These days, I have been thinking a lot about college.

You see, I am knee deep in the writing of my next novel which is about three women who met in college. Though I am writing about the school I attended – Yale – I am not writing about my experience. But I do find myself thinking about my bright college years, and reminiscing.

Who was I in college?

I remember my first day of college. Arriving on Old Campus, meeting my three roommates: the funky granddaughter daughter of a famous baseball player who also hailed from Manhattan, a softball pitcher recruit from Arizona, a Connecticut local and track star who would spend four years throwing the shot put for us Bulldogs. I remember walking around the pockets of green with a best friend from high school – not a roommate, but coincidentally placed in Pierson College with me – and looking up at the sky and thinking, This is it. College. We are here!

I remember the first two weeks well. Taking the French placement exam among a sea of fellow freshmen, sitting on folding chairs as the dean welcomed us to Yale. The next time you are all gathered like this will be for graduation, he said. I remember going to the same Mexican joint, an amazing hole in the wall my older sister had introduced me to, night after night, delighting in the sangria even though I was just seventeen. I remember how we went to great lengths to convince the portly bar owner (Sponz, I think) that we were medical students at the school. He didn’t care about our story; the fact that we were young and bubbly and blond seemed to suffice.

I remember studying late at the library, my mind lost in a stack of notes, my hand dipping into a vast bag of gummy raspberries. I remember the charge I got in that particularly good philosophy seminar when we were debating ontology and phenomenology and talking breathlessly about Spinoza and Leibniz and the theory of other possible worlds; how my heart thumped magically in my chest as I threw up my hand to say something. I remember standing in sludge in fraternity basements and laughing with friends and flirting with boys and literally feeling youth and freedom with every breath.

I remember eating cup after cup of Tomato Florentine soup from Au Bon Pain when I was hungover; it seemed to be the answer. I remember dancing with a group of sorority sisters, all of us happy and dressed in black, on the Women’s Table on Cross Campus. I remember getting ready for a night out in my room, blasting my big sister’s mixed tape (Think: Nothing Compares to You, Jessie’s Girl), passing around a bottle of cheap champagne. I remember meeting with my Philosophy adviser, a small and brilliant man, who was passionate about Plato and loved to tell stories about yogurt.

I remember being selfish, confident, excited, nervous, happy, proud, uncertain, young, mature, free, protected, lucky, pressured. I remember feeling gorgeous and feeling fat. I remember falling in love and feeling doubt. I remember not knowing a thing, and knowing absolutely everything. I remember reading, and writing, and drinking coffee. I remember calling home. I remember going home, picking up a Subway sandwich at the train station, hopping on Metro North, heading home, the world blurring by.

I remember graduation day. I was tired and puffy. I wore a black dress with little flowers under my gown. It was sunny that day as we came together in clusters and walked. I remember the Pierson dean announcing my honors: Aidan Donnelley. Magna Cum Laude. The gasps were audible. I’m pretty sure everyone thought I was a not-so-smart blond.

I remember so much. It’s been years, more than ten, but I can still see it – the campus green, my hand flying across a ruled piece of paper taking tiny, meticulous notes, a girl who loved to work hard and play hard and live life, smiling big, struggling too, but smiling, at the beginning of it all.

The College Me. Quite the character. One I love and laugh at and celebrate and forgive. And remember.

They say you can’t go back, but the really amazing thing is that you can. You can sit in a Starbucks at 6:34am on a Friday morning in February with your cup of coffee and computer and your mind and you can go back. To the land before commitment and career and kids, to the campus of not yet knowing, to the fun and the frolic and the ferocious learning. To the four years that slipped by so fast because you were not yet a creature desperate to pause things, to arrest time, to hold on.

This has been fun for me. This little exercise in going back. And now I must do a different kind going back. Back to the home front and the three tiny things in pajamas who have it all ahead of them. That is pretty incredible too.

Who were you in college? Any fun memories? Have you changed a lot since your stint as an undergrad? Do you think it is presumptuous for me to assume most of you attended college? Are most people you know, and socialize with, college grads? I know several of you are still in college, so share your stories since you are experiencing them now and we would all like to live vicariously!

