Are you there, readers? It's me, Laura.

I never read that book, but I always wanted to. I remember thinking as a kid that somehow it was a naughty book? I have no idea what it is really about though so I withhold judgement. But the title always intrigued me so without knowing if it is really an appropriate reference, I will use it here to inquire as to whether anyone is out there reading this anymore.

The truth is that I don't really mind. I like to keep this little blog to chronicle the goings on in my little life. The trouble is that I want it to be lovely, and perfect, and beautiful. So while I post a lot in my head, I never, ever really consider posting here because I never take good enough photographs, or have the time for the exactly right words, or even spend time doing really interesting things.

I mean if I wrote about today, I would have to tell you about the unlit and undecorated Christmas tree that stands in the middle of my library which is full of interesting books I haven't the time for right now. I could tell you how good it smells when I pass by and how surreal it is to live with a real tree in your house and how guilty I feel about not having it decorated yet and how nervous I am to put the lights on because I never get them quite right. My dad used to put them on perfectly.

I would have to tell you how even though I wanted to read her a short book and put her away in her nap because I was tired and wanted to be alone, I guiltily indulged my daughter's request for her longest library book for her before nap story time. The seemingly innocuous Here Come the Cottontails began with a story-like description of a mother cottontail and her four baby bunnies. Only three of the babies meet a sad fate by predatory birds and nasty weasels. So, in the middle of her nap, my sweet four year old calls out for me and tells me in her half awake state that she wants the bunnies to come back to their safe house of fur and leaves. I have terrorized my daughter.

I would have to tell you about how all of us, myself and two daughters are sitting around in our pajamas at four thirty in the afternoon.

I would have to tell you that I am going to an event tonight for which I am to bring a dessert, and I have absolutely no intention of bringing one.

I would have to tell you that my house is out of order even despite my best hopes for maintaining it after the birth of my little daughter in September.

And really, dear reader, if you are reading, do you want to read about that? Don't you want to hear about my well-ordered life, my to -die-for desserts, my excellent reviews of children's literature (and by the way, I fully endorse Here Come the Cottontails maybe just for older children and not before sleep), and even in my bad times, lovely essays that make you feel good at the end?

But I am tired of that. This is my real imperfect life. Where I watch soap operas in addition to actually liking opera, eat McDonald's french fries as much as organic, local produce, and have to clear my cluttered table in order to eat dinner more often than not. My fake, invented life, well-edited to create a finely crafted identity is over. So, here I am in my jammies writing about my today.