First and foremost, I would like to know how in the actual Hell does that happen 👆? Socks are not sold separately. They are a pair, but I’m pretty sure the sock divorce rate is double that of adult humans. Maybe half of all of these socks are with a new family just trying to blend in somewhere. Who knows?!

Raising a blended family is sometimes like having a basket of mismatched socks. Relax. Hear me out. I love all of my misfit sock children, and happen to be one myself. We are all so different but, in our case at least, want so badly to navigate this journey called life as one unit. From the very beginning of our relationship, “step” and “half” have not been words that we use often. Our children are siblings and we have three of them. We don’t hide the fact that our kids have “other parents”, but most don’t assume that, because of the way we interact with one another. “They” are “our” responsibility and that is the key to keeping our unit strong.

​Nothing grinds my gears more than to see someone expecting to have a happy blended home life with young children, and at the same time drawing a line in the sand regarding whose is whose and what’s is what’s. My “stepfather” is my dad. He raised me to be the parent I am today to ALL of my kids. Blended families are WORK. Rewarding work, but work nonetheless. I feel the same way about marriage, but that’s another blog for another time, my friend. Maybe a day when I’m not annoyed at SP Fox for training our four year old to remind me every day how shitty of a driver I am. Kidding, SPF (oh man! I just realized his nickname initials are the same as sunscreen 😊 I like it even more now.), I would agree you are just a hair better than I, but only because I am unable to back in a trailer. Now THAT was a disaster! When a perfect stranger has to get in your truck to back a trailer in the water, perhaps you should try another part of the boat removal process. I digress.

It is difficult to explain to the tiniest terrorist why her sister has a different mom, or her bubs has a different dad. I’m still working on how to make that make sense in her oh- so-distorted little brain. Judge me... go ahead. If you’ve ever met that little crazy pants, then you would agree that some of the shit she says is off the wall and she could very well be a real live Boss Baby. We cross our bridges when we get to them, but one thing never changes... our bridges always go the same way. When blending a family, there is NO room for doubt. If only every parent really took that into consideration when walking down the isle, then the stigma that is a wicked stepmother or an asshole stepfather would be almost no more. There’s a bad Jell-O shot in every batch (usually the last one IMO).

I am not tooting my own horn, or even saying that we are doing it exactly right, because Lort only knows what that means. I am just saying that in order to make this CRAZY life work, we have to be all in. Unlike all those damn socks that I can’t part with that have been single for at least a year now! Get on Match, bitches! Aren’t you lonely?!?

#theanxietymom #coparenting #stepparenting #blendedfamily #thingstoworkon

Okay, friends. It’s time to get real. Like really real. I’ll start...

Why is it that every time I sneeze, I pee myself a little?! I’ll tell you why! It’s those two youngest little angels of ours that were apparently wielding samurai swords on their way into this world. I’m not sure what they did to my old bladder, but I’d like it back. I know that much.

I appreciate the miracle of child birth just as much as the next gal, don’t get me wrong. Before you go getting all mad because I am slandering the miracle that is shoving a person out of your Britney, don’t. Just relax. I do realize that without that miraculous event, none of our little angels would even be here (whether YOU birthed them yourself or not)... and that makes it special. I don’t use the term “beautiful” because, having gone two rounds with those little ninjas, I know for certain that process is NOT a thing of “beauty”.

I just want to keep it real for the expectant moms out there who think they are going to check in to L&D like they are going on a weekend getaway at Chateau Elan. Listen up, youngins!

Congratulations! You’re pregnant! Now what? I’ll tell you what. First things first... you are now practically narcoleptic. Might want to invest in a helmet and a Snuggie because I am not kidding when I say that early stages of pregnancy make you want to fall over and take a nap right in the Target maternity isle. I’d hate for you to hit your head on the table of stretchy pants on the way down, so the helmet is key. Also, you are now the most sensitive person in the world. “Why did you look at me like that, Pete? You don’t love me anymore?!” 😭 “Damnit, Barb! Don’t you know I’m a human faucet over here?! Stop sending me military homecoming videos and biggest loser transformation stories on the emails! Gah!” Don’t worry mama, you’ll get your sanity back. Only 8 months to go! Mwahahahaha.

