According to the stories that my mother tells me about my childhood, my favorite song was “I Will Survive” by Gloria Gaynor. At around four years old I knew every single word by heart and would sing and dance around my kitchen with a wooden spoon, serenading everyone and anyone that listen to me. If my dad were still alive he would say that story was blasphemy, as my favorite song was “Light My Fire” by The Doors, the cassette on a constant loop in his car at all times growing up. The truth of the matter is, they were probably both right. Or maybe neither was right. I don’t know. But one thing is for certain, I still know the lyrics to both those songs and could recite them with my eyes closed, with no background music. That’s how ingrained they are in me.

Last night I went to a concert; my first since 2019. And even then, it would have been years and years before that one as well. Sometimes I find it funny that I can’t even remember the number of shows I would have gone to in my early 20’s. It seems like I was always there, perpetually soaking up a new sound or lyric that would wind it’s way onto my playlist (when that actually became a thing). For the most part, back then, I let others dictate the new things I would try out or listen to. Assuming, since my friends were the “music people” they would know better than me. I, of course, had some of my own favorites, which are mostly still my favorites to this day, but I never shared much and no one ever asked.

When The Killers released Hot Fuss in June of 2004, I remember listening to that CD constantly for the entire summer. I had just graduated college and was about to leave to move to South Carolina for graduate school, my husband-to-be coming with me as we jumped into the unknown of being 23 and having the whole world ahead of us. And while my marriage didn’t last, my love for The Killers did (in spite of and including their guest appearance on The OC).

Last night, after so many tour and show cancellations, band hiatuses, pandemics, I finally got to see them in concert. The minute they took the stage and played the first note I began crying. I wasn’t a blubbering mess or anything, it was more like the amount of happiness I had couldn’t be contained in that moment and it had to spill out in some way. I had waited so long. I don’t think I’ve smiled that hard in a long time. As the show continued for two hours, with me bopping along singing every single lyric, I began to feel something more than just happiness. It was connection. To the woman with her two elementary school boys she brought to the show. To the older couple all dressed up sitting behind us. Even to the girl I met in the bathroom who was upset that she was missing “the best song” while she waited for her friend to wash their hands (she was wrong though, it wasn’t the best song, but I digress). Here I was, at a sold out concert, singing with over 20,000 other people to some really great music. We were all there for this singular reason: our absolute love of these songs. That idea kind of takes my breath away.

So today, when I woke up tired but invigorated, for the first time in a long time, I wanted to write something instead of losing myself in a book. For the first time in a long time I didn’t want to lose myself in someone else’s world. I wanted to lose myself in my own.

My mom told me once that she visited a psychic when I was younger and they told her my life and my future would have something to do with music. I took piano lessons, learned how to play the clarinet, flute, and violin (I can play zero of them now), but I gave up rather quickly, none of these avenues ever giving me a feeling that I wanted to continue down that road. And don’t get me started my singing. I will sing all day every day but I am terrible with a capital T.

But maybe that’s not what the psychic meant. Maybe it was more than that. Maybe it was that music was the thing that would actually give me a future, keep me here on this planet long enough to do everything I was meant to do. Maybe it was the thing that would save me at those times I felt very, very un-savable .

I really do think that’s what the universe was always trying to show me. While the whole rest of the world was trying to break me down and grind me to dust, music was going to be the thing to save me. Even when I’m just driving down the road, windows down, the cool breeze rushing in to make me catch my breath, feeling the air hitting my face as I sing as loud as I want. These moments are my life preservers.

These are the times I feel most alive.

I don’t know how long ago it started, but it all started with eggs and chocolate milk.

One Sunday, I decided to make a big Sunday breakfast. We had eggs, hash browns, bacon, fresh fruit, and chocolate milk. I remember letting Charlotte make the chocolate after she begged and begged, wincing inwardly as she painstakingly poured the milk into a mason jar before mixing in the chocolate. We all sat down to eat together at 9, two hours after we woke up, as we tend be rather slow and lazy on Sundays. They all ate every bite. And then asked for more. And then asked for it again the next weekend. So we did.

