Category Archives: Rants

Running through the Grocery Gauntlet

If you ever want to test the limits of optimism, try doing a weekly grocery order for a family of five. Statistically, you’re not alone. According to the USDA, the average American family of five spends between $939 and $1,520 a month on groceries, with some families reporting totals as high as $1,600. That’s enough to make you wonder if everyone else is eating caviar for breakfast or just feeding their children gold-plated Pop-Tarts.

Now, I’ll admit, my own grocery budget is a bit of an outlier. I aim for under $500 a month, which, if you believe the experts, puts me somewhere between “frugal genius” and “possible magician.” Yet, despite my best efforts, my cupboards are always full, but never with anything that can be thrown in the air fryer and called dinner. In fact, my idea of a home-cooked meal is whatever can be heated at 400 degrees for 12 minutes or less.

Here’s the thing: even when I do muster the energy to cook, my kids treat my culinary efforts with the enthusiasm usually reserved for dental appointments. The return on investment for dinner prep is, frankly, abysmal. And to add insult to injury, we’re rarely home to eat anything anyway. The average U.S. household wastes 6.2 cups of food per week-enough to fill 360 takeout containers per year-and I’m fairly certain my fridge is personally responsible for half of that statistic. If there were a frequent flyer program for spoiled leftovers, I’d be platinum status.

Despite all this, I find myself at the store every week, buying essentials like Pull-Ups, toilet paper, and enough snack-size chip bags to supply a small army. It’s never a one-and-done trip; it’s a perpetual scavenger hunt. And yes, I use coupons, rebate apps, and weekly flyers like a seasoned bargain hunter. I seldom buy name brands, but I don’t think our generic mac and cheese is the reason my children are staging a hunger strike.

Food waste is a national pastime: 30–40% of food in the U.S. ends up in the trash, costing households up to $1,500 a year. If saving money is the top motivator for reducing waste (as 82% of Americans claim), then why does my fridge look like a science experiment gone wrong by Thursday? Maybe it’s because, like 87% of households, we’re guilty of letting perfectly edible food sit until it’s past its prime. Or maybe it’s because we’re never home. Between baseball, wrestling, football, and the occasional “dinner” of granola bars and bologna sandwiches, our kitchen is more museum than restaurant.

I know my grocery bill will inevitably rise as my boys get older. They’re wrestlers, which means half the year is spent cutting weight, and the other half is spent eating like they’re preparing for hibernation. Statistically, teenage boys can consume up to 3,000 calories a day, which means my $500 budget may soon be as outdated as my expired yogurt.

We don’t have pets, so at least I’m not feeding a small zoo. Eating out is a rare treat- maybe two or three times a month, and even then, it’s usually pizza. According to the Bureau of Labor Statistics, the average American household spends nearly $3,000 a year on eating out, but I can assure you, we are not average in this department.

So, what’s the secret? Am I under-spending, or just under-cooking? Should I be eating better, or am I simply not spending enough to keep up with the Joneses and their well-stocked air fryers? All I know is, my waistline doesn’t seem to agree with my modest grocery bill, and my fridge remains a monument to good intentions and wasted leftovers.

If there’s a Nobel Prize for creative couponing and food waste, I’d like to be considered. Until then, I’ll keep shopping, keep saving, and keep wondering why there’s never anything for dinner.

Statistics cited from the USDA, Bureau of Labor Statistics, and MITRE-Gallup food waste survey.

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 from Danger

Let’s be honest: catastrophe is always lurking just outside the frame, like a raccoon in your garbage or a toddler with a marker. You can have your emergency fund, your canned beans, and enough insurance paperwork to wallpaper the Taj Mahal, but the universe remains stubbornly unscripted. If you think you can predict the future, I invite you to my house on banana-buying day.

Would I even want to know the future? I’m not sure my ego could survive it. It’s hard enough living with the knowledge that, in 2019, I bought a bread machine. If I knew everything ahead of time, I’d probably just curl up in a ball of embarrassment and never leave the linen closet. Honestly, most of my “big” decisions these days involve the produce aisle and the inscrutable dietary whims of small children. Bananas, for example: buy two, and the kids eat them in a single, frenzied sitting. Buy five, and they sit untouched, quietly evolving into fruit flies and existential regret.

