October 25

A Case Of Mistaken Identity


On a hot summer day when my twins were only a year and a half old, I decided to make them some cold lunches. Simple enough, right?

Three hours later we walked out of the hospital.

On that sunny day, I made my children peanut butter and jelly sandwiches cut into cute little squares. I sliced banana and put it on the side. It was the perfect meal for growing boys. Feeding them, I couldn’t help feel proud of myself for such a nice meal on such a hot day. As I was busy patting myself on the back, my son began to break out in splotchy red rashes. One trip to the hospital confirmed my worst suspicions. Peanut butter wasn’t a good choice for an afternoon meal ever again, because my child happened to be allergic to it.


Flash forward two years. Armed with this knowledge and Epi-Pens, we have managed to keep both twins, and their little brother, alive. Peanut butter is barely, if ever, eaten in the home. As our son’s greatest protector, I look over packaging for ingredients to make sure everything he consumes is nut free. That is until a bag of cookies catches my attention at the grocery store.

The cookies were chocolate chip, with peanut butter cups baked into them. I don’t know who is in charge of coming up with crazy cookie ideas, but they need a raise because these were an amazing idea. I couldn’t resist buying a pack and bringing it home. Once you know your child has a peanut allergy, it is relatively easy to shield them from the dangerous little nut.

Let me tell you, for what it’s worth, these cookies were delicious. If they didn’t scar my family, we probably would keep them constantly in stock. Now, I knew there would come a point where my kids would catch me munching cookies and demand some. You don’t live in a house with toddlers without understanding they will always find the cookies.

When the kids came around demanding their fair share, I doled out a couple of cookies to the youngest and to his brother. The youngest we had checked when he turned one if he had an allergy by smearing peanut butter on some bread and putting 911 on speed dial. It wasn’t fair to me that one allergic kid keep his brother’s from missing out on peanut butter. So I gave some regular, non-laden with peanut butter cups, cookies to the son we took to the hospital and some peanut butter goodness cookies to his brothers.

Now, on that fateful day many years ago when we first found out about the allergy, when my son started to break out, I administered allergy meds to both children. They were twins, so I figured better safe than sorry to hit them both with the medicine on the chance they both might be going through an allergic reaction. Then, I ran to the other room to grab my phone so I could call people and get the situation under control. It should also be noted when my twins were babies, they had eczema and not the best skin. They also looked very, very, similar.


I have always prided myself on being able to tell my sons apart. Even as babies, when they looked almost identical, I could still be counted on to differentiate who was who.

As I looked over at my now four-year old son, I first thought he was rubbing his eye because he was tired. This made me excited. Who doesn’t love an early bedtime?

“You sleepy, Buddy?” I asked, trying to contain my excitement. When he turned towards me, my stomach dropped.

This kid’s normally adorable face had transformed. He looked less like my son and more like Sloth from The Goonies.



I scooped him up and brought him to the kitchen.

“Shit. Shit. SHIT!”  I shouted as I grabbed the allergy medicine and motioned to my wife.

She looked at me confused.

“Remember when we found out Killian had the peanut allergy? Remember how it was weird how his allergy tests came back as barely any irritation to peanut butter? Well, I think I had taken the wrong kid to the hospital.” I said, turning our son in her direction.

“Shit!” she said, before grabbing him and coats. As she bundled them up for a hospital trip, I told her to hold on a moment. Pulling my phone out, I snapped a picture of my son’s splotchy mug.


“We just gave him medication, I am sure the doctors will want to see how his reaction looked before that” I defensively said, as I uploaded the photo to social media. As my son went on his way to the hospital, I sat down next to my other two children and stared at my other twin. My phone beeped out an alert for a message. The message from my wife flashed across the screen.

“Don’t ever give me shit about mistaking the twins again.”



October 13

Teenage Wasteland


I took stock of my surroundings. There lie a few crumpled bodies and the wake of weed permeating the air. I couldn’t sleep. While everyone around me was content to get stoned the fuck out, my hunger had always been to fight the nightmares that pervaded my dreams. I was on the up and up. At least, that’s how I referred to the various uppers coursing through my veins. 

When had I opened this beer? It didn’t matter, the cold condensation clung to the can. I took swigs like gulps, before discarding my empty and going in search of another cool brew. It was the night before Thanksgiving and I had no intention of being thankful for anything. 

