I don't generally do New Year's resolutions, but there are a few things I would like to focus on in 2015. First, I want to write more, so I am starting with this blog post. To me, writing comes naturally and is very therapeutic but I rarely have enough time to create what I would consider quality writing. I need to make the time. In fact, making the time to do things is going to play an essential role in completing all of my goals this year. Last year I constantly felt pulled in a thousand different directions between my career, taking care of Ash and Liam, being a supportive wife and friend, staying healthy (eating well and running) and staying on top of things organizationally (like getting the kids signed up for various activities without missing deadlines, which rarely happened). I felt like my life was out of balance. While I put a lot of effort into everything I did, I had such high expectations of myself that I constantly felt like I was missing the mark which, in turn, made me more stressed. My body and mind were exhausted and I couldn't keep my eyes open past 9:00 at night. I even went to the doctor to see if the Lyme disease from the previous summer could still possibly be in my system but she said it was all just due to stress...no physical issues were present. I think sorting through my thoughts with writing on a regular basis will help me immensely.

And of course everyone always says they want to lose weight/go to the gym at the start of the new year. Not to jump on that bandwagon, but count me in. For all of 2015, not just the month of January. Feeling good about myself physically and mentally is incredibly important to me and currently I can't remember the last time I had the "time" (there it is again) to go running. It might have been back in October. The obstacles I've encountered in getting to the gym are legitimate; I am not merely making excuses because I don't want to go. There's school drop-off/pick-up on the days I work at home and I leave the house at 6 a.m. on the days I work in Hartford. The only chance I have to spend time with Ashlyn and Liam during the week is dinner, bath and bedtime so I certainly don't want to leave them for an hour to go and work out. By the time Ash is in bed at 8, the last thing I have energy for is running. I need to figure out how to schedule gym time during my work day again, and possibly one weekend day. That should be manageable and I will feel a lot better about myself. I have about eight pounds I'd like to lose but I'm not in a huge rush...all progress is welcome.

I would also like to work on being more present. Everyone knows that I love social media...reading news and articles on Twitter, keeping up with my friends, posting photos (and yes, selfies!), etc. But several of the articles and blogs I've read recently talk about living in the moment, putting down the phone and focusing on who you're with and what they're saying. For the most part, I am not rude about this. I don't keep my phone open during dinner or when I'm out, but I'll admit that occasionally I'll scroll through my news feed when the kids are watching a movie and I won't always catch a question or comment that they pose to me. I don't want to be like that. I want them to remember me as always there for them, playing on the floor, laughing whole-heartedly and truly listening to everything they have to say. I am trying to decide if this means I should also post less on social but I haven't fully figured this out yet. People make fun of me--well, tease I guess is a more appropriate word--for how much I choose to share, that I am "always" on Facebook and that I post too much. I think that this is all subjective. I get that my posts don't resonate with everyone but I love the connection that I feel with people by sharing and interacting with the material, so it will be an interesting experiment to try and keep my phone/computer at an arm's length.

If I'm being completely honest, I suppose my love of social media is tied to my desire to feel appreciated and to have my efforts validated. How those "likes", "favorites" and "retweets" prove that my thoughts are worthwhile, that people understand and *get* me. I have always been this way to an extent. I want people to like me (obviously) and career-wise, I want people to note that I put 110% into a project or that my efforts resulted in a successful outcome. When/if this doesn't happen, I take it too personally and allow myself to get completely wrapped up in thoughts of disappointment and...you guessed it...more stress. I have to work on this as well. I am not a perfectionist by any means, but I take what I do seriously in every aspect of my life and sometimes I have to recognize that it's okay to be a little less serious.

So obviously I have some work to do during the next twelve months. I want to practice patience and continue to exhibit compassion. I want to be present and engaged. I want to continue to work hard but to remember that balance is even more important. I will get to the gym more. I will drink less wine (this is mainly due to my caloric intake!) I think this will be easier to manage once I feel more balanced and less stressed. I truly believe that writing will help with all of this. So I plan on blogging more and really analyzing my thoughts and feelings to become a better person. Stay tuned.

