I let a lot of things go. Don’t we all? That’s the only way it’s possible to survive this motherhood gig.

I still straddle that line between home and the world, between living in the permeable skin of motherhood and the tighter, more intimate skin of the woman I am beyond my children and also because of them.

To find myself now happily awake before the dawn, preparing a breakfast that requires much more than a bowl and a spoon, is a miracle of time, love and motherhood.

“But you’re not just a mom.” And they would be wrong. I was just a mom.

For when you martyr yourself to Motherhood, Motherhood joyously accepts your offer. The price you pay to appease her greed is the totality of yourself.

Although I LOVE my babies and husband and genuinely enjoy their company, I also LOVE having time to myself.

Maybe I need a time out! I tuck myself into my pantry and sit down. The kids think it’s funny. I think it’s Heaven.

With a prayer of gratitude I penned this letter into my daughters' journal knowing I was given a great gift this year: the age of amnesia.

We walked into the modern offices and I felt a little weird again. In my head, I stuck out like a sore thumb.

If my kids had their way, they would hand me a rider that would rival Van Halen’s.