Maldives dragonflies cross the Indian Ocean every year. They fly at 3,000-foot altitudes. They spend 3,500 km of that over the open ocean.

Dragonflies are less than four inches long.

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The dragonflies can take four generations to make their migration, breeding in temporary pools of rain. Those pools might be there and might not when the dragonflies arrive.

I suppose they don't really know before they start, whether their children will make the crossing. Whether the rain will fall in time.

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Ever since I started running half-marathons, I understand so much better how far a kilometer or mile really is. Road signs take on new meaning when I can imagine myself running the four miles to the next turn-off: how long it would take, how I would feel at the end.

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Yesterday I ran a little more than four miles without realizing it. The Runkeeper app made it look like I would just be tempo running for 25 minutes, period. I thought about giving up when I realized my mistake - that the app wanted a warm-up and cool-down mile on either end. I wasn't in the mood to run very far. I kept going because I really wasn't concentrating on the how far part of it. I was trying to go fast.

When I got done, I thought about seeing the sign posted four miles before my usual interstate turn-off, how very far four miles always seemed when I just wanted to get home.

It's better not to know, not to see the whole distance before you start.

It's better not to wonder about the rain.

It's better, I suppose, to just cross the ocean.

I pull out of the school drop-off line and listen to the creak of the motor pulling the top down off my car. I read somewhere exposing yourself to natural light first thing in the morning is the best way to wake up, and I didn't want to wake up this, her last day of fourth grade.

I woke only begrudgingly, soaked in sweat for the second time last night, my first tshirt and shorts lying in a still-damp heap at the foot of the bed. I wasn't drenched from a nightmare; I'd been having dreams all night of college, back when I could wave an arm at a group of near-strangers and invite them on an adventure or to play a game, and they would come with me. Back when I could walk into a room of people and start conversations halfway through with people I'd never met before.

The soaking comes from getting older, from the prelude to the change. The dreams come from writing about that time in life when anything seems possible: age nineteen.

I should've stayed up when I rose first to change my clothes, when I woke shivering to find myself damp and cold but also hot in that confusing way that seems to be my new normal. I should've stayed up, because when I did finally rise, it was hard from the middle of a deep sleep, and being ripped from that lovely dream where I was at a party and everyone was smiling at me and we didn't have anywhere to be or anything to do the next morning because finals were over and we were floating in the knowledge that we'd secured our spot at college for another year, that we didn't have to be real adults yet.

Instead I pulled on the third tshirt of the night/morning and laced up my running shoes and made sure my daughter was wearing sunscreen and deoderant and fixed the broken garage door and drove to school. 

And then, as I pulled away, I dropped the convertible's top to let in the early summer sunshine and drove home, remembering the dream.

I spend a lot of time saying "you can't have that" to my daughter. That she asks for everything is a function of being seven, of being a kid, of not quite understanding the boundaries yet, how money works, how time works, how practicing works. That she's starting to get it sometimes breaks my heart.

The other day she said she wanted a cookie, but she knew she couldn't have one until after dinner. As she stared longingly at the cookies made by her grandmother and trucked 500 miles across Iowa, I realized that I could probably leave them out and leave the house and she still wouldn't eat one, because she is starting to get it.

Yesterday she brought home a baseball card she'd made for herself at school.

I thought about what it means to want anything, to wish for a magic genie to grant your heart's desires. I remember wishing for that, hell, I still wish for that. It's not even about money, it's also about accomplishments or love or friendship.

It stuck in my head, and as I went to bed last night I thought there are junctures in life where you probably could have anything, but to get to what you want, you sacrifice other things. You sacrifice time for money, money for time, family for career, career for family, dreams for peace, peace for dreams, relationships for autonomy, autonomy for relationships. It's all a trade-off. But you probably could have anything if you single-mindedly went through life focusing only on that one thing. I have a quote that I often read that says something like "the reason more people fail instead of succeed is because they sacrifice what they want for what they want right now." And what I want right now is usually a nap or a big Kindle download.

