And by friends, I mean everyone.

It’s called Pinterest.

J has been trying to get me to join for years and I finally just took the plunge. I have 1 board, 3 pins and 0 followers. It actually took me 10 minutes to figure out how to follow Jordan.

I actually don’t even know how to find my own Pinterest page. Hold on, let me try.

Okay, I found it. Mommy, Ever After on Pinterest. It is currently the worst Pinterest account ever, but I will work on it. I promise.

I was a late to join Instagram as well, and now I love it. In fact, I think it was J who was also behind that leap towards the future.

So yesterday I posted a picture (that is filtered horribly, might I add) from my favorite store.

J just texted me about this picture, in fact:

So, once again, J to the rescue. They are holding the fox for me.

(I called up and said “Hi, I am looking for an item that I should have purchased yesterday but didn’t, and it’s on the left hand side of the store and it may be in a section of silver things and it is a fox, but kind of a swirly fox.”)

But J is right, I really do have to get it.

Anyway, so now I almost up to date with all of the cool kids, and will be adding to my Pinterest page regularly if you want to follow me (if that’s how it works).

The next and final step is happening in 28 days; Emojis. I don’t have Emojis.

I said I was going to wait until I turn 30.

So for now, my friends have to get texts from me that look like this: :-*

Slowly but surely, as they say. Or, I am sure there is a much more eloquent way to express that sentiment.

I bet I can find it on Pinterest.

The post Pinterest. appeared first on Mommy Ever After.

So, when I heard this song, I was moved, immediately, and sent messages to my husband, and to J, for different reasons; because CSNY was our first concert together and because my inner spirit is a peace sign to her.

Tumbleweed, your inner spirit is a peace sign to me
Life is full of little tricks and we can always pick up sticks
And build again, that’s what we do

Harmony, the way we hold on when we tumble though the night
Life is full of strange delights, in the darkness we find lights
To make our way, back home again

Tumbleweed, I’m baring my soul to you
Tumbleweed, it’s all that I’ve got that’s true

Bite me now, with your confusion, your happiness and delight
It will only hurt a moment, then it’s gone and you can see
There’s nothing left, to leave a mark

Animal, care for your kind, in the way you always do
When the flower moon is shining, it’s eclipse and your lips smiling
Comfort me and I comfort you

It is interesting; when I heard the acoustic version of this song on the “Coffeehouse” station this morning, it was sung as “Tumbleweed, your inner spirit is a peace sign to me.” and that is the same diction used in the official listing of the song lyrics. However, in the link above, which is considered the video for the song, the lyrics are changed to “Tumbleweed, your inner beauty is a peace sign to me.”

I will take either.

Also on “Coffeehouse” I heard this old classic, about which I texted my main band bro, saying, “We should totally do this song!” and then proceeded to belt it out, emoting greatly, publicly, on Lancaster Avenue.

My drive took me to Vivi G. shoes in Eagle Village. It was the coldest day in recent memory, but I wanted to get my flip flop on.

I have mentioned recently that I am just finally starting to very, very slowly replace a few items from my lost shoe collection and I was so lucky that my girl, Jen, owner of Vivi G., hooked me up with my sandal start. But I also managed to have a little fun…

After my quick shoe shopping trip, I had a much more profound trip down memory lane. I met up for tea with an old friend. All that I can and will say is that this person was once very special to me, and though I have not seen her in closer to two decades than one, she now means more to me than ever. She is what I call a Unicorn; she is someone who is, if you can believe it, equally beautiful inside and out. Her inner spirit is a peace sign to me.

 The rest of my day was spent doing regular, every day things. I went to the bank. I picked up an entire roll of tinfoil off of my first floor. I spoke on the phone with my friends.

And when it came time to do bedtime, my daughter asked if she could read along with us.

My kid is reading and it is really cool.

I, meanwhile, could barely read “Fox in Socks”, despite the fact that I consider myself to be a master at tongue twisters (I even teach classes on the things!) and definitely said some inappropriate words. Sorry, Dr. Seuss.

We somehow made it through the Tweedle Beetle Battle and cuddled up and talked her favorite subject, once again: the plans for her upcoming birthday party. “We could do a swimming party,” she said. Her birthday is April 18. “Where are we going to be able to have a swimming party?” I asked.

“Miami!”

I held her to me and did want to let go.

