Because a little extra peace of mind can never really hurt.

On Peace.

This afternoon, on a walk down our street, my daughter held her two fingers in the air

(as she has been known to do)

and said, “Peace, man.”

To whom, I don’t know. I like to think it was to every man. But that’s just me.

And her gesture got me thinking about words

and concepts

like peace

and equality

and how I will teach these things to my little member of the future.

And what a coincidence it is that this very month last year

I attempted my very first lesson to her.

Remember this?

She may not,

but I always will.

As my daughter’s baby steps have turned into confident strides,

I hope that our country-

our world-

will follow her lead.

For if she can hold up her hands and wish for peace,

why the heck can’t everyone else?

 

 

what happens while wearing pink peace sign jammies stays while wearing pink peace sign jammies

I had a rockin’ Saturday night.

I just got home from a sleep’under’ party.

I wore my brightest pink pjs,

had my hair in the highest high pigtails,

and trudged out of my house in fuzzy pastel slippers.

It was perfect.

We sat, nestled by the fireplace, drinking beers and playing games, and I felt like I was in college again.

We ate pizza and baked cookies and gabbed and I felt like I was in high school again.

We painted our nails in purple, sparkly hues and I felt like I was in middle school again.

We confided in one another

and I felt lucky to have such strong, wonderful girlfriends.

It was a very, very special evening,

and the best

(and first)

sleepover party that I’ve had in years.

Truth or dare?

Truth.

How many chocolate chip cookies did you eat?

Four.

Truth or dare?

Dare.

Go, wash up, brush your teeth, cluck like a chicken and go to sleep.

Okay! Goodnight!

hello, goodbye and peace

Did you feel that?

That would be the new chill in the air, as the night air has finally succumbed to autumn.

Did you hear that?

That would be the crunch of the fallen leaves under your feet,

as the branches are starting to yellow, soon to be set on fire, before growing bare and cold.

Did you smell that?

That would be firewood, burning quietly in some fireplaces tonight.

Fall is here,

and now, as the sun has set, so is Shabbat.

Tonight was absolutely lovely, as Friday nights go.

We had a decadent Shabbat feast,

cooked by our own personal Top Chef,

and devoured every bite of the Parmesan and lemon crusted chicken Milanese, roasted Brussels sprouts and ridiculously velevetyamazingdecadent butternut squash puree,

as we took turns bouncing the baby and planning our coordinating Halloween costumes.

My friends, you’re in for a treat.

But, I’m getting ahead of myself.

After dinner, we had to rush home, so that the baby could get to bed at a decent hour,

but not before we gathered around the table to light the Shabbat candles.

As we said the blessings,

I watched my dad and husband dance around in circles with the baby, making her giggle and squeal.

I could say that their smiles glowed more brightly than the candles’ flames,

but then I’d have to whack myself with a hunk of challah,

so I’ll just say that it was very special and made my heart sing.

An auspicious start to a new week,

and a new season,

with our newest family member,

I’d say.

I’d also say, Shalom.

Hello October,

Goodbye Summer,

And may peace be with you.

“I’ll be getting stronger.”

I don’t mean to sound melodramatic, and I certainly am NOT looking for pity, when I just say, honestly, that this past year I have been kicked when I have already been ever so down. I have been laid pretty low.

And I have nightmares. That is a very personal thing to admit, but it’s true. (I erased that sentence four times before deciding to leave it.) I have bad dreams about the things and people who have hurt me. It is hard, and it makes me clench my teeth at night, so I have developed TMJ. Which in the scheme of things, is nothing; but a physically painful reminder of things I would like to forget.

I wrote a friend this morning when I woke up at 5am. “Why won’t they stop??” I asked.

I spoke to my husband over lunch and talked with him about it, too. “What do you think this is really about? Will they go away?”

But the main sentiment is that this past year has been traumatic, and trauma leads to Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, which is something that i have. And it takes awhile to get over. So I am working every single minute of every single day to get stronger.

And just now I decided to play some Sesame Street videos for my baby who never slows down enough to watch any kind of TV whatsoever (how did this person come out of ME?!?!?!?!) and I came across an old favorite that my daughter used to love;

Will.i.am. singing “What I am”

and as silly and as lame as it may sound, this song touched me. It gave me warm memories of my big girl being a baby; it stopped my son for 15 second intervals, as he watched and listened; I felt empowered by it’s message and I felt so glad that children would be taught the same.

