My mom called the other day, anxious to know if I'd seen a piece in the New York Times about the importance of talking to babies and toddlers from birth. In her razor-sharp way, she recounted the most salient points and recited a few exact quotes.

"I fully indulged my passive-aggressive and childish impulses, adding, 'Talking to them all day sounds like way too much work. No way am I doing that!'"

And in my own regressive way, I immediately forgot that I do, indeed, talk to both my little boys all the time, and felt a wave of guilt, shame, and warped remorse (I ignore my kids! It's too late to start engaging them now! The damage is done!) wash over me.

Last Friday was my first visit ever to an acupuncturist. I did say that I was up for anything in order to have a baby, so there I was in the spare, tiny office feeling a little nervous about having lots of needles shoved into my flesh.

"Do I put off trying to conceive for three months and stay drug-free, or just go balls to the wall and do whatever my Western doctor tells me to do?"

Earlier this year I went to an osteopath. She stuck her fingers in my mouth and manipulated the bones and muscles in my face to help ease the headaches and general ickiness caused by my allergies, and it totally worked, even after some of my initial skepticism. But why am I so weirded out about acupuncture? I've become accustomed to the prick of a needle because of my weekly blood tests to check my hormones, but I still don't look when it goes in. Maybe it's the mental shift from Western medicine to Eastern.

After a one-hour consultation during which we discussed what I want to get out of acupuncture, my general feeling of well-being (apparently I'm "damp"), and the viscosity of my poop, we got started. She put the first needle into my third eye, the area just between my eyebrows. I kept my eyes closed the whole time. Depending on where on my body she was tapping in a needle, I felt either pressure (on my left shin), an itch (on my right foot) or a pinch or prick (everywhere else). Then she left me for 20 minutes to relax and let the needles to do their thing. For the first 10 minutes, I fought the urge to feel for needles, scratch myself, stand up, or roll off the table. For the remaining 10 minutes, I got into just lying there. By the time she had taken out the needles and I had paid, I was so blissed out that I left without taking my checkbook. As anyone who is trying to conceive knows, everyone tells you to relax, which of course is impossible when you're being told to do it, so this was quite a feat.

Besides a feeling of calmness, I left the office with a decision to make. The acupuncturist told me that she could put me on a very pointed regimen of acupuncture and Chinese herbs, but I would then have to stop trying to get pregnant for the three months it would take to flush my body of its "dampness" and get it ready to accept a baby. I could also have acupuncture in conjunction with the treatments that my Western doctor prescribes, but the acupuncture won't be as effective.

Earlier today, my doctor suggested that I take the drug Synthroid to help my thyroid produce healthier eggs. Tomorrow, I see the acupuncturist again. I guess the time to decide is now. Do I put off trying to conceive for three months and stay drug-free, or just go balls to the wall and do whatever my Western doctor tells me to do? It seems to me whenever there are two seemingly opposing camps in the same universe (Biggie Smalls versus Tupac, Cal versus Stanford, Bill Compton versus Eric Northman), devotees are emotional, bad-mouthing is common, and both sides make convincing arguments. But can they coexist together in harmony to provide positive results?

Any thoughts, advice, or ideas from moms out there in Interweb-land?

Last week I went to Las Vegas for the ABC Kids Expo, a trade show where manufacturers and designers of all manner of baby and mom products (from strollers to belly balm) hawk their wares to retailers. Since I'm still breast-feeding, I was pleased to discover the well-appointed Medela pumping room tucked into a back hallway at the convention center.

It's a weird concept, acupuncture. I mean, getting pricked all over with tiny needles as a form of therapy? I'd be the first to say I don't enjoy the getting-pricked part, but I'm totally hooked on the treatment.

"I sometimes nod off to sleep, sometimes just hover in a restful meditation, but I always walk out of the office feeling more centered. "

It's been about six months now that I've been seeing an acupuncturist once a week, and skipping even one session (as I realized when I was on vacation recently) completely throws me off.

