Resolving to be Awesome

It's time once again to revel in my neuroses.

As long time readers know, I don't do New Year's resolutions. I set a series of achievable goals, and I work towards them. Or, I don't. But either way, I stop at the end of every day and rather than cross it off my calendar, I check all the boxes of things I wanted to do and accomplished from my list.

I start every year by cutting out about 370 tiny square lists, and yes, every night I mark whether or not I did the things I wanted to do. And then I tally them up, and see whether or not I succeeded in meeting my goals.

This year was a bit of a surprise. Some things, I thought I rocked. Some? I thought I tanked way worse than I thought had. So here's how it actually broke down.

It's on sale for $.99 until Monday!!!

Goal: Write daily
Target: 365
I didn't do so great. In fact, I did one worse than last year- I only wrote 292 days out of 365. I'm cutting myself a bit of slack on this- I did a lot of traveling in 2014, so that would be a problem for my writing routine. And while I might not have written every day... I did publish quite a bit. I own three lovely anthologies with work in them. I got an agent to represent my memoir! But the thing is, I know I can always at least scribble out a haiku about having no time to write... so I have no excuse. This year- 365 or bust.


Goal: Eat at least two meals
Target: 365
I'm going to call this one an unequivocal win. I managed to eat at least two meals during 358 days of 2014! In fact, it became so much my routine... I'm actually eating right now. That's right, I've finally gotten the hang of freezing leftovers and then moving them to the fridge the day before I know I'll have a hard time figuring out what to feed myself. Right now? Borscht. And I love borscht, even if the beets didn't particularly care for being frozen. It's become so much habit, it's completely come off my 2015 goals. I have actually succeeded in modifying my own behavior! Go me!


Goal: Maintained minimum hygiene
Target: 365

You'd think this would be easy. All I have to do is brush my teeth OR wash my face OR take a damn shower. But then, you probably never had a house full of toddlers and preschoolers if you think this is always easy. I'm happy to say I improved on last year's abysmal number... but sadly, only by three. I only managed to brush my teeth at a bare minimum 284 times last year. And actually, last year was an improvement over the year before. So I'm going to give myself a little break, and actually lower the number for 2015. I know, gross, right? But let's be honest. There are sick days, there are camping/travel days, there are times when I already know I won't have ACCESS to running water or a toothbrush or anything... so I'm knocking a whopping fifteen days off this goal. My goal for 2015: maintain my hygiene at least 350 days out of the year. Just splash some goddamn water on my face, almost every day of the year. At 284 times in 2014, I run no risk of overstepping this goal. But baby steps, right?

Picking apples!

Goal: Went outside
Target: 312

Hahahahahahah no.

Even though I intentionally gave myself one day a week to not even step onto the balcony, I did even worse on this than bathing- which is probably good. There was a lot of correlation between days I didn't brush my teeth and days I didn't leave the house- so you're welcome, world. I'm also cutting myself some slack. There were days last year that the school canceled for, I quote, "Life threateningly cold temperatures." No way in Frozen Over Hell am I making myself leave the house under those conditions. So I'm also dropping my standards here. I left the house 273 days last year. That's kind of depressingly low, but five days better than 2013, so... win? This year, I'm lowering the standard again. I'm going to give myself one day a week to be a shut in, and one day a month to just be antisocial. So, an even 300 for next year.

Goal: Sang
Target: 365
This is kind of depressing, but I did SO BADLY.
It actually kind of breaks my heart to say this, but in the month of October, I only sang during three days. Three days in an entire month that I didn't sing a single song.

I'm in shock. I love to sing. This goal has been a huge wake up call for me. I am vowing, not only to sing, but to resume what used to be my routine of doing vocal warmups in the shower. So when I'm showering (more frequently this year!) I'll be singing. Even warmup ditties. "See the swimmers swimming in the deep blue see," and whatnot.

That said, I also get that I do get sick. And when I get sick, I lose my voice. Pretty much every time. So I'm giving myself a little leeway here, too. One day off a week from singing, just in case the voice box needs a rest. So new goal- 312. Which is almost twice what I actually accomplished- my abysmal 176.

...I'm so ashamed.


Goal: Had alone time
Target: 260
I assumed it wouldn't be possible on weekends at the start of the year. but you know what?

296 bitches!!!!!!!

This one became so important to me I actually managed the behavior modification to make it part of my daily routine, too. So it comes off the list! I have officially learned to give myself "me time!" GO ME!

Thanks to all who sponsored me in the RAINN 5K!

Goal: Exercised
Target: 156
I didn't do too badly, honestly. I hit 137, up from last year's 123. That said, I don't feel like I got a solid two weeks of exercising in at ANY point last year, and I know the bulk of my most vigorous cardio came from dancing my ass off at every wedding people were dumb enough to invite me to. So while I don't feel exactly BAD about it, the goal stays. 156. If I improve as much this year as I did last, that should be an achievable goal.


Goal: Observe the Sabbath with the kids
Target: 35
Last year, I decided my goal of lighting Shabbat candles with the girls every Friday night was unrealistic, so I lowered the goal to 35. I figured, that more than accounted for date nights where I wasn't home, for days where we were traveling and in hotels or somebody else's home, and I should be able to nail it. I even felt like we did a pretty good job this year- all the kids know all the prayers, and they get totally thrilled whenever I remind them it's Shabbat.

I bombed. Oh, how I bombed. 22. A whole seven weeks worse than last year. This year I will do better. This year I will do better. The goal stands.

Goal: Read a book for pleasure
Target: 12
I was so embarrassed last year- I only managed to read nine- nine- books for pleasure in the year 2013. So I was determined to beat my previous goal of a book a month.

Finishing up "The Glass Castle" with a sleeping toddler

You ready for this?

