A few weeks ago, I returned to Dalton. My beloved second home from K-12. The place where I learned to read, write, and play the trumpet. I went in on a Friday afternoon to speak to a fifth grade class. It was Sister I’s class. She invited me to come in and talk about LIFE AFTER YES and the publishing process. And of course I agreed. But I must admit something. Making a cameo in her classroom made me impossibly nervous. But I shoved the nerves aside and I arrived. Clutching an advance copy of my book in sweaty palms, smiling a shaky smile, excited beyond belief.

My sister was wonderful. She met me in the lobby. The same lobby where I used to meet my friends before soccer practice. She led me to the room where she spends her days educating smart and curious kids. And the kids were amazing. They were quick on the approach. They studied me with keen eyes and promptly declared that Sister and I look alike. And they were right. We do.

And then I sat in the front of the classroom, twirling nervously in a black desk chair, talking about my own life after yes. About stumbling into a dream I couldn’t deny. About working hard and writing hard. About traveling down dark paths to destinations unknown. And I also talked about less lofty, ephemeral things. Things that were presumably a lot more interesting to a pack of eleven-year-olds. Things like book covers and vampires. Yes, vampires. On that topic, I had little expertise.

I loved the questions. The raised hands. The kids asked the most intelligent, nuanced, searching questions. One girl told me that she loves to write and that she has started several stories that she can’t seem to finish. She wanted to know if I had any advice. And we all know that I am haste to dispense wisdom, but I was put on the spot and I said something. I told this girl to write when she felt compelled, to give her stories the space they need, to finish them when they were ready. Her young smile, sheepish and smart, was priceless.

One kid asked if I always knew I wanted to write and I said no. I said that I always loved to write, but didn’t know until relatively recently that I wanted to write. And then another student asked me if I came up with my own title. And I said yes. Because I did. And then another soft-spoken girl asked if the process was all that I thought it would be or whether there were surprises. And I told her both. That it was everything I thought it would be, but that of course there were surprises.

There always are.

But the best part of the day? By far? Seeing my own sister in action. My big sister. The leader of the Donnelley sister pack. Sister I has always been exceedingly smart (she learned to read at age two and skipped Kindergarten), but she is also exceedingly modest. I had heard through the glorious Donnelley/Dalton grapevine that she is a wonderful teacher and very well-liked and respected, but on that day I got to see it. How she handled her kids with a mixture of humor and affection and firmness. How she alternated between questions that had answers and those that were not meant to be answered.

The day was incredible. Going back to Dalton was without a doubt one of the best experiences I have had since inking my book deal. And I think I am too close to that day to know why exactly. Maybe that day was so big for me because when I stepped into that colorful classroom, I could picture myself as a fifth grader – a quasi-studious tomboy in a green wool Celtics cap – eager to learn and eager to live. Maybe because I was given the sweet opportunity to talk about the twists and turns of the past eighteen months, and a fascinating process it has been a tremendous privilege to enjoy. Maybe because the happiness I felt on that day confirmed for me that this is it. That I have arrived. That whether or not LIFE AFTER YES is a sparkling success or dismal failure, this, right here, is where I am meant to be.

Ultimately, I think the reason that day was so important to me is actually quite simple. I think that for some reason, for some foolish and elusive reason, I have been reluctant to call myself a writer. Which is plain ridiculous because the moment I began hammering away at the trusty keyboard is the moment I became a writer.

Those of us who write? We are writers.

But that day? Standing up there in front of those bright young things talking about my life and my story and my book? It made it real. Exquisitely real. I walked out of that classroom and out of that school and back into my city and I felt different.

I felt, finally felt, like a writer. A real writer. And this is good. Because I am one.

I am a writer.

(It feels good to write this.)

(It feels good to believe this.)

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• If you have any questions at all about writing or publishing, ask away.
• Have you ever been given a glimpse into the professional world of one of your siblings?
• What were you like in fifth grade?
• Have you gone back to visit your grade school?
• Why do you think so many of us who spend our days writing are so reluctant to call ourselves writers?
  
• What is the deal with vampires? Why are they so hot these days?
  

*Little experiment in generosity here: If you have a blog post you are particularly proud of, please leave a link to the URL in the comment box and (as long as it is not wildly inappropriate or offensive), I will Stumble It. I got this idea from a recent post on social media written by the lovely Scary Mommy. She “stumbled” a link of mine and I received a groovy boost in traffic that day so I am paying it forward. Hey, there’s nothing wrong with writers supporting other writers, huh?

