Fry, Party of Five

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  • Tiny October Moments | The Things We Carry Together

    Tiny October Moments | The Things We Carry Together

    There are a lot of things I hope my children learn as they grow up. How to be kind. How to stand up for what matters. How to recognize when someone needs a little extra love. How to show up for people, even when showing up isn’t particularly convenient.

    And apparently, how to participate in a 5K with a mother who has the knees of a 100-year-old woman.

    We spent a sweet October morning supporting the Marshall Milkmaids at their annual 5K Run/Walk, and while I certainly won’t be receiving any awards for athletic achievement, I walked away with something far better.

    A reminder of just how much this past year has changed our family.

    Especially our kids.

    Five People, One Experience

    When breast cancer entered our lives, it didn’t happen to just me.

    Yes, I was the one receiving the diagnosis, going to appointments, undergoing five surgeries, and learning an entirely new vocabulary I never wanted to know.

    But there were five of us living through it.

    Five people adjusting to a reality none of us had anticipated. Five people learning to live with uncertainty. Five people discovering that ordinary life can change in an instant, even while homework, football practice, laundry, and grocery shopping carry on as usual.

    The kids were twelve when all of this began. An age when they were supposed to be concerned with friends, sports, school, and whatever questionable things twelve-year-olds find entertaining.

    Instead, breast cancer became part of their world, too. Not because I wanted it to. Believe me, I would have gladly spared them every bit of it.

    But life doesn’t always ask our permission before changing the story.

    And somewhere along the way, I’ve watched something beautiful happen. My children have become little advocates.

    A Different Kind of Awareness

    Before this year, I don’t think breast cancer meant much to the kids beyond something they’d heard about. It was a disease that happened to other people, something adults discussed, something represented by pink ribbons every October.

    Now they understand that there’s a real person behind every ribbon.

    Someone’s mother. Someone’s wife. Someone’s daughter. A woman with a whole life happening around her, full of people who love her and ordinary days she’d very much like to keep having.

    They understand that a diagnosis doesn’t affect only the person sitting in the doctor’s office. Its ripples reach into kitchens, classrooms, family calendars, and the quiet spaces where people worry about the ones they love.

    I wish they hadn’t needed to learn those things so young.

    But I’m proud of the way they’ve responded.

    They notice more. They care differently. They understand why organizations like the Marshall Milkmaids matter and why supporting women in our community is about so much more than wearing pink.

    And perhaps my favorite part is that they don’t need some grand speech about making a difference.

    They’re learning that sometimes making a difference simply means showing up.

    The Great Family 5K

    Which brings us back to that October morning.

    We gathered with so many wonderful people to support the Marshall Milkmaids, and our family participated in our own very characteristic fashion.

    Sadie and Matt completed the entire 5K.

    Henley made it one lap farther than I did, walking alongside Nana and Papa.

    And Jase? He made an appearance for the family photo opportunity before heading off to his very last football practice as an eighth grader.

    And me? Well, my knees decided they had contributed quite enough to the cause, thank you very much. I did not finish. I would like to point out, however, that I arrived with enthusiasm, participated willingly, and retired with dignity. Mostly.

    But what mattered to me wasn’t who finished, who walked the farthest, or who had the most cooperative joints.

    It was that our family understood why we were there.

    This wasn’t simply another event on our already overflowing calendar. It was an opportunity to support women whose lives have been touched by something we now understand on a deeply personal level.

    And watching my kids take part in that meant more to me than I can adequately explain.

    What I Hope They Remember

    I’ve thought a lot about what this past year will mean to my children when they’re older.

    I hope the difficult parts fade a little. I hope they remember plenty of ordinary afternoons, ridiculous family conversations, football games, and all the things that made life feel like ours.

    But I also hope they carry forward what they’ve learned. That compassion isn’t just something you feel. It’s something you practice. That communities become stronger when people look after one another. That you don’t have to personally experience someone’s hardship to care about what they’re going through.

    And that even when you can’t fix something, you can still do something. Show up. Listen. Give. Walk a few laps. Stand beside somebody.

    Small things, perhaps. But small things have a way of becoming something much bigger when enough people do them together.

    I never would have chosen breast cancer as a lesson for my children. There’s no beautiful explanation that makes the hard parts necessary, and I won’t pretend otherwise.

    Still, I can recognize the good that has grown alongside the difficult.

    My kids are more aware of the world beyond themselves. They have seen what it means for a community to care for its own. And they’re beginning to understand that they have a place in that work, too.

    That makes me incredibly proud.

