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 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.

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.

Dad and girl doing puzzles;

This, our happy life.

The post “Finally”: A Haiku appeared first on Mommy Ever After.

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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First, happy. March 4th is my girl J’s birthday, and yesterday she celebrated the big 3-0.

I stayed up until midnight so I could make sure to wish her a “Happy Day” the moment that it became March 4th. That’s the very least I could do, as this girl deserves so much.

The most special part of J’s birthday, for me, was the outpouring of love that I got to see her receive. She did not just receive the perfunctory “HBD”; People took time to write long and heartfelt notes about what a good human being she is; How she is more giving and loving and positive and warm than anyone else in the world. I am her #1 fan.

Yesterday was also a sad day for my family. It was the 8 year anniversary of when we lost my beloved Uncle. My daughter is named for him, and my son is like a mini version of him; but we still miss him very much.

I was trying to think of how to honor him, yesterday.

My daughter had a late opening at school, so I had to juggle the baby’s nap and driving her in. I let them both get into my bed to snuggle up and at one point I had my son, his head on my shoulder, sleeping soundly on my left side and my daughter, cuddled up on to me, silently, on my right, and I thought, “This is it. This is how I honor him.”

When I picked her up from school at the end of the day, I looked behind me and saw this:

We honor him with love.

On March 4th every year, I have the unique opportunity to mourn the past and celebrate the future.

But from now on, instead of highs and lows, I will just honor the day with love,

for that is what my J

and my Uncle

and our family members (those by blood and those by choice)

deserve.

And nothing less.

The post March Forth, With Love. appeared first on Mommy Ever After.

I am also making much more of an effort to meet my basic health and human needs.

And as great as that is, and though my quality of life has improved over the last few weeks, that comes with a catch.

My daughter turns 5 next month and as my very close friend said today, “She is a very mature 5″ which is true; almost an understatement. She is wise and empathetic and intuitive; but that also means that she can be both cunning and cutting.
She is now at a point in her language where is able to identify the adjectives that represent the tone in which one is speaking.

For example, if I were to say something like, “Yes, that would be awesome if the baby took the ice cream and smeared it all over the kitchen floor,” she would reply with, “Mom, your just being sarcastic.”

She gets nuance and emotion. And she can use that to her advantage in mostly positive ways, but goodness does it make it hard sometimes. This weekend I had to teach her what “manipulative” meant.

She had taken to saying things like, “I am going to tell you something that I want to do, and if you don’t let me do it I am just going to tell you now that I will be sad forever and I will not be able to stop crying for three months.”

I called her out on this, turning the tables with examples, and we have now changed the language to, “Mom, I would really like to do something. If you say no, I may be disappointed but it’s ok.”

But today, she really hit me where it hurts.

She found that guilt soft spot,

the place in all of us where it is tender and sensitive and fragile,

and she gave it a nice wallop.

My daughter was very disappointed when I sent our babysitter home a little early so that she could avoid driving into the city in bad weather. But instead of using our new phrase, she cried hysterically and said that she was so sad that she could not play with her best friend (our sitter is virtually a part of our family, but come on) and then said, “You don’t even play with me mom. You just watch.”

“What are you talking about? Watch what?” I asked.

“You just sit with us and watch “Vanderpump Rules“.

“That is not true and that is not nice. I play with you and sing songs with you and dress up with you and beanboozle and show you music videos. And FYI, Vanderpump Rules is only on once a week, anyway.”

But I really started to feel guilty; because part of what she said is right. I do not run around like our two sitters do. I do often not engage in elaborate games that involve running up and down the stairs of all four floors of our house, like she gets to do when her godparents or our friends visit.

And that is not because I don’t care and it is not because I am lazy.

It is because I am tired.

 I am not just “oh it’s hard being a mom” tired, but I am tired because my body is still healing physically

and working very hard to get back to a place of strength and wellness.

My kids and I played in my daughter’s room this afternoon; we did low-key playtime, where I let him open and close drawers and my daughter read books to me and then I took out her special ponies to play with.

And then I asked her for five minutes to sit quietly. I would stay in the room with her. I would watch and enjoy; I just needed five minutes of time when I did not have to be “on”.

And she went and socked me in the gut, yet again. “I am so lonely I am just going to wait downstairs until daddy gets home.” (which made no sense, because I was offering to sit with her, and her proposed plan would leave her downstairs and alone, but whatever).

