• Oh Emma Oh Kate,  Parenting

    This picture cost me $20.

    I don’t post many pictures of my kids on social media. It isn’t because I don’t want others to know what my kids look like or I’m trying to protect their digital footprint. I am in a unique position when it comes to social media – I have public accounts. Anyone can look at my Facebook page, Instagram page or Twitter page. We don’t necessarily have to be “friends.” I made those public because it’s a platform to showcase my work. I’m a writer. And to be honest, an Instagram account with pictures of my kids would be boring to everyone but me. It’s the same concept as handing someone…

  • Parenting

    Henry.

    I don’t want to write this. I don’t want a lot of things but I especially don’t want to write this. I suppose when you need the right words, you turn to a writer. That’s me. A writer. My name is Julie. My parents are Tom and Abbie. I have three younger siblings – Jessica, Jon, and Jenna. Jenna. I met Jenna when I was in Kindergarten. I remember the day she was born. I remember waiting in the waiting room with my two siblings and my aunt Mary. A male nurse ran in to tell us my mom had her baby. I asked if I had a brother or…

  • Oh Emma Oh Kate,  Parenting,  Womanhood

    The birth of Kate.

    Good evening. It’s May 7, 2017. Kate is eight years old today. It’s story time here on the blog. I can’t think of a better story than the birth of Kate. I’ve never written Kate’s birth story. I’m a little surprised at this because birth stories are one of those staple stories we, as parents, tell one another. Placentas, foot-long needles to the spine, a smear of poo on your baby as it slides out – I mean, there’s no filter when it comes to birth stories. No, I didn’t poo on Kate. Before I begin the story, I will tell you I am feeling more pain now than I did…

  • A to Z Challenge,  Humor,  Parenting

    The letter P.

    You guys, I fell asleep writing this last night. I kinda want to leave it how it is because it slowly doesn’t make any sense which is exactly how life goes. I won’t do that to you. I’m re-writing P. And now I have Q to write today too and this is the point where I regret starting this A to Z writing challenge. I struggled with P yesterday. P is inappropriate – penis, poop, period, puberty, pimples. P is boring. Pregnant. Oh, hell no. Pinterest. Meh. Purple. I don’t know. Pancakes! I suck at turning pancakes. There. That’s all I have on pancakes. I decided to go with the mother of all…

  • Parenting,  Womanhood

    Relax.

    It’s called chivalry. A gentleman should always hold the door open for a lady. A gentleman should offer his jacket if a lady gets cold. Is chivalry dead? Not unless the woman kills it. I can open the door myself, thank you.  The person that gets to the door first should hold the door open for the following person. Regardless of gender, anyone that wants to give up their coat for a someone that is cold is simply a nice person. Or maybe they’re just hot. It’s a new era. The 2017 etiquette for men has new rules. One rule, really. Flowers are always nice. No, forget the flowers. The one rule: never say the word relax.  I take that back – you can say…

  • Parenting

    I judged a mom today.

    I judged a mom today. I did. I judged another mother. Treat others how you want to be treated. Don’t judge a person before you’ve walked a mile in their shoes. Yeah, I know. I still did it. My jaw dropped. She probably heard my teeth slam together in an effort not to show my judgement. I didn’t confront her. I didn’t say a word. She wasn’t harming her daughter in any way I could see – other than her tween daughter will hate her in a few years and leave as soon as she’s 18. I’m judging again. I’ll stop. I took Emma to the orthodontist. Some parents sit in the receptionists’ waiting area…

  • NaBloPoMo,  Parenting

    No, thank you.

    I thought I was in the clear for a few years. Scott and I are deep into the school-age years of parenting. It’s the years some might call the “honeymoon of parenting.” These are the years when the kids are independent enough to make their own dinner or take a shower yet aren’t old enough to roll their eyes and take off in their car. Hm, honeymoon. “A honeymoon is the traditional holiday taken by newlyweds to celebrate their marriage in intimacy and seclusion.” This ain’t no honeymoon.  This is re-living your childhood. I don’t have any memory of being an infant or toddler. I barely remember kindergarten or even life-changing events like my siblings being…

  • NaBloPoMo,  Parenting

    You can’t always get what you want.

    My child. My sweet baby, my pumpkin pie – we need to have a chat. Sometimes in life, you can’t always get what you want. “But if you try sometimes you just might find…you’ll get what you need. Awww yeah.” By The Rolling Stones. Remember that. Sorry, I got off topic with music lyrics. I heard you took a class vote yesterday. And you weren’t too happy with how the class voted. I understand. I don’t like it when that happens either. But that’s no reason for you to throw a tantrum. That is no reason to scream at your fellow classmates for being wrong. There’s no wrong or right…

  • Parenting,  Womanhood

    Screw you, anonymous.

    I couldn’t sleep last night. There were monsters under my bed. Ok, that’s not true. They were in my phone. Fine. More like monsters in my head only they weren’t monsters. They were people yelling at me. People named anonymous. These people read the New York Times article, Why I Decided to Stop Writing About My Children. I don’t know why I read the comments. Internet rule number one: never read the comments. It takes thick skin to read what anonymous has to say. I couldn’t sleep last night because my thin skin got a paper cut. I read the comments because I am this article. The author admits she screwed up. She’s…

  • Parenting

    It never rains on her birthday.

    “Mom! UGH! It’s says strong thunderstorms on my birthday!” Emma turned 10 years old on Tuesday. May 24th at 12:05 in the afternoon. It never rains on her birthday. Ten is just another birthday to her. In one of those ten years – I can’t figure out which one – presents switched from princess clothes and tiaras to books and nail polish. She recieved more clothes than she would probably care for. But maybe that is how we raised her. I was never a mom to dress her up in dresses and bows. And what is 10 years to her anyway? She won’t appreciate her birthday until the privileges come with them.…