Madness and Mayhem

Posted on | July 26, 2017 | No Comments

This knee-deep in baby is harder than I remembered. Yes of course I’d stand on my head for one of his laser beam smiles but those moments when I want to put him down and walk away? Those are there, too… like when he’s nursing and spends the entire time pinching the tender skin on the side of my breast or violently kicking my arm. Or when he lunges back in my arms and strikes my nose with a force that brings tears.

I’m so tired that I feel shrouded in a hazy cloud even when I’m awake, muddling through meetings and phone calls with a plastered on smile and nodding like one of those drinking birds even and especially when I’ve tuned out the entire conversation and am mentally just counting the moments until they stop talking and I can sink back into the murky waters of my own mind.

There are days when I’m not sure I’ve actually left the house much less worked eight plus hours and I can’t remember who or what was discussed or completed during my time in the office. It’s like my world has shrunk to the size of a 14 pound baby and my days begin and end with the slit of his half open or half closed eyes. It isn’t a bad thing… it’s just not exactly a good thing either, you know?

I wouldn’t trade my family for the world. But the bottles in the sink and the full diaper genie and the pile of diapers that didn’t fit in the full diaper genie and the spit up and the dirty clothes on the floor and the crumbs in the car and the whining and the back talk and and and? Those I would trade. For an hour. Or a day. Or a week. Or just long enough to remember that those are part of the magic and mayhem of childhood and parenthood. One more wet and sudsy hand wiped against my brow, one more shirt covered in dried spit up, one more load of laundry… inseparable from one more kiss good night, one more “good morning” snuggle, one more delicious grin and giggle.

Parenting is a trade off… so much exchanged for so much more. No more late nights laughing with the husband, but so many more evenings playing board games with an overly competitive 7 year old, or afternoons spent lying on a play mat watching a baby kick. Entertainment is different, better and worse.

Everything is different, for better or worse.

Some days I want to run away. Some days I think if I could just get back to the place where things are ordered and organized, I could start over again. Maybe I could twist my brain on tighter and be better at lawyering and mothering and spousing and well, life.

Then the baby laughs and the seven year old tells the world’s worst knock knock joke and suddenly this is just exactly right. This mad and discordant life we’re living is just exactly what it’s supposed to be: it’s messy and disorganized and beautifully insane and really, that’s all that we can hope for as parents and people. Because children, like life, will never be ironed and pressed. They’ll always be just exactly who they are: smelly, messy, whiny, crazy, beautiful, charming, hilarious, disastrous mini-versions of all the people they love.

And deep down, we wouldn’t trade them… even on the days we think we might.

Woman in the Mirror

Posted on | July 13, 2017 | No Comments

Maybe it’s because forty is looming close on my horizon and maybe it’s because I have two friends who are expecting little girls at the end of this year, but for whatever reason there is suddenly an unquenchable thirst in my soul for feminism the way it ought to be.

I have begun to feel overwhelmed by the sheer magnitude of things that need to be accomplished, the vast reach of wrongness in the world, especially as it relates to our women and girls. Perhaps it takes age to see it all; to truly appreciate the scope of oppression that is heaved onto us by our society. When you’re young, it just seems normal. Of course our music talks about passing women around like joints and refers to them primarily in terms of what they look like, what the parts of their anatomy have to offer and not the parts of their soul. Of course our churches often shun females as ministers and refuse to recognize female opinions on things like bodily autonomy. Of course advertisements use scantily clad females to sell items that have nothing to do with women at all. Of course we are taught in church and school and at home that women should cover up and keep quiet and smile even when we want to scream.

Especially when we want to scream.

Of course.

Please and thank you, the school girl I was would say and then smile and nod and turn up the music that violently debased myself and the women around me. “It’s just a song,” I’d say. “It’s funny,” I’d add, in that flippant school girl way.

But I’m not a school girl anymore. And I’m tired of watching school girls around me learn the same things I learned… that it’s okay for music to talk about women as objects, that it’s okay for television to show women as less than men, that it’s okay for our females to be paid less and work more than the men around them. That somehow by virtue of being women, we are supposed to handle everything with grace… keep the house clean, do the dishes, fold the clothes, cook the meals, rock the babies, and kiss our husbands passionately on the lips while vacuuming in an apron with a home-cooked dinner on the stove. Have a job? That’s nice. But don’t think you can get out of doing everything else that society thinks you’re supposed to do. It’s beaten into you from the moment you open your eyes… pink kitchen for girls, blue briefcase for boys.

