Category Archives: Uncategorized

Cleaning and Scrubbing Our Souls

Cleaning and Scrubbing Our Souls

A strong memory of my mother growing up is a poem she often recited:

Cleaning and scrubbing can wait till tomorrow.

For babies grow up, we’ve learned to our sorrow.

So, quiet down cobwebs.

Dust, go to sleep.

I’m rocking my baby and babies don’t keep.


When I left my career to stay home with the kids, I went into a panic.  I quit a life path I was good at, stopped being able to see friends or talk to people my age every day, and I no longer did the things that defined me as the person I thought I was.  I knew being a mom was not a useless job, but it was a hard transition from supervisor and business model structure, reinforcement of a job well done through pay and responsibility increases, and, honestly, a paycheck to show how much my time and effort were worth.

During the first months after the transition, I found myself in a constant state of resentment.  I resented my husband for the lack of reinforcement I was receiving in my new position, my children for being ungrateful and difficult to please bosses, and myself for making the decision to put my dreams and ambitions aside.  I often thought about all of the wonderful things that would be happening to me had I stayed my career path, like,  “If I would have stayed, I would be making this much money right now”, and “What if the supervisor quits?  I would be great at that job!”.

I lived life anxiously, insisting that I needed something to fill the void and get back in touch with my true self.  I thought of jobs I could take on the side and hobbies I could pick up to prove to…. I’m not sure who, exactly….. that I was the me that wanted to do those things and would do them.  I was perpetually cleaning and scrubbing at my soul to shine it up for something more.

There wasn’t a life event in particular that adjusted my thinking.  I became further removed from the work force and I went through ups and downs with the kids.  My son made me cry in public (more than once) because he was so challenging in his beginning years.  My daughter incessantly reminded me for at least a year straight that she loved her dad more than me.  I felt mostly unappreciated and invisible.

I’m understanding now, though, that it was through these times- the ins and outs, the minutes and hours- that I got to know my kids as people.  They came from my body; its no wonder my soul wasn’t where it used to be- my soul was and is wrapped up in them.  Even for those of us who have adopted children who have not come from our bodies, we’ve still given them our hearts.  When we give something so fully, whether on purpose or not, there is no piece left for anything else: No time for new hobbies, no energy for new friends, no worry for what could be.  And that’s OK.

That’s better than OK, actually.  Its beautiful.

I used to think of this in such a negative light: “These kids only leave me enough energy to drink wine!”  Now, with two kids for which I was there in the beginning to put in the work, I’m finding that more pieces of me are able to naturally fit back into the picture.  These pieces have changed to fit into my mom soul and they are creating a more well rounded picture of me.

We don’t need to clean and scrub our souls for something better.  Our unwashed, tired, disheveled, seemingly unrecognized mom souls shine every day through the people we are molding to take on the world.  Time passes and opportunities present themselves in their own time. Let yourselves grow the way life aims you and be able to sit in the moments when you want more, knowing what you have and what you are doing is enough.

Cleaning and scrubbing can wait till tomorrow.

For babies grow up, we’ve learned to our sorrow.

So quiet down ‘have tos’.

‘What ifs’ go to sleep.

I’m raising my babies and my heart they keep .


A Parent’s Halloween Affirmation

A Parent’s Halloween Affirmation

Trick-or-Treating is for kids.

I am a fully grown adult.

I will not try to convince my children that my costume ideas are better than theirs just because they are cheaper and more practical.

I will not tell my children that people are not home in order to avoid the houses with the candy that I do not like.

I will maintain a positive voice and encourage words of gratitude from my children when they receive pennies in lieu of delicious chocolate.

I will only take 73% of the good candy for myself.

I will refrain from shame-eating candy behind the locked door of the bathroom.

I am a fully grown adult.

Adult Halloween is for drinking.

The BeautiFULL Princess: Salvaging Life Lessons for My Little Girl

The BeautiFULL Princess: Salvaging Life Lessons for My Little Girl

I can blame whom or whatever I decide to blame.  Typically, I rotate the guilty party daily: The little girl in day care for wearing a sparkly headband, that certain “Magical Kingdom” company for having such damn good marketing for her demographic, my mother for incessantly buying her an abundance of princess paraphernalia, and even myself for being unable to control my swooning when she wears her party dresses with matching sparkly shoes… She looks so pretty, though!

