Date night, not-boring conversations, and some career epiphanies

• Brian and I went on an honest-to-goodness date last night; and I'm not lying when I tell you that just a couple of hours sitting across from my husband while sipping a pineapple-garnished grownup drink feels exactly like two weeks of this.
• We do not have a rule about not talking about the kids on the rare occasions we're away from them. Plenty of topics come up--work, politics, running, food, TV, the weather, previously untold factoids from before we met--but the conversation always swirls back to how awesome the two youngest members of our family are, how fun it is watching them grow, and how we are just so ridiculously lucky.
• Chatting with a group of runners is very similar. We broach diverse topics, assure ourselves that we're well-rounded, and get back to talking splits and goals and breakthroughs. It feels good to have stopped fighting these currents. Happily, I have like-minded people with whom to discuss my interests, and there's just no need to pretend to be anybody I'm not.
• And in letting my thoughts carry me wherever they want, I've already outed myself as a mom in my second (of what will hopefully be 50 or more) FiercePracticeManagement editorial. I thought hard about eliminating or condensing the entire second paragraph. All the points in the article could have been made without it, but a very surprising level of comfort with this new audience told me to leave it in and let the editors decide. To my astonishment, it stuck. I don't know whether it was ever up for debate and I don't want to ask.
• But I've learned some things about being a working mom that I wish someone had told me: 1. Cutting back on work hours to spend more time raising a family does not have to mean a self-inflicted demotion. You don't have to be an invisible workhorse in the background. And you're not any less talented or knowledgeable because you're not putting in 40 hours in a cubicle. To be clear, no one I ever worked for placed these restrictions on me; they were my assumptions alone and I was the one who let them hold me back. 2. Parenthood is a marketable skill. We are experts at crisis management, negotiation, and simply making things happen as though there is no other choice. And we are devoutly anti-whining, -fibbing, and -excuse-making. If you've been out of the work force for a while and looking to go back, these are solid, valid qualifications for virtually any position I can imagine.
• It is unclear which parent's career path Gunnar might follow, as he is proving to be an equally excellent salesman and reporter, sometimes simultaneously. At our yard sale this weekend, he gave every passerby an upbeat tour of all the baby toys we had up for grabs, and didn't fail to interrogate a single person as to why on earth they'd walk back to their car without buying some toys for their baby (or, as we get into some real "hide me now" moments when he speaks, why they don't have a baby or what made them decide to get all those tattoos...). Annie will settle for nothing less than world domination.
• Finally, a super-cute photo just because.
  

One big week

On Sunday, I ran my first half-marathon, a full six months after signing up just so I would stay motivated to run through the winter. Lots of those frigid runs happened well after dark, after the kids were in bed. On exactly one of those nights, I noted how pretty the snow looked, almost like silver glitter showering from the street lamps. The rest of December to mid-March was pretty much sheer New England misery.

But my plan worked, even better than I'd hoped, all the way to running arguably the best race of my life on Memorial Day, with a time of 1 hour and 43 minutes for 13.1 miles. Unlike my disaster of a full marathon in 2004, they didn't have to mail me my finishers' medal (oh yeah, that really happened); my finish ranked in the top 10% both out of the 5,000-person field and the 500 or so in my age group. Crazy.

It's also good to be me on the work front. Yesterday, I wrote my first editorial. Ever. With a headshot alongside it, for goodness sake. More crazy.

But none of this has been without sacrifice or feeling like total crap when I'm not walking on air. I've made running a priority, which means other things, like sprucing up remotely maintaining the house and yard, tumble down the list. Other runners have told me they're jealous of the times I've been able to grab, and I want to tell them I've only succeeded by using running to procrastinating on other things most mortgage-paying adults consider more important.

Getting up and going to bed obscenely early to work, run, and snag a little alone time have meant less time with Brian. He's grown accustomed to watching prime time TV alongside a snoring lump on the couch.

