Tag Archives: family

Running from The Myth of the School Employee’s Endless Summer

People have this charming idea that if you work at a school, your summer is a three-month hammock nap punctuated only by sunscreen reapplication and the occasional ice cream cone. “Must be nice to get summers off!” they say, with that peculiar blend of envy and disbelief usually reserved for lottery winners and people who actually enjoy running hills.

Let’s set the record straight: I am not a teacher. I am not an administrator. I am, in fact, one of those mysterious school employees who keeps the place running while everyone else is off recharging their batteries. My “summer break” is less “European vacation” and more “please submit your vacation request in triplicate.” The only break I get is the one I schedule myself—and even then, I’m more likely to spend it cleaning up after my family’s daily reenactment of Lord of the Flies.

But here’s the twist: while my colleagues are off, I get to enjoy a school that’s blissfully empty. The pace slows down. The urgent requests evaporate. The phone stops ringing. It’s like the difference between race day and a solo long run: during the year, it’s all adrenaline and chaos, but in the summer, it’s just me, my thoughts, and a spreadsheet that I’m desperately trying to make interesting. (Spoiler: it’s still a spreadsheet.)

Some days, I’m the only soul in the building. And honestly? I love it. There’s a certain meditative joy in moving at your own pace, with no one breathing down your neck or asking if you’ve “got a minute.” You work, you eat lunch, you work some more, and then you go home. It’s the workday equivalent of an easy recovery run—no pressure, no competition, just steady progress and the satisfaction of ticking off the miles (or, in my case, the tasks).

Home, of course, is a different story. Carnage is a good word, and I stand by it. DIY projects in various states of completion, children’s shoes multiplying like rabbits, dirty dishes forming geological strata, and the ever-present frisbee perched on the roof like some sort of suburban gargoyle. But that’s summer at home: a little chaos, a lot of noise, and the sweet reward of snowcones and late bedtimes.

So, I get my quiet miles in during the day—those peaceful, solitary stretches where it’s just me and the hum of the copier—and by 4 p.m., I’m ready to lace up and tackle the wild interval workout that is family life in summer.

Running, working, living—it’s all about finding your pace, embracing the quiet when you can, and knowing that, sooner or later, you’ll be sprinting again. And maybe, just maybe, you’ll finally get that frisbee off the roof.

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 Design

I have big dreams for my home. Not the kind of dreams that involve marble countertops or a kitchen island the size of an aircraft carrier, but the sort that, if achieved, would allow me to walk into my living room and not immediately trip over a pile of shoes, a sticky patch of mystery goo, or a rogue action figure. My interior design style, much like my running pace, varies wildly depending on the day, the weather, and whether or not I’ve had coffee. But I don’t think it’s bad. And besides, the only person who visits with any regularity is my mom, and she’s legally obligated to say nice things.

Recently, my parents’ friends—who, judging by the amount of furniture I’ve inherited, must be living in an empty box by now—offered me a rug. It’s colorful. Very colorful. The kind of colorful that makes you question whether your brown couch (also from said friends) will ever recover from the shock. After two hours of rearranging furniture, which, by the way, is the closest I’ve come to cross-training in months, the rug was down. And, to my surprise, it looked… good. Not “featured in a magazine” good, but “I won’t trip over it in the dark” good.

This minor victory inspired a cascade of home improvement ambitions. I ordered artwork. I mapped out a board and batten wall. I even dusted off the nail gun I bought four months ago—still in its box, like a race medal I haven’t quite earned yet. There are, of course, a few obstacles:

  1. Power Tools: I have never operated anything more complicated than a blender. And that was only because I needed a post-run smoothie.
  2. Blood Thinners: When your blood is basically water, the prospect of wielding a nail gun becomes a high-stakes game of “Will it blend?”
  3. Spousal Support: My husband, bless him, is many things. Handy is not one of them. As my 3-year-old says, “They’re mommy’s tools!” He got the sports gene, not the construction gene.

I know the hardware store will cut boards for me, but the idea of asking for help makes me break out in a cold sweat. I can run a marathon, but apparently, I cannot ask a stranger to cut a piece of wood without fearing I’ll be mistaken for someone making a Pinterest craft gone wrong. (Not today, sir. Not today.)

