Shirt

Me, age 41

My friend Tonya is a really good mom. I look up to her for many reasons, but particularly because she handles motherhood with a great deal of composure.

She has three boys and never seems ruffled by them. I’m sure she must get crabby like the rest of us, but the way she stays calm makes me drool with envy.

Recently, Tonya was talking to me about Devin, her youngest son, who was having a shutdown over his favorite shirt, which was not hanging in the closet.   

“I was downstairs getting breakfast ready,” Tonya said, “and he was upstairs in his room screaming ‘Wheeeeeere iiiiiiiiiis myyyyyyyyyy faaaaavorite shiiiiiiiiiiiiirt?’”

“So what did you do?” I asked. (If I can emulate how Tonya handles a shirt-meltdown, I can maybe be a better mom.)

In her good-natured way, she replied, “Well, of course I just told him to find another shirt to wear.”

“That’s it?” I said, a little disappointed that her response was so… simple. “Did he find another shirt to wear?”

“Sure,” Tonya said. “He carried on for a while but finally realized his favorite shirt was not going to materialize in his closet so he’d better get dressed in something.”

This conversation with Tonya really got me thinking. Thousands (millions?) of words flow from our mouths every day as we go about our business of mothering. Most of these words fall on deaf ears (in my house, anyway), but what about the ones that our kids actually listen to? These words can wield power to encourage, instruct, and make things better – but don’t they also have the capacity to royally screw up our kids?

What I mean is this: There are a hundred different ways that Tonya could have responded to Devin during his tantrum. Depending on the day, the circumstance, the weather, and/or how much sleep she got the night before, she might have taken one of the following approaches:

§  “Quit screaming! You have 50 shirts hanging in your closet that you can wear! Put one on and get over yourself.”

§  “You can wear your favorite shirt tomorrow, once I’m finished washing and drying yet another load of laundry.”

§  “Take a deep breath and calm down. No one is going to help you find your favorite shirt when you are acting like a two-year-old.”

Furthermore, the way she says these hypothetical words can add a whole other layer of significance. She could say them with a shrug, with a smile, or – like me – with a vein visibly and quite unattractively pulsing up the right side of her forehead.

This is what I’m struggling with: How do we, as moms, know we are saying the right thing? How do we not consign our children to years of therapy because of words that have thoughtlessly shot out from our lips and messed with their innocent little heads?

I never anticipated that my experience of being a mother would carry with it so many variables. I used to think that there was a right way of doing things and a wrong way; now it seems that it’s all gray.

***

Happily, there is more to this story. When I showed Tonya the paragraphs that you just read, making sure she was OK with me putting her kid’s favorite-shirt shutdown-story on the internet, her response was generous and expansive: she gave me even more material to work with.  

First, she admitted the following: “My son has dozens of shirts and I had no idea which one was his favorite. As he was starting to melt down, I went through the closet, pulling out shirt after shirt, saying ‘Is this the one?’ ‘Is this the one?’ until there were no more shirts left.”

(I love this detail. Thank you for that, Tonya.)  

She went on, “Some days I’m more affected by my kids than others. Sometimes I can handle a situation calmly, and sometimes I can’t. I couldn’t even tell you what percentage it is. Either way, I don’t beat myself up about it.”

Tonya graciously threw in a bonus story to make me feel even better about the fact that I don’t always know how to handle things like rages about missing shirts. She said, “Yesterday, I told my oldest son that I was sick of him bitching at me every morning. He said, ‘Why are you swearing at me? I learned at school that you should back away from parents or adults when they swear!’ So I told him, ‘TELL YOUR TEACHERS TO TELL YOU TO STOP YELLING AT ME.’”

(Tonya, thank you for making me simultaneously laugh and cringe. That one is a classic.)

She finished off by saying, “I don’t expect to be perfect, nor do I want my kids to think that I am – or that I want them to be perfect. Bad moments happen and mistakes are made. We all say things we shouldn’t, but you know what? Sometimes we can all breathe better after exchanges like that.”

My take-away from Tonya is that maybe there isn’t one right thing to say in a messy situation. And that maybe I shouldn’t take things so seriously.

After all – looping back to Devin and his poor shirt gone astray – Tonya kindly chided me, “Laura, I told you that story in the first place only because I thought the strong emotion Devin had for his shirt was so funny.”

And yes, it was funny. I had forgotten that. Thanks for the reminder. It seems that my sense of humor sometimes disappears without warning, just like Devin's shirt.    