And the kids almost start crying at the very sight of my laptop or BlackBerry. Earlier in the week our babysitter couldn't make it and I was forced to spend most of Tuesday clearly more focused on work than on them. They were pissed and hurt, and let me know it. I think Gunnar has forgiven me by now, but Annie continues to hug Brian tight and explain to her brother, "Dis MY daddy. Dat yo' Mommy." This is not too different from the other day at the park when Annie wanted a discarded piece of wood Gunny was playing with, and he offered, "Here, Annie, play with this dirt," and sprinkled a few grains of sand that had probably served as a raccoon's litter box into her fingers.

But happily, my evening tutoring gig is now over, which means most days I'll be all theirs from 11 a.m. until they go to bed. I've accepted that the push and pull on my mind and heart will never go away completely, that when one family member is up, sometimes the others are down, holding him or her on their shoulders.

We will work it out, I'm sure. And I'm even more sure that it's high time for a family vacation. In a couple of weeks, we'll be embarking on our first long weekend away with all four of us, which will be 100% dedicated to family--including supporting Brian in a very big race of his own. Lucky for me, Gunny and Annie are still too young to roll their eyes at this notion of family fun.

One big pot

To any of you who think you would just die if your boss or your mother-in-law or even your spouse read your blog, I'm here to tell you that the Internet is really a silly place to try to hide.

Though to an extent I keep my personal, business, and blog stuff separate online, it's really just to match the appropriateness of the audience rather than to keep secrets. So while my daughter may be cropped out of my LinkedIn photo and I direct most of the poop updates to the blog-related Twitter account, I'm proud both to have professional associates know I'm a mom and to have fellow moms learn about my career.

Compartmentalizing is overrated. Oh, but sharing everything with everyone would mean you'd have to censor yourself, you say. Well, yes and no. If you follow certain guidelines--that is, assume everyone you know, knew, or hope to know may be reading your updates--you won't have anything to worry about.

I'm glad that I let this blog get gritty. Part of the reason I started it, other than a secret dream to be on Oprah via Skype (since I'd be way too busy with my fame to fly to Chicago), was to create a body of work featuring my real voice, without the awkward quips about the weather or having to maintain professional distance.

I recently learned that someone I've been working for has been tuned into this voice and likes it. As a writer, that's the highest compliment I could ever hear. While it's my decidedly sterile professional portfolio that technically gets me hired as a writer, the words on here are a better measure of my abilities, I think. This is what I can and am willing to do when I'm writing about the things that matter to me most.

But, also partly through the way blogging has taught me to embrace my opinions, I realize, now that I'm independently in charge of my career, that perhaps I do have a similar spark for the topics I've been writing about at work all along. Do I wake up every day thinking about the new and perennial issues facing medical practices in the United States? Um. No. But after producing two children, I've spent enough time dangling from OBs' stirrups and waking up on-call pediatricians at 3 a.m. to be at least a minor-league expert in the service side of medical practice. And dependent on them to keep my babies safe and healthy, I care about what's going on with at least these doctors. Realistically, though, I consider myself to have a large and very personal stake in every detail of our medical system today and in the future. You know, because nothing makes you want to live forever like the lives you've created depending on you to watch them grow up. Insurance issues? These hit our family--and I'm sure most of yours--dead between the eyes.

So, while I'm mostly writing about healthcare as an objective journalist, I think I've finally unfogged the lens through which I observe and cleared the voice with which I report. I don't know exactly when or how this happened, and a part of me wonders how things would've turned out if it clicked sooner. (And I have a feeling 99% of you reading this are totally lost and bored with this post.) But the fact that I've reached this crossover point--where my personal and professional voices unify, just a little, for the very first time--to paraphrase our Vice President, is a big effing deal.

Attention work-at-home parents: Help!

Gunnar and Annie have fantastic imaginations. They're at the age now that they can play on their own or together for half hour or more without harming themselves, each other, or property. Usually. It's amazing. I seize these opportunities whenever possible to take care of housework, phone calls, light work stuff, maybe even personal hygiene. The trick is to lurk just out of their sight.

