What's Your Brave?


Let's talk about Being Brave.

Not with a sword, but with our voices. Maybe we use a pen. Maybe we click, clack away on a keyboard, looking up only every now and then at the words born onto the white screen before us. Maybe we are Brave with our voices or a maybe it's with a paintbrush.

We are Brave when we share our truth with others. We are Braver Still when we know we are not alone.

Jenn Marshall calls it Finding Our Brave. I call it Writing Without a Filter. Whatever you call it, the premise is the same, whether we write about our personal struggles with bipolar or eating disorders or sexuality, we are brave when we share that which others can connect with and know they are not alone.

What's my Brave?

I'll be honest. I'm only halfway home when it comes to fully embracing it. But that's the beauty of Being Brave. For each of us, Bravery means different things and we are each defining the term for ourselves every time we sit down to share a new Something Personal about ourselves.

Me? I'm a life-long recovering bulimic with compulsive eating tendencies. I'm ADHD and sometimes will do circus tricks if you give me coffee when my brain is moving faster than my medication can work. I have anxiety issues that tend to spike when my ADHD is in high gear and suffer from dermitillomania. That last one is a fancy word for the OCD scab-picking condition I didn't know wasn't just a stupid habit I couldn't break until last year. I've suffered from depression, attempted suicide, and founded a website to help myself while helping others learn that nurturing our self-worth and self-image is the key to recovery for many of the demons we deal with daily.

Am I fixed? Hell no. Am I on my way? Today I am. I'll let you know about tomorrow when it gets here.

How do I manage to Be Brave and share these words with the world? Because I have to. Because I want to. Because I need to.

Because I had to find my Own Brave on my journey and wish I could have known people like Jennifer Marshall when I was looking for someone else to Be Brave with me. I just wanted someone to relate to.

Maybe that's why the This is My Brave kickstarter project has hit home with me. I've backed the project and I'm here to support it and yes, I'm asking you to support it, too. Jenn and her team have already surpassed their original goal of $6,500 for the live This is My Brave show and have gone for a stretch goal of $10,000. Every little bit helps. Every little bit matters.

We need each other to make This is My Brave a reality. Together, we can be Braver, and isn't that the point?



I am many things. A mother. A writer. A Wife and lover of all things Dr. Who.

I'm ADHD and I'm anxiety and I'm really, really bad at putting the forks back in the same spot every time I unload the dishwasher.

I'm allergic to the world, infertile, and at 35, I'm dealing with major hormonal imbalances that are a total pain in my ass. I'm an insomniac and a tennis player and a paleo-eating, homeschooling accidental hippie. I'm the Mexican living in Maine.

I'm in love with possibility and a master of procrastination. I can't tell you how many spectacular things I want to accomplish but maybe after I pin this one last thing.

Butterflies. I'm a lover of those, too. Especially when they are fluttering about in my gardens. Not so much when they've taken up residence in my stomach. Like now.

I'm a life-long recovering bulimic on a mission. I'm a founder and self-image activist and Weight Loss Industry survivor.

I'm in therapy. Or at least I would be more often if my therapist read my blog every now and then, because in the time that passes between writing something I need to talk about more and showing up 15 minutes late for my appointment, I've written about four more and the clock is ticking  so I talk about my kid and her anxiety instead.

I'm a contradiction in terms; outspoken and afraid to speak. So I say what I can when the time comes to say it with words that appear letter by letter on a screen.

Right now, I have something to say.

I want to apologize to Cherice Morales on behalf of all that is decent and right in this world. I want to tell her mother that I am so very sorry her daughter's bravery in reporting being raped by her teacher when she was 14 was pushed away like that bravery meant nothing. Twice. I want to hug the friends and family left behind after Cherice took her own life while her case was still pending and tell them how I want to be like Cherice when I grow up.

I want to ask that judge exactly what the fuck he was thinking when he sentenced ex-teacher Stacey Rambold to serve just 30 days of a 15-year prison sentence. I want to know how he'd feel if it had been his 14-year-old granddaughter who was said to be"as much in control of the situation" as the authority figure who admitted to raping her. Would he still blame the victim? Would he be angry if someone said the rapist deserved a break because the victim looked older than she actually was?

I want to tell that judge that his 81-word apology is bullshit and that I don't believe him. I do believe he is sorry to be the center of a public outcry for his resignation. He's sorry he got caught. No more. No less.

