Author: Jessica Van Bommel

So here’s something I never thought I’d be grateful for: social media.  I know, I know. I’m well aware of the dangers of it, to us and to our kids. The inherent FOMO, the posturing and ridiculousness of it all. The potential for misuse, bullying, mind control. (Remind me why we’re all here, again?) Social media truly can be the devil. 

But. 

Like most things, there are two sides to this story. Because, algorithms aside, we are in charge of our social media. And when I realized that, it changed for me. Yes, if you slow your scroll for one funny cat video, you will be presented with 5 gazillion more of the same. But you looked at that typing kitten in the first place, mister. 

We are the boss. We can hide what we don’t want to see.  This feels like incredible power. You can’t do that in real life, folks. There is no mute button on actual humans, like there is on Insta. Not that I condone muting real people. That would be wrong. But maybe the availability of a 30-day snooze function, at least, would prove to be a useful conflict-avoidance tool.  Just sayin’.  

On the flip side, you can connect with people you might not otherwise be able to meet. People you admire. Heck, you might comment on one of your very favorite author’s posts, only to have her respond to you and start a conversation, leading to her making a video about you and freaking.emailing.it.to.you. It could happen.

You can curate what you see, adding content that makes you smile, discovering new accounts to inspire you, connecting with old friends and acquaintances you’d probably never keep up with otherwise (even though it’s somehow comforting to know that their kids are talented volleyball players, they have a successful business, and/or they are learning to card wool). Your social media feed, like most things in this world, is what you make of it.  Except, I would argue, even more so. 

And you can use your social media time to boost people up.  Instead of mindlessly scrolling, you can engage and let people know when you enjoy something they’ve put out into the universe. It feels just as good to spread the “likes” as it does to collect them yourself. Maybe better. 

I still see too many stories about the British royal family (which is my own damn fault), but right now, at least, I’m also seeing the bright side of social media. 

I may have mentioned a time or twelve that I love words.  I love writing them, reading them, even surrounding myself with them. I’m pretty sure wooden word decor (think: “Blessed” or “Live, Laugh, Love”) is now akin to the side part and the skinny jean, but I never claimed to be on the cutting edge of style. 

So if I love words so much, why haven’t I been posting lately? (Hint – It’s not because blogging also went the way of the side part, since we’ve just established coolness is largely irrelevant to my life.) I have been busy working on some other writing projects. I’ll tell you a secret. I am querying a novel right now.  It’s actually my third. I wrote one before this that I never sent out, and one several years ago that I only sent to a handful of agents before moving on. I have received some interest with this one, but so far no offers. 

While I wait (and wait), I am starting my next book. You always have to look forward, right?  Because if you look back you will be embarrassed by the drivel you created years ago. 

I really don’t have time for all this writing. After all, two kids and two businesses. So I write in the car at school pick-up, during my son’s karate class, and while sitting on the couch watching football with my family. 

And beyond that, I’m completing a do-it-yourself Master of Fine Arts of sorts. This season of my life doesn’t lend itself to a formal program, so as much as I love school, I am taking this one into my own hands. I’ve listened to all the writing podcasts I can find (there are lots!), and I’m working my way through all the craft books those podcasters have mentioned (again, lots). I am exploring my process, mulling over plotting and pacing. Revisiting old YA favorites, studying opening lines, story structure and stakes, and creating character bios and outlines. 

I used to think that a writer was just something you WERE. (Hi, I’m Jessica. I have blue eyes and I’m a writer.) Then, several years ago, I realized it was a thing you did.  (As in, to be a writer, you actually have to write something. A novel concept, I know. Pun intended.) And now I’ve come to realize that a writer is something you are continually becoming. 

So that is what I intend to do. And this is me calling my shot.  (Gulp!) I am going for it, guys. I’m going to publish a novel. Maybe it’s this one, or the next one, or the fifth one after that. But I think it’s going to be the one I’m starting right now. 

Wish me luck!

I used to have a small garden. Just two raised garden beds at the back corner of my house. It wasn’t much.  

