Happy Birthday to Me!!!

The Ring Bear

My parents are approaching their 50th anniversary.  To celebrate, they are renewing their vows and throwing themselves a lavish wedding, since they never had one.

My mom has been trying to find a role for all her littlest grandchildren to play, so that they feel like a part of the festivities.  And so it came to be that Brendan became the ring bearer.

As we drove home from my parents' home yesterday, I told him the good news.  He seemed excessively happy, clapping his hands and cheering.  Then, he turned to me and said, "so when do I get my costume?"

"You don't get a costume.  You'll wear a type of suit called a tuxedo."

"But you said that I was going to be the 'ring bear'!  Don't I need to get a bear costume?!?"

And, suddenly, the happiness was explained.

Those Who Do Not Learn From Their Mistakes ...

They say that the truth peeks its head out jest.  And one of my husband's running "jokes" is that although I have multiple degrees, I often don't "get" things.  At first, I laughed along.  After all, what fun is life if you cannot laugh at yourself?  And, let's face it, oftentimes it takes me a second or two to get a joke or to figure out how to put something together and my sense of direction blows.  I am often "literal," where "abstract" is the word of the day.  I get that.  But after 10+ years of being the butt of the "she doesn't get it" jokes, my laughter has dried up.

Case in point:  my birthday is coming up, so I compiled a list of things that I need, but am too cheap to buy for myself and sent the list to Big Bren.  At the top of the list is Microsoft Office for Mac.  Within seconds, he calls me and the coversation goes like this:  "I got your list.  Didn't you buy a copy of Microsoft Office a few months ago?"  "Yes, but that was for the PC."  "But it had multiple permissions, right?  And we only used one."  "Yes, but it was for the PC."  "How many permissions did it have?  Can't you use that?"  Sigh on my end, "No."  "You don't get what I'm saying.  You can be so dense sometimes."  Click.

I looked at the phone for a good minute, trying to decide what to do.  Should I let this go?  The more I considered letting it go, the angrier I got.  Soon, a blind rage filled my mind.  I dialed his number and called him a few choice names that were a lot worse than "dense."

Of course, the irony of it was that it was he who was not getting it:  I could have purchased 10 copies of Microsoft Word with 100 applications each -- the fact is that you cannot make software formulated for a PC load onto a MAC as they have two different platforms. 

Granted, I am extremely sensitive on the intelligence issue: during alcohol-fueled rages, my father would say that we - the three girls - didn't deserve his last name because we weren't "smart enough."  He would say that it was a waste to have so many "dumb" girls.  He could never remember what he'd said once the alcohol wore off, but even now, 30+ years later, I can still remember every single word.

My dad would argue that his words, however mean, had a motivating effect, because every one of us "dumb" girls have gone on to earn multiple masters' degrees and even doctorates.  However, aspiring to something and running away from something else are two different things altogether.  When I went to school, failing was not an option, because I knew that somewhere within my father, he expected me to and would be standing by to say "I told you so."

So to hear this man, whom I have vowed to spend the rest of my life with, pull out the "smart" card is like sticking a knife in a barely healed wound.  I truly wonder what has earned me this "dumb" label with him.  I am an attorney and a productive member of several professional associations, where I am often asked to organize events and chair continuing legal education programs.  I have authored chapters in a legal treatise.  I have published articles in parenting magazines.  I am an avid reader and am always trying to find ways to better myself.  When asked to describe me, not one person who knows me would utter the word "dumb."  So what exactly is it that I am not getting?  Could what they say be true that those who do not learn from their mistakes are doomed to repeat them?

Occupy Wall Street

I worked from my firm's downtown Manhattan office today JUST so I could go lend some support to the Movement.  Unfortunately, I picked a rainy, miserable day, so the Movement was a sodden mess.  Even so, the protesters were out and their spirits would not be dampened.

I don't know where you stand on the issue, but I can tell you that what is being reported by Fox News and the like is mostly lies.  The park is not "smelly" or "dirty."  There was no "mob" scene there.  And the people are not littering all over or belligerent in any way.  In fact, the Occupy Wall Street "Good Neighbor Policy" is posted all over the park, as a constant reminder to protestors to clean up after themselves and treat everyone with respect.

This country was built for the people, by the people.  Yet, the few "haves" have consistently continued to amass and multiply their fortunes off the skin of the "have-nots'" backs.  Enough.  This is our generation's Civil Rights Movement.  Power to the people!

Why Me?