I read 34 books in 2014. Take that, slacker brain!!!! I've decided that since, first of all, I loved reading as a part of my routing SO much, and second of all I often lost count of how many books I'd finished over a weekend (such nice weekends!), I'm going to go ahead and up my goal. This year? 36. Three books a month. Yes, graphic novels still count. (So get crackin' Kirkman!). But some extra fun? Now that the girls and I are reading chapter books together, I'm going to get to revisit a bunch of childhood favorites, and they DEFINITELY count. Anne of Green Gables, Pippi Longstocking, Little House in the Big Woods... these are all on the next few months' reading list. And that doesn't even count the dozen or so books I've got lined up on my kindle for after they're asleep. Should be a good year for books. :)


Goal: Finished a project
Target: 12
And how many projects did I finish this year?
Forty fucking one.
Take that, slacker hands!!!! In 2013, I felt amazing for finishing a whopping 13 projects. This year though, I finally got over some creative blocks, and I had a BLAST making things. Art, cakes, cards... and yes, I definitely counted the lavender honey roast duck I made for Thanksgiving as a project. I'm a vegetarian and let me tell you, that thing was pretty.

So I'm not going to push myself to do more next year- I'm just going to push myself to keep up. The goal for 2015- 36. Three projects a month. And yes, home improvement projects count. So when I repaint the trim in the living room, that is DEFINITELY a check mark for the day!



And that's how I did in 2014. I'm adding a new one, since I can't stand living in the kind of chaos my house has devolved into.

Goal: House cleaner when I go to bed than when I wake up
Target: 156
Three days a week. I think I can handle that. I hope I can handle that.




...but you know what? Something else has been seriously lacking in my goals. These have all been small, reasonable things. Something I can do and expect myself to do. But I haven't been giving myself enough credit. I have gotten better and better of expecting more of myself, not the bare minimum.

On facebook, I phrased it- "I resolve to be awesome!" But I don't do resolutions. I do achievable goals. So now here I am, adding another goal.

Opening up LTYM Chicago

Goal: Accomplish Something Amazing
Target: 4
One a season. Because you know what? I accomplished some really amazing things in 2014, and now I can't help but expect myself to meet that new standard.

I became a professional speaker- on behalf of RAINN and about sex positive parenting. I was a BlogHer VOTY. I stood on stage for Listen To Your Mother. I got an agent for my memoir. I was published in three anthologies. Those are serious accomplishments. And I deserve to expect them from myself.

So today, I'm already checking one off my list for 2015. Because this? This is my 700th blog post on Becoming SuperMommy.

Seven hundred posts.

That is no mean feat. That is hours and hours and hours and hours, months, years, of pouring my heart and soul into the internets and actually learning from it. Gaining the love and support and friendship of amazing people all over the world. Becoming a better person. Becoming a better writer. Becoming a better friend.

...Becoming SuperMommy.

I'm still not there yet. I am by no means SuperMommy, really. But I'm giving myself a little credit. I'm giving myself the benefit of the doubt. I am patting myself on the back and saying, "You know what? You kind of rock."

So all of you should pat yourself on the backs, too, because you're amazing. Without you, I wouldn't be here. I wouldn't have a stack of anthologies with my name in them, I wouldn't have a finished memoir and an agent representing it, I wouldn't have a list of appearances and interviews... all of that was your doing, and I am unfathomably grateful.


Here's to 2015, lovely readers! Here's to you!

I love you all.

The SuperMommy Family Annual Letter

Hello and Happy Holidays, dear friends and family,


Sometimes it's hard to believe how much anyone can grow in just a year. 2014 brought so many changes and so much joy to our family, it's flown by before we even knew what hit us.




SI, age five, is reading at a third grade level. I never get over my shock at her working vocabulary, although sometimes I do wish she would stop prompting complicated conversations by reading aloud from billboards on the freeway advertising Adult Superstores. She has spent much of the last year developing a sarcastic streak, for which Mike is happy to take credit. She loves birds, her new favorite superhero is Falcon (and his pet falcon, Redwing), and asks weekly if we can get a pet macaw. The answer is no, but we are looking forward to showering her in stuffed birds this holiday season.







DD, also age five, has decided she wants to catch up to SI when it comes to reading, and I couldn't be happier. All of us read the “Catwings” books together, and it seemed that was all the prompting DD needed. Cats? Flying? She was hooked, and now she's happy to curl up in bed with a book and spend a few hours in another world. When she's not reading, DD nurtures her budding artistic talent. She loves to draw, paint, anything that involves putting color onto something else. I am looking forward to the day in the near future when I invite her to work with me in the studio on canvas.

RH, age two, is the most stubborn and determined child I've ever met. Yet, she has one of the sweetest dispositions. She is unfailingly polite, and asks permission for everything from a cup of water to, “Can I look at your hairbrush?” Watching her personality bloom has been a delight, and she makes us laugh not daily, but hourly, with her cheerful smile and absurd jokes. We decided to keep her in physical therapy and swim lessons instead of preschool this year, and she has thrived, charming all in her path. We can't wait to see what incredible changes she'll make when she starts preschool next fall.

M spent much of the summer preparing for his licensing exam, and sat sixteen hours of tests this October- on the same day as one of his best friend's wedding! We don't yet know the results, aside from proving once again what a brilliant and capable guy he is. His health remains stable, for which we are profoundly grateful.

As for me, I recently accepted representation from the Dee Mura Literary Agency, and look forward to turning my manuscript into an honest-to-goodness book. I've also started speaking publicly more frequently, and I'm looking forward to what the new year will bring on both fronts.







We have big plans for 2015, even if they don't include a pet parrot. And we are excited to begin this next year of adventuring.

