For my birthday, from the bottom of my heart.

On the first full day of our first ever week-long vacation without kids, we went to church.

While there, we learned that the church, run by missionaries, invites community members to prepare and distribute a small meal to the precious people who work and live at the city dump. The church does this two mornings a week, every week, all year round. 

Matt and I decided to join this mix of missionaries, snowbirds, tourists and Mexican locals, and yesterday we assembled sandwiches, packed coolers and traveled by bus to feed Mazatlán’s poorest of the poor.

After decades of serving this community, La Viña is at the center of redemption for this beautiful city. Whereas many are Americans and Canadians, a significant number of those on the front lines of this ministry are local to Mazatlán. Our Mexican bus driver, a former drunk, turned his life completely around because of the love served by the sacrifice of these people. The Latin woman at the center of year-round sandwich distribution was previously crashing down a hill of drugs and recklessness until she was rescued by God’s grace by way of this church. 

I realize that tourism and mission work are complex issues. Tourism is the food on the table, clothes on the back and roof over the heads of so many in Mazatlán. It also reeks with exploitation of all kinds, from sexual slavery to the forced labor of young children hustling braided bracelets and woven coin purses up and down the sandy city streets. The mission field is equally complicated. The power, privilege and pocketbooks of kind-hearted missionaries and their supporters can be the detriment of a culture’s self-sufficiency and also its literal salvation. The pandemic has added a layer of difficulty on both fronts. Once visited by several cruise ships a week, this ocean-front town is becoming more desperate and broken in the absence of a thriving tourism economy. The ministry support and respite provided by visiting missionary teams has ceased, and numerous in-person food and children’s programs have closed as a result of COVID fears. 

I don’t claim to fully understand the complexities of all this nor do I know where to begin in reconciling them. I simply acknowledge that they exist, and hope/wish/pray that with a humble heart, I might live, learn and give according to the grace of God, allowing its lessons to transform me along the way.

I mention all of this because I have an ask of YOU. 

Sunday is my 41st birthday. I want for nothing. I am spending a week in paradise with my person, a gift from our families. If I could ask for anything in the world it would be to invite others to help fund the provision of high-protein sandwiches and a liter of water to the beautiful people who work and live at the Mazatlán city dump. 

When the old, rickety bus climbed precariously up the treacherous hill and into the steamy mountains of garbage, we were immediately met by droves of people, filthy and sweaty under the Mexican sun, ravenous and thirsty for food, water and God’s love. The experience will stay with me forever, and the faces of the bronze and barefoot babies among the lines of people changed my life for good. 

I want nothing more than to keep feeding these gorgeous people so that they might know God’s generous love, grace and compassion. The food and water will never be enough. But maybe, just maybe, it will be the conduit of survival by the grace of God for one, and the worth of that is priceless. 

Even if you cannot or choose not to give, thank you for reading. I ask that you take a moment to sit in the grace of knowing that you are loved. You are wildly, beautifully and immensely loved. That love abounds and never ever ever runs dry. God is always climbing precariously into our treacherous lives so that we might be fed. Bask in the warmth of that, and let it nourish you alive.

To give, visit here. Choose the Dump Ministry from the pull-down menu. Your gift is tax-deductible and is guaranteed to provide for the lost, least and lonely.

Muchas gracias, desde el fondo de mi corazón. (Thank you, from the bottom of my heart.)

For I was hungry and you gave me something to eat, I was thirsty and you gave me something to drink, I was a stranger and you invited me in.

Matthew 25:35

Sometimes it rains. All the times there's grace.

Each year we spend a few days on Lake Erie at Cedar Point before the start of the school year; however, this year looked very different. Covid, of course, had a major impact. And for the first time since we started this tradition, my sister and her family joined us. But probably the biggest change maker was the weather. We spent our vacation enduring terribly cold, wet and windy weather, literally dampening our days at the beach, pool and park. 