Now you’ve been cooking that baby for a few weeks and you start to pack on the pounds! Sound advice... ready... that child is the size of a Lima bean. You are NOT eating for two lumberjacks, although you may be hungry enough for that. Put the effing Pop Tarts down!! Trust me on this. S’mores pop tarts are doing nothing for the growing child in your womb or for the size of your growing ass. You’re in that weird stage where it’s hard to tell if you’ve been stress eating or are, in fact, knocked up.

​Sidebar:: Man! I could really go for a S’mores pop tart right now. #momproblems #ketoproblems #dontjudgeme #ijuststartedmydiettoday. Don’t get it twisted! Those junk food cravings don’t stop just because the baby comes. You’ll be fighting that sweet tooth for life, girlfriend! And I dare you not to eat one chicken nugget out of the air fryer as you make their plates when you’re too lazy to really cook. Double. Dog. Dare. I digress.

Second trimester is finally here! Boy or girl? You feel like a million bucks! You are obviously pregnant and your boobs are finally coming in. This may not be so bad after all. Hold on mama, here comes the boom. Boom! Your mind was just blown! Why, you ask? I’ll tell ya. Because you just got hit with the real talk that you are about to be in charge of another human life for. ev. er. If he doesn’t eat - your fault. If he doesn’t sleep - all your fault. If he gets sick - you shouldn’t have vaccinated/breastfed/co-slept/daycared/insert soapbox here. You young mamas need to brace yourselves for the judgement that comes along with raising little people. Thicken that skin, pretty girl, it’s a jungle out there!! 🦓🐆🐅

Phase three. You’re huge. You’re hot. You pee every five minutes because your once flat tummy is now another person’s very own SkyZone. You have an interesting gait these days, some might even describe it as a waddle. Your ankles have taken a vacation (don’t worry... you’ll get those back soon!). You’re leaking out of your tatas anytime anyone starts crying. You’re almost to the finish line! Enjoy cuddling that body pillow now, because the next phase is smelly diaper butts in your face, while all you wanted was an afternoon nap with your sweet baby angel.

Whether you home birth,water birth,no meds,ALL the meds 🙋‍♀️, adopt, or however you choose to bring that bundle of joy into the world... don’t ever forget that he or she is your person now, and will change your life forever. My mom has taught me to always make time... And my wish for you, young mama, is to do just that. Pick them up, listen to them, go on the field trip, sign them up for sports, eves drop on them any chance you get, and last but not least, take it from me, don’t forget to cross your legs EVERY time you sneeze. #subtlereminders of the longest and most rewarding year of your life! ❤️

#theanxietymom #realtalk #FYIimNOTpregnant

The word “Jesus” in our house means a lot, but maybe a little more than it should lately. Hear me out...

”Jesus! I think I broke my arm.” (I did.)

”I pray to the Lort my intoxicated self did not just get a concussion on our trampoline!” (I did.)

”Jesus of Nazareth, child! Where are your shoes?!?”
”Jesus of Necklaces, Mommy! I. Don’t. Know!!!”

”Lort help her if she gets out of that bed one more time.” (She did. Teagan is the thirstiest camel this side of the Sahara when bed time rolls around.)

”With JC as my witness, if that damn dog pooped in the office again, I’m going to lose my shit!!!!!” (She did. And I did.)

All. Unacceptable. It hit me like a ton of bricks the other day when our youngest terrorist (3, white female, wanted for: messy room, sassy ass mouth, wearing her shoes on the wrong feet - 100% of the time, and now using the Lord’s name in vain) was trying to get from one boat to another during a family day on the lake. (Relax... we knew them. It wasn’t like the sketchy ice cream boat or anything.) She kept muttering something under her breath and sure as a redneck eats Spam, that child was saying “Jeezzzuuussss. Jeezzzuuussss.” I immediately knew this was my doing.

