So THIS is what it feels like.

There was a time I thought I could be a stay at home mom. I fantasized about the idea of getting to spend all day with the kids I was dreaming about, teaching them everything, playing with them, taking them to farmers markets and watching them feast on fresh fruit that they craved, doing art projects with them, and taking lots of pictures of all of this and putting those photos in organized albums and showing the kids those albums on rainy days.

And then I had kids. Or... in my case, GOT kids. 

And also? It doesn't rain here.

So I haven't had even the tiniest urge to stay at home with my children since they became my children. This isn't a lack of love. In fact, it's love that makes me know I need to be away from them during the day so that I can tolerate them at night. They are beautiful, perfect girls, and I love them so much it makes my heart ache, but they are difficult and stubborn. And, it turns out, so am I. And life is incredibly difficult and isn't what you see on Pinterest or even Facebook. 

Something else I've learned about myself is I like working. And I think it's important for my kids to see me happy and fulfilled, and for me, having a career is part of that. This is also why I don't feel guilty for taking a sketch-writing class, or taking a full Saturday away from them to direct a play for an instant theatre night. I know I need to be creative in order to be happy, and I want my kids to have a happy mom. 

I was not a happy mom this morning.

This has been a big transition week for us. Isabella started at a new pre-school and Maddie started summer camp at one of the elementary schools in our new neighborhood. Isabella has taken to her pre-school like a duck to water, but the transition has been a little more difficult for Maddie. Maddie is a creature of habit and structure. Those are the things she needs for her life to make sense to her. I have started her at a daycare and then a pre-school, and I have never had any real qualms about leaving her at those places. I knew both places well, I knew how their days were structured, and I knew she would thrive there and I was right. And I love being right.

She starts kindergarten in August and I've been EXCITED for this. People have asked me if I'm "ready" for it, and I'm always like, YES, I'm ready. Are you kidding? She's going to learn how to READ and we get to shop for school supplies! This is going to be amazing! I've gotten her excited about it. Any time anyone asks her about it, she grins widely and starts jumping up and down: "I'M GOING TO KINDERGARTEN!" I didn't understand why everyone was asking me if I was ready for it, or if I was okay with it.

And then we dropped her off at her first day of summer camp. Gone were the gentle pre-school teachers who bent down to say hello to her and held her hand into the classroom. Gone were all the kids littler than her, younger than her. She was the youngest there on the first day we dropped her off and the classroom was FULL of kids of all ages, up to maybe 10. The teachers were really just monitoring their activity. We had to sort of encourage one of the teachers to take Maddie under her wing so she was okay with us leaving. They assured us that she would break off into her own class with kids her own age at 10am, and that this zoo of a classroom was only a morning and late afternoon thing.

It occurred to me that day that this would be her life now. She's a kid. She's not a baby. This is the deal. And we picked her up that day and she'd had SO MUCH FUN and she was exhausted because GUESS WHAT? THEY DON'T MAKE THEM NAP! (HASHTAG AMAZING) She couldn't tell us about any friends she'd made, but she did say she had fun, so yay! No more worrying on my part!

And then this morning happened. She had a rough morning. Which made Gina and I have a rough morning. (Oh and also, Gina and I didn't sleep well last night, and not for any fun reason, just because sleep can sometimes be an elusive bitch.) She told me she didn't want to go to summer camp because it's "too long." (That's where the lack of a nap is biting us in the ass - she's at summer camp the same amount of time she was at pre-school, but now she's not sleeping through any of it.) So when I dropped her off this morning, I hugged her and she held on tighter than usual and told me she didn't want me to leave. I finally got her to walk away from me, and Isabella and I made it all the way up the hill and almost to the car when I heard Maddie SCREAMING for me. I turned around and saw her running toward me with her arms out, screaming "MOMMY! MOMMY!" The teacher explained, "She said she didn't get to say goodbye to you." So I picked her up and held her and she cried and said she doesn't want to go to summer camp anymore, she wanted to go home, she didn't want me to leave, and on and on and on. This lasted for maybe 10 minutes. She's never been this reluctant to leave me, ever. And when I finally got her to let me leave, she walked back to the classroom with her teacher, crying for me still, and I had to walk away from her, and I was crying, and some dad said hi to me and my broken voice managed a "hi" back but I'm SURE he knew I was crying... 

And what I felt in that moment was guilt. Full mommy guilt, unlike anything I've felt before. Sure, I've felt like I'm doing the mom thing all wrong. That's not what this was. This was me feeling like she needed ME and I couldn't be there for her. This was me, for the first time, wishing I could stay home with her during the summer, wishing I could let her have a lazy summer before kindergarten, watching cartoons and playing outside and going swimming. Wishing I could let her have ME all to herself. That is all she wants. And I'll probably never be able to give that to her. I know it'll get easier. I know she just needs to get used to this new place and new friends. And I know this is what the rest of her life will be like. She'll be in new places plenty of times, and will need to use what she's been taught by US to manage those situations. 

Still - this is not an easy day.

First day of summer camp - 6/16/15

Mother's Day: Year 2

It doesn't seem like a year ago that I posted this about my first Mother's Day as a real mom. At the same time, it somehow seems like a lifetime ago, because my life has changed so dramatically since then, and nowhere moreso than in the Motherhood Department. I remember then being overwhelmed and frustrated, but joyful and thankful and most importantly: in control.

That has changed, of course. If you think parenting an 18-month-old is hard, imagine adding a 2.5 year old suddenly to the mix. It's sort of like that science experiment you did in middle school (or in my case, you saw someone do on TV) where you pour the vinegar into the volcano and it "explodes." It's that - with human beings. I think everyone's journey to motherhood is different, and everyone's experience as a mom is different, but I find that MY experience seems especially different in that there are very few - if any - people I know that became mothers in a similar way to me. And I know every mom's life is full of "shoulds" - I should feel this way, I should do this, I should think that, this should happen this way - but sometimes I feel like I'm drowning in shoulds, shoulds that I can't even say out loud, shoulds I think no one else (except Gina, of course) could possibly ever understand.

But here's what I've learned over the last year - it doesn't matter what the shoulds are, because life keeps moving forward. The girls keep growing - they keep entering and exiting developmental phases, and then sometimes entering them again. But this is how it is. This is what we have, and WE are what THEY have. I am what they have. I'm tired. I feel never-enough. I feel a million things at once and sometimes nothing at all. And the whole time, they are just here, growing and changing - emotionally, physically, mentally. They say things like, "Mommy, your nails are so beautiful," and "Come to me, mommy," and "Fuck."

