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So. I did a thing. Kind of a crazy thing. 

I quit drinking.  

I know.  Of all the weird things I’ve done in my life, this one ranks right up there.  

Since quitting, I’ve been looking over my shoulder, expecting the sober police to come and grab my arm and forcibly remove me from the Great State of Wisconsin. I even considered sporting a foam Cheesehead to throw them off my trail. I am aware of where I live, after all. Wisconsin has more bars per capita than almost any other state in the nation (Cheeseheads off to you, Montana and North Dakota, for taking the honors there.). My alma mater, UW-Madison, has ranked repeatedly as the top party school in the US.  Our largest town is nicknamed Brew City, for Pete’s sake.

I was also afraid that I wouldn’t be considered fun any longer, or that my friends wouldn’t want to hang out with me. So I hid my alcohol abstinence for a bit with an insulated cup of undeterminable contents or a non-committal response to a drink offer, until I remembered one simple, freeing truth – other people aren’t thinking about me.  Like, at all. (Plus, I wasn’t that much fun in the first place, and I didn’t have time to hang out with friends anyway. Any spare time I do have is allocated to watching Ted Lasso on my couch. Or maybe I just didn’t have that many friends to begin with. Either way, I do have a ridiculously comfy couch.) 

I’m not sure why I stopped drinking.  I mean, there was a bad hangover after a girls’ weekend earlier this year. But it certainly wasn’t my first hangover.  (I did just tell you that I went to UW-Madison, after all.)

I decided, however, that it would be my last. 

That girls’ weekend aside, I wasn’t a particularly heavy drinker in recent years. Not for someone who came of age in Wisconsin and entered motherhood during the height of “mommy wine” culture.  Nights out with friends are few and far between in this frenetic stage of my childrearing (read: taxi-driving) life, and my hubby and I only sneak in the sporadic, well-earned date night.  I suppose I could have decided to just stick with one drink on the rare occasions I found myself in a bar. However, I realized that even one glass of wine would disrupt my sleep and cause my mind to spiral the next day.  

So I don’t think alcohol was necessarily a “problem” for me, yet it was a problem for me.  Because anything that makes me feel less than stellar is a problem. I just don’t have time for it. (Granted, I have a bit more time now than I did a couple of months ago, since I also quit something else – namely, my job. But that’s another post for another day.)

Bottom line: It’s been almost five months now, and I’ve found that I haven’t missed drinking.  Plus, my anxiety has dissipated, I have started sleeping better, and I have become more focused. 

Then, something even better happened a few weeks ago! I started losing weight.  Without even trying. Not a ridiculous amount, but enough for me to notice a difference. Now, you may be thinking that perhaps the aforementioned focus, rest and stress reduction should be valued more highly than dropping some lbs., but we aren’t here to evaluate my priorities, folks. Don’t get judge-y on me now.

And I’ve had a great summer, with the aid of neither spiked seltzers nor sauv blanc. I still love a boating day, still go out to eat, and even still attend the occasional party (We already covered my less-than-active social life, so “occasional” is the most one can expect on that front, drinking or no drinking.).   My family and friends still enjoy adult beverages, and I enjoy hanging out with them when they do.  Because free entertainment. 

So you drink your Busch Latte, I’ll sip my Topo Chico, and we will all be friends. As long as you keep your hands off my Topo Chico.  That stuff is surprisingly hard to find for a beverage so tasty.  Although I’m hearing reports now that Topo Chico may not be good for you, either.  Gah!  I mean, it’s bottled water.  Come on already.  If Topo Chico is wrong, I don’t want to be right.

Will I drink alcohol again? Oh, I don’t know. Life is long, and chances are probably good.  But right now I’m grateful for the changes that abstaining has brought to my weight, er, I mean…to my overall health and well-being.  So please don’t drive me out of Wisconsin. I still like cheese curds. I can even pronounce Weyauwega. And Giannis. (I used to pronounce Aaron Rodgers just fine, too, but that one is sticking in my throat a little these days.)  I’m still a Wisconsin girl, just with a lower BAC than most. 