I have TONS of anxiety (duh), and I may be just a skosh dramatic, and I absolutely use the Lord’s name in vain on a regular basis. Lord, I apologize, and be with the starving (oh wait... that joke’s taken. I may be a sinner, but a plagiarizer I am not). I digress. Usually (aka always) when I use those types of phrases it is because I am late, stressed, or hangry. My anxiety is not debilitating, mostly because of Dr. Prozac, but the last thing I want to do to my little mini me is create an environment where EVERYTHING is end of the world and stresses her out, and subsequently give her the stress I feel on a daily basis. I have to do better. I have to be better. Otherwise I’ll get reported to DFCS when she starts needing a good Pinot to wind down after a stressful day at the Primrose Pre-K.

I have recently read the most life changing book. It is called “Girl, Wash Your Face”, by Rachel Hollis. That woman is not only a wordsmith, but a God send to anyone who is lucky enough to read her work. Do yourself a favor, ladies. Get it on Audible and listen during carpool/commute/fake trips to the grocery store just for some sanity/whatever! I mention this book because before I read it, upon realizing that I am a terrible influence on my child when it comes to swearing by the Lord, I would have beat myself up so bad and dwelled on the negative, instead of making a conscious effort to change it. You can’t change the shit that happened yesterday. You can only do better today. So that’s what I’ll do. I can’t promise she won’t hear a curse word this week, but I can promise that I will try harder to make her understand when and how we talk about Jesus and why it matters.

#thingstoworkon #theanxietymom #girlwashyourface #rachelhollisisamazing

Buckle up, friends. I have held this in for six long months, debating if I was ever going to share it with anyone. I feel like it is my duty as a woman to share this cautionary tale with you, so here goes nothing.

It was a cold dreary day in December. With Christmas craziness and the obligatory 97 different “holiday” parties to attend, “me time” was falling through the cracks. But one day, a Christmas miracle straight from tiny baby Jesus happened. I found myself with an unexpected two hours where I had to be no where by any certain time. Where did I go, you wonder? Luxury Nail, duh. These cuticles needed some attention and I was too tired to do it myself. This is where the real Nightmare Before Christmas began...

I pulled up and saw they had a permanent sign on the window that said “facial”. I said: “Self... don’t be so judge mental. The sign wouldn’t be permanent if it wasn’t something they did all the time. You could be missing out on the greatest secret since Brazilian waxing” (another blog for another time). We can tell by the title of this blog that I was wrong, but I was just trying to be more open minded. So I asked Tammy when I walked in if I could get a “mani/pedi/and uh... (pointing at the sign) do you do facials?” Boy do I wish I had a screenshot of Tammy’s face when I said that. Should have been a dead giveaway.

After realizing I was making a huge mistake, I should have just said nevermind and that I didn’t have time for all three services. But no. I’m what they call a yes lady, a people pleaser, a real pushover I tell ya. So I was in too deep and going through with whatever the “esthetician” had in store for me. I mean, my pores were the size of Texas so what was there to lose?! 🤦‍♀️

I went back into the room. There was a furry zebra blanket on the massage table and a boom box cut into the corner of the ceiling. The scariest thing in the room wasn’t the children’s socks and toys on the floor, or the Caboodle sitting next to the sink. It was the steamer on the counter that looked like something I had definitely seen at the Wal-Marts on clearance before. I asked Kim (no I am not being racist, that was her name) if it was perhaps a clothes steamer and not a face steamer? She assured me it was for face. Well shit! Here we go! Yes lady can’t back out now!

I laid down after taking my shirt off (standard for a facial - but there was no way in hell I was losing my bra in that joint) and the torture commenced. It started with a heavy cream with a very familiar smell... hmmmm.... I know it! Oil of Olay. But the knock off kind. Target brand I presume. The “spa service” included lots of slapping and pinching and scalding me with a clothes steamer, with the occasional “you has no wrinkles because I do this to your eyes”. Um, bish I has no wrinkles because I get it from my mama, thanks very much. Don’t take credit for good genes, Kim.

Then it happened. She told me to roll over. I said to my self: “Self... don’t do that.” And immediately followed that little lady’s orders and went face down. She then unhooked my bra and gave me the worst back massage of my life (and I’ve lived with three toddlers so I am a fair judge of shitty massages. I love their guts though. I digress.)