Yep. I'm sure I'm doing a million things wrong, but somewhere in there, something is right.

'

Fever

Conversation with Gina yesterday in Target:

Katie (passing the baby section): I know it's only been 2 days since we've declared Isabella potty trained, but baby fever struck me the MOMENT I realized she's pretty much out of diapers. Like... it's suddenly as bad as it was when we didn't have any kids at all.

Gina: (laughing) Yeah, I get it. 

Pause.

Gina: (dead serious) But we do. Have kids. A lot. All the time.

What is this feeling?

I’m having that feeling again. A feeling which is not unfamiliar but not nearly familiar enough. It creeps up when I’m reading a particularly great book, or feeling inspired by a great article or interview, or listening to a new song I’ve just discovered that is lyrically perfect, often in its deceptive simplicity. All of those things have happened just recently, all at once: the great book is Goldfinch, by Donna Tartt – the metaphors! The word choice! The ridiculously rich main character, so complex and layered and flawed! I’m about halfway through the book and am obsessed!; the interview is the GIRLS panel last night at the Academy – envy at their youth and envy that they’re CREATING, and something that I think is pretty great at that; and the song is I Don’t Wanna Break by Christina Perri -  “I just wanna love you, don’t wanna lose me, don’t wanna lose you, if it gets harder then I don’t wanna break all alone…” sometimes a song just takes you to a time in your life and you combine the lyrics with a catchy tune and it throws you, quick and rough-like.

The overture to this was waking up one morning a few days ago before everyone in my house was awake, and the windows were open and it smelled like summer at dawn. The birds were chirping and the blue-gray light bled all over my living room, and I felt a surge of possibility.

So what is this feeling? Well. It’s this: I want to read all of the books – fiction, non-fiction, short fiction, flash-fiction, novellas. I want to read your journal. Yep, yours. I want to watch all of the movies and television shows. I want to consume all of the comic books and graphic novels. I want to see all of the paintings in all of the museums. I want to go to all of the panels, I want to be obsessed with everything that’s ever been created. I want to hear all of the music and read all of the lyrics. I want to read all of the poetry, maybe even memorize it. I want to discover all of the new bands and I want to go to the open-mic nights and I want to see all of the comics. I want to re-read all of my favorite books all at once.  I want to have lunch with you, all of you, one at at time and I want you to tell me about everything interesting that’s ever happened to you.

I want to write. I want to find stories to tell, and tell them. I want to create things people are obsessed with. I want to create things I’M obsessed with. I want to take pictures and learn photoshop and print pictures and frame them and hang them up. I want to figure out how to put into words how beautiful my girlfriend is, I want to find the right word to describe the color of her eyes. I want to write down every single word that I love, and I want to figure out how to use them in something I write. I want to learn how to construct metaphors – can that be taught? I want to blog and tumble and tweet. I want to take classes, go back to school to be all of the things I ever wanted to be – doctor, lawyer, writer, teacher, astronomer, marine biologist, actor. Filmmaker. Screenwriter. I want someone to shackle my ankles to a chair in front of a desk in a quiet room with a computer and force me to sit there for 4 hours, 6 hours, 8 hours, however long it takes until I’ve written something worth working on a second time, a “shitty first draft.”

I want to make sense of everything.

Of course, there is never time for this. Not for all of this, anyway. But there has to be time for SOME of it, right? If I could bottle this feeling, it would change my life. For now, I just let myself feel it, and let it move me to tears just a bit, and hope that if I keep reading and listening and working and writing – even just a little bit – the feeling won’t be so much of a stranger.

Brown-eyed Girl

"I want blue eyes like Isabella."

I couldn't understand what she was saying at first. Maddie always wants what Isabella has, and usually gets it because she's difficult to reason with (because THREE YEARS OLD and AUNT OF THE YEAR). We were out to dinner, and I thought she was saying blue ice, a la Walter White, but it didn't make any sense because no one had any blue ice.  No one had any blue anything - we were at a Mexican hole-in-the-wall restaurant. The Corona label was blue, but nothing else.

She pointed to Isabella's face. "No, I want blue eyes like Isabella." She asked for it as though she wanted the same kind of plate Isabella had, or the same stuffed animal, as though it was something I could easily give her, and why wouldn't I, because she had asked so politely?

I hugged her. "Oh honey, you have brown eyes. You have beautiful, perfect brown eyes."

Her lip quivered and she looked into MY eyes. "No, I want BLUE eyes like Aunt Katie and Isabella." I pointed out that Aunt Gina has brown eyes too, but that wasn't good enough for her in that moment. She cried real tears at the inability to pick her eye color. Gina suggested we ask Dr. Jordan the next time we see her if she and Isabella can switch eyes, and I said I'd pretend to switch with her right now. She (magically) calmed down.

I'm not ready for this. I'm not anywhere near ready to hear this perfect little girl complain about her body in any way. And about her eyes of all things! Arguably one of her best features. Shaped like her mother's and the color of her father's, they are large and deep and expressive.  They are the strongest indicator of her mixed ethnicity. She's all big-and-round-headed just like her mom and her aunts were when they were babies, and she's got the chubby cheeks and the ridiculous grin we all had too, but her eyes - they are what set her apart, in the best way. They are the brown eyes people write about and sings songs about. When she's an adult (like 30 or so, because she's not allowed to date before then), her partners will fall in love with those eyes.  I fell in love with those eyes the minute I met her. And no matter how big she gets, no matter how far away from me she is, whenever I see her, I'll be able to look into those eyes and remember the little girl that changed my life and made me whole.

I'd try to reach up and grab a star for her if she asked, but I'd never change her eyes to blue even if I could, no matter how much she begged. They're just too perfect as is, and I know I won't be the last to tell her.

 

Merry Christmas from the depths of my anger

Christmas Eve 2012, our first with Isabella, found me at the CVS Minute Clinic getting tested for strep throat. I remember still having the thought that I'd make it to the 11:00 church service that night. Of course I did not make it, instead downing tea and whiskey trying not to make that the Christmas of the Needley Throat. In the exhaustion of the next day's events (and feeling the stress of the past month finally lifting from me), I cried to my mom about how grateful I was that she and my dad, despite never having a ton of cash, ALWAYS found ways to give us wonderful, memorable Christmases. My first Christmas as a mom was my most exhausting one, no doubt, but the joy I felt Christmas morning was so unlike anything I'd ever known, it left me a sobbing mess.