And I used to have small children with pudgy hands.  They drove a miniature tractor around our little yard and filled the plastic trailer with produce from my garden. Just two tiny humans. And they were everything.

Since then, the garden has grown to a half-acre monstrosity. The kids have grown. Our businesses and lives have grown. It’s all gotten so much….bigger. 

Yet somehow it’s like there is hardly room for me in any of it. 

So I have decided to go back. I can’t rewind time, of course. I can’t shrink the children, and I’m not even looking to scale back my life. Not really. But I am at least going to abandon the oversized garden. And I am going to abandon all guilt about doing so.

I am going to build myself two raised garden beds again, and I will plant in them a few handfuls of seeds. I am going to get my hands dirty in a completely manageable manner. I am going to tend a small plot of earth and in so doing fight back against the continual expansion of, well, everything.  

Bigger isn’t always better, you see. (Unless we are talking about chocolate malts.)

A tiny garden, just some carrots and cucumbers and peas.  Maybe a tomato plant. It feels right for this season. And I might have to collect the fruits of my labor myself this time, without the aid of a toddler on a John Deere. Or I might find that the kids’ now-bigger hands join in and help, and those bigger hands are just right for this season, too. 

Either way, there will be sunshine on my face and peace in my heart.  And fresh veggies on my plate. 

Most of our kids pick a sport or activity to try at some point. They think it looks like fun, or their friends are doing it, so we pony up for the registration fee and go along for the ride.  

They like it well enough.  Or they don’t.  And they move on to the next thing (hopefully after the current season has ended). 

But then, sometimes, they find THE thing. So you support them.  Because that’s what parents do, right? You go all in, you clear your calendar, you play chauffeur, you open your checkbook, and you hold your breath when they compete.  Not because you care if they win the medal or trophy or whatever prize is on the line that day.  It’s because you hate to see the disappointment on their little faces when it doesn’t go their way. Even if we all know in our rational brains that disappointment is part of life, that it’s actually the secret sauce that builds character and makes us grow – that doesn’t mean we wish it for our kids. 

Inevitably, though, there will sometimes be disappointment (Not this time around – check out the final photo below!). There will be nerves and triumph, too.  Often all in one day.  There will be adrenaline and long hours in the gym and countless concession-stand meals.  One day, you may even find yourself tiptoeing around a hotel room in Schaumburg, IL so as not to upset a tiny cheerleader in Lalaloopsy hair curlers before she takes the floor. Or maybe that’s just me. 

But then you’ll sit back in amazement as your kids do their thing, displaying stamina and focus and grace greater than anything you’ve ever had. “Where did THAT come from??”, you’ll wonder. You’ll muse that you must’ve had a great-great-aunt with secret tumbling skills and composure beyond her years. And you will be impressed by the skills, but even more so by the grit.  

You’ll feel infinitely grateful for the coaches and teammates and opportunities she has been given. You will be exhausted from shuttling her to all the places.  Your head will hurt from trying to process the intricacies of this new sport/community/sub-culture she has entered.  Your back will hurt from lugging her gear around a convention center all weekend. 

But most of all, you will just look forward to doing it all over again the next weekend. And the next. And the next….

I am not going to lose weight this year.  I am not going to save money or get organized.  I am not even going to eat healthier.  I am not going to learn a new language or spend less time on social media.  

Or maybe I will. If it suits me. Because what I am going to do this year, what I am absolutely determined to do this year, is have fun. And if fun comes at the expense of a few “i”s getting dotted, well, so be it. I never fancied myself a hedonist, but I might need to revisit my self-concept, because I refuse to opt out of fun this year.

“Tell me, what is it you plan to do with your one wild and precious life?” Mary Oliver really got it – life is so precious. But that doesn’t mean we should be precious about it.  

Wait.  Huh?  Why am I messing with you this early in the morning?  

Because the English language is weird and confounding. I am not messing with you, friends. Merriam-Webster is. And while “precious” certainly means “too valuable to be wasted,” it can also mean “trying too hard to be perfect.” I don’t make the rules. 

