I could spend a thousand hours watching vids of different people covering the same song. It reminds me of what Archer said about "...all of us going in different directions trying to get to the same place." Almost as if we're as bonded by our differences as we are by our sameness.

So many of us sharing the same stories, even when we all seem like completely different tales.

53. The Boy with the Arab Strap by: Belle and Sebastian


In Defense of Happiness

Me, age 5
me @ 5

When I was a little girl I didn't have many friends. It took me years to feel comfortable enough to raise my hand in class, let alone strike up a conversation with one of my classmates. And yet, I was happy. I was happy in my own world, surrounded by things that were make-believe and plastic, stuffed. And why wouldn't I be? I had a family who loved me, who nurtured my strengths - I lived in the land of luxury, in a home with ocean-views and freshly-mowed grass in the yard.

I wrote my first poem in first grade. It is still my earliest memory, sprawled on my belly across the driveway, my paper flattened against a hard cover TIME/LIFE book.
My First Poem

I submitted the poem to a school anthology and won the district award. Suddenly I was somebody. And for years and years, that is who I stayed, slowly becoming more confident, more able in social situations until 5th grade found me with friends of my own. But the more friends one makes, the more enemies she has. If you can't join them, beat them... This is especially true for women and girls. Especially girls in high school. Especially when you're lucky, as I was. I had it all. And I knew it. And it made me feel like shit.
My First Day of High School
me on my first day of high school.

The other girls were just jealous of course. Except I wasn't allowed to think they were jealous because that meant I thought I was better than them so I spent much of my high school years lying about how much everything sucked. So that people didn't hate me, I wrote self-deprecating things and talked about how much I disliked myself. I learned quickly that if people feel sorry for you, they cannot hate you. Twas an armor of angst I wore that made my life easier. That kept me from getting pushed around by the older girls. And even though rumors spread on a daily basis, I embraced them as someone to be pitied. It was easier that way. It was easier to lie and tell people how shitty life was than to risk announcing good news. So I never did.
Homecoming 1997
me (on right) @ 16

My resentment mounted over the years as I worked on furthering my career as a writer. As an "artist" ... I quickly learned that the artist is not the girl who gets the car on her sixteenth birthday. The famed novelist doesn't have happily married parents. Interesting people didn't live such generous lives. Didn't have perfect families who sang songs around the piano and ate dinner as a family every. single. night. Interesting people had it tough - had to overcome. Real artists struggled. And suffered. And could barely handle their lives. I wanted to be a real artist, too, no fair, so I prayed for dysfunction. Fell in love with the darkness if only to balance the light I felt I had undeserved.

I thought I had to be unhappy in order to be a creative. Because every book that moved me was written by a tortured and often suicidal genius who either offed themselves or fantasized about it. These women were my heroes. Their pain was my pain and yet? Not my pain at all.

I was the luckiest girl I knew. And I hated myself for it.

Slowly, I surrounded myself with people who hurt me. Who would repeatedly hurt me, fuck me up nice and good so that I could be miserable too. So that I could seek therapy and cry in the arms of strangers, be respected as a writer and artist - someone who wrote from the cell. I pierced my face and dyed my blonde hair black so that people could see that I was real and in pain, legitimate.
2003<span class=
me @ 22 with the girl who never got away, still one of my dearest friends.

I spent five years pulling myself down, throwing myself down as bait for misery. So that I could call myself a writer. So that I could garner the respect of all the critics who called me out for being amateurish - optimistic, happy. I became insecure, lost all respect for myself - became all the miserable things I thought I had to be to succeed as a writer and as a friend.

Because happiness isn't cool. Happiness isn't beautiful or profound or poetic. Happy people do not win the Penn-Faulkner awards, let alone get books published. This is what I thought for many, many years.

So I tried to become a drinker. I tried to become someone who got high on drugs so I could write books about "how fucked up shit is, man! Cocaine! Whoa!" I tried to become everyone's whore, slept with so many people I lost track, stopped counting, tried to become suicidal. But even dark-haired and dark-eyed, naked in some stranger's bed, surrounded by the white dust of Bukowsi's trite cliches, I was an impostor. I wasn't like them. And so? These boys I chased and girls I studied stopped including me in their nightly binges and self-made hells, stopped sleeping with me and instead turned to me for help. For money and shelter and love.

So that's what I became --the safe place and 4am phone call. The best friend slash bank account. Once again, I was on the outside. Excluded by circumstance. The lucky one who had it all.

