Advertising is a funny business. Clients, people, even jobs come and go, often arbitrarily. It’s an atmosphere that leads to a constant feeling of impermanence.

You might be happy in your job today, but who knows what tomorrow might bring? A better job might come your way, with more money and better clients. Or your agency might lose their biggest money maker and close up shop entirely.

Stay in the business long enough and you end up feeling like a vagabond, at least spiritually speaking.

It becomes tough to get attached to a place. You’re always looking forward to the next big thing or planning an escape route.

That’s the world I’ve lived in for the last fifteen years.

But now? Now I’m working for a university. An altogether different sort of world.

People can, and often do, spend their entire career there.

They have no problem looking five, ten, even twenty years down the road. They’re firmly planted, and happy to be so.

It’s a world view I’m trying to embrace.

I can stop thinking about what improvements would make my house more attractive to a seller and start thinking about what would make me happy.

I can stop wondering when I’m going to have to leave my friends behind and start looking forward to watching their children grow up.

I can plant sticks in my yard and dare to think that I’ll still be around when they are, in fact, real trees.

I can set down roots. If I want to.

It’s a weird feeling.

For the first three years of her life, Tori was practically attached to my hip.

It was the All Mommy show, all the time, from the moment she awoke in the morning to the last time she woke up from a bad dream in the middle of the night.

And at times, I wearied of it. In fact, I may have hidden in the bathroom a time (or 200) hoping that if she couldn’t find me, she’d ask daddy to get her juice/play with her/wipe her boogie/admire her poop.

More often than not, it failed to work. And I would emerge, just as tired and with the faint smell of toilet clinging to my clothes, to care for her every need.

But things are changing.

Now, she wants her daddy. A lot.

Almost all the things that mommy used to do for her are now daddy’s territory. Juice-getting, car seat-fastening, fruit-cutting, bedtime book-reading…those things have all gone daddy’s way.

He’s the one she asks for at the end of a temper tantrum.

The one who she goes to first for a cuddle.

And I? Am left on the sidelines.

I try to be a good sport about it. To pretend that I enjoy the extra time to myself and that I’m not at all hurt when she chooses him over me.

This is, after all, exactly what he’s been dealing with for the last three years.

And sometimes it is nice. Sometimes I do enjoy being able to snatch an extra few minutes to read a book, catch up on my email, or, more likely, get another load of laundry in the wash.

But it stings.

I’m used to being first. To being the answer to all her problems. To being needed, 24/7.

And I’m not at all comfortable with this demotion.

I’ll get over it. And I’m sure there will come a time (probably soon) when I am again first in her heart.

But for now? It hurts, damn it.

And that’s the end of my whine.

Proudly linking up with Just Write at the Extraordinary Ordinary.

It was a chilly late October evening. My husband and I were wandering around Newport on the Levee in Cincinnati, awkward together after a month apart.

He looked at me with a question in his eyes, unsure of how to begin.

Wary of the intensity in his expression, I turned away.

“God, I’m hungry,” I said, picking at the sleeve of my beloved pink gingham coat.

“Well, they said it’d be an hour. That means we have 45 minutes left.”

I collapsed heavily on to a bench, the metal bars shockingly cold against the back of my thighs.

“That sucks. I might faint from hunger by then,” I sighed.

“Well, we could always go somewhere else.”

Blowing my bangs off my forehead, I shook my head. “Nah, the wait will be just as long no matter where we go. I’m doomed to starve to death.”

He snorted. “Yes, starve to death. I’m sure there’s a real possibility of that.”

He scooched over and started to put his arm around me. I shot up off the bench and headed for the river.

“Let’s walk. It will make the time go faster.”

“Amber, I…”

“Come on!”

Sighing, he trailed after me.

I reached the railing and draped myself over it, staring down at the lights sparkling on the water. He stood silently next to me.

“I think we’re going to like it here,” I blurted to fill the quiet. “Did I tell you about the cool little park I found?”

He smiled.

“I’m sure we will, once we get settled.”

He hesitated, and the intensity returned to his eyes.

“I’m really glad we’re doing this,” he said. “It’s good to be doing something new together.”

Letting down my guard, I scooted in close so he could put his arm around me.

“It’ll be  great. Just us. No one to interfere…”

He turned to face me.

“I wanted this to be more romantic, but…here.” And he thrust a small velvet box into my hand.

“Is this another ghost ring?” I laughed.

“Just open it.”

I did, and an opal ring winked back at me, sparkling from its white satin bed.

