seeking the story in the ordinary


He stands perched on the top step of the hallway staircase and hurtles his soft, round body into space, trusting with full faith that my arms will find him.


His father reprimands him for toying with a fragile keyboard. Ashamed, he approaches me with his head hanging low, face contorted into a silent pre-cry. He burrows his flushed cheeks in the space beneath my chin. He fits perfectly there—the crook of my neck still his chosen retreat when the world comes crashing down on him.


We take a walk on a rare morning alone together. Sometimes I keep pace beside him; sometimes I fall back, letting him lead. To see what he can see. A toss of the head, a hand in his pocket, a glimpse of adolescence.IMG_8970

Now he asks that I not stand in the open doorway as he boards the kindergarten bus. I acquiesce, while secretly looking on through the side window as he walks the concrete path.

He falls one morning, scraping his knees. Instinctively, I run to him, giving myself away. When I reach him, he’s already lifted himself off the ground. Yet still he takes the hand I offer. This time, we walk together the rest of the way.

Wordlessly, he climbs aboard to be gone for the balance of the day. Are you ok? I call after him, needing more. Squinting in the early morning light, I catch a thumbs up from the school bus window. Enough.


A shift, as subtle as it is certain. As unsettling as it is reassuring. We sway, unmoored, tossed about in time’s turbulence—our heads wind-whipped, cheeks chapped. Our feet seeking steady ground. And always weighing. When to catch them. When to let them fall.


“Act as if you’re a writer. Sit down and begin. Act as if you might just create something beautiful, and by beautiful I mean something authentic and universal.”

- Dani Shapiro, Still Writing

I’ve been invited by Lara Anderson to participate in the writing process blog tour. Lara is a gorgeous writer whose words always touch something deep within me and make me gasp with their beauty and truth. I’m so grateful our paths have crossed in this writing world, and I’m touched she tapped me to participate next.

I have loved reading about other writers’ processes—and many times, these posts led me to some of my now favorite writers (or led me to love them more)—like Lauren, Lindsey, Debra, Zsofi, Amanda, Jessica, and Denise, to name (more than) a few. I’m humbled (and a bit intimidated) to take my turn…

What am I working on?

Although I’ve kept (what I refuse to call) a journal for most of my life, I’ve only recently begun writing regularly, in a deliberate way, with purpose and finished pieces and publications. Until about a year ago, the demands of home and work felt paramount.

At first, I felt compelled to submit, submit, submit to every place I could think of, everywhere I saw the work of writers I admire. I was driven by a need for legitimacy and clout as much as my signature impatience—both a great virtue and vice. I was hardwired to seek validation by some objective metric.

Eventually, the thrill of exposure waned and in its wake, I was left with a deep love of the process and a handful of really brilliant writers to follow and befriend. What I loved most was the writing itself. Stringing the words together. Creating something that revealed my heart. Connecting with others through words.

Most days I feel like a fraud. My legal training was highly formal; surely I can’t wake up one morning and simply declare myself a writer? No, I’m no writer. Often, it seems, I churn out muck. Who are these gracious people showing up, reading my words?

But I love it. I can’t stop. As Gloria Steinem said, “Writing is the only thing that when I do it, I don’t feel I should be doing something else.”

Am I allowed to love it this much? Am I allowed to do this? Is this a thing?

I’m working on finding out.


I always have several draft essays in the works—either for this blog or to submit elsewhere. If a piece is more personal or less linear, I’ll put it here. If I think it could have more mass appeal or fits well with another site’s voice, I’ll pitch it. Lately, I’ve enjoyed publishing more on my own site because I can control the content and timing. I have no schedule for when or how often I post on this blog—I write when I have something to say, and I hit publish when I feel it’s finished.

