Fry, Party of Five

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  • And Just Like That, It’s Eighth Grade

    And Just Like That, It’s Eighth Grade

    Tomorrow, my babies start eighth grade.

    Eighth. Grade.

    I’m not entirely sure who authorized this, because I certainly don’t remember signing any paperwork allowing time to move this quickly.

    It feels like just yesterday I was packing three tiny backpacks, labeling absolutely everything we owned, taking first-day pictures of three little faces, and wondering how in the world I was supposed to let all three of my babies walk away from me at once.

    And now here we are.

    Jase, Henley, and Sadie are eighth graders.

    The oldest kids in the building.

    One final year before high school.

    One more year of middle-school hallways and lockers and lunch tables. One more year of school dances, football games, cheerleading, homework, inside jokes, ridiculous stories, changing friendships, growing pains, and trying to figure out exactly who they are becoming.

    And somehow, their mama is supposed to be normal about this.

    Spoiler alert: I am not.

    There is something about eighth grade that feels different. Maybe it’s because childhood suddenly seems to have an expiration date stamped somewhere in the not-so-distant future. I know they are still kids. I know we still have plenty of time.

    But I also know how quickly the years disappear.

    Time is a thief that sneaks in quietly.

    It doesn’t announce itself.

    It simply turns preschoolers into eighth graders while you’re busy doing laundry.

    So today, more than anything, I want my three kids to know what I hope for them this year.

    JASE, I hope eighth grade gives you opportunities to discover just how capable you are.

    You have always had this quiet strength about you. You watch. You think. You notice things other people miss. You don’t always need to be the loudest person in the room, and I hope you never believe that you do.

    There is strength in being steady.

    There is strength in being thoughtful.

    There is strength in being the person others know they can count on.

    I hope you work hard, laugh a lot, make memories with your friends, enjoy every football game, and remember that you don’t have to have everything figured out yet.

    You are allowed to simply be thirteen.

    HENLEY, I hope this year surprises you in the very best ways.

    Last year wasn’t always easy, and I know walking back into school can carry some worries with it. But I hope eighth grade reminds you that a hard chapter does not get to write the whole story.

    You have always had a wild little spark in you.

    Keep it.

    The world will spend plenty of time trying to convince girls to become quieter, smaller, easier, and less complicated.

    Don’t.

    Sing loudly. Love animals. Laugh until your stomach hurts. Wear your heart on your sleeve even when it would be easier not to. Keep caring deeply.

    And on the days when school feels heavy, remember that you have already made it through every difficult day that came before it.

    You can do hard things.

    SADIE, I hope this year you remember that you don’t have to make everyone else happy.

    You are thoughtful and kind and tenderhearted, and those are beautiful things. But I hope eighth grade teaches you that your own voice matters, too.

    Read the books you love. Be dramatic. Be girly. Be brave. Cheer loudly. Laugh with your friends. Speak up when something matters to you.

    And remember that being kind does not mean shrinking yourself so someone else can shine.

    There is room for you, too.

    There always has been.

    FOR ALL THREE OF YOU, I hope this year is filled with good teachers and loyal friends.

    I hope you find people who make you laugh.

    I hope you sit beside the lonely kid.

    I hope you ask questions when you don’t understand.

    I hope you try something that scares you.

    I hope you learn that one bad grade is not the end of the world, one awkward moment will eventually become a funny story, and one difficult friendship doesn’t mean you will never find your people.

    I hope you understand that kindness will always matter more than popularity.

    Character will always matter more than cool.

    And the person you are when nobody is watching will always matter more than anything you could put on a report card.

    This year won’t be perfect.

    There will be mornings when somebody can’t find a shoe.

    There will be forgotten assignments and slammed doors and eye rolls so dramatic they deserve their own Academy Award.

    There will probably be tears.

    Some of them may even belong to you.

    But there will also be Friday night lights.

    Cheerleading.

    Piano lesson and late night jam sessions.

    School activities.

    Friends piled into our house.

    Stories at the dinner table.

    Pictures I will take that they insist I absolutely do not need to take.

    There will be ordinary Wednesday afternoons that I won’t realize are precious until years from now.

    And I want to remember all of it.

    Because this is the last first day of middle school.

    The next first-day picture will say freshman.

    I cannot even type that sentence without feeling personally attacked by the passage of time.

    So today, I’ll take the pictures.

    I’ll tell them I love them approximately fourteen times.

    I’ll remind them to be kind.

    I’ll probably worry long after they walk through those school doors.

    And then I’ll whisper the same prayer I have whispered through so many stages of motherhood:

    God, go where I cannot.

    Walk into those classrooms with them.

    Sit beside them when they feel alone.

    Give them courage when they are afraid, wisdom when they have choices to make, kindness when someone needs it, and strength when the day feels hard.

    Protect their hearts while helping them grow.

    Send good people into their lives.

    And please help their dad and me know when to hold on, when to let go, when to speak, and when to simply listen.

    Here’s to you, Jase, Henley, and Sadie.

    Here’s to the first day.

    Here’s to eighth grade.

    Here’s to one more beautiful, messy, fleeting year of childhood.

    I hope it is everything you need it to be.

    And no matter where this year takes you, remember this:

    There will always be three people walking into that school.

    But there will always be five of us in this story.

    Party of Five. Always.

  • Tiny July Moment | The Late-Night Laughter in Sadie’s Bedroom

    Tiny July Moment | The Late-Night Laughter in Sadie’s Bedroom

    There are some summer moments that arrive with a little fanfare.

