Diaries from Women Across America

This Day in the Life
by Joni B. Cole, Rebecca Joffrey, B.K. Rakhra

Did You Ever Want to Read a Friend's Diary?

In suburban neighborhoods and on family farms, in uptown lofts and homeless shelters, women across America chronicled their lives on the same day—June 29, 2004. This Day in the Life shares more than thirty complete diaries and hundreds of additional candid moments.

Full of intimate details and laugh-out-loud truths, and drawing on the experiences of women of all ages and backgrounds, this diverse collection is a surprising reminder of how much we all have in common. If you've ever wondered what the woman standing in front of you in line was thinking, This Day in the Life is a refreshing glimpse at how we really spend our days—and the value of every single one.

7:03 a.m. Carryn wakes to nurse and I want to sleep. My husband pretends not to hear her, but sometimes I wake him up just so he can see my job is twenty-four hours a day. —Jenee Guidry, 30, mom of four

8:20 a.m. I just read two Psalms aloud to Dad. In the last few months of his life he loved for me to read them to him, both in person and on the phone. I still do it, hoping they reach him in the other world. —Rosanne Cash, 49, singer/songwriter

4:00 p.m. The cast of Friends is on with Oprah. That was one of the few shows I watched every week. My real friends suck. Not a single one called me on my birthday. —Kim Olsovsky, 31, teacher

1915 There's a boom in the distance, rocket or mortar. I am sitting next to a blast wall built from sandbags. Do I stay here? Do I go into the trailer and lie on the floor? Six minutes pass. I am about to miss dinner. —Beth Garland, 42, army sergeant.

Chapter 1

On the Home Front with a 'Type A' Television Reporter

Amanda Lamb, 38, Cary, North Carolina

A crime reporter for WRAL television in Raleigh, she loves her job—the investigative aspect, having sources, getting tips, getting to know the families on both sides of the case. The job also appeals to the writer in her. "Every day I'm telling a story." She's comfortable in courtrooms (both her parents are lawyers) and loves a good mystery, real or fiction. Outgoing. Organized, "sometimes to a fault." Goal oriented. After graduating from Northwestern, she drove up and down the Eastern Seaboard with a box of tapes in her car, knocking on station doors. She landed her first job three months later, gradually advancing her career with an eye toward the bigger markets. Halfway there, she adjusted her goals when she fell in love with a metals recycler and drummer. "My life happened here in Raleigh." Married eight years and mom to two daughters, ages four and one, she feels lucky to have a career and a family. "Raleigh is a medium market—a good place to do TV and still have a life." Like most working moms, balance is the big issue. Her strategy? "I don't think you can achieve it. The closest you can come to balance is being in the moment. When you're with the kids, be there 100 percent and don't think about work. And when you're at work, focus on that instead of feeling guilty."

1:09 a.m. I hear the baby, Chloe, flailing around in the playpen, the rustling of sheets, the rattling of toys, the heavy pacifier-sucking noise. She reminds me of a live fish, still hooked on the deck of a boat as she arches her back and wriggles on the thin mattress. In my sleepy fog, her sheets sound like someone crumpling wads of crisp newspaper. I do not usually sleep in the same room with my daughter, but we are on vacation. Vacation is a funny word for what this is, two endless weeks with children in constant, close, needy proximity.

3:00 a.m. Chloe is snoring now. I need to go to the bathroom, but if I wake her I'm sunk. If she realizes I am here in the room with her, she will want me. Her head will pop up over the edge of the playpen and she will lift her arms, the universal "hold me" sign for babies. Then comes the scream, piercing, impossible to ignore. I decide to hold it.

5:44 a.m. Our rooms at home have blackout shades that let in very little light. On the other hand, rental homes at the beach are built to let light in. The early morning light dapples the bedroom comforter. This looks good in the rental brochure, but is not good for young children. It wakes them up, and in turn wakes us up. This morning, day four of vacation, is no exception, although I hoped it would be. I whisk her out of the crib into my arms to keep her from waking her grandmother and sister in the room across the hall. My husband is joining us for the second week of vacation, so for now I'm on my own. I don't know how single mothers do it.

6:00 a.m. You can hear my other daughter, Mallory, coming from a mile away. She is loud, brazen, disturbing to us and the tenants in the condo below. The man who is staying downstairs with his family asked me yesterday whether we had hardwood floors in our unit because it was "so loud!" Mallory jumps onto the bed and begins her passive-aggressive ritual with her baby sister. She makes her laugh and then sits on her head. Mallory is four and a half. She is beautiful, difficult, funny, smart, and complicated. One minute I adore her, the next minute she makes me want to get on a bus and leave town.

