I have a group of girlfriends that are my ride or dies, my sister-friends. Most of us went to college together, so we have been friends for over 20 years now, and one of them has been my friend since grade school. I have been fortunate to have a handful of them that live in the area near me, so monthly dinners keep us close. But there are a few that live out of state that I rarely get to see. During the years that became busy with weddings, buying homes, working on careers, and starting families, it became increasingly difficult to see each other. Gone were the days when you can hop on a campus bus and hitch a ride to a friend’s apartment to eat their instant Ramen and Nutella while watching “Friends” and “ER.” We decided last year that we needed an annual trip, and we could use our 40th birthdays as a way to justify spending time away from the family without feeling overly guilty (mom guilt is so hard to shake). Last year was the first celebration, but unfortunately, I was stuck in the hospital with that very inconvenient case of cancer (mamacation cock block). Despite every effort from me begging my oncology team to take a tiny break from treatment, they gave me a big hell no. That made this year’s trip extra special for me, as I wanted to make up for all the lost time. Added bonus, I was one of the celebrants that turned 40 this year, so I was on a mission to make this long weekend with my girls in Denver one for the books.

Preparing for trips, with or without the family, is always so stressful for me. For this trip, I had to write detailed instructions for my parents and Jamie on what needed to be done for the kids, grocery shop to make sure there was food in the house, explain to the kids what needs to be done in case Daddy forgets, clean up the house before my parents came, do laundry, and somewhere in between, find time to pack mom clothes for the trip. I guarantee when Jamie goes on a trip, he does none of those things. Definitely not fair, but it is also probably that way because I make it so. In fact, in my frustration, I asked Jamie if thinks he does all this running around in preparation for a trip, and his wise answer to the rhetorical trap was, “Well, I usually pace in thought for a while thinking about what to pack, I usually don’t have to wash any of my clothes because you did it already, I pack for 5 minutes or so, and after I pack I think about how much I’m going to miss you.” Mmm-hmmm…bullshit.

Packing for myself is the worst part of traveling because I I have to check what clothes still fit, question if clothes that are at least a decade old are still acceptable (after all, it’s just ONE hole in the armpit), and decide if I’m going with shoes that are comfortable and not very attractive or with ones that are stylish but hurt like a bitch. I decided against packing any shoes that had a heel on them because I knew we were going to do a lot of walking in Denver. Unfortunately, I realized I didn’t even own a pair of nice flat sandals, so I frantically ordered shoes on Amazon last minute. I was waiting for that package to arrive, like a kid stays up anxiously waiting for a Santa sighting. They arrived 3 hours before I left, and like Christmas morning, I tore that box open with excitement. Sadly, the fit was weird and they looked like a pair of sandals Jesus and his buddies would wear. Ugh, so frustrating! So I had to pack shoes that were at least 10 years old and just resigned to “form over fashion.” This is exactly why I have to rely on my charm in social situations, because the fashion is just not there for me.

Apparently, I was not alone in the packing struggle. Here is an excerpt from a text thread among 9 moms excited to get away but so exhausted from everyday life:

“I’m finally packing and it’s official: I only own mom clothes.”

“It’s okay, I only own athleisure wear.”

“I hear you! Can I just go around in workout clothes and scrubs?”

“Yeah I haven’t even packed yet.”

“Me neither.”

“I leave in 7.5 hours and I’m trying to get kids in bed so I can pack my stuff and all their stuff.”

“I only brought clothes that would not limit muffin top growth.”

Once the frustrating chore of packing was completed, it was on to the goodbyes. As usual, the kids began to get sad as my departure was nearing. Evan said he didn’t want me to leave because he wants me here at home so he can control me. He said he controls me with his mind. Jamie set him straight and told him no woman wants to or can be controlled. Stellar father teaching moment! Reese gave me a big kiss and hug and told me to have a good time and to say hi to all her titas, while Evan bawled his eyes out and had to be peeled off me by my mom. Good luck to that guy when he goes through his first break-up. I blew them kisses and felt sad for 2 seconds, but then quickly thought to myself, “Deuces, bitches! I’m outta here!” Actually, I might have said that out loud because Jamie gave me a look of disapproval. I guess I could no longer contain my excitement.

The 5 Chicago girls traveled together and met at the airport. We received a text that said, “Ok I definitely know I must be dressed for a momcation…TSA security guard just told the 15 year boy in front of me to ‘tell your mom to take her shoes off!'” That definitely set the tone for the weekend, filled with laughs at ourselves and our lives, a mix of, “We have come so far,” and, “What the fuck happened to us.” Drinks and stories began even before we boarded the plane, and already the prep stress was lifted off of our shoulders. When we got to our hotel, we met up with the other 4 girls, ordered pizzas, got noise complaints from other hotel guests, and began our mission to do rapid fire catching up, relaxation, and gluttony.

Our days were filled with great food and exploring the city, drinks at the rooftop pool, one conversation flowing into the other, reminiscing on how it used to be and figuring out how to make life better, and even a few rom-coms in the background to make it an official girls trip. It was trying to look good before going out because we hardly ever get to look nice, but then realizing you’re with the friends that have seen you at your absolute worse, or at least naked (which might be the same thing), so not really caring as much. It was being able to say whatever was on your mind because they’ve heard it all and love you anyway. It felt so good to be with my girlfriends who build me up and make me feel like I’m not the only parent fucking up my kids.

We were able to catch a concert at the Red Rocks Amphitheater one of our nights there. We watched a Beatles cover band (1964 The Tribute), and what a great experience that was. The theater was so beautiful. One minute I would be looking down at the band on the stage, then I’d look up and around and felt overwhelmingly mesmerized by the terrain surrounding us. There were patrons there of all ages enjoying some of the best music of all time, and I appreciated how powerful music could be to bring people together like this. There was an older couple in front of me, maybe in their early 70’s, and they knew all the words to the songs. When this one slow love song played, I watched the woman put her arm around the man and they put their heads together, and I thought how special that was to witness this sweet moment between random strangers. Someday that would be me and Jamie, except we’d be at an Erasure concert because those guys never age.

It was funny how, try as we might, we couldn’t take the mom out of the girls trip. Periodically, either while waiting for food or an Uber to arrive or for 5 minutes between drinks, we’d pull out our phones and text or call to check in with kids, parents, or hubbies to make sure everyone was still alive. I received a text from Jamie one afternoon asking for the neighbor’s phone number because he couldn’t find the kids. That’s always a nice text to receive when you are far away. Don’t worry, he found them. He also told me that he let Reese fix her own hair for soccer picture day, so I can’t wait to see that. But the big lesson for us moms was that everything was just fine, everyone survived while we were gone, and that no mom guilt was even necessary.

