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.

Dearest Loves,

For someone who loves words, I am having trouble finding the right ones; this is the hardest love letter I have ever had to write.

I guess I shall start with “I love you”. I love you for caring about me and for supporting me, when I am fun to be around, and when I am a mess.

Some of you have held my hand at my darkest hours; There are some of you whom I have never met; Your presence in my life is my charm, which, as I have mentioned before, is probably my favorite word (in all parts of speech).

For years–during my postpartum, but even before that if I am really being honest–I have felt lonely, sometimes. I felt like an other. As my soul friend said to me recently, “We are each others’ other.” I felt as though I had more fears than other people, more anxieties, more insecurities, more failures, more doubts, and the list goes on. But because of you, my loves, I don’t feel that at all anymore. Not one little bit. I feel like I am a part of something, and that something is so beautiful and pure and good. And for so long, I wanted to be beautiful and pure and good. And your presence in my world is showing me that I deserve this love, even when I find it hard to believe.

Today, my daughter and I were cuddling on the couch in the basement, just talking as we stared at the beams of the unfinished ceiling, and she asked, “Mom, if I tell you something, will you give me a time out?” Never really a good intro, but I told her that she can always tell me anything. “I think you are really sweet because you never yell. Sometimes daddy yells, but I like it better because you don’t yell.”

“That is because I am someone who stays calm,” I explained to her, which is true. I don’t yell.

“Am I calm?” she asked.

“No,” I answered, honestly. “You get upset and when you do you cry and sometimes you scream when you cry and it is very loud and it hurts my ears.”

“Am I a cry baby?” she asked.

“No, you are not a cry baby. But you aren’t calm.”

“I have never seen you cry sad, mom. I have only seen you cry happy.”

Obviously, that is not true, as I am sure that in the past year she has seen me at very low points; but for some reason, the image that sticks with her is a happy one; she sees me as emotional, but also well.

And an enormous part of my wellness is because of you, dear loves. Your support, your empathy, your compassion, your generosity, your thoughtfulness, your kindness, your bravery, your companionship, your cheerleading…

You keep me going, even when I feel like everyone and everything else is trying to knock me down.

You see, life is life; it gets hard sometimes. But your presence also makes my life good. Fun. You make me laugh with silly posts and texts, you hold my hand while spilling secrets in bed, you let me squirt sriracha into a martini while we laugh so hard together that we can barely breathe.

When I experienced inpatient hospitalization and then, later, another serious treatment plan, I confided in you that I was worried about being able to keep it all going; my health, my duties at home and my blog.

And what did you do? You all offered to help. To bring my family meals. To write guest posts for me. And that is when one of you coined the term #teamMEA.

Mommy, Ever After is my third child, and you are like the amazing playgroup that I met because of having given birth to this baby; the kind of playgroup where the friends around you in the circle on the floor are your friends for life.

Jim Morrison said, “Friends can help each other. A true friend is someone who lets you have total freedom to be yourself – and especially to feel. Or, not feel. Whatever you happen to be feeling at the moment is fine with them. That’s what real love amounts to – letting a person be what he really is.”

And that quote right there means a lot to me (and not just because I trekked through a hailstorm in Paris to visit his grave). As I have gotten older, I have learned the difference between true friendship and that which is not. And it’s OK to have acquaintances. They serve their purpose. It is better to have people to say “hello” to than a bunch of enemies.

But you, my loves, are not the latter. You are my true friends. You care about me and I care about you. You love me at my lowest. You lift me up when I feel most lost. You cheer for me the loudest.

So, what I am saying, loves, is that you’re stuck with me.

For your love, I will be eternally, endlessly grateful.

Because of your love, and a few feathers, I will be able to soar.

Love, always,

B

The post #teamMEA appeared first on Mommy Ever After.

I am choosing to interpret them as reminders to be strong.

It is hard, sometimes, to remember, but, as my fortune cookies said on Sunday night, “Fate will find a way.”

Yesterday my mom randomly spotted this feather on the ground, next to me, in a place where it shouldn’t have been.

And then this morning, my daughter came into my room to snuggle in bed as we were all waking up, and handed this to me:

This is the bracelet that honors my late Uncle; my superman.

Why did she bring it to me, today of all days, to wear?

Because, as this beautiful spirit just texted me, “And tomorrow. We march forth.”

It will be 8 years ago tomorrow that we lost him to melanoma.

This beautiful friend has reached out to me every single year on this day since.

In any case, because yesterday was both triumphant and hard, I feel so blessed that my angels are reminding me to stay strong,

as always.

The post My angels. appeared first on Mommy Ever After.

I am used to many of my posts being greeted with great warmth and empathy.

“I feel exactly the same way!” I hear.

But I don’t think that this will be that kind of post; it is going to be a different post.

An unpopular post.

And that is OK.

I am writing in support of the snow day today, and, really, in defense of all snow days, whether the call was made wisely due to blizzard-like-conditions, or prematurely, causing great inconvenience.

I am a teacher. I have been the director of programs for children. I am a stay-at-home-mom and the primary caregiver for my kids. I am a writer who works from my house.

I get it.

But first, let me backtrack a bit. Before I was a mother, I was a teacher. I went to graduate school for education, have taught at many age levels and have heard countless (literally countless) complaints about school being closed for snow days.

When parents enroll their children in school, educational or extracurricular programs, they do so because they need to. And when those programs are cancelled because of (impending or falling or fallen) snow, it can cause problems, ranging from inconvenient to nearly impossible.