And during the warmer days last week, I was ecstatic to discover that our back yard is no longer a minefield of dirt to eat and steps from which to tumble. Our peewee swing set is the perfect size for both kids to use with zero of my help. A few sticks of sidewalk could keep them busy for hours, and they love eating lunch at their little picnic table (where the birds can clean up their mess!). They even let me sit in a chair with a cup of coffee and a book. It's almost like my former life but with more elaborate potty breaks.


I can't tell you how enjoyable it is to watch them pretend to drive to the mall (and squabble over having to visit the pretend bank first) and help each other up when they trip (particularly cute when they brush the grass off each other's bums). But they still need an immense amount of direct supervision--just enough to keep me from finishing much of anything during the day.

Even though our yard is fully fenced in, I'm not comfortable leaving them out there unattended for more than a second. I've made lunch with the back door blocked open so I can hear, but that's it. There's no good window from which to watch them.

No matter how involved they are with crayons or cars or even a Mickey Mouse Clubhouse marathon, they flock to my lap the second they see me trying to use the computer. If I want to use it, I have to hide in the kitchen, where I must type while standing. Occasionally, if Annie's napping, Gunnar will sit next to me at the dining room table and keep busy with a coloring book, but that's usually a time when Brian needs the laptop.

This was all fine and good when everything I had to accomplish during the day could be done opportunistically. And selecting outfits directly from the dryer is not a sin, by the way.

But now I have some writing assignments--paid ones!--that need to be completed during a very specific window of time. I can do a lot of prep work during other oddball hours, but the writing time is set in stone and there's not a lot of it to squander. Brian can often juggle his schedule to help, but not always. And let me tell you, completing a daily deadline with the two of them fighting and whining and begging to go outside (which would be perfect if they were just a little older) is almost more of an athletic than a professional endeavor.

The timing is consistent. Even on the days I don't work, I've been trying to get them used to entertaining themselves between breakfast and snack time, after which we go out or do something fun together. This routine works beautifully--except when Brian is two states away and I'm under the gun.

I know that the best solution would be to get a babysitter, and I expect that will be inevitable soon. But in the meantime, my workload is still technically unknown week-to-week (though a pattern is emerging), and it would be nice to hold off the extra expense for as long as possible.

So, ideas? Is it possible to get them used to me working in their presence a few hours a week? I'm not opposed to saving some extra fun toys and activities to busy them only during this time period. But other than crayons and their usual toys, what would you trust a two- and three-year-old with while you're preoccupied and possibly in the next room?

If you're wondering, yes, I still think I did the right thing.

A letter under your pillow

When I discovered blogging almost a year ago, it felt like it must've been invented especially for me, the girl who would very much like to be your friend but has a tough time breaking the ice. But from behind the screen, I could relax. For the first real time in my life, I was voicing opinions. Rather than creating an image, facade, or brand, I started peeling back the layers that had always stood between me and the rest of the human race.

Writing is what brings out my most authentic self, always has been.

When I was 16, I witnessed my 34-year-old stepmother--a woman I did not invite into my life and didn't at the time know how to feel about--become ravaged and eventually eaten up by lung cancer. The faster she wasted, the more pain and turmoil and conflict around and within me, the deeper I slipped into an eating disorder--a rage and despair turned inward--that would do its best to consume me for the next decade.

Shortly after she died, a part of me realized where my self-destruction would eventually lead--but that I could choose to make it stop. I owed it to those who couldn't control their monsters to at least try. I wrote a letter confessing my problems with food and placed it under my mom's pillow. And on that day I began my lifelong fight back against bulimia.

Although that was probably the most emotionally difficult part of my life (as teenage years generally are by default), the window in which I found myself responsible for two children under the age of two--affectionately dubbed the Spawnocalypse--ranks a close second.

It was just after Gunnar's second birthday that I started writing, very openly from almost day one. After I'd written enough posts to know I'd keep going, I linked to my blog on my personal Facebook page. (I had no idea that most people initially blogged for strangers and kept their fingers crossed their families would never find them.) Inexplicably without fear of being judged by family, friends, or coworkers, I'd placed virtual letters under about 200 pillows with the click of a mouse.

On that day, I came clean as a mom who often has no idea what she's doing.