And I was. Even in my current state of disaster, I still was.

It wasn't until Archer was born that everything changed. Everything changed, everything changed, everything changed I will say it a thousand more times until I'm blue and pass out and then I will wake up and say it again because it's the truth. Archer's birth was the first time I let myself be happy. Truly, honestly, without guilt happy. And even though, in the first few years after his birth, I suffered and struggled and spent many a night, day, week crying over a new and confusing life, I was free.

I was free because I knew that in order to be the best parent for my son, I had to be the best version of myself, so I spent years detoxing, surrounding myself with beauty and light, happiness and happy people until one day I found I had pulled myself out of the world I never belonged to in the first place.

I realized that happiness was okay. That I could still be an artist while remaining optimistic. I didn't have to live a miserable hateful existence to create beautiful things. I didn't have to write about how shitty things were to be appreciated as a writer and then as a person. If people had a problem with me, most of the time, it was their problem and not mine.

I was me, for the first time: The lucky girl who had it all.

People always say, "You know who your true friends are when things don't work out." Not so. People rush to your aid when things don't work out. Strangers become friends when shit goes south. People fawn all over the wounded and lost. It is when life is good, when health is high, when one is happy and success is inevitable that friends disappear. That people stop caring. Stop calling. No need.

I'm not afraid to admit and write about my fuck-ups. I'm not afraid to tell the truth about my pain. My struggles as a mother and wife and human - my past and present fears, decisions, doubts... I'm not afraid to show my body, no matter how imperfect. And to be honest, that stuff's easy. It's easy to write about pain, the struggle, imperfections galore. It's easy to post pictures of oneself without makeup. To admit defeat.
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It's the beautiful days and moments and snapshots of self that are difficult to reveal because good times and pretty things are thought to lack narrative and substance and soul.

Because a beautiful picture is far more offensive than an ugly one.

Lately I've been called out both publicly and via email for my lack of angst on Girl's Gone Child. For being annoyingly happy and up and ew.

In the past I would have agreed. Me and my two (fictional) unsold manuscripts about miserable people living miserable lives, uninspired, relatable, profound.

Not anymore.

I feel it would be far more insensitive, even insulting to the "daily struggle" if I didn't celebrate the daily triumphs. And I do because I am inspired by so much more than bad days and dark thoughts and question marks.

I'd like to think we all are.

Contrary to what my name suggests and no matter how many stones I tried to shove in the bottomless pockets of my bathrobe, I was never going to write like Virginia Woolf. I was never going to be the next Anne Sexton or Sylvia Plath or any other tortured genius.

I accept my fate graciously, gratefully, with an infinite source of relief. I'm no genius. Nor am I tortured. Never have been. Even when I tried.

I'm not shy anymore. I raise my hands now and sometimes my voice. I'm unapologetic where I used to cower to my critics. These days I have dear friends both real and imaginary, a family of my own. In so many ways I am so different than I was all those years ago, when I first picked up my pen. But in even more ways I am the same little girl, still writing about those damn winged-horses and joyful fucking days.

Except this time? I don't intend to stop.

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Sunday 6:11PM, Backyard


Happy summer, all!

P.S. That sailboat shirt I wore in photos a few weeks back? The one several of you asked about? Just went on sale. Sweet deal. Enjoy. xo.

Preschool, The End

Yesterday was technically Archer's last day of preschool and I sat all day at my desk with poopy-stomach trying to wrap my head around what it means to see him off at a new school, introduce him to a new world with new friends and strangers, teachers... parents.

We've been discussing the changes afoot for weeks now. The new school which Archer says he "can't wait for!" even if it means a whole new set of students, teachers, friends... But when I picked him up from school yesterday, Archer looked angry.

"Ready to go?" I asked.

Archer glared at me and crossed his arms.

"Are you bummed school's over?" I asked.

"No!" he crossed his arms tighter. "I'm glad it's over!"

"It's normal to be a little sad. Saying goodbye to people and places and things is the hardest part of being a human."

"I'm not sad!" he said, sniffling. "I just want the picture off my cubby!"

"But you'll be back at school in two weeks so you don't need to take your picture...We're doing summer school three days a..."


Moments later we were in full on won't-get-into-the-car won't-get-out-of-the-car "no! no! no!" meltdown mode.