And what I am is thoughtful
and what I am is musical
and what I am is smart
and what I am is brave
and what I am is helpful
and what I am is special
There’s nothing I can’t achieve.
Because in myself I believe in…

Gonna hold my head up high
Keep on reaching high

Never gonna stop
I’ll be getting stronger.

I hope you enjoy. Have a very happy, peaceful weekend. And be good to yourself. I insist.

In the sky with diamonds.

“Let me listen to your heart.” my daughter said, as she came towards me just now, half dressed, as we were getting ready for the day. She had a stethoscope around her neck and a pajama top still on. “Where is your heart, mommy?”

So I showed her and she placed the little round piece of metal on my chest and listened, a serious expression.

“Well, I think it sounds good, mommy. It doesn’t sound like it’s cracked.”

But my daughter’s diagnosis was a bit off this morning. Because my heart is a little bit cracked.

This morning, we said goodbye to our 15 year old family dog, Teddy.

We got Teddy during the snowy winter of my Freshman year of high school. He looked like a moving snowball. He loved to show affection and being sweet, but most of all, he loved our Lucy. Lucy was our first dog, a Border Terrier; tenacious, protective, brilliant and nice. Lucy was the best.

Lucy and Teddy were quite the twosome. In fact, they slept in the same small crate every night,

not because my parents were cruel dog owners, but because they loved curling up with one another,

one fiesty Border Terrior and one sweet little Bichon.

I am not sure if Teddy thought of Lucy as his mother, or his life partner, or just his best friend, but Lucy was everything to Teddy.

At 15, Lucy was diagnosed with oral cancer and we lost her in March of 2008.

Teddy stayed up the entire night howling. He knew, somehow, that his Lucy was gone. He was in agony.

And he has never been the same.

His sweetness turned to skittishness, his trust turned to terror at times, and he just couldn’t cope with the loss.

7 years later, it was Teddy’s time to go. I said goodbye to him this morning, and I held him in my arms and wept as my dad stroked his head and said, over and over, “You’ve been such a good boy.”, my mom with red, wet eyes.

So my daughter told me that my heart isn’t cracked, but today it is a bit broken, as I am sad to lose this sweet boy who has been a member of our family since I was 14.

But all I keep thinking is that he can finally be reunited with his beloved Lucy. I bet she is running the show up there, anyway. She always did.

They can share a cozy crate and he can lick her again and perhaps, he will finally, finally be at peace.

We have loved you, Teddy. Thank you for loving us, so much, in return.

We will miss you always.

What makes it all worth it.

So, this is a tough week. I knew it would be, and it did not disappoint. I was haunted by ghosts, plagued by nightmares, and sometimes, I felt like I was drowning. It is hard for me to admit that in actual words, by the way–to confess that I feel weak and helpless and most especially that people who have hurt me continue to cause me pain. But, life moves on. And today, I spoke to a few different people about how this “anniversary” of sorts will get easier and easier as the years pass, and someday, perhaps, I won’t remember it at all. Because I will have so many good moments and important moments and milestones that I will know what happened in 2013/2014 intellectually, but it will no longer cause me this acute sort of stabbing pain.

Today I had some really interesting conversations and special moments.

I was able to confide in a dear friend as we talked about how motherhood can be very isolating and lonely. Just being able to say it to each other proves that neither of us are alone. She embodies companionship for me, and for that I am supremely grateful.

I was able to thank a new friend for being in my life, as we are building a bond that we both look forward to exploring and strengthening.

I texted with one of my main peeps (a best friend since first grade) and we talked about how much we love our children and each others’ children and how things are hard, but we are so lucky. And we were able to text each other about our own neuroses. And we get each other like no one else does.

And I received a tremendous amount of support this week, online, with phonecalls, emails, messages, comments and in every way possible, and I am so grateful. Thank you.

And if you asked me at 3:15 today how I was feeling (which my sister did via text) I replied, “Bad and good.”

Bad because I have some very difficult things that are right at the surface and I can’t seem to push them down and hide them under a rug. (Not even my new, fancy furry one by my fireplace.)

But I was also good. And not just good, I was really good. Because my kids and I were playing in the sunroom, as rain pelted down on the skylight above us, and I saw my daughter and my son making each other laugh and I felt grateful and joyful.

And as I type this, I find myself crying happy.