I just took a look back at my first blog post of 2020.  That was a trip. I wanted to do all the things this year.  I was so cute, with my big goals and ridiculous aspirations. I thought I had a plan.  You probably thought you did, too.  I even wanted to run a freaking marathon.  (Spoiler alert:  I did not run a marathon. I didn’t even wear hard pants after March 15.) 

Maybe you had more appropriate goals, goals that were more in line with reality.  Maybe you wanted to learn to bake bread or catch up on your Netflix. In that case, I bet you were a real goal-getter in this year of our Lord 2020. 

I also didn’t send Christmas cards this year, so consider this your holiday greeting. An endless cycle of quarantines prevented us from having family photos taken (and also prevented me from getting to the salon to address the, um, less colorful strands on my head, so no way was I stepping in front of a camera).  I realize I could’ve, and absolutely should’ve, used any old photo for the dang cards, but I was being unreasonably crabby.  Everyone is allowed to be crabby sometimes. Except my kids.  Actually, it’s just me.  I am allowed to be crabby sometimes. 

But I am truly proud of my kids. They did do all the things this year.  They were guinea pigs for virtual learning, and then for socially distanced learning.  (And then for virtual learning again. And then for socially distanced learning again.  You get the idea.) One also managed to earn his black belt in karate this year, while the other mastered her back handspring and moved on to back tucks.  And they did it with masks on. Folks say kids are resilient, and folks are right. My kids – and all of our kids – are truly amazing. 

I’m also proud of myself this year, even though I didn’t cross many items off my to-do list. I am proud of the simple fact that I didn’t go off the deep end. I’m not gonna lie. I dipped my big toe in that water. But I reined myself in via the last season of Schitt’s Creek and every season of Somebody Feed Phil, both of which I highly recommend to you and your mental health. 

And I’m proud of you. Whether you discovered you were essential (a HUGE thank you goes out to you!), or you stayed home and tried to teach your kids math (and a huge glass of wine goes out to you), you are still standing here at the end of 2020, surveying the ashes of our former reality.  You are the picture of perseverance. We all faced our own challenges this year, and we are all stronger than we were 9 months ago. 

I don’t know what your Christmas will look like this year, but I bet it will be a little different than last year.  And I won’t pretend to know what 2021 has in store for us (I really thought I was going to run a marathon this year, so my predictive abilities are not to be trusted). 

So this year, especially, I hope you embrace the holiday that is in front of you now. I hope you remember that Christmas is more than a holiday party or a visit with Santa.  I hope you can keep your sense of humor and ditch your expectations. I hope you make room for small moments of joy, even in the middle of grief or uncertainty.  I hope you give what you can and ask for what you need. I hope you find a way to connect with loved ones.  And, most of all, I hope you forgive yourself if you didn’t send Christmas cards or run a marathon or wear real pants this year (And if you did manage to do those things, well…good for you.). 

Merry Christmas, and I’m proud of us all!

Halloween is officially behind us.  It wasn’t quite the universal factory reset for which some were hoping, what with the holiday, a full moon and daylight savings all converging on the same weekend. But at least there was candy. Lots of candy. In an attempt to make up for the weirdness of this year’s Halloween and of 2020 generally, I, for one, was far more liberal with the candy dosing. For the kids and for myself. 

If you have any uncarved pumpkins hanging around on your porch, here is a perfect recipe to help you use them up and make way for the Christmas decorations. (I don’t know about you, but I am going to break out the holiday decor a little early this year … um, okay, maybe I already started. I kept hearing that a little holiday cheer is what this year needs, so I turned on the Kenny Rogers “Christmas” album and hung a couple of wreaths yesterday.  And I have to say, I didn’t hate it.)

Even if you don’t have any unused pumpkins, the good news is that canned pumpkin is now back on store shelves after briefly and mysteriously disappearing.  What can I say, other than 2020. 

But do you know what is still good in 2020?  Do you know what is still tasty when your kids are quarantined from school AGAIN? Do you know what is still delicious, even when your son’s football season is cancelled? Do you know what will never disappoint, even when your daughter ALMOST makes it to the bathroom before puking two minutes before your Zoom call (Okay, maybe you won’t want to eat them right then.)? 

