At the beginning of the year, I picked 23 projects that I wanted to tackle in 2023. It’s been awhile since I checked in, so let’s see my progress!

1. Attend fifty hot yoga classes: As of today, I’ve attended 35 classes – woot woot! I thought about trying to attend 100 classes in 2023, but after all the drama with my dad’s multiple brain surgeries, I’m so glad I aimed for 50.
2. Track what I eat for 30 days in a row: I completed this in January.
3. Drink at least 64 oz of water/day for 30 days in a row: Ditto.
4. Publish my second novel: I’m currently writing some new scenes after receiving feedback from my editor, and I think (fingers crossed!) that the novel will be ready to publish by year’s end.
5. Read 100 books for myself: I’ve finished 64 of 100 books and according to Goodreads, I’m 7 books ahead of schedule.
6. Try 23 new recipes: I’ve tried six new recipes and lost all momentum here because I abhor cooking in the summer. I foresee lots of fall cooking!
7. Cook with mushrooms 23 times: I’ve cooked mushrooms four times! Always delicious!
8. Bake 23 loaves of bread: Not a loaf yet. And not happening with the current humidity and heat.
9. Make 23 different buttons with my button maker: Falling short here (I’ve made one button, ahem(), but I’m probably using my button maker to help with fundraising at our school’s welcome back fair. So stay tuned…
10. Finish 23 craft projects (not including buttons): Four down. Hopefully I can do some smaller projects with the kids soon.
11. Watch 12 different Creativebug classes: I’ve only watched one, but I’m planning to distance myself from volunteering during the 2023-24 school year so I can have more time for myself. And I definitely want more crafting as part of my self-care.
12. Draw 12 times: I’ve drawn four times. I’ve got such a mental block against this.
13. Play 23 different board/card games: Up to twelve different games. Need to pick up the pace with this.
14. Watch 23 movies with my kids: I’m at eight! We saw Elemental in the theater over the weekend and I enjoyed it a lot.
15. Write 23 blog posts: This will be my fifteenth post of the year.
16. Visit 23 new places: I completed this goal several months ago, and visited my 29th new place – a movie theater in downtown L.A. – over the weekend.
17. Go on 12 hikes: I’ve done the same hike, Eaton Canyon, twice now. Once with Pippa, and once with Pippa, Nathan and Julian. Both times were so good for my soul.
18. Do 23 things I have never done before: I’m at 14 new things.
19. Finish decluttering the house! I’ve made a ton of progress. I really need to tackle the basement and garage.
20. Indulge my inner child 23 times: I’ve indulged my inner child at least 16 times. Yesterday, we went to the beach and I built a sand castle with Julian and then went boogie boarding.
21. Publish 12 podcast episodes: This remains at zero. I feel the urge to record a podcast episode slowing increasing, but that urge is not yet loud enough for me to take action. Or maybe it’s that I feel compelled to do other things first. A woman only has so many hours in a day, and this woman is revising a novel, raising two kids, keeping house, going to hot yoga, and doing lots of other shit — plus, she needs time to relax and chill the eff out. So, if podcasting doesn’t happen, that’s fine! But then again, maybe I’ll finish novel revisions and use podcasting as a creative outlet. Who knows?!
22. Attend 12 live performances: I’ve been to six live performances this year, and they have been so nourishing for my soul. We have tickets to see Peter Pan Goes Wrong in a few weeks, and I’m considering a few other shows. In December, the kids and I will see the Nutcracker or A Christmas Carol – or possibly both!
23. Spend 20 hours gardening: Nature and fresh air are so good for my mental and spiritual health. I’ve done a ton of gardening this year, but have not always remembered to log it. I’d say I’ve easily done 15 hours of gardening this year (probably more).

Confession: Even though I’m still working on most of these items, I’m already thinking about my 24 in ’24. I love this shit.

I’ve been writing about my burnout this week, but is that even the right phrase for how I’m feeling? Since January 2023, I have felt drained and depleted and assumed I was burnt out from doing too much volunteering for PTA and AYSO. Intuitively, I believe “burnout” is the right word for my current state of wellness, but let’s take a closer look at what burnout actually means.

