Tiaras and Trucks

She Brightens My February

2012-02-15T06:00:00.000-05:00

hanging out with the girls at Aunt Jessica's baby shower

(a cousin is coming so soon!)

linking up with Alison and Galit

to celebrate Abbey's birthday month

and linking with Kristin & Liz

because all my pictures are #iPPP these days

11 Things Might Be Enough

2012-02-13T06:00:00.000-05:00

Natalie from Mommy of a Monster threw out a set of questions (and her answers) to the universe last week, and I thought it'd be a fun post to do the Monday after my girl turned four, since I just know the party on Saturday will consume a lot of the weekend.

sharing their party

While this is not a typical Just.Be.Enough. post, it is a snapshot of my life right now. I'm trying to accept that some days I might need a little help and some weeks I might not be able to squeeze in the eighty-four items on my to-do list each day. So hopefully, today, this is enough.

1: Wine…Red or White?
White, a little on the sweet side.Bubbly doesn't hurt either.

2: What is your favorite wine or libation?
Prosecco’s my favorite wine, and flavored vodka’s my favorite libation of the moment.

3: Have you been to any wineries or wine tasting?
We went to Sonoma for a day while visiting friends in San Jose many moons ago. My favorite was a delicious Moscato, and since my kids stole my brain I can’t remember any more than that.

4: Favorite pair of shoes?
For date night – Neutral patent leather peep toe platforms
For running errands with the kids – Brown knee-high riding boots
For my sanity – Asics (either the 2100 series or the Gel Cumulus depending on the state of my knees)

5: What is your morning drink?
Copious amounts of coffee. I’ve ditched fake sugar and am slowly (very slowly) transitioning away from the deliciousness of flavored creamers.

6: Tattoos, body piercings, or both…and where?
I used to have a belly ring, but I took it out a while ago. A long while, when I really think about it. I have a tattoo on my lower back/upper hip.

7: Favorite dessert?
I go through stages, because I’ve never met a dessert I didn’t like. Right now I’m crushing on salted caramel and anything lemon (not together of course.)

8: What is your dream vacation…money is no object!
I have two, so let’s combine them into one hodge-podge of fabulousness. I’d do a mini-tour around Europe—Paris, Barcelona, London, Tuscany. Ryan and I did a month-long multi-country European trip back in college after he studied in Germany for the summer--with giant backpacks. I’d love to do it with the luxury of a human amount of clothing and a blow dryer this time, with the appropriate power converter of course.

After all of that walking and wine drinking and art gawking, we’d have to relax in the ultimate beauty of French Polynesia, floating in that gorgeous water off our over-water bungalow.

Sigh…who’s funding this again? Oh, I see…

9: If you won the lottery…
(please see question #8!) After that, I just want a bigger house in a better neighborhood, and I’d send our kids to the best schools I could find.

10: Do you talk to yourself? If so, do you answer yourself too?
Not out loud, but I absolutely do it in my head.

11: Would you ever sneak a giant metal rooster into your house?
Why not? This place is a zoo already.

Every MONDAY join us…
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What gives you that “be enough” feeling?

Blocking the Moon

2012-02-10T01:06:00.000-05:00

He propped himself up on one elbow, warm sand pressing dampness against the blanket though the forecasted storm was circling in the clouds hanging low above the water, the thunder miles away. He jerked awkwardly, trying to button his jeans with one hand and losing his balance. For a moment something like love shot through her indifference.

“I’m glad we came here tonight,” he spoke too soon, his familiar voice slicing through her affection and reminding her that high school was over.

Without artifice, she slid her arms into bra straps and reached around to fasten the airy lace, absently shrugging on her tank top and abandoning the matching scrap of a thong to the darkness beyond the blanket.

He reached out to touch her thigh, his thumb brushing sand from her skin, the pale glow a reminder that she rarely came to the beach before dusk.

With unwarranted cruelty, she met his eyes with a level glance and smoothed her skirt back to her knees, pushing his hand aside and looking to the sky as the moonlight darkened.

His hand hung in the air for a moment, snagged in the humidity between hope and hurt feelings, his eyes following hers to where clouds now blocked the moon.

Lost in the twenty-seven day countdown between tonight and forever, she didn’t notice the nearness of the thunder until the first drops fell into the space between them, the summer rain dripping warm tears onto her skin.

He moved quickly and surely, grabbing his shirt to hold over her head, though it didn’t make a difference, lightning flashing as rain poured in rivulets around the island of their blanket.

Still, he held the shirt above her, the soaked cotton falling heavily against her hair.

She knew he wanted her to stay.

She knew he thought he loved her.

Without speaking, she finally met his eyes again, seeing the confusion there, the promises they’d made to each other since freshman year pleading with her.

It wasn’t love, but he would have to realize that on his own.

Finally he tossed the shirt aside, defeated, his eyes far away.

The almost-love washed over her and she embraced the tenderness, letting it speak for her as she touched his face, her palm tilting into the memorized planes of his jaw.

She felt his promises and hope in the urgency of his lips, and she closed her eyes, wondering if he could taste the goodbye in hers.

the prompt:

lots of rules for this one, but basically I wrote about a recent high school graduate, at the lake during a thunderstorm, losing or finding something

Readers Will Love The Weird Sisters - A Book Review

2012-02-09T00:23:00.000-05:00

I know she's going to love The Weird Sisters one day

Lists passed back and forth between us, name books scoured, possibilities scrawled onto paper to be tentatively approved or slashed out of existence by the other.

Ryan and I had a difficult time choosing names, particularly with Dylan, making lists for both boys and girls and hoping we'd make an appropriate game-time decision when he was born.

If our little troublemaker would have been a girl, the name at the top of our list was Miranda, chosen because of my love for The Tempest and agreed to by Ryan despite his disdain for the Miranda character on Sex and the City (do you see why we had issues?)

In The Weird Sisters, Eleanor* Brown tells the story of three sisters, daughters of a Shakespeare scholar named for three of Shakespeare's female characters (Rosalind, Bianca, and Cordelia), returning home to help their mother through a bout with cancer.

So many things about this book pulled me in from the beginning and sent me spiraling through its pages within two days, pulled into their lives both as women and as children of an academic in a small college town (which may or may not be one of my dream life scenarios).

I pondered the way Brown portrayed the sister relationship, without the typical, tightly woven threads that wind through so many stories about sisters.

I immediately related to their penchant for books of any kind, picked up from various surfaces and read at whim.

I simultaneously loved and wanted to scream at each of the sisters in turn. Character development is one of my favorite parts of a book, and Rosalind, Bean, and Cordy were endowed with some of the most beautifully realistic flaws and strengths I've read in a long time.

Another strength of the novel was the narrative voice. Eleanor Brown expertly tells the story from the first person collective consciousness of the three sisters, using "we" and letting the reader truly delve into each of their stories, providing a balanced and rich perspective on the family.

At the heart of the book is a triangular coming-of-age tale, with each of the sisters finding her way through the mire of the expectations of her Shakespearean name, the expectations of her family, and the limitations bestowed upon herself. It's beautifully told without feeling contrived or forced, and my only problem with The Weird Sisters is I'm not sure to whom I should lend it first.

Read more about The Weird Sisters at the BlogHer Book Club.

This week we're discussing which of the sisters we're most like.

I received a copy of The Weird Sisters for the purpose of this review, as well as compensation for my time, courtesy of BlogHer and Penguin Books. The opinions expressed are thoroughly my own, including the one where I mention that whomever borrows this book needs to return it, because it will be one I pick up and read at random intervals.

*Eleanor was another name on our list for girls. It's my Nan's name and just lovely.

Preschool Decisions and White Envelopes

2012-02-08T06:00:00.000-05:00

everyone needs to play in a box turned into a car once in a while

Last year I hyperventilated over choosing a preschool for Abbey. I fretted and made comparison charts and found a school I believed to be a just-about-perfect fit for our girl and for our family.

And we lived happily ever after.

Until our school district (and likely our entire state) decided to move to mandatory all-day kindergarten, and conversation at preschool pick up shifted to kindergarten readiness and questions about whether or not Dylan would be attending the Tots program designed for under three year olds, which he'll obviously be in the fall.

Happily ever after shifted back into worrying mode as opinions flew back and forth about developmental milestones and socialization and sending my cute, little, just-got-his-first-haircut baby to school, albiet for four hours a week.

My mind skipped back and forth daily, my mental checklist of pros and cons balanced and even and utterly useless. Ryan and I agreed and then didn't and basically couldn't decide, especially in conjunction with making a decision about whether to send Abbey for three or five days.

This morning I turned in our registration paperwork for next year, our decisions about both children sealed in a white envelope and handed over to the director of the preschool program while scooping Dylan away from the play kitchen in the classroom.

Advice echoed in my head all day, and I heard myself defend our decision to two different people.

With the kids in bed and Ryan studying, I left the house in the darkness to retreat to the gym for a treadmill run. For one of the first times this winter, the air felt crisp and chilled, the full moon cutting silver streaks between the bare branches of the trees.

Thoughts of the white envelope flashed in my head, wind biting into my skin as I eased closed the car door, Dylan's window perilously close to the driveway.

Moonlight shone through the cold windshield, bright and unforgiving, the cold leather against my legs inviting me to feel the pangs of regret over the choice we had finally made Monday night.

But instead of regret, I felt at peace with our decision.

He will be staying home one more year.

It's the right decision for our boy and for our family.

Because the zoo is more fun at 9:00 a.m. when the only ones acting like bears are the bears.

Because he is my baby, and I love our slow, coffee infused mornings and the way his eyes light up when I announce it's time to pick up Abbey.

Because he is only two and has years of school in his future.

Because sending him would have meant that every morning one of them would have been at school but never at the same time.

Because I want as many moments like this as possible:

linking up with Shell, of course!

Overpacking Intervention

2012-02-06T06:00:00.000-05:00

what I found after my shower one morning

perhaps I should implement a "no playing in Mommy's closet" rule

My closet is woefully small. The only things keeping the tears at bay are that Ryan has his own (matching, woefully small) closet on the other side of our room, and my wardrobe is, unfortunately, fairly small itself.

Abbey doesn't see the deficiencies in my closet and insists on playing shoe store and clothes store during naptime lately, in addition to her old favorites, makeup store and jewelry store. Her ability to strip hangers and sweep shelves clean in record time make my mini-closet even more hazardous, especially when I'm in the midst of wardrobe evaluation.

I guess it's time to toss the maternity clothes, but I can't seem to part with my wedding shoes.

Despite a mish-mash of clothing lacking in key pieces (how do I not yet own a cute blazer?), I'm cobbling together my packing list for Blissdom, and I'm once again aware of my need to learn to pack.

I haven't even added the things I'll need for the rest of our week-long jaunt to Nashville, and my list is reading like a Christmas song.

12 Toiletry Products

11 Types of makeup

10 Pieces of jewelry

9 Workout items

8 Undergarments

7 Shirts and jeans

6 Pairs of shoes

5 Makeup brushes

4 Cardigan sweaters

3 Casual dresses

2 Fancy dresses

and

1 Fully loaded tote bag

My nerves are gathering together in the packing section of my brain, compensating for my other worries about the trip by trying to guarantee I have choices about what to wear. I know it's not about the clothes, but I feel more comfortable when I feel pretty.

Hopefully by next week I'll have a better grasp on what I actually need and what I'm bringing as a security blanket.

And I'll try to leave those things at home.

After all, I need room in my suitcase for the fabulousness of the Handmade Marketplace.

Every MONDAY join us…
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Recycled Crayon Art

2012-02-03T13:39:00.001-05:00

My kitchen's dry erase board houses a perpetual list of craft supplies. Wooden pictures frames, special glues, hanging wire, certain colors of spray paint all linger on the list, waiting to be purchased to craft away an afternoon.

Sometimes, though, a play date arises (or a Friday morning), and my eyes flit around the house for an easy craft that uses supplies I have readily available. Repurposing old crayons seemed like a great way to stretch my craft dollars.

Recently, I began eye-balling the crayon bag-a large plastic bag housing the millions of crayons ousted from their proper homes, boxes bent or torn beyond proper use. Lurking within the crayon bag are the misfits of coloring time, the remnants of crayons past their prime, broken, labels peeled, and frowned upon by my occasionally particular daughter.

You can recycle these crayons and make them the star of the show with a little help from waxed paper and an iron.

an iron

wax paper sheets (a roll works fine)

the crayon bag

separate misfit crayons

remove paper

divide into colors or color families

(we used plastic bags, but piles would work just as well)

let almost-four year old bash crayons into pieces

(I used my scrapbooking cutting mat to protect the table)

divide crayon pieces into small bowls (or piles)

contemplate adding glitter

decide against glitter

lay down a dish towel, then wax paper

make a pile of crayon pieces

cover with another sheet of wax paper

iron* (very low heat) until you see this:

*I did this step, "supervised" by the kids

let cool (it only takes a few minutes)

peel from wax paper

thread with ribbon

(I used a wooded skewer to make the holes)

hang from dining room light*

*optional in the case of homes not decorated with preschooler artwork

Abbey and her friend loved this craft. Dylan and the friend's little sister kept trying to eat the crayon pieces. Bowls of pretzels were provided as substitutes for waxy snacks, and they were a great distraction during the ironing part of the project.

I might experiment with using cookie cutters next time, pressing into the cooling wax to make different shapes. Using similar, or lighter, colors seems to work best.

We'll definitely be doing this again, because crayon scraps are always popping up around our house!

Without Thinking

2012-02-02T23:20:00.000-05:00

Chilled wine slid from the golden bottle into her glass, more than a restaurant would call a pour but not enough to warm to room temperature before she was finished. Sipping on her way to the living room, she shrugged off her cardigan, letting it drop to the arm of the low couch as she sank into her favorite corner.

A well-worn paperback lay on the other side of the couch, and she flipped through it until she found a favorite passage, settling into the story of old friends. The din of her first grade classroom rolled from her shoulders into the silence of her apartment, the familiar words dancing in front of her eyes soothing her nerves more than the buttery sweetness of the wine.

