To the Fans of Music

Have you ever met anyone who hates music? Yeah, me either. In a world full of differences, being a fan of music is a commonality. It’s kind of amazing, isn’t it?

With the recent deaths of Chris Cornell and Chester Bennington looming over the world of music, I love seeing people come together, sharing songs, videos, quotes, interviews, lyrics or moments that resonated with them.

And then, of course, there are people who choose negativity. I’m sure you all have at least one of these people in your lives. You know, the ones who post things like, “Soundgarden sucked” or “Chester Bennington didn’t have a great voice” or “What selfish pricks they both are for committing suicide” or “Here come all of the (insert band name here) “fans” who only purchased one album”.

This last one is the one I want to talk about because it confuses me the most, as I’m not sure of the intended goal of the statement. What benefit could a post like that have to anyone, including the person who posted it? Was it to make fans who only bought Superunknown or Meteora feel like lesser fans because they only purchased the “popular” albums? Maybe this negative poster feels that if you don’t own every album, or if you don’t only wear the band’s t-shirts, or if you don’t have posters lining your bedroom walls, then you aren’t worthy enough to be a fan? Is the thought that if you only ever downloaded one song by the artist, then how dare you publicly say something nice about how his music helped you through a difficult time or made you smile?

Seriously…I don’t get it, mainly because I consider myself a musician. And if you are bold enough to make that claim, then you probably understand and respect fans, regardless of how much of your merch they purchase.

Now, I’m not going to pretend that I’m this crazy good musician, as most of my performances have included seedy bars or restaurants, with people dropping utensils while they eat their dinners, all while I sing my heart out. But my point is that I have performed in public, and on rare occasions, I have shared songs that I have written. And yes, it’s an amazing feeling when a “fan” requests one of your songs, or asks you the meaning of a certain lyric, or hums three bars of your chorus. As a musician, I think connecting with people is the goal, even if that connection is only one song, one lyric, one chorus or one moment.

Now if I were to multiply that feeling by millions, that is the number of fans we are dealing with in terms of Cornell and Bennington. Some fans are die hards and some aren’t. But if you claim to be a fan, all that really means is that somewhere along the way, a piece of someone else’s creation made you feel something. It really is that simple.

So, to the Cornell fans who maybe don’t know ALL of the words to Black Hole Sun, but love the music anyway, or to the Linkin Park fans who only purchased Hybrid Theory and no other albums after that, this is for you. Don’t ever let someone else tell you that you can’t mourn the death of a person who created a piece of art that was powerful enough to speak to your soul.

Music has the power to bring you back to your first date, your first kiss, your graduation, your wedding, your divorce, a failure, a success, a birth, a death, a new beginning, or a sad ending.

Just always remember that it’s this power of music, not the purchase of the album, that connects us all.

And over the last few months, I’ve learned that anyone who tries to downplay that connection, simply doesn’t get it.

Stuck in Paradise

My Sunday morning routine always starts with coffee on my back patio. Because of the consistency of Florida weather, this is a ritual I enjoy year round. However, this past Sunday, as I stared into the abyss of palm trees obstructing my view of the sky, I started thinking about the relativity of beauty.

Being a New Jersey native, my version of beauty may be somewhat skewed. Growing up fifteen minutes away from one of the most influential cities in the world was definitely a perk. As a teenager, the epitome of freedom was cutting class to hang out in “the village” with only five dollars of lunch money in my pocket, hoping desperately that I didn’t get too swept away by what New York City had to offer, and wondering if I would be able to make it back home by the time school let out. By my early twenties, I embraced my obvious crush on the Big Apple by spending as much time there as humanly possible.

And then I got married…and had children.

My love for the city was instantly overshadowed, and eventually became a liability. While I knew how much the tri-state area had to offer my children in the future, my concern came from what I witnessed in other children while living there, which was that city kids simply grow up too fast. Above everything else, I didn’t want to cut my kids’ childhoods short. So, here I am, years later, living in Florida, where my twelve-year-old daughter is still interested in toys rather than make-up and thinks boys have the cooties, and my nine-year-old daughter still believes in Santa, the Easter bunny and fairies. Moving here accomplished everything I wanted…for them. But for me? I’m stuck in paradise.

Most people come to Florida to get away from it all. The lure of swaying palm trees, sunshine and Mickey Mouse offers peace, warmth and fun. When the Orlando airport doors swing open, vacationers eagerly welcome the staggering humidity that slaps them in the face as they draw their first breaths. They find beauty here, even if it’s just for a week.

