That Kind of Magic


It is after midnight. I am sitting in my dark bedroom, eating an unhealthy amount of salty pretzels in my desperate attempt to not be sick, probably spilling crumbs all over my sleeping husband.

And I’m marveling at the crazy shit we women willingly put ourselves through in order to bring forth new life.

I’m not a woman who enjoys pregnancy. Some women are. And I think they’re fucking weird.

Kidding, they’re probably stronger than me. Or more disciplined in gratitude. I don’t know.

What I do know is I’ve always had a weak stomach. I’m grossed out easily and I carry all of my nervous energy right there in my solar plexus. So naturally, I’m one of the lucky few who experiences morning sickness all day and night and usually well past the first trimester.

It is disgusting. I develop all these bizarre taste aversions. Like, for example, I can’t eat soup right now because I saw this episode of Criminal Minds one time where this psycho killer did something creepy to the food at the restaurant he worked in and one lady there happened to be eating soup.


I won’t continue to confuse and/or bore you with details of my suffering but, suffice it to say that despite knowing how much it’s going to suck the entire time, here I am, growing baby number three like the martyr I never want to be.

And when that baby gets here,

After any number of minutes of me screaming and writhing and cursing in a hospital bed,

After these days spent hugging the toilet and staring blankly in the mirror, reminding myself that I used to like putting on makeup,

After navigating these wild hormones that inspire rages and unprovoked crying,

After growing out of all of my clothes and agonizing over our insurance deductible and trying to figure out how we’re going to fit another human in our already cramped home,

After all this, I will hold that new life in my arms and my world will shatter and shift. It will transform in exponentially beautiful ways. Our family will grow and so will our capacity for love.

Also, it already has.

Because love is infinite.

And motherhood is that kind of magic.


Hotel Thoughts

Early morning.
Blank page.
Hotel thoughts.


I’ve always loved staying in hotels.

It’s one of my favorite places to be.

The 2-in-1 shampoo and the patterned carpet and the crappy coffee and the mediocre breakfast and the awkward exchange with housekeeping because I’m from the Midwest and I don’t know how to let people tidy up for me.
I love it all.

We’ve lived in many a hotel as we transitioned from city to city. And as often as possible, we take weekend trips that involve little more than junk food, cable and swimming. Then we go home refreshed.

I enjoyed it slightly more before I found out my second child is incapable of an inside voice. But still.

There are few tasks to distract myself with in a hotel room. Just me and a camera and a journal and two kids who know how to create something from nothing. Two kids who also just made an impressive argument in favor of Cheetos for 2nd breakfast.

You can make up stories about who you are and where you come from for friendly staff and fellow guests in the lobby. Because you’re never going to see them again. And if you do, who cares?

There’s a cool kind of simplicity in that.

It’s real but it’s not and it’s all so temporary. And that’s what I love about it. And that’s kinda life.


cropped-017.jpgThere are times when I need to disappear a little.

I tend to absorb energy like it’s going out of style and I don’t always know what to do with it.

So I power down.

I start to actively remove people from my awareness. People who are not necessarily toxic in who they are as people but in what they represent to me.

Mostly because of my own shortcomings. But it’s a thing I have to do and I can only trust the process and that if they care, they’ll understand.

And that if they don’t care I don’t need them to understand.

But then there are times, like now, when I feel a call of a different sort.

When I’ve outgrown my shell and my self imposed limitations. When I no longer recognize certain longings I’ve had for years.

I feel a deep desire to uproot all of my dreams and start over.

To replant some of them in an area with more sun and send the rest back to the Earth, along with the banana peels and the eggshells.

Because I am a writer and a wife and a mother and a seeker of beauty and an embracer of mystery.

Because connection is pure magic and magic is all I want to see.

Because I believe in a life Without Armor so much that those words will be my first and maybe only tattoo.

But mostly because it’s time.

It’s time for me to branch out in ways I haven’t let myself before. Before, when I was afraid and preoccupied and busy and too damn tired and sadly certain that I didn’t have the right kind of platform and life experience to chase wild dreams. So I shushed them.

I suppressed my energy and I made myself small.

I kept my mouth shut like a good little girl.

I watched other people turn their dreams and passions into reality.

And I envied, even hated them for it.

And I removed them from my awareness right along with the not toxic but still kinda toxic people and simply hoped that they would understand too.

Because I didn’t.

Not at all.

Not until now.