We wish you the happiest of New Years, filled with peace and joy and love. We wish you good health, the warmth of friendship, and comfort of family through this winter, and into the next. We are grateful to have all of you in our lives, however distant, and we hope this year brings us many happy opportunities to be together.


With all our love,
The SuperMommy Family

It's a Book!!!

Weighing in at 1lbs, 1oz, and making its debut bright and in the wee hours of this morning is the newest member of my family!

It's name? My Other Ex: Women's True Stories of Losing and Leaving Friends, and yes, it's kind of like my baby. In that I love it, and I'm carrying it with me everywhere, and I can't shut up about it.

And it's wonderful. And it's the best book. And LOOK! It has my eyes!

...well, not exactly. But the cover is the same color as my eyes, so it's pretty much the same thing.

Actually, it's the same color as my giant tattoo.

Let's just say there is DEFINITELY a family resemblance.

I'm so honored to be included in this anthology. The stories are riveting, ranging from the completely relatable to scenes that seem like they must be cut from some sort of movie.

Only there aren't a lot of movies about friendship breakups. Because we don't talk about them- we don't like to talk about the end of platonic love.

The more I read this book (I've read the whole thing two and a half times so far. It's that good.), the more I wonder why we as a culture don't ask these questions more often. We talk over and over again about BFFs, and we love stories, even tragic ones, about friends that remain close no matter what happens.

The First Wives Club, Thelma and Louise, Then and Now...

But what about the other side of the story of friendship? Because not every friendship is forever. But that doesn't make the love any less real.

This is a beautiful book. Not just because it's the color of my eyes and ink. (Although, yes, it is now my go-to accessory for absolutely everything.) It's a beautiful book because of the honesty and intensity inside it.

Go buy it! Read it! Buy it for a friend you haven't seen in years. Buy it for a friend you haven't seen in hours.

It's worth every bittersweet memory the stories drag up.

And for that, so much more than being included among the authors, I'm grateful.

#WhyIStayed, How the Vanity Fair #LiftTOUR is Helping, And How You Can Too

I had this one really bad date, once. Back before M and I got involved.

I'd been out with him once before, and we got into a petty argument about nothing after dinner... which he'd paid for.

I was, as I now understand, a pretty sheltered girl. I'd grown up in a liberal, progressive environment. While I knew sexism and misogyny existed, I'd never really been the subject of either.

He said something about me shutting up, because he'd paid for dinner. And I said something back. Something probably loaded with snark and that may or may not have implied that there was no way in Hell I was having sex with him that night, if ever. Even if I had invited him over to my place for a cup of tea.

And then he grabbed my hair and yanked me halfway across the room.

Like I said, I was sort of a sheltered girl. I was in shock. I was in total disbelief. Who did he think he was? A lifetime of wrestling with my sisters (who fought DIRTY) kicked in on instinct. I elbowed him in the stomach, punched him in the face, turned and kneed him in the crotch, kicked him in the knees and took off running. I locked myself in the bathroom and didn't leave until I was sure he was out of the apartment.

It wasn't until later that night that a song I'd learned back in middle school started running through my head ad nauseum. It was a self defense mantra somebody had put to music- in a cheery rhythm, the vocalist croons, "Eyes, knees, groin, throat!" to remind you where to hit your attacker to cause the most pain in the shortest period of time, so you can get away. Yes, it was a real song.

I was, in retrospect, ridiculously lucky. It was a second date. I wasn't involved with him. I could walk away.

Most women who discover they're dating abusers aren't so lucky.

Reading the #WhyIStayed feed on Twitter has been harrowing, but in many ways more uplifting than I could have imagined.

Here are women, spurred into a kind of action by the Ray Rice video, coming forward and talking honestly about domestic violence.

There are a few things you need to take away from #WhyIStayed.

The first is that women in abusive relationships aren't just victims of physical violence. They're victims of emotional manipulation as well. Most abusers threaten self harm, either explicitly or otherwise. Their victims feel guilty for not helping them.

The second is that leaving is often the most dangerous thing a woman in that situation can do. A woman is most likely to be murdered by a boyfriend or husband, and then most likely to be murdered if she's in the process of leaving.

We've normalized it. "If I can't have you, no one will!" We've practically romanticized it. And it's terrifying.

Many women, when they fight through the guilt and fear, face other challenges to leaving. They don't have control of their finances, which means they will run away from shelter and food into homelessness. Many have children, who they risk losing to the custody of their abuser.

These are real concerns.

When Janay Palmer says she doesn't want to press charges against her husband, this isn't just Stockholm Syndrome. This is self preservation.

She now has an abusive husband at home, without a job. Things are no doubt about to be much more dangerous for her. And while she may stay with a man who hits her, who abuses her in inexcusable and unforgivable ways, we cannot judge her. This is a man who has the money to post bail if she did press charges, who could kill her or take her kids. Those are real concerns she must negotiate as she decides how to extricate herself from a situation that she knows better than anyone else.

Leaving is hard, and yet, it is achievable. But only with help. With tremendous, collective help. It takes the help not just of a good friend and supportive neighbors, it takes a massive community to help women get on their feet and start a new life.

This week, I was fortunate to get an opportunity to attend a Vanity Fair event, to benefit Dress for Success. I was planning on going anyway- I was going to write all about breasts and taking care of them- after all my sex positive posts, it was a no-brainer for me to talk about body positivity and bra fittings. The fact that Vanity Fair was donating bras to Dress for Success was icing on the cake.

But then the Ray Rice video broke. I didn't watch it. I'm not going to watch it. And although it was on my mind, I didn't dwell on that one horrible turn a long-ago second date took. Instead, I started thinking about the day, six years ago, I spent volunteering at a Dress for Success showroom. I helped sort clothes. Anything too old, anything stained, anything that didn't look brand new and fashionable and professional went on to be donated elsewhere. The showroom gleamed. And everything inside was free.