But I’ll tell ya what, I’m a total sucker for an amusement park, and not even crap weather can spoil what I love about this place. There’s a magic that happens inside its gates, and I’m so here for it. I’m here for the applause of strangers that erupts upon completion of a stupid scary coaster. I’m here for little feet on tiptoes, full of hope that they just might be tall enough to ride this year. I’m here for the masses of teenagers and all their teenagerness. I’m here for the overpriced Dippin’ Dots. I’m here for the live entertainers performing hits from the 50s while a precious older couple takes in the gift of nostalgia. I’m here for the rush of thunder that earthquakes through my body as a coaster blazes past me. I’m here for the ridiculous giggles and chatter that pour out of the exit of every incredible thrill ride. I’m here for the embarrassing ride photos. I’m here for the constant white noise of roaring steel and delighted screams. (And Tylenol, Ibuprofen & Dramamine are totally here for me, thankyouverymuch.)

For the record, I am not here for the constant whining: “I’m cold,” “My feet are tired,” and “How much longer is the line.” I’m also not here for a $32.99 Diet Coke - there is not a souvenir cup in all the world that’s worth that price. And in some cases, I’m not here for teenagers and all their teenagerness (GET. A. ROOM. Actually, don’t do that. Just stop it with all the tongue stuff already.) I’m definitely not here for a thief named anxiety - that wicked voice that entices my darling 8yo to want to ride but just won’t let her do it (but I’m most certainly here for the 4yo little brother who grabs big sister’s hand and says confidently, “It’s okay. I’ll be brave with you.”)

Look, it’s been a bummer of a trip in many ways. But grace bats last. No - she doesn’t show up to sugarcoat everything that totally sucked. She’s not an eraser of what was disappointing, discouraging and all around dumb. But so often she shows up all the more sweetly because, well, life can really suck sometimes. Her subtle softness is often just enough to make you smile when you really really need to smile, even if it is under a face mask. And while I would have preferred our getaway to be warm and dry and more friendly toward whatever situation is happening on top of my head … Grace abounds. Amusement parks amuse, and grandparents spoil, and my baby niece is show-stopping cute and spending any time with her - rain or shine - is the absolute best of all bests. So it rained and it was cold and the wind/humidity/wind wrecked absolute havoc on my hair. And also, there is gratitude and goodness and the joy of wearing a tie-dye dress and going on a flower walk (check out my IG post on @theflowerfarmexperiement). It’s all grace, all the time - grace upon grace upon grace.

Silence No More

I wrote this earlier in the week. Today I was brave enough to post it. This is not a brag; it's a deeply humble confession.

​My insides are screaming. Fire and rage feel like a terrible tightness through my veins, making it hard to breathe. 

I'm crying again.

The fatal racism that remains rampant in our country and the people in power who fuel its flames MUST STOP.

I confess to choosing silence to serve my own fears, and I am committed to silence no more. 

By choosing silence, I sought to protect the perceived cost to myself: relationships, ego, perceptions and likability. I now see that by choosing silence, I was actually condoning hate, discrimination, brutality and devastating acts against the image of God and Jesus himself.

"Whenever you failed to do one of these things to someone who was being overlooked or ignored, that was me - you failed to do it to me." (Matthew 25:45 MSG)

I am sorry. I am so so so sorry.

And I know that my sorry is not enough. 

So, I am starting here - with a confession and a commitment. I confess to a gluttonous overfeeding of my undeserved privilege. And I commit to listening - truly listening with my guard down, curiosity ignited and discomfort embraced. Lord willing, listening will lead to learning, growing and transforming. 

And to those leaders and people of influence who have overcome fear and used their platforms to speak out against such terrible atrocities, thank you. Thank you for going before me. If not for you, I might still be serving my fear, pride and privilege at the expense of another person's human rights, dignity and life. 

My first stop on this renewed journey toward a prayerful transformation is with pastor, teacher and activist, Rich Johnson. He took me to church, and I am deeply grateful for it.

Social Media: I love you. Mostly. Sometimes not.

One tool that is helping me to manage my emotional, spiritual and mental health during this Twilight-Zone experience is this: Social Media Discernment. 

Here's the thing - I am embarrassingly susceptible to comparison traps and the shame game. Too often social media can fuel those fires and send me into a troubling spiral. However, I really love social media. Instagram has been a steady companion, and TikTok makes me blush and laugh like young fresh love. Facebook and I would be very old news if not for a nasty little habit called Marketplace, and Twitter and I maintain a strong game of on-again-off-again. Not to mention, Vimeo and YouTube are teaching me actual life because, well, catfish noodling might be the answer to our future survival. Anyway, if I'm not careful about who I'm following and what I'm viewing and how often I'm consuming, I fall into a dark dark hole. 

