“I would eventually have to tell.”

Let me show you how God works.

In my case, God does not work in mysterious ways. He knows, with me, he has to be a lot more CLEAR. He has to be, because I am, well, stubborn.

Y’all. Seriously. I’m “stubborn” like Richard Simmons is “Sassy.” We work it.

Anyhow… A few years ago I lost my mind. I drowned myself in a lot of wine, on a daily basis, and then, when the wine was over my head and I was choking for sanity, I grabbed onto more bottles and just sank even lower.

God worked: He got me out of there. He helped me out, dried me off, and we keep walking together. In fact, I am stuck to Him like really needy and sober GLUE until I get to meet him personally.

God worked. He got me writing gigs to keep me busy, and He asked me to start talking about the near-drowning stuff. He said, “Now. You need to tell.”

I now have a gig writing with Nazarene Publishing House. A column, for The Community, a blog that “provides content, insight, training, and conversations that inspire spiritual growth.”

I am totally freaked out that I am writing a column for anything that involved “training” and “spiritual growth.” I’m the one who used Richard Simmons earlier in this post, as a sort of analogous mentor, remember?

But yet, I’m a part of their crew. Ok, God does work in mysterious ways.

Now, I don’t usually do this, but I’m gonna ask you a favor. If you would, go peruse? Maybe subscribe? Follow on facebook, twitter, you know the drill. Perhaps I am biased, but there is some really good writing on there.

If you want to see my article, click here. Then, take a look around. It’s a good community.




Here is the Perfect Plan for the Debate Tonight:




Momsie’s Handy-Dandy, Super-Duper Plan for the Debate:


  1. Send both candidates kittens. Not, like, in the mail, because that would be weird. But somehow, get some kittens all up in there. Maybe three or four. And a Corgi puppy. Or six.
  2. Wait a few minutes. Kittens take a little time to do their thing.
  3. Make cookies. Chocolate chip. Or snickedoodles. Set out a board game. We prefer Yahtzee at our house because we like to shake the dice and feel all James Bond at the Casino-ish. It gives us an air of sophistication. Which, we really, REALLY need.
  4. Also, look up “cats debating” on google. Because, my readers demand this kind of stuff.
  5. Both candidates hug it out and say, “Well, you know? I think I’m gonna quit the race and go raise kittens on a kitten ranch. With kittens!”
  6. That guy who plays the president from Independence Day says, “Aw shucks, you guys. I fake-fought a slimy alien invasion, so I’ll do it!” And VOILA. PRESIDENT IN THE HOUUUUUUUSSSE.
  7. Geeky-Sexy as all heck Jeff Goldblum, also of Independence Day, will, of course, be vice president.
  8. Or, Harrison Ford. Do you remember how he kicked all the bad guys off his plane in Airforce One? Maybe he should be vice president. Or Morgan Freeman. There’s so many choices! When lately it’s been all a huge, fat, DEARTH of choices! A DEARTH, I tell you!
  9. Did you notice? If you use the word ‘dearth’ a lot, it really starts to sound silly.
  10. I know. Why don’t they ALL just form some sort of Super President Swat Team of Cool and call it done?
  11. I got a lot of actors in there. But then, that’s politics.
  12. And there you go!




If you bake it, they will come.

And please. DO vote in November. It’s important. REALLY important. And pray.






Latest headline:

Everything is Awful

A group of clowns have alighted upon the steps of Congress, with some signs and a bunch of squeaky horns. Mr. Sprinkles, the spokesperson for the group, explains, “We are just here today to help the public know that- HEY CUT OUT THE SQUEAKING. I’M TRYING TO TALK HERE!- Sorry. Whenever we assemble like this it tends to be kind of a…”

Interviewer: Circus?

Mr. Sprinkles: Right. Circus. I saw what you did there. I know we’ve been in the news a bit lately, in a negative way. We want the public to know that we are good people. Granted, we do tend to terrify the pants off of some folks. But, you know, that’s comedy.