This year, with two kids living with us, I knew Christmas would be a little more stressful, but I knew Christmas morning would come and I'd have double the high. In 2013, we officially joined All Saints Church in Pasadena, and we actually started making church part of our weekly routine in September, so for the first time since I left Ohio 13.5 yrs ago, I had a church in my new hometown to not only go to on Christmas Eve, but one where I felt HOME. Some of my favorite Christmas memories include church on Christmas Eve, and I was excited to take the girls this year.

I know all of you other moms have impeccably organized calendars, white boards full of reminders about who is to be where and when, and you rarely if ever mess up a time somewhere. I'm not that mom, despite my best efforts. So I thought the family service on Christmas Eve was at 5:30. That was the plan, to take the girls to the 5:30 service. 

All Saints is a huge church, so you have to arrive early on holidays to even get a seat. They do eventually close the doors if they reach capacity, which the do for almost every holiday service. So we got there around 4:45, armed with coloring books and snacks for the kids.

Christmas angels

Gina held our seats while I ran around with Maddie, because the best way to get her to behave is to force her into exhaustion. She eventually gets too tired to put up a fight. There weren't a lot of other kids there - turns out, the family service had been at 3pm. I didn't want to put them in the church-provided childcare that day, and neither did Gina. They go to childcare every Sunday - I wanted them with us on Christmas Eve. Most of the parishioners commented how beautiful they looked, how sweet they were, yada yada yada. They held it together really well during the service - they were super fidgety and asked a few questions out loud, and Maddie sang Happy Birthday to Jesus at a few inopportune times. I excused myself and Maddie after the sermon at some point when I felt she was too restless. We ran around a bit and came back. Overall, they were great for being 2 and 3.

As we were leaving, we got more compliments on how cute they were. We went across the street to Pasadena City Hall to check out the Christmas tree. As the kids were running around and I was trying to snap some pictures, I heard a voice behind me, loud enough for me to hear, but quiet enough that I wasn't sure it was directed at me.

"You know that place you just were, All Saints? They offer childcare." 

I turned around to see a woman who was approximately 175 years old. Her son or grandson was with her and he had a look on his face like "Just go ahead and shoot me now." 

"I know," I said to her. "We wanted them in church with us."

"Well, they were very noisy." 

I'll be screwed during the zombie apocalypse because my real fight instinct takes way too long to kick in. The phrase "What I SHOULDA said was..." is all-too common in my phrase ammo. 

"Yeah, well, they're kids."

"Well, it was very distracting." 

"Well, they are parishioners too." The grandson/home health aide nodded, clearly on my side, begging me to have mercy on him. At this point she was walking away, and this is when my fight instinct finally kicked in. I yelled after her, "IT'S CHRISTMAS EVE!" She mumbled something else and it was then that I lost it. I yelled at my family to get in the f*cking car, we were going home. 

I got in the car and slammed the door and started sobbing. Gina took over with the kids and got them into their car seats while I sat helpless in the front seat with my head in my hands. "Aunt Katie, are you so sad?  What happened to Aunt Katie?" was what I heard from Maddie.  "What happened to mommy?" from Isabella.  "Some old bag was mean to mommy at church," Gina said, which made me laugh for a moment, but it did nothing to curtail the 90 minutes of utter despair I felt on the ride home and once we got home.  Christmas, my absolute favorite time of the year to be a mom, re-experiencing the magic with my children, and I was a ball of rage. All of the small stresses of the past six weeks flooded over me, and I was hit with a familiar feeling I try to ignore, that NO ONE knows what it's like to be where I am, where we are, mothers by law but not biology, trying to be just as much to those girls as their biological mothers would be if they could be, and always feeling like I'm falling short, that their tiny minds are already racking up resentment toward me because I yell at them too much, I lose my patience, I cry, I get frustrated and annoyed, I expect more from them then they are able to give, and on and on and on and on.  I was sunk, for ninety full minutes, during dinner and bath time and bed time.  

Footy jammies! Come ON!

Wine helped. Going through the motions helped - we gave them their Christmas jammies, we read "Twas the Night Before Christmas," Gina rocked Isabella as I cuddled with Maddie until I felt her fidgety little body relax and drift off.  I emerged from the depths slowly, like a hibernating animal sniffing for the first signs of spring.  I began to regret my anger, to regret allowing some million year old lady ruin my Christmas, ruin my kids' Christmas.  But the great thing about kids this young is they forget stuff like this quickly, and as we slept, Santa brought a bunch of presents, and when they woke up, Christmas happened just like it was supposed to for them, a morning full of cinnamon buns and presents and magic and "Looky! Look what I got!" As long as their Christmas is good, mine is good.  And it was lovely. 

What is still the most annoying to me is THEY WERE ACTUALLY REALLY WELL BEHAVED IN CHURCH!

No really, I'm over it.  Promise.

"Whoever you are, where ever you find yourself on the journey of faith, you are welcome here." -All Saints Church

"And he said: "Truly I tell you, unless you change and become like little children, you will never enter the kingdom of heaven." -Matthew 18:3

Yes, and...

Can we just take a moment to acknowledge how perfectly gorgeous Tina Fey looked at the Emmys on Sunday?

Good gracious.

I've been spending a few minutes here and there over the last few days trying to figure out how I could justify putting this picture up here.  While I'd love to just be able to put up pretty girls on here for your viewing pleasure (and mine), I feel like I need a reason.

Not having Tina Fey on my TV every week has not made me forget about her, but I don't think about her as much as I used to, but seeing her in this form-fitting blue dress has left me with little else to think about. There is one part of Bossypants that always sticks with me and it's when she's talking about doing improv, and how one of the main rules is that no matter how the scene starts, your job as a fellow improv player is to say, "Yes, and..."  So no matter what world your partner is creating, you have to agree to it and add something to it.  I remember her talking about how this has helped her on every level of her life, from her professional to her personal life.  I re-downloaded the book on my iPad this morning so I could search for this section and find out exactly what she had to say.  It is more fitting to me now than I even remembered:

"To me, YES, AND means don't be afraid to contribute.  It's your responsibility to contribute. Always make sure you're adding something to the discussion. Your initiations are worthwhile."

This comes as I'm a little bit more than knee-deep (maybe thigh-deep) into a journey of trying to find my way back to writing, trying to figure out why it is that I write... or more appropriately, why it is that I don't write, and why it is that I want to write.  A lot of little things I've been coming across lately speak of "responsibility" - to yourself, to the world, to your artist. I'll now add this to the list.

I am certainly not one to argue with Tina Fey.

