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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Happy #InternationalDayofHappiness

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

And, if not, that’s OK, too.

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

#IAmLivingProof

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

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

As we headed back for my test, my heart racing, my stomach turning, I admitted to the bubbly, kind tech that I am a bad combination: I am claustrophobic and a hypochondriac. She laughed, in a warm and kind way, and assured me that there was nothing to worry about. “I just have bad anxiety,” I told her, as I was putting my belongings into a locker by the MRI room.

We got into the room, she put a fresh sheet of tissue on the table and then she said, “Before you go in, I just have to tell you a story. Long story short…” and then went on, and I am not exaggerating, to tell me a ten minute story about how her son started to get weird neurological symptoms, including screaming fits, twitching, the inability to balance, sleep or brush his teeth and she was sure he had a brain tumor, being an MRI tech and all. AND, he also had anxiety. They took him to many hospitals and finally, through a special program, he was diagnosed with Encephalitis, the source of all of his symptoms. Including the anxiety. So basically, she spent ten minutes telling me why I should be more worried. I actually got a bit woozy at one point and sat down (there is only so much you can hear about the blood and brain) but when I finally got in the MRI machine I actually started to laugh. It was so ridiculous that I just had to laugh.

2. Speaking of my MRI, I had to take out my new ear piercing, just two days after I had it done, as there is no metal allowed. I tried to put it back in last night and it didn’t work well. So my husband re-pierced my ear. I feel like this might not have been a great idea.

3. Today, someone pointed to my son and asked, “Oh, so you’re the babysitter?” (Score!)

4. This week, I received the most incredible support from the most incredible friends, near and far. I felt very loved and for that I feel very blessed. I was able to ask questions, ask for help, tell seemingly endless and boring stories at times, and other times, I did not have to say anything at all.  #friendshipisthickerthanblood

Speaking of friends, this, the whole dress debacle that seemed to dominate the internet last night, caused me great anxiety. I asked my one bestie, the neuropsychologist, why our brains would make us see things so differently (she saw gold and white; her husband, my husband and I all saw blue and black). I tried to explain to her what white looks like to me: I said it is a light color, whereas black is a dark color, like the sky outside at nighttime. She asked me if I saw marshmallows as black; I asked my other bestie if this was a sign of the apocalypse. I was seriously scared. Thank gd she has a survival kit.

5. This morning felt like a mom-win.

I made three different breakfasts for three different dependents, because my one child does not eat strawberries or muffins and the other won’t eat blueberries or eggs.

and then there was this one. Have I mentioned that we hand make all of her meals?

Then, I packed a lunch and decided to write a note for my daughter that she could read by herself (because she’s really taking off in her reading and it is so cool!) So I tried to make it easy, and use a picture like they do in the BOB books.

Except, I can’t draw. My husband makes the most amazing lunch notes, but this morning it was on me.

Let me see if you can figure out what I was trying to convey with this masterpiece here:

Finally, my last moment of heart-exploding pride came when it came time for my daughter to leave for school.

I mean, the newsboy cap; the kiss; the chunky thighs; the love.

And those are a handful of things that are on my mind.

So, what color did you see?

(Just kidding. I do NOT want to know.)

The post A handful of things appeared first on Mommy Ever After.

Today, however, is a day that I will never forget. And that because today was one of my best days as a parent; one of the best times of my life.

Let me first tell you a story.

Six months ago, my daughter woke up one morning and told me that she was ready to get her ears pierced. I had been encouraging her, so I was excited, and picked her up from camp with my mom, her J, who is her godmother, those pastel colored mint nonpareils and many promises of things that she would desire.

We trekked through the mall and found the piercing station, signed all of the paperwork, picked out the earrings and then my daughter completely freaked out. Like, epic, screaming, wailing, terrified of the marker freak out. She was, evidently, not ready. #fail.

It is a subject that has come up on and off since the summer and the conversation has always ended with, “You know what? I am not quite ready yet. I will get my ears pierced when I am ready.”

This morning, out of nowhere, my daughter woke up, came into my room and said, “Mom, I am ready,” with great conviction.

