What the Dickens?

I feel like it's maybe time for a poop story.

You may feel that it is never, in fact, time for a poop story. And that's OK. 

Now you know where this is going.

Much like the penis in the plantation shutters, this is the kind of story that makes Nick shake his head and think there is something very wrong with me. But then I remind him that he adores me and so really, what's wrong with him?

Pretty sure he'd be happy if I never spoke of feces again. But (butt! ha!) how does one go through life like that?

A couple summers ago, we rented a little cabin near a lake in Maine.

It was small and cute, two bedrooms one bathroom, just perfect for the four of us, with trees around and a fire pit. It was a short walk to a cute little lake beach. Big lake, cute little beach, I mean.

Now, I've never considered myself a person with particularly unusual bowel movements. And I don't actually think it was me. It was the shape of the toilet bowl.

See, for some reason, my poops just wouldn't go down the toilet.

This didn't happen to anyone else in the family. I asked.

But still.

There didn't seem to be much to be done about it besides going out to the woods and getting a stick to poke it down. And then I'd take the stick back out and fling it into the woods.

I made sure to get sticks from the same area and throw them deep into the trees so that I could make sure that I wasn't picking up the same stick. And so that the kids were not in danger of gathering poo-poking-sticks to roast marshmallows.

Anyway, this one day I realized that my intransigent poop looked like a penis and testicles. Petite testicles, but still.

It wasn't the Virgin Mary on toast, but naturally, I was dying to show someone.

As you might imagine, the audience for this sort of thing is limited.

Nick is a hard no. In fact, India is really the only one. If there's something particularly extraordinary,  will tell each other and are always willing to look.

But Nick and the kids were down at the lake. And I certainly wasn't going to save it.

So I jumped on the WhatsApp group with two dear high school friends. I told them the situation and that I was dying, dyyyyyyyying to show someone.

And they were both like, hell yes, send it over, we want to see!

So I sent a photo, and I must say, they were impressed. 

And then I went out to the woods and got a new poking stick.

I'm not calling you a ghost. Just stop haunting me.

This is something that scares me to post.

Last month, Nick took this photo of me at camp.

Isn't Moose Pond spectacular?  I've taken a photo of this view myriad times with and without people in it.

So I wanted to be in a photo with that particular backdrop.

And still, when I saw the picture, my immediate response was to cringe and delete it.

I wear a bikini because it's easier to get in and out of. I learned this when I bought a shaper one-piece after I had Jordan. I got stuck in a bathroom with a wet bathing suit, struggling to pry it up or down. Two pieces are easier.

But I typically wear a sun shirt over it. For SPF rather than modesty. But I looked at this photo of me sitting down and I thought, why, why wasn't I wearing my sun shirt? Or a tee shirt or a towel? And makeup? Or better yet, my sunglasses?

Ugh. Delete.

Then I paused. Because I've recently seen some high school photos of myself. I was so young and fit, so fresh and pretty.

Do you know what I said about myself at the time? Same things I say now. Negative, critical and negative.

But look, look at me then. I was lovely.

And I do remember. I remember all my criticisms of myself at the time.

I was raised to seek external validation. But it didn't actually make me feel good about myself.

I know, looking at those photos of my youth, how bad I felt about myself then. I remember how inadequate I felt. If only I were taller. If only I were thinner. If only were prettier. If only...

The fact was, I could only starve myself so much. I could only run so many miles. I tried very hard to do more of both.

And just as with moving from place to place, you're still you with your same issues, until you deal with them. You can't run from them, you can't starve them out, and you can't move away from them.

As it turns out, you just have to work through them. And sucks for a while, and then it makes you feel better.

I can take a photo tour of myself across time. Sometimes I look pretty. Sometimes I don't. Sometimes I am beaming or laughing, genuinely delighted. And sometimes, despite a smile, I can see through the facade to profound misery.

And still, the person in those photos is never the gorgon she imagined herself to be.

My reaction to my high school photos was to wish I'd appreciated who I was and what I had when I had it.

From my current vantage point, my skin then--always too pale and freckled for my liking, and why was I so unfairly pale?--was unwrinkled, lush and beautiful. My thighs, my dread thighs, were strong and athletic, smaller than they are now, back when I imagined they were enormous.

I look at this picture of myself at camp, and my eyes go to my flaws. But let's be honest. I'll never be younger than I am now.

This body created and carried two babies, one of them almost nine pounds, to term. This body had its abdominal muscles cut, and recovered.

This body has done the Everest trek, and ridden camels, and slept on the roof of houses in the desert in Rajasthan.

This body can do push-ups, and climb, and lift an 86-pound kid, and walk over 16 miles overnight.

I work out at home regularly. My kids see me lift weights and do push-ups. I tell them how proud I am to be strong. How strength and fitness are what I'm working for.

I don't focus (out loud) on size. I shush that voice for them, and I try to quell it within myself.

I've had more and less toned abs. I've had larger and smaller thighs.Sometimes my butt is bigger and rounder and wider. Sometimes it's less so.

 Last year I ate a pint of ice cream every night and grew out of all my pants. Like, I literally could not squeeze them up past my thighs, or if I could, they weren't office-appropriate. My skirts were like sausage casings. So when I returned to the office last winter, I bought two pairs of black work pants, vowing to fit back into my wardrobe.

And I started working, really really hard, on fitting back into my clothes. It's more difficult than it used to be. Just eating well didn't do it. Just exercising hard didn't do it. I had to do both, and diligently.

Now I fit back in my clothes, and for the most part, I feel good.

As for my freckled Irish skin, well, I spent too much time without sunscreen in the Indian sun, and that's just a fact.

So back to this photo. I saw it and deleted it. And then I made myself stop and reevaluate. Not the photo. My response.

I decided I needed to change my internal narrative. Because the issue is not actually the size of this body part or that. The issue is my brain.

We swim often, and we wear bathing suits while we do so. And it's OK for me to post photos of myself in a bikini, no matter how old I might be now, no matter how much fitter I might have been back when.

My body has done some amazing things. My body is strong.

I do my best, most days. Regardless of how I look, or think I look, I am enough.

And this is my body.

Morning smiles like the face of a newborn child

"Mama," my son said, as we lay side by side in his bed before sleep, "are you afraid of anything?"

The room was dark and quiet, and as I thought about my response, I said, "Am I afraid of anything? Hmm."

I'm terrified of somehow losing my kids, like in a car or plane crash, and having to face life without them. I'm scared something will happen to Nick. I know one day my mom will die and I worry about it. I'll be so devastated, I'll fall apart completely.