I am so fortunate

(by the way, I apologize for the rambling and poor writing; my dad actually asked me earlier this evening over the phone if I had “forgotten how to talk” because my brain doesn’t seem to be functioning properly. I think there’s a lot going on in there).

and what makes me feel good is that not only did I get to experience some special moments with my two happy, healthy kids today, but I actually was able to be present, and acknowledge, in the moment, just how at peace they made me feel and they reminded me how to be happy. I enjoyed life as it was happening, in real time. That is a gift.

This afternoon, we made a family band,

(mostly percussion, with a little singing and a brief kazoo moment)

and I was bursting with love.

This site is not one where I try to make everything seem rosy. I think that is apparent. But I did take a lesson away from today, which is that although I may have bad moments, and bad weeks, and even bad years,

I also have so much, with incredible friends,

I mean incredible,

and a family whom I can count on endlessly,

and two kids, who laugh and kiss me and ask to hold my hand or to find the Barbie mermaid’s tiara

and shake some maracas with me when I am feeling low.

And that is what will get me through this,

and they are who make it all worth it.

Oh Captain, My Captain

I still remember the day in the fall of 2011.

“YOU haven’t seen Dead Poet’s Society? YOU? It’s like made for you!” My friend said to me as we watched our girls toddle around my living room.

“It’s all about poetry and literature and living deliberately. You must see it.”

You see, I was an English Literature major and teacher and am a ferocious advocate for standing up for the causes in which I believe.

And so that fall I watched the movie, and I cried. I was so moved that I cried.

This morning, I cried once more.

I am crying as I type and tears are wetting the keys of my laptop. I cry for myself, I cry for the world and I cry for the Captain.

Robin Williams, the almost superhuman actor who, as President Obama said, “was an airman, a doctor, a genie, a nanny, a president, a professor, a bangarang Peter Pan, and everything in between….was one of a kind.  He arrived in our lives as an alien — but he ended up touching every element of the human spirit.  He made us laugh.  He made us cry.”

took his own life yesterday after a fierce battle with severe depression.

Robin Williams, a supreme talent and a good soul and an icon felt that life was too hard to go on living. He saw the dark door in the distance and decided to walk towards it and when he opened the door, he could not stop.

I am so sad. I am so sorry.

Back in this winter I wrote about my own Postpartum Depression, but I also recently wrote about more acute mental health struggles. The sadness that I feel regularly and the things that are hard.

I can empathize with Mr. Williams.

People ask me quite often “What could you possibly be worried about?”

And I understand where they are coming from. I am not a famous actor, I am not rich, nor do I have notoriety or that kind of talent,

but I have a loving family and two beautiful children and a nice house in the neighborhood where I always wanted to live and a job that I love.

But depression has nothing to do with what you have or don’t have; Or, I should say, the only thing that it has to do with having or not having is the presence or lack of certain chemicals in the brain. Before this past winter I had never experienced depression. I could understand it on an intellectual level, but certainly not a personal one. And had I not gone through the Postpartum and the resulting PTSD, I probably would have been so confused by Robin Williams’ death.

He was so amazing and gifted and beloved. He was always with a smile.

But just because someone is smiling, just because someone has things that you value as being great, it does not mean that they are not facing an internal battle.

Robin Williams lost this battle.

This breaks my heart.

My social media feeds are flooded with messages of kind words about this actor–this man–and I don’t wish to add a meaningless note to be lost in the sea of tears being shed for him this morning.

My wish is this:

I wish that people would understand,

and if you can’t understand then at least take my word for it. I have never lied to you before.

Mental illness is just as serious and real and debilitating and life threatening as cancer or Parkinsons, or the recently-made-popular (via ice bucket challenge) ALS. And I do not say those things glibly because my family members have died from those medical diseases or are currently struggling from them today.

So I ask you, as your friend, as a writer that you don’t know but like to lurk at online, as a family member,

please take the time to look a little more closely at the people around you.

Look to see if their smile has changed. Take notice if they are cancelling plans and spending the day in bed. Count the times you see them cry.

And if you notice something,

help.

There are always ways to help.

Take them on a walk.

Sit by their side.

Hold their hand.

Tell them they are not alone.

I went on ABC earlier this year in order to raise awareness about postpartum depression and women contacted me, strangers, saying that my story inspired them to seek treatment.

If I can continue to help, nothing would bring me more peace in this entire earth.

