I have good stories,

funny stories,

warm stories,

and a love story.

But I haven’t been able to write, because I have been too busy doing this thing called living.

So, I decided that while I took the time to craft and publish these stories, today, I would republish the story that I wrote on this date, March 30, of last year (not knowing what it would be). I thought that it would be a nice exercise to display just how far we as a family have come. I expected something emotional or a silly tidbit, but it just so happens that on March 30, 2014, in a serendipitous coincidence, I wrote a special post–the beginning of my “Hopeful Story”.

So, while you wait to read about my today, I hope you enjoy reading about my day last year, in

Home.

Originally Published on the old MEA site on March 30, 2014.

When we started thinking about having a second child, we were warned that two kids does not equal double the work, but instead, 100 times the work. We have not found that to be true. In fact, we don’t even think it is double the work. We feel like the jump from no kids to one kid was much greater than from one to two. I believe that this is in part due to the fact that we waited 3.5 years between kids, and my daughter can do things like let in the dog and go into the fridge for a snack and take herself to the bathroom. It is a juggling act at times, but it works. Despite my struggles, I haven’t felt overwhelmed by having two kids; unless you count feeling overwhelmed with love. And I mean it.
But having two kids does mean tag-teaming. My husband usually does my daughter’s bedtime. It’s a special time they share. He tells her stories; sometimes they are about Star Wars, sometimes about princesses; last night it was My Little Pony. He sings to her a certain repertoire of songs and they snuggle. It is very sweet.
But tonight, as a special treat (really, for all of us) I said I would come in after stories and songs for a snuggle session with my girl.
I crawled into her bed and rested my head on the pillow next to her. And I got that peaceful feeling again, one that has been so hard to find recently. But I got it.
And I asked her if I could sing her a song, because all I could hear in my head was the Edward Sharpe and the Magnetic Zeros song “Home”s chorus.
Home,
Let me come home,
Home is wherever I’m with you.
“With you I feel home,” I told her.
“With you I feel whole,” she replied.
She is so amazing.
Home is wherever I’m with you.
Even though life has been hard, I am grateful for the little things, like 10 minutes of snuggling with my firstborn, who is growing up so quickly I can hardly catch my breath.
And I’m starting to find my way,
slowly,
arduously,
but I really am starting to head in the direction
towards home.

*Featured Image by Lindsay Docherty Photography

The post Home, again. appeared first on Mommy Ever After.

I speak openly and honestly about mental health,

I say the hard truths that others may be afraid to articulate,

I genuinely strive to make peoples’ lives better,

I never turn down a dance party,

and I love Peeps.

I have written about my love of the sugary marshmallow candy so many times that seemingly everyone I know is aware that I love Peeps.

I eat Peeps all throughout the year. During the past 12 months I have enjoyed Peep chickens, Snowmen, Gingerbread Men, Birthday Party Sticks, Ghosts, Pumpkins, Hearts and, of course, my legendary Peeps s’mores.

So, I just realized that I should probably become the official spokesperson for Peeps & Company.

I mean, I am already generating at least some revenue for the company, as I have had Peeps sent to me from all across the country from my kind friends and readers.

And I really like dressing up in costumes. I think I would be such a cute little chick. I could even write a jingle for them!

This week alone, I received dozens of messages, informing me about Peeps Milk, Peeps Ice Cream and,

THIS.

This morning, my husband got home from dropping our daughter of at school, carrying this:

A sweet friend had seen it and just had to get it for me. She also told me about a Peeps Sundae at a semi-local ice cream shop.

Let me give you a little bit of Peep insider info:

While I like the taste of Peeps because they are sugary marshmallows, it is all about the texture for me.

The more chewy and stale, the better.

Just this week I finished my very last ghost Peep, which means that I had been keeping it in a container in my pantry since October. It was so perfect.

All of this is to say that I am now going to campaign to be the next Peeps spokesperson, because although I am a mother and a teacher and a writer and a mental health advocate,

I should also, most definitely, be a colorful, dressed up chicken.

Peace out, Peeps.