I'm scared to look in the mirror in the dark. I have been since second grade, when we played Bloody Mary at my house in Bangladesh. If I have to use the bathroom at night, I hurry in and out, looking straight ahead, making sure I don't glance in the mirror.

The other night it occurred to me vampires don't have a reflection. So looking in the mirror, you wouldn't even if know one were behind you.

Clowns, clowns frighten me, ever since Poltergeist. I read Steven King's It years and years ago, and that added to my clown terror. I couldn't watch the movie trailers.

I'm afraid of turbulence, I'm afraid my plane will crash. I worry about not having enough time with connections, and missing my next flight.

The idea of sink holes makes me anxious, although Nick has assured me that DC is built on rock.

I'm scared of accidentally backing into a geyser, although I've never yet been to Yellowstone. I'm scared of tsunamis and super volcanoes and being in the Pacific Northwest when that one giant tsunami earthquake liquefies the entire area.

At night, in the living room, when I'm the last one to bed, I fear a hand will reach out from under the couch as I walk by.

Also, rabies. Good lord, the rabies.

I'm afraid I'm not special. That actually, I'm just plain ordinary.

"Sharks," I said. I'm pretty scared of sharks. What about you?"

Mind your messages

A couple days ago, I posted something about wanting to put the Eagles on a continuous loop in the waiting room of my shrink's office.

In response, my friend Matt, who I've not seen in decades, sent me this clip above. I responded that it was funny, and that Nick hates the Eagles as well.

(Inconceivable, but true. I'm all, Nick, why don't you come to your senses? You been out ridin' fences for so long now...)

Anyway.

Matt and I had that brief exchange. Then that same evening another friend and I were messaging. She's in a leadership position, and she has some constituents who behave very badly. We were going back and forth about their behavior, and how she has to be diplomatic in her position.

We wrote lots and lots of messages back and forth. She described and I expressed sympathy and outrage.

At some point I said I would tell them to fuck off.

And in the middle of this volley of messages, Matt messaged me saying he doesn't actually hate them, and he mainly thinks about them in the context of their era.

It fit so well with the other conversation. I thought she was being exceedingly kind and generous to a group of rude, obnoxious people.

So I basically responded that I would not be that diplomatic, and I'd probably tell them to their faces that they're assholes.

Yesterday morning out of the blue I got a message from Matt with a random, "LOL".

LOL what? Ohhhhhh.

Which was a totally innocuous response to a crazy lady who feels the actual need to tell a band how much she hates them like right to their faces?

I was immediately all, OH NOT THE EAGLES! I like the Eagles! That was about these other people you don't know who behave terribly.

Fortunately, this was easily explained and not terrible like the time I messaged one coworker with the phrase "sucks big fat moose weenies" thinking he was the other coworker who actually used that expression.

It was also not as bad as when, last month, I confirmed with my trainer that I'd see him at noon, and then added I was a little nervous about the ass licking.

Happy Friday! 

Blame it on the train but the boss is already there...

Every morning, Nick calls me to tell me how school drop-off went.

Sometimes the kids leave the house belligerent and they get in the car and sing songs or spell words, which is their newest form of entertainment. Jordan loves the hard words with sneaky letters. I can't even tell you how much "psychology" delighted him. So tricksy!

Jordan learned to read and spell with the same approach that's being used with India, so he will prompt her with sounds. It's lovely.

They're both in great moods when they're dropped off.

And sometimes we're all fine, and we had the right flavor of bagel and we didn't accidentally put jam when we know that India only likes butter on the odd days of the month except in months that start with A when the moon is full and Mercury isn't in retrograde.

Which is to say sometimes we have a harmonious morning and teeth get brushed and my daughter even brushes her hair and then all hell breaks loose on the way to school.

This is the rarer scenario. Typically some calamity befalls us at breakfast (see jam above) or during the shoe-putting-on portion of the morning. But then Nick manages to get them giggling on the way over.

He always calls to report and chat.

For the past couple months these calls have come as I'm either doing my veryveryfast walk to work, or jogging because I'm late or want to make a light.

I've come to realize that because I'm such a fast walker and such a slow runner, at this point I do both at about the same speed, and I look ridiculous either way.

In any case, Nick calls to check in and we talk about the kids and then at some point I say, "I've got nothin'" because the fact is that we saw each other right before we went to sleep and upon awaking, and really zero has happened that he doesn't already know.

But.

This morning he didn't call me.

I was settled into work when I realized that he hadn't called.

He didn't call me. Why didn't he call me?

We hadn't fought, or even disagreed. Had I done something to annoy him?

It's true that I struggle in the mornings. And he got up and went to rowing practice and emptied the dishwasher and made breakfast and took the kids to school.

What did I even do? Got myself dressed and gave them vitamins.

I had to leave. I mean, not to be all Bangles about it, but I can't be late 'cause then I guess I just won't get paid.

I should've done more, though. Maybe he thinks I'm inadequate. Maybe I am inadequate.

It's true that I'm tired and crabby quite a lot, and it's likely that I think I'm more creative and funnier than I actually am.

Maybe it's all of these things and so much more and he just doesn't want to talk to me.

I could wait. I'll wait. I have lots of work do to. I'll wait and see if he calls and then I'll know if he's mad.

Except that I can't focus.

And actually, we're married. He's not some Match guy who suddenly went from emailing every day to silence. He's my husband. He might just be angry about...I don't know. Something.

He gets mad too easily. Why's he mad at me again? Yeah, well, I've got plenty of stuff I could be enraged about as well.

Or maybe he's not mad. No. They got in a terrible accident on the way to school. They're on the way to the hospital, and nobody has contacted me yet.

Oh my god, and here I've been all indignant about Nick being angry with me, when he might be on life support. I have to call right now.

I'll call Nick and then the school and then hospitals if I have to.

Nick answers immediately. "Hi love!"

 He sounds happy. They're clearly still alive.

"Hi! How was drop-off?"

"Great! We got out late and had to hustle. I called around nine but you didn't answer."

Oh.

Let me hear your body talk, your body talk

In February, I returned to work full time, albeit temporarily. This job will last until my kids are out of school mid-June.

I’m back in my old office, which has been terrific in myriad ways.

I could write a whole post about returning to the juggle of work and motherhood, and my current perspective. But really, I want to talk about returning to the gym and to my beloved trainer, Vic.

The building has a free gym. The one where all those years ago I pushed the red button and minced out the door.

Since I left my job four and a half years ago, I’d been working out at home or running, so this has really been my return to a gym and to a trainer.

I'd forgotten about gym interactions.

This gym is rather warm. So one of my colleagues, who works out regularly, bought two large, very blowy floor fans.

As it turns out, men were taking them into the locker room to dry themselves.

