And then I started thinking about it.

What if I learned how to recalibrate my life before events and stressors made me triage (another word I’ve been over-using and under-appreciating) in real time. Metaphorically speaking, I’ve been downing gallons of electrolytes after a weekend bender when I should have been mindfully hydrating throughout the day and tucked into bed with a paperback by 9pm. (Non-metaphorically speaking, I just typed a sentence that made me swoon with longing. That, my friends, is what we in the business call A TELL.)

I would love to recalibrate the stuff I love- so I can remember how to love them again. It’s been a real “feast or famine” sitch over here in terms of things that usually bring me joy. Reading books is my happy place. Mainlining books in a sweaty panic because I’d borrowed too many almost-due library books and reading is important for self-care, you love to read, Keely, READ YOUR BOOKS…is not my happy place. (And then apply that same scenario to workouts. And then apply that same scenario to…)

I’ve been saying yes to things that I want to want to do…and things that I think I should do…and things that I’d previously said yes to and felt immensely guilty about declining for no reason other than personal preference/exhaustion levels/imminent panic.

Even this blog isn’t exempt from the need to recalibrate (and, good heavens, reassess). I love this blog. Okay, maybe that’s not true- I love what this blog represents. I started blogging in 2004, and published my first post here in 2008. But things change. I mean, as someone who depended on paychecks writing short form essays for quickly folding online magazines in the early 2010s…no one knows this better than me. Mediums change. Essay lengths change. Attention spans change.

I don’t know what the future of this blog is. Earlier in the year I hit another “all or nothing” spree. I was only posting a few times a year, after all! I should just close the blog and lose the stress!

Except.

The idea of NOT having the blog to post on randomly made me sad and…stressed. So I hit an avoidance patch and made a list of other things I decided to hate as well. I will never embrace Instagram reels. I couldn’t care less about Tik Tok or Snapchat or “stories” in any form. I’m done with product placements or sponsored posts. If I never write another parenting post or roundup of tips again, it’ll be a gazillion years too soon. (This, my friends, is called Creative Burnout During A Global Pandemic, Post-Move, Shortly After Entering Her Forties. Welcome. The conversation is awkward, but the charcuterie boards are unmatched.)

As many of you know, I’ve been shoving bits of attention towards the endeavor of writing my increasingly murder-y mystery novel. It’s great, and it also sucks, but it’s mostly pretty wonderful. (There, publishers, I just wrote the blurb for you. Can I get paid now?) Professionally, I hit a rough spot a couple of weeks before Christmas which, if I’m fully honest, completely- yet briefly- decimated my self-esteem and will to write anything ever again. I had been up for a residency that I had built up in my mind as THE thing that would catapult my career and self-worth and skincare routine.

So when I didn’t get it, I was devastated in a way that probably didn’t make a whole lot of external sense.

It did, however, help me lose the stress of figuring out the longterm plan for the blog. I went to the super healthy place of “nothing matters right now” which, while maudlin, recalibrated itself to gently remind me that I could write or not write or post weekly or post yearly and nothing would be hugely affected. Humbling? Yes. Helpful? Also yes.

Maybe I’ll eventually go the newsletter route. Maybe I’ll obsess over my particular level of welcome in already over-taxed, over-filled inboxes.

But not yet.

Related: There are author newsletters and round-up guides that I super duper enjoy seeing in my inbox- and actually read, usually almost immediately! (A way I’ve already begun recalibrating? Unsubscribing and batch-deleting willy nilly. Because, otherwise, what the hell is the point. There are very few occasions where a languishing email in my inbox comes in handy. Friends know how to reach me. I know that things will always be on sale. And if I forget to click on that one link forwarded by a friend of a friend from college? Oh-to-the-effing-WELL.)

Thank you for coming to my TED Talk entitled Keely Is Super Gentle and Demure Until She Is No Longer.

But back to recalibrating: Even though it may surprise many, we are still in the midst of a global pandemic! I fully acknowledge that my personal stressors are on the waaaaay more privileged scale of things and, as such, any advice I could give might be akin to nails on a chalkboard to those who are experiencing loss, and more loss, and all the loss at levels my brain does not currently have to.

That said.

Here’s what I’m attempting for the new year:

Forbidding devices in the bathroom and at the table. I cannot believe I’m saying this, but here we are. There is no part of anyone’s life that is made better by bringing a cell phone with you to the toilet. Not only is it foully gross, but it cements this idea (for you, but also others!) that you can be reached literally at all times. If you can’t take a communication/scroll break for that short amount of time, how the heck can you expect to limit your screen time in other situations? And miss me with the excuse of “but that’s where my word games are/that’s my only time to myself to really catch up on text chains” because 1) again, gross, 2) find your Me Time some other way, you martyr, and 3) be bored for a sec. It’s super good for you. (And 4) again, holy God, so fricking gross.)

