Category Archives: Oz Henley

Running from 6-7

In a world where you can be anything, be kind—until they say “6-7,” and then, well, all bets are off. That’s my new motto, etched into my boy-mom soul with the same grim permanence as a Sharpie stain on a couch cushion. You know the original saying, the one that sounds like it was dreamed up by someone whose biggest household crisis was a slightly wilted ficus? Mine’s been battle-tested in the trenches of a home where survival sometimes feels like the main event.

Picture this: I’m in the thick of what I call the “keeping them alive” phase of parenting three boys—Cub, Oz, and Wynn, my little whirlwinds of testosterone and poor impulse control. It’s not hyperbole. These kids have elevated “6-7” (you know, that endlessly clever knockoff of the world’s dumbest joke) to a kind of tribal chant. Say it once? Adorable. Twice? Tolerable. By the 47th time before breakfast, I’m wondering if the neighbors would hear a scream or just assume it’s the dog again. Being a boy mom isn’t for the faint of heart; it’s for those who’ve stared down a fart joke epidemic and lived to tell the tale. Poop? Fart? Endless variations on bodily functions? I’ve banned those words so often I sound like a malfunctioning parrot: “Quit saying it! Napkin! Napkin exists for a reason!”

And don’t get me started on selective hearing. You can deliver a State of the Union address about bedtime, and it bounces off them like rain on a raincoat—yet whisper “ice cream” from the next room, and they’re there faster than a Disney Lightning Lane Premier Pass holder. Dinner tables? Forget Norman Rockwell; ours is a spill zone of biblical proportions. Ketchup arcing through the air like a poorly aimed missile, milk pooling mysteriously under chairs—it’s inevitable, like taxes or that one sock vanishing in the dryer. The shirts? Always, always stained, not from heroic spills but from the casual genius of wiping grubby hands right across the chest, napkin be damned. I’ve done laundry loads that could fill a Laundromat, each one a testament to why paper towels were invented.

Then there’s the trail of abandoned gear—water bottles sprouting like mushrooms in every corner of town, jackets draped over bleachers from wrestling meets to soccer fields as if we’re auditioning for a lost-and-found world record. We’ve left behind more Owalas than a hydration influencer. It’s chaos, pure and operatic, the kind that would send a lesser soul fleeing for the hills. But here’s the magic: amid the “6-7” choruses and the perpetual crumbs, there’s this ferocious joy in it. These boys are my tornadoes, my glorious messes, and somehow, in the eye of the storm, I wouldn’t trade a single stained shirt for all the quiet in the world. Kind until 6-7 hits critical mass—then mama roars. Be kind out there, friends. Or at least napkin-adjacent.

Running from Homework

I am raising a seven-year-old liar. At least, that’s what it feels like. Between the nights spent at the hospital with my mother—which stretched endlessly past eight o’clock—and juggling what should be the simple act of parenting, I discovered last week was, in every sense, a total wash.

I’d been assuming my husband was heroically managing the usual domestic parade of dishes, dinners, and homework. Reasonable, right? I should’ve known better.

It all came unraveling yesterday morning. Trying to look like the archetype of attentive motherhood, I pulled out Oz’s school folder—a thick bundle of papers and promises—and, harried and late for work, I deposited it on the couch with lofty intentions of review come evening.

Evening arrived with the sorts of surprises mothers dread. Eight homework assignments? Not one completed? The embarrassment was real and immediate. An apology email swiftly dispatched to the teacher affirmed my commitment to better vigilance.

But the real kicker came at 8:45 p.m., following football practice and a pit stop at the hospital. Forty pages—yes, forty—of untouched math lay glaring at me from his book. Forty! Bewilderment quickly morphed into quiet fury. Was it the seven-year-old, or perhaps the 46-year-old husband who had let us down?

So here I am, recalibrating our life’s schedule to accommodate this newfound mountain of homework. I’ve searched for a mantra to soothe my frazzled soul. It boils down to this: a woman’s work is never done, and if you want something done right, you must do it yourself.

The inevitable conclusion? I’ll be relearning second grade every night for the foreseeable future.