Then there’s the matter of who gets to turn off the TV. In my house, this is not so much a simple request as it is a high-stakes summit meeting, complete with negotiations, shifting alliances, and the occasional threat of sanctions. Honestly, the Geneva Conventions could learn a thing or two from the way a three-year-old leverages bedtime against screen time. Choose the wrong delegate for this task, and you’re risking a meltdown of historic proportions—possibly involving tears, definitely involving accusations of gross injustice, and always requiring a follow-up peace treaty (usually brokered with applesauce or a cheese stick).

It’s a funny thing about decisions: what seems trivial to you can be life-altering to someone else—usually someone under four feet tall and heavily invested in Paw Patrol. As a parent, you’re not just steering your own ship; you’re captaining the whole flotilla, snack requests and all. The pressure is immense, but, as they say, pressure makes diamonds. (Or possibly just very tired people who dream of diamonds.)

By the time you’ve weathered three kids and a quarter-century of negotiations over bananas and TV remotes, you’re not so much a diamond as you are a well-worn pebble—polished, yes, but mostly from being rolled around by the tides of daily life. Maybe that’s why retirement is so sweet: it’s the first time in decades you get to decide, with no consequences, how many bananas to buy. And if you get it wrong? Well, there’s always banana bread.

Running from Holidays

It’s a peculiar thing, really—this unwritten law that mothers must moonlight as the chief engineers of all holiday enchantment. If there’s a magical event on the calendar, odds are I’m the one quietly orchestrating it from behind the curtain, like some seasonal Imagineer with a glue gun and a to-do list. Santa Claus? That’s me. Easter Bunny? Also me. Leprechaun? For reasons as mysterious as the origins of Figment, yes, me again. Meanwhile, my husband approaches Christmas morning with the same wide-eyed astonishment as a tourist discovering a second entrance to EPCOT—utterly delighted, blissfully unaware, and, crucially, not the one who wrapped the monorail set.

Last Christmas, my oldest, in a moment of honesty only a child or a particularly blunt park guest can muster, asked if perhaps I’d been a “bad girl” since Santa had forgotten to bring me anything. I shot my husband a glare so frigid it could’ve closed Blizzard Beach for the season, then shrugged and moved on. Sometimes, you have to pick your battles, especially when your only weapons are tinsel and a patience level that’s dropping faster than Rise of the Resistance boarding groups.

Now, if you think holiday magic is just a matter of popping into Target and grabbing whatever’s on the endcap, let me assure you: this is a covert operation of the highest order. My children are drawn to hidden presents like guests to free Wi-Fi, and will sniff out even the best-laid plans with the tenacity of a Disney blogger hunting for soft openings. Thus, I’ve developed hiding spots so ingenious that I occasionally lose track of them myself, leading to the annual spring tradition of “Why is there a Hatchimals egg in the linen closet?”

And let’s talk about the gifts themselves. There is a very specific subset of toys—tiny plastic things, anything that shrieks, and games requiring adult participation—that I avoid with the same fervor I reserve for rope-dropping a park on a holiday weekend. There’s only so much forced merriment one can endure before considering a strategic retreat to the garage with a mug of something “festive.”

So, here’s to the mothers: the unsung Imagineers of the festive season, the ones who keep the magic alive, year after relentless year. And let us not forget our shared, silent loathing for that infernal Elf on the Shelf, who, much like a malfunctioning animatronic, always seems to cause more trouble than he’s worth.

Happy holidays, and may your patience last longer than the line for Peter Pan’s Flight.

Running from the Dentist

I hate the dentist. I mean, truly, deeply, passionately hate the dentist. If there were an Olympic event for avoiding dental appointments, I’d be a gold medalist, standing proudly atop the podium with a plaque commemorating my years of dodging fluoride treatments and awkward small talk about flossing. It’s not just the discomfort of the experience—it’s the sheer absurdity of willingly choosing to spend your days poking around in other people’s mouths. What kind of person wakes up one morning and thinks, You know what? I want to peer into cavities for a living! Surely, there’s some sort of psychological study waiting to be done on this.

My last visit to the dentist was right before my stroke—a momentous occasion that now feels like a grim punctuation mark in my personal timeline. Afterward, life became a whirlwind of chaos: a cross-country move, a new job, the exhausting process of finding new doctors. Dental care somehow fell to the bottom of the priority list, buried beneath layers of more pressing concerns. Fast forward three years, and here I am—mouth so numb after finally biting the bullet (pun intended) and going back that I could gnaw on barbed wire without flinching. It’s both horrifying and oddly liberating.

