My life after the 15 minutes…

On Thursday afternoon I was sitting in the school pickup line when Abby came bursting through the door. “Mom, I have a project I need to do before wrestling practice.” My eyes narrowed in the rearview mirror. “What kind of project?” With fear in her voice, she said, “A science project.” The violins of a horror soundtrack could have been ominously playing in the background. Everyone in that car understood what this meant. Well… almost everyone. Ashley, oblivious to the danger, kicked her feet and drooled happily that her sissa and bobba were next to her. But even TJ, the family’s resident chaos agent, actually reached over and put a hand on Abby’s shoulder. “Good luck, Abby.” This project had to be completed before the engineer got home. Now before I start complaining, I need to say this: we are unbelievably blessed to have a husband and father who takes such an interest in his kids’ schoolwork. In fact, our entire family exists because he was something of a math-tutoring prodigy in ...

This is one of those blog posts where I’m having trouble creating a coherent structure, because it starts with motherhood… and then swerves wildly into me being a bit of a deviant in my early twenties. Bubs and I made a bet yesterday — and this is me losing. The thing is, he claims he doesn’t even want to be “paid off,” but I’ll be damned if I let him hold an unpaid debt over my head for the rest of our lives together. Dani M pays her bets. The Bet Ashley has had her first cold of her little life, which quickly turned into a sinus infection. She’s been miserable, and I spent all of last week glued to her — loving it, but by Saturday I desperately needed a break. I also felt guilty that I’d been neglecting the older two kids. So Bubs and I worked it out: I’d take Abby and/or TJ out for most of the day, and he’d happily stay home with Ashley. Sounds great in theory. Except Abby and TJ woke up on Saturday morning with battle lines already drawn. By 8 a.m. they’d had three full-blown, out-...

So by design, I never talk about politics on this blog. That doesn’t mean I don’t care — it just means that making things divisive among the few readers I have left probably isn’t the way to keep everyone around. But for Bubs and me, politics are fair game. As much as we love each other — as much as I literally still see the stars in his eyes — there is very little we agree on politically. I think he’s an unfeeling libertarian driven only by data. He once said, “You’re somewhere left of Lenin, if Lenin were a paranoid housewife and teacher who sees everyone as her student or her baby.” Rude. Accurate. Annoyingly funny. I won’t get into specifics, but politics have hit a fever pitch lately, and maybe like the country itself, Bubs and I took up our very predictable positions. Earlier in the week he had a night flight, which meant he was home most of the afternoon. We could not let each other off the hook. We’d bicker, take a break, then one of us would see a social media post that valid...

We are finally home after an absolutely amazing Christmas break. I should probably look before I say this with any confidence, but I’m pretty sure the day we walked back into our house in Arizona marked almost exactly one year since our furniture was finally delivered and this place started to feel like home. I’m so tired that my brain is already wandering from where I meant this blog to go, so I’m taking that as my sign to just let it unfold the way it wants to. This past week held several big, beautiful milestones. Our eight‑month‑old experienced her first Christmas — a picture‑perfect holiday in my childhood home, surrounded by siblings, cousins, grandparents, aunts, uncles, and a few “soon‑to‑be” family members thrown in for good measure. It’s not hard to imagine that with all that attention, she was the undisputed star of the show. We also had a couple of false starts with my sister‑in‑law going into labor, which meant some unexpected quality time in an admitting room where we wer...

We are home in Texas for Christmas—a truly magical time of fights, makeups, cousins saying terrible things to each other, and four adults (formerly “the kids”) who should absolutely know better by now. Our trip got off to an auspicious start on one of the rare mornings Bubs will spontaneously dance with me in the kitchen. For a man not known for spontaneity, it’s one of my favorite things about him. His song of choice was “Fairytale of New York” by The Pogues. It’s actually a gorgeous Christmas song. Romantic. Wistful. And… lyrically questionable. As we danced, I heard the female singer casually drop, “you maggot, you f* ggot,” and slowly turned to see TJ frozen in place, staring at us like he’d just discovered buried treasure. You could practically see the mental file folder being created: Bad Words I Heard in My Own Kitchen, Therefore Probably Allowed. I made him promise not to repeat what he heard. He looked me straight in the eye and said, “Okay, Mom.” I know for a fact that ...

Every year you protest how big of a deal I make your birthday. Every year, I ignore you. It’s been happening for twenty years now (even the year we were broken up), so don’t ever expect it to stop. This blog is scheduled to post at midnight on December 19th. If you’re awake to read it, you’ve got so much more in store for you today, my little almost-thirty-four-year-old. Oh—sorry. Every year your mom reminds me you were born at 2:42 pm at St. Joseph’s Hospital in Albuquerque. I guess I’m not the only woman who thinks you’re basically Jesus incarnate. Lucky for you, you now have two daughters who also believe the world should stop and part to let you pass. Anyway, when this posts you’ll still have a while until you’re “officially” 34. I always struggle to pinpoint when I first met you. I think I just noticed you one day at your grandparents’ house after you moved to town. But my first concrete memory of you is the one where you were being a total smart-ass in Sunday school. You were sit...

It’s four in the morning when I start writing this. For me to be awake at this hour—especially now that Ashley is finally sleeping through the night—it means the hamster wheel in my head is spinning hard enough that there’s no chance of rest until I get the thoughts out. Right now, the reason I’m awake makes perfect sense. Will it still make sense tomorrow? Maybe not. But here goes. The show Landman got me thinking about a man named Tom. Thinking about Tom got me thinking about my years working at Hooters. Add in the fact that both my birthday and Bubs’s birthday fall in December, and suddenly all of it wrapped itself into one tight, emotional knot that dragged me out of bed and into this chair. Landman is a show about the oil industry in Texas. As a die‑hard Texan—and someone who went to school in West Texas—it resonates with me more than I want to admit. Parts of it feel like stepping back into some of the funniest, messiest years of my life. That said, while the first season felt ...