When you edit the essay section of a parenting magazine like I did for four years, you get used to reading a lot of stories that start with what I liked to call the "breathless" paragraph. They usually go something like this: It's 7:00 am and I just realized I forgot to pick up the juice boxes for my son's classroom party, which is a problem because I need to get to work in an hour because there are 176 unanswered emails on my Blackberry, 30 of which are probably from my boss, and I haven't even showered yet which wouldn't be such a big deal but I haven't washed my hair in four days because I've been so preoccupied with the presentation I have to give next week, and don't even get me started on my daughter's birthday party on Saturday which I'm pretending isn't happening even though every single one of the 22 kindergarteners we invited is coming and...why is my cell phone in my six-year-old's lunchbox?
Not Chaos. Richness.
Not Chaos. Richness.
Not Chaos. Richness.
When you edit the essay section of a parenting magazine like I did for four years, you get used to reading a lot of stories that start with what I liked to call the "breathless" paragraph. They usually go something like this: It's 7:00 am and I just realized I forgot to pick up the juice boxes for my son's classroom party, which is a problem because I need to get to work in an hour because there are 176 unanswered emails on my Blackberry, 30 of which are probably from my boss, and I haven't even showered yet which wouldn't be such a big deal but I haven't washed my hair in four days because I've been so preoccupied with the presentation I have to give next week, and don't even get me started on my daughter's birthday party on Saturday which I'm pretending isn't happening even though every single one of the 22 kindergarteners we invited is coming and...why is my cell phone in my six-year-old's lunchbox?