Posts Under: DIARY


When The Cracks Start To Show

For day two of our book tour, Erin and I headed into East Hampton for an event hosted by BookHampton at Calypso St. Barth’s, where I discovered that there are entire communities inhabited by people with better hair than me – you know, that kind of thick, healthy hair that you only get to have if you are very, very wealthy, related to a Kennedy, and/or an equestrian. There are three Ralph Lauren stores. On one block.

We went to a diner for lunch, and then, mid egg-salad sandwich, I lost it.


Book Tour Day 1: Photo Diary

I think I lived six or seven lifetimes yesterday. It literally did not stop from the moment I opened my eyes at six until the moment my head hit my pillow at midnight.

Oh, excerpt for once. I have this little quirk: interacting with other human beings in an environment where the focus is on me generates this very specific kind of stress that has the unfortunate byproduct of making me fall asleep. You know those fainting goat videos? Like that.

So yeah, I fell asleep flat on my stomach on my parents' bed an hour before I was due to walk onto a stage and talk about pregnancy for an hour and a half. I did end up making it on time, but my micro-nap had the effect of making me a little loopy, so I went ahead and told an audience of strangers about that time when I was giving birth to my second child and was so terrified of having a repeat of my terrible, horrible, accidentally natural first birth experience that I hit the little GIVE ME DRUGS button as often as I possibly could, which meant that by the time my daughter came into the world I was a very special kind of high that made me think it might be a good idea to pull a Kourtney Kardashian and pull my daughter out...myself. The teeny tiny iota of my brain that was still functioning properly at that moment very fortunately alerted me to the fact that this would be an extremely bad idea, so I went ahead and let the doctor handle the baby-extrication process, but oh man, it was close.


On Tiny Little Protests And Being Embarrassing

Here is me, sitting on the roof of my car somewhere along I-5, holding up signs that my son and I scrawled on the blank pages of a Melissa & Doug coloring book that we picked up at a roadside gift shop specializing in BBQ rubs and adorable wall hangings that read "Wine A Bit; You'll Feel Better."

The signs I'm holding in that photo, in case you can't read them, say "SCIENCE MATTERS" and "FACTS MATTER." My son wanted his to say "MAD SCIENCE." We had been reading about Saturday's March For Science all morning, but hadn't thought to plan ahead so we could join one. We drove through miles and miles of dusty fields on our way home from the campsite where we'd spent our weekend, trying to explain what was happening to our son via the story of the Lorax. Finally we stopped, and bought a coloring book to make signs with. Then we parked our car by the freeway off-ramp, set beach towels on the blisteringly hot roof, and I crawled up, aware that I was about to seriously embarrass myself.

Then I started yelling. Mostly call-and-response chants, because despite the fact that they don't make a whole lot of sense for a party of one, I like them.


Off The Grid

Kern River Campground | Bakersfield, California

The first thing my children do when they wake up in the morning - every morning - is ask to watch TV. The answer is virtually always no (except for on the weekends, when the answer is yes, of course; here are some Quentin Tarantino movies and Doritos; go away). But over the course of each and every day it pops up over and over again:

Can I watch Wellie Wishers? No.