Dictionary.com defines “burnout” as:

noun

1. a fire that is totally destructive of something.
2. Also burn-out . fatigue, frustration, or apathy resulting from prolonged stress, overwork, or intense activity.

The first definition is a very poetic way of how I feel after all my dad’s health issues, and the second definition nicely sums how I’ve been feeling this year. I am worn out and fatigued. Physically, I have plenty of energy – though honestly, I’ve been running on fumes for so long, maybe I do have less energy than I should. Mentally, I feel slow, like I’ve lost 20 or 30 IQ points. And I know these feelings resulted from the prolonged stress of my dad’s cancer, my dad’s brain surgeries, and the overwork I subjected myself to in the AYSO and PTA departments.

According to the World Health Organization, there is also a medical diagnosis for burnout:

Here’s the definition of burnout in the ICD-11:

Burnout is a syndrome conceptualized as resulting from chronic workplace stress that has not been successfully managed. It is characterised by three dimensions: 1) feelings of energy depletion or exhaustion; 2) increased mental distance from one’s job, or feelings of negativism or cynicism related to one’s job; and 3) a sense of ineffectiveness and lack of accomplishment. Burn-out refers specifically to phenomena in the occupational context and should not be applied to describe experiences in other areas of life.

After reading the WHO definition of burnout, which is limited to the workplace, I have fallen down a rabbit hole regarding parental burnout. Many browser tabs are now open on my trust MacBook Air! My curiosity is intrigued and the cogs in my head are turning…

What does it mean to be burnt out as a mom?

It turns out that I can’t answer that question in a single blog post, but I would like to do some investigating and dig deeper into this subject.

But I’ll say this: I don’t need a medical diagnosis for the way I currently feel. For me, it’s academically interesting to grapple with these questions, but practically speaking, I know I did too much and now I need to rest and take time for myself. And by “time for myself” I do not mean “a 90 minute massage.” I mean “I need to avoid volunteering for anything extra during the 2023-24 school year in order to heal from my burnout.”

I’ve been writing this week about my burnout, examining what went wrong during the 2022-23 school year. I created a timeline of the events that led to my burnout, and yesterday, I looked at how those events eliminated my buffer and put me at risk for a nervous breakdown. Today, I’d like to examine another reason the 2022-23 school year reduced me to a burnt out husk: I volunteered in ways that were not authentic to my true self.

I volunteered to be an AYSO soccer coach for both my kids’ teams and the experience taught me an important lesson: I AM NOT A SPORTS COACH. Do I enjoy watching my kids play sports? Yes. Do I enjoy shooting hoops with them in the driveway or passing the soccer ball on our front lawn? Absolutely. Do I want to organize drills and study the strengths of each player and come up with a strategy to dominate and win? No, not even a little. That shit just doesn’t interest me. (But someday writing a novel about being a soccer mom? Absolutely!)

Because I’m not a soccer coach by nature, practices and games depleted me. I love thinking about my energy as water in a bucket. Some activities, like writing and crafting, add water to my supply. Other activities, like cajoling a group of six-year-old boys to dribble a soccer ball around cones, deplete it. Coaching two soccer teams was the equivalent of throwing my bucket off a cliff.

Honestly, as I look back on the 2022-23 school year, being an AYSO soccer coach was enough to burn me out. But I went the extra mile and also volunteered to be our PTA’s VP of Volunteers. This meant recruiting and organizing volunteers for every PTA event. I had to send email after email, check schedules, nag, harass, beg AND I HATED IT. Within one week of the school year, I hated myself for taking on what was basically a thankless HR job, except I didn’t have employees because almost no one wanted to volunteer.

But here’s the thing: someone out there is reading my description of the PTA VP of Volunteers job and thinking, That sounds awesome. In fact, lots of people were born for HR roles. They love to organize folks and events. This sort of work fills up their bucket to the brim with cold, fresh water.

The same goes for being an AYSO soccer coach. Tons of people love it! I’m just not those people.

And that’s okay! The world needs different people with different talents and passions. If we were all meant to be AYSO soccer coaches, who would cheer from the sidelines? If we were all meant to be PTA VPs, then we would need to arranged cage matches to pick the best candidate.