I've started saying more often to her, "You can't have that right now." That toy she wants? She might get it for Christmas or with her allowance or piggy bank money. That cookie will be hers in a few hours. That perfect turn-out might come with years of practice. It all boils down to what makes sense right now, in this moment, and maybe the key to happiness is accepting that.

So perhaps it's not "you can't have that," but "you can't have that right now." Or "consider what you'd give up to have that and decide if that's what you really want."

I can teach her to eat healthy food before she eats a cookie, but I can't teach her what her heart desires most. Only she can answer that for herself.

Does it seem like there is a black cloud hanging around?  I've had a lot of friends and family members with bad news lately.  It seems like everyone's company is laying people off, cutting costs, tightening belts and generally making life miserable.  The gas prices have finally gotten high enough to make people think twice about traveling. The airlines suck ass.  Traveling this summer just doesn't even sound fun.  The weather is insane, and heading into tornado and hurricane season is frightening.  I have a headache like every damn day from the barometric pressure constantly changing.  THE WATER IS TOO WET AND THE ICE IS TOO COLD.

Crabby, crabby, crabby.

Which is bizarre, really, because in my own life things are really good.  A year ago, we moved into Chateau Travolta after a horrible experience selling This Old House and my husband's job was miserable.  My beloved cat Sybil died of kidney failure.  In comparison, 2008 FUCKING ROCKS.  So what gives with my headaches and crankiness?

Here's a lightning bolt: I used to think (I know, I know, rookie) that if I were to get a book published, it would change everything. I would never again have a bad day. I would always be on Cloud Nine.  I would never fight with my husband, my child would flit from flower to flower like a red-headed butterfly.  Everything would be grand, forever and ever, amen.  Ridiculous, right?

But how many people really believe that shit?  That if only you had bigger boobs or thinner thighs or a million dollars or a husband that everything would be all hunky-dory all the time?  I never thought I'd fall prey to that, because after recovering from an eating disorder in my youth I realized that being a size 2 really just meant I was fucking hungry all the time.  It didn't fix anything. So I kind of thought I was immune to this sort of fantastical thinking. 

I'm elated about my book coming out in a few months.  I'm really, really excited about the book tour (widget coming soon with dates).  My beloved has been so supportive and wonderful about this dream of mine as it spun toward fruition that I've fallen in love with him all over again in the past few months.  We're remodeling the house we always wanted to have, cigarette-burned carpets and all. I have a new cat, who, while not Sybil, is a very loud purrer and quite cuddly. My husband has a different job that he really enjoys and whistles a lot.  The little angel has adjusted to her new daycare and is looking forward to going most days. She can draw a rabbit and write any word if you tell her the letters to use. She can read certain names and short words.  Things are good.

But you know what?  There are still bad days.  Tonight I came home with this killer barometric-pressure headache, knowing I had some reviews to do and that I was overwhelmed at work and it was only Monday.  The little angel wouldn't eat her dinner and the old truck wasn't starting very well.  When I went to fill the bathtub, the shower was left on  BY ME and drenched the top of my head.  Not the front, not that back, just the top, which looked totally cool and felt EVEN BETTER.  I couldn't find the Advil.  I tried to find the swimming suit and water shoes for tomorrow's "water play day" at my daughter's school, but she wanted the Crocs and I could only find one goddamn Croc, and she insisted the Dora shoes WOULD NOT DO and I wanted to tell her about all the little children in the world who don't have shoes and get parasites through their feet, but then thinking about those little children made me want to cry and it isn't even that time, seriously.  I'm just low on batteries this week.  And the IRS sent us a letter saying we messed up a box on our 2006 tax return and we owe them $390 yesterday. 

So no, getting a book published didn't fix everything. It just felt really good to achieve a life goal. The end.

In a way, though, it's freeing.  I mean, if that's the case, if realizing a dream I've had my entire life didn't fix everything, that means that nothing will fix everything, and this is as good as it gets, these little minutes, and maybe I should stop worrying about the big, grandiose achievements I always think will finally make me happy.  Maybe I am already happy, or I would be, if I could just find the damn Advil.

Or something.
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Teach your teen to stop hating her thighs.  Read the book review at Surrender, Dorothy: Reviews. Also! I wrote about oral sex today at BlogHer.  Seriously.