There are over 700 rooms at Versailles. No bathrooms, mind you. But that’s a story for another time. A pretty, um, unhygienic one about how up until not that many years ago Versailles still smelled like poop because, well, there were not bathrooms at Versailles and so poop happened…on the floor and behind curtains. I’m nothing if not a wealth of important information.

But back to the 700 rooms. 700 rooms means many, many doors. And you guys, the doors. They are fancy pants. Intricate designs, golden motifs. And well, in addition to the velvet damask wallpaper that I wanted to swipe, and the paintings of all the men with the sweet, sweet flows,

I was slightly obsessed with the doors. While walking room to room I reached out and touched one, lightly.

“DO NOT TOUCH THE DOORS!” she yelled in French, but I knew exactly what she’d said even though the only French I know is from cereal boxes and signs when you leave the airport.

The second yell, well, somehow was less kind.

We were at the end of the Versailles maze and ready to go and check out the gardens. The gardens, at least from the windows inside, were something we needed to see, and something that would likely add an extra several thousand steps to our day. No joke, they were renting golf carts in the backyard of Versailles — that’s how big it was.

So, in what we thought was an exit out to the gardens, I took a step outside the door and realized I’d made a mistake and was on the wrong side of the gardens. As I stepped back in, I was stopped at the door.

“You cannot come back in here!” She yelled.

“WHAT?”

“Once you’d exited the palace you cannot come back in!” She yelled.

“I was literally just in this room and stepped one foot out by accident. My left foot is still actually in the room.”

“No.” Yes, more yelling.

“I can show you the last page I listened to on my English self-guided tour. It’s the exact room I am in right now. I’m not trying to break in to Versailles.”

“NO.”

“You aren’t serious. I just want to see the gardens.”

“You will have to go back to the entrance.”

“Back to the entrance? And walk through the entire tour again?”

“Yes.”

“I cannot just step back in to where half my body is already standing and continue out the other door to the gardens? I have been here for three hours. You’re saying I have to walk through the entire palace….a second time?”

“Yes. You cannot come back in here.”

“I don’t understand.”

“BACK TO THE BEGINNING.”

So that’s how I visited the Palace at Versailles. Twice in one day.

But think of all the steps.

I’m sure some of it, at least, had to do with the way social media changed how we share information. I’m sure some of it had to do with the business of blogging and then the social media influencer. I was never comfortable with the business side of blogging [shocking, I’m also not comfortable with the business side of my photography business] and I’m certainly NO influencer. I’m sure some of it had to do with the sudden loss of my niece India and then the too-quick decline and also too sudden loss of my dad, during COVID, and I think I was forever changed. And my fingers stopped writing because my words felt less important, less worthy.

I’m sure the ages and stages of my children contributed. My baby has said peace out to high school. She’s currently living her absolute best life in Israel on her incredible gap year program before starting University. My middle is almost finished with university. My oldest has graduated University (don’t even start with me because this sorcery math just doesn’t, well, math.) and is working two jobs real-life jobs. Their stories became their own long ago, even though they were always involved in conversations that started with, “Are you going to write about this on your blaaaaawg?” I think I was always careful to remember about digital footprints and even though my kids were always googleable, the stories about them would never be too embarrassing and would certainly never keep them from being hired.

And well, October 7th happened and suddenly I couldn’t even share on social media. I normally would have told you about a trip to Nashville and a trip to Washington D.C. to hug and love on a new niece and a new nephew, respectively. I know I would have told you about the Packers this season. And I’m sure I would have told you that in just over a week I’m going to Paris for the first time — to eat many, many croissants — on my way to hug Isabella. I’m absolutely certain I would have mentioned our Chanukah and our sourdough starter kit, the only gift. I would have told you about the Taylor Swift spin class that Emily signed me up for and I was just not very good and then the next day I couldn’t walk down the stairs.