And a couple of people wrote back, admitting that they could relate. Several kept reading. Nobody ever expressed much shock over the content of what I wrote, but apparently a lot of people in my life had no idea that I could write worth a damn, and even more were astounded to learn that I could be funny. (Am I really that much of a wet blanket in person? On second thought, nevermind...)

Since then, I started making connections with the blogosphere at large. I discovered Twitter--where for some reason I can really let my hair down--and met a few other bloggers in real life. Just like in any community, out there I've got acquaintances, friends, idols, and secret arch enemies. These people are a part of my daily life and I think my days are richer for it.

I've also dabbled in PR and product reviews (which, it turns out, aren't really my bag, but I'll still do them occasionally) and placed ads in my sidebar (and taken a lot of them down, too). It took me seven months to get my first ad revenue check, and it might be the proudest $28.91 I've ever earned.

This blog has been 100% my creation. My thoughts. My heart out there for all (theoretically) to see. Would I like to see it reach more people and maybe earn enough for a full box of diapers? Sure. I think the idea of a Bloggy Boot Camp sounds kind of cool, and may very well go to one. And tweet with a hashtag while I'm there.

Finally, most of what I write revolves around playground trips and potty training, about mundane everyday mom stuff. And about serious matters, about doubts, about seemingly impossible parenting challenges--followed by triumphant reports as we eventually conquer them one by one. I often wonder how much I would really examine my parenting and myself as a mom if I didn't blog. By holding up that mirror from time to time and bringing along an audience to keep me accountable when I recognize something needs to change, blogging may even make me a better mom.

Nonetheless, I guess all of these things make me a mommyblogger. It's a term some of us embrace and some despise. I wouldn't mind it if people could say it without such disdain in their voice. I wouldn't mind being part of "a cultural force to be reckoned with," if it were mentioned under a less insulting headline.

But you know what? I'm not just saying this because I haven't got any, but there's so much more to blogging than swag. At its core, it's not about page views or followers or even comments. It's about placing those letters under people's pillows and having them answered by people who are glad you did.

Postlets

I'm grateful for the comments you left recently reassuring me that roundups aren't a cop out from writing a real post ... since I seem to have again psyched myself out from composing something profound and/or meaningful.

I've also spent several hours now torturing myself trying to rewrite this story for publication. The writing process is fraught with highs and lows. Last night, I could hardly settle down to sleep recounting the pages of literature I'd just created. Today, I can't revisit a sentence without cringing like I'm hearing my impish voice on somebody's answering machine.

But I am still happily reliving a surprisingly unhellish 15K I ran last weekend. I went in feeling rightfully underprepared, but stuck to the plan that was supposed to involve harder training leading up to it anyway. I averaged 8-minute mile pace exactly and maybe could have finished faster if I'd done the math and realized that 15K is a lot closer to 9 miles than 10. Leave it to me to have over an hour and still run out of race.

At any rate, I'm thrilled to still be improving when my main goal was just to maintain enough fitness through the winter so that I could enjoy eventual 60-degree temps without getting a stitch or having to go back to wearing Brian's shirts. What I have been doing exactly, I couldn't tell you. Keeping even a basic running log is just one of those triggers that gets me all spazzy and difficult to live with when life interferes with hitting a certain weekly mileage. Instead, I base every workout on a combination of how I'm feeling, what I did the day before, and the likelihood of upcoming conflicts (I'll go longer if the next day looks iffy for weather or Brian's availability to watch the kids).

I'm still finding my groove with SAHM-dom. Remember, I was with the kids five days a week before, so it's not that drastic a change. But naturally, I've been putting more pressure on myself to somehow morph into Martha Stewart and make delightful crafts and meals and get this place pristine and tastefully decorated--and at that I'm so far failing miserably.

We like the mall, though. And look, I've got them trained!


Oh, and our TV begins emitting some kind of mind-erasing alien frequency after it's been on for about 30 minutes, so no need to worry about my overusing that crutch. That earns me some supermom points by default, right?

