Last week I  finished watching the 4 part docuseries Lorena on Amazon and I loved it. I was surprised by how little I knew about the real story and even more surprised to find myself so enamored and impressed with Lorena herself. If you’re thinking “What? The woman who cut off her husband’s penis? You’re impressed with her?” Yes. Can we talk about it? Beware, if you haven’t watched the series there are spoilers ahead. (And you really should watch it.) 

Here’s what I knew about the story when it happened in the 90’s and in the subsequent years. A women, Lorena Bobbit, cut off her husband’s penis in a fit of rage. (I can’t remember if I knew about the alleged abuse.) I knew that miraculously, the “organ” as it was repeatedly referred to in the docuseries, was successfully reattached and later Mr. Bobbit took his famous organ and went on to star in some porn films. That’s about all I knew. 

Turns out there was a lot I didn’t know. I didn’t know other salacious details like the fact that immediately after the horrific act, Lorena fled the scene and drove away with the severed penis in her hand, flinging it out the window into a random field. (!) I didn’t know she was an immigrant with little family and support close by. I didn’t know she was a 20 year old virgin when she married her husband. And, most importantly, I didn’t know she suffered years of abuse, including marital rape and sodomy, at the hands of her husband. I suppose I should say allegedly, but after watching the series, I believe her. And I didn’t know that while her ex-husband has gone on to be accused of more domestic violence, arrested for theft, has been unable to hold a steady job (both during their marriage and since) and that he STILL WRITES LORENA LOVE LETTERS (let that one sink in), Lorena, on the other hand, has gone on to claim her “American Dream” by staying together with another partner for over 20 years (never re-married), have a 13 year old daughter together, and she runs a nonprofit for survivors domestic violence.
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[readmore title= “Click through so we can talk about Lorena!”]

Since my book, When Charley Met Emma, is ONE WEEK AWAY from its official release date (what?) it seemed appropriate to compile a list of some of our family’s favorite children’s books. Many of these will probably already be on your book shelves, but maybe some of them aren’t. I specifically wanted to feature the books I find beautiful as I believe beauty is an important element in good design, storytelling and because beauty conveys a sense of value. That’s one of the reasons I was adamant about When Charley Met Emma being a beautiful book and I was so grateful that the illustrator I wanted from the beginning, Merrilee Liddiard, was ultimately the illustrator for the book. Also, many of these books stand as great examples of diversity in our home; skin color, ability, gender, religion and even how people live and exist in the world. Not all of them are diversity focused, but many are. At the end of the day these books are the ones we come back to time and time again. This is by no means an exhaustive, comprehensive list,* but they are definitely some family favorites enjoyed by all.

Also, I wanted to point out that we recently hung these book tray shelves in Zuzu’s room where I take advantage of the beautiful cover art and make them double as the art for the wall space. So this post has been on my mind in more ways than one! (Also, just so you know none of the links are affiliate links–meaning I am not getting a kickback from any of this. Not that I have a problem with affiliate links, but just an FYI.)
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[readmore title= “Click through to see 24 of our favorite children’s books.”]

My first baby is 12 years old today.

I feel her birthday in a way I don’t feel my other two’s birthdays. By the time the other two came along I knew I’d could survive motherhood. More importantly, I knew I loved motherhood.

The first 4 months of her life were the slowest of mine. Cognitively I understood what was expected of me as the mom–Do everything and then do it again. And again. Repeat for eternity. And I understood her role as a baby–Be completely helpless. Just lay there. Don’t lift a finger. But the reality of these two worlds coming together had me questioning the basic premise of this agreement over and over again.

So, I have to take care of her, like, ALL THE TIME?
She’s just gonna wake up when she wakes up huh?
No one had to “put her to bed” in my womb, why is it so hard to get her to sleep now?

That last one was a killer for me. Some babies come pre-disposed to sleep. They drift off easy and frequently. I got one of those sleep-resistant babies who slept like a twitchy barracuda for reeeeaaaally short periods of time. But just like the tape deck in my ’93 Volkswagen Fox I drove in college that I figured out had to be tapped on the side ever-so-slightly and then the tape had to be ejected twice before it would play, I eventually figured out the crazy tape-deck-tap-and-eject scenario we had to jump through to get our baby to sleep. (They were surprisingly similar–sing I am a Child of God while bouncing her on your knee at least two times, then pat gently on the bum as she drifted off to sleep.) 

Mostly though, it wasn’t her, it was me. Or more accurately it was postpartum depression. I didn’t get on any medication, although I should have, and so we slowly worked it out together. It would be 8 months before that fog lifted and motherhood finally felt like how it often looked in the magazines. Still hard but finally joyful.
 
[readmore title= “click through to read the rest of my birthday message…”]

Yesterday my sister-in-law and I were talking about our youngest children who will be starting kindergarten in the next year or two. Zuzu starts next year, and her youngest–a September birthday–will barely miss the cutoff and start the year after. She asked me if I ever take Zuzu to playgroups anymore and I said no, I don’t have the same need or desire to do that anymore and since she goes to preschool 3 days a week, I think she has plenty of social interaction. She said she took her daughter recently and as she watched these mothers with all their multiple young children clinging to them and asking for snacks and crying she thought, “How did I ever do that?” 

Like her, I have found myself having those same thoughts lately, as I see the mothers with a baby in one arm and a toddler at their feet crying because their toast was buttered the wrong way, and I think “How did I ever do that?” It was not that long ago, in fact those memories feel so close I’m often chagrined that my kids can’t recall them at all because in my mind they just happened.

The question of “how did I ever do that?” rings even truer and louder now that we no longer have any nappers.  My life revolved around naps for 11 years as I was not a mother who could ever be chill about nap time. When other moms casually said, “oh she missed her nap today… oh well.” I’d look at them incredulously, in the same way I’d look at her if she had said, “Oh my baby missed taking breaths today… oh well.” In my world nap time was never optional. My children were were treated like the precious packages of dynamite they were that would promptly explode if not gently laid to rest each and every day. Yes it was also my sanity I was protecting as well–the daily break enjoyed, nay NEEDED–because even as the other children out grew naps it was still quiet time for all in the house during that precious 1.5 hours. However, it was also a tug on my sanity to have life–and I mean LIFE–revolve around this precarious and magical time of day.

Years ago I had a friend who had undergone cancer treatment in college and he was telling me about some of the procedures, medicine and side effects he endured while in treatment. After one specific medical treatment he had to take a certain kind of medicine as an antidote for the side effect of “his guts melting out of his insides” as he put it. He had to take this medicine everyday at a specific time to prevent the “gut-melting” and as someone who has been known to sleep through a wide array of alarm clocks in my life I said, “But what if you slept through it!? What would happen?” He looked at me and said, “You don’t sleep through the anti gut-melting medicine.” I felt like an idiot. Oh my gosh, right. RIGHT.

To a much lesser degree but a similar intensity, that was how I felt about missing nap time. We just didn’t do it, because OH MY GOSH you idiots, there is too much on the line here. 
 
[readmore title= “Click here to read more about the phases of motherhood. What phase are you in?”]