    Fireworks bursting overhead. A family vacation gets photographed (or not) from every angle. A birthday cake appears, candles glowing, everyone gathered close.

    And then there are the moments no one plans for.

    No one poses for them. No one knows they are about to become important. They simply happen somewhere between brushing your teeth and turning off the kitchen light.

    That is how this one began.

    A Small July Miracle

    It was late in the evening, and all three of my kids were in Sadie’s bedroom.

    Jase, Henley, and Sadie. Together. By choice. Without fighting.

    Already, this felt like a small July miracle.

    They are thirteen now, standing at that strange, tender edge between childhood and whatever comes next. They are old enough to want privacy, strong opinions, separate playlists, separate moods, and enough personal space to qualify as private property.

    They can bicker over absolutely anything. A look. A noise. A charger. Someone breathing in a way that feels deeply offensive.

    So when all three of them ended up in the same bedroom and stayed there peacefully, I noticed.

    Then I heard the laughter. Not polite laughter. Not the small, distracted kind that comes while scrolling through a phone. This was real laughter.

    The breathless kind. The kind that rises, falls, and then starts all over again because someone repeats the joke. The kind that makes people wheeze and kick their feet and say, “Stop, stop,” while clearly hoping no one stops at all.

    It spilled out of Sadie’s room, into the hallway, and into my bedroom.

    I listened, trying to hold back the urge to rush in and interrupt whatever little world they had created together.

    The Sound That Needed Nothing From Me

    As a mother, there are sounds you learn to monitor.

    A crash. A door slamming. A suspicious silence. Your name being called in a tone that suggests someone is bleeding, trapped, or unable to open a snack.

    But this sound needed nothing from me. They were happy. Together. And my heart felt so full I could hardly hold it.

    There is something especially sweet about hearing your children enjoy one another. You love each of them so completely on their own, but you also hope—quietly, constantly—that they will love each other well.

    You hope they will become more than siblings who shared a house and a childhood. You hope they will become the people who remember the same stories. The people who can laugh about the family vacations that went sideways, the strange meals Mom tried to make, the long car rides, the school mornings, and all the tiny things no one else will ever fully understand.

    You hope that someday, when life feels heavy, they will call each other.

    You hope they will know that home is not only a place.

    Sometimes, home is a brother who makes you laugh when you do not feel like laughing. Sometimes, it is a sister who remembers exactly who you were before the world began telling you who to be.

    That night, in Sadie’s bedroom, I could hear the beginnings of that kind of home.

    A Moment That Belonged to Them

    I do not even know what they were laughing about. Honestly, it was probably ridiculous. The best laughter usually is.

    Maybe someone made a strange noise. Maybe an old video resurfaced. Maybe one of them told a story badly and somehow made it funnier. Whatever it was, it belonged to them.

    And that may have been the most beautiful part.

    I was not directing the moment. I had not planned a family game night or suggested they spend quality time together. I had not negotiated peace or offered snacks as a treaty.

    They had found one another on their own.

    For one late July evening, the sharp little edges between them softened. No one needed to win. No one stormed away. No one announced that someone else was being annoying.

    There was only laughter.

    What a Photograph Could Never Hold

    I wanted to freeze it, of course. Mothers are always trying to preserve what cannot be preserved.

    We take pictures. We keep school papers. We tuck away baby teeth in drawers and save shirts that no longer fit. We write down funny things they say because we are afraid we will forget.

    But some moments refuse to be captured properly.

    A photograph would not have held the sound of their laughter rolling down the hallway. It would not have held the surprise of it or the ache beneath my happiness—the knowledge that childhood is moving quickly now.

    Soon, eighth grade will begin. There will be busier schedules, new worries, and more reasons for bedroom doors to close.

    But on this night, the door was open. They were all inside. And they laughed and laughed and laughed.

    I stood in the hallway for just a moment longer, smiling to myself and feeling grateful for this ordinary, extraordinary thing.

    No fireworks. No special occasion. No perfect family photo.

    Just three siblings in one bedroom, getting along. Just a mother listening nearby, her heart quietly overflowing.

    Just a tiny July moment I hope I remember forever.

  • Our Vacation Was Kind of… Shitty (There, I Said It.)

    Our Vacation Was Kind of… Shitty (There, I Said It.)

    I wasn’t planning to write this post.

    I wanted to come home with stories about perfect sunsets, salty hair, seashells, and laughing until our stomachs hurt. I wanted to tell you how much the kids loved the beach and how we made memories that would last a lifetime.

    Instead…

    Well. Our vacation was kind of…shitty. There, I said it.

    Not because the beach wasn’t beautiful. It was. Not because the condo wasn’t wonderful. It absolutely was.

    Not because we aren’t incredibly blessed to have the time off from work, the means to travel, or the opportunity to spend a week together. I know how fortunate we are, and I don’t take that for granted for one second.

    It was shitty because…teenagers.

    The Vacation I Planned vs. The Vacation We Got

    In my mind, I pictured lazy beach mornings, card games on the balcony, family dinners, ice cream walks, and maybe even a little healthy competition over who could find the coolest seashell.

    What I got was…

    Whining. Fighting. Pestering. Eye rolls. Back talk. Tears.

    Three siblings who somehow managed to annoy each other even with miles of white sand between them.

