For As Long As I Can

My mom is 92 years old, and if I’m honest, it’s hard for me to picture a world without her in it.

When she found out she was pregnant with me, the doctor told her she would enjoy having a baby later in life. I think he was right. She loved me fiercely from the very beginning, even though I spent most of my childhood proving I wasn’t going to stay on the short leash she had planned for me.

Over the years, she became my favorite adventure partner. We could turn something as simple as shopping for coffee cups or decorating a room into a day full of laughter. And Lord, did we laugh. The kind of laughing that left tears running down our faces. Daddy would come into the room after trying to sleep and say, “You girls need to settle it down,” and we’d laugh even harder.

My mom has loved her family with her whole heart. She loved my daddy. She loved me. She loved my children and grandchildren. Not because she had to, but because loving her family was as natural as breathing to her. No matter what was happening in life, I always knew she was in my corner.

Now I watch the woman who once seemed larger than life grow tired. Her body doesn’t cooperate the way it used to. Her mind gets weary. And sometimes I look at her and think part of her heart has already started looking toward Heaven, where Daddy is waiting. I understand that. But I don’t like it.

Because no matter how old I am, I’m still her daughter. I’m still the girl who calls her mom. I’m still the girl who wants one more story, one more laugh, one more shopping trip, one more ordinary afternoon together.

I know the day is coming when I’ll have to let her go. But today is not that day. Today I’ll hold her hand a little longer, listen a little closer, and love her a little harder. And when the time finally comes, I won’t be grateful for losing her. I’ll be grateful for having her.

For 92 years, the world has been blessed with my mom. And for my entire life, I’ve been blessed that she was mine.

 

You Were My Cup of Tea, But I Drink Wine Now

I have two ex-husbands, which means I have enough experience to speak on the subject with at least some authority. Not expert-level authority, mind you. More like someone who has touched the hot stove twice and now feels qualified to give safety demonstrations.

The older I get, the more I realize that ex-husbands are a lot like tea. At one point, they seemed like exactly what I wanted. I chose them. I committed to them. I invested years of my life in them. I was absolutely convinced they were the right choice. Then somewhere along the way I discovered that what I thought was a rich, satisfying blend was actually lukewarm tea that had been sitting on the counter too long.

The funny thing about getting older is that your tastes change. At twenty, you’re looking for chemistry, excitement, and somebody who gives you butterflies. At my age, butterflies are suspicious. They usually mean something is wrong. What I’m looking for now is someone who can back a trailer, fix a garbage disposal, carry a heavy box, and not need emotional support when a project takes longer than expected.

When I was younger, I thought potential was attractive. Potential is highly overrated. Potential is just another word for “maybe someday.” I spent enough years around “maybe someday” to know it often turns into “probably not.” These days, I find competence incredibly attractive. A man who knows how to solve problems without creating three new ones? Swoon.

My husband now is good at pretty much everything. It’s honestly a little annoying. If something breaks, he fixes it. If something needs built, he builds it. If I have an idea, he figures out how to make it happen. Meanwhile, I once spent twenty minutes looking for my phone while talking on it. We all have our gifts.

I used to think romance was flowers, candlelight, and handwritten notes. Now I think romance is hearing, “I already took care of it.” That’s it. That’s the whole love language. If a man says, “Don’t worry about it, I fixed it,” I may need to sit down and fan myself.

The truth is, I don’t regret my ex-husbands. They taught me valuable lessons. Mostly expensive lessons, but lessons nonetheless. They helped me figure out what I wanted, what I needed, and what I would never again tolerate. Sometimes the purpose of an ex isn’t to stay in your life. Sometimes their purpose is simply to make you appreciate what comes next.

So yes, they were my cup of tea.

But life is funny. You grow up. You get wiser. Your standards improve. Your taste gets a little more refined.

And these days?

I drink wine now.

When Summer Nights Sound Like Childhood

Summer evenings have a sound all their own.

It’s kids laughing from somewhere three houses down.

Not your kids. Not even kids you know. Just the sound of childhood drifting through the neighborhood from yards away. The sound of games that have no score, bikes with no destination, and imaginations running wild until the porch lights come on.

It’s screen doors opening and closing. The crackle of a backyard fire pit. The hum of crickets taking over for the birds.

Some nights I’ll sit outside and hear those sounds, and they take me right back to being a kid myself. Back when catching fireflies was a perfectly acceptable way to spend an evening and nobody cared what time it was as long as they were home before dark.

The smell of wood smoke drifts through the air. The stars begin showing up one by one. The heat of the day finally lets go, and the whole neighborhood seems to exhale.

For all the things we spend our lives working toward, it’s funny how often the moments we remember are the simplest ones.

Not the promotions.

Not the bigger house.

Not the things we bought.

We remember summer nights.

We remember lawn chairs in the driveway, kids chasing fireflies through the yard, conversations around a fire pit, and the feeling that there was nowhere else we needed to be.

Those moments never seem important while they’re happening. They’re just ordinary evenings.

Until one day you realize those ordinary evenings became some of the best days of your life.

That’s the kind of wealth that doesn’t show up in a bank account.

And every summer, when I hear children laughing somewhere down the street, I’m reminded of just how rich those moments really are.

What Me Time?? You're A Parent Now!

 Alright, hold on to your coffee cups because what I’m about to say might ruffle some feathers. When exactly did this whole “I need me time” mantra become the anthem of adulthood? I mean, seriously, where did all these “woe-is-me, I-can’t-handle-it, life-is-hard” vibes come from? Don't you understand the assignment? Once you’ve got your own kids, or your own family, the concept of “me time” takes a backseat faster than a toddler spotting a candy aisle.

Look, life shifts gears once you step into the adult realm. Your “free time” is now spent cleaning the house you work 40 hours a week to afford. Your evenings? They’ve been overrun by little league games and recital rehearsals. And that mythical “me time” everyone keeps chasing? Guess where that is found? That was me sitting on the dryer, sneaking a few pages of a romance novel between laundry cycles. Glamorous, right?

Raising a family isn’t some choose-your-own-adventure game where you skip to the restful chapter. It’s life on loop with a soundtrack of “Mom, can I have?” and “Dad, where’s my?” The job description is clear: housework, kids, activities, repeat. “Me time” didn’t get the memo. But hey, those nighttime moments, when everyone else was asleep and I finally got to slide into bed? That was as good as it got, and honestly, it wasn’t half bad.

Now here’s the thing, and yes, this is the part where I grab the mic for a reality check. If you’re raising a family, congrats, you’ve signed up for a 24/7 gig with zero PTO. There aren’t extra hours hiding somewhere in the day; believe me, I’ve checked. It’s not about you anymore. It’s about the people you’re raising. And every time you moan about needing “me time,” your kids hear it. Loud and clear. The message you’re sending? That they’re some kind of burden. Ouch, right?

Here’s the deal, my fellow adults-in-training. It’s time to ditch the melodrama, lace up your big-kid shoes, and step onto the field you willingly signed up for. Parenting is chaos. It’s messy, exhausting, and relentless. And yet, those crumb-covered kisses, those sticky hugs, that moment when your kid lights up because you’re there? That’s the music. Time to stop fighting the beat and start dancing to it.