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I cringe when I read the alumni notes in my graduate school’s magazine. Another former classmate has published a book. Or hosts a show on Sirius XM. Or has won some prestigious award.

Ha! I’ll do SOMETHING with this… later.

In the 12 years since graduation, many people I used to socialize with or share a round table with in writing workshops have done great things. I can read about them now. And feel the envy erupting.

Sure, I’m proud of my peers and happy for them, too. I’m not THAT jaded or jealous. I’ve also done some great, albeit tangential things myself: I helped create a film festival that’s in its ninth year and beloved by a community. I have edited web and print publications for several Jewish nonprofits. I fell in love and got married, birthing – naturally – two healthy, awe-inspiring children. I have experienced. Pushed myself physically. Challenged myself to the limit of patience and endurance.

None of which I will publish in my alumni notes. They just don’t seem to compare to publication credits or awards.

I know I’m being shallow, myopic, ridiculous. But when you spend time and money on a degree to pursue competence in something, there’s an expectation – self-imposed or otherwise – that you’ll do something great with it. And if you don’t? Well, then you shut your mouth. At least, as far as the alumni notes are concerned.

Sure, I write humorous captions for online photo albums and an occasional blog post, but I’m capable of more. If only I had time. Or energy. Or a creative spark. All three would really be fabulous.

Truthfully, I can’t blame it on lack of time. Plenty of people – hello, J.K. Rowling and Toni Morrison – wrote in the wee, stolen hours while their kids slept. I just can’t do it. I couldn’t function if I woke any earlier. And, most nights after getting the kids down, I just need an hour or so to do nothing but the equivalent of watching The Bachelor.

The creative spark? It’s there somewhere. Take, for example, while wiping snot or poop, I’ll occasionally pause and tilt my head skyward. Now, if only I had a pen. Other times, I’ll ask Max to repeat himself. “Did you just call my vagina a volcano? Ha!” And type an email to close friends and family.

The thinking: I’ll entertain in the immediate and then do SOMETHING with the thoughts later. But what is that “something?” And when does “later” start? I’m still figuring that out.

Josh and I enlisted the help of science and hormones to become parents. Personally, I did everything physically possible to become a mother, to be able to cherish these moments and to nurture my children into adulthood. I will not miss these years. Not if I don’t have to. I will work less and write less. That’s my choice. My blessing.

Which doesn’t mean that occasionally – like when that magazine arrives in my mailbox – I won’t want to bitch about the opportunity costs. Wallow in self pity. Curse at the pages of the alumni notes.

For now, I cling to the quote Nora Ephron made famous: “Everything is Copy.” And keep collecting. Until, that precious day, when I too have something to publish in those damn alumni notes.