Author: bananafudgenut

Let me paint you a picture: It’s a beautiful sunny day. Not a cloud in the sky. Not too humid with a slight breeze. I showed up with the best intentions and maybe a bit too much confidence in my outdoorsy abilities. Four hours of community service in nature? Easy. I even wore sunscreen and brought water. A pro.

But here’s what I didn’t factor in: corn stalks are aggressive.

Almost immediately, I managed to whack myself in the face with one. Twice. They may look like innocent plants, but those leafy sabers have attitude. One minute you’re reaching for a cob, and the next, you’re getting blindsided like you’re in a nature-themed WWE match.

Also, I was told I don’t sweat—I glisten. And let me tell you: I was glistening so hard I could’ve powered a disco ball. My shirt turned into a wearable sponge, my hat gave up on life around hour two, and I discovered muscles I didn’t know existed every time break the stem off the cob.

Despite the botanical beatdown, there was something incredibly grounding (pun intended) about being in the field. The fresh air (minus the stalks attacking me), the sound of nature, and the collective energy of volunteers working for a purpose—it hits differently. Every ear of corn picked meant a step closer to feeding families in need. And that makes the glistening and the accidental self-smacking totally worth it.

Also, not to brag, but I got pretty good at spotting the perfect corn—golden, plump, slightly rebellious-looking. I now have corn intuition. Resume-worthy, honestly.

By the time we wrapped up, I was tired, sticky, and completely at peace. There’s something special about knowing your sweat (sorry—glow) went toward something bigger than yourself. Plus, I’m pretty sure my body now knows how farmers feel, and I have a new respect for corn harvesters everywhere.

Would I do it again? Absolutely!

Would I bring a helmet next time? Maybe.

Moral of the story? Volunteering is awesome. Corn stalks are mildly violent. And I officially glisten with purpose.

#CRAApproved #CornQueen #FarmLifeChooseMe #GlowForGood

My daughter has a birthday party to go to tomorrow. And, in true me fashion, it’s 8:00 PM and I’m just now heading to Walmart to get a present.

“What do you even buy a 6-year-old boy?” I mutter to myself, wandering into the toy section like a lost sheep. I settle on a super cool remote control car. Gift acquired. I could’ve walked away victorious.

But then…Out of the corner of my eye:

Nerf guns.

A whole wall of them.

There’s a 3-pack on clearance for 10 bucks! I mean, come on — that’s practically a sign from the universe. Into the cart they go. Then I figure, what’s a few extra darts? Add another $10 in ammo.

And while I’m there — might as well grab the stuff to make homemade ice cream. And cookies. Because cookies.

Now I’m rolling out of there with toys, weapons, dessert ingredients — basically the starter pack for the most chaotic Saturday ever.

Driving home, I seriously consider busting into the house Nerf guns blazing…But the middle child is asleep. Foiled.

I tell my husband about my late-night haul. He doesn’t even blink. Just says:

“Where’s mine?”

I sure do love that man.

And now guess who’s going back to Walmart… because apparently we’re all getting Nerf guns.

Who needs adults?

You know that friend who got arrested once, spent the night in jail, and was like, “I am NEVER stepping out of line again?” Yeah… meanwhile, I’m over here like, “Sign me up—72-hour hold sounds like a spa weekend.”

Don’t get me wrong, I love my kids. I do. I chose this chaos. But some days? Some days, I look at my husband and think, “How are we still alive?”

So today, my husband and I were doing what we love—tinkering with our beloved FJ Cruiser. We swapped out the O2 sensors, slapped on some ridiculously sexy red lug nuts (IYKYK), and we’re in the zone.

Enter: Thaddeus.

Oh, Thaddeus. My middle child. The one who turns every mundane task into an Olympic-level endurance event for my sanity.

He sees the impact drill and, of course, wants to help. Super cute, right? The first couple of times? Adorable. “Thanks for helping, buddy!”

By the second wheel, he’s ditched us entirely and is digging to China in the gravel driveway. So I pick up the drill and do the next wheel myself. Suddenly, from twenty feet away:

MELTDOWN.

“I WANTED TO DO THE RED ONES!!”

I’m standing there like, Seriously, dude? You were mining gravel a second ago.

And that sets off the barrage:

“Are you gonna let me do the next one?”

