just call me “Kermit Dangerfield”

Tonight I am feeling like a cross between Kermit the Frog and Rodney Dangerfield.  It’s not easy being me and I feel I haven’t really gotten the respect I deserve.

There, I said it.

While this could be mistaken for a vent, a rant, a whine… it’s not.

I am sitting here, near tears, reflecting on the day.

I am an anxious person.  There are no bones about it.  I am simply an anxious person.  I’ve been treated for anxiety.  And while I’m not ready to have people in white coats chasing me with a butterfly net, I have recognized that I am an anxious person.  I like to be organized.  I like to know the info. I like to know what lay (or is it lays?) ahead of me.   I am a person who believes you when you tell me you will call me at 5:00 and I am the person who figures you’re dead in a ditch when it’s 5:45 and I haven’t heard from you.    Get a phone call saying your father dropped dead.  That will do it to you.

It doesn’t really matter what happened today, the laundry list is just that… dirty laundry.  What does matter is how the events of today made me feel.   I was told by someone (ok, my mother) she would be available for a Skype session at a certain time.  Usually we agree on a date and time and go from there.  I waited at the assigned time.  I waited some more.  I called to confirm only to have no one answer.  I waited some more.  Almost 2 hours later and no phone call telling me the information had changed, I finally connected with her.  A breezy ‘something came up’ was what I got.


Here I was, waiting for almost 2 hours with not so much as a phone call to tell me the plans had changed.  I felt completely disrespected.  Not only because my time was compromised, but because when I don’t hear from you after a reasonable amount of time, my hamster wheel goes into overdrive.  I assume all kinds of things.  And when I can’t get a hold of you to confirm you are indeed alive, I nearly pass out from anxiety.   And the people in my life know this.  They just seem to conveniently ‘forget’.

And then when I point it out, ever so gently, I am crazy, unreasonable, paranoid or my favorite…. a bitch.

So, it’s not really easy being me today.

Another series of things happened today on the domestic front.  I live with a very fly-by-the-seat-of-his-pants partner.  In fact, we are so opposite that I sometimes wonder how we ever managed to get married or better yet create a child.

That does not mean anyone is a bad person.  It just means my having a steel trap for a memory and living with someone with the memory of an ant tends to send my frustration level into orbit.

When I ask you to complete a simple task and clearly communicate it, I don’t expect to have to remind you half a dozen times.  It’s just not worth it after the first couple.

So, there really is no right or wrong and I’m not looking for sympathy.

I’m simply pounding out a post because it’s cheaper than therapy.  It’s somehow easier to tell a bunch of strangers (and I mean that in the nicest way) how misunderstood and disrespected I felt today than to try to talk it out with my family (using the 5 Languages of Love crap I read about and checked out of the library).

5 Languages of Love.  My ass.

Sometimes a big stick and a middle finger works wonders.

Just sayin’.


the parent I should be

It’s Thursday.  It’s 9:00 p.m.  I’m weary.  I’ve had a full week on the hamster wheel.  Thank God it’s almost over.

Son and I have slowly been easing into our morning routine.  That means we are out the door by 6:50 am in order for me to drop Son off at daycare and get to work at time.  Every bone in my parental body aches when I must leave him at such an ungodly hour.  He’s 4.   It seems incredibly unfair that after a few short years on Earth he is already chained and slotted to a schedule, an early one at that.  There is no wiggle room for ‘fun’ on weekdays.  And I hate it for me and for him.

This week we have been plagued by a new ‘friend’ at daycare who hits.  And he hit Son.  You see, my kid is going to be the kid on the playground that befriends the outcast.  He will be the partner to the partner-less, the freaks, the geeks and the unpopular.  My son, like me, is tender-hearted.  He is empathetic, even at such a young age.  He is a lover, not a fighter.  So, when he got clobbered by the new ‘friend’ on the playground at daycare, it scared him.  It scared him so badly that he confided to his daycare teacher he was afraid to come to school.

My heart broke when I caught wind of that one.  He’s four.

This week has also been fraught with needy children in my classroom.  My patience is thin.  I am secretly seething over teaching children basics that should be taught at home but aren’t.  I’m not teaching academics, I’m teaching manners, respect, boundaries, and am basically the disciplinarian many of them lack.  It is mentally draining and exhausting, and then I come home to do it all again for my own child.

And I fear I am not the parent I should be.

