Have you ever walked across a room at home and felt your foot sink into something that is definitely not flooring of any kind? How about innocently stepping onto a stair and finding a foreign object lodged between your tender toes? Or perhaps removing your shoes and noticing a trail of smears, of the most unpleasant sort, on the doormat you just walked across? Living with boys and dogs (and chickens) is the ideal recipe for frequently landing your feet in something painful, noxious, or both. From droppings to LEGO bricks, my poor feet have taken a beating and there doesn’t seem to be any sign that they’ll get a break anytime soon. In fact, if today is any indication, there appears to be an i

All things come to an end, this is an indisputable fact. Whether that end is the last breathes of a life, the completion of a task, the final leg of a journey, or the scraping of a fork on an empty plate, there will be an ending. Some endings are easy to cope with and others take an achingly long amount of time to get over, but eventually acceptance comes and, if we’re lucky, a measure of peace. I find these things to be true, and yet each week I enter a realm of denial and regret. It is like clockwork, literally, because when the sun begins to set on Sunday evening, I find myself dreading another ending. You didn’t think I was going to go all serious did you? Actually, the end of a weekend

Mothers have superpowers. There is no other way to explain the multitude of things that we are able to accomplish within a given day, nor in an entire week. The extraordinary abilities that come with the onset of motherhood are truly astonishing and worthy of recognition, because this often thankless job is harder than any career imaginable. From the moment I rouse the household at six-thirty in the morning to the time when I can finally rest my head on the pillow at ten at night, I am a multitasking ball of energy that gets shit done! From my experience, it is women who embody these superhuman  abilities to such an extent that attempts by the opposite sex to reach our super-status rarely me

I’ve loved writing since middle school, or at least fully recognized my affinity for the written word beginning in those angst-filled years. For me, it began with English assignments that elicited a creativity I hadn’t explored prior to seventh grade. In stereotypical fashion, this developed into the teenage cliche of bad poetry. I wrote over a hundred poems throughout my teens, and at least 95% of them are awful. The other 5% aren’t good, but have some redeeming elements that rank them higher than fodder for the wood stove. However, the quality and quantity of my initial efforts isn’t what is noteworthy. It is the fact that from those early fumblings of mediocre prose, came a true appreciat

Have you ever been to one of those movies that involve all of your senses by immersing you into the film to such a degree that you feel the rain in the movie as water is spritzed onto your face or smell a blast of the hot chocolate lit up on the screen? That is what it's like living with boys, only it's not hot chocolate that I'm smelling. If you were to spend time in my home, you would quickly realize that there are many experiences for the senses. Not only are there noises that reach painful decibels, toys and boy-related items in every corner of the house, video games in play mode, and numerous food items at the ready at any given moment, there are also certain smells and not all of them

Have you ever been put on the spot, whether from a deadline that came too quickly or an unexpected spotlight pointed straight at you, and concocted such a cleverly crafted response that those who heard it were enthralled? I call this the Bullsh*t Effect. I currently have a MS in Bullsh*t and am working on my doctorate. It’s an underrated skill, but one that has merit! I wouldn’t go so far as to say that I’m a Bullsh*t savant, but I’ve been known to wax prosaic when in reality I’m just pulling a response out of the miasma swirling around my brain that I deftly mix with verbiage that sounds like I know what I’m talking about. And if you don’t have a savvy BS detector, you might not see throug

I’m what you would call a closet procrastinator. The saying, ‘Why do something today when I can put it off until tomorrow?’, defines me up to a point because I procrastinate, selectively. Like many of you, I find that there aren’t enough hours in the day to get everything, under every hat I wear, completed. Or if I do manage to get the majority of tasks done, I’ve now squandered any time for myself, and let’s be honest, time for me is important. This creates what I call a ‘me time deficit’. Which promotes stress and makes me cranky. No one in my house likes it when I’m cranky. I’m kind of like the Hulk, only I’m not green. So how do I manage to prevent a ‘me time deficit’? I procrastinate! N