And for the latter location of the table? If I can’t keep what few and far between meal times with the fam device-free for myself, what the heck am I teaching my kids? That the imminent ding of literally anyone else’s communication is already more important and exciting than the literal face time with the people I claim are the most important ones in my life? Or that it’s not rude as hell? Hard nope, nope, jackanope.

In terms of a recalibration, it’ll be a relatively easy one. Just…don’t bring the devices. It’s a modification of saying no and doing less. And if you’ve/I’ve somehow managed to convince yourself/myself that sitting with a loved one or taking time to pee without a phone handy is a matter of national security, rest assured that there’s an easy fix for that, too.

A) It’s not.

B) Turn my ringer on and leave it in a nearby room. If there’s a phone emergency, someone will reach out and I will hear it. LIKE A PHONE!

So, to recap and recalibrate: Fewer phones on person (which will allow more spaces in brain), saying yes to things you want to and no to things that you cannot (even if you’d previously said yes, and even if you have no “real” reason that you cannot), and being kinder to oneself and not trying to solve temporarily unsolvable things with sledgehammers.

We have a saying in this home that has evolved from the occasionally overwhelming desire to volunteer and donate and help in an increasingly overwhelming world: Do what you can, when you can, as often as you can. I’d like to try to apply that to self-care and family care for the new year. Maybe, even, I don’t know- blogs? Writing schedules? Sky’s the limit.

Especially once I leave the devices far, far away from the scenarios and situations that I’ve deemed the most crucial for my life and well-being.

And for God’s sake, if we can also recalibrate to drink more water and put the concept of hydration on at least the same level of importance as Facebook connections? We’ll all be feeling better.

Peeing a ton more, sure. Like a weird amount more.

Without phones.

Happy 2022!

Oh, Jasper Callahan, on Sunday you will be eight. That doesn’t seem like a real number when applied to you. Why? Well, for starters I think we can all agree that I have real, real brain/heart block when it comes to my children, and secondly, “eight” is the age I still apply to Nora in my mind’s eye- keeping you at a firm four.

And that’s the problem, isn’t it? My darling third, even on your birthday I can’t help but lump in your aging process as something my brain has to understand (or something in comparison to your sisters, sigh).

But here’s the best part:

You’re cool with this. You’re cool with most things, in fact. (Unless it’s a loose tooth or a bloody nose or a minor medical procedure that we didn’t do a super great job at explaining in depth to you, causing a heck of a lot of unnecessary overthinking. For example, dental x-rays. Sweet goodness. You might be the only patient in the history of dentistry who, when asked a question while being worked on, attempts to ask lengthy, lengthy questions in return.)

And I know I often wax poetic about you as “my baby” and how much I treasured your littleness. (And kiddo- I do, and I did, and I shall.) But there’s something really special about you at this age.

Even though you’re a “need to see how the clock innards piece together” kinda guy, you firmly grasp magic with both hands. You laugh easily- and hysterically- and find genuine humor in puns, riddles, gross jokes (peak “eight,” right there), surprising answers, and slapstick.

You get really excited when you find “a good stick” in the yard, and treasure abandoned birds’ nests. Miniatures and wooden carvings are lined in places of honor on your shelves, and a tiny zoo of specifically named stuffies patrol your bed every day and night.

You apologize easily and often, because you know what it’s like to be hurt to your core. You’re my logical thinker, for whom math and order brings safety and comfort- but you tell the absolute best stories, epics with twists and turns and sure, occasionally guns (but not THOSE kinds of guns, you’re quick to tell me). You love so deeply, but rarely pick up on the social cues that the joke/the game/the wondrous activity has ended, and often get so sad and so mad at yourself. (Related, you’re my biggest over-thinker, over-dissector, and over-griever.)

Ballet.

How could I not mention ballet? Pal, you told me that you’d like to start dancing this year, I said absolutely. When asked what kind you wanted to try, you informed me that you were “already really good at hip hop” (obviously), and that you figured ballet would be great.

Because, as you also told me, “that’s where the money is.”

(I swear you were raised by two parents who worked in the arts for a long, long time. Neither one of us can recall ever telling you that one medium over another is where you go for the money, artistically speaking.)

But even if the money never flows from this venture, it’s already paid for itself in sheer joy. Yes, you know the positions, yes, you’ll stretch and sway and rise with the best of ’em…but when it comes to leaping? You fly. It has yet to occur to you that, at this age especially, ballet is predominantly attended by girls. Sure, you know that you’re the only boy in your class- possibly in the entire studio- but you look at it with a shrug and a “weird, maybe more guys will come next semester?”

Because leaping makes you happy, and leaping makes you feel like you’re good at controlling your body, and leaping- as you’ve told me- doesn’t care if you’re a boy or a girl or neither.

So for YOU…

…My wonderful Jasper, on this, your almost eighth birthday, I want to celebrate everything good that you share and know and think and feel. Because YOU, independently of your parents or sisters or friends or classmates, are deserving of your shiny place in the sun.