I talked to one of the women helping us volunteers keep things organized. She told me she'd been in an abusive marriage for eight years, and it was seeing her children get hurt that made her leave. She told me about the homeless women who come in, the women fresh out of jail and living in shelters, who are treated with respect and dignity, as customers and not as charity cases.

That woman's voice was in my ear all week.

Dress for Success is part of the massive network out there to help women get out of abusive relationships. It's a non-profit that provides women with professional clothing to wear, not just on a job interview, but to work. To get them on their feet. More than clothes, Dress for Success provides career development tools as well.

And Vanity Fair is partnering with Dress for Success to donate brand new bras.

As often as people donate new and gently used clothing to organizations like Dress for Success, underwear is rarely part of the gift. And a properly fitting bra can do wonders not just to make you feel comfortable and supported, but to help you feel in control of your body, and your life.

I say this as somebody who has a nearly impossible time finding bras that fit. (Seriously, YOU try finding yourself a comfortable 34 or 36 J. Yeah, I said J. On top of being freakishly huge, they also grow out of my neck. That is not a joke. My chiropractor should be paying for my bra purchases, these boobs probably pay her mortgage.) Truly, a good bra is like magical armor.

The Vanity Fair LiftTOUR is going across the country through the end of October, fitting women for bras (for free), and giving them the opportunity to donate a brand new bra to a woman in need. When you donate a bra, you have a chance to write a note of encouragement, tie it to the bra with a ribbon, and be certain that whatever woman becomes its owner feels empowered and encouraged.

I'm honored to have had the chance to help Vanity Fair and Dress for Success reach out to women in need.

Join up with Vanity Fair and Dress for Success when the LiftTOUR comes near you. Help women in need become empowered and independent.

There's more you can do that reading an endless stream of #WhyIStayed tweets, feeling overwhelmed and helpless. You can partner with organizations working with women to put an end to their domestic violence.

Those two things I wanted you to take away from the stories of survivors- remember them. Remember that victims must choose the time to leave carefully, and that when the time comes they need mountains of help. They need villages upon villages.

You can be part of that.

Thank you.

Personalized Dancing Clock #DIY #upcycle #tutorial

Awesome clocks? Or the MOST awesome clocks?

Hello, lovely readers!

As some of you may be aware, once upon a time I described myself as an artist. It was kind of my thing. I went to art school and I even dropped out! Like a REAL artist!

Kidding aside, I still love to pick up a paintbrush and make beautiful things. But finding the time is hard, so I prioritize. I do wedding portraits.

I like to make each portrait totally unique to the couple, and focus on things that were special about them, or their wedding, or the day in particular.

It's fun, and so far nobody has called me up and said, "Dude, this painting sucks. Can't you just get me towels off my registry like a normal person?"

Today I'll be teaching you how to make my new favorite gift every- the personalized dancing clock.

YOU WILL NEED:
Heavy duty watercolor paper
Pencil
X-acto knife
hot glue
paint (I prefer casein for this, in which case you'll also need an acrylic glaze)
Paintbrushes
Heavy duty scissors
Fine grain sandpaper
Popsicle sticks
Elvis clock, the swinging legs kind.

Believe it or not, these guys are ridiculously cheap. Seriously, go on ebay and search for them. Or better yet, go to a local thrift shop that benefits a charity that means something to you, and buy one. They're everywhere.

Choose a picture of your subject. Preferably dancing.

You're not going to end up with something that looks EXACTLY like that, but getting something where your subject's legs are apart and arms are close to the body is ideal.

Now, take apart your clock.

To do this, you will unscrew the nut in the center that holds the clock together. It sounds like an unfathomably bad idea, but the way to remove the hands from the clock is to simply pull them off. Gently, but firmly. They will push back into place when your clock is in one piece again. With the nut removed, the clock will come apart into a box with the mechanism, the Elvis body, and a fistful of tiny parts you must be careful not to lose.

The pendulum of the clock is a simply hook. It lifts easily off the loop in the back, and that's all the disassembling you'll need to do.

Now comes the fun part. Chopping off Elvis's bits.

If you're lucky, you won't need to trim Elvis down at all. but if you're making a smaller dancing person, you'll need to trim off Elvis's boxy frame.

When you've got your altered Elvis pieces, it's time to trace them onto your paper in pencil. there will be much erasing after the fact, so draw lightly.

Once you've traced his parts, you'll draw the rest of your dancer around them. Keep lining up your drawings with each other, so you can ensure the pieces fit properly.

In this case, I started with legs/skirt that were FAR too long. By the time I lined up the parts properly, Elvis's crotch came about down to the skirt's hem.

In this case, I trimmed Elvis's shoulders and arms for my female dancer, and cut off one arm at the elbow for my male dancer. It's okay if your paper extends farther than your silhouette. Remember, you're not bound to put your dancer in the same position as elvis. For my female dancer, I turned the raise of Elvis's pompadour into the back of her head, by added her bun to the side. Use Elvis for scale- the head and arms will be in approximately the right place for any figure- but that's as tied to him as you're going to be.

Now you'll need to paint your dancers. PAINT THEM BEFORE YOU CUT THEM OUT!!!! If you cut them first, you may warp the paper.

If you look at the style of the Elvis clock, you'll note this doesn't have to be very realistic. In fact, it's best to try to keep it down to four or five colors. On Elvis, that often breaks down to white/black/purple/yellow/grey, or white/black/blue/grey. The face doesn't need to be well articulated, and you don't need much detail at all.