Ottoman

Me, age 41

Messes are overtaking my life.

 

I’ve just yelled at my kids to clean up their stuff from the family room, because I’m sick to death of stepping over Pokemon cards, novels, homework assignments and tennis shoes.

 

Why is it that the family room always ends up as a repository for their belongings?

 

(Why is it that the entire house always ends up as a repository for their belongings?)

 

After my kids remove their junk (only to dump it in their bedrooms to be dealt with on a different day), I tidy up the rest of the room. I straighten my stack of magazines, fluff the throw pillows, etc. As I drape a blanket over the back of the sofa, I am very dismayed to catch sight of dried chocolate on my ottoman.

 

Because my ottoman is made of brown leather, the shmear of dried chocolate pretty much blends in. I scratch at it with my nail and wonder how long it has been there. I also wonder which of my three kids has been (illicitly) eating chocolate in the family room.

 

But my questions, as it turns out, are entirely unnecessary. Because, as I sniff the alleged chocolate beneath my nail, I realize very quickly that it is not chocolate.

 

“Oh my God!” I screech, running for the bathroom. “OH MY GOD THERE IS DRIED POOP ON MY OTTOMAN!” I’m panting with distress as I wash my hands. I mean, I know my house is messy (show me a house with three kids that isn’t), but now it’s also un-hygienic?

 

I do some frantic Googling to ascertain the most effective way to remove the dried poop from my ottoman, but the removal of the dried poop is no longer the most pressing thing on my mind: Why was there dried poop on my ottoman in the first place? 

 

This is what I know for sure:

• Although he contributes significantly to the overall untidiness of our home, I think I can rule out my husband as the culprit. 
• It was not my dog. I’m sure of this because she is a miniature dachshund and has a difficult time physically mounting the ottoman.
• It couldn’t have been my dog’s poop tracked in from the yard, because it would have been all over the floors, too.

That leaves one possibility. I yell up to my kids and tell them to come downstairs right this very second.  

When they report to the family room, I am quivering with vexation and unanswered questions. In my frenzied state, I see them as suspects in a police lineup. Which one is guilty?

I take a deep breath to indicate to my children that I am calm and in control. Painstakingly, I ask them, “Why. Was. There. Dried. Poop. On. The. Ottoman?” I’m expecting someone to crack. I watch for any facial expressions that might give away the perpetrator – a trickle of sweat along the temple or a flushing of the cheeks – but instead, they all look at me like I’m off my rocker.

The rest of our conversation is a joke. I show them the ottoman, but because I’ve just cleaned it, my evidence is gone. They think this whole situation is laughable, because, COME ON, MOM, WHY WOULD WE PUT POOP ON THE OTTOMAN? SERIOUSLY, THAT’S GROSS.

My kids stand by their innocence, which leads me to contemplate a host of disturbing questions:

• Can someone unintentionally get poop on an ottoman? If so, how?
• If a kid doesn’t mean to get poop on an ottoman, are they doing other disgusting things that they’re unaware of?
• If there is dried poop on my ottoman, what else will I find in my house someday?

I can’t begin to process any of this, so I wave off my kids. “Just go back to making more messes,” I say. “You guys are good at that.” They roll their eyes and leave the room.  

I glare at my ottoman, because it really signifies everything that is discouraging about my life right now. I purchased it years ago when I had confidence in my domestic abilities and faith in my kids to make smarter choices. I had hoped it would lend comfort and style to a room where civilized grown-ups could enjoy a nice glass of wine every now and then.

Instead, it has been defiled. And there are no civilized grown-ups in sight.

But I do have a bottle of white in the fridge!!

I pour myself a glass and decide that none of this is the poor ottoman’s fault, so my wine and I sit upon on it with a heavy sigh. We are without a tidy ending or sense of resolution, and this (like so many aspects of motherhood) almost puts me over the edge.  

But I give in and accept my reality, because there's nothing a little Pinot Grigio can’t fix. But damn: my wine glass better be clean.
 

Things will never change

I haven’t written since April.

April!

This is highly embarrassing.

“What have you been doing, Laura?” you ask.

Well, dear reader, April seems like a million years ago. But I remember that it quickly turned into the bedlam of May (consisting of but not limited to year-end recitals, concerts, plays, readers theatre performances, luncheons, picnics, and so on). I kept assuring myself, “Once I endure May and all its joyful yet stress-inducing festivities, I will get back to business and write.”

