Almost every day, as Monkey gets off of the school bus, it starts. That tinkling sound that signals to every child in an 85-mile radius that the ice cream truck has arrived. Since there is no rule banning ice cream trucks within 100 feet of a school--which there should be, if only to save my sanity--the truck pulls up right by the local school and bus stop. Sometimes I race down the street in the opposite direction in the hopes Monkey doesn't hear the annoying, er, repetitive tune.  Usually he does and the next words out of his mouth are, "Ice cream truck! Can I have some ice cream Mami?" I cringe inwardly and then begins our daily debate: to serve or not to serve the soft serve.

When I was growing up, the ice cream truck would drive around my small town during the summer. In the rare instances that the stars aligned, and my Mom or Dad would have both money and the willingness to part with it in the name of ice cream, we would cheer with joy. After all, most days we were relegated to boxes of Neapolitan ice cream frosted over in the freezer. Back then, the ice cream truck made special and rare appearnces, but here Mister Softee is seemingly everywhere. There is one parked across from the neighborhood train station and another truck by the park we frequent. The one in our neighborhood stays parked all day long. Every. Single. Day. One can imagine the choruses of "Can I have some" that ring through the air every time we get near it. Munchkin barely talks, yet I fear her first full sentence will be, "Can I have some ice cream!" followed by "Pleeeeeeeease!!"

One day as we hauled our four kids home from a long day at the park, my friend Brigid asked, "Is it bad that I promised the kids ice cream again today?" I didn't really have an answer. Our kids eat healthy food and, at home, dessert usually consists of fruit, not sweets. Will their health really be affected if they eat ice cream a few days a week? My main concern is developing good habits as a family. The kids know not to expect piles of candy at home nor junk food disguised as healthy snacks. I think the only habit formed by infrequenty stopping by an ice cream truck is the habit of asking whether the infrequent stop to the ice cream truck can happen NOW. 

So how do I say no to ice cream when it's so close so often? It's not easy. Sometimes the kids have already had a treat, so i remind them of that. Other times, I tell them no because it's almost dinner time. It's impressive how Monkey can remember something naughty for weeks but forgets the word "No" approximately .3589 seconds after I've uttered it. I don't blame the kids for asking, but I don't enjoy the pouting afterwards. My current solution has been to tell them that there is ice cream at home for us to eat later. However, 99% of the time, they forget about the ice cream until they hear the Mister Softee jingle the next day. That means that the carton of Neapolitan ice cream in the freezer is going to last a very long time. Take that Mister Softee!

How often is too often? Vote now at the GMvBM homepage. 

If you want to be discouraged from eating your very own cone of soft serve, check out the nutritional info. I've probably just ruined my chances of ever being sponsored by Mister Softee. 

If you miss the sound of the Mister Softee Truck  a) You must not live within a 10-mile radius of New York City and b) You can download your very own Mister Softee ringtone. Mister Softee is evidently way cooler than I thought. 

As I swept the floor for the 80th time this week and gazed at the toy sets yet to be reassembled,I fantasized about gadgets parents would likely sell their soul--or maybe their firstborn--to have. I'm not talking light-weight stick vacuums or micro-fiber cleaning clothes, I'm referring to gadgets so cool that they don't even exist. Yet.

1) Toy Vacuum & Sorter Even though the kids are learning to put their toys away, I often find myself using a broom to fish out toys that have rolled under the couch and picking up toys that Munchkin has earnestly scattered around the house. I also spend a ridiculous amount of time sorting through toys to group them properly. Wouldn't it be better to have a vacuum that picks up all the toys, sucks them into a toy box and then automatically sorts them? The shapes would be put into the shape sorter, the plastic vegetables would join their brethren plastic fruit and the cars and trains would once again blissfully reside in the garage and train station respectively. 

2) Spilled-milk Purifier My kids may not be geniuses but they are brilliant at throwing sippy cups at precisely the right angle to get them to split open and pour their contents onto the table, chair, and floor. Even though you're not supposed to cry because of spilled milk (it's such a pain to clean up!), I would get less teary eyed if there was a gadget that could suck up the milk and purify it so it was suitable for drinking again. It'd probably be easier to get a cup that doesn't spill but no such luck yet.