I want to ask the Washington Post who thought publishing the op-ed piece arguing for the legal acceptance of consensual sexual relationships between teachers and their underage students was a good idea. I want to ask the writer if she used Cherice Morales as her example because she legitimately thought there was a valid reason to do so and why, considering the small fact that both Cherice and the rapist teacher both stated their sexual relationship was not consensual. I want to ask the writer, an artist and former lawyer, to look me in the eye when she answers. I want to see if she's got the balls to admit that the shit storm that hit after her piece was published was the end goal.

No one ever looks at the byline unless the reporter pisses them off.

I want to ask all these things and know I won't be happy with the answers. I want to thank Cherice Moralez for being strong enough to open up to her family and press charges because so many victims never do. I want to tell her that assholes -- like that judge and the Washington Post and that lawyer painter writer who thinks teachers having consensual sex with their students is a phenomenal idea -- will always exist. And that for every unsympathetic idiot in a position of authority who thinks like they do, there are so many more willing to listen so that girls like Cherice feel safe in revealing their abuse.

Because that matters.

I am many things. I'm sarcastic and say bad words a lot. But usually for good reasons. I'm full of good intentions that are, more often than not, completely misplaced. I'm a mother raising a daughter to know that she can always come to me if the unthinkable happens. That I will support her. And that even after recent events, it will always be okay to speak out.

Because I never did.


I Do's, BFF's, Silver Linings, & When NOT to Say Vagina

 My best friend got married yesterday and I was there, proudly holding my bouquet in one hand and my iPhone in the other as she and her man said their I Do's, kissed, and sealed the deal.

It was beautiful. Weddings and beginnings are supposed to be, right? Somehow, though, the words "Till Death Do Us Part" take on new meaning when the groom was rushed to the emergency room by ambulance and released a few days earlier after almost dying from a severe asthma attack. "For Richer or Poorer" means more when pennies have been counted and bills juggled. "In sickness and in health" takes your breath away knowing that just days earlier, the bride was praying for a miracle and the emergency responders were making sure that miracle happened.

The fact that the bride is a powerhouse of confidence who deserves every happiness after an abusive first marriage that she walked away from speaks volumes as she and the man who loves her now and forever tries to keep it together and not cry like a baby while he repeats the pastor and promises his today and all of his tomorrows. He does (and will continue to) treat her like the goddess she is and deserves to be and this is when I find myself blinking away a few tears of my own.

Flower girls sit at my feet, one my daughter, the other the bride's niece. I'm waiting for the bride to call and let me know she got the wedding proofs back because I'm positive there'll be at least one photo of me glaring at Buttercup and Mom-looking her into something that resembles proper behavior because she may as well have been the drunk aunt on the dance floor with all the flashing that would have taken place had she not been wearing leggings under her dress because we totally saw it coming. At one point, there were a few snickers as I did the Mom Finger-Snap & Point thing indicating that it was now time to get out of Downward Dog and sit the hell down.

"Stop that or no ice cream." I whisper-yelled it as I pointed to the spot where she was supposed to plant her little ass until the time came to follow the bride and groom down the aisle after they were pronounced Mr. and Mrs. I got plenty of pictures of the three-year-old sitting perfectly and adorably still as she waited for her cue while I kept praying that Buttercup would remember to Not Say Inappropriate Things in Public. She did remember, thank you very much. Which makes this post way less entertaining, but I'm pretty sure it's a major factor in me and the BFF still being BFFs.

There's also the fact that the bride chose dresses that accentuated curves AND HAD HIDDEN POCKETS! And that she told me I could play with my iPhone during the ceremony. Probably because she left the Chinese finger trap at home. Those are also reasons I love her and appreciate her friendship in ways that cannot be described. One does not make it to her 30's without a BFF without cherishing the one that appears when she is meant to.

There was a Tardis and the bridesmaids received pocket watches with teddy bears and the ice cream bar made everyone happy because rainbow sprinkles and chocolate chips hold that kind of power. There was silliness and friendship and family and new beginnings to be celebrated and enjoyed. There were Spanx to peel off and cellulite to embrace and fuller curves than were present when the dress was ordered to thank for not needing alterations because I didn't have time to get any done.

