motherhood is a competition and tomorrow is our olympics

I’m over Mother’s Day. I love my kids. I love my mom. But I hate the over-complication of every.single.thing. in today’s culture. Especially the social media culture. Motherhood is the ultimate competition sport and tomorrow is our olympics. At the end of the day most people wind up feeling like losers when we should just be celebrating that we’re living at all. The rest of the world celebrates Women’s Day. I like that idea. I like the idea of celebrating who we []

a very frozen birthday

We interrupt these morose thoughts to bring you some eye candy. Ice candy. Whatever. “Frozen” is his favorite movie. The songs mostly. Naturally. So his daddy and I stayed up the night before his big day and created a surprise for him. He loved it. Happiness.

how to kill a blog, part one (or guilt about becoming part of the noise that drowns out the voices we should be listening to)

I abandoned this blog to wither for several reasons. The first has to do with guilt. Last summer I had a post that went a little “viral” in some adoptive parent communities. It was about waiting moms. I should have put “parents” because I got so much grief for leaving the dads out. For the record I wrote it about myself and a few moms I’ve become close too. It wasn’t meant to be the end all be all of explaining things. It was []

when you’re bad at that thing you thought you’d be good at

Yesterday we were at Gymboree when Thane got his leg stuck between two wooden dowels in a rocking toy. It was amazing how my mom instincts kicked in and how quickly I got him out…. I’m kidding. Actually my claustrophobia and panic kicked in, after pulling at the leg with no budging I started frantically looking around for a freaking ax to chop that sucker apart with, and all I could think was “in the movies there is ALWAYS an ax, always. []

the story that didn’t start with me (birth & adoption and honoring their story)

It’s so easy, too easy really to slip into thinking I’m telling them their stories when really I’m telling them mine. Because their stories don’t begin with the moment I heard about them, the moment that first picture made my heart go pitter patter, or the moment I met them. Their story begins with them. With their mother and father and the moment they were created. Their next nine months wrapped inside their mother. As close as two humans can be. Then []