My Addiction and How It’s Hurting My Daughter

For various boring reasons, I am currently in the process of reorganizing our entire house. It’s hard, tiring work, but I love it.

I’m going mad shuffling things from here to there, throwing out lawn bags full of discards and donations.

I am getting things done!  I am decluttering with the best of them!

And I’m even getting my daughter, Rachel, involved in the process, just like all the experts say a parent should. She has helped me unpack, organize, sort, go through, and label almost every item in our home.

And she seems to really enjoy it. The other day when Rachel came home from pre-school, I said, excitedly, “Oh, you have to go check out the playroom!” Her face lit up and she asked, “Did you get a lot done while I was gone?” It was one of my proudest parenting moments. “She gets it,” I thought. “My daughter has felt the joy of rearranging and organizing. I’ve succeeded!”

Later that same day, Rachel very purposefully pulled a chair up to the kitchen sink and began scrubbing all her doll dishes.

Shortly afterwards, she refused to play a game until we had picked up all the toys from the living room floor.

Throughout a two-week period, I noticed little things like this happening with growing frequency. Rachel spent more time doing dishes than cooking in her play kitchen. She asked several times for wet rags so she could clean random things (I admit I really liked that, especially when she got the lower parts of the coffee and end tables). Whenever she returned home from an outing with Grandma or her dad, she would ask what I “got done” while she was gone. She even turned down games, movies, and snacks, choosing instead to help me reorganize bedrooms and closets.

As Rachel’s “get ‘er done” actions have increased over the last couple of weeks, I have grown more and more uneasy about the message I am sending her, not just about what’s important in life—she does know she is more important than a to-do list!—but also about expectations. I see my perfectionist tendencies rubbing off on her and I know that isn’t a road I want her to go down—it leads to nowhere but a clean house lived in miserably. I also don’t want her to think that the only quality time she gets with me is when we’re doing chores together.

Psychology Today defines addiction as “a condition that results [from drug use] or [when one] engages in an activity that can be pleasurable but the continued use of which becomes compulsive and interferes with ordinary life responsibilities, such as work, relationships, or health.”

Yep, that’s me.

I’m addicted to getting things done and I’ve just introduced my daughter to my drug of choice.

I have never understood the “let it go for today” mentality of putting off a task. In fact, I have adopted a rule I once read somewhere, which is if something takes two minutes or less to do, do it NOW. While others may enjoy living in the moment and completing a task only when necessary, I simply cannot enjoy life until all of the day’s (self-imposed) chores are done. That habit has finally caught up with me, and not in a good way.


“In the brain, pleasure has a distinct signature: the release of the neurotransmitter dopamine in the nucleus accumbens, a cluster of nerve cells lying underneath the cerebral cortex. Dopamine release in the nucleus accumbens is so consistently tied with pleasure that neuroscientists refer to the region as the brain’s pleasure center.

Repeated exposure to an addictive substance or behavior causes nerve cells in the nucleus accumbens and the prefrontal cortex (the area of the brain involved in planning and executing tasks) to communicate in a way that couples liking something with wanting it, in turn driving us to go after it. That is, this process motivates us to take action to seek out the source of pleasure.

People who develop an addiction typically find that, in time, the desired substance no longer gives them as much pleasure. They have to take more of it to obtain the same dopamine “high” because their brains have adapted—an effect known as tolerance.”


In other words, drawing that thin, straight line through an item on my to-do list lights up my brain’s rewards system like the Vegas strip, but now, unloading the dishwasher and folding laundry won’t cut it. Instead I have to clean out the attic, detail the car, and alphabetize files dating back to 1996 to reach my desired high.

Frankly, I’ve been pretty shaken by the realization that I have an issue that puts family, friends, social activities, work, exercise, and even eating on the back burner. So now what? My plan thus far includes giving myself stern lectures, praying about it daily, and trying to live intentionally in even the minutiae of life.

 What about you? Are you addicted to getting things done? How have you overcome your addiction?

 Advice and thoughts are always appreciated!

We’re Back, a Little Worse for the Wear, But Alive

Well, we’re back.

We made it to Florida and back, minus one whole person.

I can’t say the travel was as terrible as I thought it would be, but I can say it was pretty darn close. The saving grace was that Aaron barely cried. Rachel, on the other hand, spent what seemed like 17 hours straight crying because she woke up mid-nap and couldn’t get back to sleep.