Running from a Pickaxe

Tax-free week in Ohio is the back-to-school version of Rope Drop at Magic Kingdom. If you’re a parent, you know the drill: you’ve got a list longer than the line for Peter Pan’s Flight, desperate for deals and every coupon clipping you can snag. Last Saturday, the Thompsons charged into the outlet malls like it was the opening bell at Black Friday—fast, purposeful, semi-delirious.

Now, if you’ve ever wandered World Showcase in August, you’ll be familiar with the special brand of sweaty exhaustion that set in as we wound our way through the stores, kids melting faster than a Mickey bar in July. Coupon victory came hard, but eventually we limped home, untamed shopping bags in tow, seasoned and slightly singed around the edges.

But the magic didn’t end there! A sign at the end of our street declared in bold: “Garage Sale. Tools and Man Stuff.” For those who share their home with another adult, this was less a suggestion and more a legally compelling summons. Chas vanished faster than a Lightning Lane slot at Rise of the Resistance, Oz in tow, clearly hoping to unearth some hidden Indiana Jones relic (or at least another stick to add to his collection).

Ten minutes and one mini-expedition later, they reappeared, faces radiating unspoken adventure—think dads after surviving EPCOT’s Food & Wine with only a wallet mildly damaged. Moments later, Oz, our seven-year-old, appeared clutching a ten-dollar bill and loudly proclaiming his new life ambition: acquiring a pickaxe. Cue visions of him storming Frontierland, wielding his new prize, with me nervously calculating just how quickly Child Protective Services would respond in our zip code. But hey, boring never makes for good park stories or memorable family runs.

If there’s a lesson buried beneath the layers of outlet shopping, surprise hardware quests, and the ever-present din of “when does school start”—it’s this: structure is more magical than any Cinderella castle. By the time the school year finally started this morning, my fifth grader bolted for the door like he was rope-dropping Seven Dwarfs Mine Train; his enthusiasm was nothing short of Disney magic itself, and I couldn’t be prouder to stand on the sidelines, medal or no medal.

My second grader approached with equal excitement, though laced with those opening day jitters familiar to anyone who’s ever tried a new ride (or new lunch table). He’ll be making friends by lunchtime, probably organizing a lunchroom conga line just to make things interesting.

The preschooler, meanwhile, is pure Tomorrowland—marching to his own futuristic beat, running operations with a tone that suggests he skipped straight past “Cast Member” to “Attraction Manager.” If anyone’s wondering, yes, I’m bracing for parent-teacher conferences featuring references to “leadership skills” (read: tiny tyrant).

But I crave the rhythm as much as the kids do. And after a summer of running from everything—chaos, coupons, pickaxes—I’m ready to settle down with a fastpass for structure and a side of predictability.

So, here’s to tax-free weeks, unexpected adventures, and the kind of family training that leaves you with memories more magical than any race medal or Disney pin. May your journeys be as joyful and slightly unpredictable as a day at the parks—and may your neighbors never need to speed-dial CPS.

And the morning rope drop? Well, we made it. Just keep running forward.

Running from the Last Day of School

Today is the day every child has circled in red on their mental calendar since September: the Last Day of School. It’s also the day every parent greets with a mixture of dread and existential panic. Not because we don’t want to spend time with our delightful offspring (I mean, we love them, right?), but because the thought of keeping them entertained for the next 100 days is the parenting equivalent of running an ultra-marathon with a backpack full of snacks and a hydration pack filled with cold coffee.

Summer vacation, you see, is not for the faint of heart. It requires the strategic planning of a NASA launch, the logistical coordination of a Disney World vacation, and the snack budget of a minor league baseball team. If you haven’t spent March, April, and most of May quietly panicking about camp sign-ups and wondering if you can buy Goldfish crackers in bulk, you’re simply not doing it right.

Let’s talk numbers. The average child will ask for a snack approximately every 47 minutes during the summer months. Multiply that by three children, factor in the “snack inflation” effect (where a snack is never quite enough), and you’ll find yourself at Costco, staring at a pallet of granola bars, wondering if you should just buy two. Camps are another story: they’re expensive, fill up faster than a Taylor Swift concert, and getting both my 9-year-old and 7-year-old into the same camp, at the same time, is a feat of scheduling wizardry that would make even Len Testa proud.

