My Jenn-eration

So how do you do summer? Join me and the folks over at TODAY where I'm talking about the real value of a Summer of Sloth.

As we stand in the middle of Barnes and Noble I’m torn. I told him that he could pick out a book and the one that he’s selected is about Minecraft. That, in and of itself doesn’t necessarily bother me. But this particular Minecraft guide is about combat. That is quite literally the title. Something about combat best practices. I recoil in horror and snap at him in a way that is an intensely disproportionate reaction to an eight year old just wanting to buy a book about a video game he likes. Inside, I begin to hold deeply irrational conversations with myself. Is this how it starts, I wonder? Is this where it began with Adam Lanza? I know there was more, trips to the shooting range and increased isolation. I know there was more to his story. But at one point, he was just her little boy, right? How did it all start? How does it ever? He’s arguing hard for the book now and I wonder if I should waver – it is just a book after all. But I hate it. I hate all of it. I hate the idea ...

Every night before Dylan goes to sleep, I ask him if he has any worries to give me. It’s a silly gesture, but it makes both of us feel better for some reason. He hands me some imaginary load of 8 year old problems – things that I am happy are the full extent of his worries - like what kind of pea shooters to plant to battle the zombies, and how to outlast everyone in the Gaga pit at recess, and who or what makes those shadows under the dark corner of his desk at night. I always pretend to catch them, like an imaginary football. I tell him he doesn’t have to worry anymore, that he can rest easy, I’ll carry his load for him that night. I guess I’m just reminding him I’m his Mother. This is what we do, right? But we don’t just carry them. We are magicians of sorts. We use them, we spin them into questions and dreams, we use them and we build on them. We teach them how to look at them in the morning with fresh eyes: to see them as new fuel for love and strength, and from stuff to lea...

My father always told me that to take a really great picture, you’ve got to center it. You’ve got to have a focus. I think about this one and only lesson often. What’s the focus, the purpose of the photo, and are we always clear about what it is when we take it? Because the thing about getting older is that your focus shifts. The things you thought were the big rocks, the ones that really mattered the most, suddenly look like pebbles. It is impossible to prepare for how this center can and will shift with time, and age, and children, and adulting. That what seems like everything now has the potential to fade. Recently, about six years late to the party, I joined Instagram. In one of my first photos, I took a picture of my mostly drunk wine glass using the Gingham filter. As I posted it, I liked that the picture told the story of what might be happening in my life. Maybe I was out with my husband. Maybe it was Mom’s Night Out. The shadowy promise of the filters offered me the opport...

The other day marked four years since I’ve been blogging. Never really sure why it began, I’m struggling to tell you why I’m still here. Four years is an eternity. It is the difference between your early thirties and your late thirties. It is the difference between wondering what it would be like to have a third, and having a third – who is now two years old. It is the difference between wondering am I doing this right, and knowing with confidence that you are not, and that is okay too. In four years, I’ve written roughly 132 original posts and nearly 100,000 times someone visited a free site I made in my pajamas one morning when I was thinking about what I wanted to tell my wonderful friend who had just given birth to her sweet twin babies. Those babies just celebrated their 4 th birthday. And so I guess that means we're celebrating over here too. In four years and in no particular order, this is what I think I’ve learned: The Internet is a both terribly cruel and wo...

There are at least two if not many more universal truths known to all mothers. The first, is that while no child can hear the words “please go get dressed” even when shouted directly into their eardrum they can always hear any mother unwrap any item of food at any decibel and from any distance. The second and equally important truth is that whoever you don’t pack the spare clothes for is going to need them. Any guesses as to who didn’t pack herself a spare shirt? As we set out on the rental car bus yesterday to begin our journey home from vacation, I turned to my husband who would not be making the trip back with me and my three kids and said something like, “It’s no problem.” “Really. I’ve got this.” At which point God, overhearing this exchange, literally laughed out loud, put on his favorite footy pajamas, poured himself a drink, and I imagine said something like, “Well, this ought to be a good show.” Was it the two hour delay that turned into a four hour delay or...

How does your family celebrate Shabbat? What are your rituals? Come join me over at Kveller this afternoon where I talk a little about our fall Shabbat experiment and what it did and didn’t take to truly make it a sacred space for our family (other than excessive amounts of juice boxes!) (one of our more glamorous Friday nights)