Answer: Pumpkin muffins.  Specifically, the pumpkin muffins I am about to share with you. These things are amazing, even in the dumpster fire we’re all living in. 

You will need two mixing bowls. I know, I know, I hate it when you can’t just pour all the ingredients into one darn bowl.  I know your life is hard enough, and I am truly sorry. I promise it’s worth washing the extra bowl, though.  

In the larger bowl, add 3 cups of flour.  I have been using all-purpose flour lately, but in brighter, pre-pandemic days, I often substituted a cup of whole wheat flour, and sometimes used solely whole wheat flour.  You might even find success with another flour option entirely. Your choice. I am giving you carte blanche over all flour-related decision-making. 

Next, add 2 cups of sugar.  Yes, I know it’s a lot of sugar.  I also know it’s 2020.  So just add the sugar.  I am not trying to be bossy here. I am trying to help you. 

Sprinkle in 1 1/2 teaspoons baking powder, 1 1/2 teaspoons cinnamon (or 2 tsp.,  if you’re feeling wacky), 1 teaspoon salt, 1/2 teaspoon baking soda, and 1/2 teaspoon ground nutmeg.  

Grab a fork or a whisk and mix the dry ingredients up. 

Next, break out the smaller bowl.  Add one egg.  The upside of this step is that you need not crack the egg into yet another separate bowl before adding it, since it is the first thing to go into this bowl.  Or maybe you don’t take that precaution.  Maybe you are a master egg-cracker and never drop a little shell in with the egg.  Or maybe you are just a devil-may-care baker.  

Either way, follow up the egg with 3/4 cup egg substitute.  If you don’t have any, or if you have some sort of moral objection to the stuff, don’t fret. You can add three more eggs instead, for a total of four eggs. I like these muffins a bit better when I use the egg substitute, but usually I don’t have any on hand, unless I am planning ahead.  So … usually I don’t have any on hand.  Four eggs work fine.  

You have yet more control over your pumpkin-muffin destiny when it comes to the star of the show, as well.  I have used both canned pumpkin and homemade pumpkin puree when baking these muffins in the past.  Again, I go with what I have on hand. I’ll tell you a secret – no one will know the difference.  Either way, add 15-16 ounces. The cans are 15 ounces, but I usually freeze 16 ounces per bag. Don’t stress over an ounce. You have enough other things to stress over. 

Next dump in 1/2 cup applesauce and 1/4 cup oil.  Mix all of that up carefully.  The key here is you want to make sure each bowl is mixed up well individually so that when you combine them there is very little mixing left to do. This batter doesn’t like it when the wet and dry ingredients are over-combined.   

Now you will pour the wet into the dry and stir until just combined.  
Finally, we add the reason we make these muffins in the first place.  The mini chocolate chips.  I do not like full-size chocolate chips in this recipe.  They have their place, but it’s not in these muffins. Dump those mini-chips in. How many, you ask.  I don’t care.  You do you.  Does 1/2 cup sound good?  How about 1 cup?  Eh, just stir some in until you are happy. 

Coat a muffin tin with nonstick spray.  You can go with mini or regular-sized muffins, but I prefer mini.  Mostly because everyone knows mini muffins don’t have any calories.  This is also the reason I eat all the mini Twix bars out of my kids’ Halloween haul,  while leaving the full-size candy bars for them. Well, that and the fact that the kids are less apt to notice the disappearance of the miniature candy. 

I digress. 

You will want to bake at 400 degrees for 17-22 minutes.  I am usually at 17 minutes for mini muffins and 22 for full-size. 

Then pop them out of the tin and eat (and/or hide) a few right away, so you will at least get to try them before the hungry hooligans living in your house devour them all. Your people will love you and will instantly forgive the “mom tax” you recently imposed on their Halloween stash, along with any other minor transgressions you may have committed this week.  You know, looking at them wrong or suggesting they wear a jacket. And if you aren’t quick enough to nab a few for yourself, don’t despair – you can always raid their Halloween candy again. 

I was so excited to go to the dentist last week.  

Now that’s a sentence I never thought I’d write.  But there I was, with freshly washed hair and pants that buttoned, about to be seen in public by humans who aren’t related to me. And I was ready. 

