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  • Trick-or-Treating With Tweens | Sweet or Sour?

    Trick-or-Treating With Tweens | Sweet or Sour?

    October arrives with its golden leaves, pumpkin-spiced everything, and one very pressing parental debate: when your kids hit the tween years, do you let them trick-or-treat on their own, or do you tag along like they’re still toddling in a Pluto costume?

    The answer, like most things in parenting, is less about candy and more about independence, safety, and finding that middle ground where both you and your kids can breathe easy. So let’s unwrap this sticky situation.

    The Great Candy Divide

    When your child was five, Halloween was simple: you zipped them into a Spiderman suit, grabbed the wagon, and strolled alongside while they collected fun-size Snickers. By seven, maybe you let them run a few steps ahead, but you still hovered nearby with a flashlight.

    But now? They’re eleven, twelve, maybe thirteen, standing in the doorway asking, “Can we go by ourselves this year?” Suddenly, your sweet little candy corn is sounding like a Sour Patch Kid: independent, bold, and slightly tart.

    Why They Want to Go Alone

    Tweens are desperate for independence. Halloween is basically the Super Bowl of kid freedom: no parents, a pack of friends, and a mission fueled by sugar. Trick-or-treating without you feels like a rite of passage—a chance to test responsibility in a way that’s thrilling but relatively safe.

    Plus, let’s be honest: walking around with your mom while dressed as Workout Barbie or Taylor Swift is way less cool than roaming with your friends. At this age, cool is currency, and they’re cashing in.

    Why We Parents Hesitate

    On the flip side, every parent has a mental highlight reel of every “what if” imaginable:

    • What if they get lost?
    • What if someone creepy follows them?
    • What if they eat a rogue piece of candy that wasn’t sealed?
    • What if they run into older kids pulling pranks?

    It’s not paranoia—it’s our job description. We’ve spent over a decade keeping them safe, so handing them a pillowcase and waving goodbye can feel like tossing them into the Hunger Games.

    The Middle Ground: Freedom with Guardrails

    The good news is, Halloween doesn’t have to be all-or-nothing. You don’t have to glue yourself to their side, nor do you need to drop them off in the wilds of suburbia with nothing but a glow stick. Here are some sweet compromises:

    1. Set a Boundary Map

    Define exactly where they can and can’t go. Maybe it’s just your neighborhood, or a few blocks that you trust. Print out a map if needed—old school style.

    2. Establish a Time Check-In

    Have them text or call at a set time, or better yet, use a location-sharing app. Knowing you can see their little dot moving around the streets keeps your heart rate (and blood sugar) steady.

    3. Buddy System Rules

    No solo trick-or-treaters. Require at least a group of three. Safety in numbers isn’t just a cute saying—it’s practical.

    4. Light Them Up

    Glow necklaces, reflective tape, or light-up sneakers aren’t just fun—they’re lifesavers. Make them sparkle like disco balls if you have to.

    5. Emergency Protocol

    Agree on a safe house in the neighborhood (a friend, a neighbor, or your own home base) where they can go if things get sketchy.

    Signs They’re Ready for Solo Trick-or-Treating

    Not every tween is ready to go it alone. Some are born rule-followers, while others can’t even make it to the mailbox without forgetting why they went outside. Here are a few indicators your child may be ready:

    • They’ve walked to school or a friend’s house without issues.
    • They can cross the street safely without reminders.
    • They can keep track of time (at least vaguely).
    • They respect boundaries and rules in other areas of life.
    • They have enough social awareness to recognize when something feels “off.”

    If they’re checking most of these boxes, they may be ready for the mini leap into independence. If not, no shame—invite their friends over and make your house the candy hotspot.

    A Parent’s Perspective: Sweetness in the Bittersweet

    Here’s the real trick: letting go a little doesn’t mean you’re abandoning your child. It means you’re raising them to trust themselves. Halloween is a perfect trial run for bigger freedoms ahead: sleepovers, first dates, learning to drive.

    Yes, it feels bittersweet. We miss the days when their costumes were fuzzy animals and their tiny hands held ours tight. But independence is part of the parenting candy bag—it comes whether we’re ready or not.

    Sour Moments Still Happen

    Be prepared for a few sour patches:

    • They might come home with way too much candy and a bellyache.
    • They might get spooked by rowdy teens or creepy decorations.
    • They might roll their eyes at your safety speech.

    But that’s okay. These bumps are part of learning. And sometimes, those sour moments become the stories they’ll laugh about later.

    Final Treats of Wisdom

    So, should you let your tweens trick-or-treat on their own? The answer depends on your kid, your neighborhood, and your comfort level. But whether you’re tagging along from a respectful distance, or watching their little location dot from home while sneaking their chocolate bars, remember this:

    Halloween is about more than candy. It’s about courage, community, and growing up—one block at a time.

    And if you’re lucky, maybe they’ll still save you a Reese’s.

  • Fall Parent-Teacher Conferences | A Survival Guide for the Emotionally Fragile

    Fall Parent-Teacher Conferences | A Survival Guide for the Emotionally Fragile

    Fall parent-teacher conferences are here. And I, for one, am not emotionally prepared.

    If you’re like me—living on caffeine, running late, trying to remember which kid likes ranch and which one is boycotting sandwiches this week—then you know that nothing sends your fragile heart spiraling quite like those 15-minute meetings of doom (or delight? Who even knows anymore).

    Here’s your survival guide, friend. From one emotionally tender, sleep-deprived, deeply invested mom to another. Welcome to the trenches of tweendom, where grades meet hormones and tears (theirs and yours) are always on the brink.

    Step 1: Prep Your Soul (And Your Snack Stash)

    You’ll want to go in with low expectations and high carb reserves. Don’t walk in there empty-stomached or overconfident. You will cry if you haven’t had a snack since lunch. You will spiral if you think this is just a casual check-in.

    No, this is a pop quiz for parents. And you didn’t study.

    Pack a granola bar in your purse. Say a little prayer. Remind yourself: these teachers are not judging your parenting, even if they do raise their eyebrows when you mention your child may or may not sleep on your bedroom floor.

    Step 2: Master the Poker Face

    You’ll need three expressions on lock:

    • “Interesting…” — use this when the teacher tells you your child talks too much, even though at home he only communicates in nods and grunts.
    • “Hmm, that doesn’t sound like them.” — for when they say your daughter is bossy in group projects. (She’s a leader, thank you.)
    • Tight-lipped smile with a single nod. — when you learn your child has been sneakily reading under their desk instead of doing math. Again.

