Wisdom Comes Suddenly

It’s Time For Some Home Goods

February 25th, 2015 · 2 Comments


I’ve never been one to buy accessories, but after watching my last house being staged, I grew attached to a house full of mixy-matchy pillows and fake plants. So, so many vignettes, where my eyes would land, and I felt an odd, “ahh…I just LOVE that stack of books topped with fake flowers…why?…I don’t know why…but isn’t it just so pleasant?” The maudlin post about accessorizing a house is here. The laugh until you pee post is here.


I was discussing my newly acquired knowledge of why one would want a bowl full of grapevine balls with my friend Sumi, and she said, “Home Goods. It all comes from Home Goods, of course. You DO go to Home Goods? You MUST go to HOME GOODS! Where else would you buy plum velvet pillows and candles of varying heights? LORI! GO THERE NOW!” Sumi isn’t one to get worked up about things, so I knew I should make a visit.

Well GOOD HEAVENS…thank you ladies! Now I am addicted. What if I don’t stop by and that was the ONE day they had orchids which perfectly match my bathroom for $14.99? What if I miss a bizarrely perfect throw pillow which would have pulled my entire living room together, all for $19.99? Matching bathroom accessories? YES, PLEASE!


I am on a house decorating-funds hiatus, but Santa and the Birthday Fairies were very kind to me this year (aka: my in-laws). I don’t know who told Santa I fell off the Home Goods wagon, but I’m glad they did. Sara and Kelly have been excellent consultants, so their desks received a little love tonight as a thank you. 2 matching bulletin boards were a must, because they had taped an unreal number of dress designs to the walls.


And the clock? Well, that was for me. Because I LOVE it. These desks are located in the bonus room, which went rainbow, almost of its own doing. It’s like it wanted to be a rainbow room. Add in a wickedly large blue clock, and this whole thing just feels like home. I didn’t even know I LIKED clocks of unusual size.

I must clarify two points before I call it a day: (1) Home Goods did not pay me for this post in any way, but they SHOULD. I should be a secret shopper and they should send me coupons. Not because I write, but because I have great taste in fake orchids. (2) I staged these pictures. There is NO WAY on God’s green earth my kids’ desks look anything like this on a day-to-day basis. After an hour of straightening, the above shot was the best I could do. The crap those 2 accumulate is mind-blowing. I promised them they could junk it all back up tomorrow. Sara made me promise to tell you this picture is a COMPLETE LIE. The dress designs are real, but the organization is NOT.

(Which cracks me up, because after school tomorrow I will hear them whisper, “Wow, this is actually better. MOMMY!! Thank you for cleaning up my junk! I can find things I need now!”)

So you know…Home Goods…call me, maybe?

→ 2 CommentsTags: The Girls

The Girls’ Rooms, Phase I

February 23rd, 2015 · Comments Off


The girls turned into such stinkers adjusting to this final move that we did a marble jar to earn the thing they wanted most: decorated bedrooms. They earned marbles at the speed of light, similar to the speed at which we tore through the moving budget. Yep. We ran out of money just about the time they filled those jars. Way to go PARENTS. To heck with it; Christmas was right upon us when they were sure to be spoiled within an inch of their lives anyway. We hung lighting and decided the rooms could wait.


No Rufus, you CANNOT paint. NO. Stop looking at me like that! You have no thumbs, Ruf!

And wait they did. Sara’s mural was ordered in November, and is still on back order. Dad offered to paint the girls’ rooms and then proceeded to catch the flu of his life. That poor man slept for weeks. Kelly seemed more determined to NOT pick a color than she seemed to actually PICK a color. With competing house projects all around me, I began to imagine their rooms would be white forever.


My Nursing Flight/Boat Transport Scrubs. The stories these pants could tell (about being turned into painting pants 15 years ago).

But one day when I could wait no longer. With a commitment-free winter break before us, the girls and I drove to the hardware store in the -20 weather and BOUGHT SOME PAINT! You gotta start somewhere! We checked samples, found paintbrushes which fit little grips, and headed home with hope in our bones. I checked in with some friends who confirmed I was flat-out-of-my-mind to teach a 9 year old and a 7 year old how to paint. Turns out, kids are WAY better helpers than the kittens.


