Ice Cream for Dinner

ice cream forever

*All true stories brought to you by person who needs laughter (and ice cream) to extinguish the fiery pain.

How to be THE freak show at a Physical Therapy consultation/session:

1) Tell them your body is basically broke for no specific reason: muscle spasm in neck/shoulder, scoliosis, lingering acute carpal tunnel syndrome and plantar fasciitis, and had two babies “oh, but your kids are old enough to be at school during the day, right?”

2) Tell them you are a stay at home mom AND you homeschool so, “Ermagad, you are with your kids 24/7! Wow, thats amazing! So much respect! Continuing to talk in loud voice to maintain level of enthusiasm from first exclamation! Haha, you’re laugh/crying!”

3) Accidentally wear the stupid, holey, sweatpants (or “joggers” as the cool kids say) wth a tear (small) over the right side of your bum (plus contrast underpants!) that you continue to wear because you are cheap and try to strategically keep covered with oversized tops. Trick fail when you have to display broken body problems for assessment in sports bra.

Oh, theres so much more, but I don’t know if you can handle the “but your body isn’t normal” story. Thank you, PT!

Whats that? You want to know know about the rest of my day?


Car would not start in the morning because Roenne left her seat light on and battery was dead, had to get uber (may explain high blood pressure reading).

John did not understand text message requesting pick up from appointment because: curse of autocorrect. 2nd uber.

Discovery: John forgot to feed kids lunch! Uh oh, gonna be late for play date at Exploritorium.

Had to walk a mile (round trip) to ATM to pay for parking, because the ATM in museum was broken.

Did I mention I took the kids to the most popular childrens museum in SF during summer?

When better to run away from home and have ice cream for dinner, I ask you? And then go shopping for new sweatpants so as not to shame yourself in your multiple follow up PT appointments?

Moral of the story: If in doubt, follow your prehistoric instincts to survive and look good.

How To Accidentally Love Life


The girls are playing Barbies. Wish we had those Barbie 2.0’s, but alas, we only have 5 years old “will probably cause body image issues” Barbies. Future therapy aside, yes, it’s as hilarious as you know my girls to be.

Over the years I’ve learned, you can’t make kids have imaginary play, you can only give them the margin to find those moments on their own.  To the uninformed viewer, this might be mistaken for unapologetically selfish, alone time for mom (me), where I can be found sipping coffee on the couch within convenient overhearing distance from the bedroom to whence the kids have been banished for “play time,” but to those leaning toward this view:

  1. all the not-moms can take a hike (with all due respect)
  2. critical moms probably have mommy guilt over something that needs be dealt with (again, respect, all the things)

When put into the context of our jam-packed Saturday through Wednesday, I think the stumbled upon arrangement just makes sense:

  • soccer practices/games
  • taekwondo
  • school work
  • weekend fun (parties, adventures, visitors)
  • cleaning day (all skate for changing/washing sheets, dusting, mopping, etc)
  • weekly grocery trip
  • cooking prep (for the week)
  • classes
  • other

I keep thinking Thursdays will be the day we make use of our family membership to Cal Academy, but we seem to always end up just staying home and “doing nothing.”

Essentially, the moral of this story is quite simple: if by the mercy of the schedule gods you find yourself “doing nothing” and loving it, and especially overhearing brilliant Barbie imaginary play, for the LOVE, hug, grasp, lounge alllllll over it, AND use the brain power for doing it on purpose, again. I’m calling it “project: do nothing,” but as this blog post is the proof, building in this time allows space for creativity, joy, rest, coffee, so, obvi: good stuff.

In other words, you don’t have to schedule the “good stuff” per say, you should leave blank space to give your mind, heart, and body a chance to intuitively fill in unanticipated needs. I think you’ll be happy to find yourself writing or just reflecting over a cup of coffee while listening to happy kid noises (you know, when they aren’t trying to kill each other).

Roenne, aka “Cinderella” Barbie: blah blah blah (whiny, complaining noises)

Arden, Barbie name unknown: STOP! (Pause) uh, Cinderella, I love you, but please don’t do that anymore

R: blah blah blah (more of the same whining)

A: I’m sorry, but if you don’t stop that I have to give you a spanking

I find it fascinating that Barbie Roenne is acting out and Barbie Arden is adulting. Jr psychologist thoughts: I think they are projecting what they want most: Roenne freedom to behave badly (instead of being responsible), and Arden wants to be grown up.

Did you notice that the Barbies are naked? I don’t even know.

And so ends this not so professional analysis of doing nothing for all the somethings.


Duck Dynasty Cray, Cray

duck dynasty

I rarely bother to weigh in on hot topics that so often fall upon us like a gail and fizzle out when no one’s looking, but I recently read a great post by Jen Hatmaker that does a good job of summing up my thoughts on the Duck Dynasty cray, cray, and it made me want to applaud and say “finally, something those ‘Christians’ need to hear!”

There are not enough words to convey my irritation with Christians on the Internet. Part of the ire is a self loathing that stems from my inability to give grace over their ignorance and bad behavior, as I believe I am called to do as a believer of Jesus.

And in a moment of unsought for clarity, I see that in this way both sides fall into the same trap of comfort–isn’t it nice to give into anger and feel you have all the right to be so? Its fiery fingers hug us tight, making us hard pressed to give up the warmth of the flames….reminds the angel on my right shoulder.

Quicker still is the devil on the left, “How far off the mark those people can be, perched on their holy hill with their righteous indignation. So puffed up they are in their crusade to say what is ‘right,’ they forget what it means to make a difference.”

Who is right? Who is wrong, and what difference does it really make? The answer is none–no difference at all when the fight becomes more important than the people. What lessons we have still to relearn.

Jesus didn’t tell us to make the gospel right. He didn’t tell us to make it law. He told us to make it real. -J. Hatmaker

As stirred up as I was when I began this piece, I feel the ashes settle into a tiny heap at the bottom of my weary soul. Its quiet now, and I know false “anger comfort” for what it is–the kind that deserts you in the blink of an eye; and the hard questions still remain, such as:

Is it more important to make a point, or to make a difference?

This question only has a bias toward true life change. It shames away the layers of self deception on both sides of the argument, if you will endure the discomfort of being stripped down to your most honest self.

I’m grateful that my pastor, Andy Stanley, gave me this small, but powerful question to make war with anything that deceptively gets in the way of making a real difference in this world.

Though I could keep this in-real-time soul wrestling private, I’ve decided to expose my personal struggle if it might mean someone else may come to see this debate for what it really is: a distraction from the things that really matter.

Hey, its Christmas Eve, after all–a particularly important day of contemplation for those who believe in the birth of Christ, that moment that made all the difference.


photo cred: jason conlon


Sigh. My days are haunted by ghosts of bad friendships past.

Why do you make me so uneasy still each time I venture out?

I long for the day when my heart can move freely and without fear.

Hope keeps my heart soft, though the hardness creeps on me still.