You are 7 years old today.

I was taught that seven is a perfect, magical number — God created Heaven and Earth in 6 days and then rested on the 7th. The number seven shows up repeatedly all throughout the Bible, meaning, I assume, that you will be absolutely angelic for the next 365 days. Because seven.

You have given me so many gifts in your short life, I cannot imagine what else there is to experience. And yet I know, because of what the past seven years have shown me, that my mind is too small to imagine the joy that is yet to come. I could weave my words into an eloquent summary of what it means to be your mother, but that wouldn’t suit us. I’ll stick with what I know and keep it simple.

You are ear-to-ear grins too early in the morning.

You are pizzazz, personified.

You are stubborn and so incredibly difficult. Like … so difficult. You dig your heels in unlike anyone I have ever known, and it’s terrifying and wondrous all at once to know that I am supposed to shape you into a man of character, because you already have so much character. How am I supposed to know what to do with it?! There is so much of it, and it just keeps getting bigger and bigger, like pizza dough.

Being your mother makes me uncomfortable because I have to admit almost daily that I don’t know what the hell I am doing. But I think you think I’m pretty great, so that helps.

You are fun.

You are full-volume.

You eat like a chinchilla, and you get that from your father.

You like to catch people off-guard. When I least expect it, you’ll say “Mommy! How many Sith Lords does it take to change a lightbulb?” And I will stop whatever I’m doing and think about it, but before I can answer, you blurt out: “NONE! BECAUSE THEY PREFER IT ON THE DARK SIDE! Get it?! DARK? SIDE? HAHAHAHAHA!!!!!!”

Oh, Maverick. My life would be so boring without you. Like I tell you all the time, you are just right, just the way you are.



Happy 7th birthday, kid. You are a gift to me every single day.

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Happy Birthday, Robbie.

My husband turned 33 today.

When I fell in love with him, he wore navy blue Pumas. Today, he bought a pair of cowboy boots.

This is just one example of how love conquers all.

Those are cowboy boots.

Those are cowboy boots.


Last night at midnight my husband turned to me and said, “I’m nervous because I’ve never had sex with a 35-year-old before.”

I replied, “Don’t worry, you won’t.”

This is from and my cousin Karen posted it on my Facebook wall. Gotta give credit where credit is due.

This is from and my cousin Karen posted it on my Facebook wall. Gotta give credit where credit is due.

Just kidding … I didn’t say that. Even though somehow, in a series of strange events I still don’t quite understand, no one woke me up in time and I totally missed Christmas morning.

Oh yes. That. 

All the gifts wrangled, the stockings stuffed, the thought put in, and I didn’t get to see their faces when they saw it. Because I wasn’t there. Because I was asleep.

I was *ENRAGED at my husband, but not enraged enough to ban him from sex with a 35-year-old. I can’t go a year without sex. That’s just ridiculous. But you know what’s not ridiculous? The insane way that I will be wrapping presents from now on.

After I calmed down, I announced that I will henceforth be wrapping things the way Grandma wraps them. Everyone’s eyes widened with fear. Grandma uses a lot of ribbony knots and industrial-strength tape. People need help to open things from Grandma. And so it shall now be in our house, because I shall not ever miss a gift opened again. EVER.

I was freaking out over turning 35 today. I don’t know why. The fear has no logic behind it, aside from the feeling that my life is slipping by and I need to carpe all the diems before it’s too late. I’ve spent much of my life doing things that I’d rather not be doing, which is fine, but there is a time and a place for that and I like to think that at least a portion of it is behind me.

The next 35 years will be spent carpe-ing my diems in whatever way I damn well please, and loving my family, because even though I already have more than enough stories to tell, they just keep giving me more.

You can stop now, people. Seriously.


*All of my mom friends told the story of How Harmony Missed Christmas to their spouses as a cautionary tale. Apparently a husband started a new hashtag on Twitter called #prayforRobbie. Just thinking about that made me feel much better … spread the word.

365 Days And I’m Still Here.


Meeting Penelope Rose.


Brothers meeting sister for the first time.

One year.

I don’t know how I did this without antidepressants. I thought caring for three kids would make me eat them like candy, but here I stand, exactly one year later, and nary a prescription. This surprises me more than anything.

We made it. The first birthday of our last child. I don’t know what I thought this year would be like — it was HARD, so, so hard — but it was also absolutely amazing. Like in the kind of way that makes you feel like you need a very long, kid-free vacation.

I woke up every day and gave all of myself that I had. I thought I knew how much I had to give and I gave that and more that I didn’t realize was there. Where did that extra me come from? All that work was worth every single dinner thrown and bottle spit up and rectal temperature taken and whatever other weird mom thing I had to deal with while two rowdy boys rocketed around as the baby blinked at me with this look:


All worth it. I’d do it again, but Robbie fires blanks now. I kind of mentioned how I regret that and wish we could have a fourth, and he yelled “YOU’RE CRAZY!!!!” and stormed out of the house. He’s probably right.

Now, all I want to do is cry — from tiredness, from gratitude, and from the amazing feeling of getting over a big mountain no one else can see.

It’s called The First Year With Three Kids, and I made it my bitch.