I wouldn't worry about it

It started when my husband would walk into the room to find me engaged in a new, eyebrow-raising activity.

I’d walk in the door carrying a whole sheep’s worth of unwashed wool, despite not owning a sheep or spinning wheel (yet). I’d stare at a bowl of icing, watching the ripples settle, counting the passing seconds aloud. He’d find a big bag of varying-sized wooden dowels that I had stashed behind the couch. He’d walk into the kitchen to find me wearing heavy rubber gloves and safety goggles while stirring a lump of goo in the crock pot. I usually have my reasons, but nothing I can explain without sounding like a crazy person. And, thus, my life’s moto was born.

“Uhhh….what are you doing??”
“… I wouldn’t worry about it.”

I’m just another one of those lazy, irresponsible, entitled millennials you keep hearing about. *insert sarcastic eyeroll*

I’m a wife, mother, pharmacist, freelance writer, crafter, backyard chicken “farmer,” and small business owner.

My son, Emmett, is all about super heroes (especially Spider-Man) and is the sweetest kid ever. He was also born with Down syndrome, but doesn’t let that hold him back. 

My daughter, Madeline, is a little bit too much like me (apparently, I “need to be right” all the time), which drives my husband crazy, but we make it work. She loves doing crafts, and specializes in making “wanted” posters of her brother to hang around the house. She was also blessed with a splash of ADHD and a pinch of autism.

I like to write about anything and everything. So whether you want to read about staring down an angry possum, making hot cocoa from scratch, navigating the dumpster fire of our nation’s health insurance industry, decorating sugar cookies, advocating for your differently-abled child, foraging for hickory nuts, or despairing over how you’ll ever clean up all rice your child so kindly distributed to every corner of your house, stick around. I might not have all the answers (I’m somehow still picking up rice even though we’ve moved houses since the “incident”), but we can at least commiserate together. Welcome!

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