    The biggest surprise? I had to beg them to go to the beach. The actual beach. The thing we drove hundreds of miles to see. The thing that is literally right outside our condo.

    When They Were Little

    There was a time when vacations felt like adventures. They wanted to chase waves until sunset. They collected every shell like it was buried treasure.

    A hotel pool was the greatest thing they’d ever seen. Every stop was exciting. Every day was an adventure waiting to happen.

    Now? Everything is either “too hot,” “too sandy,” “too boring,” or “do we have to?”

    I miss those little versions of them sometimes.

    Not because I don’t love who they’re becoming—but because those years slipped away so quietly that I didn’t realize they were gone until I was standing on the beach asking three teenagers if they wanted to go…to the beach.

    What Finally Broke Me

    My breaking point wasn’t a giant fight. It wasn’t the whining. It wasn’t even the sibling arguments.

    It was the family pictures.

    I wanted one simple photo of us together on the beach. Just one. The kind we’ll look back on years from now. Instead, it felt like a negotiation.

    Someone was annoyed. Someone else crying (actual tears). Someone wanted to be anywhere else.

    I finally found myself thinking…

    “Why is this so hard?”

    And maybe that’s what I was really grieving. Not the pictures. The season.

    Gratitude and Frustration Can Sit at the Same Table

    Here’s something I’ve been learning. You can be unbelievably grateful and completely frustrated. At the same time.

    Those feelings aren’t opposites.

    I am thankful. I’m thankful we got to go. I’m thankful for safe travels. I’m thankful for every sunset, every meal, every laugh we did manage to squeeze in between the bickering.

    But I’m also tired. Really tired.

    Maybe This Is Just Thirteen

    Maybe this is what traveling with thirteen-year-olds looks like.

    They’re caught somewhere between wanting independence and still needing Mom and Dad. They’re figuring out who they are while sharing space with siblings they’ve known their entire lives. They’re growing up. And growing up is just…awkward.

    For them.

    For us.

    For everyone.

    Here’s What I Hope

    I hope one day they’ll remember this trip differently from how they lived it. Maybe years from now they’ll laugh about the beach.

    Maybe they’ll remember late-night ice cream or the view from the balcony.

    Maybe they’ll tell stories I don’t even remember because I was too busy trying to keep everyone from arguing over something completely ridiculous.

    Kids have a funny way of remembering the magic while parents remember the logistics.

    Home Again

    We’re home now. The suitcases are almost unpacked. The laundry is spinning. The sand is somehow still everywhere.

    And yes…

    I need a vacation from this vacation.

    But I’d still choose these four people. Even when they’re loud. Even when they fight. Even when getting one decent beach picture feels like negotiating an international peace treaty.

    Because this is my family.

    Messy. Beautiful. Exhausting. Worth it.

    Just not again until next summer.

  • The Sound of Boyhood ⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐

    The Sound of Boyhood ⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐

    A few weeks ago I took three 13-year-old boys (well… one is almost 13) out for the evening.

    I’ll admit it—I was a little nervous. Three teenage boys? That sounded like the beginning of a parenting horror story.

    I pictured endless fart jokes, awkward silence, questionable decision-making, and me wondering why I ever thought this was a good idea.

    Instead, I spent the evening smiling.

    Somewhere Between Boys and Young Men

    This age is fascinating.

    Their voices have dropped. They’re suddenly taller than I remember. They carry themselves differently. Their conversations are changing. Every once in a while they’ll say something that catches me off guard, reminding me they’re growing into young men right before my eyes.

    And then…

    One of them tells an absolutely ridiculous joke. Someone starts laughing. Another one can’t stop laughing because the first one is laughing.

    Before long, all three are doubled over with those same unmistakable giggles I’ve heard for years.

    The kind that comes from deep in their bellies.

    The kind that reminds you they’re still just kids.

    The Best Sound in the World

    There was so much laughter. The loud, uncontrollable kind. The kind that turns into snorting.

    The kind that makes you laugh even when you don’t know what was so funny in the first place.

    There were a few screams, too.

    That may or may not have had something to do with our decision to see Backrooms.

    In hindsight…

    Maybe not my brightest idea.

    (We’ll save that story for another day.)

    A Front-Row Seat

    Watching the three of them together might have been my favorite part of the night.

    They’re funny. Kind.Awkward in all the best ways.

    Confident one minute and complete goofballs the next.

    They’re figuring out who they are while somehow still being exactly who they’ve always been.

    It reminded me that friendships at this age are something special. They’re building memories they probably don’t even realize they’ll carry with them for years.

    And somehow, I got a front-row seat.

    Standing in the Doorway

    Parenting thirteen-year-olds feels a little like standing in a doorway.

    Behind them is childhood.

    Ahead of them is high school, driver’s licenses, first jobs, graduations, and all the milestones that seem impossibly close now.

    Some days it feels like childhood is already slipping away.

    But then a night like this comes along. A night full of laughter. Inside jokes.Movie theater popcorn. Goofy conversations.

    And boys who still laugh until they can’t catch their breath.

    It reminds me that they haven’t crossed that doorway just yet.

    They’re still here. Still wonderfully, beautifully kids.

    Holding On to the In-Between

    I know these years won’t last forever.

    Before long, evenings with Mom won’t seem nearly as exciting as evenings with friends. Schedules will get busier. Life will get louder. They’ll continue growing into the young men they’re meant to become.

    But for one ordinary almost summer evening, they were simply three boys having fun together.

    And I felt incredibly lucky to witness it.

