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.

I was just looking up the video that I made chronicling my past year in music, and do you know how YouTube shows you a list of videos down the right sidebar of the screen suggesting music that you may like, based on what you are watching currently? Well, I cannot imagine why, but if you are watching my Fox & the Hounds review, the top video that YouTube recommends for you is an obscure video of Brett Dennen singing “Out of My Head” in what appears to be a little guitar shop.

And the reason why I am sharing this, besides the fact that he is my favorite musical artist and he gives me warm and fuzzy feelings inside, is because I find Brett Dennen to be absolutely charming. He is loveable. And I think you can see that here.

And I cherish every charming moment I can;

like this morning when my daughter traded videos with a new yet old friend of mine, involving doggie dance parties, mermaid costumes and “The Book With No Pictures” recitations;

or when we were giving Lola attention and my girl ran upstairs, changed and came down in a pink dress (the color of Lola’s bow) and dog ears;

or, how my son put his head up to mine (his version of a kiss) and said, “Mama”;

or how my daughter said, “Daddy, can you set up my wifi connection?” and we said “Do you know what that means?” and she said, “No. What does it mean?”;

Just a few happy moments that I can gather up into one little, metaphorical charm to place in my pocket and keep with me today.

Give your love, give your love, give your love now.

Any you get it back and you get it back

Featured Image captured by Lindsay Docherty Photography in 2014

The post Charming. appeared first on Mommy Ever After.

Today, I was fortunate enough to get one of those chances. I was connected with Jill Rosen, a personal stylist for J.Hilburn, a custom clothier for men, and I spent the hour that she was here scurrying around my house with excitement. Literally.

I am calling Jill’s custom made clothing service the perfect Valentine’s Day gift for “Him” (whether it is a romantic partner, a dear friend, a parent, a sibling, the list is endless, really) because that is the word that my husband used himself; He described his experience today with Jill as “perfect”. It is no secret that I love love, and I particularly love making my husband feel happy and special.

So let me give you a little bit of company info before I talk about our experience.

In reading about J.Hilburn’s founders, Veeral Rathod and Hil Davis, they are quoted as saying,

“If you had told us that one day we would start a men’s clothing company, we would have flat-out called you crazy. Back then, we were a couple of Wall Street guys with a passion for custom-made dress shirts and for the way we felt wearing great-fitting clothes. We studied the men’s luxury market and saw that nobody was delivering quality custom clothing and personal service at a price that didn’t break the bank. So we set our vision, and J.Hilburn was born. We now offer exclusive Italian shirting and trouser fabrics, luxury performance knits, and a top-shelf accessories line that marries the best in handmade designs and European quality.”

That all sounds great, right? But let me tell you how it really works.

Jill came to my house this morning with a little rolling suitcase filled with measuring apparatuses, a book of fabric swatches, a tablet and a sense of kind enthusiasm that was overflowing so that it impossible not to feel and mimic her excitement.

Our goal was to create a custom made shirt for my husband, who loves clothing, style and looking good.

  When Jill told me that she would help us to create a shirt that was custom made for K, I thought that sounded really cool; I had no idea exactly how specifically he was able to customize his shirt, but in a half hour we were able to make something that was his absolute ideal (down to the addition of two buttons at the top of the neck, something she had never seen done before!)

The experience didn’t just “measure up” (ha!), it far exceeded our expectations.

First Jill chatted with K a bit about his lifestyle, preferences and taste.

She asked basic questions, like his work wardrobe v. what he wears on the weekends,

and then questions so specific that they blew my mind, like whether or not he liked his watch to be able to peak out from under his shirt when shaking hands with someone.

(By the way, she took note that K wears his watch on his left hand, which means that in custom making the shirt, the manufacturers will make that cuff ever so slightly larger to accommodate the tiny bit of extra “bulk”.)

In all, the measuring process takes about 20 minutes, where she gets all of the numbers she need to ensure that the shirt is an absolutely perfect fit.

Today, this was done in our living room, as our kids played around us (and my daughter got to help a bit) but besides coming to homes, Jill also goes to places of work, so that a man never has to step out of his office to get custom fitted. And once the measurements are done (assuming his size stays the same) he never has to be measured again; he can simply go onto his J.Hilburn account with Jill and order anything from shirts to suits to sport coats to sweaters and more.

I do not wish to embarrass him by saying this, but today’s experience made my husband feel kind of like a model; and kind of like a baller.

Except,

and this is the big except,

these finely crafted garments are no more expensive than what you would buy at a nice department store.

When the garment is finished being made, Jill then has it professionally steamed and hand delivers it to either the home or office.

This is a luxury service for a “normal person’s” cost.

Today we ultimately decided on the above fabric, in a European slim fit cut with no pocket, double buttons and no pleat down the back. My husband was able to choose every single detail, and we had a hard time narrowing down the final fabric from her book of hundreds.

Because he was so torn, Jill later sent him a personal style-board so that he can remember what other fabrics and pieces he was interested in for his next purchase. And next time, as I said, he can just call her or go to her website and place the order, no measuring required.