Do the right thing

Once Maddie came to stay with us full time, parenting went from a Very Manageable, Enjoyable Job to High Stress, High Stakes Career.  Isabella had been such an easy kid - very mellow and adaptable, somewhat ornery at times, but overall, a breeze.  She had a set bedtime and she rarely woke up before 6:45 in the morning.  Gina and I thought we were getting away with murder, basically - we had this cute kid who admittedly arrived with a bit of trauma but who seemed unaffected by said trauma.

Maddie alone is a tough kid - beautiful and sweet but with a temper running in her bloodline she sometimes can't control. Alone, both kids present their own challenges...toddlers are difficult, as a rule. Together, they are maniacs. They are lunatics in adorable little-girl bodies. 

Parenting two children this young is not something I would have ever avoided on purpose; however, it is also not something I was prepared for.  Would it be different if the new child that had arrived had been a newborn?  I'll never know.  And I don't have time to think about it - my life is now full to the brim with transitioning the girls to the next part of the day: asleep to awake, morning at home to morning at daycare, daycare to car, car to home, home to dinner, dinner to bath, bath to bed, mommy to Jack Daniels, and so on.  These transitions are never consistently seamless, despite our best efforts.  Our daycare provider suggested bringing something to entice them into the car so that we could avoid the screaming fits from one or both if she couldn't open the door, or shut the door, or climb over the other's car seat to get to her own, or buckle herself in (ISABELLA HELP YOU!  ISABELLA DO IT! - News flash, you'd help me a whole lot by SITTING THE EFF DOWN and letting me BUCKLE YOU IN LOVE YOU MEAN IT OKAY?).  So one day when I had a little extra time, I ran home before going to get them and I secured some pretzel sticks for them.  They are ravenous little beasts right after school and I thought maybe a small snack would help.  It turned into Isabella having some pretzel left that Maddie wanted, and Isabella wouldn't give it to her (even though she wasn't eating it), and Maddie didn't regain control of her wits until about an hour and a half later. And then there is bedtime, which admittedly is getting better (Maddie is starting to fall asleep to songs and rocking instead of Rizzoli & Isles), but it is such a process, and there are no rules, and Gina and I end the night barely awake at 10pm, wondering what we are doing wrong, if we are doing ANYTHING right, and if we are ever again going to have a life that doesn't include trying to console a 3 year old because her 2 year old cousin flushed her poop without her written permission.

It's hard.  There is yelling.  Lots of yelling.  By me, by Gina, and by them.  I don't want to yell at them, I know yelling is my temper tantrum, but it usually WORKS and it makes me feel better.  I say stuff to them, try to reason with them, in a way that makes absolutely no sense.  I ask them insane questions - "Why would you do that?" Answer: I am 3 or I am almost 2 (depending on the kid), I make no sense whatsoever, haven't you figured that out yet, you fool?  And then my favorite is when they have a case of the "MINE!s", we are both known to say something like, "You know what?  NONE OF THIS IS YOURS!  It's all MINE and I let YOU play with it, so calm down!"

We both have college degrees, you guys.

They say you should be the person you want your child to be.  I'm not there yet, and I can see it when Maddie plays with her babies and gets right in their face and says, "Stop it! Nap! Quiet!" in the sternest voice a three-year-old can muster.  I can see it when Isabella looks at her milk (HER MILK) and says, "Stop it, milk!" in her quiet, authoritative voice.  And I can see it in how they talk to each other, when Isabella tries to shut the door (there is a no-shutting-the-door rule in our house (lest fingers get caught) that is broken every six seconds), and Maddie goes up and grabs her by the arms and says, "NO, Isabella, no shutting the door!"  It's in moments like this that I know I'm just screwing them up, and they will grow up talking about their mean mommy/auntie, and by then, therapy will be like $2000 an hour.

Inevitably, the tears come.  You get to a point where you are too angry and too tired to even yell, and the tears start falling if for no other reason than your body forcing you to just CLOSE YOUR EYES for a minute.  About 30 minutes after we got them home from daycare on my 35th birthday a few weeks ago (a birthday I was NOT looking forward to), I hit my wall.  They were fighting and screaming at each other over I can't even remember what, and there was still dinner to give and a kitchen to clean and baths to administer, and I had nothing. left. and I just put my head in my hands and let the lump in my throat evolve to tears, because just like yelling, tears make me feel better.  They stopped fighting and just looked at me.  Maddie came over to me and put her hand on my arm.  "Aunt Katie, so sad?"  I said, "Yes, I'm sad."  And then, as though it were scripted in a movie, she rubbed my arm, and then leaned her head on my shoulder and said, "It's okay, Katie.  I got you.  No sad.  I got you.  Ssssh.  I got you."

I guess we're doing something right.  Maybe they can get away with bi-weekly instead of weekly therapy sessions?

Autumn and The Method

It's that time of year again. Fall! Well, not technically. But September brings all sorts of fall feelings out in people and I'm no exception.

Fall is the only time I find it hard to live in Los Angeles. Fall has always been my favorite season. Growing up in the Midwest, I used to love everything that it brought... School, football (marching band), my birthday, and the start of the Holiday Season. I love the smell of the trees changing. By the time September rolls around, you might not be ready for winter, but you're ready for a bit of crispness in the air.

In Los Angeles, September means the start of fire season. Just when you are ready for that break in the heat, the heat becomes more relentless; October is often the hottest month of the year. You start to realize that chill in the air you're waiting for isn't coming for another couple of months, and you start to long for the bitter (yes, bitter) cold that comes in January. 

You have to be a bit of a "method" actor in Los Angeles when it comes to seasons. The calendar says September, so you send the kids back to school, you watch football, you buy the pumpkin candles, you order the pumpkin spiced latte... You play the Autumn Game, and eventually, it does start to feel a little like fall, at least in your mind. You buy Halloween stuff and then you get ready for Thanksgiving, and finally the weather starts to cooperate in December, bringing the Midwest fall temperatures you had been waiting for.

And then, when the rest of the country is digging themselves out of snow, you don't feel so "left out" of the whole seasons thing. I'll take a late fall over an Ohio winter all. day. long. 

(To make the lack of cool temps a little easier on the soul, we are headed to the beach today. Fall in LA isn't that bad...)

We'll miss you, Frost.

It's Rizzoli & Isles Tuesday, which is usually a highlight of my week. The best is when I forget it's Tuesday until on my way home from work and then I remember, and then my heart! It SINGS! 

I admit my feelings for this show are extreme, and aside from the obvious reasons for my obsession...

...my true love for this show is hard to explain. I like A LOT of television, but I love this show with the fan-girl fervor of a 12 year old. I admittedly follow (and tweet to) @JaneRizzoli and @MauraIsles on twitter. THEY ARE NOT REAL PEOPLE. BUT I LOVE THEM. 