Ever since Bren was born, I have always had him on my computer desktop.  Some picture of him is always the background.  That way, I feel like he is with me, even when I'm at work.

The other day, I was working from home and left my laptop on while I went to cook dinner.  A few minutes later, Bren comes running into the kitchen and said, "Mommy, your computer is on!"  I continued to stir the pot of rice I was cooking, "yes, I know.  I left it on." 

"But Mommy, I'm on it!" 

I glanced over at him again.  I wasn't quite sure what the excitement was about.

"Yeessssssssss ...."

"No, seriously, Mommy.  A picture of me is on your computer."

Finally, I stopped stirring and faced him.  "Yes, you are on my computer.  You are always on my computer.  It's my way of keeping you close when I'm working."

He paused a little bit and then said, "But ... why me?"

After I finished explaining to my child that I love him so much that I never tire of seeing him, he went away, shaking his head at my silliness.  And I had to shake my head at the fact that he had to ask why him.  Funny, how the people we would give our lives for never realize how much we love them.

Sleeping with Pistachios

Despite my daddy issues, I have always found myself gravitating toward men with a sense of humor similar to my dad’s.  My dad has a rapier wit and a quick comeback to anything anyone lobs at him.  Big Bren is the exact same way.  And I am finding that my pen-pal does, too.

The other day, we were engaging in our usual incessant digital chatter.  Someone was making my life miserable and I needed someone to commiserate with me.  After I detailed everything this woman was doing that I found objectionable, he responded:  “She’s sleeping with pistachios.”

I cocked my head to the side and tried to figure that one out.  Was he even speaking to me?  Maybe he got his e-mails mixed up and this was addressed to someone else.  Who would sleep with pistachios?  And if this was someone else he knew, who the hell would call themselves -- or tolerate anyone else calling them -- “Pistachios”?

A split second later, he sent another message:  “She’s fucking nuts.”

Ah, I get it.  Way to commiserate.  J

Prayering at Sunset

When Hurricane Irene battered the East Coast not too long ago, we -- like most people -- were left without power for a few days.  The day the power went, I went into full-blown panic mode thinking about having to bathe, feed and entertain Brendan without electricity.  I didn't worry much about myself.  Having grown up partly in Honduras, I know what it's like to live without the luxury of running water and electricity, but I thought it would be a real hardship for Brendan.  Thankfully, Brendan saw it as an adventure and easily found ways to pass the time without television, electronic games or DVDs.

On most evenings, Big Bren was out trying to score a generator.  The big stores, like Home Depot and Lowes had long since sold out, but he was methodically going to every hardware store and tractor supply place in the area trying to find one that somehow was miraculously still available.  Most of it, I'm sure, was him trying to "provide" for us; but I'm also sure that at least some of it was him finding a way not to be home with a restless 7 year old and no power.

On the evenings that Big Bren was gone, Brendan and I got into the habit of sitting on the deck to watch the sun go down.  It was so absolutely peaceful and beautiful, that it was only fitting that it became our meditation and prayer time.  We would sit quietly, shoulder to shoulder, for a few minutes and watch the sun make its way down.  Then, just as the sun was about to set, we would say our prayers.  In the midst of all the craziness and hardship, those few minutes every day became Bren and my favorite time together.

And, it's funny, because not once during those six days did Bren or I ever pray for the power to come back.

Now, with Hurricane Irene but a distant memory, Brendan and I still make time for, as he calls it "prayering" at sunset.  I rarely get home from work before sunset during the week, but every Sunday now, we sit on the deck, shoulder to shoulder, and watch the sun go down.  And, today, just as the sun went down, I whispered a "thank you" to God -- for my home, for the sunset, for my amazing little boy.

The Year of Living Fearlessly (Recovering My Lost Childhood)

My 41st birthday is coming up and although I've done a lot in my life, I often feel like I haven't done enough.  And, yes, ya'll know about my burning desire to write and to get my book published, yada yada yada.  But, I've never spoken of the more mundane things that I wish to achieve.  Like learning how to ride a bicycle.  Or swim.  Or how to play an instrument.  There are so many things that I simply never learned how to do.  Sometimes, I look at Bren and I am in awe of him.  He throws himself into everything so wholeheartedly.  God bless him.  I hope he continues to be that way.

While I exemplify some good things (getting an education, focus, drive), I know that I am also a model of fear for him.  I am fearful of animals.  I am fearful of risk.  I dread change.  I scream my lungs out on amusement park rides.  (Sigh.)