I felt obligated to take on these roles because as a mom, I’ve been hammered with the importance of volunteering. AYSO and PTA are very vocal about this, and as a recovering people pleaser, I heeded their call and signed up to volunteer and in so doing, I committed to huge responsibilities that did not feel authentic to my true self.

Writer and podcaster Gretchen Rubin talks about this often. She seeks to Be Gretchen. (There’s like a 50% possibility I misquoted her, but I couldn’t find the quote, and that’s the spirit of her words!) I need to Be Courtney, and Courtney is not a soccer coach or a PTA VP.

In the future, before I volunteer for anything, I will ask myself, Does this help me be the most authentic version of Courtney that I can be? If the answer is no, then I should decline the opportunity. Life’s too short to fill my days with volunteering obligations that crush my true self.

Yesterday, I wrote an overview of all the things that led to my burnout during the 2022-23 school year. But what went wrong? Sure, I did a lot of volunteering, and sure, my friends and family were skeptical when I insisted I had the time for all that volunteering, but why did all that volunteering plunge me into deep soul-searching burnout?

So far, I have come up with two major reasons:

1. I gave up my buffer.
2. I thought I was volunteering in ways that pushed me out of my comfort zone, but actually, I was volunteering to do things that made me feel like an inauthentic version of myself.

I cannot possibly discuss all of this today (because I’m getting a facial after lunch, huzzah!), so let’s start on the buffer.

I learned about the concept of a buffer several years ago from Greg McKeown’s book Essentialism: The Disciplined Pursuit Of Less. Basically, imagine yourself driving. If you are right behind the car in front of you, and that car makes a sudden stop, there’s probably going to be a collision. But if you keep a healthy distance between vehicles, you have more time to react and brake and avoid an accident.

The same goes for life.

You have a finite amount of time and energy. If you fill your days with nonstop obligations, and then an unexpected emergency pops up, you won’t have the time or energy to deal with the unforeseen situation. And let’s face it: life is a series of unforeseen situations. (Hello, 2020.)

I forgot all this when I volunteered for PTA, AYSO, Girl Scouts, and being a room parent. I filled my days to capacity, reasoning that I enjoy doing things, so the more I did, the happier I would be.

Oops.

I realized approximately one week into the school year in mid-August 2022 that I was fucked. I was stretched too thin and was going to have to do less for myself and family – less writing, less cleaning, less decluttering, less chilling out and enjoying my life – in order to keep up. Okay. Fine. I could handle a busy fall and I’d recover in the winter.

And then my dad was diagnosed with prostate cancer, and I did not have the capacity for all the stress and feelings, but there they were. I needed a buffer! Because sometimes, a loved one gets sick and you need time to process that shit.

Somehow, I dragged myself through my season of soccer coaching and far too many PTA commitments, and I even enjoyed the holidays. Over the winter break, I reread Essentialism and resolved to rebuild my buffer. I would not say yes to any additional volunteer requirements. I would do my best to chill out and take time to recover from the fall.

Then my dad had emergency brain surgery in February and holy shit, if I thought I was burnt out on January 1….

On the bright side, the first half of 2023 really hammered home the lesson THAT I NEED A BUFFER. Just because I have enough time to do something does not mean I should. I need to focus on the essentials, like parenting and writing, and not spread myself so thin that I do not have the capacity to handle life’s unexpected twists.

So going forward, let this be one of my mantras: I NEED A BUFFER.

The 2022-23 school year kicked my ass. Now that we are deep into summer vacation, I want to look back, reflect, and assess before I get sucked into the next school year.