Her eyes drifted closed for a moment, and she congratulated herself on skipping her semi-regular happy hour date with a few colleagues.

Jarringly, her neighbors' dogs began to bark, and she felt knots returning to her shoulders.

Left alone behind the cellophane thin walls, they weren’t likely to stop their discordant symphony until they tired of their own noise, which seemed to take infinitely more time on the days Stella wished the most for silence.

A frown creased her forehead as she reached for the remote, flipping past Friday evening television to the music channels, needing something to balance the barking more than caring what seeped out of the speakers.

Resting her wine glass against the arm of the couch, she let the music fade into the background and tried to fall back into her book.

Ten, twenty minutes passed, and the dogs stopped barking. The music suddenly seemed too loud against the silence.

She reached for the remote again as the harmony finally reached her consciousness.

Forgetting the remote, she reached for her phone instead, pressing the familiar name and trying to breathe.

Her book fell open in her lap, wine gently trickling onto the pages, her mind on other words as she mentally pieced together glib opening lines.

He answered too quickly, his voice wary and unsure.

She searched for any vestige of hope in the “hello,” swallowing and reaching for something vaguely casual to say.

“I made a mistake,” tumbled out instead.

And the music filled the surprised silence between their breathing.

the prompt:

let your character be inspired by music

Tucked in an Envelope

2012-02-01T06:00:00.000-05:00

Dylan mid-January

I've been ignoring the rumbles and the side glances, twisting the curls around my fingers while pushing long strands out of his eyes. Unlike his sister, who was born with hair, his crept in slowly, silky strands that grew to curl at the base of his neck.

Cutting it after it worked so hard to grow in seemed unfair.

Still, after a week's worth of pulling his hair out of seeping, weepy, pink-eyed, sinus-infected, sad blue eyes, I felt myself cave. (And who let these germs loose on our house, by the way?)

Snow was falling as the four of us piled into the car, Abbey excited about getting her hair cut, my heart inexplicably heavy, as though his very baby-ness was woven into the locks curling softly against his collar.

Reluctant to wear the cape, we coaxed it around his neck with a stuffed Mickey Mouse in one hand and a Peter Rabbit book in the other. Knowing our squirmy boy, I held him on my lap as golden strands of his first two years fell to the floor, a few safely tucked into an envelope, unsure if their magic was lost or expanded as they left his head.

He grew impatient by the end of the cut, whining and trying to pull off the cape. Unable to distract him with stories or pictures of elephants, we pulled out our trump card-the lollipop. Mollified, he gripped it without licking it, thankfully, as a hair-encrusted sucker doesn't sound at all appealing.

I never thought I would be a mom who cared too much about hair. Truly.

But this feels different than cutting hair. He's our baby, and now suddenly he looks like a little boy. I'm in love with this little man running around our house now, but it might be a few more days until I can admit to myself that we're slowly rounding the bend from having babies to having children.

Most moments, I'm excited about moving forward, about thoughts that we'll potty train this year and start taking family vacations that don't involve a pack and play.

But in the darkness, my head on my pillow, I think of the way they don't fit in my arms in quite the same way anymore. And I'm thankful I have a certain envelope on my bookshelf, for the day when I can't quite remember the way his hair curled.

Dylan this Saturday

she wanted a hair cut, too

four inches for my almost-four year old

linking up with Shell
have you checked out her new design?

and with KLZ and Liz

Losing the Shine

2012-01-30T06:00:00.000-05:00

my bissell steam and sweep*

We pulled up the teal carpet with excitement, knowing the promise that hid beneath years of dust and the hazardous tack strips and carpet nails littering the scarred wooden floors.

Having our floors refinished was one of the first projects Ryan and I tackled in our house, though our version of tackling meant calling and hiring someone who wouldn't be likely to let the sander wear through the remaining layers of wood.

For days we wandered back and forth between the addition and the kitchen, moving between our two back doors to avoid the heavy drapes of plastic and untouchable varnish, spending time anywhere but home to breathe without gagging on the fumes.

Refinished and beautifully polished, they were a reminder of the potential lurking within the walls of our work-in-progress old house.

For years I worried about their shine, keeping a static mop in the closet for basic dust issues, a broom for sweeping, and Murphy's Oil Soap for periodic cleanings when I noticed some of the shine fading from their glossy darkness.

Kids brought a whole new dimension to our floors.

A pulverized cheerio settles into the grooves of the floor, the varnish no longer impenatrable. Sippy cups thrown in gleeful games subtly mar the surface. Errant crayons smear waxy streaks near the dining room table.

The Murphy's Oil Soap sits neglected, the gleaming surface of my floors a memory like lazy weekend mornings when it didn't matter if a corkscrew was left at the edge of the kitchen counter from the night before.

I've streamlined my cleaning routine: one little magic machine that picks up crumbs and steams the floors into a sanitized surface, warm and clean but lacking the reflective shine and slippery clean of my old stand-by.

There are moments I miss the shine. But then I see Dylan trailing behind the steamer, trying to figure out why my path is wet and a little hot and why one of the buttons makes a whirring sound and one does not.

And I remember that there's always more than one way to shine.

Every MONDAY join us…
Write, Post, Link-Up, share your story and your voice.
Be part of carrying the weight of confidence, empowerment and share our mission to empower, inspire,
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*This is NOT a sponsored post. Bissell has no idea who I am or that I'm writing this or that my mom bought me this lovely member of our household as a Christmas gift two years ago. I just love having sanitized floors in the amount of time it takes to sweep the room.

Hats

2012-01-26T22:17:00.002-05:00

"Thank you!" Jane breathed, looking back.

"You're welcome." His dad had talked so much about holding the door Tim could have gotten a doorman over at those new lofts on Seventh. Picturing himself in one of those red hats, he grinned.

"What's so funny?" she whispered as his eyes searched the rows of wooden booths, making sure there were still seats with optimal viewing available.

"Nothing," he answered. Doorman hats probably weren't her style.

"You never tell me what you're thinking," she pouted, pulling off her coat to reveal a faded Ohio State t-shirt.

Confused, he tried to think of what he said to make her mad as the hostess began to place their menus on a table.

He gestured to the largest screen, "Hey, can we grab something closer?"

The hostess shrugged, nodded.

"Thanks. And a couple of beers. Beer's ok, right?" Tim smiled at Jane, suddenly remembering he'd said something wrong. Something about the door?

"Actually, I want to see the drink menu," Jane said, sliding into her chair.

"Big game today," Tim said, checking to make sure he could see at least two of the games starting in thirty minutes.

Silence.

Giving her time to read through the menu, he leaned back and followed the closed captioning on the pre-game show looming large about her head. That loser should've been fired years ago, pulling that stupid mascot head from behind the desk, knowing exactly the reaction he was going to get.

She sighed

"Don't they have good drinks?" he asked, glancing at the menu.

"I thought you wanted to hang out," she said, not meeting his eyes, which he knew meant a long conversation if he didn't do something fast.

"I do."

And he had when he'd invited her to watch the game and have a few beers.

"Really?" Her voice got higher. Was that better? "Oh good!"

His beer came, and Jane ordered one of her own.

"I'm glad you think this is going somewhere," she said, whispering again.

He might have nodded as he took a drink, glad to see the loser had the common sense to pull Brutus's Buckeye Head over his grey hair.

Brutus was better than a doorman's hat. He grinned and saw hers spread across her face, reminding him of why he'd asked her out.

Plus she looked hotter than most twenty year olds in that t-shirt.

the prompt:

no subject restrictions

use a writing "tool" you think you need to polish

I tried working a little more with dialogue and the male POV.

Capturing Memories - Bellflower Books Giveaway Winner

2012-01-26T22:00:00.000-05:00

Thank you so much to everyone who participated in my Bellflower Books giveaway!

Emmy, I know you are going to love your book :)

Kerry from Bellflower Books will be contacting you about how to redeem your coupon code! They are so helpful, and you can let me know if you have any questions, too. I think we're going to start one for my grandma soon :)

Between Health and Weight

2012-01-25T06:00:00.000-05:00

my favorite shoes, brand spankin' new

Sweat beads on my forehead, the whir of the treadmill belt muffled by The Black Eyed Peas pulsing in my ears. I’m finally getting accustomed to the monotony of my indoor runs. I use the time to get lost in my music and my thoughts; my eyes slightly glazed as they focus on the glowing yellow streetlights, halos in the sky through the condensation on the wall of windows.

My runs have been more sporadic than I’d like, mornings thwarted by sick kids interrupting sleep, coaxed back to bed with glasses of water and smoothed brows and curling up in our bed when nothing else works.

My legs tire more quickly than they should, growing heavy as my eyes are drawn again and again to the numbers on the display. Three miles feels longer than three miles.Still, running is one of my safe places, something that makes me feel strong and sure, even when I realistically look at my abilities and know I may never meet some of my secret goals.

I leave my running shoes by the back door so my kids grow up knowing that part of my life, seeing the routine modeled the same way we brush our teeth or read books before bed. I envision myself at seventy, standing around at the beginning of a race, people thinking I am there to cheer on my grandchildren until they see the numbers pinned to my chest.

But there’s another reason I run, a reason I don’t mention to Abbey when we talk about my new running shoes. A reason that’s been sitting in the forefront of my mind since the beginning of the year.

Running burns calories, and calories and I are having an intimate relationship, carefully chaperoned by my new drill sergeant, My Fitness Pal.

I’ve hired (by that I mean signed up for free) My Fitness Pal to help me track my calorie intake.

I truly wish I could say I’m tracking those calories for my health or to set an example of healthy, clean eating for my family.

I'm not.

I cringe when I see my calorie logs some days, particularly on the days when I am under or at my calorie limit but my morning is filled with French Vanilla Creamer instead of a nutritious breakfast.

I’m embarrassed to admit this, though it may not seem like a dramatic confession.

One of the things I desperately want for Abbey is for her to grow up with a respect for good health and a safe and healthy body image, because I know how difficult it is to struggle with weight.

Punching numbers into a computer or my phone and mentally trading out meal calories for an extra cup of coffee with creamer for the sole reason of dropping a jean size isn’t the example I want to set for her.

Teetering between weight loss and a healthy example, I’m trying to find my balance.

And it’s so much more difficult than I expected it to be.

as always, thanks to Shell for inviting us to pour out our hearts

Redefining Sundays

2012-01-23T06:00:00.000-05:00

Vaguely, I recall Sunday mornings without Abbey and Dylan: long runs, hot showers, a nap in the middle of the day, cleaning the house to prepare for the upcoming week.

Responsibilities were cushioned with late brunches or nights wrapped around a warm mug of coffee at our favorite coffee shop.

Kids change the concept of a lazy Sunday.

After missing too many days at the gym, I hurried out this Sunday, throwing together a quick breakfast before leaving. Ryan and I talked briefly as I poured my coffee, and he rushed out the door for his soccer game.

Games and toys and puzzles and what seemed like a million beads were pulled from cupboards and baskets to litter the floor as I tried to contain the hurricane of toys propelled by two young children still in their pajamas at ten o’clock on a Sunday morning.

I realized my “safe” shelf in the downstairs linen closet was now reachable by Abbey’s growing arms when I came out of the shower to find Dylan playing his version of dress up.

The wood floors I’d steamed the day before were already showing the crumbs of meals eaten half in and half out of chairs, Dylan finding hilarity in pushing himself an arm’s length away from the table, precariously gripping the edge until Abbey or I got up to push him back to his placemat.

A bird lost its way into our chimney, unable to find its way out, flapping against the fireplace screen, scaring Dylan and fascinating Abbey, both of them unwilling to move from the living room or talk about anything else until it calmed down.

Around one o’clock, I could feel their energy levels reaching the fever pitch of kids dangerously close to lunch and nap time.

An image from Pinterest popped into my head, and I gambled that the novelty of hot dog octopuses would pique their interest and keep them at the dining room table for more than three minutes.

hot dogs and noodles-two favorites at our house

Ryan walked through the door as the spaghetti softened in boiling water, diffusing their energy to balance between the two of us, making it easier to burst into laughter when Dylan’s excitement about octopus arms slid to a halt when he figured out he was supposed to eat them.

cut raw hot dogs into segments, stick spaghetti through dogs

cook in boiling water for 7-8 minutes

Deftly, I slid food around plates, all of the octopuses on hers, all of the plain hot dogs on his.Over an hour later, we finally got them both dressed and out running errands.

Lazy Sundays will resume in approximately ten years. Taking a nap in the middle of the day sounds lovely, but I might miss the octopuses.

Every MONDAY join us…
Write, Post, Link-Up, share your story and your voice.
Be part of carrying the weight of confidence, empowerment and share our mission to empower, inspire,
and remind women, parents and children
that the time has come to celebrate ourselves!

What gives you that “be enough” feeling?

Lies

2012-01-19T23:14:00.000-05:00

Numbers churned in front of her, shifting back and forth as she pushed her legs into a whir of motion.

She stared at the bars filling the stationary bike’s display, a ghostly replica of hills, focusing her eyes on everything but the unwieldy black brace encircling her right knee.

Her doctor’s words echoed in her head:“No running until we evaluate your progress in approximately three weeks. Maybe some easy cycling.”

Numbers whirled in her head, calories ingested and calories burned. Nodding demurely in the office she had already shrugged off the directive; easy cycling would barely burn off the yogurt she had for breakfast, let alone the cupcakes she’d shoveled into her mouth in the closet after turning them down in front of the rest of the office.

Pushing harder against the plastic pedals, feet almost numb from the pressure, she forced her eyes onto the flashing red numbers, refusing to look down at the brace or up at the treadmills lined against the windows dripping with condensation.

She ignored the twinge in her knee threatening to cross into a scream, concentrating instead on the calories burned, imagining the way she must look to the other gym-goers.

