We move into our new home today! If I have an ounce of energy left by this evening and I can find my camera in the sea of boxes, I will do my best to post some nifty pictures of the new place. If I do not get my photographic act together (very likely), have a wonderful weekend!

It’s Friday again. Hard to believe. Maybe it’s just me, but I feel like time is odd this year. Extra speedy. The fact that Thanksgiving looms and I am drinking from a Starbucks holiday cup and listening to Christmas music (love it), is both very wonderful and very strange. It feels like it should still be September. But these things are not up to me. Or you. Sorry.

What is up to me, to us, is doors. Doors? you ask. Yes, I answer. The Happy Headache (a.k.a. the untimely-given-this economic-stuff-gut-reno of our new home) is progressing nicely, our new home is taking shape before our very eyes, and it is time for us to select doors. Many doors. So, we had a very important meeting this week to go over the Door Schedule. I’m still not sure what exactly this means, but in general I’m not a huge fan of schedules (unless they pertain to babies and sleep). Husband and I traveled to Architect’s office and we talked about – you guessed it – doors. Truth be told, we didn’t actually talk about doors themselves for those have already been selected (thanks Architect and Contractor and all those who know more). Rather, we talked about door hardware. Hinges. Roses. Knobs. Decorative finials.

Did I lose you with that last one? Decorative finials? Don’t worry. I was lost at that point too. Maybe I slept through the lecture on decorative finials in college, but I had no idea what these things were. Maybe you are smarter, more acquainted with dainty door flourishes than I am and this is kind of blah for you, but stay tuned, I get fun and philosophical below. (Ah, the suspense.) These finial things are little decorative items (balls, cubes, etc.) that you screw into the top and bottom of hinges to make them, well, fancier. Now, I am usually a big fan of fancy, but these things seemed unnecessary. Maybe I am an odd bird, but I do not enter someone’s home, shed my coat, and run to the nearest door to scrutinize the sophistication of hidden hinges. But, guess what? We ordered finials. Yup. (This is not at all symbolic of our inability to say “no.”)

Anyway, let’s move on. We picked budget-friendly and beautiful crystal knobs, chrome roses (the plates behind the knobs). We were very efficient in making our selections. And then. And then there was a whole lot of talk about privacy. Where do we put locks. On bedroom doors? On bathroom doors? For three seconds, we discussed installing locks on the doors of our girls’ rooms and this prospect horrified me. First, I freaked out about the possibility that my babies could accidentally lock themselves in their rooms. And then, my mind shimmied forward about a decade to a day when they might intentionally lock us out. At this point, I said, No locks on kids’ doors. Period.

Fair enough. At this point, I will stop talking shop. Because, really, how much do you want to know about our future doors? Not much more than this, I imagine. Fine. But as I sat there with Husband, and as I sit here now, I realize doors are not just doors. No. Doors are thresholds between rooms and worlds and times. Doors are passages from here to there and back. We do not just open and close them. We lock them and prop them open. And, sometimes, we slam them shut.

Doors play a big, often overlooked, role in our lives.

There are all those literal doors. Screen doors and French doors and fire doors. Pocket doors and flipper doors and sliding doors. Cab doors and bus doors and subway doors. We hold doors open for friends and strangers and strollers. We hang wreaths and lights.

And there are all those symbolic doors, swinging open and shut. Good educations and unique talents and buffed resumes “open doors.” So many people come and go from law firms and investment banks, these places are often referred to as “revolving doors.” Behind fabled “closed doors,” each of us is a slightly different person than we are at work, or at school, or at cocktail parties. Doors are always closing – on youth, on fertility, on hope. Doors are absolutely everywhere. In every nook and cranny of our lives and minds.

And there might be more doors in our world than we think. More than we can see. My friend Ralph Waldo Emerson said, “Every wall is a door.” What exactly did he mean by this? I’m not sure, but maybe he meant that walls are walls, and limits are limits often because we see them as such. Maybe he meant that there is always something on the other side of a wall and if we want it enough, if we need it enough, we can walk through. We can get there. I don’t pretend to understand the complexity of these deceptively simple words, but I love them. Every wall is a door.