Most of us would lie to you, telling you we were having the time of our lives. I mean, no responsibilities to go home to. The late nights stretched to early mornings and you would find us, slurring through rap songs and love stories.

It’s hard to understand teenage wasteland, as it stretches its way into young adult addiction. We didn’t know things like addiction or death. Sure, maybe we knew someone older, but it was always six degrees of separation.

I remember hitting my friend in the face. I didn’t want to, he just wouldn’t fucking listen. As he babbled on about invisible monsters and needing to “stay safe”, I hoped a hard hit to the face would bring him crashing to reality. Days strung out on Ambien had gone to his head. The fun was over and the monsters were setting in.

That’s what we were doing, dragging the fun out until it left us broken and alone.

Thanksgiving night, I laid there shaking as I watched the shadows bend menacingly towards me. It had been four or five days of self-prescribing Adderall.

Four or five days. I couldn’t even tell you precisely how long it was. All I remembered was my hands beginning to shake as I tried to bring the cigarette to my mouth. All my focus on smoking my cancer stick, I could hardly hear the words in the background.

Weep for yourself, my man,
You’ll never be what is in your heart
Weep, little lion man,
You’re not as brave as you were at the start
Rate yourself and rake yourself
Take all the courage you have left
And waste it on fixing all the problems that you made in your own head

Little Lion Man had just hit the radio stations and was quickly making it’s rounds. I hate when the radio stations do that. Playing the same goddamn five songs on loop. As I struggled to bring the cigarette to my lips, the music forced it’s way into my brain.

Twenty minutes later, the song stuck with me as my shaky hands tried to remember how to use a fork. I stabbed at mashed potatoes, hoping some would stick to the fork. People had began to stare at me. I don’t know if they knew. But, if they did, they were nice enough not to sling accusations. Mumbling an apology, I made my way outside. I doubt I could have held the food down anyways. Too many days of chasing beer with liquor and liquor with pills left my motor skills failing. I doubt it would have left my stomach in any better of a position. Outside, I sat, focusing on the cool breeze and another cigarette.

How many pills had I snorted over the past few days? I lost count around the forth or fifth. I remembered one point where I decided to play it “safe” and just ingest the pills. Either way. I was crashing. Half a month’s prescription of ADHD drugs were raging through my systems.

Tremble for yourself, my man,
You know that you have seen this all before
Tremble, little lion man,
You’ll never settle any of your scores
Your grace is wasted in your face,
Your boldness stands alone among the wreck
Now learn from your mother or else spend your days biting your own neck

Concern echoed in voices. Lies fell from my mouth to dissuade further inspection. I ate something bad. I was fighting the flu. Excuses flowed broken from my mouth. I just needed some rest. Some rest would make me better. I am sorry, I just am a bit under the weather. Yeah, a stomach bug is going around where I live.

That night, I lay in a big bed, tossing and turning. It wasn’t my bed. At this point, I hadn’t had my own bed in some months. The monsters began to come out of the shadows, ready to take me into their darkness. I lay, frozen in fear, watching them move in on me.

I wasn’t my friend. Maybe I was worse. The woman laying beside me I dare not wake. If the shadows were trying to destroy me, what would she do?

She had always been good to me, and here I was, sweating and trembling as the walls moved in to get me. She left me a few months later, tired of having to kiss the booze and deceit from my lips. I had crashed everything around me and try as she might, there was a difference between seeing potential and having a person realize their potential. She always chose to see the best in me, even if I never chose to act upon it.

But, on this night, her body lay next to mine. While she dreamed, my eyes darted around the room wondering which corner I might be inevitably dragged to. My body needed sleep, my mind refused to shut off. I lay there, waiting for the darkness to consume me.

The song Little Lion Man peaked in 2010, right when I was crashing.

I was nineteen.

This is a follow up to Teenage Angst.

October 5

Not Enough.


Oftentimes, I feel like I’m not doing enough. Enough as a parent. Enough as a writer. Enough as a person in general. I find myself standing on a precipice I created myself, ready to jump, because no matter what I do it never feels enough.

The truth of the matter is I actually do a lot. When I am not busy psyching myself out, you can find me juggling a fifty-hour work week and providing primary care to my children. Four days a week, I am the one getting the boys off to school. I put snacks in their backpacks and kisses on their cheek. We spend fifteen minutes before school playing outside together, before the bus comes and picks them up. I turn my focus to the youngest, setting him up for the day with snacks, shows and affection. We then spend our day together, fighting over how many pieces of chocolate are too many and whether he gets the remote or I do.