But not everyone's online presence is created equal. My dear friend, Tammy, has been leveraging her virtual places and spaces to spread the kind of messaging that I so desperately need right now. Almost weekly she shares a brief video devotional, and they might actually be saving my life (or at the very least, keeping me out of prison) (listen to her message about lowering the bar - YES and AMEN and CAN-I-GET-A-WITNESS.) Tammy is one of those rare people who consistently takes whatever platform she has been given and stewards it exclusively for glorious good. 

I share all this because maybe you are like me. Maybe you love social media beyond what should be normal for a middle-aged mother-of-4 whose eyebrows are starting to sag - YES MY EYEBROWS WHAT AND WHY. Maybe, like me, your love often causes you to slide down the well-oiled slope into a mess of self-doubt and self-hate and self-ugh. So I'd love to hear from you - who are you following that promises to give us hope and laughter and grace? And if you need some of that light to shine into your life right now, check out my friend, mentor and pastor, Tammy Smith. She'll be featured live on Facebook tomorrow night (@centerpointlive) if you're into that sort of thing (maybe my affair with FB is salvageable after all). I think you will be encouraged and comforted by her message. She's a refreshing dose of calm in a chaotic world full of murder hornets, frantic meat hoarding and the one thing social media has yet to teach me: HOW TO STILL LIKE YOUR CHILDREN AFTER 7 WEEKS OF QUARANTINED DISTANCE LEARNING. But at least I found eyebrow face yoga. 

https://drtammysmith.com/devotionals/

IG: @drtammysmith

FB: @doctammysmith

October I love you.

Ohio seasons go like this: By the first week of March, we are all lackluster and expressionless, collectively jonesing for Vitamin D and heat therapy. It's as if someone covered the entire state with a hazy, grainy black-and-white photo filter. The weight of a long winter has sufficiently flattened us. We have been cold-pressed, our vitality and color completely removed leaving behind nothing but a washed-out pulpy matter.

Come April, the sun and warmth finally show up but so does the rain. By the end of June, I am a soggy saturated mess, fantasizing of the desert and cursing the clouds. Some of us begin sprouting cattails along our hairlines. I tilt my head and tap the other side so as to empty my waterlogged ears and an entire aquarium spills out. Oh look, I found Nemo. Yet another rainbow manifests through the clouds after the season's 863rd storm and I shake my head with disgust, "Who in the Sam Hill do you think you are showing up here again? Oh I oughta . . . " My fists are clenched but my voice is drowned out by the season's 864th downpour.

By July, the sun finally pulls its head out of the clouds and shows up in all its hot tamale glory. By late August, I am suffocating and sweating. Pathetically I beg Mother Nature for mercy, "Please, just a droplet or a breeze.” I gravitate toward close talkers desperate to be spit on. The earth laughs maniacally and cranks up the furnace. I am delirious, buying deodorant by the case and using it in places for which it was never intended. The air is grossly thick and I consider emptying my refrigerator just so I have somewhere to stick my swamp ass at the end of the day.

I dial my realtor’s number and demand, "Get me out of here. Please find me somewhere - a walk-in freezer or a mortuary chest - I don’t care if I have to sleep next to raw tenderloins or someone’s embalmed Great Aunt Edith, just get me out of this sweltering heat.” Just then, a slow and soft wind stumbles in, bringing with it a gracious gentleness that floats to the surface Mary Poppins style. Mesmerized, I drop the phone, blinking and clearing the crust of sweat that's formed around my eyeballs. I squint, unable to make out the enchantress consuming the space before me. Is it a Hallelujah chorus? Whirling dervishes? Whatever it is, it's euphoric. As I begin to gain focus, a pleasant familiarity surrounds me and I recognize her majesty.

