And I can’t believe how different things are now.

She is no longer in college.

She is no longer a White House Intern; (Though we now stay in touch with her former boss from that summer, as he has become a dear family friend.)

She is no longer traveling abroad on the reg.

But, some things never change.

***

Today, I introduced my kids to Grease for the first time.

I am lucky enough that my daughter is just young enough that anything inappropriate goes over her head (she was completely oblivious to the cigarette smoking, shockingly, and does not even come close to getting any references to drugs or sex).

I did, however, have to explain the premise to her; I said, “Imagine that we were away in St. John and you made a best friend and you were sooooo sad when we had to leave because you thought you would never see your friend again…and then you ended up both going to the same school, and you didn’t even realize it.”

She was a bit hesitant. Her loyalties are to Into the Woods and Rent and I respect that, because, come on, they are genius in completely different ways, but Grease…it’s Grease!

I told her to wait for the first song; I told her that I thought she would like it.

And oh, she suddenly transformed, in an instant, from The Baker’s Wife into Sandy.

It didn’t matter that we had spent this entire snow day acting out Into the Woods 172 times, or that she stood at the sink for a half an hour “preparing things to bake”, or that she told me, at one point, that she was pregnant.

She was now Sandy!

And I don’t blame her, because

It may be four and a half years later,

so much may have changed,

but,

still,

Grease is the word.

#pinkladiesforever

The post “Tell me more, Tell me more.” appeared first on Mommy Ever After.

Which means that I had to get really clever, myself.

My daughter, the method actress, is enamored with Into the Woods.

We act out scenes from the musical every day, rotating parts; We watch clips from the movie and the staged version on Youtube and the XBox1; We sing every song.

So I know that she is completely obsessed

and with knowledge comes power.

You see, I have this insight because I am also a crazy musical theatre fan, and throughout my life, since I was two years old, I have been Dorothy, and Eponine, and Maureen and Amneris and Catherine and oh so many more characters that have gotten under my skin in a way that is impossible to describe to anyone who doesn’t know the feeling. It’s just one of those things.

This morning, I woke up at 10 after 7, when the baby let out his first cry of the day.

I got up slowly, bundled up in a hooded sweatshirt and when I opened my bedroom door and walked into the hallway I was greeted by a small girl with a large blanket, a makeshift cape around her shoulders and a hood on her head, skipping around.

“Oh, hell0,” said the girl. “I’m just on my way to my grandmother’s house but I seem to keep finding a wolf who actually looks like a man and he has candy.”

(At least she finally wised up and chose a better part than the “Baker Baby”.)

“And then, as I was getting a bouquet for granny, I heard Jack in the distance!” she continued.

So, we walked together into the baby’s room, and when we saw us, he flung himself down, theatrically, onto his back, so that he was sprawled out, crying in his crib. This is presumably because:

1. His daddy has been sick since Thursday (more on that, later), and my son misses him as he has been out of commission

and

2. I have two incredibly dramatic children.

Truth be told, I am tired. It is hard taking care of two children alone, all day, for many days in a row (mad props to all of the people who do this every day; I am in awe of single parents, parents and caregivers whose partners work long hours and anyone else who is tasked with this job regularly).

When we finally got the baby up and changed, the three of us headed downstairs for breakfast. As I was preparing the baby’s milk, the kids’ meals and trying to take care of the dog, I asked my daughter if she could bring Lola’s bowl over to me.

“Okay,” she started, “But let’s pretend that you didn’t really ask me to get Milky White his food but you just turned around and I was there with the bowl for Milky White’s food, like I thought of it on my own, and then you can say ‘Thank you, Little Red’. Can we do that?”

All the world’s a stage.

“Sure.”

So instead of having to run around like a chicken with my head

(or a maiden in a tower with her hair)

cut off, I was able to use a little creativity and the magic of musical theatre–something that has been so important to me in my life–something that I now see being so important to my daughter–to actually make life a little bit easier.

Little Red was happy to show The Wolf into the other part of the Woods, The Baker’s Wife was uncharacteristically allowed to leave the room for a second (because, spoiler alert: The Baker’s Wife does end up leaving) and Little Red was happy to let the dog in and out of the house (although it took Lola a bit longer to realize that she was supposed to come when she was being called “Milky White”).

All of this sounds great, and it was great, but I will admit one thing: While I figured out a way to occupy my daughter, who, in turn, entertained my son, I was spending time using a microplane to grate fresh carrot over Lola’s food.

One step at a time, I say.

(And, you know, it is very hard to take steps when there is pitch on the stairs.)

The post Milking it. 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.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ok, I thought. I’ve got this.

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

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

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

And that shows me how far I have come.

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

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

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.

It is no secret that I fancy Fairy Tales, Princesses and Musicals.
Always have, always will.
I did give my daughter a the name of a Disney Princess, after all.
Well, I’m sure that it comes as no surprise that an all-time-favorite musical of mine is “Into the Woods”, the Sondheim classic that chronicles what happens after “happily ever after”.
It was the first show that I saw live,
I think I was four at the time,
and I remember being in awe.
In awe, and a little scared; The Wolf came into the audience and offered me some Jordan Almonds from a plastic baggy. Creepy, right?
I have seen the show many times, and watched the movie hundreds more.
Well, just today, I put on the DVD to watch as I gave my daughter her mid-morning feeding.
I couldn’t have been more thrilled or astonished to see my nearly-4-month old baby, as she craned her neck and twisted her tiny head around to see what was on the TV.
So I let her watch the TV sometimes. So what. Sometimes she likes to stare at the bright lights for a few minutes. But, this was different.
The girl was glued.
I could not get her to nurse. I could not get her to look away. Her eyes were fixed on the action on the screen, as she stared at the performers, smiling. It was incredible.
Her early love of music and all things music-al brings me great joy.
I look forward to taking her to see the many fabulous shows that I have loved for so many years.
Who knows, maybe “Into the Woods” will come back to town, and we can watch together, in awe, as I tell her about the first time she saw this wonderful show, on a dreary, Monday morning when she was just a tiny baby.
But, before that day comes, I’ll have to make sure to teach her to never take candy from strangers;
and especially not from big, bad wolves

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