Like all good things that must come to an end, this school year is finally almost over. And oh, how things have changed from where we all began.
Have you heard of those tribes in the rainforests of Brazil that have existed centuries without any contact with modern civilization? Except for the fact that I've been vaccinated for measles and whooping cough and would look ridiculous holding a spear, other than that, I'm pretty certain we've been living parallel lives.
Last week while grocery shopping with my dad, we ran into someone my parents first met at least four decades earlier. Dad didn't remember her but, to be fair, unless you've wronged him or his family in some way, you're a stranger. His son's favorite elementary school teacher, "Sorry, not ringing a bell." The kid who pulled his daughter's hair in fourth grade, "I remember that little bastard."
As I sat in the chair of the Emergency Room, with our middle daughter hooked up to blood pressure and heart rate monitors, her nose packed in ice, I wondered if the nurse could read my mind.
Besides religion, politics and sex there's one more hot button issue that should be added to that list of taboo topics never to be discussed in mixed company. Not war. Not equal pay. Not even the latest shocking elimination on "Dancing with the Stars." Nope, it's breastfeeding. I understand that because this word actually includes part of the female anatomy some would argue it falls under the "sex" category, but trust me, it shouldn't.
We had another one of "those" mornings. When my feet hit the floor, I had no idea that the first words out of my mouth would start the day off on a very bad note. By the time "Good Morning America" came on, the guilt kicked in.
Like many of you, my husband and I pay for the lights to turn on in the house. We pay for the food in the fridge, the water that comes out of the tap, and when the heat turns on, that's us, too.
I like to think of myself as apolitical; someone that looks objectively at both sides of an issue, appreciate each perspective and be careful not to allow my personal beliefs to muddy the waters of political idealism. I also think chasing a cheeseburger with a shot of cayenne-laced wheat grass is more effective than eating right and exercising. The truth? I am a moron when it comes to politics.
Like the benefits of good judgment eludes Lindsay Lohan, so does that of extended warranties or extra insurance on any electronic or appliance I have ever purchased.
I know nothing about football.
My husband knows everything there is to know about football.
As my children get older, more and more, I rely on those bits of parenting wisdom my mom unknowingly doled out while she faced new challenges with her own children.
Recently, I conducted a little experiment. So I Googled "most popular idioms." A photo of Sarah Palin popped up. Stupid spellcheck. So I changed the "t" to an "m" and resumed my experiment.
For several years now, I've been fascinated by all the "organic" offerings in my sister-in-law's home.
I've been on a mission since the birth of my first child almost 15 years ago. As hard as I've tried to complete this mission, I fall short every time. Actually, I fall head first into a big bowl of Ben and Jerry's Chunky Monkey or pan of brownies whatever is closest.
The first week of 2016 is upon us. And unlike all the other years before, this year I've resolved to do something that is probably the craziest (yet sanest) things I've ever done.
Instead of the same boring goals like, "I want to lose 15 pounds" or "organize every drawer, closet, bank account" or "more reading, less television," this year I've decided to create a doable, more exciting list for 2016.
Birthdays come and go... you hope
I turned 29 years old the other day. And by other day, I mean years and years ago. But it sure seems like it was yesterday.
Now that he is halfway through his junior year in high school, the countdown for college is on for my oldest. While we remind him on regular basis to study, volunteer and research colleges, he is quick to remind us about his career goals.
Everyone is thankful for something. Even on the day of Thanksgiving, when 40 members of your family are talking loud, complaining about the food temp, and wondering "out loud" if the serving dish used for stuffing belongs to them.
Two little words that can bring our entire household to a standstill.
Thanksgiving is my favorite holiday. Mainly because it's all about food and less about buying the perfect gift. The one day of the year when calorie intake doesn't count and it's perfectly acceptable to wear stretchy pants for four days straight. This year is no different.
A few days ago a very interesting story started trending online... again. It's one that dominates water-cooler conversations, late-night punchlines and everyone's social media feed. "Man donates testicle for a $35,000 payout."
More than two decades ago, as we were standing at the alter getting married, my minister, who had known me all my life, turned to my soon-to-be husband and said, "we all have our cross to bear in life, and, I promise, Angel is going to be yours!"
I'm rushing home with a carload of grocery bags filled with 822 separate ingredients for a dish I volunteered to prepare for a get-together. And why? Because it looked heavenly in a copy of Bon App'etit I swiped from the gynecologist's office earlier in the week. In the back seat sits an 11 year old who isn't talking to me because I said "no" to a sleepover. Up front, sits a 16 year old laughing at something a friend just texted that I probably wouldn't approve of. As we pull in the garage, I mentally start going through my list.
There's something easy about traveling with your nuclear family. No grandma, no grandpa, no aunts, uncles, no cousin twice removed. Just you and the kids. Easy in the sense that there's no expectations of how to behave. You're in your comfort zone because you share your life with these people day in, day out. They know you will order dessert at every meal on vacation. You know deep sea fishing isn't worth the money but totally worth it for the memories.
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