We talked about it and she didn’t back down.

And then, I had a minor anxiety attack. Because of logistics and the hours during which I have my sitter, I  knew that I would have to get her ears pierced around lunch time or a bit after so that I could go without the baby, as I had childcare during those hours only. My daughter attends school 9am-3pm. The idea occurred to me that I could keep her home from school today (I looked at the temperature on my phone and it read 5 degrees) for a special date. But for some reason this made me feel like a bad mother.

I consulted with my husband. I asked my best friends for their opinions. I asked J, who is, among many other specialties, a licensed child psychologist. I posted the question in the incredible Mommy, Ever After community group. “Am I wrong to keep my daughter home from school today to get her ears pierced?” My anxieties were not about academics (she is doing just fine) or the social component (she loves school and has many friends) but for some reason I feared that by keeping her home for no reason would give her school anxiety. And then I thought back to my childhood, when my mom would give me and my sister “mental health days”. My sister and I both went to graduate school, she is an award winning journalist, and neither of us feared school or had trouble making friends or keeping up. The response that I received from my friends was a rousing, “Yes! Keep her home! There is nothing to worry about!” (By the way, in case you are reading this and happen to be one of her teachers, please know that a big part of my anxiety was due to the fact I value and adore you to no end).

So I took a deep breath and emailed the school and said that my daughter would be absent today.

This afternoon, while the baby was at being watched, I had a date with my daughter. On our drive to the mall we had incredible conversations. We talked about being nervous and about how important it is to not let our fears stop us from doing things that we want to do. I did not want to give her any of my phobias, but she already knows that I don’t like snakes, so I used that as an example. “Even though I don’t like snakes, I love to hike in the woods and be in nature,” I explained to her. And this lead to a great conversation about animal classifications and I was able to teach her the difference between mammals, reptiles and amphibians.

A few times during the drive she told me that she was nervous, but we kept repeating our mantra, which was “sometimes things scare us, but we won’t let them stop us!”

My daughter was a rock star today. We went to the piercing place, and although she was very apprehensive, she didn’t back down. The one caveat was that I had to get a piercing first to show her that it does not hurt. (This, I now realize, was an incredibly wise move the day before I am getting an MRI.)

For her earrings, my girl picked out pink stones in the shape of a heart, and had me choose a shining pink heart as well.

“We will be twins!” My own heart was bursting as she sat, stoic and brave, as two women pierced her ears, giving her a sparkling heart in each ear.

She did it.

We celebrated with a special date and I told her I was proud of her as many times as I kissed her (which is a lot).

And then I realized something so important; my earlier anxiety was in vain;

Today, my daughter missed a day of preschool and although she loves her teachers and classmates, she will get to see them every week day until June.

But today my daughter learned something that is impossible to teach without doing.

Sometimes things scare us but we won’t let them stop us.

Today, she learned to trust her instincts; she learned that she was braver than she realized; she learned that I will always have her back; she learned that the world has many things that are scary, but that we can, if we are lucky, conquer our fears.

Today was one of those parenting milestones that I will never forget.

Sometimes things scare us but we won’t let them stop us.

And in a home that is already filled with love, there is still always room for three more hearts.

The post I will never forget. 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.

My experience in September changed my life–my entire being–in many ways, both tangible and intangible, large and small. I remembered things about myself that I had forgotten and discovered things that I had never known.

Today, I am trying out a new avenue for physical help. I have no idea what it is going to be like. Fortunately, this is not the same thing as my program in September, and it is local, but I am extremely nervous (hence the sleeplessness). One thing that I admitted last night (and then over email to a friend this morning) is that a thought that I am using as motivation for today is the fact that I will be able to, at some points throughout the day, eat a meal with two hands and go to the bathroom alone. As someone said last night, this is a time when I am putting my oxygen mask on first. And you can be sure that I am getting those oxygen makes over the tiny faces of my kids, but I will be able to do so with fresh air filling my lungs. I wouldn’t be able to do so while feeling sick and passing out.