    More Than the Miles

    I’m so thankful for the Marshall Milkmaids and the work they do for women in our community. For the organizers, volunteers, donors, participants, and everyone who gave part of their October morning to something that matters.

    There’s something powerful about seeing a community come together, especially when you know firsthand why that support is so important.

    But when I look back on this particular morning, I think what I’ll remember most is my children.

    Not the miles they walked, but the people they’re becoming.

    Three kids who have experienced a difficult year alongside their mama and come away with a deeper understanding of compassion, community, and caring for others.

    Three little advocates who may not fully realize yet how much their presence matters.

    And one very proud mother, hobbling along behind them, watching their hearts grow.

    My knees may have quit early.

    But my heart? My heart was all in.

  • The Last Christmas Catalog

    The Last Christmas Catalog

    On growing children, changing traditions, and the little endings we never see coming.

    Amazon’s holiday gift book has been lying on our booth table for two days.

    Two. Whole. Days.

    Nobody has touched it. Not one of my three children has shown even the slightest interest in flipping through its glossy pages. Meanwhile, I’ve picked it up several times, mostly to see what I might need for Christmas.

    Apparently, I’m the target demographic now. It’s the nostalgia.

    There was a time when that catalog would have caused an actual territorial dispute in our house. Someone would have grabbed it first. Someone else would have demanded a turn. A third would have reminded everyone that they didn’t get to look at it first last year, which was apparently an injustice worth revisiting.

    Eventually, there would have been some sort of custody arrangement involving a timer, a considerable amount of whining, and my repeated suggestion that perhaps we could all just share.

    The pages would have been folded, dog-eared, and covered in circles. Toys with impossibly long names. Things that required seventeen batteries. Things that looked suspiciously similar to the toys already scattered across our living room floor.

    Each child would have identified approximately 147 things they absolutely, positively needed for Christmas.

    And I would have loved every ridiculous minute of it.

    Well, most of them.

    When the Catalog Was Everything

    Christmas with three little kids was a production.

    There were lists and letters and elaborate discussions about what Santa might bring. The toy catalogs were practically sacred documents, consulted frequently and handled with the seriousness of a congressional budget hearing.

    The kids would study those pages as if their futures depended on them. They’d circle their favorites, change their minds, circle something else, and occasionally announce that they’d found the one thing they wanted more than anything in the entire world.

    Until they turned the page.

    I remember the excitement of those years. The anticipation. The way Christmas magic seemed to live in every little corner of our house.

    There were toys to assemble, gifts to hide, stockings to fill, and an unreasonable number of tiny plastic pieces to keep track of. Christmas morning was a blur of wrapping paper, squeals of excitement, discarded instructions, and at least one desperate search for batteries.

    I was tired. The house was a disaster. Someone inevitably needed help opening something while I was already helping someone else.

    And it was wonderful.

    Not because every moment was perfect, but because those moments belonged to a particular season of our lives.

    A season I didn’t realize was already slipping away.

    Somewhere Along the Way

    Jase, Henley, and Sadie are thirteen now.

    Thirteen!

    I’m not entirely sure how that happened, considering I’m fairly certain I was just pushing a stroller large enough to require its own parking permit.

    But here we are.

    Their Christmas lists look different these days. Toys have been replaced by clothes, shoes, electronics, gift cards, and things that cost considerably more while taking up considerably less space under the tree.

    They have opinions about brands and styles. They know what they like. They have become people with their own tastes, interests, and ideas about the world.

    And I genuinely love this part.

    I love the conversations we have now. Their humor. Their independence. The glimpses of the adults they’ll someday become.

    There’s something extraordinary about watching the children you raised begin to become themselves.

    I wouldn’t trade this season for the one before it.

    But I do wish I could visit that earlier Christmas for an afternoon.

    Just long enough to hear them arguing over the catalog again.

    The Last Times We Never Notice

    Here’s what gets me.

    I don’t remember the last time they fought over a Christmas catalog.

    I couldn’t tell you which year it happened or who got to look at it first. There’s no photograph of the occasion. No entry in a baby book. No little keepsake tucked away in a drawer.

    Because at the time, it was just another ordinary afternoon.

    Another catalog. Another disagreement. Another moment in a house full of little children who needed me for practically everything.

    I had no reason to believe it was anything worth remembering.

    That’s the peculiar heartbreak of parenting.

    We celebrate the firsts with such enthusiasm. First steps. First words. First days of school. First lost teeth. We take pictures and write down dates and tell everyone who will listen.

    But the lasts?

    They tend to leave quietly.

    The last time you carry a sleepy child from the car. The last time someone asks you to read one more bedtime story. The last time a little hand reaches for yours without thinking.