The problem with writing is that I love it too much to do it half-assed. There are days when I write entire blog posts in my head while driving to work or playing with the kids on the floor, but they never make it to the page. There are other days when I open up this site, pour a glass of wine and *contemplate* writing but then realize I have no direction to my thoughts or nothing relevant to say at that particular moment. This doesn't mean I am not constantly thinking because I am...all the time. While making the kids' lunches, while walking to the mailbox, while drifting off to sleep. I mostly think about people. I don't waste time worrying about politics or events that are occurring halfway across the world because they are out of my control. Instead, I spend most of my life focusing on the people I care about (and there are many). I try and make their lives inherently better just by being a part of it. I love to listen, to truly listen, to what people have to say. Over the years I have certainly done my fair share of talking as well, but when I was younger, I was more of an observer. I think when you start out life as a shy, introspective child, you gain a lot of insight and perspective about the world around you. You can immediately tell when someone is hurt, even if the person that inadvertantly hurt them might not notice. You see and notice small changes in facial expressions; disappointment or sadness. You watch and take internal notes, or at least I did. I may have been too quiet to do much about these observations until high school, but I know that the time I spent both writing and observing during those formative, character-building years made me into the empathetic person that I am today.

So when I was sitting on my love seat last night and heard about the death of the beloved Robin Williams, like everyone else, my jaw dropped open and I almost ran off to Snopes to find out if it was true...but mostly an overwhelming sense of melancholy washed over me because of the cause of death. Suicide. I hate that word. I also hate the phrase "committed suicide." It's so cold. It sounds so harsh. I don't know if "took his own life" sounds any better, but at least it's less clinical. People expressed shock about his untimely death and I suppose that's understandable in a way, but if you are familiar with suicide and have lived through the death of an immediate family member, you know that depression can completely change a person's life view in a matter of months. It changes their personality and their physical appearance, their mannerisms and their routine. It affects their level of patience, their former passions, their every relationship. It may not be completely transparent to the public, but the signs are there. And sometimes there's nothing we can do to recognize how serious the situation is until it's too late.

The other day I was home alone with Liam. He went down for a nap and I decided to relax watching some old home movies. (In addition to writing and being empathetic, I am also extremely nostalgic and sensitive). These particular movies are silent because they were filmed with my parents' Super 8 camera prior to their mega Camcorder purchase in 1986. I watched my first day of kindergarten...blonde curls and blue crocheted dress with little brown Mary Janes and a white button-up cardigan. Care Bears lunchbox. And then I watched Ryan's 2nd birthday party, in September of that same year (1984). I watched my Uncle Billy come up the hill with my Aunt Margaret. He was a young 30-year-old, even younger than I am now. Sporting faded but surprisingly designer-looking blue jeans and a long-sleeved v-neck shirt. Young and happy as could be with his hot blonde (who had a Farrah Fawcett haircut, I might add!) Looking at them, tears glistened in my eyes because I did the math. In 25 years, he would take his own life. Would you ever have guessed it had you been in that moment? Would I ever guessed it--my four-and-a-half year old self running around the front yard in that video without a care in the world? No. I wouldn't have. Even in the months before his death (and I was 30 when he died), I honestly didn't think he had it in him, even after hearing that he had been experiencing depression. I pride myself on being empathetic but I didn't even notice it was that bad that he thought it was the only alternative. I fell on the couch when my mom called to deliver the news. I was pregnant and alone and thought I might explode with sadness...I had just spoken to him the day before on my birthday; how could this have happened? But looking back, there were signs. Even when I had talked to him on the phone the day before (he called! he did care and remember despite all of his inner demons), I know he knew it was the last time we would ever speak. It chokes me up to even write that now. But I know he was at peace with his decison, as Robin probably was with his. While we will never be able to understand with our rational minds, it is an illness and it is important that people are aware of the signs and of how to get their loved one help.