Yes. It’s quite a visual.

On Monday Vic was having me do a variety of exercises, one of which necessitated a bench. We typically do three sets of different exercises, so we weren’t using the bench the whole time. So we’d moved on to squats when a guy came over and took the bench away without saying anything.

He pulled it into the center of the room and sat down and did a set of grunty biceps curls. And then hung out flipping through Tinder. I know because I walked by.

I considered pointedly asking if we could take it for one set, but I settled for glaring in his direction. And in fact there was another bench (which he could have used), and we just moved over there.

So I was thinking I would sometime try to fart right next to him, but then after I left the gym I realized I couldn’t really tell him apart from the other 20-something guys. This means I may have to fart near all of them, one at a time.

Although since I can’t distinguish them, I might accidentally persecute a nice guy. And get a bad reputation.

So maybe not.

In any case, at the end of each workout, Vic has you lie face down a mat, and he presses on your back to align your spine.

And on a side bar, does anyone besides me have trouble with “lie” and “lay”? Lie for people, except “Now I lay me down to sleep,” which incidentally scared the crap out of me as a child because what little kid wants to die before they wake?

But grammatically speaking, that’s because you’re laying yourself down. Morally, I don’t think you should teach kids a prayer that makes them think they’re going to perish before dawn.

So I lay flat on the mat, face down. And Vic said, “Please put your left cheek on the mat.”

I just figured this was some new stretch, so I twisted my body, trying to get the left side of my butt flat against the mat. This, while trying to keep my face against the mat, was no small effort.

He was all, “What are you doing?”

And I was all, “It’s not that easy getting just my left butt cheek on the mat.”

And then he died laughing and I sure hope that the young guys were focusing on Tinder because I’m an idiot.

And signs that might be omens say I'm going, I'm going I'm gone to Carolina in my mind

Have you gone to a high school or college reunion? Were you nervous?

I'm going to go ahead and say that this post is possibly me at my most vulnerable.

This past weekend, I overheard my friend Leigh saying that I am good at vulnerability. I don't know if this is the case, because it scares me to open myself up to criticism. But I do open myself up. The act of writing all of this down, recognizing the feelings, and releasing them into the universe somehow  lightens me.

So I do it.

Almost every other person I've ever met who went to Chapel Hill loved it, and waxes nostalgic. They go back for football games, root for the Tarheels, and post pictures of the Old Well. Their college years were among the best of their lives.

This is how I feel about high school.You've seen my Delhi high school reunions and my myriad of love letters to those friends.

I almost never talk about college.

In July, a friend sent me details about a Kappa Kappa Gamma reunion. I was a Kappa. Do you know this? Perhaps not. It doesn't really come up in conversation.

After we graduated from college, my boyfriend and I went back to visit once that fall. I can't remember why. Maybe a party at his fraternity house? I went once again looking at grad schools, and once after a dear friend's wedding in Raleigh.

That's it, in 26 years.

I don't talk about my college years because I don't think about them. In fact, I barely remember them. They're kind of a dark spot of time for me, with sparks of memories.

We moved to the US from India the summer before I started college. In September, my dad attempted suicide, though my mom didn't tell me until October.

This was back when we didn't talk about it, so I swore my roommate Lesley to secrecy, and I told her. I had to tell someone. I was already in crisis, so Dad didn't trigger it, but it wasn't, to say the least, helpful.

But this was also back when we all insisted we were fine. My parents had no idea why my brother was so angry. No explanation for why I cried so much.

I literally--and when I say literally, I do mean actually physically--spent hours a day sitting on the floor of my dorm room crying and eating chocolate covered peanuts. I gained 40 pounds that year, much of it by Christmas.

Lesley got really sick first semester and missed weeks of class. Years later she told me the only reason she came back was because she was so worried about me.

I knew I cried a lot, but I didn't understand that I was depressed. And nobody in my family recognized that I was depressed. Now I suppose this was because all the focus was on my dad. Who was, of course, fine.

If someone had handed me Prozac and told me to take one every day, I am absolutely certain those years would've been dramatically better.

But then, if you asked me, I'd say I was fine. This was how my family operated. We were always fine.

I did my best to blend. I kept gaining weight, so I kept having to buy new clothes. I bought Laura Ashley and bucks and rugby shirts. I cultivated a Southern accent that I later worked to get rid of. For years after, when I drank, the drawl would come out. I still slide into it very easily.

I would've gone home and never returned, but my parents were living in Virginia, so their house wasn't home. Because I spent so much time crying and not going to class, my grades were appalling. So I couldn't transfer anywhere comparable.

Anyway, I wouldn't have had the wherewithal to transfer. Most days, getting through the day was as much as I could manage.

This is not to say I didn't ever go out, and didn't have fun; I did. It's also not to say that I didn't make friends, because Lesley was one of my best friends, and one of my closest friends to this day, Ann, lived down the hall freshman year. We all laughed a lot together. Now I wonder if it was that verge of hysteria laughter. I genuinely don't know.

Anyway, I did have fun, and did have friends. I just spent a lot more time crying and pretending than actually being joyful.

Joining a sorority sophomore year, though, was terrific. Most of the friends I've made since college weren't in sororities, and raise an eyebrow when I say I was. And I say, "But it wasn't like you're thinking!" The Kappa House had the highest sorority GPA on campus. It was full of really smart, interesting women. Lots of campus leaders.

I chose Kappa after becoming friends with a couple amazing women freshman year. Fortunately, though I had a terrible GPA, and wasn't a campus leader, Kappa chose me as well.

Once I was on the sorority side of rush, I was astounded I'd made it.

My college experience improved dramatically once I joined. I wasn't quite so lost. I had a group that I belonged to, some wonderful friends, and a place to go that I felt comfortable. I went to mixers and events. I spent a lot of time at the house, and with my sorority sisters.

The summer after sophomore year, I lived with a high school friend's family in Rome. Her dad got us summer jobs at the embassy. In Italy, I finally felt like myself again. I worked it out to spend half of my junior year in Rome as well. I lost all the weight I'd gained. I loved Rome, loved my life there.

I returned to Carolina with just one year to get through, and lucked into living with dear friends in the sorority house. The first week of class I met a very cute, very southern guy who actually, shockingly,  wanted to be my boyfriend. Goal achieved.

By senior year, with the countdown to leave, I finally felt like I actually fit in. I remember, at graduation, being sad to leave.

This brings me to the Kappa reunion.

I got the information, and I was intrigued. What a great idea! How fun to see friends I haven't seen in decades! I should go!

I had some deep and very meaningful friendships, but lost touch with all my sorority sisters within a year of graduating.