Were they disgusted by the sway of her thighs pumping faster and faster on the pedals?

Were they motivated by the jiggle of her stomach against the thin, ribbed tank?

She pushed harder, struggling to force sweat to bead onto the surface of her forehead or the small of her back, affirming her movement. Accustomed to punishing ten-mile runs, her body refused to sweat; her frustration refused to melt away, expelling a scarfed pint of ice cream with it.

Giving up, tears filled her downturned eyes as she escaped past the wall of mirrors, not recognizing the skeletal reflection as her own.

the prompt:

“The cure for anything is salt water….sweat, tears or the sea.” ~ Isak Dinesen, pseudonym of Baroness Karen von Blixen-Finecke

Capturing January

2012-01-19T09:33:00.000-05:00

thrilled to be linking up with Alison and Galit for their new monthly feature

and thrilled to give one more birthday shout-out to my boy

Floundering

2012-01-18T00:00:00.000-05:00

Snow fell in Michigan Friday, sparkling flakes that blew in the wind and barely coated the ground, brittle grass peeking through the white afghan.

We made tracks briefly as we walked to the car in the morning, but Abbey kept floating to the window, asking when we could go play in the snow.A simple request, especially considering it was the first real snow we’ve seen this year.

I dragged my heels, thinking of the pulling on of snow pants, the wrestling mittens onto Dylan’s unwilling hands, the way the cold would sneak through the loose knit of my grey cap.

Dylan resisted his nap, finally falling asleep an hour after I expected; I exhaled, calculating that darkness would be creeping into the sky by the time he awoke.

Cloaked in guilt, my shoulders sagged.

I’ve been floundering lately, inexplicably on the verge of tears, feeling overwhelmed despite being more on top of my streamlined responsibilities than I have in months. Instead of appreciating the fifty-four items checked off my list, I’m focusing on the two stragglers that remain unfinished.

My patience is thin.

I avoided playing in the snow.

Abbey crawled in my lap to read a book, looking sadly at Dylan’s closed door, as though it was his fault that we weren’t bundled against the cold. Her weight on my legs surprises me lately, the way I have to strain around the soft hair that once fit so compactly against my chest.

There won’t be many more Januaries where she and Dylan are home with me, excepting a few hours of preschool each week. There won’t be many more Januaries where they look to their snow pants with excitement and not disdain for such juvenile trappings.

Pushing back my hesitation, I slid her off my lap, pulling jackets and snow pants and hats and mittens and gloves out of the closet, readying them for the moment Dylan began stirring in his room.

Gleefully, they played in the inch of snow, Abbey making snow angel after snow angel, not caring if she was on the grass or the driveway. Dylan shadowed her, cheeks reddening as dusk threatened to slide into darkness.

I wish I could end with the fading light, our moments of laughter crowding out the anxiety hovering somewhere in my chest.

But Dylan’s tantrum on having to go inside was epic.

Our public school district is moving to all-day kindergarten, which doesn’t affect us now but may change our plans for next year.

I need new running shoes.

All little bumps that shouldn’t add up to much stress at all.

My brain knows this.

But as rain turned to sleet outside my window today, tears pricked behind my eyes, reminding me that this feeling wasn’t so simply exorcised.

And I’m not sure why.

Thanks to Shell for Pour Your Heart Out.

I needed it this week.

The Winding Road

2012-01-17T10:12:00.001-05:00

image courtesy of stock.xchng

Nineteen Ninety-Eight

MAC Lip Glass, Skipping Class, Getting Ass

the prompt:

Imagine your life, or a part of your life, as a title and tagline.

Where Doubt & Bliss Collide

2012-01-16T06:00:00.000-05:00

I've traveled to Nashville countless times. I've made the journey playing with my Speak & Spell in the very back seat of my parents' minivan, napping on a plane, and driving down with our kids and hoping they wouldn't freak out in the middle of the night. My grandparents retired there years and years ago, and my Nan still lives there, along with an aunt, an uncle, and a cousin.

This February I'll be making the drive again, my kids strapped securely in their seats. We're already anticipating our visit with my grandma, and Abbey is talking about the pool, but this trip will be different.

For a few days, I'm taking a detour, only a few miles from where we've stayed so many times before. Abbey and Dylan will bask in the attention of my parents and Nan, without Mommy looking at her watch around naptime or rationing the juice, and I'll set up camp at the Gaylord Opryland for a few days of Bliss.

My first blog conference.

Writing sessions and Life Development sessions jump out at me from the screen; I'm motivated just reading about them. (And can't decide between all of them. Help!)

Friends I've e-mailed and texted and chatted with on Twitter. People whose blogs I've read and people whose blogs I haven't. All of us gathered together to energize our blogs and ourselves.

My first blog conference.

Hundreds of bloggers and writers and photographers in one place. Bloggers I admire and writers who bring me to laughter and tears with their words. Photographers who create images I would be thrilled to frame and hang in my home.

I am terrified.

Doubts nag at me as I think about business cards and packing lists and what in the world I am going to do when no one talks to me.

Fear hides behind doubt, subtler and harder to face.

I'm afraid to walk into a room and call myself a writer, without the safety of my laptop to hide behind.

I've called myself a writer here. But I'm doing it from the safety of my house, with the power of the backspace key and the time to step back and edit and then, finally, put my heart out for the world to read.

This feels different, and I am afraid.

Dreams that are beautiful and possible and close enough to touch from the familiarity of my desk can seem to grow insurmountable in the dazzling light of day.

I've buried this dream before, this dream of making writing something more than a hobby. I've let my doubts and my fear crowd together, and I've stepped aside and taken other roads instead of facing my fear.

I don't want to live like that any longer.

I've taken baby steps back to this path, and now it's time to take a leap forward.

So I will pack my suitcase with my sparkly cardigan and my best attempt at comfy shoes, and I will walk into that conference with a (nervous) smile.

(And I will do it with my wonderful friend Kir. Because I've never had a single doubt about finally getting to meet her.)

who wouldn't want to hang out with such a cool girl, right?

Every MONDAY join us…
Write, post, link-up, share your story and your voice. Be part of carrying the weight of confidence and share our mission
to empower, inspire, and remind women, parents and children
that the time has come to celebrate ourselves!

What gives you that “be enough” feeling?

Breaking the Blissdom Ice

2012-01-15T22:28:00.000-05:00

1. My blog will have a new URL by Blissdom! So now you're at Tiaras & Trucks, but by Blissdom I'll just be Angela Amman. This could be confusing, except...

2. ...I will NOT have a new face by Blissdom. I'll still look like this:

I might look a lot like this. I like that sweater.

3. I'm rooming with the lovely Kir, so I am packing extra concealer. We are going to be chatting all night. Knock on our door if you want to join us!

4. My blog is a space where I can express my passion for writing and capture the humor and beauty that weave together with the ordinary moments in our lives to create something extraordinary. (That's from my About page, but it's still the best way to say what happens here day-to-day!)

5. You can't tell in that picture, but I'm pretty short-even the majority of my comfortable shoes have heels.

6. I love being organized, but I'm indecisive. That combination keeps me up at night trying to decide how to split my time between the Life Development and Writing Tracks. I'll be the one wandering around, checking my planner and STILL trying to make up my mind.

7. Blissdom is my first conference, and I'm teetering between over-the-top excitement and over-the-top stress. What do I pack? What if no one talks to me? So please come and say hi, and I'll do the same. I can't wait to meet you! (yes, you!)

8*. I love writing, running, dancing, and laughing. I hope to do all of those during Blissdom. Want to join me?

*Eight's my favorite number, so I'm stopping at eight. I'll be hanging out on Twitter (@angelaamman) if you'd like to chat more!

Capturing Memories - A Bellflower Books Giveaway

2012-01-13T06:00:00.000-05:00

dedication page

A Pandora bracelet rests on her wrist, growing crowded with charms mainly representing her children and grandchildren, her greatest treasures. A thin gold band encircles her fourth finger, her diamond engagement ring and band cushioned in a safety deposit box.She wears no other jewelry.

cover

I wrote about my mom’s Love Lessons on the Bellflower Books blog, an unexpected gift to her, and when she retired (and had a birthday) this summer, there was only one gift I wanted to give to her.

For my mom, a women who cherishes and protects her family above all else, I knew a Bellflower Book would bring a smile to her face in a way that another, less personal, gift couldn’t.

my aunt and uncle wrote about a long-ago visit to Hawaii

Their beautifully bound memory books weave photographs and written words together to create a personalized story for the book’s recipient. Design options abound; you can create a perfect book for any occasion, whether your tastes lean to simple lines and classic colors or whimsical patterns.

My mom would have appreciated a book made of construction paper, photographs glued to the pages by Abbey and Dylan, but that book would have housed only our appreciation, only a small part of our entire family.

The genius of Bellflower Books is that creating one of their memory books means being able to collect contributions from anyone you choose. You simply choose your design and add e-mail addresses for anyone you would like to share in the creation of the book. Bellflower e-mails the recipients with instructions and deadlines, so each person can upload their own photographs and letters for the book.

one of her oldest friends scanned old autograph books & postcards

As the creator, I made the choice about when to stop accepting submissions. Because I know my family, including myself, I extended the deadline several times.When I finally did collect all pages and do a final edit, Bellflower Books had the book delivered quickly.

I cried when I saw the final product.

My mom was overwhelmed.

my letter and a picture from my baby shower

And days later was already talking about making one for my grandmother.

If you need a reason above their stellar product, you should know that it's a company owned by childhood best friends who have been in business together since the age of six. Also, they generously partnered with Just.Be.Enough. to bring their beautiful keepsakes to women affected by breast cancer. It's truly a business I'm proud to support.

Is there someone you love who needs a Bellflower Book? I’ll be giving away $75 gift code to one lucky reader!!

To be entered for a chance to win, leave me a comment letting me know who would be the lucky recipient of your book (even if it’s yourself!) You can leave a comment each day through the end of the giveaway (next Sunday, January 22nd).

For additional entries, do any (or all) of the following (and leave an additional comment letting me know):

• Follow Bellflower Books on Twitter
• Follow me on Twitter
• Like Bellflower Books on Facebook
• Like Tiaras and Trucks on Facebook
• Tweet out this giveaway

Bellflower Books contacted me when I was in the process of creating my mom’s book to see if I would be interested in doing a review and giveaway. Mentioning that was important to me, because I was absolutely prepared to purchase the book without any incentive from the company, though I am thrilled to have the opportunity to work with them to promote their gorgeous books.

*Disclosure: I was provided with a Bellflower Book to review, as well as the opportunity to give away a $75 gift code. All opinions are my own, as always!

Tannins

2012-01-12T23:42:00.000-05:00

“Let me get our coats,” Vaughn said, glancing back only once before leaning into the cold granite of the coat check counter.

Pulling a mirror and lip gloss from her purse, Carly quickly swiped away smeared mascara with her pinkie, attempting to transform her eyes from bleary to sultry. Her lip gloss tingled peppermint on her tongue as she licked her lips, the subtle sheen fading into insignificance over her cabernet-tinged pucker.

Trying to focus her glance, Carly blinked, the white tablecloth stabbing at her eyes. Was the almost-empty bottle on the table their second or third? She blinked again as Vaughn’s hand slid under her elbow, guiding her to the car waiting in front of the bar, leather seats unfriendly on her bare thighs.

He flung the car into gear, sliding carelessly around the corner before parking, letting the engine idle. Vaughn leaned in and pulled her close in one movement, his hand too heavy at Carly’s dangerously short hemline.

Intoxication encouraged her head to fall back at the insistence of his lips, enjoying the abandon of the kiss.Taste buds sliding together, she recognized the oak and pepper of the wine they had shared, the salty bite of olives covering another, unwelcome taste.

Her nose wrinkled as she broke the kiss, too drunk to read his eyes.

“Why do you taste like cigarettes?”

Silence, electric and cold.

“Do you smoke?”

“No.”

Her breath caught as she tried again to focus on his heavy-lidded eyes.

“But my wife does.”

The locks clicked loudly as his hand, still tangled in her hair, tightened at the base of her skull.

the prompt:

flavor

Goodbye Splenda, Hello Butter - A Book Review

2012-01-11T06:00:00.001-05:00

made with real butter, so feel free to indulge

...in moderation of course

My best friend and I were constantly chasing off the last five pounds during college, and diet pop (sorry! that’s what we call it in Michigan!) was one of our staples.

We waited to see what was on sale bought it, in cans, by the twelve-pack; diet Pepsi, diet Coke, diet Sprite, diet Cherry 7-Up, diet Vernors, diet Cherry Coke, and more all saw themselves stacked and rotated in and out of our hall closet.

The amount we purchased wouldn’t fit in the refrigerator.Nestled next to the chilled cans of chemically enhanced beverages were other staples: fat free sour cream, fat free cheese, sugar free Jello, sugar free popsicles.

The amount of chemicals floating through our bodies was enough to keep us preserved until the ripe age of two hundred eleven, if my chemistry skills are correct. (They’re not; I don’t really think a steady diet of fake sugar will increase your life span.)

Over the years I’ve read and tried The Zone, flirted with the Atkins Diet, discussed South Beach, and had a brief dalliance with Weight Watchers, a certain number hovering in my mind as an ideal goal weight. Through much trial and error, I’ve found that the old-fashioned equation of burning more calories than you eat works best, and I have the most personal success when I’m carefully tracking calories.

Calorie counting meant I could ingest diet pop and sugar free treats, like popsicles, at will, logging few (or zero) calories for my snacks and beverages.

Reading Why Women Need Fat, by William D. Lassek, M.D. and Steven J.C. Gaulin Ph.D., brought to light some things I’ve heard but liked to pretend didn’t matter too much, as long as I was watching the numbers being totaled up at the end of each day.Lassek and Gaulin are talking about getting rid of processed foods (gasp! diet pop and fat free sour cream).