But, and I say this with all of the compassion in the world, I think that this culture of “OH NO, PLEASE I PRAY THAT MY KID’S SCHOOL DOESN’T CLOSE” has gotten a bit ridiculous. There, I said it. This is part of what is going to make this post unpopular; perhaps, even unappreciated. But, let me explain.

During my first years as a full time teacher, I was not yet a mother, though I longed to be. This is not a subject I have ever broached on this site before, and this is not the post in which I will really be doing so, though it is coming. It took me a bit of time to conceive my first child. I had no diagnosis, no medical problems of which to speak, and I was very young. It just wasn’t happening. And that situation went from inconvenient to nearly impossible.

I have always been a teacher who loved my students as my own and cared for them as such; It was hard when I held children, for whom I cared so deeply, and found myself waiting month after month, facing the constant disappointment of “we will try again next time”. You may have noticed on my sidebar that I have advertised for The Healing Arts Center of Philadelphia since the launch of the new site. This is because, as I have stated time and again, the goal of the advertising on my site is to make peoples’ lives better and that is what Steven Mavros did for me. Much more on Steven and his practice later, as they will be the subject of a whole post (because, really, the story of how we recently went out for a business dinner and I told our waiter, “This is the man who got me pregnant, but no, we have never been together” deserves a post of it’s own, does it not?) but for now, I am just trying to provide context. I wanted to be a mother, but it took some time. And every time a parent would complain to me about how the school had to close for “another school day?” something inside me would hurt.

But I am a compassionate and non-judgmental person. I realized, always, two salient points: that these parents loved their children to no end and that I had no real concept of what it was like to actually be a parent, day in and day out, as my children left me at the end of each school day.

And then, in 2010, I became a mother. For four years, I taught every day while also being the primary caregiver to my daughter. It was a constant juggling act. I had to miss things little things like pediatrician appointments and snuggly sick days, and then bigger things, like her recent camp visiting day when she learned how to swim for the very first time. Again, these things that I missed, they were sometimes inconvenient and other times, nearly impossible.

But enough about the past. Let’s move on to today. Because today is the first day when I have worked up the courage to say this thing that I have been thinking since I was a student teacher nearly a decade ago.

Let me give you some of my perspective:

Today, I have two kids home with me, as I stay at home with my son and my daughter’s school is closed for a snow day.

Today, I had 4 appointments on my calendar, as well as the management of several projects involved in the finishing of our basement. At least one has been delayed so far because of today’s snow, pushing back our deadline (which was originally scheduled for January 5) even further.

Today I had two doctor’s appointments, one for my son that is possibly scary and definitely time sensitive

and one for myself.

I don’t talk about it all the time, but I am still facing major health issues and a dramatic change in my treatment plans.

I also had a business meeting scheduled for a possible partnership that would be extremely exciting for me and even more exciting for you (pinky swear).

I also have a babysitter scheduled for today, but because of the weather and her commute from center city, we had to change her hours to keep her safe (my top priority, no question).

 Finally, I have this. This is not only a source of great joy for me (which it is–it so is) but it is also my job. And while I try to tell my daughter to watch my son so that I can publish a quick post, the laptop is like a magnet for a 16 month old whose favorite toys are the Xbox, remote and toilet (read: I cannot type a word when he is in the room, and I can’t leave him alone without him crawling into the oven).

This means that for me, snow days are far from easy. But I love them. I love today. I smiled when I woke at 6:15am to see the email from my daughter’s preschool that they would be closed. I was so excited to tell her that we would be able to stay home together, drinking hot chocolate and making up new games. I love the necklace of beaded hearts that I am wearing, just placed around my neck by my little girl who wanted to make me a special snow day present.

I am discouraged that my son’s appointment with the ophthalmologist has to be postponed;

I am disappointed that I won’t have my coffee date that I was hoping to turn into a partnership;

I get overwhelmed by the juggling act, just like everyone else.

But I am also endlessly grateful. I am so grateful that the people who are in charge of my daughter’s school have decided that her safety (our safety) is paramount;

I am grateful that I can hear my kids whispering from the other room right now as I type (I am hiding the laptop under a blanket) as they hide in their own clubhouse of sorts.

But, most of all, I am grateful that I have the problem of having more juggling pins than I have hands, because that means that my dreams have come true.

I have the resources to get help for my health issues;

I am writing, now, every day;

I am a mother.

So perhaps, instead of scorning the snow day (or me, for writing this unpopular post), you can find a way to celebrate it,

inconveniences, impossibilities and all,

because a snow day that makes life hard means that we have so much.

Appointments can be rescheduled. Personal days can be taken. Things can be figured out. Deadlines can be pushed back

And it is not always easy,

but it is my firm belief that it is always,

always

worth it.

The post An unpopular post. appeared first on Mommy Ever After.

Last week, I wrote my first ever post about sex. I am very careful about the content that I include on my site, a site called “Mommy, Ever After”, but I think that the post (and the subsequent conversations that it sparked) are lifestyle issues that will help all of us in our “Hopeful Stories”.

First and foremost, thank you, you brave souls, who responded to the post, both publicly and privately. I had some of the most entertaining conversations and actually laughed out loud at times. And I also was able to gain incredible insight, and get some really difficult questions answered. I learned SO much!

So what did you* have to say about sex and what did I learn?

