Making the cookies.

Quick. Must write before I get sucked into Facebook. Must write before husband and children get home from walk. Must write before a text comes in. Must write before work email comes in. Must write before coffee runs out.

I'm actually committing today. Know why? Because I'm sick and tired of feeling like shit by the end of the day that I didn't do what I know I need to do, which is sit in front of this white screen and put words on it and erase them and mold them and then read them out loud and hate them and change a few and put an ending together and press post. I need to do it. Because I haven't done it for literally years and I'm afraid now they won't be good words anymore, just lame words like these.

Anyone want to re-create this scene with me? Photo by Alexis Brown 

But this morning, my long limbed, wirey, almost naked, almost 7 year old climbed up on our bed, her hair completely wild and a lot like Nell from that Jodie Foster movie, and sat on top of me and started practicing tying the strings on my shorts. She really wants to learn how to tie her shoes, even though she has no shoes with shoelaces. But I get it, that's totally my fault, and this is a rite of passage, so I was helping her make the loops and cross them and push one loop through the hole...and, well, there were many attempts and then she let it go and I said we could try again tomorrow.

"But how come you can do it?" she asked me, and I checked her face to see if she was being serious and then remembered she's an almost 7 year old and said,

"Because I've done it probably 856,794 times. And that's how you're going to learn. You're just going to do it and try again and try again and again and then you're going to be able to do it, too."

She made a pouty face. But I wasn't paying attention, because I realized how many times I've read something that's reached into my soul and turned on the faucets and flooded my insides with truth, or smacked me on the cheek with beauty so hard I cried, or sat with me and put it's arm around me. And after I thoroughly enjoyed each of those moments I thought:

"I WISH I could do that."

Which is, I suppose, the grown-up, less ego-centric (but not really) version of, "But how come you can do it?

And the answer is, of course, I just need to do it. I'm going to do it. I'm doing it.

TN Awareness, Cookie

As most people in my life are aware, for 6 years I battled a demon called Trigeminal Neuralgia. TN is a disorder of the 5^th cranial nerve, where the nerve “fires,” when triggered by things like a light touch, wind, chewing, or speaking, causing extreme, lightening-like pain. In my case it went from the top of my head down the left side of my face. Trigeminal Neuralgia is a relatively rare disease; the current statistics are 1 in 15,000 or 20,000 people world-wide, and it often affect women more than men. Trigeminal Neuralgia is the most painful disorder known to medicine.

I was diagnosed with TN at age 25, which was also rare; most people with TN are age 50+. After years of drugs and research and fighting and heartbreak, at close to 31 years old I finally had a neurosurgery called Microvascular Decompression. The MVD relieved my TN and today I live free of TN pain. I can’t tell you that will always be the case, but for now, I am thankful for every single day I do not have pain.

October 7^th is Trigeminal Neuralgia Awareness day. I’m late, I know, but I have been thinking about the things I learned from dealing with TN—lessons and behaviors that will never leave me and have shaped who I am today. So. Here goes!

 “Lessons” learned from living with Trigeminal Neuralgia:

1.    You must be your own advocate.

During my 6 years with TN, I wished over and over that Dr. Gregory House was real and not just a TV character and that he would fix me. Yeah, he's not real. I had to find a Doctor that listened and that treated me with respect and that understood (as much as possible) what I was dealing with and the kind of solutions I was looking for. And that was a constant challenge. Bottom line: the medical system does not just work for you, you must work it. Doctors have fragile egos, did not want to hear what I thought, and did not want to hear what I knew about TN. However, when you have TN (or, frankly, any other chronic issue), there is no bigger job than advocating for yourself. Write everything down. List your meds. List your appointments and who you saw. Document what they said. Part of this is because your drugs make you forget, part of this is because no one can remember a medical history that will be as long as yours, and the biggest part of this is because, most likely, you will be driving this ship and you need to chart the course. 

2.    You can do this, as much as it feels like you can’t.

With TN, I had to say those words every day, every hour, sometimes every minute. When a hair brushing across your face can send you to your knees with lightening pain, saying “I can do this” was the only way to get out of the door, to get in the shower, to put on a shirt.  It’s the only way I could continue to fight. Saying “I can do this” was the equivalent of putting up the steel wall to the pain and remembering that just as it would strike, it would also end. Until the next time.