Reading nutrition books can be a little daunting; there’s often a lot of rhetoric, and obviously the numbers are presented in a way that makes the case the authors are promoting. (What can I say? Being married to an actuary has taught me that it’s healthy to be a little skeptical of statistics.)

Why Women Need Fat does present statistics and studies and credible evidence talking about why we’re getting fatter, despite our nation’s attempt to modify our diets into submission by vilifying different types of fat.

What I took away from the book, more than anything, is that we need to shed the chemicals and the processing from our diets. We need to eat cleaner foods and worry more about nutrients and the way they fuel our body’s needs (go omega-3 fatty acids!) Fat, in its naturally occurring forms, doesn’t necessarily lurk in corners, ready to cling onto our thighs and stomachs.

Cleaner eating (good bye fake sugar and low-fat-replaced-by-strange-filler foods) was a concept that already interested me, and Why Women Need Fat helped me better understand why it might benefit my waistline as well as my health.

What do you think? Do you use sugar substitutes or low-fat versions of food to help lose weight? Visit the BlogHer Book Club to read more about Why Women Need Fat or join the discussion about butter (mmmm, butter).

This is a sponsored post, courtesy of BlogHer and Penguin Books. I received a copy of Why Women Need Fat to read and review and compensation for my time. All opinions, as always, are my own.

Knock Knock, Dylan Style

2012-01-11T06:00:00.000-05:00

He recently turned two, and he's decided to become a stand-up comedian.

Tickets available for his first show soon.

He'll be charging a string cheese and small bowl of Multi-Grain cheerios.

Three Hundred Sixty Seconds

2012-01-09T06:00:00.000-05:00

stolen moments on Christmas Eve

an extra long nap while conversation and love surrounded him

I knew what I wanted.

Five or six minutes, somewhere between three hundred sixty seconds.

Motherhood steals time from expected places: nightly hours of sleep are chipped away to a series of catnaps, leaving the house is packing snacks and timing naps and realizing I need to do one more diaper change before walking out of the door.

It snatches time from unexpected moments as well: sitting down to read a book and flipping to the beginning three or five or ten times to twist my tongue around the rhymes of Dr. Seuss, opening the blinds in the morning and watching the recycling truck slowly moving down our street, separating yellow lids from green bins and sliding glass and paper into labeled chutes on the passenger side.

Stealing three hundred sixty seconds from a two hour run seemed reasonable, even simple, when I finished my half marathon in April and began to set my goal for my October run.

Sliding comfortably into a training plan I’d used before, my body tumbled into the routine, my feet moving through the motions and the miles I checked off on my calendar each night.

But my mind wandered.

Writing and motherhood and relationships gathered round, throwing balls into the air at a dizzying speed, daring you to juggle them all while chasing your laughing toddler away from the fireplace doors for the eighty-first time before ten in the morning.

I hardly noticed when my training ball dropped, falling slowly out of rotation, runs missed and miles staring at me from the white page of my planner, yearning for the decorated highlighter of the miles actually completed.

With my race looming, I shifted my thinking, trusting that my mental strength hadn’t lagged behind with my endurance building workouts.

It hadn’t; I finished the half marathon with a smile, the time a respectable one for someone more closely aligned with the tortoise than the hare.

But I hadn’t stolen those minutes.

I hadn’t met my goal time.

So this past Tuesday, I crept into the gym and climbed onto the treadmill.

This Saturday, I let the unexpectedly warmth of forty degree sunshine beat onto my shoulders as my feet tentatively found their familiar loop.

Saturday night, I registered for my fifth half marathon, three hundred sixty seconds pushing me towards October. Again.

This week we’d like you to write a memoir piece about an unfulfilled goal or a broken resolution, beginning with the words, “I knew what I wanted".

If you haven't read enough about my running today, I'm over at Just.Be.Enough., hosting the weekly link-up and talking about my first run of 2012.

Dylan Do is Turning Two

2012-01-06T06:00:00.000-05:00

Some of my most heartfelt posts are cushioned with this button:

Linking up with Shell and her lovely group of readers allows me to spill my random thoughts in a supportive environment, and I am so honored to be sharing some of my heart over at Things I Can't Say today.

I'd love it if you came over and read about how I felt when snuggling this little cutie.

If you're visiting from Shell's place, feel free to wander around. Sometimes I worry, sometimes I gush, and sometimes I wonder how to get through it all.

And speaking of cuties? Look at this little guy!

Dylan Patrick

1/8/2010

leaving the hospital

Dear Dylan,

Today you are two.

You are curls I can’t bear to cut.

You are trains and dinosaurs, one in each hand.

You are a willing companion to Abbey’s imaginative games, grinning and laughing and following her lead, even when she's calling you a prince or taking you to yoga class.

You are burgeoning speech, surprising us with your words, pronouncing "dine-sore" before simpler words of less importance to you, sweetly adding “please” with each “more,” making it a little thrill to hear you ask for more milk at dinner, even though I’ve sat down mere seconds before the request.

Dylan's first birthday party

that shirt was never the same

You are “DD!” when you spot your reflection and the mispronunciation of Abbey into Addie that I just can’t correct quite yet.

You are frustrating laughter when I tell you “no.”

You are a heavy head on my chest when you’re exhausted and spontaneous hugs and the always endearing “Care-You” when you want to be snuggled onto my hip instead of walking outside yourself, though you run quickly from us whenever your feet hit the ground, turning to laugh with glee as someone chases you back to safety.

You are singing along and bouncing in rhythm to the music.

You are paging through books and sinking warmly into my lap to hear “A Fish Out of Water” or “Hop on Pop” or “Curious George Rides a Bike.” Again and again and again.

You are such a boy, when I was a so nervous about raising a boy.

December 31, 2011

You are the contradictions of loud yells and the stillness of sleep under your favorite blanket, a mix of frantic energy and contemplative play.

You are my heart, little Dyls.

Today you are two.

And you are so loved.

Love Always,

Mommy

Changing the Countdown

2012-01-04T09:06:00.002-05:00

The New Year's Eve countdown is something that inspires bubbling excitement in the pit of my stomach. In that moment when that giant, crystal ball drops steadily from the sky, the new year is ripe with opportunities just waiting to be discovered.

Those moments after midnight have always seemed magical.

the magic of playing in a hot tub in the middle of winter

But the logistics of New Year's Eve can be a nightmare. I've counted down from ten to one in a countless number of places: crowded dance clubs, a college bar where my friends and I were able to chat with the DJ as we chose our favorite songs to broadcast to an almost-empty room, friends' houses, and even the comfort of our own couch.

New Year's magic deserves something more, and the last two years we've found it.

We've spent the last two years away from home, Up North to fellow Michiganders, though our first year was much more west than north.

Between the lake effect and Michigan's typical winter temperatures, we've imagined snowy days and cozy nights, but we've encountered damp and surprisingly temperate weather both years.

This year we gathered ten adults (two more than last year) and seven kids (two more than last year) and spent the weekend cooking and snacking and playing board games that grow dusty most of the year.

Children that were little more than babies last year played on their own for long stretches of time, leaving the adults to referee the toddler climbers and snuggle the newest additions.

Football and Mickey Mouse Clubhouse took turns on the TV. Bottles of scotch nestled in the corner of the kitchen as we doled out water and boxes of chocolate milk.

Three of the seven kids were awake for the countdown: the oldest, the youngest, and one in between, powered by a lengthy evening nap.

party dress for NYE

Miraculously, Abbey and Dylan went to sleep after observing a rousing game of Apples to Apples and stayed asleep even through Lady Gaga's performance and the ensuing dance party.

New Year's Eve has never looked so magical.

I rarely use a post for a double link-up, but I am so excited to finally be able to finally share in the #iPPP excitement that I'm making an exception. I hope you don't mind.

Hello 2012

2012-01-02T06:00:00.000-05:00

I've been away for a few days, literally and figuratively, vacationing with some friends and their families.

Thanks to a much too generous Christmas gift, I was able to stay slightly connected, playing around on my new phone, flitting by twitter and traipsing through some of my reader, though my commenting was sporadic at best.

But the writing and planning parts of my brain were left to percolate without the outlet of a keyboard, a welcome break I hadn't consciously decided to take, and one I hadn't realized I needed until I was in the midst of it.

There were no revelations found over the weekend, no epiphanies about how I can best juggle all of the balls I've labeled "important" this year.

But there was a dance party and deliciously chilled white wine and thin crepes spread with Nutella and board game shenanigans my kids somehow slumbered through without waking.

I have goals this year, and they're more specific than they've been in recent years.

My writing, my fitness, and my relationships are all gathered together in a bear hug to my chest; I want to take each to a level of focused joy that was only hinted at last year.

I'm willing to sweat for my aspirations, and I don't just mean the ones about improving my half marathon time.

There will be thrills; I am certain of this. There will be setbacks; I am certain of this, too.

But for today, hello to 2012. I can't wait to get to know you.

Christmas morning nail painting while waiting for Daddy to wake up

sometimes it's more important to paint your own nails than it is to have the perfect manicure and pedicure

she is wise in ways she doesn't even realize

she is absolutely enough

What gives you that “be enough” feeling?

We hope you will read, comment, link up,
and explore the stories of others who have linked.

When linking up, please show some JBE love and link back to us
with the BE badge for all to see.

Goodbye 2011

2012-01-01T22:44:00.000-05:00

Jessica and Ashley are two of my favorite people in the blogosphere.

Their blogs are amazing and on my must-read list, but their personalities and hearts are so much more than that.

So when I saw 12 Things 2011, I knew I had to link up.

And phew! I finally sat down to review my year, just before the link closes.

Twelve photos

Twelve words

Twelve linked posts

So many memories purused during the past week.

Happy sighs and Happy New Year!

one

three

family

frustrating

endings

tapping

perspective

random

beginnings

perfect

unexpected

enjoyment

Finding The Magic Room - A Book Review

2011-12-28T06:00:00.000-05:00

A snowstorm almost kept my mom and me at home, but we put on our Michigan driving boots and drove to the bridal store for my appointment to try on dresses.

I had an appointment to try on a dress during a trunk show, and any bride can tell you that the discounts you can find at trunk shows might be worth a few extra minutes of driving time.

We slid our shoes off at the door, ice and snow immediately glistening into puddles in the cozy store, temperature elevated enough to make it comfortable to slide into strapless dresses while frigid weather raged outside.

I had tried on wedding dresses with my friends, but this was my first trip with my mom. I thought I knew what I wanted, and I wanted her to see it before I purchased the gown, though I was paying for it myself.

A gorgeous magazine photograph was carefully pressed into my wedding binder, yet the dress lacked something as I twirled in front of the mirror.

A little disappointed, I started trying on other dresses, including a fabulous, and out of my price range, ball gown that made me feel like a princess-one wearing way too many pounds of lace and tulle.

Seeing my eyes slide to a lovely and simple dress across the room, the sales consultant brought over a dress I may not have noticed on my own. Without embellishment, the strapless gown impressed me with its simplicity and the sheen of the fabric.

There were tears in my mom’s eyes, and she’s not the crying type.

I bought the dress.

April 23, 2005

I can’t imagine how exciting it would have been to try on my dress in the Magic Room, a specially designed room in Becker’s Bridal in Fowler, Michigan, a room designed specifically for women who think they’ve found the gown they want to wear while walking down the aisle.

The Magic Room, by Jeffrey Zaslow, chronicles the stories of several women as they purchase dresses from Becker’s Bridal, a store owned by the same family for several generations.

Not all of the stories found within The Magic Room are fairy tales, not all of the brides live happily ever after, some of them facing tragedy before their weddings and some finding pain after their vows have been exchanged.

Still, Jeffrey Zaslow writes about parents and daughters with a light hand, lovingly telling their tales in such a way that it’s not surprising to learn that he is a father of girls himself.

He also writes of statistics and facts surrounding the wedding and the wedding industry, but the magic in this book is found in the hearts and hopes of the brides Zaslow chronicles within the pages of his book, not the least of whom is Shelley Mueller, owner of Becker’s Bridal, the one who imagined the Magic Room and brought it to life.

I’d be remiss if I didn’t mention the small sense of pride I felt reading The Magic Room, and knowing that a small town in Michigan was the home of such a special place to so many women.

Join the discussion about The Magic Room at BlogHer, where it’s the latest selection from the BlogHer Book Club! Did you have an "aha!" moment with your wedding dress?

I was provided with a copy of The Magic Room to read and review as well as compensation for my time, courtesy of BlogHer and Penguin Books. All opinions, as always, are my own.

My Little Elves

2011-12-26T06:00:00.000-05:00

As usual, I was a little behind with my Christmas tasks, so on Christmas Eve Eve (what? that's not an official holiday?) I set up a sweat shop* consisting of four children under four.

The almost two and one year olds dropped out quickly, after swiping a couple of cookies for their own use. I guess I'll consider them the quality control department?

Abbey and Brendan worked diligently, and we frosted and sprinkled all of my cookies for the year.

Days pass at a glance lately, preschool and dance lessons and play dates and errands and museum trips enrich our days but make for a whirlwind of car rides that sometimes force me to check my little planner several times a day to see where we need to be.

Abbey brought home a gift for Ryan and me from preschool on her last day before break, handmade paper painted and glittered into a crinkly package she insisted I open even before Daddy got home.

It cradled a homemade ornament; her smiling face peered at me from in front of a tree at school, and tears sprang to my eyes at the thought of how quickly her first school year is rushing by before my eyes.

Last year, our little elf helpers couldn't have frosted and sprinkled cookies with minimal supervision, knowing better than to lick the frosting over and over or to pour the sprinkles directly on the floor.

In the new year, I vow to take the time to slow down a little and cherish these moments with my babies even more than I already try to do.

Our schedule probably won't change too much; we all like being on the move, and hunkering down inside the house might work for a few days, but we'd soon be looking longingly at the car and the calendar for something more to do.

Yet, I can find moments in our invited chaos to savor the present.

I can turn down the radio and chat before turning it up to sing along to our most favorite songs.

