One Day at a Time
A morning in which I sob on my wife’s shoulder about injustices and my inability to fix them, and she reminds me of an important truth.
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self-compassion
Being Kind to Sweetpea
I wrenched my back last week, and nine-year old Etta has been very concerned, seeing me wince in pain as I hobble around the house. Last night as I was stiffly and carefully tucking her into bed, she said, “Your spine is being bad! It’s hurting you!”
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In Search of the Elusive, Perfect Chore Chart
I have an obsession — some would call it a weird obsession — with chore charts. I make lots of them. Simple ones and complex ones. Ones with hand-drawn pictures and ones with words and bullet points and diagrams. Ones in painstaking detail for each portion of the day, and ones that show a sweeping overview of the entire week.
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Don’t Be a Heel, It’s Only a Piece of Toast
My stomach growled as I waited impatiently in the long breakfast line. The elderly lady in front of me was
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Crabby and Human
“Mama, you are the queen of crabby and tired!” proclaimed seven-year old Etta, hands on her hips. I glared at her. Me, crabby? I was NOT crabby, dammit! So what if I had snapped at her once or twice. Ok, maybe three or four times. “Finish your snack already!” “Stop hitting your brother!” “Don’t leave your candy wrapper lying around, I’m not your maid!”
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