The post Peeps & Company. appeared first on Mommy Ever After.

I wrote about how on Sunday we did things like Build Bears, eat popovers and lose our son in the mall for five minutes. I felt like a human again.

Well, let’s say that if Sunday was a hill day, yesterday was a valley.

But throughout the day today we climbed, each in our own way.

Since (how I mentioned previously) the other story is not my story to tell, I will tell you that while I woke up this morning not feeling great, I ended up feeling better and better as the day went on.

I danced with my son, all around his bedroom, to Ed Sheeran’s sick Grammy performance of “Thinking Out Loud” (featuring John Mayer, Herbie Hancock and Quest Love). We both felt so happy. I thought to myself, “Have I ever felt this happy before? Certainly I must have been happier than this little moment.” but I really was so filled with joy.

And then the best friend who made me an “aunt” texted to say that she was driving around, and asked if we would like company for an hour.

Yes!

So I got to see my little niecey and watch my son try to hug and kiss her, too shy to ever actually make contact.

And there were some other snapshots of tiny, wonderful moments (tasting an amazing date, fresh from Israel)

and some crappy moments (listening to my daughter cry because the ziplock bag that holds her little plastic My Little Pony dolls broke).

I was glad to just be able to chill with my husband, tonight, with some TV or a podcast. First, I would be able to catch up on my Bravo and E! shows while he went rock climbing.

And then, and yes, I am purposely being vague here, he got home and we held hands, as a team, and he had to face a source of stress in his life, and I made my intention, ahead of time, to not let myself become enraged.

I am an extremely calm person. Extremely. You would think that because I am so emotional and dramatic I would be having outbursts left and right, but I have raised my voice maybe a handful of times in the past decade. I never yell.

But, tonight, I failed at meeting my intention. The rage crept up inside of me, as a mixture of protectiveness and disgust, and I tried to just breathe through it.

Another thing I am is a lazy person. I don’t say this disparagingly. I am not lazy-minded, nor am I a lazy mother, but in general, I would rather be relaxing than running.

But after we dealt with the stressful situation, and I sat there, rage coursing through me, my husband told me that he had just heard a really cool new band on the radio. Saint Motel.

And he was excited about it, so I sat on the couch, under my blanket, the E! channel frozen on my living room TV, as he plugged the song “My Type” into our stereo.

And all of a sudden, almost instantly, I started to shake my head. It was super catchy!

We both sat for a minute, moving to the beat of the song, and then I realized, I wanted to dance.

“Do you want to dance?” I asked my husband.

“Sure!” he said.

We could dance it out.

And so we had a crazy dance party in our living room

and all of a sudden my rage evaporated.

I actually danced it out.

I think that this vignette would make for a better scene in a movie than it does for a blog post, as this story is more of a scattered diary entry than a moving call to action or personal confession,

but I think that’s OK. I give myself permission to share with you the fact that I had two dance parties today,

with my two main men,

and that they made me happy.

And, as so many of you have said, just take life day by day, sometimes even hour by hour, so that is what I am doing. And this hour is an hour to dance party.

So that I shall do.

And, because it needs to be said, I am absolutely no longer Marnie; after this past week’s episode of Girls I am, 100%, no going back, Jessa. She rocked my world this week.

See? This is totally a quirky diary entry.

Dear Diary,

Today I made up a few games with the baby and he ate two poptarts, a cheese omelette and a kale smoothie for breakfast. I also got to see my niece in one of my very favorite shirts that once belonged to my daughter. I got to hear praise about my husband and echo it.

I listened to Ben Stiller on Howard Stern and I found about this new band called Saint Motel.

I had the best date ever. Oh, and by date I mean the pitted kind, from Israel. It was outrageous.

I got angry, but then I danced it out.

XOXO Love Always,

Jessa

The post Dear Diary, Saint Motel and rage no more. appeared first on Mommy Ever After.

But, right now my daughter is downstairs watching a Disney Princess movie as she decompresses after school and I have been trying to think of the right way to articulate what I want to convey with this post, and all that keeps coming into my head are the lyrics from the Broadway version of “Beauty and the Beast”. Human again.