I heard some unsophisticated caller on the radio this morning stating that Robin must not have "given a shit" about his three children to do this to them. I was practically shaking with anger at that statement because it is so FALSE. So unFAIR. Of course he did. He just could not see any other way out. Imagine being that depressed and paralyzed that you choose death over your own children. THAT is how serious depression is. Be aware and reach out...help in whatever way you can.

Every year my family and I do the "Out of the Darkness" walk in October (there are plenty around the country, but this one is in Bristol, CT). All donations go towards research and education programs to prevent suicide and save lives, because suicide is more prevalent than you think: Suicide claims more than 38,000 lives each year in the United States alone, with someone dying by suicide every 13.7 minutes. A suicide attempt is made every minute of every day, resulting in nearly one million attempts made annually.

Let Robin Williams' death have just one silver lining: awareness. If you see someone struggling, be empathetic. Don't judge. Take the time out of your busy day to reach out and listen. It only takes a few minutes or hours but may make a difference. I know that there's nothing that I could have done to save my uncle, but I take comfort in the fact that I was there for him every time he called me that fall and winter. I cheerfully told him all about the events going on in my life and tried to make jokes and make him feel like his "real" self again. I am sure I wasn't completely successful every time, but I know in my heart that he knew I loved him and that I was trying to make a difference. Let's all take care of each other. Life is too short to do anything else.

No day shall erase you from the memory of time.

I rarely have five minutes to myself to reflect or think on any given day. With a full-time job, a preschooler and a toddler, it just doesn't happen as often as it used to. The romantic evenings of sprawling out across my bed, pen in hand, to write in my journal are long gone. Ashlyn wakes up around 5:45 or 6 a.m. every.single.morning and from that moment on there is a caucophony of sound in our house for the rest of the day: milk and cereal being splashed into a bowl, cabinets being slammed, lunches being made, brothers being yelled at, screeching and drumming and toddler feet running...non-stop chaos. While I wouldn't trade any of it for the world, there are certainly days where I crave peace and just FIVE MINUTES of silence to serenely sip my coffee while staring off into space.

On Wednesday I visited the 9/11 museum and memorial. I had about 105 consecutive minutes to walk through the space and reflect on a day that changed the world as well as my entire perception of it. I haven't felt that completely immersed in my own thoughts in a very long time. As most people know, I am a sensitive person by nature. Some people would say too sensitive and overly nostalgic. I always strain to find the negativity in it, though--when someone says, "Oh, you're so sensitive" like it's a dirty word, it just doesn't make sense to me. As a sensitive and young person (21!), even though I didn't know anyone personally affected by the tragedy, I took it really hard. I completely immersed myself in the news for months; eyes glazed over as I watched the camera pan thousands of missing person flyers, listened to panicky voicemail messages and witnessed the towers collapsing over and over again.

I think the museum is tastefully done. I know there had been a lot of controversy regarding how to display the artifacts from that day; what to display; and how to arrange everything so that it evokes the appropriate level of emotion and pays respect to the nearly 3,000 people that lost their lives. The space is massive...almost cavernous...and you are immediately pulled into the events of the day with multi-media messaging from news audio clips to witness accounts and photographs of people reacting to the smoking towers (I remember actually thinking "heads in hands" a few times because every single person, no matter what age or what walk of life, had their eyes raised up to the sky with a look of utter shock and horror and their hands covering their forehead. As if to convey that they literally could not believe their eyes. And they probably couldn't.) As you walk further down the hallway, a projector flickers the missing people posters on a bare cement wall. Tears came to my own eyes as I read description after description. I felt like my 21-year-old self again. Alone. Traumatized. Ruined of any shred of innocence that remained from my childhood.

The museum is located seven stories underground, so the original flood wall that protected the towers is still in place and serves as one of the walls on the lower level. The entire space has an industrial feel overall with the exception of the smaller enclaves that are dedicated to preserving the memories and sharing the life stories of those that died. Affixed to one of the walls is the three mangled steal beams that depict the exact point of impact where the plane crashed into the North Tower between floors 96-99. It's hard to look at...a complete visual representation of the evil that took place that day.

