When I am at a loss for words (like now), I think of moments.

Like that moment when Toddler wrestled her little sister in the bold sunshine and I realized: These are my girls and they will always be sisters.

Like that moment when we took Toddler to the petting zoo right before her sister was born and she let the goats gobble from her tiny hands and I realized: One day she will be fearful, but not yet.

Like that moment when Toddler zipped through the playground on our corner and I realized: She is her own person.

Like that moment when we girls huddled happily on the hardwood floor amidst lovely chaos and I realized: I am a mother of two.

Like that moment my girls took a bath together and I realized: They are in it together. This bath. This life.

Like that moment I gave Baby her first Starbucks cup and I realized: One day, she will sip from this cup and not kick it around.

Like that moment when Toddler paced that big old porch clutching that tiny toy rod and I realized: She will fish one day. For trout. For happiness.

Like that moment when Husband led Toddler down to the dock and I realized: That was once Dad and me. At this very same pond. Some things change. Some things stay the same.

Like that moment I lifted my big girl over my shoulders to see the expanse of nature and I realized: This is my job. My biggest job. To lift her up. To let her see.

Like that moment on Independence Day when Toddler skipped through candy green grass clutching a big pink ball and I realized: One day I will not be able to catch her.

Like that moment when Baby first played with grass and tasted a few blades and I realized: There is so much for her to discover. And I must let her.

Like that moment when they wore matching pajamas and played together, really played together, and I realized: They will always play. They will always have each other.

Like that moment when Toddler pranced through the sand and studied her footprints and shadows and I realized: Life is full of prints and shadows, simple evidence of existence and presence.

Like that early morning moment in South Carolina when the girls and Daddy gazed out the window at a new day and I realized: The world is full of wide windows and new beginnings.

Like that moment when my big girl studied the rainbow of flowers and I realized: Life is full of color and it’s our job to see it.

Like that moment when Baby ran away and onto that bridge and I realized: Life is full of bridges between There and Here, Then and Now.

Like that moment on Christmas morning when my girls waited patiently to open their gifts and I realized: This is life. Waiting patiently to open the gifts that await us.

Like that moment when we hailed a yellow taxi after Toddler’s birthday celebration at Preschool and I realized: Time is passing. There won’t always be purple crowns.

Like that moment when I grabbed Baby and kissed her tiny ear and I realized, The love I feel for these creatures is impossible.

Like that moment when Daddy plopped two giggling girls into environmentally-friendly grocery bags and toted them through our kitchen and I realized: This is fun. This is silly. This is life. This is it.

These are my moments. These are my girls.

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Do you agree that happiness is about moments – enjoying them while they happen and sifting through them after the fact? In times of existential quiet, do you also think of moments? Do you think modern existence makes it hard to appreciate the moments of our days? Do you think this is why so many of us blog – to memorialize the moments that might otherwise evaporate?

First order of business. Thank you. For holding my virtual hand through my soggy Sunday moment and its precarious aftermath. For leaving a trail of words. For your existential echoes. It dawned on me after publishing yesterday’s post that one surefire way to feel not good enough is to set insane expectations for myself that only a robot could meet. Like, say, vowing to respond to every single comment left on this blog. Like promising to have a blog post up by 6am each morning. In an ideal world, these things would happen. But I am beginning to suspect that this world, this wonderful world, is not ideal. No, it’s real.

*

A few weeks ago, Husband and I went swimming with the girls in South Carolina and Toddler said something that I can’t stop thinking about. She wore both a water ring and water wings and she said to me, her little voice stuffed with panic, “Mommy! Help! I keep floating to the deep, deep part!” And like a good mom, I threw my arms around her and hugged her and assured her that she was okay and that we were in fact in the shallow end.

The shallow end.

Lately, my pool is lacking a shallow end. And this is odd. Because I used to be plenty shallow. Embarrassingly shallow. I used to subsist on shopping trips to trendy stores and celebrity gossip. I used to obsessively sample fad diets in an effort to be skinny and hot. I used to camp out at the gym for hours a day, spinning away, going nowhere. I used to panic when I was late to get my highlights touched up.

But somewhere along the way, life got delightfully deeper. Maybe it was becoming a wife or a parent or a fatherless girl? Maybe it was becoming a writer or a blogger or a Professor of Insecurities? Maybe it was flirting with the often harsh and humorless realities of adulthood, of aging, of lingering mortality? I would wager that it was all of these things.

