....why the sight of your child, fast asleep, is enough to stop your heart.

And honestly, I don't really know if there's an answer they can give you. Because I don't know if anyone knows the reason. There has to be one. Anyone who's a parents will readily tell you it's true; there is something both life-altering and life-affirming about watching your child sleep. But the why behind it.....? That's a little harder.

In my own personal case I often wonder if it's simply because the only time of the day that my daughter is still is when she's sleeping. And I get to admire her; calm, at peace, content and safe. Or, in these drama ridden days of the 'terrible twos' maybe it's because when she's asleep she isn't fighting me or resisting me or saying no to every single thing I suggest. She's sweet and innocent, in other words. Incapable of doing anything wrong. Perfect.

But actually, I think it has more to do a deep sense of vulnerability. For it is nearly impossible to look at my daughter all snuggled up in her foot-ed pajamas, with her butt up in the air and her thumb half in her mouth and not see this tiny, precious, helpless little bundle that needs me; that so desperately needs me. It's in these moments when I stand gazing down at her angelic little face and listening to the quiet sound of her breathing that I most feel the primal surge of maternal instinct. And it is strong. I would die for this child. Willingly and unquestionably. I would do anything and everything necessary to protect her. Because how could I not.

I can so easily go about the mundane dailiness of being a mom and not think much at all about the sheer depths of my love for my daughter; the why behind all that I do. I can run on virtual autopilot all day. But when I stop and take that moment to watch her sleeping....then I get it. Then it all makes sense.

And maybe that's why my heart stops, at least once, every single day. Maybe that's why it needs to.

........that maybe your child's sudden streak of terrible behavior is really a wake up call about the state of your own crazy life......

We are in the process of selling our current home and buying a new one. The days have been absolutely jam-packed with stuff. (I can't even tell you what exactly. That's how much attention I've been paying to everything going on, so manic-ly around us.) Plus it's summer. Every weekend and free days is spoken for well in advance. And in trying so desperately to hold onto the 'quickly slipping away' moments of pure pleasure that summer brings for such a short time, I realize we as a family have been living on auto-pilot.

We shuffle back and forth from activity to obligation. We undertake projects and causes with a checklist mentality. We fill every spare minute, fearful that what doesn't get done RIGHT NOW simply won't get done ever. And then what? Horror, upon horrors.......then what??!!!!!

E, being young and vulnerable, had quickly caught on to the futility, not to mention, destructiveness of our behavior. She has sensed that our priorities are off and that we are in serious jeopardy of becoming people who practice life and yet fail to live it.

So she's begun throwing tantrums. And screaming. And talking back. And disobeying. And she has specifically begun doing so when we are running around at peak "chicken's with our heads cut off" mode. Like she innately senses this is a terrific teaching moment for not only herself but also for her erring mom and dad and let's have a complete melt-down in order to see what happens.

And what happens? Do we stop? Do we put what we are trying so hard to get done on hold and address her behavior? Do we look at the big picture and the critical message that we are sending our child?

Or do we opt for whatever shuts her up fastest and continue on with our hamster wheel life?

I fear, as of late, we have been doing the latter. And it's really a back-firing option. Because her behavior just accelerates in a downward spiral and dealing with her bad attitude and testy moods simply becomes one more thing on our over-full plates.

So.

Here's to the child becoming the parent already. Here's to E's spectacularly arresting wake up calls. Here's to disciplining with intent, listening to what my child is really trying to say and being un-busy and un-distracted and un-spinning off in a million directions enough to actually listen. And change.

.......that baking bread isn't so much a symbol of quintessential domestic prowess as it is hard work, bodily risk and basic chemistry.

January seems like an appropriate time of year to be holed up in ones warm kitchen cooking as though for an army. I mean, really, what else is there to do? The Christmas frenzy has come and gone. The weather outside is frigidly bleak. And who, despite the best of intentioned New Year's resolutions, is truly motivated to do anything. Except eat.