Think, outlines and a few blocks of color or shadow.

If you have a photo editing app, you can turn up the contrast and shadows on your original picture to give you a good idea where those colors and shadows should turn up.

I decided to use five colors- white, black, grey, brown, apricot, and yellow- plus a bit of extra for my bride's tattoos. I know, that's more colors than I generally recommend... but still not so many as to distract from the simplified art style.

Using an x-acto knife, cut out the silhouettes.

Double and triple check that your figures FIT on Elvis. When you're certain, trace the hole in Elvis's middle, and using the x-acto knife, cut the circles out of your figures.

Now, it's time to attach your painted people to Elvis's mangled body.

Begin by sanding down Elvis's body. You need a scuffed surface, or the glue will peel right off.

Wipe him down to make sure he's clean and dry- you don't want plastic and paint dust ruining your clock at the last minute!

Set your glue gun to "high" heat. Let your glue get REALLY REALLY hot. The hotter, the better.

Now, quickly and carefully, make a line of hot glue about a quarter inch from the border of Elvis, all around the perimeter, and a little in the middle for good measure. As quickly and carefully as you can, put the painted dancer on top, and press down firmly.

You'll have a split second to adjust as you lay it down, so remember to check the hole, the head, and and the corners to be certain Elvis is lined up properly as you lay down the paper.

Next, IF you have a figure who's legs don't have Elvis backing, cut down some popsicle sticks and hot glue them to the back. You'll want to make sure they're supported, to protect them from tearing.

Now, as I said before, I used casein paints. I like them for this project because casein is matte, which helps with the sort of comic-book look, and because it's the most uniform medium I know. Casein paint practically eliminates brushstrokes, the color is so consistent. I also LOVE that it dries faster than any other paint on earth. This keeps the paper from warping, and also lets you manhandle your project sooner. The only problem with it is that it's fragile, so if needs a varnish of sorts on top before you can finish the clocks.

I used an acrylic medium to "fix" the pigment to the paper. I like this particular medium because it is also matte, and because it is also very lightweight, and because it also dries quickly.

Once your clock parts are dry, it's time to put them all together again. First the body, then the washer, then the nut, and when that's screwed back down, the clock hands. These are pressed into place firmly, hour first, then minute, then second. To check if you've attached them properly, rotate the minute hand. The hour hand should follow. If not, press down harder- but still gently, You don't want to bend them.

Hook the legs back onto the loop in the back, and insert batteries.

You are now the owner of a beautifully personalized dancing clock.

Your New Best Resource

This is a sponsored post, brought to you by MomAssembly. All opinions are my own.

When it comes to parenting, we're all jumping without a parachute. After a few weeks of sleepless nights and the terror of short car rides and possibly even triple checking to find out if that typical baby acne isn't actually measles, you come to the conclusion that like it or no, you're the authority. You're on your own.

Sure, you have some resources. Your own parents and grandparents, maybe a friend or sibling who went before you into the crazy maze of parenthood. But each child is unique. And that makes each parent unique. And sometimes, you're just... lost.

Enter MomAssembly. This is a new, incredible service. It's a veritable smorgasbord of classes, seminars, and lectures... about parenting.

There are classes on surviving the first four months, on breastfeeding, and babyproofing your home. They're 100% online, accessible on your time as you want them and in small, short seminars that you can easily fit into that nice quiet time when your wee one is watching Daniel Tiger. But so much more than teaching you the little extras you might be missing when it comes to caring for your kids, there are classes on thriving as a parent.

Classes on coping with postpartum depression. On marital conflict resolution. Classes on how to maximize your maternity leave.

These are the things you might not have anyone to teach you. These are things you might be afraid to ask, but need to know.

I went through the classes for the course, "Coping with Postpartum Depression," nodding along so hard I almost gave myself whiplash. These courses are cleverly designed as a conversation between a woman with PPD, and a therapist.

Can I just say how brilliant this is? If only I'd had this resource when I was suffering through PPD after RH was born. Not only would it have made me feel so much less broken, so much more human, to see another person experiencing so much of what I was experiencing, but to put it in the context of therapy is perfect. It shows that therapy helps, that it's not frightening or embarrassing or invasive. It's both a class and also tacit permission to go out and get the help you need, a support structure, if you will.

I really can't recommend MomAssembly enough.

MomAssembly is a monthly subscription- you can take all the classes you want for $7.99 a month, or you can pay annually what amounts to $3.99 a month.

But ten of you, my lovely readers, can sign up for your first month free!

Click here, and your subscription will come with a free month of classes at MomAssembly!

Consider buying it for a friend as a baby shower gift. Consider buying it for a friend you think might be struggling. Consider buying it for a friend who calls you three times a week in the middle of the night because they're not sure the baby is latching right. And consider buying it for yourself. Between the classes on legally employing a nanny and the characteristics of gifted learners, there's something there for just about every parent of small children.

To get started, I recommend going through the Pediatric First Aid course. It's remarkably thorough, and knowing that you're prepared for your basic medical crises is an incredible comfort.

So go get started! Check out the huge assortment of classes, and sign up.

Remember, it takes a village. And MomAssembly is you virtual council of elders, ready and waiting to help you navigate the weird twists and turns of parenthood.

Just Fine

Three days before he asked me to marry him

I tell people M was diagnosed with cancer sixteen hours after we got engaged.

That's not really true. It was sixteen hours after we got engaged that he had the seizure that brought him to the ER, and from there to the CT scans, and from there to the MRI, and from there to the surgery that diagnosed him with brain cancer. The whole process from seizure to diagnosis took almost exactly five days. But from the moment I got the call that he'd had a seizure, part of me knew.

