Eliana Osborn

I’ve got two tales of hideous male behavior — at the elementary school, somewhere typically full of good vibes and happiness and all that.

I’m not there yet. But I need to be honest—I’m closer to 40 than any other multiple of five.

Help.

1. Write a damn letter.

After years in apartments that should have been condemned, even these sad restroom facilities were vast improvements. And so we stayed, the husband and I, vaguely embarrassed when guests stayed over and commented on the bordello vibe of the bathroom.

Then we had a kid. No working bathtub suddenly seemed like a big deal. And the functional bathroom spaces weren’t places you’d want to hang out. There’s a lot of bathroom time once you’ve got tiny humans. (You’ve been warned.)

I’m not broken by this therapy failure. Jane wasn't the person to help me at this point of my life. Someone else WILL be.

The most important things my mother taught me included work from Neil Diamond, Billy Joel, Wham! and Whitney Houston.

Sometimes the nicest kids turn into whole new people when they come over to your house.

If he were an a--hole to my kids, things would be easier. But he’s not. He’s good with them. He’s his best self. It makes me alternately happy and heartbroken.

My sister Liz is full of wisdom, like my favorite quote I’ve shared with practically everyone I know: “Every pair of underwear has two good sides.”