See, for the first time in as long as I can remember, I feel like I'm really, truly taking care of myself. Each session starts with about 20 minutes of checking in about everything that's going on, and this helps me be much more attuned to what I'm feeling and doing. We always discuss diet, digestion, and sleep, so I'm more careful about what I eat and how much I rest. At this point, the conversation invariably veers into the psychological.

Then she asks me questions like "Are you feeling hot or cold? Thirsty? Heavy? Wheezy? Restless? Cranky?" Though I sometimes find myself struggling for the right descriptive words (and occasionally feeling embarrassed if we veer into what I'd otherwise consider TMI territory), I love the process of being asked. It makes me concentrate on myself and stop worrying about the million things big and small fluttering around my brain. It makes me realize that taking time for myself matters.

After that she looks at my tongue--always a reminder that our bodies reveal everything about ourselves if we just know how to look--and sticks me all over, each time making micro-adjustments to balance out this or that. I sometimes nod off to sleep, sometimes just hover in a restful meditation, but I always walk out of the office feeling more centered. The best part is that whatever insanity happens during the week, I know I have that time to touch base, think about what my body needs, and just lie back and relax.

By Melissa Chapman, New York City mom and author of WCBSTV.com's parenting blog.

When I met my husband over 10 years ago, I had the greatest of expectations. Like all gullible brides, I was blinded by the glittering diamond on my finger and brainwashed by fairy tales of white weddings and blissfully happy endings. Sure, my husband was 15 years older than me; my mother angrily accused him of being a Svengali; and he was living in an apartment that had carpet on the walls (more on his apartment in another post). To my mind, these were all minor hiccups on my road to wedded euphoria.

But nothing could've prepared me for the insanity of my in-laws.

"While she sat home every night, and MS began to ravage not only her physical health but her mental faculties as well, he'd found a married woman whom he had begun to--not so secretly--date."

When I initially met them, they struck me like any other couple who's been married for 30-plus years: They seemed to tolerate each other. But there was much more to the story. My future mother-in-law was suffering from multiple sclerosis, and this gave my future father-in-law a convenient excuse to indulge his roving eye. While she sat home every night, and MS began to ravage not only her physical health but her mental faculties as well, he'd found a married woman whom he had begun to--not so secretly--date.

By the time I joined the family, he'd been carrying on this affair for several years, and although I thought his behavior was beyond deplorable, my husband and two brothers seemed to sanction it under the guise of "Well, our mother is sick, so why should he have to suffer, too?" Believe me, I've engaged in many screaming matches with my husband about his apathy about the whole thing.

When my mother-in-law passed away eight years ago, this married woman came to pay her respects. While I was ready to give her a good backhand across her face, my husband and his brothers politely pulled their father aside and told him to ask her to leave.

Now, the affair is still going, hot and heavy, and shows no signs of losing any steam.

Let me paint a more vivid picture for you: This woman lives with her retired husband. They're both in their 60s. My father-in-law, at the ripe old age of 77, hangs out with the two of them every day! According to him, her husband has no idea that they're doing the nasty--several times a week, as he likes to boast. Her grandchildren decorate copious love notes for my father-in-law, which he proudly displays on his fridge (I'm still not sure where my kids' drawings are stashed!)

The truth is, if I lived a few hundred miles away and just saw him on holidays, I could file my father-in-law away in my brain as nothing more than an old coot. Unfortunately, we happen to live five minutes from him by car. And his married girlfriend and her husband? They happen to live right around the corner from my parents, the only grandparents who actually spend time with my kids. So every time we do a drive-by, my daughter immediately asks, "Why is grandpa's car at this women's house? Why does he hang around with her and her grandchildren? Why doesn't he ever come and visit us?" I tell her I don't really have any answers, although I'd like nothing more than to malign this man.

Do you think I'm coming down too hard on my father-in-law? That I should just leave him alone and make peace with the fact that he is just not interested in his grandkids and that he sees nothing wrong with dating a married woman and exposing their relationship to prying gossip mongers? And what can I possibly tell my daughter?

In her book Confessions of a Naughty Mommy, my friend and coauthor Heidi Raykeil writes, "No one warned me that having a baby was like the excitement of falling in love all over again, except with someone much younger and better smelling than my husband. No one told me that for all intents and purposes, having a baby was dangerously similar to having an affair."

