I am (again) distressed to discover that life is not glamorous at all times. This is not what storybooks and movies led me to believe life would be like. I do not look tragically lovely when I cry. No one dramatically chases after me in the rain to declare their undying and endless adoration. The soundtrack is inconsistent and often comprised of songs I don’t care for, blasting loudly from passing cars and/or neighboring dwellings. I have to grocery shop and remember to buy toilet paper. I have to clean, and pay bills, and work at a job that is not fulfilling, does not pay incredibly well, and is not even particularly interesting much of the time. Things often do not work out in the way that I would like them to, and (even worse) do not dramatically resolve themselves into something surpassing my hopes and expectations in a cinematic manner.

Frankly, the script sucks and the editing is awful, and I am tired of forever adjusting my expectations downward when I am, clearly, the star of the show. The next time I agree to star in Life, I’m having my agent be much more specific about management’s obligations and contract rider.

</end pointless self-indulgent whiney tantrum>

Sally over at Already Pretty recently posted an update/follow-up on her 6-month shopping ban. Some of her insights about money issues– how spending can be very loaded in terms of control and independence, especially– resonated for me, because I have and have had, for a long time, struggled with why I spend, what I spend on, what that means, and if it’s healthy. And spending habits/budgeting is a particular issue right now, as I continue to struggle to find full-time work.

On one hand, I spend too much– I’ve certainly spent much more that strictly necessary in the last couple of years, which is a big part of my current financial difficulties. My part-time work brings in enough to cover my living expenses– but not enough to cover my living expenses and pay on my debts. If I could find a full-time job in my field, this wouldn’t be an issue… but as of this moment, I’ve been actively looking for a planning job for 5 months, and had several interviews but no offers. At this point, I’m kind of stuck between pursuing a graduate certificate (and essentially transferring some of my credit card debt to student loan debt) or declaring bankruptcy. So I’m getting a certificate.

I know I can budget– I’ve done it before. I don’t like it, of course– no one likes denying themselves stuff they want– but I’m capable of doing it. In fact, three years ago, just before xN and I bought the house, I was consumer-debt-free, which was great, even though it was short-lived. And the fact that a lot (not all, but some) of the debt I have now is the direct or indirect result of the divorce is a factor too. So my feelings about this are complicated. And thorny.

But the fact remains that I need to get a handle on my spending habits. My slight extravagances are perfectly reasonable choices when (if) I’m making proper-job wages, but are not sustainable with my current income. And even when (if) I get a proper job, I should really try to get debt paid off as quickly as possible, so budgeting more stringently would be smart.

It’s not the budgeting that I really need help with, honestly– it’s the feelings of frustration and deprivation that are inspired by living on a tight budget. I find it frustrating and, honestly, kind of demoralizing, to have to say “no, I can’t have a cocktail/go to dinner/buy those shoes” every single time, and somehow I can’t find a way to reach some sort of reasonable compromise, where I get to indulge myself a little bit every so often without getting to the end of the weekend/week/month and realizing I’ve spent $$$ on a whole series of “little” indulgences. It’s those “little” purchases–$10-50 at a time– that invariably kill my budget. Every time, I think “oh, it’s only $20″ and all of a sudden I’ve spent $200.

I’m going to have to think about how to handle this, because I need a game plan (preferably one with a chance of sticking), and the quicker I get one the better off I’ll be.

I know lots of money wouldn’t solve all my problems… but it would certainly make some of them far less pressing.