So did I miss Jamie and the kids while I was away? Of course I did. However, there is some serious value in a mamacation. I often forget what life was like before I became a wife and mother, and boy was I fun as shit. But it’s not about trying to be what I was before, it’s about bringing the then and now together and embracing myself as one crazy, unstylish momster filled with a passion that can take the form of joy, rage, hope, desperation, or love. It’s a celebration of girlfriends that can share war stories, cry together, laugh together, be carefree together for a quick moment and provide a reset on life. We came home mentally rested, better, and ready to tackle on everyday life again (although that version of me only lasted for about 20 minutes).

At the end of the weekend, I felt renewed, solid about where I have taken my life so far, happy that I have dragged these girls along with me throughout my journey, and I eagerly await next year’s girls trip. As I walked through the ever-busy airport and waited for Jamie and the kids to pick me up and drive me back to reality, I remembered that I’m never alone. My girlfriends are always with me, and I’m always there for them. They can run, they can hide, but they can’t escape my love (that one’s for you, ladies).

I love weddings, especially ones that aren’t mine. The excitement is palpable, all that hard work and anticipation leading up to that one big day that changes your life. It’s like training for and running a marathon, except instead of 26.2 miles, you are running forever, you don’t run alone, sometimes you don’t like your running partner, and you don’t get a medal or free race swag for being awesome at it. Wait, I think I love weddings. Yep, I love weddings, I don’t like running. Got confused there, bad example. Also, I never ran a marathon, so what do I know.

My brother-in-law, Shane, and his new wife, Lauren, got married this past weekend. It was a beautiful and memorable day from start to finish. Jamie stood up as a groomsman and Reese was a flower girl, so I had an up-close and personal look into the moments leading up to the big moment without actually having to do anything, which is probably why I enjoyed it so much. The only real job I had was fitting into my dress without ripping it (success). Jamie needed occasional reminders of how to be a supportive groomsmen, which really made me wonder how the hell he lived life before me, Google, and Siri (in that order). Reese needed reminders that this day was not about her, her dress, her hair, and her desire to be one of the big girls in the ceremony. Once I knew they were set, I was able to enjoy the day.

Since Reese was invited to get ready with Lauren and the bridesmaids in the hotel room, I was able to be that creeper family member that shouldn’t have been there for all the behind the scenes action but stayed anyway. While I did Reese’s hair, she had many questions about things like hair extensions and fake eyelashes, which I’m assuming will end up on her Christmas list this year. There was a lot of lectures to her about, “You’re most beautiful on the inside, but when there’s a professional photographer involved, you should try to look good on the outside too.” I saw the wonder behind Reese’s eyes as she watched her new auntie transform into full bride status, how her friends rallied around her to keep her calm and happy, how her mother and soon to be mother-in-law held back tears all day to keep their hearts and makeup in check.

I experienced the day with a different perspective as well, as it was our 11 year wedding anniversary. I remembered my nervous stomach, my bridesmaids shoving food in my mouth so I wouldn’t pass out later, the professionals transforming me into a beautiful version of myself that Jamie would never see again except in pictures, the periodic “Wooooooo!” and “Fuck yeah, I’m getting married today!” that blasted out of my mouth, the deep worry I had about the details of the day not going as planned. Lauren had those moments too. Quietly in my mind I was telling her that it’s all going to be perfect today, and even if it isn’t, none of that is going to matter tomorrow. The details that make the day so beautiful and enjoyable for everyone disappear after this day. The real work starts after all the excitement dies down, and you’re left staring at each other in your living room eating Chinese food after work and realizing, “Shit, you’re here to stay.” Good thing I kept my thoughts to myself, I’m quite the Debbie Downer.

It wasn’t all bummer thoughts I was having, they were mostly happy thoughts with a solid mix of reality in them. The reality is that the wedding day should be a huge, thrilling day, where the bride and groom and all the family and friends feel all this excitement, love and joy because marriages need that positive energy to start off on the right foot. It is hard work, and all that support from the people that love you and know you best is necessary. Lauren’s mom made a speech, and she mentioned that you have to feed your marriage everyday to keep it alive. Her words resonated with me, maybe because I love food and enjoy being fed, but also because she was spot on. It’s a daily effort, even if it is just little things you are doing to help your marriage grow. The minute someone stops trying or becomes selfish, the marriage begins to suffer.

Now, I’m no marriage guru by any stretch of the imagination. Hell, compared to my parents or my siblings, my measly 11 years of marriage is child’s play. But I’ve been through enough to know how hard it can be, and also how wonderful it feels when you see your hard work paying off. But the rewards are not as obvious as winning a medal at the end of a race; you have to really look for them. For me, it looks like me and my buddy watching Bachelor in Paradise in bed after the kids go to bed, eating snacks or having a drink, and laughing at other people’s poor life decisions. Not glamorous, but so enjoyable. It looks like Jamie giving me a kiss on the forehead and saying thanks for making dinner, even when it doesn’t taste good. It looks like rowdy kids at the dinner table while I look at Jamie and shrug my shoulders with that “Oh life” look on my face. It’s these things that I wished for for Shane and Lauren, that collection of tiny little moments in everyday life that keep the ball rolling. And it’s the ability to find these moments, a skill that is fine-tuned with every year that passes, that I hope they learn along the way.

From an outsider’s perspective, the day went perfectly. So many tears, laughter, pictures, alcohol, and dancing completed the day. My brother-in-law’s best man speech was so amazing, I’m shocked the single ladies at the reception were not throwing their panties at him (keeping it classy I guess). Evan, my little shy boy, was a total beast on the dance floor. He seemed to have left his rhythm with his shyness, but at least he was out there being confident and oh so cute. Reese managed to get Jamie on the dance floor to do the Cupid Shuffle with her, which speaks volumes about Reese’s powers over her father. We finally called it a night when my dress felt more like sausage casing and my 11 year old makeup was officially clogging my pores. What a fun day had by all, especially the happy couple.

The celebration for Jamie and me continued with a quick Michigan trip for the remainder of the weekend. We met my brother and sister-in-law, along with 4 other friends, for a nice little wine tour. My brother booked a tour for us, and when the party bus picked us up, the driver warned us that the bus was going to be full all day and that we were going to be sharing it with 2 bachelorette parties. When the men entered the bus, the bus roared with wild woo-hoo’s from the bachelorettes, which quickly dissipated when the wives appeared behind them. Our group of 40-somethings were surrounded by girls in their 20’s, who sipped drinks with their penis straws, adorned their bodies with Hawaiian leis, sashes, and personalized t-shirts, and made memories they will only vaguely remember. I sat there in my mom clothes and unwashed (and perhaps uncombed?) hair, wishing I showered before I arrived. The youngens set the tone, though, and we were all up for the challenge to party our asses off. They were shocked when we told them we were born in the 70’s and had 10+ years of marriage under our belts. They asked us for marriage advice; my brother’s was, “Happy wife, happy life,” while mine was, “Don’t fight when you’re hangry.” One girl made a comment on how it was great that we were still doing fun stuff like this at our ages, as if we were in our geriatric years or something. I was slightly offended at first, but then took a closer look at my “I gave up on life” look that I was sporting for the day, and it made more sense. As the tour progressed, so did our inebriation. Since I’m a one-drink-wonder, I would have a few sips of each wine, and Jamie had to drink most of my remaining wine. That would explain his willingness to oblige to silly bachelorette party shenanigans by the end of the tour. As I sat there watching him make an ass of himself on the party bus, I thought to myself, “Wow, this is what 11 years of marriage looks like. How did I end up here?” But I love me some tomfoolery, and he gets me.

