Summer’s blasting by so fast, I’m already wondering where the time’s gone. Only so many minutes in the day to get everything done. Maybe I need to make a check list so the rest of the summer doesn’t sneak past…


More importantly, I’m less than a week away from turning 39.


And in the super-mature fashion of my adolescent ancestors, I’ll be screening the last Harry Potter movie in celebration. Beginning the year-long party that will be the end of my 30s.

They were good years.

They were the best years.

I hope I’ll always be able to say that about the years that have just been.

Here’s to that, no?

Jiggity Jig

Something amazing happens when you travel. You get out of your old everyday and start sniffing the world around. Even if you’re returning to places you’ve been before, they look different. Kicking up old feelings, they feel new again when seen with aged eyes. It was nice to be in the south again. But even better to be home.

Nothing beats putting all that new perspective to good use.

The Last Day

Note: I decided that just because I don’t want to blog about my son anymore, doesn’t mean I can’t talk about how I feel in relation to him, right?

As I drove the Bub to school this morning, I had this horrible feeling of wishing that time would stop. That if I put the car into park and refused to drive any further, the world would quit spinning and time would no longer propel forward.

As we moved closer and closer. I wondered what would happen if I just didn’t take him to school. If I had let him sleep in and refused to bathe him or comb his hair or feed him breakfast.

Like the Grinch, I pondered how to keep the last day of kindergarten from coming.

Once we arrived, I made a grand gesture of getting out of the car. I wanted to hug him on the curb. To look him right in the eye and tell him everything.

How proud I was of him.

How deep my love is.

That he’ll always be my baby.

But he was having none of that, already so preoccupied that the other children were headed past him, focused on their destiny… making it to the classroom before the late bell rang.

He ran off, without looking back.

So it came.

The last day of kinder, without hugs or tears or sweet congrats on the curb.


After 1:50 PM today, my son will never ever EVER be a kindergartener again.

As for me, I’ll still be a mother, trying to save time in a bottle.


I’m working on a book. Actually, several. And I’m transitioning into trying not to write about my son anymore, and blog about all the things that happen to me, instead. But that’s difficult, see, as 99% of the things that happen to me during the day aren’t really about me.

Sure, there’s the ongoing internal struggle that forever wages war inside, and I’m sure we’ll settle into that, here, again. But, honestly, most of my brain is consumed by the bub in one way or another, so much so, that everything around me often fades into the background.

Like, you know when you’re with someone more than a decade and you have a child and every once in a while you are laying in bed and your skin brushes against theirs in the right way and you’re like, oh, there you are.

Like you knew someone was beside you, but for a few months minutes or so, you forgot who was beside you.

It’s the same way with me. Sometimes I pass by the mirror and do a double-take and think… Who the fuck is that?

What am I driving at, exactly?

Well, my backyard is separated into two portions. The front portion with the grass and the flowers and the fun. And the back portion where our garden and our two big goldens live. It’s rough and dirt-covered, as you would expect from a place that houses two large dogs who love to wrestle. Our neighbor has a mess of bird feeders in her backyard, which brings a ton of doves into our backyard and doves love sunflower seeds and then said doves love to poop out the seeds. In our yard.

The back area where the dogs live is covered in sunflowers. Which is kinda cool, but kinda also looks like an abandoned lot that’s been overrun with weeds. They get on my husband’s nerves, but he knows I love to bring the flowers inside, so he humors me nicely and brings them in and vases them, without mentioning it.

He’s great like that, but anywho…

So, I’m sitting here this morning… Knowing I need to write something, anything, other than that today is the bub’s goodbye party at kindergarten. Today, his teacher will wave a magical wand and officially turn him into a first grader.

And I’ll cry.

But I won’t write about it here.


I’ll write about the eight foot tall sunflowers, which are flourishing and, this morning, covered in gold finches.



We have four more days left of kindergarten in this house, and I, for one, am totally psyched. Being a stay-at-home parent means you get to live vicariously through your child round-the-clock. Meaning, when they are on summer vacation, you are on summer vacation.

I don’t know why when I look at the months ahead instead of seeing all the additional laundry and meals and playtime and driving around that I’ll be doing, I’m seeing the summer as I saw it when I was a child. Summer means the pool and sleeping in and having no schedule. Even though it ultimately means more work for me to have the bub home 24/7, it also means that the days will be largely unstructured which is almost better than having freetime to take care of business.

Granted, my ability to write and work freelance and go to the gym will be severely limited having the bub home with me,  but it does mean hours of fun together and weeks of irresponsibility.