3.    You are fine.

This was one of my worst days. But you can't tell.

This was a lie a lot of the time. But I had to fake it to make it. Especially since TN is an invisible disease. Like so many health issues people face these days, no one can see TN pain. The comment that made me want to laugh and cry was: “Oh, well you don’t look sick!” (I still have no idea what that means.) But when I was trying to have some semblance of a life, a relationship, a job, a home, I had to have the public face, the “I am fine” face. It’s the face I’d try to have even though my left eye would be tearing up from pain and the person talking to me would stop and ask if I was OK. “I’m fine, keep talking!”
It’s what I’d say to myself when I’d be stuck on a sidewalk on a bridge in the wind. “You’re fine, you’re fine, just get to the other side.”
It’s what I’d say to myself when we were out to dinner with friends and I had to stop mid-sentence to take a deep breath and get past an attack. I’m fine. I’m fine because if I don’t say that I’m fine, than I lose and TN wins. And that’s a big fight to lose. Being fine meant I had a future. I needed to have a future.

4.     You need your people.

The problem with “I am fine” is that I started to think that I could handle everything on my own. TN forces you to live inside your own thoughts a lot of the time, working out your fears. I still have this problem where I take on so much without asking for help because I trained myself not to ask for help. But “I am fine” should not equal “I am alone”. Because it doesn’t, and I learned that over the years with TN. I had friends who made the hardest days easier just by the smallest gestures: a hand on the back during an attack. A cup of tea. An umbrella to hide behind. An offer to pick up my lunch because they knew that going outside in the wind wasn’t possible.  It constantly surprised me to see people help and love in their own way; not because I didn’t expect them to, but because I never asked for it. Many of the friends I worked with during my TN years are no longer people I see every day. But they have a special place in my soul, forever.

My funny friend Allie and my stapled head.

My husband went through every moment of TN hell with me and I know it hurt him almost as much as it hurt me. My sister had more crying phone calls than anyone should listen to, and talked me off a ledge more times that I can remember. My family was afraid for me. But from my mother bathing me after my neurosurgery to my father calling to firmly speak to my doctors; each of them played a role that was uniquely needed and uniquely suited to them.  I am grateful beyond words, even today.

5.    Trust your gut.

This lesson came to me again and again throughout my TN journey. Just as I knew from my first TN attacks that this was NOT normal, there were certain things about my condition that I knew in my gut, my soul, my bones. I could trace my TN’s behavior to blood vessels, even though there was nothing showing on the MRIs. I just knew. I knew when I had to switch doctors because they were giving up on me. When I read about several different surgeries, I knew an MVD would help me. When I met my surgeon I knew he was going to help. I can’t tell you why I knew any of this. I just knew in my gut. Part of this trust in myself was simply self-preservation, like saying “I can do this.” I had to trust myself that I knew better than anyone else what was wrong with me and what would fix me.

Having TN is awful. It just sucks in so many ways (don’t worry, I won’t list them). But the AMAZING news, and the most important lesson of all, is that we are all gamblers*, and we all get more than one hand of cards in life. I had a really shitty hand for a while. Then I got a better one. But no matter what your hand looks like, it shapes you, teaches you, helps form the person you are so you can see that hand and decide what to do with it. See you at the table.

*My sincere apologies to Kenny Rogers

Click here to read about my whole TN/ MVD journey.
And click here to read about a friendship that grew from TN. 

Muma's Cookies

I've been thinking of my Grandmother today, Margaret France Crone, or Muma, as we called her. Muma would have been 101 years old on February 25th. She's still with me, I know, but I've been missing her a lot these days.

Colm has her cheeks. So do I.

Summer, 1970

I wrote this poem in 2000, when she was first diagnosed and being treated for esophageal cancer, which claimed her life a few years later. I love you, Muma. Happy Birthday.

