Every marriage has “One Big Thing.”

When I met my husband, he was getting out of the military to pursue a job with the airlines.

Our first date went a little something like this:

Him: “I’m not staying here.”

Me: “I’m not leaving here.”

We stayed.

A few years later, he got his airline job.

I traveled with our three-year-old and newborn to the city where he was training – the same city where he would ultimately be based – to visit him that Thanksgiving, looking around at apartments and neighborhoods to call our own.

Still, we stayed – in my hometown, near my family.

It has been a great stressor in our marriage. Not the support we get from having grandparents around to help, nor our beautiful home in a community made for raising children – no, the dreaded “commute.”

Commuting is a weekly point of contention in our lives. Before he ever starts working, my husband drives to our small-town airport, waits to find out if he gets a seat on an overcrowded, often delayed plane, and sits in an uncomfortable, germ-laden seat for two hours. Upon arriving, he waits up to five or six more before beginning his actual workday. (On the way home he sometimes spends longer wandering the airport before boarding a flight back to us. On the bright side, he’s gotten a lot of steps in that terminal.)

Admittedly, I haven’t had an awful lot of sympathy for him, because I’m home raising the children, who were, at the start of this journey – toddling around and freshly born. (We’ve since added a third to the mix, who is not yet three himself.)

The truth is, I don’t actually know what it would be like if we moved. Change is a scary thing, especially when you’re raising your kids where you were once a kid yourself, and your parents are there when your husband is not, and you’ve made friends you don’t want to leave behind.

But commuting inevitably leads to complaining, which can be heavy on a young family, especially when you’re getting enough of that from the little people you created together.

He complains about not living where his job is; I complain about not living where I am comfortable.

Just as every profession has its ups and downs, every marriage has its “One Big Thing.” Other people may fight about money, sex, or free time. We fight about location. Being a bus-driver-in-the-sky isn’t as glamorous as it’s cracked up to be. If in doubt, just watch every airline pilot’s favorite stop-motion LEGO video, “Living the Dream.”

Sure, we have travel benefits, but as a family of five in a world where algorithms fill seats to capacity, we’d be lucky to get very far. (See: the first and only time we tried flying standby, which went surprisingly well.)

Pilots are pretty spoiled – they talk of too many days worked for too little pay, labor rules, union agreements, new contracts and old captains. But then again, I’m kind of spoiled, too. Getting to live here, in the place I love, surrounded with support while I raise my babies. We truly are “living the dream.”

So … we’ve come to a compromise. If, after 10 years together in this place we call home, the commute is still a conflict in our lives, we will pack up and give change a chance.

(I just have to find a suitcase big enough for my Mom and Dad.)

What’s your “One Big Thing”? Where are some spaces in your life that could use a little compromise?

There is power in now.

I had just licked a glob of peanut butter off a spoon. 

Washing it by hand at my kitchen sink, I realized how good it felt to do something right away instead of putting it off until later.

“If not now, when?” is a saying by a Hebrew elder I remembered from Sunday School as I sat down with these thoughts. There was more to it than that, and I’m as certain he was not referring to a spoonful of peanut butter as I am certain he’s not the only person who ever said it – but there it is anyhow, in this context, a few thousand years later. 

The New Year is funny, because we all start starting over. I like it a lot … but to be fair, you can start over any day, any hour, any moment. 

(Sometimes, when we have a hard day in our family, I like to cook breakfast for dinner, starting over with heaping plates of eggs and bacon, right then and there.)

I’ve walked three miles every day this week. I’ve noticed lots of other walkers and runners and cyclists out there, too, kick-starting their year with a sudden interest in health and wellbeing. 

There is power in now

I bought a bunch of canvas bags for groceries. I ordered three identical baskets to carry clean laundry to every corner of my house, hopeful I might stop letting it pile up on the stairs, making its way up maybe once a week, and sitting another week before perhaps being put away. Perhaps.

I’m cleaning out closets and drawers (and spaces in my heart and in my mind) where clutter has gathered since the last time I made room – quite probably last New Year, when everything felt fresh and full of possibility. 

It’s a lot easier to put things off than it is just to do them. There are so many ways we get in our own way every day, holding us back from doing what we might get done by piddling around doing things that won’t ever make a difference to anyone. 