But it doesn’t matter. What matters is that I think I’ve swung too far in the other direction. What matters is that I miss my shallow end. I miss the superficial things I used to enjoy. I miss watching mindless reality television and searching for the most flattering jeans. I miss talking about celebrities.

I miss my goofy, silly, blondeness.

And so. I am reclaiming it. Consider yourself warned.

I came to this conclusion yesterday afternoon. We all know that I’m epiphany-prone and yesterday was no exception. I was talking with my friend (and superstar nutritionist) Lauren Slayton. I asked Lauren to meet me because I want to up the ante health-wise in my life. I want to focus on my body, on my nutrition, on the health of my young family. I want to feel more energetic and do what I can to prevent cancer and to raise good eaters. At the end of our meeting, I said to Lauren, “It’s so funny because for so many years I watched what I ate and worked out because I wanted to look hot, but now my priority is to be healthy.” And as I said this, I realized something.

I want both. I want to be healthy and hot.

“I want to be hot for my book party!” I said to her and she smiled. Truth be told, it’s not about losing weight. But it is about looking my best. Far more importantly though, I would like to feel my best. And then Lauren and I talked about this, whether it is shallow to want to maximize our attractiveness. Whether it is shallow or selfish to want to feel amazing. And we didn’t come to any ready conclusion. Maybe it is a bit shallow to want to be hot. But I think that’s okay. I think that’s more than okay.

We all need a shallow end.

At least I do. I love the deep end. I do. I love writing about the complex and shifting depths of human existence. I love scrutinizing the universal insecurities that shake our days. But I cannot do this all the time. It affects me. Maybe this is foolish, but it just occurred to me that I might not have control over most things in life, but I do have control over what I write about. And this is an important awakening for me. Because what I write about affects what I think about and what I think about affects how I feel and how I see the world.

This is all a long-winded and clumsy way of saying what Toddler said so succinctly,

I keep slipping to the deep end.

But there is a shallow end. A silly end. There still is. And writing about its mere existence makes me smile big. And so I will write about it from time to time. Not all the time because I love the deep end too much. But some of the time. And maybe by writing about the more superficial aspects of my existence, I will find my way to my shallow end once more. And if and when I get there, I will celebrate the fact that I can touch the bottom. And I will splash around a bit.

The blonde is back, kids. Get ready.

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• Is your pool of life more shallow or more deep?
• Do you think it is selfish or shallow to want to look good?
  
• Do you think there is something about adulthood that encourages us to drown out our shallow end (pun very much intended and amazing)?
• Are you more or less shallow than you used to be?
• Do you think that there is something important about cultivating a bit of shallowness or superficiality in life?
• Does the content of your writing affect the content of your life, how you feel and see the world?
• Could you stand to be healthier?
• Could you stand to be hotter?

I am not good enough.

These five words, these five terrible words, floated through my head last night. And I have no idea why really. And as quickly as they came, I banished them. My intellect took over. I told myself that there is no such thing as good enough. That Good Enough is a cruel modern myth.

But this wave of perceived inadequacy was too strong to ignore. So I allowed myself to dwell on it, to roll it over in my mind. I even polled the Sunday night crowd on the Twittersphere.

I wrote: Have you ever felt not good enough? Well, it sucks. (Sorry for my moment of insecurity.)

I wrote it because it felt good to record this moment. To acknowledge its fierce and fleeting presence. But I was overwhelmed with the replies. Several people responded and quickly to tell me that they feel these five words all the time and particularly since becoming a parent. Ah.

Apparently, it is not just me.

What is this all about? Why are there so many smart and talented and funny and happy people who are weathering these silent storms of insecurity? Why are these five words so universal?

I don’t know. I can’t speak for the masses, but I can speak for me. And so I will.

These days, I am a bit overwhelmed. No, I am a lot overwhelmed. I feel stretched thin. I feel exhausted, exquisitely exhausted. I qualify in this way because the things that are exhausting me are things that also bring me immense and incomparable joy – the babies, the blog, the book, the marriage, the man, the move. These are things I cherish and celebrate and would never trade. But these are a lot of things.

Babies. In my life, there are two little girls. Two little girls who sing and cry and dance and collect umbrellas and toothbrushes and stickers. These days, these two little girls look me straight in the eye and say, in words and sentences, Mommy, I want you to stay. Mommy, I want you to play.