There were explanations to the child to give her much loved honorary aunt the space needed to share herself with everyone present and stilettos thankfully replaced with flats or bare feet. And then at the end there were hugs and good-bye's and I Love You's as the room was cleaned up and the bride and her groom prepared for their honeymoon and everyone else parted ways and started Facebook-searching for the connections made.

And then on Facebook there was an update from a mother of a flower girl and a bridesmaid to the best friend that took 30 years to find.





Between the Lines and My Cups Overfloweth

The problem with my brain not automatically transmitting my thoughts and images into blog posts that publish themselves is that I end up so far behind myself that it's usually not worth catching up. But that's only when I haven't lost my mind just a few days shy of my 35th birthday and learned that the local health clinic for general care no longer prescribes ADHD meds to anyone over the age of 18 citing "problems" when they were. In other words, all you assholes too lazy to search out your own community meth lab in Someone's Basement because you didn't need a prescription have now left me scrambling to find anyone who can get me legal speed in a bottle with my name on it before I run out of what I've got. Also, I'm wondering exactly how ADHD is supposed to magically fix itself once the patient turns 19 or if that's the reason Somebody's Basements keep popping up all over the place.

Other highlights from the past week or so include a depressive fog so thick I could make soup out of it and driving two hours to see Santa and showing up three times at the post office for holiday crap after my meds have worn off. I'm pretty sure the staff looks forward to the next time I stop in. Or maybe everyone in Maine is just that nice and I haven't picked up on the "Dammit, the crazy lady's here again" vibe. Either way, you get the rest of the inside of my head in between the lines.











And then I run out of steam. It's 2 a.m. and I have words to write for the other site that doesn't pay the bills but means the world to me and my sanity. I have more to share here. Until then, Happy Christmas Eve.

Dream without Limits Scholarship Program

I'm exhausted, going through a pretty major depression I'm still working on pulling myself out of, and should have been asleep two hours ago, but I'm here sharing words instead because they are important. Clorox is sponsoring the Suena sin Limites (Dream Without Limits) Scholarship Program encouraging Latina teens and moms to dream big for a brighter future.

In partnership with the  Hispanic Scholarship Fund (HSF), Clorox has a special mission: to offer scholarships to college-bound Hispanic high schoolers and to Hispanic moms whose plans for their own education were interrupted.  Scholarship entries are due on December 21, so if you are just seeing this for the first time, pretend you aren't aware that the program launched in September and let's focus on the Me Being ADHD thing, so work with me here. You can thank me later for not posting this on Thursday.

Six mothers and six high school seniors planning to attend an accredited U.S. university during the 2013-2014 school year will be provided with a $10,000 scholarship to help them to advance their education.  To be considered for the scholarship, applicants must submit an essay detailing their life and academic goals, and their plans to achieve them by responding to the following questions:

  • What are your educational aspirations, what are your plans to reach them, and what support are you seeking to make them a reality?
  • How will this scholarship allow you to make your biggest dreams a reality, and how will your transformation allow you to give back to your family and community?

“Clorox is proud to partner, yet again, with the Hispanic Scholarship Fund to launch the ‘Sueña Sin Límites’ scholarship program,” said Jay Stilwell, Marketing Manager at The Clorox Company. “By awarding six $10,000 scholarships to moms who wish to continue their education and six $10,000 scholarships to high school seniors enrolling in university, our hope is to help them achieve the goals they’ve set for themselves, their families and their communities.”

“It is never too late to earn a college degree,” says Frank D. Alvarez, President and CEO of the Hispanic Scholarship Fund. “With this program, Clorox demonstrates our shared commitment to the success of Hispanic students and their families, and supports our goal of placing a college degree in every Latino household across America.”

Applicants who meet HSF’s full eligibility criteria can submit an application and upload their essay at http://www.hsf.net/Clorox.

The 12 scholarship recipients, chosen based on HSF’s selection criteria and the quality of the essay, will be announced publicly in May 2013 by Galilea Montijo at a community event in Miami.

For more information on the “Sueña Sin Límites” scholarship program and the HSF events, visit www.SueñaSinLimites.com.


For more information about the Hispanic Scholarship Fund please visit: www.HSF.net  www.HSF.net.

You still here? It's Tuesday. You want to win this scholarship. Put down the iPhone, tell Mami you've got to hang up and talk later, and just apply. Four days is plenty of time to dedicate just a few moments to dreaming about a life without limits.