The other part of the museum that resonated with me and nearly moved me to tears was the preservation of one of the stairways and the adjacent escalator from the North Tower. These stairs were carefully extracted from the wreckage and placed in the museum. I found it strange how one flight of stairs could generate so many different thoughts, just picturing the people fleeing for their lives and hearing the rescuers shouting out advice to help as many as possible. I stared at these stairs for quite some time, just thinking of the thousands of feet that ran over them to safety...and the thousands that were unable to make it out alive. It is an eerie feeling to be so close to an object that had such an effect on the course of people's lives that day. There they are, just plain old cement stairs, and yet they tell a story that no one else can.

The next time I visit, I'd like to spend more time by the fountains. They are amazing in their size and depth, and an interesting and obvious contrast to what used to exist in that space. You can't help but look up into the vast, open sky and see a huge, gaping hole that will never be filled again. It's a poignant and sad reminder that 13 years may have passed but the fact remains that those people are gone forever. Everything about the site points toward reverence, but not in an overly religious way. I don't think the museum is for everyone, but it is definitely an experience you will never forget.

Can I just "aw" myself?

I ran outside today. It was 20 degrees. WICKED COLD. And yet I did it, anyway, and felt good about it.  Also, I wrapped up a 3-month-long project at work, picked my sick daughter up from daycare, and took care of her by myself all night from nap to playtime to dinner to bath to snuggle time to bed. Sometimes I am actually willing to admit that I rock. Today is one of those times.

When we were little, my brother and I used to go on day trips with my dad most weekends. My mom worked 3-11 so our Saturday afternoons were filled with museum visits, McDonald's trips, and drives to places like Hop Brook and Hamilton Park. Ryan and I would each grab one of Dad's thumbs and we would all walk hand-in-hand. I can still clearly remember the feeling of Dad's slightly rough, dry skin as I clenched his hand tightly. His thumb seemed so much larger than mine, which made me feel safe and secure. As long as I was holding Dad's hand, nothing bad could ever happen to me.

Now that I am older, I long for that same sense of security. I have witnessed so much sadness this past year: death...loss...heartache...vulnerability...and lives forever changed. I spend too much time thinking "what if" instead of being grateful for what I have. I wake up every morning and make sure that my husband and daughter are still breathing. I even check the cat. I know that sounds ridiculous, and it probably is to an extent, but I can't imagine life without any of them. And yet I have seen beautiful lives like ours ripped at the seams in an instant. I know that I can't count on everyone I love being here forever, but I want to do everything in my power to will them to be.

As my generation enters their 30s, we realize that our parents are in their 60s. Even if they live to their mid-80s or early 90s, that only gives us 20+ more years together...which means that we have already passed the halfway mark of all the time we have to spend with them. While a very obvious conclusion to draw, this thought saddens me.

Today is the one year anniversary of my uncle's senseless death. I have already written about him recently, so I am not going to into detail other than to say that I miss him so much. Yesterday was my birthday. Last night I found out from my mom that one of my brother's best friends lost his 28-year-old brother-in-law to an apparent heart attack. His wife (my brother's friend's sister) found him when she went home to pick him up to go pick out their Christmas tree. My heart just breaks for her.

I am sorry that this post isn't very uplifting, especially since we are so close to the holidays. I just had to get it off my chest. My thoughts are with everyone who lost someone this holiday season; especially Angela, Heather, Rose, and their families.