So, you may now ask, what is in it for you?

Jill is offering a $25.00 gift certificate for you, Mommy, Ever After readers, off of the price of your first shirt (which I maintain is the absolute perfect Valentine’s Day gift for your “him”).

This is how it works: You contact Jill and she will either send your guy a gift card to present on Valentine’s Day or she can create a beautiful email that says something like, “Your adoring wife Becca wanted you to have a custom made shirt, so you can feel like the gorgeous man you are. Happy Valentine’s Day!” or “I am tired of looking at your old, ratty shirts, I am having one custom made for you. A nice lady will be coming to your office. Don’t be rude. Happy Vday.” Whatever you want! The point is, this is the ideal gift, as you can present your special someone with the promise of a custom made shirt and then he can arrange his fitting/fabric choosing at a time that works for him, at home, at the office, at the gym, or wherever is most convenient. With the fabrics that my husband was looking at today, the retail price of a shirt would be $139, so with your gift card from us, your custom made shirt would be $114. That is pretty darn amazing; Just like him!

And my husband may be bold in his fabric choices, but she has swatches that range from the most conservative to the most wild (I saw a bright orange gingham today!) so he is bound to find his perfect match; Just like you!

This is the kind of gift that really shows that you care.

It is the kind of gift that will make a man feel like a million bucks (for a fraction of the cost of other handmade clothing).

It is the kind of gift that says, “I adore you, and I want you to feel special.”

I say this sincerely, with all of my heart, I do not think my husband will be buying a shirt, suit or sport coat from a department store ever again.

Happy Valentine’s Day, men,

from J.Hilburn, Jill Rosen,

and of course, your lover-of-love,

MEA.

Mommy, Ever After is proudly partnering with Jill Rosen of J.Hilburn; All reviews, ideas and opinions are, as always, 100% my own.

The post The Perfect Valentine for Him: A custom made shirt from J.Hilburn appeared first on Mommy Ever After.

I have tremendous guilt;

I would describe this feeling of guilt a a combination of pressure that I put on myself and a feeling of failure.

I have a lot going on in my personal life. I am helping to build a most awesome community. I am trying desperately to find time to blog, and get my book published. And, then, there’s the most important thing: I am trying to be a good wife, mother and human. And sometimes I don’t feel like there are enough hours in the day. I have never felt this way before. I honestly believe it is because I have never cared about anything (anything not personal, that is) as much as I care about Mommy, Ever After. I want it to succeed. It is hard for me to admit that, because that makes me vulnerable (like I could potentially fail and I have never failed at anything before, nor have I ever really invested in myself like this) but I want to be honest. That was my pledge since day one, and so I am keeping it.

I stay up late at night, a lot of nights, making sure that I have enough content to publish, when I know I will have a day filled with doctor visits when I wake.

I try to answer every email, every comment, because I want to, because I love this.

And then, here is where the guilt really sets in,

I try to be a really good mom.

Right now I stay at home with my son and from 3pm on I am home with my daughter. I try to plan fun things for them, have dance parties and make special adventures (I have been trying for 20 minutes to find the link to the story of when I took my daughter to the ice cream shop a month or two ago, and I give up!).

I try to make sure they are well fed, happy, safe and warm (in every sense of the word).

And,

and…this is the thing that you are really never supposed to say (but I am going to say it, OK?) I think that I have suffered from all of this pressure. I am so busy responding to emails and writing my blog and getting my kids the right snack (no not the Doc McStuffins gummies, the Frozen gummies) that I don’t often have the time to check in with my own needs. I do not mean that I don’t have time to watch a movie or read a book; I mean that I am having a hard time being able to make my basic needs. Obviously my health has suffered.

Today, my mom came over to help me with the baby as I am still feeling unwell, and I talked to her about how I feel so much better than last year in many ways, but in other ways I am actually worse off.

I am just catching up on this past week’s episode of Grey’s Anatomy (yes, I still watch it, thank you, much) and the main medical drama is centered around a woman who drives off of a bridge with her children in the car. Many people (doctors included) are judging her, her husband is incredulous and no one can understand.

But I was very moved by the husband’s speech to the doctor, when she asked if his wife was under stress. He started off by saying “no” but then went on to list all of the things that she has on her plate, all of the carpools she has to drive and soccer games she has to go to and how tired she must be.

And, as I watched, I was thinking, “I get it.”

I do not want to drive off of a bridge, but sometimes it is overwhelming how much we are supposed to hold with only two hands.

Ultimately, the storyline on Grey’s ended up being that the mother had a brain tumor, so she did not have any control of her decision or impulse to drive off of the bridge, but I think that is irrelevant (well, not totally, but somewhat) because we as mothers are constantly beating ourselves up for the things that we haven’t done. The note that forgot to include in the lunch box. The laundry that still has not been put away.

The blog post that doesn’t get posted until 10pm.

And so, I guess the first step in recovery is admitting that I have a problem.

I am Rebecca and I have a problem with guilt.

I am going to work hard to rid myself of the pressure, for my own health and the happiness of those around me.