So, for the next year, I commit to living fearlessly.  I am promising myself that by October 2012 (or when the world ends, according to some), I will have -- at a minimum -- learned how to ride a bike, swim and play an instrument.  I also want to learn how to ride a motorcycle, take at least one flying lesson and skydive.  I will, of course, regale you all with my adventures.  I'm sure you can't wait to hear all about them .... :-)

How to Turn Any Failure Into Success

I was transferring my list of contacts from one e-mail account to another when I saw something that made my stomach clench:  the list of agents to whom I had sent a query regarding my book "The Five Lives of Mimi."  It was not an extensive list -- about 10 people, but it was enough to sour my day and make me feel like a failure.

I quickly logged off the account and tried to occupy myself with something else.  But my mind kept going back to that list.  And the more I thought about it, the crappier I felt.

Fast forward a few hours and I come across this article:  How to Turn Any Failure into Success by Martha Beck.  Ms. Beck basically says that in order to appreciate success, one must first wallow through failure.  She talks about how -- sometimes -- the best reponse to a perceived failure is not "oh no!" but to say "oh well ..." and keep moving.  She provides an example from her own life about how her love of drawing turned to despair and loathing after an art teacher ordered her to draw only with a drafting pen in his class.  Having never been exposed to the instrument before, she simply could not get it to work the way she wanted it to.  Of course, after thousands of tries, she learns to draw with the pen and creates an award-winning work of art.

I know I am missing something in my quest to get Mimi published.  I am obviously not using the right words to pique the agents' interest or not approaching the right people.  (Or, as my friend Katia and I sometimes discuss, it may simply be a matter of waiting for divine timing.)  Whatever it is, that "failure" is sticking in my craw.  I hate it.  But until I get over it and unless I keep sending those letters not knowing whether I will get the courtesy of a response, I will never know the sweet taste of success.

Til Death Do Us Part

Chris Rock has a funny bit in a comedy routine where he talks about being married.  He says – and I’m paraphrasing – that there comes a time in every marriage when the wife is going to wish the husband dead.  He says that he has caught his wife looking at him plenty of times where he can almost see the thought bubble above her head “I wish he would just drop dead right now.  I won’t have to deal with a divorce or a custody battle.  Just drop dead!  Drop dead, drop dead, drop dead!”

I have been there.  In a comedy routine, it is funny; in real life, it is not.

Two days ago, I picked up a pen, found an old journal and started writing again.  Before that day, I hadn’t journaled in over four years.  Giving up journaling was traumatic for me.  It was as if someone had pressed the “mute” button on my brain. I no longer had an outlet where I could vent my feelings, my disappointments, my anger, safely.  But I had to stop, because my privacy was breached and when I wrote, I no longer knew whether I was writing what I actually felt or if I was writing for an audience.

As a child, I was not encouraged to express myself.  Children were seen and not heard.  So I wrote.  I would internalize everything and when it got to be too heavy a burden, I would lay it down on paper.  That is how I dealt.

Then I met Big Bren.  Big Bren and I were like oil and vinegar.  If he said “up,” I said “down.”  If he said “black,” I said “white.”  We clashed constantly.  But instead of walking away from him and finding someone with whom I was more compatible, I continued to subject myself to him.  And so, I wrote.  I wrote all the things I could not tell him.  When I felt my anger spiraling out of control, I wrote some more.  But still I stayed.  And the more I tolerated, the more he piled on.  There was no pleasing him.  He became controlling.  One day, he smashed my computer screen because he reviewed my browsing history and didn’t like some of the websites I had visited.  He shredded a $300 coat I bought him because we got into an argument.  He poked fun of me for meditating.  One time, we went on vacation and on the flight back, I fell asleep and leaned onto his shoulder; he elbowed me awake.  I wrote this all down.  (I'm sure that if he was a writer, he'd be writing about me as well.  He ticked off my mother one day when she was making him coffee at her house.  She asked him how he wanted it.  His reply:  "Like my woman -- dark and bitter."  He would probably also tell of the time soon after we started dating when he told me me was going on vacation and I called my friend Nycol up and we followed him.  Or when I threw a glass at him because I heard him concluding a telephone conversation with "I love you, too" and thought he was speaking to another woman; he was -- his mother.  Or when I attached a GPS tracker to his car.) 

