On Friday morning, I boarded my flight to Chicago. Right foot first. Always. It was a big plane. And far from full. Clutching a vast coffee and a stack of tabloids and an orange for later, I made my way to the back. I waited and waited. But no one came. I had my own row. I was thrilled to be alone. To stretch out.

I watched the safety demonstration on the little television that popped out from the ceiling. And when it was our turn, we took off. I put my feet up. I looked out the window. The captain told us facts I didn’t absorb; about the flying conditions, the miles we would travel, the weather at our destination. Politely, he thanked us in advance for our business.

And there, all alone in seat 25C, I felt foolish for having been so worried. About leaving home. About flying. About everything. I told myself it was so silly to worry. That, patently, all would be fine.

But then. The plane started to shake. Hard. And it didn’t stop. When the plane started to tumble around, my mind went rogue, darting straight to the things that mattered. I thought of family. Of the people I love. And need.

And I thought of writing. I thought of that too.

Family. Writing. This is my life.

But mostly, I thought about how scared I was. Truly scared. That those moments might have been my last. And so. Not knowing how to handle my fear, I reached for my laptop. I pried it open. And I began to write, fingers flying, palms sweaty, mind racing, body quaking.

And this is what I wrote. Word for word. I feel strongly about not editing these words.

I think I am having an epiphany. Right here. Right now.

I am in the sky. Enveloped in thick, white clouds. They look pretty. They seem friendly. But they are not so. They are dense and drifting.

They are making me question everything.

A man, the same man, keeps coming on the loudspeaker. The pilot. I have never met this man. And yet I trust him. With my life. With our landing. His voice is gruff. His words, like the clouds, are cruel and choppy. He does not fool around. He makes no promises. He tells us to fasten our seat belts.

A chorus of clicks. People do as told. As if inserting metal into metal will really make a difference.

I sit here. All alone. Impossibly surrounded. A young man across the aisle snores. A little girl in pink dances and waves a croissant. People sip drinks and read books.

But I just sit here. Shaking.

Now that little girl screams. Her mother wrestles with her. Reasons with her. And maybe her ears hurt. And maybe she is scared. Her screams don’t bother me. They make sense to me.

Once upon a time, we were allowed to be scared.

It’s just turbulence, I tell myself as the engine hums because no one else is here to tell me this. It’s just turbulence.

I chide myself for being so scared. This is normal. It will pass. There will be smooth skies. This shaking will stop.

But right now? This doesn’t feel normal. This doesn’t feel okay. Reason and statistics mean nothing. Right here. Right now. I am scared to death.

That means something.

Life is a flight. We are on it together. We are in it alone.

We do not know when we will land. Or how.

We should allow ourselves to be scared when life’s skies shake us and stir us. We should allow ourselves to be scared when the blue fades and whiteness washes over us. When everything seems to be giving way to nothing.

We should allow ourselves to be scared when we feel scared.

I am going to start now.

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Wow. Reading this now, these words seem so, well, dramatic. And they are. Reading this now, it is hard for me to remember, to grasp, the fear that gripped me just a few days ago. But it did grip me.

The good news is that the vast vast majority of the time, I am not scared. Not like this at least.

But some of the time, I am.

I am scared of change. I am scared of standing still. I am scared of cancer. I am scared of death. I am scared of failure. I am scared of success. I am scared of aging. I am scared of being a bad parent. I am scared of closing doors. I am scared of rough skies. I am scared of being forgotten. I am scared of being scared.

I am scared of the unknown. I am scared of the known.

I am scared of many things.

It is okay to be scared. It is human to be scared.

I might have been all alone in Row 25 of that one plane, but I am not alone in this. We are all scared. (Yes, even you.)

But living in this world, I often get the sense that it is not okay to be scared. In this world, we are taught from a young age to banish our fears, to put up a front, to hold it together, to stifle our screams.

I just realized something. Just now. Something I’ve been doing (or not doing) without really realizing it. When Toddler cries and tells me she is scared of something, I don’t tell her that there is nothing to be scared of. No. Instead, I say something a bit different. I tell her that I understand that she is scared, that I know what it feels like, and that she is okay. It’s a small change to the parental script from which so many of us unconsciously read. A nuance I’m sure she doesn’t notice, but one I do. Now.