I chose a new lullaby for my daughter tonight. “Kiss Me”. I thought she would like it.

I was right.

And a few minutes ago, long after we tucked her into bed, as I was working on gathering the music for this post, she came to my door and said,

“Keep on playing it,” she whispered. “It’s amazing.”

Her inner beauty is a peace sign to me.

The post Your inner spirit is a peace sign to me. 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.

Earlier this year I had even decided that it would be the car in which my daughter would learn to drive.

I loved my car.

I loved that it was recognizable and a little famous around town, because of the pink peace sign decal on it’s cute little behind;

I loved that it was the first car that I negotiated myself when I was 21 (I was so tenacious that Shareef, my salesman, had to bring his manager in to deal with me).

I loved that it was the car in which we drove both of our babies home from the hospital;

Many memories.

But, as you may recall, it was recently hit by a beer distribution truck, leaving it with gashes along the driver’s side and a rear of falling-off-pieces, which is as technical as I can get when describing car parts.

So while it spent three weeks in the shop being put back together, my husband suggested that perhaps we should consider selling the car, as it would be in pristine condition and, at almost 10 years old, the perfect age to “retire”, before it started having any major, expensive problems.

At first, I was adamant. I would never sell my car. It meant so much to me.

But as someone who is not a car person as I am sentimental person, I tried to think rationally.

Because as much as I loved my car, and as many memories as it held, it wasn’t my first.

Which made me think, “If I could sell my precious first car, a car with so much history, then maybe I can sell this one, too.”

You see, my first car was my 17th birthday gift from my parents, which I realize makes me an incredibly lucky kid. It was a little black sedan with a kelly green double pinstripe (upon my request) and I got it when they drove it to my play practice with a red bow across the hood.

I have many memories of my little black car, like driving it with my girlfriends on trips to the shore and sneaking out during free periods in High School to move it so that I would avoid a parking ticket for exceeding the two hour limit.

But, there is one main memory about my black car that is more of a feeling than a snapshot; a state of existence; of being so young and free.

And here it is.

During our late Junior and all of Senior years of high school, my best friend and I spent hours driving around in my car. I am always cold, so I kept my car at the “Max High” temperature setting, which meant that my best friend, who is always warm, would literally hang her head out of her window to try to be able to breathe (we are compatible in every way besides temperature). We blasted Cat Stevens and sang along to “Wild World”. For the holidays our senior year she bought me a special device that plugged into the ashtray/charging port that made the whole car smell like “Warm Vanilla Sugar” from Bath and Body Works.

I got pulled over only once in that car, prom weekend, and it was for making a left hand turn without a signal in front of a cop in Longport, New Jersey. He did not give me a ticket. I drove straight to Wawa and bought myself a Shortie hoagie, extra meat.

When I was in college, and visiting my husband at his job, I pulled into his office building parking lot and drove directly into a bright yellow parking pole.

I drove it to and from my college, which was three and a half hours away, and it was sturdy and comfortable and totally mine.

But when I was able to get a new, bigger, nicer car upon graduation, I was ecstatic. As I said, I pulled out of the parking lot of the dealership, thinking, “I am never selling this car. This car will be mine forever.” Because in my mind, it couldn’t get any better.

And then, things happened. Life happened. And as much as I hate to admit this, my precious car started to have more bad associations than good. It was in that car that I had terribly upsetting conversations, and scary drives to the hospital and while it was in the shop, I realized that perhaps this new chapter in my life would have to include saying goodbye to a real, tangible symbol of the past one.

My husband, who is obsessed with cars,

(he has had five different vehicles since we have been together),

found his dream car, and we would be able to buy it by selling mine.

So I made the decision; I would take his car, a cool, three row SUV that we purchased literally for Twin and Go Go when they visited last February, as we realized that when we added a human to our family, we would no longer be able to all fit in one, regular car.

I am not kidding when I say that it was nearly a year ago when I took both kids with me, picked up Twin and Go from the airport and drove straight to the car dealership, where we met my husband and drove away with this new seven-seater.

This was definitely a step up from the time that they visited our daughter when she was three months old, and she peed on me in the backseat of my old SUV. See? My car. My best friends. My memories.

So I texted my husband one day last month while he was at work.

“You can get the car.” I said.

I would sell my beloved car so that he could buy his dream car.

And that is because

my car was far less beloved to me than it ever used to be

and

he was far more.

