It really wasn’t that hard, except for the tears that kept filling my eyes as I pushed the needle through the quilt's sturdy fabric to form the words, "Love, Judy."

In the land of travel planning, not every booking is a big one, but sometimes, the smallest booking of all is the one that offers the biggest reward. Sometimes, that means an early drive to the airport on a day that I'm not going anywhere at all.

I think the most important thing I learned was that having grace for oneself is a gift. Make sure you give yourself that gift, too, okay?

Nothing says, "I have my life together" like a holiday card that arrives weeks before the actual holidays, right? Well, it’s the thought that counts, I suppose.

Growth comes at the edge of discomfort. Does it suck? Sometimes.

This is a season filled with moments that bring glee, the warm fuzzies, and memories. Unfortunately, we often miss those moments while trying to be the perfect host, the perfect guest, the perfect shopper, the perfect gift wrapper, and, well, the list goes on. Screw that.

It’s not a new thing, Black Friday shopping with my mom. This right of passage has been a part of our lives for as long as I knew what Black Friday was. There have been multiple iterations of our Black Friday tribe: grandmothers, sisters, a pile of women from my parents’ camping club, or, on occasion, just me and Mom. I think the camping club versions were my favorite.

It’s not that I hadn’t seen Rich in the wild, at this point; it’s that I hadn’t realized how at ease he was in the wild. Any wild at all, as it turned out.

Last year, after I won Thanksgiving, I made a promise to re-post this blog every November for the rest of my life. No, I know. Thanksgiving isn't a competition. At least, it isn't for those that merely grab the can opener and drop a gelatinous tube of cranberry something on a plate. For me? Well, that's not important. What's important is that we are going to revisit the Ice Cream Turkey Cake today, while…

Would they have been better off if their father had never met me?  The guilt of a stepmother.

We have created the first generation that will die with fewer memories of their own lives than those of others. That's not good news.

Like many of us lately, I’ve found that within five seconds of opening my socials, I’m ready to throw myself out the nearest window. My feeds have become so laden with the political climate that I’ve essentially forgotten what the socials were actually designed for: sharing videos of kittens attacking paper towel rolls. Well, actually to serve as a digital peek into our lives that allowed us to share exciting milestones without whipping out an accordion of Polaroids but, still, the kittens.

Am I a Woman Now? Zero Stars.

Tomorrow, I will be a little sad to have this trip behind me... ...but... I do leave for a work-ish cruise in just ten days, so perhaps that will help.

In just a few hours, I will be off to Musher's Camp with tiny bits of beef jerky tucked into my pockets to ensure that the sled dogs like me best. Will I also bring a giant purse suitable for "borrowing" a puppy? That's not important.

When we dropped our youngest off last weekend, Rich and I both felt this weird mix of doom and delight. As it was just after we’d dropped him off last year that the first shoe dropped, there was a natural gurgle of PTSD. Could everyone just be cool this year and…stay alive? 

Currently, the broken rules in my youngest’s room represent the actual bridge between childhood and adulting: Teddy Grahams on one side, Stoli on the other.

“I can guarantee you one thing. A new purse will never throw up a pair of children’s underwear.” It was a long weekend, full of regrets.