One of my favorite things to do is make connections. In Montana, where I am convinced there are only two degrees of separation, it is especially fun.

We are all fools, survivors, incorrigible badasses, goddesses. In the end we are an infinite army of mothers, doing the best we can.

Everyone has momentary lapses of brain power—forgetting the actor’s name in the movie you just watched, the capital of Zaire. But more and more, I can’t think of basic nouns.

 I am #blessed with a name full of characters, confusion and cartoon reindeer.

A touchstone; a place where so much life happened and so many memories are kept.

“Mama, we all have a bad day. All you can do is be nice to her and maybe she will be nice back.”

I don’t want to be so weighed down by the demands of the day and the demands of the children and the patterns of busy that I miss these moments within these days.

Conscious, determined optimism, as opposed to the naïve exuberance with which I bubbled before actually having kids, is a necessary fuel for any parent.

These were the days when your neighbors looked out for all the kids on the block and had cookouts, when people wrote get well and thank you cards, and the days when others were  compassionate and reached out during hard times to lend a helping hand. 

How do we come together the morning after? The morning after a fight. The morning after I criticize you, or you me. The morning after insults are hurled and accusations are made.