And I get it. But let’s not forget that beauty is relative, and for me, it doesn’t include palm trees and beaches. That kind of beauty, that is so apparent to everyone else, is completely wasted on me. Sure, I’ve vacationed in some “island-y” places, but lying on a beach in the sweltering sun, trying to keep my sunglasses from sliding down my sweaty face, trusting my sunblock to not make my already-dark-skin darker, was never a treat for me. None of those island vacations screamed beauty to me. If anything, they left me bored and slightly agitated.

My agitation continued upon moving here, when I learned that the running joke was, "Florida is where you come to vacation, retire or die.” Although it got a chuckle from me the first few times I heard it, this particular joke had a bit too much truth to it. It made my inner child whine, “I want to go home!” And by home, I am, of course, referring to New York City.

For me, beauty is the music coming from the guitar of a man sitting on the mucky subway floor, hoping that his song will encourage me to drop my dollar bill into his beat up guitar case; it’s ducking into my favorite pizza place on Broadway to “grab a slice”; it’s hearing a man’s whistle, while watching his arm extend outward, expecting a cab to stop immediately to rush him off to his next appointment; it’s the hustle and bustle of Times Square mixed with the peace and tranquility of Central Park; it’s witnessing how much life is crammed into these overcrowded spaces. This is the version of beauty I understand. Despite the clichéd smog, dirt and grime associated with the city, it is the only place where I can breathe. You see, for me, beauty is not necessarily beautiful.

But trading skyscrapers for palm trees has shown me that if I truly wanted to find my personal definition of beauty, I had to start by looking deeper than the picturesque views of seagulls on the beach, or the memory of Manhattan’s magnificent skyline. Living in both places has taught me that beauty is not what I see, but rather, what I feel. Beauty is whatever makes my heart beat faster.

Beauty is what makes a person feel alive.

And although my current zip code is missing the palpable energy of New York, each time I walk through the door and see my daughters and my husband, the flutter of excitement I feel on the inside is a constant reminder that, no matter where I am, my heart will always find the beauty that will lead me home.

Being a Mommy

Not all of us are lucky enough to have someone in our lives who makes the transition from mother to mommy. Regardless of how many hours of labor you went through, or whether or not you chose natural childbirth over the epidural, becoming a mother by giving birth to a child is the easy part. Becoming a mommy is much harder. 

I'm not sure which traits qualify us as good versus bad moms, but I think I associate the "mommy" title with how engaged a mom is with her kids. I frequently ask myself if I’m good enough for my girls, and my husband always tells me that the fact that I even ask myself that question makes me a good mom. He also is always quick to point out that, at nine and twelve years old, both of my girls are always singing, and he correlates singing with happiness, and happiness with how I parent them. So, in an If-You-Give-a-Mouse-a-Cookie-way, I am doing a decent job. But while going through the daily effort of trying to be a mommy, rather than just a mother, I can't help but reflect on my own mom, and the example that she set for me. 

My mom has always been a worrier. Being that I was an only child, diagnosed with Type 1 Diabetes at the age of four, I can't really blame her. Having kids is hard enough, but having one who needs constant medical intervention? I can't imagine it. As a kid, teen and pre-adult, I had a really hard time with her constant concern for my wellbeing. But now that I am an adult with my own kids, I totally get it. While my worrying style isn't as pronounced as hers, I understand how pure love for your children can make a mommy's heart worry. 

When it comes to my mom’s heart, love incessantly pours out of her four-foot ten frame, touching everyone around her. Whether it’s love, time, loyalty, food, money, or even clothes, she is always emptying her pockets with an expectation of nothing in return. She rarely does anything for herself, and if she does, she figures out a way to give some of it to others. She gives one hundred percent of herself, sharing everything she physically and emotionally has with anyone who has the pleasure of knowing her. She is staunchly supportive and makes it abundantly clear that she is always on my side, and she extends that support to my husband, my kids, and even to my friends. She is the greatest cheerleader you can ever dream of having. But my favorite quality of hers is that she makes me feel loved.

Someone once told me that love is a verb, but being a mom has shown me a different definition. Sure, we all do whatever it takes to make our children happy. But for me, love doesn’t mean that you always have to be doing, acting, proving. Love, from a mommy’s perspective, is an invisible quiet feeling that is constantly coursing through your veins. And if you are successful at being a mommy, in the way that my mom is, you simply just make your children feel loved, without saying it, doing it, or proving it.

