#YoureARichGirl

During a recent bout of (highly annoying) insomnia, I was channel surfing in the wee hours of the morning and I found it. A TV show so pointless and terrible that it can only be called #TheWorstShowOnTV.

That is, when you aren’t calling it by its actual name, the equally obnoxiously hashtagged #RichKidsOfBeverlyHills. #RCOBH (as the kids call it when it's trending on the Twitter) is the story of privileged, beautiful, spoiled people who tire of spending Daddy’s money and put their trust funds towards building hospitals in third world countries, building homes for the homeless and reading to the blind.

Ha. I wish. I would actually watch that show.

In actuality, the show is based on rich kids (insofar as you can call someone in their mid-20s a 'kid') with piles of Daddy's money, but these rich kids aren't do-gooders so much as spoiled brats who do little more with their lives than blow $10,000 on purses that they lose count of. The show centers around Dorothy and Morgan, both daughters of billionaires and self-proclaimed BFFS, a lofty claim for two people who seem to spend more time tweeting in each others company than actually talking. Frankly, it was a horrifying look at what I sincerely hope is not an accurate representation of the human race, and after the hour I spent watching it, I felt that if I couldn't sleep, the least I could do was warn world of its existence so that my loss of IQ points wouldn't be in vain.

Or at the very least, completely rip it apart. So here goes.

As I mentioned, the story is centered around two spoiled piles of crazy, Morgan and Dorothy. Dorothy is a twenty-five year old "adult" who’s official occupation is “Being Funemployed and Fabuluxe” (It's okay, I have no idea what that means either) and who says super rational things like “You can’t put a price tag on a good night out” while casually paying her $40,000 bar tabs with one of her six her limitless credit card. Generous? Maybe. Completely out of touch with any kind of reality? Absolutely.  Worse, Dorothy has no discernible talents, education, goals, or really any sense of reality whatsoever. In fact, Dorothy’s only aspiration in life is her oh-so-specific and practical goal of becoming “The next Asian sensation”.

#NeverGiveUpOnYourDreams, Dorothy.

Her counterpart and aforementioned BFF is Morgan, also twenty-five and also the daughter of a billionaire. Morgan has a worm-faced real estate mogul boyfriend with zero personality and an obsession with asking everyone if she’s looking “thinner in the face” each and every time she sees them (Why? Your guess is as good as mine). Morgan writes (for lack of a better word) a blog called “Boobs and Loubs” which for obvious reasons, I had to look at the second I learned of its existence. While part of me felt I should give Morgan credit for at least doing something else with her life (unlike Dorothy) once I actually saw the blog, I just couldn't muster up any respect. Because, unsurprisingly, Morgan's blog is basically a selfie photo gallery sprinkled with the occasional 100 word blog about how hungover she is (or how no one has told her she looks thinner in the face today). Riveting stuff, really. Morgan's biggest disillusion is that she should write a book because she’s “funny”, but really the only thing funny about Morgan is the fact that she can talk about how funny she is with a perfectly straight face.

Truthfully, there are no words for how utterly pointless and vile this show is. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not above terrible, guilty-pleasure TV (Once I start watching Honey Boo Boo I, shamefully, can't stop) but this show is really hitting rock bottom, entertainment wise. The #RKOBH, with its incessant hashtags (which aren’t just limited to the title, but to each “section” of the show as well), selfies, loud, screechy fights about nothing, and just all around pointlessness, is terrible TV overkill. I mean, #overkill.

Bottom line: I know most reality television is scripted to some extent, but I hope, for the sake of humanity, that these real rich kids are, at the very least, exaggerated versions of themselves and only half as vapid as they appear to be. Truly, every single person on this show is the exact opposite of what I want my kids to turn out to be. And I guess that if I had to put a "value" on the show (ugh) it would be that it's a shining example of how not to raise kids, how money and entitlement make you a horrible, self-involved person. So horrible in fact that it almost makes me wonder if the the whole show is secretly some kind of experiment where terrible people are put on the same desert island and left to duke it out, Hunger Games style.

Ooooh. If only…

Don't believe that these people are nothing but unnecessary drama? Then watch this. And if you can figure out what the hell is going on, please tell me. After about thirty seconds of this nonsense, all I hear is white noise.

Freddy Says RELAX

Confession: I absolutely hate scary movies.