Part of me wanted to join him. Instead, I drove home saying nothing, parked the car, went to the freezer and retrieved a box of ice-cream sandwiches, which we then proceeded to dine on, silently brooding...


*If you're an Australian reader you can read more by going here for RSS feed. Sorry for the inconvenience!


**Saturday night, June 26th, I'll be participating in "Afterbirth" a group reading at M Bar in Hollywood (located, here.) I'm beyond honored to be a part of such a talented group of writers including Jennifer Lynch, Christopher Noxon, Mike Sikowitz, Peter Birkinhead and more. More info is here. Thanks to the lovely Dani Modisett for including me in her show.

Eat Well: Wendy Woolf says,"Let’s Talk About Eggs, Baby!"

(ED: the following words + photography c/o my mother, Wendy. Thanks, mom!)
fresh local eggs

So many terms define the eggs that we get in the store. Free range, natural, cage free, vegetarian, organic…we can’t trust any of these labels. Free range can mean that there is a door in the corner opened for a few hours a day but the chickens are so closely confined that they never can find the door. Cage free can mean that the chickens are squished in one large pen, often having had their beaks removed so that they don’t peck each other. Natural means nothing…have you ever seen a man-made chicken? Organic means simply that their feed was grown without pesticides and artificial fertilizers and says nothing about how the chickens are raised. And vegetarian means they aren’t allowed outside, since chickens are naturally omnivores, loving the grubs and other bugs living in the ground.

So what do you do if you want to eat eggs from chickens that haven’t been confined to concentration camp conditions? Well, you can raise your own chickens. Many cities and almost all suburbs now allow chickens. Check your city ordinances to see if you are allowed chickens. There are some awesome chicken coups available online if you are seeking this adventure. This is my favorite one. If I hadn’t converted my backyard lawn to a vegetable garden, I would probably be buying one of these!

Otherwise, check out your farmer’s market and talk to the stand owner about how their chickens are raised. You can look at this website to find a farm that has been approved as a humane farm in your state. If you have CSA’s in your area (Community Supported Agriculture), contact them and ask where to get your eggs. Eating eggs from humanely raised chickens not only is the ethical choice, the eggs taste better and are better for you. The difference in price is only a couple of dollars and it is well worth it. Eggs are still the cheapest meal you can make. One dozen eggs can make, when extended, anywhere from 8-12 servings!

I get my eggs from a friend who has chickens. She treats them like pets (chickens actually can be quite sweet when treated properly). The yolks are bright orange and the white doesn’t run all over the pan. And they are unbelievably delicious.

The below picture is of a factory farm egg. Notice how runny the white part is and how pale the yolk is:
And these eggs come from happy chickens:

Notice the orange yolk and the firm white:

We eat eggs for dinner once a week. Not only are egg dishes quick and easy, they are very inexpensive to make. The easiest egg dinner is scrambled eggs made with milk (I like to use goat) and salt and pepper. If you use fresh farm eggs, this meal is ecstasy. This is where you really can tell the difference of factory farm vs happy chicken eggs. Round out the meal with home made corn bread with honey and butter and a big chopped salad and you have a quick and child friendly meal. (Those of you who are gluten free, there are several wonderful gluten free corn bread mixes: Bob's Redmill Farms and Mary’s are delicious!!)

My favorite egg recipe is a Persian dish given to me by a lovely Iranian woman I met while on the train. I was on my way home from visiting Rebecca and her family right after Fable was born. We sat next to each other and became fast friends. She had been an obstetrician in Iran and was brimming with interesting stories. Somehow we got on the topic of cooking and she shared this recipe with me—a staple of the Iranian diet.

I like to pick recipes that extend the eggs to minimize the amount of animal protein we are getting. Mirza Ghassemi does that perfectly! And the eggplant is disguised for fussy eaters. This is a great summer dish, especially if you have your own vegetable garden or frequent a farmer’s market. The tomatoes, onions, and eggplant are fresh from my garden.