I'd been watching his symptoms develop slowly for the better part of a year. They were things you'd almost never notice. Things even his doctor, doing a neurological exam, didn't find in any way significant. But they were significant to him, in ways even he didn't really catch.

Eight months before the seizure: "I keep tweaking my left ankle when I run at night. I never used to do that. Isn't that weird?"
Six months before the seizure: "I used to play this song better, but the pick just won't stay in my fingers. Maybe I forgot how to play the guitar?"
Three months before the seizure: "I don't remember being so bad at base running! My left leg just won't quite do what I tell it to. I must really be out of practice."
And then, when I'd finally persuaded him to ask a doctor about it: "He thinks I probably just have a pinched nerve or something. I'll stretch more, and it'll be fine."

That was about two months before the seizure.

July is a big month for us. On July 4th, we got engaged. It was the one day we truly got to celebrated being engaged, even though it happened late in the evening.

On July 5th, M had his seizure. And we stopped celebrating being engaged and started going into emotional lockdown. Alternating denial and fear and a lot of figuring out how to fit both sets of our parents, who had never met, into our home so they could stay for the surgery.

And on July 10th, seven years ago today, the surgery. The endless awful hours of it, and then learning that M had stage four astrocytoma, an aggressive glioma that would likely take his life within two years.

It's much more comfortable to remember the other anniversaries.

May 23rd is a good one.

Yesterday, M had another MRI. As you may recall from a month ago, his last MRI wasn't exactly ideal. Instead of waiting our usual six months for a repeat, the doctor asked him back in eight weeks.

And if your math skills are functional, you'll note I said that he had another MRI yesterday. So what happened, right? Why did he have one in four weeks instead of eight?

Seizures. Seizures like he hasn't had in five years. An MRI that showed something and then seizures. Plural.

So his doctor wanted him back sooner, in case whatever that something was had started growing at an alarming pace. Or in case the last set of images had missed something. Or in case of any number of things, because after five years of having no seizures beyond the occasional micro focal seizure, that's alarming.

Here's the thing about seizures- everybody has what's called a "threshold." There's a point when the different things that can cause seizures- heat, medication, pressure, infection, blood sugar. fatigue- do. For everyone. People who get them regularly simply have a different balance of pressures already affecting their brains. And there are medications to manage them.

So yesterday we went back to the hospital to spend six hours getting MRIs and talking to the doctor.

And I'd like to say a very special couple of words to M's neurologist, who I love, and respect, and like personally as a human being.

WHAT THE HELL IS WRONG WITH YOU???? Seriously- you sent in two med students to do the most in-depth neurological exam he's had in SIX YEARS while we sit around reading everything and anything into it? Were you getting a new baseline? Were you trying to teach them how brain tumors manifest? Were they supposed to be learning how to keep a straight face when they might be looking for signs of brain cancer?

M looked at the fourth year med student, who administered the rigorous tests while the first year student studied her. And I studied the first year student. What the hell does she know? What is going on? What the fuck is going on????

And then, finally, our beloved neurooncologist returned.

M's new scans were identical to the last. They were, to use the same word we've been hearing for six years, stable.

Bald from chemo and radiation, but totally handsome that way

You see, when M was diagnosed with an inoperable stage four brain cancer, we did everything the medical team knew how to do. And more. We did everything. And what they told us then was this:

This kind of brain cancer is never cured. You'll never be in remission. You'll never be all better. The best we can hope for is that nothing changes.

Because he could live a perfectly normal life with the symptoms he had. Because if there's a stable tumor in his brain, it's not actively hurting him. It's not growing. It's not killing him. It's not doing anything. It is stable.

But then, miracle of miracles, his scans weren't really stable. Instead, they got better. His neurooncologies, not the one he has now, but his first, beamed with joy and pride and accomplishment every time he saw a scan.

They weren't stable, they were improving. When you looked scan to scan, you couldn't see a difference. But when you looked over the course of years, they were better. M's tumors were continuing to die, or shrink, or do something that made them less visible on MRIs. And that was unprecedented. It was spectacular. It was beyond all hope.

Which brings us to now.

Now, for the last several scans, things had appeared identical. No change from scan to scan. But, as of last month, there is something. A tiny, minuscule shift that when viewed over years instead of months, shows those vague areas that used to be solid white in the MRIs becoming a little bit cloudier again.

So what the hell does that mean?

It could mean any number of things. It could be that scar tissue is starting to develop around the dead tumor. It could mean that yes, the tumor's not dead, and it's starting to recover from being irradiated and poisoned. It could mean nothing at all.

Because at this rate of change? Everything is still stable. Just in case, we're getting scans every three months instead of every six. That's something we can definitely live with.

M and M on the beach to watch our 6th 4th of July fireworks since getting engaged

And the seizures?

Turns out the medication M takes to balance the side effects from his anti-seizure meds... lower your seizure threshold. Other things that lower your seizure threshold? Stress. Lack of sleep. Anxiety.

Three things he's had in spades since last month, when his doctor saw something and we started wondering if maybe it was the sort of something we've tried not to think about for seven years.

So he's going off that medication that might have contributed to seizures, raising his dose of anti-seizure meds, and focusing on getting some decent sleep. Which is a much easier thing to do now that we know he's still stable.

And as I continued running through scenarios in my head of what we would do if M needed brain surgery in another couple years, or when it would likely be, or what it means that the area is still changing, albeit at a ridiculously slow pace, it hit me.

This? This is the opposite of how we survived.

The way we got through brain cancer when it hit us was pure and simple- confidence. We never doubted. Yes, the medicine was essential. Yes, without the arsenic trial this would have been a different story. But what kept us going through all that? Confidence.

We never hesitated. I told M what I told everything else. "You're going to beat this. You're going to be just fine. You're going to kick it's ass, and then it will be history."