Thus, a new tradition was formed. We call it Sunday Breakfast and it is our favorite meal of the week.

I know this may seem like an insignificant event, but to us, especially to me, it was huge. When I left my marriage, I was so worried about the kids. Not so much Charlie, as she was only two, but the boys. They had been there for all the parts; the good, the bad, and the extremely terrible. I felt like I was treading an extremely fine line with our new family set-up. I wanted to start new traditions with them, traditions built out of love and new beginnings, while also making sure they didn’t think I forgot all of our past. Emotionally, I was a wreck almost all of the time.

But that changed with Sunday Breakfast. I could see now that blending the old with the new wasn’t as much a fine line as it was a balancing act. It was OK to incorporate new ideas and new traditions. After all we were a new family and had a newfound hope in finding our happiness in our “new way”. We now have bedtime traditions, summer vacation traditions, different holiday traditions, and even a new December beach week-end tradition. Each one we make together reminds me just how important these changes are.

It reminds me how much I had to fight in order to get to make new traditions in the first place. How much blood, sweat, and tears (so many tears) i shed in order to make this work. Really, that makes all these new traditions we are creating worth more than anything.

And in just a few days, we can enjoy it all over Sunday Breakfast.

Comparison is the thief of joy. It really is.

I know I’m guilty of the comparison trap, especially when it comes to my kids. I feel like I’m constantly measuring their accomplishments based on what other people post about their kids on social media. I know I need to stop, I do. But when I see that so-and-so’s kids could do XYZ at a certain age and mine couldn’t, I feel like a mama failure. Where did I drop the ball? I should have worked with them harder. I should have done more academically with them instead of letting them run around with boxes on their head screaming for the whole neighborhood to hear.

We spend so much time bragging sharing about our kids on social media, I feel like we miss the point sometime. Now don’t get me wrong, if you are proud of your kiddo and their accomplishments share away. I love reading them and cheering along with you. But I have to tell you, my favorite posts are the ones that tell it like it is. That show the struggles. That show the behind the scenes mess. Maybe it’s just me, but I love a good underdog story.

So, for those of you who are like me, who constantly feel inadequate and feel like you should be doing more, this is for you. This post is about my kids and how incredibly human they are. It’s for those mamas who are always feeling like they aren’t doing enough. Or they feel like they are failing. Or dropping the ball. Or a myriad of other things we are constantly telling ourselves to belittle the amount of amazing, life altering work we do.

Max couldn’t read by the end of kindergarten. At all.

Charlotte is 5 and still can’t write her name. We’re working on it. She gets a couple letters in order, but then messes up.

Oliver is the klutziest kid I have ever met. And as a teacher I have met A LOT of kids. He drops EVERYTHING. And falls ALL THE TIME.

Max still has a hard time with tying his shoes.

Charlotte still wets the bed at night.

Oliver is a cry baby. In a good way, but he is. He will dish out the attitude like a 17 year old and the minute you call him on it or give it back…big fat tears.

I don’t say these things to belittle my kids. Not at all. I just feel like so many times we tend to focus on the accomplishments of our kids and not the struggles that got them there. And I am a mama that sometimes needs to see that there was a struggle. I need the real life version. Basically, I need to know that I am not alone with my less than perfect life.

That boy who couldn’t read at 6? He’s in GT English now and reads 2-3 grade levels ahead.

That girl who still can’t write her name? She has the vocabulary and comprehension skills of a second grader.

My klutzy boy? He made the all star soccer team this year.

Their wins are there. They win at something every single day. But they struggle too. And I am 100 percent OK with that. They are all a mixture of a masterpiece and a mess. And I wouldn’t have it any other way.

The other day I was taking one of our new puppies for a walk around the neighborhood. Bella was a stray before she came to us and new people can sometimes seem like a threat. There doesn’t seem to be any rhyme or reason to her likes and dislikes, but she always warms up after a few minutes. While we were walking we passed someone and she started barking. The first thing out of my mouth, of course, was “I’m sorry.” The very nice lady at me and said “No need to apologize. She’s a dog, that’s what they do.”

