Fake it til you make it. This is a biggie. When I’m super exhausted and want to crawl back into bed, I put on real, presentable clothes instead of yoga pants and a t-shirt. Because let's face it, napping when they nap isn't really going to happen. So instead, I put together my best self to tackle the longest of days.
The View from the Top of Ferris Wheel, and Why I Love Concerts
I belted out all of the lyrics along with Marcus Mumford. And it felt so good to feel like myself. Chrissy Roussel. Not “Lucy’s mom,” or “Molly’s mom,” or “the lady with the six girls including surprise triplet girls.” And it was wonderful, all of it—the singing, the dancing, the being present in that moment and feeling the music.
Those Tiny, Beautiful Moments
You know the moments—those beautiful, tiny, unexpected moments where you step back and you see your children with new, clear eyes. Those moments where life, albeit briefly, can’t get any better and see your kids for the beautiful little people they are (or can be, in these moments).
What It Means to Be a Preemie Mom
12. It means that “coming home day” actually involves going back to the hospital to pick up your baby when she finally leaves the NICU.
On Losing a Parent, and How to Help a Friend Who's Grieving
We were in the middle of meat section at Costco when Lucy declared “it smelled like Grandpa.” Which was rather bizarre because, first of all, we were in Costco. Second of all, Lucy was only six when my dad died—did she remember what he smelled like? What did she think he smelled like? As I bent down to pepper her with questions—I smelled it. The familiar scent of Skin Bracer aftershave. It was the same after shave my dad had worn for decades.
Tiny Tornadoes, the Value in Sitting, and Other Things
To My First Baby On Your 8th Birthday: The Things You've Taught Me
An Ode to the Drive Through Coffee Shop
2. You can do some serious multitasking while you’re in line. Chat with a friend. Amazon Prime that birthday present for Susie’s party on Saturday. Pluck your brows.
Snapshot of a Morning
7:25 a.m. Now crossing in to very late territory. Announce to Seth I have to go, and all babies cling to my legs like static-y socks. Try to peel them off. Still crying. They were happy earlier, do they know I’m leaving? What is going on? Babies don’t cry.
David Bowie, Under Pressure, and the Changing Soundtrack of My Life
While the days at home can be long (sometimes unsufferably long, yes), the soundtracks in my head are now much more upbeat. They’re cheery and bright theme songs. I hear The Good Life by One Republic. We all got our stories but please tell me what there is to complain about… Oh this has gotta be the good life This has gotta be the good life This could really be a good life, good life.
Grandma
She doesn’t focus on the laundry that isn’t folded, the dishes that need to be done; in fact, she waves those concerns away as she sits and laughs and holds the babies. She focuses on one thing—baby joy. And that sparks such a joy in me. I notice more. I pause. I don’t hurry through the day’s tasks but instead, I stop. I notice. I appreciate. I take the time to enjoy it all. If only for a few minutes, I pause to breathe in the babies’ clean hair. I notice their sturdy little feet, which are now so much bigger.