Sometimes, I imagine the future. And in that future I see three fair-haired girls with blue eyes sitting around the dining table doing their homework. In this scene, Husband and I putter lovingly around the kitchen, fixing dinner, fielding questions about spelling and math and social studies.

I know I am getting ahead of myself. Toddler is not even four. Baby just turned two. And the littlest? She is not here yet. I also know I am being a bit idealistic in my envisioning. The nights where Husband and I cook are, well, few and far between. But, hey, I’m optimistic. Years down the pike, it seems very likely that we will have our culinary act together.

Back to the homework bit. Husband and I have talked about ourselves as students. Our approaches. Our attitudes. And they were different. Truth be told, I was a bit of an academic robot. I worked very hard and wanted my A’s. And I got them. And when I didn’t? It was not okay. Not remotely okay. The end result? Stellar grades and an alarmingly perfectionist take on self and the world.

Husband is a very smart man. But he has admitted that when he was in school, he tended to work hard only in classes that interested him. If he wasn’t in love with a subject, he didn’t sweat it. And B’s? They were just fine. The end result? Solid grades and a shockingly sensible approach to self and world.

So, we were different then. And we still are. And this is fine. Good, even. I see it only as a positive that we are not clones of one another. I hate the world ‘balance,’ but it is the right one here; Husband and I tend to balance one another out.

But what happens down the line when our girls are in school and looking to us for guidance? What if my inclination is to encourage A’s and Husband’s is to encourage enjoyment and whatever grades that brings? How do parents, parents with profoundly different visions, present a united and integrated front to their progeny?

I don’t pretend to know. But I do think about this. Because I think this question is about more than academic approach. I think, at bottom, this is about the many different – and good – ways of living life.

The good news? Husband and I are continually affecting one another. I admire his serenity, his sensibility, and know that I have absorbed some of these things. And I see that Husband has, after nine years by my side, embraced some of my perfectionist and A-seeking ways. Maybe, just maybe, by the time these questions truly matter, by the time those three girls are gathered around the table with their noses in text books (who are we kidding – laptops), we will have met in the middle?

(A girl can dream, huh?)

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How much did you care about grades when you were in school? In retrospect, do you think you cared too little or too much or the “right” amount? Do you and your partner have similar or different attitudes about academics? Do you ever envision your future and dilemmas that might crop up? Is this an A post, or more of a B+?

I love Christmas. Love love love it.

I could speculate why, but I won’t try. Just know that when the season creeps up, I get a bit giddy. Just know that I had a December 18 wedding. Just know that we literally planned the architecture of our new home around where our tree will go.

You get the picture, I hope.

And I love the music. My love for Christmas music though is a bit more complicated. I associate Christmas music with studying, with buckling down, with anticipation of freedom and frolic. Every fall in college and then in law school, when exams were on the horizon, I started listening. And it helped motivate me. I worked so hard, so efficiently, so doggedly because I knew that when all was said and done, when the papers were turned in and the exams were finished, I would be home with family around our big tree celebrating the season.

And so. Some might think that at this point in my life I would perhaps have a bitter taste in my mouth about holiday music since, for me, it has such deep connections with school and studying in my mind. Not so. Not so at all.

Confession: I am having a hard time with my writing. A very hard time. My next novel is taking shape. Some days are absolute gold. Some days are mucky gray. Monday? I was floating. I broke through something – a ceiling of self, of story, of symbol – and I was elated. But then Tuesday came and I dragged. I cobbled words together that left me utterly disappointed. I felt something inside me shrink.

And then. In a low moment, I thought of something. I thought of Christmas music. About how it buoyed me once through impossible and insecure intellectual times. About how it soothed me and sustained me. About how I always prevailed at the end of these times. I contemplated in that very moment turning it on.

But I didn’t. Why? Because it is October.

It is not even Halloween yet. Thanksgiving is still weeks away. It struck me as illegal to be dipping into the Christmas tunes. I conducted an impromptu little Twitter poll about this and the majority of people said to wait until the end of November, but a few? They said that there are no rules. A couple confessed to listening to Christmas music all year long! (Love it.)

And so. This is a silly post in many regards. Who really cares when one Manhattan mother starts getting her jingle bell on? This dilemma of mine is hardly blogworthy. And yet. There is a speck of something here. About those nefarious shoulds that creep into the cracks of the everyday. About the schedules of propriety we have set for ourselves and each other. About seasons of joy and seasons of doubt. About the things that keep us going even when we feel a bit stuck.

So. Silly or no, here we are. Here I am. Debating Christmas carols in October.

• Do you love Christmas? Christmas music?
• When is it legal to start listening to holiday tunes?
  