It makes a difference in my family when my head and my house are organized. It makes a difference in the world when we walk outside as our best selves, carrying talents and treasures within us and setting them free in the morning light.  

There is power in now. Whether you’re quitting the Royal Family or quitting your day job to chase a dream or chase children around, imagine how much you could accomplish if you started right now. 

I, for one, will be putting my phone down and making the most of my moments as I endeavor upon this most precious task of parenting while seeking to reach more mamas (and their babies) with my words on this page – and in the books I’ve kept inside my heart and on my desktop since my first baby was born. 

I also might put some laundry away.

Hey … if not now, when?

Peace is my word. What’s yours?

I am not peaceful by nature. If I’m being honest, I’m probably a little bit of a disrupter. I don’t know the official word for it. I’m just making this up as I go.

I recently attended a women’s wellness group at a local yoga studio because I am a woman who could use a little more wellness in her life. I didn’t know what to expect. Because it was December and that’s a time to start looking forward and inward, we sat in a circle and thought about our intentions for the year. 

I had a little journal and a cup of tea. I crossed my legs and closed my eyes and let the words flow. 

balance // creativity // calm // presence // joy

The word that kept rising to the surface was peace – peace for me, peace for my kids, peace within and within my home, peace between being a mother and being a writer, peace about what it even means to be a real writer, peace I can carry with me into the world and give to people like a present. 

There is not much peace in parenting, unless you’re intentional about it. In relationships, and especially within families, it’s far easier to match moods than to pause.

When my daughter has a tantrum, I have one right back. I go where she is instead of showing her what peace looks like – and presenting her with the option of meeting me there. When my husband comes home from a long trip, it can be tempting to go jump on an airplane myself. When he’s away and the days and nights seem endless, peace is the last thing I feel inside my heart. I am the opposite of peace.

But in these entirely unpeaceful moments, I want to make a conscious choice to be a source of peace for my people. 

So I bought myself a bracelet with my word on it, and one for my daughter that says, “Let Your Light Shine.” (Her word is actually “self-control,” but I think shining your light sounds a lot more manageable and appealing to a five-year-old.) We’re going to work on these things together in the coming year. I haven’t asked the boys if they want to choose a word. My youngest would probably say “marshmallow.”

Long before I learned about setting intentions, I always loved New Year’s Eve. It’s my favorite holiday. When I was younger, it felt romantic. Something about the promise of a midnight’s kiss and finding true love. Now that I know what true love really looks like, I don’t need fireworks. I’ll spend my evening on the couch with my kids, eating good food and waiting for Daddy to come home from his latest trip. We’ll be lucky if we make it up past 9:00 p.m. 

But there’s more to it than a TV countdown or a party downtown. The New Year feels so fresh with opportunity. And this one isn’t just a new year … it’s a new decade. When the sun shines its light on 2020, I hope I will remember my word. I hope I can embody it, from the inside out, and model it for my children and in my relationships. 

Whatever it is you’re seeking more of in your life, I hope you find it this year. Maybe put a word to it. Say it out loud. Wear it on your wrist. Emblazon it on your wall. I hope you find it, or it finds you.

I’ll just be here drinking green tea and standing on my head. Not at the same time, of course. 

What the holidays mean to me, as a daughter of Judaism and Christianity.

This story first appeared in Tallahassee Magazine in 2007. Since then, I grew up (I think), got married and had three babies. It is important to me that my children know the beliefs, traditions and values of our collective family. Reading this now, at 35, it is interesting to see what has changed and what remains the same. I still believe very much in “being a light” and in teaching my children to shine theirs. Only now I know nothing will bring you closer to God than becoming a mother. Here’s what I wrote when I was 23:

Never do I feel closer to God than when I am outside staring up at the night sky — a cool wind tickling my eyelashes, crickets playing a symphony to my ears, a warm mug of mint tea in my hands.

Perhaps this ethereal connection to the stars explains my affinity for twinkling lights and flickering flames, the closest counterparts we have here on the ground. In that light, it suits me well to celebrate both Chanukah and Christmas, this year and always.

My mother’s family is Christian, and my father was raised Jewish. I suppose that makes me bi-religious, or half-and-half, like coffee creamer.

When asked about my religion, I have always felt compelled to clarify — I know a little of both testaments, Old and New, like a child who grows up speaking English in America struggles to retain some of his mother’s native Portuguese.

