You know what's awesome about Mother's Day? The Internet.

If you know me at all well, or if you’ve been reading here for a while, you know about my ambivalent relationship to Mother’s Day. I thought I was done with the story, but you never really done with those kinds of foundational stories, are you? Here’s one more version, for the Mother’s Day edition of Today’s Parent.

My ambivalence about Mother’s Day, though, is changing, in large part because of that whole Interwebs/social media thang. I know, it sucks up your time when you should be focusing on writing the novel rather than reading about attack cats and Solange, but the thing about the Internet is that it can create visibility and communities where before there were none. Which is what I blogged about this week at Today’s Parent:

When Mother’s Day isn’t a Hallmark holiday for you, it can be a very lonely time. You sit there, quietly smiling, and wishing that other people knew about the grief and complicated feelings that accompany—or eclipse—the joy for so many of us. It used to be that those of us with complicated relationships to Mother’s Day dealt with the day on our own. But with Facebook, and Twitter, and texting and Instagram and any number of other technologies, we can do it together.

So thank you to everyone on my various feeds who came together on Mother’s Day and made me feel like part of a community. That’s what real nurturing is all about.

Thanks to Alexandra, Cheryl, Dresden, Elan, Joan, Laurie and Tracy (oh, yeah — and my kids), who — like so many of you — have helped to redeem Mother’s Day for me.

Unlocked

You know our front door? The one with the lock that’s become increasingly stubborn over the last, oh, half decade? My key is the only one that works consistently (if grudgingly) in it, a source of absolutely irrational and unearned pride on my part. Rachel’s key works only if you get it in the exact right spot, and then it feels like you’re grinding sand to open the door.

When Rob came to stay with the kids while Rachel and I went to Chicago, his key didn’t work at all. This was slightly concerning to him, but by then we had just kind of accepted that the door didn’t work and that was just the way things were and that getting through our own front door would be an endless struggle forever and ever amen. “You could try some WD-40,” Rachel told him as she left for the airport. “Or just call a locksmith if it gets really bad and get them to replace it.”

Rob texted us in Chicago to say that a shot of WD-40 had done the trick. When I got home, it was amazing: my key turned in my OWN FRONT DOOR like butter. Like silk. Like buttered silk soaked in extra-virgin, coldpressed olive oil. Smooth, is what I’m saying.

I hate this. I hate it when I let something in my life get so far gone with the idea that it will just always be this way. I hate that I tolerate things that could be fixed so easily. Like the fact that it took, say, a couple of months to finally put the new battery in the smoke detector, and then two more weeks to actually put the cover back on the smoke detector. Or the three burnt-out outlets in the kitchen backsplash: Rachel and I just unplug the kettle now to plug in the toaster because calling an electrician is Just So Hard. I hate how I put off appointments when I could really use a massage or a haircut; the piles of books that would really take five minutes to put away but that I instead walk by a dozen times a day.

I don’t want to be hard on myself. I get plenty done, meet all the deadlines, participate pretty fully in the co-running of this household and co-parenting of these children. The meals, they are regular and home cooked. The house is reasonably tidy. The recycling goes out. I get to the gym. And it’s not like we have to navigate between the piles of newspapers to get to the bathroom or anything. Mostly, things run well in this home, in my work, in this life. And that’s a good thing.

But the lock is a reminder: it’s almost always worth taking that tiny bit of extra effort to make things smoother.

Also: WD-40 fixes almost anything.

I will dance — please ask me

We went to the Green Mill last night on Broadway in Chicago — it was an impromptu outing, after fantastic Ethiopian food with friends. Rachel said, “We think we want to see some blues,” and they pointed across the street and said, “That's the place you should go.” And so of course we did, because although we’re not perfect yet at saying yes when every opportunity presents itself, we are good enough at it to have walked across the street and paid the six-dollar cover charge and asked some nice French couple if we could squeeze into their table and watch some swing.

But, you know? I still need to practice those obvious yeses — the ones that cost you nothing but leave with so much more, and the ones that cost you lots and still leave you with so much more. The minute the band started playing, three or four couples who obviously knew how to dance hit the floor, and I watched them, mesmerized, thinking about how much I love watching people enjoy themselves on stage. I was thinking about how much I admire people who know how to do things: swing dance, bowl, play guitar, make pots, what have you.

I was thinking about how I don’t know how to dance like that and that I probably would never learn. And I watched some of the younger, goofier, more awkward couples hit the floor amongst the practiced dancers, and I admired their courage for getting up next to the pros.

And then an older gentleman tapped me on the shoulder and said, so cordially, “Would you like to dance?”

And I wanted to tell you a whole different story, about how I got up and it didn’t matter that I didn’t know what I was doing because he was such a skilled leader that he whirled me around and I managed to not only dance but enjoy myself in the process. I wanted to tell you the story about how, when the song ended, I thank you and he did too and we shook hands and maybe even hugged, and how then I walked out of the club grinning at one more Chicago experience.

But that’s not the story here. The story here is that I blushed and said the first thing that came into my head, which was, “Oh, no thank you.” [Subtext: I don’t know how, I’m too shy, I don’t know you and maybe I’ll look like a fool.]

And he went away, and Rachel said to me, “You should have danced!” And I immediately knew that I should have felt like a fool. But it was too late – the moment had passed. We talked about this in Atlanta at the Mom 2.0 Summit on the subway on the way to the Arcade Fire concert: how, when you improvise, you need to say yes: it keeps the story going. (And if you say no, it’s to facilitate a future yes.) I forgot that last night, but it was a good reminder. So, I’m going to let last night’s no facilitate a bunch of future yeses: I will dance, please ask me.