“It’s gorgeous,” I said. And I meant it.

“It’s not much, but, well, I wanted you to have a new ring. After…everything…I thought you needed a new one.”

Gently, he took the ring from its box and placed it on my right hand.

I stared down at my hand for a moment, unable to speak past the lump in my throat. Finally, I looked up.

“Thank you,” I said. “It’s perfect.”

And it was. I wore it faithfully for the next eight and a half years. Every time I looked at it, I was reminded of that new beginning, and of the love that wonderful man never stopped giving to me.

Today, the ring died.

Two of the stones popped out, and the jagged tines left over keep leaving deep scratches on my skin.

It was just a little ring. Nothing like the three carat diamonds some of my friends haul around.

But I will miss it, all the same.

It’s not every day you get a second chance.

Fortunately, the love it symbolized is still going strong. And it needs no ring to stay true.

Every day is a new beginning. Every day we make choices. Every day, I choose to love.

It’s 8:15. We should have left the house five minutes ago. The timer on my phone goes off and gonging bells fill the air, temporarily drowning out Dora’s nasally whine.

“Alright Tori, it’s time to get ready to go.”

“Five more minutes?”

“No. That’s what you said five minutes ago. Turn the TV off.”

In a flash, the sneaky smile she’d been wearing turns into a scowl.

“NOOOOO! I don’t want to. I don’t want to go to school!”

Pulling from the recent parenting books I’ve read, I get down on my knees and attempt to look her in the eye.

“I know. I know you don’t want to go to school. You want to watch TV. Right?”

She nods, temporarily biting back the scream that had been building in her throat.

“But it’s time. It’s time to get ready to go. You can watch Dora later, okay?”

And then I get up and turn off the TV.

That’s when the scream lets loose, shredding my ear drums with its shrillness.

“I don’t want to, I don’t want to, I don’t WANT TO!” she shouts as she runs for the bathroom in the kitchen, slamming the door behind her.

Her screams echo nicely in there.

I take a deep breath. Square my slumping shoulders. Fire off an angry tweet. And then I open the door.

That’s when she hits me.

Knowing I have to be consistent, I pick her up without comment and haul her up to her room, trying to ignore the voice shrieking in my head, “you’re late! You’re so fucking late! ”

“Let me know when you’re ready to calm down,” I say pseudo-calmly and shut the door on the screaming monster inside.

Then I slump to the floor and put my head in my hands.

This mom gig is hard. And at times like these, I wonder why so many of us want to do it. After all, I give her everything. Place her dreams ahead of my own. Do my best to make sure her every need is met, even needs she doesn’t know she has.

I’d do anything for her, I really would.

And this is what I get in return.

In a few minutes, the screams die down to sobs, then hiccupping whimpers.

“Mommy?”

“Yes, honey?”

“I’m ready now.”

I open the door and scoop her hot little body up, taking her to snuggle in the blue chair.

We don’t say anything for a minute. Just sit together, her breathing slowly returning to normal.

“Mommy, are you mad?”

“No, honey. I’m not mad. Just a little sad.”

She presses her forehead against mine, and one of her tears slides down my cheek.

“I won’t be naughty anymore,” she says.

“It’s okay. We’re all a little naughty sometimes.”

“I really love you, mommy.”

“Oh, baby. I love you too.”

Then the moment is over, and she’s sliding off my lap, chattering about the flowers we’re going to plant when we get home tonight.

I guess that’s why we do this thing. That love.

It makes everything else all worthwhile.

But damn, mommy needs a vacation.

Once upon a time, in a land not so far away, I routinely charged upwards of $60 an hour for freelance writing work. Routinely. And my clients? Didn’t blink.

Not anymore. Now every new gig required extensive negotiations – and more often than not, I end up taking less than my gut tells me I should.

In fact, I turn down a lot of jobs simply because they’re not worth my time. I mean, come on. Five dollars for a 500-word blog post? That’s just insulting.

Some of this is no doubt caused by the never-ending economic slump our country finds itself in, and the gamut of well-qualified writers who are relying on freelance work to replace the full time jobs they’ve lost.

But you know what? Not every industry is seeing this precipitous drop in pay scale. In fact, my designer friends still command the rates I used to get.

I have a theory. One that (at least, if you’re a blogger turned freelance writer) you’re probably not going to like.

It’s your fault.

You don’t realize how much you’re worth.

You don’t realize how rare your talent for spinning words actually is.

You undervalue yourselves.