Sunday snippets

• We're back to square one-and-a-half with a little boy who's proclaimed he "doesn't like pottying." Lately, the only way he'll go is if I withhold something he really wants until he tries, and even that usually fails. The only exception to this trend was at LZ's house, where there's a super-fun frog potty. There, he actually told me he had to go at normally spaced intervals and kept his Pull-Up dry for the entire outing. Knowing he has this capability makes the current potty strike all the more maddening.
• Annie has her daddy wrapped so tightly around her little finger it may turn gangrene. She must somehow remember the shirt incident from when she was a few weeks old.
• My biggest tutoring achievement so far has been getting a third grader (who I'm going to affectionately refer to as Devil Dogs on here) to memorize his vowels. He even correctly identified several long vs. short vowel sounds in a row, beamed like he'd just shit out a pot of gold, and zinged "I was guessin'!" I adore the little twerp, but find his mother (who I suspect is actually his grandmother and know has a heart somewhere in that can't-be-bothered exterior) more obnoxious by the second.
• I'm officially open for business as a freelance writer and editor! It's weird having people inquire about my rates. I wish I had a nice simple answer like Linda Evangelista's.
• Gunnar and Annie have for the most part been playing beautifully together lately. Their favorite game is "candy store," where they pretend to share and sample various invisible confections. The runner up is whatever this is...
  

Cliff jumping

Sometimes when you don't hear from me for a while, it's because I have nada to report. Other times, it's because I'm consumed with something not ready to be shared publicly. And because I can think of nothing else--and I don't believe in cryptic posts--I wait.

I also have a general policy about not breaking major personal news on the Internet; but if you recall, I break my own rules almost compulsively.

So, Mom, Dad, coworkers who haven't heard yet, the World Wide Web at large: I quit my part-time, flexible, benefited, work-at-home job, pulled the kids out of daycare, and acquired my long-coveted title of stay-at-home mom.

Well, this is a transition period. I've got until the end of the month to tie up loose ends with my day job and gear up for another long-term goal: becoming a freelance writer.

Of course, I know that building up the work will take time, during which I'll be tutoring school kids in language arts and math for an agency participating in No Child Left Behind. Now, I was never exactly a superstar at fourth grade math, but I've learned to overlook details like not being abundantly qualified.

Giving my notice was an exhilarating jump toward freedom and independence for which I've been building up the courage for nearly three years. Now, I'm free falling, bracing for my belly to smack the water.

Wish me luck while I swim.

Tuesday roundups return

When I looked back to choose my favorite posts of 2009 and saw all those "Tuesday roundup" entries, I told myself "I'm not going to do those anymore. I'm going to put half-decent writings on here or none at all."

Fortunately, I didn't include this pledge in my resolutions, the rest of which are going sustainably fair. Except for the yelling one. Somebody tell me how to quickly and reliably get a 20-month-old's attention from across the room when she's in the middle of mauling her brother's face like a pit bull, and we can revisit this subject.

In the meantime:

• Yes, for whatever reason, Annie decided to sink her mangled-from-thumb-sucking little teeth into Gunnar's nose. Perhaps she mistook it for a jelly bean, Gunny's potty-training treat du jour (from which she's benefited plenty).
• Gunny is back to wearing pants. And for "a whole bunch of jelly beans," I convinced him to try pulling them only down to his feet rather than all the way off before attempting to get to the potty in time. He's remarkably quick at scurrying across the entire room with sweatpants and a Pull-Up around his ankles.
• Guns still hasn't again "lost his body" anywhere except in the comfort of his Pull-Up. We're trying to stay upbeat and encouraging and hope he decides go go for it on his own. Though some recommend extending the diaper-free thing for three months, they clearly have never experienced a New England winter in a drafty Dutch Colonial.
• Our girl is graduating from the parrot phase of speech and beginning to express independent thought. As I lifted her out of bed this morning: "Good mawning, Mommy. I wahnt-a FOOD." She also apparently thinks she's Italian. And in the mob.
  
• I returned to the track one more time to see if I could keep my head out of my ass for all 15 laps. With a finishing time of 12:53, I finished the 3000 meters eight seconds faster than the previous week and just 25 seconds slower than a personal best set with twice the training and half the competing responsibilities.
• Gunny and Annie played civilly long enough for me to type 99% of this. Now must get a certain Mafia princess down for her nap before things get ugly.
  

