I refuse to take full accountability during December. There’s simply too much happening.

There are moments in parenting that feel like a slow clap for your soul. Moments where you know—you just know—you got something right. Recently, that moment found me soaking wet, laughing hysterically, and probably a little bit pee-soaked…on a trampoline…in a rainstorm…with my two wild, wonderful “nature kids.”

Watching The Twits on Netflix felt less like a kid’s flick and more like a crash-course in emotional anthropology — the study of cruelty, empathy, and the quiet places where we convince ourselves that being right is the same as being free.

There’s a very specific kind of silence that happens right before a school bus arrives for a field trip. It’s not peaceful. It’s…suspenseful.

It started with a meme and ended with me performing emergency surgery on Godzilla’s crotch using a pair of dirty black leggings.

I scanned my “home turf”: the bottom shelf, the middle shelf, the easy grab-and-go zones. Then, on a whim, I rose up into a shaky little relevé—heels lifted, narrow second position, channeling every ounce of balance and ankle strength left over from yesterday's class.

Someone cuts you off in traffic. Your partner checks their phone while you’re mid-story.An email lands in your inbox with a tone that reads way more snarky than necessary. Instantly, your shoulders tighten, your heart rate spikes, and your inner monologue sounds something like: Really? Did they just…?

A story about speed, strength, and the quiet kind of redemption. 

It was one of those late nights—dance class ran long, so dinner ended up being “Old McDonald’s,” as we call it. Fries, nuggets, and wrappers scattered on the counter. That’s when we realized French Fry, Bennett’s betta fish, had died.