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Running from DIY Delusion

If you’ve ever found yourself scrolling through Pinterest, you’ll know it’s a bit like wandering into a bakery after a juice cleanse—everything looks so easy, so achievable, so… not at all like your actual life. Pinterest, with its glossy photos and endless scroll, is the internet’s way of whispering, “You could do this. You really could.” And like a moth to a flame, I believed it.

For months, I’ve been nurturing the idea of installing a board and batten wall. Not just any wall, mind you, but the perfect wall. The sort of wall that, if it could talk, would say, “I was born for this.” I had the time, the motivation, and, after a recent cardiac adventure that left me feeling like a deflated pool float, an urgent need to prove I could still accomplish something more ambitious than folding laundry.

Enter: the nail gun. A tool I’d dreamed of owning, right up there with a self-cleaning oven and a Roomba that doesn’t get stuck on socks. Three months ago, I bought one. I read the directions (twice!); I watched YouTube tutorials; I even made a playlist called “Nail Gun Anthems.” And then, like any responsible adult, I let it sit in the corner for ninety days, gathering dust and silently judging me.

Eventually, the lure of Pinterest perfection proved too strong. I rallied Chas and the kids for a family outing to the lumber yard, which, if you’ve never been, is like IKEA for people who think splinters are a badge of honor. There, I agonized over wood choices, grain patterns, and whether I could pull off flannel in June. Supplies purchased, I returned home, ready to embark on my first real project with power tools that weren’t a drill.

How did it go? Let’s just say it was a rousing success—if you define “success” as “the wall is still standing and most of my fingers remain attached.” I did cut a few boards too short, but I’m convinced the wall is crooked, not my measuring tape. This is the story I’m sticking with, and I dare anyone to prove otherwise.

Like running (which, let’s be honest, is mostly just running from my own questionable decisions), DIY is a marathon, not a sprint. The first training cycle is always the hardest, mostly because you have no idea what you’re doing, and the internet is full of liars. But for a first attempt, I’m calling it a win. I enjoyed the process, I learned a lot, and I only swore in front of the children twice. Progress!

My summer to-do list is still longer than a CVS receipt, but my goal is simple: add value to my grandma’s house (our current rental) and, perhaps, convince my family that I am, in fact, a useful human being. After years of asking for help, it feels good to give something back—even if that something is a slightly uneven wall.

So here’s to another trip to the lumber yard, another project, and another day with all ten fingers. May your Pinterest dreams be slightly more achievable than mine—and may your nail gun always be pointed away from your toes.

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 Decisions

Decision fatigue, I’ve discovered, is not just real—it’s a kind of existential jet lag. There are days when I feel as though my brain has been mugged by a gang of particularly indecisive squirrels. These are the days when I am required to make an endless series of choices, ranging from the mildly irritating (“Should I answer this email now or in three years?”) to the wildly consequential (“Should I quit my job and move to a remote island where the only decision is coconut or mango?”).

I have, in fact, left jobs over this. Some people thrive on decision-making, but I am not one of them. What’s good for the goose, as they say, is often just a migraine for the gander. There is something peculiarly exhausting about having the fate of things—projects, people, snack selections—resting in your hands. It’s not just overwhelming; it’s like being handed the controls to a nuclear reactor and told, “Don’t touch anything, but also, everything depends on you.”

As a mother, I am required to make decisions with the frequency and urgency of an air-traffic controller, except my “planes” are small, loud, and sticky. Making choices for myself is one thing, but making them for others is a whole different kettle of fish fingers. People, it turns out, care deeply about the decisions that affect them, and if you get it wrong, you will hear about it. Loudly. Possibly with interpretive dance.

So, in an act of self-preservation, I have whittled my daily quota of decisions down to the bare minimum. This has, admittedly, put a slight dent in my previously go-getterish persona. I’ve taken a job that allows me to spend more time with my children and less time making decisions, and, through some cosmic clerical error, I’m actually paid more for it. I am, it must be said, bored at times—bored in the way that only someone who has spent an hour comparing brands of dishwasher tablets can be bored. But I love my work, my workplace, and the people I work with.

Perhaps, when my children are older and no longer require my guidance on matters such as sock selection and the ethics of eating the last cookie, I’ll wade back into the decision-making fray. For now, I am content—grateful, even. My biggest daily dilemma is what to serve for dinner, and honestly, that’s quite enough excitement for me.

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.