When my dentist asked me if anything new or exciting was going on, I replied that this was my excitement.  Sitting in that dental chair, wearing my daughter’s polka-dot mask, was the highlight of my day (I forgot my own face covering, so I was forced to raid the emergency stash I keep in my purse.  Because, in 2020, we keep extra face masks in our purses.  Or…some people do.  I guess I don’t replenish my stash after each mask “emergency,” so I was left to stretch my 8-year-old’s mask across my decidedly non-child-sized face so that I would be allowed to enter the dentist’s office.).

I’ll tell you what, though, that dental appointment was a darn good time. I bet my dentist shares better 2020 memes than yours does.  And, really, isn’t that the yardstick we use to measure a person’s worth during this madness? (If you are nodding your head, you should probably go follow Andy Beiser.)

By the way, did you realize we have nearly reached the seven-month mark in this madness? Seven months during which I have been relatively quiet. I have kept quiet for several reasons. 

Of course, I have been busy, because jobs, kids, quarantine, ugh. I’ve also been slowly working on another writing project in any stolen moments.  

Another reason I have kept my mouth shut is that, no matter what you say these days, you are inevitably going to piss off roughly half of the people you know. The division feels insurmountable. And it’s not that I’m afraid to make people mad.  I make people mad all. the. time. Just ask my kids. But I haven’t felt like I had anything helpful to share with the angry masses.

I’ve also had a hard time finding my natural (okay, maybe not so natural…) optimism.  It felt strange to look for things to be happy about in the face of 2020. It seemed wrong to seek joy amidst so much global suffering and uncertainty.  And that’s what this blog has been about – finding gratitude in the chaos of everyday life.  So, if I can’t find gratitude, where does that leave me?

But I missed my little blog. So I decided to become a rational optimist.  Does 2020 suck?  Why, yes, yes it does.  AND YET, I am still grateful for a crackling fire in the fireplace. I am thankful for winter hats and books and hugs from my kids. I will recognize the general level of worldwide suckiness and still hold hope for better, and I will find gratitude for small pieces of beauty.  That is not to ignore the state of the world, but just to know that this, too, shall pass.

Because it will. 

I recently ran across a post, deep down some Facebook rabbit hole, about how folks born in the early 1900s witnessed World War I, the Spanish Flu, the Great Depression, the holocaust and World War II. They also weathered the Korean War and the Vietnam War.  All in their one lifetime. And that isn’t even an exhaustive list.

That’s a lot of tragedy, people. But the point of the post was that those events are now in our history books. That means, as awful and unimaginable as they were, they ended. Which is true, although it doesn’t erase those events.

The post stuck with me, so when my dad later pointed out that my granddad had been 11 (my son’s current age) during the Spanish Flu, I really got to thinking. My granddad endured many things in his life.  Undoubtedly, my son will face new hardships I can’t even fathom. That, my friends, is terrifying. 

But what that Facebook post left out is that those same folks born at the beginning of the 1900s also witnessed the roaring 20s, the first transcontinental flight, the Golden Age of Hollywood, the first moon landing, the fall of the Berlin Wall, and the first organ transplants. The first Mickey Mouse cartoon and the first Oreo! They found love, maybe witnessed the births of their own children, experienced personal victories and overcame individual obstacles untold. 

Bottom line: Life has always been miserable.  

Also: Life has always been beautiful.  

That isn’t going to change now.  Our current circumstances are going to change; the overall nature of the world will not. The good doesn’t erase the bad, but it has always co-existed with it.  And it always will. 

I do hope going to the dentist isn’t always the high point of my week, though. No offense, Dr. Ryan. 

This will forever change us.  As a society, we will recover, but we will be different.  To a one, we will have lost something – a loved one, a job, income, a sense of security, a wedding or graduation ceremony, or, for some, just their vacation plans. But we will all be imprinted by the heaviness of this time. By the uncertainty and disruption.  It seems the ground is shifting beneath our feet every day, as though the virus’ far-reaching tentacles are tunneling, degrading the very earth on which we stand. 