But in the past several years, I've reconnected with a number of these friends over Facebook, and gotten to spend time with a few. My friend Eileen, creator of Super Sikh, among other things, came to visit when I was pregnant with Jordan. Being together after all those years fed my soul.

In fact, all of these reconnections have been wonderful. But a lot of those in-person reconnection friends aren't able to make the reunion.

So time passed, and I clicked on the invitation over and over. And every time I thought about it, I got anxious.

Two months went by. The organizers sent out a couple emails. I said I was going to go, but I didn't put money down. The deadline was approaching. One of the friends I saw in January said she and another friend had gotten a room and invited me to share.

Nick was all, "You should go. Just buy your ticket. Go."

I finally bought the ticket one night right before bedtime. I got in bed and he said, "Did you buy it?"

I said, "Yes. But I don't know if I can go."

"Why?"

"It makes me so nervous."

I didn't exactly know why. I had to think about it. Eventually I whispered, "Because...What if nobody actually liked me?"

I honest to god said this. Here I am, a grown woman, a mother, far, far from college years. And what popped out of my mouth, when I reached down into my feelings, was: what if nobody actually liked me?

I hate how lost and scared and trying-too-hard I was in college. I think about freshman year, and how inferior I felt to people who knew each other from high school, but didn't know where India was and weren't interested.

I didn't know about culture shock and being a third-culture kid. I just knew that I didn't want to be there and couldn't go home.

I'm embarrassed that in those years I just wanted to be skinny and pretty enough and have a boyfriend, and eventually a husband because that meant I was good enough. I didn't know that I was smart or could do great things, because nobody told me so.

I think about who I was, and how I really really didn't want to be that person, but didn't know how not to be.

I don't have a lot of memories from college, but I also avoid them because they're painful.

What it comes down to is this: I hated myself back then. So why would anyone else like me?

Sometimes Nick does the stereotypical male thing and tells me how to fix my problem, which makes me regret saying anything and also want to stab him. But other times he listens and he makes me feel heard and considered. Which is what he did in this case.

He said, "I've learned that people who go to reunions go because they want to see other people. They want to reconnect. Do you fear you'll be excluded?"

I said no, absolutely not. These were kind woman. Funny, smart, interesting, and extraordinary in such a variety of ways.

No, I don't have a fear of being excluded. I just...felt insecure.

And he said, "That's OK."

He talked about how, at both his high school and college reunions, he talked to people he hadn't really known before. About how nice it was to see everyone.

I realized that part of this is fear of returning to a place where I felt small and inferior. Where I felt very much on the outside, and thought everyone but me was on the inside.

I still feel like this in life sometimes, just not at much, and I recognize when it is happening.

I'm the same person, of course, but also so very different. And I haven't revisited those years.

As I've worked through it and named it, I'm still nervous, but mostly very excited. The list of attendees is amazing. 

Now it's only two weeks away.

I may solicit your opinions on outfits.

And there you have it.

Bedtime is the longest distance between two places

Do you have kids who have recently gone back to school?

If so, are they complete, rampaging, raging lunatics at night?

I know it's impolitic to disparage your own children, but boy howdy have my kids been big jerks lately.

I try to be all, oh, it's hard going back to school, and they have to hold it together all day and I'm a safe person to let it out with. They are feeling big feelings. I do try.

Sometimes I manage.

But sometimes, like after the 54th time I've asked them to brush their teeth, even held the toothbrush with toothpaste up to their mouths, and tried to actually do it for them, I lose my everloving mind.

Typically they're in bed by the time Nick gets home. This is nice for him.

But lately after dinner, or sometimes starting midway through, they've been hanging from the chandeliers, galloping back and forth down the hallway, giggling like fiends and basically ignoring every entreaty/threat to put on PJs, or get in the bath, or brush teeth, or get into bed.

Every single step of the process is an ordeal. And then when they're finally ready for bed, the actual getting into and staying in bed takes another hour.

I'm all, don't they understand that I just want them to go to sleep so Nick and I can sit in silence and watch a video?

Oh! Which reminds me: what are you watching? We have a year for more Game of Thrones, and Stranger Things doesn't come out until Halloween. We just watched the only season of Wolf Hall. What's piquing your interest lately?

So.

Nick has been coming home to the detritus of the evening and two little barbarians in frenzied motion.

The other night I was done, just done with my small humans. Nick walked into the bathroom and I left him to deal with them. I went and sat in our closet. I didn't come out until the noise had stopped.

Another night he came home to them in the bath, and he overheard India saying, "I'm going to kick you! Do you want me to kick you in the neck or the penis?"

Both tempting options, to be sure.

Last night we stayed on the playground until dinnertime. For dinner I chucked a frozen pizza and tiny hot dogs in the oven and cut up a cucumber. I let them keep drawing while they ate, since it was just the three of us.

They were lovely, sweet, and relatively subdued while eating.

I did airplane with India after dinner, and snuggled and giggled with her. I gave her special, one-on-one time while Jordan read a novel in the bathroom.

I thought, surely with all the playing and attention, surely tonight will be better.

And then it came time for PJs and teeth brushing and my cherubs morphed into creatures that I longed to menace back into the Hellmouth with a pitchfork.

Nighttime is never easy. I am tired, they are tired, and none of us are at our best. But lately it's just been brutal.

One night I snarled, "You're driving me insane!"

And India said, "Why did you have kids?"

This gave me pause. The first answers that flashed through my head were snarky, nothing I wanted to voice.

So I made a funny face and say, "WHY? Why did I have kids?"

And she smiled and said, "Because you wanted more family?"

I said, "Yes! Because I wanted my own family. Because I wanted little people to love so much. And I do, I love you both more than anything."

She beamed and gave me a big hug. I thought, "Oh! This is one of those rare parenting moments I've done right!"

I said, "Shall we brush our teeth now?"

A parenting article might end with her brushing her teeth and me tucking her into bed and giving her a cuddle and her falling asleep hugging her teddy bear.

Ha.

Reality is, she clenched her teeth, giggled maniacally, and bolted from the bathroom.

And I was all, I know, I know, the days are long and the years are short. I am sometimes shocked when I step back and see how big they've gotten. I know I'm blessed. I believe children are gifts and I treasure mine.

But right now where is my space pod and gin slushy machine?

New additions to the fear list

Death by coconut
This is a thing. A friend of mine went to Panama, and at the hotel they gave her a list of things to watch out for.

Top of the list? Above scorpions? Falling coconuts. Hand to god.

"Although it sounds peculiar, the most dangerous thing in the Caribbean is having a coconut fall on your head." Direct quote. See below.

Proof!