    You’re not here to defend your child’s every move (unless you are), but you are here to receive the information gracefully. Even if your internal monologue is saying “Oh no oh no oh no” on a loop.

    Step 3: Bring a Notebook, Not a Weapon

    Look, I know you’ve got feelings. You’ve seen your kid’s tears over homework. You’ve begged them to just finish the book report. You’ve watched them go from sparkly-eyed kindergarteners to angsty tweens in what feels like a single episode of Bluey.

    But now is not the time to go full mama bear. Jot things down. Ask questions. Be open. Most teachers are overworked, underpaid, and genuinely trying their best to love your child—even when said child rolls their eyes like a teenager in a sitcom.

    This isn’t battle; it’s collaboration.

    Step 4: Don’t Spiral Over a “Needs Improvement”

    I repeat: do not spiral.

    Just because your child “needs to work on turning in assignments on time” does not mean they’ll end up living in your basement forever. Middle school is messy. Kids are learning more than just math—they’re learning time management, how to cope with embarrassment, and how to navigate friendships that change hourly.

    A “C” is not a character flaw. It’s a snapshot. A moment. A chance to help them grow.

    Also, side note: we all have something that “needs improvement.” My laundry pile is currently auditioning for Hoarders. So. Perspective.

    Step 5: Text a Friend Immediately After

    You will need to emotionally debrief. Text your bestie and say, “Welp. Apparently my son is the class clown and also might forget to exist without constant reminders.”

    She’ll reply, “Mine was caught making fart noises during a science test.”

    You’ll feel better. Connection is everything.

    Parenting is hard, but parenting alongside other people who get it? That’s a gift.

    Step 6: Celebrate the Wins—Even the Weird Ones

    So your kid read five novels this quarter and only cried once over math homework? That’s a win.

    They raised their hand in class? Win.

    They didn’t shove anyone at recess this month? Win.

    We spend so much time worrying about what’s not going well that we forget to celebrate the little glimmers—the signs that maybe, just maybe, they’re doing okay. And by extension, so are we.

    Step 7: Resist the Urge to Redesign Their Entire Life

    Do not—I repeat—do not come home from conferences and announce that they are grounded, switching schools, and beginning a new color-coded study schedule that starts tomorrow at 6:00 AM.

    Take a breath.

    Maybe… wait until morning. Ask them how they feel about school. Ask what’s hard. Ask what makes them feel smart.

    You might be surprised. They might be aware. They might be trying. And they definitely need grace.

    Step 8: Let Yourself Be Proud

    Listen, I know this season is stretching you.

    It’s a strange thing, this middle ground between childhood and independence. You’re no longer holding their hand through everything, but you’re still holding space for everything—their tears, their fears, their successes, and their very messy lockers.

    Parent-teacher conferences remind us just how much is out of our hands. And how much still is.

    So be proud. Not just of them. But of you.

    You show up. You ask questions. You advocate. You care. And even when you feel like a fragile mess in a cardigan, you are doing something powerful: you’re parenting with heart.

    Thoughts from the Car Ride Home

    There’s something raw about sitting across from a stranger and hearing how your kid is doing when you’re not around. It’s like peeking into a parallel universe—one where they’re their own person, with thoughts and quirks and behaviors that you may not even know about.

    It’s hard. It’s humbling. It’s beautiful.

    And yes, it’s okay to cry in the car afterward. (Just maybe not before you pull out of the parking lot.)

    So this fall, when you head into that fluorescent-lit classroom with your coffee in one hand and your fragile emotions in the other, remember: you’re not alone.

    We’re all out here, showing up, a little undone, but still trying—still loving—still hoping.

    You’ve got this, mama.

    Even if you forget everything they said and leave your pen behind on the table.

  • Why October Feels Like Tween Season | Dramatic, Moody, and Full of Candy

    Why October Feels Like Tween Season | Dramatic, Moody, and Full of Candy

    For me, October has always had the perfect vibe. The crunch of leaves underfoot, the cozy sweaters, the pumpkin spice everything—it’s a month steeped in drama. But once you’ve entered the magical purgatory known as parenting tweens, you start to notice something unsettling: October is tweendom, in seasonal form.

    It’s moody. It’s unpredictable. It’s dramatic. And yes—it comes with way too much sugar.

    So buckle up, fellow parents of tweens. Let’s unpack why October feels like the month our children and this season were secretly separated at birth.

    1. October Is the Ultimate Drama Queen

    October doesn’t do “subtle.” One day it’s warm and sunny, the next day you’re shivering in three layers and regretting every decision that led you outside. The trees are dying but somehow beautiful. The sky is either Instagram-worthy or looks like it’s auditioning for a horror film.

    Sound familiar? That’s your tween.

    One second they’re giggling over slime videos on TikTok, the next they’re storming into their room like you’ve personally ruined their life by asking them to put their shoes away. October, like tweens, thrives on drama. It’s not just fall—it’s a full theatrical performance with costume changes and mood lighting.

    2. The Costume Situation

    October is basically one long runway show. Your tween’s version of this? Every day is a costume change.

    • At school: A hoodie that swallows them whole.
    • At practice: A jersey two sizes too big.
    • At home: Pajamas from two years ago that they refuse to throw out.

    Halloween just gives them an excuse to lean into this wardrobe whiplash with fake blood, neon wigs, or a costume so ironic it requires a 15-minute explanation. Tweens don’t just wear clothes in October—they become characters.

    3. The Emotional Weather

    If October had a personality, it would be:

    • Sunny but snappy at 9 AM.
    • Storm cloud at 10:15.
    • Dramatic sunset at 6 PM that makes you gasp, “Wow, so beautiful.”

    In other words, your tween’s exact emotional weather report. They, too, can shift from angelic to apocalyptic before you’ve finished your coffee.

    But here’s the kicker—both October and tweens have moments of breathtaking beauty. Just when you’re convinced you can’t survive another slammed door, they’ll curl up next to you on the couch, whisper something funny, or hand you a Reese’s cup “because you looked tired.”

    Like October’s sunsets, those glimpses remind you: the chaos is worth it.

    4. Candy: The Fuel of October and Tweens

    October is powered by candy, and so are tweens.

