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When you are young, you can’t wait until you are in charge, until you can make decisions about your own life, about your own schedule, about how you will spend your hours, your days, your life, your paycheck.

You make life choices, whether conscious or unconscious and then you live with them.

And then when you are forty-five, you look around and realize that almost every bit of your life, every minute of every hour, every effort you expend belongs to someone else.  You wash clothes you don’t wear and cook meals you don’t eat and attend sports practices you only watch.  You buy snacks you don’t like and wash forks you didn’t use and iron pants that don’t belong to you.

You deliver other people to other places to participate in events that exclude you.

You worry about situations that will affect other people.  You don’t care too much how the outcome changes you but you care because of the others.  They matter.

You slice and dice up bits of your heart and life and give them away and wonder, in the end, if you’ll have anything left over, if the lunch you’ve offered to to share will actually feed five thousand.

When you are young, you steer your life in a certain lane, take a particular exit and you don’t realize that you’ll never again wake up in the morning with only thoughts of yourself.   You’ll never face an entire empty day full of possibilities and choices because everything you think and everything you do tilts the orbits of other people circling you.  You are anchored.  You are snared.  You wake up in the night because other people wake up in the night and say your name.

Part of you wants to use giant shears to cut yourself loose but the other part of you finds the web you’ve spun to be a lovely, soft nest.  You’re swaddled tightly and the immobility soothes you.

But all the same, you want to shout back to your distant self a warning to savor those days when you think you are so busy because you have to  meet a school deadline.  That is freedom.  You just don’t understand that then because you aren’t paying the mortgage.

Welcome to adulthood.

I gathered some lilacs and put them in the only place in my house that is safe from my curious cats–the master bathroom.  The blossoms on the bush are already fading, signaling the waning of spring and the approach of summer–only the weather has been so chilly and rainy and not-summer like.  The tulips lost their petals this week and the daffodils are long gone.

The school year is winding to a close, too . . . in six or seven weeks.  That’s why I spent six hours on Saturday working with my boys on Algebra.  Six hours! They must pass Algebra 1–it’s a required class for graduation–and they are not interested in math at all.  I personally always enjoyed math when I was in school.  I like how objective it is.  I took math because I knew I could get an “A” and avoided art, which I also loved, because I might get a “B.”   I however, do not enjoy spending my free time doing math on a Saturday because my boys are so far behind they can’t catch up on their own, especially since they don’t know how to graph quadratic functions online.

Our 12-year old son’s been playing lacrosse for a few months and has only a few games left.  And now our daughter has started baseball.  She complains about going to practice but likes it once she’s there.  We’ll probably both enjoy it more once the weather warms a little.  Meanwhile, I take a wool blanket with me.

This is turning into a super boring post.  My apologies.  That’s what you get when you write blog posts at 1:45 a.m.  (I worked until 1:00 a.m., so it’s not like I’ve been goofing off or anything all night.)  (Also, the interesting things are impossible to discuss.)

I just finished reading Gods in Alabama by Joshilyn Jackson.  Good read if you can overlook the, uh, coarse language.  I heard her speak in Michigan last month and she was such a charming and funny person that I unburied the book from my shelves and read it and heard her voice as I read.

Now I’m reading ROOMS by Jim Rubart.  I met him a few years ago at a writer’s conference before he’s sold this, his first novel, and it’s fun to read it now that it’s been released.  So far, I really like it.  Can’t wait to see what happens next . . .

My front door keeps making creaking noises . . . the wind must be blowing hard as the weather forecast promised.

And now, I am heading to bed.  This blog post cannot be saved.

I’m pretty sure I thought of something I could blog about.  But then all the things I can’t blog about crowded out the one good idea I had.  So.  That leaves us sitting here breathing in an awkward silence.

. . . sigh . . .

Oh wait.  I was going to tell you about going to Grand Rapids a hundred years ago.  Or last week or two weeks ago.  Whenever it was.

I never adjusted to the time zone.  I arrived at about 10 p.m. and called my long-time friend, Diane.  She’d mentioned that she could pick me up from the airport but I’d arrived in Grand Rapids before she did.  She was driving in a caravan of three vans from Missouri (with a few dozen college students and some university colleagues).  I caught a shuttle van, instead, riding with two other women.  One in particular was quite friendly and it turned out we three were all in town for the same conference:  Calvin College’s Festival of Faith and Writing.

We made small talk.  I was so tired.  I felt like I’d traveled all day by camel through the desert heat.

