I loved baking with my mom as a kid. She is a real baker, the kind of precise person who measures exactly and sets timers and separates yolks from whites.
I loved baking with my mom as a kid. She is a real baker, the kind of precise person who measures exactly and sets timers and separates yolks from whites.
My horse is lame, I mean, really gimpy. She’s a sweet mare I got for the kids, (Addy named her Beauty) a gentle old girl with a long history of
I’ve been hearing a lot this season about how hard the holidays can be. I’m no stranger to this lament, I remember my own long Decembers of endless Advent, in
I still have the the black bottle of conditioner and the white bottle of shampoo that I took to Florida last year, when Isaiah was born. I use it sparingly,
When I get up from rocking Isaiah to sleep, the rocking chair continues for a couple of beats, knocking solidly against the floor, like a heartbeat. The-thunk, the-thunk. I like
I realized today that I have a profound responsibility to order my thoughts and my moments, that how my days unfold is, largely, up to me. Adam is out of
I’ve been reading this every day for the last week: “So here’s what I want you to do, God helping you: Take your everyday, ordinary life—your sleeping, eating, going-to-work, and
We’ve been teaching Adelay to play catch. She has only middling success at it, and one reason is she watches her hands instead of the ball itself. She stands there,
October is practically here, which means my baby boy is almost here, too. I know he’s not mine yet and it is so hard to not feel overwhelmingly attached, especially
Yesterday, as I was making plans with someone for the fall, she said to me, “You must be over the moon about your baby boy.” I stammered a lame response.