• Do you find yourself doing things when society tells us to do them?
• Are there things that motivate you during times of pressure and self-doubt?
• Do you work or write best in silence or to a soundtrack of life or music?
  

We humans often talk about fear of the unknown. We cower together at the idea of uncertainty, the reality of roads unseen. Change looms and we know this, but we are afraid of its implications. Who will we be? Where will we be? What we life be?

Abstract enough for you? I have a point. (I think.)

My littlest Sister T moved to Chicago this past Monday. She moved there without much of a plan. No job. No roommate. She just went, seeking to shift things up. Now, it is worth reminding you all that T is no slouch. The kid graduated from Yale last May at the tippy-top of her class with a GPA that would make you cry. I do not tell you this to brag, but to tell you that her future? It’s undeniably bright. (I also tell you this to brag, I guess. Hey, I’m proud.)

Anyway. The point here is that she has no idea what her life will look like. Where will she work? Whom will she date? How will she spend her time? Will she meet a gorgeous stranger at 1am at darkened bar? Will she fall in love with a career she never dreamed about before? Will she take in the Chicago fall air and never turn back? I don’t know. She doesn’t either.

I know she is a little scared. A bit fearful of the unknown. This makes perfect sense. If she weren’t a bit anxious about the unfolding of her life, I’d be worried. But I think, I know, she’s also really excited. To walk out into her life. To putter around the real world, a world beyond Ivy. To see who it is she becomes.

And I am excited, too. To watch her fumble and stumble into her own happiness. To witness her evolution. To see her grow.

And, if we are being really honest here, I am a tad envious. She has so many big things ahead of her. I think I might just have to live vicariously. Nothing wrong with that.

Because me? I’m ten years ahead of her in this game of life. A full decade. My life is very different from hers, its contours more fixed, its contents more defined. I am a wife and a mother. I have a home. I have a professional passion. And these are exquisite things I would never ever trade, but they are also known. I have a good sense of what my life will look like in one year, five years, ten. The biggest uncertainty for me right now is whether I will have another girl or a boy this spring. I find out in two weeks and I can’t wait! But then again, I can wait. Because once I find out, I will know.

I guess you could say I have a fear of the known. A fear that it is all mapped out, my life’s landscape, and that it’s my job to just live within the boundaries. But even as I write this, I chide myself for my simplistic thinking. Life is never known. We can plan and plot, but things are never fixed, never firm. Change always lingers. Surprise always looms.

We never know entirely, do we?

This is scary. This is good.

T, I am so so proud of you. I can’t wait to watch your adventures from afar. And I can’t wait to come visit next month! Love you.

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• Are you afraid of the unknown?
• Are you afraid of the known?
• Do you think at any given point in life we are afraid of one or the other?
• Which city do you like better – Chicago or New York?
• Any words of wisdom for T as she sets out on her life adventure?
  

A final plea. If you haven’t yet, please click HERE to vote for Life After Yes as SheKnows final book club pick of the year! Your support thus far has been incredible! This will be the last time I beg. Promise

This weekend I went back to Yale for my tenth college reunion. We went back. To that beautiful campus. To those beautiful years.

We logged many hours reminiscing and reconnecting under a vast white tent on Old Campus. The weekend was stuffed with familiar faces and rich conversations and contagious laughter and even beer pong. Many things, so many things, made me smile.

One thing? Seeing my books displayed in the lobby of the hotel.

But one of the most amazing things about this weekend had nothing to do with parties and people from my past. That amazing thing? My two little girls. Husband and I took them to Old Campus on Saturday morning when it was very quiet and pretty empty. We plopped our creatures down in the candy green grass and let them roam and explore. They ran and ran and jumped and giggled. They sniffed out the little white flag above. Which made me smile because we surrender to these little ones countless times a day.

The girls insisted on playing with the stakes of the big white tent even though we told them that it wasn’t safe.

They spotted a mysterious beige object outside of Connecticut Hall. And had great fun banging it like a drum before we read the faded writing on it and realized that it contained some kind of poison. (Why are kids magnetically attracted to danger?)

They ran. At times together. At times separately. They skipped toward each other. And in different directions.

We walked along stone paths and checked out the trucks unloading lunch.

We walked through archways between Here and There. Then and When.

I watched Baby stroll down Elm Street, the same street I walked so many times clutching books and gummy candy. And dreams.

The girls looked for animals.

They chased squirrels.

And each other.

Toddler ran so fast. Leaving a mess of golden curls in her wake.

She stopped every now and then. To take it all in perhaps.

But then she kept going.

Yesterday, Husband let me sleep in. He took the girls on a “safari adventure” around campus. He snapped this shot of his two little women at the Women’s Table, the scene of some delightful debauchery of latter day. The scene of so many stories. And good ones.

