Cristina is in town from Milan for a few days with her thirteen-year-old niece and they were planning a big day of shopping and girl stuff. Ava started coughing the night before. I was worried. The next morning she was coughing every few seconds and said her whole body ached. She didn't have a fever but I'm a big fan of Tylenol meltaways so gave her two. We rushed off to school with her little brother but she said she felt so awful. I felt like th worst parent in the world. Since there's no one but me I have to send the kids to school. I mean, if they had chicken pox what could I do but buy some stage makeup up and some turtlenecks. So there at the playground she was crying. "I feel soooo bad daddy." I started to crack and started to think about how I could take care of her. I told her that if she did come back home with me, not a minute of TV, she'd just have to read and lie in bed all day.

"There's no one to take care of you."

"What about Cristina?"

"She's going to be out all day with Alberica. You're too sick to be out."

"But I'm out now."

That was when it hit me. I was offended, shocked and proud all at the same time. I sent her in to school but she kept up the act, waving forlornly to me as she entered the huge building. I was that clever and sneaky when I was a kid, we all were, but somehow her cries, her tantrum made me worry so much about her that I was pissed. Not really pissed. I felt betrayed. If she loves me as much as she always says she does, how could she lie to me? Riding the train home I realized that when I talk about betrayal by my daughter I'm really talking about betrayal by my daughter's mother.

When I picked her up after school she was frowning and gave me yet another cough. I told her I was on to her. I told her daddy sees everything and knows everything. She never admitted wrongdoing but a half hour later she, her brother and Alberica were shrieking at each other, racing around and around the apartment.

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Their mom came back from travels in Germany and India. My grand plan was for her to live in Woodstock or some other nearby hippie town and come in on the weekends so the kids could see her regularly (and so I could stay out past one on weekends instead of rushing back Cinderella-tyle to relieve the sitter.) Instead, their mom said a week in Manhattan was enough and left today to stay with her mom and plot her next move. She hot combed Ava's hair though, and taught her how to cook macaroni & cheese two nights ago and pasta marinara tonight. It was as if she was trying to transmit to her daughter in three days a lifetime of motherly advice. Ava was so so thrilled. "Look at me daddy, I'm cooking!" She was desperate for me to try her food. Chetty ate it all up but when I asked if it was good he held out his little hand and tilted it up and down. It was as if my little girl knew that she'd be the minimommy in the house. She cooked, then put away the dishes and even wanted to mop the floor. Since she could walk she's been the reincarnation of June Cleaver but now, now that it really will be just the three of us, the little thing is pouring her heart into it. I don't think I've ever felt so sorry for us.

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We've been back a month and a half and the kids and I are having a blast. They've already made some good friends, and me too. In L.A. I went out to the movies and maybe some bad pasta at CPK, here I've found myself surrounded by some extraordinarily interesting people. It began with a party for Arianna Huffington's ballsy new book, "On Becoming Fearless" where I met Naomi Wolf and Jimmie Briggs, she of The Beauty Myth, he's just finished a heartbreaking book about children forced to become soldiers. At the same party two fellow Stanford alums recognized me from the HuffPost, both are writers, one for The Daily Show, one an editor at Elle. I was talking to another friend from L.A. who said it as well. The cliche' is true. Here in Manhattan you really have to raise your game. In L.A. I felt like I could talk out of my ass and no one would call me on it. I love to let loose and pontificate. Last night, at a cocktail party aboard the Forbes yacht surrounded by the Young Global Leaders of the World Economic Forum, I had to actually think about what I was going to say before I said it. It was wonderful. Back here in this city I feel as if I'm watering my brain.

After the party, after waving goodbye to the golden helicopter on the yacht's roof with "Capitalist Tool" inscribed on its side, the others went off to continue their reveling at various trendy hotspots. That's when reality settled back in on me. Phaedre, my ex, was in town and babysitting for me. I'd promised I would get home around eleven. My hope was that she would settle somewhere near New York so the kids could see her regularly and so I could have a break. They did spend the night where she was staying a few nights ago, and it was the first time I haven't had to run back to a sitter since I've been here. Of course all of my friends here were busy so I just went to the movies by myself and then a late dinner at Zona Mexicana but I still revelled in the freedom. Phaedre doesn't know if she's staying longer here, if she's going away soon. The uncertainty is awful for the kids and keeps me in limbo too. Life was much easier earlier in the evening when I was sipping Veuve on a yacht with retired models and Italian royals.

And yet I can't complain. I so love my life. Two days ago I rushed back to the kids' school for a class potluck armed with two bottles of Marinelli's. As I was setting up in the school cafeteria I realized that I didn't recognize any of the other parents. Instead of October 19th, our potluck is November 19th. Since Phaedre is in town I convinced her to come. While waiting for her, Ava said she was dying of thirst. Out on the curb in front of the school I popped open the sparkiing cider and Ava, Chet and I took turns taking a swig. The bottle looks like champagne in the dark and i was hoping passersby would think that I was the most decadently evil dad ever, sharing champagne right out of the bottle with his two little kids.

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