We’ve been in our new home in Cobble Hill, Brooklyn for over a month and we love it. The actual move was a total bitch and it took us several days sans child (he was at his grandparents house in Connecticut) to make the apartment safe and ready for our son to come home to.

When people ask how our new place is I say it’s great, it is, but coming from seven years of living in a full service building I’d be lying if I didn’t say it was also a big adjustment. The three bedroom apartment with a deck is a total upgrade as far as apartments go but the one floor walk-up with no super has been a complete downgrade in buildings.

Mylo on our deck which has no furniture, yet.

For instance, we are responsible for sorting our recycling and taking the trash to the curb three times per week in our new home. In our old building we were one of 320 apartments in which anything you threw out went down a garbage chute at any time of day you wanted. In our new home recycling only gets collected on Mondays. I can tell you from two weeks of some of our refuse getting rejected that the Department of Sanitation is strict when it comes to having the right bags, the right twine and the right square foot of curb for your trash.

Now that we have our garbage routine down there is a nice ebb and flow to our lives here on Bergen Street. We’re a little worried about what the empty storefront down below will be. If it’s a bar we’re screwed but if it’s a burger joint as it’s rumored to be, even as vegetarians we could probably make do. But of course a shoe store that closes at 8pm would be the ideal downstairs neighbor!

Another awesome thing about our new home is that my friend Scott from junior high school, his wife Shelly and their 10 month old daughter Olivia, live upstairs from us. It’s been a blast. We drink wine in our pajamas, not to mention it’s proved convenient when we’ve locked ourselves out of our respective apartments. Mylo gave Olivia her first kiss the other night — my heart melted and Scott’s raced as he watched his little girl squeal in delight. Never in my life did I think our children would be playing together, much less stealing precious moments together. To tell you that mine and Scott’s relationship growing up was one built on a lot of joking around is an understatement. But it was also shaped and somewhat marred by the tragic loss of a mutual friend. I am so glad he is back in my life and of course it helps that I adore Shelly, too!

I was recently inspired by Kate from Mommy Monologues to document my forays with my tattoos and body piercings. Ok, so just the piercings were forays. The tattoos it turns out, are permanent.

I was a bit of a wild child growing up. Some of what I am about to detail may surprise you. But if you like me, it will make you wish as I do, that if and when I have a daughter some day, the apple will fall very far from the tree.

When I was about 16 years old I asked if I could get a belly button ring. The answer was a firm and astounding NO. But I persisted, as I tend to do with most things I really want in life and so my mom finally made a deal with me: give up the cigarettes and we could talk about it. I wasn’t addicted, but I enjoyed smoking so that never happened.

While my father was working abroad during part of my junior year of high school I made the very foolish mistake of getting my lip pierced. When my mom saw it she advised me to remove it before my dad got home and ripped it off my face for me. When my lip swelled and became the reason why I couldn’t consume solid foods, I took it out willingly.

My first tattoo.

Then came my first tattoo. I was 16 when I started lobbying for body art and 17 when I was finally given the green light. My mom even came with me to make sure the needles were sterile and colors were clean. And since you have to be 18 to legally get a tattoo, even with a parent’s consent, I used my friend’s ID.

My first tattoo is worthy of it’s very own blog post, which I will do some day — there is that much material about it!

I loved my first tat and the accolades I received from friends at school. I loved it so much I went out a few weeks later, WITHOUT my parent’s knowing, and got a second. No ID necessary that time, my first tattoo was proof enough.

It would be months before my folks noticed it and as expected, they were extremely disappointed in me.

Whether it was my impulsiveness or the fact that I went behind my parents’ backs, I can honestly say the second tat was a regret and a mistake. Something that cost $60 to put on cost $900 to take off when I was in my mid-20′s.

Bye Bye Birdie

I was a freshman in college when I got my tongue pierced. The parentals weren’t thrilled about it but I was over 18 and it wasn’t visible on my face . I can’t recall exactly when I outgrew the tongue piercing but lucky for me (and my family), I did.

When I was 23 I got my third tattoo and even though I didn’t need my parents consent, my dad came with me. My father and I were getting matching tats, mine on the small of my back, his on his arm. Mine says “Palestine” in Arabic writing, his reads “Palestine, my love.”

I’ll never forget the guy who inked us. He kept wiping sweat off his forehead and when I asked if he was ok he told me, “I’ve tattooed boyfriend and girlfriend. I’ve even done mother and son, but never father and daughter. Is he cool?” he asked gesturing towards my dad. I was like yea dude, so cool.

I’m not sure how cool my dad would be though if he knew about my last and final piercing. Not long after I got my third tattoo I got my nipple (GASP!) pierced after a night out on the town in New York City with some girlfriends.

What started out as a drunken dare actually wound up being a lot of fun — especially as I went topless on beaches throughout Spain that summer. But like the tongue ring, I eventually outgrew the nipple ring not long after I met Jason – my now husband – and fell in love.

Today, as a breastfeeding mom, I marvel at my nipples’ real function, and shake my head at how stupid I was.

So, I’ve been thinking. If I have a daughter who comes to me and asks for a belly button piercing before she’s 18, I might have to oblige her!

–

In all honesty, I have NO idea how I’ll handle the whole tattoo and piercing thing. Have you thought about how you plan to? Please share!

I have always been a dreamer. I dream vividly and wildly when I sleep. Sometimes I remember every detail, other times I don’t.

