Girls these days have no flippin’ idea what it was like growing up in the 1990s. We didn’t have texting, or email for that matter. We were forced to talk to people either in person, on the phone or by way of a folded-up piece of paper that looked like a triangle.
Really, all they needed to say was “Hell is Close to Freezing Over – Be Prepared/Stock Up on Alcohol and Milk.” But, meteorologists actually gave this hell-freezing-over a name – “Winter Storm Grayson.”
Walking on Legos is a rite of passage into parenthood.
Snakes are slithering through our yards. A craw-daddy with large claws has taken up residence in a mud-hole behind our basketball hoop. The coyotes hold nightly conventions in the woods behind our house.
Driving down the road, my mind wasn't on the drive at all. I wasn't paying attention at all. I make the 4 mile drive to the community park, once, if not twice per day. I was driving on auto-pilot.
I have a love-hate relationship with Pinterest. Some ideas are right up my crafty-alley. Others are just flops.
I thought, well maybe I could write about being a mom to a teenager. After all, I do have one of those living in my basement at the moment. But, since he rarely talks to me, he doesn’t give me enough material to write a daily blog about his life. No cash there.
Fuel emitted onto the roadway. Flowing like lava until a solution was applied to soak it up. Eventually, a tow-truck arrived to take the damaged vehicle away. A SUV with all windows broken – like someone’s heart. Smashed. Destroyed. Gone.
The only time I ran as a young girl or teenager was after the ice cream truck in my neighborhood.
I’m not entirely sure what happened over Christmas break, but my husband and I learned a lot about our children. Mainly, they would rather do anything than worry or care about personal hygiene.