1. Venison
2. Nettle tea
3. Huevos rancheros
4. Steak tartare*
5. Alligator (maybe?)
6. Black pudding
7. Cheese fondue
8. Carp
9. Borscht
10. Baba ghanoush
11. Calamari*
12. Pho*
13. PB&J sandwich
14. Aloo gobi
15. Hot dog from a street cart
16. Epoisses*
17. Black truffle (maybe)*
18. Fruit wine made from something other than grapes (I actually think I have had this, but I’m not positive)
19. Steamed buns*
20. Pistachio ice cream
21. Heirloom tomatoes
22. Fresh wild berries
23. Foie gras*
24. Rice and beans
25. Brawn, or head cheese (maybe?)*
26. Raw Scotch Bonnet pepper
27. Dulce de leche
28. Oysters*
29. Baklava
30. Bagna cauda*
31. Wasabi peas
32. Clam chowder in a sourdough bowl
33. Salted lassi*
34. Sauerkraut
35. Root beer float
36. Cognac with a fat cigar (I’ve had cognac, but I am unable to do cigars, because I inhale the smoke. Inhaling cigar smoke=bad)
37. Clotted cream tea
38. Vodka jelly
39. Gumbo
40. Oxtail*
41. Curried goat
42. Whole insects
43. Phaal (maybe?)*
44. Goat’s milk in cheese form
45. Malt whisky from a bottle worth £60/$120 or more (probably not, but maybe? I’ve had rum from a bottle worth more than $200 retail!)
46. Fugu
47. Chicken tikka masala*
48. Eel (pretty sure I had this at a sushi place in SF)*
49. Krispy Kreme original glazed doughnut
50. Sea urchin (pretty sure I had this at a sushi place in SF)*
51. Prickly pear
52. Umeboshi*
53. Abalone (maybe?)*
54. Paneer
55. McDonald’s Big Mac Meal
56. Spaetzle
57. Dirty gin martini
58. Beer above 8% ABV*
59. Poutine
60. Carob chips
61. S’mores
62. Sweetbreads*
63. Kaolin
64. Currywurst
65. Durian
66. Frogs’ legs
67. Beignets, churros, elephant ears or funnel cake
68. Haggis
69. Fried plantain
70. Chitterlings, or andouillette (unsure—I have definitely had Andouille)*
71. Gazpacho
72. Caviar and blini
73. Louche absinthe*
74. Gjetost, or brunost*
75. Roadkill (I doubt very much I am capable of this one)
76. Baijiu*
77. Hostess Fruit Pie
78. Snail
79. Lapsang souchong
80. Bellini*
81. Tom yum
82. Eggs Benedict
83. Pocky*
84. Tasting menu at a three-Michelin-star restaurant
85. Kobe beef
86. Hare*
87. Goulash
88. Flowers
89. Horse
90. Criollo chocolate
91. Spam
92. Soft shell crab*
93. Rose harissa (I think so, but I’m not sure)*
94. Catfish
95. Mole poblano
96. Bagel and lox
97. Lobster Thermidor
98. Polenta
99. Jamaican Blue Mountain coffee
100. Snake (never, never, never, never.)

Bold—things I’ve tried
*– things I’ve tried with M

I know this list made the rounds online a while ago, but I was looking at a friend’s blog (hi Christen!), and reading her post with this list, and thinking how many of the things on the list I’ve only eaten in the last year or so—how many of these things I’ve eaten with and/or because of M, and his adventurous and wide-ranging palette.

Somehow, this makes me both happy and sad—happy that I have had the opportunity, at least partially because of this relationship, to experience things that I may not have done otherwise—and somehow sad as well, because… well, because I may have experienced a lot of neat new stuff with M, I’m not really sure what (if anything) new experiences he’s shared just with me. And, yeah, okay, this is a maudlin and somewhat self-indulgent line of thinking, certainly, because, duh, as time goes on he and I will do more things, and have more experiences together, and some of those things will be new. But right now, today, I am a feeling a little sad about it.

I had a bumpy week last week, and the weekend, which I had hoped would provide some comfort, was much more emotionally uneven than I’d anticipated. These things happen, of course, but in consequence I’m feeling a bit unsettled. I wish I didn’t need reassurance to feel valued, but sometimes I do—it’s easy, far too easy, for me to believe that I am interchangeable, replaceable, removable, rather than something (someone) who is loved and special, and who is (can be, would be) missed.

I don’t know where I’m going with this, frankly. I don’t know what I’m trying to say. I wish that I didn’t feel so unsure of everything at the moment. I want to be more sure, more stable, and I don’t know that is possible right now.

Sara has started doing Things I Love Thursdays (aka TILT), and it looks like Heather is on that train too. And Pam (whose blog I was unaware of until recently) does Feel Good Fridays (and Tie One On Tuesday cocktail posts!) so I thought I’d be a total copycat and make a short list of things I’m fond of too.