I can encourage their stools in our crowded kitchen instead of trying to entice them out from underfoot with Legos and crayons.

I can grab a brush and watercolor paint with one hand in my planner instead of a hand in my planner, another sweeping the floor, and another folding laundry (what? you didn't know moms grow an extra hand when necessary?)

I can do my best to keep my mind present instead of racing off to our next adventure or my next task.

I can enjoy them.

Because these moments are fleeting.

Shell's Ricotta Cookies

and

my mom's sugar cut-outs

Abbey's best friend is the son of a Certified Master Chef

it looks like talent runs in the family

*If you've ever decorated cookies with four year olds, you know the idea of a sweatshop is laughable. It took more time and effort to clean up the errant frosting globs and sprinkles than it would have to frost them myself. But they were the sweetest and cutest helpers ever!

I'm pouring my heart out a couple of days early this week

a new book review is coming Wednesday

(Michiganders, it features a Fowler bridal store-bring on the Mitten Love!)

The Season of Anticipation

2011-12-24T06:00:00.000-05:00

our first Christmas party of the season

one hand on his fire truck

the other on his Dinosaur Train book

Planning sends a little thrill through me; sitting down with my calendars and highlighters and favorite pens to map out the month or doing research on hotels for vacations both make me a bit too giddy.

Anticipation for events might be my favorite part, or at least it was until I had kids. Nothing beats the light in their eyes when they're in the midst of a trip to the beach or bouncing into Grandma's house for a sleepover.

Christmas Eve gathers anticipation and gratification together and ties it together with a glossy red ribbon.

Our family gathers in our hodge-podge of traditions-shrimp cocktail and beef on weck and lasagna, sugar cookies and pumpkin bread and fudge, a shrimp and cream cheese dip always served in my mom's Waterford dish.

working on her new laptop

Scented candles perfume the air, mingling with the scent of her spruce tree, and the house always seems warm and inviting, and when you're a child, presents are never opened soon enough.

Yet the joy of the night is still just a preview of the magic of Christmas morning. Christmas Eve, my favorite day of the entire holiday season, is the soft kiss on the forehead of a sleeping child, promising a new, exciting adventure with the light of dawn.

Merry Christmas to you and your family this year. And if you don't celebrate Christmas, I hope you enjoy the weekend and the anticipation of 2012.

from icaughtsanta.com

a million thanks to Shell for the

giveaway that made this picture happen

Dressing Up Pine Cones

2011-12-22T06:00:00.000-05:00

I hear whispers of an elusive thing called "quiet time," an event where an older, non-napping child plays by herself in her room while her younger brother takes a nap.

Abbey gets the memo about quiet time and gleefully covers it in glitter and cut up construction paper and asks for more crafts

Recently, we visited a friend and abandoned a pine cone craft due to overly sappy, damp pine cones, but thanks to her neighbor, we left with a bag full of cones ready to be used once they dried out a bit.

Glitter crafts mean we wait until naptime.

this is the face of a girl who would rather make a mess than take a photo

What we used:

Pine cones

Spray craft bond

Fine glitter in pink (NOT red, Mommy!) and green

Large glitter in silver and gold

fine glitter coats everything and generally makes for better crafts

but Abbey doesn't exactly have a light hand with the shaking

we balance it out with the larger glitter

What we did:

covered the table with a giant plastic bag

I held the pine cones and sprayed with craft bond

(the spray glue is great for holding glitter, but it's definitely not for the preschool crowd to use without supervision-sticky and messy)

Abbey shook the glitter over computer paper so we could pour the extra back and use it again

What we did with a glut of glittered pine cones:

Let dry on plastic placemats

Gathered on a cake stand

They're currently in the middle of our dining room table

The Elevator Scrooge

2011-12-21T06:00:00.001-05:00

Scrooges confuse me, too

Lights are twinkling on our tree, and I’m curled up on our couch, filled with pizza and a little wine and the contented feeling built on conversation with close friends.

We spent the day reading Abbey’s new Christmas book and making hair bows at a play date, and I finally felt like I was able to breathe and enjoy the chill in the air that signals it’s time to remember my scarf each time I leave the house.

Yet a few things linger in my mind, prompting me to purge my thoughts in the hope that they’ll be exorcised and allow me to enjoy my chopped-off-at-the-top tree with only the holiday spirit brewing in my mind.

Dylan and I waited patiently near the elevator door at our bookstore today, and anyone who’s been shopping with Dylan knows that patiently waiting isn’t his usual shopping demeanor.

When he happily says, “Tank oo” as the elevator doors opened and hold onto the rail on the side of the wall, it is a little out of line, Ms. Lady-on-the-Elevator, to shoot him a withering glance and say, “Well, THAT’S not necessary.”

He may not understand, but I do, and it makes me want to press the stop button on the elevator and make you late for your next stop.

Please know, as I attempt to explain to my daughter that the candy canes in the end cap are cherry and not mint, it is only partially an accident when my cart bumps into your rear end as you cut in front of me in the awkward line at the grocery store.

As an ambulance screams down the street and I pull over to the side and slow to a stop, don’t shake your arms and yell at me. I can see you in my rearview mirror.

I know it takes me a while to load groceries into a car and two kids into car seats. Honking at me as you wait for my parking spot doesn’t make wrestling a toddler in a winter coat any easier.

Holiday shopping and waiting in lines and driving in extra traffic are the dark side of the holiday hustle and bustle, and I know they can be annoying. And really, these things that struck me as utterly rude at the time really aren’t that terrible.

Still, as I run my errands tomorrow, I will try to smile and hope I’m not on someone else’s list of exasperating holiday shoppers.

Making Real Holiday Memories

2011-12-19T06:00:00.000-05:00

Our Christmas tree this year is a little more Charlie Brown than Rockefeller Center, gaps in the branches letting in the light streaming through the windows.

Despite the promise shown at the store, our tree has proven to be the final cog in my husband’s case for an artificial tree, an argument that began on Thanksgiving Day, when my brother proclaimed they were getting an artificial tree this year.

My reluctance to leave our real fir at the curb for recycling for the last time has less to do with the joy I get from a real tree and more to do with the memories hidden within the branches already shedding needles at an alarming rate.

I can see my parents walking up and down rows of trees, holding one than another at arms’ length, gauging the straightness of the trunk, the symmetry of the branches, the ability to hide the sparser sections in the corner of the room.

I can feel my nose tightening in the cold, breath warm within my scarf, digging gloved fingers deeper into my coat pockets as I pushed snow around with the toes of my boots.

The warm blast of air from my mother’s kitchen floats through my mind, wrapping me warmly in the anticipation of knowing we would have to wait patiently, maybe as long as twenty-four hours, before the branches relaxed from the cold enough to hang ropes of gold garland and multi-colored lights.

My family’s prized ornament gently hangs on my mother’s real tree in the same spot each year, a faded red candle my dad made in first grade is always front and center, out of the reach of little fingers not yet ready to understand that paper and glue can be more valuable than delicate glass bulbs.

These memories hang in my mind tied to the sap-infused branches of a real Christmas tree.

Artificial trees come out of boxes.

My lower lip trembled into a pout at the thought of giving up a real tree, the thought of depriving my kids of those memories pulled freshly to the surface each time I smell the freshly cut branches of a Christmas tree.

So I sought the words of the wise Dr. Seuss:

Memories and magic and tradition aren’t linked to the tree.

They’re linked to my mother’s no-nonsense choice of a tree short enough to be easily decorated by my short family.

They’re linked to my dad’s eyes sparkling bluely between his beard and a Carhartt hat.

Next year, our tree will likely come from a box, twinkling with hundreds of already-attached lights.

But our holiday memories? Those will come from me.

Every MONDAY join us…
Write, post, link-up, share your story and your voice.
Be part of carrying the weight of confidence and share our mission
to empower, inspire, and remind women, parents and children
that the time has come to celebrate ourselves!

Just.Be.Enough. is back to an open ended theme:Be Enough Me.
What gives you that be enough feeling?

Under the Tree

2011-12-17T10:00:00.000-05:00

Long after the Santa myth had been dispelled, I looked forward to Christmas morning. Brightly wrapped boxes held the reminder that there was magic in the world.

My mother has an uncanny ability to shop without a list, finding treasures that are just perfect-books I wanted to read, journals to spill my thoughts, lotion in my favorite scent-treasures that show she pays attention all year long to figure out what I’d love to receive.

Now that I am the one doing the wrapping and know the secrets of the majority of the boxes nestled under the tree, I find that the anticipation of Christmas morning is a little different. My eyes don’t search for the gifts labeled with my name but focus on the expressions on my children’s faces as they pull open paper and tape and discover their own treasures inside.

Finding joy in gifts seems a little like cheating during the holidays; I know there’s so much more to the season than the material things that tumble out of Santa’s sack each Christmas Eve.

But Abbey and Dylan remind me that the magic found in gifts doesn’t have to be about the price tag or the quantity of gifts they get to unwrap. They’re amazed by the paper and the opening and the idea that there’s something they wanted hiding within a box.

Their excitement makes me realize that Christmas surprises are gratifying for the gift giver in a whole other way than they are for the receiver. It’s a way to show you’ve noticed a want or a need and have worked to find a way to grant that wish.

The surprise doesn’t have to be wrapped in paper or tied with a bow. It can be an offer to help make dinner or watch someone’s children for a few hours or relinquishing the remote for the evening.

Surprise someone you love this Christmas. You won’t regret it.

And you won’t regret watching this video. It will infuse a little extra holiday spirit into your day.

This post is sponsored by T-Mobile, but all opinions expressed are my own.

Taking a Field Trip

2011-12-16T07:30:00.000-05:00

As I put together little gifts for Abbey's teachers this year, I thought a little about the countdown that inevitably happened around this time of year when I was in a classroom. Kids and teachers start to look outside for signs of snow and begin to mentally calculate how many more times you would have to hit the snooze button before the holiday break.

When I left the classroom two years ago, I fully anticipated going back to teaching at some point. I'd love it if you would come over to Theta Mom today, where I'm talking about how blogging has made me reassess those plans.

I'm beyond honored and thrilled to be pulling up a chair and hanging out at Heather's place today. Her blog is one of the first I followed, and her community button might have been the first one I posted on my own blog.

She's a supportive, authetntic, generous blogger, but she's more than that; her entreprenual spirit and drive to grow her site into a brand and a media company is truly inspiring.

Ifyou're visiting from Theta Mom, welcome! I’d love it if you looked around a bit. Feel free to listen in as I write to Abbey onher first day of school, remind myself about what matters, and disagree with (way ahead of me in the writing game) Stephen King.

Crossing Off My List

2011-12-15T06:00:00.000-05:00

Earlier this week, I undertook a holiday tradition that fills me with both anticipation and dread.Not a visit to Santa or trying to find a parking space at the mall after ten in the morning, but the annual photo calendar making.

We make calendars each year for a few different people on our Christmas lists, people we’re pretty certain like looking at photos of our oh-so-adorable children every day.

Setting up the calendar as a year-in-review has worked well each year, leading to the anticipation portion of my emotional roller coaster.

Last January, my little man turned one, smearing frosting all over before tossing the cupcake onto the floor. His sparkling eyes and few-toothed-grin brought tears to my eyes as I looked over to watch him carefully stacking Legos in a single-stacked tower.

I gathered photos together, Abbey peering over my shoulder, asking about pictures and telling me her own version of the events as they appeared on the screen. I pulled her close, straining to remember when her hair smelled like baby shampoo and not the adult Aveeno we use now that her hair is grazing her waist.

Looking back on the year is my favorite part of the process, seeing their baby faces smooth into toddlerhood, the sparkle of joy in their eyes as they do something new, the silliness of Abbey’s favorite dress-up clothes.

The dread lies in finding the photos I want to use.

Though I try to keep the overabundance of my pictures organized in a way that makes sense, when it comes time for the calendar, my system seems inadequate.

Live On is a fantastic new site that could help immensely with next year’s calendar. It allows you to capture your photos in a timeline of memories-birthdays, vacations, June’s countless trips to the zoo.

I love the idea of looking back at my year as a collection of moments, drawing my favorite photos from the days that meant so much to our family, even if those memories are something as small as a Saturday at the cider mill.

Their promise to keep your memories forever is another factor in my decision to try Live On’s timeline, along with their Time Capsule feature. Capturing memories for Abbey and Dylan is so important to me, and I appreciate that Live On pledges to keep my memories intact for them to look back on years from now.

For those events that occurred before the digital age, you can use Live On Rewind to digitize photos and videos to add them to your Live On timeline.

My dad did something similar for my grandmother’s old home movies, and I can’t describe the thrill of seeing her as a young mother, pearls and lovely dresses making her look a little like Elizabeth Taylor.

Next year, using Live On might make my calendar task a little more jolly!

Interested in Live On Rewind? Use the codeHOLIDAYREWIND for 30% off LiveOn Rewind.

Thank you to LiveOn for sponsoring this blog post. Please visit LiveOn to learn more about sharing and preserving your most important memories. I was selected for this sponsorship by Clever Girls Collective. Although story ideas were provided, all thoughts and opinions are my own.

Santa, Then and Now

2011-12-14T06:00:00.000-05:00

Christmas 2010

Abbey happily sat on Santa's lap

She really, really wanted a dollhouse

Dylan happily sat on Santa's lap

He was quite the snuggler (and still is!)

Christmas 2011

Dylan barely noticed Santa; don't you see that choo-choo?

Abbey wanted to make sure, "Dylan wasn't too scared of Santa.

Christmas 2011

The thaw came when it was time to talk about the gifts

She really, really wants a new doll

Dylan really, really wants to make sure

Santa's not planning to sit on the train

thank you Tonya and Natalie for hosting such an adorable link-up

have you linked up yet?

there's prizes...

Celebrating Victories with Cake

2011-12-13T06:00:00.000-05:00

along with a birthday cake, my parents got a new kitchen this September

my dad's birthday celebration happened in the living room

cake tastes good anywhere

My dad is a cancer survivor.

