This week I had the NICEST cab driver. I think it’s the city’s way of saying, “Don’t leave, Kelcey.  C’mon.  I’ll be nicer to you.  I promise.  You’ll hate it in the burbs.”

I finally went to the doctor after feeling just miserable for weeks.  I had to take along my two girls and it’s always a bit of a production to usher them into a cab, while also trying to hold onto my purse, their stuff and a fold-up stroller. Winter coats, hats and mittens just add to the frenzied experience.

As we pulled up to the doctor’s office, the cab driver hopped out of the driver seat, and opened my passenger door to help me and the kids get out.

Very, very nice of him.

Except I’ve never in my many, many years of living in Manhattan EVER had a cabdriver open my door.

And I happened to be leaning over, trying to stuff all my kids’ snacks and wipes and straw cups back into their bag, which meant that my butt crack was kind of on display.

Well, VERY on display.

Now, I didn’t invent low rise cords so please cut me some slack.

And the way I see it, it was just sort of a little bonus for him, on top of the tip. I mean, if he’s into butt crack.  Which he totally might not be. I didn’t actually broach the subject.

So I finally get my pants in order and haul my kids up to the doctor’s office where the other patients stare at me like I’ve just carted in two baby alligators.  They’re just children, people! Unpredictable, uncontrollable little creatures.  Don’t look so damn nervous.

The doctor mercifully called me in right away.  He wasn’t too thrilled to learn that I was already half way through a Z-pack of antibiotics that he had NOT prescribed.

“Where did you get the Z-pack?” the doctor asked.

“Oh you know, one of the moms at my daughter’s preschool sells them.”

“What?”

“Oh I’m just kidding.  A doctor prescribed it a while ago and I never used it.  My husband told me to take it. Totally his idea.  Please don’t yell at me.”

“Way to throw your husband under the bus.  In the future, just give me a call, ok?”

“Well, ok.”

And on the return trip, I once again had this super helpful, incredibly nice cab driver.

So maybe the city has a sweeter, gentler side after all.  And the always entertaining Marinka of Motherhood in NYC certainly makes a strong case for staying in Manhattan.

And I think I’m inclined to agree with the brilliant PAPA who recently commented that Manhattan is like a bad boyfriend. Sure, you can leave him.  But chances are you’ll just end up coming back.

So yeah, I’ll probably leave this city.  But guaranteed, at some point, I’ll return.  It’s the kind of cool, gritty town that appreciates a little butt crack.  And I like that.

Rick and I recently joined some friends on a Sunday afternoon for Baby Loves Disco here in New York City. Have you every been to one of these?  Basically you get to drink beer, dance to old Bee Gees and Michael Jackson tunes and watch your kids be happy. Seriously happy. See….

Well, Rick at least looks seriously happy.

Listen, no one invites us to weddings anymore, so we crave us some afternoon drinking and dance floor action.

Basically, Baby Loves Disco transforms night clubs across the country into child-proof discos for weekend dance parties. I’ve thought the idea was brilliant for a long time and often curse myself for not coming up with this genius idea. Or at least figuring out a way to secretly steal it.

Summer and I quickly found our groove.

They also had lots of snacks and drinks for the kiddos. I had never heard of these low sugar, juice drinks from Honest Kids. I’m thinking they should hire Summer as their juice model.

By the way, do you think Summer looks like the young Olsen twins from “Full House?” Because I hear this frequently. In case, you forgot what the great, sassy Michelle Tanner looked like…

Hmmm… maybe I’ll try to turn Summer into a cash producing, media empire like the Olsens. No, that sounds ridiculously exhausting. A juice model sounds like a better goal for a lazy stage mom.

Anyway, back at the disco…

Dylan, who does not like big parties of any kind, was not exactly feeling the dance fever. Where’s Ren McCormack when you need him? C’mon, you don’t have to click. You remember Ren, right?

So Dylan simply refused to take off her jacket and hat for the first TWO hours.

That girl really knows how to commit herself to something.

But eventually, with the help of a bubble machine, even she got into the disco groove…

And so did contributing mama Jordana Bales and her two girls…

On a separate note, if you have been racked with wonder about my weekly trip to Whole Foods…

Yes, we went this week.

Yes, Dylan declared her urgent need to poop.

Yes, she mentioned this in front of the hot prepared foods section.

In a time of economic uncertainty, job instability and an erratic stock market, isn’t it nice that there are some things you can count on? I think so too.

mama bird notes:

In my latest “drooling over this,” you’ll find some sweet, groovy dolls.

And Contributing mama Daphne Biener has a habit of keeping some pretty interesting things in her basement. Is she just sentimental or has this mama gone a bit too far? Click on contributing mamas and weigh in.

Who doesn’t want to be groovy? So I was thrilled (in a cool, laid back, groovy way of course) to check out a new line of dolls from Groovy Girls.

Having still not quite recovered from the Barbie doll aisle at Target, where the Barbies seem to be competing for the shortest, tightest outfit… I was quite relieved to see the Groovy Girls ride into town.

They are just super cute dolls that seem age appropriate and fun. But definitely not boring. They have stylish, changeable outfits (something I know my two girls can appreciate). Oh, and they have pets! And take it from this former dog owner, there is nothing better than a faux pet.

Each doll or pet comes with a code that can be used to access special activities on the Groovy Girls RSVP website. So check it out and get your groove on.

By Contributing Mama Daphne Biener

Not long ago my daughters discovered that some of their precious art work goes pretty much straight into the recycling box.  Never mind that it is a carefully culled, minuscule fraction of what they create.  Because at this point I have transformed, in their minds, into a callous, uncaring cleaning machine tossing masterpieces to the curb in a willy-nilly quest to de-clutter our home.