But, in the meantime, thank you for your support; THIS right here…that is what makes it worth it. So, thank you. Thank you, thank you, thank you.

Now I am off to make myself a proper protein shake and drink it in front of Vanderpump Rules because I deserve it.

And I will enjoy it.

Or, I will try my very, very best.

The post Guilt. appeared first on Mommy Ever After.

It is now officially 12:00am on January 19 and I just whispered “Happy Birthday” to you, as I watch you sleep beside me.

(I realize that I am currently breaking our electronics curfew, but I am hopeful to earn back my privileges with copious amounts of cake.)

Also, I literally just spent 10 minutes trying to figure out how much of your life we have now spent together. I still can’t figure out how to do it. It is much easier to figure it out with me; We started dating when I was 20 and I am about to turn 30, so that means that I have spent 1/3 of my life with you. But you have lived 3 1/3 years longer than I have, so I guess it’s some fraction slightly smaller (or actually the denominator would be a larger number, right?). I just really hurt my brain. And I still don’t have the answer.

Anyhow,

that was quite the silly way to start a post that is bound to be sentimental; How could it not be? What we have endured since your last birthday has been staggering. Since your last birthday we have had some of the worst times of our entire lives. We hit the lowest lows, as individuals and as a couple. But today, on your birthday, I can say that we are better than we have ever ever been before. Because we finally figured it out; the secret has been this: You understand me now, and have let me be more me, I understand you, and have let you be more you, and we have found a new definition for “us”.

But let us move on to you. When we got engaged, your grandmother told me that you were a “true blue boy”. That you are, and so much else. You are good. You are patient. You are compassionate. You are quirky. You are talented. You are kind. You are silly. You are generous. You are selfless. You are forgiving. You are caring. You are dedicated. You are hardworking. You are creative. You are ours.

This afternoon, on our way home from our quick shop, we heard The Eagles “Take it to the Limit” on the radio. You were telling me about how the song caused so much conflict within the band that it forced them to break up, but then you started talking about our story with that song.

You laughed as you remembered how I “used to force us waltz together on the third floor of the townhouse to this song.”

When I think back to those old days (which must be very old, considering we moved in together within 7 months of starting to date and were engaged within 8) I am overcome by memories of those first days and weeks and months. We talk not infrequently about many memories (like how you told me, very early one morning, very early into our relationship, that you had a wish for the future to have and raise real miniaturized jungle animals) but there are others that are just coming back to me now. And I think I am going to tell you, but not the world. I tell the world plenty. (Smiley face emoji. I don’t have emojis.)

In thinking about trying how to wish you a happy birthday, I wanted to express how grateful I am for you.

I wanted to try to explain that thing that has no words.

There is a montage of memories playing through my head right now, and I am actually smiling, in bed, next to you, as you sleep. You do not know that it is your birthday (nor do you know that I am breaking curfew, eek!) but I can’t help it.

Just the way that two minutes after you dropped me off from our first date I send you a mobile AIM message (Right?! Remember those?!) saying “You’re amazing.” I couldn’t help it.

And I still can’t help it.

And here is why:

It was almost two hours ago when we decided to go to sleep. We have some very soft, plush new bedding and we talked for awhile and listened to music and you read a book on Taoism as I researched “small den room layout” and then, as we do every night, you put on our special sleep track, which lulls us both into slumber. But I was antsy and stubborn so as you shut off your light and closed your eyes, I took my iPad and headphones so that I could watch tonight’s episode of Girls on HBO Go.

And halfway through the episode (an episode that

1. actually made me laugh out loud, which is rare

and

2. almost led me to email my friends about my upcoming birthday bash (it’s still months away, but I gave them a year to save the date) and say, “Do you know the party scene from the latest Girls? You know how Hannah and Elijah were dancing like crazy maniacs to Lil Jon and the East Side Boyz “Get Low”? That’s what I want my birthday to be like. But then I thought better of it.)

Sneaky blogger trick: you can avoid sending said emails by just blogging about them. Wink emoji.

I noticed that you fell asleep holding my hand. And when I tried to untangle our fingers, I couldn’t. Try as I did, I couldn’t get your fingers to separate from mine, as they were woven together, your hand heavy with sleep on mine.

And that’s us.

You can’t untangle us.

Sometimes we stretch our rope, sometimes it gets kinked, but we never come undone.

And that is because tying myself to you is the best thing that I have ever done.

You have showered me with support, shown me incredible courage, allowed me to grow into the woman I want to be, and, most of all, you gave me my children. Our children. Half you, Half  me.

You deserve happiness always, K, but today especially. Today (after I finally go to sleep!) we are going to eat cake for breakfast. Today I am going to take the kids so that you can go bouldering. Today we are going to order pizza and give you gifts and dance to your songs.

And I hope that today is the worst day of your year, as I pray that it only gets better from here.

I think back to one of my favorite songs and realize that the words could not be more perfect:

The night we met I knew I needed you so
And if I had the chance I’d never let you go

Happy, happy day, to the best man I know. I love you.

