Waiting Room Thoughts: December 23, 2025 7:30 a.m. (and Counting)

 It's December 23rd, and I've been sitting in this waiting room since 7:30 a.m.  Well actually I took a tram ride to the Pavilion on the hill to pick up some medical prescription's for my son and grabbed a bit around 10:00 a.m.  But I am back here in the waiting room now.  It has been a long morning.  Getting up at 5 am to usher both my husband and I out the door while taking great effort to ensure that everyone's needs were met for the day (2 teens, chickens, dogs, and cats).  The Christmas music is a little too cheerful for the amount of sleep I got, my coffee is nonexistent, and I am pretty sure I need to plug in my phone because the battery is draining faster than my patience. But here we are - round two.

Six weeks ago, my husband had a full right hip replacement, and life immediately turned into a strange mix of medical chart, wife (uber) driver, and project manager.  Recovery was not the dramatic "healed and hiking by week three" story we secretly hoped for.  Instead it has been slow, steady and full of tiny victories- like standing up without wincing, or remembering where the ice packs were this time.

Supporting him over the past six weeks meant learning a whole new skill set: medication, timekeeper, sock-putter-onner, and emotional support human.  It meant celebrating progress while reminding him (gently... mostly) that  no he is not cleared to do that yet.

All of this happened while I continued working full time in education administration- because apparently I like a challenge.  My days were spent
in meetings and emails, sounding calm and professional, while mentally tracking physical therapy appointments, dinner plans, and whether anyone had clean clothes.  Spoiler: someone usually didn't.

Our two teens?  Fully booked. Practices, schoolwork, social lives- no time for parental chaos, thank you very much.  AND the holidays TOO!   My role shifted into full-time logistics coordinator; rides, reminders, snacks, last-minute "Mom, I need gas money".. or "Mom, I forgot...." moments.  Somehow, they stayed on track, got their schoolwork done, and reminded me daily that they are way more capable than I give them credit for.

Meanwhile, the household continued to demand attention. The laundry multiplied. The dishes staged a quiet rebellion. The holidays approached with their usual audacity- expecting meals, gifts and cheer.  I lowered the bar, raised my standards for what really mattered and called it a win. 

And now, here I am again.  Waiting room. December 23rd. Second hip replacement.  This time, I'm less anxious and more... experienced.  I know what's coming: the walker, the ice packs, the slow shuffle, the healing that happens one careful step at a time.

Here's the thing about the holidays:  they don't have to be perfect to be meaningful. This year, the magic isn't with the lights on the house or with some of the fun traditions.  It's resilience.  It's in showing up when things are hard.  It's in the quiet strength of a family that adapts, pitches in, and keeps going.

If this season has taught me anything, it's that love often looks like the unglamourous stuff- early mornings, late nights, patience you didn't know you had , asking for help and doing the next right thing even when you are tire.  Especially when you're tired.

So if your holidays feel a little heavier, a little messier, or a little different this year, know this: you're still doing it right.  Grace counts. Presence counts. Love counts.

The nurse will call soon.  He'll wake up. Christmas will come. And we'll keep moving forward-- one careful step at a time together.

Wishing you a season filled with strength, healing , and just enough clam to catch your breath.

Winter Solstice, Before the World Wakes

The winter solstice always arrives quietly here—no fanfare, just the softest turning of the year. It’s the longest night, yes, but also a promise: from this moment on, the light returns. I wake before anyone else, pull on a robe, and pad into the kitchen while the house still holds its breath. The Christmas tree glows in the corner, white twinkle lights steady and patient, casting a gentle shimmer across the counters. This is my favorite hour—the in-between—when the world hasn’t asked anything of me yet.

The coffee is warm. The starter stirs. And I begin.

Onion Soup Sourdough at Dawn

There’s something grounding about baking bread while it’s still dark outside. This morning it’s onion-soup–flavored sourdough—deep, savory, and unapologetically cozy. As the dough rises, the kitchen fills with the quiet perfume of caramelized onions and warm flour. Hands dusted, bowls scraped clean, I work by the glow of the tree lights and the oven lamp, listening to nothing but the rhythm of my own breath oh and the Polar Express movie quietly playing in the background.

Bread at dawn feels like an offering—to the day ahead, to the people who will wake hungry and sleepy, to the season itself. The loaf goes into the oven as the sky lightens just a shade, and for a moment it feels like time is standing still.

Sourdough Snickerdoodles & Cinnamon Sugar Snow

Once the bread is underway, it’s time for something sweet. Sourdough snickerdoodles—soft, crackled, and rolled generously in cinnamon sugar—are winter in cookie form. The dough balls line up on the tray like little promises, each one dusted as if with the first snowfall.