Sara’s End of Phase I (Paint Color is “Breath of Fresh Air” by Benjamin Moore)

6 rather painful days later (so much touch up by the Momma), they are both happily settled into what I’m calling “Phase I” of their rooms. Their quilts won’t match “Phase II”, but I’ll cross that bridge when I get to it. And if I have to drive across the country to the wallpaper manufacturer and beg, this mural will get off back order, and grace the long wall by Sara’s bed:


Photo courtesy of Woodson & Rummerfield’s House of Design, Los Angeles, CA

Sara chose a pastel-esque Asian-inspired peacock theme for her room, and accented it with a waterfall lighting fixture. I don’t think any of us are surprised.


Kelly’s Colors: Fruit Shake and Wickham Gray, both by Benjamin Moore

Kelly’s Phase I is just a shell, awaiting her “stuffed animal” theme to come to life. It’s difficult to describe the round, wool-covered floating shelves we’re making to cover her walls, so I’ll just have to beg your patience and ask you to stay tuned. In the meantime, I’m going to enjoy the peaceful austerity of the colors I finally forced Kelly to choose. Believe it or not, the gray walls were her idea, after months of insisting upon a pink ceiling. I like it much better than I thought I would. I played a very heavy hand in deciding “which” pink and “which” gray. She is in love with the results, so…whew. Who wants to spend days correcting trim work, only to have her daughter not want to curl up and read in this peaceful setting? Not me!

When will Phase II commence? WHO IS TO SAY?! Maybe after I finish their shower curtain, and finish Kelly’s latest quilt project, and finish the bookshelf Greg and I started 3 months ago, and strip the lamps I painted which crackled for no apparent reason, wait…there is that mirror I’m going to repair and paint…Godspeed, fellow Project-Pals. Godspeed.


Comments OffTags: The Girls

Curling Up In Leaves, A Reading Quilt

February 18th, 2015 · 1 Comment


I want to post 100 pictures and tell you a long, winding tale about how this quilt came to be, but I cannot. For the first time in my life, I actually edited one of my creative ideas. The writing should match it, out of respect for how hard I worked to make this quilt “simple”-y beautiful.


2 years ago at the School Auction, I donated holiday baking, and it was a load of fun. But as I looked around at the beautiful items up for bid, and imagining my life post-PTA-Presidency, I knew there was one thing I had to do next: I HAD to make a quilt in our school’s colors and theme. Something not for a bed, but big enough to curl up inside, and partner with a good book (this is a 54″ x 80″, aka a long lap quilt; it’s about the size of a twin comforter). Something not for a girl or a boy specifically, or even for an adult or a child. Something so reflective of our school’s culture, that it would appeal to Preschool through Middle School, Teachers, Administration, Alum…I needed a true “all-arounder”.


I spent just shy of 2 years looking through patterns, throwing out ideas which were too traditional, and others that were too modern. When I stumbled upon the pennant flags in our school colors I knew I had a winner of a theme: PREPPY. As a teenager from the 80’s, I promise, when in doubt, preppy is always the way to go. I ended up using my favorite pattern, “The Boxtrot”, which depending on your color choices, can take on an endless series of appearances. Adding in the alphabet and the embroidered school leaves, along with a khaki cotton border (which is a heavenly finished cotton/linen blend from Japan), I just knew this was “The Quilt”. [All fabrics are from varying lines from Moda, available upon request.]


For the sake of time, I went with a very simple meander. My table broke, so I hired this out, and after the embroidery, this quilt was not just bordering on khaki…it was bordering on becoming the world’s most expensive quilt. Quilts not made on factory machines often cost 4x of those sold at Department stores, but can last for generations if cared for properly. And these heirlooms are worth.every.single.penny.

Alas tomorrow, I let it go. I say goodbye to the School Reading Quilt (or “The Auction Quilt” as it is known at our house), and the warm memories of bringing it to life. 2 years is a long time to think about a quilt, but that’s nothing compared to the decades it will wrap around some scholar’s shoulders as he/she reads, studies, watches movies, recovers from colds, chats with friends…maybe someday, this student will have children, read to them under this very quilt, and that child will also become a scholar at our precious school.

Sorry, I was supposed to keep this short! It’s so exciting for me to see something in my brain for months on end, imagining it down to the very last stitch, and then watch it appear before me, just as I wished it to be: simple, classic, meaningful. Godspeed, and I hope this cold winter finds you wrapped up in a much-loved quilt as well!

→ 1 CommentTags: The Girls

The Napping House

February 10th, 2015 · 1 Comment


Pen: I TOLD you this wasn’t a napping spot!