I’m also mustering the courage to start what I affectionately call, “The Book I’ll Never Write.” It would be memoir-esque about my complicated relationship with religion and love, faith and philosophy…and in my mind, it’s all so cathartic and profound…but forget I said anything; I don’t think I’ll ever get up the guts…

For now, I’m slowly working on an essay that skims the surface of all this—of what I believe to be my story if I ever had one. It feels, in short, like what I’m meant to be working on.

How does my work differ from others in its genre?

Oh goodness, I don’t know. Does it have to?

At times I feel insufferably generic, but I truly believe everyone has a story to tell and only they can tell it.

And I love that there are kindred writers in my world—their words fill my days. Theirs are the voices in my head pushing me to do better, go deeper. They help me see what’s possible.

Why do I write what I do?

I write mostly about the small, mundane moments of my day-to-day life as a mother of young sons because this is my now. It’s what I’ve got. But writing about it, I’ve found, helps me not wish it away, not miss the meaning in this messy life. I like to find the story in the ordinary day.

I write to find comfort in the commonality of it all—we’re all in our own homes, going about our separate, solitary lives, but maybe, just maybe you’ve felt this way too? You’re out there walking alongside me, even from many miles away? Even if we’ve never met?

I try to write authentically about my own ordinary existence and hope it resonates with others.

How does my writing process work?

I rarely, if ever, sit down to churn out a full piece start to finish. Rather, I write in the crevices of my day, around the edges of a life filled with little ones and little time. I tap thoughts and triggers into an app on my phone as they come to me (how remarkably unpoetic) and once a theme or coherent idea emerges, I try to string it all together in my early morning hours.

I carve out 4-6am every morning (3am if I’m really inspired) to write before sunrise with my coffee companion (always in the same yellow mug, and piping hot). I love everything about the early morning and starting my day with nothing but my quiet, coffee, words. I’ve tried to write at night; it’s a bad idea.

Often one of my boys will have wandered into my bed in the middle of the night. He will breathe deeply beside me as I tap the keys, sometimes stirring. I often wonder if deep in the recesses of their minds, my sons will remember me, their mother, sitting and writing in the dark as day edges out night.

When I write, I tend to sit hunched over, shoulders tense, on the floor, in a bed, or in the least ergonomic chair I can find. And I bite the skin on the insides of my fingers—a horrible habit I’m trying to break. I also forget to eat.

When I have an idea burning a hole in my pocket, I’m restless until I get a first draft down (thanks again, impatience). Then I let it sit—a sorry unstructured mess of half-thoughts and unfinished sentences. But the polishing and playing with words, the whispering them aloud into the darkness, the writing and rewriting…well, that’s the best part.

Even when I think a piece is done, I let it sit for one more day. I leave it alone, while somehow simultaneously taking it with me, walking around with it, letting the words breathe, and giving my mind the space and clarity it needs to return.

Then, after I submit or publish a piece, I perform my ritualistic, unproductive post-mortem where I obsess over what I could have written better.

Next Up…

And the tour continues…I’d like to ask Kim Simon and Alisa Brownlow to share their writing processes next.

Kim was one of the first writers I followed, fell in love with, admired from afar. I love how she masters both humor and heart with sincerity. She’s got snark and sweet to spare. When I click over to one of her pieces, I know I’ll either be laughing hysterically or on the verge of tears. She has an achingly beautiful, relatable way of writing about motherhood (read this or this). She’s also doing admirable work through the I Support You movement to build support and understanding among all parents—formula-feeders, breastfeeders, everyone—no matter how they feed their children.

Alisa is a writer I’ve come to “know” more recently, but I’m so glad I found my way to her words. They always resonate, delivering those “me too moments” I crave—like here and here. She authored one of my favorite “About” pages on a blog ever—although it’s on her old site and I hope she doesn’t mind me sharing it here. Also, gotta love another ex-lawyer turned writer mama.


So here’s to this writing life…and this blog tour, because while writing may be a solitary pursuit, I couldn’t do it without knowing others are out there toiling away too.