The flights were interesting—my most thought-of memory from the flight there is Rachel taking the dress off her Rapunzel Barbie (her first ever Barbie, bought in a moment of this-might-save-the-entire-trip! weakness), giggling like Beavis at the naked plastic in front of her, then proceeding to play Tune in Tokyo with it, much to the embarrassment of the mother/daughter pair waiting in line for the bathroom.

Getting off and on the planes with approximately 27 pieces of luggage while also carrying a baby and trying to get a small child to figure out that people really want off the plane once those doors open was the low point of travel. The most Lampoonish moment each way was when, on all four planes we entered and exited, I hit each and every traveler I passed in the head with my Trader Joe’s cooler and Unicorn. And probably the princess castle pillow, too, but I can’t really remember.
A close second, however, was when we literally, LITERALLY, made our flight with one minute to spare. Tied for third: returning the rental car to the wrong place, then circling the airport frantically looking for the right company while trying to get Andy’s phone to stop yelling at us to reconfigure our driving route; realizing we had one less grown-up with us to carry luggage, yet we had two additional bags; and having a flight attendant who wanted to throw all of us–okay, just me–off the plane. Oh, and they lost our luggage.

And that was just the air travel.

We now also have fond memories of taking Aaron to the ER after he possibly sustained a concussion; a one-week late car delivery that had us on the phone with everyone from the DOT to the local Sheriff’s Department; every family member but one throwing up repeatedly; and the psychotic break down I had after going six days in a row with four hours of sleep while doing various exhausting things during the day and spending nights with a ten-month-old who apparently won’t sleep in states that begin with the letter “F.”

But thankfully, we weren’t there to vacation. We were there to set up Collin in college, and that part of the trip—the most important part—was fantastic.

The housing was great, the school was great, the dorm mate was great, the shopping adventure at Publix was great…. it was truly an incredible experience setting my child up to be off in the world on his own.

Of course, it didn’t really feel like I was setting him up to be on his own. Right up until the moment it came time to say goodbye. And in that moment—the moment when I was about to get into a van and drive to an airport two hours away so I could take a flight 3000 miles across the country, knowing that I wouldn’t see my son for 3 1/2 months and there would be no one, NO ONE watching over him—THAT is when I really felt it. I cried, Collin cried, Rachel was confused, Aaron babbled, and Andy tried to keep all of us from falling apart.

Saying goodbye

Saying goodbye

And now, we’re home. I keep thinking of when we purchased our tickets to fly to Florida and back. Andy and I came within one (unconscious) mouse click of buying Collin a return ticket. As Andy said, that sort of tells you everything you need to know about parenting.

But at some point, you don’t buy the return ticket. Instead, you come home empty handed and leave them there, wherever “there” is, all alone, hoping that those few short years you had them 100% of the time will be enough to see them through.

More photos here.

Related posts: Like Money in the Bank, The Child I’ve Grown Up With, Doing the Unstuck

Next week, for the first time ever, my family of five will hit the terminals of our nation’s airports to join the throng of summer travelers. Passerbys who look at my husband and me will see bedraggled and harried parents trying to simultaneously push a double stroller and luggage cart, hot Starbucks coffee bouncing through adult sippy-cup lids, while also taking turns lugging a 25-pounder in an Ergo and keeping a three-year-old placated. They will see a tell-tale Trader Joe’s cooler bag sliding down Mom’s shoulder, an obvious yet futile attempt to save money on sandwiches and snacks after spending thousands on airfare. Collin (17) will undoubtedly be stressed, Rachel (3) will undoubtedly be tired and emotional, and Aaron (10 months) will undoubtedly try to put the entire airport in his mouth. My husband will resemble Clark Griswold without the relentless optimism, and I, well let’s just say I am no just-keep-smiling Beverly D’Angelo.

This is no joke. This is a sink or swim parenting challenge–a two to three parent/kid ratio, triple time changes, and the fact that this is by no means a vacation but is instead moving one of the family 3000 miles away, moving boxes, car shipment, IKEA shopping and all.

Observant people watchers and cheery FAA employees will wonder at our configuration: just who, exactly, is Mom? Brother? Dad? Are we all siblings with an odd age spread? Perhaps an extreme example of Dave and Toph in AHWOSG?

The less observant people-watchers and more surly airline workers will wonder why in the world we would put ourselves through this “vacation.” Surely there’s a family obligation in there somewhere: a wedding or graduation. Maybe even a funeral.