I can point you in the right direction. I have resources. I can be on the other end of the telephone line.

You are not alone.

So we can weep together for Robin Williams and the roles that we will miss out on him playing and the life that was cut so painfully short.

But we can also honor his memory.

We can live deliberately, as my friend said, back on that cold, fall day.

We can stand up.

We can fight.

We can win.

My happy place.

Today, I needed to remember to put my mask on first so I took my son to my happy place.

There I’ve spent much time walking, staring at layer upon layer of lush trees, listening to music…
And feeling peace.
Today I needed peace.
And I got it.

Burst pipes, burst tears, and the craziest week ever.

There are times when I find it difficult to find the words to type.

Other times, they just come pouring out.

Like a flood.

I write this post from a chair in my parents’ living room, in my dad’s XL sweatshirt, reeling.

Tears are starting to form in my eyes.

Like a flood.

***

This week we had historic rains. When we went to bed on Wednesday night after listening to an endless stream of water batting at our house, we were relieved to check our basement to find that no water had gotten in. Our basement has been historically dry, but this was a lot of rain. We felt relieved.

On Thursday afternoon, I was motivated to sneak in a quick load of laundry before an afternoon park play-date. I opened the basement door, and like a cartoon character, I rubbed my eyes, so perplexed,

no,

astounded, by what I saw:

Water. And not just a little. A foot. A foot of water covering our entire unfinished basement. A foot of water covering our appliances, our furniture, a glider I was giving to my friend for the baby she will be having this week, and more stuff than I even know how to articulate. Art, furniture, baby things; a hot water heater, our heating system, washer/dryer. This was a flood of enormous proportions. I was speechless. I saw my old diaper bag floating across the threshold to the staircase, which was covered, on several of our stairs, by water.

To make this long, stressful story short, my husband came home, we identified the problem. A burst pipe. Our basement was completely flooded, our things were ruined and we had to begin to process of cleaning up and starting over.

Friday was spent with a restoration and remediation company. Friday was spent with people, workers, adjusters, in and out of our house. We felt displaced, but we were OK.

Saturday started off nice. Really nice. The boys slept in and my daughter and I did a small, quiet grocery shop in the early morning hours. A charming little date, and we came home with pretty, pointy, purple potted plants and big blue hydrangeas.

If you follow me over on 511, you’ll know that I’ve been mulling over a possible room swap. We, together, decided, instead, to switch out our king bed for a queen, change bedding, change the layout of our current bedroom and get a new perspective from bed. We would take the TV out of the room and make it a cozy den in which we could cuddle and connect. We were so lucky that our dear friends had a spare Queen bed to offer, and so, on Saturday, our two men rented a UHaul, drove to pick up the Queen bed, and came back to set things up. This should have taken an hour; 5 hours, great frustration, a box spring that wouldn’t fit up stairs, a mistakenly measured bed and a very, very stressed husband later and we had a full-sized mattress on the floor of our room and no hope in sight. Mommom and Poppop came to our rescue, after making one distressed call to them after another this week, and bought us a brand new queen bed to be delivered on Monday. Grandparents are the best and mine are tops.

So last night, my husband and I cuddled up on the full mattress on the floor of our bedroom. Except, I wasn’t feeling so well. I was dizzy, lightheaded, a bit disoriented and nauseated. I was supposed to go next door for a Girl’s Night In, but felt too ill. My husband brought water and a Luna Bar up to bed with me, thinking that I had just overdone it that day with the kids and all the stress. But I couldn’t shake my feeling.

I texted with two of my best girlfriends: One, whom I was supposed to watch at mile 6 of the Broad Street run today and another with whom I texted about our weekends, and often just send lovey-dovey goodnight texts of love and support. I told both of them about how I was feeling. I apologized, in advance, if I couldn’t make the race today. My friend insisted I not even try. I have the best friends.

I had a fitful sleep last night, despite enjoying sleeping so close to my husband for the first time in years. In our King, we usually don’t see each other, let alone interact, in the middle of the night; but in this full bed, I found myself soothed by his arm, heavy with slumber, slung over me through the night.

Yet my dreams were haunting; I dreamed, over and over again, about my C-Sections. I dreamed of future operations, all of which made my blood pressure drop, making me feel like I would pass out. Over and over I dreamed about being faint or fainting.