Sometimes I laugh out loud in my sleep. The first time my husband Jason ever heard this he was convinced I was acting. But I wasn’t. When he finally got me to snap out of it I just rolled over and was deep in REM sleep once again. The next morning I had no recollection of it whatsoever.

Every once in a while I have a nightmare.

Last week Jason and I confided our deepest darkest nightmares in one another. Mine is about airplanes exploding and often feature my brother in them. Sometimes I am with him, sometimes I am not. The exact details of these nightmares are vague and for that I am grateful as they are always troubling and very disturbing.

Jason’s nightmares are based on a tragic tsunami that comes barreling down our street in Brooklyn.  It’s a frantic and heartbreaking race to usher his family, furbabies included, to safety.

Well wouldn’t you know that my husband recently gave me his tsunami dream.

Early last Tuesday I had a very upsetting dream about a tsunami that was heading right for the high rise building we lived in. It was our home but yet we were some place foreign, possibly Australia. Emergency alarms had been sounding in the distance and I frantically began to comb our apartment for things to bring with us although I don’t know where we were going.

I am certain the recent tragedy in Japan and the around-the-clock news coverage of it has played a part in my dream, as did Jason’s neuroses. The high rise building likely signifies the condominium we put money down on in 2008 but have been battling to get out of .

The fact that I contemplated packing jars of baby food in my dream but then realized I didn’t need to because I was nursing could go either way. Either I am grateful I am still nursing or I felt helpless that in the face of tragedy, I had to be a source of comfort and nourishment for my son.

My grandmother’s gold bracelet also had a cameo in my dream. When I went to put it on the latch wouldn’t close, my hands were shaking and it dropped to the floor. And then there’s The Bug, our cat. I cornered her in the bathroom to get her into the carrier but she fled. Gold bracelet. Black cat. Two things i love that I would have to leave behind.

The climax of the dream was when I looked out the window and saw the mother of all waves approaching. I was on the phone with my mom and Jason had his back to the windows and was dressing the baby. I remember screaming “hold the baby, hold the baby,” and then I woke up.

I can actually hear you all unsubscribing me from your readers right now. I promise though, I am not a dark person.

When I was pregnant I felt I was carrying a girl but dreamed it was a boy, three separate times. When I was nearing full-term I dreamed I gave birth to a black cat. See, I’m not the least bit dark I tell ya.

I apologize in advance if any of you have a tsunami dream after reading this. And of course if you dream you’ve given birth to a black cat, I apologize for that, too.

–

Do you have a nightmare of your own you’d care to share?

My husband Jason is a happy man but I miss my buttons.

Since the iPhone came out in June 2007 , Jason had been asking to get an iPhone. The answer was always no, though, not because I’m mean, but because we don’t have AT&T.

A self-proclaimed Apple-addict, Jason’s prayers were finally answered with Verizon’s release of the iPhone 4 this past February.

A week ago today we traded in our Blackberries for iPhones. Well, we didn’t exactly trade them, we had to upgrade and pay the hefty upgrade fees of course. Grrr.

I wanted to wait a week before writing a post about my thoughts on the big life change, and so here I am. I’m loving the iPhone but still missing my buttons. I adore the multitude of apps and the clarity of the photos but it’s a struggle to text or email typo-free with speed, something I was a whiz at with my Blackberry.

My new friend.

Perhaps THE BEST thing that has come out of replacing our Blackberries with the iPhones is that my son Mylo has no  interest in our new phones! (My thinking is that he misses the buttons, too.) I wrote in an earlier post here about Mylo’s obsession with my Blackberry.

I actually  bought Mylo a klunky, plastic, Fisher Price Smartphone to sate his appetite for phones. Let’s just say it became yesterday’s news five minutes after buying it. So, because I now have an iPhone, Mylo has inherited my former Blackberry. Which just goes to show that if you gnaw and slobber on something long enough, you can have it!

I love bread. It’s in my Middle Eastern blood.

I love whole wheat bread, foccacia bread, garlic knots and croissants. It’s safe to say there is not a day that goes by that I don’t eat bread.

And well, I live in New York City, where there’s s something in the water that makes our pizza rock and our bagels rock, too. And lord knows how easy it is in this city to grab a slice and a bagel.

The old Reedu, the one who ran 40 – 50 miles per week could afford to eat all that bread. But the new Reedu can’t seem to get rid of every last pound of her pregnancy weight. The new Reedu only has time to run about eight miles per week at best, and the new Reedu is sick of feeling sluggish all the time. So she’s throwing in the towel on bread. For a week.

And now writing in the third person will end.

I told my husband Jason about my ban on bread after our four mile run over the Brooklyn Bridge this morning. Hopefully he’ll make my withdrawal period – because there will be one – easier by joining me.

It’s a big move on my part, not just because I love bread but because I don’t buy into fad diets. That’s exactly why I am not giving up carbs for a week. Besides the fact that it’s a proven scientific fact that your body needs carbs, I believe in eating what you want if you exercise regularly. And if exercise isn’t your thing or if your busy schedule doesn’t allow for it, then eat what you want but just keep it in moderation.

I’ll still be consuming grains and wheat through other yummy things such as rice and cookies (I allow myself two a day). But there will be no baguettes, no bagels, no pizza and no whole wheat toast for an ENTIRE week.

What’s the point then?

To lose a couple of pounds and to just feel better. To see how my body responds to not being bogged down by all that processed and refined sugar.

–

Have you ever given up something you love very much? If so, what was it and for how long?