My temper frays.  My words are sometimes snappy.  I feel guilty if I didn’t spend enough time or patience listening to Son’s four-year old conversations.  Work is a temptress waiting for me at the kitchen table when I am trying to put my kid to bed.   I feel I am cheating my son, despite trying to set firm boundaries of work and home for myself.

It’s all too much sometimes and today is ‘one of those days’.  I am breaking.  Teary eyed I sit here, quietly praying I will find someway to balance it all before I have to get up and do it all again tomorrow morning.

Today my son brought home a small acorn from the playground at his daycare.   He was extremely proud of his newfound treasure.  He talked about it incessantly.  We even had to find a special spot for it, to protect it.

And then in one fell swoop it hit me, like the V-8 commercial where the guy gets bonked on the head for not eating his veggies.

The acorn is more than an acorn.  It’s a gentle reminder from the universe for me to slow down and savor the small things.  It’s a reminder for me to prioritize and appreciate what’s in front of me.  It’s a reminder to put it all in perspective and make a better effort to be the parent I want to be.

After all, what do I want to remember on my deathbed?  The day I planned yet another lesson that met state standards, or the excitement in my child’s eyes as he chattered on about an acorn.

Something to think about.


preaching to the choir

I’ve always loved the expression “preaching to the choir”.  As a teacher I feel that’s what I do.  A lot.   It always seems that whenever  I have something ‘important’ to share with my students and/or their parents, it’s always the ones listening that are not really the intended audience.   I live in a neighborhood with a home owner’s association.  The people who attend the meetings are never the ones who need to hear their lawn is a mess or their house needs to be power washed.

It’s so frustrating.

We live in a world where it’s politically incorrect to be honest.  Unless it is sugar coated.  With a cherry on top.

If I was allowed to say what I really thought, in a way that would really resonate, then maybe I would get my point across better.   Here are a few examples….


Hey you shitty neighbor…park on the street one more time and your car will go mysteriously missing.  I know you didn’t bother to show up at the home owner’s association meeting where everyone met and was too polite to mention you by name because your stupid ass vehicles clog up our streets despite the fact you have a driveway wide enough to park a Boeing 747.  So I will make it very clear.  You suck.  You need to park your vehicles IN your driveway.  Because when I set your house on fire, the fire trucks won’t be able to pass or park in front of your house. (disclaimer… I am not planning on becoming an arsonist, don’t worry)

Hey you Mr. Neighbor with the front lawn who is in desperate need of a trim… I am a teacher.  I make next to nothing.  If you pay me, I will mow your lawn.  Because really, it is truly hideous and detracting from the homes near it.  Rightfully, it should be in the Guinness Book of Records for the most hideously kept lawn in the history of history.  But I digress. Mow the stupid lawn, trim the bushes. We’d like to see your windows every once and a while.

Hey you shitty neighbor who walks his dog, his VERY LARGE dog without a pooper scooper bag.  I don’t appreciate driving or walking through your dog’s feces.  Apparently  you weren’t at the home owner’s association meeting either to hear about how inconsiderate it is to not curb your dog.    Beware of flaming paper bags on your doorstep.  Just sayin’.

Hey you naysayer at my home owner’s association meeting who has NOTHING nice to say and is shooting down every positive suggestion made to improve our little neighborhood.  MOVE.  We don’t like you anyway.  Is it any wonder the neighborhood children posted your house on Craig’s list and tried to sell it?

I won’t even get into what I would say to parents if I really could.  Sadly, the mortgage company depends on my hefty cheque and I have grown accustom to sleeping indoors.

But, alas, I am not allowed to say most of this, or really, any of this out loud.  I might upset someone, or offend them. Or, I might get my lights punched out.

That is why I’m not wasting my time at another home owner’s meeting.  The last one was a polite whine fest and nothing was accomplished.

The truth hurts, but it is effective.  If only I could deliver it.







over achievers R us

It’s 7:00 am.  Here I am pounding out a post on the keyboard.  I’d like to think it’s because I’m an over achiever, but in reality it’s because I had a four-year old crawling all over me at 6:45 am, wide eyed and full of energy, imploring me to get up.

*sigh*.  His father is still sleeping.

I have decided to give myself permission to stop being an over achiever.   It’s too overrated.   Because after 40 short years on Earth, I finally clued in that my best is ten times what other people’s best is.

