My life after the 15 minutes…

Happy belated Thanksgiving to everyone! I am just now recovering from my first ever, officially “big girl” Thanksgiving — one that I planned, cooked, and hosted all on my own. And yes, I overdid it. We had originally planned on going back to Texas this year, but with two back-to-back trips early in the fall and my parents deciding to stay home and let my dad (and his heart) avoid any of the usual family chaos, we figured staying in Arizona would be fine. It was supposed to be small—me, Bubs, the three kids, and my brother. The only person who might join us was Evie, my brother’s fiancée, but she decided to visit her family in New Mexico instead. Then the “mission creep” (as my aviator husband calls it) kicked in. First Brian called on Sunday: “Uh, hey sis… my PhD advisor isn’t going to be able to make it home. Can he join us?” Sure, Brian, no problem. Two minutes later: “Uhhh hey sis… sorry but I guess it’s both he and his wife who want to come. Cool, right?” I’m doing ...

As soon as I hit publish on this blog post, I’m heading to the airport to pick up Bubs from his surf trip with his friend Tyler. I’ve missed him terribly, and as it turns out, it probably wasn’t the best week for him to be gone — but that’s not his fault. Sometimes the past comes back to bite us in ways we don’t expect and at the most inconvenient times. Last Sunday, I was talking with my sisters — just normal Sunday gossip like we’ve done thousands of times. The only difference was that they were in Texas prepping to have people over for football, and I was in Arizona. FaceTime is amazing for keeping us connected, but there are always things you miss when you’re not physically there. I didn’t quite hear how the topic came up, but I did catch Jess saying, “…yeah, like that time Dani almost got molested by Pastor Mark.” The comment itself wasn’t meant to be mean or vindictive. I’ve made similar off-color remarks about my sisters hundreds of times. We love each other fiercely, but we...

So the postpartum first menstruation week of fun is probably wrapping up— I hope. This has been miserable. So much so that I have an appointment with my OB/GYN early next week just to make sure there aren’t bigger issues going on. I’ve been an absolute basket case, physically uncomfortable, and I probably haven’t been very nice to my husband. The one thing I always want to do when I get a hardcore period is want to chop off my hair. I’ve never been able to explain it to a man, but my hair actually hurts when I’m on my period. Like every little strand has a tugboat attached, all pulling in different directions. Thankfully, I never follow through—because I really do love my hair. I have what my family affectionately calls “corn silk” hair. It’s blonde to the point of almost being white, fine, straight, and utterly unruly. When I was a kid, people were amazed that no matter how long my hair was, even the tiniest bit of static electricity would make it stand on end. As a gymnast who live...

As I mentioned in my last post, my period is back — and back with a vengeance. With it, my emotions have been everywhere these last few days. Just a short list of the things I’ve cried about: My boobs (see previous blog entry). Having to pump my own gas. The way 9 year old Abby taught 7 month old Ashley how and why we water our plants — it was honestly one of the sweetest things I’ve ever seen. My brother flipping me off instead of hugging me goodbye. (To be fair, I probably would’ve cried if he’d actually hugged me too.) But today’s emotional spiral? My cats. Well, technically they aren’t my cats anymore — and to be fair, they never really were. Back in Texas, I volunteered with a trap–neuter/spay–and–release program. For the most part, I surprised myself by staying detached. We'd drop the cats back off in their colonies and feel good about helping them as much as we could. But about two years ago, we found a bonded brother–sister pair — old enough to be fixed,...

I apologize in advance to my mostly male audience...you may hate this one or you may find common cause. We shall see.  I am a hormonal wreck right now. My period’s creeping back, and there’s something about that first ovulation while you’re still breastfeeding that turns you into a sentimental puddle. Am I waxing philosophical on my dad's heart attacks or one of my oldest friends has cancer? Am I focused on the environment or world peace? Nope—I'm focused on my boobs. Well, not even just my boobs, boobs in general. How did we get here—well, the short answer is that I just got done breastfeeding Ashley and it hit me that in about 4 or 5 months I'm going to wean her and I will never breastfeed again.  The long answer is that it started when I was a weird little 5-year-old on the beach in Florida and I saw a woman who was so gorgeous because of her boobs; I've been fascinated as an observer ever since. A few years after that my little brother was born, and I used to love w...

Halloween has always been my absolute favorite holiday. There’s just something about the collision of being an extreme extrovert and having an outlet for my creative side in the form of costumes—it’s tailor-made for a blonde girl from South Central Texas whose brain never shuts off and who talks too much. When I was a kid, I’d spend hours digging through my grandma and great aunt’s leftover bins of clothing to make my own costumes. In high school, I did the same for my “home” costume, but for parties I leaned hard into the Cady Heron philosophy: “In girl world, Halloween is the one night when a girl can dress like a total slut…” I was a master at switching costumes in Bub’s truck on the way to a party. By college, I didn’t even pretend to hide it—tits and ass out, dressed as the typical slutty cat, angel, or vampire—and I loved every single one of those four Halloweens. Things got more docile but no less fun once I had kids of my own. My sisters and I would wear our matching dirndls (...