    I can’t wait to watch them grow.

    But if I’m honest…

    I hope those contagious giggles stick around for a very, very long time.

  • I Want My Kids to Have a 1993 Summer

    I Want My Kids to Have a 1993 Summer

    I keep thinking about the summer before eighth grade.

    It was 1993.

    I was thirteen—the same age my kids are now—and if you had asked me what I was doing on any given Tuesday, I probably couldn’t have told you. The days all blurred together in the best possible way.

    There were no notifications.

    No group chats.

    No endless scrolling.

    Just long afternoons that seemed to stretch forever.

    We rode our bikes without checking the weather first. We wandered into friends’ houses without texting to ask if it was okay. We drank from garden hoses, stayed outside until the streetlights came on, and somehow always found something to do with whatever happened to be lying around.

    Boredom wasn’t something to escape. It was the beginning of an adventure.

    Sometimes we sprawled across someone’s bedroom floor, listening to cassette tapes while flipping through Sassy, Teen, or YM magazines. Sometimes we spent hours perfecting hand claps, making friendship bracelets, or dreaming up dance routines we’d perform exactly once. Sometimes we sat on someone’s front porch for hours, talking about absolutely everything and absolutely nothing.

    We watched movies we’d rented from the video store and rewound every VHS before returning it because that was simply what decent people did.

    Life wasn’t perfect.

    But it was wonderfully uncomplicated.

    It’s Their Turn

    Now I watch my own thirteen-year-olds heading into the summer before eighth grade, and I wonder what they’ll remember thirty years from now.

    Will they remember the funny TikTok they watched for fifteen seconds?

    Or will they remember laughing until their stomachs hurt while playing a card game around the kitchen table?

    Will they remember another afternoon spent staring at a screen?

    Or the feeling of sand between their toes, homemade ice cream after dinner, chasing the dog through the backyard, and driving with the windows down because the evening air finally cooled off?

    I’m Not Against Technology

    Technology isn’t the enemy. It lets them stay connected to friends, learn new things, and capture memories I’ll treasure forever.

    But I can’t help wanting something else for them, too.

    I want them to know the kind of summer that isn’t measured by battery percentage.

    The kind where time slows down.

    Where boredom is allowed.

    Where imagination has room to breathe.

    Where the best memories aren’t posted—they’re simply lived.

    What I Hope They Remember

    I want scraped knees and wet towels draped over porch railings. Library books with sandy pages. Popsicles that drip faster than you can eat them. Late-night games of flashlight tag. Board games that end in laughter and accusations of cheating. Fireflies in mason jars. Music playing from an old speaker while Dad grills burgers.

    I want them to have at least a little bit of the summer I had.

    Not because 1993 was better.

    But because there was something beautiful about having nowhere to be, nothing to prove, and every reason to stay outside just a little longer.

    A Summer Worth Remembering

    They’re only thirteen once.

    They’re only on the edge of eighth grade once.

    And while I can’t send them back to the summer of 1993, maybe I can borrow a few pages from it.

    Maybe this summer we’ll leave our phones inside a little more often.

    Maybe we’ll choose bikes over screens.

    Maybe we’ll let ourselves be bored long enough for something wonderful to happen.

    Because someday, thirty years from now, I hope they’ll look back on the summer before eighth grade and smile.

    Not because it looked like mine.

    But because it felt just as free.

  • Tiny May Moment | All the Friends’ Shoes Piled by the Door

    Tiny May Moment | All the Friends’ Shoes Piled by the Door

    It starts with one extra pair. Set just slightly off to the side, like it’s not quite sure it belongs yet.

    Then another. And another.

    Until suddenly, without ceremony or announcement, your entryway tells the whole story:

    They’re here.

    The Quiet Sign of a Full House

    You don’t always hear them arrive. Sometimes it’s just the door opening and closing quickly. A burst of voices. A laugh that doesn’t belong to your family—but somehow fits right in anyway.

    And then you glance down. At the door. At the pile.

    Shoes in every size and color, kicked off in a hurry, dropped without much thought.

    Because they’re comfortable here. Comfortable enough to not line them up. Not ask where they should go. Not worry about getting it just right.

    They just come in.

    The House Feels Different

    There’s a shift when friends are over. The energy lifts. It stretches.

    Rooms that felt ordinary an hour ago now feel alive in a different way. Voices overlap. Music plays from someone’s phone. There’s movement—constant, unpredictable, full.

    And somewhere in the middle of it all, your kids are different too. Lighter. Looser.

    More themselves, somehow.

    Not Little Anymore

    There was a time when playdates were planned. Texted about. Scheduled. Supervised. You knew who was coming and when and how long they’d stay.

    Now? They just… appear. “Hey, can they come over?” already halfway through the door. “Is it okay if they stay for a while?” as shoes are already being kicked off.

    And you realize—this is a new phase. Less controlled. More spontaneous. A little louder. A little messier. A little more real.

    The Summer That Comes Back to You

    And maybe that’s why it hits a little deeper right now. Because in less than 90 days, Jase, Henley, and Sadie will be heading into 8th grade.

    And suddenly, without asking for permission, your own memory steps forward. Your summer before 8th grade. 1993.

    And if you’re being honest—it was one of the best summers of your life. Not because it was perfect. But because it was full.

    Friends who showed up without much planning. Long days that stretched without structure. A little more freedom than you’d had before—and just enough responsibility to feel like you were growing into something new.

