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.

Mistake

Me, age 40

Caroline, age 10

I am not my best on Halloween.

I know that many people love it, but I have a hard time getting keyed up for a holiday that requires me to be crafty and give my kids a free pass to eat all the sugar they want.

Generally speaking, I try to put on a pleasant smile and go with it. But this year, I’ve done something that I suspect has taken the luster off Halloween – for one of my children, at least.

I’m staying at home to hand out candy while my fanatical husband (who has mapped out the neighborhood with what he calls an optimal candy-acquisition strategy) is taking the kids trick-or-treating. My last words to him, as they all bolt out the front door, are, “Please, please try not to stay out too late!” They are already halfway up the street and completely ignoring me when I add, “The longer you’re out, the crabbier the kids will be tomorrow and the more candy we’ll have. And we don’t need any more candy!” 

Right.

Two hours later, they've not yet returned. Trick-or-treaters have stopped ringing our doorbell, which makes me wonder what my husband and children are doing. My imaginary Halloween cheer has worn off and I’m getting tired. I send him a text:

Is anyone out there? Pretty quiet here.

How are kids holding up?

My husband responds:

We’re still doing well.

On our way to one last street for the finish.

I text back:

Great. Please come home soon or

your kids will be assholes in the morning.

And then:

I saw what you just typed! This is Caroline,

and you called us assholes!

“Oh, shit,” I say. I may have a mouth like a sailor behind closed doors, but swearing in front of the kids hasn’t been an option. Caroline in particular is moody and sensitive whenever I veer into territory that could be construed as crass or sarcastic (or, gulp, disrespectful). I’m sure she is distressed by my text. But why is she on her father’s phone in the first place?! 

  Get off your father’s phone.

:( 

I just want you to get some sleep so you are

not crabby tomorrow. You were kind of crabby

tonight before trick-or-treating and that

was upsetting. I want you to have a great day!

No response. I turn off our outside lights, blow out the jack-o-lantern, and rightly consider tossing the remaining candy in the dumpster. But before I can carry out my plan, the troops return, smelling like autumn leaves and caramel. They are rosy and chatty and high on artificial colors and flavors – except for Caroline, who avoids making eye contact with me and makes a beeline for her bedroom.

After I peel Jane and Owen out of their costumes (fortune teller and Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle, respectively), I find Caroline (peacock) in bed, blankets up to her eyeballs. Our conversation goes like this:

Me: (trying to act innocent) Caroline, why are you crying?

Caroline: (sort of glaring and crying at the same time) You called us assholes!

Me: (taking deep breath because I know I’m going to be here for awhile) I didn’t mean to call you assholes. It was an accident! It was a mistake!

Caroline: (not convinced, for which I don’t blame her) That was really mean. It hurt my feelings. 

Me: (trying to remain contrite, but how badly I want to put on my pajamas and go to bed…) I’m so sorry. It won’t happen again. It wasn’t very nice or respectful of me.

Caroline: (wiping away the last of her tears) Thanks for apologizing, Mom.

Me: (kindly but firmly) But Caroline, in the future can you please stay off your father’s phone…?

I’m certain that when Caroline drifts off to sleep she’s feeling loved and un-assholelike. I, on the other hand, feel terrible, even though my text was not meant for her eyes. What kind of mom calls her children assholes? I go right to my friends for validation.   

My dear friend Katie tells me not to worry. She says it’s not that bad. “I told my oldest son, when he was just three years old, that he was on 'Santa’s shit list.'”

I’m starting to feel better.  

Next, I talk to Tonya, who is always reassuring in a crisis. She asks me, “Does ‘mofo’ count?”

“Yes, I suppose ‘mofo’ counts,” I reply.

“Well, then. When he was a newborn, I called my son a mofo.”

Fair enough. Thanks, Tonya.

But it’s Kylie who brings me the greatest sense of relief, because at least I’m calling my kids assholes and not the other way around. Kylie says, “We were at my mother-in-law’s house with about ten of Howard’s family members for Bennett’s eighth birthday. After Bennett blew out his candles, there was one left, and someone said, ‘Oh, he has at least one girlfriend!’ I was standing next to Howard’s aunt, and I said that I didn’t think Bennett had any girlfriends but that my five-year-old Tate was quite the ladies’ man. To which Tate said, in front of everyone, ‘Mom, you little bitch!’ The room went silent.”