I still believe that. I need to stop preparing for alternative scenarios. There are no alternative scenarios.

So what if, medically, nobody can say that M is "cured?" So what if his "stability" is no longer the unprecedented improvement of years past?

He's fine, and it's time to stop worrying. Time for me to stop worrying, and time for everyone else to stop as well. The worry hurts. It brings doubts. And with doubts come excuses.

The only thing changing from here on out is that M needs to make his health a higher priority. He needs to make the time to get to the gym, he needs to eat better, he needs to treat his body like it's the miraculous POA it is.

M's stable, and that's all we really need to know.

The whole fam-damily

I'm going to keep my eyes open for those other signs. For new symptoms he might not register but that I never miss. I'm going to keep logging events in the binder because that's important to do, and I'm going to keep asking questions when we see his neurooncologist.

Who gives a fuck if you're "never cured" when you have stage four astrocytoma? Who the fuck knows anyway?

M's as cured as it gets.

So no more worrying. No more doubting. No more stress.

When the anxiety comes creeping back, I'm going to tell it what I've always told it, and then leave it behind.

He's just fine.

Six Down, Twenty To Go

I am allergic to metal.

I used to couch that in parenthetical exceptions, but about ten months ago I had to stop. When M and I got married, we were very careful in our ring selection. We went to the trouble of making sure not only that we got rhodium plated rings, but that we returned to the store every six months without fail to have them re-plated.

Sadly, no amount of re-plating could stop the inevitable. After five years of wearing my wedding band, never taking it off save for MRIs or those weird days we'd take to visit the 'burbs and replate the sucker, the hives began coming.

Skin allergies suck. First comes the vague itching. Then comes the blotchy redness. Then comes the open, festering, pussy wounds on your skin. Not pleasant, I know.

So after five years of marriage, I took off my wedding ring.

I hated it. I hated not wearing it. For the first few months if I went to an occasional wedding or special event, I'd put it back on. But even that became unbearable.

And so, M and I planned to replace it with something I could wear. Lucky us, we live in a city filled with brilliant artists and craftsmen, and we located a local shop, less than a mile from our first home together and only two miles from the site of our wedding. In the converted warehouse, a small group of brilliant odd-balls make beautiful rings from reclaimed wood.

For our sixth anniversary, we got new wedding rings. They're made from old xylophone tiles, and mine has a band of crushed lapis lazuli, which makes it resemble my old wedding and engagement rings, stacked together.

Created by Simply Wood Rings

We didn't have a dedication ceremony, or officially renew our vows, or anything like that. But it seemed odd to just pick up a new wedding ring, put it on, and say, "That's that!" So when we picked up the rings, we took a moment to commit ourselves all over again to our marriage.

M smiled his awkward, off kilter smile, and slid the ring onto my finger. "I love you more today than every day before. I can't imagine loving you more, but I know tomorrow I will, and I want to do that for the rest of our lives."

I'd rehearsed in my head exactly what I would say, knowing that one of the few times M never jokes is when he's telling me how much he loves me. So I cleared my throat, grinned at him, and slid the ring onto his finger.

"Six down, twenty to go."

He laughed and we kissed, and the lady behind the counter smiled and said we were adorable, but didn't ask for an explanation about that vow.

When M and I were engaged, we only really got to enjoy the experience for about sixteen hours. The rest of our engagement was totally eclipsed by M's health.

As our wedding date neared, M and I were driving home one afternoon when he said something that I will never forget.

"I have a new goal. I want to spend more of my life married to you than not. I want to live long enough that more of my life was as your husband than before."

He was 25 and a half years old.

For our anniversary, we put on our new rings, and flew to Santa Barbara for a friend's wedding. We extended our trip a few days, so we could spend our anniversary languidly driving up Highway 1, admiring the views of the mountains and the ocean, eating at surfer dives and buying strawberries at the side of the road. I hardly took any pictures. I was too busy feeling overwhelmed by joy, and love.

While we lounged around, without agenda or worry in beautiful Santa Barbara, life was very much as it was for us on our two week honeymoon in New Zealand. We took long walks. We ate local food. I bought some clothes. I made California Benedicts for breakfast.

At the wedding, we danced until our legs gave out, and the next day we came home to our three beautiful children.

It wasn't quite a second honeymoon. It wasn't quite a vow renewal. It was us, together, as we always are.

When I was young, I was certain I'd never marry. I didn't have boyfriends- though I sometimes referred to my beaus that way for my parents' sake. I thought the whole idea of monogamy and sexual fidelity was hogwash. I thought that committing yourself to feel the same way about the same person for the rest of your life was insane. I thought true love was something they fed you in fairy tales to keep you eager, but the reality was you do what you do to be happy, that being happy is what's most important in life, and that marriage didn't have anything to do with that.

Then I met M. And I fell in love. The idea of agreeing to be "boyfriend and girlfriend" didn't bother me. The idea of complacency and simplicity in terms and arrangements seemed soothing, and easy.

And with M, it is.

I've been married to the love of my life for more than six years, and in many ways they have just flown by.

But I read occasional blog posts about how marriage is work, how marriage is supposed to be work, how marriage isn't based on love. I hear my friends' tales of domestic discord and frustrations, of divorce and disillusionment, and I listen.

I sympathize.

But I do not understand. I do not understand why anyone would put themselves through it, deny themselves more opportunities for love and joy by staying in a relationship that brings them neither. I understand that for some people, marriage is work. But it's not for us. It never has been for us.

I know, in many ways, we are a unique couple. For most people, anniversaries and birthdays don't come with a looming counter. "Six down, twenty to go," is not a thought that accompanies these happy occasions. Each time M has a birthday, we don't just celebrate his birth, we celebrate his survival. Each time we have an anniversary, we're not just celebrating our marriage, we're celebrating the perseverance of life itself.