It’s not okay to teach our girls  that they are less than whole without a man to take care of and not okay to teach our sons that they need a woman to take care of them. And if we aren’t talking about it, if we aren’t actively showing and teaching them what is true and right about the equality of men and women, then we have to know they are learning it from everything around them. Look pretty. Be thin. Get a boy to like you no matter what. But don’t have sex. (Unless you want a boy to like you because let’s face it, girls are only good for one thing and that’s all the sex they shouldn’t be having.)  But if you’re a boy? Have sex. Have lots of sex. With all those useless girls. I am so tired of hearing the way our culture talks about women, even in mainstream media: as though we aren’t people; as though our accomplishments don’t matter. As though we are little more than a piece of the person that Adam was once, a long long time ago. It’s so rare for it to be called out that today a trending story is that an intelligent man offered a simple correction when a reporter ignored female accomplishments. How is that news? The news should be that the reporter is either uninformed or an absolute moron, not that someone had the “feminist prowess” to force him to include “women” in his definition of “person”.

We are more than a piece of a man, my wonderful, funny, charming, beautiful sisters, mothers, and daughters.

We are whole and perfect and strong all by ourselves. We are the bearers of life; the bare foot goddesses of a time long forgotten because someone… SOMEONE decided that women maybe had too much power… once. We were, after all, self sufficient then. We were gatherers and hunters. We were leaders and followers. We were just the same as the men around us now. There was a time when women were at the head of the line, there to serve and even wash the feet of Jesus not because he considered them beneath him but because he considered them worthy… equal… as good or better than the men around him. Certainly they were more faithful. Certainly they were stronger in their beliefs and love of their savior than the man-child Peter and his ten best friends.

So why is it that somewhere along the way that was degraded? Why were we degraded?

And why has it taken us so long to recognize that degradation and do something about it?

We don’t have to stand for this. We don’t have to sign off on the advertisements, frequent the stores that perpetuate the degradation, raise our daughters and sons on the music that we were raised on.

It’s hard, I know.

It’s hard to break the cycle.

But forty is looming. And I have friends with daughters.

And in forty years, I don’t want them to look at me and ask me why it took so long.


Parenting Two

Posted on | June 6, 2017 | 5 Comments

Having two kids is no joke.

I feel like my life has devolved into one of those “check a box” notes with ever changing language.

“What do you want to succeed at today? Parenting a baby or Parenting a 7 year old?”

“Which job will you be good at today? Lawyering or mothering?”

I can’t do all the things I need to do and my head is constantly full of all that I’ve left off.

Yes, I made dinner… check. But the dishes didn’t get fully washed because the baby was screaming and there are crumbs on the floor and who had time for a shower last night… is that me I smell?! My hair got straightened this morning, but make up is sloppy, clothes are wrinkled, lunch is non-existent and who says Hershey’s doesn’t make an adequate breakfast bar?

I feel like I’m drowning, y’all. Just flat out drowning. And Banks is doing everything he can to help, but there’s only so much he can do… because he doesn’t make milk and works an hour away from home. So most of the pick up, drop off, fight fight fight, is left to dear old me while he sidles to his quiet car and meanders down the road to Milledgeville.  At work, I’d venture a guess that he’s focused on actual work… while I’m spending my days weighing out what is most important among all the crazy mom/lawyer/wife/homeowner jazz and just getting THAT done, damn the rest, damn the mess, and damn it all to hell and back.

How do you guys do this? How do I see your homes all shiny and perfect like a Martha Stewart showcase, your kids all well dressed in clothes without stains and rips and wrinkles? How do you do family dinners and family outings where the children are actually smiling and having fun? Because my family outings are more like a horror movie with tears in place of blood and lots of angry glances and yelled “YOU ARE HAVING FUN, DAMMIT, THIS IS WHAT FAMILIES DO SO ENJOY EVERY DAGGUM MINUTE OR WE ARE GOING HOME.” And then we get home and while all you good parents are doing crafts and tossing the football back and forth like a damn J Crew catalog photo, I’m turning on the television to whatever seems least likely to teach my kid swear words, and sinking into a chair to breathe (or cry. or drink.) for five minutes before we start this whole rush rush rush thing again.

I love my boys.

I love my life.