I realize that this is, to say the least, an extremely unpopular opinion. In today's zombie-obsessed, blood-and-gore-loving culture, it's much more likely to find 100 people who not only search out scary movies but love every minute of them than one pseudo-adult cowering in a corner just waiting for the tamest of scary movies to be over with. I have been encouraged by many good-intending friends to try to build up some kind of scare immunity by immersing myself  in American Horror Story (no thanks), or The Walking Dead (double no thanks) or Twilight (which, coincidentally, was terrifying but probably not in the way that the suggester had intended). I just can't do it. A love affair with all things terrifying just isn't in the cards for me. Not since Freddy ruined it all.

I should probably back up a bit.

The year is 1988 and it's some time right around Halloween. I am four years old and have just been informed by my babysitter that she forgot her copy of "It's The Great Pumpkin, Charlie Brown" that she meant to bring with her (I should say "allegedly" forgot because frankly, I have my doubts). To make us happy (i.e. make us stop complaining incessantly), the babysitter in question tells us that she has another movie with her, one that I've never heard of, but judging by my brother's ecstatic reaction is something that I should at least pretend to want to see. That movie is Nightmare on Elm Street.

For those of you who have never seen the movie, the basic premise is that children are stalked and killed in their dreams by the ultimate scary guy Freddy Krueger. Now, I realize that back in 1988 there weren't the same set-in-stone, Oprah-approved guidelines for what kids should and shouldn't watch that we have today, but come on. Regardless of the times, it should be obvious that showing a four-year-old Nightmare on Elm Street will not end well for anyone. Children. Being Killed. In their sleep. It's basically every kid's worse nightmare (no pun intended) and it was definitely a far cry from the Sesame Street and Mr. Rogers that my young, innocent eyes were used to.  

Needless to say, the babysitter was fired and never seen or heard from again, but the damage was already done. For weeks on end, I'd wake up screaming, sweaty and terrified that I was going to be killed in my sleep (assuming I had allowed myself to fall asleep at all). It was awful. Now many years later as a parent myself, I can now fully appreciate the hell that my mom must have been going through trying to coax me to sleep and convince me that I didn't need to be curled into a shaking ball at the end of her bed every night. Luckily for me (and her, probably), I had a mom with a plan.

Quick question: Does anyone remember mall tours? If you're too young to remember (or were too cool to care at the time), a mall tour was a somewhat clever marketing tool of the 80's/early 90's where a few A-list and B-list celebrities would tour the malls of major cities (because malls used to be cool back in the day as odd as that seems now) promoting whatever they were working on at the time. Picture the cast of Saved By The Bell signing autographs outside of Sears next to Orange Julius and you'll get the idea. Mall tours were actually pretty cheesy and completely unnatural, but we didn't have Twitter back then so we had to take what we could get. Anyway, since we were living in Santa Fe at the time and people always seem to want to to go Santa Fe for some reason (I'll leave my Santa Fe hating at that, but I could honestly write an entire blog on how overrated it is. Sorry, Santa Fe), my mom caught wind that some of the cast of Nightmare on Elm Street would be appearing at a mall near us, including Robert Englund AKA Mr. Freddy himself. And she decided that if she couldn't convince me that he was just a normal guy in make-up, she'd let him convince me instead.

Retrospectively, this was a great lesson in facing your fears boldly and head-on. But at the time, I honestly thought my mom was trying to have me killed. I BEGGED her not to take me, pleaded, bargained (to the best of my limited four-year-old abilities), but my mom refused to budge. She was just as sick of the nightmares and constant feeling of terror as I was and probably just really wanted to get a decent night's sleep. I was going whether I wanted to go or not. I was meeting Freddy Krueger.