When news of Lee Thompson Young's suicide showed up in my twitter feed, I felt my face go warm and my stomach drop. Young played Jane's partner, Detective Barry Frost. 

This picture makes him seem like a serious character, but in the show, he's funny and goofy and sarcastic.  He's the Computer Guy - can hack any cell phone in Boston. He also loses his lunch repeatedly at homicide scenes, which is a running joke because, well, he's a homicide detective. 

He's not the lead, but he's a constant. Jane looks out for him like he's a little brother. And now he's gone, by all accounts, without warning - no note, just a quick self-inflicted gunshot. 

I allowed myself to be shocked but wouldn't allow myself to be sad. And then I had to tell myself (and hear some friends tell me) it's okay to be sad. In this world of connectivity with celebrities, we are all so quick to say things like "you cry for a drug addict but not for a soldier." I call bullshit. You cry when you cry. You're sad when you're sad. Sincerity is not for suckers or chumps. I think we need to remind ourselves of that.

So tonight, I mourn for his cast mates and all of his co-workers. I mourn for his mother. And I mourn for a man who everyone said had such a positive attitude and an infectious smile, but who underneath was clearly deeply unhappy. 

And I mourn selfishly for the loss of my untarnished happiness at Rizzoli & Isles Tuesdays. I hate the thought of any sadness penetrating this one little bright spot of my life. Sure, my life won't change that much. I didn't know him. I don't know Sasha Alexander or Angie Harmon (although I've had several dreams that beg to differ). But because I allow them into my living room every week (and sometimes EVERY DAY), I feel a connection to them that I refuse to belittle. I'm allowing myself to be a little sad, to say a little prayer for everyone who knew him, especially his mother. And I hope that the show can still be fun and a bright spot on my week, after everyone has had time to mourn and heal. I think it's what Frost would've wanted.

**Call the Suicide Prevention Hotline if you need help: 800-273-8255**

A little bit country...

My music tastes haven't varied much from high school.  I've maybe leaned a little more toward rock and way from pop in my advanced age, but I still love a good Justin Timberlake or Britney Spears song as much as I ever did.  I'd say my favorite band currently is Muse, but I also love most of the KROQ playlist - Imagine Dragons, Mumford & Sons, Foo Fighters, Nine Inch Nails, Vampire Weekend.  I also still love Dave Matthews Band and Indigo Girls - good lyrical guitar stuff.

But every once in a while, something happens and I just get the urge to listen to A LOT of country.  Sometimes I feel an intense dislike for the genre, but other times, something happens where I crave it. I'm there now (as of a few days ago) and I've been trying to pinpoint what it is that makes this happen, or at least what attracts me to those songs.

I think there's just something about being told a story in a song that sometimes I need.  Sometimes I need to just hear a simple tale that involves a Chevy pick-up and a girl in jean shorts and cowboy boots, or a strong man who can't dance and loves his wife.  I need to be reminded of dirt roads and bonfires and acres of land, of running barefoot in the sunshine, long summer days, hot summer nights, houses with big front porches and enormous shade trees, gravel driveways... a small world where you know the people with whom you share your town, and there's no traffic or helicopters or sirens or public transportation, and you can drive with your window down without breathing in the exhaust of 7 million other cars...

I'm sure it's all of this, but above all, it's probably the fact that sometimes, I just need a little Tami Taylor and Tyra Collette in my life.

I'm a Real Mom!

The only constant in my life has been my desire to be a mom.  It's the only thing I've always known I'd be good at. Career ideas have come and gone, but the motherhood itch has been there almost as long as I can remember.

The past few Mother's Days have been kind of difficult for me, because for several years, we were in the thick of a fertility struggle.  Mother's Day would come and I would have to remind myself to concentrate on celebrating my own mom (who is AWESOME) as opposed to dwelling on my inability to start a family of my own.

Now that I am a Real Mom, Mother's Day is surprisingly anti-climactic.  And I've been wondering why that is.  I'm starting to think maybe it's because I felt like a mom for long before Isabella came along.  I'm not sure when it started.

It could've started when I first held my first baby sister, Jessie, the summer between my 2nd and 3rd grade year.  That is definitely when I first understood that I wanted to be a mom some day.

But I think more likely, the day I really became a mom was the day Madelyn was born.  She's not my own kid, but I truly had never before felt love like that, and she completely changed my perspective on my entire life, just like any kid of my own would have done.  I also knew I'd probably be caring for her temporarily, so my body responded in flooding me with all sorts of Mommy feelings.

Some people say that fathers become fathers when they first see their baby born, but mothers become mothers the minute they conceive.  In that case, I became a mother in December 2010, after our first and only successful round of IVF.

I know for sure that a notch on my ladder to motherhood is taken up by going through a miscarriage at 12 weeks in a hospital bed.

It seems I would mark my "becoming a mom" as the day I found out that I'd be Isabella's mom, which was two days before Mother's Day last year.  But we hadn't even met her yet, and nothing was definite, and I was busy researching Fetal Alcohol Syndrome, as the social workers said there was a chance she had that.

Maybe the day I met her was the day I became a mom, but we didn't get to bring her home for another month after that.

Maybe the day we brought her home, June 15, 2012 was the day I became a mom?

Or the day we adopted her?  December 17, 2012?

Whenever it was that I became a mom, what strikes me about this Mother's Day, my first Mother's Day where the world finally recognizes me as a mom, is not necessarily what I feel... it's more what I find myself not feeling.  I don't feel hopeless, depressed, jealous, angry, bitter, or disappointed.  I feel the same way I feel every day - lucky, loved, and happy - and at moments, tired, weepy, and annoyed - and I think this is exactly how being a mom is supposed to feel.

My Coffee Date with Jennifer Carpenter

Since I left Hollywood and moved to Northeastern Los Angeles (like many non-wealthy wannabe-parents-turned-actual-parents), I don't get to see as many celebrities out and about as I used to.  Living in Los Angeles for 13 years has significantly diminished the adrenaline rush that comes with spotting a famous person living Just Like Me, but every once in a while, I'll spot a star and will get stopped in my tracks, and I'll be reminded of just how much I'm enamored with the business of making television and film.

This happened on my date with Jennifer Carpenter at Starbucks yesterday.

I haven't dated much in my life, but my date with Jen (she likes when I call her Jen) went much like any other date I imagine I'd experience.  I was caught off-guard by how HOT she was, which rendered me speechless.  She looked annoyed and completely ignored me.

That's a date, right?