She turned five while she was sleeping. That's what she told me while she was waking me up, anyway. And while I sleep-walk my way through making her chocolate chip pancake birthday breakfast waiting for the ADHD meds to clear the fuzz from my brain, I silently thank the Universe for her birthday request of a Do Nothing Day. We haven't had very many of those lately. So she stays in her jammies and I go without a bra and we bake and we spend way too much time on the phone or video-calls with family and friends wanting to wish Princess Buttercup the happiest of five-year birthdays and skipping swim class so we can eat dinner at home with Daddy. And after a Too Late Family Movie Night served up with Ice Cream Too Close to Bed Time Just Because It's Her Birthday,  it's time for a quick story and turn out the lights and holding hands while I sit on the floor until she gets brave enough to ask me to get in bed with her just until she falls asleep because five-year-olds don't need their mommies to sleep with them all night.

I smile into the dark because she's my baby always and not my baby anymore and everything in between. There are dishes to do and blog posts to write and emails to try and catch up on and a new manuscript to neglect and a writing platform to build and a two week trip to Michigan to agonize over for an upcoming wedding and shoes to obsess over online simply because hyper-focusing on something inconsequential like what I'll have on my feet for no more than five minutes into the reception lets my mind avoid things like two weeks away from my world my bed my routine.

My thoughts are always racing and Then I Cans are the name of the game. While I'm making breakfast I think I'll unload the dishwasher because Then I can empty the sink before I sit down to eat my own little meal but wait because now that the sink is empty I should wipe off the counter tops because Then I Can get the dehydrator out to make the jerky out of the meat marinading in the fridge and Then I Can sit down to eat...

And then two hours have passed and my big girl has long since finished her breakfast and set her dishes in the sink and sat herself down at the kitchen table to work on a crafty thing she unwrapped at her birthday party and the kitchen is cleaner than it's been since..well, since last time. I'm starving.

We have a quiet day. I know the drill and on both sides of the family it's expected that the birthday child will be ready to receive phone calls from all of the major players. I try to plan by making a few phone calls myself early in the day so as to not bottle-neck our evening, which is meant for relaxing with Daddy, but people are busy and three hours time difference makes life harder than it should be and I give up and she gets an afternoon birthday bubble bath before dinner.

I want to pay bills and start the grill for the chicken and put away two baskets of folded laundry and get started on that mess on my desk but time is limited so I move as fast as I can and only manage to put the laundry away before The Husband gets home and the phone starts ringing. My mother, his mother, her godfather, my sister, my other sister, my aunt, my godmother. The calls come in one on top of another on one cell phone and numbers are given for who get to go next on the other as Buttercup ends one conversation and starts another and loses enthusiasm with each rendition of This Is What I Did Today. Eventually, our families go to sleep and it's time to sit down and watch that movie but now The Husband is looking at me and ordering me to sit down and just relax for the rest of the night even though my brain is now playing the But I Should Have game. All that time on the phone when I could have been quieting the buzzing in my head by crossing things off of the never-ending To Do list.

I want to do things now so I can have less things to do tomorrow and maybe, for once, have a day like I imagine others to have frequently with no crazed sense of urgency and permission to sit down after the kids are in bed and enjoy some trashy TV Just Because...

I want to know what it's like just to breathe.

Buttercup is sitting on the couch patting the cushion next to her because she's not letting me off the hook, either. So I sit. And when she pats the spot she just made for me on her little twin bed, I cover up and wait for the softness of her cheek against my own to slow time and space and grant me this one moment to just be.


The Laundry List

It's time for another Webisode of How to Fall Apart Publicly and Still Be a Smartass, my friends. In this edition, we're going to talk about how my eggs may not be as scrambled as I thought, why using myself as a scratching post makes me feel a little bit bad for recovering crack addicts, and why Nancy Reagan had it all wrong.

But first, let's talk about the cupcakes currently in the oven for Buttercup's 5th birthday party tomorrow. These gluten-free bad boys will be served along with the pizza and potato chips we like to think makes for stress-free kiddie-party fare. Seeing as how I've been eating paleo for a few months now and feeling better than I have in years, I had been planning on bringing along a little cooler with things like an apple, some nuts to snack on, and maybe a paleo-friendly brownie as my cupcake substitute. But things have changed, friends. And by changed, I totally mean Someone Hold Me and Can I Have a Margarita IV?