Okay then. So if I were to say that life is too precious to be precious about it (and I am), what does that even mean? 

I think it means we should get out there and live our best lives without losing sleep over achieving perfection.  We can’t be so paralyzed by our need for something flawless that we miss out on something great. Because if there is one thing 2021 taught us, it’s that life doesn’t have to be perfect to be beautiful.  2021 wasn’t always easy, it wasn’t always pretty, and it certainly wasn’t the antidote to 2020 that we may have been expecting. But it was precious all the same.

I need to do a little more living by my own words.  I have been spending a tad too much time in my yoga pants, biding my time, waiting for things to get better, waiting for life to merit “hard pants” again. Now, don’t get me wrong, there is something to be said for watching Golden Girls and eating queso on the couch. But we can’t sit around and wait for life to get better.  We can’t wait for things to improve. We have to make it good. Right now. 

No, I can’t make quarantine protocols go away.  I can’t make face masks obsolete.  I can’t even keep a New Year’s resolution, which is why I wisely abstain from making any. 

But I can go to goat yoga (Heck, I’m already in the right pants for it.).  Or I can just close my computer and go for a walk in the snow. I can get messy, cold and/or covered in goat poop and somehow enjoy every moment of it. 

Magic may be hiding just around the corner of this new year.  You never know. So we may as well live. We’re here anyway, right? Don’t overthink things.  Don’t insist on perfection – for life or for yourself. Just move forward. Say yes. Hit “publish.” Pretend life is a freaking fun-soaked sponge; grab hold of this precious life with both hands and wring every last bit of goodness right out of it.  

We need to teach this lesson to our children, too, because while magic may be hiding just around the corner, life is always going to be hard, too.  We might as well prepare them now. 

I think what this means is that if you rent a house in Florida over winter break and your 12-year-old son is standing at the edge of the pool, you should probably go ahead and push him in.  (Disclaimer: Assuming he can swim.  And assuming he deserves it.  But, let’s be real, if he’s 12, he probably deserves it.).  But the kicker is that you have to follow him into the deep end – don’t hesitate, don’t be precious about it, just jump in. 

Hmmm.

Oops.

I will totally remember that last part the next time I push my son into the pool. (Sorry, bud! Love you!)

And Happy New Year, friends.  Let’s enjoy the heck out of this one. 

It’s my favorite shirt.  It’s faded.  It’s nearly worn through in spots.  It was never particularly flattering. It’s a souvenir from a Lukas Nelson show my husband and I caught in Austin, Texas, years ago. And the concert itself was good, but the shirt is so much better. 

Have I mentioned that I love this shirt?  I don’t think you understand quite how much I love it.  I love it so much that, every time I put it on, it makes me a little sad.  That’s right, sad. I’m sad because I know that each time I wear this shirt is one less time I can wear it again before it falls into a beloved tatter. And it will.  Just like the Eagles shirt and the Chris Stapleton shirt before it.  I hold on to these treasures for, some (namely, my husband) would argue, a tad too long.  But once you can stick your fist through a hole in the armpit, even I know it is time to retire the shirt. 

Pinterest will tell you that you can salvage your old shirts by fashioning them into totes, rugs or headbands.  Pinterest is a dirty liar.  My old Eagles shirt would agree. Maybe a craftier soul could successfully convert their concert shirts into some glorious boho headpiece, but not me. 

I don’t know why I love this particular shirt quite as much as I do. I mean, it does check all the boxes.  Soft and comfy?  Check. Black? Check. And…well, those are pretty much my boxes when it comes to clothing choices. I don’t love the shirt as much as I love my children, of course, but it’s right up there with, say, our pet rabbit.  Actually, who are we kidding, I love this shirt way more than the rabbit.  I love it as much as Ted Lasso. And cheese.  And that, my friends, is saying something.

If I’m not feeling well, I look for this shirt.  If I’ve had a long day, I want to slip into this shirt.  I used to wear it solely to bed, like the rest of my unisex T-shirts. You know the ones – the Color Run shirts and the old college tees and the free shirts they handed out at the Brewers game you went to 10 years ago.  