We were crowded in the elementary school gym on a 90-degree day with no A/C. We were told there would be babysitting; there wasn’t really. Our almost-kindergartners were whisked away…I was left behind to chase after my two younger boys, the sweat gathering on the nape of my neck as I cursed my black skinny jeans. There were introductions, policy overviews (dress code, lunch program, dismissal protocol…). I barely caught a word.

Somewhere between doling out the fifty-billionth snack and doing laps with the umbrella stroller in which I discreetly tried to monopolize the ineffective, giant floor fan, the co-chair of the Parents Association approached. She was a woman not much older than me with a shock of black hair, tailored pants, kind, knowing eyes and a gentle smile. She offered to watch my younger boys so I could walk down the hallway with my newly minted Kindergartner to see his classroom – to, as she put it, “have a moment.” I felt the tears come; I choked them back. My sons were having none of it, so off we all went.


A whirlwind of put-those-toys-back-where-you-found-them later, I knew it was time to throw in the towel. We clumsily gathered our things and what was left of my dignity and headed for the door. (Not before stopping at the complimentary bagel spread so the baby could dump a full cup of OJ on himself—the stickiness of the juice mixing with several layers of sweat.)

But the details don’t really matter now, do they? These are insignificant, external things, after all. The real problem was with me. Something nagged at the corners of my mind and heart. What did I really need? What was I seeking? A way to neatly tie up the sum of my son’s childhood until now with a nice, pretty bow? So I could feel ready for this? So he could?

I summon the little I glimpsed of my son lined up, ready to walk off to his new classroom. He stood proud and tall. There was a little wave, wasn’t there? Maybe even a self-assured “bye mom.” And he was gone. I felt a sadness I didn’t expect. We’d said goodbye like this before—he’s a day care veteran, after all. But this was different somehow.

Wasn’t this what we all hope for? That our kids become these self-sufficient beings, capable of walking off—first down the hallway, then down the street, across town, and ultimately out of our household to create another—without us?

Have a moment. The words caught. That was just it, wasn’t it? My utter inability to have this moment. To hold it, savor it, squeeze the marrow from it. To stash it away in my special box of precious letters and artwork. To preserve it for all time. It was passing me by even as I was living it.

Have a moment. Instead I was lost. In the sweat, the distraction, discomfort, the ceaseless chase as the younger boys wrestled free to roam the school hallways. I tried to force myself to shut it all out, to focus on what was happening. On this milestone—for me and my oldest boy.

It was, of course, on the road, as we drove away with the sweet school at our backs, when the tears and clarity finally came. Have a moment. I needed that moment for me. He was fine. Ready. And it’s not about me anymore. Tomorrow, a bus comes and takes him to a classroom I will not frequent. He will live whole days I know little about. I will curtail my curiosity; I will ache for details, get few.

We are two separate people, he and I. We may share the same temperament, the same strong-willed stubbornness, a love of what’s right and fair, and all things carbohydrate…the same sandy hair and wide green eyes, ever reluctant to let go of a day and drift off to sleep…

But I carry him no more. No, I couldn’t if I tried. Now it’s nearly dawn on the day I will wake him to board the bus alone.

We will have a moment. And many, many more, my sweet boy. As he becomes a little less mine, a little more his own, a little more the world’s. And I will take them with me, always.




A postscript: Shortly after I published this post, he woke with a start, dressed quickly and without a fight, and was ready 45 minutes early. Hardly any appetite, yet still I felt a need to shove a waffle in his unwilling hand. I blink, and the bus is here. How many school buses had I seen in a lifetime? But this one was here to carry away my child.

“Mom, when you get off the bus, wave to me, ok?” I mouth “I love you” through the window; he gives a pound in return. One last wave, a smile. I choke back tears, turn, and go on with my day…two other little boys needing me still.