But for us, it’s none of the above. The reason we will leave California at 3am and arrive in Florida at 11pm with teen, just-past-toddler, infant, Pack-n-Play, two car seats, and eight suitcases in hand is twofold: to set up Collin in college (as I’ve talked about here ad nauseum), and to maybe, just maybe, have some fun with the kids. I’m not quite sure how likely the latter is to happen, but I’m going to treat the whole could-be-a-family-fiasco as a sort of experiment: which parent can take the most without having a nervous breakdowns? Loser pays the doctor bills.

Let me clear: I hate to travel.

Let me be even clearer: I especially hate traveling with small children. I don’t recommend it, and I’ve never talked to a parent who’s enjoyed it. I tend to reserve such torture for the aforementioned family events. All that said, I’m excited about going to Florida. I will get to see Collin’s new home-away-from-home, check out the stores where he will shop, visit the campus he will stroll daily, and play on the beach that’s right outside his front door. I wouldn’t miss this trip for anything.

I also see this as a chance to show the kids (and each other) how we can better integrate patience, gratitude, kindness, and grace into our lives. I can’t think of more fertile ground for doing this than a cross-country family trip.

Aaron, the little goober, is too young to be influenced by how this whole thing goes, but Collin and Rachel are not. How Andy and I handle the ups and downs will help shape how the older kids handle life’s stresses. Will Andy and I see this trip as anxiety-producing, complaining and snapping at every crazy moment? Will we bite each others heads off when both little kids are crying, Collin is stressed by the noise, and we’re all tired and hungry? Or will we instead exemplify patience and laugh off how absurd it is to have two small kids crying on a crowded 5am flight and remind each other that “someday we’ll look back at this and laugh?”

Maybe even more importantly is that Andy and I will be given plenty of moments when we must decide to build each other up or tear each other down. We will have to work hard at marriage-growing grace, and each time we succeed, we’ll add a little currency to the bank of happily-ever-after. Not to mention that we’ll show the kids what marriage, parenting, and team work should look like.

To continue the cultural metaphors, the Calloway-Hanauers must decide if we will enter into this Hunger Game style, or in Brady Bunch fashion. Whether we will put our hands in with a “Go Team!” or give up the game as a loss before we even get started. Right now I’m trying to spend my free moments–you know, like doing dishes or rocking the baby for hours at a time–in some serious prayer for this trip. The world may not be watching, but the kids are watching us and we’re watching each other. Let’s hope for a win.

Go Team!

Go Team!

Brady Bunch Style...

Brady Bunch Style…

Rachel Gets Stuck

The other day, just one day before our dramatic trip to the ER in an ambulance, we went to a Kite Festival.

For the second year in a row, we had a fantastic if windy time. We got to experience much sibling love, funnel cake, and a Kite Liberator.

Collin & Rachel

This year, we added to the mix a good old-fashioned Parent Experience.

Our 3.5-year-old daughter is not what you would call a risk-taker. She doesn’t like swings, or slides, and although we haven’t tried it, I’m sure she’d avoid even the Teacup ride at the county fair. I won’t tell you which parent she inherited this from, but I will tell you that Andy is especially bothered by this trait. It bothers me, too.

Despite being “bothered,” we know we shouldn’t push Rachel. And we don’t. We encourage her, stand by her, and let her move at her own (snail’s) pace in trying new things. So at the Kite Festival, we were very happy to wait in a 45-minute-long line for her to go through the Pirate Bounce House (or boat. Whatever.)

The boat is set up for kids to go in one side, climb up a slide and walk in a half circle to go out the other side. When Rachel first went in, she sat in a corner by the front door letting all the other kids go by her. I stood leaning over the side of the slide, waiting to snap a picture of her going up. I waited. And waited. But she never came. Instead, Rachel remained in the corner, smiling, watching the kids go by. My husband and I verbally encouraged her to go up, but still she sat. Andy asked if he could go in and help her, but the ticket-taker said “no, what if every parent wanted to go in?” Duh. So then Andy asked for our ticket back. Just as the guy handed it back to him, Rachel decided to venture up the slide and head around the half circle.

Pirate Boat Bouncy

Andy and I high-fived, congratulated ourselves for our gentle encouragement, and waited for Rachel to emerge happily from the exit door. We waited. And waited. And waited some more. Finally Andy said, “I’m going to go around the other side to see her.”

I stood with the stroller, kite, and bags, metaphorically twiddling my thumbs. After several minutes, I said aloud to no one in particular, “my daughter is stuck. She is the stuck kid.”