Ruffio: SHH! These sweaters are camouflage. She DOES NOT see us.

Pen: You’re delusional. She TOTALLY SEES us.

Ruffio: BE STILL! We are sleeping on the softest sweaters on the planet, with sunbeams on our backs. You are not ruining this for me Pen!

Pen: Are you high? We are busted. Step 1: Admit you are powerless over your incessant napping!

Ruffio: I will cut you.

Pen: You have a problem. Your struggle is real, Man. She’s got the camera. The gig is UP.

Ruffio: You have GOT to learn how to blend in with your environment, or this jungle will be your demise.

Pen: We’re in a HOUSE, Ruuf. In the SUBURBS. These are kids’ Old Navy sweaters on a dining room table. That’s it. I’m scheduling an intervention with the Chiefs. SYD! CY! We’ve got to talk…

→ 1 CommentTags: The Girls

Tiffany Blue Times Two

February 8th, 2015 · Comments Off


I do think from time to time I’d like to walk into a store where new things are sold, find something exactly as I’d like it to be, discover it’s not a kajillion dollars, and buy it.

But then I think, “No…that sounds pretty boring.”

A year ago I met a girl wearing a Tiffany Blue dress with a Tiffany Blue lapel pin. I was inspired. Monochromatic pinning? Why hadn’t I thought of this? Wait, I know: because this idea is elegant and suggests editing was required. I’ve spent the last year trying to copy the look, but it’s not often you run across Tiffany Blue dresses at Consignment. And you NEVER find pins. That’s an antique mall treasure hunt, usually ending in the discovery it’s way more than you wanted to pay.


Last week, I found the perfect Tiffany Blue wool coat on clearance for $7. It must have been “new with tags” day, because everything I found at Consignment that day had never been worn. I feel for the circumstances under which one buys the world’s cutest Calvin Klein dress and then never wears it, but score for me. After trying just about everywhere I could imagine, I nearly gave up on the pin (except for the $60 beauty I found, meaning I would have spent SIX TIMES more on the pin than the coat. UH? NO!). On my way to my car, I passed a pretty-not-great women’s store going out of business. I’m trying to be polite. It was really-not-great. But I spied an earring rounder with Tiffany Blue earrings, far too large for ears, but just right for a coat.


2 pairs of earrings, a wire cutter, a failed attempt with the soldering iron, and a successful run with a piece of plastic and a hot glue gun later, and I finally had my replica. I keep pin backs in my craft stash, because YOU JUST NEVER KNOW WHEN YOU MIGHT NEED SOME OUTDATED BLING IN A HURRY. I never know when I’ll be struck with a mood to look like an 80 year old woman.


For a grand total of $21, I had my Tiffany Blue Times Two Look. But the best bonus? I ran into the girl who inspired this crafting the very next day, and I was wearing the coat. She is a Fashion Design Major in college, and I was so happy to let her know she had inspired me. Yesterday, she had on something completely different but equally awesome! SO…I’m off to find a swingy black…

Comments OffTags: The Girls

Never Wear Dumpster Waffles On Your Feet

February 6th, 2015 · Comments Off


Wow. I didn’t foresee this week’s response to my post about God. I received messages from clergy, colleagues, friends, readers, parents, writers…it’s been quite a week. I’m so humbled that you enjoyed it. Welcome new readers! My writing is always honest, but primarily comedic, and only occasionally as weighty as that last post. I won’t challenge your faith in the near future, I promise.

Let’s digress back into lighter topics, shall we? I’ve had reason to dress for a few events this winter, and the girls have taken a keen interest in how I go about making wardrobe decisions. No. That’s not true. I drag them to Kohl’s and make them pick out accessories while they beg to be paid in hot pretzels. In any case, I’ve shown them there is an art to it. Sara has a rather formal afternoon Poetry Tea next week, and she seems bent on wearing an evening gown; a bright purple and crystal-covered formal dress. As many of you know, I allow the girls to dress themselves as a general rule. They rarely match their socks, and they often wear tennis shoes with dresses, and you won’t hear a peep from me. But sometimes guidance is needed, and I find because I rarely intervene, they do allow me some latitude when it comes time to actually THINK about their clothes.