(But I’ll always, always be here for a snuggle when that sun is a little too bright or too much, to help quiet that brain and to hold that hand steady.)

Happy birthday, sweet baby Big Kid, happy birthday to you.

Today’s your 12th birthday. You know, back in my day of flannels and Doc Martens and Nirvana-listening, “12” wasn’t a crazy milestone.

Well, joke’s on me, because your outfit of choice usually involves a flannel, and today you got the prized Doc Martens from your grandmother that you’d been pining over. (Side note- If you had told me in 1992 that my mother would be buying my firstborn combat boots in sixth grade? You’d have to revive me with a bottle of Love’s Baby Soft.)

You’ve also recently developed a great love affair with Nirvana so, like, what even is time anymore.

But back to my first point. 12 as a milestone? Nice try.

Except.

12…

…Is the age when you’re newly immersed in your brand new middle/high school. Definitely a milestone. 12 is when we’re dipping a toe into short spurts of babysitting. 12 is a later bedtime, access to my Spotify account, and saying yes to you more than no.

12 is a Covid vaccine.

You know, today when I was mulling over what I wanted to say to you in this space, I kept vacillating between weird humor and overt melancholy. Because that’s our relationship right now. We have so many inside jokes, so many sarcastic asides, so many darkly funny takes on current events, and so many nerdy references. But we get sad together, too, emoting largely for people we read about in the news and fictional characters who meet tragic (yet beautiful!) ends and even random song lyrics.

You’re wise beyond your years- you’ve always been wise beyond your years- and seeing you grow more and more into who you’re meant to be is such a gift. Because here’s the thing, Nora, I’ve always loved you. From the moment this tiny, angry, pink Muppet was laid in my arms, I loved you with parts I hadn’t known I’d possessed.

But no one ever told me how much I’d like you.

And I really do.

You’re silly, you’re funny, you’re the type of effortlessly cool I definitely envied at 12 (and put way too much effort into attempting), and you’re exceptionally kind. You know yourself. And that ability to know yourself is such a gift to the world, because it gives the people around you a soft landing space to know themselves, too. Who wouldn’t like that?

So yes, I’m your Mom. (And probably not even a Cool Mom, because I have rules and consequences, and maybe also because Cool Momitude has never seemed super fair or healthy to the kid, you know? Digress.) But that said, I also get to be your friend. Which is a perk that, again, I didn’t see coming.

Getting to co-create a pal who lives for puzzles and breathes novels and quietly agrees to lay on the floor and listen to music for hours at a time? One who appreciates fanciness and deep-dives into comfort and has all the makings of a very expensive dining companion? Someone who melts into old movies yet sends hysterical (to a small, small cross-section of brains) memes with equal aplomb?

Even though it’s your birthday, kiddo, you’re the gift. So happy birthday to you, and happy Your Birthday to us all. (Especially me.)

Love you, Bitsy- a milestone amount.

Ten is two whole hands, two high fives and, when necessary, two clenched fists. Ten.

Right now I’m listening to Lindsey Buckingham’s cover of the Stones’ “She Smiled Sweetly”- a song I put on your Spotify playlist shortly after you were born. (Wowzer, file THAT one under Tell Me You Were Born in the 2010s Without Telling Me You Were Born in the 2010s.) Susannah Mae, this song couldn’t be more you.

You’ll take care of it.

You’ll smile the sweetest, sunshiniest smile while doing it.

You’ll take care of them. Whoever, whenever, however.

Two clenched fists at the ready. (Two high fives at the ready.)

Ten is rearranging rooms and laying out a week’s worth of coordinated outfits. Ten is crafting storylines (and sometimes outfits) for dolls. Ten is raging and crying against the injustices of the world and your gender- and sometimes against your chores and your little brother.

Ten is sushi and truffle hot sauce and tea in fancy cups. Ten is watching old mysteries with your mama- mostly because I love them, but mostly because you do, too.

Ten is elaborate braids and bruised soccer knees.

Ten is trading-off reading chapters of sci-fi/fantasy books with me each night, tearing up at the sad parts and giggling well past dark at the hilarious ones.

Ten is special– finding it, sharing it, shrieking it. You are special, Suzy Zuzu, and it’s hard to imagine a time when we didn’t have this level of emotional glitter snuggling up on us.

This morning, we rendered you speechless with a birthday card. You’d spent roughly a year crafting a persuasive essay about why you should adopt your own pet, research about great pets for ten year-olds, and what- quite specifically- hamsters should eat. You shared this file on Google Drive to your Dad and me, and despite initial reservations, we knew you’d win. (Again.) Because that birthday card invited you to go choose your very own hamster after school today. Speechless” is rare for you, as was the quiet shaking with joy as your eyes implored me “Really? Really?” (Really.)

