Letter from a New Kindergartener

I DON’T LIKE  kindergarten. I have to wake up early every single day and brush my teeth. I have to put on real clothes and my hair can’t look like a rat’s nest. I have to remember to get rid of face crustys and eye buggers. I have to have uniform shirts that are clean and not wrinkled. And no they can’t be worn inside out *in a pinch.* I have to make a lunch every single morning. And it has to come across as "healthy" or I get the stink eye from the teacher. I have to be on time. Like, it’s not an option. On. Time. Every. Day. There’s even a bell! It’s judging me! It freaks me out! I only have 5 excused absences for the entire year. What about my birthday? Cinco De Mayo? Or snuggle days at home? Five days?!? Now, I have to make up a fake doctor and a fake illness. It's the only way to squeeze a few more days out of this system. I have to meet new people. Most of them are too happy, too weird, or don’t follow the rules. How hard is it to follow rules people? I have to memorize names, faces, positions and titles. I just finished learning names at church and around the neighborhood. Now these people too?!? I have to prioritize my time. Everything has to get done before the bell rings at 3:00. I have to check the backpack’s abyss for new papers Every. Single. Day. Which means... I can’t leave the backpack- and the contents of the lunchbox- in the hot car. I have to go home with a good attitude. Play. Eat. Bathe. And then start all over again the next morning.

I DON’T LIKE kindergarten. I’m sure it’s hard for my daughter, too.

Worst Disney World Mom Ever

Looky-look here people: I will hire two teenage girls who resemble Elsa and Anna, purchase them elaborate costumes, make my husband be Olaf, rearrange my living room furniture and cover it all in white sheets to make it look like an ice castle and then let Annie throw toilet-paper-snow into every unvacuumable crevice in this house before I wait five freaking hours with sugar-laden, sticky, hot, tired, emotional little GIRLS to meet the cast of Frozen. I am a terrible Disney mom.

Read More

Look People: We need some Egg Hunt Standards

photo 2(Annie, before she is pummeled every year on the egg hunting field.)


Dear Children,

Look. I love you. I really do.

But we have got to have some universal standards for these Easter egg hunts. Mmmkay?

There are orange cones out on the field for a reason. It means STAND BEHIND THEM.

I don't know where your parents are. I really don't. Oh, wait! THEY ARE PUSHING YOU FURTHER ONTO THE FIELD.

Ignore them dear children.

They have forgotten what the orange cones mean. Deep inside their mommy, daddy souls they want you to win victories they never won themselves. Gently remind them that they must stand behind the orange cones too. Kinda like you do in gym class!  They will understand that.

Now children, there is no limit on the eggs you can "hunt for" in these church-sponsored-city-sponsored-mass-chaos egg hunts. But seriously, do you really need 100 eggs in your basket-made-to-carry-a-small-human-being when the poor kid next to you doesn't even have ten? Show some restraint dear children.

It's hard, I know.  Even though your mom is following you onto the field (which is totally illegal) with an extra Walmart sack (which is just tacky) so you can get enough eggs to feed your entire family (does dad really need candy for his briefcase?!?)... you don't have to follow her lead, dear children. You can find an appropriate amount of eggs, feel satisfied in your life accomplishments and then LEAVE SOME FOR THE LESS AGGRESSIVE children.

And speaking of aggression. This isn't the WWE.

Some of you run out on the field, plowing kids over like you are in a Dodgeball tournament and you are the ball. Smacking people with your body,  one by one, till you knock them all out and eliminate the competition is reeeaaallly not the heart of an Easter egg hunt. Remember, the Easter Bunny is watching, dear children.  And Jesus for that matter. I mean, seriously, some of us are trying to prepare to celebrate the Risen Lord and our salvation. All the while you're taking out kids left and right and stealing Easter eggs from poor children like mine who get on the field and freeze.

"Go Annie!" I yell. She is frozen. Mouth gaping. "Shut your mouth baby!" I yell. She doesn't hear me. She stands there in a weird daze while the WWE kids whiz by and knock her over. "BE AGGRESSIVE!!!!!!" I yell out loud.

And then I realize, oh my gosh, I just yelled be aggressive at an Easter egg hunt. I am the worst possible version of myself right now. Moms glare at me like I am the Easter Grinch.

I want to tell them, "It's your kids fault!  THERE ARE ORANGE CONES FOR A REASON, LADY!"

We go home with a basket full of strange flavored tootsie rolls. Look, churches of America, giving away the strange flavored tootsie rolls that come in the 5,000 count Sam's Club bag is the same as giving a waitress fake money with the plan of Salvation written on it. You mean to tell me we can drop 100 million dollar on church buildings but we can't get the real, chocolate flavored tootsie rolls? Can we all agree to step it up in the candy department?

Oh, dear children, don't pay attention to us parents.

Go out there and have fun. Really.

But seriously, the next time you run my kid over in your quest for 100 Easter eggs I...

ahhhhh. deep breath jenny.

Happy Egg Hunting everyone.

tootsie(Mom, what is this candy?!?)



King Amon, Margaret Feinberg and Attempting Lent

I totally failed at life yesterday. I stepped in dog poop, my book manuscript was officially rejected from a third publishing house, I cussed and hollered at an invading army of ants in my kitchen as if they could understand me, I lusted over everybody else’s life, and narrated (in my mind) a citizens revolt and takeover of the Department of Motor Vehicles. I may have, in my mind, also killed off some of Jesus’ family-lineage in a coo-takeover too. I blame that on Margaret Feinberg.

Read More

Fighting Bitterness Rain or Shine

Have you actually ever heard San Diego referred to without the Sunny prefix? It’s like Mr. or Mrs. or ‘The’ United States. Sunny San Diego. Sunny is part of the city’s God-given birth name. It’s on the city’s birth certificate. So with every rainy, gloomy, icy, snowy, or generally windy, miserable cold winter day in Nashville the past three months, I focused on Sunny San Diego. Like a mantra, a mecca, a messiah come to save ashy white girl from winter. Sunny freaking San Diego.

Read More