Mirza Ghassemi (Persian eggs, tomatoes and eggplant)

1 eggplant
1 onion, cut in half and sliced
2 cloves garlic, smashed, chopped, and smashed again
4 eggs, beaten
1 teaspoon turmeric (or to taste)
3 large tomatoes, seeded and chopped
salt and pepper to taste
vegetable oil (I use olive oil)

1. Prick an eggplant and roast on a foil lined pan in the oven at 400 degrees for 30-40 minutes or until soft.
Meanwhile, cook garlic and onion in oil until soft (10-15 minutes).
Add chopped tomatoes and cook until tomatoes are really mushy. (You can just let it on the stove on low and stir once in awhile while your eggplant is cooking).
When eggplant is done, let rest for five minutes and then peel (the peel should come right off or you can scrape it out with a spoon).
Chop and mash the flesh and add it to the vegetables. (If watery, drain off the liquid). Season with turmeric, salt, and pepper to taste.
Beat eggs and add to the hot mixture. Stir constantly on medium high until all of the eggs are fully cooked. Taste for seasoning. Serve over Jasmine rice.
(Serve with yogurt, sliced cucumbers and pureed mint if desired.)

For vegans, substitute for the eggs a block of tofu, pressed, drained, and crumbled. Don’t cook too much after adding the tofu. Just warm it through.

Here are some of my other favorite QUICK egg recipes.


I keep a couple of frozen ready made pie shells in the freezer for an easy dinner. These are my favorite. (If you are gluten free, use hash browns for the crust, brushed with butter and cooked until brown). I make two quiches at a time and it feeds us for several nights. Here are the simple steps for quiche:

1. Precook the crust for 10 minutes at 400.
2. Grate or crumble about a quarter pound of your favorite cheese. I like to use goat cheddar. It’s YUMMY!
3. Sauté your vegetables first so the water evaporates. Favorite combos are leeks (or onions) and spinach or chard…or really any vegetable you want. I use whatever is in my garden. Don’t cook too long. (If you have leftover veggies, you can use those. I usually roast a lot of vegetables and often use the leftovers for quiche).
4. To make the custard: use 4 eggs, beaten (depending on the size) to 2 cups of half and half, or substitute buttermilk or my FAVORITE, whole goat milk. You will get the same consistency as half and half. Add salt, and pepper to taste.
5. Cool the crust for 5-10 minutes before assembling. Put the veggies on the bottom, add cheese on top, and pour the egg mixture evenly between the two pans.
6. Cook for 40 minutes at 350, or until a knife inserted in the middle comes out clean. Serve with a big salad and crusty bread for a perfect dinner.

Other egg ideas:

1. Mary’s Greek scramble (ED: Mary is my mom's BFF)

2. Huevos rancheros (fried eggs on warmed tortillas with salsa and cheese.)

3. Poached eggs over polenta.

I dozen eggs can make Persian eggs for 6 people and 2 quiches which feeds 6 people generously. At $4 a dozen for humanely raised eggs, this means the animal protein for each serving costs 33 cents. Quite a good deal!!!

WWW* for GGC

*my mother's initials are www. How interweb apropos is that?


One of the greatest songs ever written by one of the greatest, most inspired voices of all time. Everything about this video knocks me out. Pure genius, every inch of her.

52. Aint Got No... I've Got Life by: Nina Simone


Pubic Relations

I've written candidly about pubes before so I'll spare you the details and instead, send you, here. In the meantime, here's a fun Momversation vid about "southern" grooming. It wasn't included in the video but I'm slightly hairphobic. I'm also claustrophobic, crowdphobic and afraid of large quantities of identical looking things. (I have a hard time watching marches when everyone is in unison and became slightly hysterical during the Beijing Olympics opening ceremony drum circle.)

Anyway, this post was supposed to be about pubes not phobias so let's take it down a notch. Lighten the mood with a little discussion about the hair down yonder square. Real talk.

I started shaving early. One might say too early but I beg to differ.

The shaving of my bits wasn't political. It wasn't something I did for a boy or because I peeked too many Playboys. It wasn't because society told me to or wanted me to or because I read some "better oral sex" article in Cosmo. It was just something my friends and I did one day at Jesus* camp, because, well, let's be honest: Nothing makes a hormonally charged teenage girl more desperate to rebel than being told her "private parts" were something to box away for her future husband.

Vaginas are nothing to be ashamed of. So one night, while our camp counselors were sleeping, we tip-toed to the shower, communally dropped trou, pointed our razors to the sky and screamed from the top of our lungs, "what's going on?"

Literally. It was the summer of '95 after all.

And I never looked grew back.

How about you? What's up** with your pubes.


*my entire group of friends went to church camp every summer regardless of religious affiliation because the head of the ministry was our friend's dad.


Dads are the hottest

Oh, yeah.

Happy Father's Day.