If I had some basic rules about event dressing I’d like to pass onto my daughters (my favorite “secret to happiness rules” are here, and far more relevant than fashion), they would be these:

(1) If a dress fits and has pockets, buy it. There is nothing better than dresses with pockets. No one knows why this is true, but every woman whom has ever dug her hands into pockets while wearing a dress, knows there is an Audrey Hepburn aura that is partnered with this moment, and it’s bliss.

(2) Think through your hours in a dress, especially in the garments you layer UNDER it. Let me just cut to the chase: CAN YOU PEE IN THIS DRESS? It had better be the dress of your life if it requires a full peel and reassembly in a public bathroom stall every time you have to pee. What can I say? It’s honesty week here on the blog.

(3) When trying on heels, jog across the store. If you can’t, put them back. NO, I don’t care how pretty they are. You’ll give them horrid nicknames by the end of the night if they break your toes while wearing them. Case in point, sitting in my closet right now are my Donkey Chompers and Dumpster Waffles. Just sitting there, taunting me with their beauty. Cruel, cruel beauty.

(4) If your Spanx makes your colon spasm, or creates rolls as opposed to flattening them out, it doesn’t fit. Now that I think about it, Men, if you’re still reading, you should look away. Sorry, you’ve read too much already, haven’t you?

(5) If your dress is bright, wear neutral lipstick. If it’s too flat, add neutral gloss. Unless you’re going to a clown party, and then ignore #5.

(6) The prettiest girl in the room is NEVER the one wearing the tightest or the tiniest dress.

(7) I asked Kelly what she’d learned about watching me “dress up”, and here are her words of advice: “Wear a bra. If you don’t know much about bras, you can ask my Mommy. Bras, bras, wear your bras.”

(8) Speaking of accessories, less is more. Sparkle is great, but don’t turn yourself into a human firework.

(9) There are day dresses and there are evening dresses. One out of every 10 dresses can be worn to either. There is day makeup, and there is night makeup. There are high heels, and there are whore heels. I know, I kind of slipped that shocker in there unexpectedly, but what if I die and my daughters grow up not knowing about whore heels? I just can’t take that risk.

(10) Lastly, decide before you leave the house exactly how many drinks you will have at an event. BEFORE YOU LEAVE THE HOUSE. The prettiest woman at any event is NEVER the one whom has had the most to drink. If you ask me how I know this fact, I will lie. I will lie to my death bed, and your Aunties will back me up. I learned this truth through careful observation, as did all of your Aunties. You didn’t spend a week styling that outfit to end the night with your dress crumpled on the floor and your earrings lost in the wind. If it happens, don’t hate yourself. Pick yourself up, dust off, and learn from the mistake. But remember, the girl with the fewest regrets wins.

Finally, YOU ARE BOTH GORGEOUS to your very souls. Pretty is something that shines from within, and clothing is just a window-dressing to the amazing human who dwells inside. Have fun with it, but don’t take it too seriously. And if all else fails, we can rely on Sara’s observations: “Mommy, I’ve learned you should never leave the house without asking my advice first. Can we just make that a rule? Mommy doesn’t put outfits together without checking with Sara? YES? Nod your head yes Mommy, who is just a little bit stuck in the 80’s…nod your head…”

You know what? On second thought, throw out everything you just read and have sons. Buy them jeans and a polo and call it good until they go to college. Have a great weekend everyone! And don’t forget bras, earrings, lipstick, to spend time laughing with your hilarious children!



Comments OffTags: The Girls

Dear God, I’m Not Mad Anymore

February 2nd, 2015 · 7 Comments


What’s better than a Mad-Hatter Slumber Party with kittens? NOTHING.

Greg and I always assumed we’d raise our children in the church. He was raised in the church. I was inadvertently raised in the church (by the grace of neighbors who introduced me to Jesus, and by parents who allowed me to make my own decisions about God). We were naive to believe finding a church would be easy, but to be fair, we do live in the Midwest. We have more churches than gas stations…it SHOULD have been easy. Greg was raised Lutheran, and I was raised very, very Baptist (the wild, dancing, singing, clapping-Amen kind….not the fear the road to hell type; but before you think I’m being judge-y, I’ll let you know just by typing these words, my best friend is going to hit me over the head with a King James Bible. But then she’ll give me fried chicken, so it’s all good. However, our other lifelong bud just turned vegan, and this whole scene will cause her to meditate in a yoga-pose, so we’ll have to make her a salad. I’d like to say my Jewish friends have it all figured out, but most of them married non-practicing Catholics, and now my Atheist Dad is the President of the Board at the Unitarian Church. To each his own, and I see love everywhere.). After trying a few Lutheran churches, and not finding any reason to stand unprompted and scream “Amen” in the Pastor’s general direction, I realized I wasn’t Lutheran. It only took one Baptist church for Greg to realize he wasn’t Baptist. The first time I held up my hand and yelled an “Amen”, he looked at me like I was having a seizure.