The fact is: My daughter is a girly girl with the hopes, dreams, and wishes of being a princess.  In the argument of Nature vs. Nurture, I was a Nurture advocate and believed it was very black and white.  That was B.C., when I had no f%$#ing idea what I was talking about.  Nothing about raising a child is black and white, and, much to the dismay of controlling people in a controlling society, certain things are up to Nature.

From the moment we enter motherhood, we relinquish control of so much: What we can eat, drink, and do when we’re pregnant, when we sleep, eat, and shower when we have babies, and the core personalities of our children when they grow into their own.  We fight what they are naturally drawn to do and like, believing it our parently duty to control the people they are.  We believe this because it is, in fact, our job to shape them, but instead of futilely fighting, we can use these innate interests (barring they are not harmful to their safety and the safety of others (duh!)) to control the people they grow into and become.

To begin most of our days, my wide eyed, dreamy little girl twirls into my room and sings, “Mommy, I need to wear a dress today, because I can only be a beautiful princess when I wear a dress and crown!”.  It is at this moment I realize again and again that, by allowing her to participate in this seemingly harmless play act, she may be missing some incredibly important life lessons that I must teach in order to raise her to be a confident, respectful, content, grateful, and gracious adult.  It is at this same moment I realize that, if I stifle her creative play, I will become the Wicked Witch in her fairytale world whom she does not respect, or worse, trust.  If she doesn’t trust what I say, how can my words be most effective in teaching her?

So, I have begun using the Princess Pandemic as a teaching tool for what being beautiful truly means: FULL of beauty from the inside out.  Every day, I use her undying desire to be a princess to remind her:

“Darling, being beautiful has nothing to do with what you wear.  Princesses are beautiful on the inside, for if you are not beautiful on the inside, it will not show outside.

You cannot wear a princess crown unless you have so much knowledge in your brain to hold it on.  Being smart is beautiful.

You cannot be beautiful without a positive attitude and confidence.  Being hopeful is beautiful.

You cannot be beautiful unless you help your family, friends, teachers, and those in need.  Being helpFULL is beautiFULL.

You cannot truly be beautiful unless you appreciate who is in your life and how fortunate you are.  If you always want more and are not content with what you have, your beauty will not shine through.  Being grateFULL is beautiFULL.”


My B.C. plans of my girls being tomboys and my boys being calm and gentle have been edited by the reality of Nature.  I am learning every day to give Nature a little more room to take its course.  I will complete my due diligence to deplete commercials from her viewing, for they feed greed.  I will preview content of media entertainment to ensure that it is educational, and perpetuate the fact that screen time is an earned privilege as opposed to a right.  I will let her wear her dresses and crowns while she creates make believe princes and castles on a stage that is set not to make, but to ALLOW her to transition from the imaginary beautiful princess to a beautiFULL person throughout the rest of her real life.





I’m Still Here!

I’m Still Here!

Hello to my understanding and patient readers!

It is no secret I have been M.I.A. for a while.  I understand how you must be feeling…  The Walking Dead ended for the mid season break and I slipped into a terrible show hole that I assume feels like what you go through when I don’t write…..


If you’re still reading, please know I’m kidding.  You have been too busy trying to find the Star Shower laser projection Christmas lights that are sold out in stores and cost quadruple on Amazon to notice me dropping the ball (You are not alone!  With a nickname of “Star Shower Lazy Lights” promising the illusion of Christmas spirit at the expense of little to no effort, Mombies everywhere are raising a glass to this little Christmas miracle.).

If I were ever to imagine breaking a bone, I would think an awesome and inspiring story or lesson would accompany the incident.  As I sit here, finger pecking away at my keyboard, I take a loathing look at the cast up to my forearm stained with the remnants of a month’s worth of toilet training, toddlers’ allergies confused by the unseasonable weather, and self tanner.  This is caused by my attempt to protect myself from my husband and kids tickling me, and is a daily reminder that a bone can be broken at any time doing any silly, run of the mill thing.  Six to eight weeks of this fiberglass hand prison with no amazing story to offset its unsightliness or uncleanliness.  Ho. Ho. Ho.

So, my excellent Mombies, I’ll be back soon, finishing, with two working hands on a keyboard, drafts of my entries that I have hastily hands free talk-to-texted.  Side note: Talk-to-text is extremely perverted and sometimes decides to translate dictation into different languages… or perverted words that I don’t know.  Can’t be sure.

Enjoy the holidays and government-alarming warm weather, and (as always!) remember to drink the bulk of your wine out of sight at your family gatherings so they don’t talk about what a lush you are all through 2016.