Then, one day, he discovered my journals.  At first, it was a hidden treasure for him.  He could get a sneak peak into my mind without my knowing he had been there.  Then, his need to control took over and he began “answering” my journal entries.  If I said something nasty about him, there would be a corresponding response.  In one I wrote, “I need to get out of this relationship.”  He responded, “don’t let the door hit you on the ass on the way out.”

Every time I got a new hiding place for my journal, he found it.  He was completely invested in controlling everything about me, including my thoughts.  After we had the baby, it seemed to get worse.  Now he had a little person to control me with.  When I wrote entries to my son, he ripped them out. 

So I stopped writing.  And that is when the “I wish him dead” thoughts started.  That and the recurring depression, over-eating and corresponding weight gain.  I prayed he would die and I would get a chance to meet someone and be happy for once.  I prayed he would die before my son became aware of how truly dysfunctional his parents’ relationship was.  I prayed he would stop breathing in his sleep and simply die.  I didn’t want him to suffer.  I didn’t want him to get killed.  I just wanted him to die!  I didn’t feel like I had the will power or the wherewithal to walk away from him, but well, if he died …

I’ve said before that God doesn’t always answer our prayers the way we want Her to, but She always listens.  Shortly after I started praying for that man to die, things began to change in my marriage.  It was as if a film had been lifted from my eyes and I was able to really see for a change.  I began to notice that when I didn’t speak up for myself (because I was pouring everything into a journal), his behavior escalated.  He was exactly like a child seeking attention.  I realized that the closer I was to the truth about a matter, the louder he yelled and the more hateful he became.  If I challenged him on something trivial, the stakes became higher and higher, with no winners.  And underneath all the bravado, he was a frightened little boy who was afraid that I would reject him and leave him all alone.

As all of this became clear to me, I began to change as well.  Instead of spewing hatred at him for all the things he didn’t do, didn’t have and couldn’t provide, I began to appreciate all the things he did do and continues to do for our household.  Instead of automatically responding with an opposing view to everything he said, I began to think first and answer second.

Those relatively minor things have made all the difference in our putrefying marriage and have given it a new life I didn’t think he was going to live to see.  As sure as I sit here, the man that he was is dead and gone.  Just as I have laid the old crazy version of me to rest.  Which is a good thing, because the woman I am now would not tolerate the ill treatment of yesteryear; and I hope that who he is now would not be attracted to a loony bitch.  These days, we most definitely still have our fights; old habits (on both our parts) die hard.  But when I see either or both of us engaging in the old behaviors, I can stop the pattern now before the downward spiral.  The result is that I feel like I can write again.  This blog was the beginning of my renaissance – the permission I needed to give myself to speak freely again.  He no longer feels the need to read my journals (or even this blog), but if he does, there is nothing that I haven’t already told him. 

Long live my husband.

Update 9/30/11:  I was telling Big Bren about this post and how I'd written about all the crazy things we did to each other.  He looked at me, smiled wistfully and said, "Yeah, we had a really passionate relationship."  Aaaarrrgggghhhhh!

I went to a taping of "The View"

My friend Nycol was clearly ready for her close-up.

I was "thisclose" to Babs.



 It was a really good show (Michael Moore was on).  It's always good to get a reminder that there is more to life than the day-to-day.

Michael Moore is looking like his old self again (make of that what you will).  :-)

Vacation Pics

I took Bren to Honduras this Summer purportedly to get in touch with his roots. 

 We didn't get around to much root touching, but we certainly had fun trying ... :-)

Back to School

History Repeats ...

 I remember being 25.  I had graduated from law school and had passed the Bar exam on my first try.  I felt invincible -- like I could do anything.

One day around that time, all my siblings and I were at our parents' house in the Bronx.  It was some occasion and we were all there at the same time.  The conversation was flowing and I don't remember how we got to regrets and failed hopes, but my father said something to the effect of that if he didn't have to work his whole life to support his family, he would have gone to school and studied philosophy or become a lawyer.  The sadness with which he said it silenced the whole room.  It was a rare glimpse into his psyche; and it made me feel as if he had sacrificed himself and his dreams for us.

When I couldn't bear the silence any longer, I said "Why don't you go to school now?  We are all grown and out of the house.  There's nothing stopping you from following your dreams now." 

He looked at me like I was a fool.  I will always remember his response:  "It is too late for me.  I am too old now."  And, as he always does when the conversation gets heavy or uncomfortable, he walked out of the room and didn't come back.  My father was 55 at the time.

