I went to pick my little kids up from preschool the other day, and when I got there I found my 4-year-old son curled up in a small ball on his caregiver’s lap.

The backstory: He and his buddies had been playing (probably superheroes, their current obsession), and playing escalated into rough housing, which escalated into arguing, which escalated into fighting. One friend grabbed a toy out of my boy’s hands; another defended the first, and that was just too much for my little guy to bear. He burst into tears — a common enough occurrence at home, but a rarity at school — and, since I wasn’t there, climbed into his teacher’s lap for reassurance.

I got there about half an hour later, and there he was, all cuddled up. And, instead of feeling protective or territorial or jealous, instead of feeling guilty for not being there when it all happened, or angry that his feelings had been hurt, I just felt… grateful.
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Here in the vast frozen north — a.k.a. New England, post-blizzard — we’ve been dealing with snow days, too-cold-to-venture-out days, and how-did-it-get-so-dark-out-already days. Which means that my kids have been spending more time in front of the TV than the American Academy of Pediatrics would like.

And that’s just TV. Add in the time spent playing Wii (it counts as exercise if it’s too crappy to go outside, right?), the time in the car with their Leapsters, and the time I’m on deadline and I hand them my iPhone and, well, that’s a lot of screen time.
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Once upon a time, I had a proper home office, with a door that closed and everything.

It turned into a nursery.

My next home office became my oldest stepdaughter’s bedroom. My next one was a nook in the master bedroom, with a desk that could barely hold the massive computer monitor from 1998 (older than three of our five kids) and where I hated to work at night because it was so far away from the hub of the house.
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This year was only the second one in nearly two decades in which I did not cook all or most of a ginormous feast for Thanksgiving. The first time was last year, and then I missed it so much that I cooked everything the next day, just so I could have leftovers to munch on. This year, I made two side dishes and didn’t miss cooking the main part much; my brother’s in-laws sent us home from their house with an ample supply of leftovers.

But you may be staring down half a turkey and a quart of cranberry sauce and wondering what to do with it all, let alone the sweet potatoes and the mashed potatoes and the rest of it. Here are some suggestions:
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This has been a hectic week. This has been a tiring week. This has been a wonderful week. And all for the same reason:

I started a new job on Monday.

And I love it. I remind myself that I already know how to handle feeling overwhelmed, that it’s important to remember to breathe, and that, after years of backtacking, I can relish the feeling of moving forward again.

This post would be very different if I hadn’t gotten the job, or if any of the challenges I’ve faced over the last year had turned out differently. Which made me wonder: Is gratitude relative? Or can you choose it, the way I think you can choose to be happy?
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I spent Sunday at the Life Is Good Festival, where my youngest kids rocked out to their favorite band (They Might Be Giants) and got so caught up in dancing to Galactic that they nearly forgot about Laurie Berkner over on the kids stage. Almost.

Throughout the area, Life Is Good had posted big signs with upbeat sentiments like “Do What You Like. Like What You Do” (their motto). But the one that really struck me was over in the kids’ area, a backdrop to the games and activities there, right next to the huge tent where Laurie Berkner was performing. It said “The little things in life are the big things.”

I know it was meant to refer to kids — the two-day event was to raise money for Life Is Good’s Kids Foundation, which is dedicated to helping kids overcome adversity. But the phrase applies to so much of my life right now, it felt like a message from the universe, somehow.

People tell you to let the little things go, to focus on the big picture. I’ve spent most of my life figuring out goals and crossing items off to-do lists and telling myself to keep the big picture in mind. But the big picture is made up of a series of smaller snapshots, isn’t it? And those snapshots are taken over time.

My kids — most kids, really — live life in those snapshots. A famous entertainer was singing and dancing a few hundred feet away, and my kids, along with about 30 others, were wrapped up in the moment, playing on a giant parachute that parents and volunteers were heaving up and down. They weren’t thinking about what they’d tell their friends later, or what work they’d have to do once they got home, or the crappy week that had just ended, as I was. They were just enjoying what they had, the little things, right that minute.

As we were leaving that night, Trombone Shorty and Orleans Avenue were wrapping up their set. Trombone Shorty is the kind of musician who gives you chills, his talent is so absolute. As an encore, they walked off the stage and into the crowd, horns blaring “When the Saints Come Marching In” and “Down by the Riverside.” The audience, which had started to leave, surged toward the stage, parents lifting kids onto their shoulders as the band wove in and around the dancing and singing crowd.

For a moment, there was nothing but the moment. A little thing that became the biggest thing of all.

Over Labor Day weekend, I spent a lot of time with a few good friends, chasing after our kids and keeping up with them in (and out of) the pool. Before the weekend officially started, though, I was dreading the thought of my to-do list. How on earth would I stay on top of it without ruining the last weekend of summer?

Saturday morning, I was up early. I started writing all of the things I needed to get done before Monday, but I kept getting interrupted — by the laundry, by kids who need breakfast (didn’t I feed you yesterday?), by phone calls. So I stopped with the nagging “to-do” list, and started writing down the things I’d managed to get done already that day.

It was long. Longer than I thought it would be. Encouragingly, mood-boostingly long. And instead of feeling guilty for not crossing enough stuff off the to-do list, I was motivated to see how many things I could add to the have-done list instead.

How do you motivate yourself to get things done?

Last night, my husband and I put the little kids to bed and then went to bed ourselves. It was practically unheard of, turning out the lights at 9:15 p.m. without one (or both) of us being sick or without one (or both) of using having to get up for work at something crazy, like 2:30 a.m. I actually started rationalizing the decision — “It’s not that different from going to bed at 3 and sleeping until noon! We both used to do that before we had kids, right?” — while he tried to nod his head without moving it off of his pillow.

Truth is, we were both just wiped out. And hitting the hay on the crazy-early side was all we could do to keep ourselves sane.
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I have to admit it: In spite of my crazy-long commute and sometime-hectic schedule, and in spite of my tendency to clutter and my inability to stay on top of the housework, if I had to choose between being all “Go, go, go” and spending a quiet weekend at home, the quiet weekend would win. In general, I mean, not just right now.

I’ve always been a bit of a homebody/bookworm. So when my kids — big and little alike — ask me, “What are we going to do today?” I often catch myself wondering, “Why do we have to *do* anything?”
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My husband was out of town all of last week, and this week my youngest kids are out of preschool, so it seems like a good time to revisit the whole “how on earth do I work when I have to look after my kids at the same time” idea.

Here’s how I’ve been managing. Without adversely affecting a.) my liver or b.) my reputation.
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