Not to compare you to a hamster…

…But, well, I actually might. As soon as you were placed in my arms almost exactly ten years ago, I was speechless. (Also very tired but, you know, unrelated.) Because I didn’t know how badly I’d needed to meet an impossibly small girl with a shock of white-blonde ducky hair. You were the baby after the baby I’d lost, and during the whole pregnancy my eyelash-wish prayer was a fervent pleasepleaseplease let the baby be healthy, let the baby be wonderful.

And you are. You’re healthy. You’re wonderful. And we all won. (Again.)

I’m so very glad you were born, Buttercup, and I love you more than my arms can hold.

More than two whole hands, in fact.

Happy birthday, Susannah, happy, happy birthday to you.

…Went off to middle school and I have no idea what to write.

My firstborn went off to middle school and I have NO CHOICE but to write. (It’s either that or scrub ceiling corners with a toothbrush; who put all of this wild, buzzy, not-fully awake energy into my body?!)

Oh, friends. My firstborn went off to middle school and it’s been so long in between blogging times that I’ve forgotten how to write. (In this space at least, although my notebooks are feeling a tad lonely, too…)

So yes, Nora started sixth grade in a new school, in a new new town, and she looked so cool and she looked so small but she looked so ready in a way that I probably never was and probably still do not look.

And I just let her go. In fact, I drove her there to let her go. (What sort of bullshit is that?) We listened to her favorite playlist on the way there- which, truth be told, is hundreds of songs deeper than my current favorite playlist and largely more crowd-pleasing.

The song Rude by Magic! (which is an awkward thing to type, that exclamation point, don’t pop stars worry about the weirdness of having to type out their names- or is that maybe part of the appeal) came on, and Nora laughed, having forgotten that she’d added that one. Because it had been her favorite song in kindergarten. KINDERGARTEN. And as she giggled about, you know, the good ol’ days I was transported back to that first day of elementary school. Her wonderful kindergarten teacher had a private Instagram account set up for the classroom and had promised to post updates and fun moments…and damn if I didn’t start scouring the thing once I had dropped her off.

Like, maybe before their tiny coats had even been hung up on tiny hooks.

Because, you know, where was she? Was she happy? Did she have a question she was afraid to ask so was she sitting there feeling badly about her own inability to ask a brave question? (For example.) Did she need to use the bathroom? Did she know where the bathroom was?

And that was kindergarten. And now it’s sixth grade. And as soon as I dropped her off I wished desperately for a picture of her hanging a larger jacket in a gigantic locker. (Did she have a question she was afraid to ask so was she sitting there feeling badly about her own inability to ask a brave question? Did she need to use the bathroom? Did she know where the bathroom was?)

Was she happy?

On the drive back home I thought of when I had her. After a glorious maternity leave, I took her back to work with me as a full-time nanny for terrific families who made gigantic accommodations for a new mom and an impossibly tiny baby. But still, as I woke her on those dark, dark January mornings and navigated a Chicago commute with a carrier, a baby seat, a diaper bag, and a work bag, I would sometimes cry- Nothing would ever (ever!) feel this hard.

Except, of course, it did. Every stage in my life that’s been worth having has been the hardest hard ever to be hard…until it wasn’t. Until it was the new normal, until it felt like a dance, until I shrugged into that dance like a cozy hoodie, a hoodie that I loved and proclaimed to be the very best hoodie, what did I even do before I wore this hoodie?

But hoodies stretch out or accidentally get shrunken in the dryer or fray on the hems- sometimes there’s nothing even wrong with the hoodie, but it’s time to wear something new for a bit. And the new item of clothing is probably going to be really itchy, or have stupid buttons or, Jesus Christ, be hand-wash only, WHO CHOSE THIS STUPID CARDIGAN.

Friends, I’m in the hand-wash only stage of this new game. And it’s dumb.

This morning, after Nora was happily/unhappily/who knows ensconced in middle school and after Jasper and Suzy took the bus (the bus!!) to school for the second morning ever in their entire lives, I came back home with P.J. and realized something.

I blinked.

Oh God, I hate that sentence. But I did, I blinked. A job hazard of working in magazines and online for so many years created a nearly obsessive need to document ages and stages of my kids’ lives, and gave me the false sense of security against Missing Any Milestones. And I was present. Very, very much so. I could make a flip book of Jasper’s new shoes alone, but thousands of iPhone photos couldn’t save me from the very real moment of ohmyGodwaitwhat that I experienced this morning.

I know how time works. But clearly, I do not know how time works. Or maybe the better thing to ask is- why does it work so fast? Clearly a pandemic’s worth of remote/hybrid learning and milestone after milestone after milestone up in my face every single day should have prepared me. After fifth grade, yes, comes sixth grade, yes, she goes to school here now, yes, you have to drive off now WHUT.