And then, at 5:30 this morning, I woke up to the sound of my daughter playing around. Typically, I stay in bed, letting her play by herself. But this morning I got up. I do not know why, but I got up. And when I got up, I heard a beeping. An alarm sounding.

I woke my husband. He went downstairs to investigate.

It was the Carbon Monoxide detector in our flooded basement.

We called 911.

Within one minute a police officer arrived. We were told to wake the baby.

Within 3 minutes the fire trucks appeared.

The fireman walked through our door, opened the door to our basement, and his alarm sounded.

“Evacuate,” he said with alarm.

Our house was filled with Carbon Monoxide, a problem created by the flood.

We had to leave, I was in pajamas and no shoes.

Thankfully, we have the nicest neighbors in the world. They brought out blankets, welcomed our children into their homes and in front of their Disney Junior on TV sets. But I still felt woozy. Lightheaded. Dizzy.

I mentioned to this to the fire team and they called the EMTs.

Upon evaluation, my blood pressure was low, and I had to be taken to the hospital in an ambulance. I was still barefoot, in a wife beater and purple flannel pants and scared.

I called my mom using the EMT’s phone and she followed us to the hospital.

I got an IV and EKG en route. My BP was low.

I got to the hospital, the same place where I’ve spent far too much of this year, and found out that I had CO in my blood. I stayed on oxygen while I waited for my family to be brought in for evaluation. My kids, brave as can be, had their blood taken and we found out that their levels were worse than mine, and needed oxygen treatment.

Had our alarm not had gone off,

had I not chosen to wake up and get out of bed at an uncharacteristic time,

we would have died from Carbon Monoxide poisoning in our sleep.

CHECK. YOUR. CARBON. MONOXIDE. DETECTORS.

Thankfully, we are safe. We have a place to stay. Someone brought shoes to the hospital for me.

I left wearing pajama pants and Chanel ballet slippers,

but I was able to walk out on my own two feet.

I am thankful for my neighbors. I am thankful for my friends. I am thankful for my family. I am thankful for the Police, the Firefighters, the EMTs. I am thankful for the doctors and nurses at the hospital.

Most of all, I am thankful for my life.

Check your carbon monoxide detectors. Hug your kids. Be nice to your neighbors.

And if you have anything precious on the floor of your basement, and plumbing that leads into your basement, move it upstairs.

Peace, love and thanks,

B

Happy half birthday.

Today, my son turned six months old.

His half birthday.

I had such a hard time finding the words that I wanted to use to express how I am feeling. I want to do him justice. But these six months, man,

they’ve changed my entire life.

And without a doubt, this little (huge) guy has changed my life for the better

and for good.

I look back to the post I wrote for my daughter’s half birthday, three and a half years ago, and I am such a different person now. I am no longer a new mom. I don’t mark every milestone as fastidiously. I don’t plan princess parties to mark each month’s occasion.

But I love no less.

No less at all.

So in thinking, this is what I want to say about my son and his half birthday:

There’s this thing that I do with my daughter.

It’s like when I grab her hand from the driver’s seat in my car,

but even more powerful.

I hug her, hold her tight, breathe her in, and all of a sudden, the rest of the universe disappears.

I enter a new place.

This place is home to me. It is my place in this world, where I feel most at peace and most right.

When it comes to my son, the second child,

I feel as though I haven’t fallen prey to many of the common stereotypes. For instance, I still take a boat load of pictures of him, I still am tickled by each new thing he learns or does, I still honor his schedule,

but I realized, just yesterday, that I had yet to create a place in the world for just us.

I tested it.

It was in the middle of the day, right before we were set to pick up my daughter from school. And we weren’t busy playing on the floor or wrestling with a bottle. I was holding him and talking to him and all of a sudden, the urge to hold him close came over me.

And so I did.

And just like that,

home.

My place.

It is my place to be their mom.

These six months have been the hardest of my life, but not at all because of my son. His presence has brought me such joy.

He has blue eyes and strawberry blonde hair and smiles coyly, playing games already.

He sits with great facility, rolls all around, giggles at his sister, and on this past Easter Sunday, squealed with delight while eating smoked pork butt.

He is gentle. He is soft. He is sweet. He is round.

He is home.

And so while I may be in a new place, it is a place better than I could have ever imagined. I love my family in a way that I never thought possible.

And even though it’s been hard,

even though a lot of crap has happened,

I feel so blessed,

so lucky,

that I get to call them mine.