Three Little Words


The syllable was drawn out, long and low with a hint of whine, a precursor to a request that would invariably involve my stopping what I was doing within the next fourteen seconds.

“Yes, August?”

“I love you.”

IMG_4509This started a while ago and has continued multiple times a day ever since. At first I thought it was simply my affectionate six-year-old’s attempt to test out the phrase, one he’s heard so many times, his way of attaching meaning to this sequence of words.

Then I thought it was his way of checking in. I was doing my thing; he was doing his thing. And though I was no more than ten feet away, he wanted to make sure I was still there.

And soon I noticed it would come along, in customary sibling fashion, when one of his brothers was in trouble, an effort to highlight the fact that at this exact moment it wasn’t him.

It took me a long time to come around to this particular sentence. Though I had heard the words regularly from my mother as a child, they never seemed to align with what I thought love was supposed to be—at least according to what I observed in others, read in books, and gleaned from the all-instructive late-‘70’s NBC television lineup and 92 PRO FM playlist.

So, for a long time this sentence gave me difficulty; and I concluded, perhaps with a sigh, that it simply was not for me. I filed it away, heard other people say it, show it and wondered about it; and though I know I felt it, I never really knew how to say it.

That changed, of course, once deeds matched words, and “I love you” soon became something I not only needed to hear but needed to say. Many people, of course, feel they don’t need to say “I love you” if they are showing it. But for me, given my checkered, truncated history with this sentence, I want to leave no room for doubt.

And though August’s history is not the same as mine, he, too, is figuring out this all-important sentence. He asked this week, “Mom, why do I say ‘I love you’ so much?”

I asked him why he thought he did; and he said, “Because it’s in my heart.”

Speaking your heart. A lesson from an exceedingly loving, uninhibited six-year-old.

To a Father

It took time for me to wrap my head around Father’s Day.

Growing up, my single mother would generally ask my brother and me to acknowledge her on both Mother’s Day and Father’s Day.  It always felt obligatory, and our gifts therefore bordered on the snarky if not condescending.  And while it is true we grew up without a father in our life, our mother was not our father.  That piece was missing; and all the toolsets and Father’s Day cards we purchased for her would not make it any different.

Fast-forward many years to June 2001, my husband’s first Father’s Day.  We were foster parents, and by then I had a front-row seat to what fatherhood should look like.

Fatherhood is all-encompassing, self-deprecating, and without ego.  It is silly and playful and gentle and kind; it is showing instead of telling and taking deep breaths and rolling up your sleeves.  Most importantly it is being present, respecting each child’s individuality, and putting someone else’s needs before your own.

For being a father in every sense of the word, thank you, Donald Farias.  This beauty would not exist without you.


Changing of the Name

Nature’s first green is gold,

Her hardest hue to hold.

Her early leaf’s a flower;

But only so an hour.

Then leaf subsides to leaf.

So Eden sank to grief,

So dawn goes down to day.

Nothing gold can stay.

–Robert Frost

This blog was born in June 2008. Oscar was three, Edgar two. August wasn’t due to arrive on the scene for another year. And the idea that David, our then-foster son eight years prior who never, for a single second, left our hearts, would find us, want to reconnect with us, and then move in with us seven years later was a dream we never dared entertain.

In these 11 last months, writing about the transformation our family was undergoing was challenging. I blamed it on writer’s block, figuring every other writer on the planet suffered the occasional bout, so why shouldn’t I? But, of course, it was more than that.

For reasons of privacy, empathy, and truly not knowing what to do with the well of emotions that have been steeping for the last year, I opted to put my efforts elsewhere, living life and electing to make sense of it through writing later.

IMG_4035But now later has arrived.

And thus the name of this platform must now necessarily change—once The Adventures of Oscar and Edgar; then, with the arrival of August and a nod to one of my favorite childhood television shows, My Three Sons.

But no longer are there three sons.

There are four.


I will spend a lifetime trying to figure out how this all happened, endeavoring to deserve the honor that has been bestowed on me, the trust that has been placed in me.

But for now, I will start today with a name change.

This blog was born when it struck me, several years into parenthood, that life was moving far too fast and, IMG_4073more to the point, I was infinitely incapable of holding on to all I wanted to remember about their childhoods. Writing the tales of my children’s lives and what I was learning from them was a way for me to retain their myriad stories, to stop time, in a sense, and in so doing leave behind something tangible that would show my children (and anyone else who cared to read) the limitless love I have for each of them.

A tall order, but it worked.

Life’s moments captured, immortalized, and remembered.

Frost is mostly correct, of course. Nothing gold can technically stay. But by recognizing and writing about the gold—the small and not-so-small moments that weave a life—I can at least preserve it.

And in that way the gold can stay.

Fourteen Years, Then France

IMG_2947To spend ten consecutive days with him is something I never dared dream.

To spend ten consecutive days with him in France is nothing I could have ever conceived.

He was a toddler when he walked into our lives and our hearts fourteen years ago. And when he left nine months later, we knew we would never be the same.

