September — with its fading days and its slide into fall — is a bittersweet month for me. Almost exactly 30 years ago, during my senior year of high school, my parents’ marriage imploded. As a child, your parents’ divorce seems like one of those remote possibilities offered by history: the collapse of a banking system or the overthrow of a government or the violent demise of a beloved institution. Yes, these things happen, and yes, there may be some speculation and foreshadowing, but these things don’t happen to you. Unfortunately, they do, even though you have absolutely no understanding of the how or the why. (As an adult, the how and the why become far too clear, especially in the inevitable rough patches that accompany any long-term relationship — the hopefully fleeting moments when you feel like you are whistling past the graveyard of your own marriage.)

As a 16 year-old, knowing both everything and nothing, I charted the only sensible course: I vowed never to get married or have children. I found comfort in “This Be the Verse,” a poem by a peculiar Englishman with an interesting personal life who took his own advice. (I will warn you here: “This Be the Verse” detonates the f-bomb twice, which is hardly anything if you are a  Merchant Marine or a lawyer. But if you are a more genteel reader, it may offend.) Of course, life is one big ha-ha moment after another, so I married my college sweetheart, who seemed altogether fine with not having children.

And then — almost exactly 18 years ago — I had a bad day at work.

We have all had bad days. Last Monday, I had a spectacularly bad one: a monsoon, calls with the tax authorities, an overturned display at a supermarket, an umbrella opened onto my face, safety recalls on two of our cars, an after hours client crisis. But I remember little about the bad day at work 18 years ago other than it involved 38 phone calls, my screwing something up, a lot of yelling, acid running through my veins, and an eerie moment of clarity: there had to be more to my life than this. I wanted children. We will celebrate my son’s 17th birthday in 25 days.

To be fair, I tried to fight it: I first got a puppy, who was adorable and came with worms and ate a wing chair and needed constant attention. Over the years, I have been overwhelmed by it, like six weeks after our daughter was born and I hid in the garage, sobbing. Recently, with two teenagers, I have been tried and amused by it in equal measures, enjoying how genuinely funny my children are while trying not to feel hurt with doors shut and stingy hugs. And I marvel at it: how they, too, know everything and nothing, yet I know little to nothing at all — a perception shared by them and by me.

The constant presence of the living and breathing reminders of my spectacularly bad day at work 18 years ago has helped to improve my relationship with September. It has turned into an eventful month for me. Five years ago, I left a safe, well-paying, coveted job to venture into the choppy seas of self-employment — a decision that I have regretted little, if at all. Twelve days ago, after breakfast with my friend Dorothe, I decided to start this blog. I had always wanted to write, but to sit down and write a book seemed so daunting. Sitting down and writing for a few minutes, and having the courage to show others what I write, seemed like steps in the right direction.

I try to claim at least a small victory every September. Because kicking and screaming, life moves on.

ALC