What does one do with an abundance of free time, thanks to a global pandemic? Find ways to fill it, of course! Check out all the projects and hobbies I took on in 2020.
A dog named Kitty. A boy dog with a girl’s name. A species-confused, overly vocal, Kleenex-and-paper-towel-eating canine. My first fur baby. And a terribly broken heart after saying good-bye.
Today marks two months since I gave up social media. Things are different—and way, way better.
I’ve always wanted to be part of one of those 23andMe-induced family-secret-unearthing stories, but I was certain that my farm-roots family meant there’d be no surprises. Then came an out-of-the-blue email from a guy named Jay.
The neurologist took a deep breath while I held mine. And then he said it. “I think this is Lou Gehrig’s Disease.”
Getting up at 4:30am five days a week takes dedication, determination, and probably a little bit of insanity. It’s a lot easier to pull off a regular gym habit when you have the right equipment, both in and out of the gym, to help you out. These are the things I can’t live without.
We measured our height on a door in our basement when I was growing up, but when we later sold the farmhouse, that door—and all the memories it contained—stayed behind. For less than it costs to buy one, you can make your own wall-mounted wooden ruler height chart. Best of all, it can travel with you no matter where you live.
I’ve tackled some big challenges in my life. Infertility was a doozy. A month in traction was another. But nothing prepared me for the challenge of breaking my five-year-old of her thumbsucking habit. Buckle in, friends. It’s gonna get crazy.
Sounds like a bunch of feel-good bullshit, right? Well, in my case, it’s not bullshit. And despite it sounding kind of silly, joining my gym was the impetus for incredible change in my life. Here’s how it happened.
I’m pretty sure there’s some Sasquatch in my DNA (even if 23andMe disagrees), based solely on the amount of hair on my body. But thanks to the wonders of laser hair removal, my life has gotten a lot less hairy (pun intended).
It’s February in Iowa, and I’m depressed. Not in the funny-ha-ha way you mean it when your favorite restaurant closes. I’m really, truly, and clinically depressed. Which is terrifying to talk about in such a public way. But I’m not giving up.
There’s a group of parents who refuse to jump on the smart speaker bandwagon, because the CIA might be listening. After having an Amazon Echo Dot, and Alexa, for three weeks now, I don’t care if the CIA is listening or not. I *love* our Alexa. And this is why.
We’d tried everything the parenting books and blogs suggest to get Squeak to use the toilet. We were coming up with a Big Fat Zero…until I abandoned the parenting advice and tested out an economic theory instead.
Friends who move away from Iowa love to post photos of sandy beaches and warm winter days, tagged with #thisiswhyimoved. But let’s be clear. Nobody stays in Iowa for the weather or the landscape. We stay for one very specific and important reason that cannot be outshined by an ocean view. So allow me to explain. Because #thisiswhyistay.
When a friend asked me what to expect with IVF—specifically, how to prepare ahead of time and how to cope throughout the process—I started thinking hard about what advice I would give someone about to start down the IVF trail. I enlisted the help of some friends, and we pulled together our best tips here.
Up ahead was a depression in the road, filled with water from a recent storm. Inside the cab of the truck, Eric swerved, and just like that, I was airborne, flying out of the back of the truck and into the darkness.
One of many fears parents have is losing track of a child in a crowd. Last week, at the Iowa State Fair, both Peanut and Squeak got away from me. In one situation, I was losing my mind. In the other, I remained calm, even though my child was missing for a lot longer. Here’s why.
Waterparks are kid meccas, but they’re super overwhelming for parents. We’ve visited Great Wolf Lodge in the Waterpark Capitol of the World three years running—here’s what I’ve learned.
Why does Facebook feel the need to bombard me with reminders of all the horrible things that could befall my children? I did not ask for this information, so STOP TELLING ME, because I’m going insane.
Squeak will be three years old next month, and he’s nowhere near potty trained. I might have conceived both my kids at the same time, from the same set of eggs and sperm, but when it comes to potty time, they couldn’t be more different.