO Energy.

Seems like kids have already gotten the message that MiO Energy is a great party drink, too. If you go to the MiO FAQ you’ll see a telling question: Can I mix MiO Energy with vodka. To Kraft’s credit, it discourages the behavior: “We strongly advise against it. MiO Energy contains caffeine and studies indicate that consuming caffeine with alcohol can lead to unsafe behaviors. Please don’t try it.”  The FAQ also cautions against giving MiO Energy to kids or mixing it into Coke.

The second problem I have with MiO was well documented in my last post about the product. Here’s what Kraft says about its ingredients: MiO is sweetened with sucralose, a calorie-free, artificial sweetener that is 600 times sweeter than sugar. To maintain color and freshness, MiO does use certain preservatives and artificial colorings. Ugh. And the Energy version also has guarana and ginseng as well as vitamins B-6 and B-12.

Finally, I have to say it: The stuff tastes like chemicals. I decided it’s not cool to bash something without actually trying it. (Besides, I got quite a few comments from readers saying the stuff was yummy.) Not sure what they were tasting, but I disagree wholeheartedly. Me? I’d rather grab a plain glass of water or, if I didn’t mind the palpitations, a cup of coffee. They are both cheaper and taste a lot better.

During the summer we got sunburned and bug-bitten and drank out of the hose when we were thirsty. In the winter we played outside until our noses were pink and our mittens were covered in mini snowballs. In short, we had a lot of fun without spending a dime. My mother, I’m sure, didn’t realize she was following the American Academy of Pediatrics recommendation to encourage children to play outside as much as possible. She didn’t know she was helping to battle childhood obesity. She just thought that kids should run and play.

A new study from the Seattle Children’s Research Institute found that — if I was a child today — my mother would be in the minority. According to the study, “nearly half of preschoolers in a sample representing four million U.S. children did not have even one parent-supervised outdoor play opportunity per day.” The study, “The frequency of parent-supervised outdoor play of U.S. preschool age children,” was published last week in the Archives of Pediatric & Adolescent Medicine.

There were a few interesting stats in the study. For instance, girls were less likely to spend time outdoors playing. Also, when kids do go outside it’s mostly mothers that are taking them. According to researchers, 44 percent of mothers report taking kids outside daily compared to only about a quarter (24 percent) of dads. Really scary: 15 percent of moms and 30 percent of dads didn’t take their kids outside even a few times per week. Kids of gym rats are luckier than the rest since their parents make outdoor play a priority. Mothers who exercised regularly (more than four times a week) were 50 percent more likely to take their child outside daily than those who never hit the gym.

One of the authors of the study, Pooja S. Tandon, M.D., wrote an excellent blog post about the research and about her own children. In the post, Resurrecting Outdoor Play Time, she explains that kids in many European countries spend three or four hours outside daily, which sounds a lot like my childhood. She also provides a few ideas to get kids outside more often. Here’s one thing she didn’t include: Don’t worry about having an activity or “something to do.” Kids, when given the chance, will find something to do.

Yesterday, while I worked my babysitter took the kids outside. The kids decided to go on a rock hunt, finding 20 different rocks in the backyard. Then they played a spy game, lurking behind trees while talking into pretend walkie talkies. Finally, they had running races, which my Big Girl won every time. I heard about it all when we were eating dinner together. (Another old fashioned habit that needs a revival!) Even though I wasn’t with them today, I know they made some memories that they will always remember. And that’s a good thing — body, mind, and soul.

We went into our first eye exam with the hopes that her eyes would be big enough to accommodate contact lenses. (Yes, the kid’s eyeball actually needs to be big enough to wear a lens.) My child has a big head and big brains and eyes to match, so we were good. The big issue, said the eye doctor, was going to be if Big Girl could touch her eye without freaking out. Good or bad, that put the success squarely in my daughter’s hands. Big Girl realized immediately that she needed to get her lens — she only needs vision correction in one of her eyes — in and out several times before she could take them home. The first tries were rough, to say the least.