Ultimately, it might not be okay to be scared in this big, bad world. But here? In this odd little corner? On this odd little blog? Here, it is okay for me to be scared. Here, it is okay for me to explore the landscape of my fear. And so I will. Here, I will not apologize for being scared of the dark. And of the light. Of little things. And big. Of a hovering and happy past, of the inscrutable skies of present moment. Of my bright and beckoning future.

Here’s what I think: Life is turbulent. And I will ride it out because I, like you, have no choice. Because, at bottom, it’s a privilege to take this flight. But I refuse to pretend that the rough spots don’t exist.

Because they do.

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What are you scared of? Do you find yourself stifling your own fears or denying they exist? Do you think women are permitted to display their fears more than men are? Do you think that we bloggers blog (and we writers write, etc) because in so doing we forge a safe space in which we can explore – and affirm – our own fears, and flaws, and hopes, and dreams? How do you handle literal and metaphorical turbulence?

In the morass of modernity, I think it is easy to lose track of what matters. I do. I think we are overstimulated, overwrought, overcaffeinated souls floating through busy and blurry days. I think we often get bogged down in details that don’t deserve us and tangled in technology that obscures our basic nature. I think we let good and simple things become camouflaged by concocted complexity, by artificial tension, by excuses, by expectations.

I think. I don’t know, but I think.

As some of you know, I went away for the weekend. My sister had a baby a little over a week ago and I made the trip to Chicago to meet him. This trip was not easy for me. I am a creature of home and habit and not a huge fan of flying. But I went. And, as predicted, I am so happy I did. I am happy for predictable, Hallmarkesque reasons and I am happy for reasons that are a bit more murky.

Predictable, Hallmarkesque Reasons: First and foremost, I got to meet Chickie. I got to hold him. I got to run my hand over his tiny head. I got to smell his newness and remember how impossibly soft newborn skin is. I got to hug my big sister. I got to congratulate the daddy of the moment on the arrival of his very first son. I got to snuggle and be silly with the big sister duo.

Murkier Reasons. This weekend was big for me. I am too close to it to explain why exactly, but I will give it a shot. It was big because I wandered outside my comfort zone and left home. It was big because I got on an airplane by myself and weathered the rough skies between Here and There. It was big because I glimpsed my sister’s world, her own breed of compelling chaos.

It was big because I realized what matters most to me, what has always mattered most to me: Family.

Family. That’s it. My number one.

As time passes, things are becoming more and more clear to me. Since Dad died, I have been a bit of a mess. I have been confused and angry and more than a bit sad. Confused about how to grieve and get on with my life. Angry that Mother Nature and cancer cells can shatter the snow globe of a big and beautiful family. Sad that we cannot have him back, that we must plow forward in his stinging absence.

And I have done a commendable job in distracting myself from these things. I have channeled Dad’s laser-like focus on work and professional passion. I have lost my taste for superficiality. I have not stopped writing and thinking and planning and plotting. And it’s exhausting. And more than being exhausting, it’s blurred my focus a bit.

My focus on family.

But this weekend. This weekend, with tears in my eyes, I kissed Husband and my girls goodbye. And I missed them instantly. On the plane, shaken by turbulence and realization, I had a bit of an epiphany which you will hear about tomorrow. And then I arrived. And plopped myself squarely in my sister’s world. A world of life and laughter and love.

A world of family.

I cradled a tiny baby who may or may not have Dad’s nose. I wrestled two little girls in a purple polka-dot bed. I celebrated my brother-in-law’s birthday. I talked with my two older sisters. (Sister I made the trip too.) About the impossible imperative to divide one’s maternal affection into three. About the closing of biological doors. About the enigma of balance. About the fibers of family.

And I was overcome with a wave of profound ambivalence which shocked me because I didn’t think ambivalence came in waves. I looked at my sister cradling her new boy, tending to her girls from afar. And I felt a tug.

“I want another baby,” I said. “But not yet. But I haven’t changed my mind. I still want four!”

“Have you thought about why you want so many kids?” Sister I asked me.

And it was a good question. A fair question. One to which I have given a lot of thought.

