Fry, Party of Five

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  • 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.

  • 12 Unsolicited Opinions from My Tweens That I Did Not Ask For

    12 Unsolicited Opinions from My Tweens That I Did Not Ask For

    Welcome to the moody middle ground of motherhood, where your once-sweet child has become a now taller than you critic with zero filter and a master’s degree in Eye Rolling. I love my tween, truly—but wow, the commentary is constant and deeply unasked for. So in the spirit of solidarity (and humor), I give you:

    1. “You should never wear that outfit again.”

    Listen, I was just trying to be comfy and slightly cute. But apparently my ribbed tank and high-waisted shorts combo is a crime against humanity. Duly noted.

    2. “Why do you have TikTok? That’s so embarrassing.”

    I downloaded it to keep up, maybe find a cozy recipe or two… but apparently, my mere existence on the app is a direct attack on Gen Z dignity. Heaven forbid I enjoy a little cottagecore content without ruining their algorithm.

    3. “Why do you talk to the dog like that?”

    Because he loves me unconditionally and doesn’t critique my emotional tone.

    4. “You laugh too loud in public.”

    Oh, I’m sorry—should I stifle all joy to maintain your coolness rating in the Target checkout line?

    5. “You sing like, kinda okay… but like, not good.”

    Thank you, Simon Cowell. I was under the illusion that car concerts were judgment-free zones.

    6. “You’re too obsessed with candles. It’s weird.”

    First of all, how dare you. Second of all, my bergamot-vanilla sanctuary is the only thing standing between me and a full mom meltdown.

    7. “You ask too many questions.”

    I’m sorry for being invested in your life, your friendships, your mental health, and your current obsession with overpriced Ulta everything. My bad.

    8. “That’s not how people use emojis anymore.”

    Apparently, I’ve committed emoji crimes. Too many hearts, not enough irony. “Cringe,” they whispered, as I cried into my ☕️📚🧡 aesthetic.

    9. “Stop saying ‘vibe.’ It doesn’t sound right when you say it.”

    Cool cool cool. Just me out here ruining language again.

    10. “You don’t need to narrate everything.”

    I do, in fact, need to narrate everything, because if I don’t say it out loud, I’ll forget why I walked into the room. This is survival, sweetheart.

    11. “You’re not really funny, you just think you are.”

    Ouch. But also—did I not carry you (and your brother and sister) in my belly and survive toddler tantrums in triplicate without running away to a yurt in Montana?

    12. “You get, like, way too excited about fall.”

    Oh really? Well maybe I am too excited about pumpkin spice, crunchy leaves, and the scent of “Cozy Flannel Dreams.” But guess who still gets hot cocoa on chilly mornings? That’s right. The Fall Queen, that’s who.

    Final Thoughts (That No One Asked For):

    I know one day I’ll miss the sass, the side-eye, the deeply unfiltered commentary. For now, I’ll keep the receipts—and the eye rolls—and laugh through the chaos. After all, if parenting tweens has taught me anything, it’s that humility comes free with the gig… and sometimes, so does brutal fashion advice.

    Let the unsolicited opinions roll on. I’ll be over here, in my “embarrassing” outfit, lighting my candle, and vibing exactly how I want to.

  • Back-to-School Energy Shift | Resetting the Home Vibe

    Back-to-School Energy Shift | Resetting the Home Vibe

    Ah, August. That magical, messy stretch of time where one foot is still planted firmly in summer’s barefoot freedom—and the other is reaching for a backpack, a planner, and a working pencil sharpener (good luck).

    If your home feels like a collision of popsicle sticks, pool towels, and piles of Target school supplies, take a deep breath. You’re not doing it wrong. You’re just standing in the seasonal in-between, and friend, that shift is real.

    Here’s how to gently, soulfully reset the energy of your home as the school year tiptoes (or barrel-rolls) back in.

    1. Ease into Routines, Don’t Crash Land

    Start small. A consistent bedtime again. Morning checklists taped to the fridge. Pajamas before 9:00 PM—dare we dream?

    Back-to-school doesn’t have to feel like a military operation. It’s more like adjusting the dimmer switch from “summer chaos” to “organized-enough.” Build back the rhythms with grace and space. Your goal isn’t perfection—it’s peace.

    Try this: Light a candle after dinner and call it “evening wind-down.” Even if nothing else feels structured, that tiny ritual can anchor your whole household.

    2. Reset the Senses with Fall-Scented Everything

    Want to instantly trick your brain (and your family’s) into embracing the vibe shift? Engage the senses.