I was resigned to my decision, and at peace with it, but it was emotional, nonetheless.

Getting ready for my last drive, I decided to snap a few shots for posterity.

Like my faded old sticker that was my parking permit for Grad School.

And the tapes that I used to keep in my console (because my car still had a tape deck).

And, finally, the dusty old outline from the peace sign magnet. That magnet was coming with me. Somehow that imprint survived all of the detailing a the body shop; if you look closely, you can still see it.

And off we drove to the car dealership, at dusk, both of my kids in the backseat of my car for my last ride.

And as we drove, I cried. I cried happy, for the chance at this fresh start;

But, to be honest, I also cried sad. Just a little bit. I was saying goodbye to an old friend.

But, just as it always does, life goes on. And my son was babbling in the carseat behind me and my daughter asked me if we could listen to Red Hot Chili Peppers “Dani California”.

And so we did. Three times.

And we belted out those soaring choruses, banging our heads, and dancing in our seats, and I realized,

it is time for new memories to be made.

Before we drove off of the lot, the kids and I in my seven seater,

my husband in his new, sporty little racecar,

I went back to my old car one more time and touched it. I said a silent “Thank You” for I don’t really know what, but I wanted to bid it a proper goodbye.

It had meant a lot to me.

When I got home that night, I got a text from my best friend:

“Look at what is on the radio!!!” it read.

Oh baby baby it’s a wild world,
And I’ll always remember you like a child, girl.

We may no longer have the small, vanilla scented Camry or even the same life,

but what we have now is so much better.

Here’s to old friends, new cars, fresh starts

and belting out songs at the top of our lungs as we drive down the road.

This road and that.

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“What we call the beginning is often the end. And to make an end is to make a beginning. The end is where we start from.”
-T.S. Eliot, one of my favorites.

Last night before bed I scanned my night table for my glasses, and took a minute to note what I keep there, next to me, as I sleep.
I don’t have much, but everything is meaningful. I have one of my crystals (of course).
I have a mirrored frame, containing a small piece of art that reads “I am my beloved’s and my beloved is mine.”
In the far back corner, hidden behind a silver carved wood box, I have a feather or two and (don’t judge me, please) my lucky purple underwear, folded and twisted up into a tiny little knot. Unidentifiable to anyone but me. My protection symbols. Ok. I know it’s weird. Whatever.
I have a photograph of Ernest Hemingway, older and bearded, writing at his desk.
And tucked away, behind it all, I have a few pieces from the hospital. They remind me of where I have been, where I no longer wish to be, and where I hope to go.

The pins are from a night earlier in my stay, when I was doing a partial hospitalization outpatient program and staying in a beautiful local boutique hotel. My dear, kind, amazing friend came up one night to sleep over with me, so that I would not be alone. Since my hospital was located a few miles from a lovely, quintessential college town, I met my girl at 6:30 that night, once my program for the day had ended, and we spent the evening walking around, through the college apparel shops, the pharmacy, clothing stores and savoring every second in their real, actual book store. We don’t have many (if any) of those around anymore. I must have lingered in the far back right corner between Hemingway and Fitzgerald for a good 10 minutes, just running my hands across the spines of “in Our Time” and “A Farewell to Arms” and “An Immoveable Feast”, like I wanted to inhale them.
At the checkout counter, they had these silly little pins for $1 each. We each picked out a couple, and I keep mine by my bed, because they make me smile. They make me think of this time of great transformation, but also of my great fortune to have a friend who would drive all the way to another state, after a long day of work, to spend 12 hours in a hotel room with me, just so that I wouldn’t have to sleep by myself.
There is also a beaded bracelet, that I accidentally made too big during a Sunday morning art therapy session while I was inpatient. I remember stringing each bead on carefully, knowing, as I did it, that I wold save this simple, silly little craft forever.
I guess subconsciously I keep these things, this strange collage of items, in the place that is closest to me as I rest,
hoping for healing, protection and guidance;
that somehow some of the powers of the crystals, and the safety of the feathers and the weight of the hospital stay and the wisdom of Hemingway and the reminder of eternal love will seep into me during slumber.
Hey, who knows how these things work.
Each night as I fall asleep I pray for a new beginning the next day; a new place from which to start. And, if nothing else, I can always rest easy knowing that, undoubtedly, Tulips are better than one.

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