There is a big debate over homework in this country and, for many reasons, I stand firmly on the side advocating for its abolishment. Of course, the amount of research that clearly states little, if any, positive impact on academic success is one rationale, but my primary motivation for supporting an end to homework stems from the angst it causes in my house. A sure way of prompting an utter meltdown in my two youngest boys is assigning copious amounts of homework. These episodes often result in my patience fraying rapidly and tears being shed, mine privately of course. For a moment, let’s ignore the fact that the assignments themselves do not relate to the individual needs of my children, n

Whether it is a boy, bird, or dog, something is bound to insert itself into my personal space for sundry reasons and utterly derail my thinking and ability to complete a task in its entirety without interruptions. Take today as an example, while working, or rather trying to work, I am bombarded by noises of the canine variety. This begins with Gus whining for me to toss a toy, then toss it again and again, quickly followed by locating said toy under whatever piece of furniture it has become lodged. While I may ignore the pleas of the latter for a period of time, the whining will continue until, in exasperation, I dig out the toy and toss it. As you can imagine, this game continues until Gus’

Those of you who have boys will understand (unless my sons are some sort of aberration and this post is far from your reality). A window into my world, will undoubtedly show you many things but it’s the things you hear that are the focal point today. You see, if you were to spend a day with me, you would be treated to a symphony of noise reminiscent of the greatest of whoopee cushions. Not to brag, but my sons truly have a talent of the ‘flatulent variety’. I’m so proud (insert sarcasm). This veritable orchestra of sound and subject matter seems to find its primary venue at the dinner table. No matter what the topic of conversation was at the beginning of a dialogue, it will always devolve

It is the eve of a snow day and this can only mean copious amounts of wine, just kidding, sort of. Honestly, it is hard to determine who is more excited about the prospect of this ‘stolen day’, my children or me? Yes, I know it’ll come back around in June, but let me relish the moment and ignore the obvious for now. All week long I’ve watched the weather avidly, awaiting the announcement of a hazardous weather outlook with some decent probabilities. Yes, I know I just returned from a winter break, but that is utterly irrelevant! As the forecast began to look more dire (from the meteorologist’s perspective), my hopes lifted until finally, the announcement came and with it, a bottle of wine! O

The beginning of any school year is bittersweet. It signifies the end of lazy summer days and rings in the excitement of new friends and classes. Fast forward to January, specifically the first day back after winter break. The frigid, barren yard somehow matches the mood of returning to school, both for me and my three sons. Being a terrible mother, I have ignored the backpacks over the winter break (cue the cringe upon opening the ten-day old lunch box) and paid absolutely no attention to anyone’s homework folder. Come to think of it, I often try to avoid the contents of that folder in order to prevent the potential, inappropriate comment that may fly out of my mouth when pulling out stacks

We have all made New Year's resolutions at some point in our lives and if you are anything like me, those sincere commitments lasted about a week before suffering their inevitable end through such mumblings as, screw this! Of course, I like to believe that it is not my lack of follow-through or short attention span that result in these yearly promises being broken. You see, if I make a resolution that is clearly in the realm of fiction then it is doomed to fail. So it's not really my fault, it's just the nature of a fictitious promise. At the age of 44, I’ve finally come to the realization that my resolutions should simply not revolve around food and exercise. Rather, they should involve an

Kids make noise, this is an indisputable fact. However, I am beginning to think that my sons may have a unique gift for abstract sound that Industrial Light and Magic may be interested in. Admittedly, there are some sounds from down under that must be released into the ether of every evening's activities, but the specific sounds I am referring to are actually of the vocal variety. I have been told by my brother-in-law that it is the nature of the males in the family and has been passed down from generation to generation like some alien gene. I suppose he's right, as my husband does exhibit all the traits as well, which likely means all future progeny are doomed to some quirky utterances that