So I have been cooking; exotically fragrant curries, that cheer with their vibrant colors and clear sinuses with their heat. (Heat that is best described as 'pouncing'.....for the deft way it sneaks up on you.) And beautiful, billowy meringue Pavlovas, that so resemble drifts of pristine winter snow. (Of course, it wasn't until I stirred in the vanilla, brown sugar and cocoa powder that they resembled the actual dirt streaked, rain ravaged stuff we are left with these days.) And, obviously, bread.

It started, and as with most things in my life, as a desire to control; namely what my husband and daughter put into their bodies when eating bread. (I myself, having Celiac, do not eat bread.) I was appalled at how many, many, unnecessary ingredients appear on the labels of most store brands. And equally appalling was the price of those few other specialty brands that have only a handful of ingredients. Last time I checked bread was pretty much flour, water, yeast and time. Not that complicated. And not that expensive. So I decided, what the heck I'll start baking our own bread. It's a little retro, a little throwback but as I understand it, that kind of thing is not only very "in" right now, it's also being re-defined as very "green."

Well, bread baking, while tremendously fulfilling, is not nearly as culinar-ily glamorous as I imagined. I've actually found it to be pretty.....instinctual. And in order to develop the right instincts, you have to bake a lot of bread. So, initially, there's a tremendous amount of trial and error. All edible, mind you. (Well, mostly edible.) But not always so nice looking.

What I mean is, no matter how detailed the recipe you're using, there exists in the process a number of variables. The ratio of flour to water depends on the temperature and humidity of the air. The response of the yeast depends also on the temperature of the air, but the temperature of the water as well. Plus the age of the yeast. Plus the yeast's exposure to air. Plus the kind of yeast you're using.

Then there's kneading. I am told the best bread makers go completely by feel. But very few recipes tell you how a properly kneaded ball of dough should feel. Or if they do, it's vague. "Smooth." "Supple." "Elastic." (Is this bread dough we're talking about or skin care? I'm confused.) Most give you time increments instead. 8 to 10 minutes. Sounds do-able when you read it. But remember, this isn't ten minutes of Playdo sculpting we're talking about. This is work. This is a workout. You'll definitely feel it the first couple of times you really, properly, knead a lump of uncooperative dough. And you'll be more than a little reluctant to admit why your arms are so sore to anyone who happens to ask.

Then there's the actual baking. Again most recipes give you time increments. Or color descriptions. But both can be misleading. Especially if your oven is at all temperamental. Rather, the experienced bread baker relies first, on smell, and second, on the sound the bread makes when it is thumped by a sharp flick of the index finger. (I have received some of the worst burns of my life trying to perform this last "party trick". Either I've failed to notice how close my wrist is to the upper coils, when I leave the loaf in the oven. Or when I take it out, I remove my oven mit to do the thumping and forget to put it back on before re-handling the HOT bread pan.)

And I haven't even mentioned the rising. Or The Rising; to make it sound like some ominous horror film. But I guess maybe that analogy isn't too far off. Considering my experience anyway. Several times I've ended up with, when the particulars of the chemistry behind bread baking have gone science-fiction wrong, something akin to a swamp creature; formless, freakish, unmannered. And one memorable time, after using a French recipe, I failed to realize that when the author said he just let the bread dough rise while he was at work, a typical work day in France is not a typical work day in America. I ended up with bread dough that had grown to near hostile take-over proportions.

So, I've been baking bread. Or practicing the fine art of it. And I am getting better. But now I do understand why in it's mass produced form it's full of chemicals. And why in it's purer from, it's pricey. Because it is more than just flour, water, yeast and time. It's actually a living medium, relatively adverse to being manipulated and controlled. Not unlike the daughter and husband I began all this for, I guess.

........that the larger the purse, the more you're going to find you need to put in it.

