From the Mouths of Babes

23795029_10213891041686136_3606141826897460287_nAccording to an article I read on CNN, adults have a greater chance of dying of natural causes on Christmas or the day after Christmas than any other single day of the year. The older I get, the more I get it. The Holidays have become this crazy non-stop train barreling through the months of October, November, and December like some kind of malevolent Polar Express. And, as much as I try, I am not immune to its force. I keep buying more Christmas lights for the front yard, more magical burlap-wrapped trees made by Chip and JoAnna for the mantel, more cute little signs that say “Have yourself a merry little Christmas” and “Beware: Elves on Duty” for the porch. From decking the halls Griswold style to that damn little Elf on the Shelf that keeps popping up in my Facebook newsfeed, I feel like if I’m not falalalala-ing twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, I’m a failure.

Every day I get an email from the PTA about donating wrapping paper/pies/cookies/candy/my left kidney in order to show the teachers how much we care about them this Holiday Season. Don’t get me wrong, I LOVE the people who teach my kids.That’s why I’ve spent the last three weeks finding them the perfect handcrafted gifts on Etsy.

That’s right. I’ve become a gift-giving ninja. I searched three continents so my kids can have the most amazing presents that stimulate both their brains and their souls. I finagled something for my husband that will blow his mind and make him marvel at what an awesomely thoughtful wife I am. I bought my dog a cute little Santa hat she refuses to wear and cinnamon Christmas biscuits she hates. Next weekend I planned on creating a Rockwellian Christmas fantasy where we carol through the streets spreading Christmas cheer to Tiny Tim and Ebenezer Scrooge screaming “Falalalala-lalalala!” until my blood pressure spikes at 210/140 and I pass out in my neighbor’s front yard.

Reality check, Heidi: These things aren’t the reason for the season. Yesterday, when I picked my kids up from school, my youngest handed me a piece of paper and said, “I made my Christmas list at school today. I wished for Avery to be alive again so she can celebrate Christmas with us.” My heart literally fell out of my chest and got stuck under the gas pedal.


I’ve spent the last month focusing on all the materialism Christmas has to offer. I’ve spent my free time obsessing over the things some mysterious capitalistic force tells me I should care about, when all my 6 year-old really wants for Christmas is to spend some time with his dead sister. Let’s just say there were tears involved, and the conversation that ensued provided me with much needed perspective. After explaining to my son that Santa doesn’t have the power to bring back the dead, he asked if he could call Santa’s hotline and leave a voicemail. (It’s 951-262-3062, in case you’re wondering.)

“Hi, Santa. This is Preston. All I want for Christmas is for you to talk to God and see if he can bring my sister back to life like he did Jesus because I’d like to spend some time with her. Thanks.”


Family. Love. Togetherness. Those are the things that really matter this Christmas.

The Next Chapter

typewriter-801921_1280I wrote my first thriller in the first grade. It was a 25-word handwritten book (complete with illustrations) about me and my cat Kitty wandering around the woods. I can’t remember what made it a thriller – maybe it had aliens or vampires or an indestructible army of Northern Michigan ticks – but I seem to remember it being very exciting. From that moment on, (with the exception of a five-year stretch where I wanted to be Jane Pauley), I knew that writing was exactly what I wanted to do with my life.

The thing is, writing is hard. Not the actual writing part – that’s actually really fun – but the getting published part. That’s downright soul-sucking. I was blessed to have my memoir put into print in 2014, of course, but I’ve always wanted to write fiction. So for the last few years, I’ve been writing fiction. I’m not going to lie, I’m not the fastest writer in the world, and I could probably be a lot more diligent with my writing schedule, so it’s been a long haul. Needless to say, I’ve managed to write some stuff. And I’m so excited to announce that I am now officially an agented writer represented by the talented publishing veteran Renée Fountain of Gandolfo Helin & Fountain Literary Management in New York. And, even though my husband is afraid to sleep next to me at night after reading my work, I look forward to working with her to get my debut thriller RUNNING IN THE DARK into the hands of the right publisher and into print! Wish me luck! I can’t wait to see what this next chapter holds. I’ll keep y’all posted!

Misery Loves Company

pexels-photo-247078Hello there, Holidays. You snuck up on me like an overzealous Girl Scout trying to unload her last box of Thin Mints. It’s the time of year when people channel their inner Martha’s and spend their free time crafting elaborate gingerbread houses while creating hilarious shenanigans for magical little elves with names like Tinsel McTinselson and Candycane Sparkles. (You’re all well-versed in my aversion to elves.)

