recent posts
- Tiny July Moment | The Late-Night Laughter in Sadie’s Bedroom
- Our Vacation Was Kind of… Shitty (There, I Said It.)
- The Sound of Boyhood ⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐
- I Want My Kids to Have a 1993 Summer
- Tiny May Moment | All the Friends’ Shoes Piled by the Door
- An Official Ranking of Everyone’s End-of-School-Year Attitude
- Tiny April Moment | A Quiet Car Ride Home
- April Is Just May in Disguise (Send Snacks)
- Tiny March Moment | That One Warm Day Everyone Needed
- The Month My Kids Outgrew Something…Again
Category: Love
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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…
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Note to self: Never take teenagers on vacation again!
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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…
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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…
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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…
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It happened quietly. No announcement. No clear line between before and after. Just one of those small, ordinary moments that doesn’t feel like much—until you realize later it was something. March has a way of doing that. It doesn’t arrive boldly. It doesn’t settle fully into anything. It just shifts, slowly and subtly, and suddenly…
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There was a time when friendship lived in plain sight. It happened on front porches and school playgrounds. It echoed through sleepovers and rode home in the backseat after practice. You could hear it, see it, interrupt it if you needed to. Now, much of it lives behind a screen. It buzzes quietly in their…
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March used to mean puddles. Not metaphorical ones. Real, muddy, sun-warmed puddles that gathered at the edge of the driveway and along the sidewalk where winter finally loosened its grip. Back then, March arrived in the form of rain boots lined up by the door, jackets half-zipped, and three small voices asking, “Can we go…
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There are many things no one tells you about raising teenagers. They will eat the last granola bar and leave the box. They will sigh like Victorian poets denied true love. And they will dramatically enter rooms as if auditioning for a very intense coming-of-age film. Today, however, we are not discussing the sighs. We…
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February doesn’t ask permission. It just shows up—cold, dark, blunt—dragging the leftovers of winter behind it like a tired grocery sack. By February, the house has a different rhythm. Mornings are rushed and sharp-edged. Evenings blur into homework, sports bags, dinner dishes, and the low hum of everyone needing something. The days are loud. Full.…
Fry, Party of Five 