"Many moms often feel 'touched out' from their children, but that's not a reason to stop touching Dad. From hand holding to snuggling and kissing, there needs to be physical intimacy outside of the bedroom.

Calling it an affair isn't far off. As Freud defined it, eros is a life force that motivates us to create and to love, and for many mothers, the energy that goes into doting on, dressing, feeding, cooing at, and coddling a baby is a powerful expression of eros. That's part of what makes Dad feel like a third wheel; there was a time not so long ago when we were the recipients of all that eros: you doted and fawned over us. You picked out our wardrobe, you wouldn't let you us go out wearing that tie. Now you're so caught up in dressing the little one, you probably haven't noticed we've gone a full week without showering. That's what happens when kids enter the picture. Eros gets redirected to the children, and couples need to make more of an effort to divert some of it back into their relationship. Many moms often feel "touched out" from their children, but that's not a reason to stop touching Dad. From hand holding to snuggling and kissing, there needs to be physical intimacy outside of the bedroom. Studies have shown that a 20-second hug raises oxytocin levels in women, increasing a sense of trust and connectedness. As busy as we all are, surely there's enough time for that? For more information on the author, go to www.iankerner.com.

My doctor's office recently sent me an invoice for $600. The procedures listed were about a month of visits, sonograms, and blood work. The amount kind of freaked me out. Like everyone else these days, we're watching every dollar, and $600 a month before we get into the heavy-duty infertility treatments means we are living beyond our means.

"It's clear to me that need and want are two very different motivations, and that my attempt to overcome my biology in order to conceive is a first-world, middle-class problem. "

We were mentally prepared to shit our pants and max out our credit cards when expenses included breast pumps, babysitters, and preschool, but not before we had a bun in the oven. A phone call to my doctor cleared it all up: The amount was how much my insurance provider was going to cover. I was relieved and singing hallelujahs in praise of Aetna. Then, I thought about how lucky we were to have insurance. My mood darkened when my thoughts turned to couples who want to conceive and need a medical nudge but don't have coverage. Then I got angry when my thoughts jumped to my grandfather, who was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer earlier this year. If it weren't for Medicare (signed into law in 44 years ago, when he was my age), either he would be dead or he and his children would be broke. Are those really the only choices?

In the elevator on the way up to my office today, the little video screen that flashes factoids to passengers all day displayed one from a new study done conducted by the Harvard Medical School. It revealed that one American dies every 12 minutes because he or she doesn't have health insurance. Statistically, one could surmise that's one child under 9 years of age every three hours---or the time it takes to catch your prime-time TV shows. The thought is humbling and infuriating. I'm not a policy wonk, by any means, and until I watched our president address Congress earlier this month and read Cookie's interview with an analyst (and a mom) from the Kaiser Family Foundation, I didn't understand all the details of Obama's health-care-reform proposal. It's clear to me that need and want are two very different motivations, and that my attempt to overcome my biology in order to conceive is a first-world, middle-class problem. But I believe that we (meaning me and my child-to-be and/or the mother of my adopted child-to-be) all deserve something more than just a step up from a third-world health care system--and we shouldn't go broke getting it.

How do you think the proposed changes will affect your family?

Last week I took my 22-month-old son, Ben, to our first Mommy and Me music class. I had done a few of these with my older kid, Alex, and thought I owed it to Ben, who has spent the majority of his brief life just tagging along, to do something one on one, just the two of us.

"I had this sudden urge to run screaming--back to Alex and his preschool and karate class, back to our Backyardigans CDs, back to our big, crazy, postbaby-phase life. "

The minute I walked into the room, I started to sweat and feel panicked. It was a tight space, and the rug in the middle was covered with crawling babies. Ben, who had insisted on wearing his Adidas Sambas for the first time that day, looked like a teenager in comparison. The air buzzed with nervous energy as young moms and nannies crammed their strollers into the foyer and tried to find a spot around the circle, cooing at their babies all the while.