Teeth are terrifying little things when you think about them. They’re like tiny landmines hiding in your gums—silent, unassuming, and ready to explode into pain at any moment. Things break without warning. You wake up one day feeling fine and by lunchtime you’re Googling “sharp pain in molar” while spiraling into existential dread. And then there’s the dentist themselves—a mysterious figure armed with drills and mirrors who speaks in cryptic terms about “pockets” and “enamel erosion.” You nod along as though you understand, but really you’re thinking, Are they just making this up? Should I trust them?

Let’s not forget the sheer indignity of dental procedures. They numb you up until your face feels like it’s been replaced with a slab of concrete, or worse, they knock you out entirely. Laughing gas? Don’t get me started. It’s like being invited to a party where you’re the only guest who doesn’t know what’s happening. You leave feeling compromised—unable to eat properly or form coherent sentences—and wondering if this is what defeat feels like.

Doctors aren’t much better, though they do have slightly less terrifying tools at their disposal (no drills, thank goodness). But visiting them is its own kind of ordeal—wandering through sprawling facilities that feel more like labyrinths than places of healing. You sit there in sterile rooms while they poke and prod, never quite sure what they’re looking for or whether your headache is just a headache or an ominous sign that something catastrophic is brewing. And let’s be honest: Googling symptoms is practically an act of self-sabotage. One minute you’re searching “sore throat,” and the next you’re convinced you have six months to live.

And then there are the accessories—the rubber gloves snapping ominously against wrists, the surgical masks muffling voices into eerie half-murmurs, and those bizarre magnifying glasses that make doctors look like they’ve wandered off the set of a sci-fi film. It’s all so unsettlingly clinical that you can’t help but wonder if they’re secretly auditioning for roles as mad scientists.

In short: dentists are scary, doctors are slightly less scary but still unnerving, and teeth are downright treacherous little monsters lurking in your mouth. If I could opt out of all of it entirely—teeth included—I’d seriously consider it.

Running from Dinner

Being a mom is, to put it mildly, like being the CEO of a company where the employees are perpetually confused, demanding, and prone to losing their shoes. It’s not that being a dad isn’t hard—dads have their own set of challenges—but moms are expected to know everything. We’re the keepers of the appointments, the grocery lists, and the precise location of every sock in the house. We’re also tasked with feeding everyone dinner every single day (as if hunger weren’t enough of a problem without adding meal planning to it) and ensuring there’s always underwear for the foreseeable future. Honestly, it’s a wonder we don’t just throw in the towel and declare cereal as an acceptable dinner option every night. Thank goodness my kids like cereal.

And yet, my responsibilities don’t stop with the kids. Oh no, I also worry about my husband’s stuff. Did his co-workers like him today? Does his boss think he’s doing a good job? Did he remember his coffee mug this morning? These are not things I need to worry about, but I do anyway because apparently my brain has decided it’s a good idea to run on overdrive at all times. The result? Exhaustion. Most days I’m so drained I can fall asleep before my kids do—though, admittedly, the stroke hasn’t helped matters in that department. By 8 p.m., I’m done for, and I’ve stopped pretending otherwise.

As if all that weren’t enough, volleyball has added a new layer of mental gymnastics to my life. Coaching requires brainpower—lots of it—and that makes my already pronounced exhaustion even more pronounced. It’s as though life decided to hand me a wrench and then gleefully watch me try to juggle it along with everything else.

And can we talk about dinner for a moment? Who decided moms need to be responsible for answering all food-related questions? “What’s for dinner?” “Do we have ketchup?” “Why don’t we have ketchup?” How am I supposed to remember if there’s another bottle in the pantry when you inhaled the last one like it was oxygen? The whole thing is absurd.

This is why running is my ultimate sanctuary. It allows me to escape the chaotic landscape of my mind—a realm cluttered with endless lists, nagging reminders, and mental post-it notes that seem to multiply like rabbits on caffeine. For a blissful stretch of time, I get to silence the cacophony of thoughts and simply be. It’s a liberating experience that reminds me I still possess a semblance of sanity.

And when I return home, something magical happens. The tasks that once loomed like Mount Everest now seem like mere speed bumps. Running is hard, yes, but it’s a reminder that if I can conquer the road, I can conquer anything life throws at me. Plus, it’s the ultimate multitasking tool: I can listen to podcasts, push kids in strollers, run with the dog, and rack up my steps all at once. It’s efficiency at its finest—a symphony of productivity and peace.