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Thoughts? On decorative finials or my dialectic about doors? What doors in a home should have locks? Do you agree that physical and metaphysical doors are absolutely everywhere? What doors are most prominent in your life? What doors do you feel opening – and closing? What do you think Emerson meant by “Every wall is a door”? Please leave a comment! Your words are doors to my often deeply buried self-confidence

One of the big topics of discussion lately has been security. How much security is too much security? Do we need window buttons and glass breakers and motion detectors? Do we need cameras? Do we need recording and storage of footage? Do we need any of these things? I don’t know.

When this subject comes up, I half tune out and the words float over me. Husband has more of an opinion. This is a decidedly unfeminist thing to say and I am not even sure unfeminist is a word (actually I am pretty sure it is not), but maybe caring deeply about the nuts and bolts of security is a male thing? Maybe.

I did weigh in at one point in the discussion though. I want (temporary) cameras in our kids’ rooms. Calm down. Hear me out.

Since she was born, we have had a video baby monitor in Toddler’s room. During those first few days and weeks of her life, this monitor made me a bit crazy as I was obsessed with watching her every move. But with time, this monitor saved us. We would turn it off at night and if we thought we heard Toddler crying down the hall, we would turn it on. On that tiny screen, we would see her shifting about in her crib, fidgeting her way back to sleep. We were able to see – and quickly – that she was okay. This monitor gave us a sense of peace and gave her a sense of independence. Because we could see that she was fine, we did not bust into her room over and over to check if she was okay. We let her do her thing. We let her soothe herself. We let her learn to sleep and savor her naptime and nighttime solitude.

And now. We have done the same thing with Baby. She has the very same video monitor trained on her crib. And this monitor allows us to watch her when we need to. We can see if she is playing or fussing or has tossed her pacifier through the slats. We can see when she needs us. And when she does not. Again, Baby has evolved into an independent spirit. Like her big sister, she puts herself to sleep at night and wakes up in the morning and plays in her crib.

There are many, many things I worry I am doing wrong in the parenting department, but there is one thing about which I feel proud. Borderline smug. Sleep. Our kids sleep well. Both of them. Whether this is a matter of nature or nurture is up for grabs. I think this has something to do with our priorities as parents and something to do with the temperaments of our children and maybe something to do with those video monitors.

So. I am inclined to put cameras in our kids’ rooms in the new place. Because we are installing an entire system, we can easily add (removable) cameras in each girl’s bedroom and these cameras will work far better than the monitors we have. Wonderful, right? Yes. Except that now I am questioning this decision. Is there something wrong, something ethically askew, with being able to see into our kids’ rooms? Perhaps it is easier to justify cameras in the rooms of infants – when fears of SIDS are at play – but what about in the room of a toddler? At one point does having a camera become an intrusion on privacy? We would remove these cameras at some point. I do not imagine wanting to know what is going on chez teenagers. But when is the right point of removal? Is having cameras at all, at any point, okay?

I say that I want these cameras as part of our future “security system,” to be able to monitor the status and safety of my young children, but is this really about my own insecurity as a parent? Is this prime evidence of my own inability to trust that my darlings will be just fine without my eyes on them (or potentially on them) at all times? Or, is this all fine and dandy? Am I just being a tech-savvy and loving mother who wants to keep close watch on the little loves of my life? I don’t know.

Am I talking here about security systems or insecurity systems? What are your thoughts on having cameras in the rooms of young children?

Now or later? This question, this deceptively simple question, is popping up a lot lately. But today is Friday and I will focus on the presence of this question vis-a-vis the Happy Headache (a.k.a. the-untimely-given-this-recession-gut-reno of our new place).

First of all, my apologies for being inconsistent with my promised updates. It seems I have a big, bad case of denial. I don’t know whether it is the sudden and marvelous mania that is my life (with Preschool and Baby classes and the book and the blog), but I am acting like we are not in fact knee-deep in a major construction project. Each and every day, several emails swarm into my Inbox – emails about faucets and alarm systems and schedules – and what do I do? I ignore them. Actually, that’s not right. Usually, I don’t even see them. Invariably, at the end of the day, Husband asks what I think about that debate over closet door placement or light switch heights and I do not have to play dumb because I have no idea what he is talking about. Why the sudden and vicious case of denial?

Maybe I am ambivalent about the fact that this is actually happening, that in a matter of months, we are going to move out of the home where Husband proposed and where we brought the girls home after they were born? Maybe I am more emotional about these things than I thought? Or maybe it is far simpler than this and a bit less endearing. Maybe I am not seeing the issues and problems because I think that if I ignore them, or pretend they do not exist, someone else will address them and fashion a solution (hey, Husband, how’s your day going?) Any way you slice it, this is not good. I am in a deep thicket of denial, tuning things out, and it’s childish and unfair to certain people who shall remain nameless (hey, Husband, Architect, Contractor, Project Manager).