I am totally exhausted. I don't know how stay-at-home moms do everything they do. Or single moms, for that matter. Today Ashlyn was a little on the cranky side (verging on a lot on the cranky side at various points during the day) and Jeff was downstairs creating a presentation for one of his classes.  It was freezing cold outside so I didn't feel like leaving the house, which basically meant it was up to me to entertain my little girl for about 13 hours straight right here. We played with blocks and Legos and nesting toys and the Playskool Busy Ball Popper (which she LOVES!)...we read books and practiced standing and took a bath...then, this evening I broke out the new camera, the Rudolph headband, ornaments, lights, and Ash's "Team Santa" outfit to attempt a holiday photo shoot. She single-handedly destroyed a number of my wrapped presents (crash! sideswipe! reacchhhh and thrust), shoved a strand of lights in her mouth, and bounced a breakable ornament like a ball. I took over 40 pictures but I can almost guarantee that not *one* will end up on our holiday card. Ash threw a tantrum when I put her pjs on, arching her back and flailing around wildly, nearly knocking herself out on the changing table. Then there were slight hysterics and salty tears followed by a large bottle and bedtime. As I'm sitting here typing this, I can barely keep my eyes open and it's just a little after 8:30.

A year ago tonight Jeff and I didn't even know who she was. We had just gotten home from my baby shower. Right about now Jeff was putting together the swing and I was sorting through the new clothes, ripping out tags and arranging them into piles that varied by size. (Looking back at the 0-3 stuff is almost surreal; how was she ever that little?!) It was also the last time I ever saw Uncle Billy. Hard to believe. I know Ashlyn so well now and it's crazy to think that he never met her and never will. If you had told me that night what I would be dealing with a mere week from then, and where my life would be now, I don't think I ever would have believed it.

I have been thinking about him a lot lately...I mean not a day has gone by that I haven't, but I guess the holidays/anniversary certainly make it that much more pervasive. I wish more than anything that we could bring him back. I had a dream two nights ago that he was sitting at a table writing a note and he looked upset. I could distinctly see myself walking over to him and putting my arms around him as my dad watched in the background. It would be so wonderful if that were possible. Life is too short, and you never know when you are giving someone a hug for the last time. Just make sure you always hug and love like you mean it.

I couldn't love Ashlyn more if I tried. I look at my perfect little girl when she's in my lap, eyes half-droopy with sleep; when she's squealing and her two little bottom teeth are sticking out; when she's pouting and waving her hand in my face to "go away, Mommy"; and when she wakes up in the morning, beaming and kicking her feet together because she's so happy to see me, and I think that I just can't lose her. She has to live until she's at least 100 and even that isn't long enough. I hope she's always as happy as she can be, and that if she isn't, that she reaches out for help. I want her to know that she is the best thing I have ever created, that I am already so proud of her. Despite all of the day-to-day craziness of raising a child, there is nothing in the world as rewarding or fulfilling.

I usually love fall.  Well, I still do.  But for some reason this year it is absolutely flying by, and that makes me sad.  I always heard that once you have children, time goes by *that* much faster, and I've come to realize that's not just a saying.  It's so true.  Ashlyn will be 10 months old on Friday, and we'll be dressing her up for her first Halloween (don't worry, we aren't actually going to take candy from anyone since she obviously only has two teeth in her head)...where has this past year gone?!  And wasn't it just September?  Now it's nearly November.  The next thing you know, I'll be sending a pig-tailed Ash off to kindergarten.  Whaaattt.  Make it slow down already.

I should be using this time to work on Ashlyn's scrapbook or my children's book, but my head is so clogged with Sudafed that I can't even think straight.  So I grabbed the old laptop in the hopes of blogging something interesting.  I should have known better.  First I went to facebook (ahem, addict), then CNN, and then I found myself here because I thought "Now at least that's something worthwile" but it's really not if I am rambling on about what I just did five minutes ago.  It's not entertaining at all.  Ugh.  Jeff is at the movies, the little bunny is in bed, and here I sit.  I am contemplating reading or watching TV now because that's what people do best when they feel sick.  GAAAAHHHH this is so boring.  I know I should erase it.  But I guess there are bound to be just as many UNinteresting days in the life of Tara, so I might as well document them for posterity as well.

All right, off to watch House Hunters or something equally as mind-numbing.