Let me start by saying I’m absolutely fucking exhausted.

Now that’s been said, let’s move on…

My life is pulling me in two. There’s the public Tracy who works nonstop, who seems to float from promo to promo with ease, the Tracy who always has the right words.

Then there’s the private Tracy who cackles on the phone with her friends, who still believes in the laundry fairy, who quilts, the Tracy who locks the door and lies in bed with her husband.



As I don’t live an interstitial life, where I’m neither committed to my family nor my ambition, the two Tracy’s are one in the same. Indeed, you can’t have one without the other. Trouble occurs when one seeks to overreach its influence or dictate the other.

This ‘problem’ isn’t unique unto me—others face it everyday. I doubt there’s a parent worthy of the title who hasn’t made difficult sacrifices then felt the pangs of having to do so. Sometimes it’s a matter of keeping the lights on or leaving work early to attend a school function. The power of choice rather than necessity makes my situation unique. I don’t have to work.

By the time I left corporate America to pursue writing, my omphaloskepsis skills were razor sharp, unmatched even amongst my prolific peers. Don’t get me wrong, I loved my profession, but then I realized I was unhappy. My travels took me away from home for months on end. Then, because of the sensitive nature of my work, I couldn’t talk to Greg about my frustrations. This was particularly infuriating because our marriage isn’t some abstract concept of matrimony—it’s a hardboiled partnership based on a mutual loathing of stupidity and a sun-dried belief in open communication.

For years he urged me to quit. That was his answer for all my troubles, ‘Just quit’ or something equally cliché. I’m not a quitter or so I thought. The straw that broke the camel’s back was boredom. I was bored and stressed and I hated it.

So, just as I was on the cusp of giving a damn, I left certain that writing would give me freedom, and to a large extent it has. Promos get the better of me. I find myself Heismanning my personal life more frequently and with greater vigor.

Where’s that freedom now? I’ll tell you where. It’s lying comatose in a ditch far, far away. You see, on the road to prominence, freedom acts as a sidecar—mind it doesn’t come unhitched.



The phrase ‘Have to’ bugs me because it implies the lack of choice. I have to entertain assholes. I have to purchase this new gadget. I have to focus my energy on not slapping you. ‘Have to’ should neither be interchanged nor confused with ‘must’ or ‘want’. There’s something disheartening about hearing a child utter ‘I have to’ so we’ve taught Eva and BC to differentiate between those words. I shouldn’t have been surprised when BC called my bullshit and I couldn’t be angry with him.

Last week was terribly busy. My schedule was nothing short of a juggling act and poor BC got the short end of the stick. Every Sunday, BC selects a song, practices all week, and then on Friday he serenades me. The past two weeks, my schedule has put the kibosh on any singing. To say BC was persnickety would be an understatement, but he didn’t complain too much until yesterday.

He came upstairs and asked if I was ready to listen. I was—then my phone rang, it was a business call. I told BC that I had to take the call, which earned me “Why do you have to talk to them?”

Light bulb moment! BC was right. I didn’t have to speak to anyone at that every moment. No one was going to die if I didn’t answer the phone. I tossed my phone on Greg’s pillow and listened to BC sing ‘Ice Ice Baby’ and dance around like a loon. We laughed ourselves silly when he kept saying “I don’t know what that word means, Tracy.”

BC has a way of gut punching you back to your senses.


I had to share this. Pam swore she'd never spoil a kid yet BC has managed to wrap her around his finger. His new bedroom is super charged! He didn't ask for any of it.