At the Ramada Inn, I stepped to the front desk first to check into the room.  I offered the name I had been given, the name of the woman who’d reserved the room.  For, yes, I was to stay in a room with my friend of 25 years and two unknown women, colleagues of my friend.

When I uttered the name of the other woman, one of the shuttle-van women stepped forward and said, “I’m in that room, too.”

Which led to a very odd stretch of time in which I checked into a hotel room with a complete stranger.  And then I claimed the bed near the window, cranked up the air conditioner to banish the stuffy air and tried to avoid eavesdropping on her conversation with her husband and small children.

At long last, my friend arrived and it honestly felt as if no time had passed at all.  We picked up the conversation we’ve been having forever:  “Your hair is cute like that!”  and “I’ve gained weight . . . no, you look great!” . . . that sort of thing.  Then we sat on the bed and scrolled through photos of our kids on our iPhones to share with each other.

Then the fourth woman staying in the room arrived and asked if we could please turn the air conditioner off.

The time zone thing.  That continued to be a problem, too.

I normally work until midnight, then I stay up another hour.  Sometimes, two.  Not on purpose, really, but right now it is past 1:30 a.m. and I am busy writing blog posts and who can even remember what else.

In Grand Rapids, the time is three hours later.  So, we went to bed at 11:30 p.m that first night.  Which, in my West Coast body was only 8:30 p.m.  So I could not sleep.

I am a finicky sleeper, the older I get, so I mostly pretended to sleep so I wouldn’t disturb my slumbering roommates.  And the room was stuffy.  That did not help.

At 1 a.m., I had just begun to drift off to sleep and I received a text message from a West Coast friend.  Not.  Good.

Then I was awake until 2:45 a.m.  I woke up at 5:30 a.m., certain it was 7 a.m. but it was not.  Then at 7 a.m., just after I’d fallen asleep again, it was time to wake up.  In my West Coast body, that was 4 a.m.

But whatever.  The first night was the worst.  The other nights were a little better.

The conference itself was inspiring and refreshing and fun.  I heard Stephanie Kallos (Broken for You), Mary Karr (Liar’s Club, Cherry, Lit), Michael Perry, Kate Dicamillo (The Tale of Despereaux), Eugene Peterson (The Message), Sara Miles (Jesus Freak), Ed Dobson (The Year of Living Like Jesus) and Joshilyn Jackson (Gods in Alabama).  I loved it all.  Mary Karr rocked.  So did Kate Dicamillo and Joshilyn Jackson.  Everyone, really.

There were more.  I’m pretty sure there were more.

I also talked and talked with my long-time friend.  I cannot believe it had been ten years since we’d last met in person because we picked up exactly where we left off.  That’s a good friend.  She knows all my stories better than anyone else.

She’s a university professor and so I experienced the long-forgotten delight of sitting in a hotel room with a handful of college students who have their whole lives stretching out in front of them.  I was aware of being forty-five and yet being a college student myself seemed like only one step away.  One giant step, but only one step.  Time warp, for sure.

Oh, and a highlight of my trip was spending a morning and lunch with Judy of Anybody Home.  I’ve known Judy through my blog and her delightful blog for years now.  Years.  Which is weird to think of.  Anyway, she picked me up and took me thrift store and antique store shopping.  We got some good bargains and had a lovely morning of exchanging stories.  She drove me around her hometown and pointed out various houses where she’s lived.  She took me on a tour of her house and her amazing basement craft area.  We had lunch.  I love Judy.  She feels like family to me, maybe because we share Dutch blood or Midwestern roots or a love of a bargain.  I don’t know but it’s something of a small miracle when you find a connection with someone so far away through the magic of the Internet and words on a blog.

I left my house on Wednesday morning.  I returned on Sunday afternoon.  The days in between were a blur, a happy blur of books and ideas and friends.  But not much sleep.

And now I don’t even know how long I’ve been back (two weeks? ) but it’s as if I never left.  The carpet needs to be vacuumed, the teenagers are behind in schoolwork, my shoes are jumbled in a pile in front of my dresser.  I have stacks of books by my bed–even more than before–and I am still perplexed by the impossible task of finishing writing my own novel in the scraps of time torn from my life.

In the meantime, I need to sleep.  I am still trying to catch up after the torturous Eastern Standard Time zone.

The end.

How to spend a Saturday:

1)  Sleep in.  Ignore aching hip and wacky dreams.