3) Stain Remover I know that the detergent industry has created more varieties of soap and bleach than you can shake a stain removal stick at, but I'd like someone else to use them instead of me. Since my little one is still in diapers and adept at removing every bib known to man, woman and toddler, I spend a lot of time rinsing out outfits, spraying stain remover and hanging them in my bathtub until I can throw them in the washer down the hall. I'd rather have a robot do all the stain removing and--why not?--do the laundry as well. Ideally, the robo-laundroid would even know which delicate clothes to hang dry, but that may be asking too much. Instead I'll settle for one that folds the stain-free clothes and matches socks.

4) Swing Pusher We all love taking our kids to the park and gazing fondly at them as they run around (read: get tired enough to take a nap) and pretend to be pirates, but when it comes to swing time, things get a little boring. I'd like to find a gadget that keeps the kid swinging while I take a nap. Just a little one, I promise. If the gadget applies pressure similar to a parent's hand and keeps saying, "Yay!" every 30 seconds, the kids won't even notice!

5) Toddler-Walker Since I daydream of the day I won't need to own a stroller, I encourage Munchkin to walk home often. Unfortunately, she's not familiar with the idea of walking in a straight line and prefers to wander towards the street or towards dirt, neither of which is ideal if I'm trying to avoid more stain-removing. If someone could design a gadget that projects boring scenery on either side of Munchkin, it'd be great for her to skip the dirt and stick with the sidewalk for once. 

As the Boston Marathon bombing saga continued last week, I followed it closely, being careful not to expose my children to the detailed news coverage. Now that the surviving suspect has been captured and charged, I've been asking myself, "What will I tell my children?" I don't mean what will I tell them today, but what will I tell my children about the world we live in, as they grow up?  

Twelve years ago, I would have never imagined planes deliberately flying into buildings, killing thousands. I would have never imagined we'd be taking off shoes at the airport because of an attempted in-flight bombing. I would have never imagined the extent of cover-ups perpetrated by a church protecting its priests, but not its children. I would never have imagined one man would go into a school and kill twenty children. I would have never imagined two men--one still in his teens--setting off bombs at a marathon. 

All of these events are frightening. They make me want to hold my children and never let them go. I fear what could happen to them or what could be done to them. It's easy to think of one "bad guy" lurking in a corner far away. It's another to think of so many lurking in my neighborhood or around the corner. After all, I lived in New York during the attacks and I once crossed the Boston Marathon finish line myself. 

I am well aware that the rest of the world has suffered through bombings, conflict and violence that I will likely never face. I am also well aware that as a resident of the United States, the likelihood of becoming a victim of a terrorist attack is 1 in 20 million and that my child is more likely to be hit by lighting than to be kidnapped. I know all of those things yet I, like every mother, worry and wonder. 

I looked up a million articles describing how to best talk to my kids about violence, but it's not the talking I'm worried about, it's the living with violence that I grapple with. Yet, as I search, I know the answers are not on the internet, but in my heart. The truth is that I know that the best way to show kids how to deal with tragic and fearful situations is to keep going. To not stop flying around the world, to not stop believing in our fellow men and women, and to not stop cheering at marathons. To stop doing those things is to give in to fear and to give in to terrorism in its many forms.

It's not easy to keep going. After all, it's one thing for me to go out and face risks, but another to send my kids into the world, armed only with faith and love. I won't tell my kids about the bombings in Boston or 9/11 just yet. When they're old enough, though, we'll talk and I'll tell them that on September 11th, instead of leaving my office at NBC, I went to the newsroom to help. I'll tell them that even though the News Director said anyone could go home, everyone stayed. We were all scared. We were all worried. But we didn't hide and we didn't give in. We just kept going.

Before I had children, before I met my husband, before I moved to New York City, before I graduated from high school, I was a runner. I didn't plan to become a runner, but I became one all the same. It was the fall of 1997 as I trained for my first marathon, when I first thought, "What if I could qualify for Boston?" Back then, it was a dream, an aspiration. Qualifying would be confirmation of talent and skill I wasn't sure I possessed in high school. It wasn't until 2007 that I actually attempted to qualify and beat the cut-off of 3 hours 40 minutes and secured a spot in the 2008 Boston Marathon. I was ecstatic, proud, over-joyed and somewhat shocked that I had done it.

