I’ve been on vacation, hence the silence. We went up north, and stayed at my favorite childhood spot. My kids had a blast. My husband ran out of green, and became moody. He gets anxiety, and then I get anxiety when that happens, but I mostly had fun.

We also picked up my father, who has been in an awful situation for quite some time. He was living with his ex-girlfriend. They haven’t been together in a few years, but continued to live together in some weird arrangement. My dad is nearly 72, and she is 46. And insane. I’m fairly certain she is a pathological liar. When I was home last year for my father’s surgery, she and I had to sit in the waiting room and make small talk for the few hours that the procedure took. She told me that she was just offered a job working for Hilton Hotels in New York City, and that she put a deposit down on an apartment in upper Manhattan. Are you kidding me?! If you knew this person, you would know she is neither getting job offers for Hilton, nor does she have money to live in upper Manhattan.

Anyhow, to make an incredibly sad story short, his ex-girlfriend has a new fiancé who introduced her to heroin. Not because she is in pain and has no other means to cope, but for fun. So now they, my dad’s ex and new fiancé, hang out in the bathroom all morning long as they are too fucked up to leave until early afternoon. Once they come out of their heroin-induced state, they drive to the fiancé’s  house, and sometimes won’t return for weeks. I’m fairly certain they’ve been abusing my dad, emotionally and physically, and they have been taking all his money, which isn’t a lot. He gets social security and a small pension payment. He is by no means “well off”, but in their eyes he has enough to pay their mortgage, along with some extra for utilities, food, and heroin. It has been sickening to see, and they give my dad enough attention to make him feel as if they care. But they don’t. I recently bought my dad $300 worth of new clothing, and he told me the fiancé took it all for himself as it fit him. When we got my dad, he was wearing the clothes the hospital game him when he was there a few months back for his mini-stroke. Absolutely unreal. My husband went to pick him up as he didn’t want me even going to the house. He said it looked like a murder scene inside, and was equally creepy on the outside.

That chapter is over. My dad told me he didn’t get all his clothes, and might need to go back. I told him absolutely not. I would buy him whatever he needed. He is never going back there.

On a different note, it is going to be challenging to get through this transition. My dad is blind in one eye. He recently had a mini stroke. He has trouble walking. He has horrible aim when he goes to the bathroom. And his pants and underpants often slide down his backside giving everyone in my home a nice shot of his rear as he likes to stand in my kitchen and lean on the counter for long periods of time. I’m working on making my basement a more comfortable place for him so he doesn’t need to be hanging out in our space all the time. I don’t mind sometimes, just not all the time. Things on my list are a television for his room, some TV trays so he can eat on the couch in the basement, a mini-fridge for his beer, and maybe a K-cup coffee maker. Still trying to determine if he is able to live on his own, or if this is a forever-with-us kind of thing.

Either way, I’m glad he is out of the situation he was in even if that means I need to clean up his piss off my bathroom floor.

Excuse my language

In a technology planning meeting today, and I’m the only female in attendance. I’m okay with this. I’m actually used to this. And it isn’t even a thing. Until we’re all shooting the shit, and someone drops the F-bomb. There is instant regret and apologies directed right at me for use of such a foul word. I just don’t get it. You’re okay with using that word in the first place at work around your peers, so fucking own it! Don’t say it and then give me an apology. You don’t mean it anyways because if you were really afraid I’d be offended, then you wouldn’t say it to begin with. Ugh.

Love the little moments…

My kids are growing quickly. I feel like it was just the other day that I struggled to conceive, and then began the intense IVF process. Now my babies are 4, 6, and almost 8. It goes too fast.

This weekend was spent cleaning our house, in preparation for our amazing cleaning team to visit us today and give us a much needed home cleaning. Sometime during the weekend, all three of my children were singing along to some random pop song, and their voices sounded so sweet. I don’t think I will ever forget the sound of their voices as young children – so sweet and filled with happiness and endless energy. Love the little moments because they go so fast…


Today we spent the better part of the morning sorting Pokémon cards and putting them in binders. At one point, it was just my husband and me doing the work, while the kids were watching SpongeBob. The kids came back in to help us, and I’m not entirely sure what happened but my older son, almost 8, went flying by like Flash Gordon, and the younger son, 6, fell to the ground. He quickly grabbed his eye and started crying in a tone where you know shit has actually hit the fan. I jumped out of my seat, and made him stand up. Blood. He had a gash on his eyebrow, and he was screaming as if his eyeball popped out. Luckily, that did not happen. My husband started to yell about why we don’t run in the house, and how we’re always telling them this and that. In the mean time, I’m examining his gash, staying calm, trying to figure out if this was ER worthy. It looked deep enough that it might be, but I was kind of on the fence. I’ll always take my kids if needed, but if I don’t need to go, I’m over being cautious like I was as a newer mom. No one wants to spend their Saturday afternoon in the ER only to be told it has to heal on its own time.

I decided to call my mom over, who is a retired nurse, to check him out, and broke out an ice pack in the interim. She just finished baking us some zucchini bread, and planned to bring it over so the timing was perfect. She was at our house in about 7 minutes (PRO of having your mom live around the corner), took one look, and said we should bring him in. I told my husband to get ready and go. There was no way he was staying home with the other two since he was agitated and already put them to work cleaning up all the toys. This would be best thing for everyone.

I packed snacks, drinks, a tablet, and a charger for their journey and off they went. Of course, without the backpack which was right next to the door. I got an update about 45 minutes later, and my husband said they were going to glue the gash shut. Younger son was brave, even though I was told it stung. Ordeal over, and he got ice cream on the way home.

This is life.

I’m 42. Wife. Mom of three amazing children. Manager at one of the biggest tech companies in the world. Right now life is like juggling a shit ton of balls. And some of those balls have razors, while some are fuzzy and soft like your favorite blanket. Sometimes I drop the balls. And sometimes I can juggle for days. Sometimes I only drop one ball, and sometimes I drop every fucking one. When they all drop, I’m on the verge of a breakdown that I somehow pull myself through, pick them all up, and get them going again. I surprise myself really.

This is life. My life.