2)  When husband returns home with lacrosse-playing son, make plans to see movie.  Without kids.  Later.

2)  Shop for Zhu Zhu pets with daughter.  Buy Papa Murphy’s pizza for later.

3)  Stop by Baskin-Robbins to buy ice-cream for very insistent and maybe, slightly spoiled daughter.

4)  Return home to realize kids must be shuttled around, thus we cannot get away to a movie. Cancel hot date.

5)  Accept husband’s suggestion to go out anyway.  Alone.

6)  Buy Yankee candles on sale with a coupon at Bed, Bath & Beyond.  Buy dustpan to replace the one shattered breaking up a cat fight.

7)  Browse books at Goodwill.  Find six to buy.  Tell self that it’s not that bad–$16 for all.  Plus, discover new-looking Black & Decker food processor to replace old broken one.  Only $5.99!

8)  Answer phone.  Agree to bring husband a Heath Bar Blizzard.

9)  Buy two Blizzards.  And onion rings.  Write diet blog confession in head while driving and eating onion rings.  And slurping up Georgia Mud Fudge Blizzard.

10)  Deliver teenage boys (and one friend) to church for an overnight event but first, stop by store to buy potato chips and Mountain Dew for event.

11)  Return home.  Clean kitchen.  Again. Order replacement part for food processor and curse $11.95 shipping and handling charge.

12)  Attend online meeting about registering teens for virtual high school classes next fall.  Take notes.

13)  Put pizza in oven.

14)  Squint at computer screen while writing blog post.

15)  Climb under blanket and read until midnight. (Or watched saved episode of ’24′.)

Between every number on this list, do laundry: either fold, sort, wash, dry or put away.

The End.

I flew to Grand Rapids, Michigan, last Wednesday.  I had the displeasure of being crammed into the airplane within earshot of a snotty preschooler with a bad attitude and a screamy infant boycotting sleep.  I arrived in Chicago desperate to breath cool fresh air, but the Chicago airport was stuffy and teeming with people in a hurry.  And it was impossible to find a doorway leading to the great outdoors.

I waited two hours for my flight to Grand Rapids.  That flight lasted less than an hour and deposited me in a tiny airport.  I rode a shuttle bus to the Ramada when it became apparent my friend was still on the road and couldn’t pick me up as we’d planned.

No matter.  On the shuttle were two other women who were also attending the same conference.

* * *

. . . to be continued.   (It’s not all that exciting, really, but if I don’t publish this portion of the story, my toilet paper post remains the last thing I’ve said and . . . really?  REALLY?  I’m so busy but I’m going to write about my jaunt to Grand Rapids.  Eventually.  Maybe even tomorrow.  But tonight, I’m going to bed because I’m spending my morning with a two-year old.  It’s complicated.)

Let’s talk toilet paper.  More specifically, let’s talk about why I am the only person who replaces toilet paper in my household.  Why am I the only person who flushes toilets?  The only one capable of plunging plugged toilets?

Well, because I’m the Mom.  Managing toilets is my superpower.  No big discussion there.

Instead, let’s talk about my obsession with making sure that the toilet paper is installed correctly which means, of course, that it rolls over the top.  Not under.  Never under.  Under is wrong.  Over is right.

And thus shall it ever be so.

In fact, since you brought it up, yes, I confess, I have changed the direction of toilet paper rolls in other people’s bathrooms, strictly as a personal favor to them, of course.  (You’re welcome.)  [Edit:  I wouldn't do that today, though--but I do change it in my own home when someone has installed it "wrong."]

Some 72% of people polled in the Cottonelle Roll Poll agree with me.  Click here and check it out.

The makers of Cottonelle designed their toilet paper to accommodate both roll-over people and roll-under people (even though they are wrong).  And they send me four rolls of Cottonelle to try out . . . and I have to admit that I really liked this toilet paper. Very soft, strong and nicely textured.

Here’s the thing.  I am a loyal and faithful customer of Scott brand one-ply toilet paper.  Mostly because it’s reasonably priced and the rolls last forever.  But, I did enjoy the Cottonelle paper and might even buy it from time to time (if it’s on sale).

So, what about you?  Do you hang your toilet paper so it rolls over?  Or under?  Go ahead, admit it.

“I wrote  this review while participating in a blog campaign by Mom Central on behalf of  Cottonelle and received a sample to facilitate my candid review. Mom Central sent me a gift card to thank me for taking the  time to participate.”