    • Light a cinnamon-vanilla candle.
    • Simmer some apple peels, cloves, and orange rinds on the stove.
    • Swap the lemony dish soap for something that smells like “harvest spice.”

    The scent of fall—warm, nostalgic, earthy—tells our minds it’s time to cozy up, calm down, and gently re-root.

    3. Create Cozy Zones of Calm

    After a summer of sprawled-out chaos, your home deserves some breathing room.

    • Clear the dining table.
    • Tidy one corner and add a blanket and a book basket.
    • Add a hook for each backpack (a.k.a. prevent-the-morning-meltdown station).

    Think “comfort corners” more than clean-slate minimalism. Just enough order to feel like your home is holding you, not hounding you.

    4. Let Go of the Pressure to Have It All Together

    Back-to-school season can come with a whole lot of noise—comparison, expectations, performance, Pinterest-y perfection.

    Here’s your permission slip: You don’t have to have it all figured out.

    Your worth is not measured in perfectly packed lunches or color-coded calendars. Some mornings will run smooth, others will be pure chaos with burnt toast and forgotten shoes—and both are normal. Both are okay.

    Back-to-school is a season, not a sprint. Let yourself settle into it.

    5. Celebrate the Shift with a Family Reset Ritual

    Mark the moment with something simple but special:

    • A pancake breakfast on the first day.
    • A family movie night with fall snacks and fuzzy socks.
    • A prayer or intention-setting circle around the table.

    Call it “our little launch” or “the season shift” or “Team [Last Name] Reset.” What matters is that you name it—and claim it—as your family’s own.

    Final Thoughts: You’re Not Behind. You’re Becoming.

    This isn’t just about a school schedule. It’s about seasonal alignment—your home, your rhythm, your inner world finding a new groove as the light changes and the leaves prepare to turn.

    So give yourself grace.

    Light the candle. Fold the blanket. Welcome the shift.

    Because cozy isn’t just a vibe—it’s a way of being. And you’re already doing it beautifully.

  • Fuel Up, Buckle Up, Suck It Up | Life as a Mom Taxi

    Fuel Up, Buckle Up, Suck It Up | Life as a Mom Taxi

    Somewhere between piano lessons and the 4-H Fair, I lost the feeling in my left butt cheek. I’ve become one with the seat of my Jeep. My Apple algorithm thinks I’m 12, and my car is less a vehicle and more a time capsule of growing-up moments.

    Hi. I’m Angela, and I’m a full-time mom taxi.

    If you’ve ever found a rogue football cup under your front seat, or said, “Is that a half-eaten sandwich or a science project?”—then you might be one too.

    Let’s break down the highs, the lows, and the straight-up absurdities of being our children’s unpaid Uber drivers.

    PRO: You Know Where Your Kids Are

    CON: You Always Know Where Your Kids Are

    Yes, they’re safe. Yes, you have tabs on them. Yes, you’re not worried they’re wandering the neighborhood with a popsicle and a prayer like it’s 1988.

    But also… you’re never alone. Like, ever. If someone’s not arguing over the phone charger, they’re asking if I have a snack. (“Because this is a 10-minute drive and I am not Amazon Prime for Cheez-Its, Jase.”)

    PRO: You Get Quality Time

    CON: It’s Often in the Form of Sighing, Eye Rolling, or TikTok Volume Battles

    In theory, all this chauffeuring gives you “bonding time.” In reality, it sounds more like:

    • “Did you remember your shoes?”
    • “You told me this started at 5:00! It’s 4:58!”
    • “NO, I’m not going to turn around because you forgot your cheer socks.”
    • “Whose chewed gum is in the cupholder?!”

    But sometimes, if the mood is just right (read: no one’s hangry), you get those rare unicorn moments—when they start talking without prompting, when they let you in. That’s the good stuff. The in-between stuff. The “worth it” stuff.

    PRO: You’re Involved

    CON: You’re TOO Involved

    You learn the names of the teammates, the coaches, the other moms, and possibly the janitor. You start organizing snack sign-ups. You remember jersey numbers. You become a logistical goddess.

    And then one day you realize: You haven’t peed in peace since May. Your email inbox is 90% volunteer requests and dance costume invoices.

    You’re somehow part of four group chats that don’t need to exist, but you can’t leave because there’s always one piece of critical info buried between 43 “ok sounds good!” replies and a rogue GIF of a sloth doing the macarena.

    PRO: They’re Doing All the Things!

