Our apartment is now officially on the market. After a week-plus of Operation DDD (Declutter, Deep Clean, & Donate), our home is looking pretty slamming, so I’m cautiously optimistic that it will strike some unknown New Yorker’s fancy. I hope so because we are slated to move into our new place in two months or so. Right around the time of my book release. This isn’t a busy time or anything. Nah.

Anyway, yesterday was our first open house. After yet another speed-cleaning operation, Husband, the girls and I left our place in the capable hands of our wonderful broker and drove to New Jersey to visit our good friends and their new home. While we were tending to backseat vomit volcanoes and touring our new friends’ palatial abode, our broker welcomed scores of strangers into our home. Strangers who then trouped through our space. Seeing our pictures. Seeing our stories. Seeing those terrible stains on our beleaguered white chairs.

It was an exquisite winter/spring day. We couldn’t have ordered up a better one. And we had a good time in New Jersey catching up with our friends and their two kids, watching our girls soak in the suburban splendor and run free in the space they will never quite have. And my mind was there. It was. On the laughter, on the appetizers, on the kiddie mayhem.

But my mind was also elsewhere. Here. On this house. On this home. This place that has pillowed me through so much. My safe haven. I kept imagining the parade of people walking from room to room. Running fingertips along surfaces. Our surfaces. Peeking through windows. Our windows. Loving or hating a layout. Our layout.

Yes, I couldn’t stop thinking of all those who stopped by to glimpse a house. A home. A world.

Our house. Our home. Our world.

After the open house was over, our broker called with a report. She said there were twenty-four parties who signed in! That there was a lot of good interest, that many people would like to make an appointment to come back and see our place again. And this is good. This is very good.

So why doesn’t this feel so good then? Why does this feel more complicated than good?

Because it is.

When night fell, we secured sleepy girls in car seats and made our way home. The drive was quick. And while Husband was returning Sister I’s car (I – there is no aromatic or physical evidence of baby vomit – I promise!), the girls and I settled in at home. We walked in and I turned the lights on.

And our place seemed different. There were no precarious piles of mail. There were no dishes in the sink. There were no cat toys littering the hardwoods. There was no mess. There was no noise.

The place already felt a little less ours.

I took the girls up to bed. We picked pajamas. We read a book. We sang a song. And as we did these things last night, I looked around. I lingered on things I wouldn’t otherwise notice. The pale yellow stripes on the wall we will leave behind. The black and white pattern on the carpet that won’t be ours for long.

And then I kissed my girls goodnight.

And this morning, I realize as I write these words, that my surge of emotion about moving, about big change, is probably perfectly par for the course. That transitions, even the most exquisite transitions, can be both beautiful and difficult at once.

And I realize something else – right here, right now – as I type these words one after the other. I realize that it is open house every day here chez ILI. You come here, benevolent strangers, and poke around. Some of you sign in with comments and some of you just come and go. But all of you take it in – the stories, the pictures, the questions. Each of you glimpses me and my world through the crafty and clumsy evidence I leave for you – my words, my worries, my wants. Some of you like what you see and come back. Some of you shake your head no and never return.

And now my mind flits feverishly, going where the metaphor, this good metaphor, takes me…

Is this blogosphere a virtureal estate market of sorts? Are we bloggers selling ourselves and our stories? Are we opening ourselves up and inviting others in? Are we advertising the aspects of our worlds? The layouts of our lives? The fixtures and fittings of our fears? The rooms of our regret? Are we, in effect, saying, Stop by, walk around, take a look, see if you like what I have to offer? See if it’s worth the investment?

Do we bloggers declutter our hearts and our heads and our homes before showing them off? Do we wipe down the surfaces of soul and psyche before letting people in? Do we touch up the paint of our parenthood or our personhood? Do we make ourselves seem more ordered, more open, more generic so that others will like us?

Or do we bloggers do the opposite? Do we welcome legions of strangers and say, I do not have it all together. Look at this clutter in my mind, look at this dirty pile of longing, look at the cracks in my ceiling?

Who knew that a simple open house would be (for me) not-so-simple? Who knew that contemplating good change would send me into a metaphorical Monday madness? Who knew that hanging a price tag on my past and my place would create a thicket of mixed feelings about permanence and progress?

(I did.)

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How have you handled the moves in your life (between homes, relationships, jobs, etc)? Did you have mixed feelings too? Do you enjoy attending open houses? If so, why? Do you agree that blogging is – in some sense – like hosting a 24/7 Open House? Where do you think this metaphor breaks down?