Muma

You told me it was the depression that brought you together;

You took the bus to work each day,

stood on the corner in your stockings and heels,

auburn hair coiffed, hands gloved. He saw you

as he pumped gas; looked for you every morning,

ignoring customers to watch you

disappear up the stairs, the winged doors

wrap around you and take you away.

You told me he was afraid

the morning would come when you didn’t.

I can just hear him fumbling, bumbling:

“My name is Bernie…It is a pleasure.”

I can just feel his hand shaking inside yours, pressing

warmly with his thumb, not wanting to let go.

“That is how I became your grandma,” you said.

You told me this

seventy years later, as you lie

with seventy years worth of medical discoveries

pumping through your veins,

so much data and collective evidence, your

cells might as well be graphs; numbers

instead of blood swim through your capillary-charts.

You told me all of this in private,

but as he walked into the room, eyes so big,

so red, more scared than a lost child’s,

I knew, he too, was thinking about that time:

watching you climb the tall bus stairs,

your heel slipping out of your dark shoe.

Standing in that room, your hand pressed

in both of his, he felt the same terror

choking his heart, as if he were watching

those wing-doors swathe around you,

and take you away.

Giving Pickle Cookies

I've been riding horses since I was seven years old. Apparently I started asking for lessons when I was five but my parents finally gave in when I never.stopped.asking.them. Plus, they probably realized I looked like the awkward goose in a gaggle of first-grade ballet tutus and realized they were dancing me down the wrong path.

Eventually I had a few years of almost-national, definitely-regional success with some pretty amazing horses and extremely talented trainers, faking my way through the uber-elite horse world by cleaning stalls and grooming for myself every weekend. And then I went to college and that world was pretty much behind me, at least on a regular basis. Later on I still stood at the show ring, but usually had a rag in my back pocket and a martingale hanging on my shoulder. Sometimes I made it into the ring, schooling a horse in a warm-up class, or filling the adult eq classes. Sometimes I qualified for finals with those fill-ins. And sometimes that was enough.

All of this to say, the barn is where life gets re-set for me. This is true for most horse people; I'm definitely not saying anything new. But the sounds of the horses quietly eating hay, the background noise of the sparrows and the swallows, the smell of the tack room--those things reach inside and straighten out my soul a little, put life-sized annoyances back into perspective.

So then why did I decide to bring my five year old with me to the barn? Why did I sign her up for lessons? Why would I take away my sanctuary--let my chaos meet my peace? Because she was facing her own bit of chaos in her own five year old way. Kindergarten threw her for a loop. And going to the barn is always my answer.

She was quiet about it at first, like she is about everything. She was tentative and shy and barely spoke to Megan, her amazingly enthusiastic and empathetic instructor. But afterwards, she came alive when she talked about Pickle the pony, and she asked to go back. And so we did, several times. And yesterday, I sat in the viewing area, wrapped in the wool that I've spent years throwing over the backs of horses at shows, feeling like a barn mom. How did I get to be a barn mom? I know this literally happened a few weeks ago but when the hell did this happen??

And then. And THEN. Megan and Grace asked Pickle to trot and Grace just started posting--like really posting--up and down with each pony step, using her tiny bird legs wrapped in her almost-baggy baby britches, her little heels in her tiny paddock boots sinking down. And I started to cry. And laugh. And I covered my mouth so I didn't make one single sound. But she got it--something clicked and she got it. And I was so proud.

That's what is so awesome about riding. You try and you try to communicate with this giant animal. You squeeze a little harder, squeeze a little less, raise your right hand, change your track, keep your eyes closed, whatever. And then, it clicks. You get it; the horse gets it; it's accomplishment, but accomplishment with a good friend. And Grace had her first moment yesterday. And I was the stupid barn mom, crying with pride, laughing at myself at the same time.

I didn't know this was possible, but yesterday I loved the barn even more.

Unexpected, yes. But not surprising. For now, I'll be a barn mom on Wednesdays and a rider the rest of the week. And hey, I might wind up standing at a show ring with a rag in my back pocket, holding Grace's martingale. Or maybe she'll be holding mine. Either way it will be enough.

Are eight cookies enough?