And then we had Sara. I, unconsciously at first, grew mad at God. I wasn’t mad that God gave Sara to us; I was mad he refused to heal her. Countless nights I have begged for a miracle. Countless nights I’ve cried myself to sleep, asking for her path to at least be made more physically comfortable, even if she never masters math skills. I’ve begged for a window of health just wide enough to get in an Orthodontist appointment, or maybe skin clear long enough she could get her ears pierced. A month free of migraines? A month free of digestive problems? Or maybe just a week? I never prayed to win the lottery so we could cover all of her healthcare and education costs, but it wouldn’t be out-of-scope, considering the fortune we’ve spent on interventions.


3 years old, covered in paint, swearing she’ll grow up to be a “trumpet-playing doctor”.

It’s not that I imagined parenthood would be a breeze, but I thought I’d already carried my cross. My childhood was challenging, and rising above it took years of therapy and effort. When I married Greg, I was sure I was free to lay down my cross and live out my overly-simplified fairy tale plot: successful lady who rose above circumstance, meets handsome, strong man who buys her a castle and chariot…blah, blah, blah, horses and people who bring me fruit artistically arranged on platters, BLAH. Never in my worst dreams, did I imagine my own child would meet exceptionally large challenges at such a young age. ‘Scuse me, God? Yeah…hi. It’s me. Super rare Learning Disorders and Dermatological/Urinary Syndromes weren’t covered by Disney. Going to need an instructional manual when you get the chance…

When God took my Grandma home during Sara’s 5th month on earth, my heart began to harden, in a hardy-hard, hard-coated-hard kind of way. To ask me, I’d say I was still a believer, because OH YES, God was THERE, BUT HE WAS NOT LISTENING TO ME, that was for sure! And now Grandma couldn’t listen (and reply with hilarious responses about breast milk turning blue, and telling me Sara cried so much because she was car sick, even when she was in her crib), so where did that leave me? MAD.


“Carsick Sara”, semi-conscious on my Grandmother, who feared my “blue” breast milk was poisoning my baby. Not a day goes without the missing of her.

A long winter in my life began. I settled in, ready for the stand-off that was about to occur. Poor Greg. For all the begging and pulling, he could not get his formerly Jesus-loving wife to go to church. Every church he tried, I scoffed as WRONG. This one was too pretentious. That one was too casual. The music was too loud. The music was too boring. The sermons were too historical in nature (yep, I once told Greg a church was too rooted in HISTORY, as if Jesus’ birth doesn’t mark time as we know it). I wanted a Sunday School my girls swore they couldn’t live without, and a sermon so relatable to my day-to-day life that it made me want to throw confetti to the heavens by the end of each sermon. PLUS donuts. Any church worth its salt has donuts. Come on Greg! How hard is THIS to find? Greg tried to pull at the source, asking me if I was mad at God. Those questions were met with responses which even surprised me: I’m fairly certain my voice sounded Voldemort-like, as I yelled, “NO! I’m a Christian! I’m not ALLOWED to be mad at God!” Let’s not go there again, agreed?

But I was mad. I learned the importance of a good marriage and a college education the hard way; life lessons learned by watching my parents struggle, and even with the best of intentions, never finding happiness inside their family’s journey. I KNEW how to do it differently, and I DID. I lined up my own stars, thank you very much. Who was God to jumble up my plans with a Special Needs child, and then not hand me a miracle to save her from her story?


What? You didn’t know Ariel wore wings? It was edited out of the final version, but she did. Big ones.

But the best part about stories are that they keep going. Chapters don’t repeat, and characters evolve. If they don’t, it’s not a story, it’s a sitcom. Sitcoms aren’t real (we’ve covered this). Case-in-point: Carrie Bradshaw would NEVER leave Aiden for Mr. Big, and then finally marry Mr. Big, and THEN turn around years later and kiss Aiden in Abu Dhabi. This is not real life, much like Carrie Bradshaw’s shoe budget on a writer’s salary.