    You didn’t know it at the time. You weren’t standing there thinking, this is special. You were just living it. Laughing. Running. Staying out a little longer.

    Feeling the world open just a bit wider.

    The Echo of It All

    And now here you are. Standing in your own doorway. Looking down at a pile of shoes that doesn’t belong entirely to you. Listening to voices that are both familiar and new. Watching your kids step into the same kind of summer you once had.

    Not exactly the same. But close enough to recognize.

    And for a second, it folds in on itself—the past and the present. Your childhood. Their becoming.

    All meeting right here, in the middle of your home.

    The Beauty of Being the House

    There’s something quietly meaningful about being the house they come to. The one where the door opens easily. Where no one hesitates. Where shoes pile up without a second thought.

    It doesn’t mean your house is the cleanest. Or the most put together. Or even the most organized. But it means something else.

    It means it feels safe. Easy. Welcoming. A place where kids can show up exactly as they are—and stay a while.

    Just like you once did.

    Tiny May Moment

    A pile of friends’ shoes by the door won’t be the moment you think to remember. It won’t feel important. But it is.

    It’s a quiet marker of a season that comes once—when childhood loosens just enough to let the world in.

    And if you look closely, you can see it: The same kind of summer you once lived. Beginning again. Right there on your floor—

    in a messy, beautiful pile of shoes.

  • An Official Ranking of Everyone’s End-of-School-Year Attitude

    An Official Ranking of Everyone’s End-of-School-Year Attitude

    May in a house with teens is less of a season and more of a hostage situation.

    The calendar looks aggressive. Someone always needs a ride somewhere. There are track meets, open gyms, events, forgotten forms, late homework, mysterious smells coming from backpacks, and approximately 47 water bottles rolling around my vehicle at all times.

    Every member of this family is currently handling the end of the school year differently.

    So naturally, I’ve decided to rank everyone’s attitude.

    Because honestly? It’s the only structure left around here.

    1. The Mom (Me)

    Current mood: One minor inconvenience away from driving into a field and becoming folklore.

    I am tired in a very specific May kind of way.

    Not winter tired.
    Not holiday tired.
    May tired.

    The kind where you’ve coordinated seventeen schedules, bought snacks nobody appreciates, emotionally supported three middle schoolers through the social Olympics known as May, and still get blamed for not washing their favorite shorts.

    Again.

    I spend most afternoons asking questions like:

    • “Did anyone bring home the form?”
    • “What time does it start?”
    • “Why are there eight hoodies in my car?”
    • “Did anyone feed the dog?”

    I would like one uninterrupted hour and a beverage that I didn’t microwave three times.

    2. The Dad

    Current mood: Quietly trying to survive all of us.

    There’s something about dads in May that feels very “calm eye of the storm.”

    He’s grilling.
    Checking schedules.
    Nodding slowly when I explain the logistics of three kids being in different places at once.

    Occasionally he disappears into the garage for “just a minute,” which I now recognize as self-care.

    Smart, honestly.

    3. The Son

    Current mood: Calm on the outside. Internally screaming.

    Jase is currently surviving the end of the school year through sheer mental endurance and the quiet belief that summer will eventually arrive if he simply keeps going.

    Outwardly, he seems completely fine. Relaxed. Easygoing. Emotionally stable.

    Meanwhile, I know deep down this child is counting the minutes until the last day of school like a man trapped at sea.

    He’s still showing up every day. Doing the work. Getting good grades. Handling open gym and weightlifting without much complaint.

    But let’s be honest – this boy does not enjoy school.

    Not the drama. Not the sitting still. Not the endless assignments. Not the feeling of spending beautiful May days indoors under fluorescent lighting while life exists outside somewhere.

    Honestly? Fair.

    The funny thing is, you’d never know how over it he is unless you really know him. Because, unlike the rest of us, he doesn’t spiral outwardly. He just quietly absorbs the stress until he can escape to summer, sports, friends, food, and peace.

    Every now and then, he flops onto the couch, stares into the distance for a minute, and says something deeply relatable like: “I’m so tired of school.”

    Same, buddy. Same.

    4. Daughter #1

    Current mood: “I literally do not care.”

    And honestly? That would be less stressful if she cared a little.

    This child is currently floating through the end of the school year like a tiny exhausted philosopher who has decided grades, deadlines, matching socks, and urgency are all societal constructs.

    Missing assignment? “Oops.”

    Room looks like a raccoon lost a custody battle in there?“Yeah.”

    Important school project due tomorrow? “I’ll do it later.”

    Will she actually do it later? Nobody knows.

    Certainly not her.

    Meanwhile, I am spiraling on behalf of both of us.

    I’m checking grades like it’s a part-time job while she’s emotionally lounging on an invisible pool float somewhere deep inside her own mind.

    The truly impressive part is how unbothered she remains by her own hot mess energy.

    I say things like:

    • “How are you not stressed about this?”
    • “This should concern you.”
    • “Please explain your thought process.”

    And she looks at me with the calm confidence of someone who has never once been kept awake by an overdue assignment. Honestly, I’d love to borrow even 2% of that energy.

    But until then, I’ll just continue stress-cleaning the kitchen while whispering: “She’s fine. Probably. Maybe.”

    5. Daughter #2

    Current mood: One mildly inconvenient event away from a complete emotional system failure.

    This child is currently attempting to survive:

    • the last few weeks of school
    • homework
    • projects
    • exhaustion
    • and track practice or a meet every single day of her life, apparently

    And let me tell you something: we are operating dangerously close to meltdown territory at all times.