I’m standing on a stretch of grass outside the camp’s dining hall during the weekly Wednesday evening cookout. My watermelon-stained hands struggle to free a wipe from its package. My oldest nags at my feet for a third cookie. And dammit, where is my middle son? Just then, my stroller tips over. You help me pick it up, saddled as I am with my 30-pound baby on my hip, my sticky hands…I feel guilty and needy. But “we’re in this together,” you say as you do. And you’re right…you’re right.

I had arrived at camp not two days earlier. People were bringing my children food, helping me assemble my pack ‘n play. I take your daughter’s hand and lead her to the bathroom; you watch my baby while I chase after the big boys…

Here we are, raising our children side by side. Creating for them what will always feel like home.

This is the village it takes.

By day, I work in the front office. By night, I huddle in our cold bunk with my three young sons, covering them with sleeping bags and kissing their dusty foreheads. I steal some brief time by myself with a book before my eyelids grow heavy.

Not one to like being alone, this fits. I’m comforted knowing others live out their days beyond mine, that my three boys are all snug in a single, small, sweet room, that the guards are by the gates, standing watch over us all….

IMG_7941It’s hard, yes.


Adversity builds character; hardship breeds connection.

I know those bags under your eyes mean your baby was woken by the fireworks late last night. I know; I heard them too. I know how hard it is to keep your children quiet for the hours each morning while the rest of camp still sleeps. To navigate a narrow stall shower when, until now, your kids only knew baths. To eat family-style in a massive, bustling dining hall, your children threatening to escape between each bite. To corral your toddlers during camp-wide performances while you attempt to catch a glimpse. To referee spats between your kids and others—over the right to the lone basketball left on the upper courts or the singularly special rock among the thousands passed on the way to dinner. To carry your tired toddler up the hill despite exhaustion so deep, your bones ache. To parent publicly, without our spouses, without a safety net. To be “on” every minute.

I know how it feels to have a meltdown over pancake breakfast at the day that lies ahead. To mask the signs of weariness with a smile when you’d rather wear your heart on your sleeve. I know it’s hard to let people in, to feel like a burden.

I know the hardships of being here, yes. But I know the joys too. Oh, I know them well.

I know the depth of the relationships formed while wrestling a stroller along dirt paths. We climb the hill from the lake to the dining hall on Friday night, curving along girls’ campus, wondering why. Realizing it’s the sweet mixture of nostalgia and a deep appreciation for the now of this place, and these people, that’s at our backs, pushing us forward. This alone is enough.

We all have different lives we lead back home, in the “real world.” One hour ahead and a million miles away. Our waiter? He’s finishing law school in Mexico. The nature guy? A high school chemistry teacher. But here? Here, we all come together to do this. To make this place work. We each play our little part. For a time, this is all there is.

Instead of believing the world should bend and bow to accommodate your needs, camp comes to teach that you are merely, wonderfully a small, but integral part of something far greater. You plug in to a schedule, a structure, a community that does not revolve around you. You give up much, but gain more in return. You’re better for it.

Together, we watch our children grow more confident, independent, adaptable with each passing day. They befriend people of all ages. They navigate the winding paths and the constant coexistence with increasing ease. They come home seeming older, longer somehow.

So we stay. We press on. Because creature comforts don’t hold a candle to true connection.

And then, at summer’s end, we return, re-enter. Adjusting our eyes to the peculiar landscape of the outside world. All looks different somehow, askew. But we are what’s most changed.

We came from a world undivided, without houses or private yards separating families…where our children floated freely among us, cared for communally. Now we trade our gritty dirt roads for smooth ones and realize sometimes, often, the meaningless ease of a paved life is unfulfilling. Where people angrily gesture over nonsense from the muted protection of their SUVs instead of extending gestures of kindness to the neighbor walking the path beside them.

*        *        *

We just moved to a new town. The boys start new schools next week. I’m starting over. I forgot how hard that can be. To show up to a school function and not know a soul. To walk up to an ongoing conversation, interrupt, introduce. To assume these other women want to know me, that I have something to offer. I’ve never been good at that. For all my extrovert tendencies, I still struggle with beginnings.

