Day 11: Weathering the Storm

Water.

It giveth and it taketh away.

It felt wrong to write about anything but water today.  A pithy blog just wouldn’t come. Even as I sat in my dry house with all the creature comforts not feeling that water is the enemy.

It is a fact that 71% of the earth is covered in water of some kind.  I’ve felt the restorative properties of hot springs, dug my toes on the shoreline of countless beaches and been captivated by shimmering lakes with the sun dappled through majestic trees.

Water is good for the soul and good for the skin and essential to life. Which is why it’s so jarring when it turns on us.

It is impossible for one to fathom the water in Houston right now unless you are there. Yet, people keep trying.  Weather people are blabbering on in an attempt to help me picture the enormity through comparisons. Like, how all this rain would look if it was snow. Or claiming this rainfall total could cover the entire continental United States but instead is concentrated in one place.

But the real story is the raw footage. Sometimes the media should give us the gift of silence and let the images speak.  A week ago the people I see on my television screen were just like me, now they are victims of an historic act of nature captured forever for the world to see.

The river they drove over every day is now a monster, raging through the streets and swallowing roads. Water commands respect that way. It seeps into crevices you didn’t know existed and slowly and silently erodes foundations.

But we have another vital natural resource that you cannot wear down.  Our uniquely American spirit. It is a force that rises like the tide when the country is at its lowest and carries those in need to shore on a crest of hope.

Calls for aid have been heeded and efforts bolstered by rescue organizations from all over the US. Everyday citizens offer to open their doors to strangers, donate and pray.  The very water that separates countries and divides shores is uniting America once again.

No one is left stranded because of their political affiliation, race or religion.  In crisis, we are blind and left to rely solely on our other senses. The sense of right and wrong, the instinct to survive and inherent good in people become our guiding forces.  That focus lets us know we will triumph, rebuild and move on together and it is beautiful and good.

Water, it giveth even as it taketh away.

Day 10 Summer 2017: Pack Rat

Packing for sophomore year of college is supposed to be easier. You are seasoned. A veteran, for God’s sake, not some amateur who got sucked into all the drama of the perfect dorm room.

That is until you get sucked into the drama of the perfect apartment.

The Hub at the University of South Carolina is nicer than any place I ever lived in college and has more amenities than our HOA currently provides here at the old homestead. So, yeah, you could say my son is pretty jazzed to live there.

The website touts fully furnished units which should make a long distance move easier to facilitate. What they left out of the description is the fact that there is no dresser or nightstand in the bedroom, no kitchen table and chairs or end tables in the living room.

When you are 18 and signing a lease, the rooftop pool with Jumbotron, game room, sand volleyball court and granite countertops outweigh all those pesky details like tables and dressers.

There was no way he was hauling furniture down I-95 and up to the 4th floor, so it looked like he and his roommates were going to be popping some tags at the thrift store.

If you are a regular reader, you know my son is determined to cook his meals this semester and signed up for a meal plan to cover lunches only on campus. Despite my skepticism, we had procured a crop pot with liners and I was lucky to find matching plates and bowls in plain white at Good Will for $7.99.

The rest of the kitchen budget got swallowed by the Goliath that was bedding and bath necessities. So, I hit the cabinets and basement to round things out.

Repeat after me… “I am not a hoarder…”

Oh my. The list of things I sent with him to school that 1) I never realized I had or 2) will never, ever be missed is likely reason for some therapy sessions.

You know. things like a Dirt Devil vac that was still in the box and a counter-top grill were the crown jewels of the hunt. Finding the manual from the grill (circa 2005) with recipes included was like a stroll down memory lane. It was in a box with the manufacturer’s information on a bunch of Little Tykes equipment, a scooter or two and a Dora toy. I sat on the floor, surrounded by thin booklets with Chinese on the back cover, and cursed the thief that is time.

I should really toss those old manuals really soon…

Freshman year’s packing was so exhaustive; one more belt would’ve put me over the edge. There simply was not room for one.more.thing.

How did we get here again? Seeing the entire back of the Yukon filled plus items in the folded down seats, gave me pause. This stuff was never going to fit in the car of the roommate driving down to Columbia. Unless that kid was bringing just one suitcase and an umbrella like Mary Poppins.

When we arrived to transfer my son’s things, it looked bleak indeed. To his credit, the roommate had taken exactly one half of the space allotted. Even Steven.