I’ve written before on my knowing that this particular winter of my life was ending. I knew it before we signed on the dotted line to buy this house. When we walked into the sunny builder’s office after the snowstorm on my birthday last year, I knew. When I turned the corner from the sitting room into the foyer in the model home, and looked back at my Mother-in-Law, she knew, and I knew. When we finally started building, and I walked into my kitchen when it was nothing but 2×4’s and rafters, I knew. Sara’s story was the same, but Spring was coming anyway.


Watch me Momma! I’m puking with the water frogs!

Greg gently mentioned through the building process that a church was conveniently located in our back yard. He knew many members. He’d heard good things. He started listening to the sermons on podcasts, and he was sure they’d speak to me. I love listening to the church bells throughout the day, and then Greg confirmed they served donuts. It didn’t take long for me to put on my favorite dress and announce to Greg I was ready. He thought I meant I was ready to go to church. I didn’t want to get anyone’s hopes up (especially my own), that I was ready to talk to God again.

The Pastor stood up that first Sunday, very funny and very real. I liked him immediately. The music wasn’t too long, or too loud. But my childhood minister looks and sounds like James Earl Jones, which leaves pretty big shoes to fill. Halfway through the sermon, the Pastor yelled out, “Can I have an AMEN on that?” CAN YOU?! WHY YES YOU CAN!! Turns out, my newest James Earl Jones is a red-headed Irishman named Jerry. Life is funny. You never know what’s coming next. I looked down at the bulletin, and the title read, “Let your roots grow down into him and let your lives be built on him.” -Colossians 2.7. Good one God. Write a verse about roots right after I planted new roots.

God is many things, but never subtle. I say this a lot, even when I’m mad at him.


Last Sunday as we sat in church, the snow was coming down in drifts, and through the large windows at the pulpit I could see the evergreen woods in my backyard filling with white. The Music Director stood up and started the congregation on a very rousing version of “I’ll Fly Away”, a song I sing alone in my car at least once a week. At the end, there was clapping and cheering. The Pastor asked for many an “Amen” that morning, and I knew, even in the midst of a cold, Indiana winter, my own winter had ended.

Dear God, I think I finally understand, even if just a tiny corner of the picture: I’ve given Sara love, a stable home, and the best education and healthcare we can afford. BUT, in order for her to find comfort, she needs something much larger. She needs Jesus. Don’t we all? He suffered so that she will not suffer alone. He will stay with her when I can’t. Do forgive me for the 9 years you waited for me to understand. Wisdom comes suddenly. Thank you for putting a beautiful, act-centered church in my back yard, with a spirited Pastor and a lobby full of donuts. How gorgeously not-subtle of you. Oh…and one more thing…


I’m not mad anymore.


→ 7 CommentsTags: The Girls

The Vicarious Half-Birthday North Of The Equator

January 27th, 2015 · 2 Comments


My children know all-too-well that I do not acknowledge half-birthdays. Do not expect to wake up to balloons and circus monkeys, sky-writing your name above the house. Having me as a Mother is like a lifelong party, so sistas’ please…I simply cannot theme one more day of your lives.

However, as both of my daughters have summer birthdays, I do respect the mid-winter school birthday treats. You’ve seen me break my half-birthday rule here, over here, once again here…oh wait…here too. These girls are starting to figure out ma’ WAYS. Kelly, in particular, is one helluva a negotiator. Knowing I’d be unlikely to agree to a “store-bought” treat, she started the bidding high with Ding Dongs. That’s right…Ding Dongs. Smart girl earning herself an automatic “no” from The Momma. She turned down all of the usual homemade suspects, such as Oreo Truffles and Chocolate Chip Cookie Sandwiches. Kelly strung me along, day after day, like a 5-star deal-maker. Knowing I was in the midst of finishing a quilt for the school auction, she knew I’d plain run out of time. Well-played Bunny.

We searched for some easy ideas, and came with up with candy in portion cups with tiny stickers. So even though the sun had fallen, off to the candy store we went, and here is where our twin-like nature collided. I’ve often asked my parents if it was hard to hold a conversation with me as a child. Their response was something along the lines of, it took all the energy they had to follow my random train of thought, usually ending in them giving up and walking away.

