SCRUB, Christina. SCRUB.

Like a lot of people, I binge watched Tidying Up with Marie Kondo after the New Year. At the time, I was super inspired. Converting this tiny Japanese woman’s vision into something that would work for a chaotic Scots-Irish household that looks like a Lego factory and a dog hair factory mated, and their offspring exploded in our living room? No problem!

I decided to start small, by reorganizing the kid’s dresser. Success! His day-of-the-week underpants are now stacked in such a way that I can see what day is on the butt without having to shuffle things around (because, as chaotic as we are, J and I are not about to put our kid in the wrong day’s underpants. The horror!).

Next came the linen closet, which involved some collaboration with the hubby. Here is an actual conversation we had:

Me (sarcastically): So this dingy towel you stole from the gym 15 years ago in order to help clean the snow off of your car—I assume it sparks joy for you?

J (not sarcastically): Actually, yes.

I mean, where do you even go from there?

We’re both lifelong packrats, and we’re both stubborn. So, for example, if I am questioned as to why I have held on to my AP Calculus prep book, when the contents are now as useful to me as the language of some long-dead civilization (good job of retaining information, brain!), I push back. “A boy wrote a nice note to me in it! It was the first sign that maybe I wasn’t entirely hideous!”

Of course, at 40, I should not need the help of a 23-year-old textbook to know I’m not hideous. But some days, it helps.

As to why one would find joy in a stolen gym towel? That, I have no idea.

You know, Oliver, I sometimes think I was born with a genius - an absolute genius - for doing the wrong thing.

It's raining (again), there are contractors in the house preventing me from taking my noontime nap, and I chafed myself somewhere uncomfortable during my run this morning...SO let's talk about some Oscar gowns! I've been a bit disappointed with the selection this year. Everything seems to be a throwback to the 80s. See, for example, this one, which I have dubbed the "What about prom, Blane?" dress:

But there are a few contenders. Badgley Mischka, $6,955:

Love the shiny tuxedo look!

Elie Saab, $14,875:

A similar neckline to last year, but I can't turn down this color.

Oscar de la Renta, $13,290:

Who doesn't love a textured mullet dress?

Jenny Packham, $3,775:

Because a badass 40-year-old can totally pull off a jumpsuit.

Ralph and Russo (everyone seems to be wearing this designer this year!), $28,810:

AKA, "You Could Just Go Buy a Car Instead." 

So, what should I wear?

High Anxiety can be a very dangerous enemy!

My brain is a master at concocting what I refer to as “anxiety dreams”—basically, nocturnal exercises in frustration. They usually take one of two forms:

1. I need to do something simple, but ridiculous circumstances prevent me from completing the task (e.g, I need to get dressed but there’s something wrong with every piece of clothing I put on)
2. For some reason, I’ve been forced to return to a job/situation I hated (e.g., I’m back working as a patent secretary after a 14-year leave of absence)

It’s hard to shake these dreams after I wake up—the circumstances are false but the anxiety’s effect on me is real. I’ve always been an anxious person, but now that I’m 40 and much more sure of myself than I was in my 20s, my day-to-day anxiety is much improved (also thanks to medication). Apparently my subconscious hasn’t gotten the message, though, because my brain routinely roams my college campus at night, desperately trying to remember what, where, and when my next class is.

I’ve dealt with anxiety and depression on and off for about 20 years. Thankfully the depression is in check right now—the last time it flared up was when we moved to Charlotte. I was lonely, my beloved dog had just died, it felt like my kid was throwing tantrums 24/7, and we were all stuck in an apartment waiting for our house in VA to sell so we could buy a new one. House hunting under a cloud of depression was particularly challenging. I remember telling my husband that I could be objective, but that I wasn’t in a place where I could get excited. About anything.

I guess my point is that it’s frustrating to not feel in control of your own mind. It’s frustrating to have to rely on medication (and to find the right dosage that will make you feel better without gaining 20 pounds). And it’s frustrating that, often, anxiety is still in control of my nights—although sometimes I can wake up and laugh about it, particularly when the dream is something as ridiculous as “Harry Connick Jr. needs you to find and train a choir of apes.” I think I’d rather do that than go back to being a patent secretary, anyway.

No, you're not a bad mother. You're just a barking lunatic.

I always thought I wanted a girl. Now I think, why? I was never particularly girlie. I was often mistaken for a boy in childhood (could be because I dressed like an extra from an amateur production of Huckleberry Finn…). And now I feel like I live in a particularly girlie part of the world—big bows, braids, smocked dresses. Not that there’s anything wrong with that, but it’s not me.

I helped build General Grievous’s Lego ship before 8 am. I can name all of the Rescue Bots. Some show up to the gym in full make up and “I don’t sweat, I glisten” shirts; I show up in Target active wear and sweat…a lot. I’m a half-drowned rat doing burpees.

I often complain about how horrible middle school boys are (Jeremy always reminds me that middle school girls are no treat, either). I know I’m going to have to get over it in the next 6 years or so, when I’ll be parenting one of those beasts. A particular bad memory is from 8^th grade, when a kid was handing me a paper or something and said, “Here you go, big girl.” Of course, he was talking about my boobs. Now, this kid was probably four-and-a-half feet tall and 80 pounds. All I had to say was, “Thanks, little boy.” But of course I didn’t.

I also kicked a home run in kickball once, and a guy on my team pretended to offer me a high five, then pulled his hand away at the last minute. Like, why? I didn’t see YOU kicking any home runs (perhaps THAT’S why). I should have pretended not to see him pull his hand away and high-fived him in the face. Again, I did nothing.

Still, I have great hope for my wonderful kid. He loves PJ Masks, and is happy to pretend to be Owlette. A woman at Disney World was teasing him about his Darth Vader shirt. When she told him she found his shirt scary, he offered to cover up Darth Vader with his hand so she couldn’t see him. He calls me beautiful and kisses me on the hand. He is a sweet, caring, sensitive, hysterical little boy, and I wouldn’t want him to be anyone other than exactly who he is.

That being said, I also clean up a lot of pee off of the floor.