I miss my baby. Not just the one I drove away from today (although a li’l “proof of lunch line” would do my heart wonders) but also the infant one snugged against my chest at work, a stabilizing hand on my cheek as if to say yes, yes, this is crazy but we’re here together, Mom. And I miss the future one, the one who’ll check in with texts and Facetimes or flying car vids from college, from Europe, from the moon. Because if the kindergarten to sixth pipeline is any indication, time picks up speed with each dumb, amazing, wonderful year. I see friends with kids in high school, babies off to college, and I’m acutely aware that I will never be fully (or even partially) ready to not have that baby merely a squeezed hand and raised eyebrow away from me.

Yesterday after middle school orientation, I asked Nora what she wanted to do before it was time to pick up her sibs at the bus stop. She wasn’t sure. It was pouring rain, her brain and body were buzzing with the energy I’m feeling today, so I made her some tea.

I put on some Enya. (You laugh, but I’ve never met an anxiety attack that couldn’t at least be temporarily staved off by Enya playing in the background.) I pulled out a puzzle, tossed some fluffy blankets on the couch, and invited her sit with me for a few- but only if she wanted to.

For a couple of hours, she wanted to. We solved the very real, very tangible problem of a jigsaw puzzle, downed multiple cups of tea, and focused all of our nervous energies on how Petra was doing. (Was she super uptight today? She seems off. Poor Petra. Maybe Petra needs a nap? We should both nap so that Petra feels safe to nap.)

And maybe that’s my new role with my middle-schooler, maybe there’s no stabilizing hand on the cheek, but maybe we can emote for the dog and share memes and wait for the post-lights out deluge of bedtime feelings to pour out of her busy mind. And even though there’s no way I’ll ever- ever!- be able to fully let go, I can probably release a (tiny) bit of the worry.

Because even in a frequently frightening, always shifting time of uncertainty and weirdness and yes, yes, this is crazy, we’ll be “here” together. We’ve done a good job of laying the groundwork for this fantastic little/not-so little person. She’s done a good job of saying yes to the things she wants, even when they scare her a little.

And I know she’ll be happy.

So much has changed here. And so much has changed HERE.

At the end of June, it’ll have been a year since we moved from Chicago. Friends, I absolutely love our new home in my old town. My kids are thriving, my marriage is solid, my giant dog is cautiously learning manners and, despite my over-tending, my rhododendrons are flourishing. Yet I still don’t feel fully grounded.

Yes, pandemic. (Oh my God, pandemic.) I definitely haven’t been able to see (and hug) the people Back East that I’d hoped to by this point. I miss our Chicago peeps like limbs, and know that they’re in transitional phases of life as well. I’ve yet to actually walk inside my kids’ elementary school (even though I somehow was crowned Yearbook Layout Chair by the PTA and had to add names I didn’t know to faces I didn’t recognize, oh WHIMSY). But the non-grounding seems more related to a shift in my age, maybe? For sure with my parenting phase.

A few days ago, I was running errands and listening to a playlist of mine on Spotify. It abruptly changed mid-song to a different playlist. Nora’s playlist. I immediately got a text from my 11 year-old: “Mom, I’m sorry I bumped you!” I responded that it was totally okay, that she could use the Spotify account while I was out. “You sure? LOVE YOU!”

It was a nice moment.

IT WAS AN EFFING WEIRD MOMENT.

What happened to the kid on her first field trip away from me, during which I was totally cool and not a weird pile of feelings?! That kid is graduating from fifth grade in a few weeks and, later this year, starting middle school from the same middle/high school where my Dad graduated.

Time, man.

And I’ve become more aware of Nora’s age and stage lately. She’s a really nice person. But she’s a really private person. So in respecting her stories as just that- her own– I’m finding myself without nearly as many publishable quips and adventures and milestones from my O.G. review buddy. And that’s okay.

Because she writes now, too. Up on her bed with her bluetooth headphones blaring, she whips through short stories (and looooong stories) in journal after journal after journal. Her stuff will continue to be captured for posterity- just not always by me anymore. That’s okay.

I promise that’s okay.

I’ll be 41 on Sunday, friends. I thought that packing up two decades of life during a pandemic while turning 40 was weird; it doesn’t even hold a candle to turning 41 in your hometown in one of your childhood homes.

41 isn’t even a number. What the heck is 41?!

I had written a blog right before my 40th birthday- I never ended up posting it for a variety of reasons. But upon a re-read of that draft, a few things resonated with me, things that I realized I was just about to re-write about where I am creatively, where I am parentally, and where I am physically.

Can I quote myself? I can:

What’s really been holding me back from writing is the fear. The fear that I’m not writing enough, that I’ve forgotten how to keep going when the words feel stuck, that once I stop I’m really going to stop. There’s also the fear that the world is too much right now, and that I won’t do any of it justice. That I haven’t been doing a great job of chronicling this deeply unsettling and anxiety-inducing time and maybe jumping in right now as a safely sheltering at home white woman of privilege isn’t the narrative that the people need?