Why am I doing this? Because, much like running, home improvement is a marathon, not a sprint. It’s a slow, steady process that involves planning, perseverance, and the occasional detour through the land of “What was I thinking?” My living room is rarely clean enough to be proud of—three boys see to that—but I want to create a space that makes me feel accomplished, even if the soundtrack is Phineas and Ferb singing about ‘S’winter’ and the floor is a minefield of Legos.

I’m thinking of documenting the process, because if running has taught me anything, it’s that progress is worth recording. Every training run, every new mile, every tiny improvement adds up. So too with home projects: getting the rug, moving the couch, and planning out the board and batten wall is, by my estimation, about 27% of the project. (Give or take. Len Testa would probably have a spreadsheet for this. Who am I kidding? I have a spreadsheet for this!)

We all have to start somewhere. Whether it’s the first mile of a marathon or the first nail in a wall, the important thing is to keep moving forward—preferably without stepping on anything sticky.

Sometimes, what you’re running from is just a living room in desperate need of a makeover. And sometimes, you run right into a home you’re proud of.

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 from Survivor

It’s that time of year. Boys volleyball season, with its endless shuttling of knee pads and water bottles, finally came to a close. In theory, this should usher in a period of serene evenings, perhaps spent reading or reacquainting oneself with the concept of “free time.” In practice, of course, it means baseball season, along with the inevitable parade of rainouts, reschedules, and the existential dread of finding a dry pair of socks, in my new pasttime.

It’s a rare and beautiful thing to have a night free from kid activities. Last night was that unicorn. My volleyball banquet was scheduled, but with only nine kids on the team, I knew it would be a brisk affair. Add to that the fact that it was being held at one of our favorite pizza joints, and you’ve got yourself a classic case of parental efficiency: dinner and a show, all in one. As the old saying goes, it’s like killing two birds with one stone—if only to address the surplus of birds and the chronic shortage of stones in modern suburban life.

Now, the true genius—or perhaps the greatest folly—of this particular pizza place is its game room. It’s a room that seems to operate on the same principle as a Vegas casino: bright lights, no clocks, and the faint but persistent hope that you might leave richer than you arrived. My children, who can barely muster the patience to chew their food, will spend approximately three seconds eating and the next ninety minutes in a frenzied search for quarters. They always find them, somehow, and proceed to invest them in the pursuit of prizes destined to become tomorrow’s vacuum fodder.

At one point during the evening, I did what every responsible parent must: I went to check on the boys. To my mild horror—but not, I must stress, my surprise—I discovered Wynn, my three-year-old, perched atop the claw machine. The thing is at least six feet tall, and how he got up there remains one of those mysteries best left to the ages, like Stonehenge or how socks disappear in the laundry. Was I shocked? No. Embarrassed? A little. Mostly, I was just grateful he hadn’t tried to operate the thing from the inside.

This, I should mention, is not a one-off event. I have been blessed—if that’s the word—with three natural-born climbers. Fences, grocery store shelves, the interior of the refrigerator—if it can be scaled, my children have summited it. At this point, I’m barely even scarred, physically or emotionally. I’ve reached a state of parental Zen where I simply accept that gravity is more of a suggestion than a law.

After your third child, you find that your threshold for shock is dramatically reduced. It’s actually quite liberating. Parenting becomes a little like an episode of Survivor: Expect the Unexpected. Everyone is inexplicably covered in sand, sleep is a distant memory, and someone is always searching for an idol—or, in our case, the missing TV remote. There’s constant strategizing, alliances form and dissolve over who gets the last breadstick, and you half-expect Jeff Probst to step out from behind the soda fountain and narrate your every move.

In the end, you’re just trying to outwit, outplay, and outlast—at least until bedtime. And if you can do it with a slice of pizza in hand and only minor embarrassment at your child’s climbing exploits, you’re doing just fine.

So here’s to the end of volleyball, the beginning of baseball, and the eternal quest for a quiet night. May your pizza always be hot, your quarters plentiful, and your children safely on the ground—at least most of the time.

Running from the Muppets

There is a certain point in every parent’s life when you realize all control of the van’s DVD player has been lost. It’s not your device anymore. It’s not even really a DVD player. It’s a shrine, a sacred altar to whatever cinematic obsession currently holds your children in its sticky, juice-box-stained thrall. At present, our family’s rolling temple is dedicated to The Muppet Movie.