The past few weeks have been a very strange mix of a staycation and Armageddon.  Whether you are still working outside the house, working from home (like me), or not claiming a paycheck at all, your life is not what it was a month ago. It has been an adjustment period for the entire world, as we all try to cope with whatever particular challenges this pandemic has thrown our way. 

And everyone has something to say about it.  Their opinions are strong and, more often than not, conflicting. The virus seems to have given folks a voice, or at least amplified their voices. So, on top of the pandemic, we are facing a very loud, very forceful and very confusing cacophony of voices. 

But the virus took my voice. Anything I might have to say about our current situation felt inadequate, like throwing paper airplanes at an invisible demon.  Until today. 

_________________________________________

Today, I want to talk about control. There is very little we can control these days.  The building blocks of our reality – the who, what, when, where, why and how – are largely beyond the scope of our domain. If you think about those 5 Ws + H (which is an exercise you probably don’t engage in very often, unless you are a former journalism student… or a first grader), you will realize we aren’t in the driver’s seat on many of them right now.

We clearly cannot choose our “where,” and we don’t know “when” this madness will end. I don’t know about you, but I can’t claim to know “why” this is happening. Beyond the humans in our household, we can’t even choose “who” we see – except, of course, on our laptop screens (Big shout out to Zoom!). And as for “what,” well, who the heck knows “what” news tomorrow may bring?

But “how.” 

We can still control our “how.” Specifically, we can control how we treat each other. We can extend kindness to others, and, for the love of all that is holy, we can extend kindness to ourselves. And we can control how we look at the situation.  We can view these challenges as temporary, and we can find gratitude.  We can. I know we can. 

Admittedly, I haven’t been very good at controlling my how. I have, in fact, been quite bad at it. I have lost my cool, lost lots of sleep, and come close to losing my mind a few times. Don’t worry, I’ve gained things, too.  Specifically, several pounds and a higher alcohol tolerance. 

Meanwhile, my daughter, Ryan Rose, is walking around the house singing “If You’re Happy and You Know It, Clap Your Hands.”  What?!?! I mean, really?  Is this child serious? After all, she misses her friends, she misses school, and she celebrated her 8th birthday in social isolation.  But she could have it worse – just like most of us.  So she sings. And she is choosing how she is handling this crisis with far more grace than her mother. 

So from now on I am going to remember to control my how.  I am going to dominate the heck out of my how. I am going to look for the blessings, and I will try to be a blessing, too. Even if that means I have to follow Ryan’s lead and walk around singing (“If you’re happy and you know it, control your how!”). Who knows, maybe I’ll have to get “control your how” inked on my person somewhere…when the tattoo parlors reopen.  But, until then, I am going to remind myself of it as many times as it takes. 

Control your how. If Ryan can do it, I can do it.  And if I can do it, you can do it.

Well, here we are in cold and flu season.  Seems like it has touched every household this year.  Whether you are struggling through a cold yourself or cleaning up the meatballs your kiddo threw up all over the bathroom (Whose idea was it to feed them meatballs?!?!), we have all felt the effects of it. 

I’m a relatively healthy person.  Okay, I have good intentions, at least. I make a respectable effort to drink the water, get the sleep, and do the exercise, but somehow I’m not appeasing the immunity gods this winter.  They’re just not having it. The essential oils, the vitamins, the voodoo…nothing is working.

I can feel my second cold of the season coming on.  Like a freight train. Or a Mack truck.  A really big one.  Not that they make small Mack trucks. In any event, a giant vehicle is running over my head. And then backing up over it again. 

 At first, I just felt extremely tired.  But we’re all tired, right?  I mean, it’s January. It’s grey.  It’s cold.  It’s iguanas-falling-from-trees-cold. So I didn’t think much of the exhaustion, until that telltale tickle showed up in my throat. 

And then I remembered the medicine ball. This is probably the very first time you have heard of this magical drink.  Okay, maybe not.  Most likely not. But in case you haven’t heard of it, the medicine ball is a hot beverage with purported cold-fighting properties.  You can find it on the Starbucks menu, although I think they call it something fancy like a honey citrus mint tea.  It’s still a medicine ball.  

Many folks make their own versions, because, let’s be honest, Starbucks likes to steal all our money.  To combat this thievery, there are lots of homemade medicine ball recipes floating around cyber space. Just so you know, mine is the best. 