“Yes,” I said. “This. This chaos? This is what I want. I want a big family. I want the bustle.”

And I do. That is what I want. I want a tormenting excess of laughter and love. I want utter and impossible mayhem which tests every morsel of my being.

As my sisters and I talked, I noticed two pictures on the mantle above the fireplace. (Wherein this little guy got a wee bit charred.) The two pictures had one thing in common. Dad. In one picture, he wore a tux and walked Sister N down the aisle. In the other, he sat on the powder blue sofa where I spent so much of my weekend. He sat there, cradling her two girls. And this picture made me smile. But it also made me sad. Because Dad will never meet Baby or Baby Bulldog or little Chickie or any of the future Donnelley creatures. There won’t be these photo ops.

But there wasn’t time to wallow. And for that I was grateful. In no time, I was busy watching Sister I change a tiny diaper and collapsing into a puddle laughter when Chickie peed all over his itty-bitty Blackhawks jersey and his own little face. In no time, we were gathered around the dinner table scarfing Thai takeout, learning the names of various plastic dinosaurs, and singing a genius song called “Flavor Juice Fountain.”

Yesterday afternoon, I came home. At the front door, I was met by a man and two tiny girls. My man. My girls. I was serenaded by a sweet chorus of “Mommy.” And I dropped my suitcase and lost myself in hugs and kisses. And home.

This is it, I thought then and think now. This is what I want. This is what I have. This is what matters.

And when things grow more complicated again (oh and they will), when I begin to stress about blog traffic and book sales and jean sizes and renovation budgets, I will come back and read this post. I will read these clumsy words and remember the wonderful weekend I just enjoyed, and the realization that came with it. The realization that things can be quite simple if we let them be.

The realization that for me, family comes first. And always will.

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Have you had moments when you were struck by such realizations? Do you agree that all the bells and whistles of modernity distract us from what matters? Do you think that wandering away often makes us appreciate what we have at home?

This is what happens when you bring an adorable newborn baby boy home to two smart, strong-willed little girls. (And when you have an open fire roaring all day long.)

Like this little Valentine’s pup, I survived my weekend in Chicago. But I do have a few stories to tell. Stay tuned…

(Warning: This is a whiny one. Wah.)

I head to Chicago today to see Sister N and her family and to meet her brand new baby boy. Chickie (his awesome alias) entered this fine world exactly a week ago and after some internal debate and bloggy banter here on the virtue and vice of advice-giving (and receiving), I am off. And I am excited.

But here’s the thing: I don’t want to go.

Let me explain. I want to go. I want to congratulate my sister and her husband. I want to snuggle her new addition. I want to play with my nieces who are newly-minted fellow big sisters. I want to do all of these things.

It’s just that I don’t want to go. I don’t want to leave home and Husband and the girls.

It’s not that I’m lazy. (I am, but that’s not the point of this particular post.) It’s not that I hate to fly. (I do, but that’s not the point of this particular post.) It’s not that I hate to carry my own suitcase. (I do, but that’s not the point of this particular post.)

I don’t know what it is. But the thought of leaving for two whole days and two whole nights? It makes me sad and anxious. I say the thought because in actuality, I know I will be perfectly fine. I am a big girl. I will get myself to the airport with plenty of time. I will check in. I will sniff out some trashy gossip magazines and the nearest Starbucks. I will board my plane and exchange pleasantries with flight attendants and fellow passengers. I might even savor a little nap en route. And then I will arrive at my destination and find my way to my sister’s place. Once there, I will bounce around, doling out hugs and I will study the little man who just one week ago was cozy in my sister’s belly preparing for his debut. I will see if his great name fits him after all.

I know I will have a fantastic weekend. I know I will be so happy that I made the trip.

But now. I’m not so psyched. Why?

Maybe it is because my girls have entered a bit of a Mommy phase? Yes, that’s right. My girls who are utterly obsessed with their daddy have begun to think I am kind of cool. They chase me and hug me and bury their heads in my chest. They croon “MOMMY!” loudly and in unison when I leave the room. Baby has just begun to string words together and my favorite sentence of hers? “Hi, Mommy.” It’s a good one. Maybe a little part of me doesn’t want to go now because we are having this little mommy-daughter love fest and I worry that a weekend alone with Daddy will just convert them back to Daddy’s Girls?