I had an intensely visceral flashback to taking Alex to his class when he was 18 months old. I was so excited to be there and hopeful that he would like it and participate. I was eager to make new friends and and feel part of the intimidating Manhattan mom scene. The class was deep in the East Village, and many of the other parents looked as if just they'd rolled out of bed after a night of rock shows. Of course, Alex did not sit in my lap and do the motions with the music (as I did, wildly). He ran around. And around. And around. But the teacher, a young guy who liked to play Rolling Stones and Bob Marley songs to shake things up, totally accommodated him, and by the end of the semester, Alex was running into his arms for a hug at the end of class.

At this class with Ben, all I could think of was, I'm past this phase. I did this once, and I'm not doing it again. This is torture. The 11-month-old to our left kept crawling over and taking stuff out of Ben's hands. There was a lot of crying. The air smelled faintly of a dirty diaper. The teacher spoke in an earnest, faux-soothing voice but leapt toward us each time Ben put an instrument in his mouth (which he did a lot, because lately he likes to pretend he's a dog). "Please give me anything that goes into a child's mouth," she'd repeat, trying to sound calm and relaxed. I also found the music, which I liked so much with Alex, grating.

Only 20 minutes in, as I pretended to enjoy dancing around Ben with a scarf, I had this sudden urge to run screaming--back to Alex and his preschool and karate class, back to our Backyardigans CDs, back to our big, crazy, postbaby-phase life. When Alex was an infant, I would imagine that next chapter and cry, wanting to stay cocooned in my rocker with him forever. Now I saw, with startling clarity, how much better everything was, how fluid and expansive our world was, how much more relaxed and confident I'd become as a parent--all things I never feel on a day-to-day basis.

Much to my amazement, Ben turned to me at that instant and fixed his big, shiny black eyes on me. "Mama," he said. "Done."

You've probably already heard by now that up until August 2008, SIGG bottle liners contained BPA. Since then, their bottles have been manufactured with a new eco-sleeve (internal lining) that contains no BPA. It was disappointing that SIGG omitted the fact that their products contained BPA.

"With the recent scandals over lead in toys, melamine in formula, and BPA in bottles, it's going to be a while before moms take marketing at face value or breezily dismiss the concerns of environmental-safety groups."

To their credit, they recognized their mistake and are making amends by allowing customers to exchange their old bottles for new BPA-free ones.

It has become too common for companies not to inform customers of the potential hazards of their products. This is the old way of doing things, and it doesn't work anymore. Pre-Internet, it might have been easy enough to hide damaging information from consumers, but that's no longer true. Take the case of SIGG--dozens of mom bloggers sounded the alarm about the presence of BPA in SIGG's bottles. Blog readers told their friends, who posted it on their Facebook pages, who re-Tweeted the news, and so on. In response, Steve Waski, CEO of SIGG, posted a letter that attempted to justify their use of (and their omission of the fact that their products contained) BPA. (His explanation: The bottles did not leach BPA.) After the blogosphere erupted over his insensitivity to the issue, he wrote a second, more humble and apologetic letter.

"After reading and responding to hundreds of emails and viewing nearly as many blog & Twitter posts, I realize that my first letter may have missed the mark. What I should have said simply and loudly to all of our loyal SIGG fans is: I am sorry that we did not make our communications on the original SIGG liner more clear from the very beginning.

I have learned much over the past two weeks. I learned that many of you purchased SIGG bottles--not just because they were free from leaching and safe--but because you believed that SIGGs contained no BPA. I learned that, although SIGG never marketed the former liner as "BPA Free" we should have done a better job of both clearly communicating about our liner as well as policing others who may have misunderstood the SIGG message."

With this apology and exchange program, SIGG at least partially restored its tarnished reputation. Companies who manufacture children's products (and therefore market to mothers) often seem to miss two important facts about moms: (1) They will do whatever it takes to keep their kids safe; (2) they talk to one another. If there is a possibility of a hazard to their child, they are going to steer clear and they're going to tell all their friends about it. Still, rather than eliminate potentially unsafe products, many companies seek to find a remedy in marketing.