So let me give this a try.

Life around here has been extra tough

tumultuous

trying

tiresome

lately. But, because this is not actually my story to tell, I am not going to do so; You can just take my word for it.

If these past two years were a mountain climb, I can say that we fell down the mountain many times and even when we got back up we were faced with things like unexpected hail storms and serious injuries. But This past week, man. This past week has been the part of the mountain where all of a sudden the incline becomes impossibly steep and trees appear, creating a canopy so dark that it is hard to see the surroundings and there are snakes. Lots of slithery snakes.

But, something amazing happened. I am scared to even type it, for I don’t want to jinx anything (we all know that I am incredibly superstitious) but this week, my lungs were able to adapt to the altitude, my legs were able to manage the tough incline and my eyes could see keenly through the darkness.

This is not to say that I have reached the top of the mountain; Actually, if I think about it, I don’t think I ever want to reach the top of the mountain. My goal is to keep climbing, to keep going up and up and getting stronger along the way, seeing more and more of the world around me as I get so high.

In any case, something kind of miraculous happened for me.

For the first time in a very, very long time, I felt like a human again.

March of 2012-October of 2013 I was a pregnant woman.

November 2013 I started with the severe postpartum depression and since then it has been a journey of battles and falls and sickness and weakness.

I have felt so fragile. Sometimes, I have been incredible fragile emotionally, and other times, I have been so very fragile physically and then, at the worst of times, it was both.

I have felt like this delicate shell of myself, going through the motions of life, which were too hard to begin with, and feeling so much like an other (which, by the way, I do embrace).

But, this week, I felt human again.

I can’t explain the shift, but it is perceptible to those close to me as well.

This week I was able to attend several social functions, despite incredibly stressful things going on in my personal life. I was able to work hard professionally and on my journey towards healing.

I enjoyed my friends and my family and life in a way that I haven’t in years. Literally, years.

I stopped losing weight for the first time since September. As I mentioned in the highlighted post before this, I am incredibly sensitive as to avoid any triggers for my readers. But let’s just say this. I stopped the loss, stabilized, and have gained a couple of pounds. This may seem like a small victory, but after having lost weight every single week consistently since September, this is huge. For me, it is huge.

And I am going to keep going because I have to keep going because I want to keep going.

When I was out for my one of my oldest and very best friend’s 30th birthday party on Saturday night, I got to sit next to two of my other very best friends and enjoy delicious food and laughter as we reminisced about the past. My friends, who have been very worried about me, didn’t worry about me as I sat next to them, that night. It isn’t that I am all better; I am far from it. But I am better. I feel human again.

For the past six months I have had a uniform, mostly because my normal clothing has not fit; Black leggings, a long tank and a sweater. This past week I branched out, wearing clothing in my closet that I have never touched before, trying new things, finding a new personal style. I wore a silk blazer with over the knee boots one night and a one piece, black lace jumpsuit the next.

The shift in me was never so palpable as it was yesterday, Sunday, as my family of four went to the mall.

This may seem like a mundane activity, but for us, it was a huge accomplishment for many reasons.

And not only did we go to the mall, but we went with no agenda. I had no timeline, nothing was off-limits. We let our kids create stuffed animals at Build-A-Bear and my husband and I looked at each other with tears in our eyes.

“Crying happy.”

We went shoe shopping for my daughter, and as both of my kids walked around, I pushed a stroller that contained one Rainbow Bunny and one Superman Bear.

My daughter said, “Mommy, it’s like we have three kids, but I’m the nicest one.”

I was reveling a bit in my new status as a human being, as we were getting ready to pay for my daughter’s shoes.

“Can I ask you a secret question?” My daughter leaned into me. “Is this the place with the popovers?”

“No,” I said. “That is Neiman Marcus, but if you want to go there, we can go there for a special, late lunch.”

I was able to go with the flow, something that has never been easy for me.

And then…

My son got lost.

My son got lost on the top floor of Nordstrom.