The big day arrived and after prying me (literally) from the car, we made our way inside the mall. Naturally, it was packed with fans, and there were fedoras and stripped sweaters as far as the eye could see. I distinctly remember the fact that I couldn't breathe. My heart pounded against my rib cage so hard I was half-expecting it to pop out of my body. On top of what I would later realize was a panic attack, I felt a blind, raging hatred for my mom at that moment, still not convinced that she was trying to help me and not have me killed. I was so panicked that it took me awhile to realize that we had stopped walking and were standing in front of youngish, perfectly normal looking guy with a sharpie poised over a stack of Freddy pictures ready to sign for fans. "Who's this guy?" I wondered, my eyes still scanning over the crowds, expecting my untimely demise at the hands (claws, really) of a psychopath, not knowing what random, smiling dude at a card table had to do with anything. My mom introduced us and quickly explained the situation basically telling Mr. Englund that neither of us had had a good night's sleep in weeks due to my crippling fear of Freddy. The incredibly nice and not at all scary Mr. Englund spent about 15 minutes explaining to me that he was an actor playing a part. His scary Freddy face was nothing more than make-up and the premise of children being stalked and murdered in their dreams was just a creative, well-told story. No more, no less. It was a defining moment for me in terms of separating fantasy from reality. I have a feeling that he probably had to have this kind of chat with a lot of terrified children over the span of his career, and although I don't remember everything he said, I remember that he was sweet, friendly and gracious. In other words, about as far from Freddy Krueger as a person can get.

Needless to say, everyone in my house had a great night's sleep that night. Finally.

Although meeting Robert Englund was a really cool moment in my life and I learned a lot about acting, crazy, creative make-up and storytelling, the aftermath of Nightmare on Elm Street has continued to haunt me in ways. I can cringe my way through a scary movie, but I don't particularly like it (okay, fine. I hate it). The experience also made me much more strict about what I find appropriate or inappropriate for my kids to watch and a real stickler for sensible, responsible babysitters.

And I don't think it's any coincidence that I've always hated fedoras.

Freddy Krueger: A face a mother couldn't even love.

What Are You Doing New Year's Eve?

It's New Year's Eve, but I'm going to try not to let it bother me.

Ordinarily, I'm not a big fan of New Year's Eve. Not because of the day exactly, but because of the pressure to take a day and make it into a day. New Year's Eve as a holiday seems to revolve around two things: Unrealistically high expectations and a vague but persistent pressure to have fun, which is never a good combination, fun-wise. I can't speak for everyone, but for me the whole thing just sort of turns into something else that we have to plan and prepare for (planning and preparation are also usually not a great combination fun-wise). We are all striving for some unknown, magical New Year's ideal. And honestly, does anyone's new year's shenanigans ever live up to the hype?

So rather than focusing on the night, I'm going to focus on the year. As far as years go, 2013 was a pretty good one for us. Layla lost six teeth and can now officially operate an iPhone more efficiently than I can. Both kids are growing faster than their shoes or pants can keep up with, Ben in particular who is closing in on Layla size-wise. Josh and I got to see our favorite band twice this year (with me screaming like a fourteen year old at a One Direction concert both times, naturally). We took a trip up to Denver for one of the shows and were able to meet up with some friends and, thanks to our parents, enjoy a couple of kid-free days together. I had a successful year at school and Josh had a successful first year at his new job. The kids started gymnastics. I got a paper published through UNM and created a guest napkin for Matta Napkin (I actually found out about both opportunities on the same day and was significantly more excited about the napkin because they. Are. Awesome). We had our good days and our bad days. We endured twerking and selfies, and people saying "literally" and "epic" entirely too much, in varying degrees of acceptance. But whether our days were good, bad, or entirely too full of Miley, they were all so fast. Intellectually I realize that time goes by faster the older you get, but actually beginning to experience that sensation of time being in perpetual fast-forward is unsettling. My babies are turning into people and Josh and I are getting ready to celebrate ten years together. My life is reaching a very adult place. My kids will never be this age again, and I'll (for better or worse) never be at this point in my life again. And honestly? Sometimes that's scary as hell. So much can happen or change in a year, a fact which will never cease to amaze (and terrify) me.

Which brings me back to New Year's Eve. If time goes by so fast that sometimes years feel like days, what's the point of putting so much pressure on one night? Well, this year I resolve not to resolve, but to enjoy (or tackle head-on, depending on the day) my life in the coming year. And for right now, I resolve to enjoy this lovely song while trying to ignore Zooey's blatant bossiness and the fact that I feel like I've seen nothing but her face for the whole year (which, ironically, makes her perfect for a end-of-year blog).

Happy New Year's guys. Bring it on, 2014.

