From Senior Sunrise to Senior Sunset: A Mom's Heart in the home stretch of senior year

I always knew this week would come -- the final stretch of high school for my first born, the last four days of school bells and hall passes, the last time I'd remind him to grab a jacket, or ask if he finished that assignment.  But knowing it's coming and actually living it are two very different things.

These days feel like a blur of schedules, celebrations, and emotions I didn't expect to hit quite this hard.

The Final Push (aka: "Please, child, don't senior-slide now")

We're in the home stretch, and I swear I've said "finish strong" more times this week than I did in the last four years combined.  Grades still matter, finals still exist, and the next part of his journey still look at transcripts --- but senioritis is real, and it is bold.

So here I am gently nudging, reminding, encouraging... and of course beaming with pride when he is successful.

The Schedule That Could Be Its Own Full-Time Job

These last four days of school and the following week are packed tighter than his backpack on the first day of freshman year:

Last Day for Willamette Career Academy

Awards Night for his WCA program

Finals for SHS- Because apparently the universe thinks emotions and exams should coexist

Senior Sunset -- The symbolic ending, hanging with friends, celebrating watching the sun set with kids who have grown up together; the beginning of the final curtain to this chapter.

Kickball: Seniors vs. Staff- where bragging rights matter more than GPAs

ASB BBQs- because teens can always eat

Hanging with friends/girlfriend- soaking up every last inside joke, late night gaming and more

SHS Awards nights- where I'll be the mom clutching tissues in one hand and my phone camera in the other

Scholarship announcements-  the proud mom explosions

Graduation announcements arriving from friends near and far- each one a reminder that all of us mom are walking this bittersweet road together.

AND SO MUCH MORE

It's beautiful.

It's exhausting.

It's everything.

The Mom Journey Behind the Milestones

Every time I see another graduation annoucement in the mailbox, I think about the moms behind them -  the ones we met just a few years ago beginning in Kindergarten, the ones who packed lunches, sat through freezing soccer games, helped with projects, and whispered pep talks through bathroom doors before big days.

We've all watched our kids grow through scraped knees, heartbreaks, victories, and late-night homework meltdowns.  And now we're watching them step into the world with the same awe we felt the first time they took a wobbly step toward us.  

This chapter isn't just theirs.

It's ours too.

But There's Another Story Happening Too:  The Younger Sibling

While all eyes are on our senior, there's a quieter shift happening in the background-  the younger sibling watching everything change.   

They feel it too.

The excitement (of their own 8th grade promotion and watching older brother with HS graduation).

The pride.

The loss.

Next year will look different for them -- a different rhythm in the house, a different seat at the dinner table, (or and empty one reminding us daily of the change), a different role in the family dynamic.  They're watching their big brother pack up memories and step into a new world, and even if they don't say it out loud, they know life is about to shift.

There's a kind of grief in that  -- the soft, subtle kind that sneaks up on you.

The loss of a built-in best friend.

The loss of the familiar noise in the room next door.

The loss of the everyday moments they didn't realize they'd miss.

But there's resilience too.

Siblings learn to stretch. 

They learn to adapt.

They learn that love doesn't shrink with distance -- it grows in new directions.

And as a mom, I'm holding space for both my boys at once: one launching, one adjusting.  One stepping forwards, one recalibrating.  Both learning who they are in this new chapter. 

Senior Sunset: The Ending We're Not Ready For

In a few days, they'll gather again for Senior Sunset, closing the chapter they opened at sunrise.  They'll laugh, take pictures and talk about the future like it's already unfolding.  

And I'll be somewhere nearby, holding the memories of the little boy he was, the young man he's become, and the sibling who's learning to navigate this transition too.

This isn't just his ending.

It's our family's turning point.

A moment of change, loss, growth, and resilience - all wrapped into one sunset.

The Final Final Week: The Countdown Gets Real

As I think about the next four school days and all that is jam packed into that and I think the emotional roller coaster is slowing down, the actual last week will arrive in June  -- the one that makes everything feel real.

Graduation practice -- where they rehearse the moment we've all been imagining for years

Graduation- with pomp and circumstance, speeches, tassels, caps & gowns, cords, leis and stoles

The all-night senior party -- the last big hurrah with the classmates that shaped their childhood

Home celebrations -- family, food, photos and the kind of joy that fills every corner of the house

This final week  where the cap & gown hang in the hallway like a symbol of everything he's worked for.  The week where the younger sibling overs a little closer, soaking up the last days before the house feels different.  The week where I find myself alternating between laughter and tears with no warning whatsoever.