And I’m sure I would have told you that we went to see a movie last night. In the theater! I KNOW. I swapped out my typical saturday night plans of watching a movie in my old aviator nation sweats for an exciting saturday night watching a movie in my old aviator nation sweats. Only this time there was popcorn and a DIY diet coke from a fancy machine. What can I say…I live large. But, there were some added bonuses that I wasn’t expecting. A group of teenagers to the left of me, and a group of teenagers to the right of me. On their phones. Taking photos. Talking out loud. Why was the brightness on their screens so high. WHAT?! What was even happening. Have I ventured completely into get off my lawn territory? How was I supposed to pay attention to Coriolanus Snow’s origin story if I had to deal with, well, teenagers. I could have done this at home in a more comfortable setting AND I could have been cuddling with my dog. So we did what any normal non-boat rockers would have done…we moved our seats to the front of the theater where the only problem was some old lady neck strain. Take THAT, teenagers. And then someone else must have complained because there were two giant security guards who came in and escorted some of our friends out of the theater.

And my sore neck and I were pretty smug about it.

And then we drove home [unable to get The Hanging Tree song out of my head] and then there was a police car on our street and some loud screaming and I ran into the house and now I understand why I rarely leave the house and maybe watching movies in the comfort of my home is the actual way to go and I mean, I can buy myself one of those fancy pellet ice machines, right?

So. Maybe this is why I stopped blogging. I’m out of stories. Well, not out of stories, but out of good stories. Because that one up there? It wasn’t very good.

But it was real. And it was me. And maybe that’s enough.

Tap, tap, tap.

So, anything new happen since I last posted? Just jokes friends because OH MY GOODNESS GRACIOUS. Are there any other words, honestly? The last time I posted was in June and my boy was graduating from high school. Since then, well, it seems like a million things happened and a million more things didn’t happen. Pandemics, AM I RIGHT?

I’ve been wanting to get back into the habit of writing for a while, but I don’t know, the globe shifted and the world turned on its axis and everything was just different and at the end of every day, I just want to crawl into bed with the New York Times Crossword puzzle and a few episodes of Letterkenny. If I’m being honest, I don’t think it’s the pandemic, exactly, that has caused the big tilt within me.

It’s the loss of my dad.

He died at the end of June. He was sick for a long time. I actually don’t remember my life without my dad being sick. But, we learned to live with my dad being part-bionic. He had multiple heart attacks, he had diabetes, he had a pacemaker and a defibrillator, and that’s just how it was. My dad was going to outlive us all. And it was a fun party trick to be able to hear his heart ticking just by standing next to him. But then a twin diagnosis of dementia AND colon cancer back-to-back changed everything.

I didn’t get to see him before he died. I didn’t get to say goodbye. I didn’t get to be at his funeral. I didn’t get to hug my family.

Because of COVID.

I saw him in March, just days before everything changed. No, actually.

We weren’t going to go, because LIFE. But we hopped into the car and drove down to Nashville to spend a couple days with my dad. It wasn’t enough, we knew it even at the time, but it has now become EVERYTHING. He was sick while we were there, so sick, so we just stayed close, as he liked it. Even before he had stage 4 cancer, my dad loved being quiet — and just enjoying the loud of his people around him. So we were loud for him. And then we turned around and went home and that was the last time I hugged my dad because while we were with him, Tennessee got its first COVID patient, a man who had brought it home with him from a business trip. And, well, you know how this story goes.

As far as this pandemic, I feel lucky. At the beginning of all of this there was a viral tweet (at least I think it was a tweet) saying that we are not in the same boat. We are in the same storm, but none of us are in the same boat. And I believe that to be 100% true.

My kids are older — so we are finding zoom school to be more than manageable. I was able to keep my job — in fact, I’m working more than I was before. I’m walking more, thanks to our energetic Pandemic Puppy Bowie.

I lost twenty pounds on keto [I’m currently in the process of transitioning off of it a bit after ten months and I can’t even tell you how excited I was to eat pea soup last night]. I’m getting extra time with my basically adult children — for which I will forever be grateful. They even like to play games with me. We are healthy.

We sure do miss PEOPLE-ING. Badly. We sure do wish we could hug every single member of my family.

But we are OKAY.

My mental health seems….okay?

It feels almost … paralyzing … to type that out.

