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Whoops! But, Hello There!

Hi friends! I just accidentally posted a photo of a painting to my poor old neglected Mommy Blog.  I meant to post it to my painting blog (  I started to just deleted the post, but then I though, eh, I’ll pop in and say hello.  So, hello!

Now that I’m here, it makes me realize that I miss writing! And I miss you! (Are you even still here? Or is my writing here the equivalent of yelling into the darkness? Who knows!)

While I’m here, I’ll share a fun photo of our vacation this summer.  We rented this wacko mountain climbing vehicle and drove it all the way to the peak.  It was, in the words of my tween boy, “epic”.  And also freezing (45 degrees in July, y’all! We saw SNOW! Actual snow! In JULY!).



Hope you’re doing well out there on the interwebs.  I really do miss you.



ps – You should visit me on Instagram.  I’m much better about popping in over there.


Let’s Get Caught Up, Shall We?

I have so much to tell you about this Summer.  About my art show and all the people who came.  It was not unlike attending my own funeral (in the nicest way).  People drove in from far out-of-town.  Friends and neighbors and acquaintances all poured from the woodwork in support of my nutty midlife crisis.  It was beyond lovely.

And I ought to spend 5 paragraphs at least thanking Dave who not only told everyone he met for the last 6 months about his crazy-wife-the-artist-and-here’s-her-business-card.  But then he listened to me fret about the vulnerability of showcasing my pieces. “What if they laugh at me?” What if no one comes?”  He never once rolled his eyes.  And then he showed up the day of the show and helped to set up so that I wouldn’t have to get hot and sweaty and “ruin my hairdo”.   He showed up that day and all the days before.  I suppose that’s marriage.  Showing up.

I’ve been thinking a lot lately about this stage of my life.  I’m newly forty, happily married with two kids who like me most of the time.  I think people in my particular life phase can get complacent because things are pretty easy.  The kids can shower and dress themselves.  Heck, they even empty the dishwasher and put away their clothes most days.  But I’m hearing rumblings from fellow parents with kids a bit older than mine (William is 10) that things are about to get hard.  And then, to reinforce this message, I hear a program on NPR that says that the most stressful time in most people’s lives is the period where they’re parenting teenagers.  It’s the time period where couples most often get divorced. (What?!)

I imagine it’s like the adorable, fluffy puppy you’ve grown to love suddenly starts biting you.  Except with kids, a shock collar is not an option.

I’ll admit, I’m terrified.  Not “worried”, not “concerned” – terrified about what’s to come.  I did not navigate my teen years with anything resembling grace.  How can I possibly guide someone else?

So, I did what I always do in these situations:  I bought 3 books.  The first “Parenting Your Adolescent” arrived today.  Hopefully, it will be full of comforting answers.

Meanwhile, Paige (who just turned 6 but has the maturity of most 30 year olds), leaned over during lunch WITH MY INLAWS last Sunday and politely said “Momma, I know babies are spawned after people get married, but how does the baby get in there? And how does it get out?”. First of all: SPAWNED? Has she been watching alien movies or something? Also, OMG WE’RE IN A RESTAURANT WITH YOUR GRANDPARENTS. I said “you know what babe? It’s kind of a long story, let me tell you after lunch”, AND SHE FORGOT to ask me after lunch.  Praise Jesus and all the wise men.

So I’ve ordered ANOTHER BOOK about sex and babies and how to talk to someone who is 6 years old about these things.  Please bow your head with me and pray that it arrives before Paige remembers to ask me about it again.  I know to “speak in plain words” and “don’t give elaborate information”. Beyond that, I’m clueless.

These are the things I worry about lately.  Not turning 40 and getting wrinkles and suddenly not being able to see (although, DUDE, I suddenly cannot SEE… pass the reading glasses!), no, I’m worrying about how to navigate the treacherous road of The Sex Talk with my wee first grader.  And I’m worried about how to stay married to my husband while (stressfully) parenting teenagers.  Even though my kids won’t be teenagers for several more years.

So there.  We’re caught up on me.  How are YOU?





A few weeks ago Paige started her summer gymnastics program.  She participated last summer, but I made the decision to pull back from activities for her first year in school so as not to overwhelm her (and me, if I’m being really honest).

The gymnastics studio is made is such a way that the parents can spy on the wee ones through a one-way mirror.  It’s brilliant except that the mirror is small and thus, we mothers jockey for prime viewing position guarding our toes for surely they’ll be stepped on a time or two by over-zealous parents.

I watched Paige stand next to her peers as they all did simultaneous cartwheels.  Well, the *other* girls did cartwheels.  Paige? Paige did what can only be described as “falling with style”.  Imagine a boulder breaking loose from very tall cliff.  That.  That is what Paige did.

