Does he notice?

Does he notice that I fold his towels in a sweet way? That I use natural laundry soap and make him take his vitamins and pay up for the all-natural body wash to keep him healthy and away from crummy chemicals? Does he notice that I sneak glances at his 15-year-old self, trying to drink…

No surprise

He keeps surprising himself over and over again. Befuddled by his own success. While I sit quietly on the sidelines, not surprised at all. My youngest, a bit of an Eeyore with a mother who channels a lot of Tigger, generally underestimates himself at every turn. Growing up with an older brother who was not…

Raising a warrior

My hair stylist is a tough man of few words. But he has opened up as he has gotten to know me. Today, he is a chatterbox. I have just introduced him to the enneagram when this tatted up, ponytailed tough guy tells me he is certain he would be some sort of warrior type….

A barn burner

We absorb what our parents show us, deep in our cells, unknowingly. Even as we fight, as teens, to be anything but them, their love seeps into our bones—the very marrow–changing us. Some of those changes appear as is, others are stored for future us, tempered in our cells with time. It must be hard…

Drinking fountains, circa 2012

I started this blog in late 2012. I was reeling from a soon-to-be consummated divorce and  the recent deaths of my mother and father. I was working more marketing and writing jobs than you could shake a stick at, trying to keep my boys in their house and their school. I was also in the…

Go figure

My boy has a dream. It is not my dream for him. I had a dream once. It was not my mother’s dream for me. She pushed and she pulled and she prodded to get me to accept her dream. I nearly did. But despite a high LSAT score, I refused to go to law…

A shout-out from the Queen of Onomatopoeia

Slam. Stomp, stomp, stomp. Clap clap. “Hellooooo all!” And I make my entrance. That’s a lot of hullaballoo for an entrance into my own family room, right? But we’ve entered the teenaged years. The teenaged-with–girlfriend years. Oy. I find myself going up and down my stairs enough for it to qualify as aerobic activity. As…

Up, up and away

At a certain point in my motherhood journey, I stood holding a balloon bouquet so large that I could not see my children through it. A metaphorical bouquet, mind you. Picture little ‘ole me holding a boatload of balloons in my arms. Emblazoned on each balloon was an expectation or wish for my children. Over…

Hell hath no fury . . .

. . . like a mama scorned. I’m not sure I’ve introduced most of you to my alter ego, Cuckoo Mommy. In recent years, I’ve banished her for the most part. She tends to overreact, extrapolate too far into the future and generally worry about things beyond her control. Sound familiar? Any of you with…

Midnight moments off the mapped path

I sat bolt upright in bed, the impact of it hitting me—my youngest son and I have five years together if I’m lucky. Two if Fate is feeling fickle and he goes to a high school that requires boarding. My middle-aged self inhaled deeply, trying to calm the shallow breaths that thought created. For those…

“Oh, waitress”

My eldest is generally spared becoming a human caricature on my blog. Mainly because I think it’s hard enough to be a teen and get through the awkward years without your mom putting you under the bright lights. But this instance. Oh, this one. This one small slice of life on a Sunday afternoon deserves…