    Think about it: Halloween is the one time of year where you watch your child barter like a Wall Street trader. They will trade two Kit-Kats for one king-size Snickers, no questions asked. They will analyze the value of a Reese’s pumpkin like it’s cryptocurrency. They will form alliances with siblings and betray them seconds later.

    And while you’re hiding in the pantry eating the good chocolate, you realize candy is the perfect metaphor for tweenhood: too much of it at once will make everyone sick, but little doses sprinkled in? Pure joy.

    5. October Is Dark, But With Twinkle Lights

    Tweens live in that in-between space too. Childhood is fading like long summer nights, and adulthood isn’t quite here. They’re equal parts silly and serious, hopeful and haunted, craving independence but terrified of it at the same time.

    October teaches us how to live in that tension. Yes, it’s darker now. Yes, the mornings feel colder. But there’s magic in the shadows—pumpkin glows, cinnamon-scented candles, ghostly yard decorations. Tweens are the same: if you squint past the eye rolls, you’ll see flickers of their growing brilliance.

    6. Every Outing Feels Like Trick-or-Treat

    October is one long trick-or-treat, but so is parenting tweens.

    You never know what you’re going to get when you knock on the door of their mood. Trick? A sarcastic comment about your outfit. Treat? A random hug because they “just felt like it.”

    Sometimes you hit the jackpot—a great family dinner conversation, everyone laughing at the same dumb meme. Other times you get a rock in your plastic pumpkin. You just keep showing up at their door, hoping for more treats than tricks.

    7. October Is for Parents, Too

    Here’s the part we don’t say out loud enough: October feels like tween season for us too.

    We’re in our own moody transition. We’re tired, juggling schedules, haunted by the ghost of laundry yet to be folded. We’re watching our babies slip into the complicated, messy, beautiful humans they’re becoming. It’s bittersweet, like October air.

    So, lean into the sarcasm. Laugh at the ridiculousness of it all. But also, let yourself be encouraged: October ends with a holiday that’s basically about one thing—fun. Even if they don’t say it, your tweens still want you in the background, flashlight in hand, cheering them on as they dart from house to house.

    Final Pep Talk

    Parents, October and tweens are here to teach us something important: beauty lives in the messy middle. The leaves have to fall before new growth begins. Our tweens have to stumble through mood swings and candy crashes before they find their footing.

    Yes, it’s dramatic. Yes, it’s exhausting. Yes, you will hear the phrase “You don’t understand!” roughly 43 times before Halloween. But October reminds us that transitions are powerful. They’re worth savoring, even when they’re loud, messy, and sticky with Jolly Rancher wrappers.

    So grab your hoodie, light your pumpkin candle, and embrace this season of change. October won’t last forever, and neither will the tween years. Both are dramatic. Both are moody. Both are full of candy. And both, in their own wild way, are absolutely unforgettable.

  • Raising Swifties | How Taylor Swift Became My Co-Parent

    Raising Swifties | How Taylor Swift Became My Co-Parent

    When you imagine a co-parent, you probably think of another adult—someone who splits the carpool duty, reminds the kids to brush their teeth, and occasionally sneaks them ice cream before dinner. What I didn’t expect was that my co-parent would arrive in the form of a glitter-clad, guitar-strumming, stadium-filling woman named Taylor Swift.

    Now, let me be clear: my husband is wonderful and fully present. But in the daily task of raising three tweens—Henley, Sadie, and Jase—I’ve discovered that Taylor Swift has slipped into our home in ways that feel surprisingly parental. She’s teaching my kids kindness, generosity, and grit, all while delivering it in three-minute pop anthems and Instagram-worthy Easter eggs. Honestly? She’s pulling more weight than some of the sitcom moms I grew up watching.

    Henley | The Wild Child Meets the Fearless Songwriter

    Henley has always been my firecracker—the one who doesn’t take “no” for an answer and insists on turning every room of our house into a stage. She hums “Champagne Problems” while brushing her teeth, organizes (off) Broadway performances, and somehow convinces her siblings to join in her schemes.

    Taylor feels like her kindred spirit. When Henley hears “Fearless” or “Shake It Off,” it’s like the universe is telling her: don’t dim your light, don’t apologize for your joy, and for goodness’ sake, keep being your wonderfully weird self. She sees in Taylor a woman who has carved her own path, often against the grain, and it validates her own boldness.

    Even more, Taylor’s kindness tempers Henley’s wild streak. My daughter may be dramatic (understatement of the year), but she also sees that being bold and being kind are not opposites. They can live side by side. Henley has started writing notes to her friends—little “you got this” scribbles tucked into lockers. I’d like to take credit, but let’s be honest: she’s channeling her inner Taylor.

    Sadie | The Bookworm Finds a Kindred Dreamer

    Sadie is my people pleaser, my book-loving, drama-soaked girl. She organizes her bookshelf by color, plans imaginary plays with full costumes, and takes pride in being both the boss and the star of her own productions – to Henley’s dismay.

    Taylor is her blueprint. Sadie sees someone who is unapologetically feminine and still fiercely powerful. She watches Taylor stand on stage in sequins and knows that “girly” is not a weakness—it’s a superpower.

    Sadie loves Taylor’s generosity too. Whenever we talk about how Taylor gives bonuses to her crew or donates to food banks, Sadie lights up. She’ll turn to me and say, “We should do that too.” Granted, our “donations” look more like Sadie offering up half her Halloween candy to the food pantry box at school, but the seed has been planted.

    She’s learning that generosity doesn’t have to be grand. It just has to be heartfelt. And in that way, Taylor has become the quiet whisper in Sadie’s ear reminding her that kindness always counts.

    Jase | The Protector Finds Quiet Strength

    Now let’s talk about my son, Jase—the quiet one. He’s a worrier, a protector, and the kind of kid who would rather spend an afternoon on the basketball court than on stage. He doesn’t gush about Taylor the way his sisters do, but every once in a while, I catch him humming along. And when he thinks no one’s looking, he knows all the words.

    What Jase absorbs from Taylor is grit. He sees an athlete’s mindset mirrored in her career: setbacks are temporary, practice matters, and persistence wins. He hears about her battles to reclaim her music and recognizes the quiet strength it takes to fight for what’s yours without losing your dignity.