I categorically deny this characterization.

They may not know it, but there is a towering stack of artwork in the basement.  I have saved countless samples from each child in an attempt to document the miraculous transformation from scribbles to stick figures to fairies and families.

There are also a few other, er, items of memorabilia that I have saved. With the passing of time these items have become so heavy with wistful reminiscence, so magically infused with nostalgia, that I am no longer able to throw them away.  Despite my deep belief that they really need to be thrown away.

But perhaps it’s beyond my control. After all, they say that heredity is destiny…

About ten years ago I was helping my mother clean out our childhood home when I came across an old medication vial.  Opaque and orange and rattling.  I popped that puppy open, sending 60 minuscule baby teeth dancing across the floor.  It was gruesome.

“Why Mom? Why?” I cried in distress, wringing my hands and looking tortured.

My mother, apparently a secret collector of creepy carnage, looked wistfully down at the pile of teeth. She smiled as she rubbed her fingers back and forth over a disembodied ponytail tied with a pink ribbon.  I ran screaming, before zombies crawled out from under the bed to join her.

60 teeth.  Mine, my brother’s, my sister’s, all commingled in one ancient sinister vial. A 20-year old hunk of blond toddler hair. Memorabilia sure, if you’re Freddy Kruger’s mom.  It was gross. Truly gross.

Now before everyone jumps to my mother’s defense, I should offer up a little confession:  Upstairs, in my nightstand drawer, is a baggie of baby teeth. Only eight so far but if I’m being honest, my insanity shows no sign of stopping.

It started innocently enough; my baby girl lost a tooth.  A tooth! A tiny piece of the precious time capsule that took us from aching baby gums to gaping smiles to giant crooked teeth fighting for space in her sweet little mouth.

I should blame my mother.  This propensity for creepiness is clearly stamped into my DNA.

Oh, while I’m confessing, there is one more thing.  And if you were even the slightest bit turned off by the baggie of teeth, you might want to log off here.

If you’re reading this, you’re probably familiar with the joy of watching that second pink line appear.  You may even have spent 3 minutes hovering over a plastic stick yourself, waiting for confirmation of your seat on the wild nine month ride that ends with your being interested in reading things that mama birds tend to write.

Every home is different, but one might imagine that within the subsequent moments of the appearance of that life-changing line there are tears, maybe some hugs, perhaps even some hesitation over the enormity of the moment.  But certainly, amidst the excitement one thing definitely happens: that plastic bearer of baby news makes it into trash.

Except sometimes, it doesn’t.

Maybe what happens is that it sits there on the counter flaunting its wondrous news for a week or so and then maybe it gets stashed in a hasty moment into the cupboard behind the dental floss where it sits and sits and quietly, innocuously, sits some more.

I know. It’s not pretty.  I’ve tried a number of times over the years to throw it away, but I can’t.  The power in the pee stick is strong, and I cower before that power.

It’s bad, I know. But no one can say that I’m a ruthless recycler of nostalgia.

You can read more of Daphne’s work on the Rocky Mountain Moms blog or visit her eco-fabulous blog, A Greener Biener.

So maybe I need to clear something up.

No, I did not duct tape my kids in a corner, as Allison T. suggested, to keep them quiet during my interview with Better TV.  Mostly because I don’t currently have any duct tape in my home.

This is sort of how the interview went at first…

“So are you stressed about the holidays?” asked the producer.

“Well – it does get a bit crazy this time of -”

“Mommy, I can’t find any of the hats for the potato heads. And they need hats,” Dylan interjected.

“New shirt. Need new shirt,” Summer insisted because she likes fresh attire every 23 minutes or so.

“And feet. The potato heads need feet. Can you help me find the feet? Where are the feet?” Dylan continued.

“NEW SHIRT!!!!” Summer whined.

Then they both veered off message and decided to immediately change into princess gowns.  And Dylan chose to be all Britney and go cammando. So I explained to Dylan, “As a general rule of thumb, we try to keep our underwear on when we have guests over.”

And then I put them in front of the TV to watch a little “Sesame Street” while I finished the interview. No duct tape, scotch tape or any other adhesive needed. 21st century parenting in action.

Meanwhile, I’m such an idiot for complaining about Dylan pooping like clockwork at Whole Foods every week. Where was my gratitude?! (Thank you MN Mama for reminding me about gratitude.)

So here’s my newest rule of thumb. Anytime a kid poops in a toilet, you should just be grateful and shut the hell up.

Because yesterday Summer pooped in the tub. Of course, this has happened before. But it never gets any less gross.  So I evacuated the tub, scooped out the poop, cleaned all the toys, scrubbed the tub and then refilled it for Summer and Dylan.

But Dylan was seriously unimpressed with my cleaning efforts.

“I still see poop crumbs,” she said.

But I’m telling you there was not a poop crumb, whatever that is exactly, in sight.

See, now just a few weeks ago, we were all engaged in a spirited debate about the future of this country. And now, I’m blabbering about poop crumbs.

I better go watch Obama on “60 Minutes” and try to pull myself together.

The rest of you, make sure to keep your underwear on if you have guests coming over.

mama bird notes:

Robin S. is the winner of the  Ugly Dolls Babo’s Bird and the Hey Ugly Icebat Journal from Psychobaby! Congrats Robin. Please email your address to Kelcey@mamabirddiaries.com and your ugly winnings will be on their way to you.