Today Sister C sits for the first day of the New York Bar Exam. And I am nauseous. Not nauseous because I am worried she won’t pass. I think she will. Nauseous because I remember that exam all too well. Nauseous because those were two of the most torturous days of my youngish life.

And she hasn’t passed yet, but I am already so proud. I am proud because C has been studying hard, pulling late nights, and she has a young baby. Baby Bulldog is just six months old and C has been logging endless hours learning the bland intricacies of New York law (blech) when she could have been tickling tiny toes. I am proud because I know this hasn’t been easy.

So, yes. She got pregnant in law school. And gave birth a few months after graduation. Many would say that she should have graduated and taken the bar exam with her peers this past July. Many would say that she should have gotten the career rolling before popping out a delectably cute son. Many would say she did things out of order. That it should have been Bar before Baby and not the reverse.

But I disagree.

And not just because she is my sister and I love her to tiny pieces. I disagree on more objective, principled grounds. I think this society of ours is far too obsessed with its schedule of shoulds. Who says it is always better to firm up a career before starting a family? Who says we shouldn’t sometimes do things at the same time? Who says it is always better to wait?

Many people would say that Sister C should have waited. But you know what? She had the courage not to. When Dad was diagnosed with terminal cancer two weeks before Sister C’s wedding, things changed. Our Donnelley world shifted. I think, I know, Sister C realized like I did that life has cruel limits, that days are unpredictably numbered. I think, I know, she realized that family is it. And so, she went for it. She battled morning sickness while studying at school. She donned a polyester cap and gown in her final trimester. She spent several weeks at a law firm before welcoming her little guy.

And today. Today, she will kiss her little boy goodbye and go sit at a desk somewhere in this fine city and fill in tiny bubbles and take a big step toward a big future that is blindingly bright, but unknown. And when the long day is over, she will go home. To her man. To her baby. To her family.

And then tomorrow, she will do it again. And then it will be over, mercifully over, and I will take her out. And we will celebrate. We will go to the right kind of bar and sip a tall glass of wine. We will talk about babies. About family. About futures. We will talk about life. How, like the bar exam, it is multiple choice. But how in life, there is more than one right answer.

We will clink glasses and smile.

Two lawyers. One past. One future.

Two sisters. Always.

Two moms. Forever.

And I will say then what I write now. That I am deeply proud of her. For being exquisitely brave. For doing things in her own way. In her own order. For blazing her own trail. For having a baby, an impossibly sweet baby, before taking that exam.

For not waiting.

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Leave a comment and wish Sister C good luck! Do you agree that there is no such thing as out of order when it comes to life? That there is no objective schedule of achievement we should heed? Do you think that having a child before cultivating a career is brave or foolish? What are you waiting for?

ILI Daily Charms

* Do we lose ourselves in marriage? Stephanie Klein seems to think so. Click over to read her raw and searching post on the fate of self in the sea of commitment.

* Are pictures enough? Becca from Drama for Mama serves up a timely reminder that blogging isn’t such an empty endeavor and easy catharsis after all. Maybe there is a profound purpose in memorializing moments that might otherwise fade.

* Do therapists mess up their kids? Yes, according to Bruce over at Privilege of Parenting. But Bruce assures us that, “we ALL mess up our kids in our own unique ways.” Cheerio!

In the morass of modernity, I think it is easy to lose track of what matters. I do. I think we are overstimulated, overwrought, overcaffeinated souls floating through busy and blurry days. I think we often get bogged down in details that don’t deserve us and tangled in technology that obscures our basic nature. I think we let good and simple things become camouflaged by concocted complexity, by artificial tension, by excuses, by expectations.

I think. I don’t know, but I think.

As some of you know, I went away for the weekend. My sister had a baby a little over a week ago and I made the trip to Chicago to meet him. This trip was not easy for me. I am a creature of home and habit and not a huge fan of flying. But I went. And, as predicted, I am so happy I did. I am happy for predictable, Hallmarkesque reasons and I am happy for reasons that are a bit more murky.

Predictable, Hallmarkesque Reasons: First and foremost, I got to meet Chickie. I got to hold him. I got to run my hand over his tiny head. I got to smell his newness and remember how impossibly soft newborn skin is. I got to hug my big sister. I got to congratulate the daddy of the moment on the arrival of his very first son. I got to snuggle and be silly with the big sister duo.

Murkier Reasons. This weekend was big for me. I am too close to it to explain why exactly, but I will give it a shot. It was big because I wandered outside my comfort zone and left home. It was big because I got on an airplane by myself and weathered the rough skies between Here and There. It was big because I glimpsed my sister’s world, her own breed of compelling chaos.

