I am raising three women. They are girls right now, but they will be women when I’m done with them—I hope. That’s the plan anyway. I’m aiming for three distinct versions of confident, fulfilled, kind, and brave badass women. There are so many things I do not care about regarding my children’s futures.
We're Fine. They're Fine.
I don’t get weepy at much. My friend, Mary Straton Smith, knows that military homecoming videos can bring me to my knees and uses this to derail my day by tagging me in the tear-jerkiest of tear-jerkers that she comes across on social media—but I don’t cry at my kids’ performances or first or last days of school.
I was walking through Target recently and saw an advertisement for kale cleanser and wondered why in the world kale needs a special cleanser. I mean—I know it occasionally needs massages but surely it’s not such a high maintenance veggie that it requires its own type of cleanser.
Living with children is like living out Alanis Morissette’s song, “Ironic.” Isn’t it ironic that my children suddenly become allergic to playing outside when I need them to so I can cook supper? It’s almost as ironic as how quickly they flee the house when I we need to leave to go somewhere in the next 10 minutes.
When my family came home from the beach, I had 36 hours to execute a massive laundry turnover, pack my big girls for camp, get new tires on my car (or risk my dad not being able to sleep at night thinking about the baldness of my rear tires,) and pack myself for the 1,200 mile trip to and from North Carolina for camp drop-off.
I’m at the beach with my entire family as I write this. Mom, Dad, both sisters and their boyfriends, my husband, all four of my kids, and a partridge in a pear tree. As any parent can attest—this is not a vacation. Vacations don’t exist when you take kids. This is a trip.
I really loved writing the column a few weeks back that included a list of things I hope my daughters know before they leave home. I could have written dozens more than I did.
It was fun because it’s pretty easy to think of things you hope your children learn. It’s harder to figure out how to teach them those things.
When I was eight years old, my parents drove me to the First Baptist Jackson parking lot at 3:30 in the morning to load me and my trunk onto a bus headed to Camp Soaring Hawk in Purdy, Missouri—and I was bawling my eyes out.
Mother’s Day is this weekend—you’re welcome fellow, forgetful procrastinators. When I was a kid, Mother’s Day meant signing my name to a card my dad had picked out and being just as surprised about what gift we gave my mom as she was when she opened it over breakfast in bed.
Growing up, my family had various pets that play starring roles in my childhood memories. There was Sunny the Golden Retriever who bit everybody, especially children on swing sets. He would clamp down on our clothes, flying up in the air with us until we stopped swinging—then he’d go for flesh.