Wednesday, 9:33am, Kitchen

Her favorite things to do are draw and dance.
Sometimes she dances with crayons in her hands.
Accidentally drops them and they break.
And then she cries, gives me the broken pieces.
Goes off to find a new crayon, turns the page...
and carries on...
and on.
and on.


twenty-nine years a mother

For my birthday, my mother sent me a word document filled with hundreds of emails I had sent her over the course of the summer of 2000, when I was nineteen. The email said:


Subject: For you... ten years ago.

Happy early Birthday. This is a gem. I didn't edit a word.
Love you to the moon and back,



A little back story = When I was nineteen I spent my first summer in Europe. I spent the first few weeks with my Nana who had generously gifted me the opportunity to travel by her side via The Orient Express through Paris, Rome and Venice. We then traveled all over Florence and Tuscany, me pushing her wheelchair over miles of cobblestone road as she guarded my teenaged body with the cane she kept cocked and ready "to smack any despicable men who try to flirt with you! Drat and curses!" The day after my nineteenth birthday, Nana left me in Paris where for the first time, I was to navigate a foreign land on my own.

I spent the remainder of my summer in Paris, London and all around the UK.

It was an incredible journey - the summer that forged a lifelong friendship between my Nana and me - but also, and I'm only now, today, realizing this - twas the summer that became the beginning of a sort of a deep unparalleled bond between me and my mother.
us, summer of 1999. nice lipstick.

Weeks before my trip, I was gifted a small device called "Pocketmail." The device was a handheld just for sending and receiving email, which it did when holding it up to a telephone and pressing a button. Every day I "pocketmailed" my mother messages riddled with typos and alcohol induced crazyperson rambling - summaries of my days and nights, fears and joys, adventures and heartbreak.

I honestly have no recollection of most of the experiences I've spent the last four hours sifting through with mortifying glance but thanks to the weeks and weeks my mother spent tediously copying and pasting them into a word doc, I now know that they exist. That I existed, in a very different (or so I hope!) way than I do now.
Here is an example of one of the emails which I refuse to edit for typos because it deserves to be appreciated in its natural state of OMGWTFness:

July 5. 2000


i faxed you the thing twice, i hope it went through, it should of, maybe call just to make sure... god, you will not believe the extent of marks every day surprises, dont worry, i sent him the email, there is nothing... god, no... i really do care about him, and think that i could love him... i get that feeling when im with him, like no one else is in the room, and ive only ever felt that with jason, but i havent thought about jason since ive been in london, and i guess mark is good for that... ill explain all the juicy-holy hells- later.... so after mark and i hung out...he had to go be with his pregnant girlfriend, shes pregnant with the previous boyfriend, and then hes a bit f-ed because he impregnanted a co worker a few weeks back, and just found yesterday, his girlfriend doesnt know.... but he got his hiv test back, and hes negative which is such a huge relief becuase he already has genital warts and ghonerea... i swear, god....but at least he's honest with me, i mean i have never touched him... sooooooooo, ahhhhhhh... okay, wellllll, tomorrow im going to the tate with sonia and her friend... i met anthea tonight, and i was like, huh.... really, are you real.... and we had had a bit of wine, and she kept bringing in more, and before we knew it we couldn't even see each other becuase their was so much wine in our midst, i told them all my quirky stories, and sonia and her friend just laughed... they love americans, they say... love you. i tried calling, anyways, goodnight ol chap.... im a bit pissed.... heeheee, that means drunk in the british toungue... but in agood way, because i drank good french wine, and a bit of white wine with mark, because i was so shocked at his news of being pregnant with diseases that my glass kinda flipped up in the air, and suddenly i was laughing about it, instead of being totally perplexed.... well, im still perplexed, but you know, its all sort of..... wait. i should not be emailing you, pissed and drunk because tomorrow you will email me back very worried about my health, but im fine, and so are my breasts, everything is working beautifully, and im still rockin da mic.... love and kisses on your nose and your toes, i suppose............peace mate.

I'll give you a moment to digest that...

My first thought after reading: HOW COULD THIS HAVE BEEN ME? My second thought? How could my mother, who once fainted at the mere sight of my nose-piercing, grounded me for being past curfew and refused to let me sleep over at my friend's house because her parents smoked, have possibly loved me in this state of WTFness? No matter what I wrote her (and this is only one of but 100+ emails I sent to her that summer that she saved) she never judged or got angry or treated me like the child I absolutely was. She just loved me and let me explore myself and the world and apparently shady dudes named Mark.