Three of my siblings came to cheer me on, as did my mother and my husband-to-be. The night before the race, my family pulled out maps and, with the precision of a military tactical team, planned where everyone would be on the course to cheer me on. A good friend of mine was running the race with me and she and her siblings laughed at my family's overly-careful planning. My friend and I ran the whole race together, spotting our families and friends along the course. When we turned onto Boylston Street we pushed for a strong finish and raised our arms triumphantly as we crossed the finish line. We were tired, we were sore, but we finished and went on to celebrate with our loved ones.

Five years later, I watched the race coverage as women and men sped through the course. I cheered for the Colombian runner Yolanda Caballero, a widowed mother who led the women for miles, and for the Ethiopian woman who won. I watched as amateur runners crossed the start line and as elite runners of all ethnicities raced past the flags to cross the finish line. Then I turned off the screen and headed to the kitchen to make lunch. 

It was almost three hours later that my husband texted me with news of the bombing. As I distractedly played with the children outside, I used my phone to search for news to learn of the dead and injured, devastated for the runners and their families. 

I am tempted to say, "That could have been me. That could have been my family." I recognize where those bombs went off. I remember the flags, now forcefully pushed down so first responders could get to the injured. But it's not about me. It's about an evil soul who had a goal to injure, to maim, to kill and dismay us. More importantly though, it's also about those first responders. It's also about untrained volunteers rushing to help. It's about watching that awful blast over and over again and focusing on the number of people running towards the blast instead of away from it. 

It's also about the runners whose journeys to the Boston Marathon are varied and unique. It's about how fatigued they were by the time the bombs went off. About distraught runners still on the course who were not only unable to fulfill their dream of crossing the finish line, but filled with dread and concern for their loved ones. Tired, cold and in shock, those runners likely felt sadness, disappointment, fear and anger within seconds of being stopped and herded off of the course. 

The scenes from the coverage--the chaos, the debris, the blood--remind me of 9/11. Back then, I was living in New York City, and, like many folks in Boston today, devastated for my city, deeply saddened by the loss of two friends, and humbled by the courage of the firefighters who ran into the two burning buildings while others ran out. That year I was also running the NYC Marathon, though ambivalent about the months of training involved. After the towers fell, I was galvanized and decided to race the course with pride and courage. Fear was not going to stop me. As I stepped to the starting line that November, I discovered I was not alone. I was surrounded by Australians, Peruvians and people from all over the world who had braved two of the world's biggest concerns: flying and NYC. They came to stand alongside 23,000 fellow runners and prove that terrorists were not going to cow them out of their race. As I ran mile after mile, I passed dozens of firefighters along the course and bowed down to them and thanked them. What an honor: here were the real heroes, dressed in full gear, cheering me on.

I learned something from that race. I learned heroism takes many forms. Those runners from around the country and around the world came to my city to support New Yorkers and the U.S. They faced their families and said, I'm not afraid, I'm going. Some probably said, I'm afraid AND I'm still going. And they did. They ran. They cheered. They finished. The NYC Marathon in 2001 wasn't just a race, it was a revolution.

Today, less than 24 hours after the explosion in Boston, it's time to lead our individual revolutions. It's time to run toward Boston, not away. We must go to Boston, not to gawk, but to give. We must honor the victims and help them heal. We must remember those who lost their lives. We should seek justice, but not revenge. We should seek understanding, not hate. We should let this lesson permeate through our lives and give time if we have time to give and money if we have money to give. And, given the opportunity, we must inspire others just because we can.

With its storied history, the Boston Marathon has never been just a footrace. The Boston Marathon has been a goal, an aspiration, a dream, a story. This year's story has added a tragic chapter, but not a tragic end. The Boston Marathon is about triumph as it will be once again. Not today, not this month, but that finish line will one day, again herald joy and there will, once again, be families rushing in to scoop up their runners, their heroes. 

When I was little, I had thick black hair that my mother would pull into two pigtails. I remember she'd stand over me in the bathroom, wet comb in hand, insisting I sit still as she tugged and cajoled my hair into a presentable hairstyle. Fast-forward 30 years and now I'm trying to tame Munchkin's straight fine hair into something befitting a 17-month old with rosy cheeks and a big smile. After a few days of lopsided pigtails and up-dos that have Munchkin looking like Pebbles Flinstone, I can now see her sweet little face. But every time I pull Munchkin's hair into elastics, she screeches and I can't help but think that it's unfair that Munchkin's hair follicles get tortured while Monkey is free to play with his fire truck. 