6:15 a.m. I give up. There is no possibility of sleep. Eating is next on the agenda. I am a schedule person. I believe kids and adults function better on a schedule, even on vacation. You might say I'm a little obsessive-compulsive, but it has served me well. We head to the porch to eat. Mallory, who eats virtually nothing ever, has a donut and milk. Mostly she drinks. This would be a concern, except for the fact I was the same way and somehow survived, albeit with a limited palate. Also, I am too tired to fight about it. Chloe is a good eater, but this morning she decides to throw small pieces of waffle on the floor beneath the high chair. Amid the noise, my mother wakes up and wonders out loud repeatedly why the children are awake so early.

7:15 a.m. It's too early and too cold to go to the beach, but it's never too early to exercise. I have a double baby jogger. Before I had kids I looked at women pushing these things and pitied them. Why would anyone want to push such a ridiculous and heavy-looking thing? But now the jogger equals freedom. I need to exercise. It's my sanity. Some people take drugs, I run. Granted, I'm an adrenaline junky, but I'm at peace with my choice of obsession. The jogger allows me to GO. Anyone who laughs at the sight should try it. Pushing sixty-five pounds of children at a high rate of speed should be an Olympic event.

7:35 a.m. The New Jersey beach town where we are staying is breathtaking. The homes here in Cape May were built in the 1800s and are surrounded by wraparound porches, iron fences, and wildflower gardens. Many of the old homes have been refinished and made into shops, restaurants, and bed and breakfasts. There is a boardwalk that runs the length of the downtown where I take the jogger, bordered on one side by the beach, on the other by the town. The only problem is that I have a lot of pent-up envy. Envy of the people who are not with young children, who can sit and drink wine on the verandas, browse in the cute boutiques with lots of breakable items, and stroll the boardwalk after dark. And then there are the memories. Like the restaurant where I had to dress like Martha Washington in college, or the spot on the beach where my first real boyfriend, a lifeguard, and I had a fight because he played volleyball with a girl.

7:48 a.m. I am wearing an MP3 player, listening to a mixture of hip-hop, chick ballads, and seventies disco. Mallory keeps trying to talk to me, but I can't hear her because of the music. It makes me feel a little guilty to be ignoring her, but then I think it could be worse. It's not like they're playing with matches while I'm passed out on the couch.

8:00 a.m. I get two cups of coffee and balance them on the top of the baby jogger. The coffee shop has detailed descriptions for each blend. One says, "dark, brooding, spellbinding." Another says, "distinctly complex." I never realized coffee, like everything else in my life, seems to be an emotional choice. I'm feeling more complex than spellbinding today.

9:15 a.m. Getting two kids ready to go to the beach is almost so exhausting it's not worth the trouble. But being a Type A working mother, with all the guilt that goes along with this role, I plan for every contingency to make the day at the beach a scene out of a Disney movie. The list includes bathing suits, hats, sunblock, sunglasses, diapers, changes of clothes, toys, towels, chairs, drinks, and snacks. The planning is the easy part. It's the execution that's hard. After watching me do this, my mother says instead of "a village" it takes "a city" to raise children.

10:00 a.m. We arrive at the edge of the beach. The Jersey Shore has big, wide beaches, so pushing the baby jogger across the sand is a bit like crossing the Sahara with a rickshaw. People stare and say things like, "You've got your hands full!" Or "What a workout!" I politely smile and imagine running over their feet. Upon arrival at a good spot, the setup begins. There are two kinds of beach people here. The people who bring their own chairs and towels, and the people who stay at hotels and inns where the staff sets them up for you. We are the former; my mother longs to be the latter.

10:15 a.m. We have the beach almost to ourselves as it is still a little cool. In an unlikely turn of events, the baby has fallen asleep in the jogger, so Mallory and I have a rare moment to ourselves. I am taking pictures of her as she does cartwheels by the water. I want to remember her like this, her skin the color of toast, her blunt short haircut falling into her eyes with every tumble. She gets bored and decides we need to build a drip castle. It's the only kind of castle I can build because it's meant to be abstract instead of perfect. My mother never built castles with me because she didn't like sand. So by doing it, I kill two birds with one stone, complete my working-mom-guilt Disney fantasy and one-up my mother.

10:35 a.m. A little boy and his family set up camp next to us on the beach. He looks about Mallory's age. She begs me to make an introduction. She is always afraid to approach new kids, but desperately wants to meet them. I see a lot of myself in her insecurities. Because I understand, I always try to help her. We introduce ourselves to Daniel and his family. While the adults make small talk, Mallory and Daniel become fast friends over a drip castle. I am proud of her. I think she's a lot braver than I ever was.

Copyright © 2005 by Joni B. Cole. Excerpted by permission of Three Rivers Press, a division of Random House, Inc. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.

About the Author

Joni B. Cole is a freelance writer/editor and mom, often at the same time.

Rebecca Joffrey is an executive with two children.

B. K. Rakhra writes fiction and is testing her theory that no kids + no husband = eternal youth.