The other day, Brendan and I were cuddling in bed, as we do every night before his bedtime.  He suddenly turned to me and said, "Mommy, you look a little sad and tired.  Are you not happy?"  I looked at him a little sharply.  Who would've thought 7 year olds could be so perceptive?

"I'm happy now," I said, obviously deflecting the question.  He looked at me again.  "Do you like being a lawyer, Mommy?"  A slight pause on my end.  "Sometimes," I finally answered.  He was quiet for a few minutes, then: "What would you do if you could do any kind of job in the world, Mom?"  No pause this time, "I would write full-time.  And I would be involved in the entertainment business somehow, either writing television shows or movies or even acting."

He scrambled to sit up and grabbed my face in his little hands.  "So why don't you do it, Mommy?"  My immediate response:  "Well, baby, I'm too old now." 

I am forty years old.  A full 15 years younger than my dad was when we had our conversation.  As those words left my mouth, I realized that they weren't true.  There is always time to do an about-face if you know you are going down the wrong path.  There is always time to reassess and get clear.  And there is always time to dream and have faith that those dreams will come true.

So, now, a month before my 41st birthday, I hereby re-commit to my dreams.  Not my childhood dreams, but the dreams I have now as a woman.  I vow to lead my son by example.  How can I tell him that all things are possible for him, but live with my own personal failure?  I don't want him to learn that when things don't happen right away, you simply give up.  I want him to be a fighter and for that, I am getting up and getting back in the ring.       

Everything you should know about kids, but no one bothered to tell you

In honor of a good friend who just recently had a little one, I am republishing this:

 

Everything you should know about kids ...

• Whoever coined the term “sleeps like a baby” to mean deep, restful sleep probably never had children. Sleeping babies are the most unrestful beings you will ever witness. Not only do they wake up every few hours to eat, but while they are actually sleeping, they: flail their arms (sometimes hitting themselves in the face and waking themselves up); they twist and turn; they whimper and cry; and they pee and poop.
• The “Terrible Twos” last from 18 months until 18 years.
• A two year old will refuse to eat anything you make, but if Grandma makes it, it’s going down without a fight.
• At some point in his life, your son will want to be a princess for Halloween.
• All young kids are fascinated by poop.
• A three-, and even a four, -year-old does not mind spending the day with a piece of crap stuck to his bottom.
• Speaking of which, before your child turns 3, make sure you buy stock in Fruit of the Loom. I cannot tell you the number of briefs that went straight from my son’s bottom into the trash can.
• You will understand every single word that comes out of your two-year-old’s mouth, even when it sounds like complete gobbly-gook to everyone else.
• "Home Decor" to children means figuring out where to stick the boogers: the wall or the ceiling. Bunk beds are perfect for ceiling-booger decor.
• Once the kid comes out, your body fat migrates to parts of your body where you didn’t think fat could exist. I have back fat now. Enough said.
• The skin literally falls off your nipples within three weeks of starting to breastfeed your bundle of joy. Oh, and by the way, that hurts. A lot.
• After feeding a child with your breasts, you will never look at them the same way again. (Your navel will be able to look directly at them, but you won’t. Never. Again.)
• Talking about breasts, you might want to refrain from telling a four-year-old what breasts are really for. That is unless you don’t mind him screaming in the middle of A&P, “Mommy, why can’t I drink milk from your breasts anymore???”

Despite all of the above, you will love your child(ren) more than life itself. You love them so much, it’s actually scary. So maybe, just maybe, it makes it all worthwhile. :-)

Mid-Life Crisis (?)

Am I too young to be going through a mid-life crisis?

When most people think of a mid-life crisis, the picture that usually comes to mind is a pudgy old man with a bad rug, a red sports car and a young girlfriend trying to recapture his youth.  Despite the funky manifestations, we know that the reason for the meltdown is the realization that half of one's life is gone and perhaps, one has not done what they thought they were put here to do.

I haven't traded Big Bren in for a younger model and I haven't given up my soccer-mom car, but my mind is constantly churning.  I cannot imagine doing what I am doing for the rest of my life (or until I retire), but the doors to other opportunities remain steadfastly closed.

So, I ask, am I going through a mid-life crisis?  If so, when does it end???

Delayed Gratification

That is my mantra these days.

There is so much I want and so much I want to do and I want it all NOW.  I have to keep reminding myself that slow and steady wins the race.  Whether it's a slice of cake or the new Gucci bag, I have to keep chanting "delayed gratification" to myself.  Most times it works; sometimes it doesn't (as I eat the last piece of flan in the fridge ...).

