Wednesday, January 25, 2023


When my mom turned 50, I remember a massive summertime party along the Swedish southern coastline, Copenhagen likely visible in the distance, guests sipping whites and reds and cocktails exquisitely planned to pair with an evening obviously filled with delicacies.

My sisters were there, I think. Details are fuzzy. There were speeches. Laughter. Tears, maybe. But most importantly that amazing "it's July and the entire country is on vacation" vibe that Europeans have expertly mastered.

Somehow 2023 is my 50th. 

Despite sounding ludicrous, it's true. And like most others, I'm clearly much too young to be this old.

Reflecting on the ifs and when's and how's and whys, remembering goals and aspirations and dreams and fantasies, I keep coming back to now. As in, it's now or never. Today. This moment. Because time, in all its intricate and unassuming ways, is no longer creeping. It's flying. Soaring. And the only way to experience it all is to keep up.

I've got several months until the official day. Lots of time to ponder and prevail. Perhaps even plan a miniature event. As in: let's devour the best charcuterie platter possible and enjoy only the fanciest wines.

But mostly: remember that the question of the hour is not, what's next? But rather, what's now?

Monday, March 01, 2021

A Paradise Pivot

We left everything behind. Couches. Beds. Lamps. Fancy, kid-approved gaming chairs with padded headrests and perfect swivels.

The 6am departure morphed into seven-ish, but somehow, two cars packed to the brim with odd and ends, Xboxes, and obviously my Keurig, red Kitchen Aid, and every single Le Creuset purchased over the years, snaked along side the early Lake Tahoe morning glimmers, two kids and a husky glued to the windows.

They weren't glued, really. In reality, we sped through town feeling like upended vagabonds, leaving behind a life in the mountains and looking only forward, anticipating all the changes related to residing in America's 4th largest city.

It was exhilarating. Liberating. The alt country seeping through the speakers only slightly muffled by the occasional gold fish crunch or Gracie in the back, shifting her paws and curling into a more accommodating pose.

Wednesday, July 03, 2013

Axel, Unplugged

When Axel was 2, we tried to ditch the pacifier. We ceremoniously collected all his "mimis" in a blue IKEA bowl, waved bye-bye and semi-successfully diverted all his pleas for the rest of the afternoon by offering boatloads of gummies, lollipops and other treats typically reserved for Saturdays. By bed time, we knew it was too early to "high five" on another milestone, but we were definitely optimistic.

At about 2am, we quickly realized that unless we were prepared for endless days followed by sleepless nights, reconsidering returning the beloved Mam would make our lives not only pleasant and lovely, but populated yet again by a happy little guy.

So we acquiesced.

Many moons and a birthday later, we tried again. This time, we recruited the help of Aunt Filippa who immediately FedExed a copy of a perfectly illustrated book, where the main character spends agonizing moments deliberating over which toy to relinquish for her paci. And while Axel never fully understood why anyone would opt for a yellow stuffed duck over a suckable mimi, he seemed to really relate.

On the designated day, we once again collected all the pacifiers (this time in a yellow bowl, just for kicks) and explained to the little guy that, as a reward, he could head to his local Wal-Mart and pick out anything in the whole store!

It still kills me that he returned with a yo-yo. 

But anyway ... not only have we not heard peep about his beloved mimi since this momentous day three weeks ago, we've also been introduced to a brand-new Axel. To call him "chatty Cathy" is an understatement. From the moment his eyes pop open to the very last second before delirious dreams, he talks. He explains. He ponders. He wonders. And mostly he wants to know why he can't have a hot air balloon.

And as if leaving the mouth free to babble was somehow related to his legs, he's suddenly become super fast. Daring. More adventurous. And -- shocking to everyone -- almost as wild and crazy as his big brother.

Love this newly discovered little dude. Shenanigans included.

Tuesday, June 11, 2013

And So It Begins

Curtis and a few of his cronies started golf lessons last week. Every Monday, Wednesday and Friday, four 5-year-olds invade our local private club's driving range, putting green, bunker and -- as of last week -- hole number four. Under the guidance of a "professional" they supposedly learn tricks and tips and, obviously, have boatloads of fun.

Last week, I nonchalantly inquired what he'd learned.

"Nothing!" he defiantly muttered, which normally wouldn't be cause for concern since the new status quo in our household involves a few similar sentiments which all pretty much translate to: parents are totally clueless!

Anyway. I prodded and pried, and finally, figured it out.

Ever since the lessons started, Curtis feels his swing has deteriorated. His grip is currently "messed up." His backswing is "like a lame L" and, as so oftentimes happens in this lovely game, his confidence is buried somewhere in the depths of a fairway bunker.

Not one to take matters involving golf lightly, we grabbed his sand wedge last weekend and hit the backyard. Axel, of course, in tow with his hand-me-down 7-iron.

Three minutes later everything was crystal clear: Curtis's swing, was indeed, "messed up."

Luckily for our big guy, his mamma is a seasoned albeit nonchalant player, and within a few minutes, we had it all mostly corrected. This was all accomplished between assuring Axel, who clearly also needed some tips, that "yes, your arms are straight!"