But May became June, and overnight we traded school for swim team and other sports. Homework was replaced with goggles and sunscreen. I created a spreadsheet to remind my children (oh, who am I kidding; to remind me) of their daily schedules. (Because let’s be honest, my brain is a sieve. I cannot retain the details of who has stroke refinement/tennis lessons/baseball practice when.) “As soon I nail down this summer routine,” I said, “I’ll write.”

Without further ado June changed into July. Yes, I’m still relying on my spreadsheet, and yes, it is still preserving my sanity on an hourly basis. My kids and I summarily move from one game/activity/meet to another, but it recently occurred to me that nowhere in the dang document did I mark off any time for moi. I mean, we are on the cusp of yet another new month, folks, and not once this summer have I said, “Oh, look! My trusty spreadsheet indicates that it’s time for me to grab an hour and do some head-clearing, soul-rectifying, much-needed writing.” I hang my head and sigh, “I’ll just wait until August.”

But I know exactly what will shake down next: the dawn of August means that Rich, my faithful postal carrier, will confer on me hefty parcels from my children’s three schools. These parcels will contain an abundance of school supply lists, immunization forms, volunteer sign-ups, parking instructions, etc. etc., and they will demand a great deal of my time and attention. In the blink of a very tired eye, I will be sucked into the vortex of back-to-school readiness and anticipation. (How do moms who work full-time do it all?!) And August will become September.

Do you see where I’m going with this?

My friend Sarah totally gets it. We meet each other for breakfast every month or so, and she’s had the same mantra for years. “Things will never change,” she says, with remarkable calm, as we sip our coffee. “Never.”

I guess she’s right. As long as we have kids under our roof, our lives are destined to be this harried and overly abundant, aren't they? 

Assuming this is the case, I’m already thinking about my next spreadsheet. It will be for September, and it will be good. There will even be some columns and rows devoted to yours truly.

If I could only find the time to put it together.

This is not a political post

Owen, age 8

Me, age 41

My son and I are sitting at the kitchen table, eating breakfast.

As I skim through the paper, Owen points to the prominent photo of Hillary Clinton on the front page. “Who’s that?” he asks, shoving Cream of Wheat into his mouth.

“That’s Hillary Clinton,” I reply. “She just announced that she is going to run for President of the United States.”

In general, Owen asks me a lot of questions, so I assume he’ll launch into an inquisition without haste. But I am mistaken. Instead, he starts to laugh.

“She’s not running for president,” he says.

“Yes, she is,” I say. “And why are you laughing?”

“BECAUSE A LADY CAN’T BE PRESIDENT,” he says. As if this is common knowledge.

I take a deep breath, setting aside my Cream of Wheat. This is war.

“YES, A LADY CAN ABSOLUTELY BE PRESIDENT,” I say. When Owen realizes I’m not joking, his jaw sort of falls open. Over his bowl of Cream of Wheat, he looks baffled. And, much to my dismay, appalled.    

I spend the rest of breakfast outlining the basic principles of the American political process, underscoring that a woman is every bit as eligible and capable as a man of serving as our nation’s leader. A few minutes into my lecture, Owen’s body language tells me that he regrets ever opening his mouth, but he has hit a nerve and I am not backing down.

Like many of my friends who have sons, I try to teach Owen to respect everyone, especially girls. My goal is to raise up that charming and magnificent type of young man who doesn't just open doors for women, but also honors their rights and ambitions. Perhaps I am not doing a sufficient job, because – come to think of it – Owen and I shared a similarly unpleasant and anti-feminist moment a few weeks ago.

I was folding laundry in the family room when Owen strolled in and loudly announced, with no preamble whatsoever, “I AM SO GLAD I DON’T HAVE A PAGINA.”

“Do you mean ‘vagina’, Owen?” I asked.

“Yes,” he said.

“And why are you so glad you don’t have one?” I asked tersely, setting off a nonsensical, immature, and ridiculously circular argument that left both of us dissatisfied and frustrated. (I’m ashamed to confess that I ended the quarrel by stooping to his level and hollering, “WELL, I AM SO GLAD I DON’T HAVE A PENIS!” while firing a balled-up sock at his head.)     

Where have I gone wrong? I try to model girl power in everything I do. (And this is no small feat because, ironically, I'm responsible for 90% of our domestic chores and am forever folding laundry.) Take, for example, the time when my daughter said that her gym sub told one of her classmates that he “ran like a girl.” I had a major conniption and made sure all three of my kids understood that comments like this are not just rude but also incorrect and sexist.