I’m not promising it will cure what ails you.  But it might.  Either way, I am here for it, because it is freaking tasty.  Or hekkin tasty, as Tucker B would say.  Have you seen his videos?  Oh my gosh, you should really watch one…assuming you have two hours to waste when you inevitably get sucked down the rabbit hole of watching hilarious dog videos on YouTube.  This one would be a good place to start.  It’s a classic, all the way back from December 2019, entitled “My Dog Reacts to Giant Cockroach.” 

But I digress.  My medicine ball is phenomenal.  Here are the things you need to enjoy this blissful treat.  

I start by filling a giant insulated mug half-full of lemonade, then topping it off with water. If you’re feeling sassy, you can go heavier on the lemonade.  Then I pour the mixture into my tea kettle and wait for the whistle. 

While it’s heating up, I add two tea bags to my mug – one Tazo Refresh Mint, and one Tazo Organic Peachy Green.  (Side note: Tazo tea is just plain better than that Teavana stuff they are hawking at Starbucks these days. You probably don’t feel quite as strongly as I do about this issue, but, hey, we all have our causes. And Starbucks really lost their claim over my discretionary spending when they dropped the Tazo tea. But don’t get me wrong, I still buy their coffee. Let’s not get crazy here.) 

Once the water/lemonade is hot, I pour it back into the mug. And then.  And then. I grab a spoon and dip it into the honey.  Any spoon will do.  No need to measure exactly. We aren’t doing brain surgery here.  However, just any honey will absolutely not do.  You should really use some local honey.  I get mine from my friend John Jacobs.  If you live locally to me, you, too, can get your honey from John Jacobs.  Only don’t get too much, because if you affect my medicine ball supply I will get crabby.  

I stir the honey around the mug until it has dissolved.  And that’s it.  

If the medicine ball doesn’t fix my cold, at least it makes having a cold a little more bearable. And at least this cold chose me and not the kiddos (knock on wood).  I’d volunteer to be sick over them any day.  Finally, let us all pause to thank the heavens that I haven’t been struck with the dreaded “man cold.”   I don’t know about you, but I don’t have time to lie in bed whining for a week. On the bright side, that would allow for a lot of time with Tucker B videos.  

Cheers.

It’s that time of year.  The gyms are overflowing with folks in fresh workout gear. People are setting resolutions and declaring goals for 2020.  On top of all that, the current fad seems to be to choose a “word of the year.”  I’ve read of people choosing guiding words such as: Achieve, Confidence, Capable, and Growth.  All good choices, I’m sure. 

Never one to shy away from a bandwagon, I decided to choose my own word.  I thought about all the choices I had heard.  I considered lots of options. I’m a nerd like that.  And I had a lot of time to think about it, as I spent an inordinate amount of time in my pajamas while fighting a particularly nasty cold for the past few weeks. 

Over and over, one word kept popping into my mind.  That word was…

Moments. 

See, I do have lots of goals for the year.  Of course I do. I want to run a marathon.  I have professional goals up the wazoo (yes, “wazoo” is a professional term).  I do want to “achieve” and have “confidence” and be “capable” and experience “growth.”  

But.  

But I am a classic type A personality; I have a three-wing, for those of you who speak enneagram.  That is to say, my work ethic is in perfect working order.  I seldom lose sight of the goal.  I think many of us are the same in that regard. 

What I do lose sight of is the fact that life is nothing more than a series of moments.  I forget that elegantly beautiful quote: “Life isn’t measured by the number of breaths we take, but by the number of moments that take our breath away.” 

Moments.  

So, this year, I want to become a collector of moments. While on my journey to the next achievement, I want to remember to pause and throw the football with my son.  Listen to my daughter read her favorite book (yet again).  Call my mom.  Play that game of cribbage with my husband. 

I still want to run the marathon. I still want to accomplish all the things. I just want to take a little bit more time to collect some moments along the way. 

I want to train myself to look at gaining a moment, gaining a memory, as a win.  I want to view finding pockets of joy as an achievement.  I want to remember that life isn’t a race.  I don’t need to come in first.  I just need to get to the finish line with a whole load of cherished moments.  

