My poor kids had no idea what they were in for when they got me for a mom.

When my oldest was born, I began reading Peter Pan to him before we left the hospital. Not long after that, I decided Pride and Prejudice would be required reading before my daughters (yet to be born) would ever leave the house on a date. And then there’s my youngest son, whose middle name is as dreamy as a Jane Austen hero’s.

When life began in our house, I was quite determined to raise two princes and a princess fit to inhabit my castle in the sky. They would love not only classic literature, but all other fine things of life: great food, foreign countries and languages, art, philosophy, logic, and architecture. Classical music.

But then the inevitable happened: Reality prevailed.

Things like Shakespeare and eggs Benedict quickly took backseats to things like Spongebob and Gogurt as my kids’ preferences won out, and I saw how much easier it was to let certain things go.

Even so, I did try to stuff as much sophistication into the gaps as I could. Sometimes it was dancing together in the kitchen while arias by Mozart and Bach played on full blast; other times it was teaching my toddlers the lyrics to Nat King Cole songs. We read classics together as often as we could, and I introduced them to crème brûlée. They thought I was a genius.

However, many—if not most—of my attempts at bringing them up well were not as happily received as I would have hoped, especially surrounding food. My three-year-old, for example, wouldn’t eat pasta. Honestly, what kind of kid doesn’t like pasta?

So I did what every other woman of my demographic was doing at the time: I started a blog. I figured, if my kids wouldn’t eat the lasagna, someone else’s kid in the world would. I called it Sophistimom, and it became my place to tell funny stories, create new recipes, share our favorite books, and relate my attempts to teach the kids good manners, and anything else a respectable person should know.

Not long after I started, though, I found myself single. Whenever I look back at that time, I have trouble understanding how I had the tenacity to keep going with the blog. But I realize now how important Sophistimom was to me at the time. Besides giving me goals and purpose, it was something colorful and energetic to dance in my mind’s periphery while I attended to darker affairs.

That first summer, while I was really in the thick of things, Brooke McLay, who is a friend and fellow blogger, had an idea to go on a picnic with our two families. She found an idyllic location, and we divided up the food arrangements. Because we both put our best into the outing, we shared something quite magical with our kids. As we celebrated our friendship, I discovered the importance of stopping to do something meaningful and wonderful, even in the midst of trials.

That day the problems of our life were still scratching relentlessly at the windowpane. But we ignored them. We took a quiet afternoon with loved ones, and celebrated our time together.

And as my family’s new life unfolds, we keep finding more moments like these. We love to throw parties when we’ve just finished reading a book together, with some sort of food that ties in with the story or the era. Sometimes, it’s an author’s or an artist’s birthday, and we take a chance at creating something in his or her style. Other times, it’s an impromptu picnic on a Sunday afternoon, with simply the food we find in the fridge.

We’ve created treasured occasions with just the four of us, something I may have thought impossible a couple of years ago. We’ve learned things don’t have to be too elaborate, and we certainly don’t need to impress the neighbors. It’s more about figuring out how to make our time together special.

Because, celebrating really isn’t about events, it’s about the moments—what you learn from them, and how you feel. Celebrating is about cherishing the significant moments set aside from everything else—the moments that engrave themselves on your memories. Perhaps it is a smile, or an uninterrupted conversation. Maybe it is the feel of a toddler’s hand, warm and soft inside your own. It doesn’t matter if you’re serving a feast on a national holiday or just reveling in the first time your kid remembers to throw his dirty socks in the laundry. If you can grab those moments and look at them—hold them up to the light and find joy in them—then you’ve just found something worthy of celebrating.

This book is how my kids and I celebrate on the best of days—with treasured books, inspired music, and of course, great food.

What I Want You to Take Away from this Book

In this book you will find twenty celebrations organized by season, each featuring delicious recipes, suggestions for books to read and share, party music suggestions, and ideas on how to involve your children with each celebration. I hope it will inspire you to celebrate with your own families in simple, lovely ways.

The very last thing I want it to do is stress you out.

When I was first married, I was the queen of letting something like this stress me out. I would have thought that I needed to follow every menu of each party to a tee. Then I would have stressed out that I didn’t have the right stand mixer, the proper kitchen tools, or the appropriate plates or jars.

But I hope you’ll read this book differently. Let it give you ideas, but not overwhelm you. Paramount to all other ideas in here is the idea of being together as a family. If celebrating a moment with your kids means ordering a pizza instead of spending all day in the kitchen, do it! Then use the time you saved to give more hugs and take a few more seconds to look into your children’s eyes.