    She walks through the door, overwhelmed, starving, carrying seventeen things, emotionally fragile, and somehow still expected to remember assignments and function like a normal person.

    Absolutely unfair, honestly.

    The energy changes by the hour.

    At 5:15 PM:
    “I’m fine.”

    At 5:22 PM:
    “Nobody understands how stressed I am.”

    At 5:24 PM:
    crying because someone breathed incorrectly near her.

    To be fair, I get it.

    May has her stretched so thin. She tired mentally, physically, socially, emotionally—all while trying to finish the school year strong and pretend she’s not running on fumes.

    Still, there’s something oddly admirable about the way she keeps showing up every day, even when she’s overwhelmed.

    Even if she does dramatically collapse across the furniture immediately afterward, like a Victorian woman with the vapors.

    6. The Family Calendar

    Current mood: Threatening.

    The family calendar has become less of a schedule and more of a psychological threat. Every square is full. Every evening has an abbreviation no one understands anymore.

    At least twice a week, I stare at it, hoping one activity will simply… cancel itself out of respect for me personally.

    It never does.

    7. The Dog

    Current mood: Confused but supportive.

    The dog has noticed everyone is leaving constantly and returning home louder than usual.

    He has adapted by following me room to room while I mutter things like: “We cannot possibly be out of granola bars again.”

    Honestly, he’s doing great.

    Final Rankings

    Most emotionally stable:

    The dog.

    Most dramatic:

    Everyone.

    Most tired:

    Mothers nationwide.

    Most likely to survive entirely on snacks and caffeine:

    Also, mothers nationwide.

    And yet…

    Underneath all the chaos, there’s something tender about this season, too.

    The backpacks dropped by the door. The late sunsets. The sound of kids coming in and out of the house. The last few weeks before another version of them disappears and grows into something new over summer.

    May is loud and messy and exhausting. But somewhere in the middle of all this chaos is a life I know I’ll miss someday.

    Even the family calendar.

    Maybe.

  • Tiny April Moment | A Quiet Car Ride Home

    Tiny April Moment | A Quiet Car Ride Home

    There’s a certain kind of quiet that only happens in the car.

    Not the forced kind. Not the “everyone’s tired and someone’s mad” kind.

    But the soft, unspoken quiet that settles in after a long day—when no one has anything left to prove or explain.

    It usually happens on the way home.

    The After of Everything

    April days don’t end so much as they… unravel.

    Practice ends. Rehearsal wraps. Someone forgets a water bottle. Someone else is still talking about something that happened three hours ago.

    And then eventually, everyone makes it to the car. Doors close. Seatbelts click.

    And for a second—just a second—there’s stillness. No one rushes to fill it. No one needs to.

    Because the day has already said everything it needed to say.

    The Kind of Quiet That Feels Full

    The radio might be on low. Or not at all.

    The windows might be cracked just enough to let in that cool April air—the kind that carries a hint of grass and pavement and something new trying to grow.

    You glance in the rearview mirror. And there they are.

    Jase, quiet as ever, staring out the window, probably thinking thoughts he won’t say out loud but will carry carefully anyway.

    Sadie, still half in performance mode, replaying moments from rehearsal in her mind, her energy slowly winding down.

    Henley, somewhere in between—soft, observant, present in a way that feels both light and deep all at once.

    No one is asking for anything. No one is arguing. No one is narrating every thought.

    They’re just… there. And so are you.

    The Space Between Who They Were and Who They’re Becoming

    There’s something about these car rides that feels like standing in a doorway.

    You can still see the little versions of them—the ones who needed help buckling, who asked endless questions, who filled every silence with words.

    But you can also see who they’re becoming.

    More independent. More thoughtful. More themselves.

    And these quiet drives? They’re where you get glimpses of that.

    Not in big, dramatic ways. But in the absence of noise.

    In the comfort of not needing to fill the space. In the way they exist beside you, not just as your kids—but as people.

    The Gift of Not Talking

    It feels strange at first, this kind of quiet. Because as parents, we’re used to filling it.

    Asking questions. Starting conversations. Trying to “make the most” of the time.

    But sometimes, the most meaningful moments aren’t built through words. They’re built through presence. Through shared silence. Through being together without needing to perform or entertain or explain.

    There is something deeply comforting about knowing you don’t have to talk to be connected.

    That love can sit quietly in the front seat and stretch all the way to the back.

    The Road Home Feels Different in April

    Maybe it’s the light. That soft, lingering glow that hasn’t quite given way to night. Maybe it’s the way the day has worn everyone down just enough to let their guards fall.

    Or maybe it’s just the season itself—this in-between space where everything is growing, changing, becoming.

    Whatever it is, the road home in April feels… different. Slower. Softer. Like it’s holding something you don’t quite have the words for.

    You, in the Driver’s Seat

    You’re still you.

    Still thinking about what needs to be done when you get home. Dinner. Laundry. Tomorrow’s schedule.

    But for a few minutes, you let it go. You let yourself just drive. Hands on the wheel. Eyes on the road. Heart somewhere between the front seat and the back.

    And you notice it. This quiet. This fullness. This moment that no one will remember in a big, obvious way—but that somehow matters anyway.

    The Smallest Kind of Memory

    Years from now, they won’t say, “Remember that random Tuesday car ride in April?”

    But they might remember how it felt. Safe. Easy. Uncomplicated.

