Neverland Diaries

I have a confession to make; I swear. A lot. Maybe not in front of you, usually not at work and hopefully not in public. But I definitely do in front of my kids.  I know, I'm a mom and I shouldn't do that, right? I have to lead by example after all, and calling the jerk that just cut me off in traffic a "dickhole" (fun to say, give it a try sometime), probably isn't adding to my children's development in a positive way. Or maybe it is? Let me back up. I didn't have very sweary parents growing up … if my mom let one slip, you definitely knew she was tired, stressed or truly pissed off. My dad was the same, and usually only cursed if an errant Lego brick or Hot Wheels car found its way underfoot (his swear words even rhymed for added comic effect!). Either way, swearing for them was not a part of their day-to-day lexicon, so I can't blame them for my bad habit.  Maybe Quentin Tarantino is to blame then? As a young teenager I became enthr...

We finally reached a milestone in our house that is inevitable for almost all mothers of boys … my baby is taller than me. By just barely a quarter of an inch. On his 12th birthday, he stood back to back with me and a jury of our family confirmed what we already knew; it wasn't just because of his shoes or standing on weird flooring. He was genuinely and legitimately taller than me.  At 5' 5-1/2", it was only a matter of time before a son would stand taller than me. The other two are sure to follow suit. If the pediatrician is right, he should reach well over 6', at that point, eclipsing even his own dad in height.  As I type this, he is outside painting the exterior of our home with his dad and brother, a home we may not be in for too much longer. It's funny to think how he's grown every quarter of an inch in this home, and he'll finish his growing in another house. The kitchen island that he used to toddle under as a baby now hits him at be...