Blog. In my life, there is one burgeoning blog. A blog that is bringing me more joy and juice than I could ever have imagined. This blog is growing and thriving, moving and grooving, and has become a profound pipeline to tremendous colleagues and incomparable conversation. These days, my blog says to me, Nurture me. For here is where you are learning to be vulnerable and vulnerability is the ultimate strength.

Book. In my life, there is a book. A book that’s about to debut in the world. And two other books that are part on paper and part in my head. The characters are real. They dance in my dreams and whisper in my ear, Don’t forget about us. Your future? It’s on our pages. So write them. Write us.

Marriage. In my life, there is a marriage. A good, sturdy marriage. A union that’s stuffed with affection and humor and fidelity. But even that marriage has a voice, Pay attention to me. Celebrate me. Do not take me for granted. Even the most magical marriage takes work.

Man. In my life, there is a man. A handsome and happy and humble man. A man who loves me and understands me and tolerates my ways. And he says to me, sometimes aloud, I am here. Look at me. Let yourself relax and enjoy this. Me. Us.

Move. In my life, there is a new home. Almost finished. The walls are up. The floors are down. This home says to me, I will welcome you, but don’t forget to say goodbye to your old home. Where so much happened, where you became a writer and a wife and a mother, where you lost your father and found your passion.

These days, I am many things. I am a mother. A blogger. A writer. A wife. His wife. A woman on the move.

These are wonderful things. These are amazing roles. This is a good life.

But I am overwhelmed. I am tired. I am smiling and squinting and struggling through long days. The bounty is brilliant, but it is also a lot to carry at once.

And so. I don’t know, but I think that is why I had that moment. That slippery Sunday moment when five words floated through my head, one by one, forming a sentence I don’t like, but one I understand.

I am not good enough.

Because maybe when we are happy and harried and stretched and spinning, we have moments where we feel like we cannot hack it. Where we feel less than. Where we feel, well, not good enough to tackle the tangled trappings of our good and busy lives.

And so. Instead of pretending I didn’t have that moment, I decide to acknowledge it. Right here. To honor it even. Because it was a real moment. A raw moment. A universal moment. A human moment.

A moment you’ve probably had before too?

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• Have you ever felt inadequate when caught in the throes of real life?
• Do you think blogging encourages vulnerability?
• Do you feel like by doing so many things, we are stretching ourselves too thin?
  
• Do you think this phenomenon of trying to do it all and have it all is part and parcel of humanity? Of modernity? Of parenthood? Of personhood?
  
• When these five words float through your head, how do you cope?

(Say whatever you want. That you understand. That you don’t. That I’m a spoiled brat. Just speak up. Tell me what I already know. That I’m not alone in this.)

ILI DAILY CHARMS: TRUTH VIA COLLEAGUES

* Do you ever wonder what it’s like to be a baby, to be pillowed by unconditional and uncomplicated affection? I do. Please read this tiny and gorgeous post by Boy Crazy blogger Elizabeth.

* Do you sometimes feel something shifting? A “subtle change in direction”? Take a moment to read this post by new buddy Claire Bidwell Smith of Life in Chicago. It’s simply stunning.

* Today friend and fellow blogger Gale of the wonderful new Ten Dollar Thoughts talks food and resolutions and vows to eat her veggies. Later today, I’m off to meet with esteemed Foodtrainer and advice-giving friend Lauren Slayton. Should I follow Gale’s lead and go vegetarian for a bit? We will see what Lauren says. Stay tuned…

* Are you “demand resistant”? Click over to the lovely Gretchen Rubin’s Happiness Project and weigh in.

Okay, she didn’t eat a human eyeball. This wasn’t Survivor. Just a rip-roaring Saturday night out on the good town. But pictures of Branzino balls? Not so pretty.

And I would have and should have at least posted a picture of a discrete stand-alone eyeball because this might be sending the wrong message, but said pictures – even of cartoon eyeballs – made me want to gag a bit. Which is a sign of something unto itself. And so. We have here a very undisgusting sketch of the human eye. I quite like it.

But I digress. I have a story to tell. (And stories to coax from you.)

