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By Emma, on December 12th, 2011 Right now, I am writing this post, eating sweet potato chips, admiring my Christmas tree, and watching Baby Linus nap in his carseat. His big sister is napping, too, so I have an undetermined amount of time to do whatever I want. My options are almost endless. Aside from the fact that I can’t (shouldn’t!) leave the house, there so many things I could do: read a book, do some laundry, check Facebook, start a new project. You get the idea.
And you. Right now, you are reading this blog and doing God only knows what else. Perhaps sipping some coffee, watching TV, or trying to get motivated to organize your work emails. Whatever. Chances are good that you’re multitasking—if not physically, then perhaps mentally. And I’m honored to have garnered your attention if only for a few moments, because let’s face it—you have a lot to do. We all do, especially during this time of year.
I don’t know about you, but I sometimes forget to have fun. Or relax. But over the next few weeks, I’m going to take a cue from my two-year-old and focus my attention on the silly, the luxurious, and the festive. My girl knows how to have a good time. While I might feel ridiculous modeling my holiday finery in front of the hallway mirror or running laps between the kitchen and the living room, I can certainly find some “big girl” equivalents.
I will go to dinner with my girlfriends, enjoy a single glass of juicy red wine after the kids have gone to bed, and wear something fun for the hell of it. I might just don some pajamas, kick up my feet, and manage to read a chapter or two. I will view the essential animated Christmas shows with Linnea and talk Josh into watching my favorite holiday chick flicks, too. Sure, I will still do most of the banal chores that need to get done around here, but at the end of each day, I better be able to say that I took a few moments just to enjoy myself, to enjoy the holidays.
My kids are still sleeping, so it’s time to go for it. I sense a good book and a cup of hot cocoa in my immediate future. It may only last ten minutes, but that’s something.
*****
I Want to Know
What do you do to unwind and enjoy the season?
How do you strike a balance this time of year between checklists and enjoying the moment?
Visit me at my other blog, Divorced Before 30, where I’m taking guest-post submissions. Find me on twitter @emmasota. And, if you haven’t already, please visit emmasota on Facebook and click “Like!”
By Emma, on December 4th, 2011 Along with several family members, Josh and I took the kids to see a holiday children’s play on Friday night. Linnea sat between me and Josh, perched atop a booster seat in a red Santa-inspired velvet dress that her great-grandmother had bought for her. As the production started, I stole a glance at her sweet face, eyes shining wide in the dark, taking in the costumes, the song and dance. Heart swelling with holiday-inspired joy, my gaze went back to the stage.
The next time I looked her way, I caught Linnea nibbling on her ticket stub—enough that large chunks were missing. My hushed attempts at correcting her paper-ingesting behavior were met with enthusiastic speech that exceeded theater-going limits. Stub confiscation was necessary, but thankfully, she was interested enough in the bear on stage that a more elaborate power struggle was avoided.
*****
This afternoon, Linnea asked me to take a bath with her.
“Sure,” I thought. “That will do my aching body some good.”
When I was pregnant with Linus, Linnea and I bathed together almost every night. I just floated like a giant pink balloon while she poured water on my head and drove her Thomas the Tank Engine boat around me. We also had some pretty great conversations. Today was no different.
“You know,” I said, “I think your teeth are going to start looking like this [making buck-teeth gesture] if you don’t give up your boppy [pacifier] soon.”
She looked at me quietly, unimpressed.
“Like a bunny,” I said. “You teeth will do this [more gestures].”
“Like a bunny?” she said with delight. “A bunny!”
“Is that what you want?” I asked.
She thought about that for a minute.
“Well, why do you look like a grasshopper?” she asked.
“Like a grasshopper? Do I?”
“You do,” she said, matter-of-factly.
Nobody said parenting would be good for the old self-esteem.
*****
I was in a foul mood earlier—truly the worst in a long time. A long walk—typically my cure-all—hadn’t helped, and I was doing a lot of muttering, as crabby mothers are wont to do.