Because I have struggled with anxiety for so long.

Since middle school, at least.

It wasn’t until the night before I left for my post-high school gap year in Israel and I found myself doubled over with a panic attack, though, that I was able to identify that what I had likely had a name and wasn’t just, you know, “being a teenage girl.”

It wasn’t until I was an adult with children that I was officially diagnosed with anxiety.

And it wasn’t until last year that I was able to find a medication (pristiq) that worked.

So, it feels almost paralyzing to say that yes, even though my anxiety is here and its taken up permanent residence in my brain, and it does lie to me occasionally and tell me things, and occasionally I believe these lies, and it does give me panic about work and my kids and FOMO and COVID-19, and, you know, the sometimes panic attack, but even with all of this, I am doing OK.

HOW ARE YOU DOING?

Yesterday I got a text from a friend who was just checking in. She just wanted to ask how I was doing.

I can’t even tell you how much that little text meant to me.

So I texted a different friend to check in with her.

Let’s do this more.

Let’s check in on our people.

Check in on your strong people, your busy people, your work people, your quiet people, your loud people, your happy people, your “totally looks like they have it completely together” people.

It’s a small way to make a big difference.

So more of us can say that we are OK.

It’s actually a little teensy bit of serendipity that today is Bell Let’s Talk Day.

When it comes to mental health, now more than ever, every action counts. On Bell Let’s Talk Day, TODAY, Bell donates 5 cents to Canadian mental health programs for every applicable text, local or long distance call, tweet or TikTok video using #BellLetsTalk, every Facebook, Instagram, Pinterest, Snapchat, TikTok, Twitter and YouTube view of the Bell Let’s Talk Day video, and every use of the Bell Let’s Talk Facebook frame or Snapchat filter.

Now more than ever. Yes.

In June 2016, my boy walked across a room in a navy fedora and red bow tie to officially become an elementary school graduate. I cried, of course. He loved The Packers, football, basketball, video games, football, Doctor Who, 70s rock music, tumblr, Stephen King books, gummy bears, football. He hoped to go to Madison and to become a quantum physicist when he grew up.

In June 2020, my boy received a high school diploma. There was no pomp. There was no circumstance.

But, well, there was a cap and gown and a lawn sign. And he who must not be photographed agreed to have this photo taken! So there was a miracle too.

In June 2020, in the time of Corona, my son became a high school graduate. I cried, of course. He loves The Packers, still, football, still, basketball, still, video games, still, football, still, gummy bears, still, football, still. 

He will be starting York University in September — virtually, because Corona — and hopes to become a History professor when he grows up.

So much has changed, and I’m not just talking about his voice. He’s older, he’s taller (than me!), he’s funnier, he’s *almost* able to make Wacky Mac without burning my house down, he’s slightly less picky, and slightly more hipster, and the boy sure can throw a football across a field. And don’t get my started on how good he is at making an omelet.

So much has changed, but my hopes for him remain the same.

I hope he is happy, and he is fearless in the pursuit of what sets his soul on fire.

Even when that pursuit is convincing me to watch all of the Marvel movies with him.

NO YOU’RE CRYING.

BonkersLand, where my germophobic last 41.5 years have fully prepared me for this because I have been trying not to touch my face for at least 15 years and have had stores of lysol wipes and hand sanitizer in every room of my house for an eternity. I mean, it might be mostly glitter and might smell like a cupcake, but it’s hand sanitizer.

BonkersLand, where my university student, my 12th grader, and my 9th grader are online learning for most of the day and everyone’s playing Zoom Bingo where you get points for every “Can everyone go on mute?” and “Can you see my screen?”

BonkersLand, where I’m going for walks at 7am every morning since I no longer have my Ulpana drop-offs or my half-hour commutes and I no longer have to fight with Isabella over what we listen to on said commutes… Top 40 music (her choice) or podcasts (my choice).

BonkersLand, where even though I can wear leggings as pants and not blow dry my hair or wear makeup, I’m missing my co-workers something fierce.

