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

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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.

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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

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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.

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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.

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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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We shared a chocolate covered m&m pretzel and she told me about her day.

And then we got on the subject of “describing” things. At first she was a bit confused by the whole concept, so I said, “Here, let me describe this pillow in three words: It is square, it is fuchsia and it has flowers on it.”

“Mom, those are leaves,” she corrected me.

I asked her to describe me in three words, but said that it couldn’t be about anything physical, that she could see.

She said:

Sweet

Smart

Takes good care of me

I was very touched.

We went through many important people in our lives, as she described them using three adjectives and she was on the nose for the most part, except for the fact that one of the descriptions of my mother was, “She helps Zaydie make us pancakes.”

[Note: I literally could not even type that without laughing]

My mom is not a cook.

In any case, it was a really sweet exercise and one that I hope helps her to be a more conscious and reflective human being.

And then we got on the subject of the movies, which led us to a discussion on the Muppets.

So I taught her about Kermit the Frog and Miss Piggie and did horrible impersonations of both–

my husband had joined us by this point and was much better–

and then I told her something that I thought was true but was an error.

I told her that there are these characters called Muppet Babies and they only come to life when people are not around, like with Doc McStuffins, and that when the grown-up speaks it sounds like, “Wah wah wah wah wah wah”.

Only one of those facts proved to be true.

The Muppet Babies live in a nursery and are taken care of by a talking Nanny who is fully aware of their presence.

But she thought the idea of the “Wah”-ing adult was very funny (as did the many of the fans of Charlie Brown, where that actually happens, I assume).

“Oh!” She said. “So if I wanted to say, “I really like this Buddha, I would actually say ‘Wah Wah Wah Wah Wah Woo Wah’, right?”

And all of the above is to make one simple point:

My kid is weird, in a most fantastic way, and she totally gets it from me.

Wah Wah.

(Translate that and you get a pretzel!)

P.S. I really like the Muppet Babies theme song. See? I’m weird.

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It will be my daughter’s fourth picture day at her Pre-School and it is always an exciting day for the kids and their parents.

In the past, we have always made sure to pick out special outfits with care.

Last night, before bed, my daughter and I made a plan to pick out a special outfit this morning for her picture day.

“I think I want a tank top with a long-sleeved shirt underneath.” I remember her saying, but I did not think much of it.

This morning, I woke up to the sound of the baby, but my daughter had already been up for awhile.

When I peeked in her room, I saw that she had already gotten dressed.

She was wearing purple leggings and a hot pink and black striped tank top with a studded peace sign–with a coral-pink long-sleeved shirt underneath.

And hair chalk. Hot pink chair chalk.

At first, I subtly hinted at the fact that we would obviously be changing for picture day, as I changed her brother and said that we would go down for breakfast.

“But mom,” she said. “I don’t want to get anything on my Picture Day outfit.”

I opened my mouth to protest and then I stopped.

This is what she wanted to wear to express herself. This is the outfit that makes her feel good today, and she did it all by herself.

I texted my mommy bestie, whose son is also having his picture taken today, and I asked her, “What makes me a better mom?” But I already knew the answer.

If my girl has the confidence to rock pink hair chalk to school, 1 month shy of being 5 years old, then more power to her.

So I told her that we would be very careful with her special outfit and I assured her that I would make sure to style her hair so that the pink was clearly visible.

“I think I look perfect,” she said; her exact words. And I could cry while typing this, as I am so proud of the person that she is becoming.

I asked if I could take her picture for my blog, and she is now an expert on how to pose for Mommy, Ever After, as opposed to regular photos, as she knows that I don’t show her face on my site.

So here she is. This is picture day.

And my kid? She chose a peace sign. I could not be more proud.

Best picture day ever.

Featured image via

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