Now, all I can think about is: what is it going to be like?  What is it going to be like giving up my fierce individuality and particularity (which entails everything to how I load the forks in the dishwasher to how I'm not accustomed to a partner of any kind) when first I enter into a relationship, and then when I (ye gods willing) bring forth another human into this world? How will I negotiate all of it?  I really don't know.  I'm very curious.  But I'm also terrified.

First of all, I'm the youngest of five, so, it may be possible that I've never, I repeat, NEVER, changed a diaper.  I wasn't one who wanted to babysit kids when I was younger and looking for work in the neighborhood; instead, I was the cat-sitter and dog walker.  Cats and dogs I understand.  But, um, a kid?  Lucy and Barnaby may be the first babies I held since Sean Patrick and Lucas were born, lo over 20 years ago.  And now I'm somehow supposed to figure out how to hold one, and feed it and care for it and know how to make it feel better ALL THE TIME?  I really don't know how much of this is encoded in the female DNA.  I think most of it is learned, and I really haven't had the chance.

I taught myself to cook through books and questions.  I taught myself to run a non-profit the same way.  I taught myself Excel by wandering through it for hours on end (and then asking my staff to make my spreadsheets do what I want them to do when I get frustrated).  I don't think that's exactly going to work with a baby.  

I feel really comfortable- and really competent- with infants, and with 20-year-olds.  What am I supposed to say for the other 19 years?  

What's it going to be like if I'm lucky enough to get pregnant?  How will I deal with the additional body issues?  My mom says that the butterfly tattoo on my belly will look like a pterodactyl.  That would be awesome.  But.  How will I not be scared all the time?  What will it mean for my career?  What if I have a baby and then never, ever want to work again?  What if I have a baby and can't wait to get back to work? What if I have TWINS?!

The thing is, I have no idea what it's going to be like.  I already feel woefully unprepared, terrified that between my inexperience and linear, particular ways, I might be a crappy mom.

But, maybe not.  Maybe not.  And the thing is, next to marrying the man I love, there is nothing that excites me more than the idea of giving it a shot.  

I had a wretched crush on the bartender, who was a decade my senior but strong and adorable. (When I finally confessed my crush, on my last day of work, he basically smiled ruefully and patted my head.)  I was also systematically ostracized by almost every person who worked there.  The owner used to joke- incessantly- that I must be on Prozac, because who in god's name is happy most of the time?  The people who worked there, my colleages, my partners in crime, would loudly make post-work plans and pointedly not invite me.  One time, a certain waiter and waitress were discussing renting a movie after work, when they realized neither of them would get off in time to make it to the rental place before it closed.  (There were always three of us working the floor, and I was the one who was to be "cut" first that eve, which meant both of them worked late.)  The waitress, knowing I got off early, actually looked at me, said, "Hey, would you rent a movie for me and (fill in name) to watch?!" and walked away chortling at the funny like clown joke she had just made.

Everyone there were "actors" who just hadn't quite made it yet.  This waitress in particular had been working at the chicken shack for eight years, and let's just say the bloom of her youth, according to Hollywood standards, had left her some time ago.  Alcohol, cigarettes, late nights, and an angry, cruel, bitter heart had aged her well past ingenue status.  I was somehow still firmly in that category, and she loathed me for it.  She also hated that I was an accomplished singer, since she fancied herself talented, even though- and I'm just saying this as fact- the girl couldn't sing in tune.  One time, I was singing a little Alanis Morisette to myself, and the waitress happened to walk by, and she looked at me and sneered, "ugh, that just sounds so... *perfect*", indicating that if I was a *real* singer, it would have been, I dunno, more raw, more interesting.  

I once made one decent friend there, a guy whose first night on the job was with me and one of my coworkers who was far more decent to me.  We hit it off, and started spending time together outside of work.  He was a mess, but he was a friend.  And, then, I took two weeks off to travel to Italy, and by the time I'd gotten back, the waitress had turned his eye away from me- and indeed, was the cohort who guffawed when the waitress asked me to rent movies for them.  

It was a sad, dark time, for so many reasons, but the really, truly disturbing part of all of this is I took it.  I never once defended myself from the attacks, never once told one of them to fuck right off, never came back with equally ugly retorts.  I may as well have laid down on the cold, sticky, ketchup-covered cement floor and allowed them to take turns kicking me.  I dreaded every moment of being there, when I was there, when I was off at the beach, when I was anywhere.  It was an infectious, poisonous place, where I gulped the Kool-Aid by the bucketful without ever once raising an eyebrow.

