The Best Days of My Life

The best days of my life are behind me.

At least that’s how I understand it. That’s what those gray-haired women told me time and again over the past eight years. They would see me pushing a cart loaded down with three small children and a week’s worth of food as our paths collided in the dairy aisle, and they would smile before they spoke. 

“Oh,” they would say. And I might be hyperbolic here but I picture them with their hands on their hearts and misty expressions in their eyes. “These are the best days. Enjoy them.”

The conclusion I drew from this was simple: It’s all downhill from here. This is as good as it gets.

But I’m beyond those days now. This past September, on an unseasonably warm Friday morning, all three of my kids stepped on bus number 537. My youngest, the Kindergartener, ran onto the bus without any signs of hesitation. I waved as they went off to elementary school together for the first time.

I watched the bus as it pulled away and walked back to my house to reheat my coffee. Aside from the dull sound of the microwave running it was very, very quiet. Quiet enough that I could hear myself think, which had been a novelty for the better part of a decade. And after all those years of being home with small children, it was terrible, but mostly wonderful.

***

It sometimes seems like we have a hard time moving on from things. Society tends to look back on everything with nostalgia. Even things that at the time may have been more “meh” than “time of your life.” Because I remember hearing those “these are the best days of your life” words in high school, too. Family members told me this. Mid-’90s and early-‘00s teen movies tried to sell me this, though my high school broke out into far less spontaneous singing and my wardrobe looked nothing like what Cher Horowitz or Regina George wore. 

As if high school is as good as it gets.

Because then there was college. Another time that might as well have “ENJOY IT WHILE YOU CAN” flashing around campus in neon lights. And yes, college was fun. I went to my share of parties, spent a memorable night building the biggest snowman you’ve ever seen on central campus, and frequently sat up until morning with friends. (Before getting up for an 8 a.m. class, as only a 19-year-old can.) But I spent just as many nights working on projects at midnight as I did having fun. And hanging out with friends often meant walking up sticky apartment staircases smelling of cheap beer at questionable hours of the night.

My husband and I got married fresh out of college. (We were babies. Somehow no one stopped us.) Once we returned from the bubble of our Jamaican honeymoon, it was back to the reality of an apartment so small that if you stood at the edge of the living room, you could see every inch of the place. He was in grad school, and I was trying to make enough money to support us and pay off our student loans. My futon from college and the folding table and chairs that functioned as our dining table were our crowning pieces of furniture. Bless our newlywed hearts.

All the Disney movies and frou-frou wedding cards gushed that this here, this time for real, was as good as it gets. And maybe all you need is love but surely furniture not made for the express purpose of collapsing wasn’t too much to ask?

Soon enough, I made it to those days the gray-haired women were misty-eyed about. Three years into married life, I held twin babes, one in each arm. And just two years later, we added a third to the mix. (No one stopped us. Again.)

Read the rest over at Coffee + Crumbs.

8 Ways Bluey is the Most Relatable Kids Show

Has anyone else been on a Bluey-binging spree? It caught my attention one day when I overheard my daughter watching it on her iPad. I know that watching shows with kids is supposed to win me a parenting gold medal or whatever, but please. You know I’d given her that iPad so I could brush her tangled hair in peace.

But the dialogue on Bluey caught my ears until I was just as wrapped up in its 8-minute antics as she was. It’s the rare kid’s show that feels like it’s as much for us parents as for the kids. There’s just enough parent-related humor sprinkled throughout to keep us invested, snort-laughing and high-fiving in solidarity. We set a family goal to watch through the entire series in order, which we accomplished huddled under cozy blankets during two consecutive subzero weekends in January. I’m not sure who enjoyed it more: the kids or me. (*ahem* It was me.) 

In case you’ve been living under a parenting rock (okay, or you don’t have kids in this age demographic), Bluey is a 6-year old Australian blue heeler. She lives with her parents, Bandit and Chilli, and her 4-year old sister Bingo in Brisbane. They have all sorts of familial, everyday adventures together. 

This is what sets it apart: I’m not sure I’ve seen another show celebrate family life in quite this way. Forget parenting books and influencers; watching Bluey is the thing that makes me want to be a better parent. It’s a show that doesn’t make you think too hard; there aren’t necessarily any grand morals or life lessons to be learned. Instead, each episode showcases the joy of family and packs a lot of laughs and emotions in less than ten minutes. You can just tell when a show is crafted with such care. And that Australian lingo? You know I love it.