I just got the preliminary results back on my food allergy panel. There are 96 foods that I am being tested for (some of which I have been tested for before, mind you) and so far, the following list is exactly why I win the gold for World's Shittiest Dinner Party Guest Ever.

* Apples

* Beef

* Carrots

* Corn

* Oranges

* Peanuts

* Pork

* Shrimp

* Soybeans

* Wheat

* Dairy

* Bakers Yeast

* Strawberries

* Eggs (White & Yolk)

* Oats

I'll give you a minute to pick your jaws up from the floor and take this moment to thank my friends, Allison Nazarian, Becca Ludlum, and Valerie Demetros for helping steer me from the Knowing Something Was Wrong But No Doctor Listening To Me place I was last year to where I am now. A chance Facebook update regarding my hypothyroidism and  a response from Allison is what initially got me back on track with taking an active stance in advocating for my health and searching out medical providers who were willing to look beyond the standard lab results. I can't tell you how many times I've told doctors that something was wrong only to be told that the test results were normal, handed another bottle of pills, and sent on my merry little way.

Through plenty of reading, answer-seeking, and trial and error, I learned that going gluten-free was something I needed to do. Eventually I cut all processed sugar from my diet and following Valerie's advice, I also nixed dairy, all grains, gluten, and all sugars (including honey and maple syrup) to give my body time to heal. Not realizing I was feeling better because of having eliminated so many allergens, I eventually reintroduced a  lot of what I had eliminated (still sticking to my paleo-eating ways) and went back to feeling like hell but not knowing why. I couldn't lose weight no matter what I did. I was always bloated. And the rash that covered my body was a painful, itchy hell that no one could figure out. That's when a tweet from Becca caught my eye. She had found a naturopath in Tucson in the hopes of addressing her own health issues and was reeling from the news that she was allergic to a huge variety of foods.

I wasn't convinced I had food allergies, but I was sure I needed to take the plunge and make an appointment. Mainstream medicine wasn't doing a damned thing for me, obviously. During my first appointment, I was diagnosed as ADHD, which explained why anti-depressants, OCD, and anxiety medication were leaving me depressed, OCD, and anxious. My second had me following a strict medically supervised diet plan in order to reverse my insulin resistance. My third led me to drop all eggs and egg by-products on a hunch from my doctor and just a few days later, a chronic and painful rash on my rib cage suddenly disappeared. And now this.

Got your jaw up from the floor yet? Good. Now you get to wait with me for Monday's blood test results to determine what other food allergies I may (read: probably) have. I've been warned that there's a high likelihood that there will be more foods I need to eliminate based on the first set of results. But the flip-side is that there's also a good chance my eggs aren't as scrambled as we had all assumed and that a modified diet will fix me just fine. Except for the ADHD, of course, and the medication juggling required to keep my head in check. I'm waffling between insomnia when I take my meds too late and the extreme fatigue I'm dealing with right now as I ride out a few days with no magic pills so my body will react to them again. The Husband is hoping that getting me back on track will mean he won't reach into the cupboard for a plate and find a bottle of witch hazel instead. And truth? I have absolutely no recollection is setting that bottle there. I'm very amused and a bit freaked out, but as long as I remind myself that this is why I write non-fiction, it's all good.

Personally, I'm thinking life just got interesting. And I find it hilarious that had I not Just Said No in my formative years, it might not have taken 34 birthdays to figure out my brain was wired wrong.

So...who's up for some plain, grilled chicken?

Cracks in the Surface

My usual nighttime routine is to get Buttercup in bed with a book or ten before turning off the light. No matter how quickly she falls asleep, I always stay for a bit, tracing my finger over her cheek and marveling at the fact that Universe granted me this one wish.

Around 9, I make it back downstairs to the kitchen table, where my Mac is waiting patiently for me, and I get to work. First I procrastinate. There's the internet to roam and email to check and pins to pin and George Takei Facebook posts to like. I get up for a bit, put together The Husband's lunch for the next day, and place it all on the second shelf of the fridge in the exact same spot because it's at eye level and easier for me to make sure I haven't left anything out. I might let the dogs outside. I might even turn on some music. Either way, by 10 or so, I'm back at the kitchen table and writing something. Maybe it's a blog post or an essay or another small piece of the novel in progress that won't allow itself to be written any faster than a few sentences a month.

In any case, I write. And when my head is empty and my thoughts no longer racing, I sleep. And then I wake up to do it all over again.

