A journal entry from months ago: April 30th, 12:04am. The laptop glows in our darkened kitchen and I hear only muffled sounds – small swells of laughter from the basement as Ken hosts a late-night birthday party for friends, Bernie re-positioning underneath my chair into the shape of a question mark, the dining room clock
When you get hacked on a Sunday morning, the Sunday of the week you’re officially announcing your book to your own little world, you feel a bit ill. I’m working to fix it, but for now, steer clear of my Twitter page, OK? I’ll meet you here (or here) instead. For fun, while I wait
I was talking to a girlfriend (hey hey, Voxer) last week about email discipline, specifically the art of not “checking in” throughout the day. It’s a slippery slope: you hop on your phone to peek at the weather, and then you find yourself “checking in” on Instagram, Twitter, your email account. You click on that
I’m still here. (Thank you for your kindness.) Still here with the scooping of formula, the rocking, the swaddling, the diaper-changing. The apple slicing for Bee, the tying of shoes, the playing of Uno. These hands haven’t made their way to a keyboard in a long while, and for that, I’m uncharacteristically content. But I
What’d you learn in Sunday school today? I ask her. We’re in the entryway gathering shoes, stuffing a tote with bug spray, hats, sunglasses. We’re off to the pool. I learned that when someone is sad, you don’t run away. You hug each other, she says, slipping on Crocs. That’s a great thing to learn,
Well, really, it was a true treat to chat with Brooke McAlary on her podcast, Slow Your Home. Listen, I’m far from a podcaster, but every now and then – on solo road trips or while mowing the lawn – I’ll plug in for a listen. Brooke’s is a good one – she’s kind, purely
A real thing I said to a girlfriend last year: I think I’ll wait until next year to start volunteering with Bee. Toddler help is sometimes not helpful, you know? A real thing Bee said to me this year: Mom, can we make our neighbor Bob some lunch and take it over to his house
We’re at the home of friends, and we’ve been given a quintessential summer night in the Midwest. Salsa on the dinner table, tortilla crumbs at our feet, Moscow Mules sweating in bright copper mugs. Later, there will be sticky marshmallow fingers, peed pants, an impromptu shower, a borrowed t-shirt. Later, the mosquitoes will arrive around