BonkersLand, where appointments have been canceled — from the kind of important, like, say, blood work for possible thyroid issue and buying progressive glasses because now in addition to my off-the-charts astigmatism I now ave a little +.75 added to my prescription, to the less important, like, say, getting my hair cut and coloured and getting my nails done. Emily and I ordered a dip nail kit and we are going to attempt to do our own nails and it’s going to be hilarious and I’m sure we will post disaster photos.

BonkersLand, where each day I sift through the ICK online to find the GOOD, to find the stories that fill my heart with joy, like impromptu balcony concerts in Jerusalem, and a pair of penguins on a rumspringa-esque journey through the Shedd Aquarium in Chicago. I need to fill my heart with the goodness right now. And yours, so I will continue to share.

Like this story ..

BonkersLand, where your mission, if you choose to accept it, and YOU SHOULD BECAUSE LET’S FLATTEN THE HECK OUT OF THIS CURVE PEOPLE, is to hunker down inside your house with your nearest and dearest. And, you know, your zoom and your phones and your netflix and I just bought some puzzles on amazon so there’s that too. It’s going to be annoying at times, sure, it’s going to be Jack Torrance at the Overlook hotel suffocating at times, obviously, and yes, there’s likely going to be days without kosher chicken and my goodness you guys are smart there are ways around it if you don’t have toilet paper.

But I truly, truly believe BonkersLand is worth it.

— Yes. It’s true. OMG, today I gave a ride to two people with whom I work peripherally, but barely know at all — it’s a long story but we were going to the same off-site meeting — and when they got into my car I apologized (of course I did) for the tampons that were strewn across my backseat that were there because I had them in the car when I drove back from Nashville and Emily opened the back door and they went flying all over the front of Elgin Hall at Western and so in an embarrassed panic, she threw them into the backseat of my car where they will live indefinitely until I pay someone to clean my car for Pesach. And so, I decided in that moment to tell people I see sometimes but don’t really know about the tampon party in my car —

having teenaged children is so hard. I used to be able to share so much about raising my wee people. And it was so good because you know what? When a mom is carrying hard things on her shoulders, knowing that other moms are carrying the same is helpful. A “me too” on a post before me too had an actual important meaning could make my hard things somehow feel like less hard things. 

I feel, often, in person and online, that I’m constantly lying to you. 

“THE KIDS ARE GREAT! EVERYTHING IS AWESOME! SCHOOL IS WONDERFUL! MY CHILDREN NEVER FIGHT AND MOST DEFINITELY ALWAYS TAKE THE GARBAGE OUT.” 

But, this, this is just not true. 

My children are 19, 17, and 14. 
It’s not true. 

But it’s the easier answer. 
Because the truth is complicated. The truth is just not only mine to tell. And the truth isn’t what you really want to hear when I run into you at parent-teacher conferences. 

I recently ran into someone I hadn’t seen in a while and when she asked me how the kids were, I said my usual “We are so busy but so great!” but then she looked at me, and the look she gave me when she said things were exactly the same for them …. busy but GREAT! …. I knew.

I knew she knew that I was lying and I knew that she was lying too. 

My son called us on Sunday while we were driving back from Nashville. 
When we answered, even though we were on a crappy uconnect speaker in my car, I knew something was wrong. I could not hear a word he was saying, but what I could hear were sobs. You know, the kind of sobs where you feel the neeed to tell the other person to breathe because you are pretty sure he or she is not actually doing that whole breathing thing. 

Many fears ran through my mind in that moment. 
“I …. got …. into …… University. “

I actually could not even believe what I was hearing. I lost it completely in that moment. Well, after I asked him to repeat it four times. Huge, sigh-of-relief crocodile tears came pouring out of my face holes. 

You see, here’s the thing. 
I never knew as a child, and an overachiver, that not getting into University (although I’m American and we called it COLLEGE but that’s an argument for another time, eh?) was a thing that could actually happen. My decent grades, my decent SAT scores, my decent writing skills, and my dazzling personality (HAAAAAAAAAAIFONLY) meant that I got to choose where I went to school.

I never knew as a parent that this could happen either.

