When I was a kid, I knew two things: one, religion was a waste of time, and two, I did not want to be a stay-at-home mom, because I had no intention of ever getting married or having children. Eventually, I grew up, and it turned out that neither of these things were actually true for me. My religion has proven to be the exact opposite of a waste of time, especially as it concerns surviving the rotation of carpools, play dates, and forgotten anniversaries/holidays/birthdays.
Edit #1: So, it turns out that July 7 is my husband’s birthday. Whoops. This year, I plan on baking a cake, and since I can set a watch to the reliability of me screwing it up halfway through, I will be telling him that it was made by our daughter to circumvent anything but affection at the ongoing reminder that when something is done half-assed, it’s adorably forgivable when done by a tiny person. Also, it will be entirely believable, as there’s no way in hell our particular cherub will ever feature on “MasterChef Junior.” Trust me; we’ve watched the show enough to know.
I should start by saying that I’m a transplant to northern California, but I was born and raised in Kansas. To say I was a square peg in the round (hell)hole that was Johnson County would be something of an understatement. I’m not the type to fit in much of anywhere, and that was especially true in the suffocating suburbs of Kansas City (Kansas, not Missouri; to recycle an old joke, you know a city has a lot to apologize for when no one state wants to claim it). Frankly, I blame a fair amount of this nonsense on the lingering cultural association of “The Wizard of Oz.”