Seven things that kind of get to me

We all get irritated sometimes, even without always having a super good reason. Here are a handful of relatively benign occurrences that nonetheless bug the shit out of me.

1. Premature RSVP pestering. If you send a person an invitation that includes a date you expect a response, it's not okay to call invitees prior to that date specifically to ask if they're coming to your shindig. At least try to work it into a natural conversation. I also recommend setting the deadline for a couple of days before you need the final head count, so that if you do need to chase people down (and I may be one of them), you won't truly be desperate to know that minute.
2. Claiming that pet ownership is "just like having a baby." I get that dogs and cats and ferrets need love and attention and food, but they do not require 24/7 supervision or keep you from sleeping for six months because they have gas. And until I see an infant taking a dump on someone's lawn, I will maintain that calling a non-human a baby is the same thing as calling a paper route a career.
3. Misuse of that vs. which. This one is hardly fair. I earned a Bachelor's in English (from a state school, but still) and completed seven years in the publishing industry before it clicked. I was at a copyediting workshop and the speaker said to put aside the whole restrictive/nonrestrictive clause garbage and just remember that a natural comma always falls before the word "which." Now, when you pay $12 for a new paperback to read during your precious little free time, seeing phrases like "the air which I breathe" will drive you crazy, too. You're welcome.
   
4. Misuse of apostrophe's. Really hope you caught that.
   
5. Meanies on both sides of the stay-at-home vs. go-to-work issue. Putting other people down is not going to accomplish anything. By all means, take pride in doing whatever works for your family and circumstances, share your experience and how you handle challenges, but lose the judgment. I'm tired of hearing and reading know-it-all, fanatical, vicious, nasty comments from both sides whenever this topic is raised. This is really the only unforgivable item on the list.
6. Saying "You're so brave to do __________" as a euphemism for "I would never do that. What an imbecile you are."
   
7. Link lust. Maybe I'm dooming myself here, but exchanging links without consideration to merit defeats the whole purpose. I also think the whole "follow me and I'll follow you" concept is lame. I will follow you if I want to keep up with what you write--obligation free.
   

What reader(s) are saying about Spawnocalypse

"I so look forward to Deb’s posts. They completely make me laugh, have 'aha' moments, and, well, feel like someone else went through the same thing. Spawnocalypse makes you feel comfortable as a mom, wife, person, and friend right away. Deb puts a really positive spin on a huge adjustment period in most new parents’ lives. Awesome job, Deb!"

Melissa Bugaj

Night Light Stories

Humble blogger's note: I'd love to remove the parenthesis from the "s." Drop me a line at deb[at]spawnocalypse[dot]com and add your thoughts!

The way I write

The No. 1 comment I've gotten about this blog is that people like the writing. Despite being left to deduce that the jury is still out on my competence as a parent, it is a wonderfully motivating compliment.

Unlike running, which I loved even when I measured my progress by how many spots I was from the back (third-to-last was a shining moment in high school cross country), I don't think I would write if I didn't believe I was kind of good at it. Not outrageously good, but good. The world is full of people who are extraordinarily talented with words, and I don't think I belong anywhere near that echelon.

But, at Brian's suggestion that some people might be curious, I'll share the fundamental writing rules I follow (Hint: the only mention of grammar is about misusing it.).

I like to study others' writing styles. When I come across a sentence that resonates, I read it two or three or ten times before continuing, and then sometimes have to go back a page to remind myself of the context.

I tend to be a sentence-level reader of life in general, often missing the obvious in favor of the detail. As for writing, picture an indoor rock-climbing wall. The multicolored ledges are the words, images, or ironies I grab, one at a time--with just tiptoes pushing off the one before--to propel me to a conclusion. I would not be able to tell you how high the wall was--the primary fact most people would use to describe the experience. I'm not sure if this perspective is a quirk or a fault or a gift, but with the right editor it works. With blogging I'm on my own, so I try to read my work pretending I'm a specific other person, like my mom or the mailman, to identify anything that might seem awry to someone not in my head.

