We need to take care of ourselves, too! We've got delicious and easy recipes, the latest fashion and home decor trends, health topics that impact every woman and so much more. So grab a cup of coffee and dig in.
It truly takes a village to raise a child, and we're here for you! Link up with a community of moms just like you and learn about fabulous events in your area plus amazing product giveaways, discounts and more!
certain things that you just look at in your life, certain things that go down
the way they go down that you would never have guessed would happen years ago—when
you were a much different person living a much different life.
into my world almost five years ago and ever since then everything I thought
that I knew about love and affection and heart and soul has been casually
flicked out the moving semi window like some big rig driver’s Marlboro Light
whose time has come and gone. Since then, I have spent a hell of a lot of my
time and energy trying to somehow capture a sliver of the essence of some of
that perfect spiral magic that nails you in the chest when you become a dad.
But I know
that I fail almost all of the time. I know I do. It isn’t really my fault
though; that’s what I tell myself, anyway. There are a lot of words for a lot
of things, but for some things, there are pretty much none. At least that’s how
it seems to me a lot of the time.
will appear in the kitchen with some book in her hand, her face caked in intense
concentration, kind of like a frown but not a frown, you know?
something else, something bigger/better. She climbs and pulls and heaves her way up
onto her tall chair at the island and right away I can tell that even though I
am in the room, she doesn’t really see me or feel my presence. She is in the
zone. She flips the book in her hands open to some random page and dives in.
I mouth the word silently, cheering her on with the look on my stupid face.
transfixed. Again, there are no words. My guts somersault into my blood and I
can taste the thumps of my breathing and my heartbeats. Her voice rocks me, and
the sound of her trying to do what she is evidently trying to do—it’s like
some bumpin’ system bass grenades going
off in the dark trunk of some pimple-faced punk’s tricked-out Audi.
She has done
it and she knows it and she jabs the kitchen sky wildly with her sweet beautiful
fists as I screech like a wild Alabama hog and she is smiling now, watching me
watching her, both of us on fire with the magic flames; a little kid beginning
to read and her 41-year-old bookworm dad standing there in kitchen, the words "buzzing
bee" echoing off the walls of the entire friggin’ universe.
The words "buzzing bee"—the only words that will ever come close to the things I have
been trying to tell you all along.