It’s also the time of year when my cynicism hits overdrive, and I start to curse every perfectly frosted cookie and immaculately tied bow. It’s not so much because I feel the pressure to keep up with the divas of Hobby Lobby, but, between the hustle and bustle of the season and the post-apocalyptic lack of sunlight, it makes me so tired.

I’m not going to lie, I’ve always been a little jaded. I’m not exactly sure when it started. I suppose it’s a bit of genetics mixed in with education that taught me to question and criticize everything I learned, to never accept “truth” as truth, to look for hidden agendas and dishonesty. Add to that the media, YouTube videos of Black Friday shoppers, daily interactions with sour people, and the sheer exhaustion of parenting two active little boys, and Ta-Dah!  I’m one Negative Nancy.

And I’m not alone. I have 439 Facebook friends. I read what they post just about every day. Sorry, guys. Some of y’all are a bunch of Debbie Downers.

This weather sucks.

Obama is a terrorist.

Trump is really Putin wearing a mask and bad hair.

The Cubs will never win a World Series.

The Indians were robbed of a World Series.

My kid peed all over the bathroom floor and I stepped in it.

Okay, the last one was definitely me, but you get the idea. Politics, sports, the weather…we certainly like to complain, don’t we? And don’t get me wrong; I’m one of the biggest offenders. But it’s kind of depressing. We live in what is supposed to be the greatest country in the world, but a lot of us seem pretty pissed off.

So why the heck are we all so negative? Are we as humans simply wired to find the bad in everything and ignore the good? Is it more fun to be callous and unkind than to be compassionate and caring? What happened to our joy? I’m not quite ready to become a crotchety old woman who growls at babies and tries to run down terrified puppies with her little Scootabout. So I’ve decided I’m going to make a conscious effort to find more joy in this world, and to spread that joy all over this good green earth until everyone I meet starts pooping glitter. Not just for the Holidays, not just for the start of 2017, but forever.

Which is a really long time.

But I think I can do it. I may be naturally hindered by my innate cynicism, but I’m going to do my very best to throw a big stinking heap of positivity out there into The Universe and see what comes back my way.

It might not change the world, but it’s worth a try.

Happy Holidays!







No. We don’t have an elf.

1C5225292-111223_elf_hmed_0616p.blocks_desktop_smallThe conversation went something like this:

“Brrr. It sure is cold out here. I can’t believe it’s December already!” I was waiting in the Walker line to pick my oldest son up from school when the woman in front of me got chatty.

“I know,” I agreed. I wanted to say that 45 degrees really isn’t all that cold when you spend the first 33 years of your life shivering in the arctic mitten known as Michigan, but I wasn’t in the mood for sharing the frigid stories of my past.

“And I have so much Christmas shopping left to do,” she sighed. “Plus I forgot to do our elf last night. This morning I had to put Tinsel Toes in the fridge hanging from Johnny’s lunchbox. It was last minute, but it got a good laugh!”

“Yep,” I replied. “Those elves are tough.”

“What’s your elf’s name?” she asked.

“We don’t have an elf,” I confessed, readying myself for the look of horror.

The woman took a step back and gasped, her hands clenching her chest in dismay. “You don’t have an elf?”

“Nope. We don’t have an elf.”

“Oh. Do you celebrate Christmas?”



We were magically saved by the pitter-patter of little feet lunging towards us after a long day of learning. The frazzled woman shuffled quickly away, anxious to escape the heathen family that celebrates Christmas WITHOUT an elf.

For the last few days my Facebook feed has been bombarded with pictures of those sassy little Elves on Shelves doing crazy things like taking marshmallow bubble baths and joyriding in Barbie’s Corvette. If I didn’t know any better, I’d think that these red-clad sprites were traditions as old as time, rituals as deep-rooted as mistletoe and candy canes.

And I must confess – I do have an elf. It was gifted to my oldest son on his first Christmas, though I don’t remember by whom. But he never left the shelf, and, by the time my kids were old enough to understand the whole Elf on a Shelf concept, that little imp was tucked safely away from prying hands and joyous hearts.

Why, you might ask, don’t I have an elf? Well, it’s simple. I don’t want one.


I know. I’m a terrible mother. I’m reminded of that every day when I open my computer and Mr. Jingles, fresh from playing a heated game of Connect Four with Lalaloopsy, taunts me from the screen.

Bad Mommy!” he yells, burning a hole in me with those whimsical blue eyes. “If your kids end up in prison, it’s because you didn’t have one of me!”