I would like to think of myself as a Morning Person. You know, one of those creatures who just springs out of bed, often without an alarm. One of those creatures who welcomes the new day with a stretch and a smile. One of those creatures who says, Hello day or if marginally more bad-ass, Bring it on.

I would like to be like this. But I am more the creature who throws her covers over head, curls into a toasty little ball under there, and pretends she does not hear those kiddos calling. That’s more my style.

Husband is of a different breed. He rises early to ensure a bit of quiet time with Morning Joe and his hot tea before his ladies make their cameo in his day. He insists that starting the day on his own terms, with this tiny stretch of peace, makes for a better day. And maybe it does.

Today. Today I am up. I am out. It is 5:49am and I am already at Starbucks sipping my grande. There are few of us here. It is still dark outside, and cold. In ten minutes, I will walk a few blocks to a spin class. That’s right; I am not just awake but ambitious. I plan to cram in a high-octane workout before slipping into the morning rush with the girls. We’ll see how it goes, right?

The thing is that I believe in change. I think we can train ourselves to be Morning People. I think we can convince ourselves to see things, and do things, differently. Am I fooling myself? How long do you think this Project Morning Person will last?

Oh, if so inclined, please send me good vibes between 6:15 and 7am this morning. I am hoping to survive spin without a fatigue-induced flip off the old bike.

When do you wake up in the morning? Are you a Morning Person? Have you always been? What’s your favorite workout these days? Anyone a Soul Cycle devotee?

“Love is a game in which one always cheats.”

Honore De Balzac

If you knew someone was cheating on your friend, would you tell your friend?

This is purely hypothetical. (I think. I hope.)

Several times a day I’m faced with The Question.

The Question: So, how’s your writing going?

It’s a simple question. A logical one. Innocuous. But somehow this question makes me tense up and spew a slew of nonsense.

Well! It’s going well. That is, when I find the time to write. Or, I should say, MAKE the time to write. Because, really, it is all about MAKING time and I’m not sure I’m very good at making the time. With the three kids, it’s hard you know. Because there is always SOMETHING. Someone is sick or someone has a birthday party or a class trip or just needs me. You know, SOMETHING. But I can’t let these excuses trip me up because I really LOVE writing and it’s what makes me HAPPY and this is what I want to DO, you know? But it’s going well. I love it. My writing, you know.

Nonsense, I tell you. And I apologize if you’ve been in my path of late and have made the mistake of inquiring about my writing and I have hit you with some rendition of this garble.

It’s not nonsense because it’s not true. The thing is that it is impossibly true. My writing is going well, brilliantly well, when I actually do it; I’m absolutely in love with story I’m shaping (ever-so-slowly). And it is also true that I’m not spending enough time on my writing and that I’m not making enough time for my writing. And it is absolutely true that these three little girls have me on their lovely little leashes, that I relish being so tethered, and that there is indeed always something.

But this is all nonsense in another sense of the word. It is nonsense because if I really want to write (oh and I do) and I really want to publish another book (oh and I do) and I really want to be a writer, I must, well, write. And so. For the umpteenth time, I vow to do so. I will write! I will produce words! Watch me go!

I recently stumbled upon two really great pieces about the writing life. One is serious and one is silly but they both convey the very same message, I think, that message being:

Writing is hard.

Dani Shapiro ponders why it is often so difficult for her to write. She says,

Rarely, it happens that something legitimate gets in my way.  Say, a leak in the house.  A blizzard.  A call that a friend’s parent has passed away.  You know, life.  But more often than not, the only thing getting in my way is me.  Sound familiar?  It seems so simple, so obvious that all we need to do is get out of our own way.  Set up some ground rules (no internet, no email, no phone) and just follow them.  But we all know that it isn’t that easy.  And the reason it isn’t easy is because writing is hard.  It ain’t for sissies.  It’s painful, exhausting, and it exposes nerves we didn’t even know we had, not to mention turmoil.  It unleashes the beast of memory.  Left to our own devices, we will do anything to avoid it.  Even though we know that we’ll feel better if we just sit down and get to work.