No matter how crazy your mom makes you, no matter how many mistakes she may have made, in the end, if you feel her love, then she gave you the gift of doing it right. She was your mommy, and always will be.

Happy Mother’s Day to my mommy, and to all of the other wonderful mommies out there who, regardless of time or distance, make their children feel that they are always loved.

Beyond Type 1

“Don’t forget to take care of yourself” is one of my favorite pieces of parenting advice given by other parents. The unexpected life that unfolds before you as a parent can be overwhelming, so every once in a while, it’s important to focus on your own wellness. However, I can’t help but laugh at the thought of NOT taking care of myself, simply because, if I stopped, I’d be dead.

You see, I live with a chronic illness that doesn’t allow me to skip self-care. I have Type 1 diabetes, so naturally, I have this “me time” thing down to a science.

When I brought my first daughter home from the hospital, it was extremely difficult to accept that my health, not my child, was my number one priority. It was not an easy adjustment. But it’s probably safe to say that because I am a diabetic, I learned sooner than most moms that taking care of myself is not optional.  It is a requirement.

I know this sounds strange, but I actually feel lucky to have been diagnosed with a disease that promotes self-care. If you do diabetes right, you get rewarded with a longer life and fewer disease-related complications. Diabetes gives me control over how long I get to enjoy this earth. In comparison, I’ve watched family members and friends fight through cancer, which lowered their body’s defenses and limited their abilities to continue life as they knew it. They didn’t have the options that I have. For me, it all comes down to how well I choose to treat my body. Admittedly, I don’t always comply with the strict diet rules that come along with Type 1. However, I know better than to abuse myself.

Of course, I didn’t always live as I do now. In college, I pretended diabetes didn’t exist. I ate whatever I wanted and consumed alcohol like a true party girl. I took “being young and dumb” to a completely new level. My endocrinologist even banned me from her office.

Luckily for me, I grew up and have been taking small steps every day that enable me to take control of my disease and my life.

Like most moms, my daily routine includes showering, brushing my teeth, taking care of my family, and working a full time job. However, it also includes other responsibilities like testing my blood sugars, counting carbs to determine how much insulin I need for everything I eat, and logging all of my meals, numbers and carb to insulin ratios so I can detect patterns and adjust as needed.

Then there are the smaller “blink-and-you’ll-miss it” features of my life like when driving my children to school, I pack juice boxes in the car. Not for them, but for me…just in case I feel a low blood sugar episode coming on while I’m driving. Or when I decide to go for a run and have to test my blood sugars first to ensure I won’t go into a coma along the way. I also need to be selective when packing snacks as I need food that will help balance my blood sugar without causing hyperglycemia.

In addition to eating well and exercising, I also enjoy risky adventures like skydiving. And as freaky as skydiving may be to a non-diabetic, the stress that comes from that excitement also affects my blood sugars negatively. So, even when planning to do something fun that gives me butterflies in my stomach, I always have to be prepared.

My point is that even though I have a few more steps to complete each day, I don’t mind making certain accommodations for my disease. Type 1 diabetes does not define me, but it is a part of my life that needs to be acknowledged and taken care of on a daily basis. And as long as I continue to take the cliché parental advice and take care of myself, my illness won’t stop me from spending time with my two beautiful daughters, dancing with my husband, running a marathon or jumping out of an airplane.

Living with a chronic disease was not my choice, but living beyond Type 1 diabetes will forever be my goal.

*This piece was published on Reality Moms on April 5, 2017.

John Wesley Jewelry

John Wesley Jewelry.  It has a ring to it, doesn’t it? With the media’s love for abbreviations, I can already imagine the variety of nicknames that will be given to this shop when it goes global.

JWJ.

John Dubbya Jewelry.

J-Dubs.

The possibilities are endless!

And now I’ll come down from my cloud.

I know. You might be tired of bloggers trying to push products. I get it. Rather than listening to our personalized ads for items that you may not need, you want to hear our interesting/funny/relatable stories.

Well…this is not one of those posts. But in my defense, I have been telling stories without any product pushing for the entire year so far, so I’m due for some sort of campaign.

But before you go away, there is a cuteness factor about this particular “product push” post. 

It’s personal.

Are you ready? Here it is.

The beneficiary of this blog campaign is my extremely talented husband, John.