Turns out, this word-salad conversation thing is a genetic trait. It’s ugly when it’s amplified x2 in a cold minivan the week a large project is due, and the embroidery shop still has 5 of my quilt blocks on their stitching machines:

Mommy: Kelly, I don’t want to just hand your friends a bunch of candy at lunch. We should put in a little rhyme about saving some for later. What rhymes with the word “later”?

Kelly: Equator.

Mommy: We’re supposed to work the word “equator” into a short rhyme about your half-birthday candy?

Kelly: “Save some for later, because Kelly’s half-birthday is occurring north of the equator.” See? It totally works.

Mommy: OK, let’s go a different direction. What rhymes with birthday?

Kelly: Earth Day. Again…total winner. Oh! I know what works! “Beware, this candy is tart, and it might make you fart!”

Mommy: No bodily function rhymes.

Kelly: So “We picked this out for you, and we hope it doesn’t make you poo” is not good?

Mommy: NO.

Kelly: What is a bodily function?

Mommy: Anything your body does.

Kelly: So no rhymes about breathing?

Mommy: KELLY!

Kelly: OK, OK. It’s not like I’m asking you to rhyme “orange”. (Insert her hysterical laughing.)

Mommy: Is there another word for “later”?

Kelly: Future.

Mommy: Suture. WOW. We are REALLY bad at this.

Kelly: I think we are SO GOOD at this! Hey! You know a great word? Vicarious.

Mommy: And WHAT rhymes with vicarious?


Mommy: Do you even know what vicarious means?

Kelly: No, but I can spell it.

Mommy: Of that I’m sure. OK. Let’s start over: “Don’t eat this candy all at once…”

Kelly: Or you’re a DUNCE!

Mommy: OH MY GOSH! Let’s just go into the store now. “Happy 7 1/2 Birthday Kelly”. How does that sound?

Kelly: Perfect.

And THAT is a how a top-notch negotiator convinces her Mother to forgo homemade treats, overwrought with miniature, personalized flags on toothpicks, in lieu of a bag of candy. Advantage: Kelly. But I should rest up, because Sara’s 1/2 birthday is next, and as Kelly’s opposite, you know she’ll beg me to make a buffet of desserts, all shaped in the letter “S”, in a array of colors not naturally occurring upon this earth. “I hope we can keep it simple, because so much sugar can cause a pimple…”




→ 2 CommentsTags: The Girls

Things Covered In The Brochure

January 26th, 2015 · 2 Comments


The girls receiving their Troisine blankets on Christmas Eve. Big hit. BIG.

Kelly didn’t get the part of the Semicolon, which was actually a very good thing, because she was cast as “Quotation Mark #2″ instead. It’s a wonderful Groucho Marx-themed duet, absolutely overflowing with possibilities.

When Kelly opened her casting assignment with tears, I was so very grateful to finally be experiencing a moment from a Brady Bunch episode. I often joke in this space that most of parenting challenges weren’t in the brochure. As someone raised by The Brady Bunch, I sometimes find myself a bit short on skills. How naive was I to believe parenting would only involve Tiger hiding Kitty Carryall in the doghouse? I did. I swear…I really thought I’d have a spotless house full of kids who magically got themselves to school every day, and then one day, Greg would hide cigarettes in his pocket, and we’d KNOW our storyline just got REAL.

When the Brady kids got bad grades, it was because Greg was in love with his teacher and Jan needed glasses. Do you ever recall Mrs. Brady trying to juggle 5 other kids while getting Cindy to speech therapy to help her lisp? Nope. They got her a book to practice rhymes, and she learned how to handle a bully. All in 30 minutes…GOD! I miss the Bradys!

So when Kelly looked to me for advice on being Quotation Mark #2, I was ready. It’s a part she can really sink her teeth into. She’ll be less afraid on stage because it’s a duet. She’ll make a new friend. We can really have fun with matching costumes. Let’s put in the soundtrack and start practicing! Kelly was so excited after singing “Marks, Marks” 5x in a row, that she forgot about ever wanting to be a Semicolon. Demarcating repeated speech IS WHERE IT’S AT, FOLKS!

I’m so grateful for the parenting moments I recognize as easy. I was fully present in our 30 minute sitcom last week. Sara forgot her Ukelele, and was rescued by Momma. For an ADHD kid who keeps a spotless desk and rarely forgets anything, I was thrilled to rescue her; she’s earned it. Kelly’s Duet Partner invited her out for a fun event on Sunday, bringing my suggestion at making a new friend into a beautiful circle. Life wasn’t perfect last week…but it was overflowing with events fully covered in the brochure. A whole week without being sideswiped by life; what a treat.

