DIARY

DIARY

Beginning Of An Era

My children have moved several times over the course of their lives. Probably too many. I have worried about this - about the effect all these moves might have on their sense of security; their understanding of "home." Not long ago, I confessed this to a friend - one who has moved her own children several times, including transcontinentally - and what she said to me was this: "There are parents who stay still. You don't. That's simply the mother they have, and it's neither a good thing nor a bad thing...it's just one of the things that make your family what it is."

I like to think that's true; that they'll grow up feeling like they've had the opportunity to experience many different places, and that those places - and the people who they've met and loved - are still a part of them. It is true that they have a mother who is restless, and who tends to impose her restlessness upon them, but along with all that restlessness comes adventure.

I grew up in a completely different set of circumstances. Shortly after I was born, my parents bought an apartment on the West Side of Manhattan, in a converted piano factory with massive arches that used to frame horse stalls, and wrought-iron balconies crisscrossing a large central courtyard that grew tulips in the spring and was the stage for what I firmly believe was the world's scariest Halloween display come fall. Most of the residents were in the theater or film industry; that was who gravitated towards Hell's Kitchen back then - or maybe it was just the only place in the city they could afford. When I was twelve, a director who lived on the first floor asked me - out of the blue - to audition for a commercial, and by the end of the day I had an agent and had set off down a path that would shape the next two decades of my life. I feel the butterfly effects of that chance meeting in my life still.

DIARY

Those Pesky Pandemic Habits

Yesterday, my therapist asked me what I've been doing for self-care lately.

"...I ordered a new bed?" I said.

And - according to my therapist, anyway - that's great! The bed is essentially an oversized hospital bed - it goes up, it goes down, it vibrates at different speeds (!) - and it's a gift to myself that will theoretically have a positive and long-lasting impact on my physical and mental health. Which: Hooray.

DIARY

The Quietening

Read all my posts about divorce here

On Valentine's Day afternoon, I took a nap with my kitten (pictured above having mixed feelings about this choice). I sat on a patio in the valley with my friend Margo, and ate some good sushi. I Facetimed with the kids, who were spending the weekend with their dad. I asked him to handle their Valentine's Day presents, and didn't beat myself up about opting out of this particular task. I fell asleep again only a few hours after I'd awoken from my nap, then woke up at 11PM, watched some bad TV, and went back to bed. Everything I did all day long - from the breakfast I ate to the midnight show that I watched - was my choice.

At some point during the day I posted this picture to Instagram, and thought about how happy I was when it was taken. I thought about what a difference a decade makes. I thought about how happy I am now...except I'm not even sure I'd call this feeling "happiness" - it's easier to define it as the absence of sadness. I think it's the kind of feeling I've spent my entire life both searching for and running away from.

DIARY

Because It’s Christmas

All my son wanted for Christmas was a kitten. Literally. And I know, I know: Every kid wants a kitten...but I have never in my life encountered a human being so deeply connected to cats. I told him that Santa doesn't do kittens. I told him we have enough animals. I told him Mommy is all full up on responsibility.

...But it's Christmas.


powered by chloédigital