Truthfully, she was walking in as I was walking out.  She wore big shades and an irritated grimace, but she looked stunning.  If I had found the words, I would've said, "Hey! You're fantastic, I love the show!" Maybe if I'd had a few drinks in me, I would've added, "What you're doing with the complexities of your character is fascinating and ridiculously fun to watch." Maybe with more than a few drinks in me, I would've continued.

"You are HOT."

On Jodie Foster

Someone I know only through facebook posted this on her page Sunday afternoon: 

"This morning I'm thinking about sincerity—how deeply seductive it is. This is particularly true in a time in which so many of our social exchanges are constrained by irony and detachment."

I haven't been able to stop thinking about this thought since then, and it's been especially loud in my mind since seeing all of the negative reaction to Jodie Foster's Golden Globes speech.  I called my friend Kathleen, whose opinion I value, and she insisted that I write about my feelings on the speech.  So here goes.

I'm downright pissed at the negative response the speech has received.  Granted, I've been a pretty big fan of Jodie's for a long time, but my anger doesn't come from me being fan.  It comes from me being compassionate.  A lot of people labeled this as Jodie's coming out speech.  Truthfully, she mentioned her partner by name in a speech at an awards luncheon in 2007, so really, among the gay community, she was out.  But unless you're gay or live in Los Angeles, you may not have heard that, so to you, this might have been her coming out speech.

People are calling her a coward, a hypocrite, a lunatic.  Her speech was rambling, people say.  Was she drunk? people are asking.  On meth?  (Because meth is hilariously fun to joke about.)  What was with her?  And what's the big deal, coming out on that stage in 2013 when being gay isn't a big deal and she should've come out a long time ago when everybody else did!  And there's the other storyline of the speech, where people are saying she's a hypocrite because she talks about valuing her privacy.  And still, there are those that talk about how that stage wasn't the time or the place to say the things she did. And on and on and on.

The piece that really got me going is this one  on Huffington Post by Deb Baer.  I feel like she's expressing a lot of what other people are saying.  "Why am I so angry? Because I'm roughly the same age as Jodie, and yet I had the courage to come out exactly 20 years ago."  OH, right.  Your life is just like hers.  You guys are the same age, so you should have the same level of courage.  Because you are the same age, you have the same life experiences and insecurities.  You deal with them exactly the same way.  You both have the American public at large interested in your private life.  

Oh wait.

You guys - everybody is different.  People come out when they are READY to come out and not a moment before.  It's not like Jodie Foster was parading around married to a man.  And even if she had been, it's no one's business BUT HERS.  Everyone is fighting their own battle.  Yes, we should all be out and proud to show America's youth that it's okay to be gay.  But we're not all there at the same time.  We don't all arrive at that place just because you think we should.  A lot of gay people don't want to "come out."  They want to just BE.  They don't want to hide who they are, but they just don't want to have to have that conversation with anyone.  Can you imagine having to have it with the whole world?  This reluctance to have that conversation oftentimes doesn't have anything to do with the fact that we are ashamed of being gay.  It's just a dumb thing to have to tell people out of context.  And for me, I don't want that to be the first thing I'm identified as.  I'm way more than that, as is every gay person everywhere.  

And then there's whole issue with her talking about how she values her privacy.  She is a successful Hollywood figure - there WILL be interest in her private life.  I'm pretty sure she wasn't saying there shouldn't be interest.  All she was saying was that she's not interested in sharing it.  "Well, she's famous, we pay money to see her movies, and she makes a lot of money, so she has to be willing to lose her privacy."  Well, no.  She has been acting since she was 3 years old.  She became famous in the '70s, before Perez Hilton, before TMZ, before Honey Boo Boo.  Do you think she had any idea what she was getting herself into?  Do you think she had any notion what fame would become?  She clearly HATES all of that.  She's allowed.  And you know what?  If you have a problem with that, don't go see her films.  Sure, she could quit acting, she could leave Hollywood... but if it's just this one thing that she hates about her career, why would she walk away from it if there is so much she loves?  Plenty of people love their job, but still complain about it.

And finally, there are the people that are saying she was incoherent, rambling, and her speech started off with an un-funny SNL joke.  I see her as someone who has taken herself so seriously her whole life, has had to do that, and someone who is maybe uptight, but someone who is older now and wants to let loose, wants to be goofy because she's at a point in her career where she can be.  Clearly, she's not great at comedy.  Can't we just look at her at someone who is maybe terrified of being this personal with millions of people, this goofy, but she's doing it anyway?  Why do we need to ridicule that?

After the response this speech has received, can you blame her for waiting this long to publicly address the gay thing?  And Deb Baer thinks she should've come out sooner so she could've saved some kids' lives.  But Deb Baer isn't really helping matters by ridiculing her for coming out "too late."  What are we teaching the kids we say we are trying to help?  That sincerity is for suckers.  That unless you are courageous at the right time, we will mock the hell out of you for telling the truth.  

Can't we just be kind to one another?  Can't we just support this woman who just did something that was difficult for her, even if we think she's silly to be that afraid of it?  Can't we just celebrate that she finally feels okay to talk about this, that she's finally comfortable enough with herself and her life to share it a little bit?  What becomes clearer to me every day that passes in my life is that above everything else, we just need to take care of one another.  

I'm starting to think maybe I should just quit the internet.

Postcards from Parenthood: School Supplies and the Apocalypse

Little Bee started daycare this week. Over the weekend, I thought that I should buy her a lunch box, but then the logical buzzkill in me decided that was ridiculous, she’s 10 months old, she doesn’t need a lunch box.

Turns out, she needs a lunch box. I was a little too excited to head to Target on Monday to pick one up for her. I originally imagined an old school metal square lunch box, but the daycare provider suggested more of a fabric-cooler type lunch box, so I thought for sure I wouldn’t be able to find anything cute.

BOY WAS I WRONG.

Gina also mentioned to me that I should pick her up a little backpack, and my first thought was of pure love that Gina was indulging my ridiculous love of school supplies, because why the hell would a 10 month old need a backpack? For 100% cuteness potential, that’s why! I was shopping with a friend who has a 3 year old and another one on the way, and I was telling her about how great it was that Gina was encouraging me to buy her a backpack, and I said, “You know, because she’s gonna need something to carry her stuff in back and forth from daycare!” My friend said, “Like what stuff?” … Um… Well, she has two changes of clothes that stay at daycare, along with diapers, wipes, and diaper rash cream… so … um… “Oh… um… I don’t know. Maybe she doesn’t need a backpack…”

Target’s selection was laughable anyway, so I didn’t get one for her. When I got home, I was excited to tell Gina I didn’t buy a backpack, that I resisted the urge, because after all, she doesn’t need one! She’s a baby! …to which Gina said, “But she DOES need one. The daycare provider keeps an emergency backpack for each of the kids.”