As I scurried around the kitchen with a rain cloud atop my head, a small girl in a gown more appropriate for a summer wedding than a snowy Sunday at home had something to say.
“Can we pray now, Mommy?”
I was stunned. We’re not prone to praying in the kitchen. Recently, I’ve tried to get back into a bedtime prayer routine after a long hiatus. I’m not sure how that happened—one night, were recited “Now I lay me,” and the next, we dove right into the hugs-squeezes-kisses routine after Hop on Pop.
“Yes,” I said. “Now is the perfect time to pray.”
In case I’ve just gone a little too “Family Circus” for you, you may be comforted to know that she proceeded to hit me in the head with a toy teapot within the hour.
*****
I Want to Know
What have you learned from a kid recently?
Visit me at my other blog, Divorced Before 30, where I’m taking guest-post submissions. Find me on twitter @emmasota. And, if you haven’t already, please visit emmasota on Facebook and click “Like!”
By Emma, on November 27th, 2011 Growing up, I was a natural blonde, but once I hit puberty, my hair was what people call “mouse brown” or “dishwater blonde.” Really appealing, right? So I did what many former blondes do—I started hoping that somehow, magically, my hair would revert to its once flaxen state. I soon discovered that I might have to coax it along.
It all started innocently enough. Lemon juice led to an at-home “frosting” kit, and before I knew it, I was shelling out the big bucks for foil highlights at the salon. This continued for roughly fifteen years, and during that time, I probably spent a good seven or eight thousand dollars on hair color. Hair color! Keep in mind that I’ve been driving a totaled car for the past five years.
I tried to keep things as low-maintenance as possible by going for a relatively natural look and requesting that the stylist do only a “partial,” but I’m pretty sure that there is a conspiracy to keep people like me coming back as often as possible. On numerous occasions, stylists gave me a full head of highlights for the price of a partial. This seemingly generous gesture led to nasty-looking roots more quickly, which of course led me back to the salon more quickly as well. Ca-ching!
For the past couple years, I’ve contemplated how I might successfully wean myself from my golden-hair addiction. It was partially about the money and partially about the chemicals, but mostly, it was about my identity. It bothered me that I couldn’t imagine feeling attractive without blonde hair. Was it about blondes having more fun? Or was I simply clinging to my youth? Last winter, I decided to find out.
I made the rebellious act of paying to darken my hair to what I thought was my natural color. It’s been almost a year since I ditched the blonde, and the strangest thing has happened. I actually like the light-brown hue of my hair. I don’t feel any less fun, nor less youthful, and the next time a stylist says, “What do you say we brighten things up a bit?” I will politely decline.
Someday, I may dabble in hair color again—and more power to you if coloring yours makes you happy—but for now, I am glad to know that I don’t need to be blonde to feel good about myself. Brown hair is beautiful, too, and so is whatever color grows from your sweet little head.
*****
You can see my naturally brown hair in my new headshot, which was taken by Sarah Morreim during our recent family photo session.
I Want to Know
What are your thoughts on hair color?
Visit me at my other blog, Divorced Before 30, where I’m taking guest-post submissions. Find me on twitter @emmasota. And, if you haven’t already, please visit emmasota on Facebook and click “Like!”
By Emma, on November 20th, 2011 Today marks two years since I started the gut-wrenching, soul-stirring, all-consuming act of writing a memoir. I thought I’d mark the occasion by sharing what I’ve learned along the way. There are many approaches to writing a book, but here’s what worked for me:
- Learn more about writing
- Think about marketing
- Form a team
- Set a schedule
- Find some self-confidence
- Persevere
Learn more about writing
While my job title includes the word “writer,” I was not in the habit of writing creative nonfiction in my spare time until I took a class at the Loft Literary Center almost five years ago. Since then, I have also read several invaluable books about writing. Because I didn’t have much experience shaping long narratives or writing dialogue, educating myself was a must.