So here’s my conclusion: running is not just a survival tool for moms; it’s a lifeline. It’s not just exercise; it’s therapy, a sanity-saver, and a reminder that we’re capable of more than we ever thought possible. Vote for me in 2028, and I’ll make sure cereal dinners and mandatory running become the pillars of a new national wellness policy. Together, we can create a world where moms can thrive, one run at a time!

Running from the Toddler

Ah, motherhood. That grand, mysterious adventure that begins with nine months of discomfort, followed by a brief stint as a conveyor belt for tiny humans and culminates in the realization that your life is now entirely dictated by someone who can’t tie their own shoes. The remarkable thing about this whole process is how quickly we forget the pain—the swollen ankles, the sleepless nights, the moment you realized your bladder had been demoted to a trampoline. It’s as if nature has thoughtfully provided us with a mental delete button. But then, just when you think you’ve moved on, along comes the age of three to remind you that perhaps you haven’t forgotten quite enough.

Now, people often talk about the “terrible twos,” which is misleading. Two is merely an amuse-bouche of chaos compared to the full buffet of madness that awaits at three. Three is when your cherubic toddler transforms into a pint-sized dictator with an alarming grasp of language and an uncanny ability to manipulate adults. They don’t just demand hot dogs; they demand them with conviction. They don’t just want you to play; they want you to be exactly the Transformer they’ve assigned while they prance about as Slinky Dog. And heaven help you if you don’t queue up their favorite show for the 87th time—an oversight that will be met with outrage worthy of a United Nations summit.

I can say with confidence that I despise three-year-olds—my own included. It’s not personal; it’s just that they’ve perfected the art of being simultaneously exhausting and infuriating. They refuse naps, despite being visibly more tired than a marathon runner at mile 26. They develop peculiar preferences for things like milk cups, which they express in cryptic proclamations like, “That’s more like it!”—a phrase so bizarre it makes you wonder if you’re raising an eccentric Victorian aristocrat.

But let me assure you, it doesn’t stop at three. Oh no, seven and nine have their own unique horrors. Seven-year-olds seem to think sibling rivalry is an Olympic sport, and nine-year-olds have mastered the fine art of being insufferably smug while still needing help with basic hygiene. If I had a dollar for every time I’ve shouted “Keep your hands to yourself!” I’d be lounging on a private island right now, sipping cocktails and marveling at my fortune.

This is why I run—not metaphorically or figuratively—but literally. Running is my escape from the madness, my chance to pound out my frustrations on the pavement while fantasizing about a world where children come with mute buttons. Lexapro helps, but even modern pharmaceuticals have their limits when faced with preschoolers who think they’re ready to govern small nations.

Still, hope glimmers faintly on the horizon: preschool starts in the fall. Surely someone else can deal with his boundless energy and insatiable curiosity for a few hours each day. Until then, I’ll be here—dodging demands for hot dogs and Transformer reenactments—counting down the days until sanity returns (or at least takes a brief holiday).

Running from the Geese

There is a bit of an avian drama unfolding just outside my workplace, and it is nothing short of a Hitchcockian spectacle. A Canadian goose—a bird whose reputation for belligerence precedes it—has decided that the ideal spot to lay her egg is mere inches from one of our entrance doors. This, as you might imagine, has turned the simple act of entering the building into something akin to running a gauntlet.

The father goose, a creature of singular determination and misplaced aggression, has taken it upon himself to defend their makeshift nursery with the fervor of a medieval knight guarding a castle. To him, every passerby is an existential threat, and he greets them with all the subtlety of a dive-bombing fighter jet. Colleagues have been subjected to aerial assaults, honking tirades, and the occasional goose-to-head collision. It’s less “welcome to work” and more “welcome to Thunderdome.”

I, however, have managed to avoid being attacked. Perhaps it’s my aura of invincibility. Or perhaps I’ve simply been lucky enough to avoid crossing paths with this feathered vigilante on a bad day. Either way, I’ve had time to reflect on this goose’s antics and come to one undeniable conclusion: that bird is an exceptional parent. He would do absolutely anything for his unborn offspring—even if it means terrorizing an entire office building.

