Parenting, like driving, is an act of such magnitude and potential for life-altering screwup . . . that when performing it, it's best not to think too deeply about it and just enjoy the ride.

Listening to the rough tracks of the album in progress, before she knew it the hour drive was over - she had flown down the country roads, singing along to the sound of her own voice in the speakers, jostling towards the end of the week on the back of a bucking beat.

Left to his own devices of a Sunday afternoon, he made his own lunch: waffles with syrup, boiled cabbage, and pineapple from the can.

She wakes up to his smiles ever day, a deep grin he leans his whole body into, and is continually bewildered that she and her husband produced such a delightfully sunny little boy: bewildered, and deeply grateful!

 

A One Sentence Exclamation!  While the sunny son babbles happily in his crib.  Seriously, why do I deserve this?  "Somewhere in my youth, or childhood, I must've done something good!"

The problem with being a mother is that I don't have enough milk to feed every hungry baby, and every hungry baby is mine just as he is mine, no matter what the species.

He'll never remember the 5th of July, 2008, when he was in the car, unhappy, and I and two of my sisters and one of their boyfriends sang lullabies to quiet him - Candle on the Water, Baby Mine, Stay Awake, Feed the Birds - and I marveled at the simple beauty of their voices in the dark, and he squeezed my thumb in his tiny hand, and fell asleep as we sang into his ear, hour after hour.

She had eaten too much for lunch, and upon returning to work her greatest fear was realized - her stomach burst in a fantastic explosion of guts, pizza, and the requisite daily 64 ounces of water, and when the air cleared all that was left of her was an 8 pound baby, sitting in the middle of a pile of goo, blinking his eyes and thinking to himself - that was cooooool.

She looked around her at all the 5'2"-and-90 pounds women being offered acting role after acting role, and started to wonder if she was just too big to be an actor in this city?

His name is Virgil, and we bring him home on August 12 - 4 days shy of his 8 week birthday.

 

The terrified screech of the blue jay was awful to hear; I turned to witness the hawk's swooping kill, so close that a rain of glittering blue feathers drifted into my hair while I stood, awed, silent, thrilled.

When she stepped into her car that morning and realized that she'd only shaved one leg, she knew it was going to be a long day.

It was inevitable that one day our next door neighbors would discard a rotting mattress on their front lawn.