Nuts.

So the next day (yesterday), I managed to find her a character-free backpack and a mini flashlight, which was one of the items on the list for the backpack.

The other items:

A Two-Day Supply of the Following: 

• Shirt/Pair of Pants; small hat, pair of socks, shoes 
• Lite (gah! Lite?!) sweater/emergency blanket 
• Diapers (4) and pair of gloves 
• Bottle of water 
• Emergency food (non-perishable) 
• Pacifier, transition objects 
• Bottle and formula 
• Emergency card with important contacts 

As we started putting the backpack together, all I could think of was what horrible thing might happen that would require her to need these things. Despite the fact that she doesn’t walk (which justified not putting shoes in the bag), I pictured her walking, in a pair of dirty socks, with the backpack (which is just a little smaller than a normal backpack) on her shoulders, dwarfing her, wearing stained, mismatched emergency clothes and hat, her face layered with grime, heading down a desolate Los Angeles city street with her teachers and her other little friends, in some sort of apocalyptic scene where everything is gray… and she’s looking around for us, and just barely trusting the adults she’s with, and they’re all so grateful that they have their emergency rations of pureed carrots and pears…

And then I started wondering - would anyone notice if I just made myself a little joey patch and carried her around with me everywhere I went?

Niece sleepovers

My 2-year-old niece Madelyn has been coming to stay with us anywhere between 1 and 3 weekends a month. We love spending time with her - we actually fostered her for the first 6 months of her life (more on that later), so we have a bit of a special bond with her and cherish the time we get to spend with her now that she's full time at home with her mama. Her mama (my sister Jackie) went back to school this week and needed some help with childcare, so Maddie came to stay with us for a couple of nights.

She's a co-sleeper, which (for those of you non-parents out there) means she doesn't sleep in her own bed, she sleeps with her mom. There are million arguments out there for and against this, and I really have very little judgment for co-sleeping or not co-sleeping. For the record, she co-sleeps because she doesn't have her own room, and because when she was a baby, she only would fall asleep while being held. It's kind of a slippery slope from there.

Anyway - she co-sleeps, which means when she comes to stay with us, she sleeps in our bed with us. This was kind of cute (albeit nerve-wracking) when she was a baby, but she just turned 2 (!!) last week, so she's no longer a chubby little baby, and is instead now very much a kid, with long arms and long legs, feet suddenly too big for her body, and most importantly, strong, developing muscles. She sleeps in between us and doesn't like to be covered, so if the covers touch her while she's sleeping, she'll kick and kick until they are off. She'll also twist and contort her body into positions that can't possibly be comfortable, positions that involve the three of us forming a letter "H" on the bed. Needless to say, the only one out of the three of us that gets a good night sleep is Maddie. Gina and I are left to figure out how best to maximize the very small amount of space she leaves us on either side of the bed. The toddler rolls, flips, sits up, turns, shifts, fidgets all night, constantly needing to feel the body of someone next to her. We wake up cranky, she wakes up excited for the day.

Finally, last night, we realized we can't all three sleep comfortably in the bed, so Gina volunteered to take the couch and give Maddie and I the bed. It's kind of a catch 22 - with the couch, you get to sleep by yourself, but it's not the most comfortable couch in the world, so you still might not get a good night's sleep. I thought for sure with just Maddie and I in the bed, we'd be fine and I'd get a great night's sleep.

When we finally got Maddie to calm down enough to go to bed (at 11:30pm!), she got into bed without argument. Once I shut the light off, she took her pillow, set it on my stomach, slapped it a few times, and laid her head down, so that half of her body was on me and half of her body was on the bed. I was exhausted. All I wanted to do was sleep, and with a 27 pound kid leaning on me, it wasn't likely to happen quickly. I thought back to every night no one forced her to sleep on her own, every night that led us to this moment, where she can't sleep on her own in a bed. I thought how this was only going to get worse the older (and heavier) she got.

When I knew she was sleeping, I carefully lifted her off of me and put her in her own space in the bed. She didn't argue - instead, she curled toward me, sighed contentedly, put her arm on my arm and, still sleeping, gently patted me with her chubby little hand. She slept nuzzled near me almost the entire night (except the part where she actually fell off the bed, which I knew would happen - she just whimpered and fell back asleep as soon as I picked her back up). I still didn't get a great night's sleep, but having this little kid smelling faintly of oatmeal shampoo so near me all night, feeling her little hand pat me almost like she was comforting me, and being able to feel her soft freshly-dry curls against my shoulder all night - it was better than any full night's sleep could ever be. I know there will come a day when she will no longer smile broadly and run to me when she sees me, where she will no longer reach for me to hug her, and no longer pat me gently with her hands. She won't always wrap her arms around my leg, and she definitely won't always sleep in bed with me when she sleeps over. When I look at her and think about all of these things, it's then that the sleep doesn't matter, and I'm just intoxicated in the intensity and beauty of now. Right. Now.

**A rare solo-nap, splayed out.

Postcards from Parenthood: Flying the Friendly Skies

It was only five years ago that I genuinely enjoyed flying. I was amazed that human ingenuity had figured out a way for 300 people to be contained in an aluminum tube and for that tube to be able to make its way to 30,000 feet and stay there for hours on end, landing on the other side of the country or even the earth. I would get goosebumps on takeoff and landing, sometimes fighting back happy tears that I was lucky enough to live this life.

Not surprisingly, that changed pretty quickly after I started traveling for work. After about 6 months of flights that ranged from 1 to 17 hours, and in quick succession, I realized that not only did I not like flying, I loathed it. It got so bad that the smell of LAX was enough to make me nauseous. I eventually took a break from traveling, but the whole flying experience has never been the same for me. I look at it as a giant inconvenience that threatens to catapult my blood pressure and thin my patience to a dangerous level.

I knew flying with our then-9 month old foster daughter would be somewhat challenging. But we had practice last summer when we flew with our then-9 month old niece Madelyn. She was a fussy kid, but she was so great on the flight. Our little bee is such a pleasant kid, so we were a little concerned that the flight would change that. We were right to be concerned.

We took six flights for our "vacation" this year. Our flight from LAX to Pittsburgh connected in Newark. Our flight from Pittsburgh to Myrtle Beach connected in Charlotte. And our flight from Myrtle Beach to LAX connected in Atlanta. She did so well on almost all of these flights, even on the first one when a guy who I thought was drunk passed out right in the aisle next to us. She woke up from her slumber, confused, dazed, and looking like a junkie - glassy, unfocused eyes and messy hair - but she handled it and eventually fell back asleep. It was the flight from Atlanta to Los Angeles where she decided this flying thing was BULLSHIT and does everyone know how much this sucks or is it just me?