The problem with taking an hour-long nap at 7 p.m. is that you might still be awake at 1:30 a.m. and not even feel like yawning.  Which will turn out to be a bummer seven hours from now when you have to get yourself together and take your daughter to school and then drive straight to your hair-stylist’s house to get your highlights touched up and your ragged hair trimmed.

However, you will be glad your hair looks okay because that is one less thing to worry about when you fly to Grand Rapids on Wednesday.  By the way, do you realize how long it takes to travel to Grand Rapids on a Wednesday?  You will leave your house at 8:30 a.m., fly out at 11 a.m., and finally touch down in Grand Rapids at 8:51 p.m.  By the time you get to your hotel room, it will be 10 p.m. or later, but your brain will still be in the same time zone you left, even though your body temporarily resides in Eastern Standard Time.  Good luck getting to sleep!

But back to your hair.  At least it will look okay, freeing you up to worry about more important things like your weight.  And whether or not your creativity has atrophied to the point that you can no longer carry on a coherent conversation or think thoughts worthy of all the trouble it took you to get to Grand Rapids for that particular conference.

So, in summary:  Please do not take a 7 p.m. nap or you’ll throw your entire week out of alignment.  Good luck with that.

I’m a long-time fan of Splenda, the No Calorie Sweetener that tastes like sugar.  You can substitute it for sugar in just about anything, including muffins, cookies and even meat!  Seriously, wherever you use sugar you can use Splenda.  (Look:  recipes!)

(I know.  Some of you are purists and would never dream of using  a sugar substitute.  I admire you.)

Tonight, I made Chocolate Chunk Banana Bread.  (I turned it into muffins, though, for faster cooking time.)  Yum.

Want to buy some Splenda?  Here’s a coupon.  (You’re welcome.)

“I wrote this review while participating in a blog tour campaign by Mom Central on behalf of Splenda and received products necessary to facilitate my candid review. In addition, a donation was made in my name to the Meals on Wheel organization to thank me for taking the time to participate.”

We’re mid-Spring Break.  In other words, the teenagers have procrastinated and have a ton of school-work to do to get caught up.  The 12-year old has played computer games way too much.  The 7-year old has set a new hula-hooping record (six and a half minutes).  I’ve slept in two days and taken one kid to the dentist.  So far.

Tomorrow, I have to get up painfully early (for Spring Break!) and take two more kids to the dentist.

We attempted a visit to a park today, but the rain began.  Again.

My husband cooked fried chicken for the first time ever.  He’s from Houston, Texas.  This was bound to happen sooner or later.

I haven’t yet told my daughter that I’m going on another trip in a week.

We were audited by the I.R.S. for 2008.  Of course, I misplaced the W-2 forms in the past year, so I’ve been on a hunt through all the files and piles of paperwork because, seriously, they better have made a mistake.

What else?  What?  Is that not enough?

Tonight, when I entered my blog URL into my browser, I got a virus warning.  WHAT?!  So, I sent a note to my blog-guy.  The warning disappeared later but I have no idea what’s going on.  [Edit: This has been fixed.]

Okay, that’s all for now.  I have to sleep so I can go to the dentist.  At least I don’t have to sit in the chair myself and have my gums poked by those horrible metal dental tools.

I have a special gift of taking things personally.  This was a problem for me in the early years of my marriage because whenever my husband would say something, I could take it personally and thus, give him the Silent Treatment for no good reason at all.  Other than my giftedness.

He said something yesterday and now that I’m 45, I just looked at him, considered whether to Take It Personally, and then decided to stop it.  Just. Stop.

“I considered taking that personally, but I’m just too tired.”

And that was that.

Though I do admit that I pondered his words and I considered beating myself up–how can one just refuse to Take It Personally when one is gifted?

(What did he say?  I know you’re wondering . . . I was complaining–I am also an exceptionally gifted complainer–and he said, “You know, some moms actually like doing all that stuff.”  And I . . . decided not to take that as an insult.  Because, really, he’s right.  Right?  Some moms go happily berserk creating things and planning things and wrapping things and filling a hundred and twenty eggs with wrapped candy for the backyard Easter Egg Hunt.  But me?  I do that stuff but it makes tired and wears me out.  And so I said, “You know, holidays were a lot more fun before I was the Mom.”  Which is true.)

Frankly, I thought I would love doing all the mom-stuff more than I do.  Then again, I never thought I’d be such an old mom, nor did I think I’d be a full-time working mom.  Life surprised me.

But I’m not Taking It Personally.