    They might remember that being in the car with you didn’t always mean questions or expectations. Sometimes, it just meant being together.

    And that mattered.

    Tiny April Moment

    A quiet car ride home won’t make the highlight reel. It won’t get photographed or written on a calendar or marked as anything special.

    But it is.

    It’s the exhale after a full day. The space where everyone gets to just be before the next thing begins.

    And if you’re paying attention—if you resist the urge to fill it—you’ll feel it. That soft, steady thread of connection running through the quiet.

    No words needed. Just the road. The fading light. And the people you love, riding home with you.

  • April Is Just May in Disguise (Send Snacks)

    April Is Just May in Disguise (Send Snacks)

    There’s a moment every year—usually somewhere between the first warm day and the third forgotten water bottle—when I realize:

    This April is not a calm, gentle entry into spring. April is May…wearing a soft sweater and pretending to be reasonable.

    It is not reasonable. It is chaos in pastel lighting. Because suddenly, all at once, everything begins.

    Not slowly. Not thoughtfully. Not one thing at a time, like a well-organized calendar would suggest.

    No. Everything arrives like it got the same group text and decided to show up together.

    The After-School Avalanche

    At our house, April has hit like a starting gun.

    Jase has open gym for basketball and weightlifting after school, which sounds very productive and admirable until you realize it means yet another pickup time, another schedule, another “did you bring your shoes?” conversation that somehow still needs to happen daily.

    Sadie? Oh, Sadie is living seventeen lives.

    Dance class once a week.

    Track practice every single day (or a meet, which is somehow both longer and more chaotic).

    And now—because why not—we are in full musical rehearsal mode.

    Every day.

    From 5:00 to 8:00 PM.

    Every. Single. Day.

    Henley has piano lessons, which feel calm and civilized in theory, but in practice are just another place to be at another exact time, with sheet music that we absolutely almost forgot in the rush out the door.

    And also…musical rehearsal.

    Because of course.

    Because April looked at our family calendar and said, “Let’s see what happens if we remove all breathing room.”

    Running on Snacks and Vibes

    I am, at this point, no longer a person.

    I am a vehicle.

    A snack distributor.

    A keeper of schedules that exist in three places and still somehow conflict.

    I am running here and there and everywhere—like a chicken with its head cut off, but holding a Stanley cup and yelling, “DO YOU HAVE EVERYTHING YOU NEED?” to no one in particular.

    Dinner has become…interpretive.

    There are nights when we eat at the table like a normal family, and then there are nights when dinner is:

    • A granola bar in the car
    • A handful of crackers between drop-offs
    • A mysterious applesauce pouch I found in my bag

    And honestly? Everyone is still alive, so I’m counting it as a win.

    This April is not about perfection. It’s about survival with protein.

    The Illusion of Balance

    At the beginning of the month, I always think: “This will be fine. We’ll stay organized. We’ll keep balance.”

    And then April laughs gently and hands me a calendar that looks like it’s been attacked with a highlighter.

    Because here’s the truth no one tells you: There is no balance in this season. There is only rhythm.

    A fast, messy, slightly breathless rhythm where you move from one thing to the next, hoping you remembered the right shoes, the right time, the right kid.

    And sometimes you don’t.

    Sometimes someone shows up slightly late, slightly underprepared, or slightly frazzled.

    And somehow… it still works out.

    Because this season isn’t about getting it perfect. It’s about showing up.

    Again and again and again.

    The Quiet Beauty of the Busy

    And yet—because there is always an “and yet”—there is something about April that I don’t want to miss.

    Because tucked inside all this chaos are the moments that don’t stay.

    Jase heading into the gym, growing stronger in ways I can’t quite measure.

    Sadie running her heart out on a track, then turning around and stepping into a completely different version of herself under stage lights.

    Henley sitting at the piano, working through a song slowly, patiently, note by note.

    The car rides. The quick conversations. The laughter that sneaks in between “we’re going to be late” and “did you grab your bag?”

    It’s loud. It’s rushed. It’s a lot.

    But it’s also… full.

    The Middle of It All

    April is a middle month.

    Not the beginning. Not the end. Just the thick of it.

    The part where you don’t have time to step back and reflect because you are actively living it—minute by minute, pickup by pickup, snack by snack.

    And maybe that’s why it feels so overwhelming.

    Because you’re not watching it.

    You’re in it. Driving it. Feeding it. Trying to keep up with it.

    A Gentle Permission Slip

    So here’s what I’m reminding myself (and maybe you, too, if your life feels anything like mine right now):

    You do not have to do this perfectly.

    You do not have to have perfectly planned meals or perfectly coordinated schedules or perfectly calm evenings.

    You are allowed to:

    • Run late sometimes
    • Forget things sometimes
    • Feed your kids snacks for dinner sometimes
    • Sit in the car for a minute before going inside

    You are allowed to be a little overwhelmed by a very full life. That doesn’t mean you’re doing it wrong. It means you’re in a season that is asking a lot of you.

    April, As It Is

    April has not been gentle.

    It has not been slow.

    It has not been tidy.

    It’s been a blur of movement and noise and growth happening all at once.

    It is May…in disguise.

    And maybe the goal isn’t to tame it.

    Maybe the goal is just to move through it with a little grace, a little humor, and a steady supply of peanut butter crackers, bananas, and fruit snacks.

    Because one day—when things quiet down again (and they will)—we might just miss this version of full.