I was always taught to do my best.  Not an uncommon lesson parents attempt to teach their children.  Somewhere, somehow along the way, I mistook ‘do your best’ for ‘strive for perfection’.  And it damn near killed me.

Don’t get me wrong, I still want the best for myself, my students and my family.  I will always “do my best”, but I’ve slowly begun to realize that there needs to be a limit.  I don’t need to drive myself crazy, staying awake at odd hours ruminating over ways I can improve my house, what I feed my family, lesson plans or weight loss goals.  I’m slowly accepting the fact that my best is actually good enough.

I work in a profession where if you are not constantly jumping on the latest education bandwagon, you suck as a teacher.  Apparently you’re supposed to be re inventing the proverbial wheel every year.  I agree you need to be flexible, current and adjust to meet the needs of your students.  Call me old school, but I believe an ipad doesn’t always make you smarter.  Following directions does.  Attempting to self rescue does.  Listening to your teacher does. Trying does.

But, I’m happy.

I’m happy teaching the same old grade I’ve taught for the last 12 odd years (despite being in year 18 of my career).  I realize there is only so much you can stuff into a ten-year-old brain.  Standardized tests only prove so much.  I don’t need to be data driven to see that a kid needs a pencil case and some pencils and that his dad leaves him home alone to fend for himself until bedtime.  Nope, I do it “old school”.  I care and ask questions.  I notice things.  I make reports to the guidance office.  Call me a dinosaur, but I didn’t need an ipad and a test score to do that.

My family and house are other issues.

My standard of cleanliness is well above others. What I consider a ‘mess’ on a bad day is usually what some houses look like on a good day.  The point is… I’m doing an ok job and I need to give myself a break.

Slowly, as I grow into my 40s I have started to put the right emphasis on the right syllable.  (I always loved that saying… to put the right EM phasis on the right SYL A Bell… if you can read that phonetically then you get it)

And for me,  that means emphasizing slowing down, being present validating and appreciating what is in front of me here and now.

I don’t aspire to be much more professionally.  Some people think if you’re not climbing a ladder, you’re not doing your job right.  But I’m happy.  And I want to stay there. I also want to be able to compartmentalize my job and devote more time to being all the things I just mentioned… present and appreciative of what I have.

I think I’m liking this 40- thing.



I just offered my 4 year old $1.00 if he’d go to sleep. Times are hard. Don’t judge me.

Oh.  My.  Gosh.

I have completed day 3 of my single parenting excursion.  Kudos to single parents.  No matter how much I say I want a divorce every time I find the dishwasher needing to be unloaded, I will gladly do it myself if it means I never have to live alone with a child.

Oh. My. Gosh.

Normally, single parenting is not this big of a deal.  I’ve done it lots of times before when my husband is away on travel for work.  I manage.  It’s really not that big of a deal.  But this week has kicked. My. Ass.

You see, child and husband were away last week on his family’s vacation.  If you tuned in last week, you’ll remember that I had to work, so I couldn’t attend the family beach vacation.  My son spent a week being spoiled by grandparents, eating whatever he wanted and sleeping, well, never, judging from all the de-programming I’ve been stuck with this past week.

Son and husband arrived home just in time for Labour Day weekend.  Then Husband had to leave to go across the country for a work thing, leaving me to single parent.  And hold down my own job.  And keep a house.  And de-program said four-year-old child from his week of debauchery.


And today, it was all too much.

Because this week, you see, when it has rained, it has poured.  Not only has it been pure hell trying to get my son back into a regular schedule of getting up at the crack of dawn so I can get him to daycare and myself to work in a timely manner, I’ve had to get my son used to sleeping in his own bed.  I’ve had to get my son’s diet back on track. (disclaimer…we are not health freaks, but an ice cream infused week with the grandparents is not suitable dining in my books).  I’ve had to be my son’s playmate, dining partner, bather, dresser, personal groomer, and chauffeur.  All of these things are motherly duties.  I get it.  But when I’m trying to acclimate myself to a new school year AND get him back into a schedule on top of all this, it’s starting to wear thin.

Today, our morning started off fairly well.  After minimal convincing, my son got dressed and out the door in a timely manner.  I was actually on time for work.
The rest of my day was spent stepping on ants molding young minds until it was time to race to the daycare to pick son up for our dentist appointments.

At the daycare, son’s teacher informs me one of the class ‘friends’ tried to cut my son’s hair.


We got to the dentist.