But then came Aaron Joshua Martell. One of the smartest minds I know. {NOT AN EXAGGERATION} Smart mind, SUPER LAZY.  Somewhere around the time we moved Josh from one school to another in another country, and then back to the first country but to another school, he decided that he just wasn’t cut out for WORK. And so he started flying under the radar and slipping. From A+s to regular As. and then from As to Bs. and then slipping some more. 

And because I don’t always make the best decisions, I figured that at some point, he’d start realizing that he needed to bring those grades up to get into University. Because he wants to go to University. And study Broadcasting and/or History. And he did. He brought the grades up. But it was about halfway through his 12th grade year. And you guys, the minute he started to care, he brought home 98s, 99s, 100s. 

HUNDREDS. 

But I worried every single second of every day. 

I stopped sleeping. Because, you guys, I did this. I moved him from school to school to school. 

I stuffed my face with cinnamon buns and an assortment of carbs deliciousness. Because, you guys, I did this. I thought he’d figure this out on his own. 

And I cried A LOT. Because, you guys, I did this. And because I had to entertain conversations I didn’t want to entertain. 

“Mr. and Mrs. Martell, we need to start thinking about what Josh will do if he doesn’t get into University.”

“WHAT? “

“Yes. There’s a strong possibility that he won’t. We need to decide if you want him to another year of high school or summer school to try to bring those grades up. He could do a gap year in Israel and then decide. He could work for a year and then just see.”

But if you asked me I’d tell you that Josh is loving high school!
Lie.
And we are just patiently waiting to hear from some programs before we’ll know what he will be doing next year. 
Lie. 
But, then, he got in. 

HE GOT IN. To a history program that he wanted to get into. 

And now I can’t stop crying again. Because he did it. He pulled those grades up to As. On his own. Because I know how much he wanted this. Because now I can stop lying to you about it. 

I really wish I could tell you the truth. I really wish when I ran into you at Tov Li or when I wrote posts on Facebook or even GASP! on my mostly defunct online blog space here, that I could tell you what I’m struggling with. 

Because I know I’m not the only one. And I know that just hearing a “me too” from another mom would help me tremendously. And it might even help some of you too. 

Oh, and also, my children use a new towel every day and leave then in wet heaps on the floor of their rooms.

Being late. 

My elderly dog, who is now completely blind and terrified of the steps in our home.

Finding parking downtown. 

Things that do not give me anxiety with the anti-anxiety medication:

Dancing in front of people.

Coronavirus.

The COYOTE SITUATION.

It’s funny, what this anxiety medication has given me (other than these extra 30 pounds). Obviously I’m still anxious about many things, the list is obviously longer than the three I’ve chosen to include here. Because, friends, let’s face it. I’m raising three teenagers at one time. And that’s a stress story for another day. Or three.

EEEEEEEEEP. 

But here’s the thing. As someone who has always been a card-carrying member of the germ-o-phobe club, as someone who will not go near one of your kids if the other has a gastro bug, as someone who tries not to use public bathrooms, as someone who is already a chronic handwasher and face non-toucher, why am I not freaked out about Coronovirus? 

It’s actually giving me a little bit of anxiety how non-worried I am. 

My friends are stocking up on medicines and non-perishables. They are constantly updating me on where new cases are popping up, that day schools in New York are closing, that there was a case at my daughter’s University. And I don’t blame them one bit. I’ve watched Outbreak and I’ve played Pandemic. I SO get it.

And I’m just all…wash your hands, don’t touch your face, we’re going to be FINE. 

And then there are The Coyotes. They’ve been living in our neighborhood, wandering around in front of my synagogue. They’ve been spotted hanging around in the park, walking down the sidewalk, checking out the public garbage cans. Everyone I know is freaking out. My friends are signing petitions, sharing pictures and worries in a whatsapp group. And in my head, I’m like, I should be freaking out too! I don’t blame anyone in this group one bit. I’ve seen The Lion King. Wait, maybe those are hyenas.

So again, as someone who *should* be anxious about this situation, I mean, I don’t even feel all that comfortable around my brother’s dog and that’s just because of siiiiiize, HOW am I  just all…exercise caution, don’t feed them, we’re going to be FINE. 