But here’s the deal. We live in this crazy world where social media allows us inside people’s lives more than ever before. As wonderful as it is, it’s also created a skewed version of perfection, a non-existent ideal that has been meticulously cropped and Instagram filtered.

It’s the age of PTA supermoms and Pinterest perfection. Moms today are supposed to be manicured marathon runners who make their kids gluten-free quinoa nuggets with kale fries and fresh-squeezed milk while crafting seasonal BPA-free wreaths for the front door and knitting chevron infiniti scarves for the homeless.

I’ve fallen into that trap of trying to do it all, and it isn’t pretty. But lucky for me, I saw the light before I was institutionalized. Don’t get me wrong, I do a lot of things for my kids every day of the year, and Christmas is no exception. We have a magical holiday filled with decked trees and sparkly lights and cookie baking and Santa parades. We mail our wish lists to The North Pole and get something special for a child on the Angel Tree. We watch Frosty and Rudolph and The Grinch and deliver tasty holiday treats to our favorite friends and neighbors. But these are all things I want to do. The elf thing? Not so much.

I truly admire all of you who have added an elf to your family tradition, but our Christmas is plenty magical without one. I promise. As simple as it may be for you, adding a Tinkles McKringle to our family for the holidays would put me over the edge, quite possibly ending with the brutal toilet drowning of our beloved pixie long before Christmas Day. My kids don’t need to see that.

So each day I’ll chuckle at the precarious situations of those silly little elves on Facebook, but please. Cut us elf-less moms a little slack. And remember, if you start getting a little too stressed this holiday, it’s never too late for your elf to move back to The North Pole.

Surviving Stillbirth: Life After Loss

IMG_6072My daughter Avery would have turned eight this past July. She’d be nine weeks into life as a third grader. I would no doubt be frantically running around, completely occupied with ballet lessons and shopping for frilly dresses and packing Queen Elsa lunchboxes and making pretty pink bows to clip in her long brown hair.

But Avery was stillborn three weeks before her due date. My daughter’s ashes sit in an urn in my bedroom, a little silver container from Hobby Lobby that gets a kiss every morning and every night. The pathologist’s report labeled the cause of death “asphyxia due to a tight nuchal cord,” which, to put it bluntly, means my daughter was strangled by her own umbilical cord.

Losing Avery was devastating. I had a healthy, active pregnancy. Everything was perfect. I couldn’t understand how my body had failed me – how my body had failed Avery. My world shattered into a million pieces, and the beautiful future I’d envisioned for our soon-to-be family of three became a bleak, desolate landscape of two. I’m generally a happy person, but for a very long time I was a lonely, depressed, guilt-ridden mess.

Stillbirth is horribly unfair. You are given the most incredible gift in the world only to have it taken away in a literal heartbeat. There are so many unanswered questions, so many what-ifs. It’s also something so archaic, so 18th Century, a thing that shouldn’t be possible in this age of medical miracles. Yet it still happens, and it happens a lot, nearly 30,000 times each year in the United States alone.

Stillbirth took my daughter, and it was a heartbreaking journey. I allowed myself time to grieve, but I didn’t let stillbirth take my future.

My oldest son just turned seven this past July. He’s nine weeks into life as a second grader. I’m frantically running around, completely occupied with baseball games and shopping for khaki shorts and packing Batman lunchboxes and convincing him to comb his thick brown hair.

My youngest son just turned five, and he keeps trying to convince me he’s ready to be a second grader, too.

People often say that time goes by in a blink of an eye, but I know exactly how I got here. Right after we lost Avery, I knew that if I didn’t try for another baby soon, I would never have the courage to try again. I was pregnant a month after my doctor gave me the green light, and 385 days after Avery’s birth/death, I delivered my son, Carter.

Carter didn’t magically cure my grief. He didn’t miraculously fill the hole that Avery left behind. There were concerns about me having Carter before I “got over” my daughter, and in truth there were moments where Avery dominated my thoughts. There were many nights when, overcome by hormones and exhaustion, I looked into my son’s newborn face and saw my daughter staring back at me. There were times that I sobbed hysterically because I had to dress my baby in a blue onesie instead of one of the pink ones tucked away in a storage closet. It wasn’t an easy time, but I don’t think it would have been any easier had I waited five years. Stillbirth isn’t something you just “get over.” It’s something you learn to live with, an invisible scar that represents both misery and strength.