But I think I need a live-in nanny, a cook, a cleaner, a masseuse, and someone to just have the job of opening my booze.

I don’t know how y’all do this.

Seven Minutes

Posted on | May 31, 2017 | No Comments

As luck would have it, the first week of daycare for C coincides with the first week of summer camp for J. This means that I get to take C downtown to daycare then drive all the way up to north Macon to drop J off at his camp. My morning routine, which during the school year would be a mere 12-15 minute excursion to both school and daycare, is now a 45-50 minute sprawling hustle between locations to try to make it to work on time. So far, I’ve failed both mornings, with today missing the mark by only 10 minutes. I’m getting closer to having it down pat, I guess.

It’s exhausting doing this stretch, I have to admit. It was far easier when the only thing I had to do in the mornings was drop J off at school with a smile from my pajama-clad self, then slowly wind my way back home to sit and snuggle a perfectly happy baby. This hurry up and drop them both off then get to work to do all the things then hurry to pick them both up only to get J to whatever sport he’s currently involved in (right now, soccer try outs), then magically whip up a healthy dinner for the three of us who eat food while simultaneously holding a needy baby, cleaning all the day’s bottles, packing lunches, cleaning clothes, and straightening up from all of that? This crazy is for the birds.

And sometimes, when I wave bye to J as he disappears over the crest of the hill to day camp, I have to admit I breathe a little sigh of relief. Even though I miss my boys when they’re not with me. Even though I love my boys more than life. But for the 7 minutes after I drop him off and before I step into the parking lot at work, I get to turn the radio way up and play music that reminds me of times when I was younger and more carefree. This morning, my Spotify playlist shouted “GOOD EVENING SAPPHIRE!” and suddenly I was a young 20 something, clad in smaller and less work appropriate clothes, screaming with the crowd at the old Sapphire club in Orlando as Big Sky took the stage and belted out “Slow.” For the length of the song, I wasn’t a mom of two trying to keep her head screwed on tight… I was just Karen… just a girl straight out of college who believed the world was at her feet and she could be anything. Even a lawyer. Even a wife. Even a mom.

Those twenty-something’s dreams and more came true… peppered with her fair share of heart aches. And yes, I should spend every waking minute counting my blessings and remembering that being “just Karen” out of college had it’s own challenges and difficulties. But sometimes, I still need the reminder that I am more than this rat race… more than pumps and blazers and spit up and bottles. More than “hurry up!” and “Brush your teeth!” I am still that girl who loves live music, loves to dance, loves to raise a beer bottle high in the air, throw her head back and laugh until her sides ache. I need that reminder… Even if it is only seven minutes long… the distance between summer camp and work.

The distance between barely 21 and nearly 40.

Because that distance just gets bigger every day. And one day, it may take more than a song to remind me that I am more than “mom.”

Age is… more than a Number. (Sorry, Aaliyah.)

Posted on | May 18, 2017 | No Comments



Death awaits.

An AARP card away from smushed prunes and Depends.

Lately, I’ve noticed myself re-telling the same stories, watching that glazed over look that Millenials get when the “old folks” are speaking flash across the faces of my law clerks. Law clerks who were born in the 90’s and who insist on calling me “ma’am” with that mixture of respect and separation. I can see it in their eyes…  the sense that they are different. The understanding that they are young and I… well… I am something altogether else.

“I’m hip!” I want to yell, breaking out my best Austin Powers in my mind… just before the realization sinks in that Austin Powers came out when they were in pre-school. It’s no longer a relevant cultural reference. I am hovering on the edge of a realization that I am… not young. But merely hovering.

After all, I had Doritos for lunch.

Doritos are hardly an “old person” food.

My seven year old loves Doritos. Wait… does referencing my child make me older or younger?


Stop me if you’ve heard this.

Just stop me in general.

Because it seems that I’m edging closer and closer to the precipice of a number I don’t particularly care to see at the top of my electronic medical records. It seems that regardless of how I feel on the inside, the rest of me… the outside shelf where I hang the face I show the world… it is changing. It is moving all too quickly towards that word, that THING I can’t begin to process that might just apply to me sooner rather than later. That scary little word that begins with an “O” and ends with an “LD.”

So naturally I rolled all the windows down and blasted Black Sheep on the way back to work. Because people of a certain age just don’t listen to 90’s rap, right? So I can’t possibly be a person of a certain age, no matter what is popping up around me, right? Right?