It's been another year. And when I woke up this morning I wondered if I should recognize this eighth year, or if I should just go about my day like it's any other day. And I tried that. I did all the things parents do before 7 AM, shower and tea and lunchboxes and breakfasts and wiping noses and sidestepping and distracting and potty and ponytails and singing and finding shoes and getting more breakfast and dancing and coats and hats and mittens and keys and kisses and waving and, finally, coffee.

But it's not just any other day. I kept thinking about it. This day literally would not have happened if January 30, 2009 hadn't happened. I don't know where I would be if my MVD hadn't been successful. I don't know who I would be. I certainly wouldn't be doing all of that before 7 AM. Not even close. I wouldn't have my babies. I wouldn't be wiping my own nose, much less theirs. Would I even be getting up to go to work? Would I be sleeping in a bed? Would Chad be tired of taking care of me? Would I be able to shower? Would I still be pretending that my tears were simply watery eyes in the wind? Where would my pain have progressed to, 8 years later? I would not be dancing. I would not be singing. I know I would have forged ahead. I just don't know how.

I don't ask those questions very often, or even at all, anymore. I sometimes wonder if there are any new studies on post-MVD patients, on how long their pain-free lives last, but then I think I probably wouldn't read them. I can't live that way. If there is anything I learned 8 years ago today, it is that every day is a gift. And yes, each Nerversary is worth noting and celebrating. And singing about.

Here is Grace, with "Sing"

Happy 8th Nerversary.

Lucky Cookie Number Seven

It's that day of the year where I think about what could have been and what is and I get all emotional and introspective and usually end up happy and proud of everything that has become of this crazy sugar-rimmed life.

Today, though, for the first time in seven large years, I realize that my life with TN feels distant. My surgery feels like a memory. I don't think about TN every day. I think about it probably a few times a week, but not every day. And I can't decide if that is a good thing or a bad thing.

I never, ever, want to lose touch with what TN-life was like. It keeps me humble, keeps me thankful. I never want to lose my gratitude for the pain free life that I have or the incredible love and strength that brought me to this day, seven years ago. TN played a huge part in the woman I have become. I can't forget that.

On the other hand, I have now spent longer post-TN than I spent with TN. That's a big milestone. Lucky number seven. And an entire lifetime--with two actual new lives--has emerged in the last seven years. I now spend more time looking forward than looking back. TN really is a memory.

I hope it stays that way. And in the meantime, I won't forget to see the beauty in the everyday small moments: a cardinal in the snowy backyard, the kiddos giggling in the bathtub, the pressure of Chad's familiar hand on the small of my back, the tiny sighs of my babies sleeping in their beds.

For the last seven years and the memory of the six years before it, I couldn't be more grateful.

Happy 7th Nerversary. 

Christmas Eve Day 2015
Marblehead, MA

Sister Cookie, Brother Cookie

I took a break, I think. I took a break from my life to bring my baby to life, while guiding my preschooler in life. But I'm feeling back, again, now. So hi! I'm back. At least for today.

Our family has changed so much with the addition of our little boy. He is just joy. Not joyful, not happy, he's just made of joy. He is giant and sweet and cuddly and I am not his favorite person. Nope, not me, not Chad.

Grace is Colm's favorite person. She can make him laugh with a single glance. And then they giggle and giggle and giggle and it's astounding to watch.

I worried about that--my kids' relationships with each other. I still worry about it. I only had sisters and I know how deep and profound and devastating and effortless it is to have a sister. So I wondered when Colm arrived, what the sister-brother relationship would be like. I'm sure it will take many, many forms as they grow, but so far, it's been just astounding to see their love and how palpable and honest it is.

I know part of that is their age--how can a baby and a preschooler be anything BUT honest and real--but watching them love each other makes me love them even more; love them as a pair, love their love for each other, love what they'll tackle together, love what they'll grow to understand about relationships together, love that no matter what, they will be sister and brother forever.

Yesterday in the car Grace said:
Mommy, remember how you told me a girl can marry a girl and a boy can marry a boy?

And I said: Yes, you can marry anyone you love.

Grace said she wanted to marry me, and I told her that while I'd love to marry her, I couldn't because I already married Daddy. So she said:

Then I'll marry Colm. But in a REAL wedding, not a pretend one. So he'll need to learn how to walk first.

