This afternoon I took Solomon to see Where the Wild Things Are. When I was a kid this book was always a favorite of mine. There was a lot I could identify with - most of all - the costume.

Growing up, from the time I was about 4, whenever I got angry, I ran upstairs, zipped on my monkey costume and stomped down. I'd curl around the corner, my big monkey tail sprouting from behind, my eyes peeking from the mask. (Yes, that's me in the picture.)

"Oh, look," Mom would say. "Sabra's mad. I wonder what she's mad about. Maybe Sabra will come in and sit down and we can talk about it."

I remember, it was a great way to be mad. To do it by costume, to have my feelings acknowledged, discussed and understood all safely situationed behind a mask. I remember wearing that costume long after I'd outgrown it, walking down the stairs, hunched over to accommodate the too small torso. At some point even that was impossible and the costume and the days of wearing it were gone.

I guess it was the beginning of learning how to own my feelings.  In many ways, I suppose it was the start of wearing my heart on my sleeve.

There have been lots of times I wish my face didn't say it all. Games of strategy, business meetings, times when nerves or anxiety have the better of me,  but in life, in family, friends and love, I can't think of a better way.