Hello there!

Welcome to my little corner of the ether. This is where you will find information about my books and musings on life and love in New York City. To stay in the loop about all things ADR...


boston2 I was in a bubble. Writing words, wrangling girls, so smug and proud for steering clear of TV and Internet and Facebook and lovely, distracting people who want to have lunch with me. And then Husband texted and pop. Bubble gone.

Boston. I love Boston and have friends and family there.

A marathon. People who are runners and dreamers and athletes and people.

How in the world are we supposed to process these things, these unthinkable things? Are we supposed to scream? Dive swiftly into a bottle of wine? Climb into bed and cry? Pretend nothing happened? What are we supposed to do? Are we supposed to write sad, cryptic bits on Facebook, or pen longer, clumsier blog posts like this one? Hug those we love a bit tighter? Hug ourselves a bit tighter?

What about when we have little kids underfoot? We can't turn on the news. No. They are too young, too happy, too innocent. Their innocence is enviable. In these moments, we want it back. Just a little taste. Instead of the news, we turn on Disney Junior and break out the Magnatiles and order Indian for dinner. We sit staring at screens gathering bits and pieces of truth and untruth and maybe truth. We check out, shoving little straws into little juice boxes for beckoning babies because we aren't even aware of what we are doing.

We continue to live our moments. We finish out the day. Suddenly, the mess of toys is nothing, that writer's block from this morning a privilege, the standard issue fare of an April day a gift. Suddenly, our mind is awash in images of runners and smoke and blood. Suddenly, our mind is drenched in questions we'd rather not ask - Who? Why? Are we safe?

I sit here. A person. Just another person who is shocked and saddened. A mother who does not want her kids to live in a world where things like this can happen, where people can train for a race and run it only to be met with destruction and death. A writer who wishes this was all fiction.

The Indian is here. Husband just took the girls up to bed. I told him I'd be there in a minute, that I needed to finish writing something. And now I will go and we will read stories and brush teeth and sing songs and cuddle stuffed My Little Ponies and say goodnight.

But it is not a good night.

As parents and people, how are we supposed to process these things?

We Do the Best We Can

Four Years Later