And even thought I'm not fully ready, I'm cheering him on.

Cheering both of them on.

Because that's what moms do.

Eight Fridays and a Graduation: Letting Go, One Week at a Time

 There’s a quiet shift happening in our house, and I’m not sure I am ready for it.

Somewhere between trade school and high school emails, group chats lighting up late into the night, and the growing to do list for graduation on the counter, I realized we are in the final stretch of my firstborn son’s senior year. The final stretch. Just nine weeks left. Eight more Fridays of school—and the ninth? Graduation.

I keep saying the numbers out loud like they might slow time down if I acknowledge them properly.

Nine weeks.

Eight Fridays.

One cap and gown.

And a whole lot of “first lasts.”

The calendar has become my command center—awards nights penciled in, deadlines circled, reminders scribbled in every available space. Graduation announcements are addressed and  sent,  somehow  that makes everything feel more real. Every day seems to bring a new event, a new milestone, a new moment that whispers, this won’t happen again.

Prom is just around the corner, and with it comes that mix of excitement and nostalgia. The suit fittings, the plans, the photos we’ll take whether he protests or not. It feels like just yesterday I was tying his shoes, and now he’s coordinating dinners and after-parties.

And then there are the “new experiences” that remind me just how much he’s growing up. Conversations about tattoos—yes, tattoos—have entered our world. Carefully thought-out designs, meanings behind them, timing, permanence. These aren’t little kid decisions anymore. These are adult conversations. And while part of me wants to press pause, another part knows this is exactly what we’ve been raising him for—to think, to choose, to become.

His friends are everything right now, as they should be. The late-night hangs, the spontaneous plans, the “one last time before we all go our separate ways” energy—it’s constant. Our house has become a revolving door, and I’m trying to say yes more than no, knowing these moments matter in ways I can’t fully measure.

In between all of that, real life continues. Scholarship applications have been submitted and thanks you cards need to be written. Essays drafted, revised, and submitted. Deadlines don’t care about nostalgia. There are still assignments to turn in, tests to take, and grades to maintain. And lurking in the background is that all-too-familiar senioritis, just waiting for an invitation.

We talk about it often—finding that balance between soaking it all in and staying focused. I remind him (and sometimes myself) that finishing strong matters. That these last weeks aren’t just about endings, but about follow-through. About showing up, even when the finish line is in sight.

Because that’s what this season really is: a transition.

I see it in the way he carries himself now. The way he speaks about the future. The excitement and confidence with every notice of being a scholarship recipient and how he rushes to call me or his father with the news.  The independence, the confidence, the glimpses of the man he’s becoming. It’s beautiful and heartbreaking all at once.

Motherhood has always been a series of letting go in small, almost invisible ways. But this one? This one feels big.

So I’m holding on and letting go at the same time.

I am savoring every, "I love you mom!" and am thankful he says that frequently, every hug and every time he laughs.  

I’m cheering him on as he checks off each final milestone.

I’m reminding him to stay present, to finish what he started, to keep going even when motivation dips.

And I’m quietly taking it all in—the laughter, the chaos, the countdowns, the lasts.

Because in just nine short weeks, everything will change.

And somehow, we’ll both be ready. ( I think?).

Simply Living into 2026

 As the calendar turns to 2026, I find myself craving less noise and more meaning.  Maybe that is because this is the year I turn 50 years young.  (Yeah you heard me, not sure I heard myself, but saying that out loud is certainly something else!)

Not a dramatic overhaul.  Not a perfectly color-coded planner.  Just a gentler way of living that fits into real life-- the kind with transporting kids to and from things, laundry piles, half-finished cups of coffee and kids who need us in the middle of everything.

This year, I'm choosing simple living.

For me, that doesn't mean doing less out of laziness or lowering expectations. It means doing what matters with intention, and letting go of what doesn't.  It means building my days around small habits that support the life I'm already living, instead of chasing some future version of myself who has it all figured out.

The Power of Daily Habits

Instead of big resolutions, I'm focusing on daily practices- tiny anchors that ground me when life feels rushed or overwhelming.

Drinking water.

It sounds almost too simple, but caring for my body starts here.  Before I can pour into my kids, my work, or my home, I need to remember that my own needs matter too.  A full water bottle on the counter feels like a small promise to myself: I'm paying attention.