Anyway, the lines between day clothes and night clothes got a little blurry during 2020, and this shirt simply never made it back into the jammy drawer post-lockdown.  Much like I tried to switch back to hard pants when I was released into the world, I tried to put this shirt away.  I just failed at both.  (Did I, though? Is it a failure?  Really? I would venture to say that the fact my favorite shirt is no longer relegated to lazy Sundays and sick days is a win.)

It’s my own personal “lovie” now. My grown-up security blanket. I know this because I have spent precious time that could have been allocated to important pursuits, such as scrolling Facebook, instead searching for Lukas Nelson shirts on eBay, much like I once scoured the internet for a doppelganger for my son’s beloved stuffed dog, Paw Paw. I wanted to be prepared, just in case.  Just in case my son misplaced Paw Paw, just in case my shirt didn’t survive another washing. I wasn’t successful in finding a replacement for either item.  Paw Paw is probably pretty safe now, because he doesn’t get out much these days.  The shirt, well, the shirt is another story. It’s one spin in the dryer away from extinction.

You know you have a shirt like this, too.  It may or may not have holes, but it’s probably not suitable for public display. Nevertheless, as soon as it comes out of the dryer, it automatically goes to the front of your closet (assuming you are a normally functioning adult human being.  If, instead, you are like me, it goes to the top of the pile of clean clothes on the laundry room counter that you swear you mean to hang up but will never actually put away.  Because it’s just easier to get dressed in the laundry room and who really cares.). You have newer shirts, nicer shirts, but it doesn’t matter because they aren’t this shirt.

Or maybe not.  Maybe, for you, it is a holy pair of sweatpants or a decrepit recliner you refuse to part ways with. Why do we hold on to these items?  I couldn’t pretend to know.  What I can tell you, friends, is that I am very glad that live music is back.  I have just realized I need to go find myself a new concert tee pronto, because I have a feeling that there is going to be a hole in my shirt/my wardrobe/my heart one day very soon.  So if it takes putting on hard pants in order to go among the people in search of a concert tee, then I guess that is what I will do.  And that, folks, is love. 

You may or may not know that I have three dogs.  You may or may not also know that I am allergic to dogs.  Either way, you are probably putting two and two together right now and wondering why you are reading a post written by a crazy person. 

But, in this age of the designer dog, allergies are really no problem, right?  Just choose a hypoallergenic breed.  Sounds good.  Sounds like a perfectly rational plan.  

If you mix a normal, sneeze-and-hive-inducing dog with a poodle, you’ll come up with an allergy-friendly pup, yes?  Well, slow your roll there, Gregor Mendel.  There are no guarantees when it comes to dog allergies.  This was a lesson I learned the hard way, and her name is Pearl. 

Pearl is quite sweet (apart from when she is humping her sister, Bernie).  Everyone loves her (even, inexplicably, Bernie).  And she loves them right back.  Although I’m not so sure she loves me.  Mostly because I cannot pet her.  Pearl thinks a belly rub is her birthright, and she has never met an idle hand she couldn’t prod into petting her head. I have tried to oblige her.  I have tried washing my hands immediately after petting her. Heck, I have tried washing my hands while petting her.  The only thing that helps the situation is a Benadryl – and then I can’t pet her because I will be sleeping off said Benadryl. Maybe I could get injections to address this.  But, sorry, no.  Just no. 

Bernie is related by blood to Pearl; they share a doggie dad. You wouldn’t know it to look at them, though.  Where Pearl is dainty, Bernie is, well, a big oaf. But Bernie is a lovable teddy bear and has my son wrapped around her paw. She is also deceptively intelligent and, bonus, I am not allergic to her!

And then there is Coco, the reason for this post. Little Coco Bean turns 1 today.  This small monster has put us through the ringer this year. We brought her home last December, as a Christmas present for our daughter.  I lobbied my husband for this gift on Ryan’s behalf, and I have often thought throughout this year that I made a major misstep, a serious marriage blunder.  