I know I'd never let that happen now, and indeed, I've become someone wholly unafraid of positive confrontation.  But it saddens me that for two years, I spent my days mostly alone, my evenings selling my soul for a paycheck, and my nights, without exception, entirely alone.  It was also my skinniest two years, which I accomplished by obsessive cardio exercise and utterly starving myself.  Really, I was starving myself in numerous ways, and it just makes me sad that I was willing to do any of it.  It's stunning how poorly those people treated me; but even more stunning was my willingness to embrace the abuse.  

Seven AM this morning found me in upstate New York, where I was the very last person to leave the annual Jartacular.  I was most definitely the very last person to pack, and indeed, were it not for the driving prowess and hyper awareness of my sister-in-law Tessa, I would have missed the train that got me to the subway that got me to Queens that got me into Sean's car to get to the airport to fly back to California.  Six hours in the air and 1 1/2 hours in the car and now I'm back in my house, wishing I could sleep and dream the rest of the week away.

Between work and play, I now travel so often that I am creepily familiar with even the lane changes necessary to best navigate into the weird long-term parking lot I use in Oakland.  My modus operandi for all things packing and planning is so familiar- everything from the pre-trip lists and duties to the post-trip schedule for unpacking- that I can almost sleepwalk through it. I'll admit I much prefer the planning of play trips rather than work trips, but many of the logistics are the same.  The only real difference is wardrobe.

It feels so strange to go from inhabiting one world to an altogether different world in the space of half a day.  In some ways, that is what I love about travel; but in other ways, it also makes me ask a rather melancholy question, which is this: am I any different now, because of this trip? This time, I can most enthusiastically say "yes" to that question.  But that hasn't always been the case, and that, I think, is what I ultimately sometimes find difficult about traveling.  I don't know why I seem to feel I need to have a value judgement of sorts on my trips, but there's been many times that I've flown across the country (or even just driven two hours up the coast) and returned home, not having found whatever it was I was looking for, which sometimes led me to wishing I'd just stayed home.  

This trip, however, was lovely on so many levels, and now I wonder if I couldn't just leave my bag packed by the door, and choose where to go tomorrow.  I know I'll just end up at work, like I'm supposed to, but when your bag is already packed, it's awful tempting just to keep on going.

I'd say I have that new invented "restless leg syndrome" disease, except for it's in my whole body. So I get up and do pathetically geeky things- like, set out the clothes for the next day (gym clothes, check, real clothes, check, what day is tomorrow?  Spin or yoga? check) or even get the coffee maker as ready as possible for my morning ritual (one packet of Splenda, cinnamon, favorite travel mug, check) until I run out of things to do.  Then it's off to nighttime trimming of roses out in my yard to put on the table.  Check.  

At one point today, I quite literally flung myself on the floor of my office, in front of my staff, arms to the sky, and thanked the gods.   At another point today, I danced alone in my jammies to Amy Winehouse's "Rehab" with- no joke- a big glass of red wine in my hand.  It's been one of those days.

But this idea of giving in to fear is something that has been haunting me lately.  It seems there is so much to fear, if I choose to operate from that place.  There is everything from: when I answer this call, will it be someone who is unkind? to, will I ever be lucky enough to have children?  And sometimes it threatens to pull me under.  Last night, when my staff was in hour 10 of what would be a 13-hour day, one of them had the insight to say, "I don't want to make a decision on this based on fear, or on finances, or on anything other than what we truly believe in."  And so we made a courageous decision, and today, when I expected the house of cards to fall down... well, it turns out it was made of stronger stuff.

The aftermath is not done.  Tomorrow might be even tougher than today.  But I'm grateful to be in this work, and grateful that I've managed to surround myself with people who can be strong, even when I can't.  And it inspires me to recommit, to these people, to my work, and to my life, even when things feel so fuzzy and strange.  I'm still in desperate need of a couple of weeks in Hawaii, but for now, I'm here, and I'm in.

The shifting of feeling dismissed to feeling valued.  The ability to serve, in a way that matters most.  The ability to be a part of a process that brings arts education to children.

Another hotel room, with crisp white sheets and free internet, where I don't mind that the view from my windows is of the dumpsters.

And the wondering, if I could go back to living half a life on the road: would it feel any more or less like home?  And the realization: maybe I need to stop wondering, and need to start focusing on the life I do have.