    The last time three children fight over who gets the Christmas catalog first.

    There is rarely any ceremony. No announcement. Nothing to tell you that an ordinary moment is about to become a memory.

    Life simply moves along, and one day you notice something missing.

    Making Room for a Different Kind of Magic

    I don’t want to spend these years wishing my children were little again.

    They’re growing, and that’s exactly what they’re supposed to do.

    Besides, this version of Christmas has its own magic. The familiar traditions mean something different now. The conversations last longer. The jokes are funnier. We get to enjoy things together that weren’t possible when everyone needed a nap by two o’clock.

    There are still memories to make, surprises to plan, and traditions to carry forward.

    The magic hasn’t disappeared.

    It’s simply grown up a little, right along with them.

    Still, I think there’s room to love what’s here and miss what was.

    To be grateful for three healthy, growing teenagers while occasionally wishing for one more afternoon with three little kids and a well-worn toy catalog.

    Maybe that’s part of motherhood. Learning to hold joy and sadness together, without asking either one to leave.

    Just Sitting There

    The Amazon holiday gift book is still on our booth table.

    Its pages are perfectly smooth. No folded corners. No circles. No elaborate negotiations about whose turn comes next.

    I could probably throw it away, and nobody would even notice.

    Except me.

    Because every time I walk past that untouched catalog, I see the children who used to fight over it. I remember the excitement, the noise, and the beautifully ridiculous business of raising three little people at once.

    And I see the three teenagers who live here now, becoming more themselves every day.

    I love them exactly as they are.

    I miss who they used to be.

    Both things are true.

    I suppose that’s the deal we make when we become parents. We get the extraordinary privilege of watching our children grow up, knowing that every new beginning means saying goodbye to something that came before.

    And if we’re lucky, our hearts break just a little along the way.

    All because of a Christmas catalog nobody wants to look at anymore.

  • Tiny September Moments | Football + Familiar Things

    Tiny September Moments | Football + Familiar Things

    Somewhere between the first school mornings and the last warm evenings, September found its rhythm. Backpacks by the door. A calendar filling faster than anyone could reasonably keep up with. And, on certain nights, all roads leading to a football field.

    It’s funny what becomes the soundtrack of a season. For us, this September sounded like whistles, cheering, the thud of shoulder pads, and the unmistakable voice of a mother who promised herself she would be calm in the stands.

    Reader, I was not calm.

    Under the Lights

    Jase had an incredible game, the kind that leaves a mama with a full heart and absolutely no ability to play it cool. There is something about watching your child do what he loves—and watching him discover just how capable he is—that makes you forget, for a moment, about everything else.

    I love the football, of course. The plays, the excitement, the way a good game keeps everyone leaning forward. But what I love most is seeing Jase out there, completely in his element. Confident. Focused. Part of something bigger than himself.

    I’ve watched him grow from a little boy into a young man who works hard at something that matters to him. And while I know football is only one part of who he is, seeing that piece of him shine is a gift.

    His team finished their regular season undefeated.

    Undefeated!

    I’d like to report that I handled this development with dignified restraint, but I believe we have already established otherwise.

    By the end of September, there was still one game left: the championship on October 4. One more chance for these boys to take everything they’d worked for and leave it on the field. Whatever happened, this season had already given them something worth carrying forward. The practices, the teamwork, the pride of showing up for one another.

    But also, boys? Bring it home.

    Everybody Has a Part to Play

    One of my favorite things about this football season is that it somehow became a family affair, even for the people who aren’t technically playing football.

    Sadie has had the best time cheering. Watching her find her own joy on the sidelines has been every bit as fun as watching what happens on the field. She is making her own memories, surrounded by her own people, and I love that for her.

    And then there’s Henley.

    I wouldn’t go so far as to declare Henley a devoted football fan. Let’s not get carried away. But there has been some almost, occasionally, sort-of enjoyment of the games, which feels like a major breakthrough in family relations.

    I’ll take it.

    That’s one of the interesting things about raising triplets. They arrived together, but they experience the world in three wonderfully different ways. One on the field, one cheering, one deciding whether any of this deserves undivided attention.

    Three different personalities. Three different September stories. All somehow happening at the same time.

    And then there are Nana and Papa, proudly watching it unfold. Seeing the grandparents in the stands adds another layer to the evening. These aren’t just football games anymore. They’re the kind of ordinary family gatherings that become memories before anyone realizes it.

    The Part I’ll Remember

    I know there will be more games and more seasons. More school events, more reasons to gather, more evenings when we’re trying to get everyone where they need to be.