A great plan, except, my son had three times as much stuff as he did, even if much of it included household items for the group. What transpired next was like a tense game of Jengo with a little Rubik’s Cube action mixed in. We took almost everything out of both cars and then the roommate and I just watched as my son went to work.

One by one, he grabbed items and found a spot for them in the vehicle. By the light of his phone flashlight, he worked for 30 minutes. Twisting, turning, sliding and sometimes just shoving with all his might until there were only 3 things left in the driveway.

It was like the car was elastic and he knew to stop just before it would snap.

The remaining things were going with my son’s girlfriend who was driving the next day. It took Herculean effort not to point out that a girl was taking way less stuff than my son. I considered the act of biting my tongue a going away gift from me to him.

I am a giver that way.

My near empty car signaled it was time to hit the road. And even if all the packing was more than I had expected, our goodbye was surprisingly easy. I was comfortable knowing that he would tackle this year just like he tackled his roommate’s car, one piece at a time.

Day 9: Summer 2017 Growth in Goodbye

As I write this, the mile markers tick off the 7-hr distance between my eldest and his family. Although the route is familiar to him now, this journey signals his first move-in without us. This time last year, we had just returned from freshman drop-off and were feeling low indeed.

So much of what is written about the college experience is focused on the growth of the students as they leave the nest. And rightfully so, that is what this period signifies. However, I think we tend to overlook the fact that the family left behind sees some significant growth and self-exploration as well.

While our students are off finding themselves, we find ourselves with a shifting family dynamic. No matter if it is your first to leave, the last or somewhere in between, each departure takes something from the group.

But, the trick is seeing this as a positive.

In our case, two younger brothers were initially devastated to say goodbye to their brother. They had always viewed him as the compass and never thought much about developing their own sense of direction. Without him, the boys found their foothold and assumed new roles. The middle matured into more of an independent thinker and the youngest became more responsible and a better student. The spotlight had been on the impending graduate for literally years; how refreshing for the siblings to have some balance restored.

My husband was more vulnerable during this transition than I had ever seen him. Well, since the day we brought that same boy into the world, anyway. His heart cracked just like mine and we shared our fears in the dark as we lay sleepless those first few nights. Weeks passed, the worries ebbed and he focused more on the man his son was becoming. Separation allowed father and son to see each other through a new lens. My son, out quasi-adulting, hesitantly admitted that some of his dad’s crazy advice and rules are based in logic. And his dad saw that, despite all appearances to the contrary, some of what he preached for 18 years had sunk in. A mutual respect developed between the two that may not have transpired without his exodus to college.

And then there is me, mom, and a more complicated case indeed. I had the good fortunate to be home with these boys every day and our bond is unshakable. Through roughly 6,500 days of rearing children, I believed that my presence was the backbone of good parenting. Yet, when he left, I realized that just being in the bleachers, the audience or in the same room is not motherhood. Rather it’s in the way you communicate with each other, how you let them fail without judgment, encourage without enabling—simply– how you love. I learned that when you are doing it well, parenting goes the distance–literally. As the semester rolled along, I exhaled and finally took pride in what our guidance and love had produced.

Do we miss him? Yes, immeasurably. But, unlike last year when I felt I had left part of my heart on campus, this year our goodbye made my heart full and complete. He had shown us what he could do and we were all better for it.

Day 8, Summer 2017 Down But Not Out

I am squarely blaming the ants. Combatting their shenanigans had weakened my reserves and left me susceptible to a bug of another kind.

Mom was down for the count.

One minute I was driving in my car and totally fine and the next, I wanted my mommy and a mountain of blankets. You know how sometimes it happens that fast?

It happened that fast.

Unfortunately, my schedule was not conducive to a recovery stint on the couch. There were drop-offs and pick-ups looming, so I penciled in a whole lot of sucking it up to the agenda.

Blessedly by 3pm, I made it to the couch for good. I caught a break when my eldest was able to swing by and get his brother on his way home from work. I didn’t even have to try to sound pathetic when I asked, I was already there.

With three boys, I live in fear of being sick. I want to be pampered and have someone watch Hallmark movies with me in between naps. Yeah, not so much.

Everyone just stared at me like I was a needy alien who landed on their couch. I thought about going upstairs to bed, but I knew from experience that with three teenagers it is best to have a visual at all times.