Here goes…

First of all, the majority of the people who responded were married** women. The main variable was age, as I heard from women from 25-65.

Every single one of the people in that demographic (demographic being “married woman”) agreed with my theory, in some way or another, that married people do not typically talk to their single friends about sex. They also felt the bubble-person feeling that I feel.

This was, based on my “research”, for two reasons:

Either, the married woman would talk to her single friend about the single friend’s sex life in great detail without the single friend asking about the married friend’s sex life

or

the married friend felt uncomfortable bringing up her own sex life, primarily because of the fact that she was married.

My theory remains that married women do, however, discuss sex details (and sometimes very intimate details) with their married friends. For instance, I heard from married women whom I do not know very well (perhaps I have only met them a few times, haven’t seen them in a decade or our relationship has been limited to online only, thus far) yet they were unabashedly sharing details with me about very specific things regarding their own sex lives and sexual selves. I should note, I am being deliberately vague when it comes to detail, as when I published the first sex post I assured you that the post would not, in fact, be all that sexual, and I am trying not to veer off course. If you want to message me privately, that is a different story. There are some women who do not know my middle name but know the most personal details of my sex life because of the conversations we have shared after my post.

In my original piece, I mentioned that there is a wide spectrum when it comes to talking about sex with a member of the opposite sex, whether one party is married, both parties are married or some other combination. This was confirmed to me in my conversations, as many married women do talk to other men, married or single, about their sex lives, but made sure to say things like, “…usually with my spouse present.”

So, in all, my theories were essentially confirmed. All of the many combinations I had laid out (no pun intended. See? Still got it.) seemed to resonate with you.

But, and this is a big but, this didn’t answer my question of why.

And that question was answered yesterday. Yesterday, in an insightful conversation with a friend whom I just getting to know, things became elucidated.

She wrote, “I think that’s why people often stop talking about sex once they’re married – it’s something that becomes part of a private, shared experience between a couple and if one person talks about it in detail without the knowledge and consent of the other, then it’s akin to telling someone about your husband’s bathroom habits or his secret love of soap operas or something. Again, nothing about actual sex.”

She nailed it (No pun intended. I’m sorry. I just can’t help myself).

In my last post, I wrote:

“And then I got to thinking about marriage. And friendship. When we get married, we are not suddenly bubble people. We are the exact same people we were before we exchanged vows, but just committed to another person for life. So what happens that makes our single friends shun us when it comes to their desire to hear about our sex lives?

When I was dating my husband, I am sure I shared stories with my girlfriends, or asked questions, and that was fine. But nope, oh no, once the ring was on his finger, the idea of talking about my husband became repellent, like talking about one’s parents.”

I was implying that there was a negative connotation around this shift in behaviors; that single people did not want to hear about married people because it was somehow icky, and that married people did not want to share with single people because they feared making their single friend uncomfortable.

But, no. That’s not it. It is about intimacy.

A good friend and I were talking about the subject, and to protect her identity I am not going to say whether she is single or not, and she made the point that when one is single, a sexual encounter is a story; it is entertainment for others. On the other hand, for married couples, sex is implied, therefore not noteworthy, and that only other married people could understand that the notion of “it is just part of the package” is a fallacy.

I have some really smart friends and readers who have become friends.

So, there you have it. Our first foray into the world of sex.

And then, like most things do, this got me thinking.

I thought of my recent post entitled “You are not alone.” which is a nod to Into the Woods but also a very profound message; you may feel lonely sometimes; you may feel like the “other”; but you are not alone.

And in that post, and earlier in this very post, I referenced the many, many emails I get from you guys every day. I feel so blessed. For me, Mommy, Ever After has become a community, and a very strong one at that. But it just occurred to me that you (readers) don’t always get to benefit from it. Yes, I share as much as I can, as I am so inspired by what you share with me, but I am just one person with one perspective.

So I get these incredible messages from you in which you tell me that you can relate to my story or anxiety or problem or triumph and I get to have this amazing web of people with whom I can communicate so candidly.

And I will be honest; A lot of the emails I get are about feeling lonely.

But what about you?

I started this blog four and a half years ago because yes, I wanted to chronicle the life of my new baby, but I also wanted to tell other mothers, honestly, in a real way, that it is OK to feel sad and scared and frustrated and bored…AND enchanted. And Since the “Happy Story” turned into the “Hard Story”, my mission to help others became much stronger. That is my “Hopeful Story”. And so, I am trying to think of a way that you, my readers, can actually feel like you are a part of a community as well.

Do you know that over 60% of you live in the same geographic region? That means that you could meet for coffee or set up a play-date, if you were introduced.***

And the other 40% of readers from California to the Czech Republic to China can develop meaningful, special online relationships…but not if I do not connect you. So that is my next idea.

I have created what is called a “SECRET” Facebook Group. Not only is it a private group (which means that it is by invitation only and not visible to the rest of Facebook) but this group is so private that no one not in the group will be able to know of it’s existence. No one outside of the group can search for anything related to the group, nor could they ever see anything you post or comment on within the group. Let me make this extremely clear: no one outside of this incredibly private group will be able to see that you are a member. No one outside of the group will know that there is such a group. It is as secret as secret can be.