1. Fried eggs– especially the creamy yolk of over-easy eggs.
2. The fact that Portland has so many restaurants and cafes that make me happy with their deliciousness– Screen Door, Pine State Biscuit, BUNK, Meat Cheese Bread, for example, are all walking distance from my house.
3. My darling cat, who greets me every morning with a series of meows.
4. All the lovely cocktail places, and the lovely cocktailians who work there– Teardrop, Ten01, Clyde Common, Beaker & Flask– and the fact that there are places I still need to visit– Lincoln, Laurelhurst Market, Mint.
5. The Simpsons, which is one of my simple-comfort-pleasures. I’m home from work with a cold today, and will shortly head out to procure a season on DVD to watch.

Five is enough for today, but I plan to use this concept to remind myself to take photos for future posts.

The worst thing about depression is the way it destroys your perspective. When I’m depressed—that is to say, when I’m depressed, as opposed to just feeling a little down—everything, and I mean everything, is colored by it. All interactions, all incidents, are interpreted by my sad little brain as supporting the conclusion that no one loves me, everyone thinks I’m horrible, I am a loser, I am a failure, and I should just give up now, because what’s the point anyway? You’re just going to ruin everything.

It’s so hard to remember that, in fact, it’s not that everything is awful, it’s that a couple things aren’t working out right now. At the moment, what is actually wrong is that I am underemployed and depressed. What it feels like, through the fog of depression, is that I am a dismal failure of a person, whose friends no longer like her, whose boyfriend is sick of her, whose miserable neediness is driving everyone away, and it’s clearly my own fault.

There is nothing more than the faintest evidence, in actual reality, to support my melodramatic claims of lovelessness and colossal failure—yet my brain, in its low-serotonin haze, interprets everything in the worst possible light, turning compliments into insults and perfectly-normal interactions into gut-wrenching proof of my inherent worthlessness.

So here I am, trying to ride it out, as I must, as I will, as I have always done. I will force myself to get things done today, and smile, and try to feel better, even marginally, tomorrow. Because it’s probably short-lived—it usually is—and already, today is better than yesterday was. And if worst comes to worst, I can call my therapist, who will probably be able to jar me out enough that I can get the rest of the way on my own.

Today is not good, but it is better than yesterday. Sometimes, that’s as good as it gets, and it’s better than nothing.

It is Monday. The Monday after the 7th Annual Tiki Crawl (aka Tiki Kon). I’ve been involved in the crawl since the beginning, in 2002, when it was just a small party in John Forsythe’s basement bar ¹ and a trip to the Jasmine Tree ². The second year we got a band and added the home bar tour, and most years since then the Crawl has been a 3-day extravaganza, starting Friday night and running through Sunday evening, with drinking and tikiwear and vendors and attendees from across the PNW (and sometimes further).

Last year the crawl was much smaller—a one-day tour of commercial and home bars—because of a number of personal issues on the part of the organizing group. Heather was gestating the lump of cells destined to become our delightful Baz, and, of course, having two of the organizers split up made planning that year’s event a little awkward. But last year’s event was fun, in spite of some bumps—and, best of all, the Crawl provided me with a (drunken) opportunity to finally, finally act on the crush I had on M, which turned out pretty well for me, so all’s well there ³.

I did next to nothing for last year’s crawl, and even less for this year’s event, though I’m still technically an organizer, and was kindly listed as one in the program (by the people who did all the work). The thing that was different this year is that over the weekend I realized that I really miss working on the Tiki Crawl. It’s a fun event to put on, in general—though, of course, it’s also a boatload of work—it’s a great way to meet new people, it’s a good chance to use creative energy, it’s a terrific party, and it keeps you in touch with faraway friends. And close ones. And, for me, that’s the best part of the event, and the biggest loss when I’m just an attendee.

It shouldn’t be a surprise that some friendships have shifted slightly in the last year or two. N and I had an exceptionally amiable divorce⁴, but the split, my move to SE, my relationship with M, school commitments, etc etc—have all brought changes. People are busy—they have babies and pets and jobs and things going on in their lives too—and we all have a finite amount of time and money and attention to spread around. But…I don’t want to let my closest friends slip away. And while I had a great weekend, I felt less like part of the group than I have in past years, and it made me a little sad. These are my friends, these people and this event has been a huge part of my life—I don’t want to let that go. It’s not just about the Tiki Kon, obviously—but now that I’ve finished school and don’t have to use every free moment doing homework, I’m feeling a bit like I’ve fallen out of the loop with my old friends, even as I’ve made some new ones.