Heart emoji.

The post Happy Birthday, Dear Man o’ Mine appeared first on Mommy Ever After.

1. I am not at all in touch with today’s current music scene. I know about Sia’s “Chandelier” because of an SNL skit sent to me by a friend, I have heard of only about half of the mainstream artists and know very little of their songs. I am exposed to some new music by being in the band, but that is primarily because some of my band members have elementary-school aged kids who are really into singers like Taylor Swift and Katy Perry. I could not identify Iggy Azalea in a lineup. Judge as you will.

2. I am a firm believer in dancing it out.

Yesterday, we were all feeling a little blah, and I suggested a dance party to help the mood.

Dance parties are our thing.

My husband was not enthused. He actually said that he didn’t feel like it. So I obliged…

for about 45 seconds.

And then I grabbed the remote control to our big living room TV, the XBox1 controller and told my system to “Go to Music”.

Let me back up a few weeks. At Our New Year’s Eve party, one of our friends told me about his favorite new song, “Uptown Funk” by Mark Ronson featuring Bruno Mars. He said that it was so fun that he listened to it on repeat 10 times while getting ready for the night out. He brought me into the Living Room to play it for me. And then, a few hours later, he and I did a choreographed dance to the song, trying to mimic the music video. I’m sure we were amazing.

In any case, since that night, it has become a really popular song in our house and in our circle. One of our best friends sent out a group text the next week, admitting to his obsession with the song. My husband has been playing it in his car. It’s just a catchy, fun, feel good song and Bruno Mars is so talented. His dancing! I think he performed the dance slightly better than we did, but I may just being hard on myself.

In any case, yesterday my husband was mopey and the kids were like this, so instead of leaning into the funk that everyone was in, I decided to, instead, go “Uptown Funk”.

You just kind of can’t not dance when this is on.

So my husband held my son in his arms and I swung my daughter around in mine, and we had a family dance party.

We danced it out.

And you know what?

It worked.

Because dance parties work.

And, ‘Cause Uptown Funk gon’ give it to you.

Hallelujah, indeed.

The post Uptown Funk appeared first on Mommy Ever After.

I know that I have some experience in writing hard posts, but this is a different kind of hard. Because although I have endured pain in the past year, there is unique, exquisite ache that comes with nostalgia, which is really the heart of this post.

Nostalgia is defined as “a sentimental longing or wistful affection for the past, typically for a period or place with happy personal associations.”

I keep writing words and then deleting them. There is no good place to start. So let me try to start with a song.

If you read this blog, you probably think that I am sponsored by Brett Dennen with all that I write. I am not. He is, however, my favorite musical artist. A lot of that is because I am enamored with his music and person–he is as generous as he is talented–but I also have an incredibly positive and palpable association with Brett Dennen, one that I haven’t shared before.

If you have been reading here for a long time, you know that a main character in my life is Twin. If you are new and do not know about Twin, you can catch up very easily; but if wading through old posts isn’t your thing, all you need to know is that Twin is my other half, she lives in another state, and I met her when we lived across the world. I will explain more in a bit.

First, let me get back to Brett, because talking about Twin gets me all tongue (finger) tied.

Back on November 20, 2011 we, sadly, drove Twin and her husband, Go Go, to the airport after a fabulous weekend visit in Philadelphia. As we pulled up to their terminal, my ears caught the song that was playing on the radio, on xpn and I was able to remember enough lyrics to type them into Google and I found out that this song I heard was actually called Sydney (I’ll Come Running) by a singer with whom I was not familiar; Brett Dennen.

When I got home, I listened to the song on repeat and looked up the lyrics. I was amazed to see that the song was about being there for a friend, and that this friend is someone for whom you would do anything in the world;

And if you ever need me, call me
I’ll come runnin’ straight to you
Straight from the airport
(I’ll come runnin’)
Cut through the customs line
(I’ll come runnin’)
Bust down the courthouse doors
(I’ll come runnin’)
Sydney, I will testify
(I’ll come runnin’)
Sydney, I will testify

What an interesting coincidence it was that I heard this song as I was with girl for whom I would do anything, dropping her off at the airport.

And that is how my Brett Dennen Story began. But not my story with Twin. Twin’s story started long before that car ride. It started this week, ten years ago, in Barcelona, Spain.

It is our ten year anniversary of our time in Barca.

I left for Spain on New Year’s Day, 2005, spent the night of the 2nd with family friends in Madrid, and then flew to Barcelona on January 3rd.

I was given keys to my apartment, where I had been randomly assigned four roommates from all across the country.

When I arrived at 433 Avenida Gran Via de les Corts Catalanes, Apartmento 31B, I found that I was the last of the roommates to get there, yet somehow, my key was for the only single bedroom in the expansive apartment.

It is a little bit of a blur now, a mixture of emotion and time, but I know that I met the other girls and that Twin had already gone to the local grocery store and that she had a huge smile and a tight hug.

The month before, Twin and I had started emailing (or, to be more accurate, Facebook Messaging) because she realized that we shared the same birthday (hence our nickname).