(That said, those of you who do accept will see each others’ postings, only on the group page, and really, isn’t that the point? If you are someone who joins this group, you are looking for community; so everyone who says “yes” to this for me (and I ask you to please, please say “yes”) can raise a hand. You are in this together. You are not alone. You can even join just to watch dialogues from afar, but from some of the emails that I got this week, I think we have a lot of great stuff coming our way…)

What I am trying to say is that I would love to build a community.

This is going to take guts, guys, but I am hopeful that instead of commenting on a post that I put on my personal page, which is then visible to thousands, you will feel comfortable in the privacy and security of Mommy, Ever After’s Private Community Page.

This is how it will work. If you have reached out to me previously, or if you are someone whom I think would be a positive addition to the group, I will invite you. You can choose whether or not you accept.

And then, you can have at it.

I will insist upon a strict set of guidelines (which are posted in the Group’s heading) but the basic idea is that this group is a vault. What happens in the group stays in the group.

Do you know how many of you wrote nearly identical messages to me this weekend about sex and marriage?

Do you know how many of you are looking for new, good friends?

No! You don’t! But you can!

I am hoping that this Facebook Group will allow you to

ask questions

seek advice

share tips

make a playdate

make a coffee date

make a wine date!

Remember, I am the administrator. No one can join the group without my approval. This means that if I do not know you, you aren’t getting in.

It’s like The Pink Ladies but wayyyy more exclusive.

So for everyone who wrote to me this week,

to everyone who has written to me over the past few months,

and the past several years,

take the leap.

While I don’t have a crystal ball, I can almost guarantee that it will make your life better.

We do have feathers on our side, after all.

*no one was quoted, nor was any conversation even referenced in the writing of this post without the individual’s express permission to do so.

**I use marriage here as a general term, the way I used “sex” as opposed to differentiating between “sex” and “gender” properly in my previous post. I do not wish to offend, nor alienate any individual or population. The group whom I refer to as “married” includes life partners, long-term relationships, etc. People who are committed and clearly not single.

***Always use caution and be careful when meeting a stranger from the internet. I will moderate strictly, but it is always a good thing to remember.

UPDATE: If you would like to be added to the group, please send me a message via Facebook or to Rebecca@mommyeverafter.com. I can invite only my personal Facebook friends, but I want to expand our community, and there are thousands of you who could benefit from this. Thank you!

The post We talked about sex. (Let’s talk some more.) appeared first on Mommy Ever After.

“I had at least a handful of moments where I would catch eyes with my son and smile and he would beam back at me with his grin that is becoming more toothy by the day. I think there is a small part of me that fears that he doesn’t love me the way that he could or should because I didn’t exactly make the best first impression. But every time I see him smile like that, and when he nuzzles up to me, right thumb in his mouth, left hand reaching for mine, I know that he loves me, too.”

I know that I am my son’s mother and that he lived inside of me and drank my milk and that I have been his primary caregiver for the past 14 months, but the fear that I alluded to in the passage that I wrote above is a very real one. And honestly, I have had some evidence to support it. For a long time, my son preferred his dad to me. He felt more safe and secure in his father’s arms. This is not my perception, this is objective. He also had an extraordinarily close bond with my mom. We would leave her house and she would hand him to me and he would cry. That didn’t feel so great.

But lately I am noticing a change; he wants me. He comes to me for nurturing and is excited when he catches sight of my face. He doesn’t like it when I go. In fact, yesterday when I had to leave him, I kissed him goodbye and he tried so hard to hold onto me that he literally grabbed onto my face, trying to keep me closer.

I have the physical evidence of the attack; The right side of my face has several scratches. I am hardcore and I wear them with pride.

But the greatest evidence of all was proven to me last night, as I tried to get my wailing son ready for bed. He has been in a horrible mood this week. Thinking it could be residual sickness, I took him back to the doctor, and his ears are clear and chest is fine; he is just grumpy and teething horribly (all four molars at once. Yikes!) He has ranged from fussy to inconsolable. In fact, last night at dinner he threw every single thing in his proximity. He threw his food, plate and our silverware. We moved him away from the table and he threw his glasses, in anger. When he ran out of items to throw, he literally started grabbing at his own face, presumably to find something to rip off and throw in protest. It’s been tough.

Bedtime was no different. He was crying and fighting my husband and it was stressful. My husband ran out to get Tylenol to help to soothe my son’s teething pain, so I took over at the changing table, and I started to sing to him.

First, I sang “Twinkle Twinkle Little Star”

and then “You are My Sunshine”

and he stopped crying.

I then blew some raspberries on his belly and he started laughing uncontrollably. In a matter of a minute I had turned this monster into my happy, smiling baby. And that did feel so great.

The rest of our bedtime routine went smoothly, and as I rocked him in my arms, I sang one of my favorite songs; a song that that love so much that I even got my band to cover and mash it up.

 I’ll make you happy baby, just wait and see,

For every kiss you give me, I’ll give you three,

Oh, since the day I saw you,

I have been waiting for you,

You know I will adore you ’til eternity,

So won’t you please?

Be my little baby,

Say you’ll be my darlin’,

Be my baby, now.

And as I sang and as we rocked, I noticed that his chest was pressed up to mine and that our hearts were beating in sync. It was almost indescribable; I felt this one, strong pulse, and it was us.

We haven’t really been an us before.

Well, I will, in fact, adore him ’til eternity

and now I know, with great confidence, that he loves me, too.

The post Be My Baby appeared first on Mommy Ever After.

Well, two chairs if I am being honest, but if you get the reference above then we are automatically better friends than we were before you opened this post. More on that, later.

