Pizza for dinner again

Right after I had Ryan and was going back to work, I thought I'd never snap out of the haze of being up half the night and having half of my day consumed by mundane and repetitive--albeit soul-making--work of changing diapers, nursing, burping, changing diapers, nursing, burping. When it came to work, I was terrified I'd make a mistake. At the time, I worked for a major national financial publication. One error, and I could change the stock price for a company. One snafu, and I could get someone fired. The stakes were high, and it was stressful. I literally can count the number of mistakes I made during the 9 years I worked off and on for that publication because each one was so painful. To have an error go out to 100,000 copies in airports, Barnes & Nobles, and news stands without being able to call it back is torture. There's no way to really say sorry, even with the benefit of the corrections section.

Back to postpartum Ryan time. I was so afraid that my stupor would overflow into my copy and that I would make a mistake that I began to favor book reviews. At least, I figured, I could see, in black and white, the facts, numbers, names and nuances I was putting down on paper. I knew, though, that my work lacked the pizazz that I liked it to have. You have to pay close attention to really tell a good story. My attention span seemed about as good as that of a housefly. All of this was wearing on me when a wise friend said to me, "Relax. You're like the housewife who thinks she has to prepare filet mignon every night for supper. Sometimes it's okay to make a hot dog. Hot dogs are good. People love hot dogs. Or pizza, for that matter. It's okay to order a pizza." Meaning that your stories are sometimes lame. But the general 8th grade reading level public doesn't always mind lame.

I took that philosophy into my Self. And tonight, for the umpteenth time this month, we are having pizza for dinner. And it tastes darn good. Everyone likes pizza.