I agreed with her and let that small "illegal" detail go for now. It's not important when there's giggling to do.

Wagon Ride. August 9, 2015

Government Issued Cookie

So I've decided to take a stab at writing copy for the next FMLA (or MMLA) brochure:

Goooooodmorning, Momma! Today is the last day of your twelve week, no-expenses-paid vacation! You're ready! C'mon, you're not really bleeding anymore, and your nipples probably have healed so you don't scream on latch anymore, and you're even getting three whole hours of sleep in a row! Not only that but your baby can now actually hold it's head up! Sister, it is TIME to go back to work. It's time to drive around like a maniac to arrive to work and daycare on time. Twelve weeks is an eternity! Rome wasn't built in a day but it certainly didn't take twelve whole weeks, now did it? 

You don't want to be lazy now, do you? After all, the best way to raise a productive citizen is to be a productive citizen and let the productive child care industry take care of the child. That's the way! We won't be here for you if you need anything but I'm sure someone else might be.* 

Hope you enjoyed your stay! You can't come back again this year but maybe next! 

*Actually every other country in the world will be there for you except for Papua New Guinea, Swaziland, and Lesotho, so you could always just move....anywhere else that has electricity. But shhhhhhhhh! Don't tell!

So. Can you tell we've entered the most excellent phase of babyhood and working motherhood, where I now have to be at a certain place at a certain time in the morning? Can you tell I'm only slightly losing my mind? Oh, and cosmically my baby knows this, so when I set my alarm for, say, 5:30am, he wakes up at 5am. So I set my alarm the next day for 5am AND HE WAKES UP AT 4:15AM. This is, as they say, living the dream.

Really, though. This is how it goes. and you may be thinking--well, 4:15am, he'll go back to sleep, right? And yes, he will. But I won't. Nope, siree. 4:15 means I have a little more than an hour before I need to shower and if I go back to sleep I will most likely, in my extreme fatigue, keep hugging the shred of sleep that I have had for an hour instead of getting up to shower. Which would be a big, big, mistake, since that has happened for the last two mornings.

And that's really all I can muster right now, since I have meetings with clients today and I should save some energy since I didn't get three hours in a row last night. (But I did get 6 hours the night before...I guess that's something.)

Stay tuned. I hear it gets better.

(Especially with this face to look at....)

PS: I really do love and respect the women taking care of my children all day. I couldn't do what they do. They are amazing. Except they're not paid enough and I'm not paid enough for the amount of guilt. Soooo....yeah.

Six Whole Cookies

This day always feels like my own personal Thanksgiving. I am so thankful for the love in my life, my family, my friends, my health, and most importantly, the ability to keep this very thankful perspective every day.

It's been six years since my MVD, since I woke up without pain. The amount of life Chad and I have lived since then is almost staggering. The thought that I can now take my two babies for a walk along the same path in Salem Common that Chad took me on my first post-surgery walk, the walk where we talked about the fact that now we could have babies, is staggering. The six years that I lived with indescribable pain gave me the gift of perspective that I am thankful for every day. It means that the exploding washing machine is just an exploding washing machine, the dentist is just the dentist, the big life decisions are daunting but in an exciting way. Problems are just fixable things to just...fix. And we can fix them, which should be celebrated.

As long as we are here, we should celebrate that. As long as we love each other we should celebrate that. As long as we can, we should celebrate. Happy Sixth Nervesary.

Our New Cookie

Our little one has arrived. "My baby," as Grace says, is a boy!

Colm Robert Cotter arrived on December 7th, 2014, at 5:55pm. His arrival started and then stopped, started and then sped forward. After a false start on Friday, it was Sunday; I was reading to Grace before her nap. And then it was on.

Unlike Grace's birth, it was afternoon. But like Grace's birth, it was a Sunday, and it was beautiful. We arrived at the Birth Center around 2:30 pm. The sun was beaming on us, and I watched it set as I paced around the room. The Birth Center was empty except for Karen (the midwife), Chad, and me. I was able to talk and joke a bit between contractions, and I had a popsicle that I think was the best popsicle I've ever had in my life.