Two years ago, just after we closed on our new home, I went with my parents to the Rago Arts Auction in Lambertville, New Jersey, for their unreserved auction of modern pieces. I had my eye on a pair of white leather Barcelona chairs, and I cannot even tell you how exciting it was when my dad raised the panel for that final time and the auctioneer banged his gavel. “We won!” I exclaimed. My dad laughed. “You didn’t ‘win’,” he said. “But you are buying the chairs.”

And oh how I love my Barcelona chairs. This is a very old photo of my living room, as the decor has changed, but you can see the cool white leather chairs named after my sweet city.

Last year, my parents went back to the auction for us, as I was home with a new baby, and probably slightly out of my mind by that point.

We had seen a few items that we were outbid on, but found an incredible settee with beautiful upholstering and it found a new home in our living room. I “won” again.

Two years in a row, I was lucky enough to get fabulous, unique and special seating pieces from the Rago Auction.

What does this have to do with anything, you might ask?

Well, this past weekend was the auction, once again. My parents went up to check out the pieces, and I spent a good (embarrassingly long) time watching the live feed of the auction, all 700 lots. And I had my eye on one of the very last lots, 1192, a pair of Hollywood Regency silver chairs. Amazing.

I placed an absentee bid, refreshed my browser and held my breath.

And I was outbid by $50.

I was disappointed. “But every year I get a chair from Rago,” I complained.

And then it hit me; perhaps this is a good sign, in fact. The past two years I started off my Januaries by buying seating at this auction, and the past two years have been supremely awful. So, in an effort to make lemonade, I decided that my “loss” was, in fact, a good sign. That no Rago chair=better year.

This is what it is like to be a superstitious person.

I have written time and time again about my incredibly superstitious nature; I come by it honestly, as it was passed on to me by my dad, who got it from his mom. I have written on here about the obvious things, like my thing for feathers, and lucky pennies, salt, purple underwear…

but I don’t think that I really share how much these “superstitions” actually control my life.

To me, superstitions are equated with some sense of control, and therefore, are also equated with anxiety.

I am extremely ritualistic about some things. I have weird habits. And when someone last week asked me if I had Obsessive Compulsive Disorder I told them that I did not, but then started to wonder. So I looked it up.

According to a Health.com article on OCD I do have some obsessive compulsive traits, but I do not think that I have OCD.

For instance, I do not engage in obsessive hand-washing, nor overzealous cleaning. I do, however, count things (like steps) and I am obsessed with numbers. I am not a perfectionist or particularly organized, but I do have a disproportionate and abnormal fear of violence. As the article states, “Everybody has fleeting thoughts about the possibility of being affected by violence or other misfortunes. The more we try to avoid thoughts like this, the more they pop into our heads.”

This is how my brain works (and I cannot believe I am telling you this) in normal, day to day situations. I will give you a recent example:

My family and I took a recent two day trip to Hershey, PA to experience the holidays at the park. Hershey is a very happy, clean place with wonderful hospitality. During our first meal there, lunch at a nice Italian restaurant at our beautiful hotel, I saw two college-aged kids walk into the restaurant. They were clean cut, dressed the way my college-aged cousins dressed, and, frankly, could have been my cousins. But I noticed that one of the guys didn’t take off his coat upon sitting down. This scared me. My mind began swirling with elaborate fantasies of their plan to hold up the restaurant, with no intention of actually eating there. My husband saw me look obsessively, and saw the fear in my eyes, and he tried to calm me, but I was legitimately scared. And do you know what assuaged my anxiety (besides the glass of Prosecco that I decided to order)? When I saw the guy in the jacket pour olive oil onto his plate so that he could use it to dip his  bread. I reasoned that if he were planning on holding us hostage inside this restaurant, inside this hotel, in “The Sweetest Place on Earth”, he probably wouldn’t be focused on his foccacia. That, I realize, is insane. But is it OCD? I don’t think so. I think it is anxiety.

I also looked it up on The National Institute of Mental Health, and while there are some overlaps between the behaviors they describe and my own anxious ones, again, I don’t think I could be officially diagnosed.

So, in the spirit of my quest for a better new year, I have decided to try to let go of some of my rituals, paranoid thoughts and idiosyncrasies.

For example, when I microwave things, I do not just press the 1 or 2 minute quick heat buttons. Oh no. I have a number for everything. Milk, depending on the size of the bottle, gets microwaved in a mug for either 44 or 1 minute and 11 seconds.

Hot chocolate gets microwaved for 2:36.

When the box of chicken nuggets instructs me to microwave four of them for a minute, I microwave them for a 1:01 second.

So, this week, as silly or inane or insane as it may sound, I microwaved milk for 52 and 55 and 58 seconds.

This is my way of trying to let go of my anxieties; to relinquish some control.

The idea of this post actually came about last night as I was getting into bed and noticed that the bed had been made wrong;  the duvet cover was upside-down, so that the buttons were up, close to our faces, as opposed to our feet. And this made me anxious. I felt all of those superstitious feelings and longings for control, but I also felt extremely tired; too tired to get up and remake my entire bed at 11:00pm. So I decided to leave it. Consciously.

For my entire life, I have been ruled by phobias, apprehension, and a desire for some control over a world that is, whether I like it or not, out of my control.