I was lucky I still had on pants, because what happened next, my friends, was nothing short of sexual assault. That tiny Asian woman took her tiny Asian hands and smacked them on the cheeks of my more than tiny ass! I wish I had a screenshot of my face at that magical moment! Then she started shaking it violently back and forth. Kind of like when the pedicure chair goes haywire and makes it look like you are having a seizure when you are just trying to read what the Housewives are bitching about on Twitter. What makes nail salon owners think we like to be shaken like a salt shaker while trying to relax?! Anyways, back to the fiasco at hand. After some chop chop chops down the back of my legs she said to roll back over, put some foot cream on my face and in my hair and sent me on my way. I felt bamboozled. And my dumbass paid only $10 less than what I would have at any real spa for that shit!!

I stole a writing pen to pen to put my greasy, coconut paradise-smelling hair up, put my shirt on, snooped in her Caboodle (I was right! Target of Olay!) and walked out of the room. I have never counted to 60, 60 times before that experience. Longest hour of my life. So what did i do next? Sat down with Tammy and got a manicure because I felt like it shouldn’t be her fault that Kim slept her way through cosmetology school.

Luxury Nail got me good that day, but I can guarantee you they will never have me again. Instead of beating myself up for being a dumbass and not being bold enough to stand up for myself, I am considering this event research and development. You don’t know what you don’t know and now I am able to share my story with all of you. I hope you got a laugh and a lesson out of this one!

#theanxietymom #nailsalon #facial #notthesame #dontrollover

Every parent with multiple children has one, I’m convinced, that gives them a run for their money and keeps them on their toes. Mine is the baby, thank the Lort, or she would possibly be the only. Hold the judgement, please. I didn’t say that I don’t love her or that I would change one thing about her... I just mean she is a little more spirited than the older children. Don’t call DFCS on me. She gets food, baths, and honest to goodness every damn thing she ever asks for. That face. I can’t. (Yes I said it and I say it all the time! Move on.) Here are a few examples of how she likes to shake shit up around the Jones casa...

I went to Bunco the other evening. Sidebar:: Yes ladies, we are that age and if you aren’t part of a Bunco group then you are missing the party train. Think I’m joking? I’m not. Our husbands think we are going to throw dice and gossip, and we are really eating junk food, shooting fireball, talking shit, and trying to remember what number we are trying to throw and if we are trying to win or lose for the evening (even losers win at Bunco). I digress... back to mini Britney. I come home from Bunco a few hours later to find my youngest sticking feminine pads to the walls in the powder room.... like a ton of them! She was so proud. “Look Mommy! I did some art!” All the while, dad is upstairs yelling at 12 year olds on the headset playing call of duty. The older kids were entertained. Hell, I’dve let her do it too if I didn’t know how much that paint cost! My big kids have learned that with Bird (aka “her”) we have to pick our battles. And I was too busy acting like a college kid with Helen and Carol to be there to regulate.

She is definitely the most adventurous one of the brood. We were leaving for school the other day, after it took me an hour of negotiations with the terrorist to get her to wake up and get her shit together, and I opened the garage door per the usual. Something caught my eye in the garage and I paused to look... next thing I know, mini Mary Poppins is holding onto the ledge of the bottom of the garage door riding it all the way to the top. Not scared at all! Her response (in her normal British accent... we will get to that): “What mummy, I was just going up up up?!” Nothing like a heart attack and an anxiety day dream of your kid cutting off her arm in a garage door to make you confident in pulling out of the driveway and tackling your day. From swinging from the kitchen light (which has happened more than once) to using the back of the couch to get down (every time... I’m pretty sure she thinks our house is the American Ninja Warrior course and Evan and I are the commentators) that little nut keeps us on high alert with the doctor on speed dial and a defibrillator handy (for me) at ALL times!

The most recent topic of conversation regarding the Teagan follies is the new accent she has picked up from the “hi-pad”. This child LOVES Peppa Pig 🐷. So much so that she occasionally refers to me as “mummy pig” (you can imagine how that must make this momma feel) and her dad as “daddy pig”. Everything she says these days sounds like a spice girl. She randomly oinks and says things like: “When IIIIII was a little piggy, I used to eat bahbecue!” Oy vey. Not only is she certifiable, now she is a cannibal too?! Whether she is telling me that she needs to take a sleep, or that she would like to ring her grandmother, the accent never fades. I think the best, though, was when SP Fox was practicing his pony tail skillz and she was wiggling all around. He told her to stop it because it was not funny. Her reply (in full character, of course): “It’s a BIT funny, dadday.” I’ve got to get this kid an agent.