This thought crosses my mind not only when I comb Munchkin's hair, but when the kids dress up. Every time I dress the kids for a special event, Monkey wears nicer versions of his regular clothes, while Munchkin has tights, diaper-covering undies (what are they called?) and fancy shoes we don't want scuffed. I'm well aware that women put more effort into dressing up than men, but my discomfort with that awareness has grown now that I impose those efforts upon my children. More accurately, I am effectively teaching my children that little girls must spend more time getting ready than little boys and that feels wrong.

On the flip side are the things boys "shouldn't" do. Monkey has watched me apply eye shadow and lipstick when I'm ready to go out. He has asked me why I paint my nails and when Monkey asked to try some polish himself. I hesitated. The voice in my head said, "Boys don't wear nail polish" Then I corrected the voice and thought, "Most boys don't wear nail polish." I realized that it was perfectly natural for Monkey--and any kid--to like nail polish; they like paint, they like color, so why not wear colorful paint? Why can I paint Munchkin's nails, but not his? 

I've tried these past few years to avoid saying, "Boys don't wear that," or "Girls don't play with those toys." It's been difficult sometimes, because the thoughts that linger are, "What will people think?" or "What will his father say?"

At the same time, I know I won't stop putting Munchkin's hair in pigtails or putting her in dresses, because the Latin side of me wants her to be appropriately--and femininely--dressed. There will be a time when she will be in control of the way she dresses, whether it be dressy, sporty or both. Monkey is already making some of his own judgements. For example, he told me that only girls wear dresses. I replied that most--not all--girls wear dresses and that some--not all--boys wear them too. He said he doesn't like dresses and will never wear them. That disdain made me sad because that means that even though I'm trying to avoid setting limits based on gender, the world is already teaching him what he can or cannot do.

I've been thinking about writing a post about teaching kids to clean-up for a while. As I sat at my dining table this morning, researching relevant articles, I noticed Monkey had perused a stack of books I had destined for storage. Even though five of the books were on the floor, Monkey was busy playing with his Legos. In the corner was a stacking toy Munchkin favored, all its pieces scattered about the room. Clearly we need a little help. 

In the last two years, as Munchkin's toy collection has increased and the complexity of Monkey's toys has deepened, I've spent a lot of time picking up toys, sorting them and putting them away. Many of their toys come with various parts that end up all over the living room, or worse, Munchkin distributes them all over the house, as if she was a bee distributing pollen.  Both kids like to "help" with the laundry, Munchkin loves to take out the trash and Monkey has mad cooking skills, thanks to the hours he's spent cooking with me. But cleaning up is not my strength and, as a result, I haven't consistently taught the kids to clean up regularly. Sometimes I play the clean-up song which inspires Monkey to move quickly, but it also leads him to obsess with the laptop, more concerned with replaying the song than me putting his toys away. 

But lately, I've gotten more serious about teaching the kids to clean up. About two weeks ago, I took 70% of the children's toys and put them in my closet. I knew they had a lot of toys, but not until I carried them down the hall did I realize how many toys. The next morning, I lay in bed as my husband got up with the kids and I listened for their reaction to the enormous change to their toy corner. Neither child noticed. Nor did my husband or even my visiting mother. 

Now that the toy corner is much emptier, I'm working on having them put one toy away before taking another one out. It's as much a change in routine for them as it is for me. I don't want to interrupt their playtime to clean up, but the more I think about the struggle I have to maintain things tidy, the more motivated I am to help them learn good habits early. I'm getting more consistent about picking up their dishes, putting dirty clothes in the hamper and teaching Monkey to make his bed. If they don't learn how to do it now, how will they know what they need to do to maintain a clean room and, in the far-off future, a clean house?

Every time the clock ticks closer to bedtime and I'm tempted to rush the kids to bed and put the toys away myself, I slow down and make time for the kids to put their toys aways. Then I close my eyes and pray that at least one of the kids turns into a neat freak. No matter how much I clean after the kids go to bed, I could still use a little help.