It was a celebratory weekend for everyone, filled with new and young energy, excitement, love, laughter, family, and friendship. This is the stuff that warms your heart and feeds your soul. For Shane and Lauren, this weekend probably ended with them looking at pictures and Facebook posts, opening gifts, and perhaps starting a shit load of thank you cards, as the high of their wedding begins to settle. I lend to them my wide-angled lens to see the bigger picture, a lifetime filled with sharing nighttime binge watching, hastened dinners together with kids, laughing off the hard times, fostering growth and change, and readily offering those good old please’s and thank you’s that go a long, long way. Cheers!

It was a long, fun summer, and then before I knew it, the first day of school crept up on us. During those long days of whining and kids fighting, I couldn’t wait for school to start. And now my two monsters are both gone, and I actually missed them. My anxiety usually flies pretty high right before school starts, mostly excited for the kids’ new beginnings, and also nervous for myself for the upcoming crazy school and extra curricular schedules. For Reese, my new 3rd grader, I was nervous about how she would do for her first year getting actual grades, plus balancing all of her sports and dance after school. The truth is, she’ll do fine because she loves school, but I’ll be the one struggling with helping her do homework and then driving her all over creation to all of her practices. Jamie did tell her that this year she will be getting letter grades on her report card and that “We get straight A’s in this house!” I about fell over when I heard that come out of his mouth…he’s not even the Asian parent! That was perhaps one of the sexiest moments for me (the other was when he used a coupon at Bed Bath and Beyond without even being prompted to do so). She verbalized understanding of the warning, but we’ll see if she follows through.

Every year, I take Reese’s picture by our tree with her new grade sign, then I watch her get on the bus. I missed this moment last year because I was in the hospital getting my chemo, so this day was extra special for me, as I was grateful to just be there to witness her excitement in person. I met her at the school and watched her line up with her class. As she walked in, I yelled, “Do awesome things!” But my eyes screamed, “I miss you already, don’t forget about me, you still need me.” And off she went, my sweet and sassy independent girl.

For Evan, he’s just starting Kindergarten. He has been nervous all summer, right up until the night before his first day. He has been nervous about learning how to read and write, and having homework for the first time. He has clearly seen from the past few years that homework time can be pretty tense between Reese and me sometimes, especially when I can’t get her to concentrate or give a shit about a damn number line. He is not looking forward to that “special” homework time with me. Despite all his fears, he told me today that he was “giddy” about starting Kindergarten. As he was eating lunch and I was getting his “Kindergarten” sign ready for his traditional back to school photo, we had a nice mother/son conversation:

Me: “I’m so excited for your first day of Kindergarten! I can’t believe it!”

Evan: “But aren’t you sad?”

Me: (holding in my tears) “No! Why would I be sad?”

Evan: “Because you’re going to be alone. You won’t have a partner anymore to work with you and be with you.”

Me: (holding in more tears) “You’re right, it’s going to be lonely. But my job and Daddy’s job is to get you guys ready to be independent in life. So I’m proud of us for doing a good job and proud of you for being so ready for school. I’m just so…hey, stop touching my Kindergarten sign with your greasy hands! That’s for your picture. You’re going to rip it! I’m trying to have a moment with you, can you focus please?” (Moment dead)

For that brief moment, it was like he knew I was sad, even in my attempts to hype him up for his big day. But what’s a mom to do? We put a brave face on every time to help our kids get through challenging times, even if we’re crying inside. Jamie came home from work just to see Evan off, and also to watch me bawl my eyes out. We took lots of pictures of him, and he looked thrilled. At the school, the kids lined up and parents watched and took pictures. Evan looked excited and scared. His teacher instructed the kids to look at their parents and blow them kisses goodbye. He wouldn’t blow me or Jamie a kiss, and for a moment he looked really unsure of himself, like maybe he wanted to cry or run to me. I could tell he was holding a lot back. I told him, “It’s all good, babe, I see you. I know how you feel on the inside. Go be awesome!” Then he waved to us and marched right into the school with the rest of the kids. Once he couldn’t see me anymore, I lost my shit and started crying. I wore big sunglasses to try to hide it, but I had the fat tears going on that no pair of sunglasses could contain. How could I not cry? He’s my youngest, my baby. This is the kid that has been trying to figure out how to get back into my womb for the past 5 years, and now he’s off to Kindergarten being a big kid.

I cried on and off for the rest of the day. I even texted Jamie an hour after we dropped him off that I was still sad and had no one to yell at but myself. But not all the tears were sad tears. I felt happy too that both my kids were together at the same school now. And I was definitely excited to have a few hours to myself. But mostly, I was just thankful that I was present, witnessing what they were feeling and empathizing, building them up, and watching them walk through another milestone. It’s a joy and a pain of parenthood, to hold their hand during the journey until it’s time to let go. I’ll have many more of theses moments, and I’ll cherish every one of them.

I have recently met a new parenting challenge: my 8-year-old is telling white lies. She has told little fibs before and has also confabulated stories when she was a toddler, which I feel were developmentally appropriate. But this is different now. It seems like she can spew off lies all too easily to backtrack and protect herself. Jamie and I take it really seriously and call her out every single time, and she (and perhaps the entire neighborhood, depending on how loud we shout) is well aware that lying is not tolerated in our house. It is a punishable offense evertime. The meat of the lies aren’t really that big of a deal, but the quantity of lies is piling up and her she is losing credibility. Rather than turning to lies to saver her ass, I want her to learn how to take responsibility for herself and her actions, no matter the consequences. I know too many adults who can’t even do this, so I want to teach her now when she’s young and moldable. We just want trust-worthy kids.

Last week, we saw her playing with one of our old phones and watching a show. I asked her how she got the phone, and she said shrugged her shoulders. Jamie then asked if she took it out of my purse, which is exactly what happened, and she looked him right in the eye and said no. He confronted her on the lie, and she said, “Okay, I took it out of her purse. I didn’t want to tell you the truth because I knew you would be mad and I would get in trouble.” We gave her the business about how she has to be honest, even if it means she might get in trouble, and that lying is not okay no matter what, even to protect yourself. She seemed to have understood, or at least verbalized that she did.

The punishment I doled out was for her to pull weeds for the weekend. Now, these aren’t your typical weeds that are maybe ankle high. The weeds in our garden are meadow height, taller than a 2-year-old, tall enough where a small coyote could potentially be hiding. She did it though, not well, but she made a small dent in it (with my help) without a ton of complaining. Success! Or at least that’s what I thought until she told her next lie. I don’t even know what this next one was, but it was another case where she was back-pedaling to save her ass. I told her that if she continues lying, even if they are little lies, people will start to not believe or trust her. I said that if she wants to have a good, strong relationship with me, Daddy, Evan and any of her family or friends, she has to always be honest. So she earned herself another day in our garden of weeds.

