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A blog by Krysta MacGray

Stories

Mother’s Day

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When I came downstairs on Mother’s Day morning I found my son working at the table on a present for me. He gave me instructions not to look at his paper until he was done.

A little while later at brunch he said, “Hey, Mom, I left a paper in your purse – can you get it for me?”

Ellie was sitting next to me, and my purse was on the other side of her, so I strained over and rifled through quickly, but after a few seconds said, “I don’t see it. Sorry, bud.”

Jeremiah said, “But, Mom. I left it in there. Can you look again?”

Sort of exasperated I again reached over Ellie and gave it another quick look. “Nope. Nothing. Did you put it somewhere weird?? Jeremiah, it’s kind of hard for me to look around with your sister here. Can you just get up and get it?”

Jeremy widened his eyes. Through clenched teeth he sang, “It’s your preeesennnt…”

Oh. Right.

So I looked again. I found it folded up in a pocket. When I took it out, I was stunned by my boy.

Jeremiah draws very well. Anime and cartoons are more his thing, but because he always asks me, “Mom, what should I draw?” And I always answer, “I don’t know, because I like flowers, but I’m sure you want to draw dinosaurs or something, right?” he drew me a flower. But that’s not the part that blew me away. As I read, I could tell Jeremiah’s words were deep. Like, for an eleven year old, he knew what he was talking about and had a gift for articulating himself in ways outside of convention. The words he choose to highlight and how he called attention to each individual thing and then encompassed them “all” at the end with the exact number of petals he had drawn.

It caught me off guard.

“Wow,” I said. “Buddy, this is an amazing poem.”

He gave me a confused look, “It’s a poem?”

“Well, it strikes me as a poem. Did you not mean to write it like one?”

“Not really,” he said. “I just wrote down my message.”

And my heart, wildly proud of my boy’s talent, swelled as I thought about how he hadn’t EVEN TRIED to write a poem, but just naturally communicated that way. My gracious.

“This is an amazing gift, love. Thank you.” I said to him.

He smiled satisfactorily and then said something funny. My son. He’s not particularly prideful. He’s also not a show off or full of himself. He genuinely just speaks the very truth of what he sees, which usually puts him smack dab in the middle with everyone else in the world. But sometimes, the very truth of what he sees elevates him above the others just a little bit.

He said very, very rationally and matter of factly, “Well, I gave Dad, like, the most (eyebrow raise) AMAZING Father’s Day present ever last year, and now I’ve given you a pretty AMAZING Mother’s Day present this year, so…yeah…”

And then he went back to coloring on the paper the restaurant had given him, done with the assessment of his work.

It’s true, he had given Jeremy the most heart felt Father’s Day gift last year and had asked his Papa Gott (Scott) to help him make it. He made a frame out of wood, asked me to print a picture of him and his dad, and then he wrote, the most thoughtful message to his dad. It was extraordinary. The kind of thing that makes you all choked up and look at your kids with wonder like, “Where did THAT come from?”

After Ellie presented me with her card and drawing, she still wanted to give me gifts so she found some scrap cardboard and drew me this little guy.

Then, she drew another one with three people on it. “This one’s a zombie,” she said, “and this is me and you, and I was scared, but you were not.”

Oooook…Happy Mother’s Day?

I laughed pretty hard.

That night before bed, I texted a picture of Jeremiah’s gift to my sister-in-law, her husband and Jeremy’s parents. After the “aww’s” and “wow’s” my sister-in-law wrote back and shared her own bounty.

“This is from the six year old,” she wrote:

“I don’t want you to die”

KIDS ARE THE BEST!

So You Want To Write A Book?

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I’m writing a book, did you know that? Have I said it out loud? I’ve been so afraid of saying it out loud because then people will ask me things like “how is the book coming along?” An innocent question, except I associate it with PRESSURE! THE PRESSURE IS ON! EVERYBODY KNOWS SO YOU HAVE TO DELIVER! MAKE SURE IT’S GOOD!