I already told you about my Saturday night. But I didn’t tell you about an important part of the night. The part when my very good and very proper friend reached over and plucked the black beady eyeball out of the birthday girl’s whole fish and then ate it. To be perfectly honest, I didn’t witness the entirety of this event. When my eyeball-eating-friend flashed a mischievous grin and reached her fork across the table and said I will eat that eye, I may or may not have excused myself to go to the bathroom.

But she ate it. The eye of a fish.

Apparently, in some cultures, this is good luck. Dad was known to eat an eye or two in his day to shock us. But for me, someone who ducks for cover when they bring me a whole fish instead of pretty white filet and shivers at the sight of skin, this was a big deal. A big enough deal that I have chosen to devote an entire blog post to one ill-fated Branzino eyeball and what this late eyeball means to me.

I am an unadventurous eater. Once upon a time, I was pretty much willing to eat everything. Sure, when left to my own devices, I favored mayonnaise and white bread sandwiches and Sour Patch Kids, but I distinctly remember eating mussels and venison and rhubarb. And today I will not go near these and so many other things. (I am allergic to rhubarb, but no one believes me.) Today I won’t even eat lobster which greatly offends some people I know. I am not the pickiest of eaters, but I like what I like. I am not good at tasting new things.

I am not an adventurous person. It occurs to me that how adventurous we are in our diet is connected to how adventurous we are in our lives. I don’t think it is a coincidence that someone who avoids foods based on what they look like (I do not like fish that look like fish, anything with bones, sardines give me the willies) is also a person who is afraid of flying and non-organic dairy and most everything else.

This is not just a silly post about an eyeball. Well, it is mostly a silly post about an eyeball. But it is also more. These things matter. What we eat, how adventurous we are, how open we are – these things inform who we are. And then add kids to the equation and things get even more complicated. Our kids watch us. They watch what we eat. They watch what we don’t eat. They notice when we run away from an innocuous fish on a plate. Or when we race the cart past the tank of lobsters at the grocery store. This is not just about us and our foibles.

This is about living life. The good life does not necessarily entail gobbling up eyeballs at swanky restaurants. But I think it probably does involve taking risks, trying new things, tasting new things. If we are so stuck in our (squeamish) ways, so appalled by novelty, are we truly living?

This is about eyes. Fish eyes, yes. But also our eyes. The way we see things and ourselves and the world. The way we absorb our moments. The way we process the hue of celebration and laughter. The way we perceive life. Emerson said, “To the attentive eye, each moment of the year has its own beauty, and in the same field, it beholds, every hour, a picture which was never seen before, and which shall never be seen again.” That moment when my good friend ate an eye? It was silly and beautiful. It was a unique picture I will not forget.

This is about stories. What is life without stories? Silly stories? Serious stories? We bloggers and writers and people? We are story-tellers, living our days, living our material, acting and reacting to the characters in our chapters. Our days are pages. Pages stuffed with words and questions and pictures. And each of us lives and loves and laughs toward an unknown conclusion.

So, yes, this is about one eyeball. But it is also about more. It is about the fraught and frivolous tapestry that is human existence. It is about adventure and aversion. It is about so many things. But instead of enumerating those things, I would like to sign off and go enjoy this serene snow day with my two tiny girls. They are still in their PJs and just on the other side of my office door. And before we play, before we dive into the books and boardgames that await us, I am going to tell them a silly story. A true tale. I am going to tell them that Mommy’s friend at a fish eye. I anticipate smiles and silly faces and amazement and some brilliant laughter. We’ll see what I get.

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Okay, it’s your turn. Tell me your craziest food story. It can be about you or someone you know or someone you saw on TV! What’s the weirdest thing you’ve ever eaten or seen someone eat? Are you an adventurous eater? Do you think there is a connection between bravery in diet and bravery in life? Are your kids good eaters or do they subsist on a diet of, say, chocolate milk and Veggie Booty? Just asking.

I am the product of an elite education. Dalton. Yale. Columbia Law.

The point of this post is not to remind you of my scholastic pedigree. No. The point is a lot more complicated. And decidedly more vulnerable. The point is hazy, but it exists. And here I sit squinting, trying to see it. Because this blogging gig? It’s not just about hawking my words and sentences. No. It’s about excavating my own neuroses. It’s about analyzing my own anxiety.

And I know better. I know that I am Me. That I am knee-deep in said neuroses and awash in said anxiety and no matter how hard I try, I probably won’t be able to arrive at an objective diagnosis. Of course not. But that won’t stop me from trying. I like a good challenge.

