• Irish Courage: Traveling with Anxiety

    Well, it’s nearly November, my friends. We are (hopefully, knock on wood) wrapping up a double-whammy of the flu and strep-throat with our five year old right now and it’s been seven days of non-stop fun (<– sarcasm font).  Ivy has pretty significant asthma, so whenever she gets any kind of respiratory illness/cold/flu/virus, we are on high alert.  Combine that with my every-day anxiety and this mama needs a drink. Or eleven. And all of the above is now happening about four days before Brian and I leave the country. Because the universe loves to paw at my anxiety like a kitten with a ball of yarn. A few months…

  • Fall refresh.

      *** It’s fall. My favorite. This year, I shall defy the Missouri weather by turning the air conditioning up enough to feel comfortable in sweaters. I will look out my window and pretend it’s not 80 degrees on most days. I will spray paint the leaves forcing them to turn. I will have my fall, dammit. *** And how are all of you? It’s been awhile… I had a nice summer break of not writing. I am still not sure how much or often I will write. Or what I will write about. Likely, things that interest me at the moment… with no theme or direction or scheduled pattern.…

  • Three is the angriest number.

    *** I remember once feeling superior that my lovely little human never went through the “terrible twos” and giving myself a pat on the back for (so-far) raising an even tempered, happy little girl.  “Oh, I bet that one’s a firecracker!” I’d hear countless times at the grocery store from people observing Ivy’s red hair. And I’d proudly, no, smugly respond, “No, she’s a pretty happy go lucky kid.”  And then… My child turned 3 1/2 and some sort of miniature demon has taken control of her to the point that I now look fondly back at potty training as a sort of utopia. Now, I’m not saying animated movies are, in fact, documentaries based on…

  • Five things that drain me as a parent (and none of them have to do with my kids)

    *** When I was five years old, I watched Albert Peece* eat glue at our kindergarten table. I gagged uncontrollably the first time I witnessed it. As the child of a large animal veterinarian, I had seen some pretty disgusting things in my young life by then (those medical rubber gloves go all the way up the arm for a reason, people); but, for some reason, Albert eating glue unnerved me to no end. Albert would eat glue almost every day during art. He’d roll it in a ball between his fingers and then pop it in his mouth like a Cheetoh. (I’m totally gagging as I type this, by the way.) But I loved…