Maybe it is because now that I am a parent I worry more about safety? I have never been a super adventurous chick, but these days I am a downright scaredy-cat. I have never adored flying, but now? I hate the idea of being alone in the air at the mercy of Mother Nature and a man-made machine where I have no guarantee that I will be safe. When my girls are out of my view, I do not have evidence of their well-being. Recently, one of my good friends mused about the core desire to feel safe. Intellectually, I know that flying is quite safe and that my girls will be just fine at home, but that feeling of worry? It’s at once very familiar and no fun.

Maybe it is because I know my girls will be fine and that I will be fine? Maybe I do not want to leave for a weekend because this will prove that I can leave for a weekend. That the Rowley household will go on without me. That Husband and the girls will not skip a beat. That they will laugh and sing and dance and watch Dora and take baths and will not miss me? Maybe I do not crave this reminder that I am not 100% needed, that I am in some sense dispensable?

Maybe I inherited this breed of anxiety and this distaste for travel? Growing up, my sisters and I went on many family trips. That is, with our parents. I cannot remember a time when my parents went away without us. I do remember times – and more recently – when Dad would travel for work, but I literally do not remember one occasion on which we were separated from Mom (who, by the way, does not fly at all). Maybe she bequeathed to me this lovely desire to stay put with little ones?

Maybe this is just an old school symptom of parenthood? Maybe this feeling, this gnawing anxiety and guilt (because, yes, this is probably a lot about guilt), is just part and parcel of parenthood? Maybe it is very normal to be a bit sad about saying goodbye even if it is only for a weekend? Maybe, once we have children, we naturally evolve into homebodies and develop a taste for cuddling on couches. Maybe, once we have children, the stakes are that much higher and we are increasingly aware of our own mortality and responsibility and fear?

Maybe I am just a mess? Maybe I am an overthinking, anxiety-prone, complainer? Maybe I am a spoiled soul who chooses not to recognize the good fortune of having and hands-on and supportive husband? Of being able to pay for a last minute ticket? Of being able to spontaneously hop a plane to travel and roll around in the incomparable joy of new life? Maybe I just like to see the rough spots on a smooth existence?

Could very well be.

I don’t know. What I do know is that I am cutting myself off now. What I do know is that I will be back here Monday telling you all about my wonderful trip and the sweet face of my new nephew. (Or, I might be here this weekend with some pictures of the little guy if my sister lets me!) What I do know is that it is probably good for me – and for my kids – that I get away from time to time. What I do know is that you are kind to humor me by sticking with me to the bitter end of this meandering woe is me post.

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Why is this so hard for me? Is it hard for you to leave home too? Do you get anxious about travel? Did your parents travel without you when you were young? If you have kids, is it hard for you to leave them? Has parenthood or adulthood made you more averse to adventure and risk and travel? Am I a big baby? If you are at a loss for words, feel free to tell me I am not alone. And then wish me a safe flight!

Dear You,

I’m going to come right out and say it: I’ve been having an affair.

For going on a year, we’ve been having a ball. And by ball, I mean blog. I’ve spilled speckles of self and you’ve lapped them up. And asked for more. You’ve left a trail of tender words here – seen and felt. And I’ve savored each one. Each day, I’ve kissed you good morning and good night. I’ve followed you home, holding your virtual hand, going where led. Skipping beside you. In your bloggy bed, we’ve cuddled, waxing poetic about the universe we shoulder and share. And each night, as we nod off, shutting down soul and self and psyche, you’ve whispered sweet nothings – and sweet everythings – into my ear. And I into yours.

There have been bloggy butterflies. Alighting, flying with purpose, landing softly and uncertainly on the edge of understanding. The precipice of discovery. Our bond has been at once fragile and foolproof, ragged and robust, full of affection and wonder and desire. I have come to need you. Your ideas. Your perspective. Your questions. I have come to crave your attention, your approval, your applause. My days are good because you are in them.

But last week something happened. I encountered a dark and brooding and beautiful ex.

The Novel.

And we’ve been spending some time together. Stolen moments. Late at night. Early in the day. Sometimes in the middle of it all; in the broad and boastful sunlight. And, during these times, I realized something I have known all this time.