I do realize that relationships ebb and flow—and it has been/will be good for me to keep making new friends rather than relying completely on my existing circle. But this weekend I thought fondly (and no doubt somewhat selectively) of tiki weekends past, and decided that I want to return to a more active role, for my own reasons—which is to say, this weekend, I realized that although I became what M calls a ‘tikinista’ largely through N, I want to remain one on my own.

¹ John’s bar, the name of which I do not recall—I think it may have translated to something rather unfortunate, like “The Tuna Hole”—is, alas, no more, as John and his wife sold that house a few years back. Even if the new owners have a basement bar, it’s not a tiki bar.

² Also, alas, no more. The admittedly decrepit building was demolished about four years ago to make way for the Oregon Sustainability Center. Much of the décor was originally part of the long-ago Portland KonTiki, located near the airport, and is now residing at Thatch. I am generally in favor of the Oregon Sustainability Center—but I was also in favor of having a nice tiki dive bar practically across the street from my office.

³ I am compelled to point out here that one of the nicest things that happened this weekend was M trying to recreate the drink he made for me at last year’s event. It was darling of him to try—though I must somewhat shamefacedly admit that I don’t specifically recall what he mixed for me last year, as I was a) drunkish and b) asked him to make me a drink as part of my clever plan to put the moves on him, and was mostly paying attention to the “putting the moves on M” part. However, I totally love that he tried to recreate the drink. He’s awesome and cute and awesome.

⁴ All right, it’s true that the one time Heather told me to “simmer down” and “use [my] inside voice” was when I was (probably loudly) telling N that he was a f#cking t@rd Sunday. But, in my own defense, he had just been telling me how poorly it had gone when he a) dated a coworker in his (small) design firm and, later, b) had a woman whom he dated briefly but decided was a “better friend than [girlfriend]” move into his house as a roommate. I mean, come on. No one in their right mind would think that either one of those things was a smart idea, let alone both of them. I was fully justified in calling him a t@rd. I mean, it was still rude, okay, but it was justified.

So, anyway. I’m moving in with M, for reals, in just about a month. I gave notice at my building today.

In many ways this is something of a formality—my cat has been at his place for 3 weeks or so already, which means that my apartment is merely serving as a very expensive storage unit for my furniture and the residence of an awesome closet that holds an ever-decreasing amount of my clothing and shoes. (I will miss the closet at the apartment, most definitely. Someday, when I am a millionaire, I will have a walk-in with French doors and a shoe rack installed in my palatial home, and lo, it will be awesome.) This arrangement, this expensive-storage-unit-arrangement, is (mostly) stupid.

On the other hand, of course, the current setup preserves my ability to take my cat and go home if I want to, which I am about to give up. And I am quite aware, quite well aware, that a breakup becomes much, much more stressful and horrible when it must be combined with packing, with moving, and going through that process of getting disentangled from someone (which pretty much always sucks) is more difficult when you’re living with them. You can’t just say “nope, done” and leave. This is a bit scary.

For me, this is a bit scary because, well, I got to go through the horrible breakup process not so very long ago—under two years ago, in fact. And it did, indeed, suck most tremendously. And here I am, voluntarily and of my own free will, putting myself in the position of having to go through a very similar process in the event that things don’t work out between M & I. And doing so in what could be considered unseemly haste by some, since I did very little dating before landing myself with M, and landed myself with him less than a year after the previously-referenced horrible breakup.

Additionally, I think—expect, in fact—that M is a bit jittery at making this step official, because his previous live-in relationship took a sudden and major nosedive shortly after they moved in together. I’m willing to bet that the circumstances of that relationship’s demise contributed to M’s stated preference of moving me into his existing shared house, rather than moving together into a place on our own (though I know it’s not the only factor—his current house is definitely stellar, and I’m looking forward to being able to officially co-host gatherings there).

So, there is some fear here, because we’re upping the stakes. I suppose that someone could argue (not that anyone has) that this means that I’m not ready, that he’s not ready, that we’re not ready. I wouldn’t agree, but then, you wouldn’t expect me to, would you, since I’m choosing to do this?

