So there I was ordering glass markers on Amazon, giggling. I had the perfect plan: I'd decorate my son's car with phrases like "Class of 2025" and "Make way for a Scholar and a Graduate." The surprise on his face was going to be worth it!

My stealth nighttime dog walk aroused no suspicions.

There I was, floating down the Clark Fork River in Montana, life jacket cinched tight, already worried about where this was headed. Would I be stuck on this boat for hours? Would I fall out and meet an ornery snake? Would the intense Missoula sun leave me overheated and miserable? I was visiting my Instagram bestie Nici on her home turf.

There I was, staring at my exhausted reflection at 6:47am, coffee in one hand, to-do list in the other, when my 7-year-old tugged on my sleeve. "Mommy, can we watercolor together in your special book before school?"

I barely looked up. "Not now, honey. Mommy has seventeen things to do before we leave and you haven’t even brushed your teeth." There was no way I was cracking open my pricey watercolor book just to have my daughter hastily paint over each delicate page.

She stood there for a beat, then whispered something that stopped me cold: "Emma's mom paints with her a lot. How come you never want to play anymore?"

So there I was on the phone with my mom asking which of the living room paintings I'd like to inherit. "Just pick whichever ones you want," she beamed. I delicately told her these old masters weren't my vibe.

So there I was on Mother’s Day, wearing a macaroni necklace that pinched my neck hairs, sipping lukewarm coffee that tasted vaguely of dish soap, while simultaneously wiping syrup off the headboard (how did it get there?!) and smiling gratefully at my Spicy One who was SO PROUD of the breakfast surprise.

My mother-in-law was texting about when we’d be arriving at her house (apparently my “special day” needed to include a 45-minute drive and bringing a side dish), and my husband was looking at me with those hopeful puppy eyes that said, “You’re happy, right? Tell me you’re happy so I can check ‘Mother’s Day’ off my list and go watch the game.”

And y’all, I smiled and nodded while a tiny voice inside me whispered, “Is this seriously it? Is this the big celebration of the hardest job I’ve ever had?”

Anyone else feeling like Mother’s Day is just another opportunity to feel like you’re failing at enjoying motherhood “correctly”?

How's it going in the trenches of sibling warfare at your house? If you've got a Spicy One who makes it their personal mission to torment their siblings, I SEE YOU. I remember.

At 5 years old, my Spicy One could be incredibly defiant. During one episode, I floundered for "natural consequences" rather than punishment.

She disobeyed my rule of no climbing on the empty stage at a park meetup, so I insisted she ride in her toddler seat instead of her new booster as punishment for "using up my energy." I know - it was a stretch.

The no-stage boundary was only in place to avoid the judgment of other mothers. A mom in my group had declared it off-limits. All the other children nodded at the arbitrary rule and found something else to play with.

​In fourth grade, I made the mistake of bringing a mouse to school for Show-and-Tell. When a middle schooler asked if the animal in the cage was a rat, I freaked out Spicy One-style. I shook my head, contorted at the inaccuracy, and cried. That was all the bullies needed. For 4 years, each afternoon I approached the bus, a group of boys would yell "Here comes RAAAAT WOMAN," each competing to roll the R around on their spit-filled tongue the longest.

You and I did not grow up with unconditional love. It wasn't a thing! Children were loved when they were lovable, and shunned when they were difficult. These days, I cultivate relationships where I can be my authentic self. As a child, you don't get that choice.

People who need me to show up perennially happy and entertaining take too much energy.

I recalled the burden of 'earning your keep' while playing a family game this weekend. My brothers and I gathered with my parents for my mom's 80th birthday. It was our most harmonious family visit yet.

Everyone receives unwanted input at some stage of raising kids, but as a parent of a Spicy One, you get way more than your fair share. Comments like: "You’re just going to let him walk all over you?”, “She doesn't act like that for me!”, “You are getting played like a violin", “Don’t you ever say no?” and “He’s being a little brat!”.

The irony is that you are fully aware of the issues and are doing mental gymnastics to determine what to address and when. So much of your energy goes to leading this child intentionally. When your family doesn't respect your parenting or judges your child as bad or in need of more discipline, it’s defeating. Why can't they recognise the good that is happening?

The parents I meet on the Internet, often raise their Spicy One while suspicious of their own wounded intuition. They seek out people they perceive to be experts. Like me.

Many of the questions that parents, like you, pose seem like requests for factual data. But there is anxiety and concern wrapped up inside each question. A foundational assumption that what you are doing must be wrong.

Last week on the Internet, I had the misfortune to offend people...again.

Giddy from the full-body expectation that comes before teaching a Zoom parenting class, I strutted about the Internet, celebrating the cheetah print blouse I procured from a thrift shop for only $4 in Nashville. I called it my Lesbian Shirt.

Spicy Ones can be uber competitive. Playing Pickleball this week, I witnessed three little boys come onto the gated court, bickering loudly. I’m easily distracted so I missed a ball, worrying that they didn’t understand the court protocol. (You have to put your racket down next to the court you want to play on next. They weren’t doing that.) Probably fifth graders, they huddled around the scooters they brought in arguing loudly. It was difficult to quiet the maternal part of me that thinks I am in charge of every child in the world.

Minutes ago he was drunk with joy, riding the waves into the shore, his underwear filled with sand and wedged deeply in his butt cheeks. But something happened to upset. And then I watched his sister drop sand balls indifferently onto his back. Now he is in full meltdown. It’s got me wondering:

“How do we teach the Spicy One to get along with society without squashing their sparkle?”

Are you one of the moms who got sick over the holidays - exactly 4 minutes after you completed all the requirements of Christmas? Like your body was just waiting for the all-clear to let go and collapse? A friend fell prey to whatever bug is making the rounds. People told her to “enjoy the downtime” but instead she felt depression clawing at her. Downtime is not something all of us have the capacity to enjoy.

I'm not a resolutions girl but I go nuts for dreaming up my Word for the Year. A Word of the Year is just a sneaky way of naming one of your most important values and keeping it front and center so you can honor it.

There’s a moment in the film where the hot dad (AKA Matt Damon) and his spicy teenage son are arguing, yet again. Their mother/wife died last year and they've been holding up in separate grief corners of the house ever since. The teen has been acting out at school and making some self-destructive choices.

Standing with my fellow improv students on an LA stage last night, I felt a shiver of dread. My first Groundlings performance is next week. My kids and husband are the only ones that I’ve invited because this hobby is still in its infancy. An embryonic cringe fest. How did I get here? How did I find myself taking on the stress of performing with quick witted 20 somethings…in December?

Have you ever been Han Solo’d by your Spicy One®?

I’ll explain. It’s 1980. I’m nine and watching my most favorite scene in The Emperor Strikes Back, curled up on the old, red corduroy couch in my oak-paneled childhood basement. The princess and Hans have been through so much together, and now stormtroopers have him handcuffed and are dragging him off to be frozen alive.The up-til-now stoic Leia realizes she may never, ever see him again.

November is almost gone and the nation is licking its wounds (or celebrating depending on who you talk to). The toxic othering of the other is on full display across my feed. I need the snark and contempt to stop so I’m hiding by listening to my favorite chill Christmas song by Ben Abraham.