Now, here’s the real twist: I work all summer. My husband, a teacher, gets to stay home with the kids. This means I can plan every minute of their day with color-coded charts, Pinterest-worthy snack carts (parental approval required, because my middle child would subsist on nothing but snacks if left unchecked), and lists of wholesome activities. But, much like planning a perfect marathon route, I have absolutely no control over whether anyone actually follows the plan. I am the race director who sets up the course, only to watch the runners veer off in search of ice cream.

As a kid, I was never a fan of summer. I liked the reliable routine of school, the thrill of learning, and the predictability of lunch at 11:57 a.m. Summer meant my mom would lock us out of the house until lunchtime, and my dad would sign me up for every volleyball camp in the continental United States. I loved volleyball, but as the perennial “new kid,” making friends was about as easy as running a 5K in flip-flops.

My kids, on the other hand, are thrilled. They’re not yet at the age where sleeping until noon is a competitive sport, but TV, video games, water balloons, and swimming are all firmly on the agenda. Meanwhile, I’ll be working, shuttling to baseball every night, and dodging the daily messes that seem to multiply like rabbits in the summer heat.

And honestly? That’s just fine by me. Because if running has taught me anything, it’s that you don’t have to enjoy every mile—sometimes, you just have to keep moving forward, one snack break at a time.

Running from the Indestructable Seven-Year-Old

There are certain inevitabilities in life: death, taxes, and the school nurse calling me at least three times a week. It’s become so routine that I half expect her to start our conversations with, “Hi, it’s me again,” as if we’re old friends catching up over coffee rather than discussing my seven-year-old son’s latest misadventure.

The calls always come around lunchtime, which is no coincidence. Recess follows lunch, and my son’s face—blessed with the classic Thompson head, which is, let’s be honest, a bit larger than the industry standard—seems to act as a homing beacon for any airborne object within a fifty-foot radius. If there’s a stray basketball, a rogue frisbee, or a meteorite hurtling toward Earth, you can bet it will make a beeline for his forehead.

Most of the nurses’ calls are about nosebleeds, which we average about five a week at home. The primary culprit? Wrestling that breaks out in my living room every afternoon from 3 to 8 p.m. But nosebleeds are just the beginning. We’ve also had incidents involving mysterious goose eggs, rope collisions, bee stings, and the full spectrum of scraped knees. In short, all the classic “boy things,” as the medical textbooks no doubt describe them.

In a strange way, I’m almost grateful that these incidents happen at school. When he was younger, I used to worry about taking him out in public, fearing that someone might call Child Protective Services after seeing his collection of bruises. But then my babysitter, having witnessed his Thompson head in action, became my unofficial alibi. Now, with the school nurse meticulously documenting every bump and scrape, I have a veritable archive proving that my child is uniquely qualified to injure himself in ways previously thought impossible.

My son is a marvel of perpetual motion. He arrived seven weeks early—clearly in a hurry—and has been moving at top speed ever since. He is, quite literally, the kid who saved me. After losing our little girl and enduring a rough patch in our marriage, I found myself in a dark place. His arrival was a lifeline, pulling me back into the world. This isn’t something he needs to know right now, but it’s why I look at him with a mixture of joy, gratitude, and mild terror every time he launches himself off the couch.

He also seems to run at a constant boil. Teachers frequently report that he rolls up his pant legs in the dead of winter because he’s “too hot.” He eats like a linebacker preparing for the Super Bowl—constantly, enthusiastically, and with no discernible impact on his weight, which has remained unchanged since 2023. I suspect he may be part hummingbird.

He’s one of the reasons I run. I know he’s proud of me, and I want to keep it that way. I work out and eat right not just for myself, but to show him that this is what you do: you keep moving, you take care of yourself, and you try to outrun the flying soccer balls of life.

I can’t wait to see what the future holds for him. I suspect it will involve a lot of movement, a few more nosebleeds, and maybe a Nobel Prize in physics for discovering new ways to collide with inanimate objects. Until then, I’m just over the moon to be his mama—even if it means keeping the school nurse on speed dial.