The truth is, while I am afraid—I will lose more, hurt more, if we break up down the road—I am also excited. I love M. I love that he appreciates me, I love that he is affectionate, I love that he cooks for me, I love that he enjoys it when I cook. I love that he values what I do around the house, and that it makes him feel cared for and special. I am looking forward to seeing his house as ours, to having our furniture side-by-side, to being sure that he and I will sleep next to each other. When I think about all the things I am looking forward to (most of which are completely prosaic and dull) I am very happy about this plan, and mostly feel lucky that I hooked up with M without a lot of hassle and false starts beforehand. The fear, the worry—that is what comes up when I deliberately think about what could go wrong, and how hard that would be.

So, am I justifying? I don’t know. Am I a classic serial monogamist? Probably. Am I rushing things, or deluding myself into thinking that this relationship is the right one? I don’t think so. I hope not. I’m hopeful. I think this is a good choice.

Slightly edgy humor is all well and good—I prefer snarky, sometimes mildly inappropriate, bitter-ish humor, and find that it lends itself well to mixing in a bit of undercover honesty. However, this type of humor relies on walking the delicately-balanced edge between funny and bitchy… which means that if someone’s having a rough day, feeling vulnerable, or otherwise needing a little more love and a little less snark, it’s easy to pitch off the wrong side and cause hurt feelings.

I know this from both sides of the equation, being bountifully-supplied with friends who employ and encourage snarky humor. The good news is that my friends generally mean well (that is, they don’t mean to be hurtful and apologize if they inadvertently are) and speak up if they’re hurt by something that’s directed at them. The further good news is that I’m fairly sure that my friends are all generous and forgiving people, who are unlikely to become irreparably offended by an overly-barbed remark.

The bad news is that my gut has truly amazing tenacity, even in the face of thousands of hours (and dollars) of therapy, and remains pretty certain that the affection of everyone I know is so finely-balanced that any misstep on my part will immediately result in a total loss. That is to say, my gut accepts that my friends love me, and is usually pretty solid and willing to believe this… until it’s not. And then, suddenly, someone is mildly irritated and my brain leaps (gracefully, instantly, like an antelope… it would be lovely if it wasn’t so fucking self-destructive) to OMG-everything-is-irretrievably-ruined-forever. And if there’s a way for me to make this My Fault, that’s even better, because then I have the opportunity to berate myself for Ruining Everything by Being So Horrible.

I’ve tried so, so very hard to get past this, and the best I have been able to do is keep enough of a grip on myself that I don’t have an externally-visible breakdown. I still feel terrible whenever I think someone is upset with me, and usually guilty, and I still desperately want to keep circling back to whomever I’m worried about and either declare my abject-est of apologies for the billionth time or ask, again and again, on a loop, “you’re not still mad, right? you still love me, right?”. I manage not to do either of these things only through a fierce effort of will (which is, I suppose, one of the beneficial results of all the therapy—that I can muster the strength not to engage in these tremendously codependent and also wildly annoying behaviors).

In the last few days I’ve managed to inadvertently hurt the feelings of a good friend and M, and I feel like an asshole. I don’t actually think either one of them are still upset, when I fight my rational brain to the surface, and I need to just calm down and trust that friendship and love are not such delicate plants that they’ll explode into flame at the slightest touch of the sun. I know, I know, that this is the process that I need to go through, and that every time I fight through this it gets a little easier the next time. I can feel the fear and guilt and let it go without making a spectacle of myself (except on the internet, in front of everyone, ha), and Everything is Fine, Nothing is Fucked.

And it is fine, it is. But I am still sorry that I was mean, and I am worried that no one likes me anymore, and I am frightened that someday I will mess something up and everyone will decide that I am awful and I will be left alone forever, like Fezzik’s Hell, without the booing. I hate feeling like this, and I hate that there is nothing to do but just ride it out.

In less than a week, I will be done with graduate school. I think I’ve mentioned this before, but this is somewhat surreal—I started the path to this degree years ago, when everything was different. And now I am 99% done, and very nearly everything else in my life has changed and shifted and become something different, something new. For the most part, something better. (The sole notable exception is the debt, which was not part of the original plan. Le sigh.)

So. I will have a master’s degree. I will be theoretically qualified to be a planning professional. The job market is grim, and the situation is unknown in regard to what sort of job I will be able to get, and how quickly. I am applying for everything that seems remotely applicable, and am thus far getting interviews but no offers. However, it’s early days, and there’s no reason to be discouraged yet. Beginning a new career is exciting and scary—impostor syndrome abounds, of course, and I’m trying hard not to undervalue my skill set when applying for jobs (which is to say, not focusing exclusively on entry-level positions). I’m still excited about this field, and I still believe I’m capable of doing well in it.