You love them, You love them

You love them, You love them

They grow up with you.

You grow up with them.

Through good times and bad times

again and again.

No one will know them

as wholly as you-

Every mood, every face,

when they’re being untrue.

They choose not to listen

and make your head hot.

Like pedals from a flower,

you love them, love them not.

They make you go crazy.

They make you go gray.

Drive you sick with worry

every time they’re away.

They’ll tell you they love you

right after you’ve fought.

Like pulling off pedals,

you love them, love them not.

Then you think of the days

with the pedals of “nots”,

the vast gardens of time,

and each stem in each pot.

Each one now just memories.

Just moments now passed.

The laughs and the lessons,

good and hard times gone fast.

They grow up and away

in the blink of an eye

You weep and you panic

when you say goodbye.

The “not” days seem long

and a mess to get through,

but when it comes to the end,

its just them and you.

Forever and ever,

’til the end of the stem.

Every pedal, every pull-

you love them, you love them.

Selfishly Keeping The Self

Selfishly Keeping The Self

I first noticed it when I was group texting with a few of my college friends that live nearby:

“I’m so excited you guys can come over tonight!  We can throw something together for dinner and have a few drinky-poos!”

“That sounds great, but did you just say ‘drinky-poos’? You seriously need some adult time!” 

This message from my loveably honest friend hit me like a building block to the forehead. It had finally happened. I don’t know when it began, but my cool had been entirely overcome by (insert scary music) MOMMYDUM (GASP!).

“Holy moly, you’re right!” I admitted to my friend. “You see? I just did it again! Who says ‘holy moly’? Shit”.  I always swore I would stay cool no matter how old I got or how my life changed. I had watched as friends and relatives around me lost traits of themselves that were then replaced with obscure, unfamiliar acts. The popular drug dealer who lived across the street from me in college began posting professional portraits on Facebook of himself and his girlfriend wearing matching shirts! The people around me on a daily basis discussed the latest PTA meeting instead of where they were going out that weekend. When I tried to change the Laurie Berkner CD while riding in my friend’s car (with no children present), she made me wait until the song was over! I observed in curious panic as my surroundings and the people in them transformed.

At this moment, you are no doubt picturing an episode of The Walking Dead: Cool, fresh, hip people becoming twisted, gnarled shells of themselves when they start a family, then infecting everyone around them. This may be a good time to throw in a disclaimer. Please do not mistake the stories I tell and the pictures I paint to mean that I am not grateful for all that I have. I planned on being a wife and mother, and I knew it would be a life, game, and perception changer. I love my life dearly and find great joy in reading bedtime stories to the kids (and sometimes my husband who falls asleep first), knowing all of the words to the Frozen soundtrack (and singing them in harmony with my daughter), and sharing ordinary, everyday experiences with them in a way that makes them not so ordinary.

Are we good? Everyone settled down? OK, great- now that I’ve stated the obvious, we can get back to the reality of it all: I love my life, but where and how can I fit in the real me? The familiar “me” with whom I am comfortable, happy, and relaxed spending time?  The one who, at the very least, does not say “poo” as a suffix?

I’ve previously mentioned my theory on adult life: In short, we all have multiple pieces on a proverbial game board that we are required to play, and The Self is the piece that is most likely to get benched. All of the pieces that we play for the various motivations and excuses that we give are loud, demanding, and domineering while our “Self” pieces wait patiently until we can tend to them again. This is dangerous, for due to the necessity of the other roles we play, Mother and Wife being at the forefront, it is very easy, common, and sometimes seemingly expected of us by society to retire this piece all together.

What does it mean if I don’t want to retire this piece and forget about her? Am I selfish for keeping tabs on my Self? Many from the “Mad Men” generation (a.k.a. The Stone Age) would argue that by recognizing and taking time for our own, personal well beings, we are skewing our priorities and selfishly putting ourselves ahead of being mothers and wives. From the trenches that smell of dirty laundry and sour milk where I sit bedecked in poop, tears, crusty banana, and toilet bowl cleaner, I say to these dinosaurs, “Kindly shove that shit into the Diaper Genie.” My priorities are straight, and it is the failure to put The Self on the list of priorities that is skewed.