In fact, you’re so grateful that people are willing to pay you for doing what you love that you just accept whatever pennies they decide to throw your way.

And that’s just wrong.

You have real, marketable skills.

You have more talent in your pinkie finger than 99 percent of the people out there.

You deserve to get paid, and paid well.

Those Twitter and Facebook followings you have? They’re worth their weight in gold. So are your subscriber numbers – even if they’re not in the “I am a blogging goddess” range.

People trust you. They’ll follow you (or at least your words) if you ask them to.

Take advantage of everything you’ve worked so hard to build.

You owe it to yourselves. You owe it to each other. And dag nam it, you owe it to me. Mama needs a vacation.

So just stop it.

Stop selling yourselves short.

Stop feeling embarrassed about negotiating pay.

Stand up tall like the talented, professional writers you are and ask for what you deserve.

Those companies, they’re never going to volunteer to pay more. Nope, they’re going to continue to balk, to feel completely justified in offering below-minimum-wage pay, until we make them stop.

Let’s make them stop.

“Mommy, I don’t want to go to school tomorrow.”

“Why not, sweetie? You love school.”

“No I don’t. I don’t like school. I don’t like it!”

“Why don’t you like school?”

“Because my friends are all scared of me.”

This last was said with a quivering lip, eyes full of unshed tears.

And it broke my heart.

It’s true. Her friends are scared of her. She’s been so unbelievably naughty that no one knows when she’s going to lash out. So they, I guess, don’t want to play with her.

My poor little three-year-old daughter. Feeling alienated, friendless and alone.

Her own doing? Sure. But she doesn’t understand that. I don’t think she even knows why she lashes out.

I’ve got lots of guesses. Maybe she was just too tired. Maybe she was hurting – her ears, her teeth, who knows. Maybe she just wanted more attention.

But I don’t have the answers. And she can’t give me any.

So I put her to bed early. Give her tylenol – just in case. And pray.

I don’t want her to be naughty. Not because of the problems it poses in my life. I can figure those out. I just don’t want her to be hurt. Don’t want her to feel like the odd one out – the one no one likes.

I want her to be happy and carefree. I want her to putter and play and, you know, just be a kid.

I want to fix this for her.

So I read books. The latest, “Honey, I Broke the Kids,” tells me that I need to be more democratic in my parenting. That kids who lash out in one way or another are seeking to fill a need – for compassion, control…I don’t know. There are four of them.

It advocates for no punishment. Just logical consequences clearly stated at the outset.She says no timeouts, no sending the kid to her room, none of that.

But I wonder. Has that author ever been faced with a kid so angry she literally can’t hear you? Been so afraid of the next tantrum that she  spent her days walking around on eggshells, trying not to rock the boat?

Democracy doesn’t really seem to work in that situation.

Sure, she’s hurting. I’m hurting. We’re all hurting.

I just hope it all comes to an end soon.

When I started my new job last week, I discovered that the former occupant of my desk had a thing for Ryan Gosling. A big thing (she had a pic of him taped to her computer).

So, of course, the conversation in my office somewhat quickly turned to celebrity crushes – the more gorgeous the specimen, the better.

But here’s the thing. I couldn’t think of any pretty men I’m particularly tempted by. At least not anymore.

I’ll admit that for many, many years, I thought Jon Bon Jovi was the most delicious thing since chocolate fudge brownies (shut up. Nobody ever said it was a dignified crush).

But these days? I’m not all that interested in the pretty faces of the world. I’d much rather have me a funny man.

Which is good, because that’s what I’ve got. A funny man. In fact, if it wasn’t for his ability to see the humorous side of things, he’d most likely have gone running many, many moons ago.

So here, for your reading pleasure, are 5 reasons a funny man is always better than a pretty one.

1. You’ll never have to worry about him spending more time in the bathroom than you (unless he’s pooping). I’m guessing it takes a good long while for Brad Pitt to get those long blonde locks perfectly tousled. But since my beauty routine has been shortened to 10 speed-applying minutes, there’s no way I’d have patience for that.

2. You get to be the only one worrying about the size of your butt. Along with those perfect hair follicles, your typical male celeb has a perfectly proportioned bod. But, since men are gravity’s victims just as much as women are, there’s no way that happens without a good deal of agonizing. Yuck.

3. You can’t keep a good sulk going because your comedian knows how to make you laugh – even when you don’t want to. A pretty one would probably just try to out-sulk you.