Running for The Boy Mom’s Field Guide

Let us begin with a simple truth: if you are the mother of boys, you are not so much raising children as you are attempting to survive a long-running, low-budget circus, minus the elephants but with all the mess. For the uninitiated-those fresh-faced, hopeful “boy moms” who still believe their living room can be both stylish and functional-consider this your orientation. For the veterans among us, think of it as a comforting nod, a knowing glance across the playground, and perhaps a prompt to add your own hard-won wisdom to the canon.

1. If It Smells Like Pee, It’s Pee

There is no need to consult a flowchart or conduct a chemical analysis. If your nose so much as twitches, you can be certain: it’s pee. And it will be somewhere you never thought possible-behind the curtains, inside a toy truck, or, in a feat of physics, on the ceiling. Accept this early, and you’ll save yourself hours of fruitless denial.

2. Cheese Sticks and Fruit Snacks: The Universal Solvent

It is a well-documented fact (by me, just now) that boys will never eat the dinner you lovingly prepared. However, announce bedtime or suggest dental hygiene, and they will be gripped by a hunger so profound it borders on the existential. The solution? Cheese sticks and fruit snacks. These are the Swiss Army knives of boy parenting: they resolve tantrums, mend broken spirits, and, on occasion, substitute for actual meals.

3. You Can’t Have Nice Things

At some point-usually after the third shattered lamp or the fortieth marker mural on the wall-you will utter the phrase, “This is why we can’t have nice things.” You will say it daily, sometimes hourly. It is not a complaint; it is a mantra, a rite of passage, and possibly the title of your future memoir.

4. The Wardrobe of the Perpetually Disheveled

Knees will be ventilated, shirts will be adorned with a Pollock-esque array of stains, and you will be tempted to throw them away. Don’t bother. Any new clothes will be similarly decorated within hours, and your children are blissfully unconcerned with appearances. Consider it early training for Silicon Valley.

5. Something Broken? It’s Always the Second One

If you have more than one boy, brace yourself: the second child will be the one to break it. Whether it’s a toy, a gadget, or your last nerve, the first child might be the careful experimenter, but the second? The second is the wild card, the chaos agent, the reason you now have “fragile” stickers on everything

6. The Emergency Car Toilet

You may believe your car is for transportation. Your sons believe it is a mobile restroom. Always have an empty bottle or a lidded cup at the ready. The need will arise, usually on the highway, and always when you are out of options.

7. The Paper Tsunami

Each day, your children will return from school with a stack of papers that could be used to wallpaper your house. Sort through them, keep the one with actual importance (there will be one, possibly), and dispose of the rest. After two weeks, throw away the “important” ones, too. Your kitchen table will never be clear, but you can slow the encroachment.

8. Did I Just Say That?

You will find yourself saying things that, in any other context, would result in a wellness check from concerned neighbors. “Get your penis off the wall” and “Crayons do not go there” are just the beginning. Embrace the absurdity.

9. Your Husband Counts

Remember, you are raising more than your own offspring; you are, in a very real sense, raising someone else’s son as well. Your mother-in-law will be delighted.

10. Soak Up Every Minute

Despite the chaos, or perhaps because of it, these years are fleeting. Laugh, play, and try to remember it all, even the bits that smell suspiciously of pee.

In summary, being a boy mom is less a job than an adventure-one with fewer safety harnesses and more cheese sticks than you ever imagined. Enjoy the ride, and remember: you are not alone.

Running to My Husband

I never really understood why, but I always wanted to be a wife. Not in the “I want to be June Cleaver” sense, but more in the “I need a permanent audience for my daily musings on laundry and the existential crisis of mismatched socks” way. So, after seven years of dating—a period in which we both became experts in the fine art of waiting for the other to propose—my now-husband finally popped the question. I suspect, if I’m honest, that after seven years he simply ran out of plausible alternatives. It’s either get married or start a competitive stamp-collecting hobby, and he’s never been good with glue.