    CON: They’re Doing ALL. THE. THINGS.

    You wanted well-rounded kids. Active kids. Socially-engaged, multi-talented, “yes, this will look great on a college app” kind of kids.

    You got them.

    Football. Piano. Cheer. 4-H. That random art class they insisted on but now “don’t really like anymore.”

    Let’s not forget practices, games, fittings, meetings, and the occasional “Can you pick up _____ for practice too.”

    Every night feels like a Nascar pit stop between events:

    • Toss them a sandwich.
    • Swap a shirt.
    • Pray they don’t notice they’re wearing mismatched socks.
    • Peppy goodbye and off to the next thing.

    Are they thriving? Yes. Are you? Debatable.

    PRO: You’re a Fly on the Wall

    CON: You Hear Everything

    Ah, middle school gossip. Playground politics. The “he said/she said” recaps. The front seat is like Switzerland—neutral ground where they forget you exist and talk freely.

    You learn who’s dating who, which coach yells too much, who got kicked out of group chat, and whose mom definitely smells like weed at pickup.

    This is juicy stuff.

    Of course, it comes with the downside of knowing everything. And I mean everything. Including your child’s very strong opinion that 4-H foods judging is “low-key terrifying” and Sally Sue told Jimmy’s cousin that so and so stole a debit card and used it. (True story!)

    PRO: It’s a Season

    CON: It Feels Like a Lifetime

    Everyone says, “You’ll miss this one day.”

    I probably will.

    But right now, my calendar is color-coded chaos. My car smells like sweat and stale fries. And if I hear “Mom, I need to be there 20 minutes early!” one more time, I might fake my own death and start a new life selling wind chimes in Vermont.

    Still, I remind myself—this is a season. A loud, sticky, wonderful mess of a season. One day they won’t need rides. One day they’ll have their own keys, their own schedules, and I’ll miss being the background music to their everyday life.

    So for now, I’ll soak it up.

    (With a side of sarcasm and drive-thru iced coffee.)

    Closing Thoughts (From the Driver’s Seat)

    Being a mom taxi is equal parts privilege and punishment.

    You’re the keeper of the schedule, the finder of the lost cleats, the supplier of post-practice snacks, and the ride-or-die (literally) for every single activity under the sun.

    Is it exhausting? Absolutely. Is it beautiful in that gritty, real-life way? Also yes.

    So if you’re out there driving loops around town in a car that smells like teen spirit and Febreze, I see you.

    I salute you.

    And I hope your next coffee is hot and your next drive-thru line is short.

    P.S. Don’t forget to check under the seat this weekend. You will find a granola bar, a dried-up marker, and maybe your will to live.

    You’re doing great, mama.

  • When Summer Gets Weird | What to Do When Everyone’s Over It (Including You)

    When Summer Gets Weird | What to Do When Everyone’s Over It (Including You)

    Ah, late July into August—that weird in-between place where sunscreen feels like a second skin, popsicles have lost their sparkle, and no one knows what day it is anymore. You’ve already vacationed (or attempted to), grilled, chased fireflies, and now… everyone’s cranky, hot, and over it.

    Including you. Especially you.

    This is The Summer Stretch—those long, hazy, post-trip days where the energy is off, everyone’s restless, and Target is already throwing back-to-school displays at your face like a dare.

    So what’s a moody mama of tweens (or just a beautifully burnt-out human) to do?

    Let’s talk survival. Let’s talk soul-savers. Let’s talk lazy meals, low-effort joy, and tiny moments of peace in a house full of eye-rolls.

    Soul-Saving Family Activities (That Don’t Involve You Losing Your Sanity)

    These aren’t “Pinterest-perfect summer bucket list” ideas. These are keep-us-from-murdering-each-other activities that just might make a memory or two.

    • Reverse Movie Night
      Let the kids pick a movie for you. They curate snacks. They set up the living room. You just sit and watch whatever chaotic tween humor they throw your way. (You’ll laugh. You won’t want to. But you will.)
    • Summer Bingo
      Create a quick family “Boredom Bingo” board: things like make a smoothie, read for 20 minutes, dance to one song, clean something without being asked. Winner gets to skip chores for a day.
    • Afternoon Drives with No Destination
      Put on a playlist (throw in one song per family member), grab iced coffees or slushies, and drive country roads until someone smiles or falls asleep. Windows down. No agenda.
    • DIY Spa Hour
      Facemasks, foot soaks, cucumber slices and all. Yes, even the boys. Especially the boys. Moody kids get weirdly tender when you hand them a warm towel and some lavender lotion.
    • “Teach Me Something” Hour
      Let each kid teach you (and the siblings) something: a dance move, a video game skill, a craft. It’s goofy. It’s empowering. It ends in laughter 87% of the time.

