Believe it or not, I am coming off one of the best summers of my life. No big trips, not much in the way of going out or dressing up or really anything Instagram-worthy other than cute kids. This year, the little things made a big impact.
Once upon a time, there lived a girl who loved to travel. Then she had children. The end.
Hey there, remember me? I used to write for this blog? The last post I worked on but never managed to finish was titled, “How do I do it? I don’t.” It was going to be about the fact that people always look at me – sweaty, scattered, overwhelmed – and sympathetically declare, “I don’t
5:30 am: First alarm. 5:35: Second alarm. 5:40: Third alarm. My phone flashes a message I programmed: GET UP YOU ARE RUNNING LATE. I roll over and enjoy the warmth of my three-year-old for ten more seconds. She’s been in bed with me for a week, as little sister’s transition to their shared room hasn’t
I was born in the early 80’s, which was a very unfortunate time to be a person with flat hair. I wanted a perm SO BAD, and my parents’ refusal to get me one was probably one of their best parenting decisions ever. So I went through tons of hair spray, slept regularly in foam
Last weekend, I cleaned out my closet. I am a person who definitely revels in getting rid of things, and at the end of a purge like that one, there is usually a nice empty spot left over. Not this time. At 13 months postpartum, I have two wardrobes now – one for me and
Upstairs in my bedroom behind the always-open closet door sits one of my prized possessions. It is an art print on canvas of a mother nursing a baby. This thing has been through a lot – I would venture to call it “weathered.” Over-stretched, it looks like a pair of wrinkled khakis under the glass.
Fact: nine out of ten baby’s-first-birthday posts on social media make me roll my eyes so hard that I end up temporarily blind. You know what I’m talking about. All the cheesy stuff about how incredible the year has been, how thankful they are for every moment, how quickly it has all gone by, how
Dear Santa, Hi! How are you? I am fine. My name is Emily. I am 34 years old. I hope you will find our house. It’s the pretty white one with all the screaming. There are also several rotting pumpkins on the lawn that I kicked off the front steps in an unsuccessful attempt to
I am WRECKED. I wish I meant that in the sense of having been out drinking and being fabulous, but in reality, I’m a mom who has recently survived a major holiday with two kids. The crazy thing is that we basically had a really lovely time! There were ten of us at my brother’s