My son, who does not know how to effectively communicate, wandered off on a busy Sunday and was nowhere to be found. My husband ran to get security so that they would lockdown the store and I held my daughter’s hand as we searched and asked people if they had seen a little boy with strawberry blonde hair and glasses.

I consulted with all of the salespeople, and I did not feel anxious; I felt numb. I felt nothing.

In my head I thought, “Oh my god, someone kidnapped my son. What is going to happen to him? What are they going to do to him?” But I couldn’t really feel anything. I think that if I had felt, I would have crumbled, fallen off of the mountain to the very bottom.

I might not have survived.

After the scariest five minutes of our lives, an associate brought my son, his face formed into the saddest pout, into my arms.

I lost my son and was lucky enough to find him. And when my daughter asked if we could still go out for popovers, my husband and I both said that we could. We were shaken, obviously, but we could still function. We could keep going. We could keep living. We were human.

And so, the four of us sat down for our first meal out of 2015 (truly) and we toasted to our little family…over little mugs of chicken consomme.

And we toasted to the fact that it was the 9th anniversary of our first date.

And this little boy was his normal, happy self.

I had this feeling of pride as we left the mall yesterday, 4 hours after we had arrived, because we had done something that we hadn’t been able to do in years; We went out, without a plan, and actually enjoyed it.

Needless to say, I gave my kids extra hugs before bed last night, but I think that the crazy day brought my husband and I closer and that felt good.

This whole idea of being “human again” wasn’t something that I was able to articulate at the time, but today, when I thought about things, I realized that this transformation had occurred, subtly, but profoundly.

Today, I took care of my son, without childcare help, which, again, may seem like nothing to most people, but for me, it was an accomplishment. And, it was a joy.

So now, a day later, I feel a bit stronger. I feel like I have found my voice, with which I can advocate for myself. And I just watched my two kids dance to “Loving Cup” as my husband played the Exile on Mainstreet album through the speakers, filling the house.

Songs swirling in my head, emotions still being teased apart and understood, but all I know is that for the first time that I can remember, I feel human again.

And to feel human again is the greatest feeling,

as now I can keep climbing up my mountain, stronger, more skilled, and with a gratitude and an appreciation for the small things–

an unexpected field of wildflowers,

a break from the sun on a cloudy day,

a family sing-along–

and a-climbing I shall continue to go.

The post Human again. appeared first on Mommy Ever After.

I love this, in that I believe we should all celebrate life when we can, cherishing every drop of it.

But, I also worry about this, as I know that today there are many people who are not happy, not even close, and I don’t want these people to feel (perhaps further) marginalized.

On March 8th, prompted by an emotional local news story and other, smaller issues that were more close to home, I wrote a post on my personal Facebook that has been shared since on several pages.

I am glad that there is light shining out from the terrible cracks that recent tragedies have caused in my home community. Awareness is being raised for mental illness, and issues that are typically talked about in a whisper are being presented openly.

A common refrain that I hear is that this person or that person “wasn’t sad or depressed at all” before it was too late to save them. I realize that this is said as a warning, trying to caution parents and people that “this could happen to anyone”. But, I implore you to read, again, what I wrote above. Someone can be smiling, giggly, vivacious, social…

and still be severely depressed. There is no “face of depression”. So try to be good to people. Try to look at them a little more deeply and not just at how they look in an Instagram post or what their Facebook status says about doing really something cool/being somewhere really great/feeling so ecstatic.

Obviously, mental illness is a disease of deceit, even fooling those who are ill themselves, so it is impossible for you or anyone to be able to “catch” every case of something being off. I do, however, ask that you treat those who are suffering with sympathy and not with scorn or stigmas.

Okay. I can climb off my soapbox now and talk about being happy.

For me, it is easier some days than others. I am happy throughout the day, at times, every single day; for that I am so grateful. But am I happy all day every day? No. But, who is?

I will share with you what my #happiness is today:

I mentioned recently that our little boy is going through somewhat of a mama phase, but really, it’s separation anxiety in general, which is totally age appropriate.