He was our foster son; and each day he was with us, every move we made, every thought we had was for him. We held his hand as he negotiated our city’s streets, read to him every night stories about the world we live in, narrated to him all he heard and saw. We loved him and watched him grow and learn.

And when he left we didn’t know when or even if we would ever see him again. Our plan was to try to find him when he was eighteen; and, if he consented, we would tell him who we were, share stories and photos of his time with us.

But he beat us to it.

On a July morning last summer, I rose to a still-sleeping house and made my way downstairs. I poured a large glass of orange juice and turned on my computer to check my email. And there in the subject line the name I had carried with me every day since that cold November day in 2000 when we first met.

Sixteen years old and living a mere 42 minutes away.

And so soon we met. Again.

It was alternately effortless and all-consuming, a beginning and a natural continuation.

We shared conversations and connections. The topic of travel came up.

I mentioned I was planning a trip to France. I told him if he wanted to go, we could figure out a way to make that happen.

He did. And we did.

First passport, first flights, first everything.

Paris, Arles, Nice.

And I once again and fourteen years later had a front-row seat . . . observant and awestruck, wondering if words existed to capture any of this and finally realizing they really don’t.

But perfect moments do.

Whether on a too-cold November night in 2000, at a computer on an early morning in July, or on a boat moving dreamily along the Seine.

They come when they come.

And when they do, nothing is–thankfully–ever the same.

To Every Day but New Year’s

Hellos are fleeting and overrated.

Goodbyes are empty and simply no good.


The time in the middle.

Both the surprises and the predictability.

The causes and the effects.

The Tuesday night dinners.

Pilled sweatshirts and jeans.

Smiling for no reason.

For every reason.

And crying out of necessity.

And other than on cue.

Used and worn.  Slightly dented.

Tired eyes and wrung out.

Yet still walking forward

And welcoming more.

Kindnesses unbidden extended.

And received.

With gratitude and dignity and without expectation.

The script abandoned.

Letting go and letting in.

The calendar more tool than symbol.

More convenience than edict.

The time in between.

The middle.



This Ordinary

“Just write about your writer’s block.  Everyone will understand.”

Advice from my ten-year-old.

And though he is arguably one of the wisest people I know, I had to tell him that most people don’t really find a writer’s process all that interesting let alone being regaled with the stories of the occasional bout of writer’s block.

He countered, “Well, then, tell them why you have it.”

Why I have it . . .

Well, it’s simple really—and anything but.

I have writer’s block because something so unexpected and profound yet so remarkably perfect and easy has occurred.  It’s all I want to write about but yet I can’t.

Countless hours spent thinking; a web of memories untangled, tens of thousands of words contemplated . . . and nothing.

Which brings me back to why . . .

Why–when this is such a good story, such an unbelievably happy turn of events–am I so uncharacteristically hesitant to do what I do best and shout it from the rooftops?

Is it because it’s not just my story?

That’s what I have consoled myself with over the last several weeks as I looked day after day at a blank monitor, stared at the fingertips that have always been so accustomed to moving across the keyboard with far less thought than I generally like to admit, why when the few words did come to me, I wrote them, saved them, and promptly put them away:  It’s not just my story.  I have to be judicious, show good judgment.

But tonight as I walked through my neighborhood, dark and quiet, the salty air washing over me, I realized any block I was experiencing had nothing to do with my being smart or overtly sensitive to the feelings of others.  I mean, I try to do, to be both of those things in every facet of my life.  But as a writer, it has always been my contention—if not my compulsion—to write what I know, what I need to write, let the chips fall where they may.

I wanted to believe my writer’s block was because I was, am a nice person.

So noble.  So magnanimous.

But that isn’t it at all.

IMG_8734It’s because even though this story is so remarkable, it’s not; because even though things like this don’t happen every day, or ever, this story had to continue.

It is the period at the end of a sentence that’s been unfinished for the last thirteen years.

A logical conclusion and a custom fit.

A fairy tale ending, but still beautifully, blissfully ordinary.

And no one wants to read about ordinary.

And I don’t want to write it.

But live it?

I’ve been waiting thirteen years to live this ordinary.

Fabulous Fiction and a Forever Friendship

“Keep your thoughts positive because your thoughts become your words. Keep your words positive because your words become your behavior. Keep your behavior positive because your behavior becomes your habits. Keep your habits positive because your habits become your values. Keep your values positive because your values become your destiny.”  –Mahatma Gandhi

Jenny TropeaSome years ago I walked into my classroom and was met by one of the brightest smiles I had ever encountered.  Her name was Miss Tropea then, and she exuded from the moment we were introduced such grace, poise, and passion.  We taught English together–and though it was not for as long as I might have liked, our bond has remained.  Her soul is gentle and kind, and her positivity is unparalleled.  I feel honored to call her my friend.

To know Jenny is to know goodness, to know thoughtfulness, determination, and empathy.  So, when she emailed me recently to share some very big news, I smiled–a lot.  My faith in the universe is continually restored when good things happen to good people.