So I used my rational brain last night as I sat in bed, contemplating the buttons and the duvet and the prayer-type-wishes that I say every single night and the fact that I have to check on my daughter in her bedroom at least once before I go to sleep, and I waited for my husband to come up so that he could talk me down, and tell me that we would be okay, despite the fact that the buttons were facing up. As it turns out, he had fallen asleep reading by the fire, so I went to bed by myself, and I woke up to my baby crying, my daughter clinging to me, just like every other morning. Even though the buttons were facing up.

Do you know what a relief it would be if I could let go of these ridiculous things? If I did not have to carry them anymore?

And I am sure I am not the only one.

So, as I said, it started with a chair, which is a nod to one of my favorite movies, Juno.

And back in 2007, when my sister was sleeping over with us at our townhouse, we decided to make a Juno cake. It looked like this:

Now, for someone who is in no way an artist, I think this cake is, as they say, “totally boss”. But really, it is quite imperfect, something that did not bother me then, nor does it now.

So instead of focusing on giving myself a diagnoses, I am going to try to focus on finding little moments in which I can let my superstitions (which are really just anxieties, hiding in a more legit sounding word) go.

There are some things that will always be with me, and that is OK. Some things are family traditions, and they weave the customs of the old into the present, like throwing salt over our shoulders, and for those things I am grateful. I am grateful that I can write my dad an email about something that I really want and he will reply with “Salt”. I am grateful for the bond that the salt throwing gives to us.

But I am going to use Sunday’s lost auction chairs as a fresh start. Because honestly, if I had gotten the chairs, I don’t think it would have made this coming year any different than it will be. Lord knows, for the past two years I have tried to abide by every trick I know, yet it didn’t make a difference at all. Because while there are some things that are in our hands

there are some things that we will never be able to control, as hard as that may be to accept.

So now, I really want to make hot cocoa (I am very lucky to have a friend who picked up a new box for me at the grocery store today so that I can get it at pre-school pick up, as I am fresh out) and I will microwave it for 2 minutes and see how the water feels, and then, maybe, if I have time later tonight, watch Juno and/or eat cake.

It ended with a chair.

The post “Superstition ain’t the way.” appeared first on Mommy Ever After.

I had at least a handful of moments where I would catch eyes with my son and smile and he would beam back at me with his grin that is becoming more toothy by the day. I think there is a small part of me that fears that he doesn’t love me the way that he could or should because I didn’t exactly make the best first impression. But every time I see him smile like that, and when he nuzzles up to me, right thumb in his mouth, left hand reaching for mine, I know that he loves me, too.

I feel particularly emotional today for no one reason. No, it is not hormonal. Perhaps it is because of what I wrote last night and all that it conjures for me, or perhaps it is from some other stressful things in my life. I just feel extra raw.

And I have no idea why, but today I cried. A lot. And it wasn’t sad crying. It was just emotional crying, if that makes sense.

I cried while reading some personal messages that I received today. I am humbled, truly, when people share themselves with me, as I have with them.

I cried about stuff related to my desire to publish my book (I want to help others so badly!!!).

I cried when I took my daughter to the Pediatrician and saw a new baby in it’s infant seat. (perhaps that was sad crying). I felt so wistful. It ached.

I cried as I made my daughter the appointment for her FIVE year old check up. How is my daughter turning five this year? The receptionists talked about it incredulously as well, as they remember her as a newborn.

I cried when we were in the actual exam room; we had a pretty long wait (as she was given some tests) and I started to sing to her from my new favorite part of her new favorite musical and she stopped me, because she said that the people in the other rooms would think that I was the real Baker’s Wife. I am still not sure why that would be a bad thing (maybe she thinks they would steal me and throw me into the woods?), but I cried at her innocence.

I cried when I asked her if she loves performing and told her how much it has always meant to me. I welled up trying to explain to her how it has forever been my dream and I was so moved by the poignancy of our talk.

I cried on our way home from the doctor, which is literally down the street, because as we approached our normal turn, Queen’s “Somebody to Love” started to play and I said, “You have to hear this song, do you mind if we drive around a little bit?” (we had her dad’s super fast new car and could zip around the streets).  She was obviously game. I told her that it was Freddy Mercury singing. “Oh, Queen.” she replied. And I belted out the words and then, when it ended and we pulled up in the driveway behind my pink peace sign, I cried to have had that experience with my little girl.

I cried this evening, after I put my son to bed, when it was time for me to give a final snuggle to my daughter. I noticed that there were black drawings on some of the furniture by her bed. It is a well established rule in this house that markers are to be used only on paper (and this rule was implemented after certain dolls were colored, etc.) I cried because I saw the fear and pain in my daughter’s eyes. And I had a wonderful parenting moment. I told her that I was not mad at her (her biggest fear), and that I was proud of her for being honest. I told her that we all make mistakes. She asked me not to tell her daddy and I told her that I tell him everything. She asked if she could snuggle on me for a little. Her eyes. Those sad eyes.

I cried tonight when I watched the Season 1 finale of Broadchurch.

And then I cried afterwards when I went up and looked at my sleeping daughter in her bed.

On my way to my bedroom, I looked down at my sweater to see this:

Ok, I thought. I’ve got this.

All of these little crying sessions have been very small, perhaps even too small for anyone else to notice, and part of me thinks I am holding in one giant deluge of tears. That remains to be seen.

But there is one positive that I take away from having an emotional day like this; it means that I am keeping the promise I made to myself to “cherish the mundane”.