My hygienist scolded me about flossing.

Despite wanting to wrestle her plaque scraper away from her and poke her in the eye with it, the appointment went fairly well.

And then there was dinner.

We went to a popular chicken restaurant.  That has an indoor play area.

My son started being harassed by three older (ripe old ages of 6, 7 and 8) boys.  Right in front of me.

I’m like “Have you met me? This is not going to end well for you… I’m sitting RIGHT here, and I’m the mother”.

Donning my best teacher voice, I scared the shit out of the kids, collected my boy and left.


Then we get home.

Joan Rivers has died.

This doesn’t really have anything to do with me, but every time I hear about a famous (or not so famous) passing, my mind immediately switches back to the day I found out my dad died.   My empathy genes kicked into high gear for people I’ve never met. It’s a curse, I know.  Added emotion to an already exhausting day.

For the rest of the evening, I bought myself increments of time in half hour blocks (thank you Transformer Rescue Bots, Peppa Pig and Cat in the Hat).  Of course, I turned into the kind of mother I swore I’d never be, the kind who uses the tv to entertain her kid so she can get shit done.

But, I did it.  And no, I’m not proud.

Then it was bath time.

Good God.  I can’t even go there.

After bath, we managed to negotiate everything from a bed time snack to how much longer he could stay up.  I am thrilled my son is bright, verbal and a creative thinker.  I just wish he would exercise these amazing negotiation skills when his father is here.  It was all I could do to not cry.  Or cave.

Bed time was a mix of bribery laced with working mother guilt for plunking my kid down in front of the tv.

You see, I cherish the times I have with my kid at bedtime, as painful as it sometimes is.  It’s a series of sweet, fleeting moments I won’t be able to get back when he’s 12 and hates me.

So, I lay (or is it laid?) there with him as he negotiated yet another story, crawled all over me, and fake snored in an effort to get me to laugh.  My son is a true comedian, you see.

At one point, I actually offered him a dollar if he’d go to sleep.  To which, he laughed.  In my face.

Even my child knows an absurd offer when he hears one.

After what felt like an exorbitant amount of time for him to fall asleep, I finally dragged myself downstairs, only to plunk myself in front of the computer to do more school work.

You see, it’s only week #2 and I already feel behind.  The pressure is on for me to perform this year.  Thank you standardized tests. You suck.

So here I am, sinus headache throbbing, eye lids propped with toothpicks, trying to get something done to make tomorrow’s load a little lighter.

Wish me luck.




The last time we met, I was bemoaning the fact that I had to relinquish parental control of my four-year-old to my in-laws and husband for a family vacation.  They booked this vacation a year ago and as luck would have it, it fell on my first week back at school.  For a teacher, it’s kind of important to show up on the first day. So, I got to stay home. (cue the tongue in cheek shucks, darn)

So, while I pretty much convinced myself my son would become a statistic and that no one’s supervision could equal mine, I managed to trudge on.  Wine glass in hand.

And my house is so quiet.

I can hardly believe that once upon a time this was my life; a neat, clean, quiet orderly house.  The ability to watch a TV program that does not have an animated pig. For 30 minutes in a row.  Only being responsible for getting myself out of bed and dressed. Without running out half naked to my living room to make sure my kid is eating his Cheerios so we can leave the house on time.   Reading the newspaper. Without having half of it dragged off and turned into a kite.   It has, for lack of better words, been a week of pure bliss.

But, as with all good, there are always speckles of ‘bad’.

And all this quiet “alone” time has allowed me way too much time to think.   About all the things I used to do, about how hectic my daily life has become, about how my life had changed (for the better) in four short years.  It has also allowed me way too much time to think about how quickly life can change and how fleeting moments are.  Case in point; I perused Facebook the evening after the first day of school and found myself weeping over all the ‘back-to-school” photos proud parents had posted.  That will be me next year, posting pictures of my kid starting his first day of kindergarten.  And then my mind traveled to the age old question….where did the past four years go?  How can time fly so quickly? (excuse the cliché). My thoughts raced from times I spent alone in my son’s nursery, rocking him, stumbling through the first perilous, confusing months of motherhood to the fact that my dad has been gone for two, almost three years.  Moments that seem like they just happened are now years in the past.  How did that happen?  I just blinked.

All this quiet ‘alone’ time has been fabulous, but too much time in my head is a dangerous thing.   I think I’m losing my mind. It’s getting mushy from sentiment.  I think I’d rather lose my mind being so busy I can’t catch up to myself.

