Today, as I walked the midway with my family, I felt grateful for all that Tracie and I have experienced in our thirteen years, grateful that, despite the newness of our separation, we could come together as a family, in peace.
Early on in the process of building my son's music career, I sought advice from an industry veteran who is also a faith-based family man like I try to be. I asked him what I could do as a father and manager of my son to help him most. His advice was simply three words: 'Protect his heart.'
The first thing I did when I had kids of my own was tell them, "Never, ever try to make a bed. It can't be done." And because I believe in leading by example, I only make mine when people come over and insist on looking at it.
Why is an accusing word. A word that is inherent criticism.After all, if everything was perfect, you wouldn't need to ask why. Have you ever heard anyone ask, "Why is the house so clean?" or "Why were the errands all run?" No. You haven't.
Postpartum depression is deserving of attention and action from multiple communities, including the feminist community. We need to raise our voices to increase public awareness of the issue, so that women do not feel stigmatized, and demand availability and access to support services.
There is comfort in boredom. Making lunches, washing dishes and doing laundry are all reminders that it is privilege to not only take care of myself, but to take care of others.
I am often stressed out. And as much as I hate to admit it, I can't always hide this side of myself from my kids.
Many of the feelings I experienced soon after our loss were expected: sadness, deep grief, anger. But what surprised me most, and what I wasn't prepared for was the shame -- the overwhelming feeling that I had failed in the way that mattered most, and that it could never be forgiven.
I remember how far behind she'd left my stepfather, who'd come with her, and the way her purse swung on her arm, and the broad, breaking smile on her face as she drew nearer. It felt almost embarrassing to be the object of such emotion after having done nothing more than come home.
Parenting is the hardest job you'll EVER have. I repeatedly heard folks say this before I had my first child. I had no earthly idea what they meant.
She just turned 9 this week, which means I only have nine more years to get her ready to fight for herself in the real world. Nine more years to make sure she knows how to braise a roast, manage her iCloud storage and distinguish between a jerk and Prince Charming. That's not a lot of time.
I ignored my sweet-free diet/and let appetite run riot, scarfing Kit Kats by the score./ I let appetite run riot, crunching Kit Kats by the score,/ till the bag held nothing more.
If we think our life stops when we have kids and a job, if we don't pursue our passions no matter how ridiculous they may seem, if we don't stretch ourselves to accommodate that rescue dog who needs a home or a family member or friend who needs our help, we miss out -- big time. Because what we get in return when we embrace this "chaos" is LIFE, in all its fullness and all its glory.
Some people want to just do their thing like they did a decade ago, before blogs, before Facebook, before social media. Others want to use the newfound power of their pulpit, and share, brag, boast, preach their ideologies to the world. The latter can become exhausting for the former, eventually they lash out in frustration, and cease fire gets broken again.
I don't remember my parents worrying about me missing a big party or being concerned how grounding me for two weeks would impact homecoming plans. Why, then, are we so challenged around setting limits for our children?
Have you ever felt proud? Do you have a clear -- or any -- memory of what being proud feels like? What emotions do you experience when you feel proud?