I am nervous for today–for all of this, really. I had weird dreams last night; They weren’t all so terrible, but in every one I was uncomfortable in some way. In one, I was on a long elevator ride, something that used to be my phobia; In another I had to swim; In another, someone whom I love said something that was supposed to be nice to me, yet made me feel bad; And, I am not kidding, I had one dream in which a venue manager (or someone like that) was talking to me about scheduling a performance for me with my band, but he said he didn’t like the voice of the lead singer, Brett Dennen.

There is a lot more that I want to write, and a lot more people I want to thank, but I am going to take these last 20 minutes before my alarm and cuddle up in the darkness of my room. I put a lot of pressure on myself to makes sure that I have enough published or that I am generating new and varying content on this site (I said in a private message yesterday that this is so unlike me; That I am not at all “Type A”, I am “Type Sparkly”) but it is because this, this right here, means so much to me. And I want it to succeed.

And by succeed I mean I want to help people every day. That is a lofty goal, I realize, but I am going to try.

Well, I guess I am off to a good start, because getting this out, these feelings of incredible vulnerability, is freeing. So I have helped one person today, already.

I have helped myself.

The post Help, Healing and Hope. appeared first on Mommy Ever After.

Then, my parents took  my daughter to see her new favorite movie, I picked up the cake for my husband’s birthday tomorrow (more on that later; he actually reads this blog so I don’t want to spoil the surprise) and I awkwardly told the girl behind the counter of the bake shop, “Ok, bye, love you!” I apologized and we laughed.

We had some things to pick up and I had a few gifts to purchase so we went to a store, despite the absolutely torrential rainstorm outside.

As I walked into the store, I saw something from afar that I thought might work for a gift, but as I got closer, I lost my breath.

Now, see below, at what I had written not 4 hours before.

And not only did I write it, but I had included a footnote about to whom I should attribute this quote, as there is great controversy over it’s origin and author.

Sometimes you just can’t explain things; The universe sends you messages and you choose whether you want to believe in them or not.

I believe.

***

Be kind, for everyone you meet is fighting a hard battle.

My hands are running back and forth across the keyboard. I know what I want to say, I am just not sure how to properly convey the message so that it is as clear as I desire for it to be.

This quote is one of many that resonates with me, and I am fortunate enough that I have some very special girlfriends with whom I trade inspirational quotes, poems and photos via text, almost daily.

I write on this site all about my own struggles. My physical and mental issues. My battles.

But there is something that you may not know.

Every single day I receive several private messages that are written differently, but that have the same underlying theme, and that is this: “I wasn’t sure if I should write to you, but I feel like we are so similar in so many ways and I can relate and connect to you and your anxieties and struggles.”

Ever single day. And every single one of these messages means an incredible amount to me. I can’t even begin to convey how much they mean to me; every time I read a new note, I share with my husband how touched I am (I do not share the notes, nor anything about the senders or content) but just that I had a dialogue that was very special. So to those of you who have been brave enough to type these notes, thank you. And to those of you who are still on the fence as to whether or not you should reach out to me,

I implore you to please write.

Because you are not alone.

It is amazing how we as humans (and I would say particularly mothers, but I am not at all trying to stereotype or marginalize) are so hard on ourselves. I remember one of the quotes that I sent to a friend, and it was something like “Imagine if we spent the whole day obsessing about the things we liked about ourselves.”

Now anxiety, like most things, has a spectrum, and there are some people who have very little. But really, most people I know feel it, feel it palpably, and it causes a deep feeling of loneliness.

I used this example before in my writing as a hypothetical, but I want to tell you about something very personal to me. Out of respect for others and to keep things as confidential as possible, I am going to be vague about the context, but I was in a group recently in which I raised my hand, frustrated. I expressed my feelings and insecurities. I shared how lonely it felt to feel different.

The facilitator of this group repeated my sentiments to the rest of the room, where there were at least 20 people present, and asked if anyone could relate to my feelings of insecurity, “different-ness”, and loneliness.

Every single hand went up.

Every single hand.

I was shocked.