Being mindful of time.

Not in a productivity-obsessed way, but in a presence-focused way.  Time is one of the most precious things we give our families, and I don't want to spend it constantly distracted or rushing through moments that won't come back.  I'm learning to slow down--pausing before saying yes, leaving space between tasks and allowing rest to be part of the plan.

Being present.

This one is harder than it sounds.  Presence looks like putting the phone down when my child is talking.  It looks like listening without multitasking.  It look slike noticing the ordinary magic-- inside jokes, quiet car rids, bedtime conversations that stretvh longer than planned.  These are the moments that build a life, even though they don't look impressive from the outside.

Letting Growth Be Quiet.

There is also a larger goal I'm carrying into 2026-- one that matters deeply to me-- but I'm not ready to share just yet.  

Not because it's secretive, but because some things need time to grow quietly.

Motherhood has taught me that not everything needs to be announced to be meaningful.  Some dreams are better nurtured in private, protected from outside noise and expectations.  I'm allowing myself the freedom to work toward this goal slowly, intentionally, and imperfectly--trusting  that when the time is right, it will make sense to share.

Choosing "Enough"

This year, I'm releasing the pressure to do more, be more, and prove more.

Instead, I'm choosing enough.

Enough effort.

Enough grace.

Enough Presence.

I want my kids to see a mom who lives with intention--not one who is constantly chasing the next thing, but one who values what's right in front of her.  I want our home to feel calm, even on loud days.  I want my life to feel aligned, even when it is messy.

2026 isn't about perfection.  It's about paying attention.  It's about building a life through small daily choices that add up over time.

And if all I do this year is drink my water, show up fully, protect my time, and quietly work toward what matters most--then I believe that will be more than enough.

Here's to simply living into the new year.  

The Quiet After the Christmas Glow

There's always a moment after the Christmas tree comes down when the house feels... different.  Not bad- just quieter, barer, almost echoing in a way it hasn't for weeks.  The twinkle lights are packed aways, the ornaments carefully wrapped, and the familiar glow that carried us through December disappears in an afternoon.  I stood in the living room after I finished , taking it all in,  feeling that strange mix of relief and sadness that always comes when a season officially ends.  

This morning, though, the emptiness feels softer.

The house is still dark, wrapped in that early-morning hush I've come to cherish.  I'm curled up on the couch with a hot cup of coffee, steam rising slowly as if it , too, is waking up.  The teenagers are still asleep- as usual- and my husband hasn't stirred yet.  The only signs of life are Aspen our loyal English Lab, stretched in her usual spot on the couch, and Clyde and Jada, the cats, tucked in close on either side of me.  It's one of those moments that feels small and enormous all at once, the kinds you want to bottle up and save for later.

As I sit here writing , the calendar quietly flips in my mind.  We're standing at the edge of a new year--2025 fading, 2026 stepping forward.  A year that already feels heavy with meaning.  It continues to be the year of the "lasts" for my high school senior and 8th grader, but also the year full of new beginnings.  Such a juxtaposition.  I'm trying to organize, reset, to make sense of what's ahead.  High hopes of better systems, calmer mornings, and more intentional family time swirl around me along with the coffee aroma.  

This year marks the final stretch of senior year and 8th grade for our boys.  That alone feels monumental.  There are lasts happening everywhere-- last first days, last seasons, last milestones before  everything shifts.  And 2026? It promises transition and change in ways I can already feel in my bones.  Somehow, I've been given a front row seat to it all.  Equal parts exciting and terrifying, if I'm being honest.

So as we step into this new year, I'm thinking a lot about goals-- not the flashy, overwhelming kind that burn out by February, but attainable ones.  The kind built on steady effort and grace.  Goals that allow room for healing, and recovery from surgeries, for listening to our bodies, for choosing healthier living without perfection.  Goals that remind us food  can be simple and nourishing, made from scratch with intention and love.  Goals that pull us outside, into fresh air and  open spaces, where perspective feels easier to find.

This year will take work. Real work.  The kind that doesn't always show up in tidy planners or color coded calendars, (though I will use those tools for real). But it will also bring growth, deeper connection, and moments like this one-- quiet mornings, warm coffee, sleeping kids and a house full of love even without the Christmas lights.

The tree may be gone, but something new is already taking root.  And for now that feels like enough.