Aww…isn’t that sweet? Yes.  Yes, it is. But let’s not make this into a romance movie just yet.

If you’ve read my blog before, you already know that the hubs is a creative genius. Whatever he tries, he’s good at. And his new venture is a perfect example of that.

John has been creating handcrafted wire jewelry for a few years now. With each year, he challenges himself to make more intricate pieces, and the results are breathtaking. Now, he’s finally reached a point where he is confident enough in his talent to take the show on the road. Or, at least to Etsy.

And I’ve decided to help him.  Because, aside from being my awesome husband, blogging + promotions = success for everybody.

Feel free to click on some of my favorites below. But if those don't strike your fancy, there are plenty more gorgeous pieces to choose from over at his Etsy shop, John Wesley Jewelry. Also, he is fantastically adept at figuring out new designs, so if you have something specific in mind, send him a message, and I am sure he would do a brilliant job of creating a custom piece for you.

Copper, Silver or Gold colored wire wrapped dangling earrings

Copper wire wrapped cuff

Basket weave copper earrings with red faceted bead

Wire wrapped sunburst earrings with turquoise bead

Silver plated wire wrapped hoop earrings

Steampunk gear earrings

And now, my faithful readers, this is where you come in.  Go check out my husband’s shop, John Wesley Jewelry. Share this post with your friends and family on your social media platforms. Shout it from the rooftops that John Wesley Jewelry is opened for business.

John Wesley Jewelry can be found on Facebook and Instagram, too, so make sure to click on the links below to support his shop and follow his journey!

Facebook - https://www.facebook.com/johnwesleyjewelry/

Instagram - https://www.instagram.com/john_wesley_jewelry

Website - https://www.etsy.com/shop/JohnWesleyJewelry

And just for being the awesome readers that you are, for a limited time, you can use this code at checkout to waive shipping costs.  BALLOFWAX4JWJ

Happy shopping!

The Messes We Make

Families can be messy.

With a quick swipe of a paper towel, some messes can be cleaned up easily. While other messes saturate the fabric of our lives, leaving a gruesome blemish on an otherwise gorgeous canvas.

I have been privy to both types of messes. Neither is ideal, but if I had to choose, I would go the paper towel route every time. Unfortunately, that route is not always the best option.

Choosing to cut ties with a relative verses sticking it out can be a struggle. In every situation, both options have their pros and cons. For me, these types of decisions have always been based on what my heart tells me. So, if someone is meant to be in my life, my heart will naturally fight for that person. However, in opposition to that, when I’m done, I’m done. So, if I give up on someone, it generally means that there is no chance of ever coming back from that. Not because I’m a grudge holder, but rather, I am someone who moves on quickly from toxicity.

With that said, cutting ties isn’t really my thing, mainly because I’ve always been surrounded by people who are capable of having tough conversations without losing their shit. But once I became a mother, the people around me were put under a microscope. All but one survived.

The main reason for the sole casualty came down to family loyalty. This particular relative (on my father’s side) was at a party thrown by an aunt (on my mother’s side). I was videotaping my daughter, walking into a room where this relative was sitting at the kitchen table, boisterously talking smack about my parents to my grandmother, aunt and cousin. Due to an alcohol problem, this relative probably thought her story about how my parents were assholes would entertain everyone around her. But that was not the case.  It was at that moment I decided that this person was not someone who belonged in my life. Seeing someone drunkenly turn on her own brother was a sight and an action that I didn’t ever want my children to endure. (Not to mention, her loud mouth and terrible words completely tarnished what could have been a cute video of my daughter. Though, because the video still exists, it is a reminder of why me, my parents, and everyone who had to deal with her that day, no longer consider her a part of our family.)

Being that Hallmark doesn’t make a “my-relative-is-a-disloyal-prick” card, there was no official goodbye. But that moment made me realize that sometimes, the healthiest thing to do is walk away…even from family. So I did, and I have no regrets.

More recently, I have been witness to an unfortunate familial situation where a mom of someone I love decided to passive aggressively criticize my loved one. It seemed to be over an issue that had been resolved for about a year, but I’m guessing she did not approve of the resolution, and chose to act out. The two parties involved haven’t spoken about the transgression, but one thing I do know is that because of that act, the relationship has ended.

Similarly, a few years ago, I wrote a blog post, openly pointing out actions that I witnessed regarding a specific father/daughter relationship. Rather than being used as a conversation starter for an issue that had not been addressed for two years, the blog post was instead used as a catalyst to cut ties with the father in question. The real underlying problem was never dealt with, yet everyone involved has humbly moved on.

