I took this picture yesterday. We were on our way to breakfast. It was a beautiful morning and I lagged behind – as I like to do sometimes – and I captured them. My creatures. My man and my girls. In other words: My everything. Everything. It’s interesting how complicated life can be or seem, but then BAM you are hit with something on a sunny Sunday morning in Spring, and everything is suddenly simple and clear and you know what it is all about, this life thing: Them. It is about them. And they are an extension of you, connected to you in ways you can only dream of articulating, but the point is that it is also about you. You and them. Them and you.

I have not had any alcohol for three months now. And I do not say this to brag though I am proud of myself because this hasn’t been totally easy-breezy stuff for me; No, these months have been gorgeous but also complicated. Yes, both. Things can be both. I say this – that I am 25% through my year without wine – because it does feel like an accomplishment of sorts; three months is neither nothing nor forever. It is a solid nugget of time. I say this – that I have dried out for three months – because it is important for me to check in with myself and see what I have learned so far.

What have I learned? Too many things to enumerate and examine here, and many of them might have absolutely nothing to do with alcohol. A few things though: I don’t miss it. Except when I do. I sleep much better now that I have not had alcohol in my system for a considerable while. I work out much more and much more efficiently when I sleep better and have more energy. I have been far more productive in writing my novel – maybe because I am feeling great physically and not slowing myself down with dips into the vino over the course of the week?

I have been a better mom. This is the biggest thing by far. And I know it sounds odd. Why would eliminating a few glasses of wine here and there make me a better parent? I’m not sure and I’m sure it wouldn’t work this way for everyone, but when I stopped drinking I felt this palpable shift in my attitude toward my life as a mom. I have been more serene and less snappy. I have been more cheerful and less overwhelmed, less inclined to feel anxious, less inclined to doubt myself. Conversely, I have felt this wild clarity in moments with my trio; I literally feel myself noticing things more, engaging with my girls in silly and serious ways, all in all, enjoying more of my time with them. I don’t pretend to know what this is all about, but I think all of these things must be connected, right? I think feeling good, and happy, and working out and writing up a storm, and sleeping well… I had dinner with a friend recently and she walked me to the corner to hail a cab after we finished our meal and she said something. It seems like you are doing a great job with your girls. In the past, I would have wriggled and deflected, but I surprised myself that night, words just pouring from me. Thanks, I said. I feel really good about that part of my life. And I do.

Last night, I said something to Husband. The girls were tucked in and we were both wiped out. I said to him, “You know, tomorrow will be three months. How am I different three months in?” I was sitting on the couch and he was standing in the kitchen making us some decaf coffee and I looked up at him and watched as he furrowed his brow and gave this some thought and then he said it. Something I will not forget.

“You are more present. Yes, that’s it. You are more present.”

And I smiled, and thought about this, and felt a surge of something grand. Maybe it was pride. Maybe it was love. And then, because I am an overthinker and I couldn’t possibly let his answer stand on its own, I asked why. Am I more present because I am not getting buzzed and out of it or because I am not hungover/anxious or because I am not obsessing over this facet of my behavior/personality in my uber-perfectionist way? Oh, how he smiled. All of the above? I asked. And he just grinned and handed me a cup of decaf. Hot. Delicious.

*

A little story. A story that’s not so little.

This past Friday night. Bedtime. Daddy reads book #1.

Big Girl, giggling: “That book is so complicated!”

Daddy moves on to book #2.

Big Girl, again giggling: “That book is so complicated!”

More giggles.

Big Girl: “What does complicated mean?”

Me: “Tricky.”

Big Girl: “Tricky like looking at your own eye?”

She’s already smarter than I am. And she’s five.

I tuck her in. Under her covers, she shimmies and shakes. And sings.

“Oh yeah. Oh yeah. There is a jelly fish in my pants! Oh yeah. Oh yeah. There is a jelly fish in my pants! Oh yeah. Oh yeah.”

I smile. She’s five. Oh yeah.

{Phew.}

*

Three months in. Nine to go. And then what? Will I give myself that imaginary gold star and go back to my Pinot Grigio with gusto? Will I continue to abstain knowing how good and pure life can be, and feel, without it? I imagine I will choose a middle road. I don’t pretend to know. I don’t need to know. I have plenty of time to think about it. And write about it. And I will do these things because that’s what I do, how I process, how I see. That’s who I am.

It’s important that I close this with a bit of a reality check. This hasn’t been a fairy tale three months. I have had some really hard moments. Really hard. I have had moments where I’ve had to defend my decision to do this and write this. I have had moments – icky ones, great ones – where all I wanted was a big fat glass of wine. I have had moments where I felt a keen rush of memory and emotion and I felt lost without that go-to glass to blur, to escape. I have had moments where I couldn’t for the life of me remember why I am doing this, this utterly unnecessary and perhaps truly self-indulgent experiment. I have had moments where I felt quiet and profoundly un-fun, like I was a bore to be around. I have had moments where I have felt sad, and vulnerable, and misunderstood.

