Sometimes incidents take place that make me think “Wow, life has changed.” Usually followed by “I’m super boring, need some excitement and maybe a tattoo.” I mean, we all know that life changes when we have kids. Like, duh. And I’m sure we have all received lots of friendly reminders while pregnant from family, friends and strangers, “Life is about to change.” Oh geez, thanks.

But then there are those life reminders that really hit the message home.

I remember – almost ten years ago – being at a friend’s engagement party in San Diego. The party was a fabulous Hawaiian themed barbeque of fun, fun and more fun. When I reluctantly had to leave to make my commute up to my abode in Los Angeles, I went into the guest room where my purse was. I was told that it might be smokey. To be forewarned. I walked in and indeed, there was so much pot smoke that I couldn’t see . . . like at all. Seriously. I literally bumped into a few of the groom’s friends who were sitting on the bed taking rounds of hits. And then I bumped into my friend’s mom. Now this was a party.

Fast forward ten years and last weekend I was at a friend’s birthday party for her 1-year old twins. Again, I had to leave the party early. This time I was meeting up with a friend who was setting up a baby registry for the twins she’s expecting in a few months. Again, I went to the guest room where my purse was. I was told there might be a woman in there breastfeeding. To be forewarned. So I waited ten minutes, asked around to see if anyone knew – and received only “you’re in the clear” responses – so I took the bold move. I knocked. I asked if anyone was in there. I walked in. Sigh. No breastfeeding mommy. I grabbed my purse and scrammed.

Yup. Life changes. For shizzle.

Yesterday was Tessa’s last day at daycare. I’ve been so busy, I hadn’t thought that much about how I would feel about us, yes “us,” leaving her daycare. I was kinda sad! These were the ladies who helped me so much this first year with my little monkey! They are the ones who struggled to feed her (as I did too) when her ears hurt. They are the ones who figured out that they couldn’t look at her while feeding her or she would burst into a smile and the milk would seep out of the sides of her mouth. They are the ones who looked at the swollen purple bump on her leg and said “I’ve never seen a baby react to a vaccination like that,” sending me to urgent care STAT! They are the ones who took countless photos of Tessa with her tongue sticking out and posted them around the room because it was the cutest thing ever. And they are the ones who correctly predicted that Tessa would be a climber. AND Tessa loves several of them too, one teacher in particular – Satki – who calls Tessa her “precious” and would often hang out with just Tessa all day (she could do this given that she was the assistant director of the facility and not dedicated to the infant room). Satki remains the only person who Tessa would – dare I say – almost prefer to moi. Her mommy!

I’ve been through a lot with daycare. And then I thought of how hard we worked to get Tessa to finish her bottles. And how that now seems like a distant memory. Except for the fact that last week, Tessa’s grandparents were in town and watched her for a couple days. They and Tessa loved loved loved hanging out together. It was fabulous for all. But the grandparents also struggled with feeding Tessa her bottle. Sometimes only able to give her an ounce at a time. This initially freaked me out because it reminded me of when Tessa was sick and it hurt her little inflamed throat to swallow. So my first reaction was “No! God, no! Don’t let her be sick.” July was filled with Tessa’s tube surgery, my dad’s leg surgery, Tessa getting a stomach bug and vomiting for five days and me getting pregnant and beginning to hurl myself. I can’t handle any more hospitals, doctor’s offices or days of endless vomiting. And we (meaning at home and daycare) hadn’t had an issue feeding her in so long – I can’t go backwards! But we didn’t have to. In fact, Tessa was really hungry when I got home from work and would take an extra big bottle at night. Hmmm….maybe not sick? And – after the insightful Rob said we should begin feeding Tessa more because she was finishing all of her solids and bottles so well – we began giving her bigger bottles filled with rice cereal this past week. She ate everything easily both at home and at daycare. Rob was totally right. We now are going to give her bigger meals and snacks in between. Basically, her not taking bottles from her grandparents made me realize how far Tessa had come at daycare. She’s not sick. She’s just as comfortable at daycare as she is at home. And she truly does enjoy being there. Napping is another story because she really only naps at home but I’ll take the victories where I can get them!

So, all in all, it was a little sad on her last day. The teachers there have helped me so much and given me a lot of great advice along the way. For that, I am so grateful. And I will miss them!

Years ago, I worked on Los Angeles Times events, one of which hosted Dr. Laura Schlessinger, among 400+ other authors, performers, celebrities and TV personalities. On-site facilitation of such an event: managing 400 participants and their entourages of publicists, book publishers, families, friends, stalkers (and bodyguards) was . . . not easy. Fun, but not easy.

At this particular event, I was at check-in – probably checking out the insanely hot David Benioff – when a publicist runs up from behind me and taps me on the shoulder.

A bit rushed, he blurts out, Hi. I’m Dr. Laura Schlessinger’s publicist. Her name badge doesn’t have “Dr.” on it. We’ll need a new one.

Unsympathetic, I reply, We don’t have a printer here. I’m sorry.

Now in more of a panic, he doesn’t let it go, No, she has to have this changed. She won’t wear it.

I look up at him, clearly apathetic but offering a solution. I hand him a sharpie, Here. You can write “Dr.” on it.

He looks at the sharpie. He looks at the badge. He looks at me. Complete panic sets in. Complete panic on the face of what I assume to be a bright, educated and well-versed professional. I can’t do it. Will you?

I’ve been in his shoes. I’ve been the publicist. I’ve also been in his shoes when not the publicist. I’ve had many celebrity requests and one of my favorite images from the Los Angeles Times is of my boss, prepared at check-in with a chilled Diet Coke in hand, for a thirsty Carrie Fisher upon her arrival.

But at that moment, all of those requests, fulfilling everyone’s needs, wants and desires STAT– at that very moment – staring into this publicist’s eyes – I didn’t give a shit that Dr. Laura’s underwear was in a bunch because of her name badge and that her publicist was going to get bitch slapped in the middle of the green room for not solving it to her liking.

No. She’s your client. You do it, I say as I push the sharpie and name badge back toward him, the now sweating and slightly shaky publicist.

He looks at the sharpie. He looks at the badge. He looks at me. With a small sense of confidence, he nods. I can do it, he says.

I suppose he did. I never heard about the outcome but I did see him in the green room the next day: bruise- and scratch-free – and, apparently, still employed. He looked at me from across the green room, smiled and gave the head nod. I guess we all survived another day.

I’ve been packing up my office because I’m all “outta here” to the office thing and onto contracting from home. Yeehaw!

This job exit has been largely non-emotional. I’m not sure why. I love my boss. I love my colleagues. I really love my job. Why don’t I care that I’m leaving?

And I’ve had very little sense of ownership on my projects – I don’t really care who takes them over. And I’ve had little sense of real caring that I’m leaving at all. What the heck is wrong with me?

And then it happened. I saw a simple little sign on the back of my door.

THIS IS WHAT WORK SOUNDS LIKE

They are signs that my work BFF and I made in response to people constantly telling us that we’re too loud to possibly be getting work done. It was our little “You can suck it. THIS IS WHAT WORK SOUNDS LIKE.”

You would think our boss – the dean – would be all, “that’s not funny . . . and you’re fired.” He has been known to say that if our offices were near him that he would, “go crazy.” Yet, when he saw our signs, he gave a very understanding and pleased smile. Yes, he really does find us charming.

I’ll miss my boss. I’ll miss my colleagues. I’ll miss my job.

But I’ll miss my daughter a helluva lot less. And that’s what joy sounds like!