    But there won’t be another September exactly like this one.

    There won’t be another season when Jase is this age, Sadie is cheering with this particular group, and Henley is perfecting this exact level of reluctant enthusiasm. We can’t keep any of it still, no matter how much we might want to.

    And maybe that’s why I find myself paying closer attention lately.

    To the lights coming on as the evening gets darker. To the voices calling from the stands. To proud grandparents and laughing siblings and the ride home afterward, when everyone has a slightly different version of what happened.

    These moments aren’t particularly grand while we’re living them. They’re just what we do. We find our seats. We cheer for our kids. We go home, put away the things we’ve carried, and start again the next morning.

    Someday, though, I suspect we’ll remember the feeling more than the final score.

    As September came to a close, there was a championship on the calendar and so much to be proud of already. One more game. One more night. One more chance to watch these kids do what they love.

    September, you were loud and busy and so very good to us.

    And these were the tiny moments worth keeping.

  • The Quiet School Days No One Takes Pictures Of

    The Quiet School Days No One Takes Pictures Of

    The first day of school gets a lot of attention.

    There are new shoes. Fresh haircuts. Backpacks that haven’t yet accumulated three granola bar wrappers, a crumpled permission slip, and something sticky no one can identify.

    We stand the kids on the porch and take the picture.

    First day of eighth grade!

    They hold the sign. We make them smile. We take seventeen photos because someone blinked, someone looked annoyed, and someone else apparently forgot how to stand like a normal human being.

    We post the best one. And just like that, another school year begins.

    But then comes September.

    Nobody is holding a cute sign on September 14. Nobody takes a picture that says:

    Twentieth Day of School! We’re Tired!

    And maybe we should. Because the first day is lovely. But these ordinary days?

    These are the ones that actually make up childhood.

    The Days Without a Sign

    By now, the newness has worn off.

    The school supplies have been used. The folders have papers shoved into them. The pencils are mysteriously disappearing at an alarming rate.

    We’ve settled back into the rhythm of alarms and backpacks and practices and homework.

    There are mornings when someone is looking for a shoe approximately four minutes before we need to leave. There are evenings when the kitchen table becomes homework headquarters. There are questions about what’s for dinner, even though I am fairly certain I answered that exact question twelve minutes earlier. There are practices and games and projects and laundry.

    So. Much. Laundry.

    There is the daily shuffle of ordinary family life.

    And because it happens over and over again, it’s easy to think none of it is particularly important.

    But lately, I’m beginning to think the opposite.

    This Is What Childhood Actually Looks Like

    Childhood isn’t mostly birthdays and Christmas mornings and first days of school.

    Those are the bookmarks.

    The story is everything in between.

    It’s walking through the door after school and dropping a backpack in exactly the spot you’ve been told approximately 4,000 times not to drop it. It’s grabbing a snack and telling me something funny that happened in class. It’s homework spread across the table. It’s football cleats by the door. It’s unfinished projects and water bottles and hoodies abandoned on chairs. It’s hearing siblings bicker one minute and laugh hysterically together the next.

    It’s a Monday.

    Just a completely ordinary Monday.

    And someday, I suspect, I would give almost anything to have one of these Mondays back.

    Not the first day. Not the Christmas concert. Not even the birthday party.

    Just one regular afternoon when everyone comes through the door.

    Growing Up Happens Quietly

    Maybe that’s the strange thing about this season.

    When your kids are little, growth announces itself. First tooth! First word! First steps! First day of kindergarten!

    But as they get older, growing up gets quieter.

    Suddenly, they don’t need you to remind them about the homework.

    They handle something themselves that you used to handle for them. They know where they need to be and when. They have their own jokes, their own interests, their own plans, their own little worlds that exist beyond you.

    And sometimes you don’t notice the change while it’s happening.

    You notice it afterward.

    You look across the room one evening and think:

    Wait.

    When did you start doing that on your own?

    There was no announcement. No ceremony. No sign to hold.

    They just grew a little more.

    Maybe Ordinary Deserves More Attention

    I’m not suggesting we start photographing our children every morning before school.

    Mine would probably stage a revolt.

    But maybe there is something worth noticing about the days nobody photographs.

    The morning conversations in the car. The after-school snacks. The homework. The practices. The stories that begin with, “Okay, so you’re not going to believe what happened today…” The shoes by the door. The backpacks on the floor.

    Even the constant question:

    “Mom, have you seen my—?”

    Whatever it is, no. I have not.

    But someday my house won’t be the headquarters for everyone’s missing belongings.

    Someday there won’t be backpacks by the door.