    In Jase’s world, that translates into showing up for his team, even when he’s nervous. It looks like studying harder when a subject doesn’t come easily. It sounds like quietly telling his sisters, “Leave Mom alone, she’s tired,” when he sees me stretched thin. Taylor has become an invisible coach in his corner—reminding him that strength doesn’t always shout; sometimes it simply stands firm.

    The Lessons Taylor Brings to Our Table

    So how exactly does Taylor Swift co-parent three tweens in a small-town family like mine? She shows up in the lessons her life teaches:

    • Kindness matters. Whether it’s handwritten notes to fans or a smile at the right moment, Taylor reminds my kids that kindness doesn’t cost anything but pays back in spades.
    • Generosity is power. She models giving—not just in dollars, but in spirit. My kids see that generosity isn’t weakness; it’s leadership.
    • Grit is non-negotiable. From re-recording her albums to standing tall through criticism, Taylor shows that setbacks don’t define you—your response does.

    As a parent, I can preach these values until I’m blue in the face, but hearing them from someone they admire? That’s magic.

    Parenting in the Swift Era

    Parenting tweens is not for the faint of heart. Some days I feel like I’m running a tiny emotional rollercoaster park staffed by hormonal ticket-takers who demand snacks on the hour. Having Taylor as my “co-parent” doesn’t mean life is suddenly smooth. My kids still bicker – constantly. They still roll their eyes. They still leave socks in places socks were never meant to be.

    But when they turn up Taylor’s music, I see the lessons sinking in. Henley sings her little heart out, Sadie dances like no one’s watching, and Jase nods along with quiet resolve. And in those moments, I exhale. Because even if I don’t always have the right words, they’ve got Taylor’s voice reminding them to be brave, be kind, and keep going.

    Why It Feels Different This Time

    When I was a tween, I didn’t have a role model like Taylor. Sure, there were pop stars, but many of them seemed distant, scandal-plagued, or polished to perfection in ways that didn’t feel real. Taylor is different. She’s glamorous, yes, but she’s also grounded. She talks about her mistakes, her heartbreaks, and her resilience.

    That matters. It matters that my children see a woman thriving in her own skin, telling her own story, and refusing to let others define her. It matters that they see her building an empire with empathy at its core. It matters that they get to grow up knowing that kindness and grit can, in fact, coexist.

    Raising Swifties

    I didn’t set out to raise Swifties. But here I am, living with 2 1/4 of them. And I’ll tell you what: I’m grateful. Because Taylor has become more than a soundtrack—she’s a teacher, a coach, and yes, a bit of a co-parent.

    Raising kids in this era feels daunting sometimes. The world is loud, complicated, and often discouraging. But Taylor’s voice cuts through the noise, reminding them—and me—that there’s beauty in resilience, power in kindness, and joy in generosity.

    So if Taylor wants to keep co-parenting alongside me? I’ll save her a seat at the dinner table. We’ve got 2 1/4 growing Swifties to raise, and I think we’re doing just fine.

  • Cancer, Kids, and Kitchen Booth Confessions

    Cancer, Kids, and Kitchen Booth Confessions

    So here’s the thing: telling your kids you have breast cancer is right up there with “explaining algebra” and “teaching someone how to parallel park” on the list of impossible parenting tasks. Only this time, the stakes feel way higher.

    Matt and I told the kids in the kitchen booth—the place where life happens in our house. It’s where we’ve had serious talks, and silly talks, played endless rounds of board games, eaten dinners both fancy and frozen, and stacked up years of family memories. And now, hearing that their mom has cancer will be another booth memory stamped into the wood grain of those benches.

    Jase, Henley, and Sadie are twelve. Old enough to know things. Old enough to Google things (terrifying). Old enough to remember that my mom—their grandma they never got to meet—died of breast cancer. Which means the second those words left my mouth—“Mom has cancer”—I could practically see the cartoon thought bubbles appear over their heads: Is she going to die too?

    And then the booth got heavy. The kind of heavy that only tweens can make heavier, with their big worried eyes and the silence that lingers longer than you want it to.

    Until, of course, Sadie—my resident drama queen—after bawling, broke the silence by asking:

    “So…are you getting bigger boobs?”

    Of all the questions in the world, that was the one she chose. And I laughed. Hard. Because how do you not? Leave it to a tween to bring us back down to earth. Lifetime movie moment over. Booth memory made. Welcome back to reality.

    The Ghost in the Room

    Here’s what I know: my kids aren’t just processing my diagnosis—they’re also haunted by a story they’ve only ever heard. My mom’s story. Their grandma’s story. She died from this, long before they were born, and whether they’ve admitted it or not, that shadow lives in the corners of their understanding.

    So now, I’m not only convincing myself that I’m going to be fine—I’m convincing them. And let me tell you, convincing three tweens of anything is already a feat. Convincing them I’m going to survive what killed the grandma they never knew? Herculean.

    The Tween Factor

    Here’s what I imagine is swirling inside their brains (if I know them at all):

    • Jase: What’s the survival rate? I should Google statistics. Wait, is Mom Googling? Who’s Googling?
    • Henley: How do I turn this into a TikTok trend without making Mom mad?
    • Sadie: Does this mean I get to shop for new clothes if Mom gets new boobs?

    And then, of course, there’s the constant middle school backdrop of hormones, homework, sports, and who-sat-by-who-at-lunch, all now colliding with the fact that Mom has cancer.

    So How Do I Convince Them?

    I can’t promise them perfection. I can’t promise them a life without pain or fear. But I can promise them this:

    • I’ll fight with everything I’ve got.
    • I’ll laugh whenever I can (even at boob jokes).
    • I’ll be honest—even when it’s messy.
    • And I’ll remind them that my story is not my mom’s story.

    I can already hear myself repeating it over and over: I’m going to be fine. This is not Grandma’s cancer. This is mine. And I’m going to be just fine.

    And maybe that’s how it works—not convincing them in one big dramatic speech, but in a hundred small reassurances. In the way I keep showing up. In the way we still have tacos on Tuesdays and complain about math homework and argue over whose turn it is to walk the dog.

    The Punchline

    Cancer is scary, yes. But life with tweens means there’s always a punchline. And apparently, in our family, the punchline is boobs.

    So here’s what I hope they remember years from now: not just that their mom had cancer, but that their mom had cancer and still laughed with them, still parented them, and still answered ridiculous questions about free boob upgrades at the kitchen booth.

    Because maybe that’s how you convince your kids you’ll be fine: you keep living. And you keep laughing.