It's October. Rich in color, perfectly pleasant and refreshingly delicate, October is the month of fairytale endings: not too hot, not too cold - it's just right. October is the reason we tolerate volcanic summer heat and endure despairing winter darkness. Though she lasts only 31 days, October covers 11 months worth of sin, and I am drunk on her intoxicating mercy. An Ohio October; I am absolutely smitten. Nothing is better except maybe a wonderfully wild three-year-old riding his balance bike across a carpet of maple leaves under a canopy of trees smack dab in the middle of a delightful October in Ohio.

On writing & motherhood

The thing about being a writer and also a mother of young kids is that sometimes I'm standing at the kitchen sink with sudsy water climbing up my sleeves when suddenly an idea begins to circle my head like a NASA satellite finally entering orbit. I grab the dishtowel and hastily wipe my hands, rushing to my computer. With fingertips barely dry enough to activate the trackpad, I eagerly begin to record the words as they already seem to be wrestling an escape from my mental grip.

When I'm about six words in, a swift stampede of "Mommy! Mommy! Mommy!" barges into the kitchen, insisting my attention. This is Murphy's Law: I am inspired to write therefore my children transform into demanding bullhorns. JUST GIVE ME A MINUTE I bark but it's already too late as my irritability has been roused. The words begin to slip like a gymnast who overcorrects, losing balance and falling from the beam and into the deep depths of the foam block cheese pit. My irritability leads to discouragement and soon I'm cursing my fate as a tortured artist who JUST NEEDS A MOMENT TO THINK STRAIGHT for crying out loud. I attempt to capture what little word remnants might still be lingering in the air, but eventually the "Mommy!" storm grows so thick that even the succulents on my countertop appear to be suffocating.

I surrender, closing my laptop and vowing to search for a passion that more strategically embraces the constant disruptions motherhood affords. Maybe hacky sacking or cigarette smoking. Then, when I conclude that I'll never possibly write another word ever again, I find myself in the unexpected quiet gifted to me by tiny happy nap fairies. I gleefully gather my laptop and settle onto the couch eager to cozy up with hot tea and my muse. As I tuck in my legs and breathe in the silence, I am giddy with the assurance offered by an unexpected writing window. I exhale and tap my fingertips on the keypad, breathe in, exhale and tap again. Postured generously to discover even the lousiest of ideas, my mind pulls a Judas, betraying me and becoming fixated on the lousy pile of toys that said children have left on the living room floor. Peeved and distracted, I say to heck with all of it and start picking up and cleaning house which leads me into the kitchen where I find myself again at the sink with sudsy water climbing up my sleeves.

So I married a hunter.

I knew I was marrying an avid hunter, but not until the morning before our wedding day did I ever see Matt in all his hunting glory. It was the dove season opener, and Matt had gone out early to shoot birds. I stayed back because, a) I don't hunt, b) I don't want to hunt, and c) it was the day before my wedding, and I was the Queen of Hearts, haphazardly shouting to mostly no one: "the tables must go here; the gift station must go there; does nobody care that I chipped a nail - off with your heads!" Needless to say, Matt's decision to camouflage himself and spend the morning alone in an obscure field was as much for his protection as it was for his love of the sport.

I was eager for his late morning return as the list of honey-dos impatiently grew, but what I wasn't prepared for was the physical sight of my soon-to-be-husband returning from his hunt. Like an army general strategizing her next command, I stood on the lawn overlooking our backyard venue, when out of the corner of my eye I spotted what appeared to be a walking tree trunk moving toward me. As my eyes narrowed and gained focus, I became paralyzed at the realization that walking toward me was actually a man, and not just any man - it was my fiancé. He approached me eagerly, excitedly pulling from his satchel several small and very dead birds. I took a step back, disgusted by the ease with which he held them in his exposed hand, and I thought, "What in the hell have I gotten myself into?" He was so happy and proud and I was so, well, nauseous.

Little did I know, that was only the beginning of what has become 12 years worth of less than appetizing surprises: opening the fridge to retrieve my vanilla almond milk, and BAM! - raw duck breasts sitting in a pool of blood; going to the deep freezer to put away a week's worth of frozen groceries to feed our family, and BAM! - pounds and pounds of vacuum sealed venison steaks monopolizing the limited space; opening the trunk of the car to load the baby's stroller, and BAM! a 12-gauge Beretta shotgun resting across the trunk floor; finally agreeing to try the prized bird meat my husband enthusiastically prepared, and BAM! a kernel-sized steel shot near split my jaw as I sacrificially took the first bite.