I’m still hip. Even if Austin Powers is not.


Have I told you this before?

Where was I?

Do you know where I put my keys?


I found my first white hair today.

Cheating at Motherhood

Posted on | May 17, 2017 | 2 Comments

Let me let you in on a little secret… parenting Baby C sort of feels a lot like cheating.

When J was a baby… I was a wreck. He never slept. He cried… constantly. I was so stressed out that I got shingles several weeks after returning to work. If I’m being honest, it’s probably best that there were seven years to gloss over all that before discussions of another baby or I would have said “No and no thank you again.”

Now, when I’m out with C, and people say things like “Oh you are so put together! I barely had time to wash my hair as a new mom!” I smile and wave it off like it was just some miracle occurrence that one particular day. But I have to admit that it’s not been all that hard to wash my hair.

Or eat.

Or sleep.

Or do any of the things that new moms struggle to do.

Because Baby C is… basically perfect. I mean, when it comes to baby things. But I don’t like to tell people that because no one wants to be the mom who is flouncing around bragging about how easy she has it.

Instead, I feel like I should apologize to other moms… maybe remind them that J was so tough or lie and say that I didn’t sleep at all last night. Because no one wants the answer to “How does he sleep?” to be “Like a damn angel, thanks. I am working on full sleep every night and I feel like a goddess.” No one wants to hear that. Moms want to commiserate. We want to be able to roll our eyes and say “whatever” to the people who tell us that their babies are perfect and “Cry it out” or “Ferber” or whatever method is out there is the magic tool that got them through parenthood unscathed and ready to try again. No one wants to be the mom everyone is rolling their eyes at; I don’t want to be the mom everyone is rolling their eyes at!

Except… maybe I’m okay with it… at least a little. If it means all this glorious sleep.

From the get go, C slept three plus hours at a time at night, gradually increasing to now when he sleeps 6 or 7 hours straight. He only cries when he’s tired or hungry and even then it’s short lived. He’s the happiest baby… all smiles and coos… and while 90% of me is thankful there is that 10% that feels like I’m genuinely cheating at motherhood.

Where are those sleepless nights?

Where are all the spit stained clothes?

Why did I have time to put on make up and straighten my hair?

Don’t get me wrong… I’m not asking for a re-do. This calm, sweet, easy baby is just what the doctor ordered for a frazzled, over-worked, “hurry up because it’s time for baseball/soccer/swimming/tennis/basketball/whatever and ever amen” Mom. But I keep thinking there’s like this giant, hovering “other shoe” somewhere out there that is biding it’s time before stomping forcefully on my head and sending me spiraling down into the world of “Why didn’t I keep my mouth shut?”

I feel a little bad, but I will say this… I’ve done nothing right with this baby. I haven’t followed any magic method unless you count “throw him in the car seat and go go go” as a method. I haven’t let him cry it out and he’s not sleeping in his nursery alone. I didn’t sleep train or put cereal in the bottle or whatever other tricks are out there that some moms swear by. I just got lucky. He just… came this way. And I’m thankful.

Even though it feels a little like cheating.

Introducing Baby C!

Posted on | May 10, 2017 | 6 Comments

I’d love to tell you the number of times I sat down to write and then walked away, but I just can’t recall. There were that many.

See… there’s a ton I want to say but there’s just never enough time. And if there is time, the words don’t feel right.

Here I am, 39, with a second baby I never thought I’d have, and he’s just this little ball of perfect that takes my breath away every time I look at him. But when I try to write about it, it feels silly and fluffy like a sustenance free puff of cotton candy or a whirl of dandelion seeds on the wind. I just can’t put into words what all of this means.

It’s not that it’s easy… it’s just that it’s such a sweetly unexpected surprise that I don’t mind the hard. I cherish the 4am feeding. I marvel at the diaper changes. I embrace the craziness that is getting two children and myself ready to face a day. So all that’s really left to explain is how we got here… how I went from “Dear God I’m so pregnant” to “Oh wow he’s amazing.”

