"You can do it," he said, as he unfolded the ladder from the attic. "It's just an attic. And I'm right here." Immediately, my heart palpitated. My pulse quickened. Sweat began beading on my forehead, and I had yet to step foot on the wooden contraption. As my kids watched on, I took one shaky step toward the gaping darkness. Now, I was breathing faster, wondering if there was an escape hatch somewhere close at hand. There wasn't. For most of my life, I've been afraid of attics. And for good reason. As a young girl, my step brother had molested me over a span of about three years when I would visit my father for his court-ordered weekends. During one of these visits, my step brother, who was also a sadist, locked me in a dark attic, knowing the light didn't work. I was petrified. I'm still unclear as to how I escaped, as much of that part of my life is blocked out. What I do know is that the fear stayed with me. My husband of nearl
Miranda Bradley is a master juggler. Of life, that is. Owner of BCreative, a marketing firm in Georgetown, Texas, Miranda is, at any given time, cooking with one hand, typing with another, hugging one of her two children with her elbow, signing permission slips with pen-to-mouth, holding a speaker phone conversation and making dinner, all at the same time. And she is usually wearing pearls and a circle skirt, looking fabulous as always. Okay, maybe not the last part, but the rest is true ...