I have missed him.

He is a bad boy. He broods and beckons. Define me, he says. Tell my story. I dare you. His blank pages are alluring and alarming. Into them, I dive and flail and come close to drowning. Time with him is less certain. I spend moments and hours and days in his presence and often have nothing to show for it. Just a confused heart. A mangled mind. And a blank page.

And yet. I need him. I crave his company. He captures me and challenges me and chides me. In his orbit, life grows murky. In his shadow, I see a surplus of stories. My stories. Your stories. Our stories. Impossible stories unfurling and unfolding. Of life and death. Of light and dark. Of salvation and struggle. When holding his hand, I feel safe and shaky. Clawed by confidence. Intoxicated by insecurity. Tangled in truth.

So, he’s back. And he needs me. And I need him too.

So here I am. Caught in the magical middle. Awash in anxiety that by being with both of you, I’m really with neither of you. That in splitting myself, I’m losing myself.

And you.

I write these words because I’ve been feeling a bit naughty and wanted to fess up. Here I am seeking your forgiveness for my wandering pen and heart and mind. Here I am telling you where I am when I am not with you, curled up, stroking your back, saying I love you.

But know this: I do love you. More deeply than you know. And I hope that you stay with me. Even though I’m not perfectly committed. Even though I am philandering with fiction.

Insecurely yours,

Aidan

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Are you monogamous when it comes to blogging or do you cheat on your blog and write elsewhere? How do you handle the split focus of affection? Do you find it difficult to juggle your loves? Do you ever feel like you are cheating on one aspect of your life (family, profession, etc) when you are spending time with another? Is this existential infidelity just part of life? Feel free to talk about actual affairs too. That would be very interesting and wonderful material for this blog. Oh, and for my next novel(s). (Don’t be jealous.)

***This post was inspired by my guilt about devoting time to something other than my blog and by my virtual sisters’ fabulous Love It Up challenge. Head on over to Momalom between now and Valentine’s Day to read some other love letters…***

I need your advice on something. That something? Advice. So, yes. I need your advice on advice.

I’m not sure whether you’ve noticed this, but I try not to give advice on this blog. I do not publish promising posts telling you how to streamline your soul, or declutter your existential closet, or be a perfect parent. I do not do this because I am not equipped. I am one person. One flawed individual who is fumbling and stumbling her way through life. Just like you are. (Sorry, but you are.)

So, instead of dispensing advice, I tell stories here. And ask questions. And offer tiny pieces of me.

But the other night I broke my own unwritten-and-now-written rule about not giving advice. Husband and I went out for dinner at Fulton on the Upper East (delicious) with one of my best friends and her husband. This was a real treat because my friend has an eight-month-old and does not get a sitter very often. Anyway, we went out. We ate delicious food. We laughed a ton. About life and love and little babies. I made it through most of the meal. We were eating these fabulous donuts (yum) and talking about sleep patterns. My friend told me that her little girl sleeps through the night every night. We all know this is major. I congratulated her. And then I asked if she rocks her baby to sleep. She told me she does.

This is when I looked at her and said something I perhaps shouldn’t have. “Stop doing that. Take this week and teach her to fall asleep on her own.”

I was adamant. Husband and I joke that we might not be perfect parents, but sleep is one department in which we have excelled. I have strong opinions on sleep. But ones I don’t usually preach. At a festive dinner with friends no less.

My friend didn’t seem offended. But as I write this, I wonder if she was. I hope not. I will have to call and apologize.

But is giving advice something for which we should apologize? Or is giving advice sometimes a good thing even if it is tough to hear?

A few days ago, I published a post announcing the arrival of my new nephew. I explained that as much as I would like to, I cannot just hop a plane to Chicago to meet the newest member of the Donnelley clan. Many of you chimed in, congratulating my sister and my family, echoing my praise for modern technology. But one of you didn’t play as nice. One of you, a friend of mine, pushed me to rethink my plans to stay put. You said,

At the risk of sounding pushy (oh well I’ll take the risk), I say call the airlines and jump on a plane. We all travel for funerals, travel for the celebrations too. I am a slave to technology but you can’t smell that baby in a video and they grow very fast, as you well know. Just a comment, file it where you’d like.