That’s when it dawned on me that I was apologizing FOR my dog acting like a dog. And then it also hit me that I do this A LOT in my life. I apologize for other people, or for myself, acting in ways that define our personalities. I apologize for Oliver being too “much” or too loud, or too energetic. I apologize for Max for his strange excitement and intensity. I apologize for Charlotte’s sass (well maybe I should apologize for that one).

I do the same thing with myself. I constantly apologize for facets of my personality that others might not deem important or enjoyable. My dark humor. My introvertedness. My love of sharing hilarious memes. My political views.

But this is where it stops. No more apologizing for being myself. No more apologizing for my people (and animals) living their best life and knowing who they are. We only get to do this once. We may as well have a little fun and surround ourselves with the people who love us just the way we are.

I identified as a teacher, from the first time I set foot into a kindergarten classroom at Towson University in 2003. And now, I am planning on leaving my full time teaching job at the end of the year.

I identified as a mom, from Max’s first breath in 2009. I was there every single day, for every single moment. My kids have never even had a babysitter that wasn’t a relative. And now, while I am still a “full time” mom, I get to see my kids only 50% of the time.

I identified as a runner. But I was running from home. Running from an unhappy marriage. Running from all the daily pain and sorrow I felt. And now I enjoy home, and I cannot get up the motivation to run.

And for the past two and a half years I have identified as a fighter. I have fought for my children. For myself. For fairness and peace of mind. Every single minute of every single day. And now I don’t have to fight anymore.

At 39, I’m struggling to figure out not only who I am, but where I am going. I’m struggling to figure out my place. I’m struggling to figure out the old parts of me I need to keep and those I need to leave behind.

I didn’t expect this. I thought once everything was finalized, everything would magically fall into place. I didn’t think it would fall even further apart. 

I’m not quite sure who I am and what I am doing. Change is exciting. And change is scary. I’m simply hoping to keep moving forward with peace and grace while I figure it all out.

One kid upstairs, sick and asleep in his sisters bed so he can be alone, and with the windows open to make his fever more comfortable. Two kids deep into their 75th hour of technology today because I simply have no more energy to entertain or play.
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This is the same shirt that I had on last night, though I did manage to take a shower and wash my hair for the first time in 6 days (the hair, not the shower for all of you who are graced with my presence daily).
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Unscheduled rest day for my Barre Blend workout because I just could not today. I had a someone attached to me every single minute. Hopefully, I can catch up tomorrow. 
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My house is a disaster area. If you know me at all, you know I hate clutter and tend to be more of a minimalist because of this and I am pretty sure every damn thing we own is out on the floor or on a table. Mostly because I just let the unsick kids go feral today. This includes boxes that were meant for recycling that are now forts and my baby blanket that I received the day I was born pulled out and played with.
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I literally don’t know what load of laundry we are on for the day. It may be 6. Really. I don’t know. And there’s more. There’s always more.
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I am exhausted. I am very grateful for every single thing that has given me this life, but this season is hectic, crazy, tiring, and emotional. It’s marathon day after day with no rest in between. 
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But that’s ok. The house will be cleaned eventually. Kids will stop puking eventually. And I will get some sleep eventually. At least I hope so. Until then, there are filtered selfies to hide the bags under my eyes.

Celebrating.

I’m celebrating a nice win at the casino this weekend.

I’m celebrating being with the love of my life after 15 years of questionable marriage.

I’m celebrating that my favorite holiday is in two days and every single one of us can begin anew.

I’m even celebrating the fact that tomorrow is Monday. I’m ready to conquer it all. And I’m serious. I feel ready for whatever the universe throws my way. 

2019 is ending and while I gained some weight, had more breakdowns than I care to admit, and I didn’t quite meet any of my goals, this is the year I became myself. I found out who I am. And I kinda like her. I kinda like me.

So, I’m also celebrating me. This year I became a fighter. I became someone that is done being manipulated and guilted. I became brave.

And that, my friends, is more than enough reason to celebrate.

Always, always, ALWAYS celebrate yourself.