When we tell people the ages of our children, usually the next question is “Oh, how are the big kids with the little one?” The real question is how do they tolerate her bossy, crazy, English toddler self?! The answer to that is simple, though. That child has a heart of gold. She lights up a room with every joke and “good idea” she has! She is the perfect finale for our blended little family and life just wouldn’t be the same without her in it. I love her guts and wouldn’t change her crazy ass for anything!

Wish me luck, friends, I have to open the garage door tomorrow to get out again.

#needmorewine #raisingaBrit #theanxietymom

For any of my reader friends who don’t know... my mom has ALS. And it sucks. Bad. To compare this journey to a rollercoaster ride is an understatement at best. At times I wish I could take her place, and then I feel guilty for that because I have children and a husband whom I love very much, and can’t imagine their lives without their crazy mama/wife. Other times I am trying to get my doctorate on WebMD to cure ALS and Lyme’s disease (yes, technically she has both?? What kind of bullshit is that?!?). I wrote a letter to an organization that has done so much research, begging for help today. I don’t understand and I am desperate.

“Sometimes bad things happen to good people” they say. “It’s part of His plan” I hear often. Sayings like that are like daggers in my heart. Obviously I know bad shit happens to good people. I kind of feel like my family wrote the book on that one to be honest. I’m not talking about myself. I’m talking about the most wonderful and respected people in my tribe, my mother and her father (who passed in April).

I worked with my mom before she got sick. She has hundreds of clients that love her dearly, and have subsequently loved me as well. For that I am very grateful. I took over the company and am doing everything I can to find my way through the new normal of my career (don’t panic, A+Tax is still there and doing just fine 😉). If I didn’t work there, though, then work would be an escape for me each day. A welcomed distraction. Instead, it has turned I to a place where I give updates to every caring person who walks through the door or calls on the phone, and walk away quietly wiping tears thinking about all she is going through and praying for a miracle. All while doing the job of two people. My coworkers are amazing in comforting me during those times, and for that I appreciate them that much more!

I get asked how I am doing a lot. The answer is that I am broken. My wings are clipped. I am sad. My heart is crushed as it was in April and as it was 12 years ago this past February, when my only sibling tragically died in a canoe accident. When is enough enough? Why THOSE people? We don’t know. It is what it is... right now. My husband has been my rock and I am so thankful to have him by my side. My Dad has been incredible and I can only hope if I were in that situation I would get the same quality of care. People who I never would have imagined have reached out and that means so much to me! I am tired of lying to people and saying I am good, but I have to.

​This is my outlet to say how I really feel. I will be okay. I know that because it really is part of HIS plan, and bad things really do happen to good people. Sometimes you just want the plan to be different and you wish you weren’t the good people that bad shit is happening to.

#theanxietymom #reallife

This struggle is real life. Kids and tablets are such a bad combo... or not? My threenager is OBSESSED with the “hapad”. Morning, noon, and night I am reassuring her that it is unharmed on top of the refrigerator, and after some good behavior it can be allllll hers for an undetermined amount of time. (Depends on how productive I want to be.) That conversation ultimately leads to a laying on the floor, kicking, screaming fit that usually contains the words: “I never get my hapad!!!” and “You’re not my best friend anymore... daddy is!!!”. 👈 The ultimate mom slam. Especially coming from a daughter. Girl, if it weren’t for me you’d be wearing turtlenecks with ballet tights and combat boots to school. Don’t forget who styles your sassy ass, ya little diva.

There are some times when the tablet is a God-send. Like in a restaurant when the kitchen is “backed up” because there are 14 people in the building right now. Or at a winter concert for your 5th grader when you have to sit through the entire 2 hour performance to see your little angel ding finger sized bells at the end. To the Stepford mom who gave me side eye for giving in to my toddler’s demands and letting her watch strange videos of other people’s children opening shitty McDonalds toys during the performance: Merry Christmas to you from row 25. You would have never been able to hear your darling Chloe sing that traditional Kenyan holiday song like Britney Spears over the fake cries coming from my little terrorist so..... You’re Welcome!!! And if you think for one second I am getting a sitter for this event, you. are. high.