Here’s a timeline:

• End of The 2021-22 School Year: I volunteered for all the things. In January 2022, my Uncle Pete died. Two weeks later, my Grandma Shirley died. At the end of February, I ran the school book fair and this experience revived me and pulled me out of my grief. I reasoned, Volunteering is good for my mental health so I should volunteer as much as possible!
• I volunteered to be the VP of Volunteers for my kids’ PTA; to run the book fair again; to be coaches for both my kids’ soccer teams; and to become a Girl Scout leader for Pippa’s troop.
• Oops.
• August 2022: No one volunteered to be the Room Parent Chair, my former PTA role, so I shouldered that responsibility in addition to my new role as VP of Volunteersl. Then I volunteered to be a room parent for Julian’s first grade class and Pippa’s fourth grade class – but thank god, I had co-room parents for both grades. And then, since I’m an idiot, I volunteered to be the art docent for Julian’s class (at our school, docenst prepares extra art projects and lessons).
• August 2022: I attended two different soccer trainings on two different Saturdays to be an AYSO coach in the smothering heat. Also, I completed tons of online training. I receiveced rosters for my teams and nagged parents to volunteer to be refs and shit.
• August 2022: I also completed online training to be a Girl Scouts leaderl.
• August 2022: I remembered how much work I have to do as a PTA board member and room parent at the beginning of the school year and hated myself.
• September 2022: My dad was diagnosed with prostate cancer.
• EMOTIONAL OVERLOAD.
• Brief thoughts on my dad’s prostate cancer: I knew that if he had to get cancer, this was the best case scenario. I knew the likelihood of a good outcome was close to 100%. BUT THIS WAS STILL DEVASTATING AND DRAINING AND I NEEDED TIME TO CHILL OUT AND PROCESS BUT I HAD VOLUNTEERED FOR ALL THE THINGS AND SOLDIERED ON.
• October 2022: I was coaching two soccer teams, which was draining for me, and I especially hated the logistical side of things. But the thing I hated most about being an AYSO coach was the stupid red shirt I had to wear that made me feel like a porpoise. I was also organizing volunteers for the school carnival, recruiting both youth volunteers and cajoling room parents to recruit their parents to man carnival booths. I was running on fumes, but I did enjoy being a Girl Scout leader.
• First Sunday of November 2022: School carnival. I was in charge of youth and parent volunteers for all the booths and THIS IS NOT MY WHEELHOUSE. Not even a little. We didn’t have enough parent volunteers, though parents were milling about having a good time, refusing to volunteer, while I was stressed, bitter and miserable. After this ordeal, I felt wrecked for weeks.
• December 2022: I realized I hate coaching soccer. I’m just not a coach. I loved coaching my kids’ teams ONCE and we will always have those memories but that’s it.
• December 2022: From the Department of Things Going Right, my dad had surgery and kicked prostate cancer in the ass.
• January 2023: I realized I was absolutely burnt out but didn’t want to quit mid-school year on my responsibilities. I resolved to finish the year as the PTA’s VP of Volunteers, room parent for both kids classes, book fair chair (which meant running the Scholastic book fair in late February) and art docent. I further resolved to volunteer less in the 2023-24 school year.
• First Half of February 2023: My dad had emergency brain surgery.
• Fuuuuuck.
• My dad spent 10 days in the ICU and had one more brain surgery. I was there almost every day. I realized I didn’t have the capacity to run the school book fair and passed the baton to another mom.
• I told PTA folks that I would not be rejoining the PTA board for the following school year.
• March 2023: I resigned from my role of VP of Volunteers because I just didn’t have it in me to even check my PTA inbox.
• April 2023: My dad had two more brain surgeries which resolve the issue that began in February (ruptured AVM, long story). He begans the road to recovery. Spoiler alert: he’s doing great.
• May 2023: I dragged myself through the end of the school year, attending talent shows and spring instrumental concerts, and organized class parties for first and fourth grade.
• June 1, 2023: The 2022-23 school year concludes. I was the human equivalent of a pile of ashes.

But sometimes, you need to be burnt into a pile of ashes to release your inner phoenix…

I shall continue this adventure tomorrow!

I published my first novel, Confessions of An Imposter Room Mom, last summer but I never posted any excerpts. Well, better late than ever, so without further ado, here’s the first chapter:

Tonight is the most important night of my life, and I don’t know what to wear. The outfit I choose will set the tone for the rest of the year. If I wear the right clothes, I’ll make the right friends. But if I choose poorly, I might as well give away my earthly belongings and join a monastery on the top of a mountain. My dresses and shirts judge my ineptness as I flip through my closet’s offerings for the umpteenth time. That’s it. I’m calling the expert. 

The expert answers before the phone finishes its first ring. “I was about to power down my phone.” 

