My kids are professional sign makers. Or at least they should be. They’ve been making signs since a mass shooting in their hometown made Newtown a household name. They made signs for Hartford to March for Change in February 2013, just two months after the Sandy Hook massacre, the pinnacle of creating Connecticut’s smart, safe gun legislation. They made signs to stand outside National Shooting Sports Foundation, don’t let
This week has been very productive for banging the keyboard. Not pay wise, but advocacy wise. Does it make a difference? I like to think so, and doing nothing is not an option. Everybody’s a writer, but not everyone writes what others want to read, you know, on the beach. Or a long flight. Or waiting in line at parent pick-up. This week, for example, I put pen to paper,
I got an email from an old neighbor from some 20 years ago. Twenty. Way back when I was the young mom in Bath Ohio, had three kids under three feet tall, pregnant with the fourth, and desperate for a good babysitter and her daughter came to our rescue. Back in 1999, Columbine happened and I sat, pregnant, crying, staring at the tv, wondering how in the world a kid could
I don’t have a scale in our house. Maybe it’s because we raised 3 and a half daughters and all the emphasis on weight and numbers for girls is soul crushing and I decided long ago I wasn’t gonna have any part of it. But then again, I don’t remember having a scale in my house growing up either. Maybe because my dad was fat – really fat – and
Starting off the New Year with a long list of goals is a recipe for failure. Dry January? Who does such a thing? If one more person says, “I’m on a cleanse” I’m gonna cleanse all over their shoes. Just don’t. At least not in January. Why start life changing habits on one of the longest, coldest, darkest months of the year? 31 days of the gym? No thank you.
Oh, ’tis the season of senior year, when college acceptances come in the form of exciting emails with pomp and circumstance and virtual confetti, and big fat envelopes jammed into old school mailboxes. Proud parents post their boast about overachieving spawn’s ability to get into the college of their dreams and receive an umpteen million dollar scholarship. Parents often don’t mention they shelled out thousands (read THOUSANDS) of dollars to
Can you separate life into its appropriate sections and keep your emotion in each designated compartment, like an invisible fence with big dog wattage? Not sure who deems what appropriate, but let’s just say designating mundane stuff like work and family. Sex and politics. Money. Racism. Parenting. Real parenting, not the bragfest people put on Facebook. The life we’re not supposed to talk about cuz ne’er shall the paths cross,
Discovered my list of goals for 2017 and well, um, yeah. That. A year ago I got on my high horse and touted the benefits of writing things down to make them happen and had every intention of following through, and was even off to a good start with a CT Press Club Best Personal Blog in Connecticut prize and as a BlogHer Voice of the Year honoree. Plus, I basically flashed my boobs