“Can I have a snack?”

“Can you make me lemonade?”

“What are we doing after this?”

“Can you watch me ride the scooter?”

“Can I have some of your soda?”

“What’s for dinner?”

“Are you making mac and cheese?”

“Can we sleep in the camper tonight?”

“What if a snake crawled into the camper??”

And on. And on. And on.

By the time dinner rolls around—homemade chicken fried rice, thank you very much—I tell the fam I’m running to the store. Quick trip. In and out.

Then Jazmyn goes, “Can I come with you?”

“No, baby.”

“Why not?”

“Because mommy needs a minute to herself.”

“But I want to come with you!”

“Baby girl, I love you—but if mommy doesn’t get five minutes alone, she’s going to completely unravel in aisle 7 next to the cereal.”

And that, ladies and gentlemen, is why my wonderful, patient husband stays home with the kids… and I go to work.

So tell me—anyone else got a Thaddeus in their life? Or am I just raising the next reality TV star slash chaos coordinator?

Remember when dropping your kid off at school meant slowing the car down just enough for them to leap out like a secret agent and make a run for the playground? Back in our day, the morning drop-off was a breeze. No cones, no staff with radios, no complicated traffic patterns—just “have fun, don’t eat dirt,” and a honk for good luck.

Now? Oh, we’re living in the Age of the Drop-Off Line. The high-stakes, slow-moving, caffeine-fueled Hunger Games of suburban parenting.

Let’s review the rules, shall we?

Don’t line up a minute before 8:40.

I know your car’s warm and your podcast is on, but this isn’t a tailgate. You’re not camping out for concert tickets. Sit in a side street like the rest of us and merge like a grown-up.

Don’t. Get. Out. Of. The. Car.

I promise your child can unbuckle themselves and shut the door. We believe in them. They believe in themselves. Let’s not have 30 parents behind you watch you slowly open the trunk, retrieve a backpack, a water bottle, a violin, and a science fair tri-fold like you’re unloading at the airport.

Kids only exit on the passenger side.

Not the driver’s side. Not the sunroof. Not teleportation. The passenger side. Please.

Keep. The. Line. Moving.

This is not the time to give a pep talk, check their socks, or remind them to eat lunch. That’s what last night was for. Today, the goal is swift separation.

Now, I get it. You want your kid to have a smooth, safe start to their day. We all do. But somewhere between “be home when the streetlights come on” and “text me when you breathe,” we got a little… extra.

Are kids really in more danger now? Or are we just on constant high alert because our phones can notify us of anything, anywhere, instantly?

When we were kids, our parents let us roam free. We played on rusty metal playgrounds, climbed trees without supervision, used our backpacks as sleds in the winter and drank out of the hose in summer. And we turned out mostly fine (minus that one scar everyone has from something).Now we live in a world where it feels like if you’re not hand-delivering your kid to the classroom door with a protein-packed bento box and an emotional support llama, you’re doing it wrong.

But maybe—just maybe—we can chill. Let the kids hop out, wave goodbye, and strut into school like the mini rockstars they are. Let’s reclaim a little of that old-school magic. Maybe the kids will still be alright…

Here’s the thing no one tells you:
Breastfeeding doesn’t just take your time, energy, and sleep — it takes your body. Specifically, your boobs.

They go from being something personal, sensual, maybe even fun… to being completely utilitarian. Milk taps. Comfort stations. Teething toys.

You spend months — or years — with people touching, tugging, and leaking all over your chest. And it’s all worth it, yes. But when it’s over?

You’re left with boobs that feel like strangers. Used, tired, and no longer yours.

So I did what any mom on the edge of rediscovery might do.

I got my nipples pierced again.

I walked into the piercing studio thinking I’d be getting two brand-new piercings. Clean slate. Fresh start. But the piercer looked at me and said,

“Actually, one of these looks like it might still be open. We can just stretch it and slide the jewelry in.”

Sounds quick and easy, right?Wrong.

Stretching a half-healed piercing is a level of pain I was not prepared for. It felt like dragging hot wire through sensitive scar tissue — slow, sharp, and deeply unpleasant. Honestly? I would’ve taken the needle twice over that.