It ain’t for sissies? Amen. Avoidance? Sounds familiar. Getting in my own way? Me? Never. Ha. And over at Grin and Tonic, Dan Bergstein shares with his seven tips on How to Write. The second is my absolute favorite:

Your lack of seltzer is no doubt what’s holding you back from greatness. If only you had seltzer, then the words would pour out of you…like seltzer out of a seltzer bottle and maybe just as bubbly… If you’re out of seltzer and/or limes, consider taking a trip to the store and procuring some. You should buy a few bottles in case your writing hits a hot streak. It’s strange that the store is never out of seltzer. Does seltzer go bad? It’s probably a recession-proof industry. Talk to your financial manager about this. If a runner is one who runs and a camper is one who camps, is a seltzer one who seltzes? Look this up when you get back home; it may be just the thing your first paragraph needs.

One who seltzes? Are you laughing as hard as I am or does this breed of humor really only work for fiercely-determined-writer-types at 5:46am? Anyway, the point is that there is no magic formula, no perfect setting or circumstances within which to write, no silver bullet, magic formula… {insert cliche of your choice.}

So, no. There is no secret to great and plentiful writing. It’s not seltzer. It’s not pickles. It’s not pudding. (Read the rest of Bergstein’s masterpiece for context here.)

Wait, I lied. There is a secret!

The Secret to great writing is writing. It cannot be great if it does not exist.

Okay, time to sign off and sip some Aztec sweet chili tea (cleanse is over next week and then back to coffee!) and face my day. But today if anyone asks me that question, oh and they invariably will, I will puff up my chest and go a different route.

How’s my writing going? It’s going! I’m writing! And just writing is, I have concluded, the secret to great writing!

Faced with this effusive and odd reply, I might get some bewildered, concerned looks. And then people might stop asking altogether. That would be fine too. Then I would have even a bit more time to pop open that bottle of seltzer, fray some nerves, and get down to business.

_____________________________

Do you ever get in your own way when trying to write or accomplish something else? Why do you think writing is so hard? When faced with The Question about your writing or professional progress, how do you reply? Are you a fan of seltzer? Aztec sweet chili tea?

On Saturday morning, I checked my email. I checked my email and I saw a message from my friend. I opened the message and learned that her husband’s father had died just an hour before she wrote the message. He was sick, but being treated, and his death was sudden. My friend and her husband were skiing with their kids and did not make it home before he passed.

I read the email and I felt a rush of sadness. Sadness for him, this guy I know and like very much. Because I know what it feels like, and what it means, to lose a father. I am three-plus years out from losing Dad and my grief is still here, hovering, lingering, shaping me. It is more subtle in its presence, more quiet in its questions, more wily in its ways, but it is here. And Saturday, I felt it. I did. I was brought back to the day Dad died, a day that was surreal and slippery and just plain sad. I remember what my Big Girl wore that day. She was eighteen months. Basically bald.

She wore a gray tutu. I remember how she ran around twirling as we all sat there at my parents’ kitchen table bleary-eyed and stunned. My girl’s twirling saved me a bit that day. It did.

Saturday shaped up to be a good, sturdy day. Standard weekend fare. We spent hours in pajamas. There were juice boxes and art projects and cartoons. There was a trip to the playground. There were tears and laughs and snuggles. There was love. In the evening, Little Girl was fussy and I gave her a bath in hopes of soothing her before bed. I plopped her in the water and soaped her up and rinsed her. And then I watched. I watched her splash and squeal. I watched her study the tiny soap bubbles on the surface of the water. I watched as she poked these bubbles with her little fingers. I watched as her eyes grew wide and wild when she saw a little pink object pop up from below. Her own toe.

I watched. It was something I’ve seen so many times. But it was also brand new. I smiled.

Grief is a terrible and tricky beast. But there is something to be said for grief and what it can do. If we let it bloom, if we let it in, grief can make the little mundane moments that pepper our days absolutely magical. It can make those little snippets of ordinary life glisten and glow.

Like tiny little soap bubbles in a baby’s bath.

G – I am so sorry. There are no words.

You know just how much I love baby name posts. (Here’s the post where I asked you to help me name Little Girl. It’s the all-time most popular post on this blog!) And I know just how much you love baby name posts. So let’s get down to business…

As many of you know, Sister C is expecting her second child (yes, a girl!) in early March. She’s actually due on Little Girl’s birthday which is pretty cool, I think. Anyway, she’s getting close. A mere six weeks away. And she and her husband are still without a name for this little chickadee.

