“Hi, Jackie, this is Bruce Barton of the Los Altos Town Crier. I want to talk to you about this piece you just wrote.”

The year was 2010. My first book, “My Life in a Tutu,” had recently been published and for some strange reason, the powers that be at the Relay For Life cancer fundraiser thought I could do the marketing for the cause. I’d never done something like this before and I wasn’t sure I was up to the task. Hearing his voice, my stomach immediately churned, for I was sure he hated it and wanted a redo. Self-esteem has never been strong on my list of accomplishments.

When our family originally moved from Mountain View to Los Altos, we thought our newly purchased home cost more than what anyone ought to pay for a three-bedroom fixer-upper, but the joke at the time was that in Los Altos, you pay for the land and the house itself is free. That said, the property had potential, so my husband and I took the plunge and bought it.

The second day after we had moved in, a neighbor approached me while I was standing outside. He was an original homeowner, someone who had built his house on this tract of land where nothing but orchards had existed before.

In last month’s column I wrote about the awkwardness that can ensue when getting a massage. Male or female masseuse? Clothed or unclothed?

With cries bellowing from the nursery, I rushed in to save the day. I was sure my grandson needed me. After all, I’m his Grammie, the baby whisperer. Sitting in bed, with snot running down his face, he continued wailing even after I picked him up. I finally realized it wasn’t me he wanted, but his favorite stuffed animal, Lovey, that had fallen out of his crib.

Cuddling him close, I gave Lovey back, but just as I did, he dropped it to the floor again and wrapped his little arms around my neck, putting his tear-stained cheek next to mine. Holding him close, I was reminded of all the sweet times I had done this with my children, but rarely had I stopped to treasure the moment. Life was busy with four kids, and I was on overload.

I had occasion to spend some time in one of the local county parks on Easter Sunday.

The park was mobbed – nearly every picnic table occupied, nearly every barbecue smoking. Many of the tables were decked in Easter-themed cloths and sported Easter baskets filled with colorful eggs, some real, some obviously plastic and prize-filled. We had arrived too late to see the family Easter egg hunts, but the treasure troves were on display on all sides.

I got a massage the other day.

I had to immediately order another one just to deal with the mental stress of ordering the first one.