USA TODAY Bestselling Author
The world has become so high-tech these days. Last weekend, my husband and I ordered Chipotle take-out from my smart phone and were sent a reply that our order would be ready for pick-up in precisely twenty minutes. As we contemplated what to do in Aventura while we waited to pick up our order, my husband jokingly suggested, “Why don’t we meander around the bookstore for a few minutes?” The genesis of the comment is our shared disappointment since the Borders and Barnes and Noble in Aventura closed.
Dear Jordan and Brandon,
Today is September 12, 2001. It is a Wednesday and when you are older you will probably read in the history books about what happened to our country yesterday, September 11, 2001. I am sorry that it takes something so horrifying to happen to all of our lives to prompt me to write to you. I suppose we all believe that in some way we are immortal, untouchable, but we are not.
It’s that time of year again. I know. My female friends spurn me for feeding into the frenzy created by the men in their life. I can’t help myself. I’m a girl, but I love football.
The build-up to this weekend has been mounting since we watched the Ravens beat the 49ers in Super Bowl XLVII. The victory was bittersweet. Watching the esteemed champion take home the coveted Lombardi trophy was great, but with that win came the end of another season. And suddenly, a void permeated our house. I remember vividly watching the end of year highlights on ESPN for the 2011-12 season. Outasight was singing Tonight is the Night while viewers around the world got a snapshot of the year in video.
For years I had carried around a very large purse (a “portable CVS” as my mother used to call it) brimming with everything from matches to a first aid kit. Included were packets of Cottonelle, Clorox wipes, a sewing kit, pencil sharpeners, a fairly large bottle of water, a flash drive, a phone, phone charger, hand lotion, tampons, multiple lipsticks, tissues, safety pins, a notebook for writing down random thoughts, a thesaurus, receipts for every purchase in the last seven years, and no less than fifteen Bed, Bath, & Beyond coupons. Also included was my wallet with about 4 lbs. of change. The parents on my sons’ sport teams knew me as the lady who came to the games really prepared.
Recently we had a lovely dinner with our fitness friends. Think lean, no body hair whatsoever, and lots of talk of training and RunKeeper. I casually said to the husband, “I could never do a triathlon.” His response, “I could never write a book.” This quieted me. I had never considered what I was doing as anything comparable to the titanic training involved in these high-powered workouts. I sit on a chair for hours at a time! I can devour bags of Twizzler bites and daydream out my window while my resting heart rate does just that!
Do you have kids? If so, you must follow Grown & Flown. Their site and blogs are the most informative and meaningful out there. Grab the hankies, because "parenting never ends." Check out my most recent blog featured on their site about how I keep "track" of my kids when we can't be close.
When I sat down to write The Mourning After back in 2006, I had no idea that, upon the book’s release seven years later, we would be close to starting human trials for glycogen storage disease. Though I knew I wanted to shed light on the disorder and the efforts of my brother-in-law, Dr. David Weinstein, to find its cure, there is another element to this story: the everyday heroes, the children who live with GSD.
We just returned from the seventh grade class trip, and although I would love nothing more than to chillax (chill-relax as the kids call it) on the couch, many of you are expecting this blog about our adventures.
As the parents of twin boys, my husband and I have tried to instill in our children the difference between right and wrong, while fine-tuning the delicate balance between holding their hands and encouraging them to fly.
Thank you to Therafit Shoes for inviting me to guest blog:
Yesterday we dismantled a life. My siblings and I gathered together at my late mother's home to sift through her belongings. Seventy-four years of stuff cramped the walls and drawers. When I walked into her closet, I expected to find rows of blouses and bottoms, but the hangers were bare, our sister having already generously given away the clothes to the nurses who cared for Mom in her final weeks. The floor, however, was covered in shoes.