I sneak naps here and there, hoping my son is occupied enough with Curious George to not suddenly get curious about the workings of the stove. Or learn how to open the front door and go real life Dora the Exploring. And, I write.

Sometimes it feels like I do a ton writing and no publishing. Last week, I wrote four essays in a half-awake, sleep-deprived fury but never hit publish. Why? Well, I don’t know. Sometimes you go through your newsfeed and see enough sadness, self-doubt and self-criticism, you don’t want to add to it. I am a firm believer in negative energy and try my best not to add to it. Or, like last week, I find myself writing something along the lines of, “Well, it doesn’t matter who you’re voting for because we might as well be choosing between breaking our arms or breaking our legs.” Aside from the sad posts and cynical political points of view, I have been working diligently on a submission I am too nervous to submit. I have been published, and paid, for my writing, yet still get fixated on all the rejections I received along the way.

I suspect a lot of us parents go through the feelings that we simply aren’t doing enough. It’s hard. Cue the child-less person in the random comment section who is sick of the parents going ‘boo hoo’ over how hard it is. But, as much joy as parenting brings, there is no denying it can be a bumpy road. It’s pretty easy to judge parenting when your only claim to nurturing is a cat you only have to feed cans of food to once a day. When I, or any other parent for that matter, feels stretched out and not enough, there is always someone there more than happy to move their dog from the keyboard just to write ‘suck it up’, before not having to worry about bills, the cost of next week’s field trip or the fact their child innocently spilled a gallon of milk trying to display their independence.

Sometimes I feel like I’m not enough. And, in addition to that, after being awake over 24 hours because I choose to keep my kids home as long as possible instead of placing them in daycare, I want to bitch. It isn’t an attack on anyone else and it certainly isn’t a look-at-me-I-have-it-worse-than-you gripe. One thing writing has taught me is to be reflective, not sanctimonious. Whether it’s one child or eight like my friend J decided to do to her vagina, we all made some sort of promise to expend infinite amounts of love and affection on these offspring of ours. Parents of a single child might not understand the difficulties of trying to cattle-wrangle three boys and put their underwear on them the correct way, that doesn’t mean they don’t spend just as much of their day devoted to their child.

You don’t have to be a writer to be understanding, but you do have to be understanding to be a parent. Far too often we aren’t understanding, and it’s sad. We are quick to condemn the parents of the child who has his shirt on inside out, without understanding how proud that child was to put his shirt on all by himself. He will learn to put it on right side out, but I dare not take his pride from him in this moment. Besides, by wearing it inside out, he gets another wear out of it. It’s like two wears for the price of one. And I think it’s trendy.

I try to offer a unique insight into my life, whether it be my child deciding the best seat in the house is in my pulled down pants while I use the porcelain or if it is the days I drag my tired butt to the coffee machine so I can get the kids off to school. I once posted a photo of my children crying at Easter with the caption “Happy Easter from the Underwood family.” I, along with a few hundred folks found the photo to be cute. Another person shared it with the comment “I hope when this guy gets put in a retirement home, his children take a photo of him crying.”  while insinuating the photo be a form of abuse that would require my children to seek out therapy. I am twenty-five, should I just start looking at my own retirement plan to keep on the safe side?

These types of comments don’t phase me. I see them regularly enough. Someone will always be critical of you as a parent and I have decided to raise my children very publicly. It comes with the territory. But fuck, when they said it takes a village to raise a child, I didn’t know they would allow the village idiots to participate in the child-rearing.

I don’t feel like I have enough of me to give some days. I curse the minuscule twenty-four hours I have in a day to work and then care for my kids. Writing is a luxury to my sanity in times like these. My page, an oasis in the busy day to day, keeping me sane. When I feel not enough, I turn to here. Regardless of the occasional certified keyboard warriors, these are my people. You, if you’ve read this far, are my people.

September 20



It has always been my belief that if you have a platform, you use it. Time and time again, I have tried to use the social media presence I’ve gathered to do so. From Syrian Refugees to the inaction of the U.S. Government when it comes to protecting it’s people from gun violence. I feel compelled to try and take my little light from the internet and shine it as bright as possible on these issues.