Interviewer: Also, that movie IT didn’t really do much good for you.

Mr Sprinkles: We don’t speak the name of that movie here. Which makes sense, since a lot of us are mimes.

(Background chanting: “We’re not bad people! We’re just a bunch of clowns!” interspersed with some fart noises from the Whoopie Cushion Brigade.)

Interviewer: So, you are protesting on account of…??

Mr. Sprinkles: Clowns do not protest. We assemble and goof off.

Stressed-Out Bystander: Hey. HEY. You clowns can’t do this here. It’s freaking everybody out. We are stressed OUT, you hear? We have had enough. You add a buncha clowns to the mix and somebody’s gonna start crying.

Binkie the Clown: I know it. One of my kids had to do a current event report on the political debates? He got grounded for words he used in his own report.

Bystander: Dude. That’s harsh.

Binkie: What? It wasn’t me. I can’t ground people. I’m a clown. It’s against our code. Anyhow, the teacher did it. She kinda snapped, I think. It’s a tough year to be teaching high school government, I tell you. (Squeaks at the camera.)

Some other bystander who has input: America. It’s going to hell in a hand basket, I tell you.

Binkie: Language, dude. There are kids present. Unless they’re in school. Getting grounded. (Squeaks at the camera, again.)

Interviewer: Well, I hate to rain on this…

Mr. Squeaky: Parade? You’ve been waiting to say that. I can tell, because, I’m a clown.

Interview: Well, um, back to the studio. This has been a freak show from the beginning.

And later today, we’ll bring in Martha Stewart to show us some tasteful fall hand basket displays. How’s that for a tie-in! All is not lost!

Bystander: That’s right. Hand Baskets? They get a bad rap. They need to take a stand. (Squeaks at the camera.)


The lesson from this blog post? When in doubt, squeak at the camera.

And pray.






This is a test. This is only a test.

Parenting. Y’all.

It is not for the faint of heart.

Linking up with Five Minute Friday today, and the them


Let me explain:

I a tendency to be rather, uh, impatient. Like, just a tidge. Teensy bit.

Like, if I was gonna say… my impatience is one of the smaller states, it’s New Hampshire. It’s the New Hampshire of impatience.

Granted. New Hampshire is still about 10,000 square miles in size. Thank you, Wikipedia. So, there’s that.

Impatience is one of my issues. I’ll admit it. I am working on it, but it’s tough because working on myself takes AGES, and my gosh who has time for that? Ridiculous.

And here is the other thing:


Yes, I know. Thing is blurry and in a shepherd’s costume, but I didn’t want to take the time to look for a better picture. Because impatient. Anyhow. This is Red. And he… well… he is not interested in the passage of time. At all. Like, he stops and smells the roses in every nook and cranny of his life all the time every second whenever wherever and HOLY BIG BEN WHAT IS HIS PROBLEMMMMM.

Yes. I am time-shaming my sweet child. I know. This is not my finer moment. I don’t CARE because TIME. TIME IS OUT THERE JUST SMACKING US AROUND ALL THE, WELL, TIME AND IT’S REALLY HARD TO DEAL WITH THAT.

The red. He makes me deal with time. I have gritted-teeth conversations with time, and with Red on a daily basis. Daily.

A daily test.

It’s only a test. Tests are not to be feared. They are just events that make us stronger. I have to remind myself that, also, on a daily basis.

The test-taking is daily because God loves us enough to not let us alone. And I remind myself of that too, on a daily basis.

This is only a test. If it was a real emergency, we need pray. But, the best part is that we can pray, anyway, anytime, anywhere.

Prayer. Our automatic answer key.


An Open Letter to the Teachers Who Must Contend With My Birthday Cupcakes.




Dear Teachers:

Well, first of all, I guess you don’t HAVE to eat them. But still.

