Tag Archives: family

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.

Running from the Random

If there’s one thing I’ve learned as the parent of three small boys, it’s that the universe is not governed by the laws of physics, but by the availability of cheese sticks. The second most important thing is that nothing, absolutely nothing, will ever go as planned. I used to think I was in charge of my own life, but that was before I found myself negotiating a ceasefire over a half-eaten string cheese at 6:45 a.m. while simultaneously stepping on a Lego and contemplating the existential meaning of a chalk mural on the porch. In short: I’m not always laughing, but I am never, ever bored.

Take, for example, last Tuesday. I wandered into the kitchen, which, in our house, is less a place for food preparation and more a staging ground for minor acts of anarchy. There, my seven-year-old was lying flat on his back, surrounded by a blizzard of computer paper, bellowing “LOBOTOMY! LOBOTOMY!” at the ceiling with the sort of conviction usually reserved for Shakespearean actors and people who have just stubbed their toe on a coffee table. I had no context for this scene, and, frankly, I was too frightened to ask for one. Sometimes, as a parent, you learn that ignorance is not only bliss, it’s a survival strategy.

Now, I’d like to say that I handled this tableau with the calm, measured wisdom of a seasoned parent, but the truth is, after a recent bout of health problems, including heart surgery, I’m mostly just trying to keep everyone alive and the house from being condemned. Cleaning, organizing, or preparing for the days ahead have all taken a back seat to the more pressing goal of making it to bedtime with my sanity (mostly) intact.

But necessity is the mother of invention, and so I have discovered a few ingenious ways to keep the children occupied while I attempt to rest and recover. Chief among these is the “Lego Dump.” This is a highly technical process in which I upend a tub of approximately 17,000 Lego pieces onto the sunroom floor and announce, with the gravitas of a NASA mission director, that I require them to build something very specific, say, flowers for me. This, in theory, should spark a harmonious burst of creative energy. In practice, it triggers a 90-minute debate over who stole Lego Spider-Man’s bottom half, followed by the construction of a swimming pool for a Minion, complete with a Lego parrot lifeguard and a suspiciously surly-looking unicorn.

The sunroom is now less a place for relaxation and more a minefield of plastic bricks, each one lying in wait to ambush my unsuspecting foot. I am convinced that, should archaeologists excavate our home centuries from now, they will assume we worshipped a pantheon of tiny, multicolored deities who demanded blood sacrifices in the form of parental toe injuries.

Still, the “Lego Dump” buys me precious minutes of rest time to recover from the Herculean effort of, say, moving from the couch to the kitchen on a Sunday. Recovery from heart surgery, as it turns out, is not the breezy spa vacation I’d hoped for. The good news is that I’ve lost weight, despite having done little more than sit very still for the last ten days. It’s a bit of a Catch-22: I can’t move much, but apparently, neither can my appetite.

So, here we are: three boys, two tired parents, a house that looks like the aftermath of a toy factory explosion, and a sunroom that doubles as a medieval torture chamber for feet. It’s not always pretty, and it’s rarely quiet, but it is, without question, never dull. And as any seasoned traveler (or parent) will tell you, sometimes the best stories come from the journeys you never planned to take.

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 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 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.