I had a cold day in with a sick child and a needy baby and I was able to enjoy them. Not all of the time. But most of the time.

And that shows me how far I have come.

Or, as some may say, how far I been able to travel out of the woods.

The post An emotional day. appeared first on Mommy Ever After.

It was on Thursday, New Year’s Day, and one minute it was sending and receiving texts (despite being shattered and an eyesore) and the next minute the screen became completely dysfunctional. I could not use it at all, which meant that I could not swipe the screen to unlock my phone, as I watched the growing number of text messages that were coming in.

If this were a year ago, I think I would have had a panic attack at best or, more likely, a nuclear meltdown. I used to be very dependent on my phone, as it was my lifeline to the world (I thought).

Instead, I sent emails to the people with whom I was communicating, just so they would know I wasn’t ignoring their messages, and powered the thing down.

I made an appointment at the Apple store for late in the day Friday, but because I ended up being sick, I could not go. I made an appointment for Saturday afternoon, so that my husband could handle it for me. And on Friday, my friends helped me by taking care of my kids, my husband worked a full work day and, amazingly, I was still able to communicate with them, as well as the doctor whom I called, the nurse who called me back with advice, the pharmacy and several other people via email. I am someone with separation anxiety, so the idea of not being able to communicate with loved ones is a very scary one for me, but we found ways.

So, yesterday, my husband gave my phone to the people at Apple and they said it should be ready by 5pm. But guess what? We didn’t go out to pick it up. We will go at some point today.

That is right; I deliberately chose not to run for my phone the moment that it was ready for me;

Let me tell you why.

There were many times in the past few days when I have wanted to reach out to people quickly and easily, or snap a picture or log in to my Instagram; but instead of experiencing my children from behind the lens of my semi-decent 5c camera, I just lived with them. I savored the cute moments, and got used to watching them, as opposed to snapping their picture, editing it with the right filter and posting it for my friends (or the world) to see.

I was much more present.

While my friends spent time at my house, I did not think about how snap a photo of my daughter cuddling under the covers with our guest; I watched them, and smiled, and felt happy.

When my husband and I watched TV, I wasn’t busy looking down, responding to emails and checking newsfeeds.

Please do not let this come off as holier than thou. I will be picking up my iPhone in a matter of hours and I’m sure that I will go back into the fray, but I have to be honest; I found being phoneless extremely liberating.

Anyone who really needed me knew how to reach me. I wasn’t beholden to any thing.

This really struck me, as think I enjoyed the faces of my friends and family a little more this weekend.

Just this morning, I held my son as he fed himself his morning milk. He tried to find a position in which he could access the milk flow, but also nuzzle into me. My son, who is usually moving at a mile a minute, wanted to get close to me, and although that may seem like a given for most people, it is not for me.

Recently I wrote about adding our son to our family, and the love we all have for him. Just last night I was talking to my husband about it, as the combination of not having a phone and spending a couple of days in bed has given me a lot more time to think and reflect. I was thinking about that thing that people always say, about how they didn’t know how they could possibly have any more love, but then, as soon as their next child was born, their hearts grew instantly. It’s like a thing.

But for me, I have to be honest, I don’t feel that way. I don’t feel as though I now have more love than I did before.

Please do not misinterpret me. I love and cherish my son; I find him to be extremely cute and silly and loving and hilarious and he has taught me to be stronger and braver than I ever thought possible.

But, as I said to my husband last night, I feel like the love for him was always there, in me. It was just waiting for him. My heart did not grow when he was born; he just filled the space that it had reserved for his presence.

I know this is an odd perspective on things, and I can assure you with great confidence that I do not have less love in me than others; in fact, I have been told that I am a walking heart, brimming with love.

I think that I feel emotions more deeply than the majority of others. I don’t wish to sound cliched or insincere, but it is definitely a blessing and a curse to feel the amount of passion and adoration and intensity that I do, as there is a flip side, where my lows can get pretty low. I am sensitive, get hurt easily and deeply and hold onto pain that perhaps others can compartmentalize or shed.

The way I felt this morning, when my son tried to find my nook in which to rest his head…

I don’t even have the worst to describe the swell I feel inside my chest right now.

After finishing his milk, he and his sister played a little bit with some toys, before discovering an enormous cardboard delivery box in our entry way (our Amazon subscription fulfilment) and they crawled in an did all of the things that children do with a cardboard box. They had the best time together, squealing with laughter. And I didn’t even think to reach for my phone to snap a picture of their cuteness. I just watched, savoring this moment, branding it to my memory.

Now, I am guilty of sitting in front a screen while my children play. In fact, my daughter asked what I was doing and I said, “I am blogging.” and she said, “Oh. Mommy, Ever After?” as I recently explained to her what it is that I do.

But I have put down the laptop several times to watch them, to answer their questions, and to thank my daughter when she walked past me and said, “You look very beautiful. Well, you are my mom.”

I am going to try to be better about this moving forward, as I will certainly feel the itch to snap and share once I have my phone back (though J and my husband have decided that I am strictly forbidden from using my phone until it has one of those crazy, bulky protective cases).

Now, this is in direct conflict with the blog and brand I am trying to build; I constantly need to snap featured images for my posts, and sometimes that takes time, as you may have noticed, on my public site and Instagram account I do not post photos of their faces, but instead, they are a bit hidden.

