24/7

I have no idea what The Boss knows. I haven't got any context for this four year old girl and the way in which she assigns meaning to the world around her. Hints come out only in cryptic bits. "I don't want to go to heaven. I want to live more," she told me as we watched an HBO Family show that broached the topic of death in a segment on dreamcatchers. "I want to live more than ever." I nodded. She was nestled in the microsuede loveseat across from me. I was on the sofa, where the leather crackled beneath me as I pulled my feet in close to my seat. It was cold. I rubbed my hands together, less in heated promise than in prayer. I am always searching for the words. "You will," I said. Yeah, that's good , I thought to myself. I nodded again. "You will."

I was crying in front of the laptop, moved to tears by the viral video of 200 people dancing to The Sound of Music's Do Re Mi at a train station in Antwerp . From the first splash of the salt-laced liquid on my desk, I had to wonder what the hell was wrong with me. I cried and contemplated, unable to enjoy the strange wonder of the moment. A quick assessment of the facts didn't lead to me to any conclusions: a catchy tune reverberating from loudspeakers across a huge expanse of stone and marble; people going about their business; a few of them breaking into dance; more and more joining in; and, finally, a whole lotta happiness! As it ended, I remained in front of my computer, stumped. I couldn't understand why my emotions needed out of my body so badly because of a bunch of Belgians. That's when the first of two truths became evident. The logical idea of questioning my hormones reminded me immediately that it was, indeed, almost that time of the month. My visit to the

It was the end of a day full of errands as The Partner, the kids and I traveled up a two lane state highway toward home. This particular stretch of semi-bucolic road is known as a death trap due, in part, to exorbitant levels of traffic that would be better routed elsewhere. Construction began in 1971 on an expressway to alleviate the congestion, but was halted because of lack of funding. The half-baked expressway ends abruptly in my town, with traffic forced to exit before the weedy approach to an overpass that leads nowhere. It's imperative to stay in one's own lane in the best of circumstances; on this road, it's the only means of survival. There WILL be oncoming traffic. On this trip home, we were following a young driver who, apparently, didn't get that email. And it wasn't for lack of it being sent through his BlackBerry . The car swerved slightly into the oncoming lane. It's to early to be drunk , I thought, though I know the laws of probability didn'

Parenting young children requires a selflessness that is more apparent in its whole than its parts. On any given day, I don't necessarily recognize that my every act is dependent upon one of the subordinates running around at my feet. I might grab a cup of coffee and think it's about me, or read a chapter from a book and feel renewed. I might even get out for an evening with the Partner. But I know that, looking back on it when I am in the position to do so, I will understand that there was a span of 10+ years during which I was not myself. I was the mother of small children. I define my personal time by small pleasures. For the road: one medium iced coffee, one sugar, skim milk. I drive scenic routes through our rural Connecticut environs for the sake of peace and quiet. I listen to the Howard Stern Show if the situation is right (e.g. the child(ren) in the car are under the age of 2 and/or not sufficiently verbal to rat me out to anyone). At home, I sneak in some HGTV. After

A group of women got to talking about life insurance coverage. Who has it, who doesn't. I mentioned that my husband, at my urging, finally bucked up and purchased a policy for himself, but that I do not personally have one. The latter fact is based on The Partner's assertion that I have no monetary value, which is a supportable (and sad) assertion once one does the math. I am currently raising my kids and working on a novel; neither gig promises a big payoff anytime soon. Some of these women were confounded by this logic, and probably more than a little offended by the idea that stay-at-home moms are construed by some as having no value. The added cost of child care alone, they said, was enough justification for purchasing a policy in my name. I brought the issue to The Partner before I responded to the group. Not wanting to put words in his mouth, and not wanting to spew out that kind of shit in my own name, I looked for a quote. He chose his words carefully. He knew this woul