I hear this is motivating to some people. Accountability and all that. For me, however, it has the opposite affect. I have a tendency to want to self sabotage anytime pressure, real or perceived, enters the mix. I’ll be like “oh, you want to know how the book is coming? How about NOT AT ALL because I can’t subject myself to living up to your expectations of what I’m doing.”

I don’t really say this, or let it stop me, but it’s in my nature to want to, and so I struggle the teensiest bit.

Did you know it’s common for authors to spend 2-7 years on their books? It varies depending on size and time spent researching, but still, I feel like nobody realizes this. I’ve given myself what feels like a cushy four years to complete my book because it’s something I do on the side. It’s not my primary job. I still have a preschooler at home some days, I also write a weekly blog, plus have to do things like grocery shop, keep our clothes clean, workout and cook dinner every night. So four years seems reasonable to me. Anytime I tell somebody about that four year goal, they seem very unimpressed. People think writing brilliantly is easy and quick work. Meanwhile, I’m never sure I can actually do it. And much of what I’ll write in the next four years will never make it into the book. That is the way it is. Realtors show several houses before someone will make an offer on a property, IF they make an offer at all, and writing drafts and stories is a bit like that. There’s an lot of time spent on the the hope your writing efforts will pay off, but you just never know until the fat lady sings.

My father-in-law heard me talking about how sometimes I sit to write but can’t complete my essay’s. He heard me tell of other times I start essay’s but then put them on hold because I don’t know the ending yet. When this happens I have no choice but to let it go for a while. I do this by telling my mind to please subconsciously sniff out the answer I need while I actively forget about it. It usually works. Maybe a month later I’ll be listening to a podcast and something will be said that relates back to my unfinished essay which will in turn remind me of something else and then all of a sudden, I realize what the ending should be.

After I told him this, my father-in-law, somewhat amused, said “you mean your writing just doesn’t pour out of you?”

Ha. HA. HAAAAAA!

What?

No.

I told him that sometimes it did, but it’s hard to measure because a lot of time, stories that pour out of me to completion are all first drafts anyway. Editing and writing when it doesn’t pour out of you, is a more lengthy, complicated and mystical process.

 

I used to think writers just sat down and wrote effortlessly the first time, in one sitting, and that was that. My blog posts are written more like this. However, my blog posts are not composed of writing that challenges me. I  publish here regularly so the amount of time I spend on any one post is limited. These blog posts are all mostly just first drafts with minor edits. Some I spend more time on, but it’s not the normal rule. But writing, writing? Like, real, good writing? That’s not how it is at all. That kind of writing tends to be much more involved.

It’s hard to explain my process but I think of it like this: I’ve got like, a hundred thousand file folders in my head, and each of these folders contains small bits of information that together, make up what I know and believe about everything. However because there are so many folders and they’re all spread out and unorganized, I can’t really grasp, in it’s entirety, what I think and believe about anything without gathering all the right file folders, containing all the right information, and then looking at it all together, like pieces of a puzzle finally being brought together. When I see it all written out clearly I can be like “ahh, there you are! THAT’S what I think! I knew I knew!”

Except this blessed event only happens once you know where all the right folders are that contain all the right information you are looking for. But you don’t. You can take educated guesses, and you may know where some of the information is located, but the rest? It’s an Easter egg hunt in a field of one hundred thousand eggs.

That’s basically what writing is for me. It’s a process of hunting down all the right folders of information, when I don’t know where the hell they are located, in attempt to put fully formed thought and feeling to words. Sometimes, it actually happens.

Which sounds slightly depressing, but I find it to be an interesting and slightly magical process.