Earlier in the letters I came across the following email:

June 14, 2000
i am writing you from a sidewalk cafe on the venetian street... there is an orchestra playing before me... they are on a quick cigar break, and then they will play again in a minute... well, i was just thinkingabout how much i love you, and it makes me want to cry when i think about how amazing you are, i was telling nana how perfect i think you are, and she says, nobody is, and i said youre right, but i think my mom is as close as they come.... and you are, i love you more than anything.... and i am thinking of you right now, at this cafe in the most beautiful place in the world...
And then it all became perfectly clear. It was her love made me fearless. I didn't have to hide who I was or what I did - no matter how shallow, silly, even dangerous... She trusted me. Maybe because she knew she had to. I was on my own, legally an adult, and yet she could have easily responded much differently than she did. With fear instead of with love. With "the delete" button instead of the "save for rebecca to send to her in ten years" folder.

Instead of holding on to me for dear life, she was generous enough to let me go - to let me be - and to trust that I would make the right decisions. Which in turn gifted me the confidence to trust myself. As a woman and writer, daughter then mother. No matter who judged me, she wouldn't dare. That was never her deal. And so? I was always safe. For twenty-nine years, I have been safe.
With My Moms
us, 2008

There was no one but her that I emailed that summer. No girlfriends or boyfriends... At nineteen years old I felt most comfortable sharing and confiding in my mother. And ten years later? I still do.

After she sent me the letters yesterday, I called to thank her and to laugh over how silly and insane I sounded.

"How could you have possibly loved me with a straight face?" I asked.

To which she replied, "What do you mean? How could I not?"

And I understood. Of course I understood. Ten years later and now I'm a mother, too. I know how it feels to love the same way, no the matter... "How could I not?"


Today I am twenty-nine. But so is she, the mother. So today I celebrate her.
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us, 1982
us, 2010


Subject: For you... twenty-nine years later

Happy Birth Day. You are a gem. Thank you for (not) editing a word.
Love you to the moon and back,


Nunus and Babas

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Every night Fable takes her bottle. She curls up next to me, puts her hand against my face and sucks away. She does the same thing before nap every afternoon. And occasionally, has a third bottle when she wakes in the middle of the night.

"She's getting old for that bottle," people tell me. "Might be time to call it quits. Trade the bottle for a sippy cup. She's going to be two soon..."

"Yeah. I know. You're right," I hear myself say but to myself I'm saying, "No! You're actually not right at all. Yes, she's going to be two soon. Two. TWO. Let the baby be a baby, please. I mean, sheesh louishe. What's the rush?"

Up until the eve of his fifth birthday, Archer slept with a pacifier. A "nunu" as he called it. He had no need for it outside of his bed, but when it came time to say goodnight, he reached onto the bedstand, plucked the pacifier from its place beside the stereo and stuck it in his mouth, his eyes closing, closing... BAM. Asleep.

We figured, it wasn't hurting anyone letting him sleep with it so we let it go. Until he turned four and we sat him down to discuss that the time had come to say goodbye to his nunu.

"You're getting older, dude. Maybe it's time you think about giving up the nunu at bedtime. What do you say?"

"I'm not ready," he said. "But when I'm five? When I'm five I won't need it anymore."

Pretty soon "five" became the age when everything was possible.

"I'll try pasta salad when I'm five."

"I'll eat brocolli when I'm five."

"I'll do swimming lessons when I'm five."

"I'll be a better listener.."

He had decided that "age five" was when everything would change for him. It was his "grown-up" age and we went with it. We went with it because he had us and himself convinced.

I never understood the push. It's not our style as parents, I guess and although we think it's important to set rules and boundaries, our focus is on raising kind, confident, independent humans, with or without bottles and pacifiers before bed. AKA, we pick our battles.

No one can deny that all children are different. That each child walks and talks and sleeps through the night at different ages and stages. Fable never took a pacifier and Archer weaned from bottles at nine-months. When he was ready. Because, eventually they all become ready. Ready to crawl and walk and poop in the toilet. Ready to say goodbye to their pacifiers, bottles, blankies. (I slept with my blankie until High School.) So? We don't push. We discuss, sure. We introduce alternatives but we do not force or push or take away.