Wait a minute. This post was not meant to be about denial. It was supposed to be about that perennial dilemma: Now or later? So this is where I veer back on track. This question has been cropping up a lot in the context of our renovation. You see, we had this little thing called a budget and we told everyone and ourselves that it was something to be put on a pedestal and revered and respected. And now. Now, a zillion things are coming up – structural issues having to do with the integrity of our place – that (shocker) cost money. And then there are the more cosmetic flourishes (like ubiquitous built-ins and the silver wallpaper that I must have in the dining room) and they add up too. So the result is that our poor budget is dying a fast death and we are totally complicit in its demise.

So. The question becomes: now or later? Do we do the things we need to do and some of the things we want to do now or do we put them off to another time? (Know that we are not being as irresponsible as I might very well be making us sound – none of these decisions will ruin us.) Do we take the plunge and do these things while we have a construction crew mobilized and while our Husband’s mind is on these matters? Or do we act like grownups and delay gratification? I worry that things put off won’t ever be done, that real life will intervene as it has a habit of doing, and all of these little wishes will fall between the cracks.

Okay, I am officially cutting myself off because I sound terribly spoiled, don’t I? Yes, I do. Life without silver tree-grain wallpaper? Tragic. The point here (buried deep in the aforementioned mush) is that I think this question – of now versus later – is a big question in each and every one of our lives. And, yes, it comes up in contexts with a bit more existential weight than designing a home.

Should you leave your current job now or later when you have more financial security and a better sense of what you want to do? Should you go back to work now or when your baby is older? Should you buy or sell your home now or wait until the market grows more robust? Should you break up now with that person who is okay, but not everything you need or wait and see? Should you have that third child now (while you are young! and excited! and eager!) or wait until your older two are a bit more independent? (Hey, Husband. Love you.)

So, the post started as an indulgent (and perhaps alienating) faux sob story about the renovation I am exceedingly fortunate enough to be undergoing. But I end here with a more universal quandary that affects us all – Now or later?

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Now or later? In what contexts of your life does this question arise? Do you usually opt for the former of for the latter? Any insight into why I am suddenly plagued by denial about the evolution of our new place?

It’s Friday and much to my delight, it feels like fall. I love fall. (Please note that I very much want to capitalize “fall.” I think this season deserves it. But per trusty Mr. Wiki, seasons should only be capitalized when they are paired with another word such as “Fall wardrobe.”) Anyway, I adore this season. It’s my absolute favorite. I love the crisp air and the leather jackets and the pumpkins (candy and real). I love the leaves. I love how they change and then when they’re ready, they fall.

Fall.

Fall or no, it’s Friday and that means I owe you an update on the Happy Headache (a.k.a. the untimely-given-this-recession gut reno of our new place). For various uninteresting reasons, I have missed the past several construction meetings. So when I waltzed into yesterday’s meeting (sans Starbucks mind you), I felt a bit out of the proverbial loop. I was late and the meeting was already in progress. Very quickly, this meeting felt different. There was a palpable lack of energy and it occurred to me that maybe I wasn’t the only one who missed her morning jolt. Eye contact was scarce and questions were asked about architectural drawings and invoices and schedules. And these questions floated about the raw space. There was a lot of “I’ll look into that,” “We’ll get that to you soon,” “We will follow up with that.” The only concrete thing I learned in this meeting was that the German factory which housed all of our future master bathroom fixtures burned down. Cheerio.

I sat there internally debating whether I was projecting my own lethargy onto others, whether I was seeing things through my own hazy lens. And then I spoke up. Ever diplomatically, I said, “Is this level of uncertainty customary at this point in the project?” A chorus of lackluster nods. And then our site manager, a wonderful and talented man, looked me straight in the eye and said three words. Three simple words that would probably not satisfy 99% of clients. But these three words struck something in me. Because they apply to everything, not just sluggish stages of construction.

Those three words: Things come up.

Hardly revolutionary. Vexingly vague. And yet genius. This is what makes life interesting and frustrating and utterly impossible to lasso and pin down. This is what makes control a fiction. We cannot control things because things change. Constantly. In ways we could never predict. Contingency abounds. Uncertainty reigns supreme. Things come up.