Furthermore, we have participated in more than a few discussions, my children and me, about how I work part-time in addition to doing everything I do to keep our household – and their lives – running smoothly. I don’t head to an office in heels and a suit, but I write on my laptop at my desk or at Starbucks, fundraising and doing communications for a bunch of non-profits. Clearly, my kids don’t get that I am attempting to model female independence and strength. “That's not a REAL job, Mom,” Owen says, patting my arm. “It’s OK, though.”

***

I think about these dispiriting scenes as I try to finish my Cream of Wheat, but I don't have much of an appetite anymore.  

But then I look down at the picture of Hillary and observe the glint in her eyes. She knows what it’s like to prove herself to the boys, time and time again. Carly Fiorina, too, whose photograph I bet we’ll be seeing on the front page very soon. Nancy Pelosi, Condoleezza Rice, Janet Napolitano, Loretta Lynch. All of them. I don't care what political party they come from: their steely determination is awesome.  

And it makes me very, very proud to have a pagina. 

It is hard to be a mom. In winter. In Wisconsin*.

*And Chicago, Indiana, Minnesota, Pittsburgh, Boston, Rhode Island, Denver and all the other frigid, snowy places where you, my friends, call home.

I love living in Wisconsin. I love being a mom. But being a mom in Wisconsin in the middle of February is trying. For example, in the last 24 hours I:

• Washed my son’s winter coat, which was covered in mud and a few other unidentifiable substances, because, in his words, “I fell on the ice more than once today.”
• Force-fed my kids Vitamin D gummy chews to prevent Vitamin D deficiency and cheery things like rickets and bone demineralization.
• Vacuumed the back door rug three times because it was starting to glitter from all the salt tracked in from our driveway. (Glittering diamonds = good. Glittering road salt = bad.)
• Tried in vain to help my daughter locate her missing glove. (Our fifth of the season. And that doesn’t include the hats, socks and scarves that are also M.I.A.)

I didn’t realize there was something inherently wack about being a mom in winter in Wisconsin until my younger sister Emily pointed out that not every mother in the United States has it this tough.

After watching me carry out my aforementioned winter-related tasks, Emily said, “The weather in Wisconsin really creates barriers and headaches for moms here, doesn't it?”

“Um, YES,” I answered.

“’KIDS, PUT ON YOUR HATS, MITTENS, JACKETS, SNOW PANTS, SOCKS, BOOTS AND SCARVES,’” Emily said, imitating me. “What a nightmare that is for your daily routine!”

“YES,” I answered again.

Emily, who had just moved back to Wisconsin after living in San Diego for many years, appeared deep in thought. “You Midwestern moms have thick skin! Southern California moms don’t have to deal with any of this. It’s as easy as, ‘Kids, get your sandals on and grab your beach bag!’”

“’Get your sandals on and grab your beach bag,’” I repeated, savoring the sound of those lovely words. Words that will likely never come from my mouth again.

Emily patted my arm. “It’s character-building, sis,” she said, with a great deal of kindness.       

I went to my friend Tonya to see what she thought about all this. Tonya always has encouraging and inspiring things to say about motherhood, so I figured she’d have something encouraging and inspiring to say about being a mom in winter in Wisconsin. I was incorrect.

Tonya, who had just gotten home from a vacation in Costa Rica, replied, “I’m the wrong person to ask. I thought going away somewhere warm would help revitalize me for the rest of winter. But I’m totally depressed since returning two days ago.”  

I don’t have any ideas myself, short of investing in a happy light (www.verilux.com), which helps my kids wake up in the morning, and stocking up on warm wool sweaters from Banana Republic so I at least feel cute while laundering filthy winter gear and keeping rickets at bay.

My good friend Darsee had a few thoughts to share. She tries to get her three boys outside as much as possible – tubing, sledding, ice skating, etc. “But the worst,” she lamented, “is when it’s too cold to play outside or there isn’t any snow. Then I just yell a lot and drink.”

I know Darsee isn't alone in this.

However we manage to survive winter – which, around here, can last until April if it's a particularly bad year – I think that we should take some serious credit for being hearty and thick-skinned. Sort of like pioneer women. Pioneer women with very strong characters.

Take heart, Tonya and Darsee and everyone out there who’s sun-deprived and sick of hibernating: only a few more months and we can call it spring.  

Contours

Me, age 37

I hate bra-shopping.

But really, does any woman out there enjoy it?