Archer needed some extra time to say goodbye to his nunu. So? He got it. And if Fable needs some extra time with her baba? That's okay, too. Because letting go is one of life's most important lessons. Every day a part us dies and giving a child the opportunity to "quit" their first (harmless) "vices" is an important lesson in self-discipline me thinks.
I figure, much like with Archer's pacifier, same will go for Fable. One day she won't want a bottle before bed anymore. She won't need one. She'll be done with all that. She, with our help, will be able to prepare herself for a new bottle-less life and that will be the end of our milk-stained-sheets-period...


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Twas a little nostalgic last night - birthdays will do that to a girl - so I decided to go through some very old emails from way back when. Bad idea. Very bad. Too many jagged-eyed, stained-sheeted ghosts. Twas a tangle of a mess in my belly and I'm hideous at knots. There are so many things one forgets she has forgotten.

This is why we age, yes? To disguise ourselves from the past and the folks we've left behind. To relearn (like broken records) what love means. To let go the balloons, fill new ones with air, lungs permitting.

Truth = buried memories aren't meant to be shoveled to the surface.

Sometimes I wish I had the balls to = select all + delete.

51. Let Go by: Everest


Eat Well Quickie: Today's Lunch

Last week my mom drove up from San Diego with a trunk full of ingredients to make our first "Eat Well" episode starring (free-range) "eggs." We spent the morning in my kitchen, her cooking, me filming until we finished and I found that I'd accidentally shot thirty-minutes of footage. The original plan was to edit videos down to two-minutes, but after many frustrating hours TRYING, I realized that anything less than ten-minutes long would be impossible. So. After yelling at myself and pacing around the house heaving dramatic sighs for several days I decided to accept defeat, forgo the disastrous webisode idea and kick it old school. With words, recipes and images sans video-player. I hope this doesn't disappoint too much.

In the meantime, while my mother is busy writing up her first recipe/guest post, tentatively titled "Let's talk about Eggs, Baby," (ed: I kid you not, THAT is the title of the post she started. She was all excited and emailed it to me the other day. Who knew she was such a Salt n Pepa fan?) I thought I'd post an Eat Well quickie to get this party started.

The following meal(s) are vegetarian, gluten-free and high in protein. (For more on Quinoa's awesome, go here and here.)
For me/you:
Quinoa Salad on Greens
Prep time = One minute

You will need:

1. Pre-made Quinoa (shown here, organic red quinoa from Trader Joes. But you can use white OR red Quinoa. They're both delicious.) I pre-make an entire box of Quinoa every Monday to last me/the family all week. It takes about twenty minutes to cook the Quinoa (I cook with vegetable broth) and it lasts beautifully for the entire week. I eat it for lunch and serve it as a side to dinners and/or incorporate it into other meals. (Example: "Juevos Quinoa-cheros" which is basically Juevos Rancheros (eggs, avocado, cilantro, salsa) except served on a bed of quinoa instead of corn tortillas.)
2. Greens (I used red mizuna locally grown and purchased from the Farmers Market. Fresh spinach and/or arugula work, too.)
3. Crumbled Goat Cheese
4. Pine Nuts (pine nuts are pricey. I use them very sparingly but you can substitute pine nuts for walnuts or another nut of your fancy.)
5. Blueberries (locally grown and purchased at the Farmers Market)
6. Balsamic Vinegar (any brand will do.)

Top greens with Quinoa. Top Quinoa with Goat Cheese, pine nuts and blueberries and drizzle balsamic vinegar on top = voila! Easy peasy! Good for the bod, filling deliciousness!

For Fable/your babe:
Quinoa and Yogurt topped with Avocado and/or something else
Prep Time = One Minute

You will need:

1. Pre-made Quinoa (see above)
2. Nonfat/lowfat/all fat/whatever you prefer organic (plain) yogurt
3. Avocados (if avocados aren't accessible you can top with corn, or REALLY any other vegetable your kid digs. Fable happens to be a huge fan of avocados. But she also loves corn and sometimes I sprinkle a few kernels on top and it's equally delish.)

1. Stir spoonful of yogurt into Quinoa:
(bowl made with love by a family friend*.)
2. Cut Avocado into bitty slices on top.
3. Fin! A delicious meal for your babe!


Stay tuned for more elaborate "Eat Well" recipes/posts to come. Thanks for your patience and again, apologies for ditching the webisodes and replacing them with words + image blog posts. Hope you'll stick around for them no the matter! Happy eating!

*For order inquiries, you can email Patrice: pfdesign@roadrunner.com. Thanks!