I watched and worried.  It was clear that missing a school year of gymnastics had left her at a real disadvantage.  She was drastically behind the other girls.  I watched her face for signs of frustration.  She’s very observant, and I assumed that any minute she’d realize how dismal her performance was and burst into tears.  She’s a burst into tears kind of kid.

But she managed to get through her first class without an emotional outburst.  I hustled her into the car and thought I’d probe her about her feelings while we were driving.  It was quiet, we were alone, and sometimes I can get more out of her when we’re not face to face.

So, I glued on my most chipper mommy-voice and asked how she liked gymnastics.  Paige was quiet for a beat, then she inhaled deeply and said:

“Momma, I think I’m probably going to be in the Olympics”.

Aside from being hilarious, this one interaction showed me how very different this child is from her mother.  I think I’ve always been full of doubt.  God, what I wouldn’t give for one moment where I was convinced that anything was possible regardless of ability.  Dang, Paige.  You go girl.  You go be in the Olympics, kid.


I Blame the Moon for All of It

Hello blog! I missed you!

This week we’ve had something called a blood moon.  Sounds like title to a Dean Koontz book doesn’t it? But it’s not.  It’s a lunar eclipse!  One where the sun’s light shining through the earths atmosphere reflects off the moon creating an orange-red color on the full moon.

I find things like lunar eclipses interesting.  Mainly because I’m convinced that they make humans act wacko.  No, I am not one of the many who declared the blood moon to be a sign of the End Times, I just think lunar events make people act weird in general.

Which is why I wasn’t all that surprised on Tuesday evening when a man exposed himself to me in the parking lot of Lowes.

Yes.  You read that right.

I was pulling into the parking lot via the “back way” (I take a neighborhood street to get there and thus, avoid the traffic on the main roadway).  As I was circling around the parking lot in my car I glanced over in time to see a man getting out of his 2 door sedan.  At least I *thought* he was getting out.  He was turned sideways with both his feet planted on the ground, as if he were getting ready to hoist himself up out of the car.

But then I noticed that he was petting a small animal in his lap.  Except, yeah, that wasn’t a squirrel or a kitten.  He was, well, how do I put this delicately? Let’s say it this way: had it BEEN a squirrel, he would have been REALLY petting it.  Like, I would have had to call animal control or something.  Because: SQUIRREL ABUSE!

I’m sure I don’t have to tell you that I clutched my pearls and shrieked.  Then I called the police and reported him.

And then I went on about my day while quietly blaming the moon.


ps: Susan’s reply when I texted about all this: “Wow, he really gets off on home improvement”.


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Dog Day

So, after 14 years, my doggie died last November (Thanksgiving weekend! With a house full of guests! Woo!).  After 14 years of having a little animal in my home, it has been quite an adjustment to live without him.  I still (still!) look for him when I walk into the house after being away.  And every time it gives me a little pang of sadness.

Dave never did like our dog much.  When he looked at him all he saw were vet bills, unneccessary fur, and land mines of poo in the backyard.  He had a point about the fur.  Parker shed like it was his job.

So when it came time to start thinking about a new dog, I had some serious parameters.  First and foremost: Dave has to like him.  No point in having an animal under our roof if one of us despises it.  In addition, I’ve determined that I cannot have another dog that sheds.  The fur on everything just about kills me.

After doing tons of research, we determined that a “Soft-Coated Wheaten Terrier” is something that might appeal to us.  And it just so happens that our friends own a rescued Wheaten and they were kind enough to let us borrow him for the day.  It was like a doggie test drive!


“Hullo. I am adorable”

And gosh, he was great.  Everyone loved him, even Dave.  We returned Rumble (a dog named Rumble! Cute!) to his owners this evening and all of us agreed that he was the perfect dog.

So that settles it, right?  We’ll rescue a Wheaten and live happily ever after!

Well, except that I came home and immediately vacuumed, and then mopped every inch of my floors.  What I realized today while Rumble was here is: Dogs? Are kind of disgusting.  I suppose after 14 years you get used to them, but now that I’ve lived without one for a few months I’ve gotten used to clean floors!  Dogs walk around in all kinds of ick and then track it into the house, ya’ll.  And their fur is like a swiffer picking up all sorts of debris and dragging it inside.  Leaves, sticks, BUGS.  And don’t even get me started on the licking-of-parts.  Ew.  And then there’s the water bowl slobber trail.

Having a dog makes me a manic house cleaner.  And since Parker died I’ve slacked off.  I only vacuum occasionally now (I had to vacuum every day with Parker or the dust bunnies morphed into dust PONIES).

I suppose I could let this dogs-are-filthy epiphany dissuade me from owning another animal, but anyone who has ever loved a dog will understand when I simply justify things by telling myself that a dog will make me a better housekeeper!

Because not having a dog is not an option.  Duh.





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