When I was lucid, I heard the word “dinner” tossed around several times but no one moved. My husband had arrived and seemed perturbed at this turn of events. He knows if I am horizontal when he gets home, I am either pregnant or in dire straits. At that point he probably would’ve preferred me with child because it is not—as far as we know, anyway—contagious.

I moaned a little for effect and nothing.

I announced my temperature as a respectable 101.2 and still nothing.

The final dagger? Even the dog looked unfazed.

I couldn’t keep anything down but small sips of water and my fever kept climbing but ESPN was more riveting than the medical drama playing out in my family room. The boys just wrestled like any other night, messed with the dog endlessly and shouted at one another.

Had they always been this loud? Why is everyone so loud?

Surprisingly, as my time on the couch increased, people began to take notice. My eldest went up to get my pillow from my bed. My middle son brought me a cold bottle of water and my youngest actually read his book—the greatest gift in that moment for sure.

And the dog finally snuggled against me, as he should. I reveled in the attention I so richly deserved.

But it was short lived. As I dozed on and off for the rest of the evening, the boys went to a friend’s house, the dog got walked and my husband cooked dinner.

In essence, everyone survived.

Sadly, even the fever could not disguise the fact that the place looked like we needed a hoarding intervention. But if we are being honest, it sort of looked like that before I was stricken. The return to college and football two-a-days had taken a toll on every room in my house. There were either clothes airing out, packages or duffel bags ready for departure on nearly every surface.

It was way easier to just shut my eyes on the way to the bathroom at least for the time being. I managed to unearth the remote while shuffling to and fro, so at least I was free of listening to the same 5 stories over and over on Sports Center.

I was feeling very neglected when the boys rolled in about 10:30pm. My husband had checked on me one last time before going to bed earlier. When he said get rest, he meant it. He wanted his comrade back because being alone in the trenches is scary.

The boys kicked off shoes, got snacks and ignored the lump on the couch formerly known as their mother. I had raised a bunch of heathens. They trudged upstairs and left me feeling very sorry for myself. Sniff.

Then, my middle son paused on the stairs and returned to get his charger which was plugged into the wall behind my sick bed. As he bent down to retrieve it, he leaned in and kissed my forehead. Just like I did when the kids were sick.

“You feel better mom, ok? We don’t like you on the couch.”

And that’s when I realized they weren’t being unsympathetic; they were just out of their element. So, when I was at my most susceptible they reverted to what I had taught them.

They had acted on the basic principle that if someone is down, you take a moment and be kind. After all, unbeknownst to you, it just might help bolster their reserves.

It certainly did for me.

Day 7: Random Car Thoughts

I, like many mothers I know, spend a large portion of every day in my car. I often wonder what my big, old Yukon would say if it could talk. We spend a lot of time together, so it knows me pretty well. As I was waiting for smelly people to get in the car today after a muddy football practice, I thought for sure I could read my car’s mind.

Thus this list was born…

–I think my car would agree that the music selection is better when I am in the car alone. Once my kids start playing DJ and syncing their play lists, the tone changes significantly. And I don’t feel hip or cool, I just feel old.

–I am sure my car would tell me that I should really get to know all those buttons and gadgets. It must be very frustrating to watch me fumble around trying to figure out the electronics and knobs. My car and husband have this frustration in common.

–My poor car would beg me to wash it more and buy one of those Christmas trees for God’s sake. Sports pick-ups and dusty fields take their toll on the old girl (the car, not me)

–I bet it does not go unnoticed that sometimes I drive in the car in complete silence. No companion, no phone and no radio–just to find some peace. And other times, I bang the steering wheel and scream because I am finally alone to vent my frustration where my kids can’t hear me.

–I think my car is proud of me for not exhibiting crazy, road rage but would advise me to use my horn more. I mean, it is there for a reason and my poor car doesn’t want to be a pushover. The giant Baby Huey of the highway.

–My car rejoices that I do not let the kids practice driving in this vehicle. The truth is, it is too large and the back-up camera and warning lights would have to be covered up for the test anyway. I am sure my poor Yukon fears for its life if the kids drive her.

–I know my car is pissed that everyone door dings us in parking lots. She wishes for super powers like the car in the movie “Christine” to chase offenders through the parking lot and invoke terror. Or maybe I could just park better (see paragraph 3 above) using the tools it gives me.

–My car wonders why no one watches movies on the built-in DVD player any more. I think she too misses those days when the kids would ponder their selection for hours and giggle from the backseat. Now everyone is in their own world with headphones on that continually need to be turned down.