That being said, there is no denying that our lives are changing. It is an inevitable and not entirely terrible truth. If I still drank like I did ten years ago, my life expectancy would be much shorter. If I kept my sleep schedule from even five years ago, I would be a zombie with an ulcer from my excessive need for copious amounts of coffee and Five Hour Energy to get through the day (has that crap been banned yet? Seriously, it can’t be good for the body!). If I hadn’t decided to change, I would not have grown wiser and more experienced (and increasingly humble, clearly!) with each new phase of life. There are worse experiences than having more fun than my children at Disney on Ice, getting excited when a new Team Umi Zumi records on the DVR, or realizing that baby talk has taken over my typical jargon… I think.

However, there is no shame in finding a way to fit your Self into your present day life. My Self has done a lot for me over the years. My man and I met, fell in love, got married, and lived in our first house together over the course of eight years of just our Selves. If being a good wife is a priority, it helps immensely to have a good marriage. To keep a good marriage (even to sustain one, for that matter), it is just as important to foster who the two of you were as a couple in the easy years by putting time and effort into your Selves as it is to complete typical “wifely” duties (There is that dinosaur talking again!) like laundry and keeping the house and everyone’s schedules in order.

The actions I take as a wife and mother are to ensure the safety, well being, and happiness of my family and those around me. I’m happy when I see that I have made the ones I love happy. This does not change the fact that I must tend to my other roles. All of my pieces must have time on the board for the game to run smoothly. There is a balance that must be decided in order to prevent fatigue and to ensure that all pieces remain relevant and “in shape” for their tasks.

Never forget that you are the glue that holds your life together. Take pride in your “mommydum” and all of the pieces on your board, but do what you must to make sure your Self gets some playing time. “Happy wife, happy life,” “When mommy is happy, life isn’t crappy”. No matter what you portray on Facebook, your life can’t be picture perfect until your best self is in the picture.  Now, go rinse out last night’s wine glass in the sink and pour a nice-sized drinky-poo.  All of your pieces will thank you.

allow me

allow me

I look at my husband with frazzled hair and puffy eyes accented with dark circles and hopelessness. My sinus cavity resonates with the familiar sting of repressed tears. “I need a vacation,” I say, fully aware of how cliché this phrase sounds. These words pale in comparison to the urgency for a break that I am actually feeling, but I am so worn down and defeated that more pertinent words cannot be recalled.

My husband doesn’t understand.  The amount of face time he gets with “the bosses” is fleeting.  He sees them before he goes to work in the early morning and from dinner until bed, week in and week out, without being able to experience the circus that is my life: seemingly endless consecutive days working in the trenches, face to face with the Ruthless Rulers of the Roost.  It isn’t his fault that he doesn’t understand my daily regimen.  He has a team of co-adults working with him (all with an assumed skill set level and job description to define what is expected of them) to accomplish daily tasks, no matter how busy the business season becomes.  When your bosses are under the age of five, the skill set and realistic expectations are much lower. Damn near non-existent.

I’m the leader and the servant simultaneously and my job description is extensive, non-finite, and ever changing.  As perplex and confusingly important as that sounds, I picture myself as nothing more than a female Jeeves:  “Please, Sir and Ma’am, allow me to drive you from city to city for activities that I’ve planned for your enjoyment while you spill various liquids, crumbs, and toys in your chariot…  Allow me to clean that for you.”

My daughter actually calls me “Desmond” and pretends I am her coachman.  When we arrive at our destination and I help her down from her seat (“Allow me!”), she says, “Thank you, Desmond!” in her most snooty British accent.  Ouch, my pride.

“Yes, Your Highnesses, allow me to make your dinner and your bed, then allow me to remake them when they just aren’t quite what you want.  Don’t turn off your own flashlight, allow me to slide the switch for you, then take you to the store so you can watch me buy more batteries for the second time this week.   Allow me to fetch you a drink (if I can find the cup you hid of now rancid milk) and your shoes (if I can ever find where you put the other one).  By all means, don’t close the door behind you!  Allow me to chase and kill the flies that you let into the house.  Please, sit on the couch and allow me to clean up your toys, watch you dump them out, then pick them up again… in every room… ad nauseam.   And, Sir and Ma’am, it would be an honor if you would allow me to serve as your bidet and flush the evidence for you.”

The amount of thankless servitude that comprises my day is exhausting and tries my self esteem.  “One day,” I think, “they will learn how to say please”.  I complain, “when will they learn to get their own damn milk and get themselves ready to go somewhere?”, and “I can’t wait for him to be out of diapers!”

One day, I’ll be allowed to enjoy a quiet house.  I will have a peaceful life with many less hats of responsibility on my head to sweat under.  I won’t be a servant anymore.  They will be taller than I, think they are wiser than I, and won’t allow me to spend time with them.