I read these words and I grew a bit defensive. In my mind, I started listing all the meetings and commitments I have this week. All the reasons why I can’t just go. But my defensiveness faded and quickly and I felt myself nodding. This is life. This is a big deal. The biggest of deals. I can go. I will go.

These words that popped up in my cozy little comment box? They were advice. And I didn’t necessarily want this advice. But I needed it. Thank you, Lauren, for the push. Thanks for the comment. I will file it right here.

Right now, I am signing off. I have a flight to book.

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Any advice on advice? How to give it? How to take it? Are you cautious about dispensing advice to others? Do you find it difficult to hear and heed the advice of others? Do you agree that sometimes the advice we don’t seek is the best advice of all?

Yesterday, I passed along the big news that I have a new nephew, whined a bit about geographical distance, and praised modern technology for keeping us closer to those who are far away.

Today, I’m talking about names.

For the first day of his life, my nephew was nameless. We all knew that Sister N and her husband Brother-in-Law J2 (I have another brother-in-law J who was brave enough to enter the Donnelley scene first, so it’s only fair that I knight him as BIL J1) had a short list of names. And once their little Chickie arrived, we all waited to hear them announce a winner.

Despite our my growing impatience, they waited a bit to name their guy. My sister said they wanted to wait until the hospital staff had bathed their boy, until he was all cleaned up, so she and her husband could get a good look at him. To see what he looked like. And what name fit.

And this made perfect sense to me. And none at all.

In my opinion, babies look like babies. In my opinion, babies come to fit the name they have been given. In my opinion, this naming bit is far more about us than it is about them and what they look like upon entering this big, bad world.

But enough about my opinion. What about yours? Do you think that certain names fit certain babies? Do you think that one baby looks like a Sally and another a Sienna? Do you think one baby looks like a Fred and another a Fitzgerald (Ooooh. Love that one. I call it!)?

Uh oh.

Here I am, thirty-one-years into my earthly existence wondering for the first time if I look like an Aidan? What do you think? In the above shot, I am cuddling my two girls. It is the week before Christmas. I like this picture because my smile is a real smile. I was trying to contain giggling girls on my lap. I also like this picture because it was my fifth wedding anniversary and the night of my family holiday party and I had my hair and makeup done that day. Which means that, for once, I did not look like this:

Okay, I’m lying. I don’t look like this the majority of the time. Just every morning. Usually, I end up somewhere between the coiffed smiley shot above and this here pre-coffee cuteness.

In making the determination of whether I look like an Aidan, would it be useful to see a baby picture?

Voila.

Does that help? Does this little princess with a paucity of hair and a fat lower lip look like an Aidan? Or should she have been named Allison?

[Looking at this picture makes me think of two things which are total tangents. Hence the hyphens. (1) Am I too old to be crawling? Should I feel insecure about this fact?; (2) My girls as babies look/looked a lot like I did as a baby, right down to the chubby cheeks and quasi-mullet. I love this.]

Do names fit the person or does the person come to fit the name? I don’t pretend to know. What I do know is that I treasure my name.

I love being Aidan.

Yes, even though every professor thought I was a boy when reading from a list. Yes, even though it seems like 94% people think of Sex and the City when I introduce myself. Yes, even though this name has become an exceedingly popular choice for boys recently. Yes, even though I hear my name called several times every time I make a cameo at a playground or at a kiddie class and this has made my ego swell beyond measure.

Yes, even though.

My name means “little fire.” I don’t know what I looked like when I entered this world. I don’t know what I acted like in my first days. I don’t know who I was back then.

But I do know who I am today. I am Aidan. A happy soul who revels in periodic sadness. An overgrown tomboy who likes to get dolled up. An artificial confection who clings to authenticity. A chaos dweller who wishes for order. A perfectionista who celebrates flaws. A creature riddled with contradictions.

A little fire. Waiting to grow up.

Not that it matters – or maybe this is exactly what matters – but I think I look like an Aidan. I do.

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Do you think you fit your name? Does your name fit you? What do you think the relationship between name and named is? How has your name affected you (or not)? How did you name your own kids if you have them? Enough about you. Do I look like an Aidan?