In my eyes and from my perspective, the things that I was sharing were clearly not applicable to anyone else in the room. But they felt them, too, just as acutely.

That is when I realized, I am not alone.

And why I say

you are not alone.

I have held my nose and jumped in to the deep end of the pool, so to speak (a metaphor my doctor uses) when it comes to being open and honest about my own mental health issues. I share more than most people. But I realize that sharing things–admitting to these vulnerabilities–is terrifying.

But, while I can’t make a 100% guarantee, I strongly, strongly believe that if you share how you are feeling, you will end up feeling better.

Not only will you have said it–the thing that is so hard to say–but you will have said it to someone who can empathize.

You can take it off of you. You don’t have to carry it anymore.

And, at the very least, you can know that by writing, you will have touched another person’s heart.

I so wish that we, as a culture, were more sympathetic to one another. We rally behind so many causes (which is fantastic), but we don’t really take the time to acknowledge the seriousness of our mental health issues.

So if you can take away anything from this post it is this:

The way you feel–that way that you are sure that no one in the world can possibly relate to–is something that so so so so so many of us feel. Sharing those feelings takes bravery, and if you want to start by sharing with me, I can assure you that you will find empathetic ears and a caring heart. You can always Facebook message me or email me at Rebecca@mommyeverafter.com. Again, everything you say remains between us. I am your vault.

But, most of all, I want you to remember this one salient point:

You are not alone.

Just a reminder: I can offer friendship and support, but I am not a medical professional. Please consult with your doctor if you are having a really hard time struggling with your emotions or, simply go to the nearest Emergency Room.

The post You are not alone. 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.

My daughter was pressed up against her bedroom windowpane, her brother by her side, following her motions and mimicking her enthusiasm.

I was folding laundry on her floor, my husband was out picking up Chinese Takeout and the kids were playing on the chairs by the window in her bedroom that faces the street.

She was actually shouting, almost jumping, with excitement.

In this moment, she made it easy to keep my pledge to “cherish the mundane”.

I am so infinitely  grateful for the outpouring of support after I opened up yesterday.

The public “likes” and comments were so meaningful to me, and I thank you to those who shared my words with others. I am humbled.

But I am also supremely grateful for the private messages I received, and the incredibly personal stories that people shared with me. I heard amazing tales of strength and survival from people whom I have known for years and some whom I have not (yet!) met. But, in one such email, when we were bonding over difficulties of the past, I wrote something about how it is really sucky that sometimes we have be so lost in the darkness in order to really see stars; but that when we do, it all seems worth it.

And then, a few hours later, my daughter and son stood side by side, on an ordinary Sunday night, after an ordinary Sunday (a time when, truth be told, I did not get out of my pajamas) and she reminded me of exactly of what I had been trying to convey earlier. Yesterday was hard. It had to revisit my darkest days. But tonight,

tonight, my daughter saw the brilliance of the light outside of her window,

and it was all worth it, indeed.

The post To see the stars. 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.

I made it no secret on here (and in my life) that I was quite nervous about expanding our family. We were a perfect triangle.

I remember taking an autumn trip to the beach house with the fairy godparents and sitting on the couch for hours, literally, listing the reasons why I was scared to have another baby. My bestie and her husband (who is also a bestie, so don’t get it twisted, babe!) do not yet have children of their own, but she is an incredible psychologist, so she was perfect for the job. She sat and talked me through it, holding my hand.  And, wouldn’t you know, as I am typing this I am remembering that she did the exact same thing 10 years before, in the exact same spot of that exact same couch. Obviously the subject matter was different, but we sat on that couch for hours and hours, as she held my hand and we shared secrets and dreams.

In any case, my list of fears about having a second child was scattered. Some of the reasons included:

The repeat C-Section. I loathed my spinal the first time around, as it made me feel paralyzed and unable to breathe (and wasn’t aware that I could opt for an epidural). Selfishly, I was terrified to go through that again.

I had been warned countless times that having two children isn’t double the work, but 100 times the work. That is scary.