Like anyone else, I vaguely understand how I feel about most things. This allows me to engage in conversations around the dinner table, and this also means I know the general direction an essay of mine will go. This helps me get started with the writing process. However, when it comes to other needed aspects, I have to wait until the right words come to me. This usually feels less like someone else feeding me exact words and more like a flash of recognition in what another says. It’s a hint. Someone will mention something in the movie I’m watching or in line at the grocery store and my ears will perk up. This flash is like someone appearing in my brain, amongst all the file folders giving me a hint saying “you’re getting hot. Getting colder, okay now warmer, hotter, BURNING HOT!” until I look down and find the folder I needed. That’s the only way I can describe it.

This is why I write.

Because when I finish a piece I’m proud of, that also accurately expresses what’s in my insides (or at least comes close) it’s like I’ve taken the bits and pieces from all the folders and put them together into a new folder that makes sense and is not scattered. All the puzzle pieces appear perfectly organized and the picture they display looks like an accurate representation of my thoughts. It’s such a relief.

It’s how I discover what I think about the world.

Flannery O’ Connor said “I write because I don’t know what I think until I read what I say.”

Nicole Krauss said “why does one begin to write? Because she feels misunderstood, I guess. Because it never comes out clearly enough when she tries to speak. Because she wants to rephrase the world to take it in and give it back again differently, so that everything is used and nothing is lost…”

THAT’S IT.

I’m always so delightfully surprised when I read something back of mine and can nod my head in recognition “Yes! Yes, that’s what I think! What a marvel!” but it’s because I don’t communicate as well when I speak. Every time I open up my mouth, I sense all these deeper and more thoughtful things I think just beneath the surface, lurking in some far away folder, and I can never seem to get to it. I always leave conversations thinking “I just should have kept quiet. I only served to inarticulately scratch the surface of what I really think with my spoken responses.” It feels like I’ve let myself down. Like I’m deficient in some way. I feel misunderstood by no fault of anyone listening, but by my own self, because I’m simply not eloquent of speech. And so writing is redeeming. When I do it well it’s such a comfort. My good writing whispers back to me “Thank God. You do have interesting, original and thoughtful things to say. I knew it! You had me worried for a while.”

 

Each day I hear messages on podcasts and movies or read things in books and articles. I’m bombarded with information. I find most satisfaction when I can take in those messages, sit with them, and figure out what I alone think of them, and then figure out where the holes may be, where the merit may be, instead of accepting at face value. I use the information as a jumping off point in an attempt to discover what’s really going on. Do I really think that’s true? And then I write about it.

It’s out of this drive to figure things out for myself and uncover what I think, plus the sheer wonder of the process that I’m writing a book. So that I can attempt to “rephrase the world to give it back again differently so that everything is used and nothing is lost.”

IF I can do it, that is.

And the fact that I do not know whether I can actually do it (well), makes it an interesting challenge.

As luck would have it, interesting challenges excite me.

I never knew this would be part of my story. I never knew I liked to read, let alone write until I was a full grown adult, not too many years ago. Isn’t that weird? And now a book?

I didn’t decide to become a writer so much as the realization that I was one happened to settle in one day. And it came as such a surprise.

I feel like Mark Haddon, who said “I don’t remember deciding to become a writer. You decide to become a dentist or a postman. For me, writing is like being gay. You finally admit that this is who you are, you come out and hope that no one runs away.”

Indeed.

God’s Time

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This morning I woke up slow and full of ripe abundance. I considered my family and their health, and my relationships to them. I thought about the financial resources that afforded my husband and I to go on a date last night to our favorite special place, Cloverdale. For the luscious food we got to eat there. For my in-laws who babysat our kids so we could.

As I laid there in my comfy warm bed it occurred to me that I was thankful for that too. Then, as I always do, I started to run through my day. It is Friday and on Friday I’ve got Ellie at home with me and I don’t usually workout. This fact normally makes me very happy, but this morning I was grateful that I could work out. That my legs worked correctly and that I had the time. Wonder of wonders. I almost wished I could workout.

Almost.

I remembered that my sister was planning to come over with my nieces this morning. I thanked God that Ellie had cousins on both sides of the family to grow up with. How lucky. How blessed.

