forgiven. and loved.

I yelled at my son. and a haunting, deep sense of shame was weighing heavily on my heart as I stared blankly at the bare, white wall of my room two hours later.

few people know this about me, but I yell. once a little girl with shy manners I believe I developed a loud, unflattering voice and a full octave range increase the day both boys started running in opposite directions at the mall.

Sean was sleeping soundly when I scooped him up in the middle of the night and carried him to bed with me. he tossed and turned and groaned, his lips half open, and eventually woke up as if he knew I was watching him.

"I'm so sorry I yelled at you today" I softly whispered in his ear.

"It's okay Mommy, I'm sorry I broke the car" he said, holding out his arms.

we cuddled and talked about animals and rockets and what we want to do when we are big people. our eyes dancing with fun. and quietly fell asleep making spoons and holding hands. grateful. forgiven. and loved.

family portrait

more pictures here.

trying to get into the spirit of Christmas (and Will is feeling better, thank you all so much)

infectious diseases have been defeated and the domestic machinery is now running smoothly again, though I often mention Santa's cell phone number to get complete and unquestioned submission. and still feel guilty about it.

the lingering tang of pine is filling our home with delightful and happily ends the 29-year dictatorship of a four feet tall with only 18 remaining branches artificial Christmas tree. and the memory of an embarrassed adolescent. decorating lacked bright ornaments and a better sense of style. and we hear the crash of balls falling off the tree every night. but it means more to me than I will ever admit.

this is our first Christmas, in our first home. it couldn't be any sweeter.

hardest working man of the month

I really really want

new pajama pants.

8 hours of uninterrupted sleep.

to write in a small café instead of jotting down ideas standing in the kitchen while waiting for the water to boil.

to send my prayers to this family, and this little girl. and light a candle for this man.

the mother, wife and writer to coincide.

to dream big and large.

to have permission to be moody without bearing the responsibility for the emotional well-being of the three other people in my house.

to get into the spirit of Christmas. and put up our tree.

to smile through my exhaustion and enjoy the little things again.

a personal chef.

it's that time of the year again

it's that time of the year again. coughing thickens. fever rises. and school days are missed.

Will slips his little hand into mine and looks up at me expectantly with a face full of love and exhausted from repeated bouts of asthma. I've been staying home with him for a week now. printing coloring pages, reading children's books. waking up in the middle of the night, every night. watching him gasp for air, his lungs fighting but unable to suck in what they need. and falling asleep to the sound of his heavy breathing, guilt and fear gripping my heart and with nothing but a silent prayer to comfort my sick child.

I softly stroke the hair off my little boy's forehead, trying to gently remind myself that this is life. that kids get sick. but kids are tough and they do get through these things.

I know. I know we'll get through this. but sometimes it's hard. some days it's just too hard.

is your God edible?

"how do you know when I need to blow my nose?"

"because I'm your mom"

"moms know everything?"

"moms know a lot of things. only God knows everything."

"but God doesn't talk"

"that's because God speaks to your heart"

"but... I didn't eat him?!!"

their own little world

this is my favorite room in our new apartment. we've just finished decorating it. the morning light, the used pages of Sean and Will's favorite book, the small cars they are never too old to play with, the bookcases I have assembled myself and the feeling of total body exhaustion. everything is now embedded in my sense memory.

I wanted to create a warm, fun and inviting place for Sean and Will to retreat to after a long day at school. a place that would foster dreams and loud giggles. inspire stories and spontaneous drawing. a place that would constantly remind us to let go, to be playful, to be silly. what's most important in our lives. a recollection of our boundless, unconditional love.

hopefully. this is a place my children will remember fondly twenty years from now.

I know I will.

while trying to get through the evening traffic

it's been a very long day. I look at the incandescent beauty of the city while rain is falling quietly outside and Tony Bennett's "Have yourself a merry little Christmas" plays wistfully inside. I nestle my face into my husband's neck, overwhelmed with a sense of gratitude, and absorb images, thoughts and small details I will later write down on my journal.

Sean is sitting in the backseat and patting a little cardboard box that I've covered with holiday wrapping paper and gave to him to store up the leaves, rocks and other small treasures he collects on the way back from school and usually keeps tucked away in his pocket.

"Mommy! look! the Eiffel Tower! look! she's throwing lights!" he says, his little face glowing contentedly.

"where? where?" Will asks as he traces away the fog on the car window.

"there! see it?" Sean insists.

"nooooo! it's gone Mommy! the Eiffel Tower is gone!"

when he was 2, Will's intense fascination with the Eiffel Tower and numbers threw us into a state of confusion, and then panic after he scored 142 on an IQ test six months ago. a few days later, we saw him bang his head against his pillow until he almost passed out laughing. we knew then that things would be okay.

"Will, on your left, the other window" I say smiling, "the Eiffel Tower is over there."

you know you're a momster when (or why Santa may be late this year)

it takes you more than 30 minutes to figure out your son's Christmas wish list.