Think about marketing
If you have any hope of getting published, you must be willing to market yourself and your work. While self-promotion can feel a little icky (I remember feeling ill the first time I mentioned my blog on Facebook), it’s essential to finding an audience. To learn more about book marketing, I subscribed to blogs by authors and literary agents, and I also took a class about the logistics of getting published.
Form a team
Writing can be a very solitary pursuit—often delightfully so—but don’t underestimate the benefit of seeking wisdom and direction from people you respect. Early on, I got comments and encouraging emails from my faithful blog readers. I also formed a writing group to gain more specific, craft-centric feedback. When I was wrapping up the draft of my full-length manuscript, I lined up a team of nine readers (including my writing group, a professional editor, and a published author) to conduct a full review. Finally, I asked for feedback on my book title, query letter, and book proposal from my manuscript readers, as well as from a friend who is a top-notch marketing professional and journalist.
Set a schedule
When I prepared to begin my memoir, I kissed my social life and prime-time television goodbye. Okay, that’s a slight exaggeration, but I did make some sacrifices to write a book while also giving my attention to a baby, a marriage, and a full-time job. Not to mention my health. I accomplished it by setting both short- and long-term goals.
I published the first draft of the book serially in what I dubbed a “blogoir” (blog meets memoir) format. Before I set up the website, I sat down and outlined the first 40 or so posts. Each post was a carefully crafted piece of the larger narrative. During the nine months that I wrote like this—what amounted to 75 posts—I spent an hour or two each evening writing and was able to publish a new piece every four or five days. I was careful not to reveal the entire plot of the book online, which is why I went offline for the next phase of the project.
For the next seven months, I finished the plot and edited like mad. It was during this period that the heart of the story—the “so what?”—really developed. I continued to spend every evening writing after my daughter went to bed, and I also scheduled three- or four-hour sessions on Saturdays where I’d sneak out to a coffee shop. When I got close to one of my self-inflicted deadlines, I would take a day off from work to hole up somewhere without internet access.
At various points, I sought feedback from my book-writing team. After the nine readers did a full review of the spiral-bound manuscripts that I gave them, I spent a month doing substantial revisions, including everything from adding more dialogue, to going into more detail about things that I was nervous to write about, to changing the opening altogether.
Eighteen months after I began, I was ready to start querying literary agents. I polished up my query letter, created a spreadsheet of agents I was interested in working with, took a deep breath, and sent my stuff out there. This was right around time that I had my second child, so I had a lot of other things on my plate. Roughly four months after finishing the manuscript, I signed with an agent, but not before doing another few rounds of edits that she recommended.
So today—exactly two years after I published my first post, “How I Left My Husband on My Lunch Break“—my memoir, From Splitsville, With Love: One Woman’s Quest for “Happily Ever After,” is being pitched to editors. There are no guarantees at this point, but if this book makes it into print, I am so excited for the what is to come—everything from working with a talented editor to putting together a killer marketing plan and finding creative ways to connect with potential readers.
Find some self-confidence
When you’re writing a memoir, it’s pretty much go big or go home. Nobody wants to read a watered-down account of some random person’s life. Frankly, it takes a serious leap of faith to share intimate details of your story not only with complete strangers, but also with the people closest to you. My husband has read more about my past love-life than he probably wanted to know. Co-workers, acquaintances, and various parent-like figures know precisely where my husband and I consummated our marriage. Ahem. You get the drift. Writing memoir takes a lot of nerve.
Persevere
This one should go without saying, but it’s critical—not only for writing a book, but also for attempting to get that book published. There were multiple times when I crawled into bed next to my husband after a night of writing and said something like, “I want to throw my book in the garbage.” And I wasn’t fishing for encouragement. I was serious. Having read a lot of writing blogs, I think this is a universal experience for writers. The key is to take the project out of the (usually metaphorical) trash can and keep going, sometimes after letting go of things that weren’t working.
