denise Leora madre

At 3:50 this morning, I awoke to Jonan calling through the bedroom door, “Mom, can you help Braylee get back in the bed?” Mommy to the rescue! (Image Courtesy of artur84 / FreeDigitalPhotos.net) I jumped up with a groggy “Yes, honey, of course!” donned my bathrobe, and headed to their room. As I stumbled down the short hallway, I marveled that I missed the ‘boom’ when Braylee hit the floor after falling out of bed. Then I wondered how she did that when Jonan sleeps on the outside. And as I thought of Jonan, I realized he didn't seem all that concerned about Braylee being injured, which wasn't like him. He’s the kid who can’t focus in school if a classmate is crying or upset, the one who seemed able to read and respond to my emotions before he knew his ABCs. Watching him take Braylee’s tumble in literal stride—I mean, could he walk any more casually?—I entered their bedroom and realized my error.

Last night, Dale Earnhardt Jr won the 2014 Daytona 500, his first Daytona win since 2004. This win was especially significant for me as Dale is Horace’s favorite driver and won on Horace’s birthday. While at first ignoring the race, I could focus on the blog post I was supposed to share today, the follow-up to Friday’s DWD Challenge recap . I could zone in and out of the action because I wasn't invested in it. Then Dale joined the crowd at the front of the pack.   Blog forgotten and heart pounding in my chest, I watched those final laps with my every nerve on the edge of fraying. My gaze darted frantically among the speeding cars, clenching and wringing my hands when they bunched too close to one another. Having witnessed a number of crashes already, I don’t think I fully exhaled until Dale took the checkered flag...and that under Caution. And as I celebrated with Horace and Dale, something hit me: Investment yields joy.

We are one of those families with a monthly data allowance. Twenty precious gigs. Though we don’t stream or YouTube as much as we’d like, that amount is usually sufficient to meet our needs. But this month—due to what I am sure was a malware attack—we sit at 19.908GB with less than 24 hours to go before the start of next billing cycle. In the interest of avoiding overage charges, we have decided to go this final stretch without using any data. (This will be the soundtrack of my day...I'm almost positive.) And in the interest of transparency about my data dependence, I shall chronicle my Day Without Data for your amusement and edification. Let us begin.

Next Thursday night, I will put the children in bed, complete all chores, and turn off my ringer. I will jump in bed beside my husband just before 9:00 p.m., turned the channel to ABC, and barely resist the urge to squeal with glee. For it will be the start of the Spring Season for Grey’s Anatomy and Scandal. Perhaps the Winter Finales of those two shows didn't leave you breathless and wanting and wondering why Shonda Rhimes insists on slaying you week after week. Perhaps you haven’t been counting the minutes since 11:01 p.m. December 12 th , wondering how you were going to survive nearly two months without your adventures in Shondaland. Perhaps you don’t understand the lure of the on-call room or why one would need to put one’s white hat back on. And if all of the above are true, then this might not be the post for you. Otherwise allow me to dedicate the next two Wednesdays to honoring the two reasons I love Thursday nights. First up, Grey’s Anatomy. Ju...

Seven years ago today, I awoke early, a light in my eyes and a song in my heart. It was my wedding day! My favorite photo from that day... and every day since. Though I could share many a memory from then, my current thoughts are focused on the path leading to that moment. A moment I never thought would happen.

Hi there. I hope you’re happy. I hope in your quest to ruin whatever hard-won equilibrium I’d obtained was satisfying, that it made you feel good. I wonder if you sensed my discomfort during our conversation, if you knew I was on the brink of cracking. I wonder if you cared. This was supposed to be a pleasant first meeting, an introduction. We were supposed to get to know each other, to examine our history and goals in search of common ground as we forge ahead together. You were not supposed to come at my neck with your rapid-fire style, pinging from one subject to the next, heedless of my answers. You were not supposed to sit there unsmiling, your narrowed eyes finding me lacking with each unsatisfactory reply. We were supposed to be allies, comrades on the same side. Now I don’t know if I trust you, wondering if I can learn to like you.

With Tales from the End, Lissa Bryan plunges us back into the world of her post-dystopian romance, The End of All Things. Having read and relished the latter, I came to this collection of Tales well-acquainted with the Infection and its decimating effect on earth’s population. And I couldn't wait to wait to read more about it. The magic of Tales from the End is Bryan’s ability to infuse stories of loss and widespread devastation with a palpable, enduring sense of hope. Because Carly and Justin survived The End, we know it is possible to outlast the Infection. And as we meet Pearl and Veronica in the first two stories, we pray they have the chance.

Do you know what today is? Yes, it’s the start of the XXII Winter Olympics in Sochi. It is also the end of the Waxing Crescent cycle of the moon, which should be a huge relief to my family (see Monday's post for an explanation). And it is three weeks before the Spring Premieres of Grey’s Anatomy and Scandal , which as far as I’m concerned should constitute a national holiday. But today, Thursday, February 6, 2014, also commemorates the most significant day of my natural life, the day without which none of the others would be possible. That’s right, kids. It’s my birthday!! My 36 th to be exact.

Today I’d like to discuss my recent favorite item of clothing. Not a sweater or a dress, though I do have a black sweater dress with a flirty, fun hemline I’m dying to wear again soon, but an item of a different tenor. I refer, of course, to my Cranky Pants. The spirit of my Cranky Pants (Image Courtesy of olovedog / FreeDigitalPhotos.net) Available anywhere humans abound, Cranky Pants come in all shapes and sizes and are universally unflattering. They cause conflict, ruin relationships, and are altogether antithetical to a peaceful existence. And though my outward apparel may change, my Cranky Pants lurk underneath it all like an underbust corset complete with boning and laces.