I have a brand new nephew! Yes, that’s right. Sister N welcomed her third child and first son Friday night and we couldn’t be more thrilled. Her little dude made his debut two days after his due date and weighed in at a solid nine pounds, six ounces. My superstar sister survived it all and she and her family are settling in at home as a family of five.

As I mentioned in a recent post, Sister N and her family live in Chicago and the distance has been difficult, particularly during her pregnancy. And now. Her boy is here. And all I want to do is give her a hug. And see her new addition. Alas, there are many miles separating us. In an ideal world, I would waste zero time hopping on a plane. When she went into labor with her first daughter a little over four years ago, I did just that. I heard that she was headed for the hospital and I booked a flight. I remember waiting at my gate when her husband texted to announce that it was a girl. I arrived in her hospital room mere hours after she became a mom.

But things are different now. I have two little girls of my own and a sea of obligations. As much as I would like to, I cannot just go.

So, tethered to the intricacies of my good life, I must wait a bit. Until I can sneak away and celebrate with my sister. Soon. I hope so at least.

The picture above? No, it’s not Chickie. (No, that’s not his name, but what they called him in utero.) I wish I could share a photo with you and tell you his name because he is a cute little (okay, not-so-little) guy and his name is nothing short of amazing. These are not my details to pass along, so I won’t. But I will tell you one thing I’m thankful for in the wonderful wake of my sister’s welcoming new life: Technology.

Technology?

Yes, technology. If he were around, Dad, a lovable Luddite, would not be proud. He would prefer that I wax poetic about Daddy Darwin and the majesty of evolution and genetic mystery. And I will do that another day. But today, I am thankful for technology.

Because of technology – cell phones, email, texting and Facebook in particular – I felt like I was part of Chickie’s arrival. On Friday night, Husband, the girls, and I met Mom, Sister I and her fam for an early dinner at our favorite neighborhood haunt. It was there that I got the call from Sister N. They were headed to the hospital. Her contractions were strong. Just a few hours later, I got a text that I had a new nephew. Thanks to various Facebook updates in the middle of the night, I knew that Chickie was a big guy. I was able to see his little face, clear as day on the tiny screen of my phone. This kid is only a few days old and I have already seen ten videos of him. Crying. Yawning. Displaying squishy cheeks. Being a superhero. Meeting his sisters. His grandmother. The list goes on.

So, yes. Times have changed. Technology is affecting the way we experience life and the world.

But today I am so thankful for that. I am thankful for the ability to feel a little bit closer when in reality I am so far away. I am thankful that until I am able to hop that plane, I will have my sweet little Chickie fixes.

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Please join me in congratulating Sister N and her family on the arrival of her baby boy. How do you feel about the ever-expanding role of technology in our world? Are you able to see the positive side of the ubiquity of technology like I am?

Rush hour. A time of transition and traffic. A smothering storm where flurries of frustration whip about in cold air, making pretty faces ugly and smooth skin wrinkle.

Rush hour. A necessary beast. The blurry bridge between home and work. Between happiness and worry. (As if these things can really be separated.) Rush hour thrusts us together, reminds us of our limits. In the howling wind, we hear whispers: You can only walk so fast. Drive so fast. Think so fast. Be so fast. And so. We are forced to slow our pace. Or stop altogether. To stand still in a spot we didn’t choose. To breathe in air damp with pollution and regret and longing. To suck down the sweet breath of others. We race and rush. We bump bodies. We tangle umbrellas. We mutter dirty words.

We just want to get there. To be there. (But where is there?)

At the end of the day, there is home. And once home, we shed a coat. Park a bag. Find a smile. Kiss a cheek. Hug a child. Sip a drink. We resume who it is we were before the mad rush. And after. Ensconced in the comfort of home, we begin to forget. The human hassle, the gridlock of stop and go, now and later, self and other. We settle in. Unwind. Breathe.

Unless, that is, we don’t.

Unless rush hour isn’t just an hour, but a lifestyle. A way of being.

And some of us don’t deal with rush hour per se. Some of us don’t wear trench coats and carry briefcases. Some of us don’t stomach packed subways in the early morning or early evening. Some of us don’t feel the heat of the masses racing to a place where they can stop racing. Some of us don’t sit in slow-moving cars, cursing the cosmos. Some of us are home already.