I’ll admit, the relentless singing sometimes makes me want to drive directly into a banana cream pie. But- and this is important- I never have to worry about language, violence, or awkward “explanations” prompted by the screen. The worst thing that might happen is someone gets hit with a pie, and honestly, if that’s the price of peace, I’ll take it. Waka waka!

There was a time, not so long ago (okay, it was the 1980s and 90s, which, depending on your age, is either “yesterday” or “back when dinosaurs roamed the earth”), when the Muppets were everywhere. They were on TV, in movies, on lunchboxes, and, if lucky, at your birthday party in the form of a slightly unsettling Kermit cake. These days, the Muppet spotlight has dimmed a bit. Sure, Sesame Street is still going strong, teaching kids the alphabet and the importance of sharing cookies, but the Muppets themselves? They’re more like old friends you don’t see very often, but who always make you smile when you do.

Relating to the Muppets as an adult is, in my opinion, a rite of passage. If you can’t fall asleep humming “Rainbow Connection,” you might want to check your pulse. There’s something deeply comforting about knowing that, no matter how complicated life gets, there’s a frog out there who just wants to play the banjo and dream about rainbows.

Here’s a confession: I often find myself at work or wandering the aisles of the grocery store, and I’ll spot someone who looks uncannily like a Muppet. Not in a mean way-more in the sense that there’s a little Fozzie Bear or Gonzo in all of us. It’s a private game I play to amuse myself while buying what feels like the seventh gallon of milk this month. Honestly, at this point, I should probably just buy a cow and cut out the middleman. (If only the HOA would allow livestock. Spoilsports.)

Back to the Muppets: their weekly variety show was a masterclass in wholesome chaos, joy, and the sort of jokes that make you groan and giggle at the same time. Watching them now, I find myself longing for a simpler time, when the biggest problem was whether Miss Piggy would karate-chop someone before or after the closing number.

I can’t promise my kids won’t memorize every Muppet joke ever written. In fact, I’m counting on it. The world could use a few more people who know how to deliver a punchline and aren’t afraid of a little pie in the face. The Muppets still make me happy every time I see them, and I hope-truly hope-that long after I’m gone, they’ll still be delighting my grandkids and great-grandkids. Because if there’s one thing the world will always need, it’s a little more laughter, a little more kindness, and a whole lot more waka waka.

So here’s to the Muppets, the banjo-playing frogs, the pie-throwing bears, and the dreamers in all of us. May your DVD players be ever stocked, your milk supply never run dry, and your life always have a little bit of Rainbow Connection.

Running to the Land

If you’re a Disney World devotee, you likely have a favorite ride-perhaps even a meticulously ranked list, one per park, cross-referenced by time of day and snack proximity. True Disney adults, of course, go further: we have favorite smells (hello, Rome burning!), napping nooks, people-watching perches, and secret fireworks vantage points. But let’s not get ahead of ourselves.

For reasons I can’t entirely explain, EPCOT has always tugged at me. Maybe it’s the park’s age-just a hair older than I am, thank you very much-or maybe it’s the sense of breathing room. Unlike the sometimes claustrophobic press of the Magic Kingdom, EPCOT’s pavilions and wide walkways feel positively expansive. With an average of over 32,800 visitors a day, that extra elbow room is not just a nicety, it’s a necessity.

After a few years of health challenges, my days of braving the big, fast, and wildly spinning rides are behind me (not that I ever queued up for Mission: SPACE with gusto). Add in the lingering side effects of a stroke, and the fun of thrill rides is replaced by the fun of not needing a nap in the First Aid station.

But one attraction has always been my EPCOT North Star: Living with the Land.

Nestled in The Land pavilion- an architectural marvel of glass and angles since 1982- Living with the Land is a gentle, 15-minute boat ride that glides you through both a classic Disney dark ride and working greenhouses. It’s a hybrid: part animatronic diorama, part science fair, part “please let me live here” greenhouse tour.

The ride begins with a float through recreated biomes: tropical forests, arid deserts, and sweeping prairies, all narrated with a soothing cadence that could lull even the most caffeinated park-goer into a state of Zen. There are 35 audio-animatronics, but the real stars are the living, growing crops and the innovative farming techniques on display.

