I have a confession.  This confession is of a problem that has been growing inside of me.  It is something that, especially recently, is making me ill with frustration, making rethink my life’s purpose, swelling me with doubt.

What could it be? You wonder, somewhat perplexed yet intrigued by this juicy nugget.  Is she addicted to crack?  You take a moment to picture this, immediately dismissing it due to my stingy and prissy nature. 

I know, you think, she’s really having an affair with some stud named Guido—I wonder when she does it, with all those kids. 

No, wait.  That’s couldn’t be it, she’s too, um, ladylike for that.

Thoroughly stumped, you take a step back to analyze my life.

What on earth could she be hiding…she’s got verbal diarrhea 90% of the time, she babbles about almost everything that happens to her. 

Finally an image pops into your head, snapping you into reality.

Oh my God!

Say it isn’t so.

Oh my God, I know what it is, don’t tell me…she’s pregnant AGAIN!

 What was she thinking? She should get fixed!!

Yes, my friends, you are right.  I am pregnant…

(I’ll give you a moment to collect yourself).

…with my preposterous belief in my potential to be awesome at everything.

As I sit around, surrounded by my four excessively needy and time consuming children, I have found myself believing that I could not only do everything, but kick ass at it.  It’s true.  Ask my family.

A perfect example is right now.  As I sit here, composing this blog entry, partially paying attention to some god awful playoff game, I am pretty sure, no, positively certain, that I could play better than these professional athletes.

Never mind the fact that I’m a tad on the scrawny side.  Never mind that fact that I have no natural athletic ability.  I could play better than them. 

In fact, I would be a specialist—The Jumper. 

You see, when all of those big idiots are lined up next to the goal line, running into each other at full force, in I would come to gracefully leap over the mountain of man, triumphantly scoring touchdown after touchdown, single-handedly taking my team to the championship.

While this might seem like a cute, harmless fantasy to some, my delusion doesn’t stop there. 

I am convinced I could golf better than Tiger (went once, couldn’t hit the ball), host better than Oprah (public speaking fear be damned),  write better than Sedaris (occasional blogs count?) and spread more peace than the Pope…after I get done yelling at my children to leave me alone so I can have 5 minutes a day to myself.

Carrying all of this potential that has yet to be born is a burden.  It is weighing me down, keeping me from accomplishing what I was meant to do.  With all of this perceived talent clogging my soul, how am I to choose which path to follow?  I must birth my potential so that you, my masses, can benefit from all I have to offer. 

Your lives will be changed by following my life.  My words will impregnate you with potential.  Here, take this small nugget of truth: To achieve happiness in life you must…

Oh, wait.  There’s a new Law and Order on. I could totally be a detective.