Til then, I’ll enjoy eating the ice cream out of the carton.


shoe dropping, bucket dumping and an empty nest

It’s Saturday night.  I am all alone in my house.  This has not happened since August 2013.  My husband and son are with his family on vacation.  I am home because I have to work. I have an empty nest (so to speak) and I’m not sure whether I should be jumping for joy that I can assume complete control of the television while eating ice cream out of the carton or if I should be worried that my son will become a statistic whilst on vacation.

You see, I am a realist.  Some may say I’m a pessimist.  Whatever.  I prefer to call myself a realist.  Because in my short 40 years on Earth, I have learned that bad things happen, and that is reality.  I have never been a fly- by- the- seat of my pants kind of person.  I’ve always “looked” before I leapt.  I am the mother hen who weighs pros and cons, reads instruction manuals and is pretty much convinced if it’s going to happen, it will happen to us.  Because THAT is reality.  I’ve had it happen to me.  I’ve been on the receiving end of the tragic phone call.

So, when my four year old son was packed up and shuttled off to the family vacation, part of me wanted to not let him go, for fear that my in-laws’ supervision would be subpar. Of course, that is not true, but the ‘realist’ in me cannot be carefree.  I know bad things happen when pools and beach and ocean currents are involved.  I had a father who drowned.  I’m well aware of the fact that it takes a split second to change your life.  Forever.  And instead of being thankful and relieved that my son will be enjoying a week with his extended family, I worry.  I worry.  A lot.  It’s how I’m built.

Of course, I know you can’t live your life preparing for emergencies.  You’ll drive yourself crazy.  My dad always said “don’t borrow trouble”.  And he was right.  I just want to be prepared for it, because as I said, bad things happen.  To us.

I hate that I have that “when will the other shoe drop” mentality, but it’s hard to be carefree once you’ve had tragedy strike.  It’s really hard.  Just when you think you’re golden and nothing will happen, it does.  And THAT is reality.

So I sit here, alone, trying to enjoy my ‘freedom’, trying to distract myself.  So what do I do? I turn to Facebook.  I really need to go to the library and get a few books to read, but by the time I got around to going the place had closed.  I need to find something other than social media to quench my desire to feel less alone, but, it’s free, easy and immediate, so it wins.

I am bored of is this whole ALS ice bucket dumping on your head thing.  Now, before you light me up like the Fourth of July, let me explain.  I think charitable donations are great.  I think drawing attention to a cause is very noble.  I just don’t understand the whole ice bucket thing.  From what I DO understand, if you are challenged, you have 24 hours to complete the challenge and/or donate $100 to ALS.    Call me stupid, but I don’t get it.  First of all, you can donate money without having to waste a perfectly good bucket of water.   So, if you donate AND dump, what is the point of dumping the water?   The point is to get you to give money.  So what does the ice water have to do with it?    AND…. if the point is to get you to give money, and you prefer to dump ice water over your head instead, how does that help ALS?  I don’t get it.

Other than the bandwagon, 15 minutes of fame thing, I just don’t get the point of dumping water over yourself.  But, if it gets the organization what they need, I guess it’s working.  I just am not a big fan of bandwagons.

So there you have it.  Another rant. From me, the worry wart trying to distract herself on social media while debating on whether I should eat ice cream out of the carton.

And yes, I live on the edge.


hello grief, my old friend…

It’s been a while since I posted anything related to my journey of grief.  Just so you know, this will be a bit of a downer post… heads up.

When my dad died in 2012, I turned to blogging as an outlet.  It helped.  A lot.  And in some little way, it felt good.  It felt good to ‘get it all out’.  It also felt good to know that in some small way my words might help someone else.  Of course, I’m not sure if they ever did, or ever will; but I know as I muddle(d) through this thing called grief, it certainly helped to find people who had walked in my shoes.  People who had ridden the same inexplicably powerful waves of grief that can be all consuming.

Grief is a funny thing.  It comes and goes, much like a bathtub filling up.  At first, grief can be overwhelming, like a bathtub filling quickly, and it overflows.  Over time, the water still fills the bathtub, but a little more slowly.  It never goes away, and you never ‘get over it’.  You simply adapt to a new way of living.