So I Googled this, and there are a number of articles about how you are more likely to die from a falling coconut than a shark attack.

I think they were trying to reassure people, like listen, shark attacks aren't even as common as coconut attacks, but all I could think was, you're not safe in the water and you're not safe on the beach! Nature will kill you every time.

Listen to this: if a coconut falls out of a tree, it can hit you with 2,000 pounds of force. And then you die.

This happens!

I recommend wearing a sturdy but stylish pith helmet. Betty used to have a very cute one, although I cannot remember why, because if she knew about the coconut danger, she never shared it with us.

So, yah.

Death by being swallowed by a python
Last week I read about a 25-year-old Indonesian man who went out to harvest palm oil. And he never came home, so his family went out looking for him.

Do you know where they found him, two days later? In the stomach of a 23-foot long python.

Yes.

Pythons, they squeeze you to death. They're incredibly powerful, and they just crush the stuffing out of you. There you are, walking along, collecting your palm oil, and the next thing you know your whole body is being strangulated by a giant python.

Then they swallow you whole. Their jaws unhinge, or something like that, so they can open wide enough to swallow an entire grown man. With his boots on.

They do this, and then lie around in a ditch and wait for you to digest.

I'm not clear on what happens to the boots.

Apparently, they rarely eat humans. They typically eat small and medium sized mammals.

Also, I know what you're going to say: We don't have them in DC, Lisa, except in the form of shoes and handbags.

Listen, we also don't have hippos, and they are way high up on the list. I don't let little things like practicality or lack of proximity deter me.

Like, I also realize there's not going to be a shark in the bottom of the pond or the swimming pool. But if I can't see the bottom, or if it is deep and I am swimming alone, it doesn't keep me from panicking.

Jaws traumatized me for life.

Also, did I tell you that there are sharks in the Potomac?

You're welcome.

I mean, I guess I could try

Yesterday the second grade at Jordan's school had an event. Parents were asked to supply breakfast.

I volunteered to bring coffee. You can never have too much coffee, right?

The Dunkin Donuts was surprisingly empty when I arrived. There was one person at the counter, asking for one of the new donuts. This new donut, which I think was actually pain au chocolat, would not ring up.

The man ordering kept pointing at the donut tray and saying, "It's $1.49."

But it wouldn't ring up. It went back and forth like this until the attendant got the manager.

So then it was my turn. I asked how many cups per box. Eleven. I ordered two boxes of coffee.

By the time the boxes were ready, there was quite a line. The manager rang up my order while the other guy filled a bag with cups and creamer and such.

He put the boxes and the bag together on the counter and said, "Do you need help? Is it just you?"

I didn't think, until immediately afterwards, about the fact that they were heavy, and that these men assumed I was driving, and were offering to help carry them to my car. 

So I replied, in front of everyone, "Oh, I'm taking them to school. I could never drink all this coffee all by myself!"

I just...Why?

OK, so now you know

Last weekend I took Betty and the kids out to Leigh's farm. She has a big Halloween party every year, and this is the first time we've been.

It was amazing. Her silo bar is the photo backdrop. The barn was filled with skeletons and corpses and cobwebs and other creepy things.

I let Jordan and India eat as many treats, including cupcakes with disgusting gummy eyeballs on top, as they wanted. They were absolutely delighted with the whole affair.

And also cracked out of their minds on sugar all weekend.

I arrived without a costume. Luckily, Leigh has a stash. She lent me the Batwoman costume in the picture above.

It felt fantastic. I absolutely loved it.

Hand to God, I'd wear it all the time if I could.

Seriously. I would wear it to Target. To pick the kids up at school. I'd walk the dog in it if I had one.

So, I just saw this article that said that electric eels sandwich their prey to double the shock. And I was thinking, you know, that's a superpower I'd really like to have.

Which, I guess, is more villainous than hero-y.

Unless I was shocking bad people.

Would that be a cool thing to be able to do? I mean, if I could be invisible, or read minds, or fly, I might choose those over shocking people. But I certainly wouldn't turn this ability down, if offered.

Which superpower would you choose if you could?

I've said before that it would be terribly useful to be able to puke at will. So when someone is being hugely malignant, you could "accidentally" vomit on them.

It would be so satisfying.

You'd apologize profusely, of course. I mean, unless they were a mugger or rapist. Then you'd scream and run away.

And you wouldn't actually hurt them. Not physically.

Also, I want to start taking Krav Maga. I've only been mugged once, but you never know.

I'm not sure what it says about me that I'd like to have the ability to really hurt someone. Because as much as I joke about stabbing my husband, the truth is, I'd never do it.

I'm opposed to violence.

But I'm also small, and a woman. I'm very careful if I'm walking alone at night. But I still think it might be good to acquire some skills.

On a related note...this election, man.

Nick has discovered the joys of Facebook, and he's posted a couple times about politics.

From these posts I have learned that he has a couple smug, Trump-voting childhood friends. Who have no good pro-candidate arguments. They mostly respond with insults and references to "Killary" and stupid memes.

I've told Nick that he'd better never introduce me to these men.

Because I will dickpunch them for sure.

That time I was going to lie to my shrink and then I didn't

"OK, so, I was totally going to lie to you, because I was afraid you'd get mad, but I'm not. I'm going to tell you the truth."

Months ago, that was what I said when I walked into my shrink's office.

You might think that of all people to be honest with, you'd be straight up with your mental health professional. The one giving you psychiatric medication.

Right?

But you know, my previous shrink, the one I chose because he took my insurance, he made me feel bad. I'd go in and talk to him and I'd immediately feel like I wasn't doing the right thing. I was doing something wrong, or I wouldn't be depressed.

He didn't make me feel like we could figure it out together. No. He made me feel like a loser.

I needed help feeling like less of a loser. Or a not-loser. I didn't want to pay someone to feel like more of one.

And here's the thing. I am a first born rule follower. I am a people pleaser.

I don't want to upset. I don't want to disappoint. I am terrified of getting in trouble.

Now, I don't know about you, but I was raised to respect and even fear authority. Certainly not to question it. I didn't know that was an option.

As an adult, I was once visiting my parents, and my dad called from another room, "Lisa, could you come in here please?"

I flinched. "Am I in trouble?"

He said, "What? No. Lisa. You're 25."

Sometimes Nick has a tone. I think, "I'm in trouble." My body goes into fight or flight mode.

I'm not kidding. I don't think it ever completely goes away.

When I was a kid, I was so truthful. If I did something wrong and was asked about it, I owned it, even if it meant getting spanked. Often I confessed before being asked. I was grounded a lot.

I don't remember my transgressions. I do remember the fear.