Suddenly, I’m thankful for my bizarrely philosophical way of looking at the world. I could be sitting here getting wrinkles about the perceived lull in our home renovation. But instead I am seeing that lull as prime evidence of the way the world works and the way it doesn’t. I might be singing a different tune this spring (poor tiny s) if things still appear to be stalled, but for now I’m feeling surprisingly forgiving about the ebbs and flows of progress.

Things come up.

I realized the truth of these words just this morning. Toddler and I ran to the corner to catch the bus to Preschool. The bus pulled up. Toddler beamed. She loves the bus. In her fringe boots and Diego Rescue back and tiny leather jacket, she was an itty-bitty portrait of cool. Of Fall freshness. We waited our turn and climbed the steps on to the bus. I clutched her hand and slid my Metrocard into the slot. She wrestled aggressively with the little pocket on her bag. There were people behind us and I urged her forward. But she resisted me with all her tiny might. I picked her up and carried her to a seat. And, with this, her darling face crumpled. The tears fell hard and fast.

Confused, I cuddled her. She calmed down enough to explain. She opened that small pocket and pulled out one of Husband’s business cards. She held it up to me. “Mommy, you didn’t let me use my card! I want to stick my card in too.” I started to explain the difference between our cards, but then stopped. I told her she could use her card next time, that everything would be okay. And my little creature nuzzled her nose into my chest for the duration of the ride. The ride I foolishly assumed would be smooth.

But life and construction projects and bus rides are never perfectly smooth. And we shouldn’t expect them to be.

Things come up.

Off to (1) take Baby to gym class; (2) have an early birthday lunch with Mom and C; (3) sniff out a fierce Fall wardrobe (Flat boots! Ruffled cardigans! Riding pants! Fringe jackets!); (4) buy my big girl her very first Metrocard.

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Thoughts on contingency? On the capitalization of seasons? On items I should seek out for my fabled Fall wardrobe?

It’s Friday. This fact is supposed to make me smile. This fact is supposed to add a spring to my step. This fact is supposed to whet my appetite for impending weekend goodies: lazy mornings and picnics in the park and autumn sunshine.

And this particular weekend is a big one. This weekend I am meeting that virtual vixen from Vancouver, Danielle LaPorte of White Hot Truth fame, a wise woman who has mentored me with near-maternal affection. I am not only meeting her, but she will be sitting in my very favorite arm chair, the one the cats and kids have destroyed with claws and crayons. Yes, she will be in my living room, spouting her fountain of wisdom for myself and twenty other lucky souls. So. I am supposed to be happy. Elated. Pumped.

But I’m not exactly. No. Today is one of those slow, soggy, Sunday-esque creatures. I’m not sad. Just mentally sluggish and emotionally ragged. For no good reason. Over the years, I have taught myself how to wade through these odd moments of metaphysical mush by doing things. So here I am doing something. Hurling words at the hazy horizon of the blogosphere, hoping they land on laps of people who care or at least pretend to.

And the good thing is that I have a predetermined subject on Fridays, the Happy Headache (a.k.a. the untimely-given-this-recession-gut-reno of our new place) and just typing those explanatory words makes me feel guilty and spoiled because, well, I am knee-deep in the renovations of a beautiful new home where my family will spend many good days. And that is hardly a tragedy. And it is 10:10 in the morning on a fungible Friday and I am perched on a comfy chair at Starbucks typing away and telling you about it. (Translation: I should be happy. I should not be whining about enigmatic malaise. I should not be experiencing enigmatic malaise.)

But now. Something strikes me. Something becomes clear. Takes shape. Over the past week, I have devoured several articles about happiness. Because I am taking a Positive Psych course and because some of you have generously sent me recent articles on the topic. Maureen Dowd weighed in on the question du jour in her latest Op-Ed Blue Is the New Black. And that question is: Why are we women less happy than we used to be? Why this widespread feminine funk? In many respects, this trend is baffling. Today, thanks to feminism and the struggle of sisters, we women have unparalleled opportunities. We are not circumscribed to certain roles. We have choices.

Choice. That’s it! And here is my theory, no doubt utterly, pathetically unoriginal: We are unhappy because of choice. Choice glitters from afar. It is theoretically majestic. But in practice, choice can be tricky. We often don’t know what to do with it. I’m feeling this (and deeply) vis-a-vis the Happy Headache. I’m feeling this (and deeply) vis-a-vis my life. Marble or corian? Glass or stainless? Light  or dark? Write or frolic or make a phone call? Rejoin the corporate world or continue to flail here in the quasi-literary realm? Should I take a cooking class?