This morning, he woke up calling out for his “Dada”. I got up to get him, and when I turned on his light and reached into grab him from the crib, he flung his body down, crying. “Dada! Dada!” he cried. He would not let me hold him. And so I had to finally bargain with him.

“If you let me pick you up so that I can change your diaper, I will bring you into bed to be with Dada, ok?”

And so he came to me and I made good on my promise.

My son chanted all the way down the hall to our bedroom, as I carried him, saying “Dada! Dada! Dada!” and when I put him on the bed, he did not jump on his dad as I would have expected with the enthusiasm he had been showing;

Instead, he quietly crawled over to him, curled up into the crevasse that his shoulders created in his back, put his thumb in his mouth and just snuggled into his dad.

And in that moment, while my husband was still half asleep (and asking me about how my stand up comedy show in Orlando went), I felt so much happiness. I felt so happy to have these two boys in my life, two out of the three greatest that I know. And I felt happy for my son, as he has the best father, who always puts him first and loves him warmly and affectionately. And, most of all, I felt happy for my guy, as he deserves this kind of unconditional love from my son, and from all of us, which he has. He is a truly good human being. His happiness is my happiness. He deserves nothing less.

Happy #InternationalDayofHappiness

Even if it is a small thing, like hearing a song on the radio that you like, or making a green light, I hope that today brings you, at the very least, a moment of happiness.

And, if not, that’s OK, too.

Because I know, with all of my heart, that you will find that happiness again.

#IAmLivingProof

[*Author’s Note: This post was originally published using the title and term “International Happiness Day”, which I have since corrected to “International Day of Happiness”. But don’t waste your time trying to edit my post; go find your happiness.]

The post International Day of Happiness appeared first on Mommy Ever After.

My love for my son is no less fierce or intense. But yes, it is different. Part of this is clearly because of their 3.5 year age gap. For example, communication: My daughter has a stunning vocabulary for her age and a wisdom that is hard to put into words. My son is just learning to speak. It is easier for me to relate to my daughter in many ways, because she can tell me how she is feeling and what she wants and she will sit down with me, whereas my son uses non-verbal communication, his dozen words and a lot of running.

But, as I said, my love for him is unquantifiable. Just this morning the four of us were up early and all cuddled on the couch in the basement, listening to my son’s new favorite song (and let me tell you, he makes it known) and I kind of nuzzled up to his head and inhaled him, like people do with newborn babies. He smells delicious. I can’t describe it, but I got so lost in that smell, I could have stayed there forever.

But if we are being really, truly honest, which I always am, I think that the part of my relationship that mixes me up a bit is the fact that he was born and I subsequently lost my mind. So my feelings about our introduction are a combination of bliss, gratitude, joy, terror, sadness, pain, guilt and some PTSD. Once my mental health started to improve and I was left alone, again, to take care of my son, I thought, “How am I going to do this? How will we work?”

My little guy has surprised me from day 1 of his existence in my womb, and hasn’t stopped. He cracks me up, for in the span of 3 minutes, he will steal my kale smoothie, switch the Living Room TV to a setting that I can’t figure out how to fix, take apart my bathroom vanity, while marching around, bag of pretzels in one hand and blowdryer in the other. (This is what he did after lunch today.) He just tried to race his Matchbox cars over my computer keyboard. He is just different than I am. I am lazy. I like to play chill games. He likes to go go go go go go go go go go.

But something hit me today, as I got dressed, and I was inspired to journal it, as he deserves it. I wanted to write about him. My closet happens to be in my son’s bedroom, so as I picked out my outfit, I sat him on his glider and talked to him. “I’m just putting on my shirt now! What do you think?” And I smiled at him as broadly as I could and he smiled back, with his entire face. I ran to the bathroom that is across the hall from his bedroom and waved to him. He continued to beam.

“We are doing this,” I thought.

This, this period of time right now, is an odd one; This is not what I expected from my life, and I feel the entire spectrum of emotions when I think about it, ranging from extreme sadness to pure happiness. This morning, on that couch, my head in his hair, I was as blissful as anyone could be.