I bought my first Christmas tree when I was 23. Four feet tall and crafted by Martha Stewart herself, the tree went up before Halloween and was still glowing clear through Valentine’s Day. I guess I was making up for lost time. (Don’t worry, Nana. I lit my menorah, too.)

This is a card I made when I was in elementary school, trying to figure out where I fit:

I went to temple for Hebrew school on Sunday mornings and attended midnight Masses with friends from school. I danced the Electric Slide at Bar Mitzvahs. I stood up, sat down and stood up again at my young cousin’s first communion. And the services were, in many ways, the same. There were candles to light, songs to sing, blessings to know by heart.

As I grew up, the need to “pick a side” became more resonant.

In high school, I witnessed a Baptist classmate tell her Jewish best friend repeatedly, and with little emotion, that she was going to hell. In college, a Catholic pal began dating an orthodox Jew, and I listened sympathetically as she bemoaned his disapproving mother. All around me, I saw unresolved conflict and hurt feelings over beliefs that were meant to bring us together.

I remember being 5 years old, working on a greeting card that blended Christmas and Chanukah by way of a Star of David tree topper. I’ve never lost that childlike sense of bewilderment, the kindergartner incredulous that everyone can’t celebrate and live peacefully.

I don’t consider myself bound to either — or any — religion, but rather to my own spirituality. I’m not simply a Christian or solely a Jew, and there’s nothing complicated about it. I’m just Ashley. I love laughter and guacamole. I sing at the top of my lungs in the car. I am a good, honest person.

In truth, I practice religion about as much as I practice piano. Which is to say, not much at all.

What I do live by is the aim to listen, to learn and to love. To help people when they need me. To be grateful for everything I have. For sky and sea. For a family that loves me endlessly. For bright pink toenail polish. For shooting stars.

My favorite aspect of Christianity is the Golden Rule, the so-called ethic of reciprocity — “So in everything, do to others what you would have them do to you.” From Judaism, I treasure the mitzvah — the Yiddish word for a selfless good deed. I want to be that light … that purest symbol of faith and goodness.

I’m sure it’s no accident that the word spirituality contains within it another word — ritual. There are rituals in every religion, even in mixed faiths like mine.

On Ash Wednesday, Catholics smudge soot on their foreheads as a sign of repentance. Jews eat apples with honey at Rosh Hashanah to symbolize the sweetness of the New Year. Muslims fast during Ramadan to cleanse themselves through restraint and humility. Buddhists meditate to become one with themselves and with God.

A Christmas tree and a menorah both shine with tiny white lights. One honors a man, a light who sought to bring peace to the world. The other celebrates the light itself — a light that glowed strong against all odds, in a time of darkness. When I light a candle or plug in a sparkling strand, I am reminded of all the good in this world.

As the holiday season fades, we must remember that every day is a holy day. A new light. Another chance to rejoice in all the things we love.

The love of life — this is the light I choose to pray to, the light I live by, the light I revere.

I used to think love just was, but now I know love *does*.

If you haven’t gathered from my recent posts, I think I’ve been sick since October. 

But the kids have, too, so – as moms do – I’ve been taking care of them instead of myself. They’ve had countless doctor visits since school started, while I’ve been getting by on NyQuil, dry shampoo and what little uninterrupted sleep I can get on a toddler and a pilot’s schedule. 

But when things got real this week, and I came home from my appointment with an armful of pharmaceuticals, the ones I love stepped up in little ways that made a big difference. 

That means elderberry syrup made with love and sweet local honey from sweetest friends who are busy with their own kids and jobs and lives. Stopping by on a whim to play dollhouse with my girl so I can take a breath. Text messages offering dinner or babysitting. It’s friends who say, “I got you,” when you don’t got yourself. 

It means putting the big kids to bed early and taking the littlest one to bed with me, turning around from downing cough meds and filling water cups and locking doors to find the Christmas tree turned off. Watching as the baby emerges from behind it, throwing my arms around him in thanks, and heart almost bursting as he says, “you are most welcome.”  

It means my husband, who only has two days off this week, canceling everything he needs or wants to do to look up (on his own, without request) complicated recipes for Matzo Ball Soup, then going out to fetch all the ingredients and lovingly chopping everything by hand as he narrates from the kitchen step-by-step. 

I’ve learned what loves does is leap to action. 