–Mostly, I think my car gets that I am thankful that I can rely on it to keep us safe. Of course, that’s because most of the safety features are built-in and require no activation from me. Otherwise, we would be sunk. It is content to provide a ton of steel between my family and danger.

And that makes me more grateful than words can say.

Day 6: ANTagonized

This is the text I got Saturday while on a date with my husband…

“There are ants all over the counter. I got rid of them though with vinegar.”

While I applauded the effort, I was skeptical that the ants had been eviscerated. This was not our first pest rodeo. Despite the fact that we pay someone a decent sum of money to spray our house year-round because the ant problem in our neighborhood is widely known.

When I got home about an hour later, there were no ants that I could see. My middle son was as good as his word and I went to bed never giving it another thought.

Which just proves once and for all that alcohol numbs your senses. Seriously, who was I kidding?

I woke up Sunday morning to 10,000 ants who had taken up permanent residence and were focused on one tiny spot of whatever on my counter top. I then had the pleasure of spending the entire morning with my new house guests. We used soap and vinegar to wipe everything down killing legions of ants and taking their pheromone trail with it. I poured baking soda in the crack they were using for access and all along the door jamb.

None of this deterred them, the baking soda just made it easier to follow their black bodies as they wreaked havoc all over my kitchen. I laid on my couch, exhausted, convinced I was going to begin to cure from all the vinegar on my body.

As I smacked at imaginary ants crawling on me, I realized how much my kids can learn from the ant world. Yeah, yeah, I know there is an entire song dedicated to ants, Rubber trees and high hopes but it is more than that.

For instance, these ants are the perfect example of perseverance. When we blocked one route, they found another. They did not give up and say it was too hard (whatever that sounds like in ant language), they kept going. I saw the smallest baby ant out there getting it done alone and not whining about all the other baby ants that didn’t have to work as hard as he did.

However, the ant life highlights the ways being a follower can get you in serious trouble. Blindly following the trail of the guy in front of you is not always smart. In this case, these fellows got poisoned by all feasting off the ant trap (thank you Raid) and smothered by vinegar and soap. If they had veered left instead of right and struck out alone, they would’ve been harder to find and they would’ve gotten their own crumbs making them the top of the ant pyramid.

Speaking of crumbs, ants are happiest with the tiniest of crumbs. They don’t snub their nose at anything or complain that it is not new or big or fancy. I bet there is a sign in the ant farm that says, “You get what you get and don’t get upset” and everyone just complies.

Ants are sharers. They take all their precious nuggets back to the ant hill for the good of the group. There is no “mine” in this society, it is understood that you are working for everyone’s benefit.

The poor ants are a reminder that if it looks too good to be true, it probably is. If it seems like a stroke of luck that this white, climby thing with tasty stuff inside was left right here in my path, it is not. It is a trap, plain and simple.

And finally, take a big lesson from the ant world where the Queen lives ten times longer than the worker ants. Do not mess with your mama, she makes it all happen here in our little colony and she knows where all the good crumbs are hidden.

Day 5: To Sweden with Love

To the outside world, Sweden is the coolest place on earth. Of course, I am basing this assessment simply on my new IKEA catalog and the singing group ABBA, but they both present pretty compelling cases.

My new shiny book is filled with horrible names for beautiful things that I just know would make me a better person. The accompanying prose confirms that. The IKEA copywriters encourage me to dream, let my children explore and see the possibilities that an IKEA inspired home provides.

I envision the residents of Sweden, blonde and free wheeling, actually living the philosophies IKEA promotes. And who also raise children that actually put their things away in colorful cubbies (EKET, inside cover photo) and dine on primary colored plates and cups piled neatly in the sleek ALMAREN sink.

I bought IKEA kid’s dinnerware 12 years ago and I swear my kids still eat better when they grab an IKEA plate. If I had been really on the ball, I would’ve bought the SUNDVIK bed so they all learned to sleep through the night. But that was years ago before I realized the scope of IKEA’s magic.

I picture the members of ABBA lounging on a KLIPPEN loveseat and sipping Lingonberry drinks while composing the lyrics to Dancing Queen. Nestled under their SKOGSLAM comforter at night, did they dream that a beloved musical would be created with their songs as a backdrop? Even the band members names sound like an IKEA product line.

I mean, Sweden knew what we needed before we did.