While I have grown to live with, and even embrace, most of these curiosities, I still suffer the occasional what-in-the-sam-hill reaction to my beloved's lifestyle (such as the peculiar tendency for our offspring to join their father in his tomfoolery, resulting in my baby-faced 11-year-old climbing 25 feet into a tree to sit precariously against the trunk and wait for "the big one" - but why though?) Mostly I can smile at the grace of marrying a man who enjoys being alone in nature, spending dark and damp early mornings wading for ducks, and putting food on the table by bringing home deer steaks which our kids happily devour.

It's the magic of marriage, that the shock and awe of learning who your spouse really is begins to wane, somewhat because a hanging deer carcass in the garage somehow becomes normal life and also because other irritants step in to take the place of what only used to drive you nuts. Twelve years into this dance and I can now tell you when mating season is for most types of wildlife, what time the sun rises and sets depending on the season, and what is the bag limit for each species of Ohio waterfowl. If you're lucky, marriage softens you and gifts you an expanded version of the life you once knew. You discover that venison chili is legit, a European buck mount will hang fabulously over the fireplace, and protecting every November weekend for maximum hunting days during the rut is actually quite a lovely excuse to making absolutely no plans for an entire month. And if I'm being really honest, I ain't ever seen anything sexier than a man fully clothed in Real Tree camouflage - who knew?

(And for the record, I don't care how safe it is, that blinding safety orange has got to go. What a turn off.)

Happy anniversary, Matt Hooper. You’re my favorite catch.

The mighty marvel of miraculous grace

I’ve been a real doozy lately.

Actually I take that back. I’ve been a real doozy except for a couple of Jesus-y hours on Friday when all of my kids were at school and my schedule was open and the sun was out and it was payday. I was a 21st century Mother Teresa for those two hours, as I often am when I have Vitamin D, cash in my pocket and zero responsibilities. I smile incessantly, even to the very animated driver blowing past me with a finger out his window as I enjoy the slow lane - what passionate bumper stickers you have, fine sir! I giggle at the ferocious dog hoping to devour my ankles as we cross paths along the sidewalk - what a cute little darling! I pick up litter I find in the parking lot - the butt of a Marlboro Red - how retro!

{I don't even think that Jesus picked up litter. I'm just saying.}

So that was Friday. Morning. Before 10am. And then there were all the other times.

Like the time this week that I turned coward with a dear friend and said, “I quit” instead of, “I am struggling.” And the time I rudely declined an invitation of generous hospitality because my Ali-centered agenda would be compromised. Or the time I bitterly returned an unexpected deposit that was mistakenly made into our checking account from a former employer. The time I prioritized vanity, spending longer in front of the mirror than my usual wash-and-go look because of the company I anticipated. All the times I numbed surfacing emotions with food rather than feeling what is hard to feel for the sake of healing. The times I made decisions hoping to garner Ali-attention behind a costume of false-humility.

Then add seventeen more pages to this list and that equals my week. So I guess you could say I’ve been a real treat - quite the poster child for sainthood. Except the opposite of that.

For a whole two hours a week when my life leaves me the heck alone, I'm a delightful peach, and then there are the other 166 hours - when the pressures of life build and instead of smiling, I’m the ferocious dog trying to bite ankles. (Minus when I’m sleeping. I’m a very good Christian when I’m sleeping. So long as my husband’s not snoring and the kids stay in their own beds and I don’t have to get up to pee, ah, never mind.)

I haven’t yet figured out how to align the stressors of my life with those two perfect hours each week, though I’ve tried - oh how I’ve tried. Mostly by making the stressors disappear, but my magic wand must be defective and people sort of frown at you when you forget to pick up your kids from school. So I’m learning that the way to best work through this thing called life is to bring a bit of that Jesus-y stuff into the stress.

At least I can say I tried.

