The Little Things


When I was a gigantic, six months pregnant, our then four-year old daughter, Keely, surprised the shit out of me one night by crashing on the couch super early. Fell asleep on her own and didn’t stir much even as Zander licked dinner off her fingers. This never happened. 

Usually, there’s plenty of drama at bedtime and I’m talking, neighbors-fear-for-my-children-and-their-type-of-drama, drama. Back then, Damon worked a state away during the week and I flew solo, which really sucked. Naturally I avoided the tub/bedtime fights at ALL costs mainly because I found that I’m a better… mom… when daddy is home to help, step-in and back me up. Or mediate. Or intervene. Or negotiate. Whatever works.

As I was celebrating my uninterrupted quality time with the dishes and kitchen chaos, I felt a sweet reward was in order. I acted as if my breathing would wake my babe, forcing me to share the un-shareable… my last tub of Ben & Jerry’s Chocolate Chip Cookie Dough ice cream. Enjoying every single spoonful of the holy-shit-this-is-good-shit ice cream, I got too close to the bottom panic rose. Panic because you are almost out of the holy-shit-good-stuff and to top it off, guess who walked into the kitchen? With some crazy hair, lipstick smeared from the corner of her mouth up and mid-yawn, our Lil Miss.

Fuck me.


As soon as she saw my little tub of goodness, her eyes shot open and even I felt the excitement in her little heart. But that excitement didn’t last too long –  the look of betrayal in her eyes overshadowed her hope. Scorned because Mom was eating something without her. And of all things, ice cream. I had to think fast because I knew negotiations were coming and man, I felt pretty shitty. Maybe that was the ice cream backing up, who knows. I always answer the question before it’s uttered:

“Nope – no ice cream for you this late…”

“It will give you a tummy ache and then you’ll have to poop…”

“And that will wake you up even more, and you won’t be able to get back to sleep…”

“And if you don’t sleep, then you can’t go to school and play with your friends – {gasp} OH NO!”

(I find it’s better to use a cause and effect situation with Keely and always remember she is an old soul wearing her heart on her sleeve.)

“Plus, this is the last bit of ice cream, so we better save some for daddy. Don’t you think?” I’m such a liar.

I didn’t wait for an answer and as I grabbed the lid and made for the freezer, I expected an argument – or a fit – or at least a whimper from the little one. Nope, what I heard was far worse:

“But mommy… ” she quietly met my eyes, “Sharing is caring.”

There it is folks – the catch. You teach them these wonderful things all for it to blow up right in your fucking face.

So, what did I do?

Shit, what any sane, rational parent would do at 11:15 on a school night. I grabbed the rest of that fucking ice cream and another spoon, sat on the kitchen floor with my daughter, and got ‘er done.


Even with grown ass kids, we still use “sharing is caring” because no matter your age, sharing is one of the kindest things everyone should do more often. For real.

Forced to impose mandatory sharing long ago, because, with the close confines of our house, we learned there is zero privacy. And keeping anything from the younger two kids is ridiculously impossible.

Welcome to my world friends.

– jen.

“Happiness is not so much in having as sharing. We make a living by what we get, but we make a life by what we give.”

-Norman MacEwan




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