As I got older, things got more nuanced. I knew my dad wasn't always right. His rules didn't necessarily make sense. But he expected me to do as he said. He expected me to agree.

I never challenged my teachers or the school administrators. If you were in a position of authority, your word was law.

Then one day in eleventh grade my dear friend Kristin said, "I just agree with people and then do whatever I want."

What? Whoa!

You know what? This worked.

Disagreeing never worked. Fighting didn't work. Sometimes very carefully and thoughtfully articulated opposing arguments worked. I did this, in letter form, I think twice.

But this! This subversive strategy was so much more expedient! And less stressful!

Sometimes me actually doing whatever my dad was expecting didn't even seem to matter. The agreement, the "yes, Dad," was what mattered.

You could agree with something you thought was stupid, and then quietly go about your business.

If you didn't do what you were supposed to do, despite your best intentions...you could just kind of...not exactly tell the truth to the person in charge. And then you wouldn't have a disagreement and you wouldn't get in trouble.

Unless you were caught. But that didn't happen much.

So. My shrink's office.

I'd gone off my meds--you know about this--and taken that express bus to Crazytown.

And then I had this long-standing shrink appointment. To check in and talk about my medication. The medication I'd quit so cavalierly, without so much as an email to him.

My plan, of course, was to walk in and pretend that everything was fine. That I hadn't deviated from the course he set out for me. Because that would be not following the rules. And he might get angry. Or be disappointed.

I might get in trouble.

The day before my appointment, I saw a good friend, who asked about my upcoming appointment. I told her I was just going to say everything was fine.

And she basically said, "Look. This is someone you pay to help you. This is his profession, so he knows what he's talking about. And his only role in your life is to help you feel better. He's not going to get mad, and he's not going to judge."

"You're right. I know you are."

"So let him help you."

I knew she was right. I did. But still, I was so nervous. I hadn't followed instructions. I'd broken the rules. I had to keep telling myself, "He's not your dad. He's not going to get mad. You're paying him to help you."

And I walked in, took a deep breath, and confessed.

It came out in a rush.

"OK, so, I was totally going to lie to you, because I was afraid you'd get mad, but I'm not. I'm going to tell you the truth..."

I went on for a while. I told him everything.

That I was afraid he'd get mad. That I'd be in trouble. That I'd gone off my meds and gone to Crazytown and now I was pretty much back but I hated Wellbutrin and I just wasn't willing to take it anymore.

That I had to be reminded that he wasn't my dad and wouldn't get mad at me. That I recognized that I hired him specifically to help me with the very types of medication I'd been planning to lie about.

You know what he did? He chuckled at my confession. He said he understood how I'd quit and not checked in with him. He didn't chastise me.

He commended me for being truthful. For recognizing that his role is to find solutions, not to judge.

And then we talked it all through. And made a new plan.

He did exactly what I pay him for.

He helped me. And he made me feel better.

I'd love to pretend that with that, I learned my lesson. That I have gotten rid of this automatic response. That I do not react when Nick has a tone. That I do not keep my doctors on a need to know basis, with me deciding what they need to know.

But that would be a lie.

The truth is, I'm working on it.

There's always something happening and it's usually quite loud

My friend Rachel recently asked if I'd been working on my book this summer.

Honestly, I don't even know anymore if I have it in me to write a book. But that's a whole nother topic.

In any case, I said that not only had I not been writing anything at all, but being at home with the kids, I don't blog, and I barely answer email. I can barely think.

She nodded. "Summer is like a dumpster fire."

Yes. She nailed it.

With kids, summer is like a dumpster fire.

I don't know about yours, but my kids have this uncanny ability to know when I have focused my attention on something of particular interest to me.

And they appear.

I can be cleaning, putting away dishes, whatever, and they will evince no interest, or sometimes even recognition that I'm there--even if they're playing right beside me.

But say they're in another room playing Lego or doing a puzzle or watching a show, and I decide to sit down and read a book. Or answer an email.

I swear. It's like the Child Catcher in Chitty Chitty Bang Bang. They're all, "Mama is reading something. She's totally engaged. I can smell it."

Their little noses twitch, they detect my interest, and they come running.

"Mama mama mama! What are you doing, Mama? Mama play with me Mama!"

India will wiggle into my lap, inserting herself between the book and me. Between me and the screen. "Baby pictures! I want to see baby pictures!"

This is always her demand. Me. Make it about me.

And then eventually I go back to doing something utterly banal and am all, "Hey! Wanna help me clean out my closet?"

Ha. Not so much.

Sometimes I keep that up for like five minutes and then sneakily pull out my book or laptop and see how far I get.

But it's joyless when it's so brief and furtive, so I've mostly stopped bothering.

I'm an introvert. And the lack of time and space to be alone in my head is hard for me.

Sometimes I just want to be all, stop touching me! Stop talking to me! Stop breathing at me! Stop it stop it stop it!

And then your kid winds up with your socks in her drawer.

But on the other side, I must say that I feel so grateful that I can be home with them for these long summer days. I do.

Jordan has started choosing to read on his own. He picked up Nick's old Calvin and Hobbes book the other day, and he is now hooked. It's delightful. He loves to sit on or curl up in my bed and read.

This wouldn't happen if we didn't have all this unscheduled time.

Most days we have no agenda. We go to the pool almost daily, and that is perfect. It has been a hot hot hot summer. We love to swim and jump and do somersaults. It's really fun. Plus, all of that makes my progeny tired and more tractable come bedtime.

We wear a lot of sunscreen. They get annoyed by all the sunscreening, and I am all, listen. Mama has many spots and wrinkles and regrets her foolishly unsunscreened, if lovely, youth in South Asia.

Here. Wear some zinc SPF 5 million.

And look both ways before you cross the street. Stop, drop, and roll if you're on fire. Don't drink and drive.

In July my dear friend Wendy invited us to join her wonderful family in the Outer Banks. I got to hang out with Wendy and her parents, and our kids adored each other.

It was magical in so many ways.

(Also: Duck Donuts really are all that. I was previously indifferent to donuts.)

And now, I must admit that in desperation I've let my children watch a few too many mindless videos.

The other day India came in my room when I was taking off one dress to try on another and she said, "Oh! Are you changing your look?"

Where'd she hear this? Barbie. This is Barbie-speak.

Occasionally they discuss Barbie and her friends as if they know them. And then one day when I came in to turn off the TV, Jordan said I was killing their vibe.

So, yah. There you have it. That's my current shame.

It's a dumpster fire.

So we bought a pack of cigarettes, and Mrs. Wagner's pies...

OK, so the truth is, my North American geography is terrible. I mean truly.