And then there are other times, when I am trying to figure out my path forward, and I get down.

But I realized today that I have this constant reminder with me; My little strength symbol.

I want to be happy, not just for myself (in fact, I put myself last, but that’s a whole different story), but for him.

So right now I am sitting on the floor of the basement, perched on his “Anywhere Chair”, typing, as he runs around, playing trains, sliding down the rollercoaster, handing me a plastic croissant and saying, “Apple, mama?” as he shoves it into my mouth, climbing on the furniture and continuing to mess with yet another TV. I am now listening to the sound of my home phone dialing.

But we’re doing this.

And even though I just had to get up from my chair on the floor (despite my inherent laziness) to hang up the phone because he actually did just call someone, we are doing this.

And so I am going to go now. Not just because he is dialing more numbers, but because I want to give him my time. I want to play with him, cooking together in his fake grill. I want to help him to do a puzzle. I want to smell his head.

So, it may not have been the easiest path,

and every single day still has it’s challenges,

but I get to smell a heavenly head, and see a huge smile that has all but 2 teeth filled in, and laugh at the little drop of milk that gets caught in the cleft of his chin and live in a constant state of surprise and amazement and awe.

And I get to continue to learn, from my baby, how to be strong.

(Our respective perches. At least for this second.)

Update: My mom just called.

“What’s up?” I asked.

“Nothing. You called me? I got a missed call from your home phone.”

My son freakin’ called my mom.

“His first call to Bubbie!” she exclaimed, so excited.

“He is delicious.”

And I have to agree.

The post We are doing this appeared first on Mommy Ever After.

But I am also lucky enough to have an actual sister; She has appeared many times on here throughout the years, and although we don’t get to see each other as often as we would like, my kids adore her.

My sister and I are completely different. She is a stong, driven athlete and fiercely independent. She is an award winning journalist and her resume is extremely impressive. She is a vegetarian, a runner and she does not like to talk about her feelings.

But, the thing is, there are these things–these sister things–that outweigh all of the differences.

For there is no one else on this earth with whom I can discuss TV shows and characters and storylines like I can with my sister.

(Side note: As I am typing this, she just asked me if I had watched a certain reality TV show on Bravo.)

We have inside jokes that no one else would understand, and when we sing together, our voices resonate in perfect harmony. That is because we are sisters.

There are just some sister things. I can’t explain them. They just are.

 Last evening I got a song stuck in my head, but really, it was just about a measure of a song, one to which I knew not a single lyric, but I felt like I had heard it recently and knew that the only person who could  possibly help me was my sister. So I called her and said, “I have this song in my head and I have no idea who sings it but I think it is from a TV show or a movie and it goes something like this.” And sang a few “Dun dun dun dun dun dun dun dun”s to her.

“It’s ‘Take Me to Church’ by Hozier,” she said, instantly.

There was not a second of hesitation. I ran to my computer and to YouTube and sure enough, she was spot on.

She couldn’t tell me where I had heard it recently, and then it hit me: It was from Tom Schwartz’s Instagram.

Fitting that this mystery song came from the social media feed of a Bravo network celebrity, or “Bravolebrity”, as they say.

But I don’t take it for granted, the sister thing, because as different as we may be, we also share something that I do not share with anyone else.

We look alike. Our voices are hard to tell apart on the phone. She was the first person I told when I found out I was pregnant with my son and she was the first person to take my daughter for a pedicure just this past weekend.

She knows things that no one else will ever know.

I may not always understand my sister, as we speak different life languages, but will always get each others’ melodies.

I always love her. I love her an incredible amount. And I know that the feeling is mutual.

I will always support her.

I will always be her number one fan.

And she will always be the person I call when I can’t figure out a song, when I can only come up with three notes.

Because she can figure it out for me.

Because it’s a sister thing.

The post Sister things. appeared first on Mommy Ever After.

So today, when a beloved babysitter came to spend time with the kids, they were overjoyed. She took them to the park to play and on a trek to find an open ice cream shop (which she did. Score!).