Thanks to successful chemotherapy and radiation treatments, he beat cancer and has been cancer free for over twenty years.

That's more than twenty birthdays and more than twenty birthday cakes since a frightening diagnosis.

The American Cancer Society believes birthdays are special:

We believe every birthday you celebrate is a victory. Another year that cancer has not prevailed. Your birthday means everything to us. That's why we're dedicated to creating a world with less cancer and more birthdays. Thanks in part to our work, 11 million cancer survivors will celebrate another birthday this year. But we can't stop there. With your help, we can create a world with even more celebrations, more laughter, and more birthdays for all. Join us.

Every September 29th, my dad celebrates another victory. I can't imagine my life without him, and I would love it if you would watch this video (it's under a minute!) and help The American Cancer Society fight for more birthdays.

This post is sponsored by American Cancer Society.
All thoughts and opinions expressed are my own.

I Meant to Stop at the Tree Stand

2011-12-12T06:00:00.000-05:00

With December’s calendar moving into overdrive, I’m making lists and adding stars and exclamation points and trying to figure out if I’ll ever be able to highlight more completed tasks than I add new ones each day.

Our highest priority Sunday was getting our Christmas tree. As usual, we seem to be racing against time to find a fir that meets my aesthetic standards and Ryan’s financial ones.

Needing our tree stand, Ryan pulled the rubber storage totes from the attic.

Dylan snoozed on the couch after falling asleep to Christmas music on the way home.

Abbey immediately wanted to dig into the shiny, sparkling, trinkets packed away so carefully last January. Visions of checklists pushed aside the dancing sugarplums of our beloved ‘Twas the Night Before Christmas.

Hoping to quench her decorating thirst, I pulled the stockings and stocking holders from the box, clearing our mantle onto my little desk, hanging our four stockings across the white molding.

Despite pleas to play with something besides the holiday decorations, she pranced down the stairs, cradling a box of colored glass balls.

Almost reluctantly, I walked up the stairs for the ornament hooks, bringing her stool over to the wall where we decorated our giant candle holder with purple, gold, red, and green bulbs.

Her eyes sparkled more brightly than the ornaments, her spirit transfixing me to our task.

My eyes snagged on the mantle, the stockings looking lonely below our oversized mirror.

Minutes ticked by.

I adjusted poinsettias and filled a flower bowl with ornaments, moving things around and adding lights and oversized red balls behind the stocking holders.

More minutes ticked by, starred items pushed back and pushed back again.

We wrapped pre-lit garland around the banister.

We filled the tree with water, Abbey hurrying back and forth, Dylan using his “careful” walk, both hands clasping a small cup as he proceeds with deliberate steps towards the tree.

Abbey fastened the oversized buttons of the tree skirt, smoothing and adjusting it until she was satisfied.

I’ve written twenty checklists. I have starred items and circled stars and made little notes in red Flair pen.

Minutes slide into hours, and my priorities shift into place, my to-do list forgotten until after bedtime.

this week's theme was priorities

Every MONDAY join us…
Write, post, link-up, share your story and your voice.
Be part of carrying the weight of confidence and share our mission
to empower, inspire, and remind women, parents and children
that the time has come to celebrate ourselves!

Next week we are going back to an open ended theme:Be Enough Me.
What gives you that be enough feeling?

Ready for Visitors

2011-12-11T22:15:00.001-05:00

Holiday decorating with the kids is an exercise in patience and wonder, creativity and futility.

Perpetually behind, our tree has finally been purchased but won’t be decorated until at least Monday.

Our real tree, a little too tall for our dining room, needs to sit overnight and let its branches relax from being tied up and together in the cold.

In typical preschool fashion, Abbey keeps asking when the branches are going to “fall off,” picking individual needles off the wood floor to prove the tree is ready to be adorned with ornaments she has already begun taking out of boxes.

Amazed by the colors and the sparkle and the pinpoints of colored lights around the house, Abbey and Dylan are fascinated and eager to help, and it’s impossible to keep their fingers off the holiday trimmings for long.

We're one day into decorated mode, and I’ve determined that unless Ryan or I are in the room with them, the stockings can’t be hung by the chimney with care. We’ll need to flip them up and toss them on the mantle, ruining the photographic effect but saving a little noggin from a tumbling stocking holder should Dylan decide he needs to pull his stocking down to investigate the choo-choo further.

Adding festive embellishments to a house already teeming with toys and books and laundry in various stages of completion seems impossible.

As Ryan pulled the rubber totes of Christmas décor from the attic this weekend, he just shook his head at the amount of baubles that would soon be competing for space around our home.

I’d like to think we could welcome visitors at any time during the holidays, which means keeping on top of organizing and cleaning.

Too many years with a sports-enthused husband means the old adage “the best defense is a good offense” comes to mind.

I tend to keep a small sweeper plugged in and leaning into the corner of my dining room, letting me quickly vacuum up crumbs from meals and errant pine needles a few times a day.

Snacks and beverages other than water are supposed to stay in the dining room, but I'll confess I find myself wiping up milk on other floors at least once a day.

We’re working on picking up toys as we finish playing with them, though it seems that they won’t learn that until they’re ready to leave for college, and they can take their legos and stuffed animals and doll furniture with them.

Hopefully visitors can overlook a few, or a dozen, crayons strewn around the construction paper on the floor, remnants of our reindeer hats just made this morning.

Pumpkin bread and pine are weaving together in the air, and I’ll do my best to make sure the floor is free of breakfast debris before you arrive.

I am sharing my holiday home decor and cleaning tips for the chance to win prizes from The SITS Girls and Great Cleaners.

Scents of Iron and Pine

2011-12-09T06:00:00.000-05:00

The doorbell rang, a tinny version of his college fight song drowning out their ragged breathing as their eyes locked.

She tilted her head slightly, trying not to wince.

He nodded, almost imperceptibly; she was the only one who would have noticed his jaw spasmodically clenching.

With permission tensely granted, the balance of power shifted. He reluctantly offered his hand to her, but she looked away and pushed herself to her feet on her own, willing away the blackness dancing in front of her eyes.

Years of practice propelled her forward in a straight line, and despite the dizziness that threatened to buckle her knees, she took a moment to pray their daughter was listening to headphones.

Her smile automatic, she wiped trails of mascara from beneath her eyes and opened the door. A lush wreath wafted pine into the foyer.

“Lottie, how are you?” she breathed musically into the space over her elderly neighbors head, the sky grey and heavy on the horizon.

Probing eyes searched her face.

“I brought over my cookies,” Lottie began, paper thin lips faltering as they tried to smile.

“Thank you so much, Lottie. Garrett always looks forward to your Madelaines.”

Knotted hands passed a festive tin over the threshold, warmly pressing against her hand. “Dear? You look tired; I hope everything’s all right.”

She forced her eyes to lie, “Just the holiday schedule running us ragged, I’m afraid.”

Self-consciously, she smoothed her hair, fingers brushing a sticky patch at the back and folding themselves into a loose fist to hide the tell-tale stain from Lottie’s rheumy, worried eyes.

In the next room, Garrett methodically dabbed at a red smear on the wall, marking his wife’s height.

Four eyes pleaded with each other in front of a holiday wreath as snow began to fall.

the prompt:

Use the holidays to inspire a piece beginning with "The doorbell rang" and ending with "snow began to fall."

A Circle Around My Heart

2011-12-08T06:00:00.000-05:00

Thanks to Duncan Hines for sponsoring my writing. There's no limit to the baking possibilities, so grab your favorite Duncan Hines mix and Comstock or Wilderness fruit fillings and Bake On! www.duncanhines.com

the four of us (plus baby Abbey)

circa June 2008

Over ten years ago, the four of us gathered together with a dinner of appetizers and candy and lounged on a comfortable couch to watch an MTV awards show. We scooped queso dip and nibbled on desserts and talked about who rocked the red carpet and commiserated over fresh-out-of-college jobs and wordlessly comforted whoever’s heart needed it the most that evening.

Filled with food and bolstered by friendship, we decided to meet again the following week, quickly transforming Wednesday from Hump Day to Girls’ Night, and our “eternal circle of friendship” was formed.

Weekend nights could be spent in heels and crowded bars, conversation and laughter strained over the din of music and echoing loneliness; our Wednesdays were about enjoying each other’s company in comfort.

Ten years holds many Wednesdays, and we’ve seen our circle shrink to three and sometimes two, as our living radius expanded little by little until one of us is now living almost 6600 miles away.

Our Wednesdays have included full holiday dinners and sushi and chili cheese fries, enjoyed while sprawled across the floor of one of our living rooms.During our Girls’ Nights, we’ve admired engagement rings and taken field trips to try on bridesmaid dresses, and hung out with a friend on bed rest. Over the years we’ve exchanged hugs, Christmas gifts like MAC make-up that boyfriends just don’t know how to purchase, and tears of both sadness and joy.

With the responsibilities of husbands and some children and growing distances between us, our Wednesdays have dwindled to maybe once a month, often out instead of in, choosing a restaurant in a convenient location, like the one three of us sat in this Monday night.

Perhaps it’s the nostalgia of the holiday season or knowing that the fourth cog of our circle is awaiting the birth of her second child so very far across the oceans, but despite the ease of our conversation and the delicious bursts of spicy tuna and crumbled tempura, I felt a pang for our Wednesdays spent at one of our homes.

I miss kicking off shoes and sometimes sliding into yoga pants, opening take-out bags and spreading store-bought frosting onto ready-bake sugar cookies. I miss the conversation that emerges naturally with E! playing in the background.

I left the restaurant on Monday night, snow falling lightly onto my coat, and I realized a busy schedule shouldn't mean sacrificing time with friends, especially during the holidays.

Time and distance stretch our circle, until our fingers are barely touching, yet I know my friends are there; their presence is a part of my heart. But sometimes that's just not enough.

I think it’s time for a Girls’ Night In.

Remember to check out Duncan Hines' website www.duncanhines.com to find some great recipes for your holiday get-together! I was selected for this sponsorship by the Clever Girls Collective

Choose Your Day

2011-12-07T06:00:00.000-05:00

Freshly baked pumpkin chocolate chip muffins and steaming coffee, sweetened with a smidge too much sugar, on the table.

All before 7:00 a.m.

You're looking at either a terrible morning or a beautiful one.

Can changing your perspective change the outcome of your day?

Pressing Pause

2011-12-05T06:00:00.000-05:00

Thursday morning rain lulls us all to sleep later than normal, snuggled under comforters and burrowed into pillows.

Preschool beckons, so we finally creep into action, dressing and eating and remembering water bottles and lunches and homemade play-doh.

I kiss her palm, and she tucks it into her backpack; he reaches up: "Care-Me".

Precious moments that stop my heart then get lost in the rush of the morning.

Sighing as she and Ryan walk out the door, I snuggle Dylan close, wishing I could stop time for just a moment to imprint their today-ness on my memory.

Thanks to Alison and Galit, I took some time to capture some little things about them. Today.

Because tomorrow may not look the same, but I know it will be just as lovely.

Merry Mugging

2011-12-04T07:00:00.000-05:00

I've been mugged by the hilarious (and mysterious) Momma Kiss, and it didn't hurt a bit.

Many thanks to Liz for masterminding

#MugSwap2011

Mama Kat's Writing Workshop had a Five Things prompt last week, so I thought I might use that to introduce myself a bit if you're visiting from #MugSwap2011.

5 Things We Don’t Know About You

- I'd rather wear heels than flats
- I majored in philosophy for two semesters
- I always thought I'd live in New York City, at least for a little while
- I don't eat red meat, except for Ball Park hot dogs at baseball games
- My favorite sport to watch is women's gymnastics

5 Things You’re Knowledgeable About

- 1980s movies
- The Oxford comma
- The mood-boosting power of ice cream
- Beverly Hills, 90210 episodes (the original)
- Random minutiae

5 Things You Know Nothing About

- How to convince my kids that sleeping is fun
- Being tall
- Finding the perfect pair of jeans
- Buying and selling stocks
- Cars, besides how to drive them

5 Things You Believe

- Abbey and Dylan become louder and needier the moment I open my computer or pick up the phone
- Positive thinking is a choice you can make each day
- Part of me will be a little sad when Abbey and Dylan no longer become louder and needier when I need a minute to myself
- Cheese and bread is an acceptable dinner
- Love matters

Improvise, Improvise As Fast As You Can

2011-12-02T06:00:00.000-05:00

Grandma. A trove of kisses and hugs and endless patience.

Grandma. A cornucopia of surprises and treats and toys and little gifts.

Grandma. Purchaser of a gingerbread men kit, sent home with Abbey and Dylan after their night with Grandma and Grandpa.

Grandma. Ignorer of directions.

run, run, run as fast as you can

you can't catch me, I'm the Gingerbread Man

poor Gingerbread Man

Because while rolling hunks of fondant to a specified thickness and delicately cutting icing into darling clothing items for gingerbread boys and girls may work for some craftier moms, the idea of it sent me running for the kitchen and my filled-with-chemicals food coloring.

I push the fold-out flyer of directions, thick with restrictions, to the corner of the counter with the rest of the junk mail and other recycling.

I may not be a whiz with pastry knives, but I can whip up a batch of buttercream icing and a plan B while singing the Gingerbread Man song and tossing packets of fondant into the recesses of my baking cupboard.

Fondant is a foreign word to Abbey, but she knows the sweetness of frosting, dipping a finger into the stainless steel bowl before I have the chance to divide and color the creamy, sugary peaks into festive colors.

Dylan knows he wants his chair in the kitchen with his sister and me, fascinated by the tiny candy balls that tinkle into ramekins, chasing them across the floor when they tumble from his grasp.

Without the burden of cutting out dresses and itty bitty scarves, we giggle while digging Abbey’s tea party knives out of her toy kitchen goodies, though Dylan prefers working with his own utensils.