As I finish this cup of coffee and the sun slowly rises displaying the frosted cold ground outside, I find myself holding a simple wish for the year ahead-- not just for our family, but for others walking into 2026 with hope and uncertainty side by side.  May we all give ourselves permission to move forward gently.  To set goals that support us rather than weigh us down.  To heal, to grow, to show up for the people we love, and to notice the quiet moments when they arrive.

May this new year meet us where we are, and may we have the courage to meet it with open hearts.

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.

---

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.

---

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.

---

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. 🧡

And That's A Wrap: The Curse No More

 Breaking the Curse: A Mom’s Reflections on Stayton High School’s Unforgettable Season

I stood on the edge of the field on Friday night, with my Stayton scarf, my #0 Eagle Trucker Hat, a blue lit cowboy hat, and my phone in hand, watching the final seconds dissolve from the scoreboard. The usual late-fall chill settled over Stayton, but it couldn’t touch the warmth swelling in my chest. Not tonight. Not after this season.

When the final whistle blew, it wasn’t just the end of a game.
It was the end of the game—Stayton High School’s last match of an undefeated, unforgettable season. A finish this town has been hoping for, dreaming of, and fighting toward since 2010.  And for the Seniors a wonderful way to complete their final season!

And right at the center of that celebration—arms thrown around his teammates, cheers echoing across the field—was my son, Ty.

His love for soccer has always run deep, but his love for this team… that was different. This group of boys became his brothers, his family. Every ride home, every dinner table conversation, every late-night reflection circled back to them. The trust, the jokes, the grit, the belief—they carried each other every step.

And make no mistake… this community carried them too.

The Epic Send-Off

Before that final match, our boys didn’t just leave town—they were escorted out. The Stayton Police Department and the Fire District showed up in full lights-and-sirens glory, leading the team buses through town like heroes heading to battle. Neighbors lined the streets, kids waved homemade signs, grandparents clapped with proud tears in their eyes.

It wasn’t just a team on those buses.

It was the heart of Stayton rolling toward destiny.

The Power of “Da Mom Crew”

And behind the scenes—fierce, tired, determined, laughing, organizing at all hours—was our beloved Da Mom Crew.

We cooked breakfasts.
We hosted dinners.
We packed snacks.
We decorated signs, put posters up and glammed out each game.
If there was a way to fuel a teenage boy or lift his morale, trust me, we did it.

Those gatherings weren’t just meals—they were mom-made momentum. They built the camaraderie this team became known for. The boys might have done the running, the scoring, the sweating… but Da Mom Crew? We kept them fed, loved, supported, and feeling like champions long before the scoreboard said so.

And I’ll always treasure the laughter in Coach Shields classroom, the chaos of feeding a roomful of soccer players, the endless grocery runs, and the joy of watching these boys bond over french toast dishes, pasta, and way too many Gatorades.

A Community United

Stayton didn’t just watch this season happen.
Stayton lived this season.

The stands were full at every match—parents, teachers, alumni, little kids wearing eagle fan gear, families who’d never watched a soccer game before but came because these boys deserved to feel the weight of the town behind them. 

At school, the boys were celebrated like the champions they were becoming.
In town, people asked for scores before asking about the weather. Busses of students filled the stands and outcheered other teams.

The entire community felt invested in breaking the curse one game at a time.

Breaking the Curse

If you know Stayton soccer, you know the story since 2010: the almosts, the heartbreaks, the near-misses. A quiet “curse” hanging over the program, season after season.

But this year was different.
This year, the boys chipped away at it match by match, goal by goal, moment by moment.

They built something no curse could withstand.

They built belief.

Ty felt it. He carried it. He lived it.
And as a mom, I saw how deeply this team shaped him—not just as a player, but as a young man who understands commitment, heart, and brotherhood.

A Moment We’ll Never Forget

When I hugged Ty after the final whistle—sweaty, exhausted, overflowing with pride—I knew this moment would live with him forever. With all of us, really.

                                            Photo Cred Statesman Journal

This undefeated season wasn’t just a championship run.
It was redemption.
It was healing.
It was community.
It was history.
It was proof that when a small town rallies behind its young men, magic can happen.

Congratulations, Eagles.

Thank you for a season that reminded us what heart, unity, and belief can do.

And from one very proud soccer mom:

Ty, your love for this sport, your team, and this town made this journey unforgettable. You boys didn’t just win games. You broke a curse. And you did it together.