Big Girl was shaking — literally. She couldn’t figure out how to keep her eye open. Once she did, she couldn’t get her finger with the lens on it close enough to her eye to get it in. We spent a good two hours at the doctor’s office before she had success, getting the lens in and out. Several times during those two hours, the woman working with Big Girl tried to get her to give up on lenses. I was fine with trying again in the future, but Big Girl was being stubborn. She was going to do it, she said. She just needed more practice. Okay, I said, we’d come back the next day to try again.

The next day was a little easier, but we still spent more than an hour at the office. Big Girl was able to get the lens in and out once or twice, but she was still shaking, and her eye was red. Again, the woman working with her we could wait six months and try again in the fall. I agreed, telling her there was no shame in waiting a while. Again, Big Girl told me no, she was going to do it. Since she still wasn’t comfortable enough with insertion and removal we set up another appointment two days later. When that morning came I was scheduled to be out on a training run, so my husband brought both girls to the eye doctor’s office. This time, I was told, Big Girl got her lens in on the first try and took it out pretty quickly, too. I got there just in time to see the smiles and hear the actual cheers all around — lots of them. She did it, and was thrilled. So was I. Big Girl was proficient enough with her lens to wear it home.

We weren’t out of the woods yet, though. The next day my husband and I had to attend a family member’s wake, so Big Girl put her lens in alone. Immediately after, we all jumped into the car, dropping Big Girl at a friend’s house while we went to a funeral home in the Bronx. A few hours later we picked her up and went to my brother’s house to celebrate his birthday. Around 6 p.m. it was time for Big Girl to take her lens out. (During the first week kids wear their lenses on a shortened schedule, adding an hour of wear every day.) She couldn’t do it, she said, after trying for more than 45 minutes. I won’t go through all the upsetting details (Big Girl crying, my mother screaming at me, the fight that ensued between me and my mother, my daughter’s extremely red eye). Instead, I’ll jump to the chase: Big Girl didn’t have a lens in her eye at all. She thought she put it in, but she didn’t. Sigh.

That night I told Big Girl she had to wait until she was nine to wear contact lenses. She was crushed, crying herself to sleep. My husband wisely intervened, telling me that by taking away her chance to try again, I was damaging her confidence. Okay, I said, we’ll try again with one rule in place: Big Girl had to let me check her eye every morning to make sure the lens was actually in there. She agreed.

That Friday we went to the eye doctor again for a re-check. We got a new trial lens — the old one dried out after she dropped it on my kitchen table — and started the process again. That was almost ten days ago. Since then Big Girl has been a contact lens whiz, putting them in and taking them out like a pro. She’s super-meticulous about washing her hands and storing her lenses. The best part is she’s bursting with new-found confidence. She is a girl on a mission. I am very impressed. Oh, and she can finally see now, which is also pretty important, right?

From the University’s press release: “Adults who consumed chocolate more frequently had a lower BMI than those who consumed chocolate less often.” This finding was especially interesting because the chocolate-eaters did not exercise more and actually took in more calories. Chocoholics like me (meaning people who ate at least five servings of chocolate weekly) weighed between five to seven pounds less than those who ate none, according to the study author, Beatrice A. Golomb, M.D., Ph.D.

The fact that chocolate is healthy isn’t surprising to me — or to researchers. Last year different researchers found that “high levels of chocolate consumption might be associated with a one third reduction in the risk of developing heart disease,” according to a study published on bmj.com. A March 2010 study in the European Heart Journal found that “just one small square of chocolate a day can lower your blood pressure and reduce your risk of heart disease.”

Researchers point to the multitude of antioxidants, polyphenols, and flavanols in the cocoa plant, which is a fruit in case you were wondering! So for anyone out there who is reading this and dreaming about chocolate: Go ahead, in moderation. Good news for all of us.