Kairos.

It’s raining today.

A 48 year old man died yesterday in town on a construction site close to our house. I passed the site yesterday and saw police officers taking pictures. I didn’t suspect anything like this. It could have been my husband.

Yesterday morning that man ate breakfast and headed off to work like he had thousands of times before. An ordinary day. Ordinary in every way, except that it was his last.

Did he have kids? I asked my husband.

No. But a wife.

Why do I always ask if there are kids? The second I find out the answer is no, it makes no difference. There is a wife and she is in pain today. There’s always a wife or husband or child or mother or father. Someone always grieves. It’s like I want everyone who dies to have no loved ones. I want them to have lived alone as a hermit with no family ties so that no one has to grieve their death.

Because grieving death is so final. When you grieve someone you love, you will grieve them all the days of your life from that day forward. There will always be a before and an after. It’s the saddest burden to have to carry. And also an honor. Because, of course, when there are people who grieve it means that there were people in this world who loved you and that you loved in return who carry the memory of you. Who cherish you, still. The more people who grieve, the better the life, really. So while I want the departed to have no grieving loved ones, I also want them to have dozens and dozens and dozens.

When I find out the man’s name I look him up on Facebook. I always do this when people die. I look them up and stare into their faces and read the things they posted. I do this to confirm that yet again, this person was a real live human being with things to say and travels past and people loved and a life lived.

I just can’t believe it.

I think I look to hope that they weren’t real. But they always are.

I look up the loved ones too. To study the faces of the people who yesterday were living as normal but today everything has changed. They will be me someday. We all just take turns with loss. I pray for them. I pray for the peace of God to wrap them up like a weighted blanket. To whisper yes it hurts, but that the promise is for a reunion someday not too far from now. It’ll only be a blink. I pray they would eventually see their grieving as an honor to be had, the mark of a life well lived. The hope yet to come. But not today. I know these words mean nothing today. Today we cry. We steep in the pain and we let them steep in the pain. It’s the beginning stage of healing. The holy baptism of pain.

And this morning, I am reminded of all I have. I don’t think about what I don’t have. Not today. I don’t focus on the sufferings of parenting a handicapped daughter unable to speak, or that I’m going through what seems to be a mini midlife crisis of answering the question “what am I supposed to be doing with my life?” I don’t grumble that I’ve got to figure out what is for dinner and fold the laundry and call that person back that I don’t want to. Or resent that I can’t take a nap today even though my head hurts and I’m tired.

How dare I do any of that anyway. I know that we cannot always live through the lens like this precious day grants us. I know I’ll complain again and it’ll be okay. This is life.

I’m reminded of what David Cassidy said on his deathbed…”So much wasted time.”

So much wasted time.

The regret in that statement is heavy.

We cannot live everyday like it is our last. And we cannot be grateful for everything, and love everyone perfectly, one hundred percent of the time. And yet, that’s what we ache for. That’s what we wish we could do. When faced with the end, that’s the lens we wish we would have seen the world through more.

I hate being a flawed human.

But also, that’s all I can ever be.

The flawed human who grumbles and hurts people but wishes they could live and love and pay careful attention to everything perfectly. How do you reconcile that?

I happened upon an essay yesterday written by my favorite, Glennon Doyle, about the difference between Chronos time and Kairos time. She explained that there is this idea in the world that you need to MAKE THE MOST OF EVERY MOMENT and ENJOY EVERYTHING, but how, in her experience, as well meaning as this is, it’s also…impossible?

It’s also only usually said by people not in the messy middle of things. The older women in the Target checkout line would tell Glennon to enjoy every moment of raising her children. Just every moment. They say it to me too. They say this because they are afforded the benefit of coming at it with nostalgia and perspective. They are no longer in the trenches and feeling guilt about just having yelled at her children because they needed to be disciplined but you just couldn’t summon the resolve to go about it in a more constructive way, and now they are crying and probably need therapy.