 

Letting Go, One Game at a Time: A Soccer Mom’s Reflection on the Final Stretch

It’s hard to believe we’re here—one final league game left before playoffs. One last time to watch these boys, our boys, take the field as the Stayton Eagles Varsity Boys Soccer Team—undefeated and unstoppable, their cleats carving out history one pass, one goal, one victory at a time.

For months now, Tuesday and Thursday nights and chilly evenings under the lights have been our rhythm. The sideline chatter, the clatter of folding chairs, concession stand food and drink, the game swag and social media posts to help cheer on the young men in our lives, and the occasional tear wiped away behind sunglasses—they’ve all been part of this journey. But as we prepare for Senior Night and the playoffs beyond, I can’t help but feel that this isn’t just about soccer anymore. It’s about letting go.

Five Weeks of Pride

It’s been such a special season. For five consecutive weeks, different players from Stayton were nominated—and voted—as the “Athlete of the Week” by MAPS Credit Union (as covered by the Statesman Journal). One article even notes: “Stayton soccer player wins Maps Credit Union boys Athlete of the Week.” (see link) BVM Sports

Week after week, our community rallied to celebrate not just the wins, but the heart, grit, and teamwork that this group of young men embodies. It wasn’t about one star; it was about the whole team. That’s who they are. That’s who they’ve become.

Each nomination felt like a collective victory—a nod to the work ethic and unity that has made this season something extraordinary. These boys have built something that goes beyond stats or standings. They’ve built legacy.

From the Stands: The Mom Crew

There’s something sacred about the friendships that form in the stands. We call ourselves the “ da mom crew,” though we laugh that we’re really more of a family now. We’ve weathered more than just rain and cold this season—we’ve weathered the emotions of watching our sons grow up right before our eyes.

We’ve shared team meals and heartache, cheers and tears. We’ve learned to read each other’s faces—the nervous smiles before kickoff, the proud grins after a perfect goal, the deep breaths during penalty kicks. We’ve hugged through the wins and the close calls, knowing that every game could be the one we’ll never forget.

And as Senior Night approaches, we’re all a little quieter in our group chats. The jokes are still there, but beneath them lies that shared ache—the realization that this is the last season we’ll do this together.

For the Seniors

Ten seniors. Ten stories. Ten boys who have grown into young men before our eyes.

We’ve watched them since they were little—chasing soccer balls down muddy fields, jerseys too big, dreams even bigger. We’ve driven them to early practices, packed post-game snacks, and sat through endless tournaments, rain or shine. We’ve watched them build confidence, learn leadership, and show resilience.

And now, as they take the field for the final league game of their high school careers, we see not just players—but the culmination of years of dedication, friendship, and heart.

Undefeated, Unbreakable, Unforgettable

An undefeated season is something to celebrate. According to an article on the Oregon School Activities Association site, the Stayton boys soccer team “are 12-0-1 overall and 8-0-1 in the tough Oregon West Conference… and are No. 1 in the OSAA power rankings and co-No.1 in the OSAAtoday 4A coaches poll.” OSAA 

But what makes this team truly special isn’t the record—it’s the way they play for each other. The unspoken trust. The shared laughter during warm-ups. The way the younger players look up to the seniors. #wegotogether is the hashtag used throughout the season because this team is truly family. Statesman Journal also identified that in their article titled, "Stayton boys soccer 'family' marching forward toward a 4th straight conference title." SJournal

As a mom, I know I’ll be cheering louder than ever in these last few games. Not just for the goals scored or the wins earned, but for the moments—the high fives, the hugs, the memories being sealed forever in their hearts and ours.

Because when the final whistle blows and the season ends, what remains is love—for the game, for the teammates, and for the journey that’s brought us here.

So here’s to the boys of Stayton High School Varsity Soccer. Here’s to the undefeated season. Here’s to the moms in the stands who’ve cheered every step of the way. And here’s to letting go—with full hearts, tearful smiles, and endless pride.

Links & Resources

1. OSAA Team page for Stayton Boys Soccer: OSAA – Stayton Boys Soccer OSAA
2. OSAA “Soccer notebook: Once again Stayton a Force in 4A” article: OSAA Today 
3. Stayton High School athletics history: Stayton High School Athletics History Stayton High School
4. Article mentioning Maps Credit Union Athlete of the Week nomination: Stayton Eagles Athletics (BVM Sports) BVM Sports+1
5. Statesman Journal "Stayton boys soccer 'family' marching forward towards 4th straight conference" SJournal

The Last High School Year: A Tighter Grasp

 A Mom's Heartfelt Journey Through Her Son's Senior Year of High School

Part II

Yesterday my HS Senior and I fit into both of our work schedules attending his Eagle Day!  This is the day you check in, make sure you are registered, pay your fees associated with yearbook, student body card, get your locker (if you want one) and of course receive your academic schedule.  In addition to that we had the pleasure of meeting the new High School Principal.