I have talked about sadness.

About being a father.

About loss.

I highlight the rainy days and sunny ones. I highlight how we take up activism for a week before forgetting about it the next week. Hell, I even wrote about what being a mommy blogger is.

This platform I have built does not sit here to be admired. This isn’t a pedestal I have erected. I don’t invite people to stare at the hard work I put into the platform, because it wasn’t built to be something gazed at. I built this presence to highlight issues I believed important to my children’s future. I believe the things I talk about to be important to everyone’s children. So, I continue to stand upon this platform, stomping my feet while I shout, “THIS IS IMPORTANT. WE NEED TO DISCUSS IT.”

Not because I like reading my own words or having others read them. Not to gain some massive following and be recognized anywhere. Because we need dialogue. We need to talk. The far right. The far left. The highly opinionated and the unsure. We all need to come together and talk.

Why is it so hard to do for so many people? Why is the act of discussing our differing views of the world something we find so difficult?

In some cases, it seems we find it too difficult to do.

I’ve got a hunch as to why we choose not to openly engage in discussions. As much as we all purport to want to leave our children a better world, we also don’t enjoy being wrong. When voicing our opinions we open ourselves up to being really wrong sometimes.

Does this fear of being wrong override the growing sense that we aren’t leaving a better world for our children to live in?

Well, I am just fine with being wrong. Please, prove me wrong on this one issue, I would like to leave my children with something beautiful, not a flaming pile of shit.

We need to all collectively take accountability of our people. To accept things are different because we all walk different roads.

I will be the first to say I don’t fully grasp what checking my privilege means.

I will be the first to say feminism leaves me wary of the world. Not because I don’t believe in equality for women, but because I don’t quite know how to educate and raise my boys in a world that is finally shifting it’s mindset about gender views.

There are so many things changing in this world, some I don’t understand. But, I try to. I don’t scoff at them like they are common core math.

Common core math, haven’t a clue about it. I would like to try to learn it myself before calling it ridiculous.

There is a lot in this world I would prefer to learn before being stuck in my preconceived notions.

I think we need to advocate loudly from all our platforms. To shine our little lights on real issues. Today my newsfeed is divided. An unarmed black man with his hands up was shot dead. Brad and Angelina are getting divorced.

Guess which side had a more fiery comments section.

Nobody saw the divorce coming.

Another officer involved shooting is becoming redundant.

We continue to have the same arguments again and again. Whatever community you end up being affiliated with, whether it be comprised of similar views or skin color or job occupation. We have our lines drawn in the sand, with one side clamoring for accountability while the other digs their feet in for the defense.

We don’t like being attacked and we certainly don’t like being wrong.

I use a word up there I have used time and time again in my writing.


I think we seriously lack accountability and maybe it is because we correlate it with being wrong.

We need good cops vocally distancing themselves from bad cops.

We need good black people vocally and vehemently taking down those who would try to undermine the message.

We need republicans willing to put country before party.

We need democrats willing to do the same.

We need gun advocates to be as outraged and upset over mass shootings as the rest of us.

We need to understand harassing good gun owners isn’t going to solve a growing problem. We also might need to figure out what the word AR stands for in AR-15.

We need men as vocal as women in their outrage of rape culture.

We need women who, well, we might just need women in general. For everything.

I believe in America. I believe in admitting faults. Not to show weakness but to acknowledge we can be better.

There is a middle ground there somewhere, where we can shed the pride and try to build an understanding. A place we can listen. Actually listen and understand. Without waiting for the chance at rebuttal.

I am talking, but are you actually listening? Did you get stuck somewhere and begin formulating your comment at that point?

This is my platform and I will continue to use it as a position to hold public dialogue over events that affect our children’s welfare. Whether you agree with anything I say or not, it doesn’t matter. Actually, it does matter. A lot. Whether you agree with anything I say or not, it matters that you use your voice. What matters is we look for that middle ground and try to find understanding.

What matters is we talk.

Because I believe in America. I believe in us. And I believe you want to leave the world a better place for your children, too. Regardless of whatever different things we believe in, I think we can find a way. We have to.

September 4

Boys Don’t Cry, Son.


Boys don’t cry, Son. You heard me. I said boys don’t cry. But, you know what? Men do. Men cry all the time.