It was winter break so I was sleeping at my parents’ house, on their old desktop downstairs, and I was so excited about my soon-to-be-roomie that I woke up my mom and said, “Guess what? My roommate and I are messaging and we have the same birthday! And she’s from Boston! And she is SO nice!”

My mom, lucid, despite being roused from slumber, said, “You two are going to be friends for the rest of your lives.”

***

Back to Barcelona. I have written about my time there before, and I will write again,

but I just needed to celebrate, or simply acknowledge the fact that it is our ten year anniversary.

Our building was (is) stunning. It has an epic marble staircase and an old fashioned elevator and our apartment was surrounded by other apartments occupied by study abroad kids. For the first few nights we spent time drinking wine out of the bottle as it was passed around the room of the boys who lived directly above us (which was legal for me as a 19 year old! Woo!) and having oh-so-European dinners that started past 10 o’clock.

I remember cab rides where I would have to sit on someone’s lap and have to duck down to avoid being fined for cramming five people into the car. I remember getting hit in the face by a huge beer glass that slipped off a server’s tray at a bar. I remember the big things, but also the tiny things, like finding one of those blue tins of assorted butter cookies at a shop around the corner. In a place that felt so new, it was nice to have a small piece of home.

But the real magic of those first few days was centered around the Three Kings celebration. I do not know a tremendous amount about this custom, so pardon me, but what I do know is that takes place after Christmas and New Years and is a festive time with parades and gift giving and vendors lining our street with booths lit with tiny white lights. It looked so enchanting.

And in thinking about those first few nights of my stay in Barcelona, I want to cry.

Twin and I talk in some way nearly every single day.

I can go downstairs right now and open any bottle of wine that I want.

Our next door neighbors are two of our best friends and we could easily have a wine night with them (though we typically don’t drink straight from the bottle. Okay. It happened once).

But there is something about that indescribable magic that I will never be able to put into words.

In the ten years since I have been home from Barcelona, Twin and I have seen each other a great many times in a handful of states.

She has held both of my babies.

I was the Matron of Honor in her wedding and she was a bridesmaid in mine.

We have shared luxurious hotel rooms and cozy dinners and dance parties and triumphs and defeats.

And we are bonded by so many things: Our values, our personalities, our similarities, our love of literature, our travels together, our care packages sent across the country dozens of times, our history…

But I think that one of the things that bonds us most, even after all of this time, is that we both know the thing that doesn’t have words. We know the magic. We know what it was like to walk down the street to the convenience store to purchase a bottle of rosé on an avenue that was  illuminated by strands of glowing bulbs.

Barcelona brought me a great many things. The tangible things, like the bottle of nail polish and Burberry scarf that I still have from El Corte Ingles and the strawberry print bathing suit from Blanco. And the intangibles; I became fluent in Spanish. I learned how to be more independent. I traveled across Europe (and even flew in the cockpit of a flight from Barca to Venice during landing).

But more than anything, it brought to me the girl

who is now a woman

who is my Twin.

One night, I believe it was towards the beginning-middle of our stay, she and I had a heart to heart in her bedroom that lasted hours. And it was then that I realized that we weren’t just Twins because we share a birthday or have similar features; more than that we have similar stories and similar hearts.

We have grown up together.

***

When Twin and Go Go got married in August of 2013, I was so honored to be the one standing next to her, holding her bouquet and making their toast. My daughter was the flower girl, my parents were guests, and it was one of the most special weekends of my life.

But one thing that sticks out to me is that during a lull in the dancing portion of the party, as a course was being served, Twin had gotten the DJ to surprise us by playing “Sydney (I’ll Come Running)” and though the rest of the dance floor was empty, we gathered and danced in a circle, my daughter leading the pack.

Whenever you feel unhappy
All you have to do is call me
I can make you laugh

Whenever you think you need me

call me up and I’ll come running

straight to you.

Happy 10 years. To my memories. To my city. And, most of all, to my sister, mi gemela,

My Twin.

The post Happy Anniversary, sweet city. appeared first on Mommy Ever After.

Several years ago, I wrote a post specifically about my love of and history with music; But, in truth, music has infiltrated almost every space of this site. I write about our daily dance parties, my deep love for the music of Brett Dennen, my rich history with musical theatre and the soundtrack that makes up my life.

This past year, through all of the darkness, I have had one unexpected and unparalleled bright spot. I have been able to make music.

First, as a teacher. This past summer, I was the performing arts director for a most wonderful program and got to teach classes in musical theatre. The middle and high school students whom I taught were incredible; so open, so brave, so talented. I got to teach and stage and choreograph numbers from Rent and Wicked and Newsies and I got to give young people the confidence to share their voices with the world. I have been teaching musical theatre professionally in some capacity for nearly 10 years, but really, since I was 14 and came back to my middle school to be assistant vocal director for their musicals. I am passionate about music and about instilling a feeling of self assurance in young people, and so this summer was a, pardon me for this, season of love.