    There won’t be someone rummaging through the refrigerator five minutes after dinner.

    There won’t be a school schedule taped to the fridge or practices written across the calendar.

    And I know that’s how it’s supposed to go.

    We raise them to grow. We cheer when they become capable and independent. We want them to build lives of their own. But knowing that doesn’t make these ordinary days any less precious.

    Maybe it makes them more so.

    The Quiet After the Photos

    The first-day picture will stay tucked safely in the camera roll.

    Years from now, I’ll look at it and notice how young they were.

    I’ll probably zoom in.

    Look at their faces.

    Remember the backpack or the shoes or how tall they were standing beside me.

    But I hope I remember what came after the picture, too.

    The ordinary September mornings. The tired evenings. The practices. The homework. The laughter coming from another room. The everyday chaos of five people living a life together.

    Because childhood isn’t happening only when we remember to take the picture.

    It’s happening right now.

    On the boring days. On the busy days. On the Mondays.

    Quietly.

    And maybe those are the days worth holding onto most of all.

  • Tiny August Moments | Independence, Creativity, and Confidence

    Tiny August Moments | Independence, Creativity, and Confidence

    August has been full of big things—back to school, eighth grade, football, new schedules, and the familiar scramble of trying to remember where everyone is supposed to be and when.

    But the things I keep noticing aren’t really the big things.

    They’re the tiny ones. The little moments when I look at one of my kids and think, Oh. You’re growing up.

    Not taller. Not older. Although, yes, obviously both of those things are happening at a rate I would personally like to file a complaint about.

    I mean growing up.

    Henley | A Little More Independence

    For years, homework with Henley has required a certain amount of…supervision.

    And by supervision, I mean reminding. And reminding again. And asking if she has homework. And asking if she’s sure she doesn’t have homework. And sitting next to her while she does the homework because otherwise there is a very real possibility that ten minutes later she will be doing something completely unrelated to homework.

    But lately? She just does it.

    She comes home, gets out what she needs, and gets it done. Without me begging. Without me standing over her. Without the nightly homework negotiations.

    It sounds like such a tiny thing. But I notice.

    There’s a new independence there. A little more responsibility. A little glimpse of the young woman hiding somewhere inside the girl I’ve been raising all these years.

    And I’m ridiculously proud of her.

    Sadie | Making Something From Nothing

    Then there’s Sadie and her monster stuffies.

    She decided to sew little stuffed monsters for a kids’ artisan market next month, and I knew she’d have fun making them.

    What I did not expect was for her to be so darn good at it. Every time she finishes another one, I’m amazed.

    They’re creative and quirky and completely hers. She figures out the designs, chooses the felt, puts the pieces together, and somehow turns scraps and thread into these funny little creatures with personalities.

    I’m watching her take an idea that existed only in her head and make it real. And there is something pretty wonderful about that. I love seeing her discover something she’s good at.

    Maybe even more, I love watching her realize she’s good at it.

    Jase | Knowing the Game, Then Really Playing It

    And then there’s football.

    Jase has known football for years. He understands the game. He knows where he should be. He knows what should happen next. He’s always gotten football.

    But this year feels different.

    This year, he’s not just knowing the game. He’s playing it. He’s faster. He’s hitting harder. He’s stepping up.

    There’s a confidence in the way he plays that I haven’t seen before, and you can tell he is absolutely loving it.

    And as his mom, that’s probably my favorite part. Not the tackles. Not the speed. Not whether they win. It’s watching him walk onto that field looking like he knows he belongs there.

    Because he does.

    The Kind of Growth You Almost Miss

    Maybe that’s what August has given me this year.

    Not one giant milestone, but three tiny reminders that these kids are becoming more themselves every day.

    Henley taking responsibility without being asked. Sadie discovering what she can create with her own two hands. Jase stepping onto the football field with a little more strength and a lot more confidence.

    None of these moments came with balloons. Nobody stopped to take a picture.

    There wasn’t an announcement saying, Hey Mom, pay attention. This is one of those moments you’re going to want to remember.

    But I noticed.

    And Suddenly, There They Are

    Maybe that’s one of the strange privileges of parenting kids this age.

    You spend so many years teaching them, reminding them, helping them, driving them, correcting them, cheering for them, and occasionally wondering if anything you’ve said has penetrated their skulls.

    Then, every once in a while, you see it. A flash of independence. A spark of creativity. A new confidence.

    And suddenly you realize they’re doing exactly what you’ve been raising them to do.

    They’re growing.

    These were my tiny August moments.

    And I think I’ll keep them.

  • 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.