Colm's birth was intense. Once it really started, it went quickly. There were a few times I didn't know if I would get through it. There wasn't time to relax between contractions. There was time to just catch my breath and get my bearings. But then, then, he was here; he was in my arms, not even crying so much as just looking. Karen asked me to see if he was a boy or a girl, and I heard Chad's whoop when I said he was a boy--a truly, genuinely elated Daddy.

He was calm in our arms when we relaxed together for the next few hours. We got to talk to Grace before she went to sleep. My mom sent a little video of Grace saying "Goodnight, my little brother," which turned me into a puddle. It still does.

We brought him home on a stormy morning, in sheets of rain. He is a squeaker. He's noisy and sweet. His cheeks beg to be kissed. He makes a ruffley sound that sounds like chuckling. His hands are my hands. His head is Chad's head. He is so loved. His sister has not an ounce of jealousy--she just wants to take care of him. Chad wants to constantly cuddle him. He's growing so, so fast. He's already a month ahead of his big sister in size.

It feels like the beginning of an incredible adventure. I have absolutely no idea what is on the next page but that doesn't matter. What matters is what--who--is in my arms.

Welcome, Colm. You have made us complete.

Colm Robert Cotter
December 7, 2014
5:55pm
7 lbs 11 oz
21 inches

The Cookie is Crumbling

I have a three year old piece of starlight. See?

Russell Orchards, 2014

She is the absolute center of my everything and Chad's everything. But since she has turned three, life has changed. She has changed; she has become independent and opinionated and completely illogical in a way that the previous three years did not foreshadow. She can literally be unbelievably charming and laughing one minute, and the next minute have thrown herself on the floor in a heap of despair because I told her I don't want to eat the red pepper she dipped in ketchup "just for me."

Apparently this is normal....? I'm not even sure what normal means anymore BUT I see that she is struggling through wanting to be a grown up kid and making her parents let go and choosing her battles in her own way. I get that. But it still blows.

It really does. Especially with a giant belly. And especially while my house is torn apart in preparation for a new bedroom, a new baby, and new bathroom for mommy and daddy (there will be a lock on the door). There is dust and filth everywhere. Oh, and that job and that extended family and those friends...all of them, too.

Oxymoron? These are all amazing, exciting, ridiculously stressful things.

There was one morning last week when getting out the door was particularly awful. It was primarily because Grace's cereal was wet from milk and not dry, like she wanted. I was swallowing comments about kids who don't have food AT ALL. And I was stifling the urge to simultaneously gather Grace up like the frustrated kid she was, rock her in my lap, promise her anything she wanted for the rest of her life and just walk out, shut the door, and go to the movies. Like 3 of them in a row.

Instead, I managed to get her in the car and drive about 6 blocks listening to the same "I want dry special cereal mommy" sentence about 46857 times in that 6 blocks. And then I pulled over and cried. It was 7:36am.

I wish I could say that my crying made Grace stop crying. It didn't.
But it helped me feel normal again--get back to center, somewhat.

Later that day I saw this blog, and I cried again. Hours before, I felt like a sham of a parent, like there was absolutely no way I could handle one of these sensitive, growing, amazing, passionate creatures, much less two of them. But after reading Lisa Sadikman's take on the situation I knew it would, eventually, be okay.

At least, until the next time it's not okay.
And that's okay, too.

Regretful...cookies?

I've been thinking a lot this year about regrets.

"I wish..."
"I never should have..."
"Why did I..."
Those are the words that my conscious whispers in my ear. Many different ways of saying: You were wrong. And you're regretting it.

Then I start to fall down that hole that looks like crazy Spongebob eyes, wondering if I really was wrong, and what if, and could I just...?

An example.

I took a new job about 10 months ago. It was a huge decision. I had eczema over it. I wore glasses of eczema for weeks, had heart palpitations, cried almost every day. This was not an easy decision. This was an excruciating decision. This was the first life change I made that was more for my family than it was for me.

