USA TODAY Bestselling Author
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!
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.
“I would never send my child to that school,” said my friend after I toured the local public high school in my community. And while I don’t need to make this rather weighty decision for another year, this is how we moms are trained to act in the era when high school seniors such as Suzie Lee Weiss are outlining the harsh realities facing college applicants in razor sharp Wall Street Journal op-eds. That’s a topic for a different blog.
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.
Last night we had a pre-Valentine’s dinner with two other couples. It was the perfect setting: a local Italian restaurant, good food, good friends, and a few bottles of wine. Why did we celebrate the night before? I’ll tell you. I’m. Not. Fun.
I’m a woman and stereotypes say that I should love seasons with names like Spring, Summer, and Fall. Football I tell you. Football is my favorite season.
Tonight’s game in New Orleans marks the beginning of a new NFL Champion and the end to my favored season. Admittedly, I dab at my eyes when ESPN plays their highlight reel with all the season’s biggest plays: the huge upsets, the triumphs, the passion, and raw emotion.
Today I took my thirteen-year-old son to the orthodontist. This particular office is the hub for thousands of neighborhood kids caught in the trappings of orthodontia. The waiting area is teeming with parents and teens; the office is an assembly line of open mouths and flailing arms. Surveying the room, I was struck by this: every person—adult or child—was on his or her phone. I observed this for a solid fifteen minutes anticipating some interaction. There was none. Now that modern technology has made having a cell phone the equivalent to a portable computer, it is no wonder these devices have become extensions of our limbs.