I called my husband as he drove home from work.

“She says I don’t play with her. I feel like a bad mom,” I confessed.

And he talked me down. He reminded me of our special, unforgettable day just one week ago.

“I guess I am good at nurturing,” I admitted.

“You do so much,” he said.

And, because I am very tired…

BREAK.

***Literally 4 hours later***

I could not make this up if I tried.

I typed those words above: And, because I am very tired

and I fell asleep.

Sound asleep.

At 6pm I fell asleep. I napped until 7:30 when my daughter cried from her room that she heard the sound of a big bang.

So, I guess I need not say anymore; I think that the above speaks for itself.

To be honest, 4 hours (a chicken pot pie and 3 episodes of House of Cards later), I don’t remember how I was going to finish that sentence.

And, because I am very tired–

you can fill in the blank; I am sure you can.

Here. I’ll go first: And, because I am very tired, I am more sensitive than usual, so probably harder on myself than I should be, as sleep impacts my mood profoundly; and because I am so very tired I fell asleep at 6pm while typing a blog post.

There you have it. A reminder, perhaps another little nudge from my angels, to take care of myself;

that being a good mom doesn’t mean running or jumping or chasing; it means loving with all of your heart and soul.

And that I do.

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And it’s funny, because some days that seemed really bad ended up turning out ok;

Then, on other days that started out so joyful, storm clouds moved in and things fell apart.

This week I learned that I was capable of strength that I did not know I had; I often see myself as so fragile, but I am not.

This week I learned that there are some people in our lives who are always going to disappoint us.

This week I learned that my people step up to the plate in ways I could never have imagined; I received help from people 16 months-85 years old; My tribe was there for us beyond belief and my new community has turned out to be so much more incredible than I could have ever imagined. #teamMEA.

Sundays are always hard. I think that’s a pretty universal thing–the Sunday Night Blues, we call them–

but today is a bit harder than other Sundays, as I have a big week ahead.

I have been running a very long marathon and this week I find out if I am able to cross the finish line.

Or not.

Today I saw a quote by C.S. Lewis on the Facebook Page of Italia Gandolfo of Gandolfo Helin & Fountain Literary Management, the agency by whom I am represented. I know that as a writer and person, C.S. Lewis is many things, but instead of getting involved in anything religious or political, I will remember him as the author of The Chronicles of Narnia, books I read in elementary school, and that remind me to keep believing in the fantastic.

Because in times like this week, you can do all that you can, you can try your best, you can plan, you can work as hard as possible, you can run that marathon with all of your heart, but sometimes, more than anything, what you need is faith; just the ability to believe that success is possible.

And so I choose to believe that this past week brought me closer to my people; it has shown me what I am made of and made me feel more grateful than ever for the love that is in my life.

And as far as next week…I am not sure how it is going to go,

but I believe, with all of my heart

that there are better things ahead.

The post to believe appeared first on Mommy Ever After.

This morning, my husband had brunch with the members of his “eating club”, as a farewell to the current Four Seasons breakfast before the hotel changes it’s location. He, my dad, my brousins, my dad’s best friend since high school and his sons have formed “The E-Street Supper Club” and do Four Seasons brunches, a yearly trip to Peter Luger’s in New York and steak feasts at the Capital Grille. It’s a very special ritual with a group of very special men.

Well, today we are two days shy of it being exactly two years since the cold winter morning when my husband went to the Four Seasons brunch with his guys, leaving me alone to secretly take a pregnancy test.

When he walked in the door from brunch that day, my daughter handed him a gift box and inside of it was a test with two clear lines. Just like that, we were going to have another baby. I will never forget that moment or that day. My husband and I were both shocked and excited and I swear that my belly popped out by that evening.

This morning, as you can imagine, I was a bit nostalgic; wistful; as I won’t ever get a chance to live that scene, or anything like it, ever again.

But,

I had something even better.

I was sitting on the Living Room couch, snuggling with both kids, when my son spotted my husband’s face through the glass window in our front door.

“Dada!” he squealed with excitement,

and he took off running.

So yes, things have changed, and the past will not be repeated, but oh my, the present,

it is so special, and for these moments I am so blessed.

Instead of two lines, I have two amazing children.

A pee stick ain’t got nothing on this.

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