I wish for you the same this week. I wish for you squabbles over sharing the “house phone”, siblings competing against each other for class president, diaries accidentally getting donated to charity drives, insect collecting boyfriends named Harvey Klinger, talent contests secretly entered by your children (who are stunningly able to make their own costumes), balls thrown in the house, and a trip to Hawaii filled with intrigue and tabooed artifacts.

May you have a brochure-like, Brady-esque week! Godspeed!




→ 2 CommentsTags: The Girls

For The Warrior Moms

January 21st, 2015 · Comments Off


Yesterday, I put on my Warrior Mother hat, and did some research on Dyscalculia (pronounced “dis-cal-cool-ee-a”, or any old way you want, because almost no one has it, so there aren’t experts to correct your error). Strike that: there are experts who could correct you, but they only speak French. Maybe I shall call and ask for advice, using my rusty, high school French:

Me: Bonjour.

Expert (speaking in French): How may I help you?

Me: L’eglise es la gauche de la rue? (The church is on the left side of the street?)

Expert: Pardon?

Me: Je suis Lori. Ma dau…um…Mon daugh-tere (not a word) no ablo…MATH.

Expert: Pardon?

Me: The church is on the left side of the street. Sorry…that’s the only thing I can remember from French class. WAIT! A midi ou a minuit, il y a tou ce que vou voulais, aux la Champs Élysée! YES! A midday or at midnight, there is anything that you could want on the main road that runs through Paris! CHECK IT! I totally ACED French.

Expert: [Hanging up phone, cursing under his breath that Americans are idiots. And we are…just a little bit guys, you have to admit it.]

Greg sent me a funny picture of how he sees me when I’m trying to be “Sara’s Mom”. Dude! I’m awesome! As a kid who regularly flunked gym class, this photo-shopped image is the closest thing I’ll ever have to a sports team photo. If I ever do figure out how to throw that ball into the basket, I’m going to do it as Xena. I’ll bet Xena didn’t flunk her basketball unit in the 7th grade and had to do a report on Babe Ruth in order to pass gym class. Babe Ruth was a drunk. MAN! Another point for the American Education System! I’ll take French Folk Songs and Shakespearean Flawed Sports Heroes for $1000, Alex.

So today, I’m giving a shout out to Warrior Mothers everywhere. You know you who are: Pittsburgh Children’s Hospital just lost your son’s lab results. And an even bigger shout out because you’re coordinating care at not one, but TWO pediatric hospitals. Shout out to the Mom who spent today on the phone with the insurance company, and a double shout-out to the Mom who got onto Seattle Children’s waiting list when Autism was ruled out. Suspecting something was missed, your Momma Warrior gut braved out a second opinion from the best and the brightest in the field. You were right. The Mother Warrior often hopes to be wrong, but rarely is. Shout out to the Mom doing pick up at the Developmental Preschool this morning, while juggling a phone call from a teacher because your “healthy” kid is acting up in class in order to get attention. If you are trying to figure out a dinner plan around a late afternoon Occupational Therapy appointment…I feel ya’. IEP meeting coming up? High-fives! You can DO this! You held your breath while hitting the “confirm” button on another summer at Juvenile Diabetic Sleepover Camp. You just signed up for the Valentines Party, for the 5th year in a row, so you could make sure with your own eyes that nothing has peanuts in it. In fact, you haven’t missed a class party…ever. When food could kill your child, the Warrior-mode never turns off.

Yes, I see you. I probably see you differently than you see yourself. You see yourself as a rolling circus of bags and snacks in yet another waiting room.  I see Xena, the Warrior Momma, (graciously) knocking down walls and (lovingly) toppling through challenges. I see women I’m proud to call friends. And when I tell my friends I’m going to try a Math program developed in France to stimulate the growth of Sara’s intraparietal sulcus, my friends won’t laugh. I know exactly what they’ll say: “Good idea. Let me know if that works. Send me the link. How are Sara’s migraines? Did you read that link I sent? I hope it helped. Did the switch to stimulants go OK? Let’s get some coffee and swap ideas, but first, give me a hug.”

You see me too, and that has made all the difference. I’m so blessed to have you witness my journey, and Godspeed, my oh-so-brave-and-awesome friends. Godspeed.


Comments OffTags: The Girls