When you’re young and foolish, love is a frenzy, a feeling, a fleeting thing. Then you grow up, and you live in it for a while. Soon your love gives you new little people to love – the kind who bring home the flu instead of flowers. And you realize … love isn’t piles of presents under the tree or words in a card or a diamond on your hand. None of that stuff is bad, but it’s still just stuff. 

Love is hands and feet. When things go south, it’s always your North Star. When people are sick or sad or hurting, you go and you do whatever you can to make them better. There’s a thousand little ways we can be there for each other every day. We just have to do them. 

When it really matters, love does.  

What my Dad taught me about living out loud and caring less what people think.

If you want to know why I am the way I am, picture me and an older, manlier version of me printing the lyrics of “Bohemian Rhapsody” and belting them out at the top of our lungs for an entire afternoon.

Scaramouche, Scaramouche, will you do the Fandango?

Ever since I was a little girl, my Dad was always the one making everyone laugh. And while his brand of humor might not go over well in all crowds, one thing is certain – he is unapologetically himself.

Dad didn’t want me to go away to theater school and become a starving artist. I think he’s only slightly more comfortable with me having gone away to writing school to become a mom who writes about motherhood, but I know he is proud of who I am – and he’ll be my biggest fan if I ever manage to publish a book.

He’s already my biggest fan. He just encourages me to dream bigger.

My Dad gives great advice and dotes on my family with his time and treasures. When my husband is away, he and my mom spend the majority of their time entertaining or feeding us. He has tinkered with our sound system to the point it seems like Peppa Pig lives in our living room, and he takes pride in decorating our yard with the finest specimens from his nursery. This is how he shows his love.

He shows us how to live, too. Watching him, I have learned to be bold in the pursuit of happiness and quick with a punch line. He taught me to tell it like it is, to stand up for what’s right, to tip generously and to love the same way.

My Dad doesn’t worry about what other people think of him – he’s too busy doing his own thing. And he does it well. He also really, really likes himself, as evidenced by his 7:34 a.m. text message to announce today as “a day to remember.”

Perhaps what he does best is love my kids, who call him “Pob” – an unconventional grandpa name for an unconventional man. We don’t spend enough one-on-one time together, but I always love it when we do. (Next time the Chicken Bhuna is on me.)

Happy Birthday, Dad. I can’t top Alan’s surprise visit from last year, but I hope the Abu Dhabi Grand Prix looks great from my couch.

At least it’ll sound like we’re there.

Don’t let Thanksgiving get lost in the middle.

Halloween was fun. Don’t you love watching your kids getting all dressed up and taking it to the streets? What about the quality control of their candy baskets, just to make sure everything is “safe”?

Nowadays, as soon as Halloween is over, it seems like the whole world launches into holiday mode. It’s all red and green and silver and gold, and the ads on TV are less cleaning supplies for your actual house and more hot-pink accessories for your Barbie Dream House.

Let’s not forget – Thanksgiving is a holiday, too, and an important one.

I’m not even going to get into the Mayflower and who lived here first. This isn’t the place for that. I’m talking about a feast and a moment of peaceful celebration and people coming together to give thanks for their blessings.

These were basic blessings, before Barbie Dream Houses. People lived in simple shelters, with just enough clothing to keep them warm and food to fill their bellies. The children played games outside, or with dolls made of sticks and sacks. But it was ­enough.

In a world filled with plastic toys and abundance so far beyond our essential needs, it is a welcome and necessary act to sit around a table with the people we love and give thanks for all we have. Our children need to see it. They need to feel it.

As parents, it’s also a welcome shift in perspective. I have a wise friend who says, “I get to” instead of “I have to.” Parenting is both a challenge and a privilege. This week, I’m choosing to focus on the joy. It’s the kind of feeling that can last all year, if we let it.

So Happy Thanksgiving to you and yours. Let’s take the time to pause and reflect on all the good this year has brought before rushing onto the next big thing. This is my wish for you:

May your blessings be enough to keep you warm, safe and loved.

My family will be having a simple meal this year. We’ve come up with a list of our favorite foods, and we’re sharing in the work. I probably won’t have to do the dishes – because my mother and husband are both convinced I can’t load a dishwasher. (Boy, have I got them fooled.)

And while it’s true I’m as eager as anyone to string twinkle lights and cut down a tree and light the candles on our menorah, we’re going to wait.

At least until Friday.