Coco designated our floors as her personal doggie toilet, terrorized Pearl and Bernie with her puppy teeth and boundless energy, and just generally tested everyone’s patience.  Dan and I had grown quite spoiled, what with kids that had learned to make themselves a sandwich and wipe their own bottoms. See Exhibit A,  “Halloween 2012 vs. Halloween 2021.”  That tiny Minnie and Mickey were cute, but useless at assembling a PB&J. Bottom line: In the past few years, we have grown accustomed to (relative) peace and ease, which Coco disrupted entirely. 

But then.  Coco turned the proverbial corner, as puppies tend to do.  The older dogs grew to like her, or at least tolerate her. Our initially reluctant son even came around to “L’il C,” as he dubbed her. Coco even – just this month – started batting at the bell hanging on the back door as a signal that she needs to go outside. No one asked her to do this.  I had forgotten the unused bell was even there. She just found it and decided to surprise us all by discontinuing (for the most part) the use of our floor to do her business. I suspect this was a timely and tactical decision on Coco’s part, as I don’t know how much longer she could’ve scraped by on cuteness alone. 

Don’t get me wrong.  I loved Coco all along.  But I like her now, too.  Enough, apparently, to spring for a birthday party at doggie daycare. (Thanks, Go Fetch, for hosting – and for dressing Coco up in a ridiculous headpiece to snap the darling photo below! No doubt a lovely time was had by all.) So here’s to Coco on her first birthday. And to dogs generally. And also to carpet cleaner and Benadryl. Because dogs may be man’s best friend, but carpet cleaner and Benadryl are this dog owner’s best friend.

Happy birthday, Coco!

Deep breaths, clear mind.  Deep breaths, clear mind.  Deep breaths, clear mind. 

Did I transfer my son’s karate clothes to the dryer last night? And I think I signed the karate graduation form, but I’m not positive.  I’ll just print it out again this morning before school drop-off.  Except I think we are out of toner for the printer.  Did I order any extra cartridges?  And did I order those big garbage bags for the outside garbage can?  I really need to take out the garbage today.  Actually, I should make my son do it.  He needs to learn responsibility.  Am I doing enough to teach him to contribute to society and be a good human?  Probably not. I can’t even move clothes to the dryer, much less raise a responsible person. 

Ugh. Deep breaths, clear mind.  Deep breaths, clear… 

I wonder what’s on the lunch menu at school today.  Not that it matters, because my daughter will want me to pack her lunch regardless.  You would think I put some sort of magic in those baby carrots and that PB&J (I absolutely do not. I barely remember to put J in the PB&J.). Maybe if I printed the menu, she could be enticed to choose hot lunch and I could get ten more minutes to sleep. I should print it, but there’s that whole no toner thing. Plus, I don’t want to be the one to kill the trees.  Listen, if I print her lunch options every month, there might not be any trees left when she’s grown.  Oh God, what is the world going to look like when my baby is grown?

Damn.  Deep breaths, clear mind. Deep…

Was I supposed to call the spider sprayer?  Or was my husband going to call and schedule service?  It was probably on me. Great. Now I feel like spiders are crawling on me. 

Deep breaths, clear – 

OMG.  I canceled the kids’ dental appointments when they were quarantined for the 286th time, and I didn’t reschedule them.  Their teeth are going to rot and fall out. I have ruined their oral hygiene for life. 

Double ugh. Try meditating, they say.  It’s simple, they say. So I sit here and I close my eyes and I try to focus on my stupid breathing. And now ten minutes have passed and I feel like I’m covered in spiders and I haven’t accomplished anything at all.  I could have made a grocery list, at least.  

Actually, wait, it’s only been two minutes.  How can it only have been two minutes?!?!?  I’ll try once more. 

Deep breaths, clear mind.  Deep br-

“Mom!” 

Forget it. 

And thus I discovered that unguided meditation is not for me.  I had read somewhere that you can come up with a mantra (mine was – you guessed it – “deep breaths, clear mind”) and repeat it to yourself while focusing on your breathing, and – bam – you’re meditating.  And in a fit of self-improvement, I thought I’d give it a go.