The other side, freshly pierced with the proper needle, was honestly better. Still painful, sure, but it was clean. Sharp. Purposeful. Something I could brace for.

And afterward, I couldn’t stop thinking about it:

One side reopened. One side brand new.

One revisited. One reclaimed.

One part of me returning. One part becoming something else.

The Symbolism in the Sting…As strange as it sounds, that imbalance — one stretch, one fresh — felt perfect.

It mirrored everything I’d been feeling post-breastfeeding. My body isn’t what it used to be, but it’s not ruined. It’s not broken. It’s a mix of old and new, scarred and strong, stretched and healing.One side reminded me of who I was before motherhood — a little rebellious, a little bold, choosing what made me feel powerful.The other side felt like a quiet rebellion after motherhood — a way of saying:

“Yes, I’ve given so much. But now, I’m taking something back.”

If you’ve been thinking about reclaiming your body in some way—whether it’s a piercing, a tattoo, a workout goal, or just sleeping in on a Sunday—you deserve it!

You’re not being selfish. You’re being human.

Getting my nipples repierced didn’t undo the years of breastfeeding or erase the stretch marks or change the fact that my boobs are a little softer now. But it did remind me that I’m still in here. That I still get to decide what feels good, what looks good, and what makes me feel like me.

Our bodies tell stories. Mine has been a vessel of love, nourishment, exhaustion, and resilience. Adding a little sparkle back into that story? That was just the plot twist I needed.

So here’s to motherhood. Here’s to survival. And here’s to shiny little reminders that we’re still our own damn selves, even after all the giving.

Thanks True Gold Piercing!

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It’s 6:03 PM. I walk through the door carrying a work bag, a toddler’s sock, and what’s left of my sanity.

Before I can even kick off my shoes, the baby starts crying — the loud, dramatic kind that says how dare you ever leave me. The 6-year-old is already mid-cartwheel while talking a million miles an hour about her first day of school. “MOM. So then I told her NO, you cannot erase my unicorn!” She’s upside down. She’s sideways. She’s yelling. She’s jazzed.

The 3-year-old is singing something — I don’t know what, but it’s loud. He is singing at me. With feeling. Possibly in a foreign language or one he made up.

The dog is doing laps across the hardwood floor, click-clacking like a one-dog tap dance troupe that nobody invited.

And then it starts.

“I’m hunnnngryyyy.”
“Can I have a snack?”
“Can I have juice?”
“Can I, can I, can I, MOMMMMMMMM!”

I haven’t peed since noon. I haven’t eaten since breakfast. I forgot to drink water. My left eye is twitching. I open the fridge and stare into the void. There’s half a yogurt, a leftover meatball from last week (maybe?), and something in tinfoil I’m too afraid to open.

I think I took out chicken this morning. Maybe I dreamed it. Maybe we’ll have cereal.

I’m answering questions, holding a crying baby, trying to find Paw Patrol, opening a granola bar with one hand, and internally spiraling about how I’m supposed to cook dinner, give everyone attention, stay patient, and also be a functioning human being who doesn’t cry into the sink.

But I do it.
Messy, late, loud, chaotic.
Dinner happens — maybe it’s grilled cheese, maybe it’s leftover noodles, maybe it’s a sad quesadilla made from two corners of two different cheese bags. Who cares.

I am everywhere at once and somehow still feel like I’m not enough anywhere. But I keep going. Because that’s what moms do.

It’s beautiful and exhausting and sometimes I just want to hide in the bathroom for seven minutes with a glass of wine and nobody knocking on the door asking if bees have bones.

So if you’re in it too — if the soundtrack of your evening is crying + cartwheels + snack demands + dog nails on hardwood — just know you’re not alone.

We’re out here doing our best in the middle of the mess. And sometimes, cereal for dinner is doing your best.

You’ve got this, even if you don’t feel like you do.

(But also… seriously. What is for dinner?)

Well, we just wrapped up a week with my mother-in-law and nephew (who has Down syndrome and the biggest heart you’ve ever seen) staying with us — and wow, what a full, fun, chaotic few days it’s been.

To kick things off properly, I smoked a brisket. And when I say “smoked a brisket,” I mean I babysat a chunk of meat for hours like it was my fourth child. Totally worth it—tender, flavorful, and just enough leftovers to snack on at midnight while pretending not to hear the kids waking up again.