So that’s it, dear readers. This is what I’ve learned in the course of two years. Even if this book never sees the light of day, it will have been worth the effort. It’s true what they say—life is about the journey, and creating “Splitsville” has been a real treat.
*****
I Want to Know
Do you like to write? If so, what do you like to write?
Is “write a book” on your life to-do list?
If you had unlimited time and talent, what kind of book would you want to write?
Visit me at my other blog, Divorced Before 30, where I’m taking guest-post submissions. Find me on twitter @emmasota. And, if you haven’t already, please visit emmasota on Facebook and click “Like!”
By Emma, on November 13th, 2011 The baby howls in the bedroom, wondering where I am. My two-year-old daughter stands in front of the TV wearing nothing but a diaper and a red Snow White headband. Our friend Dora explores the ocean and dances with Pirates. “Yo ho ho ho, we’re doing the pirate dance.” Indeed. Daddy, a.k.a. Josh, is at a fundraiser at a local brewery, which is essentially heaven for a beer geek like him.
I try to wait a few more minutes before going to the baby, but this sleep training business really sucks the life out of me. I am so beyond wanting any advice on how to get young Linus to sleep. The best way to avoid said advice, of course, is to keep my mouth shut about the sleepless nights. But that’s hard since it’s what’s on my poorly-functioning mind. Truth be told, I lean more toward the attachment-parenting side of things than many people I know, perhaps especially when it comes to sleep. Maybe it’s working mom guilt, or maybe it’s a result of my own struggle with sleep over the years.
When I was 24, I had a horrible bout of insomnia in which I was afraid to go to sleep. I was living at home for six months to save money for graduate school, and at one point, it got so bad that my dad tried holding my hand as I sought sleep on the floor of the screened-in porch. I think it worked. So I guess I have too much empathy for the sleep-challenged to be very good at the cry-it-out thing. Plus, I still suspect that something in my diet is causing part of the problem. I’m working the food-intake spreadsheet and subsisting on wheat-free bread alternatives.
It’s not all doom and gloom around here—far from it. I had an incredible run this morning after digging out the ipod shuffle I hadn’t used in a couple of years. I’m in serious need of a fresh playlist, but I’d forgotten how great running to music can be. I gradually picked up the pace over six miles until I almost felt like the old, pre-baby me again. Almost. Maybe some of you can help me with a new playlist?
The rest of the day was spent in true Saturday putzing fashion. The kids and I hit up a food allergy resource fair where we overindulged in peanut-safe treats and decorated a super-fancy crown with feathers and glitter. My dear girl was too bashful to wear it but insisted that it looked fantastic on me. I wore it with pride, though absconded from my crown-wearing duties when we stopped by Old Navy to buy mittens for the baby.
In the store, I got a glimpse of Linnea as a teenager. When I beckoned her into the ladies’ room to change her diaper, she refused, saying it looked “super gross!” Wah? She wouldn’t enter the bathroom until I threatened to put back the shirt that we had picked out for her. Two years old.
This post has sat idle for several hours, and it is now officially the middle of the night. You know—when normal people are eating gluten-free cereal by the soft glow of a computer screen, and normal dogs are frolicking in the yard because they won’t shut their traps. Between bouts of seemingly limitless crying tonight (the baby, not me), I’ve (finally) been reading Julie and Julia, a young woman’s memoir about cooking fancy French food for a year. Am I feeling guilty about the grocery list on the kitchen counter, which includes, among more natural items, chicken nuggets, the mother of all lazy foods? Slightly. But rest assured, Jamie Oliver, that the nuggets aren’t for my kid—she won’t have them. The nuggests, in all of their salty (yet remarkably allergen-free) glory, will give this tired mom and her almost equally tired husband a yummy if not wholly nutritious dinner sometime this week.
I promise to make a little broccoli on the side. The baby calls…
*****
I Want to Know
What cheesy pop music would be perfect for my new running playlist (help me get current, people!)?