I feel your pain. I know you have twenty small heat-seekers in your room, looking constantly for sugar and way out of thinking in a logical pattern. I know it. And I know that you have twenty some birthdays to deal with, because, as you know. All these kids were born at some point.

And so, it begins. The birthday cupcakes.

First of all, I can vouch for quality control, here. Cupcakes are of the Betty Crocker variety. Also, it is VERY important to state that the frosting is home made.


The deal is, I cave. I cave every time. I tell myself:

“Keep it simple. Do not, do NOT look at Pinterest. Do not, whatever you do, try to figure out a way to make anything cute. Just stay away from the cute things. Cute is your GATEWAY DRUG, woman.”

It’s possible, you see, that in the past… the Pinterest searching had led me down the momsie rabbit hole and the next think you know…. I’m trying to make a Death Star with fondant and angel food cake.

And it would have WORKED too. Except that butter is all melty (darn you, saturated fats! I shake my fist at you!) and well, sugar and hope does not hold a Death Star intact. Not even a Jedi was gonna keep that travesty intact.

So, this time. I tried. I really did. I figured, an October birthday and cupcakes. Orange frosting and some chocolate chips and BOOM,  pumpkns for the little angels.

But you know and I do, that motherhood is often a gut-wrenching affair, fraught with difficult choices, and I was up against the wall.

The kid, you see, wanted to decorate them himself.



I tried to distract the little bugger. I offered to let him lick the bowl. I even gave him the option to use sprinkles. But no. He would not be deterred.

I know. It was tough for us all.

So, dear teacher of my now eight-year-old, let’s review:

  1. I totally had a vision for those cupcakes.
  2. Motherhood is all about vision.
  3. Children are all about blowing that vision right outta there.
  4. As God as my witness, Blonde did wash his hands.

Just by the by… Blonde is anti-sprinkles. It’s another of those little quirks about him that I find a bit troubling, as we ALL KNOW that sprinkles cover a multitude of sins. In fact, I pretty much think sprinkles are God’s candy, and we should use ’em on broccoli. BUT, did you know?

Red, is pro sprinkles. I give you… HIS cupcakes:


Feast your eyes on those babies. Crunchy.

I sign off, with much love and many hugs for being the teacher for my wee blonde, because you, Dear Teacher, are AWESOME ON ALL  THE LEVELS FOR TEACHING HIM. And some day, I will be sending you some thank you that does not involve frosting.

Until then, go for the one on the upper right of the box. It’s the only one I could get to before Blonde decided he was Paul Hollywood.


Paul Hollywood’s Tired Mom

Aka Momsie

Aka the one with sprinkles and chocolate chips all over her kitchen. Like, all over. Forever.



When we fall down.

So mommas, it will be real today. No funny business. Sorry.

The other day, my son and I got in an argument. A straight-up, no chaser, fight. With a seven year old.

Because fighting with a seven year old is what a forty six year old women chose to do that day. Because the seven year old didn’t really chose it – he doesn’t have the emotional synapses yet to say, “Hey. Yea. I am choosing this.” Most of his stuff is still kinda… on automatic. Like, his synapses say, “Hey. SQUIRREL.” And we’re done.


What happened was, the kid acted like a sullen kid. And misbehaved. And then, I took the reins and took OFF on making sure he knew it.

There are times when my mothering goes astray. And it just kicks the sides of that old, dead horse and tries to run off with it. Which is a terrible metaphor but I was trying to go with the “reins” thing. Which kinda means I want you to visualize me riding a dead horse. Off a cliff. Of bad mothering.

Good lord I hope this will make some sort of sense.

If you are still with me, picture me on that poor dead horse, galloping off, on a road towards my cliff. And there’s a sign by the side of the road that says, “CAUTION. STOP HERE. BIG HUGE DROP OFF COMING. TURN THE HECK AROUND.”

Perhaps I should name the cliff. The Cliffs of Insanity.

Or, perhaps:

The Cliffs of I Must Be Right.