ILI DAILY CHARMS

I am hard at work on Novel #2, so I am having a tough time staying on top of my favorite blogs, but I just read two posts from favorite cyber creatives. Both have been blogging for a year now and both write exquisitely and evocatively about the past year and the ways in which blogging has changed them (and not changed them). Check out these women and their words:

* Liz of the heartfelt and hilarious blog …But Then I Had Kids looks back over her last year in her post 365 Posts + 109 Posts = One Revised Me.

* Sarah, one half of the delightful Momalom sister duo, celebrates the fact that it’s Spring Again.

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?

Last night, as part of Project Blonde Again, Husband and I snuggled up on the couch to watch the DVRed season finale of The Bachelor.

(I will give you a moment to judge me.)

Okay, onwards. You either watch this show and know how it everything turned out or you don’t watch this show and therefore don’t really care. The point is that I am not spoiling anything for anyone here. Phew.

A smidge of background: Jake, a handsome and wholesome pilot decides to try his luck on the “Wings of Love” and see if he can land himself a wife. ABC producers corral a bevy of young women – some shockingly normal-seeming and some not so much – and off they go, gallivanting in and out of ubiquitous hot tubs, subsisting on a diet of booze and roses and test-run “kisses.” Now, I am not one to judge this format for finding true love. Seriously. I met my man in a bar at one in the morning. It’s all good.

Anyway. The weeks fly by (love these aviation puns) and I miss several episodes of the show because I’m too busy flailing like a drama queen in the deep end of my ocean. But I tune in here and there. Just enough to understand the trajectory of this season’s story. It becomes immediately clear that there is one girl who is universally detested by the others. Her name is Vienna. And there is one girl who allegedly “fell out of a Disney movie” and “dreams in cartoons” – Tenley – a creature who is cute and giggly and oozing with suspicious amounts of joy. Interestingly, both of these women were been married before The Bachelor. But that is neither here nor there. Just interesting to moi.

In the end, Jake narrows it down to these two women: the blonde and caustic Vienna and the brunettish and bubbly Tenley. When deliberating about his decision for the cameras, puppy-eyed Jake declares that it is so hard because he is in love with both women and that he can see both as his wife. But then he clues us into something and something critical: that he is more physically attracted to Vienna.

Cut to the chase. He picks Vienna. He proposes to her. She squeals yes.

Okay, fine. We’ll see how this turns out. The show’s track record isn’t so stellar. But I’m not that concerned with how Jake and Vienna fare in the big, bad real world. I’m more interested in some questions this flufffest raised for me. And the show might be a bit shallow, but I don’t think these questions are. Let’s see if you agree.

Is there anything wrong with being a “looks person”? With picking a life partner based on physical chemistry?

I don’t think so. Hey, we are biological creatures. There is something very Darwinian about all this. If I am being honest, I fell for Husband at first because he was such a gorgeous specimen. Fortunately, it turned out that he was exceedingly intelligent and funny and kind as well. But in the beginning? He was just an old school hottie.

Is it really possible to be in love with two people at once?

This is where I get confused. Lust is one thing. We can be attracted to many people at once, I imagine. But romantic love? Can it really be felt, truly be felt, for two people at once? And is it really possible to fall in love in six weeks while on camera?

Does the very format of this show render it almost impossible that the ultimate union will thrive?

It doesn’t really shock me that the couples that emerge after “the final rose” do not usually survive once the cameras stop rolling. Can a relationship predicated on scripted encounters and a game which pits several (often celebrity-hungry) creatures against each other really stand the test of time? Maybe so. Maybe I am judging from my little plot of real-world existential earth?

Who knows? Who cares?

Thank you for indulging me as I dip my toe in the shallow end once more. In doing so, I am all smiles because I realize something, something so many of you mentioned in your thoughtful comments yesterday: Deep and shallow are not mutually exclusive. These two sides can and do collide and commingle. In moments. In minds.

In blog posts.

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• Do you think a relationship or marriage rooted in physical attraction can flourish and last over time?
• Do you believe that you can find love anywhere, even on a television show?
• Do you watch The Bachelor? Did you watch this season?
  
• Do you think it is possible to be in love with two people at the very same time?
• Do you agree that meaning and deeper questions can be found almost anywhere as long as we squint and look?

ILI DAILY CHARMS

* Click and read this insightful Huffington Post piece on contemporary shifts in publishing industry roles by my incomparable literary agent Jean Naggar.

* Are we humans shaping our own evolution? Read this fascinating NYT article that identifies human culture as an evolutionary force.

* It seems I am not the only perfectionista who battles the Not Good Enoughs. Check out Tanya Geisler’s piece In Support of Settling.

* Do we really have to play with our kids? Is there a benefit to parental preoccupation and teaching our kids skills of self-reliance? Lenore Skenazy of Free-Range Kids ponders these and other provocative questions in her recent post Up With Boredom!

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.