For as long as I can remember, I’ve dashed into Victoria’s Secret at the mall and made a mad grab for any halfway pretty bra that looks like it’ll get the job done.

But after years of listening to Stacy and Clinton on What Not to Wear extol the virtues of professional bra fittings, I have decided to bite the bullet. There is a small lingerie boutique in my neighborhood. Gamely named "Contours," it broadcasts FREE PROFESSIONAL BRA FITTINGS on a sign in the parking lot. What could be more fitting than heading there for the occasion?

My children are at home with a babysitter so I can avoid distractions during this undertaking. I drive the few blocks to Contours and am ready to turn matters, which is to say – ahem – my girls, over to the professionals. It’s no stretch to say that I’m nervous.

When I enter, Contours is very tranquil. And refined. And (as I surreptitiously peek at a price-tag), expensive. This is no Victoria’s Secret! I reckon that I can have my fitting, buy one measly bra, and be on my way – armed with my proper size once and for all.

The sole salesperson in Contours greets me and, before I know what’s happening, has briskly escorted me to a fitting room. She can discern by the deer-in-the-headlights look on my face that I am a professional-bra-fitting amateur. She tells me she’s here to assist.

“Take off your shirt and we can get down to business,” she orders. I wait for her to vacate my fitting room so I can take off my shirt, but she doesn’t budge.

Although I find disrobing in front of strangers in close quarters to be rather awkward, I take a deep breath and peel off my shirt so we can get this over with. Professional Bra Fitter brandishes a fabric tape measure and appraises my bosom. She starts to work her magic and asks me what bra size I’ve been wearing. When I respond, “_____,” she barks with merriment, “You are absolutely NOT a _____! Where have you been buying your bras?!”

I hesitate, wondering if I should say Victoria’s Secret.

“Don’t say you’ve been going to Victoria’s Secret!” she shrieks. “That place is staffed by teenagers off the street who have no idea how to do a suitable bra fitting!” As if to prove her point, she tells me that my real bra size is _____. I am bewildered. I can’t believe I’ve been wearing the wrong size my entire adult life. "Are you sure?" I ask.

She gives me a withering look. “I do this for a living,” she says with disdain. “I am a professional. When you have a bra fitting with me, you know your size is accurate.”

Although I’m grateful to have my measurements, I don’t particularly like Professional Bra Fitter’s tone. I’ve never had a problem with the girls working at Victoria’s Secret. In fact, at this particular moment, standing half-naked in front of Professional Bra Fitter with perspiration trickling down my brow, I’m feeling a sudden longing for them.

Professional Bra Fitter asks what I’m “hoping to get from my bra.” After I do my best to provide her with direction (“I want something pretty and soft and not too lacy?”), she’s off like a flash to assemble a pile for me to try on.

As I put on the first bra she brings me, I quickly ascertain that Professional Bra Fitter has no awareness of physical boundaries (referred to by my children as one’s “personal bubble”). More specifically, she does not feel the need to announce herself before pulling aside the curtain to my fitting room and breezing in to check on my progress. She does this repeatedly, catching me a couple times with one girl in and one girl out, so to speak. This makes me blush furiously. She cannot read my body language, which is clearly stating I DO NOT LIKE HAVING A PERSON IN THE FITTING ROOM WITH ME WHILE I’M TRYING ON BRAS.

At this point, I die a little bit inside and realize I have to wrap up this ordeal as quickly as possible to prevent further mortification. I want to get out of here. I randomly choose one of the bras to buy and put on my clothes. Professional Bra Fitter is dealing with a new victim who has just entered the store, so I have a moment to gather my wits about me.

On my way to the register, I pass by a display of underwear – and lo and behold, there is a pair that goes with my new bra. How nice it would be to leave Contours with a matching set, making this godforsaken experience doubly worthwhile! I hold the underwear up but can’t tell if it'll fit me or not, so I slip back to my fitting room.

At Victoria’s Secret, the nice salesladies give you a pair of disposable underwear that you put on as a sort of protective base garment for trying on underwear. Because trying on underwear is a must, yes? Sometimes a girl wants to know if she will look like a stuffed sausage in a pair of panties before she purchases them.

At Contours, I see no disposable underwear anywhere, nor do I wish to deliberately put myself back in Professional Bra Fitter’s line of fire. So I do what I think is the respectable thing: I try on the underwear over my own. And thank goodness I take the time to do this, because I do in fact in look like a stuffed sausage.