Too much choice is like too much wine; delicious and dizzying and disorienting. And with choice comes the possibility of making the wrong choice. Because some choices are wrong. Sometimes, often, choice is paralyzing. Sometimes, often, we just want to be told what to do.

And yet. Choice is an amazing thing. Perhaps the most amazing thing. Choice is a gorgeous gift I would never return. A ruefully raw blank slate on which we can slap our idiosyncratic paint. Choice is what makes things interesting. Choice is what makes each of us different. Choice is what makes us us. I think Camus had it right when he said, “Life is the sum of all of your choices.”

So, alas, a paradox. The very thing that makes life worth living, that makes life life, can also make life less happy. As Dowd notes, citing a HuffPost blogger, “We’re happy to have our newfound abundance of choices… even if those choices end up making us unhappier.” I told you my thoughts weren’t original.

So. Why? Why am I a bit off today? Why am I spending my time allotted for the Happy Headache talking about happiness and headaches? I don’t know. Maybe it’s because I am building so many things at once (a family, a home, a blog, a book) and building entails choices and decisions and I’m worried about the choices and decisions I’ve made. And the ones I haven’t made. Maybe it’s because ambition is tethered so tightly to anxiety and these things are swallowing me whole.

Or maybe it’s simpler than all this. Maybe it’s because life is like peanut butter. Scrumptious and nutritious. But some days are smooth and some days are chunky. Maybe it’s because today I’m feeling it. The heirloom hegemony of choice, hovering like a saccharine storm cloud above me, aching to burst.

I don’t know. Is this a choice too? Do I choose not to know?

Now I will sign off and take Baby to her gymnastics class. I will hold her tiny hands as she steps across a rainbow trampoline. I will smile at the other mothers. I will search their eyes for that telltale gloomy gloss. I will comb their voices for the vicissitudes that shake me now; the uncertainty, the insecurity, those jagged jewels of choice on which we all choke sometimes.

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Why do you think women are getting unhappier with time? Do you agree it has something to do with choice?

Yesterday, ideas were nipping me like magical mosquitoes. Persistent. Pesky. Proud. But today? Not so much. Today is different. Today, I am a bit stuck, lost, paralyzed. Not in a bad way. No. Today, I feel pressure whereas yesterday I felt freedom. Today, I feel overwhelmed whereas yesterday I felt inspired. Today, I feel little whereas yesterday I felt, well, a little less little.

Why?

Yesterday, I wrote a very honest and heartfelt and spontaneous ode to my new friend Nic. I meant every word I typed. And as I typed those words, caffeinated passion pumped through flagging veins. As I typed those words, I felt like I was, however fleetingly, part of something bigger than myself. {And for fellow Happiness Students, Meaning – or feeling like you are part of something larger than yourself – is one of the elements of happiness!} Anyway, I was jazzed yesterday. And even more so when Nic liked what I had to say and then when Nic’s friends liked what I had to say. And then, today, Nic responded to my love letter with one of her own. Thank you, Nic! You make me sound far more amazing than I actually am (I am not yet published!) and for that, there are no words to convey my gratitude.

But now. Here I sit. Again alone. Again at a small table. Today at Starbucks. And it is Friday and for those of you who are new here, (welcome!) today is my day to update you all on the Happy Headache (a.k.a. the untimely-given-this-recession-gut reno of our new place), but for some reason jabbering on and on about construction chaos seems a pinch frivolous. I mean yesterday I was waxing poetic about invisible threads and self-realization and rape and today, I’m going to talk about hardwood floor choices?

Yes. That’s exactly what I’m going to do. Even if it feels a little funky. Wrong. Inappropriate.

Here’s the plan: I’m going to talk about hardwood floors and then I’m going to tell you why I talked about hardwood floors. And if you don’t like this agenda, bye bye. It’s Friday and you should be outside playing anyway.