  • Picture Day Survival | Outfits, Eye Rolls, and Mom Wisdom

    Picture Day Survival | Outfits, Eye Rolls, and Mom Wisdom

    Every fall, tucked in between practices and math homework, comes a day mothers everywhere simultaneously dread and secretly cherish: School Picture Day.

    The reminder slips into backpacks, and just like that, it’s not just about standing in front of a camera—it’s a full-on theatrical event starring tweens, complete with drama, costume changes, sibling rivalries, and more pep talks than a football coach in overtime.

    If you’ve got 12-year-olds (almost 13, which they will remind you at every possible opportunity), you know exactly what I mean.

    Tween Girls and The Outfit Crisis

    Here’s how it goes down in my house: the girls treat Picture Day as though Vogue is sending a photographer, and their yearbook photo will set the course of their entire social destiny.

    Outfits are not simply “picked.” Oh no. They are auditioned. Rehearsed. Stared at in the mirror with narrowed eyes.

    “Does this make me look weird?” one daughter asks, turning dramatically like she’s walking a Paris runway.

    “I’m not wearing that,” declares the other, tossing a shirt back into the closet like it personally insulted her.

    Suddenly, the bedroom floor looks like a fashion bomb went off—leggings, cardigans, headbands, shoes that somehow all “don’t go.” There are accusations: “You copied me!” There are ultimatums: “If she wears that, I’m not wearing this.”

    And me? I’m sitting in the kitchen with my coffee, trying to channel both therapist and hostage negotiator.

    “Girls,” I say gently, “you are both beautiful. It doesn’t matter if you both wear a cardigan. You will not look like twins in the yearbook.”

    Cue the sighs, the hair flips, the stomping to the bathroom for one last look.

    Meanwhile, Jase

    Then there’s my son.

    Jase strolls into the room, hair sticking up, wearing a hoodie he probably found crumpled on the floor. He shrugs when I raise an eyebrow.

    “This is fine.”

    “It’s not fine,” I say, tugging at the wrinkled hem. “It’s Picture Day.”

    “I don’t care,” he says flatly, tugging the hoodie back out of my hands.

    And here’s the thing—he means it. He really doesn’t care.

    I launch into my pep talk: “Dude, these photos will be around forever. Nana and Papa will hang them up. Your sisters are having meltdowns over outfit choices. Can you at least put on a clean shirt?”

    He stares at me like I’ve asked him to climb Mount Everest. Finally, he sighs, mutters something about being tortured, and swaps the hoodie for a polo. A polo. Victory.

    The Bathroom Is the War Zone

    Once clothes are decided (loosely, in Jase’s case), we move to phase two: hair.

    The girls hover over the bathroom mirror with a seriousness usually reserved for surgeons. One wants her hair curled, the other straight. There are sprays, brushes, heat tools, headbands. There are tears.

    “This side won’t stay down!”

    “Now I look like a mushroom!”

    “Why is my hair so… flat?!”

    Meanwhile, Jase runs a wet hand through his hair, glances in the mirror, and says, “Done.”

    I breathe. I remind myself that one day I’ll miss this. (That’s what everyone keeps telling me, anyway.)

    The Mom Pep Talk

    Here’s the thing: underneath all the chaos, my job isn’t just to keep everyone’s collars straight and hair somewhat tamed. My real role is pep talker-in-chief.

    I pull the girls aside, one at a time. “Listen. It doesn’t matter if your eyeliner isn’t perfect. It doesn’t matter if your sister picked the same color. You are radiant, and your smile is the thing people will notice most. Just breathe, stand tall, and own it.”

    And to Jase, as he rolls his eyes and insists he doesn’t need advice: “Hey. I know you don’t care about this picture, but I promise one day you’ll look back and be glad you wore the polo. Just give me one smile—your real one, not the one where you look like you’re in pain. Got it?”

    He grunts, which I’m taking as agreement.

    The Walk Out the Door

    Finally, after what feels like hours of outfit swapping, hair smoothing, and affirmations, we’re ready.

    The girls are still bickering about who looks better. Jase is already halfway down the driveway, muttering about how ridiculous this all is. And me? I’m calling after them with my final Olympic-level pep talk:

    “Remember, shoulders back! Chin up! Smile like you mean it!”

    They wave me off with the universal tween gesture: a combination of eye roll, head shake, and muffled “Moooom.”

    When the Photos Come Back

    Weeks later, the envelopes arrive, tucked into backpacks. I open them with the same suspense as a season finale cliffhanger.

    The girls? One is glowing, the other is clearly mid-blink but insists she looks “fine.” Jase? Shockingly, miraculously, he’s smiling—a real one.

    And just like that, the chaos of Picture Day fades into something sweet. Because whether they’re dramatic, indifferent, or somewhere in between, these are the faces I love most.

    Why the Pep Talk Matters

    Picture Day isn’t about the perfect photo. It’s about teaching my kids that showing up as themselves is always enough.

    For the girls, that means reminding them their worth isn’t tied to the perfect outfit. For Jase, it means showing him that even if he doesn’t care, his presence still matters.

    And for me, it’s learning that behind all the drama, behind all the sighs and eye rolls, is something precious: my almost-teenagers, on the cusp of growing up, still letting me be the voice that whispers, “You’ve got this.”

    The Real Picture

    So here’s to Picture Day moms. To the outfit meltdowns and the kids who “don’t care.” To the eye rolls, the pep talks, and the memories we’ll laugh about later.

    Because at the end of the day, the photos are just snapshots. But the pep talks? Those are the real legacy.

  • Fall Sports Mom | My Life on the Bleachers

    Fall Sports Mom | My Life on the Bleachers

    There are two types of people in this world: those who spend their autumn evenings sipping pumpkin spice lattes under cozy blankets, and those of us who sit on metal bleachers in eighty-degree weather, sweating in places we didn’t know could sweat, screaming ourselves hoarse while our children chase glory under the Saturday night lights.

    Hi, my name is Angela. I’m a Fall Sports Mom.

    And let me tell you—this life is equal parts exhausting, exhilarating, and absolutely the best thing I’ve ever signed up for. Because I get the rare privilege of cheering for not one, but two kids on the field: Jase, who’s out there tackling boys on football field in shoulder pads, and Sadie, who’s shaking pom-poms and flipping her ponytail like it’s an Olympic sport.