But nothing, nothing can compare to the band. I am the lead singer of a rock band called Fox & the Hounds. I am lucky enough to have my next door neighbor serve double duty, as he is my bandmate and our alpha. I started playing with him and another supremely talented guitarist in June of 2013, singing cover songs, messing around on Spotify and watching my belly grow by the minute.

Last winter, despite all of the bad going on in my life, we managed to keep the band alive. And not only did we keep it going, but we added to it, so that by the Spring, we had a bassist, a drummer and had gone electric. My summer was spent in the basement of our guitarist’s home, sharing beers and stories and rocking out as hard as we possibly could to every single song we each wanted to play.

(Except for “Will You Still Love Me Tomorrow”. I could not get them to play “Will You Still Love Me Tomorrow.” To be fair, they could not get me to sing “Living on a Prayer”.)

Each member of the band brought something different in talent and personality and practice was something that I looked forward to, almost craved, each Wednesday night. It fed my soul.

Towards the end of the summer, the guitarist and I even started to write some of our own material, as he came up with a blues jam to which I put words and a melody.

Bands evolve and morph and at this time we spend most of our practicing playing acoustic, back to our roots, hibernating for the winter, as I say.

I try to tell my bandmates how much they mean to me. I write them nice emails thanking them for being the best parts of my otherwise bleak year. But they are dudes. They are good to me and ever so kind and compassionate, but they are still dudes, and I will never get a “You mean so much to me, too!!!!” in return, but I’m OK with that, because they give me that by continuing to play with me whenever possible.

Because of Fox & the Hounds I have grown tremendously as a musician. I have learned to perform in a whole new way and have tackled musical obstacles that I once thought impossible. And I have my guys to thank for that.

I don’t want to continue to embarrass them (in fact, I am positive that being publicly praised on Facebook is about the last thing that certain band members want, but…tough). I just want to say thank you.

***

Out of all of the things that defined this past year, I feel so blessed that music has been one of my greatest supports. The gratitude I have for the music in my life is hard for me to describe in plain words.

I got an incredible gift from my favorite singer, got to see a ton of live shows, and, had quite possibly the coolest experience of my life when I saw Brett Dennen play an acoustic show in Wilmington, Delaware, as I was leaning on the stage (I was that close), and he asked the audience to sing along, and then he called me out for having a “beautiful voice”, engaging in an entire conversation about my singing and my band with me in front of the packed audience.

But when it comes to music, there is only so much you can say; sometimes you just have to hear. So, I have made a small compilation of my year in music. The gigs, the dance parties, the bloopers and the craziness. It has been the best ride of my life.

*Note: at the end credits, Oasis was left out mistakenly from our list of brilliant musicians. So Oasis, if you are reading this, please don’t look back in anger.

The post Fox & the Hounds and the time of my life. And, a video! appeared first on Mommy Ever After.

By the way, you must remember, I am the girl who has only had one set of business cards in her entire life…

and they were Betty Boop business cards I had personalized for me at FAO Schwartz that read, “Star of Stage and Screen”.

The fact that I have a whole team is extremely exciting and entirely humbling, to say the least.

I have spent the past four and a half years writing about nursing a toddler and nursing colds,

meeting milestones and making mischief and making mistakes–

and this next step–this leap of faith–has been huge.

In any case, we were discussing Mommy, Ever After and the new site and some real businessy things that are too businessy for me to even try to explain,

and then we ended the conversation with her saying, “Your voice is different in this “new” MEA. I can’t really put my finger on how, but it reads differently.”

And I think I get what she is saying. The fact is, Mommy, Ever After has evolved and morphed and shifted in ways I could have never predicted when I started writing. It used to be more of a daily diary, with tidbits about my goings-on and the chronicles of new parenthood.

It was my baby book.

Once I started developing an audience, I wrote more in depth posts, serializing stories like how my husband and I met, how we got engaged, my birth story, etc.

I talked about tutus and dance parties and sparkly shoes. I talked about some more poignant things, like my lost loved ones and how that has given me my thing for feathers. But, one thing that hasn’t changed is that I have always been really honest. I have called myself out for being crazy, I have talked about my weaknesses and fears, I have asked for help.

Because I have always wanted to help. I wanted people, women or men, parents or teens or grandparents, to be able to read a post and say, “I am not alone.”

That was when Mommy, Ever After was “A Happy Story”.

And then my life took an unexpected turn. “A Hard Story”.

And as I slowly climb back up, step by step, day by day, sometimes minute by minute, I do feel like I am living “A Hopeful Story”. Because I refuse to give up.

In any case, the conversation with my manager inspired me to tell you a little bit about what you can expect, in just the coming week, as we all get acclimated to our new home here.

(By the way, I hope you like our new digs. If you get the chance and have not already, check it out from a computer. There is so much more to see in a less condensed way.)

So this week I will be:

Giving a tour of the site, so that you can see all of the new features I have to offer. I will guide you to the best places that will meet your needs and you will learn how to use all of the new buttons and categories and columns most effectively.

