you will know that I am an enormous fan of the person and musician named Brett Dennen. You might know that my favorite song is “Sydney (I’ll Come Running)” because of it’s profound meaning to me. Or that I cover his song “Make You Fall in Love With Me” with my band, Fox & the Hounds.

If you know me in real life, you will know that I don’t just love his albums for the quality of the music, but because they have lifted me up during some of my lowest times while enduring my “Hard Story”;

Or this amazing story, during the height of my postpartum, and how, so serendipitously, the liner notes for “Smoke and Mirrors” read, “This album is dedicated to those who might have lost their way but found it again from within.”

Well, it has been a great ride following this person.

And then, he liked my Instagram photo.

Did you catch that?

Oh, hi, Brett Dennen.

Brett Dennen, himself, liked my Instagram photo. Sure he has favorited my tweets; yeah, he called me out for having a “beautiful voice” during his last acoustic show in Wilmington, DE; but when I saw this, I really think that my heart stopped. And I can hardly type, I am so shaky. I am a total nerdy fangirl right now.

This particular gesture means so much to me because it has to do with my kids, both of whom share my love for Brett Dennen.

My daughter likes to play “I’m Kristina Jackson“, Brett’s beautiful partner who is also an incredible natural foods chef and “holistic guru”.

We are both totally nerdy fangirls. But it’s OK. We totally own it.

Because that’s what Brett’s music is all about; be who you are, make no apologies, live your best life.

So today will forever be the day when I woke up from a two hour nap, walked in my daughter’s room to see her listening to Brett Dennen on the iPad, posted a photo on Instagram

and had Brett Dennen like it.

The end.

The post Oh, hi, Brett Dennen. 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.

So, this morning, I rummaged the back of the drawer in my bedroom in search of something that I have not seen for two and a half years; my journal.

I bought my journal from Borders, when it used to exist, and the first entry was written by my husband. We were just dating at the time, but met on a work lunch break and he left me a little note.

I used this journal to work on my thesis.

and then in 2012 I used it as my sacred songwriting book, as I spent half a year involved in a musical partnership; I had a talented musician to write the music and I wrote the words.

 It was actually with great pause that I decided to include a page from those particular songwriting days. And the page you see is truly the most legible of all of the notes; the dozens of other pages from that summer are filled with crossed out lines and ink of different colors and notes in the margins and many words are barely readable.

And then, that collaboration ended.

And I was lucky enough to find a new, most fantastic musical home. I found the place where I belong.

In any case, I broke out my journal this morning so that I could write an entry about the new year. I would write about how 2014 was extraordinary in so many ways, and about my hopes for 2015.

But, as I started to write, the one pen that I had that is the kind that I like (I like pushy pens, not the ones with wet ink), kept stalling on me, and I decided that perhaps it wasn’t meant to be; Because, in truth, this has become my journal. This is where I share my deep secrets and fears and most intimate works of writing.

Over the weekend I wrote about being very moved when I took my daughter to see “Into the Woods”.

 Ever since that Sunday matinee, this one line has stuck in my head and I can’t stop singing it:

Sometimes people leave you.
Halfway through the wood.
Others may deceive you.
You decide whats good.
You decide alone.
But no one is alone…

The post I can decide what is good (and I can be good in the process). appeared first on Mommy Ever After.

My son woke up late, as a treat, and my daughter followed me into his room to change his morning diaper.

“Today is the day!” she beamed.

“I know! Today is the cookie party!” I answered, referring to our plans for the special Pollyanna party with our best friends.

“No!” She cried. “Today, Bubbie and Zeydie come home from St. John!”

My parents have been away for two weeks. Despite our best efforts to make up for our missed trip, she missed her grandparents an extraordinary amount.

They spoke on the phone every day, and, evidently, on one such conversation, hatched a plan for her to have a sleepover at their house on the night of their return. It didn’t matter that they wouldn’t land until nearly 5:30, when we usually start bedtime at 6, or that they had just been gone for two weeks and had a long day of travel; they all needed this date.

She counted down the hours.

Fortunately, she was able to fill her day with plenty of fun; a trip to the library to see zoo animals and out to lunch with her friend (who, as of yesterday, may be her boyfriend. There was a kiss.); our Pollyanna party with a house filled with best friends and more cookies than any of of us could count.

But she had her eye on the prize.

I got a text from my dad shortly after five letting me know that they had landed and I told my daughter.

She threw her hands up in the air and shouted, “I’m free!”

(Whatever that means.)

When the party broke up, she went up to her room and she packed her suitcase with care, and the help of her GodMama , who had stuck around post-party,

as my husband drove to get my parents from the airport and her godfather and I cleaned up the kitchen.

And, finally, after a seemingly endless two weeks, Bubbie and Zeydie walked through our front door. Both of my kids freaked out, but the excitement between my parents and my daughter was incredible. With barely a glance behind her, she went off to their house for their date.

I didn’t hear from her the rest of the night (except for a quick call to say “Goodnight”) but I did follow her evening on Instagram, courtesy of my dad.

First, there was a bubble bath; then, spooky stories in Bubbie and Zeydie’s bed; then morning episodes of “Scooby Doo” in bed and making pancakes with Zeydie and doing laundry with Bubbie.

She was so happy, as for her, my parents are a part of her sense of home. 

I was up in my bedroom with my son when she got home. I heard small footsteps coming up the stairs and heard my door open slowly.

“Your missing puzzle piece is back!” she said, and climbed onto the bed and into my arms.

How could one child hold so much wisdom; so much love?

From where does she get these things?

“How was your time?” I asked.

“Amazing.” She said, telling me stories, some true, some potentially “elaborated”, like shaving with Zeydie (true), playing the Mermaid game with Bubbie (true) and staring at her brother’s picture and wanting to cry but being able to take a deep breath to hold back the tears (ummmm…).

And she is right; my missing puzzle piece is back. But so are my other missing puzzle pieces. Because as much as I am a grown up, it is nice to have my parents back, around the corner.

And then, today, I met another parenting milestone; I took my daughter to the movies all by myself. This is something that most parents with children my daughter’s age have probably done with great ease and frequency, but for me, it was a marker of how far I have come in the past year. This week a year ago I was at my lowest. Today, I was a grown up, a mom, sharing a popcorn and Sour Patch Kids with my little girl, so that I could expose her to one of my all-time favorite musicals that has been made into a movie.

If you have been a reader here from the beginning, you may recall that at four months old, I showed my daughter the filmed stage version of “Into the Woods” with Bernadette Peters and the kid was mesmerized. One point for “Nature” there.

When I found out that it was being made into a movie (and with some of my favorite actors) I (not surprisingly) freaked out and had awaited it’s release eagerly. And I decided that I would try, today, to take my daughter to see this movie with me.

She and I often watch clips from the aforementioned filmed stage version, as she loves the opening number and “Moments in the Woods”. For that particular choice, we may give a point to “Nurture”.

I found myself extremely emotional during the film. First of all, I thought it was excellent. Second of all, the music is incredibly evocative for me and “The Baker’s Wife” is my dream role. But, most poignantly, I was hit with a case of the feels every time that the movie made a point about parenthood. There I was, my daughter snuggled up next to me in a dark theater, listening to Meryl Streep singing,

The post Nurture, Nature and “Into the Woods”. 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.

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