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Resolve

  The tween has started yet another school. I know. But this is a good one. We tried public. It wasn’t for her. We tried homeschool. She got bored and I was too busy with the toddler. So now she’s in a Montessori school. She’s more confident and is challenged to face conflict as there are only 10 kids in the class and only three girls total. I knew that it was the right spot for her when the teacher told me that they had given her the nickname of “Madame President”.  The kid is beyond her years. As she should be. She’s been through some things.  Yesterday she came home and threw a little bit of a fit because she and her friend had an argument. I told her she needed to go upstairs until she was less emotional  and was ready to really talk about it. After about ten minutes, she came downstairs, took a deep breath and said, “Mom, I think I’m just frustrated because so and so and I have had several arguments and I’m just not sure how to resolve the issue.” This child is 11. When I w
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Long Days, Short Years

  We are home with a six week old baby girl. I have four kids. 17,11, almost 2, and a newborn. I can’t believe it. Four kids. And remember, I’m geriatric.  Rob is back at work, but the days leading up to his first day I was nervous. Actually that’s an understatement. The man went through spinal surgeries, infections, unrelenting pain, and I’m nervous to be home alone with two small children. I’ve done this before, right? I have raised two kids. But two under two? No. I've never done that. I keep thinking about my mom. When both of the babies are crying and I’m stress eating chocolate chips out of the bag, I remember her with Ziggy. He just wailed and when she would sit him so I could get some air, I would come home and ask how she did it. “We just rock and rock.” Thankfully my Weldon is smart and independent and loves to just sit and play. So when Daisy has a hard minute, or I am feeling like I may not make it till naptime, or I’ve eaten all the chocolate chips, I think of my mo
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Mediocre

  It’s been a while. Mom died. Things kept getting messy. Work, family, kids. All of it needed to be sorted and sat with a bit. So now I'm home with a baby and my Rob trying to nurse a new little life, spend time with the one year old, keep the tween from growing up too fast and  my almost out the door seventeen year old son talking to me.  But I'm just mediocre. So why would he want to talk to me? I mean that in the most wonderful way. I do. I love my kids. I fail but I try. I work at my sweet new marriage. I know how precious it is. I try to write daily, but sometimes I don’t. Or I just can’t. Sometimes life is all just too real. Too mediocre. Too messy and painful. But then I start to write anyhow. And it makes me feel better. I am not wildly talented. I may never publish a book or do anything world altering. My son tells me the house is chaotic. And it is. Four kids, two dogs, one cat and a bird. Two adults running between them all. I get it. It’s chaotic. But it’s life. We
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Vacation

  My dad often tells us that mom knew it was really important to start traveling with us kids. She said before they knew it, we would be out of the house, so she wanted to make memories while she could. She had a travel agent, but her and our dear family friend Mrs. Roberts scoured Fodor’s for the best hotels and excursions so that they could have a blueprint of what we would be doing. Our bookcase was stocked with worn travel books from all over the world. Little notes in the margins with times we  would arrive at a place or if it was miserable. Those vacations are some of my very best memories of my mom. She worked so hard to make them wonderful. And even when things got mixed  up or a flight was delayed, that was all part of the adventure.  Things are more complicated now. It should be easier, right? It’s not. There are  so many sites that once you fall down a “vacation hole” as Rob calls them, it can be impossible to decide which choice is best.  Well, in honor of my mom and her ol
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Two Ducks Walk Into an Old House

 Sometimes life pulls the rug out. Other days it opens an antique door with a perfect stained glass window. I’ll explain. I love houses. I love OLD houses. I scroll away my stress on Zillow and Circa:Old Houses. I remember wandering through homes for sale around town with my mom, who also loved houses.  One is deeply rooted in my memories. I was maybe five years old. It was a grand Victorian off the Marietta square and she was glorious. My mom stood chatting with the realtor as I explored. Dreaming of running up and down the stairs at Christmas and finding secret treasures in the attic.  I begged. I pleaded. “Mom please! Can we please buy it!”  She shook her head. “It just needs too much work, Megan.” When I pass the house now. Beautifully restored and pristine, I think of standing in it with my mom. And then mine appeared. I was in a “I’m not looking for a house” phase. But I was sitting on my porch. The sun was warm. And I was just sitting there so why not just see.   It wasn’t the o
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Author’s Note

  Sometimes I forget that my writing is not mine alone. Let’s be clear. I’m pregnant. Very pregnant. Yesterday I was  feeling all of my 28 weeks. I am also geriatric. Forty six and pregnant. It’s not easy. Thankfully I have Rob. He brings me chocolates when he runs errands. He is a super dad. He holds me when my heart breaks over my mom. He smiles and says, Ok. Tell me,” when I get some idea or another.  I am not alone in this. I have a little tribe of people that stand behind me daily.  So yesterday when I vomited out my pregnant sleepy emotions on the page and threw it into the stratosphere, I may have broken some hearts. Within moments my sweet mother in law sent me the most thoughtful and encouraging message. My husband sat with me and held my hand.  I am not alone. I am not in a corner. And Rob was out there sowing the rows of our life while I had my tantrum.  Today I’ll get up and help him.
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Own

  My life isn’t really my own. People see me as flighty. Scattered. Not the brightest bulb. Someone who isn’t one to count on. One who is disorganized and discombobulated. I don’t dress well and I can’t make much work. But I am funny. So I’m good for a laugh. But don’t ask me about anything important. Because I will fail.  It’s wearisome. And frustrating. I feel the dirt under my nails from  trying my damndest to make my little life bloom. But somehow I’m stuck in this place. Some seat in the corner. And I know I need to just stand up and get out of that corner and back to digging in the dirt planting my own damn life. 
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