Some day alarmingly soon, they will replace my advice with the advice of their friends, no longer allow me to make decisions for them, and go to college farther away from me than I prefer.  Maybe they will allow me to visit.  What I am allowed to do for them will diminish with every day, every lesson learned, and every added skill.

So, my beloved babies, please allow me to choose your outfits in the morning and take pictures of how perfect you look.  Allow me to mediate your fights about what show to watch, whose toy is whose, or whether I belong to one of you or the other.  I will cut up your food and wash and brush your hair if you allow me.  I will put cream on your cuts, burns, and butts, and as many Band-Aids as you want wherever you want them…even if you don’t have a boo-boo and just want to pretend in an effort to engulf my attention.

It brings me great joy when you allow me to be your chef, health consultant, counselor, gym teacher, psychologist, and nurse.  I look forward every day to being your speech therapist, library, abacus, maid, jungle gym, and referee.  Thank you for allowing me to be your chauffer, social director, paparazzi, calendar, and translator.   Keepers of my Heart, it is a privilege to serve as your advocate, conscience, lifeline, biggest fan, and closest friend.


On second thought, vacation can wait.  My children’s lives are my job and this is my busy season.

allow me





selective listening

selective listening

Come here please.   Come here.  Come HERE!  Come here NOW!  Don’t run away from me!


No, honey.  No, no.  Mommy says ‘NO NO’.  Do you hear me??


Gross, honey, don’t eat that.  Babe, yucky, don’t eat that!  DON’T EAT THAT! I said DON’T eat that. Spit it out. Spit it out!  Spit that out RIGHT now. Spit. It. Out.


Get dressed, please. Please get dressed. GO get dressed. Go up to your dresser and choose something to wear. Why aren’t you dressed? Why are you naked?


Where did I put those cookies?

“Mommy, they in the door above the coffee pot.  You ’emember you put them there? So we not reach them? And ’emember last year when I a little baby you said if I a good girl, I have a cookie?”




WWZM: Mother’s Little Helper

WWZM: Mother’s Little Helper

Being a mom is a job with such an extensive description which hangs gapingly open for interpretation. This makes the position most susceptible to judgment and ridicule.  We so often get wrapped up in what the internet and naysayers tell us we are doing too much of, not enough of, or just flat out wrong.  It is easy to forget the people that we actually are and that there are many like us out there.

In the game of Life, the Mother is one of many pieces we play across our boards.  She is responsible for overseeing other pieces’ actions, able to mimic certain behaviors of all other pieces when needed (excluding The Self), and able to move in multiple directions all over the board.   Along with The Mother, we have many other pieces in play, including The Friend, The Wife, The Socialite and, the lowest ranked piece that gets the least amount of play, The Self.

When I added The Mother to my game, my Self was pushed aside, able to take a turn only every once in a while.  Starting this blog is my way of dusting The Self off and getting it back in the game.  I love to write and I find so much humor in my children, family, and daily situations.  This is my way to team The Mother and The Self together to create a well-balanced outlet for the crazy that builds up day by day.

It always comforts me to meet a mom who can laugh at her perfectly imperfect life and this blog’s purpose is to share that comfort with you. When you find yourself in desperate need of a break from your mom life, this is a safe place.  When you feel like you’re taking crazy pills, White Wine Zombie Mom will remind you that you’re not (and there are way more fun pills to take!).  CRAZY PILLSWhen Mom Guilt rears its ugly head, making you feel like you’re the worst mom ever and you have no friggin’ idea what you’re doing, I will tell you real life accounts of my daily screw ups that will make you feel better by comparison!  Just like that filthy guilty pleasure reality TV show that we all watch.

Think of this blog as your few minutes of therapy, like your time to sit with a friend and a glass, er, bottle…s… of wine and remember to laugh at the circus that is your life.  I got your back!  You don’t even have to remember my birthday or tell me I don’t look fat!

nice to meet you!