Posting the sequel to my old post about music; because since I published that post years ago, I have been lucky enough to become the lead singer of an amazing band, Fox & the Hounds. It has changed my life for the better (and for good).

Sharing a behind-the-scenes look at an amazing skincare line, as you learn everything you have ever wanted to know about how to reveal your most beautiful self. And not just outer beauty; these ladies are all about supporting one another, encouraging true teamwork and being positive cheerleaders for friends, colleagues and life.

Exploring the world of anxiety, which is an affliction that so many people face, but so few actually verbalize.

Reflecting on my recent Hanukkah experience and all of it’s firsts.

Telling the stories of our fun holiday happenings with The Tribe.

And just being the Me(a) that I have always been; forever candid, sometimes cray cray, occasionally humorous and ever so grateful.

So settle in, find a cozy spot and stick around.

The best is yet to be.

The post What is in store? Ever so much more. appeared first on Mommy Ever After.

T.S. Eliot

Welcome to www.MommyEverAfter.com.

It is so nice to have you.

Here, let me make you comfortable.

For the past four and a half years I have spent every day hanging out at a simple, static, steadfast site over on WordPress.

Mommy, Ever After started when I was the new mother of a two month old baby girl. I had always loved to read and write, but found myself, at that time, with no resources that were actually helpful when it came to being a new parent. Everything was either a tale of absolute enchantment OR a hyperbolic message board of terror.

So I took a leap of faith and somehow figured out how to make my very first post.

It didn’t even have a title. I used multi-colored text. Take a look:

and by the end of day one I seem to have gotten a bit more bold:

I did not know what I was doing or where I was going (or, to be completely honest, how to even define a “blog”) but I knew it felt good. And people, being voyeuristic by nature, started to read and I, being brutally honest by nature, shared it all; the good, the bad, the inane, the insane, the heavy and the hard.

I will soon be publishing a post that is a guide to this new site, because thanks to the incredible folks at Brand Revive, I have a real, big girl website now, with pages, categories, sections and more. I don’t want you to miss a thing.

But for now, I will either assume that you are an old friend, having traveled with me over here from .wordpress.com (thank you, by the way–so much) or you are new and can lose yourself in the hundreds of archived posts I have up there, neatly categorized, under “A Happy Story”.

And, I will say that the old Mommy, Ever After isn’t here anymore. That chapter has ended.

Welcome to a new beginning.

And what better way to start than with a prologue…

Emergency rooms 3 and 4 were connected, separated by a thin curtain that could easily be opened to make it a makeshift suite of sorts. In room 4, in a stretcher that appeared humongous, lay my son, 3 days shy of 2 months, hooked up to an IV, oxygen monitor and receiving O2 through a tube in his nose. In room 3, I lay, dizzy and disoriented, hooked up to an IV and receiving my third bag of fluids. A nurse handed me a yellow pill. Potassium. She told me that I was deficient and to swallow. We were in a suite in the Emergency Room of a hospital. He and I were together, but still so far apart, as we were each confined to our beds. He and I were ailing. He and I were both being poked and tested and medicated. He and I both needed help.

That snapshot is from exactly this week last year. It is also the prologue that I have written for my book proposal. Yes, I am writing a book (or at least I am trying), and at the rate I am going, the book is writing itself. I have a literary agent shopping my book to publishing houses, and I am hoping to find a good match. My story will be told in the way that it is presented above: “A Happy Story”, “A Hard Story”, and then, ultimately, “A Hopeful Story”.

When I say the book is writing itself, you can probably conjure examples that I have shared from the past year; the flood and subsequent CO poisoining; my hospitalization; the incredible closeness of my group of friends that has now become a family;

But what you do not know is that this past weekend, at the very time that we were supposed to be on a plane to St. John, we were back in the Emergency Room with my son.

Not only were we back in the same hospital, but we had the same nurse that he had had exactly the same day the year before. She wears a necklace with three charms symbolizing her three children and I remembered their names.

Being in the small triage room was surreal. How are we back here?

But, fortunately, we were not there for a feverish 8 week old with a terrible respiratory virus.

My son had an allergic reaction to Penicillin, swelled up, we called the paramedics (our besties!) and we took him to the closest hospital with the Peds department, which happens to be where we spent this week last year, as he was inpatient, on oxygen, as I was fighting for my life in my own way.

This is where the story gets kind of crazy. Before our planned trip to the Virgin Islands, I asked my Pediatrician if it would be safe to give my son a small dose of Benadryl in order to calm him during the flight (please don’t judge. This is the baby who slit his wrist on my coffee table 3 months ago). He approved, but suggested that we test out the drug on him before flying, as in rare cases it can have the opposite effect and actually make kids more wired and not at all sedated.

So, Sunday morning, I was being treated for my severe ear infection, my daughter for her own infection, and my son, prophylactically, as he was fussy, warm and pulling on his ears. Before his nap that morning I suggested giving him some acetaminophen. My husband chimed in and suggested Benadryl instead. At that point, we did not know whether our trip to St. John would be postponed or completely cancelled, so we thought a solid nap would do both of us good and it was the right time to experiment, so we dosed him up with the proper amount of the antihistamine.