What do you do when you can’t sleep at night?
Visit me at my other blog, Divorced Before 30, where I’m taking guest-post submissions. Find me on twitter @emmasota. And, if you haven’t already, please visit emmasota on Facebook and click “Like!”
By Emma, on November 6th, 2011 Yesterday afternoon, my two year old and I scrubbed the kitchen and dining room floors. I set out to do it myself while the baby was napping, but Linnea was immediately interested in my bucket of soapy water and my sponge—sometimes, I think it works better to do it by hand rather than with a mop—and she insisted on helping. Rather than watching a video! Much to my surprise, she was actually helpful, and she had so much fun that I finally had to make her stop so the floor could dry.
Strangely enough, I rather enjoyed the scrubbing, too. Something about her enthusiasm made me realize that it wasn’t such a bad task. It didn’t take all that long, the results were obvious, and I felt satisfied after our efforts. It didn’t hurt that Linnea was singing at the top of her lungs, “We’re cleaning the floor! Cleeeeaaan-ing the floor!”
This got me thinking about how we decide what is fun. I am eager to head out for a run on Saturday and Sunday mornings, whereas many people see running as a form of punishment. There are plenty of supposedly fun things that I would avoid like the plague. You’re not going to see me skydiving, riding in a hot-air balloon, or SCUBA diving. I’m not a thrill seeker. You’re also not going to see me knitting a scarf. I simply don’t have the patience.
So what is it that makes us decide what is fun? I’m interested in the idea of re-training my brain to see dreaded household tasks as more enjoyable. I can’t say that I see myself jumping up and down about scrubbing toilets, but maybe I can trick myself into doing it with less sighing and muttering.
*****
I Want to Know
Are there any household chores that you think are really fun?
Do you think it’s possible to trick ourselves into enjoying dreaded tasks more?
Do you think it’s possible that Linnea will still want to scrub the floor at age 12?
Visit me at my other blog, Divorced Before 30, where I’m taking guest-post submissions. Find me on twitter @emmasota. And, if you haven’t already, please visit emmasota on Facebook and click “Like!”
By Emma, on November 1st, 2011 When I was in ninth grade, my family moved across town to a big brown house that quickly became HOME. It was the kind of place that attracted other people, and over the years, we welcomed many honorary family members—often for a meal, sometimes for extended stays. One of the most frequent and consistent visitors was a kid named Jake who lived across the street. At the time we moved to the neighborhood, he was a second-grader like my youngest brother, Skipp.
On Saturday, I watched that curly-haired kid from across the street get married, and my “little” brother stood up for him, sporting long hair and a full beard in preparation for his epic Halloween costume (“The Dude” from The Big Lebowski). Now, I know that these guys aren’t really kids anymore—they are 27 and 28—but to me, they will always be those video-game-playing, Kool-Aid-drinking boys. And in my mind, I’m not really in my mid-thirties, my husband isn’t really turning 35 a month from now, and my mom isn’t really pushing 60. Right?
Am I the only one who finds this sort of thing—the passing of time at what feels like warp speed—alarming? I love this stage of my life, and it’s so cool to see my younger brothers and their friends turn into responsible young men, but the idea that five, ten, or fifteen years can fly by in the blink of an eye really freaks me out. I get nervous when older women—strangers—stop me in the grocery store to chat with my kids and tell me how quickly they’ll grow up. “Yes, I know,” I think. “It’s already happening!”
All of this is a good reminder to BE HERE NOW (a theme here lately, it seems). This weekend, the kid from across the street got married, but before I know it, my kids will be driving cars, leasing apartments, and maybe even getting hitched. It will probably feel like it happens quickly, yet there are many, many days between now and then—days with innumerable opportunitiesto soak up little moments and to live life BIG.
Last night, Josh and I took a sprightly bumblebee and a sleepy monkey out for their first tricks-or-treats. As we were driving home to spend the rest of the evening answering the door for trick-or-treaters, Linnea asked one of those simple yet priceless questions typical of two year olds.