I'm more of a traditionalist when it comes to the writing process taught in Comp 101: brainstorm, outline, draft, revise, revise, revise.

My brainstorming for creative projects takes place around the clock. I think the best way to avoid the dreaded writers' block is to, instead of wracking your brain for a good idea, go about your life and be ready to capture interesting thoughts when they strike. For me, this means keeping a notebook and pen nearby, especially on the nightstand (I usually try to lean over and scrawl without turning on the light). When I was taking poetry workshops, I even kept a mini cassette recorder in the car. I might start doing that again. The beginnings of a recent post began while I was driving Annalie to a doctor's appointment. I kept repeating phrases to myself, lips moving, until we got to the parking lot, where I could search for a scrap of paper and a working pen in Brian's car and jot the important points down before they floated away like soap bubbles. (I'd mixed up the time of her appointment anyway, by three hours, so we weren't late.)

With articles for publication, I usually draw up an old-school outline with the Roman numerals and everything. Sometimes I have to do it for manuscripts I'm editing; and it is a total bitch to assign organization after the fact. I'd rather start off with a plan and then change it than have to take a brain dump, as intelligent as it may be, and sort it out.

However, when beginning to draft, I try to start with the idea that will capture the most attention, even if it's technically nowhere near once upon a time. In most cases, it's better to do a little extra work to start in the middle and get it to make sense than take up space with a logical but ho-hum beginning. I once had a creative writing professor who would have students read their work aloud--and routinely interrupt them in the middle of their first sentence with, "Nah, doesn't grab me. Who's next?" As infuriating as this little game of his was, yeah, I learned something.

Revision and self-editing, as I mentioned, are mostly about reading from someone else's perspective. Would your next-door neighbor get anything out of that statement, or could she use an example? I'm also kind of picky about the integrity of each sentence and paragraph on its own. A good way to test whether you've written re-readable prose--in a positive way, not because it's confusing--is to read your sentences and paragraphs in reverse order.

Before you consider yourself done, be a ruthless word cutter. Think of it like trying to fit all of your shit into a U-Haul making one trip. Leave the cool but broken lamp in the Dumpster.

Outside of these basics, 90% of my tricks include experimenting with punctuation, sentence length and rhythm, and breaking the rules on purpose. To get away with fragments and other liberties, the rest of your piece must be clean if not immaculate. And there needs to be a reason to veer from convention--to slow the reader down, for example.

Finally, sincerity is paramount. Even with fiction, the best passages are derived from something the writer actually saw, heard, or felt. It's fine to mix and match experiences and sensations into different scenarios, but few people will believe an invented emotion.

A weighty issue

In the wake of celebrity supermoms strapping on angel wings and strutting the runway just weeks postpartum, moms are among the fastest-growing group of eating disorder sufferers.

The irony for me is that motherhood, with a combination of other well-timed factors, seems to have finally freed me from nearly a lifelong unhealthy obsession with weight and food.

Although I’ve outed myself as a former bulimic and exercise bulimic to only a small number of immediate family members, I suspect others will hardly be shocked by the revelation. My personality is essentially a blueprint for food issues: I’m a Virgo, frustrated perfectionist, and hopeless “atta’ girl” addict.

After years in and out of therapy, I’m an accomplished student of my disorders. The common denominator of every relapse has been a feeling of “I can’t do this” in tandem with something I absolutely can’t get out of. In some cases, eventual quitting was the best solution I could think up at the time. So I ditched nursing school for a decidedly less-bloody English degree. I gave up coaching track--and the free master's degree to come with it--after about eight days of certainty that I had nothing to offer a team full of runners more talented than me.

When I couldn’t eliminate or transform the stress, I purged it.

But today, now responsible for two little lives, a marriage, and an outrageous mortgage, nearly every minute is filled with pressures that until recently I never knew existed. But the compulsion to temporarily force it all away is essentially gone.

Part of my “cure” must be derived from the perspective brought on by motherhood. I never want Brian to have to sit our children down and explain that Mommy’s heart stopped because she couldn’t get rid of her batwings.