We had a magical movie night under the stars, with the three kiddos bundled up in blankets like popcorn-filled burritos. There’s something about watching animated animals on a projector while the night sky twinkles above and mosquitoes turn you into their personal buffet that just screams summer memories. Ferocious little things. I’m still scratching. Knowing that mosquitoes are not an integral part of the food chain and serve no purpose other than carrying disease and making life miserable makes the itching somehow worse.

Wine was consumed. A totally appropriate, adult amount of wine. Okay, a lot of wine. But when there are kids screaming, bugs feasting on your legs, and someone always asking for snacks, a generous pour becomes more of a survival strategy.

Now it’s back to real life: getting Jazmyn ready for school (how is summer alreadyover?!?), and tackling the soffits and fascia on the house. Because nothing says “back to normal” like standing on a ladder questioning all your life choices while covered in paint and mosquito bites.

Tonight my husband and I traded our usual toddler chaos and dinner negotiations for bow ties, bubbles, and beautiful lawns at the Penfield Croquet Ball. It was one of those picture-perfect evenings—twinkling lights, garden party glamour, the faint clink of mallets on croquet balls, and of course, my husband looking like my own personal 007. (Truly, he serves as my full-time eye candy and did not disappoint.)

Now, if you know my husband, you know he’s a good sport—adventure-ready, patient beyond belief (especially when it comes to the kiddos), and always game for whatever event I rope him into. As a stay-at-home dad, he juggles snack time, storybooks, and school pickups like a pro while I chase my career, attend networking events, and pour my energy into nonprofit work. I couldn’t do half of what I do without his support—and probably none of it without him keeping our household running with calm and humor.

Back to the Croquet Ball. The evening was full of charm and community, and, well, a few too many glasses of champagne for one of us. At one point, I turned around and realized—my darling husband had raised his paddle. Was it planned? No. Did we walk away with a very unexpected auction item? Also no. He donated to the cause. And you know what? He did it with a grin. That’s who he is: spontaneous, sweet, and always in on the adventure with me.

He might be the one watching Bluey on loop during the week, but when it’s time to step out, he cleans up well—and keeps me laughing the whole time.

The Penfield Croquet Ball was more than a night out; it was a reminder of how lucky I am to have a partner who’s with me in every season—whether it’s stroller walks or champagne toasts, packed lunches or paddle raises.Here’s to unexpected wins, sparkling evenings, and the eye candy I get to call my husband.

Diapers, potty training, and erections…

How cool is being a mom? Today it’s pretty awesome. I got home from work, which dare I say was uneventful (I may pay for that statement tomorrow) to tiny human #3, 10 month old Phoebe, trying to walk and ride her little bike.

Phoebe is my child, who was meant to be. Not that the other two were accidents… we asked for them. But Thaddeus (or Little Man)-tiny human #2- is A LOT. In every way and every situation. Good. And bad. So here I am 39 and not really ready to shut the door, but not sure we could survive a 3rd. I went to pick Thaddeus up at daycare. The kiddos were all outside on the playground. The teacher saw me and asked “Did they tell you what Thaddeus did?” Ok. Give me a minute….I took a deep breath. Here we go. What did he do? Thaddeus climbed up the 8 foot tower with the big slide, but instead of going down the slide he pulls his pants down and peed of the side of tower. Great. Perfect. Buddy we don’t go potty on the playground. You have to go pee pee in the potty. A few days later Little Man has discovered his erection and proceeds to go around and ask everyone if they want to see his big penis. Buddy. You better get this out now when you’re little and cute because in a few years, you’ll be looking at a felony. I told my husband he could go ahead and schedule that vasectomy. Two weeks later, I’m ugly crying because one of my employees was mad at me. About the snip…..guess we dont have to worry about that for at least 9 months. Now here I am 40 with a 6, 3, and 10 month old. Phoebe is my bright, bubbly, go with the flow baby. A higher power knew we needed her!

As I sit here and write this, Jazmyn (tiny human #1)  and Little Man are sitting outside with me as I grill chicken (everything tastes better on the grill. Also, try Melinda’s spicy garlic parmesan wing sauce. It’s amazing) on this beautiful August night, writting their own stories, just like mommy. Life is pretty great!