Pen Pal

Over the past year, I have developed a relationship with a former co-worker that is quite unique and extremely gratifying.  We are pen pals.  We don't send each other formal letters; instead we send e-mails throughout the day, that we retrieve on our respective cell phones.  The e-mails are more personal than texts or twitter updates, but less stuffy than letters.  It works for us.

For the life of me, I cannot remember how it started.  But now I look forward to the incessant digital chatter throughout the day.  We talk about everything: politics, life, children (he has one on the way), books, work, growing up, marriage, food.  All in little snippets.  He will send me a note that says "your thoughts on Arianna Huffington."  Response:  "Love the Huffington Post; don't know much about the woman."  Reply:  "She was once a conservative and married to a Republican.  He decided he was gay and they got divorced."  Then on to the next topic.

The funny thing is that although he works down the road from me, we rarely see each other.  We don't "speak" well to each other; our relationship is best in digital form.

Early on, when I realized how much I enjoyed and looked forward to his communications, I searched my mind for ulterior motives -- on his part or mine -- and, thankfully, found none.  It is not an affair -- of the heart, mind or otherwise -- it is a friendship, plain and simple, albeit of the digital kind.

The Absence of Fear

My son has no fear.  None whatsoever. 

There is something both amazing and frightening about that.  Amazing because, well, imagine the things that we, as adults, could do, if we incorporated the fearlessness of a child.  And frightening, because, well, I'm his mother.  :)

P.S.  He has also learned the more harmless skill of riding a bicycle.

Enough

I always have weird dreams in the days leading up to Father's Day.  I dream I am a child again and my father is yelling at me.  Sometimes, he has just died and I don't know how to react:  am I supposed to be sad or relieved?  When I awaken, I am usually just numb.  I know I have daddy issues.  I always have.  It is difficult growing up with a father who is withholding and unloving.  At some point, I internalized the fact that I was unloveable and unworthy.  I was never good enough for him; so now I am never good enough for me.  He will die someday, probably sooner, rather than later; I will have no closure.  I fear that he will take a piece of me with him, leaving the puzzle that is "me" unsolved.

I have tried to sort my daddy issues out.  I have tried forgiveness.  I have tried releasing him psychically, emotionally and psychologically.  None of it worked.  So, in my desperation, I confronted him.  I told him how I felt unloved by him.  How, no matter how much I've tried to please him, it was never enough.  How painful it was for me to see him develop and enjoy his relationships with my siblings, while the only thing he bestowed upon me was disdain.  I looked him in the eyes as I pleaded with him to explain to me where our relationship had gone so horribly wrong.  And ... he got up and walked away from me. Without saying a word.  Without denying his lack of love for me.  I think that one action at 40 was worse than all the emotional abuse, the distance and the disapproval of the 40 preceding years.

They say those who do not learn from their mistakes are doomed to repeat them.  While my issue with my father is not my mistake, per se, I have repeated this "not enough-ness" throughout my whole life.  It has plagued me through relationships, jobs and friendships.  When I receive acceptance, love and approval from strangers, I cannot process it.  My mind will not receive it, so my not enough-ness continues.  

So, on this Father's Day, when I see my son with his father and experience the pure and unadulterated love between the two, I feel happy that he has that.  No matter what life may bring him, that is something that no one can ever take away.  To that, I raise my glass and say "Happy Father's Day."

Nature Unleashed

This is what I awakened to yesterday morning.

I need a Mommy

It's been a long time, mi gente, but I'm baaaaaaaaaaaack.  :-)

Don't kids have it great?  They have parents to wake them up, remind them to brush their teeth, get them breakfast, help them get dressed, etc., etc.  As I was poking and prodding Brendan along this morning (I swear, he's worse than cattle in the a.m.), it suddenly occurred to me that I could seriously use a "Mommy."  Not a mother -- I have one of those.  A mommy.  Someone to poke and prod me through life.

I mean, if I had a mommy, I wouldn't spend endless hours on the internet.  I'd be writing my next book or plugging away at the billable hours.  My mommy would guilt me into productivity and out of procrastination.  My mommy would make me keep sending query letters to agents, even when I don't feel like it (and, Lordy Lord, I don't feel like it).  I wouldn't be able to insist on going to bed at midnight every day, knowing full well how exhausted I'll be.  No, siree, my mommy wouldn't allow that. 

It's funny how, as grown-ups, we know what we should be doing, but fail to do it anyway.