12 years ago we bought a table.
Big, sturdy,bright and cheerful.
Through the years we put it to task.
It’s been an ironing board, a bar, a buffet, an art table, a crafting table, a homework dump, and occasionally a place we eat our meals.
It’s…weathered. Distressed.
For the last 5 years my husband has hated that table.
Hated. A table. Like a normal person hates war or poverty.
He obsessed the dings, the scratches, the peeling paint, and the permanent mosaic of stains.
For the last two years I’ve covered the offending table with a tablecloth or place mat.
But it still bothered him.
I didn’t love it either. But I get over stuff quicker.
So last weekend we found out that a lovely family had moved into our community and into the country after years of saving up.
They proudly bought their first home but were short on furniture.
Are you thinking what I thought?
Do good and stop the hate?
Things moved quickly after that.
The family picked up the table and seemed thrilled.
My husband and I went out and we bought a brand new table.
The heavens rejoiced – or atleast my husband did.
It was delivered yesterday afternoon.
By dinner there was a scratch on it.
It was never the table. It was us.

Old scratched beauty and new scratched beauty.



I hate glitter


And trust me, I only reserve the H word for severe cases.  War, famine, glitter.

Last night, three 8th grade girls decided to “make their field day shirts more interesting”.  One of my daughter’s friends pulled out what can only be described as a bucket of glitter.  This is shocking to me.  Although I love both my kids and encourage all forms of creativity – I do not, I will not, I have not ever bought them glitter (and I’ve never taken them to Disney Land either, sue me).

I bit my lip and gently led them to the garage where they spent the rest of the night working on the project.  Once in a while, one of them would have to come into the house to use the bathroom (geez) or get some water (come on!).  I’d hold my breath. I saw glitter floating through my house like pollen.  I had visions of glitter footprints up and down my walls like some messed up horror movie.

I tried to be a cool mom and pretend it didn’t bother me.  Then I remembered I am the opposite of a cool mom.  I’m ok with that.  Cool moms are probably covered in glitter.

Crime scene below.  Cover your eyes. Names have been altered to protect the victims.