I think the Cliffs of Insanity sounds a bit more catchy, but Princess Bride got to it before me.


Oh. My friends. His face. After all the I-Must-Be-Right-ing and lecturing and trying to make my POINT because it is so important, his little face. It just crumpled in on itself. And he told me,

“I’m just a bad kid.”

And that’s just the awfulest thing. It’s just not not the truth.

It’s just Satan. With my help. And I am so sorry. I had to tell you because I thought, you know? I am so funny and this is so NOT and you need to know. I just so screwed up.

We all screw up. We cannot help it. It’s the tangle of motherhood. We are participating in a daily battle and sometimes I get too involved in winning MY side. When, really, the winning is not the point.

The point is that I watched his shoulders sag, and he said what he did, and then I went over to him, picked him up and put him on my lap like he was my baby, because he is. And I stroked his cheek and I said,

“You are my child. I love you more than I love my life. And you are a child of God. And He doesn’t make anything bad.”

I sat and rocked him. And kissed his cheek and wiped the tears and said, “I am sorry. I love you. You got that?” He nodded. And asked me to play Yahtzee.

And we got through that mess. And probably there will be another one coming soon, because motherhood. Kids. You know.

I wanted to share because I wondered if you needed to know – we all mess up. And then we all can say sorry and go play Yahtzee and eat popcorn and hug on each other. Because, motherhood and kids.

Can I hear an amen? Thank goodness I can. It’s the only thing that keeps me afloat, y’all.

Timeout for Mom

Do you know, whenever you look up “Mommy’s Timeout” on the great internets, that this comes up?


For some, this is good stuff. It’s harmless. It’s even pink!

For me? This is the kinda stuff that snuck up on me, lied a whole lot, tied me up, very tight, and then nearly put me in the ground.

I’m linking up with my favorite people today at Five Minute Friday.

Today’s theme?




Five pm. Did you know, it happens, like, every day?

Seems to me, we need to skip five pm and just go straight to seven thirty. That’s when the babies go upstairs for baths, which is when the angels sing.

‘Course, we do have to eat in there somewhere. Perhaps they can dine while bathing? It could work, right? Barbecue chicken pairs nicely with soap and water. And I can just have Reeses for my supper.

There’s protein in them.


You know how they say, “It’s five o’clock somewhere”? Well, I was, once, a big fan of those “they” people. They were on to something. A huge tumbler full of boxed Chardonney at my “somewhere” was a solid antidote to the Five O’clocked-ness of the world.

Until it wasn’t. Until, five o’clock nearly killed me.

Now, around that time, I pour about forty La Croix and cut a bunch of limes and wonder,

Why must five o’clock keep HAPPENING. IT’S, LIKE, RELENTLESS.

At times like these, I give myself a mom timeout. No wine.

Five minutes. It’s all the time I have, and it’s good enough.

Five minutes, me on the back stoop, dog sitting next to me. Hosmer quivers as a squirrel races by. And I watch as the squirrel races around the backyard like it’s had too much coffee and not enough brain cells to cover for it.

And I kinda feel for the squirrel.

Let’s face it, sometimes I AM the squirrel.

But, squirrels don’t take timeouts. I don’t think so. And yes, somehow this post has ended up about rodents with fluffy tails, but you know. That’s momsie.

Anyhow, I am pretty sure I have never seen a squirrel pause, put his little scritchy paws on his knees to take a breath, and say,

“I think I’ll just go read a little teeny tiny squirrel book, have some decaf, and take five.”

Five o’clock. Five minutes.

Five extra limes in my swanky sparkling water.

Whatever it takes, mommas. Whatever we need, because it’s a tough gig, momhood. It’s kinda relentless. But in a, soul-stretching, God-leaning, daily-praying, progress, not perfection, kinda way.

For me? “Whatever it takes” means taking my sober afternoons very, very seriously. Just thought I’d put that out there, to battle away the “it’s five o’clock somewhere,” demons. They can be pretty squirrelly.