Without the danger of pastry knives or kitchen shears, they spread icing with plastic knives, without my assistance or my nervous hovering.

Small hands frost and taste test and decorate with whimsy, choosing colors and licking fingers and imagining their creations rival those on the box.

Which they do, of course, when seen through a mother’s love-tinted lens.

We may have ended up with this:

instead of this:

But we had this:

and this:

An afternoon craft without tears or impatient tantrums or gritted teeth.

Proving that sometimes the best directions are the ones you don’t follow.

(Please don’t tell my kids that!)

Lessons from Twizzlers

2011-11-30T06:00:00.001-05:00

After college, Ryan and I were in a bowling league with two of our dear friends.

That painful season is proof that bowling leagues should think about minimum bowling averages to keep out people who can’t bowl but like to drink beer and eat candy instead of keeping track of pesky distractions, like my turn to bowl.

Yet in typical glass-half-full fashion, I can think of a few things bowling clarified for me. Or the bowling alley. Or Twizzlers.

I’m talking about it over at Sluiter Nation, where I’ve been recruited!

I’d let Katie recruit me for just about anything. She’s funny, poignant, and a fellow Michigander. In addition to raising an adorable toddler dynamo and growing his little brother, she writes at Sluiter Nation and reviews books at Katie’s Bookcase, but even more dear to my heart, she is a teacher who loves her job, the kind of high school teacher I would love for my kids to have one day!

If you're visiting from Sluiter Nation, welcome! I’d love it if you looked around a bit. Feel free to listen in as I write to Abbey on her first day of school, remind myself about what matters, and disagree with (the slightly more successful than me) Stephen King.

Running in November

2011-11-28T07:00:00.000-05:00

Running in November generally requires gloves and long sleeves and a retreat to mindless miles on the treadmill, trying to find something suitably distracting on TV.

So Saturday, when the weather beckoned me outside in short sleeves, there was something intoxicating about my run, short and careful in case my tailbone decided to protest halfway through my route.Gingerly setting one foot in front of the other, familiar music flooded my ears, and my feet carried me along without thought, letting my thoughts drift into rhythm with my increasing pace.

Scenes to be written for my National Novel Writing Month unfurl smoothly in my head, and I give a belated moment of thanks for the extra time I’ve had the past few days to write with Ryan at home for the Thanksgiving holiday.

Knowing the kids are soaking up the extra time at home with Daddy, I let my feet keep time with the beat without guilt about leaving them at home.

I’ve given myself a free pass for the weekend, keeping my list of things to do minimal and focusing on writing and time with family and friends.

In this moment I feel balanced; I feel content.

Still, there are miles stretching in front of me, and balance is not the only thing I am trying to find as wind blows my hair from my forehead.Goals hover in front of me, priorities and dreams shifting depending on the day.

I delicately toe the line between being grateful for the contentment I feel and the aspiration to tweak and improve myself in so many areas of my life.

Warm air pulls me to go farther than I had planned, but I turn and begin to run home. I know staying uninjured after a running hiatus means slowing down even when I want to speed up.

Finding balance step by step means returning home with a clearer head, resolving to set small goals for myself in parenting, in writing, in health and fitness.

Running gives me a place to let my dreams soar and the peace to allow myself to reach for those dreams, knowing that the most important ones have already come true.

Have you heard of Striiv? Do you want one?

Visit Just.Be.Enough. this week for the chance to win one of two Striivs that they will be giving away this week.

For your first chance to win, link up a Be Enough Me post. This week's prompt was: What are you striving for?

For your second chance, come join us for our first Twitter Party!

(11/29 at 8 pm EST)

We’ll be discussing getting moving and putting ourselves first as we strive to live healthy lives full of movement.

And giving away awesome prizes!

Every MONDAY join us…
Write, post, link-up, share your story and your voice.
Be part of carrying the weight of confidence and share our mission
to empower, inspire, and remind women, parents and children
that the time has come to celebrate ourselves!

Next week’s prompt: The best present...

(Remember you can also write on a topic of your choice.)

Thanksgiving State of Mind

2011-11-24T08:12:00.000-05:00

Happy Thanksgiving!

This day is set aside to bask in all that we're thankful for, and many of us are thankful for similar things, even if those things may look different for each of us.

We're thankful for the simple things, like families and friends, the people always in our hearts no matter where they are around the globe or the universe.

We're thankful for a multitude of intangibles, things that soothe our souls, and the beauty in those lies in their differences for each of us. Some of mine are writing and books and running and laughter and the thought of listening to waves crash on a beach.

As the holiday season kicks into high gear, I hope I can carry this feeling of gratitude with me, like a warm blanket to burrow under when obligations seem endless.

Enjoy something sweet today.

xoxo

photo courtesy of my talented friend Laura

Purple Sky Photography

Laundry During NaNoWriMo

2011-11-23T07:32:00.000-05:00

One more week of my National Novel Writing Month experiement, and my characters have overtaken my brain. They're misbehaving and blowing raspberries at my carefully planned tone and structure, and I'm torn between Type A chagrin and absolute delight.

It's possible that I have been so wrapped up in Greta's shenanigans that I have put the laundry into the machine in the evening and forgotten to switch it to the dryer, which is both embarrassing and annoying, since it means I have to re-wash a load of clothes.

Thankfully, at the beginning of the month, I stuck the awesome Bounce Dryer Bar (Outdoor Fresh scent) onto the side of my dryer. At least I know I can't forget my dryer sheets while I'm trying to figure out what sort of relationship Greta might be looking for at this point in her life.

If you haven't tried the dryer bar yet, it's a bar of fabric softener that you leave in your dryer. It says it needs to be replaced approximately every three months, and there's an indicator strip. I haven't gotten that far, yet, so I can't say for sure.

I can tell you the smell is pleasant, which I like, and I love the convenience of not thinking about throwing in the dryer sheet. I used Bounce sheets before trying the bar, and I haven't noticed any difference in the feel of my clothes.

Also, if you dry certain loads without fabric softener, the dryer bar is easy to clip in and out. Dylan's diapers appreciate that, because fabric softeners aren't so great for diaper absorbancy.

One more week of NaNoWriMo, but then I'll be editing. I wish the Bounce Dryer Bar could be trained to fold the clothes before I took them out of the dryer, but I will take any convenience I can get, and it definitely took a step out of the laundry process.

BlogHer provided me with a Bounce Dryer Bar to try, without any requirements to post about it. I wrote about it because it is helpful and smells good.

Leaves in Their Hair

2011-11-21T07:00:00.000-05:00

Despite late nights, I am slightly behind on my NaNoWriMo project. My tailbone is still tender. My blog reader is swollen with blogs left unread and uncommented on. Thanksgiving is this week, and my Christmas shopping isn’t even started.

This Friday, I felt overwhelmed and teary and wondered if I was taking on too much.

This Friday, Ryan and I tucked the kids safely into the arms of Grandma and Grandpa and drove up to our old college campus, tickets to a basketball game in our pockets and the possibility of a football game on the horizon.

This Friday, I flat ironed my hair without worrying about little fingers finding the scorching ceramic and left my laptop at home without worrying about my to-do list and painted my fingernails without worrying about putting on gloves.

That last one might have been a mistake, as the wind on our walk to the Breslin Center was chillier than I had anticipated.

Even with cold hands, there’s something about being away for the night that makes the responsibilities of home feel far away, something that makes laughter easier and lighter and the decision about what to have for dinner seem like the most pressing concern of the night (Pesto Bruschetta, because I love a delicious appetizer, if you’re curious.)

With a voice hoarse from cheering on the basketball team and holding a conversation over the reverberations of an eighties band, we returned home, and I felt rejuvenated.

Abbey's smile seemed brighter than when we left on Friday, sparkling sweetly with her excitement about her sleepover.

Dylan's head still fit perfectly into the side of my neck, and I easily forgave him for Saturday night's sleeping drama.

There are e-mails to answer and posts to write and paths to follow my characters down, as they stubbornly refuse to behave how I’d planned, yet I spent most of Sunday making gingerbread men and playing outside and pulling leaves out of Abbey’s hair (and Dylan’s mouth, if I’m being honest.)

Our responsibilities haven’t lessened.

No one did my laundry while we were gone.

I made three different lunches on Sunday.

Yet I feel ready for the week in a way I haven’t in a long time, making shopping lists and plans for the kids and writing lists with anticipation instead of dread.

Who knows? Maybe we’ll even find time to jump in another pile of leaves.

this week's prompt was "I am feeling..."

(inspired by a Soleil Moon Frye tweet)

Every MONDAY join us…

Write, post, link-up, share your story and your voice.

Be part of carrying the weight of confidence and share our mission to empower, inspire, and remind women, parents and children that the time has come to celebrate ourselves!

Next week’s prompt: What are you striving towards?

(Remember you can also write on a topic of your choice.)

Turn Down the Heat

2011-11-18T06:00:00.000-05:00

“Keep your scarf on,” Cate hissed at Greta under her breath, straightening her gloves.

“I’m sweating,” Greta said, loosening the soft wool.

Jenna’s comfortable sedan was blasting heat. Cate and Greta had claimed the backseat, Cate stretching her legs on the seat amongst magazines, strawberry Twizzlers, and diet Coke.

“Let’s listen to Christmas music. We are going Christmas shopping,” Claire said.

Cate and Greta exchanged a quick glance, and Greta ducked into an extra-thick fashion magazine, letting her hair fall over her face.

“I made this playlist just for today!” Jenna protested.

“So you and Chase are getting serious?” Claire asked, Christmas music forgotten.

“That’s the craziest news of the holiday season, isn’t it?” Cate said lightly, catching Greta’s eye across the plush seats.

“You and Chase? I’d say you’ve made it a point to define crazy,” Greta agreed amicably.

Sensing a subtle shift in the energy of the car, Jenna flipped down her rearview mirror so she could see most of the back seat.

“Catherine Jane. Talk.”

“I thought we were talking,” Cate said. Greta bit her lip, laughter threatening to escape.

“I’m confused,” Claire spoke up. “I thought we were just going Christmas shopping?”

Cate glanced at Greta, who might have nodded.

“It’s going to come out eventually.”

“What’s going to-“

Cate smiled at Greta, who said, “You can’t wear gloves all night.”

“Wear gloves?” Claire asked, but Jenna swerved the car to the shoulder and leaned over the back of the seat.

“Are you crazy?” she asked, grabbing at Cate’s fuzzy gloves.

Mirthful, Cate let her pull it off.

“We’re not just going Christmas shopping!”

Light caught the diamond on Cate’s left hand, sparkling into dancing colors.

“My maid of honor and I would like to invite you on my first wedding dress shopping trip.”

the prompt:

This week, we’d like you to take us on an actual journey, specifically a road trip.

This is part of Greta's story, which is also my NaNoWriMo project and now over 30,000 words. Some of them can be found in Greta's Story.

The Unpredictability of Water - Jeremy Page's Sea Change

2011-11-17T08:14:00.001-05:00

Sunshine and rainwater flow through the first page of Jeremy Page’s Sea Change, beautifully written, with the incredible attention to detail that unfailingly draws me into a book.

With the same deliberateness, Sea Change twisted my heart, though I was prepared for it by reading the description of the book.

The story seamlessly moves through time; past, present, and future are woven together, the future imagined through Guy’s extensive journals. His writings can be disconcerting; both he and the reader are aware that the future he paints exists only in the words in the pages of his hardbound journals, carefully protected in waterproof plastic.

Guy’s choice to live on a boat, untethered and drifting, is in direct contrast to his desire to hold onto his family. At one point he claims: “It’s a wonderful thing to write. You can reclaim the things you lost.”

As the story unfolds, Guy begins to wonder if that’s necessarily true, and the changes in his journals reflect his change in perspective.

Sea Change uses the setting to its best advantage; like the sea on which he lives, there are lulls and storms, unexpected twists and turns that can’t be avoided, even when Guy is furiously trying to rewrite his family’s future.

Guy encounters Marta and Rhona, a mother and daughter looking for closure on the sea as well, and they breathe a sense of hope into his journey. They are a reminder of the ways in which water can throw an unblemished shell at your feet when you least expect it, though the threat of it being swept away by the tide is always lurking underwater.

Sea Change rocks back and forth between hope and despair. Guy’s insistence on trying to build a future without truly facing the ruins on which he is building, leads to a sense of foreboding.

The reader may be forced to choose between believing in the fatality of some emotional wounds and the power of the survival instinct.

Join the discussion about Sea Change over at the BlogHer Book Club, where we’re discussing the power of small moments or learn more about Jeremy Page’s Sea Change.

I was compensated for this book review and provided with a copy of the book to review, courtesy of BlogHer and Penguin Books. All opinions expressed are my own. Your experience with the book may be different, as all readers come to the couch with different expectations and experiences.

this is Lake Michigan

not the North Sea

my travel budget for blog photos is a bit limited

Cooking During NaNoWriMo

2011-11-16T07:00:00.001-05:00

At the beginning of the month, I wrote about participating in National Novel Writing Month. I meant to write it as a pledge to myself and possibly a warning to those who have to listen to my character gossip.

I didn't mean to throw down the gauntlet to the Universe.

Still, the Universe countered with two sick kids and my own decidedly ungraceful fall down our wooden stairs. (My parents deserve at least half a refund for all those years of ballet lessons after that one.)

With a possibly bruised tailbone, unable to run, my best sanity saver, I've been trying to direct all of my jumbled, rushing thoughts into my little notebook. My mind is consumed with my characters, which is exactly what NaNoWriMo should be about, but it's not conducive to planning dinner.

Universe, I'm countering back with my crockpot.

1 package of Chicken breasts

1 bottle Frank's Red Hot Wings sauce

1 packet Hidden Valley Ranch original salad dressing

cook on low for approximately 5-6 hours

shred chicken around 5 hours and let it soak up the sauce for a while longer

make delicious sandwiches, salads, or nachos

the cutest clean-up crew around

although they tend to make a bigger mess than the one they "clean"

I Never Knew I Could Miss Shoes

2011-11-14T07:00:00.000-05:00

Sitting patiently on the stairs near the back door, my running shoes have been lonely lately.

