Maybe it was the beading sweat on my forehead and the look of sheer panic on my face. Maybe it was me muttering–to myself, I thought, but apparently not–“HOW did you do this??”

Your family. The love of family is made of loyalty and constancy and sometimes, the deep and guttural desire to slap your brother/sister/mom/dad/etc. across the face out of extreme annoyance but I am here to say PLEASE PLEASE don’t do that.

As soon as I found out I was having a little girl people prepared me for how different they are from boys.

I am a detail freak. Let me correct that. I WAS a detail freak, until I had kids and realized any semblance of control I ever thought I possessed was a farce. No Tooth Fairy, no Easter Bunny, no Control. (That howling wind sound you hear is the Universe laughing.)

I remember strolling bleary-eyed through the aisles of Publix shortly after I had Sammy, and a stranger just blurted that out to me. It took me a second in my sleep-deprived state to grasp its meaning.

It used to be that Friday the 13th was a day of folkloric caution. Don’t walk under a ladder! Steer clear of the black cats! Don’t step on a crack! Never again will it be that innocent. As I—and many of you—tried to process what happened last Friday night, these kinds of thoughts dominated my […]

Like the dark wood leaf table, the frayed black-and-white photos of relatives long gone and the bottles of Manischewitz lined up in the bar, it was always there in my Pap and Gram’s dining room, leaning against the corner.

I haven’t checked my mail yet today, but I’m pretty sure when I get it, my Mother of the Year certificate will be there waiting. Sarcasm. See that picture? That is a wet shoe, drying in the sun.

Thank you for the sweet giggles and the slobbery kisses. Thank you for always sharing your half-chewed food with me from your high chair. Thank you for your sassiness and your grumpiness and for always reminding your older brother that just because he’s a boy and he’s bigger than you, it doesn’t always mean he’s in charge. (A good lesson to hold onto for later in life, too, actually.)

In the short 36 or so hours since it happened, many words have been written about the Oregon shooting. Nine beautiful spirits shuttered because of one man. And no, I won’t say the shooter’s name. I hope you won’t either.