It’s humbling, really. There are days when I can’t even muster the energy to fetch my child a cold hot dog from the fridge. And here’s this goose, risking life and limb (well, mostly limb) to protect an egg. What kind of mom am I? Sure, I made my kids by eating food—a fact I like to remind them of regularly by declaring that their arms are made of barbecue chips—but they never believe me. It’s true though!

When I was pregnant with Cub, for instance, I subsisted almost entirely on Raisin Bran. Why? I have no idea. But I went through boxes of the stuff like it was going out of style. On one particularly memorable trip to California during that pregnancy, I ate nothing but Raisin Bran for four days straight. It was probably the cheapest vacation diet in history.

With Ozzie, my cravings pivoted dramatically to all things orange—orange Jell-O, oranges themselves, anything vaguely citrus-hued. Perhaps my body was crying out for Vitamin C? Who knows?

And then there was Wynn. For reasons I cannot explain (nor do I want to), all I craved during that pregnancy was concession stand nacho cheese—the kind that comes in plastic tubs and tastes like regret but somehow hits all the right notes when you’re expecting. Unsurprisingly, Wynn turned out to be my heavyweight.

Despite these peculiar dietary choices, all three kids turned out perfectly fine—living proof that you can build a human on cereal, citrus, and questionable cheese products.

But back to our goose friend: as much as her dedication impresses me, I can’t help but feel grateful that human parenting doesn’t require sitting on your children all day long like she does with her egg. That said, if anyone needs me later today, I’ll be sneaking into work through the back door while silently saluting Mr. Goose for his unyielding commitment to fatherhood—and hoping he doesn’t notice me on the way in!

Running from April Fools

I am, it seems, eternally surrounded by boys. Not just metaphorically, mind you—literally. They’re everywhere. I have three sons of my own, a husband who occasionally behaves like a fourth, and now, as if the universe thought I needed more chaos in my life, I’m coaching a boys’ volleyball team this spring. It’s as though some cosmic force has decided that my life’s soundtrack should be an endless loop of the word poop. Truly, the frequency with which I hear that word on any given day is enough to make even the most patient saint consider early retirement.

But here’s the thing about boys: they’re surprisingly easy to manage once you crack the code. Sure, they’re loud, messy, and occasionally baffling creatures, but they’re also refreshingly straightforward. Over the years, I’ve made a few observations about living in this testosterone-fueled circus. Consider this your guide to boy-wrangling:

1. They’re Predictable (Mostly)

Boys don’t tend to be particularly devious. They’re not plotting elaborate schemes or engaging in Machiavellian mind games. If you know where the dangers lie—sharp corners, precariously stacked objects, or that one kid who thinks he’s invincible—you can usually keep them in one piece. It’s less about strategy and more about constant vigilance, like living with a pack of hyperactive puppies.

2. The Five-Second Rule is Irrelevant

If it’s edible (or even vaguely resembles food), they’ll eat it. Dropped it on the floor? No problem. Found it under the couch? Even better! Boys have stomachs of steel and appetites that defy logic. I once saw one of mine eat half a sandwich he’d forgotten in his backpack for two days without so much as a second thought—or a stomachache.

3. They Speak First, Think Later

If there’s a filter between their brains and their mouths, it’s either malfunctioning or nonexistent. This habit is particularly grating to any girl within earshot, who will inevitably roll her eyes and mutter something about how boys are hopeless. And honestly? She’s not wrong.

4. Rocks Are Their Currency

I don’t know how or why this happens, but boys collect rocks as though they’re precious gemstones. You’ll find them everywhere—backpacks, pockets, jars, under couch cushions. Sometimes they’re special because they’re “shiny” or “cool,” but more often than not, they’re just regular old rocks that somehow hold immense sentimental value.

5. Practical Jokes Are Their Love Language

In my house, pranks are as essential as oxygen. As I sit here writing this from work, there is packing tape stretched across every doorway in my home—a delightful surprise left by my little April Fools enthusiasts. My mom has already reported that one of them walked straight into it (the irony is not lost on me). By the time I get home at 5:30 p.m., I fully expect to find at least one child tangled in tape like a fly caught in a spiderweb. This is my life.

And yet, despite the chaos—the noise, the messes, the endless supply of rocks—I wouldn’t trade it for anything. Life with boys is unpredictable and exhausting but also wildly entertaining. They keep me on my toes and remind me daily that laughter really is the best medicine… even if it’s occasionally at my own expense.