Please visit me over at Just.Be.Enough. today, where I'm hosting the weekly link-up. I'm talking about why I haven't been running and how I feel about that.

Bringing the Fun Inside

2011-11-10T06:00:00.000-05:00

Autumn in Michigan is means colorful trees, red barns at cider mills, warm colors tinged with sunshine.

Taking advantage of sun soaked mornings, we dawdle on our way to the garage, turning the few feet into a roundabout journey through the yard, pointing to old birds' nests peeking through thinning leaves.

Autumn in Michigan is gray skies, wind stripping branches of their colorful accessories, rain-soaked leaves trodden into brown pulp on the sidewalks.

Errands and playdates beckon, but some days the rain is chilly enough to bring the fun inside instead.

Both kids love washing dishes, brushing their teeth, washing their hands and all other activities that involve running water.

In an effort to practice a little conservation, and give them a way to play together without elbowing for position, the water table came inside, along with some bath toys. Later, a couple squirts of floor cleaner and a mop recycled some of that water into an afternoon cleaning session.

This week, we washed and hollowed our mini pumpkins. Perfect (temporary) homes for my little Cinderella's favorite friends.

How are you spending your rainy days this fall?

Finding Holiday Comforts in the Stillness

2011-11-09T07:00:00.001-05:00

This post is sponsored by Tempur-Pedic, the brand millions of owners trust to deliver their best night’s sleep every night. Enjoy our Buy 2, get 1 free pillow offer now and give the gift of custom comfort to someone you love.

The three of us, my mom, Donnie, and I, pulled on wintercoats and slid into my mom’s car, driving around neighborhoods sparkling withelaborate light displays.

Protected from the Michigan weather by a car heater and mymom’s favorite Anne Murray Christmas cassette, we could chat, debate the meritsof multi-colored versus all-white lights, or ride in silence, hundreds of tinylights breaking the early darkness of winter nights.

At home, our Christmas tree lights reflected off the goldgarland always strung in looping circles around the trees we chose as a family,early in the day to accommodate my dad’s afternoon work shift. I curled on the couch, legs under me and abook on my lap, reading by the lowest possible light to maximize the magic ofthe hundreds of colored lights.

More than a small Whitman’s sampler tucked into my stockingor my beloved Brother typewriter or the triangular bottle of 273 Rodeo Drive byFred Hayman perfume I desperately wanted, the moments I return to when planningways to create memorable holidays for our kids are the ones removed from thegift giving.

Car rides along JeffersonAvenue to watch the stillness of Christmas lights reflecting on the water, latenights sitting near a lit tree, and Christmas day spent curled up with a newbook, pajamas worn long past morning, all conjure the peace and comfort thatmake the holidays my favorite time of year.

browsing her favorite doll catalog

Toy catalogs are peppering our mailbox, and we’ve already spokenat length about the various decorated trees in Lord & Taylor; soon theholiday season will be in full swing. With two young children, there’s not a great way to escape the insanityof toy store shopping or visiting Santa at the mall, and truthfully, thathectic energy is its own sort of holiday magic.

Yet, the moments I look forward to the most are the still ones. Abbey and Dylan easing into new Christmasjammies after celebrating Christmas Eve at my parents’ house. Seeing our stockings hanging along themantle. The blissful moment Ryan and Ican finally sink into bed after spending too much time doing Santa’s grunt workwith a few tools and too many parts making up a dollhouse.

For Abbey’s sake, this January and February I forgave thepeople who left their holiday lights up far too long, because we could stilldrive past and marvel at the sparkling colors, the kids snuggled into cozy carseats, adults enjoying the warmth of heated seats and holiday music on theradio.

Shopping lists and wrapping gifts and snowflake crafts arealready bouncing around in my head, and I relish creating holiday magic for myfamily. But the moments of stillness andjoy are the memories I cherish; long after our ornaments have been packed intotheir boxes, I carry those moments of holiday comfort with me into the unknownadventures of the New Year.

Comfort is the perfect gift for everyone on your holiday gift list, so be sure to take advantage of Tempur-Pedic's Buy 2, get 1 free pillow offer!

I was selected for this sponsorship by the Clever Girls Collective.

Rethinking Regret

2011-11-07T07:00:00.000-05:00

I've written before about living without regret, and as I sat down to jot down ideas for today's post, I planned to continue with similar sentiments. Then I found this quote, from L.M. Montgomery:

My cherished copies of three Anne of Green Gables books are currently on Abbey's bookshelf, waiting to be shared. Their spines worn and pages yellowing with age, I've lived and relived Anne's adventures and mishaps, as a child and young adult and mother-to-be, softly reading aloud with the book balanced on my pregnant abdomen.

I've imagined Abbey curling into my side, listening to stories of Anne long before she's ready to read chapter books, talking with her about some of the mistakes Anne makes and the lessons she learns.

I stared at L.M. Montgomery's quote and considered my "I don't regret a single moment" philosophy.

My thinking shifted. Perhaps I had been putting too much power in the hands of regret. I was letting the idea of it mean more than it does.

Regret doesn't have to mean I would change a decision or a mistake; it simply means that I feel sadness and possibly some disappointment about those missteps, those bumps in the path I've taken to get to this place in my life.

I do have regrets.

I have made decisions that have hurt others.

I have made decisions that have hurt me.

I have put myself in the position to be hurt by others.

I do, in fact, feel sadness and disappointment about those parts of my past, as I'm sure I will about decisions I have yet to make.

But I have learned from my regrets, even the lessons that had to be repeated, the pain that had to be replayed time and again, until my thinking shifted into place.

Those lessons mean I can face my regret, forgive myself, and leave those mistakes in the past. I do not carry them into my future.

So one day, when I am settled into the couch with Anne of Green Gables, Abbey at my side and Dylan clamoring to catch a whiff of pages feeling the breath of excited children after far too long, I may pause for a moment to feel some sadness, some regret for mistakes I've made in the past.

Their sweet smiles and ability to snuggle into nooks I wasn't aware my body had will be even more of a gift, because I can be certain they are the two things in my life I have never regretted.

this week's prompt:

"Something I do not regret..."

We hope you will read, comment, link up, and explore the stories of others who have linked.

Every MONDAY join us…

Write, post, link-up, share your story and your voice. Be part of carrying the weight of confidence and share our mission to empower, inspire, and remind women, parents and children that the time has come to celebrate ourselves!

Next week’s prompt: “One image or symbol that reminds me to Be Enough"

(Remember you can also write on a topic of your choice.)

Evening Silence

2011-11-04T07:00:00.000-04:00

Her parents move through the kitchen in a practiced, synchronized dance of carrying and rinsing and wiping away the chaos of dinner.

Forks scrape plates into the stainless steel sink, clinging food rinsed clean with scalding water.

Spoons lift the salvageable into carefully labeled containers, stored neatly in the spotless refrigerator.

Her mother pauses, pushing back her hair and leaning against cold granite, breathing in the warm scent of pine and the silence of post-dinner homework.
Her father moves back and forth, his mind in his office.

The flickering candle casts shadows they wordlessly ignore.

Her room is the arranged mess of a teenager with one foot still in girlhood, pale blue walls and plush carpet, teddy bears pushed carelessly against lavender pillows, thrown to the ground at bedtime to mingle with pom-poms and notices of spirit week fundraisers.

The white dresser smoothly cradles a jumble of bracelets and earrings, some borrowed from her mother’s endless collection, and glittered lip gloss, aching to whisper secrets they see in the silence.

Leaning against a wall plastered with Justin Bieber, she tips a small vial back and forth between her palms, contemplating the cleanliness of a rolled-up dollar bill.

the prompt:

This week I want you to take me to your version of 8:00 -AM or PM, fiction or creative nonfiction- in 200 words or less.

The Feminine Side of the Roman Empire - Book Review

2011-11-03T07:00:00.000-04:00

If you cringed at the violence in Gladiator butfind yourself interested a society ruled by Emperors and the theatricality ofthe Coliseum, Theodora by Stella Duffy should be on your must-read list.

I wrote earlier this week about truth, so I have to honestlyadmit historical fiction is slightly wasted on me. I love reading it, but I’m so easily drawninto the world the author creates, and my own historical knowledge is perhapsnot what it should be, so the line between what is actual history and what isfiction is blurred to the point of not existing for me.

According to my serious historical research (Wikipedia,thank you very much,) combined with notes on the book’s cover, Theodora was anactress, an Empress of the Roman Empire, and a saint in the Orthodox Church. She may or may not have been the mostpowerful woman in Roman history, and like all powerful woman, there are manyrumors surrounding her rise to power.

Theodora’s tagline is “Actress, Empress, Whore,” so I can’tsay that many of the plot points are unexpected as Theodora rises from a young,poor, child actress in Constantinople to heights unimagined for a girl in herposition.

What I found most interesting as I read Theodora was the wayshe used her strengths to her advantage within a system that didn’t necessarilyvalue them. She wasn’t classicallybeautiful nor a particularly gifted singer or dancer, which should haverelegated her to a small, uneventful life.

However, she used her intelligence to craft comedic timingand to understand the dynamic between people, which seems to be her mostimportant skill throughout the book.

Her story is woven amongst the intrigue of Roman politicsand religious conflict, but I found her character’s inner growth to be the mostcompelling part of Theodora.

While I’m not sure where the line between history andfiction is drawn in Stella Duffy’s novel, I can definitely recommend readingTheodora if you’re interested in a story about a woman’s rise to power throughchannels that should never had led her anywhere but the inside of a man’sbedroom.

Join the discussion about Theodora or read more about Stella Duffy, as the BlogHer Book Club reads Theodora!

I was compensated for this review by BlogHer, which included a copy of Theodora, provided by Penguin Books. All opinions expressed are my own and were not influenced in any way.

reading with Grandpa

NOT historical fiction, though it is about a dinosaur bone

Halloween Outtakes

2011-11-02T07:00:00.000-04:00

Zoo Boo

very excited carousel rider

kind of grossed out by pumpkin innards

carving a pumpkin with Grandpa

so proud of her pumpkin

the one where I let my exhausted daughter get hyped up on sugar

she still went to sleep in the car, thirty minutes later

Trade or Treat

2011-11-01T07:00:00.000-04:00

the best family shot we could muster

"Trick or treat" was a little more than he could handle this year, but he managed to combine a giant smile, a "tweet," and a "tank ew" to convey his desire for a piece of the Halloween fun.

Thrilled with the game, he kept one of his treats clasped in his hand at all times.

Always easygoing, he made sure no one was left out.

Several times, he tried to hand over his clutched candy bar in exchange for the candy handed out at the next house.

Bringing back the barter system, one mini candy bar at a time.

a new species has been discovered

we'll call it the Pretzel Monkey

After a late night at the Zoo Boo, Abbey awoke with a raspy voice and a self-diagnosed "scratchy throat."

Snuggles from Grandma and a little extra TV (an episode of Little Bear, straight from the story books Grandma used to read to Mommy and Uncle Donnie) were as close to a nap as she got, but she perked up a little as the festivities began.

Layers under and over her costume and a fairly tame trick-or-treat route kept her warm, though she was hitching a ride in a stroller by the end of our evening.

New footie jammies brought a smile to her face, as she drifted to sleep on the drive home, her small fingers still encircling her glow-in-the-dark wand.

making silly faces has replaced saying cheese

the only decent photo with the monkey hood

"loves pretzels, hates hats" sums up his Halloween preferences this year

Tiaras and Trucks

She Brightens My February

11 Things Might Be Enough

Blocking the Moon

Readers Will Love The Weird Sisters - A Book Review

Preschool Decisions and White Envelopes

Overpacking Intervention

Recycled Crayon Art

Without Thinking

Tucked in an Envelope

Losing the Shine

Hats

Capturing Memories - Bellflower Books Giveaway Winner

Between Health and Weight

Redefining Sundays

Lies

Capturing January

Floundering

The Winding Road

Where Doubt & Bliss Collide

What gives you that “be enough” feeling?

Breaking the Blissdom Ice

Capturing Memories - A Bellflower Books Giveaway

Tannins

Goodbye Splenda, Hello Butter - A Book Review

Knock Knock, Dylan Style

Three Hundred Sixty Seconds

Dylan Do is Turning Two

Changing the Countdown

Hello 2012

Goodbye 2011

Finding The Magic Room - A Book Review

My Little Elves

The Season of Anticipation

Dressing Up Pine Cones

The Elevator Scrooge

Making Real Holiday Memories

Just.Be.Enough. is back to an open ended theme:Be Enough Me.What gives you that be enough feeling?

Under the Tree

Taking a Field Trip

Crossing Off My List

Santa, Then and Now

Celebrating Victories with Cake

I Meant to Stop at the Tree Stand

Next week we are going back to an open ended theme:Be Enough Me.What gives you that be enough feeling?

Ready for Visitors

Scents of Iron and Pine

A Circle Around My Heart

Choose Your Day

Pressing Pause

Merry Mugging

Improvise, Improvise As Fast As You Can

Lessons from Twizzlers

Running in November

Next week’s prompt: The best present...

Thanksgiving State of Mind

Laundry During NaNoWriMo

Leaves in Their Hair

Turn Down the Heat

The Unpredictability of Water - Jeremy Page's Sea Change

Cooking During NaNoWriMo

I Never Knew I Could Miss Shoes

Bringing the Fun Inside

Finding Holiday Comforts in the Stillness

Rethinking Regret

Evening Silence

The Feminine Side of the Roman Empire - Book Review

Halloween Outtakes

Trade or Treat

Just.Be.Enough. is back to an open ended theme:Be Enough Me.
What gives you that be enough feeling?

Next week we are going back to an open ended theme:Be Enough Me.
What gives you that be enough feeling?