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.

Thanks to the fabulous--and highly motivating--story on kids' oral care in our September issue, I finally got my act together and booked a dental appointment for my 2 1/2-year-old son. I made it for a time when I thought both my husband and I could be there. It was our darling's very first trip to the dentist after all--a sort of milestone I imagined we would all share. But when the day came, I was swamped at work and my husband willingly volunteered to take him. I was surprised (a) that he was so willing, and (b) that I was so hesitant to let him go on his own. On one level, I suppose I was worried about missing out on some important information--those vital facts the dentist would bestow about the state of our child's mouth (he has teeth and gums) and the crucial instructions he would explain about how to keep him cavity-free (brushing and flossing). Well, when my husband came home, he regaled me with stories of how brave our boy had been, details about his extra tooth, and directions about how he now needs fluoridated toothpaste. Most important, he said, we need to get him to stop sucking his thumb by the time he's 4--or was it 3? See, I can't even remember ... because I'm not carrying that mental burden: He owns that information; he's the teeth man. All I have to do it follow his instructions and take my cue from his reminders. So far, the arrangement suits me just fine.

For the first three years that we lived in our apartment, there were no kids in the entire building. Then our daughter, Vivi, came along, and then about two years later, there was a baby boom. There are now ten children under the age of 5 in the building. My partner and I love bumping into the other neighbors at the mailbox or on the sidewalk and seeing how the kids are doing. But it's hard to really chat and catch up while the little ones are racing toward the curb.

"Maybe it's the wine, or maybe it's knowing that my building is like a small town in the middle of a metropolis."

Several of the parents have initiated a Friday-night get-together on the back patio of our building so the kids can work off some steam and the parents can unwind after work, share a bottle of wine, and regain the energy necessary to face the impending battle of tubbies and teeth brushing. Everyone brings a little something: wine, dip, a platter of chicken nuggets. And within minutes, the stress and anxiety of the work/school week just disappears, and we parents settle into a comfortable zone, knowing that there are six other adults there keeping an eye out for our kids while we discuss summer camps, switching pediatricians, or the hazards of replacing a window air conditioner on the fifth floor.

Maybe it's the wine, or maybe it's knowing that my building is like a small town in the middle of a metropolis. Either way, as I walk back to the elevators, I realize how happy I am that I live where I live. And as I look down at Vivi's drowsy face, I imagine that she's thinking the same thing.