The founder of IKEA knew Americans secretly longed to simplify our lives with minimalist lines and affordable pricing. He was a vanguard back in the 1920’s when the yellow and blue superstore was just a glimmer in his eye.

ABBA knew we needed a disco anthem that would still make us scream decades later. Even if they looked like four of your parents’ friends got together to form a band and we didn’t understand most of the words.

IKEA provides a completely practical product while ABBA targeted our more frivolous side. Yet, somehow, they each hit on a uniquely Swedish formula for enduring success.

Maybe my new mantra should be “WWSD” (What Would a Swede Do?) with dance music and furniture as my guiding force.

There have been worse life-plans, amiright?.

For instance, I just know a MICKE desk and MOLTE chair could motivate me to write more productively. Think of what I could accomplish if I stopped sitting on the couch with my computer next to me while watching reality television.

I’m pretty sure there is no “Real Housewives of Stockholm.” But if that show did exist, just imagine those mansions all chock full of BILLY bookcases…

Alas, Sweden is not on the top of my travel bucket list, which is probably a good thing. Because I know I would need a sturdy SALVIKEN hand towel to dry my tears of disappointment as it could never live up to my expectations.

Day 4: Now We’re Cooking

With college departure T-one week, I am creating a cook book for my oldest to take with him. I am still not 100% sure he will actually follow through and cook two meals a day in his apartment. But, if he gives up midway through the first semester, I’ll be damned if the reason will be lack of preparation on my part.

He will have recipes with a list of brands for ingredients and the total cost for each one if cooked to specifications. The idea is for him to stay organized and within budget which is a notion I should really look into for myself.

This emphasis on cooking got me thinking about how unrealistic the cooking shows on television are. My middle son loves them and can be found watching Top Chef, Carnival Eats or Guy’s Grocery Games. All very entertaining for sure, but not really a ton of help to the average mom on the daily,

Here are my Top 5 shows that should be in development on the Cooking Channel

1. Vacation Vittles
Premise: How to make something edible out of the 5 non-perishable items left in the fridge the night before vacation. Well, it’s really 6 items if you include the Baking Soda placed on the shelf in hopes of disguising the odor of the stuff that actually perished.

2. Culinary Car Pool
Premise: The meat is completely thawed but now dinner has to be eaten in the car on the way to practice because time for making that awesome pre-planned meal evaporated while you looked for someone’s left cleat/jersey/lucky socks.

3. Fickle Fixins’
Premise: The meal everyone loved last week is now poison and just the sight of it burns at least one child’s eyes. On the season finale, all children will protest and make gagging sounds in unison. The meal must be stripped of all offending ingredients but still feed the entire family including the people that liked it the way it was.

4. One Hit Wonders
Premise: There is only one vegetable that all your children will eat. All recipes must include this one vegetable or your offspring will get no greens whatsoever in their diet and get scurvy or rickets or whatever disease comes from this lack of vital nutrients forcing your pediatrician to bring it to the attention of Child Protective Services.

5. Chaotic Cooking:
Premise: Host of show must cook using multi-step recipes while breaking up fights, trying not to step on the dog, pulling people snacking away from the pantry, answering multi-step algebra problems and texting with husband.

As I send him off to school armed and ready, I’m not sure his culinary expectations are any more realistic than what we see on the Cooking Channel every day. But much like the shows we watch, it will be entertaining to see him learn.

Day 3, 2017 Parental Rewind

I basically make a living talking about motherhood and all the trials and tribulations that come with it. I think we would all admit—it ain’t easy. In retrospect, I have no idea how my mother did it! Modern day parents can take advantage of a lot of handy gadgets unavailable to the generation before us.

Now, don’t start jumping all over me, I know it is a natural evolution. I get that my mother had the edge over, say, Ma Ingalls out there on the prairie but sometimes a look back in time can be very grounding. (Cue wavy dream sequence)

For instance, there were no gift cards back in the day so my mom had to budget time and money for real, live presents for every occasion. The thought of not being able to run out and pick up a generic gift card on the fly and shove it in a card gives me the hives. Oh and did I mention my mom paid cash or wrote a check for each purchase? I’m thinking you had to tack on 15 minutes to any shopping excursion because everyone in front of you was paying by check and the cashier had to write down each digit of your driver’s license number and add your phone number to the front.