Read the rest of my love for Bluey and it’s relatability over at Twin Cities Mom Collective.

If Parents Wrote the Headlines

I don’t want to brush aside the importance of following along with the actual news. I typically start my day with a glance at the headlines and a podcast or two—but does anyone else feel like their own day could warrant a headline or two? What if parents wrote the headlines? Really, family life covers all the basic news sections and storylines: we’ve got warring factions (aka siblings), drama (miscellaneous tantrums), business (balancing work and childcare), an arts and culture section (dominated by paper and crayons), food and recipes (staring at the pantry at 5 pm), and even romance (on occasion).

Here are some stories that might make the news if parents wrote the headlines:

Missing Mitten Rocks Morning

The mudroom was overturned this morning as a search was conducted for a missing mitten. “It looks blue and black just like the other one, except the thumb is on the other side,” said a boy familiar with the item. After searching through several backpacks, shelves, and the entirety of the floor, it was eventually found in the storage bin, exactly where it was supposed to be. While the children involved made it to the bus on time, their mother was left to deal with the resulting chaos of the mudroom on her own.

Coffee Shortage Leaves Mom in Crisis

A local mom opened her pantry today to discover she was out of coffee beans. “I don’t know how this happened,” she said, sounding close to tears, “I was just at Target yesterday.” Sources close to the family report that it had been her third trip to the popular big box department store chain this week alone. She was seen again this morning at her local Target, where despite purchasing two pounds of coffee beans, she also left the store with an iced coffee with oat milk from the in-store Starbucks.

Brothers: The Worst Ever

Our special 7-year-old correspondent reports that “brothers are the worst ever” after they “ruined” her day by not listening while playing a game and also taking six crayons. This is despite the fact that other reports suggest a bin filled with hundreds of crayons sitting next to her and that the game was made up with ill-defined rules. Despite those facts, our 7-year-old correspondent advises you to use caution when interacting with someone who could, in fact, be a brother.

Read more parental headlines over on Twin Cities Mom Collective!

That Minivan Life

Brooklyn and Nolan tumble into the mudroom where they kick off their sandals. I’m right behind them, glass of iced-coffee-going-to-water in hand. 

“You have one hour. I’m going to eat breakfast. Make sure your teeth are brushed and you find your water bottles before we head out again.” They scamper off to play and (hopefully) follow directions.

Summer began barely a week ago and already I feel as though I’ve been living in my minivan.

Our day kicked off with a near hour-long trek to drop Caden off at Summer Academy by 8 am. (Praise hands that concludes before The Fourth.) Brooklyn and Nolan have PlayNet on Tuesday and Thursday mornings from 9:30-noon. There have been playdates and park meet-ups. There will be day camps.

I’m already regretting not taking advantage of the bussing option to get Caden to and from Summer Academy. I thought I was saving him close to an hour each way. Well, I am, but I didn’t stop to think who would be spending that hour driving instead. *insert raised hand and slap-face emojis here* Tyson told me we should bus him and let it be known in writing here today honey that you were right.

(Also, the pollution. Why didn’t I do the communal drive option? I mean, I guess we hardly went anywhere last summer—the first eight weeks of lockdown we didn’t fill up a tank of gas once— so maybe I’m allocated some extra miles this year? Still. Ugh.)

This minivan life can be chaotic. And I’m not talking about the lunacy that is Minnesota roads under construction in the summertime. I’m talking about what happens inside those marvelous power-glide, push-of-a-button sliding doors.

There are kids who expect me to do some sort of backward yoga move to retrieve whatever toy/snack/piece of trash they dropped while also navigating us safely through traffic. Kids fighting over things like “looking at me” and “breathing” and “maybe they rolled their eyes at me.” There’s the general state of the car, what with the leftover Starbucks cups and granola wrappers and Goldfish dust and LEGO pieces which are expressly forbidden to leave the house but somehow migrate out to the minivan anyway. (That they escape in pockets and tiny fists while I distractedly dash through the house to go to the bathroom, yell at everyone else to go to the bathroom, ensure everyone has a water bottle, mask, and shoes, and run back in the house because I forgot at least one of these things is just a guess.)

