Seltzer Rocks

In January, I packed a bag and drove down to Laguna Beach for a self-imposed solo writing retreat. I am all about the writing retreat these days (join me for our upcoming rescheduled session on Cape Cod in May, more details here!!) mostly because, as a mom, getting into deep creative work can feel tricky in my usual environment, where piles of laundry are demanding to be folded and dishes are always waiting in the sink.

Sometimes I joke that no one cares where you went to college once you hit 35, and it’s a bit of a bummer for me because I am slightly obsessed with my school. To know Brown is to love it, and I have loved it since I first walked onto campus sixteen summers ago. Brown University is more than just where I went to college; it was my home. When my husband and I first started dating, I couldn’t wait to bring him to Providence and show him the spots on campus that were etched in my heart.

This spring, I kept coming back to the idea of Cape Cod. It was a sketch that became more drawn as my brain turned it over. I thought about it while I drove Leo home from the park and as I folded laundry after he went to bed. Lighthouses on the beach, charming seaside towns with quaint shops, piping bowls of clam chowder. Should we plan a trip? Was I meant to live there? Was I being brainwashed by picture perfect Instagram families summering on the Cape? Eventually, I let the fantasy fade.

In October we flew to New York again. This time we brought Leo, which meant we also brought an overflowing tote bag packed with snacks, coloring books, stickers, a mini pair of blue headphones and a matching tablet downloaded with hours of Sesame Street episodes. When we landed, it was fall.

September was a season of milestones. Leo started school, we celebrated my birthday, sober anniversary (8!), and the Jewish holidays, and then flew to New York for 72 hours for one of my best friends’ weddings. Back in California a few days later, we drove up to Santa Barbara with my parents for Leo’s second birthday.

I went offline in June. I had just written this post about mom influencers and the dark underbelly of the comments section and was dialing back on my social media usage as a result. But my real breaking point came after I spent what felt like a full 48 hours virtually attending a relative stranger's wedding via Instagram Stories.

I spent days and nights postpartum consuming the lives of mom influencers. As my son, a dedicated contact napper who largely rejected independent sleep, snored lightly on my chest, I sat in a dark room, noise machine blasting, swiping through videos chronicling every detail of other moms' lives: their morning routines, coffee orders, and nursery decor. I watched their videos for entertainment, mostly, but also a mildly embarrassing sense of connection.

Some personal news to share: after several committed months, I finished my Scandal rewatch in March. Without Olivia and Fitz keeping me company (I miss them), I have been reading before bed again. To be honest, I've had a complicated relationship with books lately, and it’s not just Scandal that’s to blame. About a year after my memoir was published, I found myself avoiding bookstores altogether. The aversion was jarring and disorienting, like developing a new allergy to a favorite food.

In January, our city burned. An evacuation warning was issued in our neighborhood, the invisible parameter ending a few blocks north of our home. Adam packed — our marriage license, my grandparents’ photo albums — while I bathed Leo in the next room. The Palisades and Eaton fires had decimated nearby communities one day earlier, and destruction seemed both entirely possible and unimaginable. I looked around our house, wondering if this new blaze — the Sunset Fire — would engulf it, too.

When I first got sober, I heard people in recovery meetings describe the weeks between Thanksgiving and New Year’s Eve as the Bermuda Triangle. The real Bermuda Triangle is a region in the North Atlantic Ocean where ships, planes, and people have mysteriously disappeared. In sobriety, the Bermuda Triangle is a slew of holiday parties and family dinners with copious amounts of wine and eggnog and endless opportunities to drink and disappear from recovery rooms.