    If you’ve never tried to watch both a linebacker and a cheerleader at the same time, I’ll warn you: it’s basically whiplash with a side of stress.

    Life on the Bleachers

    Being a sports mom is not just about watching the game. It’s about living it. By the end of the season my car will smell faintly of tween sweat and Gatorade. And my voice? Typically set to ‘supportive mom,’ though I won’t deny the occasional outburst when the ref forgets his glasses.

    I show up every Saturday night like it’s a Broadway show, except the ticket cost is a heck of a lot cheaper, the stage is grass, and the cast happens to be my children. And honestly, no Tony Award–winning performance has ever compared to watching your kid nail a tackle or smile mid-cheer routine when they catch your eye in the stands.

    Jase: My Football Player

    Let’s start with Jase. My boy. My quiet, steady, protective son who somehow transforms under those stadium lights into a warrior. Jase is the type of kid who doesn’t ask for much. He doesn’t boast, doesn’t brag, doesn’t even remind me that he needs clean socks until five minutes before we leave for the game. But when he’s out there on the football field? He’s fierce.

    He’s got that mix of brains and brawn that makes him dangerous in the best way—reading plays, protecting teammates, playing his heart out. Every time he lines up, I want to grab the people around me and say, “That one. That’s mine.”

    Football moms get a special kind of nervous. It’s this constant mix of adrenaline and prayer, like “Lord, let him play well, but also let every bone in his body stay intact.” And when he makes a big play? Forget it. I’m on my feet, shrieking like I just won the lottery.

    Sadie: My Cheerleader

    And then there’s Sadie. My dramatic, girly, brave little sparkler. If Jase is the steady heartbeat of the field, Sadie is the sparkle and the spirit. She was born to cheer—bossy enough to call the counts, brave enough to climb to the top of the pyramid, and dramatic enough to sell every motion like she’s auditioning for Netflix.

    I’m not exaggerating when I say her cheer voice could be heard three towns over. The girl has lungs. And the confidence? She could out-cheer an entire marching band if she had to.

    Watching her cheer is like watching a Broadway-level performance disguised as a Junior Football League game. She’s got the smile, the sass, and of course, the hair bow that could double as a small aircraft.

    And yes, I am that mom. I clap along to every cheer like I’m part of the squad. I mouth the words when she chants. I even know the hand motions to “Give Me a V…”.

    The Chaos of Double Duty

    Here’s where things get tricky: watching both of them at once.

    The football is snapped, and I’m laser-focused on Jase, heart pounding. Then suddenly, out of the corner of my eye, Sadie’s squad launches into a new cheer. Now I’m swiveling my head back and forth like I’m at a tennis match. Half my heart is on the field, the other half on the sidelines, and the whole time I’m praying I don’t miss something big.

    It’s a juggling act—pride, panic, joy, and exhaustion all rolled into one.

    And yes, sometimes I end up cheering for the wrong one: “Go Jase!!” when he’s not even in the play, or clapping wildly only to realize Sadie’s squad is cheering because the other team scored. Oops.

    Why I Love It (Even When I Don’t)

    Do I love sitting in so hot I’m melting weather? Not particularly. But would I trade this life? Not in a million years.

    Because here’s the thing: one day the bleachers will be empty. One day there won’t be football pants in my laundry pile or glitter in my carpet. One day, I won’t have to split my gaze between the boy with the football and the girl with the pom-poms.

    But today? Today I get to watch them shine. And there is no better view in the world than from those bleachers.

    Final Whistle

    Being a fall sports mom means your calendar is packed, your throat is sore, and your heart is so full it could burst. It means you learn the art of layering (because here in the Midwest it’s 90 degrees one day and 60 the next), you perfect the “bleacher lean,” and you figure out how to clap, scream, and cry all at the same time.

    But more than anything, it means you get a front-row seat to your kids’ moments of glory. And whether it’s a perfect tackle or a perfectly timed chant, those moments are priceless.

    So here I sit, proud as can be, living my best life under the lights of area High School football fields. I may not be the one on the field, but make no mistake—I’m part of the team.

    Because when you’re a sports mom? Life isn’t just played on the field. It’s lived on the bleachers.

  • Tween Fashion Battles | Hoodies, Crocs, and Other Hills We Die On

    Tween Fashion Battles | Hoodies, Crocs, and Other Hills We Die On

    There are wars raging in my house every morning before school. Not the “Did you brush your teeth?” battles (though those are alive and well). Not the “Please eat something other than Takis for breakfast” skirmishes. No, the daily wars are fought over tween fashion choices—the hills my children are inexplicably prepared to die on, while I clutch my coffee mug and wonder if this is the moment I officially become my mother.

    If you’re parenting tweens, you already know: the wardrobe has become both a battlefield and a peace treaty. What they wear is no longer about practicality—it’s identity, independence, and sometimes, a personal vendetta against the weather forecast.

    Let’s review the most pressing fronts in this war.

    The Hoodie Obsession

    Apparently, hoodies are not just clothing. They are lifestyle. Religion. Possibly oxygen.

    It can be 92 degrees with humidity high enough to melt asphalt, and yet Jase insists on wearing a hoodie. Not just a hoodie, but the hoodie—the one that hasn’t seen the inside of a washing machine since spring break. If I dare suggest he might be warm, he reacts like I’ve accused him of a felony.

    The hoodie, to him, is more than fabric. It’s safety. It’s anonymity. It’s comfort. It’s pockets that hold gum wrappers, broken pencils, and the mysterious crumbs of something that was once food. I get it. When I was twelve, I too had a sweatshirt that was basically my emotional support blanket. (Mine was a Florida Gators sweatshirt. Football? Basketball? I have no idea. And no shame.)

    Still, I look at my son sweating through August and think: “There has to be a better way.” But no. He will wear the hoodie. Even in July. Even if it means heatstroke. This is the hill he will die on.

    And apparently, I will die on the hill of passive-aggressively muttering, “Fine, but don’t complain to me when you’re hot.”

    Crocs | The Great Divide

    Crocs are back. I’ll give you a moment to process that sentence. Honestly, they never left my house. Henley has been wearing them since forever.

    For those of us who lived through Crocs: Round One (2002–2010), this feels like history playing a cruel joke. Back then, they were for gardeners, chefs, and the occasional toddler. Now, Crocs are the it shoe of tweendom, covered in charms that cost more than the actual shoe.