And it never seems to improve.

I don't know what this is about. It's like how I never remember very many presidents.

What grade do you learn the geography of the United States? I am quite sure I was there, and I learned the states, but they just didn't stick, or anyway, not in order.

Did I ever even learn Canada? I don't think so.

In college, in an African politics class, I once had to memorize and label on an exam all the countries in Sub-Saharan Africa, including drawing in the locations of their capitals and major rivers and lakes.

It was the kind of bullshit exercise that pisses you off but I didn't have the wherewithal to ask our angry young Marxist instructor how he thought this might actually help us in the future.

Like does he picture me in an interview for my first job? And I ace it only because they slide me a blank map of the African continent and they are so impressed? Ooh, look at your ability to label a blank map!

I memorized in clusters. I cannot think of any of the following countries without chanting them together: Uganda-Rwanda-Burundi. Rwanda? Ugandarwandaburundi.

So when Maude and I drove from DC to San Diego, which was basically when Maude taught me to drive stick shift or even really drive at all, I learned where Indiana was because suddenly, after Kentucky, there we were!

Anyway. Now I always have my phone and there is Google.

I have lots of childhood friends in Denver, and have been wanting to visit for quite a while. And my dear friend Kristin is going to be visiting Wendy in July. We have no travel plans this summer, and this is the perfect excuse!

So the other night I told Nick that I want to take Betty and the kids to Denver this summer.

We were talking about the expense of it, and I said that I was considering driving (which...I hadn't been...but thought I should offer it up as it would be a lot cheaper...).

"Lisa..." He gave me that don't start with this again look. He had a tone.

And I said, "What? It's not like when I wanted to drive us all to Texas! It's like half as far!"

His face softened. He said, "Come here, please."

He led me by the hand to our globe. And then asked me to move out of the light. Which kind of annoyed me because I was there at his behest.

And then he pointed and said, "This is Washington." He slid his finger across it and said, "And here is Texas." And then he kept going left, waaaaay over towards California.

He said, "Oh! Look! Here's Colorado! Maybe you could stop in Texas on your way there!"

So I was all, "Fine, fine. I get it. I don't know why Colorado is so much further west than I ever think it is. I like to locate it solidly in the Midwest. It just seems very middle of the country shaped."

Nick doesn't see the value in things such as where I like to locate states. And what shape just feels like it should be where.

Yah. So he didn't even realize I was joking when yesterday I sad, "I was thinking about visiting friends. And do you think it would it be too out of the way to stop in Michigan on the way to Denver?"

I was joking! I mean...I was sort of joking.

Right. And Ugandarwandaburundi is all I have to say about that.

Oh, ye'll take the high road and I'll take the low road...

Nick and I have been watching Outlander.

We don't watch a lot of TV--although I must admit that I would happily watch more if I had more time. Nick and I agree on a series and then we watch together.

(He's on his own with Archer.)

I wanted to start Outlander ages ago, but I took the wrong approach. I was all, Outlander! Romance! Love! Hot men in kilts! Claire + Jamie 4EVR!

Nick was not intrigued.

And then finally I realized and was like, "Shall we try Outlander? It's historical, but mostly about SEX and SCOTLAND."

Nick was all, "Well, you know I have Scottish ancestry." (Oh? Tell me more...)

Yah. So we've been watching, and they have these delicious accents and I found myself wondering why it was that I never ever even kissed a Scottish guy? In fact, in my traveling youth, why didn't I head to Scotland and have a torrid affair with kilt-wearing, Gaelic-speaking Scotsman?

Seriously. Why? Why? I do not know.

It's one more thing on my list of things I will now never do, like cocaine or a threesome.

I'm not saying I should have done all those things...more like, they're choices I never made, and are now long gone.

But. Perhaps I should talk Nick into buying a kilt?

(Maybe one that matches his gold jacket?)

They may take our lives...

Happy Friday, all!

Your inner voice

I was just talking to a friend who is studying health and fitness, and she said one of the exercises that they had to do was to listen to their inner voice for a day and write down what it said,

For a whole day.

She said her inner voice turns out to be a taskmaster, keeping her on schedule, laying out the day, making sure she moves from one activity to the next.

Have you ever done this? Stopped and really paid attention to your inner voice? What kinds of things does it say to you?

I don't know about yours, but my inner voice is an asshole.

I haven't spent an entire day focusing on it, but ever since I listened to Brene Brown's TED talk, which I have linked to before, I have thought about my inner voice.

I have paid attention to the voice that tells me I'm not good enough. Or asks me who the hell I think I am. Brown was so right about those voices of shame.

Some good things have been happening in my little world, and when they come out, I am going to tell you and the rest of the entire world. One is that I wrote a small piece about my miscarriage and mental health, and sent it off to The Mighty, and they want to publish it!

But! Even after they wrote to say they were interested, let me tell you what my voice said to me: It's not that great. It's kind of a dumb subject. They're said they'd publish it, but after reading it again, they're going to change their minds.

I heard the mean words, and I knew what was going on. I knew that it was the wretched, ugly little voice in my head working to tear me down. It wasn't real.

So I told it to shut the hell up. It sort of worked.

Then I told this to my friend Jessica, who said to most definitely tell that voice to shut the hell up. Because it is so completely wrong. (And then she told me lots of very nice things about my writing and storytelling, which I have reread like 50 times.)

I was raised to look for external validation. I didn't grow up feeling like I was good enough, or even just enough.

This is a process, something I work on every day.

But listen to this.

Here's one of the really interesting things my friend told me this morning. You can actually change your neural pathways. But interrupting your negative thoughts, you stop the cycle. And eventually, the recurring negative thought just stops.

What if we just went forward in our lives, feeling good about what we did, not second-guessing ourselves all the time, or worrying that we'd said the wrong thing? How good would that feel?

I intend to find out.

Coming clean

So, I asked this gross question in a small group, and for the most part people were like, um, no, not as such.

I mean, nobody was offended or horrified or even bothered. It's a workout group run by my dear friend Wendy. So I knew it was a safe space to ask such a question. And in fact, there were hilarious responses and anecdotes.

But nobody, until one friend at like 11pm, said yes! Yes, I know exactly what you're talking about!

And here I should probably include a scatology warning. There. You've been warned.

Ready?

I said:  OK, this is super gross but do you ever take such a huge poop that you are dying to show it to someone (but know better than to do so)?

Because, you guys! Don't you?

I remember before I had a baby and I was like, something that enormous is never, no way in hell, going to come out of my little body.

And then it did!

And every once in a while, I'm just stunned. Absolutely astounded. So much so that I want someone else to be all, "Whoa! I can't believe it either!"