Seriously, who am I right now? 

Other than, you know, a person who can now dance like a total maniac and doesn’t care who is watching? And, um, has no problems sharing these photographs, apparently.

It’s a feeling I could barely describe, even when I sat in front of my doctor. “I just want to feel like ME again.” was what I said when I sat down.

And she knew. She just knew.

I’m so glad you came to see me today, Ali, she said. She knew, even if I didn’t, that THE ANXIETY was getting the better of me.

But things are going great, I thought. And said.

But because she knew, she asked all the right questions. Well, things are great, yes, but yes I am edgier with my kids, quick to anger, quicker to yell. And yes, I am finding myself less social with my friends and no I don’t like it. But my sleep has always been bad, but now that you mention it, it’s worse and there have been more than a few nights that I’ve woken up in cold sweat worrying over a mistake I made at work, or a conversation I had with Josh. Why yes I am excited for Emily to have an awfully big University adventure, but yes I have slept in her room more than once and holy moly do I miss that girl like a limb has been amputated. I do love writing and cooking going to the gym and, but you’re right, I haven’t been able to find my words and my funny and even pull out my mixer or find my way to OrangeTheory. And she knew I wasn’t able to return emails sometimes or hang up my clothing or make my bed.

And she wrote me a prescription.

Even though I reminded her that the last time I quit the meds cold turkey because I put on 10 pounds in 6 weeks. And the weight gain sent me into a terrible anxiety spiral.

So we talked about it.

We talked about weight gain. We talked about how a body with some extra softness and an extra cup size is not a bad body, it’s a different body. And about raising daughters (and a son!) to love their bodies and learning to love my own body and prioritizing my mental health so I can be a better me. For them. For myself.

AND here’s the thing.

I’m sleeping better. Not great, obviously, but better. I’m not waking up in cold sweats, or even sweaty sweats anymore. I don’t yell anymore. Like, at all. I’m communicating better with the kids than I have in years. I took my bike out…twice. I’m finding myself wanting to be more social — I even convinced a few friends to go out on a Sunday night to see Adeena Sussman on her Sababa book tour. I’m baking again, pulling out the giant mixer to make cookies every Friday. I talk to Emily every day and I find myself too excited to hear all of her stories to miss her. And, well, I have been hanging up my clothes every day.

And as you can see, I’m writing.

And I’ve gained weight.

BUT.

“The right now you, well it’s the best you. Best in a long time.” —Isabella Martell, during a very important carpool car ride.

She’s noticed.

And if you ask Emily, she’s noticed.

And if you ask Josh, he’s noticed.

I even met a friend for lunch last week. That was hard for me too, before.

And the first thing he said to me when he saw me was,

“You look so happy.”

He could tell. And didn’t give one thought to the weight gain.

So neither did I.

I’m sure it all started when I began this latest 9-5 working girl journey.

Working from home in your pajamas? Comfortable.

Putting on tights and heels and being at an office for the majority of the day? Less comfortable.

I hear you cackling in the back. For some people, this is not anxiety-inducing. For me, though, it is. And I own my anxiety. I’m managing marketing (and often flying by the seat of my pants) and managing curveballs (and often flying by the seat of my pants) and managing employees (and often flying by the seat of my pants)

Which is all hilarious because I almost never wear pants.

WHAT? It’s a comfort zone thing.

So, taking this job took me well outside my comfort zone, but I am loving it. It’s different, for sure, as I can no longer catch up on The Bachelor while I work. It’s interesting, for sure, learning about different people’s working styles. It’s embarrassing, for sure, getting locked out of the building and (once) almost crying during a meeting. It’s new, for sure, learning html and how to make a trigger video (see also: learning what a trigger video is).

But it’s empowering too.

Now if I could just get my entire office to stop using the word e-blast.

Because it just might be the very worst word of all time.

Yes, it’s worse than moist and ooze and panties.

YES IT IS.

So, comfort zones.

Emily, too, is probably one of the reasons comfort zones have been invading my thoughts. Seriously, thoughts, my drive to work is for Daf Yomi podcast shiurs, not thoughts.