Jamie and I are patting ourselves on the back, thinking we’ve given her some good lectures about lying and the importance of honesty and earning people’s trust through honest actions. Nope, not getting through to her. For her latest one, she was “sleeping” in her room, while Evan was throwing a tantrum downstairs. Jamie told Evan that if he wakes up his sister from all his crying, he will lose dessert and screen time today. Well, guess who magically gets up and finds herself downstairs. Evan ends up losing his privileges because he “woke her up.” Jamie then confronts Reese and asks her if she was already awake and heard him tell Evan about his potential punishment. She says no, and then the back-pedaling begins. At first she tells him that she was awake earlier and then fell back asleep, only to wake up to Evan’s tantrum. Jamie said, “Don’t lie to me. I’m an older sibling, I know what you were doing. Did you come downstairs so that he could get in trouble?” And there it is, her guilty smile, followed by over-explaining herself. Her story changes to, “Okay, I was awake, but I came downstairs because I wanted the crying to stop and I wanted to comfort him.” Ha! Dig that hole, girl, because that’s what you’ll be doing in the garden! By this time, Jamie was not having it anymore and laid the hammer down. But his hammer is very controlled, calm but stern, and incredibly rational and articulate. My hammer is broken and functions more similarly to a megaphone, so I let him take this one. The way he explained things was so freaking good that even I was thinking, “Damn okay, I’ll stop lying too!” Reese, on the other hand, falls apart anytime her sweet daddy is upset at her, and she began to cry uncontrollably and asked to be alone for a little bit to calm down.

After some quiet time alone in her room, Jamie went upstairs. I was eavesdropping in the bathroom, while Evan chose the more conspicuous route and sat right outside of her room to literally watch them. Jamie took the Aesop approach and busted out “The Boy Who Cried Wolf.” Classic Jamie. After he told her the story, he explained it and had some follow-up questions for her to make sure she understood the lesson he was teaching. Then they hugged it out.

This father-child moment was so sweet and effective, but all I could do was laugh. This shit did not happen in my childhood, and I felt like I was watching a scene straight out of “Full House.” I grew up in a Filipino, Catholic household. And when I told lies, there was no Aesop fables. My parents went straight for the soul. My parents’ lectures sounded a lot like, “Lying is a sin, and if you tell lies, you will go to hell. Do you want to go to hell? Just remember, God sees everything. You’re going to confession next week.” I’m shocked I never heard my parents say, “You know what happened to the boy who cried wolf? After the wolves ate him, he went to hell.” Very different approaches, but you just have to laugh.

I hope the lying stops for while because I’m tired of giving the same lecture. I know there will be bigger lies as the kids get older, the ugly lies about sneaking out, curfew, drinking, or inappropriate behaviors. My boss once told me that when her kids were younger, she had a policy in her home that if they told her the truth, they would not be in trouble. I absolutely love that policy, but it’s a really hard one to follow. It’s a goal policy that I have to work towards. But for now, mama has a garden of weeds that needs tending to. If you’re looking for my kid, that’s where she’ll be.

Jamie encouraged me to get an Apple Watch after I finished chemo so that I could track my activity without overdoing it. When he set the activity parameters, he did so knowing that I was pretty deconditioned. I didn’t really know how to use my watch, I mainly used it initially to keep track of my heart rate and occasionally use the EKG feature, and of course to tell time (or at least to see how late I was to things). But low and behold, I would get nice little buzzes on my wrist telling me how well I was doing, reaching my move or stand goals. Occasionally, it would tell me to do some deep breathing, and I would think, “Wow, either this watch really knows when I’m upset and is telling me to calm down, or I’m just always upset.”

The other day, we were talking about if we were achieving our move goals, and I proudly said that I was super active and always getting buzzes telling me I reached my goals daily. Jamie revealed that he set my bar pretty low in the begining, and that mine was set at 250 calories while his was set to 450 calories. So basically I was killing it at a nursing home resident standard, but as an active adult in her 40’s, I was just above the level of eating bon-bons on the couch and taking bathroom breaks. Well, I was not having it. I’m too competitive to have Jamie at 450 calories and me set at a lower standard. I upped my move goal (just kidding, I didn’t know how to use my watch…Jamie did it for me), and now we are equals.

Since the increase in the movement goal, I’ve had several arguments with my watch. I’ll get reminders that it’s time to get up, and I’m like, “Screw you, you get up and feed the kids.” Or suggestions to take a 9 minute brisk walk, and I’m like, “Bitch, I just went grocery shopping with 2 kids who were fighting over who got to push the cart and smashed it in my ankles 208 times! Don’t tell me to take a brisk walk! You take a brisk walk!” Or telling me to take a few deep breaths, and I’m thinking, “You don’t know me, don’t tell me how to calm down.” Needless to say, it’s been a rocky few weeks with my watch. What’s worse is that around 10pm when I see that I have 50 calories left before I meet my goal, my dumb ass is climbing up and down the stairs instead of getting ready for bed, just so I could get that final validating buzz that yes, I was an active human today.

As incredibly smart as this watch can be with all its bells and whistles, alas, it was not created by a stay-at-home mom. If it was, there would be a feature on it that measured how many calories were burned from yelling at the kids, breaking up fights, pulling weeds, folding clothes, doing dishes, or sending angry texts to her spouse. I know I am expending calories from those things because by the end of the day (let’s be real, by 4pm), I am totally exhausted. How defeating it feels when, after an entire day of taking care of the kids and the house, all I see is 17% of my activity rings closed. To feel the watch giving me a thumbs down is a real downer sometimes. If someone just invented a mom watch that calculated the true work we do around the house, school, and community, despite the small number of steps it actually takes to complete the work, there’d be some really proud moms out there. And instead of light buzzes from the watch to indicate that you achieved your daily mom goals, you’d get an instant shot of espresso or booze directly shot up in your veins. Come on, Apple, get to work! Till then, everyone should just tell their favorite mom buddies that they are the shit, and the work we do is immeasurable, no matter what that damn watch tells you!

11 years ago, my girlfriends and I were screaming things like, “Vegas, baby!” and, “Whatever happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas!” and maybe even a little bit of, “Take it off!” It was my bachelorette party. I was 29, most of my friends were in their 20’s or early 30’s, and I believe my sister was 36 at the time. It was an amazing time, but I know my sister and perhaps 2 of the other girls that were pregnant didn’t have the rip roaring good time us drunkies had.