I cried. I cried when you were born and I cried when you came home. I cry when a movie comes on that reminds me of how special a bond between parent and child is. I cry at a beautiful song and I cry at memories long gone. I cried when my mama died and I cried when I saw you cry, too.

Boys don’t cry, son. But men do.

You see, there are a lot of times where the world will tell you not to cry. That it isn’t something masculine. There will be people telling you all the time. They will say

“Boys don’t cry, Son.”

And they will be right. Because boys don’t cry. Grown men cry. Men who have grown from being boys to understand that if you keep it all bottled inside, if you keep living with that sadness, there is no way to get it out that benefits you.

I will say it again, men cry.

Men cry when they need to and there is nothing wrong with shedding tears when you need to.

One of the biggest lessons you will learn, is that sometimes it is okay to cry. You’ll cry and wipe the tears and pretend they were never there but there is no reason for that. Because sometimes the most manly thing you can do is show your vulnerability. It’s okay to break down and cry.

Boys don’t cry, Son. But men do.

August 26

Long Day


You can feel the air getting a bit crisper, as it gains the edge of chill. Soon, the leaves will turn vibrant shades of orange before coming to lay delicate and brown on the ground. Autumn is settling in after a long, hot, summer.

A little boy clutches a sippy cup. His fingers rest firmly in his mouth, and though countless times a day he is asked to remove them, he can’t seem to shake the comfort of sucking on his tiny digits. His slightly older brother tolerates his presence, although an annoyed look flashes over the brother’s face as he scoots closer and closer until finally resting his head on his older sibling’s shoulder.

There is a gentle calm over the house. Parent’s describe days as ‘long’ because they are too mentally exhausted to search their brains for more descriptive words. My head rings out like the popular christmas song, ‘On The First Day Of Christmas’. Except, in my version, there are no turtle doves or partridges in pear trees. I tally the tantrums, messes and fights that have made me roll my eyes so hard a tiny voice rings in the back of my head.

“You keep rollin’ your eyes and they are gonna get stuck back there.”

Yes, messes of chicken fingers and tantrums over trains. Beautiful Jackson Pollack-esque murals of ketchup cover plates, tables and floors. I know if I dared lift a couch cushion, I would find soggy Cheerios from a morning of spilt cereal.

I will leave them for another day. Today has been long.

But, in this moment, it isn’t the Thomas the Tank Engine tucked in the cupboard captivating my thoughts. Even though the very same engine spawned two fights and a twenty-minute stream of tears. No, there is a brief moment, where a baby brother is allowed to rest his head on his older brother’s shoulder.

On the heels of change of season are new beginnings. In five days, the little boy clutching the sippy cup will stand at the door as his older brothers step onto a big yellow bus and into the great unknown that is preschool.

I don’t dwell too much on the impending school year. Wasting too many thoughts on it leaves me a mess of worry and anxiety. As with most things I fear might consume me with panic, I just let it go and let be.

It isn’t time to worry about first days and new friends.

No, right now I watch a brother’s face relax of it’s annoyance, as his head too comes down to rest on his baby brother’s head. I think about how moments like this are almost priceless and impossible to catch. I am an outsider looking into a beautiful moment between siblings; I dare not disturb it.

Heavy eyes beget heavy breathing, as each child slips into an easy sleep. They cuddle up close to each other without fighting over whether the other is touching their blanket.

A calm quiet has settled in. The open window welcomes cool air in, forcing the children closer together. The air kisses my skin, a welcome feeling after a summer filled with humidity and clothes sticking to skin.

There is a change in the air.

The sleeping children don’t know it. They are busy cuddled up and sleeping.

After all, it was a long day.

August 16

Mama Didn’t Raise No Fool


Mama didn’t raise no fool.

We sat in a diner, down Baseline, preparing for breakfast. My Mother told me what she wanted and I silently recited it to myself again and again until the waitress came. As I rattled off both my and my mother’s order, the waitress looked surprise at how such a young boy would know how to order for a woman. But that is what a gentleman did and Mama didn’t raise no fool.

In the eight years I spent with my Mother, there were countless life lessons she taught me. How to get up early and dig for worms so you could go fishing. How to open the door for people. To always say ‘please’ and ‘thank you’, no matter how redundant you end up sounding.

You see, mama didn’t raise no fool.

What my Mom never taught me, was how to deal with the special days piling up since she passed away. Maybe it isn’t a lesson often passed down from parent to child but, then again, maybe it should be.

