It’s 11:20 a.m. I’m still in my nightgown. The house is a wreck. I fed Girl popsicles for breakfast. I’m writing my novel again. Two chapters down and miles to go before I sleep.

Whenever I get back in touch with an old writing friend, we always greet each other with the same question: Are you writing? I always hope they say no, because that means they won’t give me any crap about not writing. We can just commiserate with each other about how hard it is to start writing again because we’re way too busy.

Sometimes I come across my writing friends who ARE writing, and they are pretty understanding when I tell them how hard it is to work full time and have two kids.

My old writing teacher was not so willing to let me off the hook. Here’s her response to my complaints: “You’re gifted Christi, write! Having children doesn’t mean you have to stop. And you know that.”

Crap. And now, I have heard from someone else: The original person who never bought any of my excuses. The person who took the training wheels off my bike, threw me into the deep end and said “Absolutely Not,” when I said I wanted to take a break from college. That’s right, people. I’ve heard from the Big Man Himself: Dad.

He has found my blog. And this is what he says: “My advice, not that you have asked for it, is Get That Book Out Of the Desk And Finish It. It cannot be completed on its own. That has been your dream for such a long time. SEE IT THROUGH.”

Shit, shit, shit. You know how my dad gets me to do things? Not by yelling, screaming or bullying. Oh, no, he’s too much of a pro for that. He Expects Things. If it weren’t for my dad, I’d probably still be living at home and so would my sister and brother. It was a comfy, cozy place. But while Mom pulled, Dad pushed. Somehow, they stayed focused on their ultimate goal: To work themselves out of a job. Now all three of us are fully functioning adults. And it took both of them working as a team to accomplish that.

So you know what happened to me shortly after I got that message from Dad? A strange thing. The opening scene from my novel started playing like a movie in my head. The mental drawer I had filed it in swung open, and a scene leaked out. Also the big problem I was wrestling with — whose story it should be — became clear to me, and I understood the voice I needed to use to make the story come alive.

Permission granted.

Ti amo Papà.

Jealousy can be a very constructive emotion.

I’m not talking about the kind that comes when your husband’s ex shows up as his Facebook friend. No, I’m talking about the feeling that comes when you covet not what someone else has, but what someone else does.

Case in point: Tomorrow my baby brother graduates with a PhD. This is something that I long wanted, especially when I was a starry-eyed English major, wishing I could just read and discuss great literature all day every day with smart people. But at 21, instead of grad school, I earned my first M.R.S. degree, and that was that. So how do I feel now that the first doctor in the family is not me? Great. I’m serious. I’m so proud of my brother I could bust a gut. He worked so hard and so long for this. Children have been born and loved ones have died as he pursued this degree. His students are lucky to have him as a prof.

Second case in point: One of the reporters I used to work with at an itty bitty newspaper in Arizona just won the Pulitzer Prize. The Pultizer! I used to ache for that. When I was a reporter, all I wanted was to work for the Wall Street Journal or the New York Times someday and win the most prestigious award in my field. So how does it feel now that someone I used to work with has captured the prize? Again, great. I’m very happy for Paul Giblin and I hope this leads him to the Journal or the Times.

Am I now such an enlightened being that I am immune from jealousy? Shit no.

As recently as last winter I thought I had everything I ever wanted. Then I learned that a friend from an old writing workshop had her novel published. By a major publisher. And it’s been nominated for the Orange Prize, which is the U.K. equivalent of the Pulitzer. This was the novel she was working on in the workshop. Where’s mine? In my desk drawer. How do I feel? Like I want to eat my own liver. With a spoon.

So, here’s why I think jealousy is a constructive emotion. I believe it’s the most honest indicator of the heart’s desire. The most uncorrupted, the most base. But as useful as it is, it cuts deep. Longing unfulfilled makes the heart sick. So when you feel overwhelming jealousy, and it points you somewhere, you’d better go. Who knows — jealousy could be the true voice of God.

My favorite superhero is Elastigirl, the mom in the cartoon movie “The Incredibles.” She’s tough, smart, practical and not afraid to tell her 300-pound gorilla of a husband to get a grip. Plus, she’s extremely flexible, which is a key attribute in top performing mothers, as they say in HR parlance.

There’s a scene in the Incredibles where Elastigirl explains to her two superhero children about the importance of identity. “It’s your most valuable possession,” she tells them as she hands them black masks. “Guard it with your life.” (This may not be a direct quote; I don’t feel like watching the movie for the 29th time to find out.)

I wish I had such a black mask, and that I could shield my children with such a simple prop. It would certainly help in writing a personal blog for all the world to see.

By day, I am a mild-mannered public relations professional working in downtown Houston. By night I am the harried mother of two bright, creative, exhausting children. To protect their identities, I refer to them in this blog by the highly original pseudonyms of Boy and Girl.

I am also the wife of a talented journalist/gardener/geek/blogger named Bob who long ago outted himself on the web (I mean this figuratively). So I feel no compunctions about protecting his identity. But I will be kind to him in my writing because he deserves that.

This blog is about the things that circle around in my mind like wild animals and threaten to bite me unless I let them loose. Mostly it’s about the torn feeling that comes when I kiss my babies goodbye and get on the bus. The fact that this modern life often makes absolutely no sense. And the need to make it make sense just the same. Those are the sorts of ramblings to be found here.

I hope you enjoy reading this blog. Knowing that my friends, family and co-workers are reading it keeps me honest and makes me avoid certain topics that could get me fired or shunned. But there’s a wide world to write about, and I’m certain I can find subjects that are both safe and emotionally jarring at the same time.

So that’s the balancing act I am performing. If I just had a little black mask, this would be a whole lot easier.