The idea behind Chronos time is that, this is the time we most live in. It’s the time where all the kids are crying, or you are in pain or complain mode. It’s the daily grind. it’s the distraction of having to get everything done. It’s the hard, meaningless, slow passing time.

Then there is Kairos time, which is God’s time. Glennon describes Kairos time as, “time outside of time.”

It’s the time that takes place when you actually look at somebody. When you notice and connect. When you pay careful attention to the warm tea cup in your hand and the cinnamon smell coming from your cup and it makes you feel grateful and safe. When you witness a spectacular pink sunset and it captures your attention for more than 10 seconds and you don’t even take your phone out to take a picture because you just want to behold. You behold a lot in Kairos time. When you bury your nose in your children’s hair and soak in the warm sleep smell of the early morning. When you laugh hard with your husband after tequila and pizza on the porch and never want the night to end. Kairos.

I think what David Cassidy meant when he said “so much wasted time” was that he wished he’d known to spend more of his time in Kairos and less in Chronos.

Kairos time shows us the abundance and sweetness in our lives. It’s slow and healthy and gift. When we live in Kairos time, we feel most alive and we hold court with peace and joy. It’s where we find richness and meaning and beauty.

I think this is because God is there. God is with us. He always is, but Kairos time helps us notice Him a little better, amongst everything.

If death is a perspective shifter, then I think the best way to honor those who have helped us see with their passing, is to keep trying to live in Kairos time. Because it’s the only kind of living that matters in the end.

We won’t get it right, by any means. We won’t always remember, but we must be gentle with ourselves. No need to feel badly about that. We can’t live in Kairos all the time here. I have a feeling that’s reserved for heaven. So no need to grieve the time lost, or chances wasted in the past. There’s always more.

There is more time. More chances. More life.

Even after death.

More Kairos.

God is with us.

A Very Merry Wary birthday

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My daughter turned sixteen a few weeks ago. She didn’t want a big party or grandiose plans. She told me this several times.

I said “okay, well do you want me to make a reservation at a nice restaurant and take you out or something?”

She replied “I mean, I’m not trying to be rude or anything but going out with my parents isn’t, like, fun for me.”…

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Valentine’s Fail

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On February 14, 2016, my husband came home from work and changed his clothes to make our dinner reservation on time. I was already standing in the kitchen, lipstick and heels on, despite the snow outside – because fashion before function. When he came out, he asked, “You ready?” and then paused kind of sheepishly.

…

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Body Love

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It was inevitable. Every year, or even a few times a year, I’d adopt a new diet. I went vegan, paleo, AIP, and Bulletproof. I counted calories, and tried South Beach and Atkins back in ye old day. I went alkaline and did “sugar” cleanses. I cut out sugar, caffeine, alcohol, legumes, nightshades, seeds, nuts, eggs, dairy, and grains…

All. At. The. Same. Time….

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Raising Teenagers

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Recently, I’ve become aware of a new movement that seems intent on educating the public on the joys of parenting teenagers. One Facebook friend is never short on praise of her teens, highlighting endearing and funny stories about how “cray” they are, how much they make her laugh, how intelligent, how awesome. Then, there was a podcast where the guest and host told the listeners about how much harder the toddler years are than the teenage years. Their message was “have hope, mamas of littles, it gets better!” Most recently, there was a whole chapter in the book I was reading about how delightful teenagers are to have in the house.

And they are so right…

I love getting death stares upon saying “good morning” to my daughter.

No better way to start the day, you know?

I adore an exhaustive and challenging argument should I say “no” to a sleepover request.

Fighting’s my favorite.

I swoon when you ask them to clean their rooms or— God forbid—help you bring in the groceries, and they grunt in disgust or flat out say “no,” leaving you having to come up with a talk or disciplinary action on the fly while they stare at you like “are you f***ing joking?”

Absolutely delightful, I tell you.