And that's a big deal. Because that, in my head, then became another multi-layered study about motherhood and womanhood and how, when you don't have babies when you're 18 or 21 and you give yourself time to create a life for yourself before you have kids, you are then, once you do have kids, walking into your soul's pantry and putting smooth and glittery things back on the shelf for later while you try newer, probably stickier, things that come in smaller jars. And how that is a privilege that our grandmothers and mothers and aunts and fathers worked to give us, but that doesn't mean that it's easy. It just means that it presents a whole lot more choices and decisions to make. Which we should feel lucky to have. Right? (Madeira girls, we took this class senior year but it meant such different things to me, back then.)

Sigh.

So. I made a decision that was the right decision for my family and for myself. Before I made that decision the pro and con list made sense. And when I made that decision, I felt like a different person. The stress poured away.  I shed what I realized was literally stress weight. I had time to be with my daughter, to comprehend life without literally running from daycare to train to subway to car to building to meeting and back again. I can turn work off on the weekends, because it's just work. We could consider having another child. And we are. It was and it is everything that I needed.

But I wish I could tell you the number of times that I have since second-guessed this decision. In many, many ways I am working harder than I was before. I am so exhausted from the chaos of newness. I miss my friends, most of all--the faces I saw every day. I still wish I could see them every day. I miss caring about what I do. I miss the motivation that comes from truly loving your work and knowing that making a client call can actually lead to creating a product that makes a difference. There are so, so many people who don't need to love their job--they appreciate the benefits of simply having a job. I am not one of those people.

This is what I think about.
I sit and in about 3.5 minutes I go over all of this in my head.
And here's the thing. What I always come to is that I do NOT regret. I know I made the right decision. I know that the last 10 months have brought incredible graces and knowledge and perspective and gifts. At the very least it has brought appreciation for what I used to have in a job, what I currently have in a job, and the fact that I can have a family (grow my family!) and also have a job at all.

Sometimes the right decision isn't the happiest decision. Sometimes it means prioritizing what is important at that exact time and leaving the doors open for new decisions down the road.

My job isn't the only time I've had to do this--years ago I said goodbye to a deep friendship, hoping it was temporary. I still hope that it is temporary, and I still shed tears over it. But I don't regret it because at the time I needed, once again, to put my family and myself first.

I hope by not closing these doors, even by keeping them cracked open a bit, someday the breeze will come in and bring something new through something old. And I certainly won't regret that, either.

Rooms by the Sea. Edward Hopper.

A New Baby Cookie!

Oh, the difference a day makes.

Yesterday was a really good day.

Yesterday, Chad and I saw our new little one on a little screen--the sweet tiny fingers, glowing pearl spine, tiny nose, almost recognizable lips. Now, it's real. Now, those bumps and jabs and flips in the belly belong to someone--we saw that little someone!

We learned, yesterday, that our new little one is arriving on or near December 18th, which earlier than what we thought the day before yesterday--twenty one days earlier than what we thought.

So now, suddenly, all those things that need to be done really really need to be done! But first, meet Baby "Lentil" Cotter.

Strong Cookies

I love my city. I really do. I'm proud of its history, its people, its character. And today, especially, I'm proud of how Boston came together to help and to heal.

For almost a week now the stories have come back out in the media--the Globe, 60 Minutes, and especially the internet. This morning I watched the local news broadcast from Copley Square, then watched the Today Show broadcast from Copley Square, watched the bombs go off over and over. Seeing the pictures of the bloodied adolescent who caused the deaths and destruction, seeing pictures of a little, little girl whose father, now dead, made the decision to leave her. And I've been just weeping all morning. I don't want to see those bombs going off again and again. I don't think anyone else does, either.

I love how my city is healing. I can't wait to see the runners next Monday. I can't wait to hear the cheers. But I am still scared. I can't go to the race next Monday. I can't bring my daughter there. My uncle is running and I have friends running and I absolutely adore the outpouring of love. But I can't go, yet. I hope someday we can once again cheer on those admirable, impressive people.

Today, at 2:49pm, I will send my heart to everyone in pain from the events of last year. And I hope they are not scared. I hope that they have all found hope and love and strength and are looking towards the future, so big.

Working Cookie

Most of the time on this blog I'm writing about family or Grace or relationships--you know, life.
But I have another life too, which is ironically where I spend most of my time: work.