I gather myself and my personal effects and head to the register, stopping to place the pair of underwear back on the display. Professional Bra Fitter spots me and her jaw drops. “Did you just try on that pair of underwear?” she asks, visibly appalled.

“Um, yes?” I manage to say. I’m like a criminal caught red-handed, but I have no clue what offense I’ve committed. “But I tried them on over my own underwear?” I add helpfully.

“We do not try on underwear at Contours!” she hisses.

“Oh. Oh, I’m so sorry,” I stammer, turning red and feeling like I might cry. (Why don’t we try on underwear at Contours?)

“Bring. Them. Here,” Professional Bra Fitter says.

I take the pair of underwear to the register and start to panic, thinking she’s going to make me pay for the underwear, which I do not want because they make me look like a stuffed sausage. Instead, she pinches the panties between her thumb and forefinger and drops them behind the register. I don’t know where they land, but now I almost wish I’d kept them. I would have treated them better than that.   

Professional Bra Fitter is done with me. I can tell, because – unlike her – I am a good reader of body language. I apologize again for my major breach in Contours etiquette, but she basically ignores me, ringing up my bra. I am counting down the seconds until I can leave this store and pick up the pieces of my shredded self-composure.

Just when I think I am almost free, Professional Bra Fitter hands me my bra in an elegant Contours bag and says, “By the way, your shirt is on inside out.”

I look down. Sure enough, not only is my shirt on inside out, but it’s on backwards, too. The tag is sticking out from the neckline, just inches from my chin. Without saying a word – because, honestly, what is left to say in a situation like this? – I make one last walk of shame to my fitting room.

I am slick with sweat and embarrassment. How do I manage to get myself in circumstances like these? I turn my shirt inside out and put it on the right way. I grab my stuff and wonder if I’ll ever be able to wear my new bra in light of the memories it will summon.

And then I haul me and my _____-size chest out of Contours and back into the real world, where teenagers off the street do bra fittings and everybody manages just fine. 

Q&A

Me, age 40

Meghan, my old roommate and dear friend, always used to say:

“Some years ask questions, and other years answer them.”

When she recited this quote, which is based on a line from writer Zora Neale Hurston, we would both fall into a reverent silence, wondering what new demands or clarifications the year ahead would unfurl at our feet.

Like most twenty-somethings, we focused our attention on Big Things: where to live, where to work, how to know when we’d met our future spouse. And Meghan and Zora were right: in those days of our burgeoning adulthood, each year seemed to offer a distinct question or a practical answer, nudging us a few steps closer to the women we were supposed to be.

Long after Meghan and I said goodbye to our apartment and moved to different states, her quote still rang true. Marriage, jobs, houses, babies: I navigated my way through all these pivotal, defining moments – questions asked, answers given. A life built.

***

Many moons later, here I am: a 40-year-old with all my pieces snugly in place. I find myself chewing on that quote, wondering if it applies to me any more. Are there any Big Things left?

Some of my good friends have gone through seismic shifts recently, coming to grips with sick parents, divorce, unwanted career changes. I’ve seen how these events – let’s call them Serious Things – can shake up one’s world, so I’m grateful I have nothing like that on my plate right now.

But I do miss the luster and sense of promise that accompanied the weighty and electrifying Big Things of our 20’s and 30’s. I know, too, that I’m not alone in pining for those forks in the road that had the potential to radically, magnificently change our lives overnight.

Last month, I had my annual physical with Dr. Kate. (My appointments with her usually turn into something resembling a therapy session – for both of us.) She just turned 40 and feels bereft that she’s passed all of those Big Thing milestones. Like me, she doesn’t have any questions that still need to be answered.  

Dr. Kate and I agree that – of course – it’s marvelous to be where we’re at, especially after investing so much time and hard work to get here. But when the pressing questions in our personal lives consist of “What should I make for dinner tonight?” or “How can I lose the ten pounds I’ve gained?” or “Exactly how much laundry can a person be expected to fold in a given week without going mad?” then we need to expand our horizons and search for new possibilities.

Dr. Kate thinks we have to figure out what Little Things bring us meaning and joy, and act on that. But what, exactly, are these Little Things? Do many Little Things equal a Big Thing? By seeking new Little Things, can we stave off that proverbial mid-life crisis?  

I don’t have the answers – yet. And Dr. Kate says that she doesn’t, either. But at the very least, we’ve got to put the questions out there.

And perhaps, if we're really lucky, 2015 will answer them.