“She drew on the couch.”

“She drew on the couch,”  my husband mentioned after I got home from my son’s basketball game.img_9076

“What? Where?”

“Right there,” he said as he nodded toward the arm of the couch.  “She was writing on the fuzzy book and then I heard a different kind of noise.  She was writing on the couch.”

“The fuzzy book?”  I asked, unsure of what that meant.img_9075

“Yeah, the one there by your foot.”

“That’s not to write in!” I snapped when I realized which book he was talking about.

“I’d rather her write on that than the couch,” he responded.

“You could give her paper!?”

“She doesn’t like writing on paper.”

I’m not optimistic about what future father/daughter time means for the books in the house.  Or the couch.  Or the tables. Or the fridge. Or the walls.


Slice of Life #3

As I filled in the next part of our matrix, comparing the world religions we are learning about, the computer tried to auto-fill the cell.

“Why does it do that?” one student wondered aloud.

Another student had an answer before I registered the question…

“It’s saying, ‘Bro, you already spelled this word!”

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Early Morning Panic


Why do I feel a breeze?  Is the window open? No… It’s cold in here…The door is open?  Oh, no!  The door is OPEN!!!

When I let the dog out this morning, I must have not shut the door all the way…


Where’s the cat?  

The cat?!

This entire scenario played out in silence as the kids slept, unaware of the panic their mom was experiencing.

I ran through the house, looking in every room, under every chair and table.  I was in search of a larger than normal, fluffy, orange cat.   When I didn’t find him, I went through the house again, looking in every crack and crevice, the panic building.

“Troy, wake up.  I think the cat got out.  I need you to help me.”  I said, short of breath, entering a panic attack.  To his credit, my teenage son jumped out of bed and joined me in the search.

No luck.

I brought the litter box outside.  I read once that if your cat gets out, that’s what you should do.

No luck.

I walked around outside, hoping that he would be huddled in a bush.

No luck.

I sent my son upstairs to check on his sister.  At the same time, I googled “inside cat gets out”  which resulted in me bringing a blanket that my husband used and some cat food outside.

No luck.

I rotated between walking around and sitting on the stoop, trying to talk myself down.  Is my husband going to leave my because I lost his cat?  No, the cat will come back.  He has some instincts…  Nope, Ryan’s never going to forgive me…

I moved inside on the stairs, periodically checking out the window for the cat.  As my son brought his sister downstairs, I logged on to put in for a sick day.  There’s no way I could leave.

“Oh.  There he is!”  my son said as the cat ambled down the stairs….

Yep.  He was inside the whole time…

A lost cat, a fruitless search, and a panic attack…all before 6 A.M.



Tiny Hugs


“Where’s Lorelai?” I asked, waiting for my daughter to reveal herself.

She pulled her hands away from her eyes, already excited. “There she is!” I said, for maybe the twentieth time.

With her arms still open wide, she walked closer to me.  I don’t know what I was expecting, but it wasn’t the hug I got.  She wrapped her arms around my neck and squeezed.  A real hug!  In her fifteen months, this was the first real hug I’ve gotten and it came without prompting.  Not a lean or a cuddle because she was sad.  A hug!