Tis The Season To Be Thankful

I've been thinking a lot lately about a girl that I see around when I go to school. She's homeless and pregnant and can usually be found panhandling around campus. Every time I see her, I flash back to my own pregnancies. I think about the massive amounts of food I ate, the prenatal vitamins and Dr.'s appointments I had consistent access to, and how I was constantly encouraged by family and strangers alike to sit down and rest. Mostly, I think about how I took each and every one of those things for granted. I think about how difficult, scary, and uncertain the world must feel for someone who is pregnant and homeless. My heart breaks over and over for her.

The thing is, optimism doesn't come naturally to me. I wish that it did, but the truth is that when things are hard or going wrong in my life, I tend to wallow for awhile before I'm able to see the silver lining. But this time of the year is the exception to my nay-saying tendencies, a time when I fully realize how pointless pessimism is and lucky I truly am.

When I sat down to write about what I was thankful for today, I found myself overwhelmed by the abundance of blessings in my life. I'm married to my best friend, the person who makes me laugh the hardest and lets me be myself more than anyone else, even when being myself means being a giant pain in the ass. Raising kids is the hardest job in the world, but our two healthy, brilliant, beautiful children are a constant source of joy (and a day-to-day learning experience) in my life. I have faith. I have the opportunity to go back to school. I have the love and support of people who understand me. I never feel alone or misunderstood. What more could one person possibly ask for?

One of my all-time favorite movies is "It's A Wonderful Life". I know it's a Christmas movie and not really about Thanksgiving at all, but oddly appropriate for today. My life isn't perfect, far from it. But like George Bailey, while I may not be monetarily rich, I am the richest person in town. And for that, I am eternally grateful. And eternally thankful.

Happy Thanksgiving, Friends.

An Open Letter To 20-Year-Old Me

 Dear (Ridiculously Young) 20-year-old (Disgustingly Energetic) Me:

I hope life and your wrinkle-less face are treating you well. For me, 30 is just around the corner and with that ceremonious event (read: excuse to freak out) in mind, I have been thinking a lot about what I would say to a younger, slightly more unfettered me if I had the ability to go back in time and retroactively impart my wisdom on you. In other words, I'm going to be the graying, wistful, "Been there, done that" Sinead O'Connor to your bleached, questionably behaving, "I do what I want!" Miley Cyrus, minus the making out with sledgehammers (don't worry if that reference seemed like nothing but gibberish to you). Simply put, I'm going to tell you a few things that I wish I had known ten years ago. Why, you ask? Mostly to prove to someone (even myself) that despite the constant nagging worry that I'm not successfully turning into an adult yet (whatever that may be), I have actually learned a thing or two in the last decade. Or maybe I'm just having my quarter-life crisis a few months ahead of schedule (you know how much we like to be unfashionably early). Either way, I've been thinking a lot about the things I wish I had known when I was well, you, just a decade younger with infinitely fewer stretch marks. And this is what I came up with:

• First and foremost, drop whatever you are doing right now and go to sleep. I don't care if it's 2 PM and you're not tired, GO TO SLEEP. In three years, you will have a child, in five years you will have two and sleep will be some lovely, elusive thing that you only vaguely remember. So go take a nap. Right now! You can finish this letter when you wake up. Go!
  
  
• Enjoy being that annoying person who can eat cupcakes for breakfast, never exercise and not gain an ounce. You only have a couple of years before age, metabolism, and having kids will change all of that, which will be super annoying. Enjoy it while you can.
• Travel right now, as much as you can before taking a simple day trip involves car seats, toys, books, play dough, snacks, first aid kits, sunscreen, Bubble Guppies DVDs, and bribe lollipops, when even the best moments will be nothing short of completely exhausting.I'm not saying you shouldn't also travel with kids (you totally should), but consider yourself warned. Travel now while the words "traveling light" are still in your vocabulary.
• Enjoy the feeling of waking up in the morning without any part of your body hurting. Relish in it and then go back to sleep immediately (see above re: you will never sleep again).
  
• Don't be afraid to go for something only to fall on your face. You will learn more from failure then you will ever learn from success. Be brave.
• 'Normal' is nothing but a highly overrated lie we tell ourselves, certainly not something you should strive for. The best people you will ever meet are the ones who couldn't be further from 'normal'. The only thing more overrated than normalcy is perfection.
  