But he didn’t sleep well. He was restless. And red. And, actually, my husband and I were laughing at him when we finally brought him downstairs, because he was acting–

forgive me for not being able to find a better way to say this–

high.

He stood, staring at the vacuum cleaner for 20 minutes. He doesn’t stand still for 20 seconds, ordinarily.

And we were cracking up. Evidently, he was in that small percentage of kids who have a paradoxical reaction to the drug.

But after his 20 minute date with the vacuum and some other strange behavior, I noticed that his eyes were swelling up. The redness on his cheeks had intensified and on his forehead there were big hives. His eyes swelled to near slits as I spoke to the 911 operator.

The problem was, he had not just been given one new medication in that 24 hours, he had been given two.

The police arrived immediately, before I could even change out of my pajamas, and the paramedics soon thereafter.

On the way to the Emergency Room, I just laughed. “This must be a joke, right? This year is just a joke.”

As it turns out, by the time we were seen by the Pediatrician in the ER, his swelling had gone down some. This lead them to believe that he had experienced an allergic reaction to his second dose of amoxicillin, and that the Benadryl, the coincidental, serendipitous drug, actually helped to start calm down the effects. Had we been on the plane to St. John, his allergic reaction would have happened at 30,000 feet.

The doctors and nurses were so nice. It was so much better than last year, when he had to be put on breathing tubes, given a spinal tap, a catheter and IVs, and when I was losing my mind.

But it was then that I did something that I rarely do these days; I started to cry.

I cried to the nice doctor in the dark blue scrubs and white coat.

“He has had so much happen to him in such a short life; he is only 13 months old and look what he has been through.”

But it was then that I remembered my recent epiphany;

My son has not only survived some crazy medical and safety situations, a crazy mother and an all around crazy first year, but he is huge and thriving. The doctor looked at me and told me to look at my son.

“He is a moose!” she said.

And she is right. He is so strong and resilient and now that he has had six emergency room visits, he is tougher than ever.

But,

But…

He may be a moose, he may be strong, but he is still my baby.

This is a hard time of year for me. It is the one year anniversary of when I was supposed to go to Brown’s postpartum unit,

when he got hospitalized,

when I was forced to wean him against my will,

when I had akesthesia as a reaction to Abilify,

and when things really started to crumble.

While my real support system became stronger than ever, some real, trusted people let me down, and it was a blow that was hard to handle when I was already in such a weak state.

This week last year, I truly did not know if I could go on. It is scary for me to admit that, but I would be doing you a disservice by being anything less than brutally honest. I was low, like many other people I know who have been or who currently are suffering.

And so, I have decided to do something about it.

I have already proclaimed that this will be the year of really living; of celebrating things big and small, by organizing parties and dates and by making an effort to tell the people around me how much they mean to me.

But there is something else.

This year I want to be a better person.

I want to let go of all that has weighed me down, not just for the past year, but for my entire life.

I want to be good to people. I want to go out of my way. I want to give back. I want to help. I want to be vocal and make a difference.

And that is why I decided to take yet another leap of faith, bigger than my intimidating first blog post back in June of 2010.

I have decided to put my all into Mommy, Ever After, in an effort to help others. When I have opened up about topics like postpartum, anxiety, depression, fear, doubt, self-worth and other hard things to touch upon, I have received an incredible outpouring of support and gratitude. Most of it you do not know about. Most of it has been private. Most of it has been me making emergency phone calls to friends in crisis, or driving to the hospital to hold a hand, or giving someone my phone number to use 24/7. And I do not say this in any way to applaud myself. I am humbled by the fact that there are people who trust me enough in order to confide in me their deepest of secrets and fears.

And so, in moving forward, I will have those “pity party” moments, but hopefully much less than the dance party moments.

I will continue to be an advocate, a voice, a friend.

I will strive to be the woman whom I have always dreamed of being; lighter, happier, and more content.

I will celebrate the big, of course, but also cherish the mundane.

Last night, before bed, my husband and I had just finished the last installment of the NPR Serial Podcast. We talked a little about our thoughts and then I asked him to tell me a bedtime story. I wanted him to tell me about the last few episodes of Homeland, a show that I haven’t watched in several seasons, but that I was curious about, based on all of the hype. He is the best at telling stories.

And he looked over at me and I was smiling, my full face in an enormous grin.

“What?” he asked with a tiny giggle.

“I get to go to sleep next to you,” I said. “I get to have a sleepover with my best friend every night.”

And with that, he kissed me and told me stories of Iranian leaders and CIA infiltrations until I was sound asleep.

That was how I ended my day. And then, as it does, the sun rose this morning, and there was a new beginning.

And today I did some things right, and other things still need work, but guess what?

It is the beginning. I put an end to something dear to me…

and from there, my friends, is where I shall start.

(Featured Image via Lindsay Dochtery Photography)

The post “What we call the beginning is often the end. And to make an end is to make a beginning… appeared first on Mommy Ever After.