The early years of our marriage were, in retrospect, a bit like the opening act of a play where the actors haven’t quite memorized their lines. I knew he loved me—he did, after all, tolerate my penchant for keeping the tv on while dead asleep every night—but I wasn’t entirely sure he liked me. I was there, keeping small humans alive, contributing to the family bank account, and occasionally reminding him where we keep the can opener. It took another seven years (because apparently, we do everything in seven-year increments) before we rediscovered the spark that brought us together in the first place, and realized we actually wanted the same things out of life—namely, a working dishwasher and children who don’t use the curtains as napkins.

Now, nearly eleven years into this grand experiment called marriage, I can honestly say we’re growing together. We have shared goals, synchronized hopes, and—most importantly—a mutual understanding that whoever steps on the stray LEGO has earned the right to pick the next family movie. We’re strolling through life with a sense of purpose, trailed by three small boys who operate with the energy and coordination of caffeinated ducklings.

I never imagined being a boy mom would be so entertaining. My sons are perpetually grubby, constantly ricocheting off furniture, and have turned minor household accidents into a competitive sport. Every day is a blend of slapstick comedy and impromptu science experiments involving mud, gravity, and whatever was once clean. It’s the best kind of chaos, and I wouldn’t trade it for anything. My life is overflowing with more love (and laundry) than I ever thought possible, and for that, I am endlessly, comically, and profoundly grateful.

Running from the Beach

Well, here I am, on day eight of a ten-day travel odyssey, and I can scarcely believe I’ve made it this far without collapsing into a heap of exhaustion. Since last Wednesday, life has been a whirlwind of suitcases, sunscreen, and sporadic Wi-Fi. From Florida’s sandy shores to California’s bustling streets, I’ve covered more ground in the past week than I usually do in a month. It’s been two weeks that feel like two years.

The first leg of this adventure was spent in Florida with Chas and the boys. Daytona Beach and Disney World were the highlights, and let me tell you, we packed more “magic” into those days than a Harry Potter marathon. Chas’ conference went swimmingly (pun intended), and the boys had the time of their lives. Now, I’m in California wrapping up work for Prep2Prep, but honestly, my brain is still somewhere between Cinderella’s Castle and the Pacific Ocean.

Let’s pause for a moment to talk about the Hilton Daytona Beach. If you’re ever in need of a place to stay there—and frankly, why wouldn’t you be?—I can’t recommend it highly enough. The location is perfection itself: smack dab in the middle of the boardwalk area, with nine restaurants (yes, nine!), a lovely pool area, and views of the Atlantic so stunning they could make a poet weep. Our room overlooked the ocean, which made mornings feel like something out of a travel brochure. Sure, we had a couple of minor hiccups—the TV decided to stage a rebellion, and we needed a fridge for the baby’s milk—but the staff swooped in like superheroes to save the day. Honestly, you could spend your entire trip within the resort’s confines and leave feeling utterly content. A heartfelt THANK YOU to the Hilton Daytona Beach for making our stay unforgettable!

Now let’s talk about Cub—our resident Aqua Lad. This child was in his element at the beach. I wasted precious packing space on sand toys only to discover he had no interest in them whatsoever. His sole focus? The water. Waves crashing? No problem. Surf pounding? Bring it on. He ran back and forth through the surf like he was auditioning for Baywatch: Toddler Edition. And when he wasn’t frolicking in the ocean, he was in the pool—so much so that his eyes turned red from all the chlorine. Did that stop him? Of course not. Cub has mastered holding his breath underwater to such an alarming degree that strangers started looking concerned.

Then there’s Oz, our little trooper-in-training. He’s teetering on the brink of major mobility—Labor Day will likely mark the start of our new life as full-time wranglers of two mobile children. On this trip, though, he was content to nap on the beach while I dug him a little shady spot in the sand like some sort of makeshift crib architect. He enjoys water too but prefers splashing over swimming—a distinction that makes him slightly less nerve-wracking than his older brother (for now). Flying with him wasn’t terrible this time around, but once he starts moving? Game over.

As this marathon of travel winds down, I find myself staring down the imminent arrival of school season with mixed emotions. On one hand, I know these moments with my young family are fleeting—Cub will be off to school before I know it, and then it’s all downhill from there (kidding… mostly). On the other hand, there’s something comforting about returning to normalcy after two years of pregnancies and ear infections throwing us off course. This year feels promising—straightforward even—and I’m optimistic it’ll be our best one yet.

