I was so glad R-Home gave me the chance to be the “Last Word” in their newly redesigned March/April issue (which is beautiful by the way!). I shared an essay about my grandmother and all the decorating advice she’s passed down to her children and […]
In the months after he died, I came to envy people who, in the face of hardship, found peace reciting Hail Marys, Kaddishes and mantras. I wished for a string of words, no matter the origin, that might help me make sense of a world without my father in it.
It was literature—not liturgy—that had always brought me comfort, so I searched for my own peace prayer in books.
I have a theory that open-concept living is enjoying its heyday—the way avocado appliances, split levels and parquet floors had theirs—but that one day, perhaps even soon, we’ll all be furiously framing new walls faster than you can say two-by-four. We’re going to wake up from our current DIY daydream and realize that open-concept living is responsible for a large number of divorces and more than a few adult children who never, ever call their mothers.
We’re updating our will. For the second time in nine years, I’ll tell an attorney I barely know that—should something happen to Kevin and me—we want my little sister to raise our children.
It’s such a big thing to ask of you, especially since there are now three children who, overnight, would lose everything if we were gone. It’s a lot to ask of anyone, to love someone else’s kids. As an adoptive mother, I’ve been raising other people’s children since the day I became a parent. So I know it can be done.
On the first night we went to bed in our new house, I flicked off the overhead light in our bedroom and couldn’t see the way to my side of the bed. There was no moon, no glow from the naked bulb of a neighbor’s porch light, no yellow streetlamps to guide me. I held my hands out in front of me and felt my way.