It was big because I realized what matters most to me, what has always mattered most to me: Family.

Family. That’s it. My number one.

As time passes, things are becoming more and more clear to me. Since Dad died, I have been a bit of a mess. I have been confused and angry and more than a bit sad. Confused about how to grieve and get on with my life. Angry that Mother Nature and cancer cells can shatter the snow globe of a big and beautiful family. Sad that we cannot have him back, that we must plow forward in his stinging absence.

And I have done a commendable job in distracting myself from these things. I have channeled Dad’s laser-like focus on work and professional passion. I have lost my taste for superficiality. I have not stopped writing and thinking and planning and plotting. And it’s exhausting. And more than being exhausting, it’s blurred my focus a bit.

My focus on family.

But this weekend. This weekend, with tears in my eyes, I kissed Husband and my girls goodbye. And I missed them instantly. On the plane, shaken by turbulence and realization, I had a bit of an epiphany which you will hear about tomorrow. And then I arrived. And plopped myself squarely in my sister’s world. A world of life and laughter and love.

A world of family.

I cradled a tiny baby who may or may not have Dad’s nose. I wrestled two little girls in a purple polka-dot bed. I celebrated my brother-in-law’s birthday. I talked with my two older sisters. (Sister I made the trip too.) About the impossible imperative to divide one’s maternal affection into three. About the closing of biological doors. About the enigma of balance. About the fibers of family.

And I was overcome with a wave of profound ambivalence which shocked me because I didn’t think ambivalence came in waves. I looked at my sister cradling her new boy, tending to her girls from afar. And I felt a tug.

“I want another baby,” I said. “But not yet. But I haven’t changed my mind. I still want four!”

“Have you thought about why you want so many kids?” Sister I asked me.

And it was a good question. A fair question. One to which I have given a lot of thought.

“Yes,” I said. “This. This chaos? This is what I want. I want a big family. I want the bustle.”

And I do. That is what I want. I want a tormenting excess of laughter and love. I want utter and impossible mayhem which tests every morsel of my being.

As my sisters and I talked, I noticed two pictures on the mantle above the fireplace. (Wherein this little guy got a wee bit charred.) The two pictures had one thing in common. Dad. In one picture, he wore a tux and walked Sister N down the aisle. In the other, he sat on the powder blue sofa where I spent so much of my weekend. He sat there, cradling her two girls. And this picture made me smile. But it also made me sad. Because Dad will never meet Baby or Baby Bulldog or little Chickie or any of the future Donnelley creatures. There won’t be these photo ops.

But there wasn’t time to wallow. And for that I was grateful. In no time, I was busy watching Sister I change a tiny diaper and collapsing into a puddle laughter when Chickie peed all over his itty-bitty Blackhawks jersey and his own little face. In no time, we were gathered around the dinner table scarfing Thai takeout, learning the names of various plastic dinosaurs, and singing a genius song called “Flavor Juice Fountain.”

Yesterday afternoon, I came home. At the front door, I was met by a man and two tiny girls. My man. My girls. I was serenaded by a sweet chorus of “Mommy.” And I dropped my suitcase and lost myself in hugs and kisses. And home.

This is it, I thought then and think now. This is what I want. This is what I have. This is what matters.

And when things grow more complicated again (oh and they will), when I begin to stress about blog traffic and book sales and jean sizes and renovation budgets, I will come back and read this post. I will read these clumsy words and remember the wonderful weekend I just enjoyed, and the realization that came with it. The realization that things can be quite simple if we let them be.

The realization that for me, family comes first. And always will.

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Have you had moments when you were struck by such realizations? Do you agree that all the bells and whistles of modernity distract us from what matters? Do you think that wandering away often makes us appreciate what we have at home?

This is what happens when you bring an adorable newborn baby boy home to two smart, strong-willed little girls. (And when you have an open fire roaring all day long.)

Like this little Valentine’s pup, I survived my weekend in Chicago. But I do have a few stories to tell. Stay tuned…

(Warning: This is a whiny one. Wah.)

I head to Chicago today to see Sister N and her family and to meet her brand new baby boy. Chickie (his awesome alias) entered this fine world exactly a week ago and after some internal debate and bloggy banter here on the virtue and vice of advice-giving (and receiving), I am off. And I am excited.

But here’s the thing: I don’t want to go.

Let me explain. I want to go. I want to congratulate my sister and her husband. I want to snuggle her new addition. I want to play with my nieces who are newly-minted fellow big sisters. I want to do all of these things.

