On Monday afternoon, I took Baby to music class. Truth be told, we arrived a whopping twenty minutes late because with my Box Brain, I’m even more delinquent with the everyday details. But we got there. And with plenty of time for her to run about on the rainbow carpet and frolic with friends and sing and dance under the parachute. The class ended like it always does with many bubbles and many happy kiddie giggles.

After class, I popped Baby in her stroller and we started our short trek home to reunite with Toddler and Nanny. After half a block though, I stopped. I bent down next to Baby and asked her, “Do you want to have a french fry date with Mommy?”

“Yeah!” she crooned.

And so we turned into the little vegan restaurant right there. We’d had some trouble with a certain grumpy old man in this restaurant before, but I decided to test my luck. Thankfully, the restaurant was almost completely empty. There was just one man at the bar scarfing tomato soup. (Hey, it was Matt Dillon!) Baby and I settled at a small table in the back. I ordered her a plate of fries and myself a bowl of chilled corn soup.

And we talked. We talked about the purple room she now shares with her sister. We talked about her beloved grandparents Moo Moo, Grammy, and Dad-Dad. Nanny texted me to tell me that our cats had vomited all over our brand new duvet cover. For whatever reason, I decided to share this horrific tidbit with Baby. She laughed deeply. “Oh no! Cats peeped on bed!” And I told her, no. They threw up. “Oh no! Silly cats!”

Our food arrived and Baby began a careful process drenching her fries in dip dip (ketchup). She fed me a few. She counted little fry bits (up to eight! genius!) She asked me how my soup was. Good, I told her. She asked me to strap her into her high chair – a safety detail I admittedly neglected – and I obliged. Then she finally started to eat. I smiled as she took a single fry and bit it from the side like an ear of corn. She ate all her fries this way. After a little while, I finished my soup.

“Eat it all up?” Baby asked.

“Yes, sweetie. It was delicious.”

“All done too!” she proclaimed. And then she started yelling “Fry fry!” over and over at a barely appropriate decibel. It was then that I noticed that the famous grumpy old man had taken a seat at the next table.

Check please.

We took the remaining fries to go in a little plastic box. I let Baby hold this box in her stroller and she shook it vigorously. A makeshift maraca. As I was strapping her into her stroller, I asked her something.

“Was it fun to have a date just with Mommy?”

“Yeah!” she screamed. And then she put her hand up for a high five.

I pushed this little girl home. I smiled the whole way. And as I smiled, warmed by experience and realization, my little creature shook that box of fries and kicked those little legs.

Do you agree that it is important that we have experiences with each of our children alone? Do you have fond memories of one-on-one experiences with your parents? (I do. I remember catching a big trout with Dad at Vick’s Pond when I was eight or so. And I remember pizza dates with Mom after preschool. We would sit in the very back of Pizza Joint and she would cut slices into small bites and then we would share.)

“The pessimist complains about the wind; the optimist expects it to change; the realist adjusts the sails.”

William Arthur Ward

I don’t know much about sailing. Or about William Arthur Ward for that matter. But I do love this quote. And I am very interested in the topic of optimism. What is it exactly? Is it something we are born with? Something we absorb as we navigate our days? Is it something we must choose, embrace, practice at?

I don’t know.

But I do know that these questions matter to me. I do know that I want very much to be optimistic. More than that, I want very much not to be pessimistic. Last week, at T’s Yale graduation, Bill Clinton was the Class Day speaker. And Slick Willy didn’t disappoint. He charmed us all with his trademark mix of wit and wisdom. He implored the graduates – and all of us really – to get real about the big problems we face in this modern world. But one thing stuck with me in particular. Something about pessimism.

Clinton said, “Cynicism and pessimism are cop-outs. Excuses to take a dive. Self-fulfilling prophecies.” And as he said these words, I sat there in my folding chair on good Old Campus, nodding. Nodding fiercely. I do not want to be a pessimist. I do not want to be a cynic.

But are these things up to me? Per Clinton, it seems they are.

Is optimism innate/inherited? Are each of us genetically or physiologically wired in such a way that we are more or less likely to see life’s silver lining? Do we inherit our powers of positivity from our parents? Is it hard, if impossible, to transcend the levels of optimism we witnessed and absorbed growing up?

Is optimism contagious? Are we more likely to see the sunshine in our days when surrounded by others who are optimistic? [Once upon a time, a young (and super-cynical) girl who wore tons of black and whose default face was a bitchy scowl met a young (and shockingly-optimistic) boy who didn't care what he wore and was prone to smile. They met in a bar of all places! And days passed. And months. And years. Seven-ish years later, that same girl has two girls of her own and is much much more optimistic about life. And she wears color!]

Is optimism a choice? Whatever its source, can we choose to add more optimism to our selves and to our stories? Can we make efforts to alter the ways we see things and process them? Can we train ourselves to see sunshine instead of storms? Can we, with devotion and diligence, avoid Clinton’s cop-outs of cynicism and pessimism?

Again, I don’t know. But, hey, at least I’m asking, right?

Today, I would say I’m a realist. One who suffers soggy moments of cynicism and poisonous bouts of pessimism. But one who is committed to optimism. Optimistic about optimism.

Today, I am awake. Alert. Aware of the robust reality of existential wind. Poised for change. Even cruel change. Always adjusting the sails of my own expectations.

Because I must. We all must.

(How can I possibly look at this sunshine-soaked picture of my three creatures in the fountains outside the museum where I celebrated my wedding and be anything but optimistic?)

__________________________________________________

• Do you think optimism is a choice?
• Do you agree with President Clinton that pessimism and cynicism are self-fulfilling prophecies and cop-outs?
  
• Where do you fall on the optimism/pessimism/realism spectrum?
• Are you more or less positive about life and love than you used to be? What has affected your outlook?
• Are you suspicious (like I am) of people who seem optimistic all the time?