**Sidebar: Our gal was the most beautiful and talented bell dinger I ever did see 🛎. “Happy Holidays from Near and Far” was a magical experience. We went around the world in two hours thanks to the creative genius behind that production!**

On the flip side... that contraption is the damn devil!! My child eats, sleeps, and breathes that “hapad”, and every day around the Jones crib is a negotiation over screen time. What happened to a good ol’ fashioned board game?! It makes me feel like a bad parent when she refuses to eat her dinner unless she gets her 15 minutes of weirdest videos ever made. People make money off of that shit!?!

If anyone knows the trick to make her more interested in real things than the Daddy Finger song, then feel free to share. If you don’t know what that is, google it. So effing weird. And if you are going to chime in... keep your “you shouldn’t have let her watch it in the first place” theory to yourself. That can has already been opened and cannot be closed, and like I said before, it is a necessary evil at times. To all of the parents going through the same struggle: Hang in there!! You aren’t alone.

#theanxietymom #thingstoworkon #thestruggleisreal

Now that the pain meds are out of my system... I’d like to share a little story to make my friends feel better about getting older. Let’s set the scene...

It was Saturday night, we had a sitter for the kids, and the best 80’s rock tribute band in town was playing at one of our favorite spots!! What could go wrong?!

A lot. A lot could go wrong, actually.

Wearing a cute and reasonably short dress, my most bitchin’ jean jacket (yes... I have more than one), and the most wreckless wedges I could find in my closet... I. Was. Pumped. I would have crimped my hair, but I broke my crimper last month before I hosted 80’s bunco at our crib. Sad news, I know. I hope I get a replacement for Christmas. 🤞I digress. We called the uber and headed to the venue!

”Excuse me? No seats? Standing room only?” Not a problem!! I planned to dance the night away anyhow. We headed to the 5’ x 5’ “pit” at the front of the stage, where EVERYONE could see our sweet moves. All of them. Two drinks and a quart sized lemon drop shot later, our moves were getting better... and bigger. My girlfriend and I bumped shoulders and “oopsies!!” I spilled a little of my drink on the floor. I hoped no one saw that. Little did I know that I was about to banana peel slip on that “little” amount of what is believed to have been a vodka Diet Coke and bust my big 80’s-born ass in front of ALL of the folks fortunate to get seats that evening. Brett Michaels down, friends!! Arm. Broken. Audience. Flashed. (I told you my dress was short.)

I, like many, have the wonderful reaction to extreme pain of passing out cold. Happened twice before they could get me to the restaurant side of the venue where we could assess the damage. While the rude ass lady who works there continued to chant “oh look at her passing out... she’s obviously wasted”, my husband and friends called in the county’s finest. CCFD. Thank you for your attentiveness and kindness after this unfortunate moonwalking incident. To the ass hat that was more worried about a lawsuit than the new shape my arm had taken in the 20 mins it took for our next uber to get there... I wish I knew who you were. Things were a little fuzzy during “Nothin’ but a Good Time”.

**Sidebar:: We took an uber to the hospital because I learned my lesson last time taking an ambulance when I should have found alternative transportation. Ambulances must be made of Ivory or something, because those bills, my friends, are highway robbery!!**

The driver that took us to the hospital was driving like Cruella DeVille, which made my slightly inebriated husband get the spinnies, but once we got checked in and clarified who we were there for, things started to improve. (SP Fox was throwing up and they thought he was the patient). The nurses were fantastic, doc was a little strange, but all in all an okay experience. X-rays delivered the worst news a tax preparer can get during extension season. Broken radius, wrist joint broken AND dislocated, and surgery required for plates and pins to put my dumbass back together again ASAP. I practically Tonya Harding’ed myself before the tax Olympics.

I swallowed the news and any extra morphine they would give me, and we took the nastiest, smelliest, most uncomfortable taxi ride in the history of taxi rides home at 5AM. Like french fries and bugs in the front seat nasty. To the Woodstock Cab Company... time to step up the standards, friends. Pretty sure the driver was more messed up than I was at that moment.

