I love a man who I can see a future with, and he loves a woman who is part of a package deal he never imagined wanting.
The less stuff my family owns the less mess there is to clean.
Suddenly I’m living my Mother’s life, but I’m on the other side. I’m Mother.
So am I saying Happiness is inferior to Joy?
Our bedroom is the place where the five of us (dog and cat included) come together in sanctuary and serenity each night—fourteen legs, five beating hearts, one family.
I find myself questioning how to address what is happening around my community—and in our country—to my children.
I went straight out of treatment back into real life. There was no fabulous vacation to celebrate survival; no revelations about personal growth.
With three kids, a mortgage, and a fridge full of squeeze pouches and Costco wine, I forget. More often than not,
They are so small, these kindnesses are nearly invisible—specks in the vastness of our marriage. But they add up.
I attempted to wrangle the iPad away from the toddler, who was using a stubby arm of the case for a chew toy.