It’s just that I don’t want to go. I don’t want to leave home and Husband and the girls.

It’s not that I’m lazy. (I am, but that’s not the point of this particular post.) It’s not that I hate to fly. (I do, but that’s not the point of this particular post.) It’s not that I hate to carry my own suitcase. (I do, but that’s not the point of this particular post.)

I don’t know what it is. But the thought of leaving for two whole days and two whole nights? It makes me sad and anxious. I say the thought because in actuality, I know I will be perfectly fine. I am a big girl. I will get myself to the airport with plenty of time. I will check in. I will sniff out some trashy gossip magazines and the nearest Starbucks. I will board my plane and exchange pleasantries with flight attendants and fellow passengers. I might even savor a little nap en route. And then I will arrive at my destination and find my way to my sister’s place. Once there, I will bounce around, doling out hugs and I will study the little man who just one week ago was cozy in my sister’s belly preparing for his debut. I will see if his great name fits him after all.

I know I will have a fantastic weekend. I know I will be so happy that I made the trip.

But now. I’m not so psyched. Why?

Maybe it is because my girls have entered a bit of a Mommy phase? Yes, that’s right. My girls who are utterly obsessed with their daddy have begun to think I am kind of cool. They chase me and hug me and bury their heads in my chest. They croon “MOMMY!” loudly and in unison when I leave the room. Baby has just begun to string words together and my favorite sentence of hers? “Hi, Mommy.” It’s a good one. Maybe a little part of me doesn’t want to go now because we are having this little mommy-daughter love fest and I worry that a weekend alone with Daddy will just convert them back to Daddy’s Girls?

Maybe it is because now that I am a parent I worry more about safety? I have never been a super adventurous chick, but these days I am a downright scaredy-cat. I have never adored flying, but now? I hate the idea of being alone in the air at the mercy of Mother Nature and a man-made machine where I have no guarantee that I will be safe. When my girls are out of my view, I do not have evidence of their well-being. Recently, one of my good friends mused about the core desire to feel safe. Intellectually, I know that flying is quite safe and that my girls will be just fine at home, but that feeling of worry? It’s at once very familiar and no fun.

Maybe it is because I know my girls will be fine and that I will be fine? Maybe I do not want to leave for a weekend because this will prove that I can leave for a weekend. That the Rowley household will go on without me. That Husband and the girls will not skip a beat. That they will laugh and sing and dance and watch Dora and take baths and will not miss me? Maybe I do not crave this reminder that I am not 100% needed, that I am in some sense dispensable?

Maybe I inherited this breed of anxiety and this distaste for travel? Growing up, my sisters and I went on many family trips. That is, with our parents. I cannot remember a time when my parents went away without us. I do remember times – and more recently – when Dad would travel for work, but I literally do not remember one occasion on which we were separated from Mom (who, by the way, does not fly at all). Maybe she bequeathed to me this lovely desire to stay put with little ones?

Maybe this is just an old school symptom of parenthood? Maybe this feeling, this gnawing anxiety and guilt (because, yes, this is probably a lot about guilt), is just part and parcel of parenthood? Maybe it is very normal to be a bit sad about saying goodbye even if it is only for a weekend? Maybe, once we have children, we naturally evolve into homebodies and develop a taste for cuddling on couches. Maybe, once we have children, the stakes are that much higher and we are increasingly aware of our own mortality and responsibility and fear?

Maybe I am just a mess? Maybe I am an overthinking, anxiety-prone, complainer? Maybe I am a spoiled soul who chooses not to recognize the good fortune of having and hands-on and supportive husband? Of being able to pay for a last minute ticket? Of being able to spontaneously hop a plane to travel and roll around in the incomparable joy of new life? Maybe I just like to see the rough spots on a smooth existence?

Could very well be.

I don’t know. What I do know is that I am cutting myself off now. What I do know is that I will be back here Monday telling you all about my wonderful trip and the sweet face of my new nephew. (Or, I might be here this weekend with some pictures of the little guy if my sister lets me!) What I do know is that it is probably good for me – and for my kids – that I get away from time to time. What I do know is that you are kind to humor me by sticking with me to the bitter end of this meandering woe is me post.

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Why is this so hard for me? Is it hard for you to leave home too? Do you get anxious about travel? Did your parents travel without you when you were young? If you have kids, is it hard for you to leave them? Has parenthood or adulthood made you more averse to adventure and risk and travel? Am I a big baby? If you are at a loss for words, feel free to tell me I am not alone. And then wish me a safe flight!