If you notice, none of these stories have the happiest of endings. No one, in any of these scenarios, chose to stick it out. The messes made in these instances turned into stains that permeated through all of the relationships. And in most cases, it was for the best. But I would be lying if I said that I wasn’t curious to see if simply using a paper towel to wipe up the spills would have changed some lives for the better.

I guess that’s the thing about cutting ties-it is a bold, powerful and healing act that can alleviate specific unwanted tension for the rest of your life. But if cutting ties is done irrationally or without a thorough thought process of its long term effects, the cutter will most certainly be left alone to clean up the internal mess. And unfortunately, there are no paper towels that can wipe up the spills of a broken heart.

Am I Really Done With Children?

Being new to the forties club, I’m still unsure about what is supposed to happen at this age.  I thought it might have something to do with boldly owning everything about yourself in an “I-am-woman-hear-me-roar” sort of way. But now that I am here, a feeling of unease is quietly nagging at me.

Because I’m not used to being unsure about anything, trying to get down to the bottom of my angst was difficult. Was it career related? Was it relationship related? Was it related to my environment?

No. Nope. Nyet.

And that’s when I realized that rather than being in a state of flux, my life is uncharacteristically static now. I have two amazing daughters, a loving husband, a stable career, and multiple hobbies. I am happy with my well laid-out life. So why the sudden haze?

Well…the truth behind my uncertainty unfolded when a friend recently announced her pregnancy. It was the silent question I had been asking myself every time I saw an infant at the grocery store.

Am I really done with children?

My fortieth year of life has been pretty great…until this question started running amok in my brain.

I don’t mean to be all "my biological clock is ticking" here, but if my answer to the question is no, then time is not on my side. This statement is even more true for my husband, who is fourteen years my senior.

Yet, having a baby is something we have been seriously considering for quite a while.

Though age is something to ponder, it is so far down the list of risk factors for us that, when weighed against everything else, it will never come close to being the reason why we do not have a baby.

Despite the long, hard road we may face, it is always easier to focus on the positives of why having a baby could be the best decision we ever make. Hell, we’ve even picked out baby names already (Oliver Thomas for a boy and Joelle Leslie for a girl)!

But we also have some fears that are slowing our decision down.

1. My health- Being a forty-year-old with Type 1 Diabetes automatically puts me at a higher risk. Even though I take really great care of myself, and I’ve already had two healthy regular sized babies, this is my husband’s only concern. And I get it. Being a widowed dad with an infant is not on his wish list.
2. Hurdles for him- The hubs may be 14 years older than me, but he is more fit than I could ever dream of being. So, I’m not worried about him keeping up with a child. However, in order for us to become preggers, he’d have to go through an “unsnipping” surgery, which comes with the added bonus of discomfort, pain, a two week healing process, and statistics that give us only about a sixty percent chance of conceiving.
3. Growing up-Over the years, my girls and I have given each other purpose. Though I firmly believe that my job as a parent is to let go of the self-sufficient children that I’ve raised, the reality is that in six short years, I will release my first born into the real world, followed by her sister two years later. It’s not as if I don’t have any other plans for my life when my girls go off to begin theirs, but for the first time in nine years, being a “mommy” (insert baby voice here), rather than just a “mom” (insert pre-teen voice here) is quite appealing.
4. Paths –Choosing one of two completely different life paths with my husband confuses me. The path the hubs and I are on now leaves us without children between us, but a lifetime with each other. Once my girls are in college, and some of the restrictions that come along with having children in the house are lifted, we will have time to spend alone as a couple. It’s a life I would be thrilled to explore with him by my side. But on the baby path, we would spend the rest of our lives raising a child, with not much time left for much else. While this may seem like a gloomy existence and not nearly as freeing as the first path, I know having a child together would take us down a road I would be equally happy to travel with him.

So-here I am, a forty-year-old haunted by the uncertainties that I thought were reserved for my twenties. I worry that no matter what decision is made, it will be the wrong one. And I know that not making a choice is still making a choice. But I also know that an older version of myself would laugh, knowing that regardless of the decision, my journey will turn out to be just as it should.