“Can those kids chase me around in the grass?”
“Sorry, buddy,” I said, trying not to laugh. “It’s too dark outside for being chased in the yard, and we don’t really know those kids. But we can give them candy. Won’t that be fun?” She agreed to my plan, but not before asking about the chasing several more times. These are the days.
*****
I Want to Know
Are you in a time-is-moving-too-quickly phase of life right now or quite the opposite?
Are you a different age in your mind than you are in real life?
Visit me at my other blog, Divorced Before 30, where I’m taking guest-post submissions. Find me on twitter @emmasota. And, if you haven’t already, please connect with emmasota on Facebook!
By Emma, on October 24th, 2011 Since the movie Home Alone came out in 1990 (Um, 21 years ago? Really?), I’m sure I’ve seen it at least once each holiday season. My brothers and I no doubt enjoyed repeat showings of the Macaulay Culkin classic, but our viewing experience was heightened by the presence of our father, who had a very sympathetic response to the many injuries sustained by the bad guys. Whenever a burglar was struck in the head by a paint can or fell down a flight of stairs, Dad would holler, “Oh!” or “No!” or “Oh my God!” It didn’t seem to matter how many times he’d seen the movie—his response was the same.
Parenting a two-and-a-half-year-old child feels much the same way. I am so tired of hearing thuds and wails. Thud, wail. Thud, wail. The worst is when I actually witness these crashes and see my dear child’s head meet the wood floor one more time. It seems to me that if I my body were subjected to the same falls, trips, and accidents, I wouldn’t handle it nearly as well as my daughter does. In fact, I already don’t handle it very well. Like my dad watching Harry and Marv in Home Alone, I wince, jump, and sometimes shout obscenities.
On Saturday night, Linnea was in the bathroom washing her hands for the twentieth time while Josh and I chatted with some friends who were over for dinner. When I heard the dreaded thump and wail—and a bonus cry of “Mama”—I knew that she had somehow fallen off her footstool and hit the bathtub. I raced into the bathroom to find blood dribbling down her lip. “Oh shit!” I screamed, as I pried open her mouth. “Her teeth!” Convinced that they had all been knocked out, my mind raced. What to do next?
When she calmed down and I was able to wipe her mouth with a cool wet washcloth, all of her tiny teeth were accounted for. She needed nothing more than some cuddles and her pacifier and she was ready to play again. I, on the other hand, was totally freaked out. “Enough with the getting hurt!” I thought, and yet, I know that there are many more thumps and wails in our future. I just need to find a way to chill out, because the amount of adrenaline involved in the Harry-and-Marv-style sympathetic response is way too much for daily consumption.
*****
I Want to Know
How do you manage the stress of watching kids get hurt?
How do you maintain your sanity in the presence of so much thumping and wailing?
What’s the craziest way that you got hurt as a kid? Or, what’s the craziest way that your kid has gotten hurt?
Can you believe that Home Alone is 21 years old?
Visit me at my other blog, Divorced Before 30, where I’m taking guest-post submissions. Find me on twitter @emmasota. And, if you haven’t already, please connect with emmasota on Facebook!
By Emma, on October 15th, 2011 Linnea has a fever for the sixth day straight. We spent a couple of hours at Urgent Care yesterday to learn that it’s a virus. Of course it is. Last night, I rocked her in the glider for longer than usual, pressing her hot cheek into mine and telling her how much I adore her. The familiar sound of an electronic lullaby streamed from her tot-sized alarm clock, and as we cuddled, I tried not to look at the dust bunnies peeking out from beneath the crib.
This morning, no one slept in as I planned. Does anyone ever sleep in around here? Not really, but I can still fantasize. So the kids and I have set up pajama camp in the living room. Linnea munches “crunchy cereal” while watching a video. Our purple friend Barney makes pizza with several bouncing, Broadway-bound children (“Nothing beats a pizza!”). Baby Linus snoozes in his ocean-themed swing, clutching a crinkly book designed to withstand the jaws of toothless newbies.