But then I remember that I started this blog on June 1st of 2008 (happy blogiversary, blog!) with a post about Patrick Swayze, so maybe this space has always been less about relevance and more of a thumbprint for me and maybe- eventually- my kids that I was here, and this is how I lived my life and, even if an earthquake across the world is devastating, that I’m allowed to cry a few tears for my own damn dislocated pinky.

For example.

(My pinky is not dislocated.)

(And my Dad would tell me to buck up, anyhow.)

If the past handful of years have shown me anything, it’s that the only way out is through. And, at the very real risk of getting Dr. Seussian up in here, it’s one step, two step, go go go, push, push, push. (Which is a terrible rhyme for children, I’ll admit it.) With marriage, with parenting, with anxiety, with packing, with writing, with pain relief, with attempting to work out/stay healthy…I’ve just continued to show up.

Even on the days where it sucks.

Especially on the days where it’s nothing even close to resembling art.

When I was a little kid, I couldn’t wait to know what my life would look like. What I’d be doing, who I’d be with, when I’d meet my kids, how many ponies would live in the stables near the wraparound porch gingerbread Victorian on the seaside cliff…

You know, normal kid stuff.

But even though I’d daydreamed and planned and- sporadically- put in some dang hard work, I couldn’t have fathomed how each span of time would play out.

My twenties were spent onstage. Williamstown, London, Chicago. Black box (shoebox) theatre, main stages with architectural details so gilded they made my head swim, experimental pieces in parking lots and forest preserves, shows packed with people hanging from the rafters, and performances to an audience of three (including two relatives). I met my husband onstage; a guy who made me feel like we really didn’t need to perform at all to seek that rush of connection.

My twenties were spent with my first babies; my nanny families. Julia, Lily, Lucas, Peyton, Patrick, Chance, Scout, Jack. These were the babies who got the best of my early morning energy and late(r) night shadow puppet shows, on whom I practiced my early childhood theater curriculum on to then take to neighborhood schools later those same days, and who adventured around Chicago parks and fields and train stops and zoos and sidewalk cafes with me, armed with Bugaboo strollers, Baby Bjorns, and a messenger bag stuffed to the brim with Cheerios. These were the babies who made me really, really, want babies.

My twenties- the very, very end of them- was when I first became a Mom.

My thirties quickly became All Things Baby. (And then toddler. And then preschooler.) Three kids in four years in a home we patched with duct tape and filled with classic vinyl dance parties. As soon as they were borderline able to sit still, I took them to see Shakespeare, ballet, improv comedy, opera, puppet shows, and musicals. If this sounds braggy, I assure you it isn’t. Or maybe it is, but only from a place of physical stamina; raising small theatergoers is an intense amount of work. Teaching them/enforcing what their tiny bodies should be doing during each act and how their smallish brains should be processing what they were seeing, hearing, feeling…it was work. (And occasional bribery with sugar.) I think I fully experienced maybe one show in seven years without becoming a hair trigger about not ruining the performances for the ticket-holders around us. Still worth it.

My thirties found me inching towards my dream job. An arts column in a beloved Chicago magazine, a monthly print byline, and the freedom to take my family to reviews and press trips that my previous public access budget marveled at. Soon after came newspaper features. Intensely cool blog interviews. Netflix.

My thirties- the middle and end of them- was when I lost my Dad. Became intensely ill. Started a business. (Loved it.) Broke my brain for a bit, got a little sicker. And decided that we were ready for something different, something healing. (We didn’t know what that looked like, but we opened ourselves up for the right change to smack us across the face with its rightness. And hoo boy, DID IT.)

So now, my (almost) forties. I have a feeling I know which direction I’m pointing my boat…but who knows how everything will play out? Clearly not me. I do know that I’ll be back in my hometown, in a home that’s always felt like home, with the people I’d still choose to quarantine with- if I had a choice- which, even though that’s an incredibly high compliment, pleaseGodinheaven do not ever again make this a thing I’d have to choose.

Apologies for the melodrama if this reads like an obituary. I ain’t dead. (Even though I clearly recall my parents and their friends with a plethora of “Over the Hill” and Grim Reaper-themed party decor for the milestone of 40. Why? Why.)

Kudos if you’ve read this far, amidst the daily battering of (actually important) news.

It feels good to be writing. It feels good to be (almost) 40. And it feels good to take moments of gratitude for what they are in an increasingly unfair world.

I’m grateful. I’m hopeful. I’m ready to do the hard work for life, for our country, for my kids, for my new/old town.

And I’m super excited to meet my pony.

So. 41.

A full ‘War and Peace’ later, turns out this is still what I want. This- as you’ve no doubt seen- means obviously less blogging. Like, “next to nothing” blogging. But I’m not ready to turn off the porch light yet. It’s just…not time.

