There are things happening, new things and uncharted territory. I'm trying new things and stepping outside of my comfort zone. It feels oh so good.

I was yelling. Dom was yelling. And DJ kept on crying, like he had been all day.

Some days I can breathe deeply, consciously, and calm myself down. Some days I can remind myself that he's only two and that we're all still learning to communicate with each other.

Today was not one of those days.

We were tired, the trio of us: from battling colds, ear infections, poor sleep and skipped naps. The 107 degree heat perhaps affecting us more than we realize. So: there was yelling.

At four-thirty, Dom called in reinforcements: his aunt, to relieve us for two hours so that we could step out and get our bearings on the day and our attitudes.

We went to the movies. Sat in the back row. Enjoyed some noise other than that going on at home.

And when we got home I lunged upstairs, desperate to catch DJ before he was asleep, overjoyed to find him waiting up in our bed. As Dom's aunt slipped out, I pulled DJ close and whispered to him how much I love him.

I turned off all the lights, drew the curtains shut and lay down beside him, sighing deep from within my bones as he tucked his little body against mine, as close as he could get. His eyes were growing heavier by the second, fluttering shut and opening again only briefly to make certain I was still there, his mouth in a faint 'o' shape, pursed. With a deep sigh, he tucked his hand under his cheek, took one last look at me, and closed his eyes for the night.

I lay there in the near dark, staring at his perfect little face, and cried.

With every tear I released the guilt of the day, the weight of expectations, regret, and exhaustion.

No mama is perfect, and we're all just trying to do the best we can, making what we can out of each messy day.

Lately, I've found that something curious has been happening... curious for me anyways. I've been finding and selecting books to read in a whole different way than what I'm used to.

Before DJ, with much more time on my hands, I would scour bookstores and the library, taking my time to decide on a few books to purchase or borrow. I was known to walk out of the library with five books at once. I would read anything, really, even if I wasn't feeling it. As Elise recently said, "Life is too short to waste time on a book you're not connecting with," and I couldn't agree more, kids or no kids.

These days, I find myself relying heavily (almost solely) on suggestions from friends online. It's nearly impossible, when I see someone I admire online posting about a book they loved, for me not to look into what the story is about. Having tried to read one of Jojo Moyes books over a year ago and not getting past the second page, I probably would never have picked up Me Before You, if it weren't for Meg.

And what a terrible shame that would have been, because it was so stunningly sad and incredible.

Anyways, it got me wondering about how you all find and select what books you read? I'd love to hear from you.

Isn't it amazing the way the taste of food can transport us?

Recently, I was rushing around grocery shopping and mailing packages alongside many other errands and my stomach had started growling at me mercilessly. As a last minute thing, I threw a package of seaweed salad into my basket and headed for the check out line.

Back home, groceries put away, I sat down at my desk, thumbed through my email and dove into the salad... and was transported through space and time, right back to the first time I ever tried it.

My memories are powerful - it was 2007 and I had only recently come to discover how incredible sushi was. It was a work day, one of my first few at my first "real job" post College, and a group of us were out for lunch at a sushi bar just down the road from our office. It was pretty legit in terms of sushi restaurants: we knelt on long cushions on the floor and were given no cutlery. Their salmon nigiri was to die for and their saki remains to this day the only saki I've ever liked.

Someone suggested I try the seaweed salad, which naturally, sounded disgusting, but I remember at that moment, feeling as though ordering the mysteriously unnatural green, slimy salad would somehow make up for all the other times I've erred on the side of caution. Read: all the times I was plain chicken-shit to try anything new.

And so I ordered the seaweed salad, and it was glorious.

I was so young back then, though of course I didn't feel that way then, and I thought I was happy. I had just moved in with my then-boyfriend into a two-bedroom apartment that nearly overlooked the park and was taking pride in my new life of caring for a household and someone other than myself.

It’s like this for many of my food memories, a single ingredient - or even the smell of one - that has me imagining a scene from my past.

I no longer work for that company, no longer live in the same town or even Country, and no longer speak with any of the people that I ate lunch with that day, but every time I pop a mouthful of that salad into my mouth, I'm right back there, as if the last eight years never existed. And that's a powerful thing.