The teenage years are SO much better than the terrible two’s. The two year olds have temper tantrums. And teenagers don’t…er, except they do. Teens are known for being real rational and even keeled, you know? Not moody at all.

And as far as intelligence goes, those women are so right. Teens are very intelligent. In fact, they know everything! You only thought you knew more about how things work, what with all the life experience and college education, but you were wrong. Thank goodness for teenagers who save the day with their inherent wisdom and ideas about how things should be done.

They do have it right in one area though. Teens ARE hilarious. Mine makes me laugh everyday – like when she tells me with absolute sincerity that she will vote for Kanye for president because you can’t judge people by the way they present themselves, and, besides, it doesn’t mean he would be a bad president! Or when she explains why a punishment for sneaking out should only involve a gentle “oh honey, don’t do that again, alright?” and definitely not ever taking phones or devices away because if the consequence actually stings or is hard to bear, it “doesn’t work” and only makes her want to do whatever the poor decision was more.

God help us.

Listen ya’ll, I think parenting teens is neither a delightful cake walk or the worst thing in the world, although I’m sure there are exceptions to both those.

You want to really know what parenting a teen is like? It’s confusing and weird and no one knows what they are doing, but even so, parents receive either applause or judgment about their parenting based on their teen’s performance. And it’s such bullshit.

I need to talk to the parents of the teenagers who are having, at times, a challenging go at this thing. I’d like to just stand up and publicly state here that whatever poor choices your kid makes, I do not think your kid is bad. I am not instructing my kid to not hang out with yours. I don’t believe that your children’s choices are a reflection of how good or bad or involved or uninvolved of a parent you are. I believe there’s such a thing as children needing to test boundaries and limits, and experiment and tempt fate and learn how to be in their world by way of failing and messing up, which, may I remind everyone is EXACTLY WHAT’S EXPECTED OF CHILDREN AT THIS AGE—and— IT’S FREAKING SCARY.

When I was fifteen, a friend and I left her house in the middle of the night and thought it might be a great idea to walk the streets of Los Angeles to another house about a mile and a half away. Midway through our journey, a car pulled over full of what I’ll describe here as “scary older kids” with a need to humiliate. They proceeded to make us get on our knees and bark like dogs while they howled with laughter. “City of Angels” my ass. Now I ask you, dear reader, do you think we thought about a scenario like this before we left? Do you think we considered that we could possibly get harassed or kidnapped or that someone might think we were prime candidates for human trafficking by making this choice? Heck no, it just sounded fun.

I firmly have come to believe that “good parenting” has more to do with the undercurrent and overall well being of a child than the specific choices they make while their brains are still developing and are prone to “risky behaviors.” And I’ll tell you what, the stunning display of backlash I receive when I ask my teen to wash the dishes is “risky behavior” indeed.

Kids come hardwired with a propensity to either conform or buck the system. To be a people pleaser or a challenger. To be quiet and gentle or fierce and loud. To have a tendency towards obeying the rules or being a rule breaker. And before they are grown and have a harness on this inclination, and can decide how best to make it work for them (the application of wisdom), they are experimenting with this sort of behavior with an immature brain, so it can make this teen stage hard to be a party to.

Because of this, parenting teens will have you wondering whether you really are a terrible mother despite all your best efforts one minute because they drank alcohol at a party, and then patting yourself on the back for the A+ they earned in Chemistry plus a glowing teacher report, the next. Teenagers, and your experience of them, are a walking, talking contradiction.

It’s like this: you know in The Sound Of Music where the nuns are singing How Do You Solve A Problem Like Maria?

…

When I’m with her I’m confused
out of focus and bemused
and I never know exactly where I am

Unpredictable as weather
she’s as flighty as a feather
she’s a darling
she’s a demon
she’s a lamb
She’ll out pester any pest
drive a hornet from it’s nest
she could throw a whirling dervish out of whirl
She is gentle, she is wild
she’s a riddle, she’s a child
she’s a headache
she’s an angel
she’s a girl.