Fast forward to the present, and I’m 40. My future sister-in-law, Lauren, so very sweetly invited my sister-in-law, Megan, and me to her bachelorette party in Nashville this past June, which has become the new capital of bachelorette parties. Most of the girls going were in their late 20’s/early 30’s, so I was a bit hesitant because Megan and I would be the old ladies of the group. Now, I’ve never been accused of being a kill-joy, and even if I’m not down to party, I’ll take one for the team and try to be a joiner and just have a good time. And since it was really nice of her to invite us, I put my worries about being an old, unfashionable hag aside, and Megan and I decided to go. Being about 8-12 years older than everyone else, Megan and I were in for a big lesson on fashion, social media, and time management.

The “Nashty Weekend,” as I, and sadly only I, like to call it (it just never caught on), started with a cool airport experience with Megan. Megan is a world-traveling working mom, who let me into the United Lounge, which is this amazing club house of free samples. Well, it’s not really free because she has to cover the annual fee, but she brought me along as her guest, and I felt fancy. This place has a bar, snacks, and even soup and cheese. Is this a stay-at-home mom’s dream or what? I mean, it’s still an airport, and through the window I see the simple folk that I usually role with (as in, all the time), but I was still enjoying this odd opportunity for a non-traveling person to have a tiny taste of the finer things (like free cheese and free soup).

Most of the people in this lounge looked like seasoned travelers, business people dressed in mostly business casual attire. And here I was, dressed for a Nashville bachelorette party in booty denim shorts, a summer hat, and cowboy boots, carrying an old ass backpack that is at least 13 years old. So the experience was extra hilarious because everyone there knew I didn’t belong. If my outfit wasn’t a dead giveaway, my frequent trips to the free food line was a pretty big tell too.

Was I a little embarrassed about being in there when I looked so out of place? Yep. Did I enjoy it when people were staring at me? Maybe a little bit, as I did look like I was wearing a Halloween costume in the middle of summer. Would I do this again? Totally. I mean, who cares if for a day or two I got a taste of the perks of a frequent flyer? It’s an interesting experience to see a different perspective of a very different lifestyle than mine. I knew just from sitting there for an hour or so that, while I enjoy free soups more than anyone, that lifestyle of constant on-the-go travel is not for me. But maybe it has at least shown me that I wouldn’t mind at all perhaps upping my travel game, traveling more, or maybe allowing myself an occasional fancy treat. Like soup.

We left the lounge with me grabbing a handful of free mints for the road, and we were on to our next adventure. Our flight was just a sweet, sweet midday nap, something I rarely get. I was already so grateful for the trip, just to have a break from the everyday hustle and bustle of corralling small children to and from activities. We had decided to join the party a day later because of our schedules, so we had to find housing separate from them. They were staying in a neighborhood just outside of the city at an Air BnB. Since Megan is a self-proclaimed hotel snob and said she only stays at Marriott hotels, we decided to stay in downtown Nashville at a very nice Marriott-owned establishment. It was a super cute hotel with old-fashioned decor and in a great area. 11 years ago, I would have thought this hotel was “too bougie” for my taste, but now I felt like, “Oh hell yes, I deserve this.” We settled in and started to get ready for the night. I put on a dress that I bought at Target about 3 years ago and about 5 lbs lighter, so Megan was on-call that night to let me know if I blew any buttons off my dress. She put on a cute denim skirt and top, and we both pulled on our cowboy boots. We were two smoking-hot mamas (said ourselves in the mirror, which was sadly the only time we heard those words again that weekend).

We called for an Uber and waited at the lobby. Suddenly, we see a storm just rip through the city, people running for cover, hotel valets bringing their posts and signs in. It didn’t seem like a wise decision to get into a car at this point in time, since the storm sirens were sounding off and it seemed like a mini tornado was just around the corner, but we already did our hair and makeup, so we just got into our Uber anyway. The Uber driver begins the drive, and we start heading into a pretty sketchy area. Now we are lost and the sirens are raging on. I begin to think, “Ugh, I’m going to die in cowboy boots? Didn’t see that coming.” We finally find the right house, and the worst of the storm also seemed to be behind us, so things begin to look up again.

We were greeted by young drunken boys that were renting the house next door, with them hollering, “Hey ladies, why don’t head over this way.” I quickly reply, “Order a pizza and we can talk. No pizza, no talk.” I was hungry apparently. We enter the girls’ rented place for the weekend, and it is a really nice house. Everyone in the group seems nice, friendly, or at least willing to shake our hands. And even if they weren’t, who cares, we were there for Lauren. They hired a chef to make them a nice dinner, and my first thought was, “Man, things have changed from Vegas buffets and then straight to the clubs back in the day.” They were really classing things up, and I’m just not familiar with putting the words “classy” and “bachelorette party” in the same sentence, unless the sentence was, “Wow, that stripper’s banana hammock was really classy.” The dinner was delicious, better than a pizza that those boys next door did not order.

The single girls in the house began to mingle with the single guys next door, but a stubborn fence kept them apart. None of the youngens knew how to open the fence and they struggled with it for a good 10 minutes. I put my boots on and opened that fence in 10 seconds, putting my supermom powers to work. That’s about all the wingman work I did for the weekend. I gave the girls a look like, “Okay, fence is opened now, go get laid.” Again, I’ve been out of the bachelorette party scene for a while, so I don’t even think that’s a thing anymore. Or maybe it is, but this mom will never know.

I had forgotten how long it takes a group of ladies to get ready to go out, but I was reminded that night that it was quite the process. Apparently, no one packed their Target outfits except for me, and no one was sporting the local cowboy boots look except for me and Megan. But it was all good, we owned the look. Lauren and her girls were dressed to impress and ready to party, while I was already drunk off of one drink from dinner and Megan was falling asleep as it neared midnight. We made it to 2 bars, chugged our drinks, did a little dancing, and then headed back to the hotel. Yeah, we played the tired mom card and called it a night.

The next day, while Lauren and her friends were recouping from the night before, Megan and I walked through town, did some day drinking at a few spots, and I watched Megan shop (I’m not a big shopper…see multiple Target references above). Then we headed back to the hotel in the late afternoon, tucked ourselves into our cozy beds that we didn’t have to share with anyone, and watched a cheesy Lifetime movie. I swear we were at a bachelorette party; just resting up to prep for another night past our bedtimes I guess. The movie was longer than I expected (one too many scenes of endless staring into the possible future), so I washed my pits really quick in the sink, slapped some new makeup on over my old melted makeup, and put on another dress, this one from Ross from the clearance rack. And guess what, no one brought their Ross clothes either. Megan said she’s never even stepped in a Ross store before. So I guess I was cool, but not cool like Fonzie; more like, “You shop at Ross…coocoocoocoool.” I was fine with it, as I believe it was already established that I was not the fashionable, chic, or technology-savvy one in the group.