But for now? Two more days on the road before I can collapse into my own bed and declare this epic journey complete!

 

I’m not faking being sick

Today is a really hard day. Today is Quinn’s birthday. I have a 5 week old baby that wouldn’t be here if she was. That’s a really hard concept to grasp. It’s perfect and not fair all at the same time.

I read a quote today that said, “I’m not faking being sick. I’m faking being well.” A lot of days that is how I feel. I could talk to someone/people about it, but I don’t want to. No one understands like a mother. And the biggest problem is that this sort of pain will never go away. I will always think about what I lost: the sleepless nights, the bows and dresses, the pigtails and the pink and purple. All of it.

It’s not fair, but it’s the way it’s supposed to be.

Oz is awesome. He is a good baby. He grunts and yells. He is so small. I just love him to pieces. But he’s not my Quinn.

More about Oz in posts to come, but for now, I am just going to wallow in my sorrow for a while.

Expect the unexpected

20171205081331281The last month of my life has been a whirl wind.

Volleyball season ended mid-November, and it seemed like the let-down of the season allowed a flood of terrible pregnancy symptoms to attack me at every turn. Let’s go in chronological order, shall we?

Week 26– Volleyball Ends

27 & 3– Mid-morning contractions start, strong enough that I can’t talk through them. They are regular in their spacing, and Chas took me to the hospital about 1pm. He of course was preparing to leave for a tournament in Kearney, NE, that night. They checked me. I was dialated to 1, and they eventually let me go home but told me to spend the weekend in bed just taking it easy.

29 & 3– Did not sleep a wink. Woke up to Cub screaming about 11:30pm, and proceeded to be up the rest of the night because of terrible pain in my left side. I honestly thought I might have kidney stones or an impacted bowel. It was terrible! Finally, after I got Cub back to sleep about 4, I ended up driving myself to the ER, where they immediately send me to Labor and Delivery. I was there till almost 10 am, and they sent me home, telling me I just had round ligament pain… I mean, honestly!!

29 & 6 – After going for a drive to look at Christmas lights, I came home to very strong contractions at about 2:30 mins apart. I proceeded to take Tylenol and Benadryl as I had been instructed to do, and went to bed, hoping to sleep it off.

Week 30– The reason my mom came was to see my 30 week ultrasound, scheduled for December 5th or the day I reached 30 weeks. She woke up with a stomach flu, and Chas, Cub and I proceeded to the hospital for my sonogram. After a few measurements, the radiologist told me that she was sending me upstairs to my doctor, because she was getting a shorter than normal measurement on my cervix. My doctor sent me back down to Labor and Delivery because of the fact that I had been having contractions. After another internal sonogram, it was determined that I was in pre-term labor. Due to the nature of Hay’s hospital only being a Level 3, I was quickly told that They were going to start me on magnesium to try to stop labor, give me steroids to try to develop baby’s lungs, and I was going to be choppered to Wesley Medical Center in Wichita, where the NICU could care for the baby assuming I delivered.

I spent the next 6 days in the hospital, in and out of labor and delivery, but no baby. It was determined I could leave the hospital, but Hays Med would not take me back until I reached 34 weeks.

33 & 1– Here I sit, at my brother’s house in Wichita, writing this post. No baby yet, thank goodness, but without my husband and eldest son. I have 6 more days to wait it out until I can go back home to my own bed, my dogs, my cat, and my regular life. My Christmas plans were foiled. New Years is just another day, as I won’t get to kiss my love at midnight. I will, however, get to drive home to my family.

This has been one of the hardest months of my life, to top off the absolute worst year of my life. I am convinced that if I am still alive come January 1, 2018, I will undoubtedly be able to make it through just about anything. The best part of the last month is that we still do not have a little baby. He needs to stay in there and cook a few more weeks, so every day we get through is a good day for him.

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I continue to have contractions for a majority of most days, and I have eaten more Tums in the past 7 months than anyone in the world… It will all be worth it for a happy, healthy baby boy.