“How do you celebrate Valentine’s Day?” a new friend asked me recently. We traded rituals and I silently celebrated finding a kindred spirit when she confessed she too never woke up early to make pink pancakes or cut her kids’ sandwiches into heart shapes. Further, our resident Elves on Shelves also strictly move from tree to mantle and back again (we made a mental note to have our boys hang out more next December so they don’t accrue higher expectations from friends with more creative parents).
No, for my kids, I do some sweets and simple cards (this year homemade as I couldn’t justify $12 in cards when 3/4 of my kids are not yet literate).
But one tradition I do stand by, particularly for those of us celebrating with someone decidedly difficult to buy for, is the “Day of Dave.” For almost 15 years now, I have “gifted” Dave the promise of one day that is specifically about what he wants to do. On these days, we may eat an enormous batch of homemade crepes for breakfast. We may finally watch the show he’s convinced I would like if I just gave it a chance (and I then save my honest reviews for the following morning). We may visit Costco to purchase our first “big kid” TV after our first years as newlyweds with a big, boxy, low resolution hand-me-down and its faulty remote. We may bring our kids to celebrate (2021), or we may develop better judgment and leave them at home (2022).
For any of you looking for last-minute gifts for your significant other (romantic or otherwise!), it’s not too late to gift them a day of choose-your-own-indulgence. You heard it here first.
Related: another love hack: when a lousy roommate might save your marriage // overheard: things I need to communicate to my husband
I’ve been absent the last few weeks, determined to neglect my laptop during my time off work over the holidays. By now, there are too many stories to rehash, so by way of a desire to recap, here are a handful of highlights:
- 1. As testament to the contagious enthusiasm of his vocal stylings, A sang “I am a Pizza” so many times over his McDonald’s lunch that a table of 3 adult men good-naturedly joined in on the song as we exited.
- 2. I celebrated my 1,000th Peloton ride. It’s arbitrary in the scheme of things, but was fun to mark the occasion with a few people
crazysupportive enough to set their alarms on a Saturday morning to do a 75 minute endurance live ride. - 3. J, O, and I burnt the entirety of our arcade card balances on the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle game one afternoon. It was a total nail-biter at the end with HP and credits running low, but we defeated all the bosses, triumphed over Shredder himself, and then spent our tickets on Pop Rocks and Fun Dip. I don’t normally buy myself in when we play, but I am so glad I was part of this epic victory. On the other hand, J required my help buckling his seat in the car afterwards as he was despondent — convinced that his arm was broken from all the button smashing.
- 4. A bowled his first strike! That same game, O’s slow rolling finally caught up with him and we had to ask for help when his ball managed to stall entirely two thirds down the lane. Fortunately neither boy is terribly invested in competition yet, so they both remained sportsmanly.
- 5. Our neighbors invited J and me over for a midday play date (O invited himself along) with a few other friends. The host joked that she pumps “casino air” into the basement so the boys can remain down there for hours. While they played, one of the moms remarked that between us 4, we have fourteen boys. Naturally, the couple of hours trading stories are intensely reassuring to my sense of whether my home’s state of “ambient chaos” is normal.
- 6. I sent the ping below to Dave when we were (again) spending the better part of an afternoon at the library. What can I say? I’m a woman of simple taste.
- 7. Our 2023 New Year celebration consisted of 3 memorable (& largely “on brand”) moments:
7a. We attended a NYE bash at the library, counting down to noon with crafts, music, and dancing. Visiting my elderly neighbor that evening, she had the local news playing in the background and I spotted my sons’ TV debuts.
7b. We “counted down” to what ended up being 6:53pm ET with a recording of the Sydney fireworks. We cheers’d with Propel, sparking juice, water, and champagne. Our “please be careful not to spill!” warning was effective for precisely the amount of time it took for O to excitedly take his cup, stand up off the couch, and slosh the cider over onto the fabric.
7c. A quiet moment of reflection and gratitude with Dave after the boys were asleep.
Happy new year. May 2023 bring more of what lights you up, particularly if it involves springing for an arcade card for yourself.
Closing out 2022 roasting marshmallows in matching jammies. Pretty sure this is what the kids today call “wildin’.” 
Splitting a pitcher of root beer at the bowling alley. Cheers! 
Low on design standards, but high on utilization of resources (which is to say, the boys ate all of the decor over the course of the following 48 hours) 
Wisdom a la the nearby ice cream shop (yes, we do post-dinner ice cream even in December). 
14 boys between us, and a pact to invite each other out to “girly” events if we ever get a craving. 
Not only is this a legitimate conversation, but the AI suggested responses are on point. 
Something for everyone on New Year’s Eve. 
Cowabunga, dude. 
My sweet boy and his Tugboat Fuzzy Dumptruck.
Related: more family Ninja Turtling // ride #600: 18 months and 1 baby ago.
Football Saturday “drinking buddies” may look quite different than when we held season tickets to the Big House’s student section, but the fact remains: it’s great to be a Michigan Wolverine.
Related: when I take a picture of my husband that he didn’t ask for… // but truly, not so big into the SPORTS scene over here.
A conversation I had at least a dozen times while trick-or-treating:
Neighborhood kid: what are you dressed up as, Ms. Kel?
Me: April O’Neil!
Neighborhood kid: …ohh… is that… is that the… girl?
Me: yes. Yes, I’m the token girl. This is my life.
Related: how *should* neighborhood kids refer to adults? // our favorite Halloween decor is still a hit even if J insists our house is “embarrassed” by the more committed neighbors in our circle…
THE “THINGS I NEED TO COMMUNICATE TO MY HUSBAND” EDITION
*****
Me, in a moment of sincere revelation, to Dave: ah, I see. I guess I really misunderstood the sword cane value proposition.
