I have presented across intimidatingly large conference tables to bold-letter names you’ve seen on the cover of Newsweek or in the pages of People.

I have cheered for the Yankees right outside Fenway Park, while men with names like Sully threatened me with bodily harm to a degree disproportionate to the offense committed.

I have battled severe dehydration on a rafting trip in the Grand Canyon, narrowly avoiding transport by Medevac.

I have survived 8 straight weeks of mean girls at Camp Wicosuta.

I have endured a third cup of Turkish coffee in the Stari Grad of Sarajevo.

I have quit smoking. Five times.

I have meandered through the Houston airport with an anti-Bush button front and center on my handbag.

I have walked the gauntlet known as the Sale at Fred Segal.

And I have grown a 6 pound-15 ounce human being from scratch, hustled her down the birth canal, and pushed her out my vajoojee into the world.

But my most Sisyphean challenge to date: Convincing Nate to let this same human being cry for a few minutes in her crib at bedtime.

Give me strength.