There have been a number of comments made recently about the size of the purse I carry. But due to it's soft fawn-colored leather, it's simple design and the fact that it doubles as a diaper bag I'm not sure I see what all the raised eyebrows are about.

However, seeing as a new year is recently upon us and it is the perfect time for rethinking, de-cluttering and streamlining all areas of one's life I decided to take a relatively objective dive into the recesses of my purse and find out just exactly what I do have in there.

The verdict?

Well, a lot.

I have a lot, a lot of stuff in there. I freely admit it. But in my defense, when you become a mom being unprepared in any way, shape or form can be the difference between a good day out and an "officer, I was speeding because I left my child's Binky at home and she's been screaming away in the backseat for ten stoplights now and I really couldn't take it anymore," kind of experience. You get my drift.

But even though I and my slightly girl-scout-ish tendencies would declare each and every item in my purse useful, they are probably not all essential.

So I started my pare-down with redundancies. I probably do not need 2 pairs of sunglasses, 2 spare bibs and a baby comb, in addition to my own small brush, taking up space. Also, 2 wallets, each holding a few insurance, credit and library cards......somewhat silly. Everything should fit into one, if consolidated.

Next, and still along the lines of pointless extras, my collection of lip products. 3 lips glosses, 2 chapsticks and 1 lipstick do seem like an awful lot when you stand them upright and form a line. So I got rid of all but one of each category.

Ok, it's looking more roomy in there already. Now onto the "why am I even still carrying it in my purse anyway?" section. An empty CD case. That can go. Broken pen, out. Hair clip I never, ever use, sample-size lotion I don't like the smell of, and box my inhaler came in, all can be thrown away.

And now, of the things I can bear to part with, we come at last to my fishing license. No I don't want to get rid of it. But I have to think this 4 degree weather we've been experiencing as of late kinda puts a kibosh on any spur of the moment, side of the road angling. So, for now, I'll put it away.

Alright, so that leaves......well, still a lot. But less than before. And E won't need an extra diaper and rash cream forever. Or a bib. Or random toys for distraction purposes. And I won't always be carrying gloves and anti-static hair spray.

So there we have it. I've kept the purse, I've kept the essentials. But now when the next person asks me, "Gee, what do you all have in there?" I can honestly reply, "Not as much as I used to."

........why anyone in their right mind spends the winter in Wisconsin.

01 . 01 . 10 .

The day and the New Year dawned like most winter days, exceptionally late. I was awake before 6 a.m. and while it was extremely light outside, due to the full, blue moon and the luminosity of the dense snow field outside my bedroom window, the actual sunrise was more than an hour away. And though the day, sunny with clear skies, proved beautiful, it was bitterly cold. Giving all the more credence to the information I have gathered about the month of January; that it is the very definition of cold.

I find this is the time of the year when the body, and soul, crave moisture. At the mere sight of a hat my hair turns into static frizz. My whole body burns and itches after every shower. Lips and hands and face are uncomfortably chapped and the only source of relief is a near continuous application of balm and lotion and cream. Everything in me literally and figuratively chaffs at the cold, the isolation, the dwindling daylight hours. I long for green grass and new life stirring beneath the ice and snow. But more than that, I long for soothing.

The Native Americans refered to the full moon that appears this month, on the 30^th to be exact, as the Wolf Moon. Deep snow and near fatal temperatures put an end to easy hunting so the wolf packs of old would migrate closer to the Indian camps and make their frustration known with sessions of eerie, forlorn howling. And maybe the primal restlessness that haunted them translates to the human species, as well. Maybe that’s why I long for soothing. Because in addition to sensory aggitation, something animalistic is stirred and on the prowl inside me.

I had the humidifier going all day today. And I made a moisturizing face mask out of avacado. I lit scented candles, drank strong, sweet tea and did a good deal of reading as E was napping and the sunny afternoon hours were stolen away by the frigid twilight. Soothing. All of it soothing. But still, there lingers this strange unease.

Perhaps if I howl……..?