Drip. Splash. Squelch.

The bathroom door is locked. The three year old is nowhere to be found.

Knock-knock. “Zibbit? Are you in there?”

“IT’S OKAY!” You hear from behind the door. Splish-splosh. Ahem.

“Please come open the door Zibbit.” A very guilty face appears.

“It’s okay, Mommy!” She chirps unconvincingly.

“Where did all this water come from, honey?”

“It’s not water!” Uh-oh.

“Is it pee-pee? Did you have an accident?”

“No, it just comed out of the potty.” Oh shit.

Upon entering the bathroom, you find yourself faced with the entire Columbia river flowing across the beautiful hardwood floors. The brand new roll of toilet paper is now completely empty. The toilet is groaning and sputtering in the corner, begging for mercy. The three year old is absolutely soaked, and charmingly sheepish.

“I flushed it,” she says. “A lot of times I flushed it.”

You survey the situation, hands on your hips and a furrow in your brow. And then you do the only thing a reasonable woman can do. You turn off the light. Close the bathroom door. And pretend it never happened.

I just called the shelter to check on Molly.

They put her to sleep.

I’m so sorry my beautiful little girl. I’m so sorry.

I was brushing my teeth last night, leaning over the sink and examining my pores in the mirror, when I noticed something. It was so shocking, so unexpected, that I actually dropped my toothbrush and just stood there, staring at my reflection. I blinked. And then I said it out loud because an important truth like this should never be kept inside: “I am a pretty girl.”

I’ve been waiting to feel pretty my whole life. I always knew I would someday, I’ve always had the impression that my body is like a fine wine, or a particularly smelly cheese: I just get better with age. I remember perching on the bathroom counter at fourteen, feet in the empty sink basin and knees drawn up to my chest, sobbing deep, nauseating, gut wrenching sobs. I hated my body, I hated my face, I hated my hair, I hated myself. Because at a time in a young person’s life when the only thing that matters is belonging to the herd, I didn’t. And I felt like I never would. “You’re gross,” I would snarl at my reflection. “You’re disgusting and ugly. No one loves you and no one ever will.” It hurt to feel those things, to look into the black hole of my future and imagine feeling that way forever. But somewhere, deep inside, I didn’t really believe it. There was something more than hope, something stronger, that told me things would be different someday. That I would belong and be loved and be okay. I figured I would wake up on my fortieth birthday and suddenly feel beautiful. After all, aren’t the women who have survived the terror of their teens, the uncertainty of their twenties, and the confusion of their thirties the most stunning creatures you’ve ever seen? I couldn’t wait to turn forty and it shone like a beacon in my future, this wonderful thing I was waiting for. I settled down to let the years pass.

So what changed? What has made me realize, at the tender and uncertain age of twenty-four, that I am a pretty girl? After all, I still don’t run with the herd. I still feel fundamentally different from my peers, and I still have that paranoid and sadistic little voice whispering in my ear that everyone in the world has a secret key to life- and they all get together on the second Monday of every month to figure out ways to keep me from getting a copy. But what I now believe, what I know to be true, is that it takes guts to love who you are and show your real self to the world. It takes gumption. It takes moxie. And all of that courage is beautiful. My days now are spent embracing who I am, rejecting those familiar negative thoughts and whispers. I draw strength from others around me and I take a heaping spoonful of bravery with each of my meals. It’s as important to my emotional survival as calcium is to my bones; without it I grow brittle and weak and someday I will break.

When I met Anne Lamott at her book signing a few months ago, I asked her how I could be as beautiful as she is when I grow up. “Sunscreen,” she told me. “Lots and lots of sunscreen.” But I disagree. It’s not a wrinkle-free face or shoulders clear of sunspots that determines a woman’s loveliness. It’s the knowledge that who she is is special and wonderful. It’s holding on to the parts of herself that are different and unique and knowing that the world would be missing something important if she weren’t there. This is different, I think, from having an over-inflated ego. It’s not having so much pride that your head won’t fit through doorways. It’s valuing who you are.

I do value myself now. And I love, I am amazed, that catching my reflection in the mirror no longer reduces me to a desperate, weepy mess. It makes me smile.

Last night I, like every other red-blooded American female, watched the Dateline interview with William and Harry. (If you’re a girl in America and you didn’t watch it, please just check the next time you nick yourself while shaving your legs- I’m a bit worried about your red blood cell count.) What astoundingly mature and articulate young men they are. Okay, that totally makes me sound like a grandma. Hot! They’re also hot!