“Zoe!” I yelp. “You’re turning your phone back on tomorrow morning, right?” 

“No,” Zoe says, “next year. You know that.” 

I sit down on top of the nearest unopened box. “But how am I supposed to survive?”  

“Elodie Jones, you are a capable and wonderful mother and you are going to have an amazing year. You don’t need my parenting advice.”

Zoe Ziegler has been my best friend since she rescued my dignity during our first week of college. While I was showering in the girls’ common bathroom, my freshman roommate Ingrid left our room and locked the door — with my wallet and key sitting on my desk. Ingrid had marooned me. Then, a pack of freshman boys from the football team stormed into the hallway, blocking my retreat to the sanctuary of the girls’ bathroom. Zoe saved me. She rushed from her room down the hall, screamed several choice obscenities at the idiot boys, loaned me clean clothes, and took me to the dining hall for ice cream. 

Our friendship flourished. After graduation, we shared a tiny apartment in Brooklyn and took the subway into Manhattan: Zoe to her entry-level job with a big publisher, me to law school. Three years later, I began my career as a miserable lawyer and Zoe married her college sweetheart, Paul. One year later, Zoe popped out twins. Fast forward a decade, and we were both still living in Brooklyn with our respective husbands, and we ovulated and conceived within days of each. It was perfect. We went to prenatal yoga classes together, shopped for onesies together, and planned our children’s future marriage when we learned I was having a girl and Zoe a boy. I did not have to bother making any mom friends because I had Zoe. Even better, Zoe became my go-to parenting expert thanks to her prior experience with the twins. My life as a stay-at-home mom was perfect. 

Until now. 

Now I am minutes away from beginning my life as a preschool parent in Pasadena, California with a group of strangers while Zoe begins a year of off-grid living in Alaska. Paul says he wants to write a book about their adventures. I say he’s having a mid-life crisis and should have bought a Porsche. 

“Why do you have to give up your phone?” I ask for the millionth time. 

“Because,” Zoe sings, “cell phones are an integral part of the grid.” 

“What if we just text?” 

“Texting is definitely part of the grid.” 

I knew that, but a part of me hopes that if I keep asking, the answer will change. I groan. “What if I have a crisis? Should I send a letter by the Pony Express?”

Alas, I already know the answer to that question as well. The Zieglers are embracing off-grid living with a vengeance, which means my best friend will not even have an address for snail mail. 

“You won’t have a crisis.” 

“Of course I will,” I insist. “I’m having one right now.” 

“What’s the crisis?”  

“I don’t know what to wear to preschool orientation.” 

Zoe snorts. 

“I’m serious!” My wet hair is getting my shirt wet. “I’m a preschool virgin. What do I wear?” 

“Clothes,” Zoe deadpans. 

“What did you wear to the twins’ preschool orientation?” 

After a long pause, Zoe says, “I can’t even remember if I went. It was eight years ago, but if I went, I didn’t dress up. Stop obsessing over this. It’s only preschool.” 

It’s only preschool? Zoe just does not get it. She knows how to act and dress and talk with the other moms because she went to a normal preschool with normal kids who had normal, mainstream parents. The closest thing I had to preschool was a box of crayons and a circus clown named Chuckles. I need Zoe to impart all of her parenting wisdom, even if she thinks I’m obsessing over trivial matters, so I don’t ruin my daughter’s only chance at a perfect preschool experience.   

“So, jeans and a t-shirt?” I sigh. 

“Wear whatever you want.” 

I dig through my suitcase for clean jeans. The suitcase balances on an unpacked box in a room with pink walls. That’s a lot of information, so let me break it down for you. First: the pink walls. We bought our house, a two story Victorian built a century ago, without seeing it in person. This seemed efficient; now I have regrets. The online listing revealed the prior owner had a thing for pink, but I swear, the realtor must have tinkered with the photos. Online, the bedroom walls looked cotton candy pink but in person, the color is much closer to fuchsia.  

Second: the unpacked box. Luke moved to Pasadena a month ago while I visited my family with our two-year-old daughter, Madison. He installed satellite t.v., plugged in the microwave, stocked the freezer with frozen dinners and ice cream, and did nothing else. Oh wait, my bad — he bought paper plates and plastic cutlery.  