You’ll see:

  • The Tropics Greenhouse, with rice, sugar cane, and bananas under a 60-foot dome.
  • The Aquacell, where tilapia and catfish swim in tanks, part of Disney’s sustainable aquaculture.
  • The Temperate Greenhouse, showcasing intercropping and specialized irrigation.
  • The Production Greenhouse, where tons of tomatoes, peppers, and lettuce are grown for use right in EPCOT’s restaurants-including the rotating Garden Grill and the quick-service favorite, Sunshine Seasons, both just steps away.
  • The Creative House, where crops dangle from trellises or float in air, suggesting a future where farming might take place on space stations or, at the very least, in your living room.

If you’re craving more, the Behind the Seeds walking tour offers a closer look at these agricultural marvels for a modest fee.

The Land pavilion itself is a microcosm of EPCOT’s mission: education, innovation, and a dash of whimsy. Alongside Living with the Land, you’ll find Soarin’ Around the World-a hang-gliding simulator that’s the pavilion’s most popular draw-and Awesome Planet, a 10-minute film narrated by Ty Burrell that’s equal parts documentary and pep talk for the planet.

And if you need sustenance, Sunshine Seasons is a food court that’s a cut above, with many ingredients harvested mere yards from your tray. For a more leisurely meal, the Garden Grill serves up family-style platters and character hugs, all while the restaurant gently rotates above the Living with the Land ride path.

Living with the Land is rarely more than a walk-on-unless you’ve arrived on a major holiday or during a torrential Florida downpour, in which case, welcome to the club. With a capacity of 1,600 riders per hour (16 boats, 40 guests each), the line moves quickly, and the ride’s nearly 15-minute duration offers a blissful respite from the Florida sun.

EPCOT welcomed nearly 12 million visitors in 2023, and yet, Living with the Land remains a tranquil corner of the park, a place where science, sustainability, and storytelling float along in perfect harmony.

If Disney ever dares to change it, you’ll find me at the entrance, picket sign in hand, ready to defend my favorite boat ride. Until then, you’ll find me in the greenhouse, dreaming of tomatoes and quietly plotting my next nap spot.

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 from The Great School District Shuffle

Picture, if you will, a family of five. Now, imagine them scattered across six school districts and one babysitter, like a deck of cards flung by someone with a grudge against organization. This is not a math problem designed to torment eighth graders, but rather the daily logistics of my household-a feat of scheduling so complex it would make NASA mission control sweat.

Let’s break it down: my kids attend elementary school just down the road, the very same halls where I once roamed, likely with less homework and better brains. I work at a Career Tech high school about 15 minutes away, in a neighboring city, and when spring arrives, coach volleyball with the enthusiasm of someone who has only occasionally been hit in the face by a rogue serve in another district. My husband, meanwhile, is employed by a county education service center, but his week is a whirlwind tour of two different districts. Just to keep things spicy, he also coaches wrestling at another. The toddler? He’s off to the babysitter every morning, blissfully unaware of the intricate game of educational hopscotch the rest of us are playing.

Our older boys, not content with merely attending school, have taken up baseball, wrestling, and football-tackle for the eldest, flag for the middle. Spring and summer are devoted to club wrestling, which conveniently takes place at the school where my husband coaches, because apparently we have a collective allergy to free time. My own volleyball season ramps up in the spring, and at this point, our family life resembles ships passing in the night-if those ships were powered by caffeine and granola bars, and occasionally collided over who gets the last clean pair of socks.

Speaking of sustenance, the current family diet is best described as “expedient.” Granola bars are our food pyramid’s foundation, and Sunday nights are spent assembling bologna sandwiches in bulk, which are then distributed with the precision of a relief operation as we dash out the door each morning. Add in my ongoing recovery from heart surgery, and our daily routine starts to look less like a schedule and more like a high-wire circus act-one with fewer sequins and more spilled juice boxes.

As the school year draws to a close, I’m confronted with the Herculean task of planning the summer schedule. This is especially ironic, as I’ll be working all summer while my husband and the boys enjoy the kind of rest, relaxation, and outdoor play that would make a Labrador jealous. Still, if I don’t organize some daily activities, the complaints will reach a decibel level capable of numbing my ears-a fate I wouldn’t wish on my worst enemy (or even the inventor of bologna).

So here I sit, highlighter in hand, staring down the summer calendar like a general surveying a battlefield. And as the chaos of our school-year routine fades into the relative calm of summer workdays, I find myself quietly grateful for the peace, the quiet, and the blessed reduction in bologna sandwiches.

Family life: never boring, occasionally nutritious, always entertaining.

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.