But all of us, all of us, feel the pressure, the ruthless race, the shortness of time and space. All of us have moments when we feel trapped, stalled, stifled. All of us have moments where we feel small, stuck, spinning. Going nowhere.

This is not just rush hour.

This is life.

But what if we, right here and right now, redefined rush hour? What if we commandeered it and gave it a positive spin? What then?

Rush Hour 2.0. One hour per day (or week or month) where we stop because we want to. Where we permit ourselves to forget others, even others we love deeply. Where we stop bemoaning the blur of obligations, the beckoning of lists and focus squarely on self. One hour where we do something we love. Or like. Something that takes us away.

Something that gives us a rush. The good kind.

For some – for me – this hour would be spent writing stories. For some, it might be doing yoga. For some, it might be watching television. Or learning a language. Or designing jewelry. Or writing letters to old friends. Or daydreaming. Or playing that guitar that’s been gathering dust. Or baking. Or biking. Or surfing the web. Or reading a good book.

The possibilities are endless.

Rush hour.

Imagine if rush hour was something we came to crave and celebrate, not curse? Imagine that.

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How do you handle rush hour, the frustrations of a fast-paced contemporary existence, the transitions that bookend the day? If you had one hour all to yourself during which the din and chaos of real life would mercifully subside, how would you spend it? Do you find it hard to carve time for yourself as a person when so much time and energy is spent being a parent or a professional? Do you know anyone for whom rush hour is not just an hour, but a way of life?

Mom gave Toddler two dresses for her third birthday. Beautiful dresses. My dresses. Dresses I wore once upon a time when I was a little girl.

Yesterday morning, I put Toddler in one of them for school. An orange plaid smock dress. She looked adorable. And hated it. And tried to pull it off. I told her it was Mommy’s dress and that it looked good. She started to cry. I told her that it would mean something to Mommy if she wore it. She cried a bit more. So I bribed her with some Scooby fruit snacks.

Done.

After school and before the nap that never happened, I told her that I wanted to take a picture of her in Mommy’s dress. And then she did that weird concave, hands-on-hips thing that only supermodels do. And this baffled me and alarmed me and made me laugh. When I laughed, she and her sister laughed too.

And then she put on her matching Diego Rescue Pak. Her trademark tote that she fills with new things each day before heading off to school. Wait, that’s not true. Sometimes, a bit too often, we find petrified English muffins in said bag. And then we rescue them. Anyway, she put on her orange backpack with her orange dress and hopped around like some kind of Frankenstein bunny and laughed so hard I thought she might choke.

And then my little Einstein realized that she could get a way with quite a bit with a Mommy stuck behind a camera. So she ran and scaled our infamous chocolate-clad white chairs in her “slippy tights” to get a closer look at Max & Ruby. And, yes, she almost slipped. Which was apparently hilarious. For everyone but Mommy.

Later, we had a tender moment while she went potty.

“Do you like Mommy’s dress?” I asked in a soft, soothing tone.

“Yes,” she said.

“Do you think it would still fit Mommy?”

“Noooooooooo,” she said, laughing. “It is way too little.”

I told her she was right. Mommy was too big.

What I didn’t tell her was how amazing it was to see her in my childhood frock, making silly faces, doing silly things, twirling with priceless abandon. I didn’t tell her how that little dress and her big laugh brought me back to a time I didn’t think I remembered.

Who knew a little old orange dress, a bit of vintage plaid, could make a Mommy’s day? Who knew?

Footnote for Fairness: I just read Husband this post. And he laughed and said he loved it. But then he said, “What about my rainbow hat? It gets no air-time?” Okay, to be fair, Toddler has fallen madly in love with a rainbow pom-pom hat that Husband wore when he was a little boy. She does not even need to be bribed with sugar to wear it. So stay tuned for the Rainbow Hat Post. Happy now, Husband?

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Do you or your kids have any meaningful hand-me-downs that conjure past times and fond memories? Do your kids ever exhibit weird behaviors that make you wonder if they’ve been sneaking bits of reality television? Do you ever bribe your kids with snacky-snacks? Do you ever feel bad about bribing your kids with snacky-snacks?