That’s where we all come in.

Okay, a little information to get our baby name radars pointed in the right direction. Sister C’s two-year-old son, known affectionately as Baby Bulldog on this blog, has a wonderful and unique name in real life. I will not disclose his name, but I will tell you that it is a three-syllable Irish surname that is quite obscure when used as a first name. (Think: Garrity, Gulliver, Callahan.) Their last name is two syllables, ends in an “y” sound. (Like: Rowley, Donnelley, Terry.)

I asked C to describe the kind of name they are looking for. And she said they are looking for a name that fits the following three criteria:

1. A name that is either unusual or not very popular;

2. A name that is two or three syllables; and

3. A name that is both strong and feminine.

I know this is still somewhat confusing and cryptic. How much simpler this would be if I just told you their son’s name and their last name? Alas. Not going to happen. But I will list a few names they like very much, and have considered, but have decided at this point not to use for one reason or another: Georgiana, Annabel, Henrietta, Bridget, Petra, Genevieve.

Okay, it’s your turn. Our turn. Oh yes, I plan to brainstorm today and post my suggestions too. Any ideas? I’m sure you’re full of them… Particularly you, my friend Abby Sandel of the fabulous baby name blog Appellation Mountain (where I stumbled upon Little Girl’s name last December!)

Ready, set, go! Let’s name my sister’s baby girl! If the above confuses you (it kind of confuses me) just throw out some unique baby girl names you love.

My girls are really good kids. At least I think so. They watch a fair bit of television and their nutritional proclivities need some work, but they are kind, thoughtful little creatures. I’m proud of this. I hope it continues.

The winter months are a challenge for us because they are chock-full of celebrations and gifting opportunities. Christmas obviously brings with it lists for Santa, expectations for certain loot, and endless goodies, edible and other. The season seems to spread itself wide, stretching for the whole month of December and beyond. It doesn’t help that we celebrate with both my family and Husband’s; there are gifts in both places, stockings in both places, doting grandparents, aunts and uncles in both places, and a surplus of cousins on my side. And then. And then it is Big Girl’s birthday and this usually entails several parties. The family parties – at home, with my family, with Husband’s. And the friend party. By the middle of the month (a.k.a. Now) our home is stuffed with stuff.

But this is not a post about stuff. It’s not a post about excess at the end of which I will predictably proclaim: Less is more! This post would be a compelling one; maybe I will write it and soon. But this post is about children.

My children. Your children. Children.

Okay, cut to the chase: When my kids receive lots of things, they ask for more things. They do not quite grasp that holidays and birthdays are discrete days that come and go, that they are not entitled to new stuff everyday. When I try to explain to my kids that they are fortunate, that they should appreciate what they have, they seem to understand but then they often slip into some kind of whine-fest/shockingly-articulate-negotiation-mode that drives me marginally berserk. Now, I must say, this whiny business has gotten leagues better in the recent weeks, but I think this is worth discussing because from what I’ve gathered by talking to fellow parental units, I am far from alone.

How do we prevent our children from becoming spoiled brats?

This question has been on my mind a lot lately. Husband and I have had many a conversation about this. And we’ve come to no ready conclusion. There are the obvious approaches: Do not give them an excessive number of gifts! Do not allow them to attend an excessive number of birthday parties or have birthday parties that are excessive in nature! If they have birthday parties, institute a no-gift policy up front! Engage your kids in meaningful service/charity opportunities through which they can gain perspective and glimpse lives of the less-fortunate!

There is no doubt that all of these things could work. I know that. But here’s the thing: My girls are five, three, and ten months. They are young. They are still new to this world. They can only grasp and internalize so much. I would love to know how to more subtly instill in them a sense of gratitude and graciousness. The reality is that they will get gifts. The reality is that they will go to parties. The reality is that they will celebrate holidays and birthdays multiple times. The reality is that they will be exposed to privilege and entitlement and stuff.

What can we do in the face of these realities? What should we do?

I write this because I am a mother and this strikes me as an important challenge.

I write this because I have a hunch this has been a challenge many of you have faced in one form or another with various degrees of success.