I extract my cleanest jeans from my suitcase (which does not mean they are clean) and then remember it is late August and too hot for jeans even at night, so I grab a pair of black Capri leggings instead. I am already wearing black Capri leggings, but they feel gross after a day spent chasing a feisty two-year-old who hates napping. This is my version of dressing up.  

“I’m sorry,” I say. “I’m ruining your last night on the grid.” 

“You’re not.” Zoe’s voice cracks. “I’m going to miss you and your drama.” 

“I’m going to miss you.” Now I am on the verge of blubbering — but we did the blubbering thing a month ago in Brooklyn, and if I cry now, I’ll never make it to orientation. 

“I’ll call you next August as soon as we return to civilization,” Zoe says, “and then you can tell me all about Madison’s first year of preschool, which is going to be amazing.” 

“Okay, I can do this,” I say, trying (and failing) to give myself a pep talk. 

“What can go wrong? It won’t be like freshman year. Ingrid won’t be there.” 

Zoe despises my freshman roommate Ingrid. Ingrid locked me out of our room while I was showering, humiliated me in front of my friends too many times to count, and criticized my wardrobe, complexion, and childhood, but Zoe — well, it’s a very long story involving a table, a sequin tube top, and a sophomore named Craig, but Zoe despises Ingrid. 

“Right,” I exhale slowly, “Ingrid won’t be there. She can’t make me perform circus tricks on command.” 

“Don’t knock the circus tricks. Preschoolers love—” 

“Absolutely not,” I interrupt. “I made that mistake already in college.” 

“I thought it was hilarious when you made the balloon penises at Felix’s Halloween party.” 

That is a story I am not emotionally prepared to share today. Or possibly ever.

“Mama! I hungry!” Madison stomps into my bedroom wearing her tutu. She has taken off her shirt and tattooed her stomach with a green marker. The pink tutu, which she has been wearing nonstop since my sister gave it to her three weeks ago, is also stained green. I will sneak the tutu off Madison after orientation and give it a good scrubbing. Separating Madison from her tutu when she’s awake is impossible. Believe me, I’ve tried.  

“Don’t worry about tonight.” Zoe offers a last piece of advice to sustain me through the next twelve months. “At least you aren’t living off grid in Alaska.” 

By the time we finish saying goodbye, Madison is kicking me. 

“Grandma is bringing cookies.” I try to sound sweet and unhurried while pulling my chestnut brown hair into a ponytail, but I’m overwhelmed and on the verge of a tantrum. Should I wear makeup? I forgot to ask Zoe about makeup, and now it is too late. 

I rarely bother with makeup. In college, after Ingrid said something rude about my freckles, I layered my skin with creams and powders to conceal the constellations of freckles that cover my entire face. I also scrubbed my entire body with various natural remedies, from lemon juice to buttermilk, to lighten the freckles on my arms, and I may or may not have clogged the women’s shower after I slathered myself with honey. Fortunately, I dated a narcissist in law school who had one redeeming quality: he regularly and sincerely complimented my freckles. Ever since our brief fling, I have embraced the night sky of freckles that adorns my face and only wear lipstick and eyeshadow on special occasions. 

“I want cookies! Now!”

“Grandma will be here in five minutes.” 

Madison shrieks at an inhuman frequency. I jettison any thought of doing my makeup while stifling the urge to throw a tantrum myself. She cannot be hungry. She ate a hot dog, carrots, and a generous bowl of mac and cheese less than an hour ago. Besides, it’s not like I am asking her to fast all day. I just need her to leave me alone for five minutes so I can finish getting dressed for orientation before Luke and his parents (our sitters) arrive.  

My phone buzzes with an incoming text:

Sorry, hon. I won’t be home for dinner.

No, no, no! Luke is our designated normal parent. I’m the imposter and can’t go to Orientation without my wingman. I type: 

What?! We have orientation tonight. 

Luke responds:

Crap, I forgot. The owner is in town and wants a working dinner. I’ll be lucky if I get home before midnight. 