Carter didn’t replace Avery, but he gave me hope. He renewed my faith in miracles and my faith in myself. His sticky fingers and chubby thighs made me smile, and, like the story of The Grinch, my scarred heart grew three sizes. By the time I had my second son two years later, I was finally able to breathe, to accept my story as it was written and be happy with both the laughter and the tears.

Today I can honestly say I’m at peace with losing my daughter. That doesn’t mean I don’t miss her or think about how my life would have been different had she lived. It doesn’t mean I don’t cry or feel that pang in my soul when oblivious people ask me if my husband and I are going to “try for a girl.” It simply means that I’ve grown to accept that life is often unfair, but there is beauty in the madness.

In her short life Avery gave me many things. She gave me clarity about myself that I didn’t have before, and she made me stronger than I ever knew I could be. She gave me the courage to quit my day job and follow my lifelong dream of being a writer. She gave me the gift of appreciating every sunrise, every snowstorm, every inexplicably beautiful thing that reveals how precious life really is. But most importantly, Avery gave me her brothers, two little boys that give me dandelion bouquets and tell me I’m pretty every morning, two little boys that are lucky to have Avery for a sister.

Eight years ago I didn’t know if I’d ever be happy again. I couldn’t fathom feeling normal or waking in the morning without an onslaught of sadness and guilt. It may seem impossible when you’re stranded in the vast sea of loss, but there is life after stillbirth – a wonderful life, even. It takes patience, courage, and love, but brighter days do come.

The Niceness Crisis

homeless-1213053_1280The second week of school, I found my khaki-short, polo-shirt-wearing second grader having a nervous breakdown getting dressed.

“I hate my clothes! They’re so stupid!” He stomped around the room like a scorned elephant before collapsing into a crumpled heap of tears on the floor.

It took me a few weeks and a shopping trip for new clothes before he finally opened up to me, but the truth eventually came out. My son was being teased by other kids because of his wardrobe. And I was pissed. The Mama Bear in me instinctively wanted to shake the names of those children from my son, don a ski mask, and sit outside these awful bullies’ homes with a Super Soaker and waterboard the little jerks until they were on their knees begging for mercy.

But I channeled my grown-up self. I gave him a pep talk about how sometimes people say mean things. I told him that the mean things people say aren’t necessarily true. I told him he was handsome and special and destined to do great things no matter what he wears, and that no one can change the awesomeness inside of him.

I don’t think he believed me. And when I look at the world we’re living in today, I don’t really blame him. We have presidential candidates engaging in a campaign of childish name calling reminiscent of a WWE wrestling match. We have mothers tearing down other mothers over bottle or breast. We have fathers getting in fistfights at soccer games. We have PTA presidents getting framed for drug possession by angry parents. Everywhere I look, I see a judgmental, narcissistic, hate-infused shitshow.

So why are we so mean to each other? Are we a society of mean parents raising mean children? Are human beings automatically wired to tear down the people around us? Are some people naturally good and some evil? From Freud to Milgram, psychologists have spent ample time trying to determine the motivations of meanness. There are a lot of different theories – jealousy, low self-esteem, projection – that totally make sense, but I refuse to believe that we can’t do better. I refuse to believe that if we all made a conscious effort to be just a little nicer, it wouldn’t turn into a snowball effect of greatness.

My heart breaks for my son, who suddenly hates second grade because of a handful of 7- year-old fashion critics. My heart breaks for all of the kids that have to go to school every day and withstand ridicule and snide remarks over petty nonsense. I wish I could honestly tell him it will get better when he becomes an adult, but these days, I’m not so sure. So for now, I’ll do my best to empower my children, to give them the skills to cope and prosper in what seems to be an increasingly cruel world. But I’m still scared as hell. Because I have a feeling it’s only going to get worse.

Six Things I’ve Learned From Loss


When my daughter was stillborn, I wondered if I’d ever be happy again. My life morphed into a twisted Lifetime Movie that wouldn’t turn off, and my days and nights were a blur of guilt and tears. But eight years later, things are much different. The darkness that inevitably accompanies tragedy has faded, and it’s provided a perspective on life I wouldn’t have gained without my loss. Here are six things losing a child has taught me:

  1. The heart has an amazing capacity to mend. My daughter’s stillbirth turned my heart into a block of ice. And then that block of ice smashed against the hospital wall into a billion pieces. I couldn’t breathe, I couldn’t feel, I couldn’t live. I was so certain that my heart would never heal that I prepared myself for a lifetime of sadness. Little did I know, my heart was rebuilding. Even if my brain couldn’t see it, the beauty in life is hard to ignore. It has a way of slipping into your blood and healing what’s broken. When I was at my lowest, my heart was busy sewing itself back together. And one day, I realized it was actually beating again.
  1. You never “get over” a loss. That old saying “Time Heals All Wounds” is half true. You start to feel better the further away the tragedy gets, but the wounds don’t actually heal entirely. They get covered with a thin layer of skin so they’re not as gapingly vulnerable, but they’re still there. They’ll get pushed aside by the chaos of everyday life, but they will always remain. Loss is not something you “get over.” It’s something you learn to live with, like a chronic disease.
  1. Forgiveness is the key to success. Have you ever been so angry about something that it eats away at you, day after day after day, until your life becomes stalled at the intersection of Misery and Wretched Streets? After my loss, I was suffocating in my anger. I was mad at everybody, at everything, walking through a fog of resentment, unable to move forward. To be honest, I’ve never been good at forgiveness. I’ve lost friends over my own pettiness. I’ve held grudges. But my loss changed that. There’s a quote by the author Robert Brault that puts things in perspective: “Life becomes easier when you learn to accept an apology you never got.” Once I was able to forgive my doctors, to forgive God, to forgive myself…life truly became easier.
  1. Grief is a master of the sucker punch. Just when you think you’ve got it all figured out, grief stops by to say hello. I’ve been in the middle of a perfectly wonderful afternoon only to hear a song on the radio that sends me into hysterical tears. I’ve woken in the middle of the night with the pain of loss so fresh in my chest that I swear my bed is a time machine. Grief is a sneaky little bastard, lurking around dark corners, waiting to remind you that life wasn’t always so sweet. But when you realize he likes to show up uninvited, you can summon the strength to punch him right back.
  1. You have control of everything in your life. Until you don’t. I’ll admit to being a bit of a control freak. I micromanage. I’m a total backseat driver. My first pregnancy was planned to a T, and all of my impeccable planning was destroyed in the beat of one tiny heart. For the most part, we are in control of our lives. We can do our best to control our health and happiness, but there are other forces at play. Take the woman that never smoked a day in her life that gets lung cancer or the vegan marathon runner who dies of heart disease. Just when we think we have it all figured out, life throws us curveballs to remind us that we’re not really in charge.
  1. Carpe Diem. Have that piece of cake. Go out on a weeknight. Run that marathon. I’m not suggesting you have an affair or go on a crime spree and drive off a cliff ala Thelma and Louise, but whatever things you’ve had sitting on your fence, do them. People like to say, “Life’s a bitch, and then you die.” But life’s not a bitch. It’s a beautiful gift, a fleeting moment where we are lucky enough to occupy time and space on this crazy spinning rock we call Earth. It’s an opportunity to experience passion and joy and love. It’s a chance to share the best pieces of us with other human beings. Yes. We all die. That’s the inevitable bitch of life. But while you’re here, do your damndest to truly live.

To my daughter on her 8th birthday (in Heaven)


It’s been 2,922 days since I held you in my arms. So much has changed since that awful day when I learned I wouldn’t be taking you home. For starters, you have two little brothers now. Carter turns seven in just a few weeks. He’s exhaustingly curious and smart as a whip, and he talks about you all the time. Last week he asked me why I wanted to have three kids, and I did my best to explain that I’d only planned on having two. When he was a baby, he looked exactly like you, so much so that I often had to catch my breath when he opened his eyes. He’s all boy, but I can’t help imagining that you would’ve been the girl version of him, with thick brown hair and enormous green eyes wise beyond your years.

Preston is four and sweet as can be. It was a bit of a miracle he even got here, as I had a whole slew of complications when I was pregnant with him. He was early, but he came out healthy and strong and hasn’t missed a beat. He goes to a Christian preschool, and he talks a lot about Heaven and how his big sister ended up there. He sleeps with three of the Avery Bears your Nana gave out at your baby shower, and he swears up and down that every time he hugs them, he feels your angel wings hugging him back. (I like to think the same thing.) The boys still have a few of your toys, like the giant pink ladybug and the frog prince, and they always tell people they’re hand-me-downs from their big sister.IMG_0115

We live in Texas now, a thousand miles from the little house in the woods where your life began and most likely ended. I’m guessing subconsciously your death was the catalyst for your father and I’s decision to move, though I doubt either of us will ever admit it. I’m not sure if we were trying to run away from something terrible or run toward something beautiful, but whatever the motive, I actually think we managed to recover some of the happiness that was destroyed the moment we saw your perfect, still face.