So. Yes. I have had hard moments. But the thing is, the important thing is, the thing to which I cling and cling fiercely, is that the good moments, the really good, absolutely exquisite moments have vastly outweighed the hard ones. And these really good moments have become consistent in my days. They are moments when I feel awake and alive, centered and strong, energized and evolved. They are moments when things make sense, when dots begin connecting themselves, when dreams seem real and reality dream-like, when I feel swollen with purpose and meaning and, gulp, self-love.

So. Onward. There is no going back now. This is not easy, but it is good. It’s complicated. Tricky. Like life. Like looking at your own eye.

And now, of course, I am thinking of my sweet girl’s ridiculous and amazing ditty: I’ve got a jelly fish in my pants! Oh yeah. Oh yeah.

I am smiling, guys. Smiling as I write this. Smiling as I study my beautiful creatures in the picture above. Smiling as I live this and learn this. This. Whatever this is, and ends up being. This thing, this time, this story, this change.

A kind note to the next nine months: Bring it on.

*

Thank you all for your continued support and curiosity about this odd adventure of mine. Weirdly, I love answering questions about this, so please feel free to fire away in the comment box below. Oh, and I am beginning to do some research on alcohol, anxiety, parenthood and perfectionism in modern life, so please please comment here or email me at ivyleagueinsecurities at gmail dot com if you have any relevant personal stories or blog or book recommendations for me, and all of us. Thanks!

It was still dark when I got to Starbucks. A New York Times truck was parked outside. As I waited for my venti bold roast, I looked out at that truck full of papers, stories, ideas, words. I know things are changing, times are changing, but I hope there are always papers, always trucks.

Do you still read the paper or get all of your news online? Do you think there will be a day without papers?

Three years ago today I wrote my first blog post. It remains one of my very favorites. To celebrate this impending milestone, I treated myself to a very shmancy gift: a site redesign. My hope was that the new and improved blog would be ready to launch today, but alas we have a bit more work to do. It will be here soon though and I can’t wait to share it with you. As I trust you will see, the site is the same and different. Streamlined. Evolved. Like I am three years later.

For now, here’s a little taste: my new logo. As you will see the letters are different. They are my letters. As is the color. Yellow. Bright yellow. NYC taxi cab yellow. Listen to me because I have something to say yellow. I love it.

A profound thanks to all of you who have been reading my words over the past three years. For letting me come here day after day to think, to ask, to write. For allowing me to be real and to be raw, to explore my many sides – parent, professional, person. It sounds cheesy and downright dramatic, but who I am today, on this tenth day of April 2012, is due in no small part to this odd little corner of the cyber cosmos, and to all of you.

So. Thank you again. From the bottom of my insecure and inspired bloggy heart. And please stay tuned for my new site. I hope very much that you love it and lose yourself there, and that you stick with me. Because three years is nothing; I plan to be, and to become, in this world for a long, long time.

Three years! Thank you

A good friend is going through something very, very hard. I am not at liberty to discuss her situation here. Maybe I can talk about her experience very vaguely and cautiously sometime down the line, but not yet, not now. It is too soon. And out of respect to her, I will hold off.

Something really bad happened. Tragic. And my friend told me. I told her that I am here for her because I am. I told her that I am here for whatever, whenever. Because I am. I am realizing something about myself: I am a good friend. I care. I am a particularly good friend, I think, when people are struggling, wrestling with life and loss. I’m not sure why this is. Maybe it’s because I feel like I have been through things, hard things, and I remember, and keenly, who was there for me during these times. I remember the gestures, large and small and detailed. I remember who was there. Who was really there. And I am trying to be that kind of person, that kind of friend, to those who need it, and me.

In one of my texts to my friend, I said something. I said something that surprised even me, my fingers flying across my tiny iPhone screen. I said, If you can snag a moment or the next few days, write about how you are feeling. You would be amazed at how writing can make things a tiny bit better.

I wrote these words. And I sent them. And, truth be told, they awakened something in me. Yes, my own words, hastily cobbled together on a diminutive slab of plastic, awakened something in me. And maybe there is something profoundly egotistical about this; about the fact that I am in some regard admitting that I inspired myself, but so be it. It’s true.

Since I sent that text, I have wondering something: Why did I tell my friend to write? She is not a writer. I choose to write about things, about my life, but that does not mean everyone should.

This morning, at the gym, I read a few chapters of Julia Cameron’s The Right to Write. I have been doing this religiously these days – rising early, grabbing my coffee while the morning’s still dark and raw, stumbling sleepily to the gym, spinning on the elliptical, reading. And I have been reading about one thing in particular: writing. I have been reading about writing because I think I am forever curious. About why it is I write, why it means so incredibly much to me.