There’s joy in the simplicity of it: butter creamed smooth, eggs cracked quietly, vanilla measured with care. The starter lends a subtle tang that balances the sweetness just right. As the cookies bake, the house warms and the scent of cinnamon drifts upstairs, a gentle invitation for sleepy feet to find their way to the kitchen.

The Longest Night, the Returning Light

By the time the oven door opens, the day has officially turned. The solstice reminds me that even in the deepest dark, light is already on its way back. Bread continues to bake. Cookies puff and settle. The tree lights still glow, but now they share the room with morning.

This is how I mark the season—not with grand plans, but with quiet work and warm food. With hands busy and heart full. With the understanding that these small rituals—baking before dawn, savoring silence, letting the light return—are the truest kind of celebration.

Happy winter solstice. May your kitchen be warm, your mornings gentle, and your days grow brighter from here. 

Six Days of School, Seven Days of Work, and the slow March Toward Christmas

Some weeks feel like they’re stitched together with nothing but grit, coffee, and whatever is left in the bottom of the laundry basket—and friends, this was one of those weeks.

The teenage boys trudged through school and afterschool obligations, their backpacks somehow heavier, their appetites somehow doubled, and their energy… well, questionable at best. I swear teenage boys live on equal parts humor, chaos, and carbs. Every morning felt like a mini-marathon of reminders:

“Did you charge your Chromebook?”

“Where’s your water bottle?”

“No, seriously, where is it? Didn’t we just buy that last week?”

By the time the house finally exhaled into quiet, I was already headed out the door to address the next  seven days of my own work—the kind that doesn’t politely stop just because my brain wants to. Somehow, we push through, day after day, fueled by purpose and the promise of  returning home and bedtime.

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The Christmas Countdown Begins

Meanwhile, Christmas is peeking around the corner like a mischievous elf whispering, “Have you started yet? You haven’t, have you?”

The bins of ornaments  have made their annual migration from the attic, shedding pine needles from years past as if to shame me into decorating faster. There’s a certain magic in stringing lights when the world outside feels heavy—tiny reminders that joy doesn’t need to shout; sometimes it just twinkles softly.

Between work emails and school drop-offs, I’ve been:

• Making lists (and rewriting them when I lose them)

• Hiding online orders from the boys (they notice everything and well sometimes snoop)

• Attempting to plan meals (why does December make everyone hungrier?)

• And lighting enough candles to make the house smell like a cross between a forest and a bakery

Though I have minimally decorated, the house still feels chaotic and I look forward to the early mornings when our dog Aspen wakes me to do her morning business and eat, so that I can drink a cup of coffee in the quiet with the Christmas tree glowing in our living room. It is a softer and quiet time that helps balance the chaos out.

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Appointments, Waiting Rooms, and the Road to Surgery

This season isn’t just about Christmas, though. It’s about holding things together as my husband moves toward his next hip surgery. The calendar is packed tighter than a stocking on Christmas Eve with appointments, check-ups, pre-op paperwork, and the kind of waiting-room worries only a spouse understands.

There’s a unique emotional juggling act in being both the one who waits and the one who keeps the household gears turning. The boys still need rides, reminders and approvals. Homework still needs checking. Work still demands what it demands. Dinner still needs to happen (even if dinner is cereal… sprinkled with grace).

And through it all, we’re preparing—day by day—for surgery No. 2.

It’s amazing how strength grows in the small moments:
In the car ride to an appointment.
In shared glances that say “We’ll get through this.”
In the quiet resilience of doing the next right thing.

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Daily Obligations, Wrapped in Real Life

Some nights, I collapse into bed wondering how so many tasks can fit into one family’s week. And then the morning comes, and somehow we do it all again:

• The lunches

• The laundry

• The logistics

• The mental load that could fill Santa’s sleigh

But buried in the chaos are flickers of beauty—a laugh from the boys, a warm cup of coffee, the glow of the Christmas tree, the feeling of being exactly where I’m meant to be, even when the road feels long.

This season might not be tidy. It might not be calm. But it’s ours.
And right now, that’s more than enough.

The Night Before 49: A Mom's Musings on Growing Up, Growing Older, and Growing Back Into Myself

On the eve of my 49th birthday, I find myself doing what moms do best at the quiet end of a long day—reflecting. Not on the to-do list or the laundry or the fact that I’m definitely going to forget to take the chicken out of the freezer again tomorrow—but on life. On the years that somehow slipped by between jelly shoes and joint supplements, between roller-rinks and carpools, between who I was and who I’ve become.

Growing up in the 80s and 90s felt like something out of a nostalgic movie now. Birthday parties were big, loud, deliciously chaotic potluck affairs. Kids from all over the block—sometimes kids we barely knew—showed up with wrapped gifts, crooked homemade cards, and jelly-stained smiles. No curated Pinterest themes, no party favors that looked like wedding gifts. Just sheet cake, a boom box, laughter that carried down the street, and the absolute thrill of being another year older.