It's not that our lives have been easy. Far from it. Cancer is hard. Unemployment is hard. Newborn twins are hard. Going to college with two toddlers and pregnant with baby number three is hard. Hell, twin toddlers while pregnant is hard enough by itself. Three under three is hard.

Life is hard. And parenting is hard.

First day as parents

And we didn't have much experience with marriage before kids. On our first anniversary we were already 16weeks pregnant with our twins. And that was hard. But our marriage has always been easy.

I don't know that I'd recommend doing things our way, but I do know that I have long since stopped giving marriage advice. Relationship advice, sure, but marriage? Never.

Are we perversely blessed in our perspective? I don't think so. I honestly don't think that the love we consistently share, that constantly grows, that effortlessly brings us immeasurable joy and laughter and happiness is based on a fear of death. That only sharpens it around the edges a little.

I know that our love has never faltered. That the only real strain our marriage has ever suffered was depression, which was less a strain to our marriage than one of us battling a disease. And neither of us have ever faulted the other for their illnesses.

The last six years have gone past so quickly I still think of us as newlyweds. When I think of our relationship, it's in the giddy, excited, heart pounding terms of never wanting to stop touching his skin, or melting into his arms while he kisses me, or laughing as we run like teenagers down the hall to the bedroom. When I think of my love for M, it still comes with a hint of fear that one day he'll realize I'm not good enough for him, that I'm lazy and fat and unshowered and he deserves so much more than me- and rather than feeling depressed by such thoughts I feel inspired to impress him, to show him how competent I can be, how beautiful I can be, how brilliant I can be, until I surprise myself by becoming better than I ever knew I could.

He surprises me and inspires me. He makes me want to be more than I am. He makes me want not just to drop that extra twenty or thirty pounds, but to embrace myself and my body as I am, and love myself as much as he loves me.

He makes me feel like maybe I do deserve somebody so wonderful.

And that has never faltered. That has always been effortless. That has always been simply M- simply the way of the world- simply us.

The Captain Hammer Yin to my Ani Yang

Since getting married, we have grown together. I know more of his flaws and his faults, but my love only grows.

When people tell me that marriage is work, I nod. But secretly I wonder if maybe they're not doing it... wrong.

When people tell me that marriage is hard, I shrug. But secretly I wonder if maybe M and I are just... soul mates. Perfectly matched. Bound by the bonds of "True Love" in the Princess Bride sense of the words.

Maybe we're not. At six years married, with three children, I still feel like a newbie. I still feel like a newlywed. I still feel young and invigorated by our marriage.

I hope to still feel that way when we've been married for sixty years.

And I still believe what I thought before was true- marriage isn't the best idea we as a human race have ever concocted. Forever is a long time to work on something hard. And maybe, for some people, that's the point. Maybe, for some people, the hard work is what gives it meaning.

For me, the meaning is the constant joy and love. The effortless happiness we bring each other. The sharing of burdens until they're lessened almost to nothing, and the sharing of joy until it's multiplied to infinity.

We've been married longer than I've lived in any home. We've been married longer than many of my friendships have lasted. We've been married longer than I had any right to hope on our wedding day. I don't know how I'll feel then, but now I believe another twenty years won't be nearly long enough.

Six down.

Forever to go.

How to Humiliate The Most Important Person In Your Life, or, Happy Father's Day

I melt.

My husband is a committed father, a loving husband, and I'd wager a pretty decent son. He is everything I ever wanted in a partner, even when I didn't know I wanted it.

He is my everything, as far as humans are concerned, and he inspires me constantly to be the best version of myself.

That said, one of my favorite of his many endearing qualities is how willing he is to be made to look silly.

That's why when I found this extra awesome sale in April- yes, April- I knew I had located a perfect Father's Day gift.

It tread that line between hilariously wonderful and mortifyingly horrific.

Like I said, perfect.

And so the children and I ambushed M before he could get dressed, to give him a Father's Day present.

The blurry look on his face clearly says, "W.T.F."

His reaction was all I could have hoped for. Shock and hilarity, followed by dread at the revelation that all his children now had identical t-shirts. And all of them were thrilled to put them on, just like Daddy's!, to go out in public for the entire day. (I confess, I neglected to include myself in the purchase of family magical unicorn tees. Mommy's prerogative.)

My unicorn family

At first he was a little self conscious. I can't blame him. After all, he was a six and a half foot tall adult man wearing a purple magical unicorn t-shirt.

But embodying the very qualities I've always loved about him, he quickly embraced his role as a dedicated father and consummate joker.

Thank you, M, for teaching our children yet another way to postpone eating

As we do every year, we went on an outing for Father's Day- this year to The Field Museum. M is a bit obsessed with the Columbian Exposition of 1893, and the girls have caught a bit of his fervor. After all, we live practically on the grounds of the original fair, so the kids are familiar with a few important World Fair landmarks. They were utterly rapt when presented with an entire animated display of the Spirit of the Republic- known 'round these parts as "Big Mary."

He's indoctrinating his children with a lifelong love of all things Chicago

We had a spectacular day, M getting more and more confident that he was completely rocking the unicorn tee- as stranger after stranger grinned at him and his kids, wishing them, "Happy Father's Day!"

So many smiles

As for me, I can't help myself. There might be no more knee-weakening sight than the handsome rogue you married, confidently striding among a sea of neo-ravers on their way to SAMF with Skrillex blaring through the air, displaying a watercolor-y, rainbowed, castle bound unicorn across his chest.

He is much beloved

I'd marry that man over again every couple of months, if we could afford the parties.

Happy Father's Day, M.