Everyday I wake up, often spending an hour quiet and alone, anchoring my soul with God through prayer and writing. This time gifts me a posture of gratitude as I begin the morning routine, rousing kiddos from sleep and supporting them as they prepare for their day. My before-sunrise ritual breeds a fruitful morning of patience and peace and gentleness. There are a lot of "sweeties" and "honeys" and "it's okay, love, I'll clean it up for you."

EXCEPT NOT LIKE THAT AT ALL.

Oh I get up early alright, and I miraculously find the discipline to spend in silence with my Jesus, journaling and prayer. I so desperately need that sacred space by which to launch myself each morning. But what in the wild world is wrong with me that I launch from hakuna matata and somehow land in CAN EVERYONE PLEASE JUST SHUT UP?  

Not even minutes after I have climbed the mountain of connection with the divine, I am thrusted into the role of chaos conductor in which we forcefully cram one hour into thirty very bossy minutes that feels like fifteen seconds. There is sighing and yelling and huffing and puffing. Eyes roll. Doors slam. Feet stomp. I say "are you kidding me" at least 78 times. It's all very not patient nor peaceful, and it leaves me begging “Why must gentleness even be a virtue to obtain?” Really God, gentleness? Surely that was a typo.

By the end of the first hour of the morning, I'm a complete asswipe. Whatever serenity now met me before the sun came up is instantly erased when my soft whisper, "Good morning, it's time to get up" is met with, "MOM TURN OFF THE LIGHTS AND GO AWAY I HATE EVERYONE." 

And yet by some miracle of God, my kids still walk out the front door 30 minutes later no longer yelling. They speak kindly to me and form the words "I love you" as they head to the bus stop. THEY TELL ME THEY LOVE ME OH MY GOD HOW?

And it's not just the kids. Each morning after I've already sprinted through a marathon of disgrace, the husband pulls me into his big shoulders and squeezes me small (which is not easy to do thanks to donuts), and he softly speaks I love you as he kisses my forehead. 

What in the what is happening?

I don’t even know how to walk one inch without stepping in my own stink and yet somehow I don’t smell like pig crap (wait, I don't, do I?) I’m a royal basket case and these people, they love me anyway. Or maybe I've bred a family of liars, but the consistency of the "I love yous" has me convinced that there really is a miracle at work in my house each and every doggone day. I don't deserve these humans but here they are, so full of love for this mess of a mom and wreck of a wife. Something supernatural must be unfolding for them to really love this doozy of a woman.

No matter how hard I try, I can't get that Jesus-y stuff to stay on just right. But that's just it. The mighty marvel of grace is that Jesus shows up anyway. What an extraordinary phenomenon - the glorious goodness of amazing grace picks up the lousy litter and swine manure of my broken life and shows up big, bright and bold in spite of me. Now that's Jesus-y! And that is grace, y'all!

First day of school 2018, at the bus stop. Grace upon grace upon grace upon grace.

RAMBLER - your new favorite {play} mat

I'd love for you to check out my cousin's INNOVATION. Technically it's my cousin's wife's innovation but I don't like technicalities so we are calling her my cousin. Actually her name is Lacey. Anyway, Rambler is a play mat that stays flat. It is a brilliantly basic concept, and because of Lacey's keen eye for aesthetics, Rambler is brilliantly beautiful as well.

Real people (not actors) enjoying Rambler. Their names are Lacey and Baby.

The mat opens to provide a soft, round surface area that does not bunch and scrunch when one sits, lays or steps on it. Rambler was a spark of creative genius born from discouragement and frustration with every mom's car-trunk go-to: the what's-even-the-point flimsy blanket. Why spread a blanket across the floor if it insists on eating up your tiny delicious baby?

The baby-eating blanket monster eating my cousin’s baby.

Let me tell you why I love this mat:

It works. We have four kids and have traipsed our Rambler all across the state of Ohio - baseball games, camping trips, backyard bonfires, swimming pools. No matter what, it is where my kids gravitate because the mat is always perfectly flat and exactly where they left it. 

My whole world on a Rambler mat.

It is durable, soft, and easy to clean. We are not precious about our Rambler. It has been in the dirt, mud, sand, concrete. It has been stepped on, spilt on, messed on, and peed on (apparently Billy Madison was right - it's cool to pee your pants.) No matter how badly we muck it up, it always returns to like-new because it is machine washable and easy to wipe clean.