If you read the last post, you know I had a scheduled C-section. I didn’t want it. I didn’t want to have what happened last time… the fear, the panic, the “Put her out entirely because she’s trying to get up off the table.” But this time was different. Banks was there, and he was fully committed to keeping me panic-free… or at least as panic free as possible when you’re strapped to a table and people are slicing you open just below a thin blue curtain. It wasn’t easy… I opted for the spinal block instead of the epidural which was by far the best possible choice… but I still felt an awful lot like passing out for at least 79% of the procedure. Banks stayed beside me, holding my hand, telling me how great I was doing, and refraining from asking the doctors which of my internal organs was currently in their hands. I made it, though. All the way to the end. Fully awake and ready to meet my newest munchkin.

When Baby C was finally born, they held him up to the side, all red and angry, then whisked him away. I guess I should have known that something was off, but honestly I was just so happy to not have them pulling on my insides that I didn’t think twice when Banks left my side to join C in the back. After a few moments, my husband was back, taking my hand and assuring me that everything was fine but that C needed to go to the NICU for a bit. He made it all seem normal and hell, I was riding high on not being pregnant any more, so I just smiled and nodded.

Turns out, C had a little trouble breathing. Nothing serious, thank God, but enough that he had to spend his first night in the NICU. I was able to get to him around 5pm, only because I’d opted for the spinal block instead of the epidural, and was able to feel my legs and get them moving. We stayed a while, but couldn’t hold him and it was one of the hardest things I’ve ever done, to sit in that wheelchair and let my husband roll me away from my baby. He’d been out of my body for nine-ish hours and I hadn’t even held him.  I’m in awe of the moms who suffer through that distance for months on end. We were lucky. The next morning he was able to come to our room and we were released home the following day.

Everything since that moment has been… well… motherhood.

It’s poop and spit up and worrying and making silly noises and in general just feeling like I’m riding a wave of exhaustion and hormones that is carrying me somewhere I never knew I needed to be.

So you see… I couldn’t really find the time to write.

Because I didn’t want to miss a moment.

And now, inexplicably, my little C is two months old, and I’m back at work and everything is rushing around and changing diapers and taking kids here and there. I’m so busy I can barely find time to eat a full meal. The house is a little messier, the clothes stay dirty longer, the laundry hardly ever gets folded before it’s all wrinkly. It’s a roller coaster. There’s so much that doesn’t get done… so many things that fall through the cracks. And most days I’m barely hanging on by the time I get my hands on my baby at 5:30 in the evening. But even though I’m crazed and tired and my boobs are sore and my stomach looks like a sewn up kangaroo pouch… I’m still deliriously happy.  And I get the feeling I’m going to stay that way for a while. 

Facing Fears

Posted on | February 27, 2017 | 4 Comments

I am officially more pregnant than I’ve ever been in my life.

J was born at 37 weeks and five days, and here I sit at 38 weeks… plump with little C and wondering if this is going to be my state of being until he cuts his way out at 16 and asks to borrow the car.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m glad he’s safe and healthy. I just wouldn’t be too terribly disappointed if he decided he’s done baking and wants to arrive before next Monday’s scheduled C-section. I know that a lot of women prefer a scheduled birth; it’s certainly easier to plan around. But I just really didn’t want to have another C-section. The first one was almost too much for me to bear and I have this archaic notion that child birth just shouldn’t be… surgical.

I spent several weeks planning out my perfect birth. I made two “Labor Playlists” on Spotify… one with nice calming music and one with rap music, The Offspring, and Linkin Park… you know, just in case. I had it all prepared. I would go into labor. I would get to the hospital. I would graciously refuse the epidural and remember later that feeling everything means I get to feel my legs sooner and also not have a catheter. I would labor and then at the end of it all, I would have a baby boy and there would be minimal recovery time. I wouldn’t have to re-learn to sit up. I wouldn’t have to struggle to walk. I wouldn’t have to worry that the combination of sliced open abdominal muscles and a herniated disk in my back would mean that I would never fully recover to the point that I could run long distances again.

And I wish I could say that I’ve fully embraced the idea of this second C-section. I wish I could tell you that I’ve nodded and readjusted and smiled my way into realizing that a “healthy baby” is all that matters. Because, yes… that is surely what matters most.

But the truth is, I’m scared.

I’m frightened by the memory of the sheet so close to my face, the antiseptic smell of the operating room, the sounds and the tug and pull of my body being unwillingly ripped open by a knife. I am scared of remembering the feeling of helplessness as the epidural seemingly missed one spot and so the answer to every “Can you feel this now” was always a quiet and shaky “yes.”

