I am often losing myself in things, in seasons, quicker than a phase of the moon. I am able to be swallowed entirely by a single turn of events, or a string of such. Sometimes, all it takes is a song. Once, as a child, my swim coach pulls me aside after practice, holds the
I used to be worried about black holes, Bee says as she slices a hard-boiled egg on the kitchen counter, adds pepper. Well, she smiles… I still kind of am. — And there it is, the thing I fully and finally have in common with my kid, this girl who is a mystery, who is
I fell into a bit of an impromptu travel season this month – three back-to-back trips with a weekend between. Just enough time to empty the suitcase into the laundry cycle, to re-roll and re-pack once it was refreshed. — I know two things: (1) I love this job. (2) I love this family. I
I’ve got a soft spot in my soul for new mothers, the first-time kind. The bewildered, shaky, anxious-ridden variety who keep one vigilant eye on the clock (when did the baby last feed?) and one distracted eye on the conversation at hand (sorry, what was that?). The ones who fear the nail clippers. The ones
“Put the baby in the center of the bed. Go outside; take five deep breaths. Come back.” This is the advice my midwife offers me as a 3-day old mother, the orders she gives after hearing my tears over the phone, the baby’s shrieks, the panic in my voice. My confidence in motherhood silenced by
You guys gotta see this! Ken calls. Bee and I are dancing in the laundry room, a morning ritual we’ve fallen into. We play this song, and another, still another, she twirling her stuffed puppy or baby hedgehog or that odd Halloween decoration she’s been sleeping with. Me moisturizing my elbows, applying concealer. Mascara. Coming!
When it’s late summer and the heat has passed, you find yourself deflating the pool floaties and moving the sunscreen to the back shelf of the medicine cabinet. You wash and fold swimsuits, beach towels; find storage for that massive sun hat. Sprinkler to the attic. You get to work. You meet deadlines, schedule meetings,
I used to write gift guides. I’d write them for magazines, or websites – gift guides for the smelly co-ed, gift guides for the Ohio stockbroker cousin you see once annually, gift guides for the receptionist that, when cornered at the office Christmas party, admits that she really and truly wants to be an artist