In May of this year, a memo from the BPA Joint Trade Association Meeting on Communications Strategy was leaked to the Milwaukee Journal Sentinel. In the meeting, the attendees (including representatives from Coca-Cola, Alcoa, and Del Monte) discuss their media and legislative strategies around BPA. It reads like a Hollywood script, with overdrawn evil corporate executives plotting to deceive the public into buying unsafe products. In the meeting minutes, "Attendees suggest using fear tactics (e.g., 'Do you want to have access to baby food anymore?')" to dissuade moms from choosing BPA-free packaging. They discuss the challenge in getting a scientist to be a pro-BPA spokesperson and seek to find an everyday mom to promote their message:

"The committee doubts obtaining a scientific spokesperson is attainable. Their 'holy grail' spokesperson would be a pregnant, young mother who would be willing to speak around the country about the benefits of BPA."

Legislatively, they decided that their best tactic would be "befriending people that are able to manipulate the legislative process." And their efforts may be paying off, as a bill to ban BPA just failed in California last week. But a raft of legislation seeks to ban BPA at the city, state, and federal levels. Many cities, including Chicago, and states, including Minnesota and Connecticut, have already outlawed the substance in plastic containers for use by children and babies. And dozens of other bills, including Senator Gillibrand's, Safe Baby Products Act seek to study and eliminate toxins in baby products.

According to the memo, the cost of the BPA marketing campaign would be $500,000. Rather than devising strategies to deceive and potentially endanger customers, why not invest in developing the safest products possible? With the advent of sites like the GoodGuide and Skin Deep, which list the ingredients in skin-care and cosmetic products and rate their safety, it is no longer possible to hide the facts. With the recent scandals over lead in toys, melamine in formula, and BPA in bottles, its going to be a while before moms take marketing at face value or breezily dismiss the concerns of environmental-safety groups. Trying to win the marketing battle is a short-sighted approach, which ultimately will lead to losing the fight for loyal customers and profits.

In this new world of ready information and savvy (if somewhat distrustful) moms, success will come to those companies that actually lead in the development for safer kids' products and are honest and transparent in their efforts, as well as their failures.

By Kelcey Kintner, mother of two and author of the blog The Mama Bird Diaries

My twentysomething self is a bit hazy now, washed out by too many late-night cocktails and now years of parenthood. But I still remember that girl.

She would leave a bar in Madrid at three in the morning, jump on some Spaniard's motorcycle, and enjoy an exhilarating, high-speed spin around the city with him--without ever knowing his name.

And go for a ride on a glider airplane, because who says planes need motors?

And move from New York City to Great Falls, Montana (practically Canada) to pursue dreams of being a TV reporter, without ever having set foot in the Big Sky state. Maybe not quite realizing that she was signing up for bears, minus-30-degree weather, and no sushi anywhere in sight.

I miss that girl.

During my twenties, I felt so damn invincible. So courageous. So strong.

But somewhere along the way fear crept in. I started to hesitate. About too many things.

I can now think of a crazy amount of reasons why it's not such a brilliant idea to hop on some random guy's motorcycle in the middle of the night in Madrid. Or why I'd like a plane to have a motor. Maybe even two. Or why it might be a good idea to check out a city before you relocate your entire life.

But with this maturity, I've lost something along the way. A certain boldness. A boldness that offers up life as it is meant to be lived. The full experience.

I know it has a lot to do with having children. It seems the more I have to lose, the more people I desperately love, the more paralyzed I become. I want to protect my children from the evils of life and keep them safe forever. I want to be here on this earth for them as long as possible.

Of course, rationally, I know I can't control their destiny. Or my destiny. But I keep trying.

I think back to my high school yearbook quote (because all true wisdom can be found in yearbooks or fortune cookies). "Risks must be taken because the greatest hazard in life is to risk nothing. Only a person who takes risks is free."

As I near 40 (when you're considered middle-aged and everyone seems to gleefully call you ma'am), I need some of that adventurous mojo back.

I want to let go. Just a tiny bit. I want to have trust in the universe. I want to stop being afraid. I want to have more fun.

Because I want my children to see me as a loving, independent, and courageous spirit. The kind of mother who would absolutely take a ride on a motorcycle every now and again.