Mostly, I’m scared that I’ll once again feel that inner control freak freak the eff out, attempt to rise up off the table with a defiant “Enough of this. I am done.” and then find myself waking up hours later in another room, while a different nurse fetches the baby that everyone has seen but me.

I want to be there for this baby.

I want to hold him in my arms the minute he arrives.

I want to calmly accept the surgery that will bring him into the world.

But I’m not quite there yet.



Posted on | February 20, 2017 | 3 Comments

The out of the blue reminder that there’s a tiny person in my uterus never ceases to take my breath away. Every roll and tumble, every hiccup, every karate kick to my rib cage. It’s like he reminds me every so often with a little kiss of understanding that yes, I am growing a person. Right here. In my body.

It’s a bit more than a miracle, isn’t it?

It’s absolutely astounding that my body can stretch and mold and eventually yield a little boy who will learn and grow and become a person all on his own.

This morning, I lay in bed with Banks and giggled with every hiccup. My stomach shook and my ever-disappearing belly button puckered like a surprised gasp of “oh!” and we laughed harder at the absurdity of all of this. We’re approaching 40… both of us… and yet here we are, arms and skin wrapped tight around a new life that is all at the same ours and his own. I am 37 weeks today, far enough along that no one will mind if our little one shows up today or tomorrow, or any time before the scheduled arrival of March 6th. He’ll be here in no more than two weeks.

It’s crazy how life can change, isn’t it?

I am 39 years old.

I am expecting my second child… any day now.

My stomach is stretched as far as it can go, pressed firm against the outside world. I am exhausted and shell-shocked and delighted and, yes, scared, about all that life has in store for this unexpected next chapter. There are so many things I had forgotten about pregnancy… the little things… the bumps and bruises, the kicks and punches. The gas. Dear Lord the gas. I’m like a frat boy after three day old pizza and beer binge. There’s heartburn and waddling, and the feeling that a very large bowling ball is about to drop and roll straight out from my legs. There’s interrupted sleep, and so many trips to the restroom that my feet automatically head that way any time I stand up. But mostly, I’d forgotten this feeling of carrying around a secret… a little person known only to me. For now. Eventually I will share him with his father and brother and extended family. Eventually I will share him with the world. But for now? He is only mine.

It’s a bit more than a miracle, isn’t it?

Average Joy

Posted on | January 4, 2017 | 4 Comments

This morning, I dropped J off at tennis camp and set off towards work.

It was just another average sort of morning… I got up, I ate breakfast with Banks, I complained about how slow J was moving towards the inevitable task of putting on socks and shoes. (If you’re a parent of a boy, you can feel my pain on just how many times a morning I say the words “Socks and shoes.”). It was just an average sort of morning.

But as I pulled onto the highway to work, blasting a playlist from a few years back, I suddenly realized something I hadn’t felt in quite some time:

I felt… happy. Content. Possibly even delighted with my average little life.

I’m 30 weeks pregnant with a second little boy.

I’m married to the most frustrating, lovable, obnoxious, and wonderful man.

I have a 7 year old who, for the most part, is one hell of a human being.

And I’m deliriously happy with my average little life.

Do you know how wonderful that feels? Have you ever lived through a spell of life that’s so heartbreaking that you wonder if you’ll ever breathe normally again? Because that’s what divorce and single-parenting was for me. It was a heavy, dark cloud of confusion and fear and worry. It was waking up every day grateful but also so frightened of the hours that spread out before me. It was wondering if I was unlovable, wondering if I was broken, wondering if I was breaking my child with the weight of my wondering and worry.

And as I smiled my way through the drive to my office this morning, it occurred to me that there are a lot of men and women going through that same thing this morning. There are a lot of people who woke up wishing for an average sort of life… one with a partner who treats them as an equal, who loves them as an equal, who speaks to them as though they are wonderfully and prayerfully made.  So to those people… to those friends of mine who are hunkered down, weathering the aftershocks of a husband or wife who left, wondering if there’s life after the aching emptiness… I have to tell you… there is.

There is wonderful, glorious, beautiful life out there.

There is deliciously average life just waiting to be embraced with both arms… when you’re ready to stretch them wide again.

This morning I dropped J off at tennis camp and set off towards work.

And in the midst of my exhaustion and commute, I took one long lifetime of a moment to realize that I am so very happy. It is my hope for each of you that you find your own average little happiness just waiting to be owned in 2017.

Happy New Year!

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