Joy > Cohesion

Eleven years sober, a new gig, and still no clue.

I’ve been quiet here mostly because it’s been a busy month and half. I flew to L.A. to watch my best friend of thirty years get married, then cycled into the Jewish holidays, and, Halloween (actual) Month. I got 11 years of sobriety at the end of October, which while holy shit, also wrecked me a little. (If you know any sober people, you may know that our anniversaries are sort of emotional landmines; at the very least, mine made me feel old and more reflective than I care to be.)

Me 11 years and two months ago, hanging on for dear life but sort of serving outside American Two Shot (iykyk). Reflection time: One day at a time, that (sad! angry! volatile! unreliable!) girl who became a functioning member of society, a better friend and partner, a mother, and a writer. Is life perfect now? Absolutely not. But it is *beyond my wildest dreams.*

Then, I’m not too shy to admit that Daylight Savings hit me and my household like a ton of shitty-ass bricks. I moved to a new town about a year ago and the adjustment has gotten easier, it’s still well an adjustment. I also took a new job with Spread the Jelly—an absolute delight, please pitch me!—but still, it’s felt hard to carve out the time to produce something coherent for my most favorite app, Substack.

The truth is I stopped being able to generate ideas that felt cohesive. I even started to debate to myself if “The Mom News” was a silly name for a Substack, so sweeping and well, “mom.” Cringe mountain felt unscalable in the face of self-consciousness and tiredness.

But the other truth is writing on here brings me joy and has sort of existed outside my usual fairly-rigid expectations of myself, especially when it comes to writing. (I’m already counting the cliches I’ve spewed out thus far but here we are.) So instead of doing a Mom News round-up or a fully-formed essay, I thought in order to wet my Substack beak again, I’d do a more trad post.

What I bought:

The truth is, folks, I bought a lot. I brought a thousand bags of candy, multiple Halloween costumes for the boys, and the Sandy Liang jean jacket which made me feel Gen Z but also lux at the same time.

I bought Victoria Beckham eyeliner (recommend!), a Donni T-shirt with a sweet bow, and Dieux Instant-Angel moisturizer. I bought baby gifts for friends, a pumpkin carving kit, and a blouse from Sézane. I bought High Sport pants from The Real Real, a Cleo Camp top in black—per Liana Satenstein, of course—and new corduroys for me (Veronica Beard) and the boys (Boden.)

Again. The vibe is not cohesive or edited, just things that were practical but also brought me *joy*! Cleo Camp T-shirt, Donni T-shirt pre-order here and some sizes here, Victoria Beckham eyeliner, Gap x Sandy Liang jean jacket, Veronica Beard cords, Dieux Instant Angel cream, High Sport on The Real Real - it’s real good, Sézane blouse.

Speaking of my little guys, I bought them two brand-new blazers from a secondhand booth at a local school fair, Canopy humidifiers, and a poster from The Paris Review (that looks like my younger son, but is still unframed.) I got acrylic lazy Susan for their markers and more Oso and Me polos and rugbies. My mother-in-law bought them a book that has unleashed a hold over them hard to put into words: DK Anthologies: An Anthology of Intriguing Animals.

The best book ever, Oso and Me long sleeve polo, L.L. Bean hat and gloves, Boden cords, marker holder, Canopy humidifier, The Paris Review poster.

If you want more of my kids clothes recommendations, see the people’s princess Emilia Petrarca’s recent post on Shop Rat, copied and pasted here for non-paid subscribers:

What I read:

I couldn’t put down two books, both recommended by my Substack sister (and real-life neighbor) Avery Carpenter Forrey: Heart The Lover by Lily King and The Ten Year Affair by Erin Somers. The former is like being in a warm bath of beautiful words and nostalgia; the latter a really funny shake-down of the millennial marriage and of course, the Brooklyn to Hudson Valley pipeline.

I had read Jia Tolentino’s New Yorker profile of Jennifer Lawrence and was pleased with J Law’s candor and the vibes the author and actress seemed to share. (I also loved the mention of her vaping profusely at the table—who amongst us has not? Just me?!) But then I attended an early screening of Die My Love for Spread the Jelly so I re-read it in preparation for that. Still finding it hard to put into words my feelings about this truly unhinged movie. (Though Anna Deutsch did a pretty damn good job for STJ.)

Speaking of STJ, we published some really fab stuff this week, including Courtney Falsey’s incredible, thoughtful essay on whether or not to post your kids online. There was also a lovely and heartbreaking story on the website (written by Madeleine Rafferty) about partnership, baby, and addiction.

What I watched:

The Diplomat on Netflix: This show is my kink and safe space. Allison Janney is a revelation. The West Wing, which we are diehard in this household, fans rejoice. Smart writing, hot people, and beautiful settings. High stakes but never uncomfortably thrilling.

The Real Housewives of Salt Lake City on Bravo (duh): It must suck to be a professional comedy writer and understand that nothing you could create would ever be as funny as RHOSLC. To be an actress and know that no character you could embody would ever be as fully-formed and perfectly executed as Mary Cosby. To be a wardrobe designer and know that the looks you put together wouldn’t be as evocative as Meredith Marks in a deconstructed mini and fur boots in the snow; clown-couture Bronwyn in Alessandra Rich eating ice cream with her foul husband Todd; or Lisa Barlow in monochrome blah influencer drag. To be a performance artist with the knowledge that Britani exists. On that note, thank you Bravo gods for Britani, we do not deserve her. Also Wife Swap with Angie made me cry—I’m not okay?

What I thought about:

My perfectionism. I thought a lot about my perfectionism. As I’ve written about before, proclaiming to be a perfectionist is a bit of a flex, a big ol’ humble brag. Well here I go.

To be clear, no one in my life would call me a Type A mom; in fact, I’d be happy with a B these days. I’ve always tried to subscribe to the “good enough” theory (shoutout to Winnicott, my king).

But somewhere along the way, every Sunday night, I started reviewing the boys’ weekends like the way I used to retroactively count calories. Outdoor time, socializing, and cute—I’ve written here before about failing at cute shit—artistic activities at home were “good foods” and indoor time especially with screens and brother-on-brother fighting were “bad foods.” Viewing the leisure time of preschoolers like a number on the scale is even crazier when I rationally know that unstructured play and relaxed parents are the best things for them.

Of course, it make sense to take stock of how your kids are spending Saturday and Sunday. But too much of it is a cage that prohibits fun and probably produces children in your (my) own icky image. Learning how to let go, I suppose, begins with writing it down. xx