I think about my Mama on the day she died.

I think about my Mama on Mother’s Day.

I think about my Mama on my twins’ birthday.

I think about my Mama on my birthday.

I think about my Mama on my youngest son’s birthday.

I think about my Mama on every special holiday.

Oh, and I think about my Mama today, when we would have been celebrating her birthday.

My Mother taught me to always approach life with a certain amount of optimism. An understanding that good times and bad times they all roll through and you just try your best to roll with them.

She taught me to sing my heart out and be myself. A lesson I forgot until I realized I needed to impress it on my own children.

She taught me how to love reading books. From fairy tales to Goosebumps, she created an insatiable desire that has me unable to put down a good book until I am finished with it.

My Mother taught me sometimes the best thing to do in life is forgive people. And forgive yourself.

My mama didn’t raise no fool.

I order my wife’s chocolate chip pancakes, with whipped cream, at the little diner. I tell my waitress ‘please’ and ‘thank you’ every time she stops by the table, beginning to sound redundant. I hold the door open as we exit into the early morning.

Maybe it is a bit old-fashioned, but that’s what Mama taught me.

And Mama didn’t raise no fool.

I don’t know how to celebrate the birthday of my mother. Today she would have been, but she isn’t. On today, and all the other special days that pile up in a year, I find myself somewhat lost. But, I get through them by remembering my stuffed tortoise that played These Are A Few Of My Favorite Things. I remember cowboy hats and boots. I remember a What Would Jesus Do bracelet and a dreamcatcher.

I remember the passion she lit in me for storytelling.

I try to remember everything she taught me over our years together. All the lessons I forgot and remembered. The compassion she instilled. The forgiveness she reminded me everyone, including her, needed. Cursive letters and long distance phone calls.

I look at my family and my life. Where I have been and where I am going.

I remember.

Mama didn’t raise no fool.

August 12



I’ve been focusing on the little things lately. A concentrated effort to spend five minutes a day highlighting life’s little blessings. A pair of new shoes, a sleeping child, general goofiness of wild hair. Things I might, if not actively seeking them out, miss in my day to day.

You know, the little things.

This week will mark what feels like the hundredth consecutive fifty hour work week. My schedule goes a bit like this:

Head into work at about 9:30 at night

Work until my boss releases me around 7:15 in the morning.

Spend 7:20 to 9:00 trying to decide whether I want breakfast or dinner. It might be the morning but I have just worked a nine and a half hour shift.

Sleep anywhere between four to five hours, waking up at 2:00 in the afternoon when the sun is too high for my internal clock to allow me to sleep.

Spend 2:00 to 3:00 wondering if I want breakfast or lunch, I just got up from sleeping. 

From 3:00 to 3:40 I listen to how my kids have been for the day, before my wife heads off to work. 

4:00 to 8:30, I try not to snap at my kids, because it isn’t their fault I work full time and hardly sleep. 

8:30 to 9:00 I pick up the house, before clutching my coffee mug and making a fresh pot of coffee to drink while I wait for the babysitter to arrive. 

My days blur together. I fall asleep on July 1st and wake up in August. Wake me up when September ends. (I couldn’t help myself)

So, I decided to keep track of my days. My schedule doesn’t leave as much writing time as it used to. It does, however, leave little moments to slow down and appreciate what hard work has given me.

A lovely family.

A big yard.

A pen for a bodybuilder named Chocolate Thunder.

I have a hard time spotting the joys of life naturally. They are something I have to actively seek out in a life that seems too busy for one person to maintain. I need to take a spouse challenge or a little things challenge or one of the millions of challenges on Facebook that force you to take five minutes out of your day to highlight what makes you happy.

These sort of challenges get a lot of shit. I can openly admit to teasing and mocking the challenges. They seem, at face value, to be trivial. Stupid little ways to show your stupid little life is better than mine. I want real. Life is good and bad, these posts are fake.


Their point isn’t to purport perfection. They aren’t there to convince people you have everything together.  These searches to find moments of good in a constant up and down of life are practice. They are reminders that even on the worst of days; we can actively seek out the good.

My days aren’t perfect. If you think citing an old picture or remembering a moment in time where pure joy was experienced makes a life perfect, maybe you’re missing the point of these sort of things.

When my body aches.

When my children only seem to remember how to fight and scream.