Megan and I checked out the speak easy that was in the basement of the hotel. Super cool atmosphere, definitely somewhere I would have liked to stay longer, had the Lifetime movie ended sooner. We didn’t want to be late for dinner, so we split a dirty martini (extra dirty…because I like to say that and I also because I like olives) and pretty much downed it. Needless to say, in no time, we thought we were hilarious and quite possible the best people that ever walked the town of Nashville. We got to dinner 5 minutes late, and we were a little nervous that the group would be upset, only to find that just half of the group was there. The atmosphere seemed slightly tense, as the punctual group waited for the late group, and Megan and I sat there and watched the drama unfold. Our martini buzzes were slowly transitioning into sleepy time feels when the other half of the group arrived. A nice dinner was had by all, and leave it to me to ensure that clean-plate-club rules were followed (i.e. I finished the bread and other people’s leftovers). Listen, there was plenty of stretch in my Ross dress, so I had every intention of getting my eat on.

During and after dinner, Megan and I watched a shit ton of photos being taken, from selfies, to pictures of food, to full body photos, to picture of the table from one side and then the other to ensure everyone got their good sides in, and the list goes on and on. There was FaceBooking, Instagramming and Snap Chatting happening all around us, and I kept thinking, “Ladies, eat your food before it gets cold. Also, are you going to eat that roll?” Now, everyone likes pictures, especially if you are looking especially fly that night, which everyone did. And I do remember taking lots of pictures with my handheld digital camera at my bachelorette party too, mostly while wearing penis paraphernalia, so I’m certainly not judging. It’s just a new time, a time when posting pictures is fun, and I was soaking it all in. I guess I’m just more of a words person than a picture person (says my double chin).

After a few more post-dinner pictures (which meant I really had to tuck my shit in), we headed to a bar. Megan felt her inner clock ticking away and her bones were telling her it was nearing midnight. We had a drink with the group and then headed back to the hotel before we turned into pumpkins. She fell asleep right away, while I decided to fit in one more Lifetime movie. I’m a party animal.

For our final day, Megan and I went for a nice breakfast before the group all went to a vineyard for a wine tasting. Thank goodness we had a chance to eat because this here one-drink-wonder would have been hammered off my ass from just the tasting. In fact, I even gave a lot of my wine to Megan because I didn’t want to be drunk on the plane ride home. Lauren and her girls, on the other hand, didn’t have time to eat, so they were pretty toasty by early afternoon. Megan had to leave early for a business trip, so it was just me and the youngens, and I enjoyed being the outside observer. They were tipsy, laughing, and loving life, as they should at a bachelorette party. It took me back to mine, minus the penis straws, tiara, and bride-to-be sashes, when my girls and I were having the time of our lives and living it up. And then I thought about my sister, the older one of our group that weekend at my bachelorette party, the stay-at-home mom watching us make asses of ourselves. I now know what she was thinking that weekend we were in Vegas, how this was fun a few years ago, but she didn’t miss this scene much anymore because life gets better in a different way. I get it now.

A part of me during this Nashville weekend felt a tiny sense of longing, missing easier days when following a schedule wasn’t the most important thing, that if you felt like taking a nap you could drop what you’re doing and sleep. It hasn’t been like that for me in 8 years. It probably won’t be like that until my kids are away at college. I also missed the days when I had that sexy, pre-mom bod that would dance on top of bars without worrying about spraining my ankles in heels or dislocating my hip if I dropped it low. But the longing feeling came and went like a flash, because like I said, life got so much better in the past 11 years. Now I can wear my pj’s, drop it medium low, and still have a people gawking at me, even if it’s just my husband and kids laughing at me, wondering if I’ll be able to get back up.

This weekend was a blast for me, a unique experience of watching a version of me from the past, and of appreciating my present self for who I am now and what my life is today. And maybe some of the girls who got to know me thought that they were seeing a version of their future selves a few years from now. Or maybe they were like, “40 looks rough. Better party while I can.” Yeah, definitely do that!

Good idea: Friday night barbecue with friends, plenty of delicious food, kids playing in the backyard while the adults drink and play a frisbee game (which, by the way, I don’t know how to throw a frisbee without endangering others around me). Bad idea: trying dresses on for an up-coming wedding after eating and drinking for 3 straight hours. What can I say, when I came home from the barbecue, I was feeling confident, pretty and ready to model a few dresses (the grand thoughts of a drunk person). I should have known when I tried putting my Spanx on that it was going to be ugly. Putting Spanx on after max bloating is like pulling jeggings on after putting lotion on your legs. Things were just not fitting easily, but I was tipsy enough to continue the fashion show. I put my first dress on, and of course I could not zip it up, so I called Jamie in to help.

Jamie: “Ummm…did you try this dress on before?”

Me: “Yes.”

Jamie: “Recently?”

Me: “Ugh, yes, yesterday!”

Jamie: “Did it fit?”

Me: “Yes! It just has a temperamental zipper.”

Jamie: “Hmm, how much did you eat today?”

Me: “Just zip the damn dress!”

It finally zipped, and Jamie said it looked nice. However, I could not breathe. I looked in the mirror and I shouted that I could see my back fat. And Jamie said, “Yeah, that was the stuff that was blocking the zipper!” Geez, he was being so very honest. He reminded me that right now it was the end of the night, and on the day of the wedding I’d be putting the dress on earlier in the day before all the eating and drinking, so he was hopeful that I wouldn’t rip the dress if I sneezed that day.

I tried on another dress, and we encountered more zipper back fat speed bumps, but it eventually fit. Still, I couldn’t breathe or laugh. There’d be zero chance I could drop it low on the dance floor at the wedding if I wore any of these dresses. Feeling defeated, I took the dress off, peeled off my Spanx, and called it a night. Jamie tried to tell me that I looked beautiful in both of the dresses, but I felt jiggly. He said I was appropriately jiggly. Thanks, I think?

I guess I learned that it is not smart to try dresses on after a night of eating and drinking. Also, Spanx aren’t the miracle workers I was hoping they’d be. And since I’m not willing to give up drinking or barbecues, Jamie said we’re just going to crush it for the next few weeks during out workouts to prepare for the wedding. And then he made a ton of pancakes for us. Are moo-moos acceptable for wedding attire?!?

As I erased our crazy busy July family calendar and updated it for the month of August, panic ensued. Summer is almost over. All the signs were there- back to school sales, an increase in school emails, my kids and me so easily getting on each other’s nerves because we’ve been together so damn much, my kids not knowing how to hold a pencil or swiping at a book instead of turning a page. We’re fucked. I feel so much guilt because I don’t think I had them read or write enough. During the school year I had grand plans to work on spelling with my daughter, sharpen her math skills, and have her read a bunch of chapter books. For my son, I planned on teaching him how to read, work on his writing, and do simple math skills. Instead, I enrolled them in all these fun summer camps, had them play outside a ton, made them do their laundry, and clean the house when I didn’t feel like it. I know there’s value in all of those things too, but now when I ask them to do anything that has paper, pencil, or books involved, they stare at me like I’m speaking in a different language (which reminds me, I should’ve taught them a little bit of Spanish this summer too…fail). So yes, we had an amazing summer, but they’re summer dumb now.