Every year, like clockwork, my friend Molly handed me an ornament. Simple, sweet, and chosen with way more heart than the price tag suggested. I didn’t know then how much those ornaments would come to mean—the tiny milestones of our friendship, tucked safely between the branches of each December.  

And somehow, through moves, marriage, kids, chaos, and the occasional questionable hairstyle, those friendships stuck. Maybe that’s the magic of growing up when we did: our bonds weren’t built on curated feeds or text threads, but on scraped knees, shared bikes, sleepovers, and long afternoons when time felt endless. The kind of friendships that feel like home, even when everything else is shifting.

Now, as I look toward tomorrow's
birthday (49) and toward 50—just one year away—I feel this full-circle moment settling in. I appreciate the little things again: morning coffee in silence, the sound of my kids’ laughter drifting from another room, the way old friends still know exactly who I am, even when I forget a little.

My kids are older now. They need me in different ways—or sometimes, not at all. There’s space again. Space to breathe. Space to wonder who I am outside of “Mom.” Space to rediscover the version of myself that loved to move, to run, to feel strong. I want my fitness back, not because someone says I should, but because I miss the woman who felt connected to her own body. I want to feel like me again—not the 25-year-old version or the pre-kids version, but the wiser, softer, stronger version that 49 (and soon 50) is shaping me into.

So tonight, I’m celebrating quietly. Maybe with a cup of tea, maybe with a glass of wine, definitely with a grateful heart. For the childhood that shaped me, the friends who walked beside me, the ornaments that still hang every Christmas, the kids who made me a mother, and the woman I'm becoming, even now.

Here’s to 49.

And here’s to stepping into 50 with open arms, strong legs, a clearer mind, and a heart full of appreciation for all the little things that were never really little at all.

A Sourdough Movement (and Maybe a Farm Stand .... Eventually)

Some stories begin with a spark. Mine began with a jar.

Not just any jar—the jar—filled with a bubbly, tangy, living starter gifted to me by an old friend I lovingly call “The Pioneer Woman.” She’s the kind of friend who can whip up biscuits without a recipe, grow tomatoes the size of softballs, and somehow keep chickens alive while the rest of us are just trying to keep houseplants going. So when she placed that mason jar in my hands, I knew I was being entrusted with something special. This of course was after she gave me a crash course in how to use a scale to measure the ingredients, a taste of her blueberry/lemon zest sourdough bread and the slightly intimidating conversation about how she bakes to sell.  Was I even worthy?  Would I even keep the starter more than the day?  Time would only tell.

The starter doesn’t have a name yet—though I swear it has a personality—but it’s been nurtured, fed, tucked in, and fussed over like a new family member. And in return? It has given us sustenance, comfort, and the kind of chewy-crusted joy that makes the whole house smell like a warm hug.

Somewhere between feeding the starter and stretching dough on the counter sprinkled with flour like fresh snowfall, a wild little thought began to take root:

What if I started a tiny farm stand?

You know the kind I’m talking about—weathered wood, a sweet sign made with stencils and chalk paint, baskets overflowing with rustic sourdough boules, soft-baked cookies, maybe a dozen speckled eggs (from chickens that are in the winter molting months and that Pinterest said I could own). The kids would run barefoot collecting imaginary farm chores, and neighbors would stop by on Saturday mornings to pick up a loaf or two while chatting about the weather and recipe swaps.

It’s the kind of homespun fantasy that blooms quietly while the dough rises and the kitchen fills with that unmistakable sourdough perfume. And honestly? It feels like the beginning of something. Maybe not a business yet—but a movement. A tiny, flour-dusted, heartwarming sourdough movement happening right here in my very normal, not-even-close-to-a-farm kitchen.

Sure, last week I scorched a batch of cookies while flipping laundry and someone (ahem, the dog) made off with half a cooling loaf. But still… every time a perfectly blistered, golden loaf emerges from the oven, I feel that spark again. The Pioneer Woman’s legacy continues. The starter keeps thriving. And so does the dream.

Who knows? Maybe one day there will be a little stand at the end of the driveway with handmade signs and baskets full of goodies. For now, I’ll keep feeding this unnamed starter, baking bread that tastes like home, experimenting with flavor such as jalapeno and cheder cheese, pretzels (great for the boys), new cookies and letting the movement rise one warm loaf at a time.

Thanksgiving at Home: Pies, Parades & a Healing Husband

This year, Thanksgiving looked a little different in our house—and honestly, I think that’s exactly what made it so perfect.

Instead of the usual rush of who’s bringing what, who’s sitting where, and trying to squeeze five different side dishes into the oven at the exact right second, we slowed everything way down. For once, Thanksgiving wasn’t about the schedule. It was about the moments.