Here's the tricky bit. We still have three more lessons left. And both Curtis and I now have less than a sliver of confidence in this "professional" who will most likely continue to try to use kid-unfriendly tips for the remaining days. 

So when Curtis expressed his legitimate frustration over the confusion bound to occur on the range over the next few days, I paused only momentarily before I offered the following advice:

"Just pretend, buddy."

"What do you mean, Mamma?"

"I mean that when he tells you something that doesn't make sense, just ignore it and keep doing what I've been teaching you."

Evidently, this was the funniest thing I've ever said, because Curtis hasn't stopped laughing since.

I, on the other hand, suddenly realized that I just encouraged dissing a teacher. Which will probably backfire one day. But for now at least, Curtis is back to driving that ball straight and far.

Friday, May 24, 2013


Within all the mommy blogs and parenting ilists I devour, there's this common debate around things that are difficult. And, since competition is evidently just as inherent in adults as our littles, it's tricky not to read it all and avoid taking sides. Some days, according to those in the weeds, being a stay-at-home mom is mentally draining, exhausting and ceaselessly challenging. Other mornings it's the working crew that has the toughest beat: juggling making lunches, planning dinners and handling the emotions of drop-offs and pick-ups nestled between conference calls and quarterly performance reviews.

I wear both hats.

And honestly, I think both sides are equally true.

But that's not the point. Ultimately, regardless of what defines you -- as a parent -- the same tricky situations, melt-downs, and lovely snippets will punctuate your day. What's becoming more and more clear, as my kids grow and tempt and explore, is that our attitude is what cements everyone's experience.

Thing is, while theoretically a flooded bathroom is pretty easily cleaned up and leaving five minutes later than planned really has zero impact on the rest of the morning, when you're in the moment, it's easier to see that one, little measly tree than the beautiful forest. And just like playing dominos on a perfectly waxed hardwood floor, when one black-dotted, white rectangle begins to tremble and ultimately crash, the rest will definitely follow.

So the lesson?

Back to basics: spilled milk shouldn't result in tears and handed-down lemons have amazing culinary properties.

Focus on now. This minute. Today. And don't worry so much about messes, piles of laundry or mud-streaked tiles. There's always time to clean.

But playing in the sun is way more fun.

Wednesday, May 15, 2013


It's completely dirty. Covered in pollen from our flowering pine trees, streaked dust on the passenger side door, 'Curtis' outlined in old grime, his first official graffiti -- which as an aside, I clearly let slide since he so aptly spelled his own name, even the tricky 'r' perfectly legible.

But that's just the outside.

Inside is a bizarre yet somehow kid-comforting conglomeration of discarded Cheerios and gummies, playground woodchips and beach sand, and -- for some unknown reason -- mis-matched long-forgotten shoes. If you peek between the front seats, you'll probably see the remnants of an old cheese stick, bubblegum wrappers and scraps of paper with doodles and scribbles which, to a 3-year-old, clearly depict monkeys and rocket space ships.

The front dash has Easter's slightly lopsided art project and one of three 'driving to school' CDs currently in rotation.

And the cupholders, their original function long since forgotten, contain all kinds of edible remnants, cool stick fragments and special rocks that for obvious reasons can never be tossed and must always remain -- just in case we need them one day.

Meet my car. My lovely, messy, and usually a bit stinky child-preferred mode of transportation.

It's been cleaned. And detailed. And expertly vacuumed -- once, the car seat covers were actually removed and -- gasp! -- laundered and dried.

But mere hours later, or so it seems, we are back to status quo. And honestly, we -- the kids and I -- like it that way. We like knowing we're never too dirty after an afternoon at the park to worry about creating new Nissan messes. We find coziness and comfort in the slight old-sock smell that is forever perpetuated by two pairs of feet that can never seem to keep shoes, or socks, on after a long day at preschool. And we plainly adore that no matter where we are headed, we can usually find some hidden treasure within its grimy depths to entertain us.

Pappa's car on the other hand, is spotless. And while not nearly as charming as my tried and true shuttle, it definitely has its own appeal.

Especially on date night.

Thursday, May 09, 2013


When you come crashing down the hillside on your scooter, reeling at the turn, skidding to a stop right before the curb, I appear calm.

When the swing is mere millimeters from flipping upside down, your laugh echoing through the trees, I am the epitome of serenity.

When you "drop in" with the 20-year-olds at the skate park, I blink momentarily, waiting for the cry, the scream of terror -- which never materializes -- and I exude peace.

When you run, run, run out the back door, jumping over rocks and stones, climbing a much-too-skinny tree, yelling out 'look at me', I applaud, beaming outwardly.

But on the inside. Oh my. On the inside I cringe, I squirm and I hold my breath.

And then I remember:

This. This is life as a mother to boys. Who yell and shout and lunge and revel in anything remotely dangerous.

And so I prescribe myself a daily dose of "they're fine" and "don't react" -- and continue to watch and marvel at the stunts which so effortlessly punctuate our afternoons. And mornings. And evenings.

Love you guys. Even if you do make my heart skip a couple of beats.