These last few months I’ve been pretty quiet but last week, during a normal day of rewrites, I suddenly thought of a joke.

I once pasted an ad from a clothing magazine into my scrapbook that said “When I Grow Up, I’m Going To Be President And My Husband’s Going To Be First Man.”

Jason often mentions that my anxiety might lessen if I lived in a more “peaceful” environment. I often mention that I don’t like it when he tells me what to do.

Ron’s death was like his life: dramatic and on his own schedule.

I hate fighting. Like any good Midwesterner, I prefer to shove everything deep down inside and never talk about it again until one day I passively aggressively give him the smaller piece of chicken.  

A year ago this kind of news would have flattened me – sent me to bed for the weekend with a bottle of wine and a “Call The Midwife” binge session.

People say this should be a magical time but it doesn’t feel very magical. Instead, it feels like I’m playing Russian roulette with my ovaries.

So what happens when your heart is divided?

It was your basic, week-long summer camp – set on a big lake, boasting activities like canoeing, fishing, campfires and speaking only in Norwegian.

When I was in fourth grade we had a Halloween party at school. Most of the girls were going to dress as a witch or a princess but I secretly wanted to dress as the decidedly less popular choice of “Animal Trainer.”

Not since leaving their village in Norway has any woman in my grandma’s family moved as far away as I have.  She cannot comprehend what I’m doing out here “with the all the liberals.”

My first boyfriend was a climber and just like his tattoos and his double pierced right nipple, it had always impressed me.

Some people call it “being in the zone” – my husband calls it “being terrified to interrupt me because I might yell at him.”

A word about my college: I’m crazy for it.

At times I miss being single. I miss the days when no one was around to bear witness to the fact that I could watch twelve hours of Law and Order or go for months without washing my pajamas.

If you are a parent, currently reading this as your toddler throws-up on you and your first-grader asks you for the millionth time if she can please have a phone – I know, I know.  These life-shattering realizations I’m having are things you already know.

I’ve tried to consciously stop using the s-word but it leaps, unbidden, out of my mouth in every situation. It’s so deeply ingrained in me that it’s almost physically impossible to stop.