Fight club rules.
This is what I tell parents who begin to talk to me about how their babies are sleeping through the night. I know you don’t mean anything by it. I know you are just proud of your little guy or gal. You are proud of the systems you put in place to make it happen. You are proud of how much you can get done because you have your evenings to yourself. Maybe you even want to share with me how I can make my life better by helping my kids to do the same. Thank you for that.
But seriously, Fight Club rules. We do not talk about baby sleep. It is rule number 1 and if you want to be in this little club of ours, you need to shut that well-rested mouth of yours.
Ok, outdoorsy parents.
You did it. You got in my head and inspired me with your perfect pictures of your perfect family on the gleaming mounds of perfect snow in your bad ass ski goggles and matching down-filled romper thingies. (That’s the technical term, right?) I saw you. I heard you. And in a surprising move even to myself, I motivated. I took my tiny beasts skiing. And I would just like to say to you fabulous sporty friends, my inspiring super-parent friends, I hate you. Continue reading
The stache that launched 1,000 words
Someday my kids will ask me how I knew their dad was the one. Maybe they’ll read a fairy tale and wonder about perfect love and Prince Charming; Maybe they’ll watch a movie and begin to visualize their own first kiss or first date or first crush; Or maybe they will be standing at the threshold of adulthood, standing side-by-side with a person of interest, questioning when and how and if they will make the commitment of a lifetime.
I will answer my kids honestly, as I do, and I will tailor my answer to their time of life and readiness for real talk, as I do, and I will hopefully inspire them to have faith in something that is really easy to doubt. This I will do in spite of the fact that doubt was a huge part of my early relationship with my husband, a function of my own less than stellar dating history moreso than his trustworthiness, of course. I recall in our first months as a couple when he handed me a gift with all of my favorite rom-coms, information piecemealed from many conversations we had, to appeal to the romantic in me, and in exchange I handed him a piece of my black and jaded heart, explaining to him that I did love him, but not unconditionally, and then went ahead and listed for him all of the conditions under which I would most likely cease to love him. At dinner. Over candlelight. On Valentine’s Day. Continue reading