Luke and I met at law school, although we did not date until we both started working at crazy New York law firms. About six months ago, Luke lamented the fact that he got home after Madison went to bed and missed at least half our weekend adventures. We brainstormed different ways to escape the Manhattan legal scene. Then, out of nowhere, a partner at Luke’s firm asked if he would be interested in working in-house for a company with offices in downtown Los Angeles. So far, Luke loves the job, but why must tonight be the night that the owner wants a working dinner?  

“I’m hungry!” Madison wails. 

The Universe might want me to skip orientation. 

“Grandma will be here with her yummy cookies any minute—”

“Why isn’t she here now?” 

The phone rings. It’s my mother-in-law Ruth. 

“Hi, Ellie, you will not believe what happened.” 

My stomach does a backwards somersault. 

“Everyone is fine, but we got in a fender bender.” 

“Oh no!”  

“We got rear-ended by a semi on the freeway.” 

“Oh, my god!” My in-laws drive a Prius. 

“We’re waiting for the tow truck. We’re in the fast lane still. I could walk to the next exit ramp and call a taxi.”

“Oh no, Ruth, please don’t do that. You stay safe.” 

Madison throws herself to the floor. “I WANT GRANDMA! I WANT GRANDMA!” 

It’s official: the Universe wants me to skip preschool orientation.

Want to read more? The ebook of Confessions of An Imposter Room is available at all the usual places and you can get the paperback from Amazon.

I am in the midst of some epic PMS. It’s Day 35 of my cycle, and over the past several days, I have suffered numerous symptoms, including agitation, irritation, edginess, diarrhea, cramps, and body aches. FUN TIMES. Needless to say, I pray that my period starts NOW and Day 35 transforms into Day 1.

Over the past few years, I’ve realized that refined sugar worsens my PMS, especially during the latter half of my cycle. Limiting refined sugar reduces my symptoms, but earlier this month, we went on vacation to Vegas and Nebraska, and I ate all the sugar. Now I’m paying the piper.

But that’s okay! This PMS will not last forever AND it’s inspired me to quit refined sugar for the next ninety days. My body needs the chance to detox and reset. I want to pay attention to how I feel without refined sugar, so I can learn the best way to take care of my body during this stage of life (44, nearing perimenopause). I also want to see what other changes, if any, happen. Will I have more energy? Will I sleep better? Will my moods change? Will I have more patience? Less stress? Lose weight?

Basically, I am treating the next 90 days as my own personal science experiment regarding refined sugar.

Today, July 19, is Day 1. I feel relieved and excited that I decided to embark on this adventure.

BUT, I am not limiting all sugar. Just refined sugar – fruit is fine, a splash of cream in my iced coffee is also fine. And when it comes to refined sugar, I’m avoiding the obvious culprits: ice cream, cake, waffles, etc. If I’m eating something savory at a restaurant, I’m not going to worry about a little refined sugar in the dish because I know that’s not my issue. It’s the Mega Sugar Bombs in desserts, especially ice cream, that make my hormones go bat shit crazy.

Here’s to less PMS and better health!

I got some great feedback from my editor, and revisions are coming along nicely for the sequel to Confessions of An Imposter Room Mom.

EXCEPT I NEED A TITLE!

I decided to call the book The Great Preschool Fiasco when I sent it to my editor, but she didn’t like the title. She says its too generic and could have just as easily been the title for my first novel and the title should reflect Elodie’s inner journey, like the last one. I agree. But I’m also stuck and can’t figure out a title that reflects Elodie’s inner journey.

In the sequel, Elodie is no longer a room mom and is instead the family activities director for the entire preschool. There is drama with a bear that keeps coming on campus, and Elodie grapples with her people pleaser tendencies.

My editor Elise thinks all the books in the sequel could be called Confessions of _____ OR each book in the series can have a completely different title. I do like the Confessions of _____ format and can imagine lots of future books: Confessions of a PTA Dropout; Confessions of A Burnt Out Mom: Confessions Of A Perfectionist Room Mom. But those are all worthless unless I can pick a title for the sequel!

I’m brainstorming. Then ignoring the problem. And then I brainstorm some more. Eventually, something will click.

In the meantime, I am terrified that I’ll never publish the sequel for lack of a decent title!