It's so easy--it's too easy, really--on days when I've been up most of the night rocking a wakeful baby, and he's tipped half a beet-green smoothie down my shirt, and the cat has knocked over the laundry detergent again, and patients' insurance companies are going way out of their way to avoid having to reimburse, and the dishwasher needs to be unloaded and the dog has just thrown up on the carpet--to feel awfully, woefully sorry for myself. And all I have to do is read some of my writing from ten years ago to remember how very badly I wanted a happy family, a thriving acupuncture practice, a big goofy dog that would play ball and run with me. And how I thought a vegetable garden where I could pick all the beet greens (my favorite!) I wanted, a washer and dryer in my own place, and a dishwasher--full of dishes that the lovely Adam created making a delicious dinner last night--would be the absolute height of luxury. I have a dishwasher, of all things, I want to tell ten-years-ago me. Hallelujah, here I am, in a gorgeously messy life filled with wishes-come-true costumed as problems.