Fry, Party of Five

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  • 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.

  • 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.