  
• Think more, talk less.
• Take a moment to appreciate the strong women and beautiful concept of natural birth and then GET AN EPIDURAL. Trust me on this one. No one is going to show up to give you a metal for having a ten pound the hard way (although they totally should) and no one should feel like they are dying on what should be a joyful day.
• You're smarter than you think you are (Well, except for the whole epidural thing).
  
• Forgive people, even the people who don't deserve to be forgiven. Especially the people who don't deserve it. Everyone deserves a second chance. EVERYONE.
• You don't have to pretend to like what everyone else likes.
•  Be yourself. In a few years it will be cool to be awkward and nerdy and Zooey Deschanel will get all of the credit for it (but you'll still kinda love her anyway).
  
• Stay in school. It might feel hard now, but it's NOTHING compared to how hard it will be to go back when you're almost 30 with two kids. 
• Stop saying that you are a "multi-tasker". You know not the meaning of the word, my friend.
• There's no shame in watching a day-long marathon of The Gilmore Girls. No shame!
  
• Buy stock in Apple so that 30-year-old you can be a millionaire. Please? Also, have someone explain to you exactly what stock is and how it works, because 30-year-old you still doesn't really know.
• The best things in life are the things you never see coming. 
  
• Seriously. Sleep more.
• Don't be afraid to ask for help. Asking for help doesn't make you weak, it makes you human. And it's good to remember that you're human every once in awhile.  
  
• Your boobs won't get any bigger, not even after two kids. I'm sorry about that, I really am.  
• Above all else, you only have one life and it will go by faster than you can ever possibly comprehend. The great Anthony Kiedis once brilliantly said "This life is more than just a read-through" and he is exactly right. You will regret a few things here and there, but you will never regret making the most of the life you have been given. Enjoy the ride. 
  

Love,
(Almost) 30-year-old (Super Tired) You

Beauty In The Breakdown

September 11th is my mom's birthday.

For many years of her life (by which I mean 29), my mom's birthday was never a problem. In fact, having "911" for your birthday was kind of her bit. She used to joke that no one ever had an excuse for forgetting her birthday, because it was on every fire truck. Lucky people! Not to mention the fact that people had a chance to remember her every time they saw a cute firefighter. It was a cute little joke (told by an obvious fan of fire fighters) and even though I heard it a million times growing up, it always got my mom a laugh.

But on September 11, 2001 the joke stopped being cute and everyone stopped laughing.

September 11th. It's my generation's "Where were you when?" moment. We ask "Where were you when you heard about 9/11" much like our parent's generation asked "Where were you when you heard that JFK was shot?' I, like most people, remember exactly where I was, what I was doing, and that strange, aimless, disoriented feeling that, days later, no one could quite shake. I remember every surreal minute of it.

That morning, like most mornings of days that go horribly wrong, began perfectly normally. I had gone into my mom's room to wish her a happy birthday, worried about how she was handling it (I'll just say it was a milestone birthday and leave it at that). I sat down on her bed mentally preparing my pep talk, as my mom turned on the news. For as long as I can remember, my mom has always watched the local news in the morning (I come by my news anchor obsession honestly). Our local news anchor was talking about something innocuous when she suddenly fell silent and turned a few shades lighter. The local news immediately cut to National, and my mom and I abandoned our talk to watch. At first, the reports were nothing but chaos. No one knew what had happened exactly, but they were guessing there was some kind of explosion in the tower and the building was on fire (I would remember this exact moment the day of the Boston Bombings, when everyone knew that something had happened and it was bad, but we couldn't fathom just how bad yet). As we watched, the second plane crashed into the tower. I remember that whoever was reporting at the time started screaming and that was when I realized that this was huge. I was in a journalism and communications class at the time and as (weird, crazy, ironic) luck would have it, that morning I was still trying to cram for a quiz that day on journalistic integrity, objectivity, and how important it is to maintain your cool at all times, particularly during a live broadcast. I had no way of knowing at the time but I shouldn't have wasted my time studying; We never wound up taking that quiz. Instead, my shell-shocked, rather shaky-looking teacher (a first year, he was only five years older than me and no doubt monumentally freaked out, maybe even more so than all of us) sent us home. I remember getting gas later that night and instead of the usual, noisy gas station bustle, everyone was silent, just listening to the news on their radios. Dan Rather's voice was echoing off the pumps as everyone listened in stunned silence, gas pumps hanging limply from their hands. It was like a scene from a movie, that eerie silence right before the storm hits or the world ends. I'll never forget that feeling.