Mostly though, I write this because I love them and I care. About who they are now. And, also, who it is they become.

{The big girls’ lovely 2011 letter to Santa featuring an exquisitely-rendered Rudolph.}

Oh. P.S. – For any of you following the delightful Rowley vomit saga with interest, Big Girl, our last one standing, bit the dust last night. Poor babe. Five for five!

Any bits of more practical or philosophical wisdom on how we can avoid spoiling our children? How do we maintain the purity and goodness we glimpse in them this early on?

Maybe I was feeling extra vulnerable yesterday because I knew deep down that my entire family was about to be ravaged by the stomach flu that sidelined me on Monday?

Honestly, I thought we were in the clear. I got sick on Sunday night and was in recovery mode Monday and Tuesday. Husband and the girls were fine. How lucky, huh? Not so fast. While Big Girl and I were walking home from school (it was an unusually balmy January afternoon), Nanny sent the following text: Middle Girl is crying. Says her tummy hurts.

My (utterly eloquent) message back: Crap. Keep me posted.

Minutes later, from Nanny: She threw up!

As my eldest and I strolled home, we got several more texts and you know just what they said. When I arrived home, Middle Girl was in bed napping. That is, until I heard her vomiting her mac and cheese lunch into her hair over the sound monitor. A quick bath and change into ballerina pajamas and she was back on the couch, balled-up. Every twenty minutes or so, she grabbed for my arm and gave me that sweet and sad look with her blue eyes and I marched her off to the toilet. Rinse and repeat all afternoon and evening. She munched on a lonely Saltine and sipped some fancy water (Pedialyte) and curled up for bed on a blow-up mattress by the foot of our bed. During the whole ordeal? Barely a tear.

Husband was the next to fall. After dinner, my good man ran out to purchase the aforementioned Saltines and when he returned, he shot me a look that said, I am not okay. He melted into the couch, got sick fifteen or so minutes later, and then hopped over Middle Girl’s mattress throughout the night to make it to that magic bowl.

But the saddest by far? Little Girl. At one point as we were all trying to fall asleep, we heard a few coughs and whimpers on her monitor. We heard this and turned on the video monitor and saw our baby squirming around, but then she settled, and appeared to be sleeping. Phew, I mumbled. Foolishly. Husband, thoughtful man even when wildly ill, said that maybe I should check and make sure she didn’t get sick in her crib. Off I went.

When I opened the nursery door, I smelled it. I tiptoed to her crib and there she was, my sweet little girl, sleeping face down in a pool of cheery orange vomit. I plucked her from the nastiness. Her face was covered. The tips of her eyelashes were orange. Her blue eyes were red. I stripped her down and wrapped her in a towel. She played with a rubber ducky on the floor as I stripped her crib, changed the sheets, and threw all tainted items into the wash. Then there was bath. Though clearly miserable, she smiled a bit and splashed a bit. More pajamas. Another sleep sack. A bunch of cuddles on the rocking chair and I put her back in the crib (on a towel). She didn’t cry.

And I curled up to sleep on the daybed in her room. The place where I spent so many nights during her first months. Though exhausted and disgusted, it felt like an odd privilege to be back there, curled up, inches from my babe, listening to her breathe, and sleep. The problem though? I couldn’t. I couldn’t sleep. But I stayed there for hours, waiting for her to cry, to get sick again. Mercifully, she didn’t. Around 2:30am, I sneaked back into my own bed. The only issue was that Middle Girl had climbed in on my side and splayed herself like a starfish. I made it work.

At 5am, Little Girl cried again and so I went to her. This time, no smell, no sickness. Again, I curled up on that blue flowered bed and this time I slept. Goodness did I sleep. Until 7am when my sick hubby came to retrieve me to tend to the big girls who were awake.

So now? We are all up. PJ-clad, various levels of sicky. The baby is up t0o and seems to be on the mend. The wild card is Big Girl. She hasn’t gotten sick yet. My overwhelming instinct is to keep her home from school today, that she is a ticking sick bomb. Or maybe, just maybe, she has an immune system of steel?

