Melted snow penguins on the back porch. Red pepper relish with dinner. A balmy 56 degree day in the middle of January and we didn’t even think to open the windows.
Moon? he says. It’s his favorite question each morning, and soon begins the raising of the eyebrows, a gesturing toward the front door. Moon? Moon? Moon? He wants to see it high in the sky, long after it’s gone, long after the birds are singing and the sun has risen. Often, I do too.
The baby will wake, often, up and down, eyes popping wide and fading shut, and it will be a running joke in your family that you, the mother, will be physically unable to lull him to sleep. The baby will have figured you out, he will have found the loophole. When he cries out and
Head’s Up: Sponsored by Huggies. I’ll always be a product of seasonal living. Growing up as the youngest child to two schoolteachers in a small Indiana town left its mark: stay focused, be diligent throughout the school year, but summer? In the summer, all bets are off. Summer, for us Midwesterners, is a season
Well yes, I am a bit of a Luddite. I know. There are all manners of contradiction in this statement – a blogger opposed to technology? – yet I can’t help but feel as if, often, we’re squandering our time on lesser things in the name of false connectivity. Our attention spans are shorter. Our
It’s a question I’m asked often. Why don’t you share the kids’ faces? Their real names? Why aren’t you showing day-to-day stuff on Instagram Stories? Why such extreme boundaries from someone who writes online for a living? I get it. Swapping stories and “Me, too”s is an important salve in this life, one that has
To chore, I say. — Early this spring, Bee began campaigning for a fish. Actually, nine, she says, for swimming together. My hesitations were many. More responsibility for our kids often means more management for us, and with two kids, two dogs, two jobs, we were fresh out of any available management margin. She’d be
Want to be my kid’s hero? Feed her pancakes. — Early this summer, I drove Bee a few hours south down the winding lane of my parents’ neighborhood – all mailboxes and pine trees – and walked into the front door framing the same four walls I grew up in. The same welcome sign swacked