** Today is the very first day of the LIFE AFTER YES book club discussion over at Motherese. Click and come on by!**

** For a chance to win a signed copy of LIFE AFTER YES, please click over to BlogHer at Home and leave a comment! (Thanks, Nic!)**

Rumor has it that a certain something helps tremendously in the optimism department. That something? Book sales

I’ve said it before. And here I am saying it again: One of my very favorite elements of blogging is encountering new and interesting people and having new and interesting conversations. Enter self-proclaimed “writer, mom, graphic designer and lawyer’s wife” Angie of the wonderful, “honest and earnest site” All Adither. In her endearing bio, Angie states, “I am egregiously tall, have a son with severe food allergies and love cookies with beer. I alternately struggle with existential angst and the fit of my jeans.” Now, I am more of a cupcakes with Pinot Grigio girl myself, but I am thrilled that this egregiously tall and talented creature agreed to grace ILI and answer some of my questions. Thank you, Angie!

As a writer AND blogger, what do you think is the biggest different between writing prose and writing posts?

Angie: I think in writing posts you have to be more aware that another website is just a click away. People have less patience with internet content than with a magazine or book they’ve purchased or invested time to get from the library. It’s more crucial, I think, to grab the reader instantly. When I’m blogging, I try to write as if I’m talking to my friend.

That said, in my personal blog, I tend to let myself get artsy and play with turning phrases, etc. Though I generally try to keep my posts quite short and attach one of my photos that loosely relates to the content. It’s my place to experiment. On sites I’m hired to write for, as well as on my cooking site I’m much more strict with myself.

You’re married to an attorney. Several years ago, I stopped practicing law to become a full-time writer. It seems like the writer-attorney bond has many incarnations! How does the “lawyer’s wife” perspective affect your writing?

Angie: I don’t know if it’s being a lawyer’s wife per se, but being a wife in general has given me tons of material. The dynamic between a husband and wife, the richness, the tension, the arguments, the flirtation with longing, a little bit, for single life again all tremendously add to my writing.

Lawyers do tend to work long hours, so there’s that too. The resentment and sympathy toward your spouse who is, physically and emotionally away a lot of the time puts a certain spin on everything I write.

Love is something that comes up a lot here on Ivy League Insecurities and I noticed that you recently posted about celebrating your eighth wedding anniversary. What is one thing you wish you could tell every newlywed about making it to eight years (and beyond)?

Angie: When I look at my parents, who’ve been married forty-two years and my husband’s parents, who were married more than fifty years, eight doesn’t seem so lofty. And I fumble through it all just like everyone else. I guess I would say to choose your spouse wisely. Go for character over personality. And try to pick someone with a similar temperament. If you’re super social, don’t go for a hermit. You won’t be happy. Also, be open hearted. It’s so hard to live with someone, have kids with someone and handle daily stresses all while trying to compromise with another person, if you have compassion for your spouse, and a sense of humor, it’ll make it go more smoothly.

____________________________________

Thank you, Angie, for your candid and thought-provoking answers! Cheers to the eternal struggle with jean fit and existential angst. Cheers to good blogs, good marriages, and honest words.

____________________________________

Do you have a different set of standards when choosing blogs and books to read? Do you agree that a blog must grab the reader’s interest more instantly?

Do you agree that there is immense material inherent in the husband-wife relationship? (I do!) If married, do you experience the longing for single life to which Angie alludes? How do you cope with this longing, however minor it might be?

Do you agree with Angie’s counsel to go for character over personality when selecting a spouse. Do you agree that it is advisable to pick someone with a similar temperament?

Couldn’t ignore this one. Police recently responded to a domestic disturbance call in North Dakota and encountered an intoxicated woman who was breastfeeding her newborn. They arrested her. And she subsequently pleaded guilty to child neglect and faces up to five years in jail. For more of the sordid details on this boozing and boobing saga, click here.

No, I do not know enough about this situation to cast informed and well-calibrated judgment on the actions of the police here — and no one has compelling scientific evidence about the effects of alcohol in breastmilk on infants — but as a lawyer and as a mother and as an American, the story troubles me.

As a lawyer of latter day, I’m worried about the very real problem of line-drawing. Are we going to start rounding up pregnant women who are sipping wine or nibbling feta or not eating anything while pregnant because data indicates that these things might not be good for the fetus? Are we going to arrest a woman who has ingested vast amounts of caffeine and is nursing? Where do we draw these legal lines?

As a mother, I am concerned about this story because, well, (gasp), I consumed moderate amounts of wine while nursing both of my daughters. Yes, I was responsible. No, I didn’t nurse while intoxicated. But I would be lying if I said I abstained from Pinot during those postnatal months. I would also be lying if I said the Pinot wasn’t often a sublime treat at the end of a long and tiring day. And I am no scientist, but both of my girls appear to be thriving. (Brag Moment: Toddler’s teacher called her a superstar today!)

As an American, I worry about privacy. I am not sure anyone truly knows how to define privacy or that enigmatic right to privacy. But it’s easier to intuit when privacy has been violated. It seems to me that this woman’s right to privacy has been compromised in some way I cannot quite articulate. Admittedly, this is an argument I am less sure about. And this is when facts of the case matter. If this woman was conspicuously drunk, unable to care for her tiny baby, and someone in that home or nearby called the police because conditions were unsafe or out of hand, maybe her right to privacy has been surrendered? Who knows. My legal knowledge is rusty. This is where my lawyer friends can maybe help me out?

What are your thoughts on this arrest? Does it trouble you like it does me? Are you better able to articulate what is wrong with this picture? Or maybe there is nothing wrong with this picture and I am simply defending my own questionable behavior?