I write these words from a quiet house on a rare night alone. The silence is deafening. I miss the chaos, the din of our everyday. I didn’t think I would. My bare feet plod along the carpeted hallways; I saunter into empty rooms and finger the smooth, undented pillows. I lie on my oldest boy’s bed and tap absently at my phone. I close my eyes and summon the clamor and clatter of the camp cafeteria, teeming with children. The ice cream truck’s jingle sings playfully in the distance during one of its last summer rounds, but there’s no one to greet it. I realize I don’t quite recognize myself anymore without my children near, without the noisy soundtrack of our overflowing lives.

Because (and here’s the dirty little secret, what makes me, me) I am happier with my hands full. Surrounded. Overstimulated. And although these writing days have drawn me in more than ever before, I still very much need and want to be with people, even many of them, and all at once.

So I stand…surrounded by heaps of laundry, preparing to wash away the last specks of camp dirt from our days, missing my village. From the laundry room, I can see through the screen door out to the backyard and beyond to the fence of neighbors we don’t yet know. But I’m comforted, hopeful. Because I’ve had it once, that village.

I know what can be.

photo 3-7

This is the second in a series of posts about my time working at my alma mater overnight camp with my three young sons for five weeks this summer.


Life is but a collection of moments strung together, one right after another, to make up you…

*          *          *

Early morning, I throw on a hoodie and slip out in the first light to send a quick e-mail. The crisp air hits my cheeks; my feet flatten the dew-soaked ground. Distant sounds of crickets and owls fade as day edges out night. I hurry back to my bunk before the boys awake and am greeted by the relative warmth, the comforting, rhythmic sounds of the boys’ breathing. I’m struck by the enormity of my role as their mother, their shelter. Here, we are always one step removed from nature and cozier for it. All is as it should be.

I’m sitting on the grass during a particularly long stretch of afternoon when my five-year-old tackles me to the ground, all 38 lbs of him landing on my chest, knocking me down. I let us fall backwards and he throws his arms around me, pressing his cheek to mine, not letting go. I unsquint my eyes and look up to see the sun glinting through the trees against an expanse of clear blue sky…the baby follows suit and soon we are a mess of tangled limbs, mussed-up hair. A kiss, and we part.

We’re standing on the concrete porch of the cafeteria as the rain falls only harder. We decide to make a go of it. The baby strapped in the stroller, I pull the three-year-old up to me and have him grasp my neck. “Hold tightly,” I whisper. My oldest proudly walks ahead in his new Superman raincoat. And we set out, braving the downpour together, the muddy grounds squishing through the holes in our summer shoes, sprinkling dirt flecks on our wet calves. Not one complaint; they’ve grown somehow used to this by now.


We sit in the outdoor amphitheater overlooking the lake. Everyone is gathered as we await a camp-wide performance. Suddenly the assembled campers – across age groups, gender – erupt into unscripted song. Voices ping pong back and forth, while “Let It Go” lyrics waft up from the wooden benches into the cloudy night sky. I’m moved to tears by the sheer power of the collective voices, by children who are purely happy—to be here, to be themselves, to be together, to feel so safe and carefree as to shed any insecurities and join with one another in song.

I’m sitting at a square wooden table past nightfall in the small swath of space where the wifi reaches to read my favorite writers’ words. I’m shivering in the summer night mountain air, nearby voices speaking in a mix of foreign tongues – Hebrew, Polish, others. I catch a word here and there and am not distracted, but comforted by the distant company. I am sitting on a rickety chair, outside, under the sky, the stars, breathing the cool, clean air, feeling the earth underfoot—this same ground upon which my feet have walked…so many years ago…the steps that, one right after another, led me here. To right here; to right now. To my small cabin with my three sons sleeping soundly a few yards away, heavy with the weight of a day walking those same paths—now theirs, now ours.

