Indulge me for a moment while coffee and good vibes percolate in my kitchen.
I woke up late, as one should on a Saturday. I opened my bedroom door just as the kids shut off the TV and dropped their dishes into the dishwasher.
Notice I didn’t say “breakfast dishes,” because what they were eating on this Saturday morning couldn’t truthfully be called breakfast. But. They woke up and made themselves something passable and cleaned up after it.
Before I’d risen from bed, I’d read a short poem by a hell-of-a-guy local in the publication “Rattle.” I like Rattle, and I like this guy, and I liked the poem. It was loosely about a family during Coronavirus. …
Look, this is who I am, and this is who you are, today.
I have failed to take my own advice again, and so I find myself with my tits out in the grocery store freezer aisle. Not two days ago, I said, to the world via the Facebook medium, “Yes, there might be a crisis, but ladies, still wear a bra to the grocery.”
But I’ve not worn a bra, and as I peruse the cheese selections, my mind drifts to the conversation I had with two friends on the weekly radio show I host.
We recorded yesterday, and I had a very loose plan of conversation. Normally, I have a very tight plan of conversation, and I’m not proud of how the episode went, even though it really went perfectly fine. …
Fiction Friday
I know a couple of men who drive nice, steady Hondas. The Hondas are clean, attractive, and reliable. Solid vehicles.
These same men occasionally spot my Lamborghini. They start to dream about how they would feel in this car. They see her power. This car is sexy. They peek under the hood and admire the complexities. Their hearts beat faster as they rev her engine.
Perhaps letting one of them take the Lamborghini for a test drive wouldn’t hurt. He can see himself in this car. He takes her out for a spin and really enjoys the ride.
At the end of the test drive, he asks himself if he could afford this. After all, it’s a major investment. He wants to be a Lamborghini guy, but it’s scary. Lamborghinis require resources — lots of time and attention, the ability to accept that others may be eyeing his vehicle, things like that — and he’s just not sure he can handle that long term. …
It’s Easier Than You Think.
Recently, I told you to Travel With Your Kids. In that article, I gave you the why, but not the how. Here’s the how in a few (hopefully fairly easy) steps.
These tips were prompted by a recent two-week traipse through Spain, just Momma and her 10- and 12-year old kiddos. It was a great trip, but it takes some doing to manage the expectations of different age groups and ability levels.
You can never be prepared for everything, and I’m sure I’ve missed a lot. I’m the closest thing to a pro you’re going to find, though, and trust me, you really want to get out and do this with your children. …
My Daughter’s Most Prized Possession
She’s 12 years old now, my daughter. We’re playing at a park in Cordova, Spain.
She’d hesitated before playing here. She wondered if she was too big. She is welcome to stay little a few more moments.
She runs to me now, her sweater and hat in tow. It’s warming up and so is she.
She holds out Canney, a worn, filthy little creature that used to be a pig. “Let me see you put her somewhere special,” she says before trusting me to hold her.
I cuddle the little fabric animal, barely pink anymore. …
It Won’t Always Go Well, But It Will Always Be Worth It
The other day, I piled myself and my two children onto a plane. We each had a backpack and a carry-on sized suitcase. I had a small bag of snacks I hoped could skirt around the watchful eyes of the “too much stuff” police. I lucked out this round, but I was fully prepared to throw it away if I was asked to.
We were headed across the ocean on an 8.5 hour flight to Barcelona, Spain. I planned this trip in secret, dreaming of “dancing in the street in Barcelona,” like the Ed Sheeran song.
This was not my first overseas rodeo with these people. I took them to Europe for a month in summer of 2018. I’ve carted them around the USA, too. We’re really good travelers and quite nice travel companions. We are still not without our problems. …
But I Know How To Get One
My dad used to tell me, “You don’t have to know all the answers, you just need to know how to find them.”
Another favorite was, “Always be the best student in the room.”
He didn’t mean know the most. He meant be the most curious, the most attentive, the best learner.
In 2020, I will turn 40 years old.
So far, I’ve had a good run in this life game. I own a business that I started with a thousand dollar loan and now it’s worth millions. It’s well on its way to being worth hundreds of millions. I’ve started other, smaller businesses. …
Dear Friends: I love you, too. But I don’t need you to save my soul. My soul is just fine.
Church just isn’t it for me. It’s fine if it is for you. It’s not that I dislike it. In fact, I really dig the music and the warmth most of the time. But it’s not a priority in my life.
I’m not scared of this “hell” my Christian friends talk about. I don’t believe in this. And even if I did, hell wouldn’t want me.
If your God, whoever your God may be, knows me and loves me and created me, as you say, then he made me to question things.
He knows I’m a good, healthy, bright, non-destructive force in his world. He knows I am leading change and positivity and good. He knows I’m capable of all of it without being at church. …
You need to calm down, party planners.
Ladies (and a few gents), as Taylor Swift once said, You Need To Calm Down.
Hanging out with your friends is supposed to be fun. It doesn’t have to be a perfectly coordinated event with matching linens and six weeks worth of clean up. It doesn’t have to look like Pinterest. You don’t need to spend a month coordinating the menu.
It’s cool. We really just want to see you.
Remember when going out became the easy way to get together? …
It’s not a punishment, not a gimmick. It’s a way to make your family a team.
It’s Wednesday morning and we are running 10 minutes late as we hop in the car to head to school. Monday and Tuesday were a whirlwind of practices and games and homework. The week before was Thanksgiving, and our lives were unstructured at best.
As we slam the car doors, I’m angry. I’ve been angry all week.
I told my 12-year-old daughter to gather her cheer bag and organize it. I told her three times. At the end of the day, “put the uniform in the wash, and make sure your bow and shoes are in the bag” had resulted in a uniform on the floor in front of the washing machine, a bow on top the bag, and shoes on the shoe rack four feet from the bag. …
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