Please allow me to introduce to you Jennifer Tropea O’Regan, author of “Confessions of a Bookaholic,” who is sharing here a dozen books that need to make their way into your beach bag this summer!

Thank you, Jenny, for sharing your love of reading with others, for your friendship, and for supporting women at every turn.

Confessions of a Bookaholic: Your Essential Summer Reading List

Dishing, musing, interviewing, and promoting the HOTTEST NAMES in women’s contemporary fiction

by Jennifer Tropea O’Regan

Whether you yearn for a tearjerker, thriller, or are simply a chick-lit devotee, my list of awesomely addictive books will keep you enthralled through Labor Day. My recommendations cover a gamut of page-turners, including Allison Winn Scotch’s soon-to-be-adapted hit and Emily Giffin’s unconventional story of love and loyalty.

Emily Giffin, the beloved author of such novels as Something Borrowed and Where We Belong, returns with an extraordinary story of love and loyalty—and an unconventional heroine struggling to reconcile both. The One & Only is unequivocally Giffin’s most cinematic novel to date. Friday Night Lights meets When Harry Met Sally  . . .  (I have high hopes George Clooney will play hunky Coach Clive Carr on the big screen!) ;)

All Fall Down is the story of a woman’s slide into addiction and struggle to find her way back up again. With a sparkling comedic touch and tender, true-to-life characterizations, this tale of empowerment and redemption is Jennifer Weiner’s most poignant, timely, and triumphant story yet.

Tempting Fate has been artfully described as a Scarlet Letter for the 21st century. Jane Green expertly depicts a woman trapped between contentment and temptation, crafting an insightful look into married life . . . A spellbinding triumph!

The Theory Of Opposites follows the trials and tribulations of Willa Chandler-Golden, daughter of a top self-help book author, as her marriage, her job and almost everything else in her seemingly stable life goes off the rails. Allison Winn Scotch’s sharp and witty sensation has been picked up by Jennifer Garner’s production company. A must-read before it hits the big screen!

The Matchmaker is a touching new novel from bestselling author Elin Hilderbrand in which a woman sets out to find love for those closest to her . . . before it’s too late. Hilderbrand’s up-front style pulls the reader into the minds of her gorgeously nuanced characters leaving us longing for more.

Internationally bestselling author Sarah Pekkanen delivers a lively, compulsively readable novel about the intricacies of marriage and commitment–and how small kindnesses can restore familial bonds after an estrangement in Catching Air. (Devoured this gem in 48 hours!)

Emily Liebert has a gift for constructing true-to-life, humorous discourse. You Knew Me When is an authentic novel full of nostalgia–the perfect read for anyone who has ever longed to reconcile with an old friend. This novel resonated with me long after finishing.

Internationally bestselling author Catherine McKenzie’s latest book may be her best yet. Hidden explores the interconnecting lives of a man, his wife, and a woman who may or may not be his mistress. Filled with nail-biting tension until the very last page, the ending will leave you speechless!

Someone hand me a tissue, please… Balancing sorrow and humor, In the Mirror is an exquisitely poignant novel and an evocative homage to the things that matter most: family and friends. Kaira Rouda‘s novel resonated heavily after my husband’s plight with cancer.

NYT-bestselling author Sarah Jio delivers an invigorating blend of mystery and romance! Goodnight Moon by Margaret Wise Brown (Goodnight Songs) is an adored childhood classic, but its real origins are lost to history. In Goodnight June, Sarah Jio offers an enthralling and earnest take on how the “great green room” might have come to be. Delightful and uplifting, it lingers long after the last page . . .

Gone Girl meets Gossip Girl in Tatiana Boncompagni’s Social Death, a breathless thriller about the murder of a beautiful socialite and the scandalous secret she dies trying to reveal. Money and fame can conceal all manner of deceit, but only for so long. This riveting page-turner will keep readers up well past bedtime . . .

When a 14-year-old runs away, her parents turn to social media to find her–launching a public campaign that will expose their darkest secrets and change their family forever.  Don’t Try to Find Me is a suspenseful and gripping debut for fans of Reconstructing Amelia and Gone Girl. A transfixing, emotionally enthralling, and chillingly plausible read, Holly Brown is an up-and-comer!

Additional authors I recommend without reservation: Stacey Ballis, Caprice Crane, Amy Hatvany, L. Alison Heller, Liz Fenton & Lisa Steinke, Jen Lancaster, and Susan Wiggs.

In addition to fostering a love of literacy within her unprivileged high school students, Jennifer has many noteworthy philanthropic accolades. During her husband’s plight with cancer – she single-handedly raised over 3,000 books for the Johns Hopkins Hospital Oncology Patient Library. Jennifer is now sharing her unbridled passion for reading via Confessions of a Bookaholic–a page dedicated to celebrating female authors. Follow her on Facebook (Jennifer Tropea O’Regan) and Twitter (@Jenny_Oregan).