Grief, in my experience, can also lie dormant for a while.  After you get used to the idea that your life has changed forever, and that you need to keep pushing forward, grief somehow finds its way to the backburner. I guess it’s the process of ‘getting on’ with one’s life.  But it never really goes away.  It lays in wait.  It lays and waits and strikes at the most obscure, inopportune moments.  Much like the line from “The Godfather”… “Just when I thought I was out, they pull me back in”.

Grief never lets you go completely.

I sit here tonight, my kid is in bed, my husband is watching some Walking Dead/Game of Thrones type show downstairs.  Life goes on.  The earth is revolving.  I am getting ready for another school year to start.  Life is quote unquote “normal”.  And from out of nowhere, I feel the tsunami swelling.  And I know it’s going to hit hard unless I have an outlet.

And here I am.  Using my outlet to help make sense of how I feel.

Nothing ‘happened’ to make me feel this way.  I did spend time this week talking to a friend about her mum who passed a few weeks ago.  In my own small way I wanted to let her know I understood, that she is not crazy when she bursts into tears while doing laundry.  I wanted her to hear words no one ever told me, that it’s ok and it’s normal to feel like you’re on an out of control roller coaster.

Maybe that’s what triggered it.  Maybe it was learning that my life long next door neighbor (whom I wasn’t particularly close to) died yesterday at the ripe old age of 62.  Cancer claimed another one.  Maybe it’s the fact that my empathy kicked into high gear as I thought about the excruciating journey her three kids and husband are about to take as they process her passing.  Been there, done that.  Don’t want the t-shirt.

Who knows what triggered it, but today is ‘one of those days’.  Everything I look at screams my dad.  And I got angry.  Today, a wave of anger hit me, and hit me hard.  I found myself at one point shaking my fist and screaming to no one in particular “why did you leave us? Why did you leave us? I know you can hear me.  Why did you leave us?”.  And no, I’m not crazy. This is the ugly side of grief.  One minute you’re up, the next you’re down.  And sadly, no one except those of us in this shitty club get it.

I try most days to be grateful.  My dad’s sudden and tragic death put a lot in perspective for me.  Unfortunately it took this to make me realize how fleeting life is, and how most of what we consider ‘problems’ are really not problems, they are minor inconveniences in this thing we call life.  Most things, if you really think about it are not worth getting tied up in knots over.  I guess it’s easier to focus on first world problems than to think about alternatives.

So where is this ramble going?  My original intent was to face this latest wave of grief head on, and cut it off at its pass.  I also hoped that someone out there might read and identify with my words.

But tonight I miss my dad.  I weep for my son who lost a grandfather.  I worry for my mother who lost a life partner of 40+years.  I feel for those just starting this roller coaster ride.  I am angry and sad, two emotions I haven’t felt in a very long time to this degree.

And so I ride the wave.  And hope it will pass soon.


the week in rants…er, um I mean review

It’s Friday.  This about sums up my week.  Read on.

1. I started my morning by overhearing my four year old singing a Katy Perry song.  Apparently, all those times I listened to “Friday Night” in the car with him because of it’s upbeat rhythms, he was actually memorizing the words.  Imagine the shock I felt when  I heard my kid sing “There’s a party in my head, there’s a stranger in my bed” as he brushed his teeth.

2.  No more Katy Perry songs.

3. Everywhere I turn I see this stupid dumping ice water on your head for ALS.  Don’t get me wrong.  Drawing attention to a worthy cause is admirable.  Jumping on a bandwagon for 5 minutes of fame is not.  I think most of the ‘donation’ part has been ignored.  It’s just a bunch of fools dumping ice on themselves. And most of them probably don’t even know what ALS is.  Stop it and get on Wikipedia to figure out what the hell you’re dumping water on yourself for.

4. I went back to work this week.  My first day back was an 8 hour death by power point “workshop” which required me to sit on a hard, backless metal cafeteria bench.

5. Note to self- take pity on the children their first day back.

6. I am having a time getting my four year old to get to sleep in a timely manner.  I have officially been outsmarted by a four year old.

7.  I read some really interesting articles about being in one’s 40s.  To sum them all up, when you’re in your 40s you don’t give a crap about what people think.

8.  I love being 40.

9.  I am desperately trying to meal plan now that I’m back to work.  I’m frantically and furiously scouring meal planning websites for ideas that take neither a lot of time, nor money.

10.  We are on our 5th night of spaghetti and chicken nuggets.  I give up.

Happy weekend.