Something terrible has happened!  I went to the liquor store the other day and didn’t get carded!  I was immediately thrown into a panicked state of reflection, bitter reminiscing, and desperate search for comfort in a grander meaning of life.  The first course of action I took upon returning home from this unspeakable incident was to pour myself a glass of wine.  Obviously.  Second, I logged onto my Facebook page to update my profile.  How much of me has changed?  Is there anything at all that is still relevant in this profile that I have not tended to in an embarrassing amount of time?  It was here that I came upon the following piece of work that I wrote back in my days of bright eyes, bright skin, and no children:


I want to:

SING! listen to music. camp. dance. well. not well. wear bandanas. feel pretty. accept compliments. give compliments to appreciative ears. and hugs to appreciative bodies.and unappreciative bodies in need. and presents to anyone for any reason. drink. get slightly too drunk once in a while. spend time on something someone i care about will enjoy. wear sun dresses always. lay outside in the sunshine. be excited about small victories: a good bargain, flip flop tan lines, a great song on the radio, a call from a friend. call old friends just to tell them I remember their old phone numbers. sing “happy birthday” on voicemails every year. reminisce. listen to new bands. share a new band with someone. listen to live music on a patio. go to a concert and sing a song with a stranger. go swimming in the ocean. surf. be good at surfing. rock climb to see the beauty at the top. think deep with someone who understands deep thinking. stop thinking sometimes. analyze the lyrics to a song. forget the meaning of the song and enjoy the melody. multiple parts. know every part to a song from every genre. make friends. feel good about myself. make my grandparents proud. be a positive influence on people around me. make people comfortable and happy. learn to play the guitar. sing in a band. find someone with the same top five movies as I. travel.out of country. live out of ohio. raise my children to be loving, giving, sympathetic, tolerant, solid, motivated, and humbly confident. learn. teach. light candles. curse cleverly. plant a kick ass garden.


Please, do not let me lead you astray.  I would be remiss in my duties as your newest friend if I allowed you to believe that this SARK greeting card reflects the true goings on of my life.  Two children, seven years of marriage, and three jobs later, let’s be honest…  Do you have your wine ready?:

I actually:

subconsciously sing out loud wherever I go. listen to music, but only in my head so it won’t wake the children. remember what a great camper I used to be, then decide that cabin camping with a hot tub is way WAY better. dance not well, except when I’m drinking white wine. wear bandanas to cover my greasy hair when I have forgotten to shower for three days. feel pretty accomplished if I get around to showering in a day. laugh nervously and respond in an inappropriately loud voice when given compliments. give compliments and hugs to confused and slightly creeped out bodies of strangers. give presents to anyone for any reason because I get free shipping through Amazon Prime, so I’m basically saving money. drink. drink a lot. drink a lot and often. get slightly too drunk once in a week. spend too much time on something someone I care about will enjoy then throw away to avoid being pegged a hoarder. wear sun dresses for the month and a half that Cleveland, Ohio weather allows, then move to exclusively yoga pants. am unable, the older that I get, to lay outside in the sunshine if it is too hot without getting dizzy and needing to take a break.  get excited about small victories including:  I have kept the kids alive one more day, I have found a bottle of wine in the back of the wine fridge when I thought I was out, and I remembered to shave my armpits. sing “happy birthday” on voicemails every year… until someone finally calls me back and tells me that I’ve been calling the wrong number. reminisce about the days I could drive on the highway with my windows down and blare Eminem while I am instead listening to “Let It Go” one more friggin’ time and closing up the car to avoid Child Wind Trauma, which I’ve heard is Social Service’s latest craze. listen to whatever keeps the kids quiet. share anecdotal mom pictures with my three friends, adding the subject “it’s funny ’cause its true!”. choose to sit on a restaurant patio so the kids voices won’t be as loud for the other patrons. go to a concert and sing a song with a stranger once a year, then wake up hung over for three days. go swimming in the ocean, but secretly fear what critters are lurking around me. have surfed. am terrible at surfing. climb the rock wall at the park to save my son from jumping to his death. think about how much time it takes to do deep thinking. never stop thinking… even in my sleep… about 17 subjects at once. analyze everything my husband says as if he is a deep thinker. forget what I was talking about in the middle of a sentence. am influenced fairly easily by whoever is around me. make people want to drink. play three songs on the guitar, all of which have four or less chords. sing in a band of toddlers with instruments made of paper plates and beans. haven’t watched my top five movies in 15 years. have zero stamps on my passport. am currently teaching my children to stop riding each other down the stairs and to refrain from eating the bird poop on the patio furniture. learn something new every day. teach the children whatever important life lesson I can while simultaneously cleaning up the dog poop from the carpet. light candles only after the kids are asleep so they don’t dump wax on my floor. accidentally curse out loud in front of the kids a lot. kill every plant I touch, except for weeds.  can’t kill those for the life of me.


Profile adjusted, wine bottle emptied, reflection complete!


Nice to meet you!

linds 🙂