I didn’t really know what to do. I knew Andy was watching her from the back of the bounce house, and I thought maybe I was wrong. Surely he would let me know if she were stuck.

And he did, just seconds before a little girl told the ticket-taker the same thing. The ticket guy dramatically threw himself into the exit door (he was probably all of 14-years-old) and carried out a sniffling and red-faced Rachel. We promptly enveloped her in hugs, asked her cheerily if she’d had fun, and handed her funnel cake. Because if powdered sugar on fried dough can’t make a girl feel better, what can?

Funnel cake

Thankfully, Rachel didn’t seem to realize it was a big deal to be the kid who’s too scared to make it through the bounce house. She was a bit upset, but not overly so, and she quickly moved on to the next item on the must-do list: face painting and a pony ride.

face painting

pony ride

So what’s the take-home message here? I dunno. We already knew how to handle Rachel’s fears, so we didn’t learn any sort of lesson. We didn’t have an epiphanal moment, nor did Rachel. We just kept going and enjoyed the rest of our day.


Maybe that’s the take-home message: the fears and weaknesses of our children aren’t anything to obsess over. The world won’t end if Rachel gets stuck in a million bounce houses, and we aren’t bad parents because she was born a little risk-adverse. She is what she is, which, in our opinion, is nothing short of perfect.


Related post: OMG, I Have a Daughter Now

The Back of the Ambulance

Sometimes a parent just knows.

My husband demanded I hang up on the advice nurse:

“It doesn’t matter what she says, we’re going.”

My mom later told me she had never seen my husband move so fast.

We rushed our 9-month-old, Aaron, to the emergency room for high fever and extreme lethargy. Our rush ended when we hit unexpected traffic from a weekend festival. I sat in the back of the van with Aaron, listening to his breathing slow.

I tried not to cry, but I couldn’t help it.

“I need to pray.”

I leaned over Aaron and just before I shut my eyes, I saw my husband’s arm snake around the driver’s seat to reach me in the back. He held my hand tight and prayer flowed through us, incomprehensible, but given to God in the form of “please,” and “live,” and “not again.”

“Andy, I don’t know…. I don’t like this.”

“It’s really bad, he’s just… not right. This isn’t right.”


“Pull over. We have to call an ambulance.”

My husband pointed out that an ambulance wouldn’t actually get us there much faster.

“Yes, but they have things. Oxygen. Skills. CPR.”

He readily agreed.

When the ambulance arrived and the EMT let me ride in the back with Aaron, I knew Aaron would be okay.

Before that, during the drive, I knew God’s will would be done. Sometimes, though, that doesn’t bring the comfort one might expect. I know firsthand that God’s way is not always my way. That sometimes the path God has for us in this world is painful and full of sorrow. And that sometimes, the EMT won’t let you in the back of the ambulance, and that in those times, you don’t take your son home four hours later.

And that’s where my mind was as we sat in bumper-to-bumper traffic and I listened to Aaron’s ragged breath and watched his eyes glaze. As I put my cool forehead against his hot one and tried to get him to focus on me, to smile, and got nothing in return.

But when we waited on the street corner for the ambulance to arrive, the cool air blowing his hair, Aaron looked around. Smiled a little. Was aware enough to question where we were. He would be fine.

Later: a catheter, a blood draw, a failed IV. My back burned from holding Aaron down while the doctors and nurses did various things to prove him healthy. We ate horrible sandwiches and gave Aaron hospital formula that made him spit up for the next 24 hours. It was miserable.

But to hold those 24 hours, now going on 48, is a beautiful thing.

The first time, the time I didn’t get to ride in the ambulance, there was no blood draw. No catheter or failed IV. We followed from behind and noticed that after the first few blocks, the ambulance turned the siren off. Then the lights. Because there would be no 24- or 48-hours later. Just prayers and pleading. Our pastor looking at me with fear and defeat: “There’s nothing I can do.” This 6’5 man of God, ebony-skinned and deep voiced, stepping back and spreading his weighty but empty hands: “You can’t ask. There’s nothing to be done.”

But this time, just two short days ago, I came home with a stunningly robust 25-pound nine-month-old squirming in my arms. I sat him down and he played, ankle bracelet and gauze still in place. A little fussy, slightly worse for the wear, but breathing. Healthy. Alive.