My kids love their babysitters; I can’t even call them “babysitters”, because, as I said, they are more like dear friends or aunts. They are family. In any case, as much as my kids adore their caregivers, my son is in a “mama” phase, so he freaks out whenever he sees me and the babysitter in the same room.

So, when I have childcare help, which is a crucial part of my getting well plan, I have to make myself scarce. And, to be honest, quite often I will have a babysitter here so that my kids can engage in fun, lively activities requiring physical energy that I do not have. I will be home, off of my feet, while my kids play hide and seek, or trek up and down three staircases from the basement to the third floor and back, or run around the park, etc.

(Author’s note: This was supposed to be a happy, funny post. I actually started to write it yesterday, but now I feel sad and guilty. This is the hardest part of my treatment plan. Everything I have, I give to my kids. But sometimes, that still isn’t enough.

5 minutes later, Editor’s note: now that I am in this stage of the publishing process, I feel better. Happy, again. I won’t judge you if you don’t judge me.)

In any case, yesterday, while the kids were out getting ice cream and swinging at the park, I used the opportunity to work in the kitchen. I prepped our family’s dinner and did some cooking and was all set to make myself a smoothie for my afternoon snack, when I heard the front door open.

I expected that they would come in the house and head straight down to the basement to play, but when I heard them approaching the kitchen, there was nothing I could do but duck. It was like a movie. I just ducked and hid, right by the sink where I had been chopping and stirring.

The babysitter came in and sat at the kitchen table with the baby, feeding him the rest of his ice cream; BUT, her back was to me, so she had no idea that I was there, curled up, and, fortunately, she was inadvertently blocking me from the baby’s view. I stayed crouched down for a few minutes until my daughter came into the room and I managed to silently flag her down. She signaled to the babysitter and we all laughed, noiselessly. Then, as quietly as I could, I moved the trash can and recycling bin in front of me, so that I was further blocked from the baby’s sight. The babysitter fed my hungry boy, between giggles and my daughter, that little pip, said, “Oh, there is a problem here behind the trash can. I think some glass broke so I am just going to guard it so that no one gets hurt.”

She moved a few other things over to block me, saying, “Here. I am putting a stool in front of this mess. What an accident!”

(She also served as my photographer, grabbing my phone from the counter and snapping some shots to document this crazy, silly moment.)

Ten minutes later, the baby finally finished his Cookies and Cream and I was able to unwind my body out of the pretzel in which I had been contorted.

So, basically, what I am saying is that these gymnasts and yogis and circus performers may be incredibly skilled in the art of flexibility, strength and contortion,

but,

don’t count us moms out;

Because if anyone knows how to maneuver swiftly across the perimeter of a sleeping baby’s nursery without making a sound,

or hide behind the smallest of items to avoid being spotted,

or balance precariously so that the floor does not creak to give her presence away,

it is a mom.

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Gay Talese: “I see so many possibilities. I see things from so many conflicting point of views. I am not judgmental, which is one of the terrible things about me. I am not judgmental.”

Lea Thau: “This is the single thing that I love the most about your work, and this is what I try to do in my work and it is this profound sympathy you have for these perfectly flawed human beings that you profile. And I think that maybe this is the biggest difference between being a journalist and a storyteller is that a journalist or a reporter always seems to want to poke holes and punch holes in what people and show the inconsistencies, and also, you are not denying peoples’ flaws you’re not making them into these idealized versions of themselves, but there is a profound sympathy for the ways in which they are a flawed human being and there is in someways a desire to make them as whole, as understandable, as likeable as possible and I love that about what you do.”

There are times, believe it or not, when I am listening to a podcast other than Serial (that is also not even a podcast about Serial) and I am so moved by the words that I feel compelled to sit and transcribe them–to play them over and over again as I type feverishly with my headphones on my ears–because they give me pause, in a good way, and make me feel like a part of something.

-From KCRW’s “Strangers”, in the episode entitled, “Gay Talese: Committed Voyeur”, from May 9, 2013.

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Dad and girl doing puzzles;

This, our happy life.

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