After much back and forth, many high-octane debates about the virtues of light versus dark, we have decided to go dark. Those of you who have been with me for while might remember that I’ve already written about this. Redundancy. Uh oh. Well, I happen to love redundancy. Once upon a time, we were leaning towards light. I wanted an airy, ethereal, cloud-like foundation for our future home. Architect noted that white floors smack of country/beach homes, but this didn’t dissuade me. A country/beach home in the big city? Genius! But now. Now we like dark. We picked a deep, brooding chocolate brown. A Nietzschian shade. We liked an even darker stain, almost black, but the fact that the sample got scratched over night made us rethink things. Also, black floors plus White Cat is an ugly equation. Okay. Fine. So what?

So. So what is the point here? I’m not sure if there is one. And you know what? That is okay. Sometimes, points are overrated. But now that I think of it, this post has a point, if not a few. Uh oh. Here comes a list. I hate lists.

(1) Minds are meant to be changed. In a few measly months, we went from loving light to loving dark. This is okay. It is okay for us to change our minds about aesthetics and beliefs and desires. As a society, we are so obsessed with consistency. We glorify schedules for our babies and for ourselves. We deplore inconsistency in politicians and in regular people. Maybe, just maybe, flexibility is not a bad thing? You went to law school, but now you don’t want to practice law? You were an insanely private person, but now you thrive on floating personal anecdotes into the world? Yup. We are not robots. We need not program ourselves. We need not heed codes of consistency. We are real people. We are meant to wander, and stumble, and evolve, and change.

(2) Light and dark can (and should) co-exist. It is okay, even healthy, for me to talk about something darker one day and something fluffy and light the next day. Our population is not divided into Serious People and Silly People. No. I think we are too quick to box things up. It’s easier to do this. We crave categorization because it makes navigating the world easier. But you know what? Anderson Cooper doesn’t just wear pinstripes and talk about wars. I once saw him shopping for very fun, hip clothes at Barney’s Co-Op. It is okay to read Plato and get highlights at Oscar Blandi. Hey, it’s even okay to read Plato while getting highlights at Oscar Blandi. It’s okay to talk about sad things and then switch gears and spout joy. This is okay. No one is perfectly happy or perfectly sad. Life should be a tapestry of the silly and the serious.

(3) We should embrace complexity. Have you ever noticed how popular simplicity is these days? How many books and blogs there are telling us to de-clutter our existence, to streamline our selves? Well, I have. They are everywhere. And sometimes if I am being intellectually lazy, the very fact that all these books and blogs exist makes me feel bad about my cluttered, chaotic, chameleon life. But then if I drink a little coffee, I feel better. I wake up. I realize that this need to simplify, taken too far, is perhaps itself a pathology. Because it’s all about complexity. Uncertainty. Insecurity. The commingling of dark and light, black and white. It’s all about those muddled, opaque and gorgeous grays.

What is this post about? Even though I made a trusty little list with comforting bold headings, I’m not so sure. And maybe that bothers you. Maybe you’d prefer a simpler, sleeker, cleverly-packaged commodity here. But that’s not what you’re going to get. In the silence that peppers even the busiest day, I hear voices. They tell me to figure it out. How to present myself. Who are you? they ask. They tell me I will not drive Dooce-style traffic, or gain a massive following, unless I figure out who I am. (For the record, please note that I am not knocking Dooce. That chick has some magical metaphysical mojo and I wish she would share said mojo (and her traffic) with this rookie.) Am I a Mommy Blogger? Or a Personal Development Blogger? Or a Book Blogger?

These questions echo. Waves of confusion buffet me, but then wash away. And I’m left standing there, alone and chilly. And I cringe and laugh and shake. And to these voices, I answer: I am a person. One person. Riddled with doubt. Laced with confidence. Hungry for something else. Something beyond supply and demand. Something beyond popularity and sales. Something bigger than numbers and comments and sweetened praise. Something else.

No more Either Or. These are dangerous words.

Philosopher. Parent. Wife. Sister. Daughter. Friend. Neighbor. Writer. Blogger. Reader. Celebrity-stalker. Coffee-lover. Wine-drinker. Blonde. Serious. Silly. Sad. Happy. Content. Confused. Reaching. Questioning. Answering. Humble. Proud. Lost. Found. Looking forward. Looking back. Looking around. Looking in. Lonely. Surrounded. Young. Old. Girly girl. Tomboy. Scared. Invincible. Nostalgic. Realistic. Spoiled. Conservative. Liberal. Real. Fake. Down to earth. Superficial. Indulgent. Stoic. Sappy. Stormy. Sunny. Cliched. Unique. Painfully insecure. Brilliantly secure. Here. Somewhere else. I’m all of these things. And none of them.