Rambler and toddler wipe clean.

The fabric is some sort of fancy threading that feels like the fur of a newborn bunny (You guys, chill out, it's not baby bunny fur. I looked it up. It's a brushed polyester blend. So there.)

Brushed polyester blend, otherwise known as really freakin’ soft.

It's convenient. Rambler magically opens to over 4 feet wide and easily closes to a small, lightweight diameter of 18" that fits into a generously roomy carry bag. Closing the Rambler is strangely enjoyable and will make you feel like David Copperfield. 

Lacey, somewhere over the rainbow, with Rambler in its carry bag.

Here's why I want you to consider this product: It is wonderfully functional for kids AND adults of all ages. It's perfect for the tiny newborn who is too tender to make contact with the dirt; it is ideal for young kids who exhaust their parents by thinking that picnics are fun; and it's a stylish and luxurious mat for adults who like wine and cheese or in my case, Diet Coke and Fritos.

Also, Rambler needs to be your go-to baby/toddler gift (admittedly, the price point is high BUT so worth it - go in on this gift with a couple friends - IT WILL NOT DISAPPOINT.) As a mother of four, I do not exaggerate when I type this: at least half of everything I received for my newborns was unnecessary. The swings, bouncy seats, musical playmats (why God), mobiles, genies, gadgets and gizmos - at least half of the gear I never needed. And probably a quarter of what I received, I never used - not even once. Scouts honor, Rambler WILL NOT be that gift. Rambler is such a great buy for new and seasoned mommas (and dad's too - my cousin Jordan can rock a Rambler - he’s a natural.)

Also a real person (not an actor): my cousin Jordan with Baby, rocking the Rambler.

Here's the deal. Lacey has launched a kickstarter campaign to take this product to the next level. You can buy the mat right now online for $109* (I promise, you get what you pay for with Rambler - high quality and a gazillion uses) AND/OR you can support her kickstarter campaign with one of three pledge levels, each that includes one of three various Rambler sets (the $69 pledge level is an absolute steal).

*Oh, what’s that? You want a discount code. Coming right up. Use Ali15 at checkout for 15% off your RAMBLER!!! Thanks for the love, Lacey.

Everyday I’m Ramblin’.

I am sharing this with you because 1) I love Lacey. She's kinda awesome and by kinda awesome I mean my cousin married way up and our family is better for it. Sorry Jordan. 2) I genuinely love this product. I don't leave home without it. I am such a fan and you will be too. Pinky promise. 3) I really want the new Rugged mat in CLAY - so please, let's do this y'all. Let's make this happen so that I can have my Rugged Clay mat and we can have a baby-eating blanket monster burn party while we sit on our baby-bunny-soft Ramblers and eat Fritos.

I couldn’t resist another picture of tiny Forest, I mean, the Rambler.

(This is not a sponsored post. I mean it when I say that I love this product and its creator. It's with joy that I share my Rambler experience with you - check it out and pass it on.)

Don’t forget the discount code Ali15 for 15% off your RAMBLER.

Rambler Kickstarter Campaign HERE.

Follow Rambler on Insta!

Mama's got a brand new bag.

About a month ago my parents gave us a hand-me-down chair with matching ottoman (over half of our house is my parents' house 15 years ago.) The chair-ottoman combo has been sitting in our makeshift storage facility (the garage) for weeks, waiting for me to move things around upstairs so we could make the new-to-us furniture work in our bedroom. Naturally the cats think the combo belongs to them, as if I would give a cat an ottoman, of all things. "Look at us, all sprawled out on this chair AND ottoman - we sure do know how to use an ottoman, can't you see." They say this with their short-leg syndrome arrogance every time I come through the garage, and I always give them an eye roll that makes it very clear that they do not know what they are even talking about. That is not proper ottoman usage, dumb cats. I'm sure my eye roll communicates this perfectly well because one of them, whichever one is having his turn side sleeping on said ottoman, gives me the side eye and then rolls over for his seventh inning stretch, misjudging his size and falling right off and onto the cement. "Exactly" I laugh, as he clearly just made my point. Idiots.