And let us not forget that there was no texting us from the kitchen when our bedroom doors were closed. Oh sure, pretend you don’t text your kids in your own home. I am totally copping to it in order to give mad props to my mom who had to wander all over the house in order to get her point across. Without emoji’s I might add.

I also have no recollection of my mother ever getting a trinket for my teacher on the first day of school, the last day of school or for any holiday whatsoever. I think parents back then believed that reclaiming their children for the summer was gift enough to last 3 months. Yes, summer was literally 3 months when I was a kid.

Three glorious months with no summer homework except the pinky promise to read a book or two. So, my mom had no summer packet, cell phones, iPads or video games to lord over us when the bickering reached a fever pitch. I had to simply live in fear of disappointing my parents and possibly losing privileges for my transistor radio that had static most of the time anyway.

Soap Operas were big when I was a kid. I think they were the precursor to the Housewives franchise with the bonus of being on every afternoon. My mom actually had time to watch them when we got home from school and she did, because there was nothing juicy on at night. If she wanted to settle in with a Marlboro Light in the evening, she was stuck watching Happy Days with us. At least until JR and “Dallas” debuted. But I was in high school by then and spent all my time with the phone cord of the land line stretched under my locked bedroom door.

If my mom wanted to snoop on me, it was work. There were no apps to help her track me or record whom I was speaking to or hanging with at any given time. My diary held the key to all my secrets but it was not on our iCloud or anything. So, first she had to find it and then suffer through a ton of boring prose in hopes of finding one nugget. I am sure my super-secret passcode—“Keep Out” in big loopy letters on the front was a HUGE deterrent.

However, despite all our advances, the one thing we don’t have now is patience. Parents back then had a mother lode. I mean, yes, my mom lost it on us occasionally but generally, there was not this concept of immediate gratification.

You had to wait days for pictures to be developed, keep calling until you didn’t get a busy signal, sing songs in the car when there was no radio reception, read a map and mark your route and read the whole newspaper if you wanted to know what was going on.

And that, my friends, is a distinct advantage our parents had over today’s parents. After all, the idea that anything with worth is worth waiting for is a principle that should stand the test of time.

Day 2, 2017: Happy Place

 

Remember Pharrell’s smash hit “Happy?” Did you find yourself unconsciously humming it today? Well, you would’ve been justified because today, August 8th, is National Happiness Happens Day.

Say what?

Fascinated by the concept that there was a day devoted to making happy happen across the world, (ok maybe just the US, but still) I did a little research.

And I was glad to do it. (see what I did there?)

Turns out the Secret Society of Happy People (SOHP), founded in 1998 is responsible for this optimistic turn of events. The founder of SOHP woke up one day and wondered where all the happy people were. I don’t think she looked very hard. I mean, there are lots of happy people hanging around in bars. Oh and weddings—lots of elation there.

Apparently, people are completely paranoid about being happy. There is widespread fear that others will not embrace good news or generally upbeat behavior and will, instead, try to stomp all over your happy dance.

Is there happy shaming that I am totally oblivious to? Why, yes there is. A recent article on Huffington Post gave readers concrete steps to stop being resentful of other’s good fortune.

It’s a crazy world, people, when happiness is under attack. Just think, we would not have the fascinating world of Emojis without the smiley face kicking it all off, amiright?

Further reading informed me that there are 31 kinds of happiness– kind of like Baskin Robbins. They range from Contentment to Spirituality to Peaceful with every positive emotion in between. The premise of this group is to bring happy people together and let them embrace and support one another’s bliss.

After reading a few of the founder’s blogs, I have to admit they are inspirational. My personal favorite, “Is it too Hot to be Happy?” is pretty up front about the fact that sweating to death in the summer sucks. BUT it rounds out the prose with several things to be grateful for despite the heat. There was no post about how to find joy with three bickering, bored teenagers who wrestle for control of the remote all summer but I’m sure she will get right on that.

This happiness gig is a balance, I think. If someone is happy all the time, they probably need a drug screening. The key is to be more happy than not.

It’s cool if you didn’t get your happy on today; the entire month of August is Happiness Happens Month—you have plenty of time. However, I regret to inform you that you missed National Underwear Day on the 5th which would’ve been an opportunity to smile for sure. Of course, every day is underwear day in my house because none of the boys ever want to get dressed.

So, boxers don’t spark joy for me but I am all for whatever makes you happy. Let’s all echo Pharrell’s sentiment, “Clap along if you know what happiness is to you…”