*I know there will be those who will be concerned, and those who will be unsupportive of a decision in favor of a pregnancy. Which is why I would like to thank a few people who have been in my shoes and were honest enough to tell me like it is. To my two friends Gina S. and Missy N., thank you for giving me tangible advice that included the good, the bad and the ugly with regard to having children at a later age. And for my friend Allie, thank you for having that breakfast with me last summer. Though it was long ago, that encouraging conversation stayed with me and opened my mind to the idea of “just one more”. Thank you for showing me that even through inconceivable hurdles that may have to be faced, the heart wants what it wants, and it’s okay to go after it, regardless of the outcome.

Why Sweeping It Under the Rug Will Never Be My Thing

Conflict amongst family and friends is never fun. Sadness, anger and hurt are just some of the emotions that appear during hard times. And who wants to deal with that, right?

Well…I do.

When there is an elephant in the room, rather than pretending it doesn’t exist, I always opt to stab it with a pitch fork. It's not that I am a confrontational person. It's just that I love the people in my life…hard. And the one thing I cannot tolerate is seeing someone I love hurting while the ones who are supposed to be there for support idly stand by and watch.

Living in the south, I’m finding that, unlike my Jersey brethren, many people would rather sweep the aforementioned elephant under the rug. Protruding large lumps?  No problem (sweep…sweep…sweep)! Pointy ivory tusks? I don’t see any (sweep…sweep…sweep)! Long swaying trunk? I never noticed (sweep…sweep…sweep)!

While ignoring a potentially problematic situation may seem like the easier or more polite choice, eventually, tripping over that elegant Persian rug that you’ve spent so much time perfecting is almost inevitable. And I can’t help but wonder if ignoring the elephant in the room ever leads to a desirable outcome.

As I’ve mentioned, I am a get-things-out-in-the-open type of person (it’s probably why blogging has become one of my enjoyments). Admittedly, I don’t quite understand the act of taking a backseat or staying uninvolved when someone you love is in pain (especially if you are the one who caused it). In addition, of all of the chores I do on a daily basis, sweeping is my least favorite. So, you’ll have to excuse my lack of competency when it comes to the “sweeping-things-under-the-rug” concept.

For all of you rug sweepers, here are some questions that, if answered, may alleviate my confusion.

1. Just how thick is this rug of yours? Give it to me in inches…or feet.
2. How much are you willing to sweep under it? Like…is it only for large issues? Or can I also find small issues hidden under it, such as not liking the paint color that your husband picked out for the bedroom?  
3. If you ever decide to look under your mountainous rug, will you find things under there from the 1970s?  I mean, how far back does the dust go?
4. How many awkward situations has this rug caused? Like…if you are sitting across the room from someone, can you have a normal conversation without shouting over the pile? Can you even see each other?
5. How do you lay comfortably on your couch?  Is it askew because of the carpet lumps?
6. And as a follow-up to question five, have you ever acknowledged that rugs aren’t supposed to be lumpy?
7. How many relationships have been stained with dormant untruths because of the infinite pile of crap lying underneath?
8. If someone trips on it, are you covered by your homeowners insurance?

As you can see by my line of questioning, I am in desperate need of answers. However, because rug sweepers tend to avoid responding to questions that may lead to direct resolutions, I won’t hold my breath. But no need to bless my heart. This Jersey girl will carry on living her life the only way she knows how - loudly.

A note for my loved ones (you know who you are):

I will always have your back. I will always defend you, even if that means inserting myself into a situation that may only partially belong to me. I will do this because I love you. And you deserve better. You deserve someone in your life who will say the unpopular thing. You deserve someone in your life who will call people out for treating you poorly. You deserve to be assured that there is at least one person in your life who cares enough about you to always be on your side. And I promise, I am that person for you. 

My loves, I will always choose you.

Squeezing the Chocolate: A Lesson in Moderation

Valentine’s Day has never been my thing.  But I appreciate the day for what it represents-an immense worldwide consumption of bright red, heart-shaped boxes filled with random selections of chocolate. While your outer dialogue may be filled with angst, disgust and temptation, your inner dialogue is more than likely shouting, “YAY!  CANDY!”

Though there may be some extreme health nuts attempting to create impressive, yet lackluster, low-calorie Valentine’s Day recipes, there are a boatload of us who will be happily digesting our five pound boxes of chocolate in a day or two, politely responding with the giggled retort, “I can’t believe I ate all that chocolate!  The diet starts tomorrow!”

So why do we feel guilty for the occasional indulgent behavior?  Has the health conscious world guilted us into feeling that all unhealthy food should be condemned? 