    They stomp through Walmart in those dirty white Crocs like she’s a runway model, while I trail behind wondering when footwear started doubling as an art project.

    The problem isn’t the Crocs themselves. (They’re comfortable, I’ll give them that.) The problem is the commitment. Henley insists Crocs are acceptable in all settings. Gym class? Crocs. 4H Auction? Crocs. Snow? Crocs with socks, obviously.

    This is her hill. And I, as her mother, am standing firmly on the hill of: “You are not wearing Crocs to the chorus concert where your grandparents will be wielding cameras.”

    Shorts in Winter, Pants in Summer

    This one feels less like fashion and more like performance art.

    In January, Jase struts to school shorts while snow flurries swirl. He insists he’s not cold. “I’m fine, Mom,” he says through chattering teeth. Meanwhile, I’m in a parka, scarf, mittens, and regretting not packing hand warmers in my bra.

    Flip to July, and suddenly he wants sweats. Heavy. Black. The kind of pants that trap heat like a solar panel. Again: “I’m fine, Mom.”

    It’s not about comfort—it’s about control. He will wear what he wants, regardless of logic, weather, or the fact that I just spent actual money on perfectly good season-appropriate clothing. This is a hill he will die on. And I, in turn, will die on the hill of sighing loudly while packing an “emergency outfit” in my tote bag like the amateur I am.

    The Ripped Jeans Revolution

    And then there’s Sadie, my dramatic, book-loving, girly, brave soul—who has decided that ripped jeans and spaghetti strap tank tops are the pinnacle of tween fashion.

    Not just a tasteful knee rip, mind you. We’re talking shredded denim that looks like it survived a bear attack. Paired, of course, with a tank top that makes my inner Midwestern mom voice go full church-lady: “That’s not appropriate.”

    To Sadie, ripped jeans mean confidence. They mean she’s edgy, bold, maybe just a touch rebellious. To me, they mean frostbite in December and possibly unnecessary conversations with school dress code enforcers.

    She struts in her outfit like she’s auditioning for a Disney Channel reboot, while I’m standing there with a cardigan in hand, begging her to “just throw this over the top.” She rolls her eyes with the practiced flair of a twelve-year-old who knows exactly how to wound her mother without saying a word.

    Her hill? Fashion freedom.
    Mine? “Layer up, sister.”

    Picking Our Hills

    Here’s what I’ve learned after years in the tween fashion trenches: you have to pick your battles.

    Do I love Crocs? No. But they’re not hurting anyone.
    Do I cringe at shorts in a blizzard? Yes. But if frostbite isn’t imminent, I let it slide.
    Do I allow hoodies in 100-degree weather? Against my better judgment, yes—though I reserve the right to smirk when the complaints roll in.

    Because fashion, for tweens, is less about clothing and more about control. It’s their way of saying: “I’m becoming my own person.” And as parents, sometimes the best we can do is keep them safe, keep them mostly appropriate, and keep our sense of humor.

    Why It Matters (Even If It Feels Silly)

    It’s easy to dismiss these fights as shallow. But really, fashion battles are a sneak peek into the bigger independence wars on the horizon. Today it’s about Crocs versus sneakers. Tomorrow it’ll be about curfews, friend groups, and driving. The hoodie, the ripped jeans, the shorts—they’re practice runs for saying, “I can make my own choices.”

    So while I may roll my eyes at the utterly disgusting clogs, I also see something sweet beneath it. My kids are figuring out who they are. They’re experimenting with style, with comfort, with confidence. And honestly? That’s a hill worth cheering them on from.

    Final Thoughts from the Frontlines

    Parenting tweens is a constant mix of “this is ridiculous” and “this really matters.” Every hoodie, every spaghetti strap, every Croc charm is another chance for them to assert independence, and for me to learn to let go a little.

    So yes, the battles continue. Yes, the fashion hills are real. And yes, I will absolutely keep sighing at the shorts-in-snow routine. But secretly? I’ll also keep snapping pictures, because someday, we’ll both look back and laugh.

    And maybe—just maybe—when my kids are parents themselves, standing in their kitchens muttering about hoodies in July, they’ll finally understand.

    Until then: we march on. In Crocs.

  • Puberty, Perimenopause, and No One’s Okay | A Survival Memoir

    Puberty, Perimenopause, and No One’s Okay | A Survival Memoir

    Once upon a time, I thought the toddler years were the emotional peak of parenting. Silly me. That was just the warm-up act. Now, here I am, squarely in my mid-40s, experiencing the joys of perimenopause while parenting three tweens entering puberty. That’s right. One body. Three hormones. Five moods before breakfast. Welcome to the real Hunger Games.

    They’re growing hair in new places. So am I.
    They’re moody, irrational, and always hungry. So am I.
    They’re crying over weird things, like a dropped Cheez-It. So am I.

    We are not thriving, friends. But we are surviving—and sometimes that’s enough.

    Chapter One | Hormones Have Entered the Group Chat

    Let me set the scene: I’m standing in the kitchen, sweating for no reason (was it the coffee? the stress? the molecular density of air?). Jase walks in, grunts something indecipherable, and immediately turns on me for looking at him. Sadie flounces in next, slamming the fridge, crying because we’re out of string cheese. Meanwhile, Henley is in her room journaling about how much she hates us all.

    And me? I’ve been awake since 3:47 a.m., wondering if I’m dying or just hormonal, debating the existence of chin hairs, and googling “why does my body smell like a campfire?”

    We are one small estrogen tremor away from calling it a day by 9:00 AM.

    Chapter Two | My Mood Swings Brought Friends

    It’s honestly hard to say whose mood swings are worse. Mine, which come with hot flashes and mild rage? Or theirs, which come with TikTok slang and tears about math class? My tween’s emotional range in one hour: giggling hysterically, singing Gracie Abrams, dead silence, and an aggressive door slam. Me, in that same hour: confident, weepy, energized, foggy, snacky, filled with dread, inexplicably grateful.

    It’s like living with emotional funhouse mirrors. We’re all just trying to make it to bedtime without throwing a remote or crying into a quesadilla.

    Chapter Three | The Smells

    This cannot be skipped. Puberty smells like a locker room full of sour patch kids. Perimenopause? Like sleep sweat, old perfume, and existential panic. I spend my days lighting candles, spraying deodorant into the air like Febreze, and begging everyone to shower—even myself.