Many a thing you know you’d like to tell her
Many a thing she ought to understand
but how do you make her stay?
and listen to all you say?
how do you keep a wave upon the sand?

…

YOUR TEENAGER IS MARIA.

And you are responsible for Maria when she is all over the place emotionally and there is no gauge to determine how well you are doing and she just seems to be confusing and rude but then also nice and pleasant and the whole ordeal just makes your brain into scrambled eggs.

Also your teen is not a nun like Maria, so you still have to worry about their morality.

I’m so sorry, but this is the very best way I can think of to explain it to you. Teenagers are fun. Teenagers are not fun. Teenagers are bright. Teenagers are dumb. They are all the things. I’m so going to get in trouble for saying teenagers are dumb, aren’t I? But here is one thing you need to watch out for that I suspect is universal: Teenagers have selective memory when it comes to how they remember you as a parent and there is nothing you can do about it.

They will blame and slander your name for things that aren’t even true. They don’t even care.

Just now, as I was writing this, my teen rifled through my pantry and fridge exclaiming that we “never have any food in the house!”

 

I guess I’m just supposed to remember that this stage is delightful and that she is so funny—HILARIOUS EVEN—for turning her nose up at the fresh organic berries, frozen pizza pockets, bag of chips, avocados, gourmet chocolate bars, perfectly good eggs SHE COULD MAKE HERSELF, bagels and cream cheese, tortillas, bread, peanut butter and jelly, and apples on the counter, which are all there right now apart of the “no food in the house”—I swear to it— but because there is not a to-go chicken burrito or hot and sour soup from the take out place down the street I have “nothing.” Ha, ha…HA. So funny. I love this.

This is the kind of stuff they pull. Sometimes they tell you stories and laugh and are lovely, truly. Sometimes they get all giddy and let you in on their latest crush and get pumped to go snowboarding and their delight is infectious. It’s true. Sometimes you just look at this growing adult you gave birth to and pray they forgive you for not being everything they need and deserve because your love for them is so fierce and your ability and skills so limited.

And also, they’ll judge and spread rumors about your “not having any food.” A story I’m sure she’ll tell her friends and future therapist, who will all pity her for having such a neglectful mom, a legacy I can never actually prove wrong since we can’t time travel to the specific days the teen complained and take stock of the food situation, DAMMIT.

And so you just have to take it even though it’s not true. Like a duck letting the water run off your back.

At least I think this is probably what you should do over, say, taking pictures and attaching them to a blog post as proof of the food you buy. This seems like a monumental waste of time since the teenager in question will likely just accuse you of buying the food items after the fact and acting as if they were there the whole time even though I’m known for my authenticity and would never do something like that, but you know, maybe I am just sick of taking it and feel the need to do something…ANYTHING to release some of this pent up “taking it” energy or else I will die. DIE I TELL YOU.

Yes, raising a teenager is the gift that keeps on giving.

Everyone is right.

…

PS- look who finally found herself something to eat in this neglectful, barren, shell of a house…

PPS- For anyone worried I’ve exploited my teenager, I will inform you that despite whatever you think, she was absolutely thrilled that I was writing about her, even in a snarky way. She knows how she is. She also knows how I am. We good.

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Simplify + Organize: A few ideas

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Happy 2018, everyone!

I was listening to a podcast yesterday about simplifying and organizing. In it, the host asked the guest what would be a simple thing that everyone could do right now to help their home function with more simplicity. The guest said to donate or throw away all of our towels. Explaining that in any given household we have all different kinds of towels, some are one color, others are another color, some are short, some are long, some go in only the kids bathroom, others only in the guest bedroom, while others are only reserved for the master bedroom. So the idea is to buy a stack of twelve, non-expensive towels from Target, all the same size and color, and then you never have to delegate where certain towels go again. Plus, she said the cheaper, scratchier towels dry faster and better. You know it’s true….

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