We’re managing. Wow in the World has already emerged as the podcast of choice to get us through the long drives to and from Summer Academy. Water bottles and snacks are a must, even if stray pretzels and fruit snacks end up atrophying on the floor. 

Sometimes we’re more than managing. There are giggles during the podcast, even if it’s about poop and I’ve already heard that word or one of its many iterations 34 times that morning. Sometimes we sing along to Hamilton or Taylor Swift. Yesterday they practiced the song and actions they’ll be performing at church on Sunday, Nolan’s voice practically shouting despite the song being called “One Small Voice.” (Guess that title is only a nice suggestion.) 

There’s Caden climbing into the car after Summer Academy, full of stories about his day and reminders for tomorrow. “I made my picture like this and no one else did it this way, Mommy. They all made a flower because that was the example but I decided to do something different!” and “Don’t forget we need to wear our Summer Academy shirts tomorrow.” and “I spent my fifty cents of snack money on a Fruit by the Foot because you never buy them so I took my chance.”

There are the times where we drive and it’s blessedly quiet and I see their big blue eyes staring out the windows as the trees and the lakes and the buildings pass by. They seem to be just taking it all in and I think, “This is nice.”

I’ve only ever thought of the minivan as a thing to get us from point A to point B; from this one thing we’re doing to that other thing we’re doing. It’s time to kill: please sit down and buckle up and let me think and don’t ask too many questions. But having spent several hours in the car each day this week, I’m discovering it’s all its own time. 

It might not be exactly how I wish I were spending my time, which would preferably be reading a book in a hammock with a light breeze, cold drink, and children playing in the background. (Reader, my children never play in the background.) (Also, I don’t own a hammock. Details.) At the very least, I might wish I were listening to a podcast of my choice instead of the same few episodes of Wow in the World on repeat.

I’ve heard people talk about how much time they spend in the car running kids around, how they feel like a chauffeur, and I thought, Surely they’re exaggerating. Guess not. I have spent so. much. time. in my minivan this week. This wholly ordinary thing I never thought all that much about when it was only eight minutes to school and back, twelve minutes to dance class, ten to hit up McDonald’s for Happy Meals. 

All these drop-offs and pick-ups and the kids are there and so am I. We’re our own little universe bumping down the road, and sometimes they fight over who gets to put their hand where and I wonder if I should even bother with the ground-in crackers in the carpet and other times they ask about each other’s days and pass around compliments like candy and sing along to We Are Never Ever Getting Back Together and it’s both harmonious and also entirely off-key.

This post is part of a blog hop with Exhale—an online community of women pursuing creativity alongside motherhood, led by the writing team behind Coffee + Crumbs. Click here to view the next post in this series "Minutiae".

The Middle Years

It’s 8:00 at night and my seven-year-old son wanders into the room.

“Hi Mommy, what are you doing?” he asks. He’s wearing pajama shorts and no shirt, but he does have a fuzzy blue blanket wrapped around his narrow shoulders. I think it was last summer when he began to eschew sleep shirts, opting only for sleep bottoms like my husband. I usually sneak into his bedroom to check on him before I go to sleep and cover him up again with the blankets he’s tossed off.

“Oh,” Caden continued, not waiting for my reply, “You’re ordering something. It’s a book! Can I get a book? Let’s see: first name, last name, address, email, payment information…”

Because he can read now, of course. There’s no more hiding things in words from him or his twin sister, no more assuming that a combination of letters is coded in and of itself. I can no longer spell out I-C-E C-R-E-A-M over their heads to my husband. (Really, they’d pick that one up right away.)

The blanket around his bare shoulders. The 8:00 pm still-awake wandering. The reading.

We’re entering the middle years.

The middle years are interesting, at least where we are, on the cusp of them with two seven-year-olds and a five-year-old. They’ve gained a piece of independence. They can be trusted to knock on friends’ doors in the neighborhood without supervision. The older two can be left home alone for short periods of time while I’m still somewhat nearby, like down the street at the park with their younger brother. They can make toast and pour their own bowls of cereal and grab their own snacks from the pantry.

Read more about entering these middle-aged years over on Twin Cities Mom Collective.