K is Engaged

K told me a story tonight: When she was on the school bus today a boy asked her "Will you marry me?" K being in kindergarten told the boy, "no". She then told me, "But mommy, he is handsome."

My Five Year Old Daughter and Her Children are Moving In

We’re heading to Dollar Tree tonight after picking up all the big kids. K is fully prepared—armed with her entire life savings: $2.60, gathered from random house discoveries and her very first visit from the Tooth Fairy.

On the drive:

K: Maybe I should save all this money so I can buy a house.
Me: Houses cost a lot of money, honey. More than you can even count.
K: Oh.

Later…

K: Mommy, when I’m a mom, I’m going to live with you.
Me: Why? So I can help with the kids?
K: No.
Me: Because you love me so much?
K: No.
Me: Then why, K?
K: Because I don’t have enough money to buy a house.

Love her. 

Paper golf phase 2

Nathan expanded his paper golf course!

Paper Golf Anyone?

Nathan, my little brilliant 12 year old, apparently was bored after he completed the mock testing at school yesterday. He created this elaborate paper ball golf course. The double with the ramp and chute certainly would be a challenge.

Should I Read my Oncology Report?

Today marks six years since my breast cancer surgery at 29 weeks pregnant. Some anniversaries feel heavy, but this one feels grounding. That season changed me in ways I’m still discovering. It strengthened me, softened me, and reminded me how fragile—and beautiful—life really is.

I am deeply grateful to be here. I know not everyone receives that gift. Surviving isn’t something I take lightly. At the same time, I’ve learned it’s okay to feel tired of carrying the story. Cancer may be part of my past, but it doesn’t get to define my whole future.

Recently, I connected with someone who had the same diagnosis. There’s something powerful about those conversations—a quiet understanding that doesn’t need many words. It’s a reminder that none of us walk hard roads alone.

For years, I avoided fully reading my old oncology reports. One sentence about a high chance of recurrence once overwhelmed me. But time has given me perspective. Those words were written in uncertainty. Today, I’m living in reality—and reality says I’m here. Healthy. Growing. Moving forward.

The greatest lesson these six years have taught me is this: joy is meant to be celebrated now, not postponed out of fear. Worry steals more moments than it protects.

So today, I choose gratitude. I choose presence. I choose to celebrate life—not someday, but today