Okay, that’s all folks. Sorry to regale you with the details of my brood’s descent into stomach flu hell, but somehow it makes me feel better to acknowledge my current reality here, to realize that my kids, even when tested and twisted by terrible germs, are really quite amazing and resilient.

Okay, must go. Need to fix Middle Girl an “ice chip sundae,” whip up a “fancy water bottle” for the baby, check on my man, and explain to my biggest that she will not be going to school because she might get sick at any minute. Alas.

Why do you think it can be helpful to record these stories despite their patent ick-factor and utter lack of profundity? Do you think it is the right call to keep Big Girl back from school? Seriously, I want your thoughts on this one. And what if she doesn’t get sick today – Do I send her tomorrow then?

My favorite posts on this blog are my vulnerable ones. The ones where I sit at this screen and admit being lost, examine my struggles, and say: I don’t know. To me, these posts are the most raw, the most human, the most universal.

My favorite conversations in life are my vulnerable ones. The ones where we sit together and admit being lost, examine our struggles, and say: We don’t know. To me, these conversations are the most raw, the most human, the most universal.

My favorite stories, read and written, are the vulnerable ones. The ones where characters convene and admit being lost, examine their struggles, and say: We don’t know. But maybe that’s okay. Maybe that’s real. Maybe that’s grand.

Vulnerability. It’s clearly something I revere and yet it’s hard. There are times when I feel extra porous, keenly vulnerable, and my instinct is that this is bad, something to alter, to flee from.

Now is one of those times. I’m not sure why.

I think I am feeling vulnerable because my littlest is almost one and I feel like it’s time to up the ante professionally and I’m not sure how I feel about this. I think I am feeling vulnerable because after thirty-three years on this good earth, I’m not sure exactly who I am or what I want. I think I am feeling vulnerable because after almost three years here at this blog, I’m not sure what exactly it is, what I want it to be. I think I am feeling vulnerable because I have recently witnessed fallibility, true and scary and beautiful fallibility, in a friend. I think I am feeling vulnerable because I’m pondering, and living, a profound change in my days and my ways. I think I am feeling vulnerable because I have three small creatures to raise and I want to do a good job and I’m not always sure what that means. I think I am feeling vulnerable because I want very much to be a good wife and daughter and sister and friend and citizen and there are no instruction manuals to reference. I think I am feeling vulnerable because I am waking up to the reality that life is change, constant and compelling, sometimes crippling. I think I am feeling vulnerable because my body and mind are impossibly weak, just on the other side of a wicked flu.

I think these are some of the reasons. Not all, but some.

And as I write them, and read them, these reasons, I smile. I smile because this right here is real. I smile because this right here is honest. I imagine I am not the only one out there, out here, who feels both lucky and lost, riddled with uncertainties, insecurities, also inspirations.

So. I’m not sure what I am saying here other than I am feeling inexplicably, richly vulnerable today. And that’s okay. Maybe better than okay.

Maybe, somehow, it’s good.

Do you ever feel inexplicably vulnerable? Do you agree that in many ways vulnerability is reality? Do you agree that vulnerability (within bounds) is a good thing?

Actually, it was not lovely at all. I haven’t felt this sick in years, if ever.

The stomach flu? I’m not a fan.

This morning, I’m just impossibly weak, but the fact that I am sitting up writing this is a good sign. I plan to be back to my regular self by tomorrow. But I also planned to be my regular self today; to rise early and whip off a fun and interesting post, to ferry my girls to school, to immerse myself in my novel. Alas. Plans don’t always stick.

Anyway. I came here to tell you why I’m not here in the way I’d like to be today. Because some wily child soaked me with some nasty flu germs yesterday (that’s my theory). Now, I’m just hoping that my man and my kids will be spared from this ugliness.

Okay, back to my seltzer and to my fetal position on the couch. And back to the Today Show. Just learned that Heidi Klum and Seal are kaput which actually makes me kind of sad because of all of the Hollywood sillies, they seemed, well, good. Now I am learning how to make some Chinese potstickers. Will be on that as soon as this cleanse is kaput. Speaking of cleanses, if it is weight loss you are after, picking up a wicked strain of the stomach flu seems to be far more effective than swilling powdery shakes. Just saying

When’s the last time you were blindsided by a nasty flu? Are you surprised about Heidi & Seal?