In the midst of the building disruption we went to a wedding celebration in Italy. Just north of Venice, to be precise, where you can have your wedding breakfast in a restaurant with a view like this. And they serve you dandelion cake whether you asked for it or not. We stayed in a castle, where a dramatic thunderstorm blew the windows open in the middle of the night, as if we were in a Hammer Horror. We hiked up a hill to a restaurant, in a huge extended family group with three pushchairs and calmly requested lunch for nineteen when we got there. We got on a packed Sunday train, and when we were separated by the crowd, my boy was passed to me by helpful Italian hands. We got off the train in Venice, tired and overwrought, and were immediately transfixed by it, by the boats, by the light. We explored the alleys, and ate ice-cream, and drank tiny coffees.

We were together. And as I realised, slowly, there is a lot to be said for that, and not a lot to be said about that.

A Mother’s Prayer, found at MelodyGodfred.com, by way of Pinterest.

“First, Lord: No tattoos. May neither Chinese symbol for truth nor Winnie-the-Pooh holding the FSU logo stain her tender haunches.

May she be Beautiful but not Damaged, for it’s the Damage that draws the creepy soccer coach’s eye, not the Beauty.

When the Crystal Meth is offered, may she remember the parents who cut her grapes in half And stick with Beer.

Guide her, protect her when crossing the street, stepping onto boats, swimming in the ocean, swimming in pools, walking near pools, standing on the subway platform, crossing 86th Street, stepping off of boats, using mall restrooms, getting on and off escalators, driving on country roads while arguing, leaning on large windows, walking in parking lots, riding Ferris wheels, roller-coasters, log flumes, or anything called “Hell Drop”, “Tower of Torture”, or “The Death Spiral Rock ‘N Zero G Roll featuring Aerosmith”, and standing on any kind of balcony ever, anywhere, at any age.

Lead her away from Acting but not all the way to Finance. Something where she can make her own hours but still feel intellectually fulfilled and get outside sometimes And not have to wear high heels. What would that be, Lord? Architecture? Midwifery? Golf course design? I’m asking You, because if I knew, I’d be doing it, Youdammit.

May she play the Drums to the fiery rhythm of her Own Heart with the sinewy strength of her Own Arms, so she need Not Lie With Drummers.

Grant her a Rough Patch from twelve to seventeen.Let her draw horses and be interested in Barbies for much too long, For childhood is short – a Tiger Flower blooming Magenta for one day – And adulthood is long and dry-humping in cars will wait.

O Lord, break the Internet forever, that she may be spared the misspelled invective of her peers And the online marketing campaign for Rape Hostel V: Girls Just Wanna Get Stabbed.

And when she one day turns on me and calls me a Bitch in front of Hollister, Give me the strength, Lord, to yank her directly into a cab in front of her friends, For I will not have that Shit. I will not have it.

And should she choose to be a Mother one day, be my eyes, Lord, that I may see her, lying on a blanket on the floor at 4:50 A.M., all-at-once exhausted, bored, and in love with the little creature whose poop is leaking up its back. “My mother did this for me once,” she will realize as she cleans feces off her baby’s neck. “My mother did this for me.” And the delayed gratitude will wash over her as it does each generation and she will make a Mental Note to call me. And she will forget. But I’ll know, because I peeped it with Your God eyes.

Amen.”

-Tina Fey

The builders are finally in, after almost a year of making plans and wrangling with planners and making new plans, and then new plans on top of those. We’re having what is called a ‘compromise’ added to our house, so my feelings are not quite as joyous as they might have been, since what we wanted has been mutated into something that will have to do. We still get the extra room, and the new bathroom, but we lose a little room elsewhere, create corners where there were none. The balance is about right though: we gain a lot for losing a little.

I’m not good with living in limbo. The uncertainty of our home’s fate has had a knock-on effect with the rest of my life. I’ve begun so many things over the last year, tried to resurrect old projects and dreams, and found the energy for them fizzling out before the end. My mountain of unfinished things grows and grows, and the thought keeps bothering me, “Am I trying to squeeze myself into a hole I no longer fit?”

When I started with the idea of diet and butter, I was acknowledging that life, especially life with children, has to have compromise in it. Chores must be done, or we’ll have no clean pants. Anti-chores must be cultivated or mothers will combust internally. You do know what I mean. But I forgot that I’ve been through a lot, and that what I need from my anti-chore time might not be what I remembered from my previous life.

As the roof literally came off my house this week, the change I’ve been waiting for is happening. I still keep saying that I’m not ready, but I am more than ready. I’ve been dying for this change; stagnating, withering. It’s time to rethink it all, from the ground up.