What it is time for, however, is my book. The one I’ve been writing for years, but writing daily now for months. And eventually it’ll have to be done, right? (…Right?)

And that’s where I’ll put my minutiae, my weirdness, my infrequent bursts of creative energy.

Because even if the world doesn’t need another darkly humorous murder mystery (and you know they do), at the very least I’ll know that I can stop talking about maybe someday writing a darkly humorous murder mystery.

I can already sense the takers for that GoFundMe.

And if you’re one of the long-time readers of the ol’ LolBlog, thanks. Seriously…thanks. I am full of so much gratitude for so many things in my life right now. And people who’ve chosen to continuously read my nonsense and my melodrama and my brain deluges? (Thanks.)

Here’s to gratitude. Here’s to family. Here’s to health, time working the way it ought, unexpected moments of joy, and favorite songs playing on the radio (even if it’s on a cringey station).

Here’s to 41.

“Oh gosh,” I hear you mutter (from a distance of at least six feet away), “A tidy li’l 2020 wrap-up? You shouldn’t have.”

(Really, I won’t.)

(Not too much, anyhow.)

Because, friends, this year…defies a tidy li’l anything. (And, yes, I state this from a position of dizzying, boggling privilege. Even from this sky-high perch…it ain’t tidy.)

At best, it’s been an upending kinda year.

At worst, it’s been the stuff of nightmares, the stuff that’s made the noun “2020” the worst type of shriek-filled insult.

The loss has been astronomical; human beings, brick and mortar businesses, relationships. To even sum it up in a sentence like that feels crazy pithy. I don’t think the damage that this year has wrought will even be calculable until we’re far, far removed from it, and then only with the help of trained professionals.

I do not say that lightly.

In fact, I think that any future stimulus coupon booklets should include offers for therapists and therapy dogs and it would be nice if we could get a few sensory deprivation tanks up in there.

(And for the people- and we all know them- for whom life hasn’t changed even one iota, I have questions. Okay, one question. HOW? The people who post on social media, unencumbered by masks or altered plans or grief. To them, I say this: Enjoy what’s left of this pocket of, I don’t know, don’t-give-an-eff-ism. <— My third edit of this phrase. Even if there are no physical repercussions in your immediate future, rest assured that history will remember you kind of poorly, if at all.)

Remember January? (Doesn’t January seem 18 years ago and, when you think back, aren’t your memories sort of sepia-toned and maybe you’re wearing an Oregon Trail bonnet? HOW YOUNG WE WERE, relatively speaking, considering the prior three years leading up to the annihilation of reason that was March 2020.)

Like many of you, I had Plans for 2020. Big, Important Plans.

I was going to take on more clients, because my youngest was now in full day kindergarten.

I was going to work out every day, especially since my youngest was now in full day kindergarten.

I was going to pack up my home- and, you know, sell it- as we prepared for a move that we had recently informed our kids about, which was definitely going to be easier because my youngest was now in full day kindergarten.

I was going to finish my mystery novel- NAY, SERIES- but that had nothing to do with my youngest now being in full day kindergarten, that was because OH MY GOD I WAS ABOUT TO TURN 40.

And I was definitely going to hydrate more.

Then, March happened.

I definitely stopped hydrating real, real early.

And- spoiler- the book (series!) ain’t done yet.

While the schools gave us a two week window of closing down time, I did the same with my in-person Tidyish clients.

…That was a super duper conservative estimate and, really, we should have all aimed much, much higher, like around “indefinitely.”

In a three month span, I became a remote-learning reluctant homeschooler, spackle-wielding reluctant homeseller, and a bourbon-clutching reluctant 40 year-old…also at home. (Technically, at backyard.)

I said goodbye to Chicago, to the place that made me an adult, to the museums and spans of green space and unparalleled restaurants and diviest of corner bars and stores I knew I’d miss as soon as I stepped outside of the 606…and friends so good, so true, so huggable…

All without really saying goodbye.

(It sucked. It really, really sucked.)

Yet.

I.

Was.

Still.

So.

God.

Damn.

Lucky.

This summer brought a new (old) home for my family, a new (gigantic) puppy for my bed, and new (crazy old) rekindled friendships.

My daily gratitude list turned into gentle reminders of “what if this is the important stuff?” and “when society is ‘normal’ again, might you not wanna lose this?”

Turns out, we’re really good at art scavenger hunts. Blazing trails in the woods. Turning outdoor sightseeing into Really Gigantic Deals. Having pajama days and Book Bed evenings and finding new ways to dress up for events where we- still!- don’t leave the house.

Turns out, I still really enjoy hanging out with and puttering alongside my children.

Turns out, I still enjoy dating my husband. (And friends, normal marriage is not easy. IT. IS. NOT. Pandemic Marriage is stupidly, weirdly, eyeball-poppingly hard. The fact that we are a) still married and b) still like being married is something I’m immensely proud of and boggled by. This is not a humblebrag. It’s a full-on brag. MARRIAGE IN 2020 IS UNFAIRLY HARD AND WE ARE CURRENTLY MOSTLY GREAT AT IT AND THIS IS A GOOD WIN.)