(By the way, I realize that I broke my cardinal rule in the featured photo of myself of my site, as I asked the tech people at Brand Revive if they could “please Photoshop out the baby from that picture?”, which I guess they could not, as there is a baby on my lap, but you don’t know if that is my baby or a stunt baby, so I feel a bit less disloyal to myself.)

But I am going to try to snap the cute or funny or powerful photos when I see the moments happening, and then put down the phone. I can edit them later. They can wait to be posted.

I said that I was going to strive to be a better person, and while I am not attaching any value judgement to the use of smartphones and screens in child rearing, for me, I truly am not, I know that for me, personally, I am able to be more attentive when I am not trying to type and post.

And on that note, my kids are playing together with a cardboard princess castle and I am going to sit on the floor and join them, with my lap top closed and put away.

And since I typed that last sentence, they started to fight over the castle.

But this is life, folks. And I have to live it.

No. Let me correct that.

I want to.

The post i’MHERE. appeared first on Mommy Ever After.

I don’t think I am particularly unique.

I do not have a tree in my house, nor do we celebrate in any religious way. My child attends a Jewish preschool at a Synagogue. But Christmas is just the best. It’s CHRISTMAS!

I have gotten to experience true Christmas twice in my life:

The first was centered around my sister. On Christmas of 1987, I sat on Santa’s lap at Disneyland and asked for a baby sister. A week shy of one year later and I got my present. My sister was born and we had a baby nurse taking care of her that insisted my parents let us celebrate the holiday. So, one time, I woke up Christmas morning in my own house and crept downstairs to find presents in the fireplace.

That was nice.

Do you know what was not nice? The next year, when my parents refused to continue celebrating Christmas, which was not easy for a five year old to understand. Not that I’m bitter or anything.

My next Christmas was the best Christmas. It was everything that you could dream of when thinking of the enchantment of the holidays. I wrote once before about my Christmas memories when I spent the holidays with my former boyfriend’s family in the Mid Hudson River Valley of New York. Christmas Eve was spent with his entire mom’s family, eating Italian food and then attending mass. I got to return home to a house decked out beyond belief; lights, carolers, Poinsettias, the works. We woke up Christmas morning and all gathered around the tree. It was my boyfriend’s parents, his two brothers and the two of us. I still remember everything, despite the fact that that Christmas was now over ten years ago. I remember every gift I received, how I had my own, most beautiful April Cornell stocking, and how we spent the day feasting on Christmas brunch and napping and playing board games and enjoying family. I write about this so fondly because my boyfriend’s mother and I are still great friends. I am so lucky. It is not just that she is incredibly kind, endlessly warm and the best baker of Christmas cookies ever ever ever; she and I have always shared a special bond. In fact, she just sent me this photo from their Christmas this year, where the stuffed Santa moose I brought to them is still used and I am thought of fondly. I feel very blessed.

But, alas, I have accepted the fact that I married another Member of the Tribe, we are dedicated to our religion and no longer get to celebrate Christmas.

Or so I thought.

Because as I have learned this year, there is not one right way of doing things. And this year, I decided to celebrate. Jesus was not involved. But it was cozy and warm and about family; the one we have created for ourselves.

On Christmas Day, we celebrated with longstanding plans with our dear friends. The four kids wore matching, holiday-themed pajamas and the older kids built and decorated gingerbread houses and, yes, we ordered Chinese Takeout. We exchanged gifts; I gave the 3.5 year old boy a Sofia the First Karaoke machine. I am the best. We had holiday music playing and a fake fire roaring on our flat screen. And all we kept saying was how nice it was to have something so special to do on Christmas; how we want to make it our tradition. So now, I get to celebrate Christmas again. I have Christmas to look forward to.

On Saturday, my group of childhood friends and I had our Pollyanna Cookie Party. Lord bless them, as I started planning this before Thanksgiving and I must have sent at least 50 emails about it. I was enthusiastic, ok?

So, the idea to do a Pollyanna was a fun one, but there was one fairly large problem: How would we choose the names when we all live apart and would not be together until the 27th?

Here is what I came up with:

I wrote down all of our names and put them in a hat (there are 8 of us). I then wrote a list of each person on a separate pad of paper. Then, I  had my brother in law draw the names and write down who got whom. My brother in law then texted a photo of the list to my sister, who knows all of my friends. She then sent out secret emails to each of us telling us who our secret person would be. I mean…pretty amazing, right? And the coolest part was that we really kept it secret. My husband and I truly had no one idea whom the other had (and frankly, I was really surprised by his recipient, as I had guessed it was someone else!)

But more than just exchanging gifts and eating cookies (that had sea salt and bacon, thank you very much), we all piled on my living room rug as a family, a group that has stuck together through (many of us through elementary, middle and high school, and) this last year and bonded like never before. We have had countless dinners and dates and we even welcomed a whole new member into our tribe. I became an aunt.

The sentiment that echoed among all of the the guests at the cookie party was the same; we have to do this again next year. 

My friends are all very busy; they have important jobs and hectic lives; doctors, lawyers, government workers, bankers, business owners, sales reps, accountants…and a writer, who is just trying to get her little old site off of the ground using all of her might and all of her feathers. But the fact that we could take a few hours to all be together, celebrating nothing but ourselves, was my greatest gift.

So this year wasn’t presents in the fireplace,

nor was it a cozy morning around the tree,

but it was ours.

And I will hold it and cherish it and never let it go.

(Not even to my secret santa.)

The post That which is ours. appeared first on Mommy Ever After.