Is it an abomination to eat some chocolate on Valentine’s Day, even though our jeans are getting a little tighter?  Should we be food shamed if we don’t always eat organic? Does it say anything about who we are if, every so often, we choose processed or fast food?  To this, I say, “Hell no!”

When it comes to food, or even relationships and careers for that matter, is it not okay to do something that makes you happy, even though it may not be (gasp) the best fit for your life? 

After all, this isn’t the Truman Show, where everyone is secretly watching every bite, every step, every breath.  The only one who cares about your gluten/lactose/carb free life is you.  And if that life works for you, more power to you!  But if you live an extreme, “no treats allowed” life, constantly striving for the perfect body, perfect family, perfect existence, and all it leaves you with is misery and an empty, growling stomach, then what is the point?

This is your life-so live it, not for perfection, but for enjoyment.

I am a firm believer that doing what is healthy for your body is just as important as doing what is right for your mind.  And my mind is a big fan of the “everything in moderation” cliché. 

Moderation is tasting a few pieces of chocolate from the box, but knowing when to put the lid back on when it’s no longer enjoyable.  It is not extreme and doesn’t deprive you of anything.  Moderation allows for health without squandering the fun.  It replaces guilt with the simplicity of our choices.  Moderation lets our minds relax without the pressure of being punished if we splurge on something we truly crave.

Of course, we have all pinched and tasted a piece of chocolate, only to find it filled with mystery goo that tastes like someone at the candy factory “accidently” combined coffee with a teaspoon of Robitussin.  But we’ve also bit into that scrumptious piece of chocolate that we savored on our tongues, secretly wishing that the rest of the box was filled with only that kind. Taking chances and trying each piece of chocolate is addictive, a rite of passage as a woman, and according to Forrest Gump, a life lesson.

So I leave you with this.  Don’t punish yourself for not being able to fit into a certain size bikini this summer.  Don’t talk yourself out of something that makes you smile just because there are a few naysayers who live their lives more stringently.  Don’t live in a way that deprives you of your happiness-whatever that means for you.

Instead, rock what you’ve got, permit yourself to let go, be imperfect.  And when Valentine’s Day rolls around, make sure to squeeze every piece of chocolate in that heart-shaped box until you find the one you love.

*This piece was published on Reality Moms on February 1, 2017.

Our dog, Zoey

Dogs. Who would have thought that I could love a dog? Like really love a dog. On any given day of my life, if you asked if I was a dog person, I wouldn’t hesitate to say yes. But I have never been one of those over the top, “my-dog-is-my-life” kind of people. Once I had kids, my view of dogs changed drastically. The dog I had at that time became a dog. And my kids got first priority.

And then, after years of saying I would never get another dog, I met Zoey. Taking my girls to the Humane Society was a weekly ritual that we had been doing for about a year. And I was never tempted. The dogs were cute and it was sad to see them, but I was never compelled to take one home. But the minute I saw Zoey, my heart raced and she made me smile…on the inside. I had to have her. And of course, my kids were thrilled.

Zoey was roughly 9 or 10 when we adopted her. So, going in, we knew that her time with us may not be all that long. We pressed on anyway.

Over the last three and a half years, Zoey made it clear what her role was. She was not here to do the cooking, but she would have no problem eating our dinner before I got the chance to serve it. She was never going to clean the carpets, because then she would have a hard time remembering where her pee spot was. And she would definitely not be participating in a game of fetch if my intention was to throw her favorite toy more than three times.

Her role was simple. It was to love. And in a world full of so much hatred, she is a beautiful reminder that living with love in your heart is a much better way to go through life. Zoey frequently demonstrated her version of love by slapping her paw on my leg, slobbering all over my pants, breathing her horrid dog breath in my face in hopes of getting a lick, or dragging me down the street faster than my legs could carry me. It may not have been the way I would choose to be loved, but it was love all the same. 

And I didn’t realize it until today that without giving all that much (in the ways humans deem necessary of other humans), she gave our family everything. She was our constant. And in a few hours, when we say our final goodbyes at the vet’s office, this family’s world is going to change. Maybe not enough for anyone to notice, because to them, she’s just a dog. But to us, she is family.

And though I may not even come close to being the “doggiest” dog person alive, I am and always will be a Zoey person. And as she rests beside me now as I write this, my heart is heavy, but thankful that she showed me how the simplicity of a dog’s love could change my heart forever.