When I read the following words, I smiled so big. I probably looked very silly to those on the machines around me, but oh well.

Writing is a way not only to metabolize life but to alchemize it as well. It is a way to transform what happens to us into our own experience. It is a way to move from passive to active. We may still be the victims of circumstance, but by our understanding those circumstances we place events within the ongoing context of our own life, that is the life we “own.”

Owning something also means owning up to something. It means accepting responsibility, which means, literally, responsibility. When we write about our lives we respond to them. As we respond to them we are rendered more fluid, more centered, more agile on our own behalf. We are rendered conscious. Each day, each life, is a series of choices, and as we use the lens of writing to view our lives we see our choices.

Julia Cameron, The Right to Write, p. 94

I read these words and I nodded and I smiled. And, also, I remembered. When Dad was diagnosed with cancer, I started writing like crazy. I wrote down memories and stories and little bits about him, about the before and the after. I took my laptop over to my parents’ house and parked at the kitchen table and wrote. I shaped what was happening to Dad, to us, to me. I made it my own.

The first piece of writing I published was Dad’s death announcement in the New York Times. I wrote it the very day he died, sitting at that long kitchen table, surrounded by Mom and my sisters. Fierce with focus amid the sounds of family, of loss, I stared into the screen, and I wrote. I wrote because it was my way of contributing, of controlling. I wrote because it helped.

Big Girl was there on that morning, only eighteen months old, flitting around in her gray tutu. Gray was a perfect color for that day, for many days, a color that’s neither happy nor sad. A real color. The color of life sometimes. One day, when the time is right, I will write about that day, that day that was an end but also a beginning. I will write about Mom’s red nightgown and the sound of the clunking coffee maker. I will write about the pastries Husband brought and how he arranged them carefully on the plate and put them out for us to eat. I will write about the blond girl from the funeral home who wore all black, the girl who was just doing her job, carrying a lifeless body to another place, the girl who cried when she saw us, pajama-clad girls, girls who looked a bit like she did, girls who had just lost their dad. Just.

And so. I am rambling now and I love rambling and believe in it – there is often more truth in a ramble than a polished gem – but I will stop. I will stop because there is no rush. There is no rush to get it all down, all at once. There is always tomorrow. To live, to respond to, to write about, to own.

I hope my friend sneaks away and writes. I do. And I hope it helps.

I am not keen on advice, but today I am giving it, and unapologetically too:

Write. Write about your life, your love, your loss. Write to look in, and out, back, and ahead. Write to wrestle, to flee, to feel. Write because you do not know what else to do. Write because you have a story, a story you choose and do not choose daily. Write because writing means ownership, owning your life. There is an immense and abiding power in words simply spilled on the page. What you do with that page is your choice – show it to someone, show it to everyone, show it to no one. Hang it up. Rip it up.

Just write.

How do you cope with tremendous hardship? Do you believe in the power of writing through and about life? Are you a better friend during happy or hard times? Are you going through something hard now? Write about it here if you choose. Feel free to do so anonymously.

I am posting this at 6pm on Thursday, March 29. As a bit of an experiment. I’m big on experiments these days.

*

So. I had this idea. And I wanted to run it by you guys.

Those of you who have been reading know that I have embarked upon an existential experiment of sorts: a Year Without Wine. And I continue to be excited about this, and empowered, and intrigued, and have been brainstorming ways to weave this project into my daily life, and into my daily writing.

So the idea is that I will write a little something – it could be one sentence or one question or a blurb about my day – between the hour of 5pm and 6pm. Many of you will appreciate that this is not a random hour. No, this is the hour when afternoon fades into evening, and the kids fade into, well, tired kids. This is the hour when stress tends to surge, when a glass of wine sounds swell.

{I wouldn’t spend a lot of time on this. A few minutes, maybe longer. Maybe the time I would take to write an email to a friend. I would be doing this not to ignore my life or responsibilities but rather as a way to (quickly) process the day I’ve had. Can you tell I am anticipating potential criticism that I am concocting away to avoid my children? }

So. Instead of pouring that glass of wine, I will pour words. It might just be a moment from my day – a brilliant moment or a tough one. It might just be an idea I had. It might just be something I don’t want to forget. Or it might be an utter rant about my day, my life, this utterly unnecessary but also very eye-opening experiment I have undertaken.

I would write something and set it up to post 6pm every night (or maybe just Monday through Thursday evening?) I would do this so that you guys would be able to pop by here at that time, or around that time, a time that might also be a bit nutty in your home, or in your head. And you could ingest my little something, and realize that you are not alone, and maybe a little conversation could unfold in the comment box. About our days. About our frustrations. About our ideas. About this thing we call life.

What do you guys think? Because, yes, I would be writing these words for me, but they would also be very much for you.

Thoughts? What are the toughest hours of the day for you, in your home? Would you read my blog in the evening or do you really prefer morning? Thoughts on multiple posts here per day?