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

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

Who was I in college?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

My children. Your children. Children.

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

How do we prevent our children from becoming spoiled brats?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Maybe, somehow, it’s good.

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