So this morning after getting the kids to school, I walked upstairs and into our bedroom and voila! there sat the chair and matching ottoman. It was angled in the corner - like a very good and proper chair should be - inviting me to put my own darn self in time out for once, nuzzled between our most south-facing window (Vitamin D, be my boyfriend) and my very naughty plant named Rizzo. She's a majesty palm and a total snob. Very demanding, that one. "Water me. Now. Not so much! Prune my ends. Geez, you don't have to be so aggressive with the shears. Who taught you to use scissors? Leave my bangs alone. Who me - stuck in the 80s? Oh, the nerve." She's a total chore (did I mention she wets the carpet?) But she gifts us fresh air and such a beautiful shade of green, so I let her stay. And now she has company - competition even - that hand-me-down chair is just so right in that corner. You better make some room, Rizzo, Mama's got a brand new bag.

As I was saying, Matt brought in the chair - and ottoman (my legs aren't that short, thankyouverymuch), and I'm just so tickled - not just that the hubs is hunky and beefy and schleps furniture around our house without so much as a ding on the wall, but that he moved the chair without me asking him to move it. Better yet, he moved it without me NAGGING him to move it. That’s the real win here. You see, I speak three languages fairly exclusively: English, Sarcasm and Nag. So the fact that the chair moved into our bedroom, into the coveted corner that I prepared for it, and not once did I have to use my native tongue - it's truly miraculous. It's like we are mind readers -  the hubs and I.

I'd say that's a testament to our incredible marriage - that we have become the couple that reads each others' minds - but strangely all other evidence points to that not being exactly true. Just the other day I was livid - completely irate - because of something he said. Technically, it was something I heard him say, but let's not get carried away with semantics. Anyway, I was all cold and pissy and grumpy - a real treat - and I was just waiting for him to take notice and beg ferociously for mercy by gifting me with a venti Starbucks and one of those I-have-the-best-wife facebook posts (even though he doesn’t use facebook - what can I say, I’m a visionary.) But get this - he didn't even know I was upset. He was just going about his business like it's freakin' Disneyland around here. Meanwhile I'm melting into a puddle of smoking green goo and attempting to level my rage by consuming all the contents in our pantry. Fast forward to later that day when I couldn't take it any longer and it just came spilling out, "I'm still upset about earlier." To which he sort of chuckled as if I was about to tell the punchline to a joke, "About earlier? What happened earlier?" So this is how it's going to be, huh? Alright then. So I spelled it all out - his crime against my sanity. Then he looked at me quite cluelessly - or was that concern - as if I was being irrational - me! of all people - as if his gentle expression could really diffuse the predicament he got us into, and in that calm rational voice he always uses at the worst times, he said, "But you misheard me. I didn't say that." Excuse me, what? You didn't say that? What do you mean you didn't say that? But that's what I heard you said. You mean to tell me that I just spent the last hour inside a bag of potato chips planning my revenge all because of something you didn't actually say? Well. Well. Well. That was a big fat waste of sodium and calories.

I wish I could say that this particular instance was the only time we've had such a miscommunication. I wish I could say that such momentary hearing loss has never before sent me down a rabbit hole of google searches that start with "how to" and end with "hurt husband without him finding out." I wish I could just read his damn mind and skip over the acting a fool part of this thrilling life chapter called marriage. Why is it that the only time I know what he is thinking is when it comes to what entree to mark for him on a wedding RSVP or whether or not he's going to want to watch a period war film or Juno (spoiler: it’s never Juno). Sure, we can read each others' minds all day long when it comes to clearing out the garage and what future meals we'll eat and date night movie selection, but when it comes to actual words coming from his mouth as I'm standing three feet from his face, nope, I got nothing. 

I guess you could say I can be a wee bit hyper and a tad bit jumpy when it comes to the communication portion of this spousal arrangement. I really want to be the wife who is kind and understanding and gracious. I think those types exist - in real life, even! And I can be those things, certainly not all at once - I'm not a show off, it just takes me some time to get there - usually a couple days, a week at most. I just need space to sit and sift and sort, to move through the crazy and find the less crazy. I need a grown up timeout - put this baby in a corner - preferably a comfy spot with fresh air and great sun. Come to think of it, I know just the chair.