[Sorry to disappoint, but this is not a post about Tiger. But there will be one. Because I just don't get the uproar (pun intended and exceedingly clever). He was a wild man, a very bad boy. And he delivered a public apology that was or wasn't genuine. He and his wife have stuff to talk about. But me? I'm over it. Except apparently not. Oh.]

Enough about Tiger. Let’s talk about me.

I have a mild allergy to adulthood.

Actually, I am not sure it is so mild. Responsibilities? Chores? Calendars? Taxes? Bills? Budgets? Wrinkles? Schedules? Stocks? These things give me existential hives.

And yet. I tolerate adulthood because I must. Because though I whine like a toddler and pout like a baby, I am an adult. Because at thirty-one, I am a big girl. Because there is no going back. I have no choice.

Why the allergy? I’m not entirely sure. It’s complicated. And these answers are cop-outs, but they are mine and I hold them dear. I think there are many reasons why I am having a hard time with this growing up business. One of them?

Wildness.

We adults – and particularly we perfect parents – are not encouraged to be wild. No. We are implored to be prudent and responsible and organized. We are supposed to make lists and plans and beds. We are expected to live within boundaries. We are supposed to color inside the lines. We are supposed to be civilized, to use our inside-voices at all times. We are supposed to be healthy and get sleep and drink lots of water.

We are expected to be good girls and boys.

But here’s the thing. Sometimes, I don’t want to be a good girl. Sometimes I want to go out and drink wine and dance and be young again. Sometimes I want to stay up past my bedtime and swim in deafening music. Sometimes, I want to scribble and shout and celebrate. Sometimes, I want to break rules.

Sometimes, I want to be wild.

It was a wild weekend.

And I’m tired. So tired. But I can’t stop smiling. Literally. Can’t stop. And this is not like me.

Friday night? Not so wild. Husband and I ate takeout on the coffee table and watched a DVRed episode of The Bachelor. But Saturday night? It was nuts. For me at least. I got dressed up. I looked hot. (Roar.) I wore heels. I sipped champagne with good friends. I laughed ceaselessly. I ate dinner at a swanky restaurant downtown at 10:30pm! There were celeb spottings! (Tracy Morgan, Rachel Zoe) We ordered the $75 truffle macaroni & cheese! At 1am, I climbed a fire escape to a club where I savored more champagne and Red Bull until after 3am!

It was wild. Now it is worth mentioning that there are various species of wild. My wild? Not at all like Tiger’s. There was no prowling, no misbehaving. I only talked to one man the whole night and he was our waiter. It was a girls’ night. On the grand scale of Wild Life, it was pretty tame. But for me, for this harried and happy mom, it was indeed wild.

And I came home and tumbled into bed next to my snoozing man. And four hours later, I was up. And a mom again. For the first half of the day, I was a shell of a person. My sentences had holes. But I stuffed them with little girl snuggles. I held court on the couch “supervising” and “delegating.” But I was so happy. I can’t explain it. I didn’t even remember it was Sunday.

And then. Last night. Husband and I met a handful of other couples to take over Wollman Rink in Central Park. We had the ice to ourselves. We skated into the night against a backdrop of city lights. Actually, I skated for about five minutes before retiring to the heated tent to sip hot chocolate. Another late night. A little less wild. But absolutely wonderful.

And this morning? I am so beyond shredded with exhaustion. Moving slowly. But quaking with awareness. That life is good. That I am where I should be. That this adulthood thing? It’s actually not half bad. I sit here at Starbucks near Toddler’s Preschool, sipping bitter coffee. Still smiling.

As I write this, I realize that it is okay to go back, to regress, to get wild once in a while. If only to remember. If only to realize that this place, this here and now, this tame territory, is quite lovely.

Thoreau said, “We need the tonic of wildness, to wade sometimes in marshes where the bittern and the meadow-hen lurk, and hear the booming of the snipe; to smell the whispering sedge where only some wilder and more solitary fowl builds her nest, and the mink crawls with its belly close to the ground.”

So. I sit here. A person. A parent. An adult. A wild thing.

And today I make some vows. To allow myself to leave the nest from time to time. To permit myself to wade in the marshes, to lurk in tangled places, to surrender to the booming, to smell that sedge, to crawl with my belly close to the ground.

Today I pledge to protect my own wild life.

(Roar.)

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Tell me about the last wild night you enjoyed. Tell me about your wildest night ever. Do you think we parents and people are encouraged to lose our wildness? Do you think it is important to protect our wild life even as we tread the territory of adulthood? Speaking of adulthood, are you allergic too? Do you think Tiger’s “issues” boil down to wildness or entitlement?

**Are we writers the worst (or perhaps best) gossips of all? Check out this great post over at Diary of a Virgin Novelist.