The brilliance of her decision to misbehave on the flight from Atlanta was two-fold. One, gina and I were in completely different parts of the plane. The people next to gina wouldn't switch with me because they were a couple and had been traveling for a long time and were just so tired (boo-hoo). The girl next to me was about 17 and was traveling with her parents, but her parents were a few rows up, so I thought for sure she'd switch with gina and the baby. I asked her, explaining that my partner was in the back with our 9 month old kid and would she mind switching, even though I understand it would be an inconvenience because the seat is in the back of the plane? She simply said, "I'd rather not." Thanks, bitch. So gina and I were separated for the entirety of the flight, and you can't cut a baby in half, so we had to take turns being on our own with her.

(Here's the thing - I fly a lot for work, and I understand it sucks to be in the back of the plane. If a newly married couple or a duo of girlfriends asks me to switch to sit in the back of the plane, my answer is always no. But when there is a baby involved, it's just plan rude to split up the parents. Period.)

Two, the flight was FULL of children. I was in a row with the 17 year old snot face and another girl, a newlywed who didn't get to sit by her husband. Gina took the first round with the baby, so I was alone and quiet up there with the 17 year old brat and newlywed. As the flight attendants were making their announcements, it sounded like an elementary school lunch room on the plane - just a loud general child din. Obviously this is not ideal, but I have no beef with loud kids on planes. Seat-kicking is another thing altogether (not okay), but kids are loud, it's fine. Well, crabass 17 year old and newlywed were talking about how many kids there were on the plane and they were sighing and rolling their eyes about how they hope it's a quiet flight. I thought, just you wait, bitch.

The entire row behind mine was taken up by a family. Two parents and five children, one of which was a lap child (who is supposed to be under 2 years of age) who was CLEARLY no younger than 3 1/2 years old. They were loud and annoying, and the guy across the aisle from me was annoyed by them from the minute he sat down. Lots of heavy sighing and eye rolling. I smiled and couldn't wait to bring up little bee to sit with me, so there would be MORE children to annoy him.

For about 30 minutes of the first 2 hours of the flight, little bee slept on gina's lap. I knew this without even seeing her, because the rest of the 90 minutes of those first two hours, I could hear her yelling and crying. Halfway through the flight, I went to relieve gina, took the baby back up to my seat. Little bee was over it. Done. Would NOT sit still, fussed, bitched, complained, and I let her. I told her out loud, "You cry as much as you want to, kid. This sucks being on this plane." She kept kicking Spoiled Teenager McGillis next to me, and I never once apologized. I did my best to keep her in my space and away from everyone, but when she did cause a fuss, I never said anything. Screw you guys!

The guy across the aisle from me finally turned around to the family behind us and yelled at the father, telling him he needs to control his kids, "I'm just trying to get to Los Angeles here, and you're ruining this flight!" The father laughed and said, "Maybe you should've taken a private jet." Grumpy guy was all, "I paid for my seat and those are not my kids, I shouldn't have to deal with them, they're YOUR kids." The flight attendant came over and spoke to the guy like he was a five year old, and tried to smooth things over ("Okay sir, did you ask him nicely to keep his children quiet?"). The whole thing was just so ridiculous - I already had my statement prepared if he turned to me and complained about my baby. I'll share it here since he didn't say anything to me and I didn't get to use it:

"You think you're miserable? She's a baby. She didn't choose to come on this flight. She has no idea what's going on. All she wants to do is roll around and play. The difference here is, you're an adult and should have the capability to deal with stressful situations. She's a baby, and hasn't learned that yet." Just try me, Grumpy Guy!

I said two things to gina when we got off the plane: "Thank God we will never have to fly again with her at this age," and later, "I can't wait to go back to work."

Where did YOU go on YOUR summer vacation?

Returning

Hello everyone, and welcome back to my little corner of the interwebs. I know some at least one of you have has missed me, and I do apologize for my absence. Instead of harping on that, let's talk about my plans for this space.

I've been blogging since about 2004, and the reason I always liked it was because it got me writing. As I look through my archives, dating back to when I was 25 (!!), I realize that this blog has been a great way for me to chronicle my life, a little spot for me to look back and remember things that become so easily forgotten. They might not be worth remembering to others, but they are to me, and I've always kept a blog for my own use and not with hopes of monetizing or profiting.

So what can you expect from this space? I realize a lot of bloggers look for their "voice," or try to capitalize on their "brand." Well, I don't really know what my voice sounds like or what my brand looks like, so for now, here's what you will see here:

--Anything and everything on my radar. Television, books, movies, popular culture, maybe some unpopular culture (although I'm probably not cool enough to know about the unpopular culture), politics, Los Angeles, Ohio, aunthood, parenthood (yep), writing, producing, comedy, podcasts, music, college football...and whatever else I'm thinking of. There's no theme here, people - just Katie's head.

--Labels - I hope to be diligent about labeling all of these posts so they are easily accessible on this page to anyone who might want to read about a certain topic.

--There will be an entry some point in the near future explaining my two-year hiatus from this space.

What is my goal for this space? I've been a writer since I was in 2nd grade. It's been the one thing I've been told consistently I'm good at, and whenever I feel like my life is lacking, I always think, "I should be writing more." I'm not saying this is the space I SHOULD be writing in, but this is a start, and I hope to use this space to unlock my creativity in my own personal writing, writing that I might actually try to get published some day.

I'm not going to proclaim some lofty goal of posting every day, but I feel like a goal of three times a week is an achievable one. It's easy to be great at setting unattainable goals, but it takes a stronger sense of self to set attainable ones, so let's start at 3 posts a week. I hope that's enough to keep you coming back for more, because while the main point of this space is for me to remember things and get back on track writing-wise, I also love sharing my thoughts with YOU and hearing your thoughts back. Also, there is a part of me that has a fear of sharing certain things, but I am starting to realize I'll never get to where I want to be if I'm not honest with myself, and what better way is there to hold myself accountable than to put my thoughts and goals out there for you to read and judge? (Or perhaps I just like being ridiculed? Not sure.)

Thanks in advance for stopping in to say hi. And please, if there is anything I can do to make your katieeverybody blog experience more enjoyable, let me know. I'm not sure how much I will be willing to or even know HOW to change, but I would love to hear your thoughts.

-k.