this is our city. this is our home.

i’ve done a lot of deep breathing these last few days… awoken with each splatter of rain on my newly minted windows, my head filled with catastrophic thoughts: imagined drowning and suffocating of my loved ones, my heart anxiously fearing rising waters and the worst of CNN coverage.

this is our city. this is our home.


images of residents in waist-deep waters, searching for help in any way possible, their loved ones piled onto air mattresses and kayaks and boats led by strangers. no one is safe. no one is lucky. we are all vulnerable.

this is our city. this is our home.


the feeling of numbness. it coincides with galoshes worn without socks, the cold rain on my skin; finding the one windbreaker in my closet that just might repel rain. it’s taking meals to those in need, making it to the grocery store, and making it home to the most beautiful girl in the world. it means being the mother I’m meant to be- and distracting her from the misery. the horror of it all.

this is our city. this is our home.


knowing my mother, actually coined most beautiful (circa 1966), and my valedictorian, army major, DOD retiree father were out there, alone. being rescued by humvee and boat and dump truck- yes you read that right- dump truck- at a fragile age- has brought me to my knees. they are safe now.

this is our city? this can’t be our home.


my cousin kayaked his way through the flooded waters to rescue his extended family. our own friends drove through flooded strets to rescue their trapped parents, their dogs, and their childhood.

what city is this?


my heart tries not to feel the ache for all who are suffering. we have lost too much to bear witness. the pain is excruciating.


but we will move on. we will be strong. after all, this is our city. this is our home.


and there’s nowhere else I’d rather be.



#houstonflood #hurricaneharvey #ilovemycity

tutus, Mersault, and just being enough.

There was a moment last week when I nearly broke down; tension bombarding my chest, emotions wading through my brain, tears burning my eyes with memory.  It took everything in my soul to keep the stream from breaking the dam I’ve created in my mind, one wrought with the ferved pieces of life I’ve tended to stash away over the years.  My walls are thick, y’all. 

I watched as my little princess danced the night away in her sparkly pink tutu, carefree and oblivious to the world around her.  The glean in her eye shined from the stage so brightly, like a distant comet projecting through the sky: even though a quick glimmer, the brilliant light is a travesty to miss.  My little girl was so happy.  And I was overcome with affection, caught between knowing true joy and the realization that I, too, am engaged in a delicate dance. 


The balance of time equity is fragile, with my heart and head generally pulling in three different directions at once, my body twisted and turned until my back is slammed against the wall.  The clock is ticking. Time will eventually run out.  Little girls will only wear tutus for so long.  


I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: being a working mother parent is hard. The pressures to surpass expectations during the day, coupled with the self-imposed high standards of home life, (and don’t forget the ever-increasing societial squeeze of personal perfection!), can be almost too much to bear.  Something has to give.  And usually it’s me. Let’s just say my yoga mat is lonely, y’all. (chocolate, anyone?)

The sommelier often wonders why I have so much pent up jealousy for his work trips to France, Spain, or Italy.  In truth, these trips are actually work for him, but I imagine fields of vineyards against a setting sun, full of grapes waiting to be harvested, as if gentle waves in the ocean were washing against his feet.  I long to travel there with our tiny dancer, showing her the beauty in the earth, tasting the sour skins that will eventually turn into a favorite vintage of deliciousness.  And I know someday we will… but not now. Not yet. 


For now I close my eyes as I imagine the old chateaus of Beaune glittering in the sun, dotting the landscape with their bright tiled roofs. Beckoning. 


For now I sip on a Premier Cru Mersault from Francois Mikulski, the crisp, lightly acidic Chardonnay glides down my throat in anticipation of summer, the thin veils of melon mingling in the minerality of the region.  My palate is electrified. 


And suddenly I remember; knowing that I am doing the best I can, claiming my weekdays and time in the most productive way possible, while balancing zoo visits and enticing new foods on the weekends. I have to be enough. Just balancing. Teetering. Realizing that even though I may claim to be, I am not superwomanI, me, myself… have to be enough.  

And in her eyes, I am.  She thinks I’m a queen.  And that’s all that matters, y’all. 

Happy Mother’s Day.  Cheers.