It was twelve years ago, but the memory is so clear, so vivid that it could have happened yesterday. It was all so violent, so tragic, so unnecessary, so unfathomable. I was only seventeen, but 9/11 was my wake up call to the fact that a big, scary world lay beyond my sheltered existence. 

But I believe that there's a silver lining.

I remember the days right after 9/11, before the conspiracy theories, the Patriot Acts, the finger-pointing or blaming started to pour in, when the atmosphere was indescribable. Everyone was paying attention to everything going on around them, everyone was engaged. People were hanging up flags and talking to strangers. We were all united in sorrow; We were grieving but we were doing it together, and we buzzed with our mutual sympathy and comradery. It felt like taking a glimpse at what the world would look like if everyone dropped their agendas, politics, prejudices, ill-conceived perceptions and down-right snobbishness and just focused on acting like decent human beings. And you know what? That world was awesome. For a moment, our values synched up and we gained a whole new appreciation for strong, brave people. We appreciated things like the will and steel nerves of the first responders who went rushing into hell trying to save people. We stopped taking police, firefighters, and the military for granted and appreciated what they all go through to protect and serve. No one cared who they voted for in the 2000 election, where they stood on abortion, or how much money they made. We cared about the content of people's characters instead of just surface-level facts and sound bytes of their opinions. "United We Stand" became our motto not just because it sounded nice and patriotic, but because everyone actually felt that way. I can honestly say that in the midst of so much sadness and chaos, I've never been prouder to a part of this country, that we were all in this fight together.  The United States became one big family bonded in grief and for one fleeting moment, it made us all a little better. As I sit here now, a dozen years later, I'm reminded of an article I read once, about how calamity and tragedy helps people focus, realize what's important to them and to try, however briefly, to be a better version of themselves. The world was bursting with those people in the days after 9/11, people who wanted to do anything they could to help, from passing out fliers to giving blood. It was humanity at its best. It was the beauty in the breakdown.

Every year, I think that we should honor the victims and families of 9/11. But I've never been able to figure out how. Whenever I think about it, I always come back to that post 9/11 feeling of being a united front, feeling like we were all in this mess together, and I wish we could figure out a way to get back to feeling that way. I realize that the world is not meant to be perfect, there will always be adversity, violence, war, and a million other terrible things. But honestly, we can do a little better than this. Those days right after 9/11 gave me hope. Maybe someday the good in the world will outweigh the bad, or at the very least, we'll appreciate the little but important things in life instead of taking them for granted. Maybe if we want to really honor the people who lost their lives, we could try being kinder, more patient, more tolerant people without needing a gut-wrenching tragedy to be our motivator. Maybe it's just the left wing, tree-huger in me, but I think we could all get the point eventually where no one cares what wing I am or what I hug, because at the end of the day, none of that stuff really matters. We're all in this together. Solidarity! Call me unrealistic or naive, but I'm not going to give up hope that it could happen.

We really could be the change we want to see in the world. We have the potential.

"On September 11, 2001 there was one American in space. This is the photo he took from the International Space Station" VIA Twitter.com/SciencePorn.

Hurricane Freak Out

Hey guys. I'm back. And I'm freaking out.

It all started last Friday, when Layla and I went to go meet her first grade teacher. Up until that point, the fact that Layla was getting ready to go into the first grade hadn't really bothered me much. She loves her school, I love her school and, despite another year of sweaty panic as I tried to remember everyone's name (which is obviously my problem and not theirs), I was actually looking forward to the upcoming year. Thanks to volunteering in her Kindergarten class, I was  familiar with the faculty and comfortable with the school. And for some (crazy) reason, I figured my familiarity with the school would afford me some kind of freak out immunity when it came to transitioning to the first grade.

Well, I figured wrong.

