I'm a lover of words, coffee and tequila. Lucky to be living my happily ever after as a wife and mom to two sweet kiddos and one crazy dog.


We have entered the bandaid phase in my house.

If you have ever parented a small child, you will know exactly what I am referring to.
Bandaids are a strict necessity for every blemish, imaginend, implied or actual. I buy boxes of character themed (that was my first mistake) bandaids more often than I buy gallons of milk.

The smug, alpha asshole parent that existed in my brain before I became an actual parent of a three year old toddler terrorist is laughing at me, because certaintly I should be able to calmly explain the difference between when bandaids are necessary and when they are not. This, however, would imply that I am able to calmly accomplish ANYTHING these days and that logic is easily applied to an illogical situation. And if a Hello Kitty bandaid ends a tantrum that's been going on for 20 minutes? Then I'll buy stock in the damn things.

Given Grace's affinity for bandaids, I have also spent a lot of time trying to figure out the best way to remove a bandaid that has been stuck somewhere for so long it looks like it might be in danger of adhering to her skin.

We've soaked it off, painstakingly using a warm washcloth and soap. We've let it run its course until it fell off on it's own, but this has led me to finding bandaids in various unpleasant and embarrassing locations in my house. And I've done just what the old adage says- distracted her with something else and ripped it off so quickly she barely even noticed it was happening.

All of these methods have led to mixed results.

I recognize I just spent far too many paragraphs blabbering about bandaids- but there is a point to be made here, I promise.

My life has flux...for these last few months (which is in large part to blame for my hiatus from writing in a public forum). Along the way, I managed to let my (emotional) self get pretty beat up. I sought solace where I could and I measured my success in continuing to wake up and will my feet to move with purpose across the floorboards.

With these wounds, came bandaids. Industrial sized, super adhesive, not going to budge bandaids.

For a while, I coddled myself. The emotional equivalent to the "soak off" approach, if you will. I wrapped myself in friendship and streaming Netflix and retail therapy. When the combination of wine and self-reflection became too dizzying, I became ambivalent. I started to allow life to happen to me. As long as Grace was happy and healthy, nothing else mattered. I had lost sight of the way my own fulfillment and happiness were inexorably intertwined with hers.

And then? One day...

I ripped that sucker off. I steeled myself for it, ignored the nagging voice of uncertainty inside my head and I just ripped it off.

It's not the initial pain that got me, because what had preceded it was worse. It's the residual sting. I'm finally feeling fresh air and sunshine but along with that comes the threat of further damage, of wounds that don't heal but simply worsen.

That sting...the insistent buzz of doubt and left-over's annoying, and sometimes worrisome but mostly it reminds me that,even with much work left to be done and the outcome of it all still unclear...things are healing.

If I'm going to expect Grace to rip off old bandaids with minimal screeching...then I most certainly better start doing it myself. I am constantly reminded that my daughter has made me stronger where I was once weak. Whenever I find myself questioning my decisions I imagine what I would want her to do in the same situation.

This is transition, but it's not the end of the story. I know I wont continue unscathed...there will be new challenges and injuries and mistakes.

But, in my house, there are always new bandaids.

On why my three year old is probably trying to kill me

Another year...