I drink from a mug of deepest dark decaf and look out the front window at the bright early-morning sky peeking through the mostly yellow trees. A small airplane drones above the house. The morning feels remarkably peaceful given the countless times I was up with crying children during the night. Barney has moved on to a ranch number, and even the perky “yee-haws” can’t shake the stillness.
Josh sleeps just steps away in our cool, eggplant-colored bedroom. A fan whirs in the corner, providing the white noise that might someday help the baby sleep. Josh doesn’t need any help. My husband is a champion sleeper, and I let him slumber on, blankets pulled up over his head and feet hanging over the end of the bed. I am sad that he’ll probably have to work today. We’d been planning a family fall outing—a corn maze or an apple orchard—but with a 103 degree temperature on the little girl who just crawled into my lap, our plans are iffy at best.
Soon, I will pull on my running shorts and make my way through the tree-lined streets of our neighborhood. If I’m lucky, it will be meditation in motion—a seamless trip past honking geese and kids raking piles of leaves. If I’m lucky, my mind will detach from my body and its stiff legs, tight shoulders, and heavy breasts (stuffed into multiple bra tops not designed for the likes of lactation). If I’m lucky, I will cruise on autopilot, returning home several miles later pleased to confirm that I did, in fact, go for a run.
It’s Saturday morning, and while plenty of things could be more perfect, I am here, planted firmly in the present tense. The sun sits above the neighbor’s roof now, casting shimmering shadows onto the table at which I sit. And I am lucky, for much like physical exercise, writing these words provides a fresh dose of oxygen to my brain. Lord knows it needs all of the fresh air it can get.
*****
I Want to Know
How do you stay engaged in the present tense?
What do you like to do on Saturday mornings?
Visit me at my other blog, Divorced Before 30, where I’m taking guest-post submissions. Find me on twitter @emmasota. And, if you haven’t already, please connect with emmasota on Facebook!
By Emma, on October 9th, 2011 I really like to write posts about problems that lead to “aha” moments. It’s fantastic when my struggles can be neatly packaged into a narrative that wraps itself up with a tidy little bow. Extra points for self-deprecating humor, of course. But much of the time, life isn’t tidy. Problems linger, emotions fester, and I grow weary.
Many of you were either delighted or appalled by my account of the cyst. I put in some agonizing work on my memoir—the final emotional push that it needed—and the bump on my face took the cue and released itself as well. I thought it was such a striking metaphor, and the post was fun to write. But in real life, the little bugger came back! It persists to this day, in fact, and it’s going to take an appointment with a dermatologist to get rid of it once and for all. And of course I haven’t had my last tussle with my book—just wait ’til an editor gets his or her hands on it. Life isn’t tidy.
I recently reported on Baby Linus’ (lack of) sleeping routine and how a special swaddling blanket seemed to save the day. As a ridiculously proactive person, I loved that solution. I loved it so much that I hopped online and bought another one. Well, four or five days later, the stellar sleep performances started to slide. I suspect that I dismissed the possibility of milk-soy protein intolerance too quickly, so after yesterday’s pumpkin milkshake (breaking my own rules never felt so good), I’m back to having rice milk (an acquired taste, to be sure) on my cereal. No, life isn’t tidy.
Many of us struggle with the same issues day in and day out, sometimes even year in and year out. I love to solve problems, but the way out of a tough situation isn’t always apparent. Sometimes all we can do is keep experimenting. If I figure out what helps the baby sleep, I’m keeping it to myself. I’d have to be a damn fool to report any more baby sleep victories online.
*****
I Want to Know
What’s bugging you?
Visit me at my other blog, Divorced Before 30, where I’m taking guest-post submissions. Find me on twitter @emmasota. And, if you haven’t already, please connect with emmasota on Facebook!
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