Even my moments of leisure were filled with activity and noise.

"Watch less TV."

I'd recently scrawled the reminder at the top of my New Year's resolutions list. Yet while I'd attempted variations of this goal in the past, inevitably I'd return home from a frustrating day at work, throw myself on the couch, snap on whatever mindless reality show or banal sitcom I could find, and relax. At least I thought I was relaxing, judging from the countless times I'd fall asleep in front of my blaring television set.

I often disarmingly disguise my own fiery tongue.

Many years ago, I participated in a large, sophisticated neighborhood babysitting co-op. We had officers, regular meetings, even occasional socials. Everyone was pleasant—everyone got along.

Then one day, our co-op changed. Someone hinted that a few members were misusing it—dropping off their feverish, green-snotted kids when they shouldn't have, taking advantage of others' availability without repaying in kind. Suddenly, factions formed. Innuendoes spread. Knots of neighbors gossiped in hushed tones while standing on driveways or sitting on decks. A once-friendly network found itself deeply, emotionally divided. Women who once were chums no longer stopped by and chatted or drove by and waved.

What packing up my grandpa’s possessions taught me about my things

I'd never even peeked into my grandpa's closet before last month, when my mom and I flung the doors wide and took out sweaters and dress shirts one by one. We packed a few of the items into a duffel bag to take to his hospital room—and the rest into big black garbage bags to give away.

We didn't even know where we were moving Grandpa; we simply knew he wasn't going to get well enough to stay here, in the assisted-living apartment he'd moved into three years ago after my grandma had passed away. A week and a half before Christmas, a stroke had paralyzed the left side of his body. So while he fought to regain strength as he lay in a nearby hospital bed, I fought to hold back tears as I folded his shirts and pants, gathered his belts and shoes.

How I’m learning to leap over my fear

I just couldn't get that pesky dog to jump into the backseat of my Jetta.

Boomer, my 80-pound black Lab puppy, is unabashedly the light of my middle-aged, empty-nester life. And as a proud "mama," I hate to admit he has some quirks. But he does. For instance, when it came to jumping into my car, I just couldn't convince this strong, obstinate creature he was physically able to do it.

Boomer's lack of doggy courage began bothering me. My husband, Rich, and I would see other pet owners at the dog park open their car doors only to have their furry ones—even tiny breeds—launch themselves in, eager for the ride home. Not so with Boomer. To solve our transportation dilemma, we always took our Trail Blazer instead of our other car. Then Rich would lift him in and out of the back. When my husband traveled out of town, I certainly couldn't manage that heavy lifting on my own. Still, Boomer refused to leap into my little silver vehicle, leaving me stuck with an energetic dog that needed exercise—for his sanity and mine.