And here's why: I didn't realize it until the minute that I stepped into Layla's new classroom, but I was expecting the first grade to basically be Kindergarten 2.0. Blocks, art tables, kitchen sets and little grouped tables. Sweet and safe. Okay, so maybe those things had freaked me out about Kindergarten a year ago, but I could handle all of them now. Not to mention the fact that when I reached far back to my own Kindergarten and first grade years, my mind stubbornly insisted that they were practically indistinguishable. So I could totally handle Layla starting the first grade, no problem. But what I apparently could not handle was reality in the form of legit school paraphernalia, the chapter books, the white boards, the little desks (which, despite being in the throes of a nervous breakdown, struck me as the cutest things I'd ever seen in my life). It was so different from Kindergarten because it looked like, well, school.  After the classroom had been explored and teacher had been met, we milled around awhile and saw some friends and their moms from last year. I was struck by the fact that all of the moms seemed to be walking around in a daze. We tried to catch up and talk about our summers, but all we could manage to do was shake our heads in disbelief and mutter "The first grade. Can you believe it?" to each other. Or maybe we were all just muttering it to ourselves, now that I think about it. Either way, I shook my head and muttered just like everyone else, but I otherwise managed to power through. I felt victorious for overcoming my natural instinct to freak out (for a change), which is probably why I didn't see my "victory" for what it was: The calm before Hurricane Freak Out.

We had been home for about an hour when it hit me. I was in the kitchen and I happened to glance out the window to see a woman walking along, pushing a baby in a stroller. Truth be told, I probably look out that window and see moms with babies a hundred times a day and never notice, but you can bet that I noticed today. That was all it took for me to (for lack of a more eloquent way to say it) completely lose my shit, in the form of a hiccup-y, teary panic attack. I just kept shaking my head and muttering "The first grade. Can you believe it?" even though there were no other moms around to even pretend to be muttering to. Suddenly, every memory from my own first grade experience came rushing back. I remembered my first grade teacher, Mrs. Hyrne, who smiled a lot and had red hair which fascinated me (It's important to note that the year that I was in the first grade, "The Little Mermaid" came out, and because Mrs. Hyrne reminded me of Ariel, I was in awe of her and subsequently the biggest, brown-nosing, little teacher's pet ever.) I remember desks, and reading, and addition and subtraction, and the subtle loss of nap time. The point of all of this (random) reminiscing is that I finally realized that I was wrong, wrong, wrong about the first grade being Kindergarten 2.0 and that my memory had betrayed me entirely (which just goes to show that you probably shouldn't trust the memory of an almost-30-year old.) They were nothing alike. They couldn't have been more different and I suddenly remembered the first grade like it was yesterday. Wait, wasn't I actually just in the first grade yesterday? It certainly feels like it. And furthermore, if my wobbly memory can at least still manage to conjure up the name of my first grade teacher, how is it physically possible that I'm the parent of a first grader now? How??

I don't know. It just doesn't seem right.

Sometimes I feel like my like is accelerating out of control, that it's a life lived in perpetual fast-forward. But as much as that freaks me out, it's nothing compared to the feeling I get when I realize that my kid's lives are in fast-forward too. When my kids were babies, days seemed like years sometimes (particularly when those days involved projectile vomit), but now years feel like days. I look at them and wonder when and how they became actual people. It's thrilling and challenging and terrifying, all rolled into one. I know that kids grow up, that's the way that life works, it's supposed to happen. It's all just happens so fast. I swear, I am this close (THIS! CLOSE!) to turning into one of those crazy people who hover in the grocery store aisles telling anyone with a baby to enjoy it because it goes too fast, completely forgetting both the fact that you only realize how fast it goes in retrospect and people who do this are really annoying. At some point I'll probably incorporate pinching random cheeks and getting the stank eye from parents who (rightfully, probably) don't want me anywhere near their baby's cheeks, into my unsolicited "Enjoy it while you can" rant/routine. Great. Like I need to be any crazier than I already am.

Fast-forward to today, the first day of school. I did what I knew I needed to do: I pulled myself together and took my extremely excited kid (who had absolutely no idea how weepy and freaked out her mother actually was) to school. I took pictures, said hello to people, and told her she was going to have a great day, all while my fingers felt numb and my voice sounded detached from my body. I didn't cry or hover for too long (though Layla was ready for me to leave at least ten minutes before I actually left). Instead I came home, wrote this blog, freaked out in the privacy of my own home, and didn't even cry.

Well, okay. Maybe I cried a little bit.

I know that ultimately dragging my feet isn't going to do anything. My kids get older every day and there's nothing I can do to stop it. I just wish I had listened to those people who hovered in the aisles at the grocery store who told me to enjoy it all while it lasted because it goes by too fast.

Because it really does.