I fully recognize how extremely lucky this makes me. Granted, while we are not a rich family, the only reason I am able to do this at all is because my husband is awesome and very smart with money. He makes a reasonable living and we don’t spend a lot of money on material things… most of the money I make freelance goes right back into music lessons for the bub or toys or vacations….

If you haven’t noticed me around San Antonio, I am the one sporting the $15 haircut, wearing the torn stretch pants from Target that are three years old.

My big splurge? Twice a year I have my toes done.

Still, I’m lucky.

I am lucky because I can stay home with my child.

I am lucky because my house didn’t get exploded by a tornado.

I am lucky because my family is reasonably healthy.

I am lucky because I have a brain that works pretty good.

Part of being lucky is trying everyday not to take it for granted.

So, yeah, summer looks pretty awesome from where I sit, even if there is a hole in the seat of my pants.

Do things ever stop being possible? I’m mean, really, is there ever truly a point when something is too late?

Terrifying to think about, no?

I suppose there is a point when, yes, as a woman, it is too late to have more children. Or once you’ve blown both of your knees out, uh huh, it is too late to run the New York City Marathon. Or that if at 1:45 you decide you want to see the 1:30 movie at 1:30, then yeah, too late for you.

But in the big picture, is it ever really too late to make something, anything, happen?

As a child, I always felt that excitement in my gut. That something was waiting, right around the corner for me.

Was that something I was born with? Was it a gift my mother gave to me?

Who knows.

I do know as the years go on, that feeling of possibility gets watered down, and becomes ho hum and day to day.

Sometimes I look at my son and wonder if he will have that same feeling inside his gut? And will some day, when he gets older, will he, too, begin to feel it slipping away.

Now, as soon as that feeling begins to wain, and I settle in for the long haul toward nothing, I usually feel an urge to do something. To try something or say something, and all that possibility will come rushing back in, like it never left in the first place.

Does the world ever stop being our oyster? Or do we just turn our backs on the world?

(Insert show tune, here please and thank you very much.)

Austin for a Day

I love it when the weekends are actually awesome. Often, the HUB/BUB and I stay too isolated. Hanging together at home or our farm. But, sometimes, just sometimes, we bust out and see a little bit of the world.

The whole family got up early yesterday and hit the farmer’s market and The Garage of Good, then blasted off to Austin to the Renegade Craft Fair. I’m a total Etsy addict, so to see all that stuff live and in person, all in one place, is pretty mind blowing. Even better that the inaugural fair last year (and most definitely more people). Walking around and seeing all the hand made stuff certainly gives you a reminder of how amazing people can be when they put their minds to it.

I only bought three things, but took a million cards so who knows what sort of trouble I’ll get into online in the future!We saw lots of cool stuff, but the highlight of the event was the Viva Zapata! booth, in a freaky flashback kinda way. Now, I’m walking the aisle and these purses catch my eye. They are vibrant and colorful and totally awesome. And as I’m looking at them, I realize I’ve seen them somewhere before. Then as I look harder, I realize I actually own one. I ask the woman behind the booth if she ever sold in New York, and she said yes. And I asked her if she ever sold out of someone’s apartment, and she said yes. They had a sale at her friend’s apartment once in 1999.

The Village? A white walk up I ask her? YES!

She then tells me that back then she was making the bags with a friend of hers (they are made from recycled Argentinian bus seat leather and are totally rad), and they had dissolved and had that sale to get rid of their remaining inventory. Then, like five years later, she decided to start making them again on her own.

Only a small handful of people went to that sale… so random.Afterwards, some boys I know went swimming in Barton Springs while their lame lady friend forgot her bathing suit and had to sit it out and take pictures instead. Loser. Dinner at Artz with a blue grass serenade. Ice cream at Phil’s and books at Half Price.

Like most semi-hipsters in San Antonio, I have a love/hate/jealousy thing with Austin. I love it because it does have a ton of cool stuff to do (way more than SA), but hate it because it doesn’t have the laid back, local feel that San Antonio does. Sometimes it feels too cool for its own good. But yesterday, as the sun was setting, I drank the Koolaid and started feeling all warm and snuggling on the inside about the place. Maybe one day we could move here… What would it be like if…?

Then I remembered the 30 minutes of traffic (on a Saturday morning! aghast!) we sat in to get there and I was glad to be headed home.

What a great world it would be if all the days were like this.

(Brainstorm, Andrew Le, Diane Koss, Leah Duncan, Public Schoolweather & noise)