- Amish porn.

- How to pronounce GUINNESS.

- The best movie posters of 2011.

- We Are Not The Dead: soldiers' faces before, during and after serving in Afghanistan

- Field and Sea: A collection of loveliness

- More people should love their job this much.

- Violinist Responds to Concert Interruption by Cell Phone With Improvised Nokia Ringtone Song

- Have you ever wondered which part of the other side of the earth is directly below you? There's an app for that.

- Is Ryan Gosling cuter than a puppy? ALWAYS.

- The comments on this video.

- Because my love is strong and my heart is weak, after all.

Dear Leta,

Tomorrow you turn eight years old.

I'm going to give those who have been reading about you since your birth a chance for that to sink in.

Hell, I need a chance for that to sink in. And yes, I'm going to use foul language because last year when I tried reading you the newsletter I had written for your birthday you stopped me two sentences in and said, "UGH. Are you done yet?" As if I were maliciously yanking out your toenails.

I figure you won't be interested in reading these until you're at an age when the use of "hell" is at the bottom of the list of things I'm worried about. No matter what your age, the first thing on that list will always be, "Is today the day I have to bail your sister out of jail?"

You're a full-fledged second grader now who has physically taken off in the last year. My little girl who walked so late, who endured all those months of physical and occupational therapy because of motor delays can now tear across the monkey bars and swim by herself in the deep end of the pool. If we lived in a perennially warm climate you'd probably live in a pool, you love swimming so much. Which is saying a lot about someone who used to loathe the idea, who earlier last year would have stood at the edge of the water and said, "Surely this is where all the dead bodies go."

The passionate intensity of your earlier years, an intensity that sometimes filled our days with exhausting drama has waned and given way to a much more casual temperament. You dress yourself in the morning, brush your own hair, pour your own cereal and clean up after yourself without being asked to do so. There is no more struggle. And Leta, struggle used to be at the core of your dynamic with everything in your world. You loved to struggle. You were Rocky and struggle was your Adrian.

We still see hints of that intensity, but now I would call it perfectionism. Hello, daughter of Heather Armstrong, granddaughter of The Avon World Sales Leader.

When you attempt something, you don't want to be good at it. You want to be the best. This personality trait bares its fangs most noticeably when you practice piano. And here's the thing: your skill level has far surpassed everything I know about reading music, so your father has to help you practice. Your father is very good at everything he tries, but he's not a crazed fanatical overachiever like I am. Like you seem to be. So I've had to walk him through what goes on in your brain when you hit a wrong note or can't hear a rhythm.

"Jon, that wrong note makes her think she's going to end up homeless."

"But that doesn't make any sense," he'll say.

"True," I concede. "But if you raise your voice while she's in that spiral, not only will she end up homeless, she'll end up homeless and then someone will steal her cardboard box."

Sometimes when you guys are practicing and I hear you getting frustrated, I'll peek my head around the corner, make eye contact with your father and mouth CARDBOARD BOX.

Last week you attended what is called Federation, a program where you play a couple of memorized songs in front of some independent experts who critique your performance. You'd been preparing for this occasion for a few months, and in the hours leading up to it you were so nervous, a bundle of trembling worry. We told you that it was okay to be nervous, that most people get nervous in situations like this. And then I excused myself and threw up because OH MY GOD. WHAT IF WE END UP HOMELESS?

Homeless and alone and covered in sores and cuddling our pet rat.

While waiting for your scheduled time you got very quiet, so I sat beside you and rubbed your back. I told you to try your best. That's all that mattered. And then we entered a small room with five other kids. We sat patiently while the first three played their pieces, and then it was your turn. They called your number. Had there been a trashcan next to me I would have filled it with my breakfast.

You confidently walked up to the piano, announced the name of your songs, and then sat down to play. Leta, sometimes I go through the day and I'm like, yeah. I'm a parent, this is what I do. I make sure my kids are safe and loved. And then there are moments like the one before you put your hands on those keys, when my heart tries to claw its way out of my body and I'm like, HOLY GOD. I AM A PARENT.

I've heard you practicing those songs for months, and never have you played them more perfectly than you did in that room under all that pressure. You nailed it. You totally kicked its ass. And when you walked back to your seat the look on your face let me know that you knew it. You were feeling the win.

I was so proud of you, but more than that, I was so happy to see you so proud of yourself. To see you feeling what it's like to work so hard for something and reap success, to experience a win. Your life will be filled with so much more of this, and those two songs in that room will probably end up being a speck in your memory. Which is why I wanted to write it down. So that later I can show it to you and tell you that I was there. I was there in that room and I saw it happen. I witnessed it: my oldest child growing up.

Thank you for that gift.

Love,
Mama

In the comments of the post I wrote yesterday about the work I'm doing to find my way around this new reality, community member Daisy mentioned that "A Better Son/Daughter" by Rilo Kiley was the soundtrack to her life during a time of difficulty. I immediately went looking for it and then listened to it over and over again at an inappropriate volume. Daisy, I hope you don't mind if I borrow this song from you right now. Thank you for mentioning it.

I'm feeling music more deeply than I ever have. A lyric can send me soaring for hours or throw me against a wall. The notes crawl inside my body and I can feel them humming and expanding inside my lungs. Makes me feel so alive.

Here's that Rilo Kiley Song. There are a few lyrics that may not be suitable for work or young and tender ears, but it's definitely worth a listen. Do you guys have any particular songs that have given you strength when you felt like the simple act of opening your eyes was unimaginable? Please share. (Also, thank you for your comments. I read them all as well as all of your email. Thank you so much.)

But you’ll fight and you’ll make it through

You’ll fake it if you have to

And you’ll show up for work with a smile


You’ll be better

And you’ll be smarter

And more grown up and a better daughter or son

And a real good friend


And you’ll be awake

You’ll be alert

You’ll be positive though it hurts

And you’ll laugh and embrace all your friends


And you’ll be a real good listener

You’ll be honest

You’ll be brave

You’ll be handsome and you’ll be beautiful


You’ll be happy

Your ship may be comin in

You’re weak but not givin in

To the cries and the wails of the valley below

And your ship may be comin in

You’re weak but not givin in

And you’ll fight it you’ll go out fightin all of em