He caught the girls being silly. Doing their job. Having fun.

And today. I’m home again. On my new campus. Today I look at this picture of my girls, my creations, on the campus I love deeply, the campus that in so many ways created me, and I am flooded with memories and affection and awe. Today I look at this picture and tears, sweet blissful Bulldog tears, come.

And to them, I surrender.

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• Have you taken your kids to your alma maters or other seminal places of your youth?
  
• Do you remember visiting your parents’ schools when growing up?
• Do you agree that it’s important and necessary to surrender to our kids and our emotions from time to time?

**”Do you ever feel like a book comes into your life at a time when you really need it?  It’s like some force in the world told me that I needed to read Aidan Donnelley Rowley’s book, Life After Yes, at this point in my life… can’t rave enough about this book and I encourage you to go and find your own copy asap!!  I am eagerly anticipating more from this author in the future!!  This book whole-heartedly deserves the Five Star CRAZY AMAZING review!” Click here to read the rest of the review over at Crazy for Books.**

**The second installment of the online Life After Yes book club is up over at Motherese. Yet again, Kristen provides an incredibly thoughtful analysis of my work and asks wonderful questions (that I am tempted to answer!). In the event that you missed it, also check out last week’s discussion. I cannot tell you how meaningful it has been for me to witness such rich conversation about my book.**

“The pessimist complains about the wind; the optimist expects it to change; the realist adjusts the sails.”

William Arthur Ward

I don’t know much about sailing. Or about William Arthur Ward for that matter. But I do love this quote. And I am very interested in the topic of optimism. What is it exactly? Is it something we are born with? Something we absorb as we navigate our days? Is it something we must choose, embrace, practice at?

I don’t know.

But I do know that these questions matter to me. I do know that I want very much to be optimistic. More than that, I want very much not to be pessimistic. Last week, at T’s Yale graduation, Bill Clinton was the Class Day speaker. And Slick Willy didn’t disappoint. He charmed us all with his trademark mix of wit and wisdom. He implored the graduates – and all of us really – to get real about the big problems we face in this modern world. But one thing stuck with me in particular. Something about pessimism.

Clinton said, “Cynicism and pessimism are cop-outs. Excuses to take a dive. Self-fulfilling prophecies.” And as he said these words, I sat there in my folding chair on good Old Campus, nodding. Nodding fiercely. I do not want to be a pessimist. I do not want to be a cynic.

But are these things up to me? Per Clinton, it seems they are.

Is optimism innate/inherited? Are each of us genetically or physiologically wired in such a way that we are more or less likely to see life’s silver lining? Do we inherit our powers of positivity from our parents? Is it hard, if impossible, to transcend the levels of optimism we witnessed and absorbed growing up?

Is optimism contagious? Are we more likely to see the sunshine in our days when surrounded by others who are optimistic? [Once upon a time, a young (and super-cynical) girl who wore tons of black and whose default face was a bitchy scowl met a young (and shockingly-optimistic) boy who didn't care what he wore and was prone to smile. They met in a bar of all places! And days passed. And months. And years. Seven-ish years later, that same girl has two girls of her own and is much much more optimistic about life. And she wears color!]

Is optimism a choice? Whatever its source, can we choose to add more optimism to our selves and to our stories? Can we make efforts to alter the ways we see things and process them? Can we train ourselves to see sunshine instead of storms? Can we, with devotion and diligence, avoid Clinton’s cop-outs of cynicism and pessimism?

Again, I don’t know. But, hey, at least I’m asking, right?

Today, I would say I’m a realist. One who suffers soggy moments of cynicism and poisonous bouts of pessimism. But one who is committed to optimism. Optimistic about optimism.

Today, I am awake. Alert. Aware of the robust reality of existential wind. Poised for change. Even cruel change. Always adjusting the sails of my own expectations.

Because I must. We all must.

(How can I possibly look at this sunshine-soaked picture of my three creatures in the fountains outside the museum where I celebrated my wedding and be anything but optimistic?)

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• Do you think optimism is a choice?
• Do you agree with President Clinton that pessimism and cynicism are self-fulfilling prophecies and cop-outs?
  
• Where do you fall on the optimism/pessimism/realism spectrum?
• Are you more or less positive about life and love than you used to be? What has affected your outlook?
• Are you suspicious (like I am) of people who seem optimistic all the time?

** Today is the very first day of the LIFE AFTER YES book club discussion over at Motherese. Click and come on by!**

** For a chance to win a signed copy of LIFE AFTER YES, please click over to BlogHer at Home and leave a comment! (Thanks, Nic!)**

Rumor has it that a certain something helps tremendously in the optimism department. That something? Book sales