Moments.  

Are you jumping on the “word of the year” bandwagon with me? What’s your word?  

You turn 10 this weekend. Now, math is not my strong suit, but even I know that means that you are more than halfway to legal adulthood.  It means you will be learning to drive in just five short years, or just half again the time you have been on this Earth. Most surprisingly, it means I have managed to neither lose you nor break you for nearly an entire decade. 

I didn’t know how fast a decade could pass before I became a mom. 

I remember it all, though.  The 9,026 readings of Goodnight Moon.  The days spent on the floor playing with action figures and Legos. The diapers, the giggles, the finger paint, the sleepless nights.  I remember the first time you grasped a toy rattle in your tiny fingers – I was pretty certain you must be a baby genius. 

You don’t remember. The first years of your life, the years when you were my entire focus and vice versa – you don’t remember them. I know, because I’ve asked you: “Hey, remember that time we spent the whole day hiding from monsters in a fort made from bedsheets?” Blank stare. “Hey, remember when you met Mickey Mouse while actually dressed as Mickey Mouse, and he loved the white buttons I had sewn on your red shorts?” Nothing. “Remember when we would follow the landscapers all around town like a pair of stalkers, because you loved to watch them mow? Remember when you were convinced your baby sister would turn into a boy when she got older?” Nope and nope. 

Hopefully, at least, you remember the love. 

I’m pretty sure you do. I say this because you will still give me a cuddle every now and then, still let me hold your hand.  

I follow mommy bloggers, so I know there will come a last time for the cuddles and hand-holding.  I have been forewarned. But I don’t want to live in dread of the “lasts.”  I want just exactly a healthy enough dose of dread to make sure I remember to enjoy right now. 

And there is a lot to enjoy right now. In many ways, you are way more fun than you were during the baby years.  For instance, you are a much better Battleship opponent now than you were, say, 9 years ago.  Your taste in television has also improved greatly since the days of Blue’s Clues and, Lord help us, Bubble Guppies. 

It’s such a joy to watch you learn and grow, to listen to your ever-more complex thoughts. Heck, I don’t even understand half the things you try to explain to me. Sometimes I just sit and marvel that I made you. I catch glimpses of the man you will be, and of the baby you were, and I am so very grateful to be your mom. 

Happy birthday, sweet boy. 

It’s back-to-school day here in Wisconsin. But “back to school” means very different things in different stages of mom-ing.

For instance, baby mommies have few coherent thoughts on the subject … and few coherent thoughts generally, for that matter.  To them, school is a far-off, fuzzy concept. “School is starting?  What is this ‘school’ of which you speak?  What is sleep? What day is it? Can you pass that burp cloth?  Yes, I know it has spit-up on it.  So does my shirt.  And my face.  And my hair. What were you saying?” 

Then there are the preschool or kindergarten moms. The moms sending their darling babies off for the first time to test their tiny wings. Today will be hard for these moms.  There will be many tears and much clutching of legs.  By all involved.  At the same time, these moms will soon discover that the short break from tantrums and sticky hands is not entirely unwelcome. These moms may even get to pee by themselves today.  

Next, we have the elementary moms.  This includes me.  I am firmly ensconced in elementary land with a 4th- and 2nd-grader. We have our routine and are in a groove of sorts.  It’s not that we have it all together, because we absolutely do not. But we are used to packing lunches and signing forms and driving carpool now. The kids are constantly changing, but it feels, for a bit, like a nice long stretch of relative status quo.  A beautiful lull. But it’s only a lull. A brief calm before the coming storm of adolescence. We can begin to sense it in the distance, and we grip our tiny humans a little tighter while we can. After all, the very title of this website reminds us that the years are short.  In the blink of an eye we will be on to the next stage.  Gone will be the hand-holding, fresh-cheeked children, and in their place will be…teenagers. 

That brings us to the middle school and high school moms. It’s the next frontier; it’s looming out there.  For those parents, there is still some carpool and form-signing, but there are other things to think about with the coming of a new school year.  Things I don’t even fully know about yet.  And really don’t want to. Social media. Mean girls. Car accidents. Heartaches of all kinds.  As the kids get older, the problems get bigger, and the stakes are higher.  