*****
Me, earnestly, to Dave first thing in the morning: don’t touch that shirt on the ground; it’s all wet from when A fell in the toilet.
*****
Me, sadly: that’s the empty jelly jar from when I spilled this morning. I wasted probably 80% of it.
Dave: aw, I’m sorry, Babe. But at least it’s not the worst spill we had this morning. Actually it’s probably a distant third after the entire box of pasta and all the water.
*****
Related: Overheard: is there any amount of context that would make this make sense?
We moved into our current home shortly after J was born. In the months that followed, we met the couple that lived two doors down from us, Julie and Joe. We became fast friends, bonding over our similar life stage, easy interactions, and — despite our seemingly collective adult maturity — our mutual enjoyment of vapid reality TV. On Mondays after putting our kids to bed, we would get together, turn on the Bachelor, talk through half of the scenes, and polish off a bottle of wine (or two) over the course of the show.
Unfortunately, Julie and Joe moved a few miles away just before the pandemic began. But fortunately, by this time we had already firmly established our friendship and a mutual understanding that no one seek or share spoilers once the next Bachelor/Bachelorette season began.
In recent years, we started a bet: during episode one, everyone picks their projected winner for the upcoming season. Loser buys dinner. It’s silly, but the text threads trash talking each other’s picks or lamenting one’s own pick blatantly self-sabotaging has been a way to keep the casual conversation virtually alive even during COVID times when we didn’t see much of each other.
All this to say, Julie lost the latest season, and made good on the bet to take us out to dinner. But because Julie does nothing halfway, the night out warrants its own entire post.
First: we went to a charming speakeasy-style basement bar and had dinner and a couple of drinks. Julie encouraged us to have more than one, as a matter of fact, to make the second part of our date extra effective.
We went to a “Pinspiration” site, which essentially involved us agonizing over creating an artistic vision for something meant to be super low-stakes, and then dancing around in a black-lit room splattering paint everywhere while listening to a 2000s throwback playlist. Suffice it to say, the extra drinks were indeed the right call.
The final spot on our tour-de-double-date was a bar that I would’ve sworn was a divey biker hangout (having never been there, of course), but evidently is a thriving, historical gem, known across Michigan for live music, drinks, and family friendly fare (so say Julie and Joe, who bring their kids for lunches).
We called it a night at about 10:30, after one of us unfortunately got an email that they had a last-minute scheduled 8AM C-level client call, and therefore we arranged for our DD (Julie’s dad) to pick us up and cart us all home.
2 observations from this night:
- If “quality time” is my love language, and Julie put that much thought into a “loser treats to dinner” proposition, it’s no wonder she is among my all-time favorite people.
- No matter how professional I may come across to clients or coworkers by virtue of work or title, no matter how adult I may seem or project to my children… it’s humbling to know that I am not so professional or adult that I can’t be found sitting in the backseat of my friend’s dad’s sedan, answering his questions about the night while feeling like a high schooler trying to get away with something.
Drive safe, everyone. And make some solid friends in your adult years. It’ll change your entire experience.
Since I began this chapter of life not quite 8 years ago, I have spent 3 years growing babies, 3.5 years nursing babies, and 1.25 years in between during which I was a free agent (minus that whole still being legally and ethically and financially and existentially responsible for said babies).
I weaned C last week, and did so without turning into a blubbery, emotional mess — another feather in my cap of motherhood accomplishments, thankyouverymuch. But really, while the sentimentality of the moment threatened to get the best of me, I faced it with 2 strategies:
- Some good, old-fashioned repression
- A healthy dose of self-reflection and gratitude
During these many years, I gained weight. My feet grew. My breasts shrank… and grew… and then shrank even more. I lost so much hair that I once clogged a hotel shower drain after only 3 washes. I limited the types of medication I could take based on potential interactions with the baby or my milk supply. Per the number of blood draws and IVs I’ve undergone, I can say with full medical confidence that I have “tricky veins” — that it’s worth calling the expert CRNA before the floor nurses “blow out” all the traditionally comfortable places to insert an IV and someone ends up needing to change my blood-spattered towels before the action even begins. I missed meetings, and social events, and sleep to hook myself up to a breast pump, where I spent hundreds of hours isolated and with an uncomfortable resignation to feeling like an animal.
Most of all, I grew and delivered and sustained 4 babies.
For the very real and very permanent price my body has paid over these intensely high-stakes years, and for the off-the-charts positive ROI as a result of that price, I officially adopt a near-zero tolerance policy for any negative body talk. I am not (usually) one for overt and shameless self-congratulations, but this moment feels like it warrants an exception: what. a. champ.
Finally, it’s helpful to remember that this milestone is not just about me. Each time I wean, it means more opportunities for Dave to participate and enjoy the tender bedtime routine with his sons. Clearly, he is quite effective at soothing to sleep.
Related: announcing my pregnancy with C // I come back to this anytime I typo “pregnant”
While I still believe a case can be made for reusing Easter basket grass each year, I’ve recently learned that this is absolutely NOT true for reusing chocolate.
Imagine the volume of questions Dave must have been dying to ask when J opened his treat, and then looked up at us, immediately crestfallen by this powdery mass of chocolate dust that disintegrated upon being touched. Luckily for me, Dave has my 6 (“for better or worse” comes to mind) and quickly reminded all of us that the Easter Bunny takes care of a LOT of people and manages a LOT of varied preferences and is probably very busy at work lately and can sometimes make mistakes, too.