Surgery went well. Surgeon was a Dawgs fan, our age, and nothing like the ER doc (guy literally looked 13 years old and was such a strange bird). The dust is settled, the bruise on my ego is a faded green color now. Work is going alright, thanks to wonderful coworkers! I’ll be back in action before ya know it. Probably gonna wear flats next time, though. We aren’t spring chickens anymore, friends!!

Takeaway from this unfortunate event: Keep on dancing, just be more careful while doing it!! Stay safe out there, my fellow concert loving friends!

#gettingolder #theanxietymom #gettingboniva #eatcalcium #poison #nothingbutagoodtime ... and a broken arm.

Everyone has a story. Whether your parents are here or there, or you lost someone close to you, each and every one of us has a story. My story is a little colorful. Some people may disagree, but sometimes I feel like I got a lackluster version of the "American Dream". Those that look on from the outside see a girl who got straight A's in school and a senior who had the talent to try out anywhere to be a college cheerleader. I got a brand new car for graduation, a paid tuition to anywhere I wanted to go, and life, looking in, has been breezy ever since.

Let's rewind. I think it is important to express just what my life was as a child, before I point the finger at some folks, whom probably had no idea what was coming to them. Luckily, I grew up in the gym. 5 days and 20 hours a week that was my home. I liked it there. It was less dramatic. No eggshells to walk on. My mom is, and always has been, a strong woman, who used to be blinded by "love". (Who hasn't been?) Do I think my bio dad loved her? Probably so. Do I think she loved him? Yes. He was a smooth talker who had been taught by a smooth talker, who has since found the Lort, and changed his smooth-talking ways.

My. Bio-Dad. Is a character. Not one of which I strive to be like. He is excitable, much like myself. He loves a good party and tells a mean fish story. He would likely say the same about me. We have a very back and forth, love and dislike, relationship. He hates how I am just like my mother... and I love how I am just like my mother. He hates her. I love everything about her.

When I was 9, the man I would know to be my "raise-me" Dad came into the parent picture. When my bio dad was cursing and slamming my mom, Kip (her soon-to-be husband), was lifting her up as I had hoped a spouse would do someday for me. I, 20 something years later, after having had a practice marriage of my own... knowing what it is to compete for the love of my own child, was bound and determined to set a different standard for my child's life. I knew I didn't want him to grow up in what I went through and my son's dad, being the man that he is, wouldn't want that either, so we have (to the best of our ability) done what is best for our child. My husband loves my son, and his father's wife loves him too, and I couldn't wish for anything more.

**Sidebar- my son's stepmother and stepfather are two of the best things that could ever happen to him. I am so thankful for the love they have for him and the commitment they have for our families to be united. I hope that they know that.**

Truth is... in high school, as a college level athlete, I wouldn't go away to college, because I was afraid of what my boyfriend would say. (Now he doesn't matter, but back then his opinion mattered way too much.) My only sibling died in a freak accident that was solely the teacher's responsibility. I have more unresolved issues about this situation than imaginable. I undervalued myself as a young adult, because of the example my bio father gave, and got mixed up in the wrong crowd somewhere in between. One failed marriage and many life lessons later, I have, thankfully, found my person. My mother is sick, and we were told that she is dying (although God and a recent Lyme's disease diagnosis tell us differently.) I am doing the best I can to run my company (which is my mother's legacy - that I hold in the highest regard) in the way that the she would be proud. I am burning the candle at both ends and, let's be honest, I am tired.

Life is beautiful. I have some friends battling cancer, I have some that are battling infertility, some that have just gone into remission, and some that have recently gotten pregnant after a long road trying to get there. I am grateful for every winding road that has led me to where I am, and my sweet friends to where you are. God bless each and every one of you. I will pray for you and I ask that you pray for me too.

Tears are painful. Tears are necessary. They pierce the heart and relieve the soul. We hold them in to show we are strong , but we when we let them go we are relieved, and reminded that He is with us every step of the way.

Sometimes we just have to let it out and, lucky for me, I created a free blog site not too long ago to tell you folks how I really feel about shit. 😊

Goodnight and God Bless!

CJ