My living room floor was a disaster zone last March, covered in scraps of red felt, sticky glue dots, and the shattered remains of my dignity. It was four days before Sam’s 7th birthday, and I had convinced myself that I could hand-sew twenty-two individual Mario and Luigi caps because I’m a “crafty mom” who…
My living room looked like a sugar-coated crime scene last April when my youngest, Leo, turned four. I was standing in the middle of a pile of pink cellophane and half-deflated balloons, wondering why I ever thought DIY-ing a full-scale candy kingdom was a good idea on a Tuesday. We live in suburban Portland, where…
Leo turned twelve on June 14, 2025, and my basement still smells like wet cardstock and cherry-flavored sugar. Living in Denver means you have to plan for the “Mile High” factor, mostly because the thin air makes kids run out of breath faster, but also because a sudden afternoon thunderstorm can turn your backyard BBQ…
My kitchen table currently looks like a supernova exploded in a glitter factory, and honestly, I am not even mad about it. My sister-in-law, Sarah, turned thirty last Saturday, and I volunteered to host her “Galactic Disco” bash here in Portland. Between managing Maya’s middle school drama, Toby’s soccer practice, and Leo’s obsession with “space…
My ears are still ringing from the sheer volume of eight second-graders screaming about Bruno. On April 15th, I hosted a magical Colombian-themed fiesta for my niece Sofia’s eighth birthday. I was entirely in charge of the music and activities. Finding the best noise makers for encanto party celebrations sounded incredibly easy. It wasn’t. I…
March 14th was a Saturday I will never forget. My daughter Sophie turned twelve, and in our Denver household, twelve is the final frontier before the teenage years hit like a mountain blizzard. Eighteen kids were coming over. Eighteen. That is a lot of energy, a lot of pizza, and a desperate need for the…
My living room in Beaverton looked like a prehistoric crime scene last April when my middle kid, Leo, turned eight. We had seventeen boys charging through the house, and let me tell you, seventeen eight-year-olds with foam tails strapped to their waists are a literal force of nature. I thought I could DIY the headwear,…
Barnaby, my 80-pound golden retriever, spent most of August 12th trying to eat the decorative seagrass I’d painstakingly arranged on our dining room table in north Austin. It was 102 degrees outside. The humidity made my hair look like a discarded bird’s nest. I was three hours away from hosting eleven four-year-olds for my daughter…
My living room looked like a NASCAR infield after a rainy Sunday in Bristol, and honestly, I was about three seconds away from a total pit-crew meltdown. It was March 14, 2026, a typical damp Portland afternoon, and Leo was officially turning twelve. Thirteen boys, all smelling like a mix of grass stains and desperation,…
Houston humidity in April feels like being hugged by a warm, wet towel, and trying to keep eighteen eight-year-olds focused while the Monarch butterflies are migrating outside my classroom window is a special kind of torture. I had exactly $64 left in my “Party Fund” (which is mostly just my own grocery money I hide…