    Lazy, Moody-Girl Meals (No Shame, All Ease)

    Summer dinners in this season? We’re going for minimal cooking, maximum satisfaction.

    • Snack Plate Suppers
      Cheese cubes, hummus, berries, pretzels, hard-boiled eggs, cucumber slices, leftover rotisserie chicken. No one complains. Everyone eats.
    • Build-Your-Own Burrito Bowls
      Rice (make a bunch at once), beans, corn, shredded cheese, avocado or not, salsa, sour cream. Line it up like you’re Chipotle and let them go wild.
    • Breakfast-for-Dinner Nights
      Pancakes, scrambled eggs, fruit. Everyone cheers. You barely lift a finger.
    • Pasta + Frozen Veggie Magic
      Cook pasta. Dump in a bag of frozen mixed veg the last 3 minutes. Drain. Add butter or olive oil, parmesan, and done.
    • Takeout Tuesday (or Whenever)
      No explanation needed. Budget for one night where you don’t touch a dish or plan a thing. It’s holy.

    Moody Mama Moments of Peace (Because You. Are. Tired.)

    This stretch of summer tends to eat moms alive. So here’s permission to opt out, zone out, or run away briefly for your own sanity.

    • Porch Coffee at Sunrise (Alone)
      Before the house wakes up. Just you, the birds, and the hum of cicadas. Leave your phone inside. Let the silence talk back.
    • Audiobook + Folding Laundry
      Turn a mindless chore into a mental escape. Pick a thriller, a rom-com, or a memoir that makes you feel seen.
    • Afternoon Bath or Shower with the Door Locked
      Midday reset. Lavender soap. The sound of no one asking where their phone charger is.
    • Target Run Alone (With a Beverage)
      Wander. Touch throw pillows. Sniff candles. Pretend you’re making important decisions when really, you just need 45 minutes of air conditioning and eye candy.
    • Evening Journal Dump
      Just a page. What went wrong. What went right. What you’re grateful for. What you’re really feeling. It doesn’t need to be pretty. Just real.

    You’re Not Failing—It’s Just August

    This isn’t the golden stretch of summer anymore. This is the melty, moody, emotional hangover of the season. And that’s okay.

    You’re not doing it wrong if you’re a little short-fused. Or if the kids are suddenly feral. Or if no one knows what they want but they know they don’t want that. You’re doing just fine. We all are.

    So stretch through these sticky days with grace, grit, and iced coffee. Pull out the paper plates. Lean into lazy fun. And when all else fails, remember: school starts soon.

    And that, my friend, is a reason to hope.

    Tell Me:

    What’s your go-to move when the summer mood hits hard? Drop it in the comments—I need inspiration (and so does everyone else).

  • Still a Party of Five, Just with All the Tween Drama Now

    Still a Party of Five, Just with All the Tween Drama Now

    Fry, Party of Five is back – older, moodier, and with more eye rolls than ever. But don’t worry, this isn’t a comeback tour with glittery graphics, Pinterest-perfect photo ops, or sponsored cereal reviews. Nope. This time around, it’s just me— Angela —writing straight from the trenches of tween parenting, heart first, filters off.

    If you were around back when Fry, Party of Five was last up and running—when the kids were in that wild 6-to-9ish-year-old stretch, all loose teeth, LEGO landmines, and backseat bickering—welcome back. The chaos hasn’t gone anywhere; it’s just evolved. These days, we’ve swapped bedtime battles for sarcasm, tween drama, and the mysterious disappearance of forks.

    This blog won’t come with a social media strategy or curated Instagram grid. You won’t find brand partnerships or affiliate links here. It’s just one mom, one keyboard, and a whole lot of unfiltered honesty about raising three very opinionated humans through the tangled, hilarious, soul-shaping mess that is the tween years.

    There will be laughs. There will be rants. There may be the occasional cry-in-the-bathroom moment. But above all, there will be truth—and hopefully a sense of “me too” for anyone else navigating this wonderfully weird season of parenting.

    (And if you do miss the bells and whistles—women’s wellness chats or midlife musings—I’m still over at Her Clementine Collective, doing all that jazz. But here? This is the real-life reel. No edits. Just us.)

    Thanks for being here. Let’s do this thing—again.