4. Your funny guy knows when to apply humor – and when nothing but ice cream will do. Do you think Tom Cruise ever comes home with a pint of Ben & Jerry’s when he knows Katie’s had a bad day? I doubt it. Funny men are (usually) also sweet men, and therefore know that chocolate is often the way to a woman’s heart.

5. You laugh every day – and everyone knows that laughter makes you live longer. Well, maybe not, but it will certainly make the days you live a whole lot happier. A gorgeous guy, on the other hand, will most likely just break your heart.

So, yeah. You can keep your Brad Pitts and Ryan Goslings. I’d rather giggle my life away than goggle any day.

How ’bout you?

The other day, I was feeling pretty awesome about my life as a working mom.

Three years in, I finally have some semblance of a routine down. I’ve even almost figured out how to balance work, freelance gigs, and my family and still have room for a life.

So of course the universe has to throw a wrench in the works. This one in the form of a massive biting spree by my three-year-old. One that has her daycare sending her home in the middle of the day – for the other children’s safety.

Add in thrice daily meltdowns with a child so angry she’s literally vibrating, plus a few million complaints about how school is awful and how she wants her mommy to stay home, and you get one upset mommy.

A mommy who’s also getting used to a new job, in a new environment, with all the stressors that go along with it.

A mommy who’s back to her old stress eating ways (but that pumpkin cream cheese muffin sure tasted good).

I’m sure we’ll get through this. I’m sure this is a temporary setback.

But it doesn’t really feel like it right now.

Right now, I’m hoping I haven’t passed my emotional health issues on to my munchkin. And that I’m not completely messing her up by working.

Not that not working is a choice. Because it isn’t.

But, you know. My inner lioness isn’t really a rational being. She just wants to protect her baby, whatever the cost.

Screw you, universe.

As for you, my dear friends? If you have any anti-biting advice, I’m all ears (again).

Every year on my daughter’s birthday (at least for the three she’s had so far), I make a point of dressing her up in cute clothes, plunking her somewhere somewhat photogenic and doing my best to get some good pictures of her.

On her first birthday, that was a pretty easy task. After all, she couldn’t walk yet.

Last year, it was somewhat more challenging, but I got a few nice candids.

And this year? Well, this year it was almost impossible, but I was determined.

This one has the potential to be nice, if only I can figure out how to clone away the bag, bubbles and plastic chairs from the background.

Look - it's her teenager smile, a few years early.

Then we got into the goofy face phase.

Tori hams it up

But at long last, we got to a good one – or at least, one I think is good. It’s not perfect, but it is totally her.

Tori at three. Cute, smiley, and completely unable to sit still.

Here’s to another crazy year in my career as a mom.

“Mommy, I want to be just like you when I growed up. Can I be big like you?”

“Well, someday you’ll be big,” I answer. “You’ll be all grown up and instead of going to school, you’ll go to work, just like mommy.”

“I want to be big now! Can I grow up now, Mommy?”

“No, sweetie. You’ve got plenty of time to be a grown up. Stay little for a while yet, okay?”

“I want to be big like you,” she whines, storming off into the giant mess of a playroom that is our living room. I smile and shake my head, and the moment passes.

But, truthfully? I still don’t feel like a grown up. I mean, sure. I have a career, a  mortgage and a family. All hallmarks of grown-upedness. But there are days when it all feels a bit preposterous. When I’m afraid a real grown up is going to come by and say, “go back to your mommy, little girl. You’re not big enough to be out here.”

Then I think back to when I was small. And to the times when my Dad took me down to his office, and introduced me to his coworkers. I remember how impossibly accomplished they seemed, and how badly I yearned to be one of them.

And to the nights when my parents got dressed up and went out, my mom standing tall in her perfumed white suit. I remember how beautiful she looked. And how badly I wanted to be just like her when I grew up.

I wonder. Did they feel as much like imposters as I do now?

I’ll bet they did. They were a good ten years younger than I am, after all.

Now, of course, they’re in their 60s. My dad is retired (sort of), although he’s embarked on a new career. He’s always changing, becoming something new. They both are.

Do they feel grown up now?

Or do they still look around them and wonder, “how did I get here? Where am I going next?”

I think that maybe, if you’re doing it right, you never feel completely grown up. After all, if you’re always learning, and doing, and becoming new things, you’re still growing, right?

So, I have a new philosophy. I hope I never grow up. And I hope Tori doesn’t either.

My name is Amber, and I am proud to be a Toys R Us kid. Who wants to raid the toy store with me?