In other continuing/beginning developments, M & I had a Real Conversation about living together, as opposed to an in-passing discussion. It appears we have consensus that, indeed, we both want to live together, and (thanks to a heroic display of effort on my part, which is apparently what is required to make M talk about Feelings and Commitment and What It All Means) that we have mutual agreement that living together means, you know, being partners as well as bf/gf, and, also that (insert disclaimer that of course sometimes things don’t work out the way you think they will*) we both anticipate that this relationship will continue indefinitely. Which is an awfully dry way of saying “M & K sittin’ in a tree K-I-S-S-I-N-G 4evah”. Which is also to say, I may possibly be using textbook-speak to avoid gushing and getting all sappy like a 13-year-old, because, dammit, I’m old and jaded do not do that sort of thing. Also, I am tough. Grrr.

We’ve been together for almost a year, and while it’s not 100% roses and puppies, it’s still really good. We’ve had some spats, but no real fights—which is good and bad, I suppose, since yay! no fighting! but boo! no solid sense of how we’d fight! I’m sure it’ll happen eventually, and I hope I can keep doing what I’ve done during spats, which is stay calm and be very clear about it if M does or says something unacceptable. I’m still pretty proud of myself for (finally) learning how to say “it’s fine you’re upset, but it’s not fine for you to yell at me” and stick to it.

We’ve also got a trip to the Bay area coming up next week, which will be our first major trip together & a week-long vacation together. I’m pretty excited about it! I get to meet a whole bunch of M’s chosen-family good friends, who I anticipate will be universally good peoples, since they all have been so far. And we’ll go to a wedding & hit some of the SF-area cocktail places, which will be all sorts of awesome.

* HA. HA. HA. On the other hand, I am perversely reminded of a Salon article in which a couple sent annual cards to their respective former partners, basically saying “Thanks for leaving me! I wouldn’t have done it, and it turns out I am WAY happier without you!” I am not planning to do this. Even though it might be funny.

So, recently I was thinking about a comment on a discussion board I frequent. This woman was talking about her decision to have only one child, and her point was, essentially, that, yeah, two kids might be ideal… but life isn’t ideal. You make choices, resources are finite, and there are always trade-offs. I ruminated on this for a while, and it occurred to me that this is a totally valid (and pretty accurate, for me) way of thinking about the question of having kids at all–because, you know, I like kids, and if things were different, I might want one or more.

However, the way my life has shaken out, I’d really have to make having a child an immediate priority in order for it to be workable, and I’m just not willing to do that now. I’m almost 35, I’m just finishing a degree and starting a new career, I’m in a relationship that I really enjoy with someone who does not want children that may or may not be permanent, etc. I could, if I wanted to make having a child my #1 priority, probably find a way to make that work, even though it would be very difficult. But I don’t want to do that.

I want to focus on my new career. I want to take my time seeing if my relationship with M can work long-term. I want to undo some of the financial ruin I’ve brought upon myself. I want to travel. If things were different, if I was in my 20s, if I was married, if M wanted kids, if I was established in my career, if I had a million dollars, maybe I would feel differently. But none of those things are true.

My decision to prioritize my career and my other wants and needs means having kids is almost certainly off the table. I definitely wouldn’t want to have a child in the next 2-3 years, and, given my age and unwillingness to be a first-time parent at 40, that pretty much closes the deal.

And you know what? That’s okay. Because the life that I have now is different than the one I anticipated, but I like it. I have opportunities that I may not have had otherwise. I can either be happy with what I have and make the most of it, or I can spend my time and energy focusing on what I’m missing out on. And I’d miss out on something regardless, because the reality is I can’t have everything, nice as that might be.

I’m an aunt, biologically and via chosen family, to three lovely boys, and I’ll probably have more nieces and nephews. I have a cat who I love, and a terrific boyfriend, and the ability to play with babies/kids when I chose to, and go out on the town when I chose to do that. This is perhaps not the best of all possible worlds, but it’s really very good.

So I think I’ve closed this door for good now. I keep revisiting the thought, and while on one level it’s a bit sad– I mean, I’d probably be a pretty good parent, and I do like kids– on another level it’s kind of nice to be able to say “nope, that decision is made, I don’t need to worry about it any more”.

Decided.