I’m me.

I’m dark. I’m light. I’m youthfully gray.

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First things first, do you have light or dark floors in your home? How have they held up? How do you feel about complexity? Is your life a mixture of dark and light? Are your days gray (in a good way)?

And I sit here, in my soggy slacks, heart racing, overwhelmed, wondering how to even begin. How do I touch this day, its vast complexity, the impossible memories, the open scars?

I don’t. I won’t. I refuse to try.

Admittedly a cop-out, but I will stick to my schedule and update you on the Happy Headache (a.k.a. the untimely-given-this-recession-gut-renovation of our new place) Yesterday, I met my contractor at a hardware store in midtown to pick doorknobs. I was uncharacteristically decisive, honing on a simple glass doorknob that was shockingly budget-friendly. On the way out of the store, our contractor said we needed to pick hinges too. He showed me a display of various options. He said that each of our doors would have three hinges and that we needed to decide whether or not to add finials to the bottom and top of each. In a moment of un-me-like sensibility, I said that we didn’t need to add decorative touches to our hinges, items people don’t really notice. And he said to me that finials are little things, tiny details, but that they matter. That they affect the feel of a home even if they are not consciously studied or seen. With that, I decided our hinges would have finials. Because the little things matter even if they are often overshadowed by the bigger things.

The little things.

On a day full of big things — the anniversary of national tragedy, Toddler’s first school visit, the funeral of my beloved English teacher Mr. Johnson, I could wax poetic about American pride, and the commencement of a lifetime of education, and the solemn passing of a stellar soul. But I won’t. I will savor the little things.

I will not only remember this as the eighth anniversary of 9/11. I will remember it as another simple and priceless gem on the necklace of life. I will remember drinking coffee with Husband in the morning. Collecting our babies from their cribs. Husband scouring the Internet for Halloween costumes for the girls. The pounding and poetic rain. The trademark tapestry of giggles and tears. The squeaking green boots. The pumpkin orange raincoat. The new school smiles. The sophisticated sipping from the big girl fountain. The celebratory CVS jelly beans. The vast church full of faces. The tears shed and words uttered for a delightfully dapper man who was devoted to literature and bow ties. The crumpled face of a mother who’s lost her son. A beautiful best friend in sweats clutching her sleeping beauty on the eve of her thirtieth birthday. The kind cab driver named Excellent. The bottomless blue eyes of two baby girls waiting for their Mommy to hug them at the end of a long day. The phone call from Husband saying he’s on his way home. The delicious creature sitting on my lap “working” on her plastic laptop as I write this. The sweet smell of her shampoo. Her little legs swinging between mine.

Because it’s the little things, the tiny details, at once mundane and magical, that make up our days. And years. It’s the little things – the hinges on the ever swinging doors of life, the quiet hellos and goodbyes, the mangled umbrellas strewn about city streets, the hugs and kisses and smiles and tears, that comprise life.

Life that can be gone in an instant.

This is a recurrent dilemma in life. In my life at least. And in yours too. You just might not know it yet.

Friday again. Time is zooming by and our future home is taking shape. But to be perfectly honest (and I am all about perfect honesty even though I believe perfection and pure honesty are both myths), I feel as if I am running out of things to talk about vis-a-vis the Happy Headache (i.e. the untimely-given-this-recession-gut-reno of our new place). Yes, things are happening, but nothing earth-shattering or super interesting. Yesterday, we spent a good ten minutes debating whether to install a circle or square drain in the master shower and whether to center the chandelier in the room or across from the fireplace. These are important decisions on some level, but not very interesting to talk about. And here I am talking about them. Go me.

So the pressure was on, is on, to dig deeper and excavate those symbolic and philosophic layers of our home renovation. Because I know they are there. I know that this transformation is not all about sheetrock and lighting. I know that this transformation is as much about me and who I am and what I want and what I don’t. And, for better or worse, because I am an infinitely complicated creature I knew something would come to me. Something a pinch more interesting than square versus circle and debates about chandelier locale. Something would come.