I’m also unscientifically certain that part of it is chemical and hormonal. My major turning point occurred almost immediately after tossing my birth control pills about three years ago (thank you, ParaGard). These days, I notice that the anxiety and helplessness I sense during my period is the way I used to feel 24/7 since the onset of puberty. Having started the Pill in my late teens, I just never knew that the hormonal roller coaster had an end.

And finally, I’ve gotten more serious about healthier means of catharsis. I’ve said before that running and writing are my food and oxygen. To add to the metaphors, lack of confidence has been my Kryptonite.

But from here out, I’m making a concerted effort to not worry about others’ opinions. Although I’ve never been a big fan of Howard Stern, I do believe in his motto regarding free speech: If you don’t like what I have to say, don’t listen/read.

After a lifetime of trying my damnedest to be invisible, it seems unconscionable that I’m broadcasting my most personal thoughts. But just like the moment my firstborn started crowning (well, a moment technically much sooner, but this is when the reality hit), I have now passed the point of no return.

Even within the throes of my battles with food, weight, and stress, I always intended to find a way to help other sufferers when I became healthy enough. Now is that time. If you think you or someone you love has a problem, you’ve officially got someone to talk to.

For trained experts and other resources, contact the National Eating Disorders Association.

Why 'having it all' is a bunch of hooey

Even before having kids, I was pretty sure I detested the phrase "having it all" in reference to moms who work or engage in sports, hobbies, or an active social life. The truth is that doing it all is difficult.

Throughout my first pregnancy, I compiled a mental list of all the projects I'd be able to complete during my April-May-June maternity leave: plant a garden in the front yard, take up scrapbooking, paint these dingy ceilings that have been taunting me since our hurried move to this house three years ago. Note the tense; ceilings are still gross. And our front yard is still fairly devoid of life, including grass, which is a plus since we don't have to mow as often. The kids' coverage on Facebook and this blog are the closest things they'll have to babybooks. My gluestick dried up sometime around when the colic set in.

I also set aside the two activities that were like food and oxygen to me before motherhood: running and writing. Although I managed to keep jogging until about halfway through my pregnancy and laced up again six weeks postpartum, I found it too grueling to be enjoyable or even healthy once regular sleep and sustenance became so elusive.

Right now, I'm on my fifth or sixth attempt to get back on the running scene. I have attended my college's past few alumni running events. Though rather than racing, I was working off my mommy paunch wrangling two under two. This time, the warming weather and my Tuesday-night running buddies are on my side. I'm about three weeks into a spring fling with my old flame, and am planning to run a 5K May 3 with some old teammates. I'd ask you to wish me luck, but I don't need it because, for the first time, just participating really is enough. (Motherhood makes you say lame things on occasion.)

Writing, on the other hand, happens to be part of what I do for a living. Although I'm happy to have a job doing something I like, work-related writing doesn't quite scratch the itch. As some (three?) of you know, I've forayed into the blogosphere before with an attempted running blog. But that ran out of steam during what is sure to be one of many not-running-so-much periods. But there is no taking a hiatus from motherhood. I've been meaning to write essays and journals for ages but, without an audience, never get around to it.

Those of you who know me can imagine that it's not easy for me to open such a big window into my personal and family life. Those of you who know me better know that we've had no windowshade on our front picture window since the kids ripped it down about a month ago. We just turn down the lights and say we'll head to Blinds to Go next weekend.

This brings me to my next point, an attempt to explain how I think I'm going to find the time to dedicate to this blog for a sustained period of time. After all, I have dishes to wash and laundry to fold and cupcakes to burn. But the chores aren't going anywhere. In contrast, the ideas coursing through my mind while I'm out for a jog or adjusting the babies' blankets before I go to sleep at night will evaporate if I don't get them down.

So thanks for your support and interest in this site so far. I hope by sharing my experiences that I will at least entertain you if not help you though something similar. And I love getting comments, so feel free to share. For instance, what parts of your life took a backseat (squished under the carseats) when you had kids? How have you incorporated these things back into your life?