But there are times when the routine is interrupted by noise. It might be while she is falling asleep at my side. Or while I wait for the dogs to scratch at the back door. This is when I blink to clear my head and realize an hour has passed while I focus on picking at an invisible imperfection until skin breaks. I tell myself to stop. Normal people don't do this kind of thing, you know. And I'll move on. Chin to that little bump between my eyebrows. From the eyebrows to the forearm. The forearm to the breast. Too much time passes. There's no time for words.

Buttercup's swim instructor asked me today if I had been in a car accident since she saw me last. I told her I was dealing with allergic reactions, which is partially true. I am. It's what got me scratching to begin with, anyway, and I'll share the laundry list of reasons why I am now officially The Dinner Guest from Hell later. The Husband has stopped yelling at me about this little OCD issue of mine and instead instructed me to make an appointment with my nurse practitioner about my ADHD meds not working for me anymore. I nodded, only slightly surprised to see how quickly we have both adapted to the reality that ADHD is more than just being forgetful, which came as a surprise when I noticed the need to scratch at my surface had instantly disappeared when I first was diagnosed and began a regular medication schedule. So I went in to see my nurse practitioner on Monday and started the new meds on Tuesday. It's Wednesday now and I'm noticing the insomnia seems to be fading as my eyes get heavier just a bit earlier than the 4 am I have become accustomed to over the past few weeks. That's a good sign.

I resume my usual nighttime routine. Buttercup falls asleep. I procrastinate. I empty my mind of the words.

Insert Witty Title Here

It's not often that life kicks my ass so hard I can't make five minutes to at least repost old material with a brand new headline, but it does happen.

In the last few weeks alone, I've dealt with a lot. Some big, like being diagnosed with adult ADHD (and suddenly high school makes sense) and some not-so-big but totally drama worthy for an ADHD/OCD woman barely holding on to the keeping it all together. Not that I'm naming names but this woman mayu or may not have three dogs, one husband who just announced he is switching to swing shift right about the time a certain girl child starts kindergarten, effectively erasing all chances  to pee in peace for at least three months. She also learned how hard it is to apply red lipstick from an adult-sized tube onto the tiny red lips that would smile big enough on stage for me to see from where I sat. So she asked another mom to do it, which is probably why my child looked like a demure ballerina princess in the enchanted rose garden and not a toddler in a tiara.

Every missed opportunity to save a moment with my words for posterity is still stored in my head. But between the two weeks of digestive hell I've been dealing with and today's craziness, I think it would be extremely responsible of me to be proactive for once in my adult life and sign up for a sponsor and the nearest AA group before getting all I Love You Guys drunk and sloppy.

Buttercup and I left the house at 10 a.m. this morning for the hike across town to see the first of three doctors, all scheduled for the same day because they all happen to be five minutes from each other whereas I live 45 minutes on the other side of the world. My super-powered nurse practitioner figures my fingers look like I ran them over with a lawn mower because I was in desperate need of an ADHD medication change, the ENT guy agrees with my crazy bloodshot eyes being caused by the mesquite currently burning in New Mexico that I should probably not only Stay Indoors At All Times but that if I leave my house it should only be to get the hell away from the Southern border, because of the Being Severely Allergic thing, and my naturopath walked me through my food allergy panel test results (hint: air and water are on the safe list. Except for the air currently filled with the pollen from the burning mesquite carrying over from New Mexico. That air is totally the opposite of being on the safe list. Also? The last time I looked like this, I was sitting in a college dorm room wondering why feet suddenly turned into ice and why she had a towel tucked under the door and that was accidentally way more fun.

I'm exhausted and want a new hobby that doesn't involve insurance co-pays and waiting rooms. And a pony. I'd totally love one of those. But I'd settle for trashy daytime TV and time to pretend I'm a famous blogger. My head is spinning with thoughts like what I'm wearing to my cousin's wedding in a few weeks, dealing with a cross-country flight and family members and Routines that Are Not My Own. I'm crazy with worry over finding the perfect shoes for BFF Heather's wedding next March, how the hell I'm going to get any work done with The Husband home all morning and Buttercup all afternoon, and how behind I'll be tomorrow with my to-do list if I don't have time to finish it all tonight.

And that's when I remind myself that blogging is on my list of things to do because it matters and keeps me sane(ish) and sane(ish) is a good place to be. So I force myself to sit back down, turn the Mac back on, and log back in.