I have worked in digital media for 10 years or so and I really do love it. Especially when there is meaning and education behind what you're building and you know it will really help someone. I think my fate was cast when my dad brought home this "laptop" in the late '80s and taught me how to play Space Invaders.

It's amazing to think about Space Invaders, then, compared to where digital media was even just 10 years ago and where it is, now--we've gone from CD-ROMs and zip drives to QR code enhanced ads and clouds.  It's hard to stay on top of everything in the industry because the industry changes so quickly. But, frankly, my dear, that's fun! And there are principals to design and content that apply no matter what. I wrote a while back about one of those principals, simplicity, on the Digital Bungalow blog and thought I would share it, here. Of course, Grace stars in it, too.

One Wise Cookie

It has been a little over a year since my Grandpa Don passed away, and his birthday would have been this past week. I've never posted what I read at his memorial service, so this feels like a perfect time. 

I wrote this over a matter of a few hours--it's certainly an amalgam of everything I've ever written about Grandpa Don--some of my favorite bits of older pieces. I hope it would ring true to him, too. And I hope he heard me. I think he did. 


Donald Whitney Munson

If I were to write a biography of my grandfather, it would have a one-word opening. Helllllloooooooooooo!!

If I were to write a biography of my grandfather, I would use thick paper with weathered edges. I would tell the stories only a granddaughter could tell; how grandpa always wore a clip-on bow tie at Christmas: two holly leaves with berries in the center. How he told me I had his mother’s hands. How he taught me to parallel park in the Littlefield Lake parking lot, telling me to make sure not to hit the imaginary pink Cadillac with purple polka dots. Grandpa, as we all know, turned every possible moment into a teaching moment, and did so with a firm grace.

I would open the book with a North Chester morning, the quiet rolling over the meadow like fog, the smell of ferns and damp firewood. This is where my Grandfather’s heart has always lived. Even when he’s not there you will find hints of him everywhere.  His black comb, the kind that James Dean and Fonzie used, sits on the dresser in the bedroom, a carved ivory shoehorn hanging on the mirror. His hand-written notes are pinned up in the kitchen as reminders on how best to take care of the house. His gray-brown firewood gloves sit next to the wood stove, shaped like hands are still in them, like Grandpa just took them off and is settling down to a game of cards with the family. 

If I were to write a biography of my grandfather, I would write about family dinners that always ended with blueberry pie and grandpa declaring: “Good Dinner, Ruthie!” I would write about Don’s children, his grandchildren, his great-grandchildren, all of whom are his heart of hearts, because nothing is as important as family. I would write about how Grandpa could make even the youngest member of the family feel important and valued.

I would write about how grandpa would give hugs and then put his hands on your shoulders and squeeze, and when you told him about your trip, your grades in school, your sports, he would nod and say: good, good. And he would smile his proud smile, the one that makes you glow warm inside, makes you want to do even better.

If I were to write a biography of my grandfather, I would never be able to say everything I’d want to say. I would finish and realize that I forgot to include how, despite decades of Grandpa trying to teach me what poison ivy looks like I still can’t identify it. I would realize I forgot to mention Grandpa’s yellow plaid pants, and how he told me after my daughter was born that “we specialize in girls.” And I wouldn’t be able to capture all the moments that he was able to step in and set everything right, be the pillar of strength that I needed. There were so, so many of those.

If I were to write a biography of my grandfather, I would stop. Because I don’t need to write a biography of my grandfather. Look around. His biography is every single one of us. Each one of us is a product of Don’s work: his teaching, his values, his love, his legacy. And I know, if he were here, he would tell us how proud he is. He would put his hands tight on our shoulders, his lips pressed firmly in a proud smile.


As we celebrated the start of 2014, I received a small package from my Grandma Ruth. The note said: a very special gift for Katie. And it was. 

I opened a small plastic box and moved away the tissue to find Grandpa's Christmas holly clip-on bow tie. Holding it in my hands was hard. There's no other way to say that--it was just hard. But it is a very, very special gift and I feel honored to have it, just as I am honored to be Don's granddaughter. Happy Birthday, Grandpa.