Yet, we Newtons rally! I believe God led me down the path of college and grad school to teach me how to successfully and efficiently cram. It’s a real skill. I busted out the letter papers for my son and started reviewing basic writing. He cried. I had him practice drawing a person, literally a stick figure. He cried. Unless Kindergarten teaches words that only have the letters U-Z in them and there is no drawing involved in class, my boy just might struggle. However, if Pokémon or Avenger characters are part of the Kindergarten curriculum, he might have a chance. I continue to practice with the basics with him, whether either of us want to or not. Ugh, homework with this guy is going to be a blast. Can kids fail Kindergarten? We shall see.

I had my daughter do her “Words Their Way” papers to help her with her spelling. I think all she did was cut them up, make a mess, and create a word mosaic art project. Very right-brain dominant this child is. I moved on because I had read months ago that if I am too strict with spelling, she will choose simple words to use in her creative writing that are easy to spell, instead of descriptive words. I focused on reading and told her to finish the book she started (probably months ago). She had a decent number of pages to go, maybe 15-20 or so. Within 10 minutes she tells me she is finished, and naturally, I think she’s lying because she just wanted to be done. I started asking her details about what the book was about, and she was answering pretty confidently. I wasn’t about to read the book to check if she was lying or not, but her answers seemed somewhat legit. The questioning, however, began to spiral, and before I knew it, I was having her write a book report on this book. I helped her along the way because her writing and grammar sucked. When I told her this was her first draft, she began to cry. See, this is why I don’t home school. I gave her a nice lecture about how her brain has turned into mush during the summer and now we have to sharpen it again before school starts. I told her, “It’s totally up to you. If you want to be the kid in class that has mush brain, go ahead. If you want to be one of the sharper kids coming into class, then write this final draft. Make a choice. If you choose to write a final draft, give me work that you’re proud of.” More crying. Shit, my grand plans are backfiring big time. At this point, I’m texting Jamie telling him I took it too far again, and when he comes home from lunch, to give Reese a ton of praise for this book report she is going to present to him. Reason 5,239 they love Jamie so much: he gives praises. Reese eventually writes her final draft with my help, and it is good enough. Who knew a whopping 6 sentence paragraph could be so difficult. Jamie gets home, and she eagerly presents her book report to him, and he reads it and gives her lots of praise. Crisis averted. She and Evan go outside to play, and I show him the first and final drafts to show how hard she (we) had to work to get to the final product. He laughs and says, “Ely, this is not what a 3rd grader is going to have to do. I’m a lawyer and I can’t even do this.” So…success? I can’t tell. But that was exhausting, and I’m done making her write book reports for the rest of the summer. Language arts cramming is officially complete. On to math…God help us all.

In terms of the school supplies, I thought I was super amazing because I managed to buy their supplies before we left for vacation. Then I had the kids separate their supplies into their own separate piles. Reading and organization practice, along with teamwork- I’m the best. Jamie reviewed their piles the other night, and he noticed I bought non-washable markers. I have zero desire to go back to Wal-Mart to exchange these markers for washable ones. Instead, I thought it would be a better idea to color all over my hands with the markers to really see how hard it would be to wash the markers off of me. I mean, how different are regular markers from washable ones, right? Turns out, they really aren’t washable after all, and I’m stuck with a lot of marker on my hands and another trip to Wal-Mart scheduled on the calendar. Damn it, so close to being awesome in the school supplies preparedness area. Looks like that will be a last minute cram too.

The calendar looks crazy and I could hear the clock ticking. But as I made potato salad this morning and listened to the kids run around and play so creatively, loud laughs and screams echoing in the house, I thought that maybe we all did okay this summer. At least the kids are still alive and enjoying each other’s company, and making use of the thousands of Amazon boxes we have in the office. At least they have a few life skills under their belt. At least they know a pencil is a writing tool and not a weapon. At least they know the difference between a book and a frisbee, and can throw both pretty well. BUT, I’m Asian, so I can’t completely let go of the academics. I can manage to have the kids do a little reading and writing everyday without crying (I’ll be the one crying on the inside). I can fit in a few more fun days of summer play too. 2 weeks left of summer. I can do this.

I spent the last 45 minutes in my kitchen trying to keep my mouth shut while listening and watching my 8-year-old daughter torture her 5-year-old brother with older sibling mind games. It’s the classic “Come and Get It” game, and man, does this kid want his sister’s hot pink slime badly. Perhaps 30 minutes ago he didn’t want this slime as much, but now his sister has hooked him into the chase. It started with, “I bet you want to play with this slime as much as I do,” which turned into, “What’s the magic word,” which lead to an eternity of guessing absolute asinine phrases which did not contain the word “Please” in it. Enter toddler frustration stage left, “It’s not fair, you’re not sharing. You don’t love me. You don’t want to play with me.” Choreographed full body collapse performed with perfection, including tears and pathetic sniffles. I hear big sister’s voice say, “You know, you can’t get your way just by crying. You need to act like a big boy if you want to play with me.” Eek, she sounds too much like me, I better soften my approach. He miraculously gets up and begins the quest again to get the slime. Hmm, maybe I shouldn’t soften my approach after all, it seemed to work for my daughter.

Then begins the dance, “If you want it, you have to get it out of my hands.” Sounds simple enough to my boy, not at all noticing the maniacal laugh spilling out of my girl’s mouth. Aaaaaaaaand they’re off. Here goes my daughter on a full sprint every which way, around tables, in and out of rooms, jumping on and off couches, waving that damn slime madly in the air. “Come on, hurry up and catch me!” Just a few feet from her comes a determined boy, but seriously slow as hell, not knowing that he can be that much faster if he just stops whining while running after her. Boom, someone falls, which is always kind of funny for all involved, including and especially adult spectators. Both children are now out of breath. I’m thinking, “Mom win, both kids got some cardio in. I’m the best.” Both stop for water breaks, and I’m thinking, “Now they’re drinking water, not juice or chocolate milk. Hydration is key. I’m killing it at the mom game.”

The slime challenge transitions now. My daughter says, with crazy eyes and a look on her face like she knows her little brother is an idiot, “Ok, I’ll be nice. Here, just grab it out of my hands.” My idiot son smiles triumphantly with a look on his face like he has finally cracked her. Said son has some slightly weak fine motor skills and upper extremities. Daughter is a gymnast and could probably beat me up if we were the same size. Everyone knows this except the boy. He goes for the slime, clutched tightly in my girl’s fist, and he begins to try to pry her hand open one finger at a time. Five finger fail. How is this girl’s maniacal laugh echoing throughout my house? It’s like she has powers. Now I’m getting really annoyed because this has been going on for too long and the boy just keeps falling for every single trap she sets. Classic Tom and Jerry.