When I am not sure what type of meal to eat because of my odd hours.

When I am feeling lost.

Or sad.

Or angry.

Or any of the less than sunny emotions I find myself feeling every day.

So, today, I celebrate the little things. Tomorrow I celebrate the little things.

Everyday, I challenge you to try and celebrate the little things.

Like your spouse. Or your family. Or your dog.

I celebrated making a funny list. My little thing that makes me happy today is an underused blog, connected to a Facebook page vibrant with a beautiful community of people I have been lucky enough to connect with all over the world.

When the dog bites, when the bee stings
When I’m feeling sad
I simply remember my favorite things
And then I don’t feel so bad
July 21

Why Do I Write?


I have been spending a lot of time recently trying to strip away all the sequin attached to blogging. I have never been a fan of the term blogging or blogger, mainly for the simple reason blogger sounds way too damn similar to the word ‘booger’. I don’t want to be a booger.

But really, it is forever associated with the word ‘booger’.

I love writing. The instant gratification that goes along with hitting publish can produce a small high for me. Yeah, that’s right; I am a junkie for words.

It’s why lately I have been on a vision quest of sorts. Seeking out my origin story and my inspiration.

Why do I write? It is the latest in a life of existential crises. I mean, what is the point of it all?

I certainly don’t do it because I am some sort of activist. Most social justice issues I approach with tongue in cheek because even I can’t entertain the idea of truly caring deeply about things not happening to me. Bathroom issues? I somewhat sympathize, but I will never feel empathetic. To be honest, I feel enough things too deeply to get into feeling other people’s issues to my core.

I already have a hard time falling asleep with my own problems.

I do have things I need to say though. It started as a parent blah blogger. Before I knew it, I had listicles, word pictures and bears- Oh my! Over time, I feel as if I have refined myself. Taken the rawness and molded it. Worked it into something more than this passionate, emotion-laced rant.

I learned to be concise. Put a suit on and cleaned up per se.

Sometimes, I miss the way I used to write. Back when the rules didn’t matter because I didn’t know them. Sure, I couldn’t differentiate my ‘there their they’re’s with such precision but whatever.

I write because someone told me to do it, and in that moment of someone believing in me I believed in myself. I also had more to say than ever had I imagined.

I write for the rush. There is a certain synapse fire off that goes along with airing your dirty laundry. A false sense of bravado, leaving me feeling, for the moment, as if I can do or say whatever I want.

I can talk about the things most attach trigger warnings to, what else can I do? I put voices on demons and then hand them microphones and loud speakers.

Why do I write? Because, someone needs to provide Melania Trump with something to plagiarize. I write because I can’t plagiarize how I feel inside.

It is a conduit for me to express myself in a way I never thought possible. It is my interpretive dance. I am wild flowing motions moving messily along, but most importantly moving freely. I am following the beat of the fingers on the keyword, pirouetting through prose as if they were poems. It is slow before speeding up. I move from the bridge to the chorus, trying to dance across the paragraph.

There is a beat, you can find it hidden in the verse.

I write because it is more fun to be a troll with a blog than just an everyday asinine commenter.

A troll with a blog might be my new name.

I have so many reasons to write, every one of them important to me.

I write because I needed to give my voice safe passage into the world. I write because it can be as one-sided or conversational as I deem it. I write because it is a better way to pass the free time than drink and snort cocaine. I recently got a small plaque from work for being employed there for five years, and lamented over how when I first began working there if they given me the recognition thing it would have been the perfect surface for crushed up joy to be snorted from.

I write because I have a tumultuous amount of things to say.

I write because my sister killed herself.

I write because she wasn’t the first person I knew to end their life. Not even the first in my family.

I write because her father killed himself.

I write because my mother’s brother killed himself.

I write because I don’t want to kill myself. It isn’t a claim to know the reasons they or any others have had for ending their lives. It is an admission of not wanting to exist sometimes.

I write because if I didn’t, that admission of not wanting to exist would stay buried inside to possibly sprout and grow into suicidal thoughts.

I write because the highs and the lows are easier to navigate if I have a loose catalogue of them. I can read every post I have ever written and tell you if I was happy or depressed when I wrote it. I can tell you if I wondered about whether the world would be better off without me. I can read and be brought back to that moment, and remember why I needed to sit and say something that day.

I write because I haven’t stopped having things I need to say.

I write because…

I write.