It’s cold in our cabin. Cover me up, you ask. Your feet are sticking out. I tuck them in. You smile. That dimple…

I drift off to sleep, comforted by the 24-hour hum of a camp day…a ball bouncing on the upper courts, a walkie-talkie in the distance, the rumble of a golf cart climbing the gravelly path, campers shouting from a nearby building during their evening activity…the sound of their turn, their memories being made.

A day off. A minivan brigade winding along alternating paved and unpaved roads leading to a local (read: 1.5 hours away) children’s museum. Impossibly never losing each other. We stay together because it’s what we do. We pump gas in the pouring rain after a trying Target run, tears from laughter streaming down our faces, mixing with the rain…we are friends from a different time, who remember when, who mouth the words to the same songs, memorized still. Friends who can tell of what was, and together, face what’s to come.

One of my closest camp friends, now the director, darts around the grounds checking, conferring, confirming…He’s in charge now, yet I still glimpse the boyishness behind his eyes. How did we get here?

One ordinary afternoon, we exchange a few words outside the front office before he bikes off. We’re both too busy and too burdened—he mainly with camp, me with kids—to say more. But it’s all we need. Twenty-three years of friendship has led to this. Has made us into mind-readers. And I’m struck by the quality, the endurance, the pick-up-where-you-left-off nature of the friendships I’ve formed here.

Another day off, and we split our time between exploring the camp grounds and taking a drive into nearby Honesdale for dinner on Main Street. Dar Williams and dirt roads lead us there.


We pass unthinkable beauty. Are we in the world now? asks the five-year-old. On the road, we quietly imagine a life different than ours. One remote and sprawling that yawns through the summer season and tells of tending the earth…We are reminded that often it’s better to get out than stay in. To chase adventure, see what we can see, to drink in this great, wide world.


I’m on night-watch, sitting in the gazebo on boys’ campus when a counselor comes by to pull me out and show me the night sky, the moon rising over the lake. So I don’t miss it. That’s what happens here. We help each other see everyday beauty. We make sure it gets noticed, doesn’t pass us by, that we experience it, together. He touches my shoulder and I recall that here, contact, connection is commonplace. And just like that, I no longer feel too old or too cold to be sitting in the middle of boys’ campus on a Wednesday night deep in August. No, I don’t mind at all.


There is something about the finiteness of this world within a world. This togetherness. This here and now. This feeling that everything outside this place can wait. That this is all there is. This is everything.

We watch the rain fall and puddle-jump in the fading light.

We read bedtime stories on a rain-soaked porch in the warm glow of a single lamp, interrupted only by a couple passersby I’ve known for life.

We whisper after dark and gently shut screen doors while neighbors slumber.

We wake to the musty smell of the dark wood paneled bunk in the early morning hours before the boys stir.

We shake spiders off our towels before use.

We laugh harder; smile deeper.

We of dusty calves and dirty feet, tangled hair and fresh, natural faces.

We who know the price, the power, the privilege of being here.

Even in the hardest moments of these longest days, I will miss it here, I think. I will miss this.

We attend the end-of-camp event—the same slide show, but featuring new faces, the same songs, but sung by young voices…I watch as the oldest campers live out their last carefree days, teetering atop that roller coaster of time before they descend into the abyss of adulthood. I recall the empty sadness, the wistful finality of that transition.

Another summer ends, and I’m overcome by the weight, the power of all that’s come before, of tradition, of change, of the hold this place has over me. Sometimes the nostalgia is almost too great to bear.

We have moved on; yet it remains. There’s comfort in the familiarity; curiosity in the difference. Nothing stays the same. Nor should it. It’s another time, another’s turn.

I scoop my sleepy children off the dusty ground and we walk out into the night, the echo of “Taps” at our backs.

This is camp. This is life. This is home.


This is the first of a series of posts about my time working at my alma mater overnight camp with my three young sons for five weeks this summer.

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