Then there is only the great abyss. The moms who are sending their children off to college or other post-graduation adventures. Out in the world. On their own! I have friends who are on the other side of the abyss.  So I see Facebook pictures of these moms helping to decorate dorm rooms. I see moving-day selfies of these moms with their children who were babies just last week; now these children have the nerve to smile and look comfortable in cities that are not their hometowns. I.Can’t.Even.

These friends who survived the letting go swear that parenting only gets better as the kids grow older. They assure me you just love the kids more and more. And I believe them. But that doesn’t change the fact that those kids will eventually leave.  So, for now, I am going to celebrate 4th and 2nd grade. I like it in elementary school. I like the beautiful lull. Happy back-to-school day!

I was “volun-told” to open a meeting at work with a reflection yesterday.  If you have met me before, you know that having any part in leading any sort of meeting is my least favorite thing to do.  Things I would rather do include, but are certainly not limited to: taking a transcontinental flight with a sick toddler, wearing a midriff top to school pick-up, allowing my kids to make glitter slime (see photo above), giving up Gilmore Girls, getting a Brazilian wax, and having my front tooth removed…again.  You get the idea.

But while I dislike public speaking, I do love the poem I shared in the meeting. Maybe it’s because it reminds me of my husband – the best way to get him to accomplish something is to tell him he can’t possibly do it. Beyond that, the simple poem contains a great message for kids and adults alike, at back-to-school time or any time, really.  So this is what I shared, although my colleagues got a slightly edited version of the story:

I was watching a quasi-educational TV show with my kids this week, before school cuts into their couch-potato time. I couldn’t tell you the name of the show, but I know it was better than yet another episode of Bunk’d.

Actually, I was only half-watching, while also half-emptying-the-dishwasher and half-playing-on-my-phone (Okay, so that’s 1.5 things – fractions are not my forte!), until a segment caught my attention. 

The show hosts performed an experiment in which they asked a selection of people on the street if they thought they would be able to count the number of photos in a 50-page magazine … in under 10 seconds.  Some folks said yes, but most said no. 

After surveying the folks, the show hosts then had them actually attempt to count the photos. The twist was that page 2 of the magazine contained a blurb that read in big, bold letters: “STOP COUNTING! THERE ARE 48 PHOTOS!”  

Now, the folks who believed they could accomplish the task saw the blurb, and those who thought the task couldn’t be done didn’t notice it. This really struck me. Self-fulfilling prophecy reared its head to demonstrate to the kids that whether folks thought they could or thought they couldn’t, they were right. Not only that, but the experiment demonstrated that the world is apt to provide boosts or unexpected gifts to those who go after big goals. Of course, the world is just as apt to knock those same goal-getters flat on their ass the next day, but that’s no reason not to try.

In any event, the experiment made me reflect on the power of mindset, which caused me to remember a poem I admire, so I wanted to share that poem with you.

It Couldn’t Be Done, by Edgar Guest

Somebody said that it couldn’t be done,
     But he with a chuckle replied
That “maybe it couldn’t,” but he would be one
     Who wouldn’t say so till he’d tried.
So he buckled right in with the trace of a grin
     On his face. If he worried he hid it.
He started to sing as he tackled the thing
     That couldn’t be done, and he did it.

Somebody scoffed: “Oh, you’ll never do that;
     At least no one ever has done it”;
But he took off his coat and he took off his hat,
     And the first thing we knew he’d begun it.
With a lift of his chin and a bit of a grin,
     Without any doubting or quiddit,
He started to sing as he tackled the thing
     That couldn’t be done, and he did it.

There are thousands to tell you it cannot be done,
     There are thousands to prophesy failure;
There are thousands to point out to you one by one,
     The dangers that wait to assail you.
But just buckle in with a bit of a grin,
     Just take off your coat and go to it;
Just start in to sing as you tackle the thing
     That “cannot be done,” and you’ll do it.

When your kiddos head back to school next week, remind them to be kind, remind them to be themselves, and also remind them that their potential is only limited by their beliefs. And that goes for you, too. 🙂