And then there was the anxiety; I was nearly crippled by anxiety at times during my first pregnancy, doing “kick counts” and googling things like “Does a baby get hurt by being jumped on by a 25 lb dog?” and “Do blowdryers scare babies in utero?” I also vaguely remember a brief freak out over Tonic Water and the safety of Quinine during pregnancy.

I also had a fear that I could have a crazy, wild, messy, rambunctious, high energy child. I could have a boy.

But, most of all, I feared the change in our family’s shape. We were a perfect triangle; We had our system down, we were a  trio.

(*Note: In trying to come up with the equivalent word that means the same as “pair” but with three people, please be careful with the terms that you Google.)

My daughter was my everything.

(I should mention that as I typed that sentence, she just popped her head into my bedroom door, clad in pink, fuzzy footie PJs and said, “I just needed one more mommy kiss. And after you’re done writing about me, read this Ariel book I gave you. It is the best. And maybe later, I will check up on you, and sneak up on you, very quietly, and give you a new book.” and blew me a kiss.)

With my daughter, everything was magical. Her nursery was an enchanted garden. She had a tutu collection. She was dainty and delicate and darling.

I was scared to push my luck.

And so, that night, that Fall, my friend and I decided that it was clearly not the right time for me to have another baby, and that maybe, one day, I would feel ready.

And I waited. And I waited. And I waited for that day to come.

And then something happened.

We moved into a new house, in my dream neighborhood (where both my husband and I grew up) and all of a sudden, I just felt ready. It took years, but I got there.

He was conceived instantly, came out early, and I loved him instinctively and deeply.

And then all hell broke loose.

I was not able to care for my son in the way that I had for my daughter; I was a wreck, had to be medicated which forced me to wean him at 10 weeks (after having nursed my girl for 18 months) and I completely lost it for awhile.

But, to be honest, it wasn’t because it was hard. It was never really hard having two. I realize that when some people have their children very close together it can be insane. But for me, having a second child was not harder than having one. The bright spot in a bleak year.

Slowly, though, things have changed. And if you read here regularly, I think you will have noticed a perceptible shift in how I write about my son;

I recently declared him to be the best thing that has ever happened to me and I named him as my true strength symbol.

Over the past year I have woken up to many people and many things. I now look at life in a completely different way and hold those dear to me closer than ever before. I tell my friends I love them every day. I try to show my husband, in some way or another, how grateful I am for him. And I adore the hell out of my kids.

Every time I pick up my son, every single time, I kiss his face. I know that despite a rough start to things, he knows that he is loved.

And just like it went with his sister, I have become obsessed with him. Even with all of his crazy antics (and, truth be told, he is literally the personification of the fear I listed above) I gush over his toothy smile and sweet kisses and how he loves to nuzzle into my neck.

And I think I kind of took this change for granted a little, as though it was a natural shift that just happens.

But it didn’t really hit me until Sunday. It was the afternoon and the whole family was in the living room, the Eagles were on the TV, my daughter, husband and I were on the couch and my son was sitting with my brother in law on a chair eating goldfish. The three of us cuddled up and my husband remarked about how cozy and nice it felt. But I didn’t feel that; I felt incomplete. It was like our family’s hole had morphed from a triangle to a square and no other piece would fit. Without my son, we just weren’t whole.

And I didn’t have to force it. Not at all.

***

Believe it or not, despite my depression, I don’t cry a whole lot.

Today, my son and I picked up my daughter from school in the carpool line, and when the door opened and they saw each other, they literally squealed with delight. And she insisted on sitting in the extra booster seat that is right next to his carseat, and my two children were lost in fits of giggles as I watched them through the rear view mirror. And tears streamed down my face.

This was love. Love of the purest kind. Love of the truest nature. My team.

And all I felt was gratitude.

Biologically speaking, we won’t be any new sides to our family’s shape.

But oh my word, how blessed am I that I get to spend my days with this dainty girl who never ever stops talking,

and this sweet boy, who will cause destruction at every chance he can get,

and that when they say, “Mama?” I get to answer.

I am so in love. This is what life is all about.

The post Be there and be square. appeared first on Mommy Ever After.