The problem is that you can’t leave me alone with my thoughts.  I cannot be trusted. I will burrow down every rabbit hole and peer under every rock I can find in the cluttered landscape of my brain, just looking for things to stress over. I understand that it is a “practice” and thus unguided meditation might be something at which I could improve over time, but…I don’t think so. I know who I am, and I am well-acquainted with my limitations. 

Still, I do think meditation is useful.  And I’m not usually very woo-woo, relatively speaking. I’m not into crystals and I haven’t met my inner child. I mean,  I regularly print things and spray spiders… and shave my legs. 

Yet I discovered that I love guided meditations.  I love having someone else in my ear, in my head, doing the heavy lifting of redirecting my thoughts and leading me to relaxation. Jade and Anushka (yes, those are their names) regularly help me fall asleep, stay asleep, and just generally calm the heck down. Meditation gives me permission to stop and regroup for a hot minute. 

Lucky us, we live in the internet age, so we can find someone to help us meditate just about anywhere these days – YouTube, several different apps, even good ole Facebook.  With phones constantly in our pockets, this means we can sneak in a three-minute meditation any time we are waiting for a Zoom call to start or, heck, sitting in our SUV at school pick-up. I especially like to do guided meditations on my Fitbit app, because I can see how my heart rate is affected during the meditation. 

 And it is affected. 

They say meditation offers all sorts of other benefits, from decreased stress and improved memory, to a reduction in chronic pain and blood pressure. I say maybe.  After all, “they” are the same folks that suggested I could handle unguided meditation, so let’s agree to take what they say with a grain of salt. I certainly haven’t noticed any memory enhancement – and neither has my kids’ dentist, for that matter.  Ooops. But meditation can get me to stop spiraling over printer cartridges and PB&J, so I give it two thumbs up on that basis alone. 

Have you guys tried it?  Does it work for you?

I don’t normally swear…much. I like words, but the real kind, the SAT kind. And I like to put them together and move them around and make them do tricks.

I’m sure I used a few swear words when I was younger and they were particularly illicit, back in elementary school when I first learned that “stupid” is not in fact the “s” word. But the forbidden quality faded, and thus the appeal wore off (Curse words are much like Boone’s Farm in that regard – although I didn’t discover Boone’s Farm in elementary.).  

These days, I don’t swear a lot, especially not in front of my kids. I’m trying, if mostly failing, to set a good example and promote positivity. So I do my best to avoid angry outbursts, and if I do go there, I’m more apt to say things like “gosh darnit!” and “fudge nuggets!” I know.  I’m ridiculous. 

Lately, though.  Well, lately I’ve been feeling very swear-y.  It seems these days that sometimes a well-placed f**k is the only appropriate word. 

Does your daughter/husband/other-person-over-which-you-will-stay-up-nights-worrying have covid?  F**k.

Are you a parent whose school district went virtual or a teacher trying to educate those little darlings through a computer screen? Again??  F**k.

Your kids are close contacts so they can’t go to tryouts/the big game/their little lives generally? F**kity f**k f**ky f**k . 

Just f**k covid.  

Good news, especially for those of you in places with lower covid numbers and less disrupted lives: Swearing doesn’t just work for covid or other big calamities. It’s multipurpose. It works for any misfortune you might face, even the minor ones. 

Run out of Ted Lasso episodes to watch? Or just run out of brownies? Or clean socks? Or patience? Can’t find a paper bag to cover your son’s textbook, because apparently grocery sacks are being hoarded instead of toilet paper now?  Stub your big toe? F**k it all. 

F**k can express disappointment, angst, anger, regret, commiseration.  Basically anything you might be experiencing in 2021. I’m telling you, the word is magic. Try it. It has healing properties, I promise. It’s freeing and calming, and it adds humor and levity to most situations. 

I discovered this phenomenon purely by accident (i.e., a curse thrown out in frustration over some combination of the above-mentioned annoyances – I believe it was stubbing my toe while simultaneously looking for a paper bag and trying to schedule a covid test), and I thought it was strange, but it turns out it’s true. As most strange things are. 