So no, things don’t always go my way. But faith is not a crutch and life is not always easy. And right now, Aaron is napping. His sister is playing at Grandma’s and his big brother is somewhere doing big brother things. I will gladly take their health and happiness and tantrums and tensions. Even ambulance rides to the ER. Because at the end of the day, I am confident that these three will always come back home. Perhaps a bit beaten and bloody, but alive.

Sometimes a parent just knows.

The homecoming.

The homecoming.

Related post: My Son Jeremy

My Two Americas

In 2005, I worked in the heart of Richmond’s Iron Triangle. I was a single mom at the time, and I often had to take my son to work with me. As he will gleefully tell you, there was at least one time when I sent him to the car, which was parked about 1/4 of a block from the Center, to get something. He had heard stories about the Triangle, and he was frightened. I felt no fear for him, a white boy walking 1/4 of a block. The Center’s kids knew me, knew my son, and were outside of watch him walk to the car. Nonetheless, he was frightened in the few minutes it took to walk there and back. In retrospect, I realize I made the wrong choice, and it is certainly not a choice I would make again.

In the town I lived in at the time, which is about a 10-minute drive from the Iron Triangle, there was an outdoor musical event/town picnic one night of the week for the month of September.

One day after a shooting outside the Center, after I saw several young black men handcuffed and put into the rear of a police truck, I went to the outdoor festival with my son. It was a beautiful night, and we had a great time. As I reflected on the stark contrast between the two events–only a few miles and moments apart in time–I felt compelled to write about it. Yesterday, following the sad outcome of the Treyvon Martin trial, these words came to mind again, and today, 8 years later, I post them here. In 8 years, little to nothing has changed.

My Two Americas

The whole town must have been there:

blankets spread, corners held firm with baskets, rocks found in flower beds.
An elderly couple at a table pulled from their patio,
and shiny-haired children, dancing barefoot in September glow.

I held my breath and waited for the next song to begin,
the small blond boy’s father to pull him from the stage.

So warm, watching these families and their infinite smiles, children
undeniably bright, college bound.

And I thought back two hours—
my work, McDonald Avenue—and saw

corn-rowed boys
face down, hands behind backs, wrists cuffed.
Ten police cars, 20 guns drawn, pointed
at three nappy heads.

I am hit from behind – the boy from the stage –

His father smiles in apology at the miscalculation
of his small son’s steps.

When Your Best Isn’t Good Enough

My best simply isn’t good enough anymore.

No, no. It really isn’t. I’m not fishing for compliments, or advice, or sympathy. I’m just stating the facts, ma’am.

I say the following phrase with increasing frequency: “I’m doing the best I can!” This is usually in response to questions like:

“Why are there no clean towels?”

“Why do I have to borrow Dad’s socks again?”

“What am I supposed to eat? There’s no food in the house!”

And then there are the questions I ask myself:

“Why haven’t you had quiet time today?”

“Why does everything seem so grungy and chaotic?”

“Why am I so snappy with my family when I have so darn much?”

“Why are we eating chicken apple sausage and noodles AGAIN?”

Lately I’ve felt a big, ugly thing inside of me. I don’t have to be a psych major to know what it is: It’s discontent because nothing is how I want it to be.

Common refrains:

“Honey, PLEASE take the kids out today so I can get something done.”

“Honey, PLEASE take Rachel to the Splash Park so I can have a bit of silence and maybe get a shower.”

“Honey, PLEASE help Collin so I can type up this declaration.”

So, even though I’m “doing the best I can,” that “best” seldom seems to include “doing it all,” or hanging out with my kids, who I very much wanted and am so glad to have.

Trust me: this has nothing to do with having a smaller to-do list. I am not trying to scrapbook and reorganize closets and Shop Vac the garage. This is Survival 101. Such as having NO TOWELS, not even dish towels, the other day, so we all had to drip dry after showering. Such as having canned soup and a green lemon from our lemon tree as the only foods in the house. Such as my husband borrowing my underwear because all of his are in the wash (I made that last one up, but not by much). Such as having to store my “active” files on the kitchen counter, right by the CDs of singing vegetables and the “Home Menus and Shopping Lists” binder I haven’t touched in eight months, so I can glance over them while boiling noodles.

Read the rest of today’s post here.

In These Middle Years

The bright and shiny of all the things we wanted – the kids, the dog, the house, the minivan – are dulled by fatigue. By being up for three hours by 8am and and still having read only one email, one verse. By sharing 2.5 cups of coffee with a spoon-wielding princess. By being an introvert who is accompanied by two littles in the bathroom, while a big-little knocks on the door.