With my husband recovering from hip surgery, our plans simplified themselves. No big gatherings, no frantic hosting—just us, the kids, the dog circling the kitchen like she had a job to do, and the humbling reminder that sometimes the most meaningful celebrations happen when life forces you to sit still.

And sit still we did—right into the couch—watching the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade in our pajamas. Coffee in hand, blankets everywhere, half-watching the floats while I peeled potatoes and measured spices for pies. There’s something about that parade that brings out the kid in all of us. Even the teenagers wandered in and out of the room pretending they weren’t watching… but I saw them smile when Tom Turkey floated across the screen.

In the kitchen, the real magic happened. I committed to homemade pumpkin pie—like actual from-scratch pumpkin pie—and our traditional apple pie, the ones that make the whole house smell like cinnamon and quiet joy. There’s something therapeutic about rolling out dough, pressing the edges just right, brushing on that little bit of egg wash that makes you feel like you have your life together (even if you absolutely don’t).

While the pies baked, the house filled with warm, familiar smells. The scent of “home.” The kind of smell that makes the kids wander into the kitchen asking, “Is it ready yet?” even though everyone knows Thanksgiving pies are a later thing.

Meanwhile, my husband camped out in his recovery spot, bundled up with pillows and a rotating system for ice packs. Every time I looked over, I saw a man trying very hard to pretend he didn’t mind being sidelined for the holiday. But the truth is, I think he loved the slow pace too—the chance to just be, surrounded by family, no expectations, no rushing.       

Dinner was simple but comforting, exactly what we needed. And the best part? The leftovers. So many leftovers. I’m talking turkey & ham for days. Pie for breakfast. Random combinations of stuffing and rolls showing up at every meal. That magical post-Thanksgiving stretch where you barely have to cook because the fridge is doing all the heavy lifting. Honestly, it feels like a holiday bonus.

We didn’t dress up. We didn’t host a big crowd. We didn’t have a table overflowing with every Pinterest-pretty dish under the sun.

Instead, we had cozy blankets.
Homemade pies.
The parade.
Kids who were actually relaxed.
A healing husband who got to rest without missing out.
Leftovers that will carry us well into the week.
And a day that reminded me that Thanksgiving isn’t ever about perfection—it’s about presence.

Slow. Simple. Sweet.
Kind of like the perfect slice of pie.

And honestly?
I think this might be my new favorite way to do Thanksgiving.

When Thanksgiving Teaches Us About Change

 

Thanksgiving has always carried a kind of magic for me — the familiar scents drifting from the kitchen, the sound of family laughter layering over Christmas Movies playing in the background or the Macy's Day Thanksgiving Parade, the comforting chaos of too many people trying to help with one oven. For years, this holiday felt like an anchor, something I could count on to look exactly the same no matter what else was shifting around us.

But this year… this year feels different.

Maybe it’s because the kids are older. Maybe it’s because life keeps nudging (okay, shoving) me into new seasons faster than my heart is ready for. Or maybe it’s simply that Thanksgiving has a way of spotlighting the fact that time doesn’t slow down, not even when we beg it to. Whatever the reason, I’m feeling the change — and I’m learning to welcome it, even when it tugs at me.

I used to set the Thanksgiving table with little handprint turkeys and name cards the kids scribbled their own names on. Now I’m met with deeper voices, bigger shoes piled at the door, and the realization that some seats are filled with friends and some seats are left unfilled for those who have past. And yet, somehow, the table still feels full — maybe even fuller.

I used to cook nearly everything myself because it felt like part of the mom role. Now I focus on just a few becoming simpler as time marches on.  My kids are not just yet ready to take on the experimental dish making just yet. Letting go of control has slowly turned into letting in new memories.

And honestly? It’s beautiful in a way I didn’t expect.

This Thanksgiving, I’m realizing that change doesn’t just happen to us — it happens for us. It stretches us. It shows us who our children are becoming and who we are becoming alongside them. It reminds us that traditions aren’t meant to trap us in the past but to carry us forward, adapting as we do.

Some years, the house is loud and overflowing. Other years, someone important is missing. Sometimes we gather around joy; sometimes around heartbreak. But every time, Thanksgiving whispers the same reminder: be here now. Be grateful for what was, for what is, and for what’s still unfolding — even if it looks different than you imagined.

So this year, I’m embracing the shifts. The new faces. The new rhythms. The changing roles. And yes, even the bittersweet ache of watching my kids grow into the people they’re meant to be.

Because Thanksgiving isn’t really about the perfect table or the predictable traditions. It’s about love — evolving, stretching, surprising love — and the tenderness of recognizing that change is its own kind of blessing.

Happy Thanksgiving, friends. May your table be full, your hearts be open, and your season be rich with gratitude… even for the changes you didn’t see coming. 🧡