A couple of days ago, Ava and I went searching for a Mother’s Day gift to send to my mom.

Last night I stayed up late watching A&E’s “Hoarders” with my mother-in-law.

So this sealed envelope was sent home from Ava’s school the other day.

My parents left yesterday after a two and half week visit. Mom cooked Thanksgiving dinner (and all the other dinners in between) and set up my Christmas tree. Dad fixed everything around the house that was broken, and what he broke while here (I swear my toilet automatically shuts down when it hears my father’s voice).

“Who’d you play with today?”

I don’t take good pictures.

I’ve always been told that I have a nice smile, but as soon as I sense a camera pointed in my direction, I turn all robotic. My mouth tenses, my eyes bug out and I end up looking as if I’m being poked in the butt. I’ve tried all the tricks, like tilting my head, turning my chin down, applying Vaseline to my teeth. Nothing works.

Every day, while our elementary-school children are still in the throes of gluing macaroni to paper and counting dried beans, cars stack up in two-by-two formation outside, waiting in the "Car-Riders" line as early as 55 minutes before the last bell rings. 

Bumper stickers are like tattoos for cars - they seem like a good idea at first, but are never as cool the next day.

Decorating your car with slogans and images is a lot like decorating your middle school locker. It’s not a reflection of who you are as much as it is a reflection of who you wish you were.

Over the years I’ve learned a number of lessons when it comes to making new friends: my first impression of people is usually wrong and my husband’s is usually right, avoid drama queens at all cost and don’t trust a woman who doesn’t have old friends.

If you’ve gone through life making and breaking friendships, there’s probably something deeply wrong with you. I’m not exactly sure what that thing may be. Maybe you get clingy and chase them off. Maybe you borrow their designer shoes and return them with scuffs. Maybe you cut off their head and hide their body under the stairs. Whatever it is, I don’t plan on waiting around to find out.

My sister taught me how to read. Sure, there were a long line of teacher lessons, flash cards and episodes of “Sesame Street” that primed me for the big moment, but those memories are vague and faded - mere baby steps on the grand journey to literacy.