We have comforts. We bought a new mattress to make us less tired. It’s fancy, and big, and came with a remote that we share. It lights the room blue at 2am when we wake, hearts pounding, thinking surely we’re supposed to be doing something, anything, other than resting tired bones. Even with a downstairs Nana, a few-blocks-away Gamma, our exhaustion defeats us.

Yesterday I met a woman with one little, another on the way. She has comforts, too. I can tell this by where her house is, where she works, what she wears. I can tell, too, that her comforts don’t make her bright things shiny. She has no Nana downstairs, no Gamma three blocks away. Just a new home, a new town, a long-distance family, and a few short months to go before she’s a mother of two. I want to sit with her, write a list of her needs. Share them with my too-tired mama friends and envelope her with love. But I know that if I were her, and I have been, I would say no. Would go it alone, overwhemed and longing. Determined to make do.

“Mom,” I say, “I am just so tired.”

I know.”

She tells me about her thirties, how every bone ached with exhaustion. How she hallucinated after three days without sleep when my sister was in the hospital. “I remember,” she says, “when we would go to the farm to visit grandpa and I was so tired. I thought I’d never feel rested again.” Even decades after the fact, I can hear the fatigue in her voice.

She had comforts, too, but still her bright things dulled in those middle years, when all we have are edges, stretched thin and yawning into nothing. Dangling our feet over empty, hanging heavy and threatening to burst.

And in this chasm, I read, in a moment almost ignored:

He stretches out the north over empty space;
He hangs the earth on nothing.
He wraps up water in his clouds.
They are heavy, but they don’t burst.
He covers the face of the full moon.
He spreads his clouds over it.
[ ]
Those are only on the edges of what he does.
They are only the soft whispers that we hear from him.
Who then can understand the thunder of his power?
(Job 26:7-9, 14)

Today, when I–

play 7am Frisbee with a princess and a troll;

rock and walk a 21-pound baby for over an hour;

am a fairy godmother in 2-inch heels and ankle socks;

cook things from a box in the oven and pretend they are real;

celebrate new life almost here,

I will dance on the edges, lean in for the whispers, find comfort in the thunder.

Pray other mamas whose feet dangle, alone, do the same.

Doing the Unstuck

Today I took down the streamers.

The balloons have become my daughter’s weapons of war.

The flights from California to Florida, we’re finding, cost more than we feared.

For at least a year after my son quit playing baseball, I cried, just a little, every time I drove by the ball field. I never wanted to stop hating the grass stains.

For four years, I’ve waited for high school to end. To be rid of open campus lunches and rules that don’t work for kids mature beyond their years who are too smart for their own good.

And now, it’s done.


Yes, of course. But there is also a grief I never expected to feel in leaving behind an institution that has brought 6am wake-up calls, 6pm-like-clockwork auto-dialers, and more missed back-to-school nights than I care to admit. Grief in unrealized things and the messiness of life and that odd, ridiculously unnerving feeling that comes when you realize there are no do-overs.

When a part of your life for so long is simply… gone.

A few things remain. We still need to pick up the diploma. Still need the final grade to come in.

Because my son skipped a grade, because he is leaving home for college just three weeks after he turns 17, I feel unnerved. That feeling of knowing you’ve forgotten something but not remembering what. It’s a vague unease, an incompleteness.

I suspect it will soon pass. Soon we will be mired in packing and planning and cross-country trips and U-Hauls. Soon I will be crying and rejoicing for the future, not the past.

For now, I will try my best to learn from yet another unexpected mom-moment, take hope in the power of prayer, the technology of Skype, and a calling plan that includes unlimited texting. Rejoice that my youngest two have more than a decade to go before we head down this messy, surprising, absurdly difficult path all over again.

Week Links #5

Women’s Words

Rebecca Yarros: Dear Boys: We Protect Those Who are Smaller

Jen Hatmaker: Worst End of School Year Mom Ever

Glennon (Video): All I Ever Needed to Know I Learned in the Mental Hospital

Megan Gahan: ReclaimingFemininity

Jen Hatmaker @ Deeper Story: Do Not Stumble on Account of Me

Words for Thought

Jen Hatmaker: Adoption Ethics Part 3

Jennifer Grant’s guest post @ Amy Simpson: See You When I See You

Betty Ann Boeving: A California Climber Takes Up the Trafficking Flight