Heather is an essayist, editor, CMO, mommy, and wife seeking stillness while in a state
of nearly constant motion. She lives, walks, and eats in the greatest city in the world: Chicago.
love Christmas, every part. Cookies and food and seasonal music, yes, please. I make menus and gift lists, and I obsess about all the details. The kids and I count down to Santa’s visit, and the Elf on the Shelf (his name is Bubbles) is in full effect every night.
This essay should be right up my tinsel-laden alley.
But not this year.
Read MoreI have always had my doubts about people who don’t like to eat. Is my son one of those people? Someone who eats the same, monotonous thing every day, for his whole life and doesn’t think twice about it? Who never takes risks, never tries anything new, ever? Someone who eats McDonald’s in France?
Read MoreFriday nights have long been associated with good times: Happy Hours, date nights, movie premieres. Through the years I’ve looked forward to events like those, but lately, my Fridays are more about popcorn and pajamas than pomp and circumstance.
In our home, Friday nights are reserved for movies with my boys, and it’s my favorite thing.
Read MoreMy kids have so many clothes.
I’d like to blame my Rockstar-shopping Mom, but she’s really miraculous to behold. If I happen to mention to her that the kids would use an extra rash guard shirt or some variety of pants - like clockwork - a package appears on our porch with said items, and extra treat or two and some paper green anacondas. (That’s a whole other story.)
Read MoreI know the non-believers in the second grade have begun to whisper their doubts. Like a virus it spreads, making kids question fundamental symbols of the season.
But I want my sons to believe.
Read MoreBaking bread allows me to do all the things I love: Create, experiment, explore, and make people happy by feeding them.
Read MoreGetting rid of your stuff is supposed to make you happier. Except when it doesn’t.
Read MoreIf you can’t take the heat, you probably won’t like what I’m cooking for dinner. Just ask my family.
Read MoreWhen my boys get home from camp or our adventures in the city they are hot and tired and a little sick of each other, and of me. All they want are their screens. Left to their own devices, so to speak, they don’t talk to me, to each other, to their dad when he arrives home and says hello. They are hypnotized. I felt the irony of limiting their tablet time while I hid in the kitchen or sneaked into the bathroom to scroll through Instagram or check Facebook for the umpteenth time that day. Clearly we all have a problem. And we are not alone.
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