    But for now? We try to survive April.

    One pickup, one practice, one granola bar at a time.

  • Tiny March Moment | That One Warm Day Everyone Needed

    Tiny March Moment | That One Warm Day Everyone Needed

    There’s always one.

    One random, golden, slightly suspicious day in March when winter loosens its grip just enough to let us breathe again. No warning. No grand announcement. Just a quiet shift—the kind you feel before you even check the weather app.

    The air softens. The sun lingers a little longer. And suddenly, the world feels like it remembered how to exhale.

    After months of gray skies, bulky coats, and the kind of cabin fever that makes everyone in your house mildly annoying (yes, even the ones you love most), that one warm day arrives like a small, ordinary miracle.

    And we take it.

    Cabin Fever, But Make It Personal

    By the time March rolls around, we are not okay.

    Winter was one of the hardest we’ve had. We’ve been inside too long. The walls feel closer. The routines feel louder. Every conversation somehow turns into a minor disagreement about absolutely nothing. Someone is always hungry. Someone is always bored. Someone is always sighing dramatically like they’ve just returned from a long and difficult journey (it was the living room).

    Cabin fever doesn’t knock politely. It barges in, eats all your snacks, and dares you to keep your patience.

    In our house, it shows up in small ways. Extra screen time. Shorter tempers. A noticeable increase in “What are we even doing today?” energy. Even the dog seems offended by the weather.

    We needed a break. Not a vacation. Not a plan. Just… outside.

    And Then—That Day

    It wasn’t even that warm. Let’s be honest.

    Fifty-five degrees, maybe sixty if the sun was feeling generous. But after months of freezing temperatures, it felt like July. Like we should be wearing shorts. Like we had been personally invited back into the world.

    Windows opened. Doors stayed unlocked. Shoes were kicked off and forgotten. Someone yelled, “Can we go outside?” and for once, the answer wasn’t “later.”

    It was now.

    The Great Migration Outdoors

    It happens fast.

    Kids who couldn’t find anything to do five minutes ago are suddenly busy. Bikes appear out of nowhere. A basketball is located (no one remembers where it’s been all winter). Someone grabs a football. Someone else just runs. Not toward anything specific—just runs, because they can.

    The yard, which has looked dull and lifeless for months, becomes the place again.

    Neighbors re-emerge like we’ve all been hibernating (because we have). You wave. You smile. There’s an unspoken understanding: we made it.

    Even if we didn’t fully make it, even if winter is still lurking somewhere in the forecast, this day feels like proof that better ones are coming.

    The Magic of Almost Spring

    There’s something about that first warm day that doesn’t ask for perfection.

    The grass is still patchy. The trees are still bare. The air carries just a hint of chill if you stand still too long. But none of that matters.

    Because it’s not about what it looks like. It’s about how it feels.

    It feels like possibility. Like hope. Like a reset we didn’t know we needed but are grateful to receive anyway.

    You stand in the sun a little longer than necessary. You let your shoulders drop. You notice things again—the sound of kids laughing, the rhythm of a ball bouncing, the way the light hits your house differently when it’s not filtered through winter clouds.

    It’s subtle, but it’s everything.

    The Parenting Shift You Didn’t Expect

    Here’s the part no one really talks about: the way that one warm day changes you, too. Not just the kids.

    You find yourself saying yes more easily. You stop rushing. You sit down instead of standing, observing instead of managing. You let things be a little messy because the moment feels worth it.

    Dinner is late. Or weird. Or eaten in shifts because no one wants to come inside.

    And somehow, that feels exactly right.

    After a season of structure and survival—of bundling up, keeping schedules, getting through—this one day reminds you that parenting doesn’t always have to feel so heavy.

    Sometimes it can just feel… light.

    Little Moments That Feel Big

    It’s the smallest things that stay with you. The sound of the back door opening and closing a hundred times. The pile of shoes in the mudroom. The way your kids’ faces look different in the sunlight—older somehow, but also softer.

    A quick conversation with a neighbor you haven’t seen in months. The dog, finally satisfied, stretched out in a patch of sun like it’s been waiting all winter for this exact moment.

    These are the kinds of moments that don’t make it into calendars or photo albums. They don’t come with big milestones or clear markers.

    But they matter. They remind you that life isn’t just made up of the big things. It’s built, quietly and steadily, from days like this.

    Not Quite Spring, But Close Enough

    Of course, the forecast will change. It always does. There will be another cold snap. Another gray day. Maybe even one last snow that feels deeply unnecessary and personally offensive. Early spring has a way of keeping us humble.

    But that’s okay. Because now we’ve had a glimpse. We’ve felt what’s coming.

    And somehow, that makes the in-between easier to hold.

    Holding Onto the Warmth

    That one warm day doesn’t fix everything. The routines are still there. The responsibilities don’t disappear. The laundry is still, somehow, multiplying.

    But something shifts. The house feels a little lighter. The mood softens. The tension eases. You remember that this season—this long, heavy stretch of winter—was never meant to last forever.

    And maybe that’s the real gift of that tiny March moment. Not just the warmth on your skin, but the quiet reassurance that change is already on its way.

    So when the next cold day comes (because it will), you’ll carry this one with you. The open windows. The laughter outside. The feeling of standing in the sun after months of gray. Proof that even the smallest shift can feel like everything.

    And sometimes, one good day is all a family needs to reset, reconnect, and remember who they are when the doors are open and the world feels wide again.