On Going Viral and The Profound Power of Good

Lucy Robinson is Lily’s mama.

I don’t know Lucy.

But she has my deepest mama admiration and respect. And I think her story deserves to be told.

Lily’s story – which is, of course, Lucy’s, as well, since every child’s story tells the story of her mother – is making the internet rounds.

See, three-and-a-half-year-old Lily wrote a simply precious letter to a grocery store, questioning their good sense in naming a splotched bread after a tiger, when clearly the bread resembled a giraffe. Sometimes it takes a child to help us see the error of our baking ways. ...  read more

Five Ingredient Fried Rice

If there’s something more difficult to scrape off the bottom of my sock than cooked rice, I don’t know what it is.

Really. I don’t know. Pretty please, don’t tell me. It’s probably something way more disgusting than rice, and I’ve probably had it stuck to my sock at one point or another, and I probably have Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, and I’ve probably blocked it from my memory. Please, as a favor to a mom of five, let it stay blocked. ...  read more

On Hiding in the Bathroom and The Unshakable Faith of Children

Sometimes my children have more faith in me than I have in myself.

It’s one of the gifts – and unique pressures – of having children. Like friends, children insist on believing in you.

At least until they reach the age of disillusionment, I am capable of all things.

I am magical.

I, after all, have direct access to God and Santa Claus and the Tooth Fairy and the Internet. ...  read more

I run very fast on my merry-go-round in my dreams.

“I run very fast on my merry-go-round in my dreams.”
Cai Woolsey, age 5

“MOM!”

“MOM!”

“MomMomMomMomMOM!”

His cry echoes through the house.

Seriously? I think as I lug myself out of bed to go to my preschool baby. I can tell by his tone that he’s not distressed, so I’m less motivated than usual to come as commanded. It’s the middle of the night. I just Want. To. Sleep. ...  read more

Fly Rhymes With Die

My dad is a pilot. He flew for the Marines. He flew for two airlines. He flew for humanitarian aid and for Jesus. He’s not kidding around, y’all. My dad FLIES.

My mom, in what can best be described as a fit of youthful exuberance and a desire for marital bliss and, you know, to have something in common with him (which is exactly why I’ve learned to use math analogies when communicating with my husband), acquired her private pilot’s license approximately 40 years ago. Seriously, if you were, like, on board an airplane when some horrific medical event occurred that took out all of the pilots and flight attendants and a desperate person stood up and screamed, “WHO IS GOING TO FLY THIS THING?” … you would want my mom to be there. ‘Cause she would march her tiny little self up to that cockpit, declare that she is SO the boss of it, and then land it safely. After which, she would make everyone brownies because she knows that brownies always make everything better. My mama is a fly girl. ...  read more

A Persuasive Essay by My Kid

You know that preteen kid I have who struggles to strain his words through expressive language disorder?

That kid who has a really rad “Geez, Mom!” holstered but ready for a quick-draw in a frustration shoot-out?

That’s the kid who makes me put on my big girl pants and show up for this Mom job every single day. Because even when I feel scared and alone trying to navigate infinite waters of need, being present right now is the only way I know how to do what love does. ...  read more

An Open Letter to My Chin Hair

Dear Chin Hair,

When I was in the third grade, I had a costume party for my birthday.

I was a stop light.

This stop light is from Room Doodles, but if you imagine it with legs, arms, a head, really bad bangs and a lot of freckles, then you get the gist.

I’m pretty sure the reason I was a stop light was because my parents were all, “What can we do with an eight-year-old, a cardboard box, and some paint?” But what do I know, really? Maybe I had a thing for stop lights at age eight. Maybe I begged to be a stop light. I mean, God knows I like to control things. Maybe my parents were just accepting me on a core level. Maybe I should write them a thank you note for loving the me I am rather than spend precious moments of my life – moments that I will never get back – writing to my chin hair. ...  read more