This is the first step to the academic side of things-- his senior year of high school.  For him it is a mix bag of excitement to be done with high school and anxiety as he navigates applications for the next step and balancing getting good marks while also realizing change is ahead.  It is a year of saying goodbyes.  Goodbye to his teachers, schedule as he knows it, his classmates, and an environment that he has lived at for the past several years.  On the exterior there is a toughness and a desire to do something different and "blow this popsicle joint" as they say. But I can imagine the inside is different.

From my side, it is tug-of-war. On the one hand, I am ready to let go of the stress of last minute checks for homework, missing assignments, reminding him about studying for his exams, packing lunch after lunch (can we talk about the last lunch I'll pack for him?!), and keeping him on target.  For this I think I am ready for him to take the reins and be independent.  On the other hand, I realize how much I have loved these moments of being so involved in his everyday life.  There is comfort in being the one who asks, "Did you study for that test?" or " Do you need help with....?" The thought of losing that small but significant role tugs at my heart in ways I didn't anticipate.  

So while we haven't started school quite yet, we have his final school year schedule in hand.  His final electives and few remaining core required classes and in two weeks he will enter the school to begin his senior academic year.  I am sure there will be struggles and "senioritis" and we will power through.  And we will begin our goodbyes.  

Last Soccer Season: The End of an Era

The Last Year: A Mom's Heartfelt Journey Through Her Son's Senior Year of High School

Part III

My son has been playing soccer since he was 7 years old, so this last season feels like a punctuation mark on a long chapter of his life.  I've spent countless hours sitting on the sidelines, in recreational, competitive club, adult league, and high school soccer.  Countless hours have been spent cheering him on, trying to contain my "Mom" emotions while watching him on the field and in the past several years in goal as keeper (which brings a who different level of anxiety). Now as I watch him as he enters his final games, I am both proud and heartbroken.  Every play is a reminder that these moments- these final games- are fleeting.

It is funny how something like a soccer ball/soccer goal  or even just the site of the pitch in the fall evenings with a sunset falling behind it can trigger so much emotion.  It's not just the sport; it's the end of growing up, learning, and yes, making mistakes along the way.  He has grown so much in confidence, learning to be part of a team, enduring physical blows as goal keeper, increasing his mental toughness when players blame him for a missed goal (though he is the last line of defense of an 11 man team) and learning how to be coachable and how to lead and follow.  

He has been coached by some phenomenal coaches and quite frankly some crappy ones.  Both types however have taught him lots of things.  The phenomenal coaches, Coach Shields, Coach Miguel, Coach Guessly, Coach Carty, Coach Ryan (just to name a few) along with GK specific coaches not part of clubs like Rolando, GK Coach Chris from Rose City GK, all provided learning opportunities, repetition, mental toughness, and instilled a love of the game in him.  He has learned perseverance, leadership and having a voice.  As a keeper you are the eyes and voice of the team.  You see the game in real time and guide players with your voice.  Some of these coaches offered the notion to "work hard, dream big" something that served him well over the years. We are forever grateful for our experiences with these men.  Their impact does not go unnoticed.  

However, not all of the soccer teams and coaches have been so positive, but that doesn't mean that there were lessons learned there.  Our son has learned what is right and wrong, what a team truly means despite coaches who only play favorites, or play politics. There were lessons in humility, when to speak up and out about the things and when to make a decision that best suits your needs and what you are willing to endure.   All of these lessons are life's lessons and have helped to build up strength and independence that our son displays today.

As he has already transitioned from competitive club soccer to his final year of high school Soccer. I am already missing the weekend morning games (loving that I can sleep in), the crisp air and windy days, convo's with other soccer moms and dads on the sidelines and the car rides home.  AND now our final season is here for high school

Each game feels like a metaphor for his life: trying, failing, learning and succeeding.  And even as he blocks his final goals, I know I will miss the cold fall evenings, the sunsets on the pitch during a game, the whistles blown at half time and the after game hugs.  The moments are small but deeply meaningful.

*Photo Credit last photo JcMcDonald