But seriously, I’m just amazed at how calm and down to earth they both seemed to be. So much more so than many people I meet in real life. The acceptance and understanding that the princes displayed for the way the world works is already at a level that most people will never reach in their lifetime. And I don’t know whether to really admire them for that, for the way they’ve grown up, or to be sad because they’ve had to grow up so quickly. It’s fascinating to put them side by side with other people who are considered extremely famous, like actors or popular musicians, and note the differences in the way they present themselves. There was no pride from the princes, no snobbish remarks or stuffy silences. And when asked what the best part about being a prince was, they both spoke genuinely of the gratitude they feel for being born so fortunate. It’s clear how much the influence of their mother, the beautiful and gentle Princess Diana, has guided them into becoming the men they are. You can see so much of her in them, and it was heartbreaking to hear them talk about losing her.

I am the same age as Prince William, and for as far back as I can remember I have dreamed about meeting him and falling in love and becoming his doting little princess. Nevermind the fact that he could literally have his pick from any woman in the entire world, in my fantasies he would always overlook the not-so-royal aspects of me because I always charmed him with my amazing personality. Watching that interview last night reminded me of all those times I went to bed as a little girl, my head on the pillow and my mind full of William-dreams. He’s just as handsome as ever, more manly and chiseled now which is just… rrrrawr. But Harry is just sex on legs. That man is delectable. And anytime he wants to overlook the fact that I’m a flat-chested single mother of two, he can come on over and see how unique and special I am. I’m not like all the other girls, Harry! I’m different and refreshing! And wear that pink shirt when you stop by. Tasty.

Wow, this post really degenerated quickly, didn’t it? Ha ha ha. I’m lonely.

So yeah, life is hard. So much has been happening lately and I find myself alternately deeply overwhelmed and feeling powerfully capable. I’ve seen such a positive turn in my emotional well-being in the last few weeks, and I am so amazed by how well I’m dealing with everything. The old me would have been crippled by fear and depression and anxiety to the point of being unable to function, but I’ve been surprising myself every day with how strong and positive I feel about this entire situation. My anxiety is, for the most part, completely gone. I haven’t experienced any depression at all, only normal levels of grief and sadness which is an extremely healthy and productive way to deal with the fact that my marriage has ended. I do fear the vast unknown that is my future, but it’s tempered by the knowledge that I have the capacity to deal with whatever will come and make good decisions for my little family.

Of course there are bumps in the road, and this week has been particularly bad. First of all, the vacuum broke last Friday. I have spent an unhealthy amount of time cursing its debilitated little existence, kicking it every time I pass and calling it terrible names that I can’t write here because my mother reads this. Displaced rage, you say? Perhaps. Perhaps.

The other thing that happened this week was I decided to take Molly back to the shelter. I’m not going to talk about it because it will make me cry, but suffice it to say that I know it was the right thing for all of us. Especially the cats, who have triumphantly reappeared after being in hiding for four months. On top of that, the girls and I have been feverish and miserable since Wednesday. It just plain SUCKS to take care of sick kids when you’re sick too, and there’s no one there to help or stroke your hair or bring you tea in bed. And it’s stuff like that, the fact that no one will be there to bring me tea in bed ever again, that makes me so desperately sad and lonely I could puke.

So in order to avoid the pukage, we’re going to count down Letterman-style the top ten reasons my life is great and I have every reason to celebrate my very existence:

Number 10: I can finally watch Gilmore Girls without a disgruntled man harumphing in the background.

Number 9: Nobody complains anymore when I leave tampons laying around.

Number 8: I am having a good hair year.

Number 7: I can swear at my vacuum and the only person who looks at me like I’m crazy is my cat, but that’s nothing new for her.

Number 6: I never wear outfits that look like this.

Number 5: I took a picture of my butt the other day when I was bored, and this time not even the cat rolled her eyes. I think she was mildly amused by my chutzpah.

Number 4: I tweezed my eyebrows for the first time the other day, and I look smokin’ hot.

Number 3: The only person around here who uses unholy amounts of creamer in their coffee is me, and that makes the bottle last a whole lot longer.

Number 2: My name is not Britney Spears.

Number 1: My name is not Paris Hilton.