I'm a nervous traveler. I arrive at my airport two hours early and make a beeline for my gate. Then I sit at the gate and check the gate number, the gate display info, my ticket, my watch, the gate number, my watch, the gate display info, my ticket, my ticket again just to make sure, my back pocket to make sure I haven't dropped my driver's license somewhere between security and the gate, and my gate number again. My hubs, on the other hand, is rarely rattled. He doesn't get nervous traveling, even that time he was almost arrested on a train in Germany. That's why my husband and I are good travel partners. He is in charge of getting me where I need to go with the least amount of anxiety possible, and I am in charge of making sure all of his underwear fits into his carry-on. It's win-win (especially for the other vacationers who don't have to see his Frank and Beans all week). However, our nice set-up is about to get blown to smithereens when I board a plan...

I am a world-class complainer. I could fill Olympic-sized swimming pools with words of dislike. And you'd need something that could hold 660,000 gallons, too, because the more upset I get the more verbose I become. I wonder how many words per gallon I could get when "he woke up early" becomes "he got me up at the ass-crack of dawn" and "he wouldn't eat lunch" morphs into "he utterly refused to eat a single morsel of the meal I slaved to make him." Apparently I am not alone: the internet is brimming with books, blogs and columnists who openly and ironically start a sentence with "Motherhood sucks because..." and finish it with "...don't get me wrong, I love my kids." It seems the fashionable trend right now is to complain, often humorously, about your family -- especially your children. On one hand, I get it. Man, do I get it. There is a wealth of negative things about motherhood from which it is easy to draw, b...

The more I thought about it, the more I felt that this post needed a follow up. See, I had intended to finish it with some gloriously introspective bit about how forgiving yourself is so important, and how it all happens for a reason. Except I haven't forgiven myself, and I generally don't think everything happens for a reason. (And I didn't have any profound revelations during the kid's nap time while I wrote it.) Regarding the former, I took to google and was pleased and confused to find a Wikihow entry on how to forgive yourself . Whether you're trying to hang a picture or seeking self-help to soothe the soul, Wikihow is there for you! This one came with a particularly helpful clip-art drawing of a blissful woman hugging a heart-shaped pillow bearing the word "ME." If only I could get my resentful little hands on one of those pillows, I'd be THIS MUCH closer to figuring out how to let it go. About the latter, however, I have good news. In my ca...

We're going to Minneapolis in a few weeks for a work thing for the Hubs. This has got me thinking... How big is Minneapolis? Because I have an ex-boyfriend who lives there now, and I really don't want to have to slap anyone in front of my child. He's too young to understand, "He deserved it, sweetheart." In college I heard a comedian say, "before you meet The One, you will meet The One Who F's Up Everything." Minneapolis guy is T.O.W.F.U.E. Although I haven't seen him in almost eight years, just the idea of accidentally running into him gives me anxiety. My stomach starts to knot, I break out in a cold sweat, and my head gets a little swimmy. I get this fear frequently when I'm in airports, because you just never know who you might run into at an airport. One time a friend of ours was stared at malevolently by Michael Keaton at Pittsburgh International Airport. He was drinking whiskey by himself. Because 1989 Batman can do whatever the hell...

There will come a time when you walk in the bathroom to find your husband peeing and brushing his teeth at the same time. Here is how you proceed: 1) Freeze. 2) Back out slowly and silently. 3) Calmly and rationally discuss WTF he was doing at a later date. Whatever you do, do not yell, " What are you doing?!? " and meet his eyes in an uncomfortable deer-caught-urinating-in-the-headlights stare. This could severely impair his aim, and that's a mess you'll have to clean up later. This is among the things I have learned since getting married.

We have new neighbors next door. They're a nice young couple. It's their first house, so they haven't had time to collect the finer accoutrements of suburban living, like pruning sheers or a shovel. With fall coming on soon, they also haven't put much effort into sprucing up the neglected landscaping. I don't mind. My bushes need a trim too, and that's no euphemism. There was one weed in particular growing in their side yard, right up against the house, that seemed very nasty. Actually, it looked like at any moment it would take the house hostage and begin making unreasonable demands. I should have taken a picture, but frankly I'm not sure it would show up in pictures. Like a vampire.

Recently I read something online that resonated with me. Since I didn’t share it in my facebook feed, or pin it to pinterest, or email it to myself – my three primary modes of organization these days – I can’t find it again*. So I’m going to paraphrase it for you, badly, no doubt: Two moms are sitting near each other at a park or a playground or some place where kids gather, and so too do moms. They’re both watching the kids play. Mother 1 has a sleeping infant, and she says to Mother 2, “They’re so loud, aren’t they? Even when they’re sleeping.” See, Mother 1 was new to this whole motherhood thing – at least the way I pictured it in my head, anyway. And she was discovering what I have discovered. Motherhood is very loud .