It's not exactly that I think I'd impress anyone with my poop...but something like that.

So one of my friends in the group asked if I'd taken a picture. And I was about to feign shock and be all, "No! Of course not!"

But. Then I was like, am I really going to lie? Because I mean, the answer was no...Not this time.

Because the truth is that like three or four years ago, when I found myself in this same astounded position, I did take a picture. Surely Nick would want to see this giant! And share in my horror/amazement!

Turns out he didn't. He really really didn't.

So now I know better. But the urge to share? Still there.

Neuroscience for beginners

The other day I stopped a kid from stomping on another kid's toy.

A friend of my son's had asked if he could leave the toy with me for safekeeping while he ran around on the playground. I solemnly agreed to watch it. So there it sat next to me on the concrete.

Until this other kid came along and reached for it. I told him who it belonged to and said he could ask the boy if he could play with it.

He immediately raised his foot and brought it down on the toy.

I reached out and grabbed his ankle, mid-stomp, and said, "That's not OK." (You ask me to watch your toy and I will watch it to the end, let me tell you.)

He took his foot back and ran off.

A couple days later I was talking to another mom about it. I said, "Why would you stomp on your friend's toy?" She said she thinks he might have impulse control problems.

She gave the following example. She was at a birthday party with her son; this particular child was there as well. The parents gave all the kids cupcakes, and as soon as he got his, he took it and smeared the bright green icing all over his face.

I was horrified.

Because you guys, all I could think was, oh my god, THE BUTTER. The butter on the guy's nose. 

Look. I save dessert for last. I wait to open presents. I don't grab or hit.

I don't carry a hammer around in case I get the urge to whack the car of the occasional asshole who speeds up to get through the crosswalk even though my entire family is already halfway across the road.

(I am sure it'd be be remarkably, if briefly, satisfying.)

But! Every once in a while I say or do something that would've been better not said or not done. Sometimes things fall out of my mouth or just kind of...happen without a pause for reflection.

The butter. The butter. On a stranger. There but for the grace of god went I without green icing smeared all over my face.

Are those impulse control issues?

Oranges and lemons, say the bells of St. Clement's

So the way the blogger reconnection happened is that one night I was out with Nick and some of his colleagues and I asked for a dry martini with lots of olives. And I got this.

It was perfect. So I put it on Facebook. Look at this most perfect martini which is basically a big vat of olives surrounded by gin.

And then Kris and Megan were both all, oh, you love martinis! We must drink martinis!

They, however, like their martinis with vodka. Which I vaguely knew was a thing but had never really thought about.

I mean, I'm fine with vodka. But I myself wouldn't choose it.  For me, martinis are gin. And gin is good.

Here I was going to say that I grew up on gin, but one, that sounds terrible, and two, it's not strictly  accurate.

Please know that I didn't grow up swilling any alcohol. But it was the 70s and there were lots of cocktail parties and as such, lots of gin.

I don't know if this was the same in America. In fact, I assume it's because we lived in countries that had been colonized or occupied by the British: India, Bangladesh, Egypt. Those colonizers needed those gin and tonics to survive malaria in the godforsaken outposts.

Gin became my drink of choice in high school. But being calorie conscious, I'd drink gin and soda water rather than tonic. Which is silly, you know, because we took chloroquine tablets. I had no idea I could've just been drinking my quinine.

Anyway, this is not about quinine but about gin. Although I do enjoy a nice tonic water.

I like my (gin) martinis very dry. Very very very. I mean, vermouth is nice as long as there is just the tiniest, vaguest wee bit. A suggestion, really.

Nick says I'm just pretending with the martinis because I like a pretty glass. When really, I should just admit that what I really want is a bucket of gin.

Which is not entirely true. I'd be delighted with a bucket of olives as well. 

So now you know: When it comes to alcohol, I'm an 18th-century British slum dweller.

So there

I learned a number of years ago that your reality is your reality and it doesn't necessarily occur to you while you're growing up that there's anything really special or different about it.

But it's a lesson I forget.

I mean, you know I've been saying for ages and ages that I'm writing a book. And I have been, sort of, this whole time. I mean, on and off. But I get so bogged down. First, I was bogged down with emotion and exhaustion. I needed to write about suicide to help get it out.

But I was also so mired in grief that I would write in circles and not get much of anywhere, much like a dog trying to find that best spot on the pillow and you're watching like, seriously? You're going to turn around again? And again? Even though you're in the exact same place? Just lie down, for god's sake.

Also, I was stuck on my dad's story. And I couldn't figure out how to make it mine. Even though it was mine all along. I just didn't understand how.

That was me.

And now I do. It is fully mine.

But then I have so much insecurity. Oh my god insecurity. Who cares what I think? What do I really have to say? Who do I think I am?

I've asked myself these things even though last year Leigh sat me down and made me watch this fabulous Brené Brown TED talk on vulnerability and shame. (And if you haven't seen it, it is one of the best ways you can spend 20 minutes. I promise.)

Also, I have two kids and I'm tired.

Oh, and I am a kick-ass procrastinator. I bet I could totally win a procrastination contest.

So.

Recently my dear friend Diana, who has for years been one of my most encouraging friends, sent me Big Magic. I haven't gotten very far, but the message is such a good, positive one. (Years ago I quit Eat, Pray, Love somewhere in Pray, because I just got tired of Elizabeth Gilbert. Not her writing--her. But this book is really resonating with me.)

And recently something happened that really drove the positive messages, the ones that say that you can do it, that you have something to say, and that at some point, you really will get it together, home.

It was this: I am taking a memoir writing workshop at Politics & Prose bookstore. In the second class, we were partnered to talk about our projects. My partner grew up in a cult. That's what she's writing about.

She's is worrying about how to write it, making it interesting enough, and giving it a good enough title that people will want to read it.

And I was all, "People will want to read it. I'm dying for you to write it so I can read it. You can title it just about anything and people will be interested."

She said, "Why?"

And I said, "CULT! You grew up in a cult! You had crazy, terrible experiences. This doesn't happen to everyone!"

Right?!? Wouldn't you want to read it?

But her reality is her reality, and she's worried about being good enough. About having an interesting enough message. About other people caring about what she has to say.

And I think, my goodness, if I'd grown up in a cult and managed to escape, I'd be all, hey! Listen! I have all these interesting stories that you need to hear!

Or would I?

Because insecurity is a mean little bitch, and fear and shame work hard to keep us small and quiet.

But I think finally, finally I may be done with small and quiet. I might be able to shove fear and shame to the side, at least most of the time. And so I'm going to commit.

This is really and truly the year I'm going to get it done.

So there.