“Oh, Kylie,” I cringe. “That is awful.”

“Yes,” she says. “I’m sure it will be a story we hear again. And again.”

My only hope is that Caroline is able to put my Halloween mistake out of her mind for good. I want to chuck the whole memory in the garbage – right alongside the uneaten candy bars I've successfully filched from my kids when they weren’t looking. 

Oh no he didn't

Me, age 40

Every month, I read O magazine for my Oprah fix. I derive a curious pleasure in dissecting what she knows for sure (her words, not mine), how she lives her best life (ditto), and what “Aha!” moments she has stockpiled for my personal edification.

The September 2014 issue is chock full of good stuff. I’m sifting through Oprah’s advice for smart, simple makeovers when I land on Dr. Phil McGraw’s column. His topic is “The way you do anything is the way you do everything.”

“Well, this sounds fascinating,” I say to myself, cheerfully tucking into his article.

Dr. Phil explains that the phrase “The way you do anything is the way you do everything" has become his own personal credo. He writes: “I observed that I was an all-or-nothing person. If I was lazy about just one thing, my attitude contaminated all that I touched… On the other hand, if I aimed to be my best in one area, that commitment raised my game across the board.”

“I like this.” I say. “You’re on to something, Dr. Phil!” After all, who can argue with the suggestion that we bump up all of our efforts to be as productive and excellent as possible?

“You might want to take a look at the areas in your life that could use some improvement,” Dr. Phil says, ticking off bad habits like amassing credit card debt, passing the buck at work, and eating too much junk food. “Even the smallest change can help you turn things around… Start by taking better care of what’s around you.”

“OK, that sounds easy enough,” I respond. But Dr. Phil is just getting started.

“Has your window screen been torn for the last three years?” he asks me.

“Damn,” I whisper. “How does he know that my window screen has been torn?”

“Fix it,” he says.

“Sure,” I say. “As soon as I fold the six loads of clean laundry sitting in my family room and buy my kids their costumes for Halloween.”

Dr. Phil remains impassive.   

I read on. “Is your car a disaster?” he asks me.

“Oh, HELL NO,” I retort. “We are not bringing my car into this.”

Dr. Phil stares at me from the magazine page with a frosty smirk.

“I’ve always been honest about the fact that my car is a disaster. I try to keep it tidy, but it’s a losing battle. How can I ferry my three kids around with their snacks, backpacks, water bottles, soccer balls and dance gear and not have it resemble a landfill?” I ask.

But Dr. Phil does not care to hear my excuses. “Clean it up,” he says.

“Jerk,” I say.

“If you don’t live your life as if everything matters, you’ll never become everything you’re meant to be,” he adds.

“Dr. Phil, your personal credo is bunk!” I yell. “It looks fine on paper, but in practice it’s ridiculous!” Who does this guy think he is? He is certainly not a mother. If Dr. Phil were a mother, he would implicitly understand that not everything matters.

What does matter: that my children are healthy, clean, fed and educated; that they go to bed every night smothered with kisses and knowing they are loved. The rest is just icing on the cake.

I could be an all-or-nothing person like Dr. Phil and tend to the spot(s) on my carpet and clean out all my junk drawers, but then I wouldn't have time to play Uno with my son, take my dog for a walk, or enjoy ten precious minutes alone with a cup of coffee.

The more I stew about Dr. Phil’s philosophy, the more I’m convinced he is mucking up the whole concept of balance. (And, ironically, isn’t balance one of those subjects that Oprah herself loves to wax poetic about?) Instead of feeling compelled to assign meaning to every single aspect of our lives, maybe we should grant ourselves permission to be a little lax now and then. Because, Dr. Phil, I do not believe the way I do one thing is the way I do everything else. I give my family my best, not my screens.

I’m probably overreacting to Dr. Phil’s column, but it’s safe to say I’m finished with him for the day. “I am perfectly capable of living my best life in spite of – or maybe even because of – the orange peels trapped under the seats of my car,” I say to Dr. Phil, shutting the magazine on his smug face. “And that is something I know for sure.”