So here’s to boys: messy, lovable tornadoes of energy who will forever keep me guessing—and forever keep me laughing (even if it’s through gritted teeth).

This, folks, is why we run. I realize that April Fools’ Day is a metaphor for life itself—full of unexpected twists and turns, some humorous, others not so much. But running gives me the clarity to navigate these challenges with a bit more grace and a lot more humor. So, on this April Fools’ Day, I’ll keep running—both from the pranks and towards a clearer mind. After all, this is why we run: to find our footing in a world that’s always trying to trip us up.

Running from Reality: A Midlife Meander Through the Absurd

Let’s talk about expectations. When you’re knee-high to a grasshopper, do you envision yourself, decades later, as a 42-year-old survivor of both a stroke and the relentless existential dread that comes with being a modern human? Do you foresee a domestic landscape populated by a nine-year-old space expert (who knows more about black holes than I do about, well, anything), a six-year-old bottomless pit of a child (whose digestive system operates with the efficiency of a garbage disposal), a three-year-old dictator (who probably runs a tighter ship than most Fortune 500 CEOs), and a husband whose devotion to wrestling occasionally surpasses even his fondness for his long-suffering wife?

No? Me neither.

Life, as they say, has a way of rearranging the furniture. It presents you with a neatly packed suitcase of dreams and aspirations, then promptly throws it off a speeding train. You’re left standing on the platform, blinking in confusion, surrounded by scattered socks and a crumpled map of the world as you thought it would be.

And so, one finds oneself at an… interesting juncture. Not ungrateful, mind you. Gratitude is a very important thing and I practice it daily. But also not… entirely thrilled. Frankly, some days, the sheer weight of it all—the demands, the responsibilities, the unrelenting cacophony of tiny voices—can feel like trying to swallow a particularly dense and thorny cactus.

This, dear reader, is where the running comes in.

Because when life serves up a generous helping of the unexpected, you have two choices: you either roll over and play dead, or you lace up your sneakers and attempt to outrun the encroaching sense of… something. What that something is, I’m still trying to figure out. Midlife crisis? Existential angst? The lingering effects of neurological trauma? Probably a delightful cocktail of all three, shaken, not stirred.

Now, about that cactus. You could try to stomach it whole and learn to appreciate its unique flavor profile (a flavor that, I suspect, closely resembles despair). Or, you could opt for a slightly more palatable solution. Which is, in my case, a small, round, Lexapro-shaped lifesaver. Remember that thorny cactus? Well, this little pill helps to smooth down the spikes. Not a cure, mind you. More of a… temporary truce.

The reality, as I’m slowly coming to accept, is that some days the chatter in my head resembles a flock of startled parrots engaged in a heated debate about the merits of various brands of birdseed. Other days, it’s more like a swarm of angry bees, buzzing furiously around a nest of anxieties. Saturdays, in particular, can be perilous. With the structure of the workweek stripped away, and the schedule blissfully (or terrifyingly) sparse, there’s simply too much time to think. Too much time to ruminate. Too much time to engage in the delightful pastime of self-loathing.

The medication has quieted the noise, and the relief is palpable. But it’s also… unsettling. I’m calmer. Less anxious. Something I haven’t felt in years. It feels a little like wearing someone else’s skin.

Here’s the kicker: I’m still trying to figure out who “I” am now. The stroke, the medication, the relentless march of time—they’ve all conspired to create a somewhat… unfamiliar version of myself. I don’t quite recognize myself. I haven’t been myself in about three years now, and I’m still trying to figure out where the trail leads. Am I back to myself? Am I a new version? Am I just out here, aimlessly running?

But this, surprisingly, is a happy post. Because in the midst of all this uncertainty, there’s a glimmer of something resembling hope. A sense of relief. The freedom to breathe, even if the air feels a little… different.

And, dear reader, you’re getting to witness it all unfold. As I stumble and fumble my way through this new normal, as I tentatively piece together the fragments of my former self, I’m sharing it all with you. You’re getting the real-time, uncensored, occasionally-slightly-medicated revelation of me. Aren’t you just thrilled? I know I am. Mostly. Well, sometimes. Okay, maybe only on Tuesdays. But still… progress!

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a three-year-old dictator to appease. And a five-mile run to “escape” into. Wish me luck. I have a feeling I’m going to need it.