In my mind I am looking at my decision chart. Should I interject or stay out of it so that they could learn conflict resolution? Well, I had already kept quiet and observed and the game keeps spiraling in a bad direction. I decide to step in, but try to make it seem like I am randomly establishing break time. I say, “Okay guys, let’s have some quiet time. Reese, you can go read your book. Evan, you can pick a book and I’ll read to you.” Both whine. Hmm, not quite the bibliophiles I’d hope they’d be by now. The boy asks one more time if he could have the slime and she says no. I can’t take it anymore. I call Reese into the kitchen and say very quietly to her, “How long are you going to torture your little brother?” In comes the excuses, “No, I wasn’t…” this, and “He was doing…” that, and “We were just…” this, and on and on. I said, “Listen to me. I have two older siblings, and I know EXACTLY what you are doing. I don’t want to hear your explanations. Someday he will be bigger than you, and when he’s sitting on your head, I will not feel sorry for you and I will not stop him. Remember that.” I suppose this was a good opportunity to talk about being kind and fair, but I missed the boat. Oh well, can’t have every mom win.

The girl stomps upstairs like the teenager she thinks she is, and the teenager I’m dreading to meet someday. I call the boy into the kitchen and say in a very low and serious voice, “Dude, don’t be a fool. You let her mess with you for 45 minutes.” His little voice says, “I can’t help it, she is always tricking me.” I offer some sage advice, “For the next few years, she will be stronger, taller, and faster than you. So you need to outsmart her. Use your brain to get what you want. And if you want to be bigger than her, eat your vegetables and exercise more. But for real, stop getting fooled, it’s a bad look on you.” Again, this would have been an excellent time to discuss conflict resolution and compromise through using words effectively, but I think I just wanted to call my kid a fool and also get in a quick plug for eating veggies and exercising.

After some quiet time and space, they were back to being buds. I didn’t bring up the situation again, mostly because it will likely happen again tomorrow, or possibly later today. But it really took me back to my kid days, when my brother would do the same exact things to me. My sister was more of a psychological warfare type, being 7 years older than me. My brother, though, was a year and a half older than me, and hit me with the physical and psychological tactics. It’s part of sibling life, and it’s usually all fun and games until someone gets the wind knocked out of them (me). Looking back, all those “Catch me if you can” fights were super fun (until they weren’t), and I’m glad to see my kids having the same experiences that my siblings and I did. Inspite of all the fighting, we all turned out fine-ish as adults. I never did manage to out-smart or out-strength my brother or sister, which is probably why I’m telling my boy to use that brain now while he’s still the little one. But I did manage to develop the most psychological baggage and am super defensive in arguments, yet still ended up being my parents’ favorite kid (self-proclaimed), so there’s that. Life goals.

I’m sitting in our rented summer house, looking at the chaos around me- beyblades on the floor next to beach towels and a random yoga mat, a completed 1500 piece puzzle on the dining room table, a soccer ball under the table, a mega charger with 6 devices being charged on the end table next to stacks of board games, remnants of snacks everywhere, and piles of shoes by the front door. Outside in the gazebo sits a giant emoji raft, swim vests and floaties scattered on the floor, a bunch of swim suits hanging to dry, half-empty bottles of sunblock randomly placed, and crumbs from last night’s dinner on the table. From the deck I hear the chirps of birds and cicadas among the kids screaming, “Cannonball!” The hourly fight over goggles and pool toys has now begun with the kids. Ahh, the sights and sounds of vacation.

We take an annual summer trip with my sister-in-law and her family to Michigan. It’s easy enough to drive to without wanting to jump out of the car window to escape from endless kids’ requests for snacks and devices. I try to find a house that has a separate loft area for the kids, which I was able to again this year, but as they get older, they seem to also get louder. While they absolutely enjoyed their own space in the loft area, their dirty clothes and toys somehow found their way downstairs in the common area of the house, as did their screams, unresolved fights, and random animal sounds that come out of their mouths. I know, I know, someday when they’re teenagers on this trip with us, we’ll never hear them and they won’t want to be near us, so we should cherish this time. But that sage advice doesn’t make them any quieter.

Many parents, including myself, say that vacation is basically doing the same caretaking of your kids but in a different place. I tried super hard to not keep that mindset during the entire duration of our trip and failed about 95% of the time. But that whopping 5% that I was successful in was very meaningful to me. I was able to be present with the kids, watch them play their imaginative games in the pool, observe them work together on their sand creations at the beach, and let them get their faces all messy when they ate their daily ice cream treats. I remember watching my son put his handprints in the sand and watch them disappear with the next crashing wave, while my daughter and I wrote our names in the sand and watched whose name would get washed away first. That’s the kind of stuff I don’t get everyday. That’s what I’ll hold on to, otherwise I’d never take these beasts on vacation with me again.

This year, we decided to try to hike up the sand dunes. As we drove by them, I heard, “Wow, look at that huge sand mountain,” followed by, “I don’t want to do this.” The parents hyped up the kids, telling them that we’d go nice and slow and take as many breaks as we need. My little 4-year-old nephew wanted to go up the smaller dune, but I told him we go big or we go home. My 8-year-old daughter sprinted up there with no problem, even with her broken toe, stopping occasionally to look down on us to see if we were okay. My 5-year-old son, who is notoriously lazy and does not like to purposely exert himself, was shockingly determined. He said to me, “Mommy, my legs are really tired, but I’m going to work hard to get to the top.” He never says stuff like that, and I was proud that he came up with a positive mindset on his own. I held his hand all the way up, occasionally checking on Jamie to make sure his knee was okay too. And just behind us I could see the little legs of my 2 nephews working hard, no one complaining, everyone just working hard. All 8 of us made it to the top, where we took our victory pictures that look pretty ridiculous. After some water and rest time, we headed back down. Deep down inside, I couldn’t wait to watch the kids lose their balance and either face plant or roll down the dune. 2 out of the 4 kids did not let me down. Once we all made it to the bottom, we looked back to see what we had accomplished. I told the little humans, “I want you guys to remember this. You were nervous to climb this dune because it was so tall and it looked really difficult, but once you actually started the hike, it wasn’t that bad, and you conquered it. In life, don’t avoid those big challenges that seem scary, just try your best and I bet you’ll surprise yourself and succeed.” I thought this was an amazing mom/Aunt moment for me, sharing this vast wisdom, hoping they’ll hold on to these knowledge bombs for the rest of their lives. Unfortunately, none of the kids gave two shits about what I just said, so that was a nice waste of breath. Jamie patted me on the back and gave me some validation for my attempt to give them sound life advice, even though he was laughing at me. Screw them all.

As our time here in Michigan comes to an end, I can confidently say we had a vacation that goes in the books for a perfect mix of relaxation and fun, even though my mom hat stayed on 95% of the time. I look back and think about the 5% of my time that I stepped out of my usual mom role and enjoyed all that was offered- belly laughs from the kids, splashing in the pool, playing on the beach, the kids’ first experiences on a kayak and stand-up paddle board, dessert everyday, random hugs and kisses from the kids and Jamie, time to “relax” and put a 1500 piece puzzle together with the adults, board games after the kids went to bed, and sleeping in everyday. And if I’m being really honest here, we went through a shit ton of vodka to get us through this week. A shit ton. That’s pure Michigan.