And it did! I was getting a manicure. Yes, indulgent. (Something I should not talk about on a blog like, say, slipping a stranger a twenty for air.) Yes. But in case you missed the memo, I have a party tonight. A very important party with very important and very cool kids. And I am more than happy to shop in my own closet for this party (not really, but I’m being a good sport about it), but I figured, hey, I should at least have some good nails. Because if I remember anything about college kids, it’s that they are obsessed with cuticles. Right. So I walked into Pinky and instead of grabbing for my old standby #162 Ballet Slippers, I took a moment and surveyed my options. And then I chuckled a rebellious chuckle and went for a different pink. Fluorescent pink. I think it was called Short Shorts or something equally alarming. I held the little bright bottle up and I said “this is it!”

The nice lady humored me. Together, we sat. She went to work on my ragged mommy nails. And I studied that little bottle awaiting its fate, that bold and bodacious Barbie pink. And as time passed and my nails grew more beautiful, I had a minor change of heart. In a soft, apologetic voice, I said to the nice lady, “I changed my mind. Ballet Slippers, please.” And she looked at me and nodded and then laughed. At me. Or with me, I don’t know. “It’s fun, but I’m not fourteen.” She laughed some more. Because I’m very funny. Very.

Fast forward twenty minutes. My nails were beautiful. And boring. Yay. As I left the Pinky, I looked back at that ferocious fuschia and wondered if I had chosen the wrong pinky? Who knows. Who cares? Honestly, this is an embarrassingly indulgent quandary I probably shouldn’t publish. That would be the safe thing to do. BUT.

But I am sick of safe. I want color and boldness and risk. So, yes, there is a point. That point? Hmmm. In life, there will invariably be at least two choices – bold or bland. Sizzling or safe. And sometimes safe is the way to go. We shouldn’t pick the most fun looking car seat or the man who thinks jobs are for losers or the home with poor structure. There are times when the safe choice is the right choice. BUT.

When the safe choice is not the obvious right choice, I think we should go sizzling. Live a little. In our new home, we are going to blanket one wall in jungle wallpaper and another in enormous pineapples. We are going to paint our living room marigold and hang a feather ball fixture. We are in the process of picking a dining table. Will it be the more prudent black lacquer or an oval slab of glass balanced on two vintage horse heads? I’m thinking horse heads (as long as they are safe for the kiddos!)

Oh and because I know you would lose sleep over the aforementioned dilemma, we opted for a square drain. At first we floated around in our Yuppie pool of banal indecision. But then the contractor said in a whisper, “Round is predictable. Square is cooler.” A no-brainer indeed!

We each have one life. So let’s live it. Let’s make it sizzle.

(Coming from the daredevil chick who lives one block from her childhood home, went to law school because it seemed prudent, and is scared of flying and skiing and taking the subway.)

__________

Is your life more sizzling or safe? Would you add more sizzle if you could?

Friday again. Time for my weekly update on the Happy Headache (a.k.a. the untimely-given-this-recession-gut-reno of our new place). This week, as you might have guessed from the above glorious pic, I’m talking tubs.

I’ve never been a big bath person. I’ve always been a loyal fan of the quick and efficient shower. We’ve been in our current apartment for five years and I think I’ve taken all of one bath. Pretty pathetic. These days, we have a good excuse though. We are parents now. Busy people. Baths, like so many other things, seem like indulgences, time sucks. Plus, our one tub is currently filled with a rainbow medley of baby bath toys, foam letters, empty bottles of bubble bath. On one end, there’s a little bath ring suctioned to the basin, so little Baby won’t topple over. In our home, bath time is for the girls.

But now. We are afforded that fabled fresh start. We are knee-deep in creating a new home for ourselves. And maybe a new way of doing things? Yesterday, Husband and I attended our weekly meeting at the job site. We plowed through the week’s list of tiny, but vital, details. We chatted about carbon monoxide detectors. We debated gas vs. electric. We bantered about HVAC. And then we did our walk-through.

We walked into the area that will one day be the master bath. In the center of the soon-to-be room was a massive cardboard box. Husband and I took a peek. There it was. Our tub. Sleek and white and very adult. Not the kind of tub you’d toss kids or rubber duckies into. Our tub. (Yes, the beautiful one up there!) I studied it. Its sleek lines and quiet promise. And it wasn’t hard to imagine it fixed to our floor, standing freely, waiting for human contact. And, again, this was a moment that made this all wonderfully real. There is a tub, a real tub, in our new place!

But I wonder whether we will use it. Whether I will. Whether, after years of efficiency and bath toys and bubbles, I will press that proverbial pause button, soak it all up, and savor bath time once more?

Are you a bath person or shower person?  Why? Have you always been this way?