​Everybody has something.

Maybe you were born with a metabolic disorder, or your body never made adult incisors. You have six toes. You're sensitive to light, or loud noises, or scents. You're allergic to shellfish, peanuts, milk, sunlight, or water. You have a temper. You need contacts or hearing aids or medications to get your senses up to snuff.

Maybe you were born in the wrong body for you, or the wrong religion for you, or the wrong country for you. Maybe you were born in the wrong century. 

Perhaps your family is uncomfortably conservative, uncomfortably liberal, uncomfortably religious, or disconcertingly atheist. Your parents love you too much or too little. Your parents abuse you mentally, physically, or emotionally.

You could be dyslexic, or have ADHD, or find school really, really difficult for other reasons.

You are athletically, academically, or emotionally deficient. You are a certifiable genius, a professional athlete, or completely emotionally secure. You have issues with food.

You are painfully shy, perpetually insecure, or overly confident. You are socially awkward. You have hobbies that others consider strange, boring, or ludicrous.

Maybe, unlike your friends, you are attracted to boys, or to girls, or to boys and girls, or you're not attracted to anyone.

Maybe you are a loud chewer or the gas you pass is extra stinky. You bite your nails, pick your scabs, or moisturize incessantly. You have an abnormally large tongue, wide feet, or thin hair. Your skin is the color of night. Or clouds. Or noodles.

In any group of people, everyone is a little off. (If you don't know what is off about you, ask around. Some honest soul will share.) And, like everything else in the world, it's not a big deal. Our differences are what makes life interesting.

Make time now or make time later; you still have to do it.



No one has enough time. No one. About two years ago, when 2010 was born and I realized my free time was virtually nil, I took stock of my life and the many requirements of being an adult.

I started consistently making time for writing, because that’s what I wanted to do. Most of my time belongs to family, but I still make time for writing every day. 

My house is perpetually cluttered (clean, yes, but cluttered with toys and kidstuff) because I choose to write during nap time instead of tidying the toys.

My back yard resembles a jungle. If I can be outside, I’m playing with my children or teaching them to garden.

I go to the salon when Brandi-not-her-real-name can fit me in at the last minute. 

So, I make time for the important things, and figure everything else will fall in line, or it won’t. I’m not sure how this happened. In my 20s, I thought I was a superwoman with infinite energy and impeccable time management who could conquer the world in a weekend. Now, I am a mother, and I am a writer. I can’t make any more time to wear a cape.

Your dreams will become your reality, in odd ways.


Until my early twenties, I dreamed of becoming a politician--a big one. I would be Governor of Ohio, or a U.S Senator or perhaps an ambassador to an exotic locale.

After years of government work jaded me beyond interest in politics, I am exploring the presidency through writing. I wish I could poll everyone here: what do you want in a President? What traits should forever prohibit someone from earning the office? How can we preserve the integrity of the office while maintaining the coveted title of Most Powerful in the World?

I love exploring this. Once again, my worlds collide.

You needn’t worry about your writing.



Now back from our mammoth vacation, I realize I shouldn’t have worried about writing. I’ve mentioned before that I freak out without time to write. Turns out, if I’m solo parenting on a really long road trip, and if I’m sleeping with the kids every night, and if lots of other kids and their moms are involved, I’ll be too tired to write.

That’s a new one for me. I was too tired to WORRY about not writing. And I returned with lots of new ideas. Who knew?

*Fortune Cookies are migrating to Friday, because Fortune Cookie Friday sounds better.

You will wake in Balasana at 2 a.m.


Commonly called child’s pose, Balasana is a yoga position in which the body is face-down, knees tucked to chest in a modified fetal position. It is supposed to be restful.

Our family is anything but restful these days. 2010 is waking three or more times in the night for songs and love and rocking and ME. Her little nest is on the floor at present, so as I sang her ten billion songs last night, I curled on the floor in Balasana and rested my head next to hers.

It was not restful. I woke some time later, very uncomfortable and very cold. I’m a yogi, but I am too old to sleep like that. My whole body aches this morning, and I can’t wait to go to bed.

Mind your age, folks.

You will get the flu vaccine for your littles (the ones who pick their noses, put things in their mouth, sometimes lick their friends, like to taste shopping carts, wonder how hair tastes, and are surrounded by other small people who act similarly) but YOU will get the flu.

And a nasty case of bronchitis.

Next year, get the flu vaccine.

Your baby will enjoy her longest naps when you have a sitter.

She knows you are out of the house, and no sitter is as fun as Mom, so why not sleep the afternoon away? 

Note: this will never happen when your plan for naptime is to clean the house, write a blog post, organize the basement, catch up with an old friend, or prep a complicated dinner.

Four years after you start nursing, you will have to throw away your trusty nursing pillow.*


*This is your fault, by the way. 

Always, ALWAYS clean up the vomit starting with unwashable items. Yes, the nursing pillow cover goes in the washer, but the pillow itself does not.  And that vomit is stinky.  And black.  And foul.  The chair will be there in an hour, as will the floor.  Before you deal with the pile of barfy laundry, peel the cover off your nursing pillow and try to save it.

Your preschooler will stop jumping on her bed.*


*as soon as her friend cracks her head open, drips blood all over the house, leaves one gory bloody handprint on the kitchen cabinet, and gets five staples in the emergency room.