The doctors (at least the foul-mouthed ones) explain that swearing can activate pain relief, provide a sense of control, help to make light of a situation or gain perspective, and even increase circulation and endorphins. 

Huh. Who knew? 

I guess this only applies if you aren’t already a serial swearer.  You know who you are. For those folks, the benefits of cursing are lessened. They’ve built up their swearing “tolerance” such that they are immune to the accompanying buzz. 

For the rest of us, let’s give it a go.  It won’t change the length of your quarantine or please your mother, but it might lighten your mood.  And it will definitely make your stubbed toe feel better. 

Summer is nothing more than a three-month-long New Year’s Eve. So much pressure to have fun, fun, fun (If you just whispered “till her daddy takes the T-bird away” under your breath, you are my people. If you did not, I still love you.).  It is nearly impossible for either event to live up to expectations.  The only difference between them is I can’t just stay home and watch Netflix for an entire season, sparkly aluminum-foil tiara propped against my messy bun and a flute of sparkling cider in my hand.  (Can I?)

Don’t get me wrong. I love a sun-soaked day on the water.  Of course, I think swimming and boating and hiking and barbecues are wonderful.  Flip flops and ice cream cones and blah blah blah.  I’m not a fun hater. But what if I just want to get something done inside?  Or maybe sit on my very comfy couch for a hot minute?  I will tell you what.  I will feel like I am wasting the short summer season we are granted here in Wisconsin. 

Social media only makes it worse. Just open the darn Book of Face and you will inevitably notice that everyone else is camping or cruising the lake or toasting yet another marshmallow, and so you feel like you have to do it, too.  FOMO rears its ugly head.

Plus, you know what I love more than summer? The blissful quiet of a kid-free home.  

No, sorry, that was a lie. Really. I might be in the minority here, but I was so genuinely sad to see my kids go back to school this week.  Maybe it’s coming off the weirdness that was the last 18 months, or maybe it was my son’s transition to middle school.  But, for the first time since my oldest was a kindergartener, I could have shed a tear over the first day of school.

I even held my 11-year-old son’s hand on the way to drop off.  At first, I thought he was a little nervous about starting 6th grade and had slipped his hand into mine for a little motherly reassurance. But then I realized I was the one who was nervous, and I was the one who had grabbed his hand across the center console, and I was the one who was grasping it for dear life like a crazy person.  Oops. 

Saying goodbye to the kiddos is really the only drawback to fall, though. I live for crisp mornings that justify sweatshirts. I love fires in the fireplace.  I love chili. And football (Even though I still don’t fully understand it. We don’t have to understand something to love it. Just ask my husband.).  Sharpened pencils and fresh starts. New goals and routines. Apple picking and open windows. Crock pots and crunchy leaves. Pumpkins, pumpkins everywhere.  Fall foliage. Plaid shirts. Snuggling. And not feeling guilty for missing out.  FOMO turns to JOMO!

I didn’t know what JOMO was until recently, when I ran across the term down some internet rabbit hole. JOMO = the joy of missing out.  JOMO aligns with being intentional with one’s time, saying no to the things you don’t want to do, and enjoying the present moment. This acronym spoke to me far more than any other combination of 4 letters ever has; finding it was a major aha moment. 

And, somehow, autumn allows more space for JOMO. 

I think maybe I’m just not a summer person. There are all different types of folks in this world, after all.  There are summer people and there are fall people.  There are even winter people – mostly downhill skiers and masochists.  There are not, however, spring people, at least not in Wisconsin.  There is only mud in spring in Wisconsin.

I do know that, every year as summer loosens its sticky grip and slips into glorious fall, I breathe a quiet sigh of relief as I shrug into my flannel and head to Panera for my first taste of turkey chili for the year. 

Fall may not be as glamorous as summer, but it’s far more comfy.  (Hmm. In that case, my preference for fall may say something more about me. There may indeed be something deeper to unpack there about my personality, but I’m going to cut myself some slack, since I’m still smarting from sending my offspring back to school this week.) 

Happy fall, ya’ll.