There’s an Arab proverbs about two scorpions in a hole having a better chance of survival than two sisters living under the same roof. I am blessed to have two sisters, both younger and I would say during the the whole of our childhood that particular proverb rang quite true.

I got to know my youngest sister when she volunteered to move with our family to Memphis. At the time I had a four-month old and a two-year-old and was terrified at the thought of living 2,000 miles away from the supporting arms of my extended family. She had a bit of her own growing up to do, but nonetheless I was glad to have her. She blossomed in Memphis, finishing college and firmly establishing herself as a woman. She’s also an amazing aunt to my children.

My other sister, who is three years younger than me, still lives in the Pacific Northwest. I tease her about being a homebody, as she lives within a mile of her mother-in-law and our mother. Our relationship began to take shape once she had children. I was so glad to have another sibling I could talk to about how being a mother changes everything–and I’ve been surprised (considering how combative we were growing up) at how she understands exactly what I mean when I talk about a change.

We did not get along when we were young. I once infamously punched her in the stomach at a church activity. She snuck into my room after I’d left for high-school and wore my clothing and read my diary. We were like oil and water, but now that we are both mothers, we are like water and water.

If I have any regrets about only having two children it is that my daughter will never have a sister. There are certain joys and pains that are only experienced in that relationship. The deep resentment and jealousy that exists between sisters eventually gives way to abiding love, but i think it is made all the sweeter by experiencing the agony first.

When Charlie and I got married, he claimed he could only sleep if he were on my left. Not only didn’t I care which side of the bed I slept on, I never really understood how there could be sides of the bed.

In my house, you grew up learning how to sleep in any condition–loud, floor, outside, and even in some long car trips,cargo hold. There were too many people and too little accommodation for such eccentricities as side of the bed. Charlie grew up with one brother and a mother who changed the bedding according to season. Quite civilized, especially when compared to the scramble for bedding my house. I still have a blanket I stole from my brother Noah just before I left for college.

This particular need of Charlie’s to sleep to the left of me, meant some confusion in the early years of our marriage. I never thought of the bed in relation to where I slept in it. Instead, I seemed to decide what side to sleep on based on where the bedroom door was in relation to the bed. Anytime I rearranged our bedroom, or we stayed the night in a hotel, Charlie would inevitably have to point out that I was on the wrong side of the bed.

A few years ago, when our children had just become old enough to wander downstairs from their bedroom in the middle of the night if they became sick or frightened, I moved the furniture around in our room and Charlie installed a built-in headboard/bookcase into the wall. The arrangement resulted in Charlie’s side of the bed permanently being right next to the door.

A few months ago, Charlie groaned out a series of complaints about being the first line of defense against sick children, scared children, and early risers. (Our son likes to get up at the crack of dawn, or even before it. I sometimes joke that his snooze button is broken.) I couldn’t help pointing out that he’d brought it all on himself with his ridiculous notion of sides of the bed. He looked a little stricken and then offered to switch.

“I could get used to your side,” he’d said.

We tried it for a bit, but it turns out not only has he been conditioned to sleep  on one side of the bed, the children, after three years, have been conditioned to bother Dad first when they come into our bedroom.

What about you? Do you have a side of the bed?

You may have noticed that I’m one of those people. You know the idiots who see an empty ten-minute slot on their calendars and find ways to fill it. It is a disease and I’ve had it since puberty when I would get up at 4:30 a.m. to wash, blow dry and curl my waist-length hair. I remembering being so tired that I spent the first five minutes of my shower curled up on the floor of the shower. I was, at the time, highly motivated by cute boys. Between after-school activities, work and church, I often wouldn’t stop moving until I went to sleep at midnight. Leaving me 4.5 hours to rest.

That pretty much set up the pattern of my life, until I had children. When I got pregnant with my first, I was working between 60 and 90 hours a week for a man we lovingly called “dragon boss.” This was a man who would throw a hissy fit if he even caught a whiff of microwave popcorn. One time we popped some at two a.m. trying to finish a project and the next day when he arrived, he took one deep breath and blew up at us for contaminating his air.

At first, I really took no notice of being pregnant and I didn’t alter my sleeping schedule or my work schedule, but then around the seventh month, my body staged a protest. Within moments of arriving home from work (whether at 5:30 p.m. or 2 a.m.) I would be asleep. I spent Saturdays watching cartoons and developed an unhealthy fascination with Yu-gi-oh.

And then my daughter arrived and I found out just how little control I truly have over my time and my body. I left the corporate world and worked from home and I changed, I mellowed. I would tell people how having kids changes you, changes your priorities. I had time to do crossword puzzles and sudoku. I watched shows that were in syndication. Oh the time I wasted. It felt glorious.

But in the last few years or so, I’ve somehow managed to again fill up every minute of available space in my day. I sleep five hours a night and Fridays aren’t all that wonderful because what I’m inevitably left with is a list of tasks that I failed to complete the days leading up to Friday.

Part of this has to do with the children. They don’t need me so much. They can dress themselves, feed themselves, entertain themselves. And those three items, well they used to take 12 hours of my day. So it is a natural process, but I liked who I’d become. I liked that I didn’t mind wasting time. Yesterday I wasted exactly 10 minutes of the 19 hours I was awake by playing words with friends.

And yet, I’m so happy because 80 percent of what I’m doing with my time is what I always dreamed of doing. And there are ways that I’ve mellowed. Instead of staying up to put the laundry away, I hide it in my closet. I learned that you can get away with only washing and blow drying your hair every three days. Nothing I own needs to be ironed. And perhaps the most telling fact: I never wear matching socks. Never. Because taking the time to find a pair that matches or even putting them away correctly in the first place is too much.

What have you given up on in your life? I mean in a good way, in a way that makes you feel like you have some control, that you are choosing where to spend your time.

I grew up surrounded by family. My father is one of seven children and on his side alone, I ended up with dozens of cousins along with my own six siblings. My husband’s family, while not quite as large, still lived within an hour of most of his family on both his mother and father’s side. However, fate or rather “the perfect job” brought me and my little family to Memphis, where the nearest family is a 27-hour car ride away.

Occasionally it gets lonely. And I get sad that my own children won’t grow up with cousins right around the corner or on the other side of town.

This distance also has made me appreciate the people in my life who’ve I known a good long while. A few years back when I turned 28, I called my closest friend from high school to tell her that we’d officially known each other half our lives.

This weekend, one of my husband’s friends from college was in town. It wasn’t for the happiest of reasons, but we were thrilled to get the opportunity to spend a few hours with him, his wife and their adorable baby. While we chatted and made kissy faces and the baby, I realized that my husband and his friend have also now known each other for half their lives.

Their history together is long and predates when I met my husband. Listening to them talk I can get a sense of who my husband was and who he’s become. And it makes me smile to think of how the boys I knew in college have turned into men with babies and professional careers.

I can’t quite name the value in keeping people around who’ve known you when you were a silly teenager, but I feel it everytime I have them come back into our lives, even if it is only for a few hours.