I’ve started drinking water more which, as it turns out, is really all that “hydrating” actually means.

I remembered that I love to hike.

I remembered that I love to read.

I remembered that I love to write. (Book series, I WILL END YOU.)

I remembered that, since we started wearing masks, not one member of my family has had a stomach bug. (Dammit, I should have put that on this year’s holiday card.)

And on a national level…

I’m extremely hopeful for the incoming administration.

I’m extremely hopeful for the vaccines with which loved ones and personal heroes are choosing to protect themselves- and us all!

…I’m just extremely hopeful.

Now, I’m under no illusion that at the stroke of midnight the hardship of 2020 will be over in a finger snap. January 1st, 2021 will look a weird amount like December 31st, 2020. But we’re a people who like our symbols, aren’t we?

And I’d love to believe- have to believe, in fact- that the majority of Americans are hoping for better in the coming year.

So if “2021” is the talisman that we’re all gonna clutch in our gloved hands while we send prayers of better into the atmosphere, then who am I to stand in the way of a nation believing hopeful beliefs? (Just a gal clutching a “2021” of my own, thankyouverymuch.)

Happy new year, friends.

You are 7.

You are the tail-end of many, many things.

Birth order.

Opinion-asking.

Seat preference.

This is unfair to you, because- the last time I checked- you had very little say in how and when and why you were born, and also how we ended up choosing the Honda Odyssey’s particular layout of seats.

It is also perfectly fair,  because you are the happiest little guy with whatever you get to eat and whomever you get to sit near.

I think you were given to us (me) for this reason, because we (I) needed our smallest person to really be happy with the kind of stuff we like to do and the kind of way we like to live.

For example.

We moved you across the country right after a kindergarten year fraught with teacher strikes and two bouts of flu and a celiac diagnosis and a good ol’ global pandemic to cap it off. (We joked that you’d eventually think that first grade should, historically, only consist of roughly ten in-person days. Hahahahahahaha what the heck was wrong with us.)

I was worried about how you’d be, away from newly formed best friendships and neighborhood attachments and your speech and occupational therapists and street-level trains and my closest friends who loved you like second mamas.

And you were sad. You were briefly very sad. (And quiet.) I knew you worried, I knew you tucked it away, and I knew that when you patted my shoulder and asked if I wasn’t really sure about the move…you were asking for yourself, too. (And buddy, I feel you. There were times that I really, really wasn’t sure.)

But when we got here, when we pulled down our new lane, you couldn’t believe we had given you “a playground.” Or that your new bedroom was next to Mom and Dad’s. (“Can you believe it?) You didn’t have to wear shoes outside. You piled things into a backpack to go on adventures. (IN THE WOODS.) You got a library card with your name. A swimming pool? A school with gluten-free lunches? A DOG?!

You find joy in this weirdness.

When you marvel about life to your sisters, it fills me with such, such, such joy.

Because life isn’t perfect right now.

Your mask fogs your glasses.

Your speech impediment is sometimes more pronounced on Zoom calls.

You get really worried that “people are going to get sick and die” and we’ve spent way, way more time reassuring you about death and life and health and relative levels of safety than I would’ve liked for you at this age.

And even though we’ve been here for over five months- and even though you enjoyed in-person school for a blip- you don’t really have a best friend to call your own yet. (And you couldn’t really have a best friend playdate with them even if you did.)

But you’re still a happy little guy.

(…Who loves to hold hands and take pretend-naps with his mama, I mean where did you come from, child.)

Yesterday I found you sprawled on the couch, staring up at the ceiling.

“What’re you doing, buddy?”

“Just thinking about my birthday. I can’t believe it’s tomorrow,” you said.

“I know, it’ll be so much fun!”

You looked up at me. “But I’m so excited that I don’t know if I’m actually a little sad, too.” (Lord protect me from this household of empaths.)

I told you that it was great to be excited and okay to be sad, and that sometimes the anticipation of something you’ve really, really been looking forward to can actually make you feel all wonky.

(Like this new home.)

(Like this new town.)

(Like this new school year.)

(Like this new age, one that feels decidedly momentous, one that’s gifted you the sharp-edged cheekbones of a Big Kid.)

You nodded, got a snack, and jumped on the trampoline until the bouncing thoughts in your brain and body felt a little more settled and sortable.

And last night before bed, as I sprawled next to you and sang the same five songs I had murmured over (and over and over) your non-sleepy bassinet roughly seven years ago, you joyfully whispered “I just can’t believe it.”

Me neither, pal.

Jasper Callahan, you are 7.

I’ll probably never stop being surprised.

And I’ll definitely never stop being grateful.