And I know better. That it’s one thing to have an exquisite education and glittering opportunities and incomparable connections. But it is another thing to talk about these things. And yet another to put them in writing. These are things to be thankful for, but things that should not be discussed. No. These are trappings of privilege. And privilege is a taboo subject.

Never talk about privilege.

You know what? Like so many of you, I am a bit sick of should. I am a bit perplexed by social strictures that seem a bit stiff. I am interested in honesty, in universality, in cracks. And I have cracks. They aren’t even tiny. They are big and bold and jagged. Stuffed with genuine worry, authentic questions, and notable insecurities. So maybe I am being imprudent here, but I am going to talk about the cracks.

I loved the schools I attended. Loved. And maybe this is not customary. But my experience was positive at each alma mater. I remember particular teachers. Particular books. Particular papers I wrote. Particular seminar discussions. My school days were bright and busy and, frankly, I miss them sometimes.

At school, I worked hard. Hard enough to get A’s and a sprinkling of lesser grades that made me sweat. Hard enough to graduate with an accolade or honor here and there. Hard enough to make that resume shine. Hard enough that graduation days were rich celebrations, beautiful bridges between one great place and the next. Hard enough that at the end of it all, I passed a very hard and miserable exam, and landed gracefully at a high wattage Manhattan law firm.

And at that law firm, I did just fine. I was an efficient and ebullient cog in a well-oiled machine. I got decent reviews. I got along well with my colleagues. And then I fled. And fast.

And now. Now I am home. And working. And mothering. And writing.

And worrying.

Worrying about a lot of things because this is a parent’s job. But worried from time to time about one thing in particular that I have been prudent enough not to articulate to myself. Or to the masses.

Until now.

Sometimes, I worry that I have wasted my education. And I know this might seem silly. Or even offensive. But sometimes I feel that with my particular degrees from my particular alma maters I should be doing more. That I should be doing something more meaningful. That I should be helping more people, or solving environmental or political crises, or rising in the ranks at some major uber-powerful institution that does good things. Sometimes, I worry that I took plum spots at stellar schools that could have been filled by others who were a bit more hungry and a bit more ambitious to alter the flawed landscape of our world, to fix the problems that need fixing, to amount to some more conventional glossy greatness.

This is why I gave this blog its name. Because though Ivy, I’m quite insecure. (Maybe because I am Ivy, I am particularly insecure because I am particularly aware of, and strangled by, shoulds?)

This is why I am treading tricky trenches here. Risking something. Talking a bit more openly.

Because as time passes, my own worries are becoming less opaque and I want to explore them. Because I think that in tracing the contours of my own insecurity, I am surprisingly gaining confidence. I think I am beginning to believe that my education hasn’t been wasted, but has been put to very good use.

I learned to write at these fine schools. I learned to think at these fine schools. I learned to ask questions at these fine schools.

Maybe that’s why I am willing to go there. To that raw and risky place of things not to discuss. To utter sentiments that might provoke. To ruffle pretty and peaceful feathers.

Maybe that’s why I am willing to come here. To this safe haven. To confess shards of complicated truth. To expose cracks.

Because I am finally realizing that I worked so hard, that I continue to work so hard, for a reason.

The reason? This.

This life. This family. These words. This story and its infinite and unfolding chapters.

Or maybe I have wasted it all and I am making big, bad excuses that are clever and well-told.

But I don’t think so. I don’t.

Not anymore.

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• Looking back, how do you feel about your education? Overall, was it a positive or negative experience or somewhere in between?
  
• Do you think you have made the most of your opportunities or do you sometimes wonder? Do you think you have succeeded because of your education or despite it?
  
• Do you ever have this sinking and shaky feeling that you have wasted something? Time? Love? An opportunity – educational or personal or romantic?
• Do you think that someone with two Ivy League degrees should be engaged in something more “serious” than raising kids and weaving self-indulgent words?

ILI DAILY CHARMS

* “You are not your stats.” A sage reminder for bloggers and non-bloggers alike from Megan Jordan at Velveteen Mind.

* What good are dreams? Big question and beautiful words courtesy of Big Little Wolf of Daily Plate of Crazy.

* Is there a solace in silence? How do you manifest your rage? Deep questions that will make your brain buzz from Ronna Detrick of Renegade Conversations.