She has now gotten accepted to every University she applied to.

Which means that I am going to be forced out of my comfort zone to let this little bird out of the nest.

But she, too, is going to have to LEAVE THE DAMN NEST. She’s going to get uncomfortable and make a decision. And then get uncomfortable and become a full-time-fancy Kinesiology student.

And then I went and watched Free Solo and now I can’t shake the idea that I would be an excellent rock climber. I mean, like, NOT in the crazy way where there are no ropes involved and you have to rely only on your core strength and your fingers and toes to keep you from falling off the side of a mountain. Have you seen my infant-sized fingers and toes?

(I mean, I barely have baby toes, they are, like, non existent, but in normal life, other than mild embarrassment at the nail salon, who the heck needs baby toes?)

(Oh, I know, free solo climbers)

So, no, I’ll take my rock climbing with a side order of many ropes and
carabiners and belay devices and all of the safety situations thank you very much.

I don’t know what it is, especially since watching Free Solo gave me a touch of PTSD, but the idea of climbing outside (and outside of that pesky comfort zone again) is very exciting to me. Mostly because if you know me it’s probably the most un-Ali Martell thing to exist.

I can just see people now. “WAIT CLIMBING A MOUNTAIN? YOU?! REALLY?”

And then came Purim.

A few weeks ago I was asked very casually, “So, you’ll read from the Megillah at the Women’s Megillah Reading?”

And because I have no ability to say no to things, I said yes.

But I didn’t realize that reading from the Megillah is NOT EASY. It requires a fair (huge) amount of memorization skills and musical ability and desire to drive your family absolutely bonkers by listening to a woman read your part of Perek 8 out loud over and over and over and over. (GOD BLESS THE JOFA APP).

There was a lot of sweat and tears involved (thankfully no blood) but, you guys, I DID IT. I got up and read from the Megillah in my Margot Tenenbaum costume that no one knew was a Margot Tenenbaum costume and ridiculous short, blond wig that everyone including my sister thought was my actual real hair because there are not enough Wes Anderson fans in my community.

Of course now I’m considering cutting off all of my hair.

Just another small step outside of my comfort zone.

Leap, actually.

Now, before you go and start pegging me as a lady who lunches, I’ll just put it out there that I have done this roughly four times in my adult life. It’s partial anxiety, of course, that keeps me from reaching out to friends to make plans, but it’s mostly that evil word busy (I know we’re not allowed to use the word BUSY anymore) at work that keeps me from taking a break in the middle of the day. With every job I’ve had, there’s just so much work to be done that physically and mentally leaving the zone rarely happens. Once I’m in it, I’m in it.

But, yesterday, I had lunch with a friend. Pizza, if you must know.

And she mentioned that she thinks of me every time she makes pancakes. Because I’ve been known to (overuse) Kelly Ripa’s quote about pancakes. She compares children to pancakes and how, you know, how everyone sort of ruins the first one…but then by the second and third you get into a better rhythm and you sort of figure out the pancake-making thing.

{Maybe I should have had more kids}

I joke about this because I know that I messed up a lot with Emily. I was an infant myself when I had her (Think: Lorelai Gilmore) and passed on all many of my rigid and anxious tendencies to her.

But I don’t know. Maybe the universe had other plans for my first pancake.

Emily applied to be a camp counselor this summer, and gave work and character references.

“If any of my four daughters is anything like Emily at age 18, I will consider that a win.”

It’s not a direct quote, since I wasn’t in the room where it happened.

(go on, I’ll wait until you stop singing.)

(no seriously, it’s time to stop.)

I can tell you right now that even though I wasn’t there when Emily’s character reference shared this, I cried actual tears when I heard it.

Smart. Sassy. Stubborn. Hard-working. Smushy. Funny. Interesting. Determined. Sweet. Salty. Genuine. Generous. Curious. Feisty. Kind. Brave. Bold.

She’s better than anything I could have imagined when eighteen years ago today — on International Women’s Day — I was handed a tiny pink bundle of baby.