    “Did you use soap?”
    “Yes!”
    “The real kind?”
    “WHAT DOES THAT EVEN MEAN, MOM?!”

    Chapter Four | The Beauty of Mutual Awkwardness

    The upside? We’re all feeling weird in our bodies, so there’s a strange solidarity. I’ve stopped trying to hide my chin hairs. They’ve stopped trying to hide their armpit fuzz. We all look mildly feral and deeply confused, and it’s kind of beautiful in a post-apocalyptic sort of way.

    Sometimes, we talk about it. We normalize the weirdness. Other times, we just share a knowing glance while passing each other on the stairs—me in my hoodie, them in theirs—both of us gripping a snack and barely holding it together.

    Chapter Five | What Helps

    Am I a parenting expert? Nope. I’m a woman in midlife, wearing a heating pad like a belt while Googling “when will my kids be nice to me again?” But I’ve picked up a few things that help us survive the day without imploding:

    1. Laugh. Hard. Often. Together.

    We’ve developed a dark sense of humor. “Mom’s crying again!” “Tween rage level: DEFCON 3!” We laugh because we must. Humor turns chaos into connection.

    2. Lower the Bar. Then Lower It Again.

    Some days, “surviving” means cereal for dinner and everyone in their own corners by 7:00. That’s okay. This isn’t the season for perfection—this is the season for showing up.

    3. Normalize the Weird.

    We talk about body changes. I tell them how I’m aging. They tell me what’s happening at school. I say “vaginal dryness” and they pretend to die, but secretly? They’re listening. And that matters.

    4. Model Self-Compassion.

    When I’m irritable, I admit it. When I forget things, I own it. When I need space, I take it. They’re watching how I treat myself—and learning to treat themselves the same way.

    5. Have Snacks. Always.

    Puberty runs on carbs. So does perimenopause. When in doubt: string cheese, popcorn, and frozen egg rolls.

    Chapter Six | It’s Not Just Chaos—It’s a Mirror

    The hard truth? Watching them grow up while my body starts to change again is…weird. It’s like I’m traveling backward while they’re sprinting ahead. I’m grieving what I used to be, even as I celebrate who they’re becoming.

    But in that overlap, there’s something kind of sacred. All 4 of us are shedding our skins. We’re in between. We’re becoming.

    And as frustrating and sweaty and emotional as it is, there’s a kind of magic here—where their beginning meets my middle.

    Chapter Seven | The Other Side of This

    There will come a time, I imagine, when the fog lifts. When their hormones settle and mine quiet down. When the house doesn’t feel like a live wire of emotions. And when that day comes, I hope we’ll remember what it felt like to be so tender, so undone, so real with each other.

    I hope they remember that their mom wasn’t perfect, but she was there—with the ice packs, the midnight pep talks, the snacks, the grace.

    And I hope I remember, too—that we didn’t just survive this season. We learned how to be softer. Kinder. Stronger. Together.

    Final Thoughts (and a Prayer)

    If you, too, are raising hormonal creatures while perimenopause takes you hostage: I see you. If your house feels like a soap opera written by gremlins: same. If you’re just trying to make it to bedtime without burning your house down: solidarity, sister.

    You’re not crazy. You’re just human. And this wild, hormonal mess? It’s shaping you both.

    So go ahead. Cry in the closet. Laugh at the chaos. Take the nap. Eat the chips. Text your husband something completely unhinged. And then get up and do it again tomorrow.

    Because we’re not thriving. But we are growing. And sometimes? That’s even better.

  • Parenting Tweens | May Cause Emotional Whiplash

    Parenting Tweens | May Cause Emotional Whiplash

    One minute they want to snuggle, the next they’re slamming the door.

    There should be a warning label on parenting tweens: May cause whiplash, emotional whiplash. Side effects include crying in the pantry, involuntary eye twitching, and spontaneous laughter at completely inappropriate times.

    Raising tweens is a bit like being on a rollercoaster built by someone who’s never actually seen a rollercoaster before. You climb slowly to the top—feeling confident, connected, maybe even smug—and then suddenly plummet into a nosedive of sarcasm, slammed doors, and existential dread over “the wrong brand of cereal.”

    And just when you’ve braced yourself for another loop-de-loop of moodiness, they crawl into your lap and whisper, “I love you, Mommy.” And you’re gone again—heart puddled on the floor, wondering how much longer you get to be their safe place.

    The Highs | When the Sun Breaks Through

    There are moments of such clarity and sweetness, it feels like time slows. They tell you something vulnerable. They ask for your opinion. They genuinely laugh at your jokes (okay, some of your jokes). They still want you at the dance recital. They still text you from their friend’s house just to say hey.

    These little bursts of sunshine are reminders that they do still need us, even if they’re trying really hard to act like they don’t. They’re testing out their wings, but your lap is still home base.

    The Lows | Please Exit Through the Gift Shop (with Tears)

    Then there are the days that feel like an emotional hostage negotiation. You say “no” to Starbucks and are met with a dramatic monologue about how literally everyone else gets Starbucks whenever they want. You suggest a family walk and receive a grunt so guttural it may qualify as prehistoric. You make a lighthearted comment and suddenly you’re the worst, most embarrassing person who’s ever lived. (And yes, you’re still paying for their phone, WiFi, and body wash they refuse to share.)

    It’s hard not to take it personally, especially when it feels like your once-sunny sidekick has been replaced by a small, angsty roommate who rolls their eyes as a primary form of communication.

    The In-Between | Where Most of Life Happens

    Most days, we live somewhere in the in-between. Not quite kids, not quite teens. They still need help with homework, but don’t want you hovering. They want independence, but also can’t find their shoes without yelling your name. They want boundaries, but will test every single one with the precision of a NASA engineer.

    And you, dear parent, are just trying to keep your balance—offering guidance while biting your tongue, loving them fiercely while letting them go slowly.

    Grace, Grit, and a Gallon of Coffee

    This season is not for the faint of heart. It will humble you. It will stretch you. But it will also grow you into a more patient, compassionate, resilient version of yourself.

    Because in between the slammed doors and the side hugs, there’s still magic. There’s still wonder. There’s still them—becoming who they are, even if they don’t quite know who that is yet.

    So take a deep breath. Keep showing up. Laugh when you can. Cry when you must. And always—always—keep the pantry stocked for your own emotional snacking needs.