Can you believe it’s been eight years? Time is such a funny thing. After your death, the days lasted forever. It was like staring at a giant hourglass, watching the sand drip out grain by grain, until my eyes grew heavy with the setting sun, until I woke at first light to do it all over again. Then one day, the sand began spewing, churning faster and faster. Now I long for it to slow down before I forget what it felt like to hold you.

Eight years. An eternity in a blink of an eye, thousands of giggles and a few hundred tears. I wonder who you would be, Avery Mae Chandler. A girlie girl or a tomboy or someone who defies labels? I wonder if you’d want to be a doctor or an artist or the first woman to set foot on some distant planet far away. Everything about you will always be wonder, because for some reason I still can’t quite comprehend, you became a speck of dust, a beautiful soul far too good to plant feet in this cruel world.

Eight years. So much has changed, but one thing never will. Your mother still loves you so much, Avery. So much that it hurts her heart.

Don’t Forget to Feed Your Soul

13237612_10208770037384229_6420776503945183241_nMy husband took the boys to his softball game last week, and, for the first time in months, I had an entire evening to myself. I shuffled around the house for a bit, picking up toys and cracker crumbs and discarded pieces of clothing. I contemplated pouring a glass of wine or cracking open the novel I’d just renewed from the library for the third time. I considered giving myself a facial or doing something with the jagged stumps I call fingernails. I had so many things I could do, but none of them seemed right. As I walked to the front door to check the mail, I noticed delicate rays of light streaming through the blinds in our front room. The pale waves danced across the smooth black wood of my piano, giving it a heavenly glow.

My piano. 

Oh, how I love my piano. As a child, I cursed my mother for the lessons, the hours of practice, the recitals that had my introverted self shaking like a leaf. But as I grew older, it became more like a friend than a chore. It was something to pound on when I was angry, something to make me feel when my soul fell numb, something to pour my heart into when everything else in my life felt as if it were crashing down around me. In college, I found myself wandering through the halls of my dorm at midnight, blinking back tears from a breakup/bad grade/fight with a friend, until I landed at the ancient Steinway in the lobby and played until the night clerk told me it was time to go. To this day, I’m still amazed at how a few minutes of Mozart can cleanse my soul and provide strength for another day.

I have a beautiful piano now, a Kawai baby grand that sits in our front room collecting dust and deflecting the sticky fingers of my children. In between parenting and writing, it gets played once a month at best, and I’m lucky to get in a full song before I need to stop and break up a Lego-induced fight. I miss my hours in front of the piano, and if it could talk, it would probably say it misses me.

I could feel the day’s tension in my shoulders as I sat down and opened up my go-to book, Schirmer’s Thirty-Two Sonatinas and Rondos For the Piano. For a good hour I played Clementi and Kuhlau, Hadyn and Hofmann, finishing with the Mozart Sonata I performed in an eighth grade solo and ensemble competition. My fingers were cramping, but my shoulders were tense no more. A calm had possessed my body, a forgotten peace that almost brought me to tears. I pulled my achilles heel from the bench, Beethoven’s nineteen page Sonate Pathetique. I played it for my Senior Recital when I was seventeen; I love it more than anything, but it’s hard. My hands were shaking by page five, my arms heavy by the second movement, but I played on. It was far from perfect, but perfection was not the goal. Daylight was waning as I played my last note, but I no longer needed the light. I was finished, my soul fed and cleansed, as if I’d spent the last two hours laughing and having cocktails with a beloved old friend.

The door flung open as I closed the piano’s lid, and my fresh-faced children rushed in to disturb the peace with their boisterous chatter. They took a seat at the kitchen table and proceeded to stuff fistfuls of popcorn into their mouths.

“Did you have fun while we were gone?” my oldest asked in between chews.

“I did,” I replied.

“What did you do?” my youngest chimed in.

“I played the piano.” I stretched my aching fingers and stole a piece of popcorn.

My oldest’s mouth opened with awe. “The whole time?”

I smiled as serenity floated through my veins. “Yes. The whole time.”



Let Them Bleed

I’m not a parenting expert, and I certainly don’t consider myself one of those moms that judges and preaches about every little thing. But every now and then I see something that gets under my skin, and I can’t help but think that today’s kids will grow up to be better people if we can just let them go a little bit. That’s the inspiration behind my latest piece on Scary Mommy. Let me preface it by saying I love my boys SO much and don’t let them walk around with broken legs. But sometimes a little blood is a good thing!

The ‘Let Them Bleed’ Style of Parenting