Boiled Potatoes: An Exemplary Blog

When I was little, my mom usually got some lame handmade-at-school gifts from us kids, and maybe some flowers or chocolates. Perhaps a lovely handmade card, too. I’m pretty sure she still made dinner, and I don’t think she got the “day off.” But I think she wanted to make dinner, so maybe that’s the difference.

Would you like to know what I want for Mother’s Day? It’s a little more intangible. Sure, I’ll take those cute handmade keepsakes. But what I really want is to not make a single household decision. I don’t want to decide what’s for dinner or keep tabs on the schedule so our little sleep-deprived eight year old nightmare of a kid gets to bed on time.

I don’t want to decide what we are having for any meal. And I don’t want to clean anything. I don’t want to listen to the reasons why my kid no longer likes peanut butter and honey sandwiches. I don’t want to be in charge of making sure some sort of healthy food makes its way into my kids’ bodies. I don’t want to deal with bickering children or making sure they get exercise and fresh air. I don’t want to do laundry or plan the daily events. I don’t want to hear any whining about how a particular child doesn’t like some piece of food on his plate. I don’t want to go to the grocery store or plan the meals for the rest of the week.

I don’t even want anyone to ask me what I want. 

Is that so much to ask for??

What I’d really like is someone to set up the card table and demand I sit down and work on my new hobby: creating dollhouse miniatures. Remember that polymer clay I bought? Yeah, it’s still unopened, tucked away in the cabinet. Sigh. A girl can dream, right?

Just leave me alone with that clay for a few hours, and let’s see what happens. Who knows, I could be a miniature creating phenomenon. This talent is undiscovered, uncultivated, undeveloped! The world is missing out on my creative genius.

Or it could all be a total flop and I’ll give up in about ten minutes of trying. But the world needs to know which it is!

Part of me has this idea that I could sit around with my family, all of us crafting together, making cute things. Maybe watching online tutorials and creating adorable little pieces for my dollhouse. Making desserts for the kitchen and plants for the non-existent greenhouse. The picture in my head is perfect and idyllic…

But I know better than that. Any parent who has actually done any sort of arts and crafts with a child knows better than to expect anything like that. There’s yelling and frustration and messes and “No, no, no, that’s too much glitter!” Because there’s always too much glitter.

So that won’t happen. Looks like my crafting will occur alone (if at all). And the thing is, do I really want to be left alone on Mother’s Day? It’s complicated. What if they go off and do something fun without me? I think the problem is that I’m seasoned enough to know that those little demons may ruin any given activity, particularly if it’s something I’d really like to do. So perhaps I want both. Some alone time to craft and some family time…And I’ll try my hardest to not have any expectations or hope for the day…because we all know how that will end.

So in theory, I want a calm, creative crafting session. But I won’t hold my breath. At the end of the day I’ll probably be satisfied with sipping a glass of wine in a quiet corner of the house (perhaps on the floor on the other side of my bed where no one can find me) after spending the day with my exhausting and wonderful boys.

I’ll probably invite my Holly girl, since she loves me unconditionally and doesn’t point out things like the squishiness of my belly or how my gray hairs are multiplying daily. Pet motherhood counts, too.

I’m not going to hide it any longer. I get excited about who is visiting the birdfeeder.

It’s super cute to see little songbirds out my kitchen window, flitting about busily as I wash the breakfast dishes. I don’t know how it wouldn’t improve your day to see a Pileated Woodpecker at your suet feeder.

A few years ago, I was at a nature preserve with my kids, and I saw a lady surveying the treetops with her binoculars.

“See anything cool?” I asked.

She removed her binoculars and regarded me coolly. “Well I heard a mockingbird on this app I have on my phone, and now I’m trying to locate it.”

“Merlin?” I asked, naming the bird app I had on my phone.

Her eyebrows shot up, and she took an excited step toward me. “Yes! Do you bird?”

I didn’t know how to answer that question. I didn’t really know “bird” was a verb. This felt like a big weighty question that I was extremely unprepared to answer. And a very deep rooted part of me screamed “No!!! Birding is for weirdos.” So I shook my head. No, I do not bird. I just have the bird identifying app from the Cornell Institute of Ornithology on my phone for a passing interest.

The lady quickly lost interest in me then. She was only on the look out for birds and fellow birders. And if I wasn’t willing to admit I was one of them, then fine. She didn’t have time for me.

But what I didn’t say was that if I had more time, I’d totally bird. I’d bird a little here and I’d bird over there. 

Just add it to my list of hobbies I’m going to get into. 

Having children who love nature definitely added fuel to my own bird-admiring tendencies. We went to Washington DC when my oldest was five, and I remember walking around the city and him saying: “It would be so cool if a Peregrine Falcon swooped down right now and ate one of these pigeons.” 

He was right. That would have been cool. And I didn’t even know that ever happened, but according to the Wild Kratts episode he had watched, it definitely could.

My dad birds. He’s retired and is known for getting overly angry when the starlings invade his bluebird feeder. This is not unlike Old Man Fookwire’s relationship with squirrels in the classic tale Those Darn Squirrels. When we are visiting, my dad enlists my kids to go scare the starlings away so the pretty little Eastern Bluebirds can feast on their mealworms in peace.

What I’m trying to say is that birdwatching always seemed like a dorky pastime for old people. And I don’t think that has changed, it’s more like I just don’t mind being part of that generalization. I’m heading there regardless, full steam ahead.

And the next time I run into someone birding at our local park, I’m going to totally geek out with them over that White-breasted Nuthatch.

One day last week I was in the kitchen trying to make dinner. My youngest was practicing the drums and my oldest decided to “help” him by blasting Seven Nation Army loud enough so my youngest could hear the music over the drums. Add to this a little yapping foster puppy who took offense to all the noise and thought the solution was to add her own two cents to the cacophony.

It was at this moment that I sighed the deep sigh of the trod upon parent and contemplated my life. Where did I go wrong? I tried to remember what it was like before children.

But I couldn’t. Not really. That’s probably my mind’s way of protecting me.

Children definitely bring some chaos and noise with them. When they are small, there is a lot of crying and tantrums. But at this point, there is a lot of door slamming and stomping and yelling and wrestling and interrupting and bodies bouncing off walls and things being knocked over. 

I definitely did not appreciate the quiet of BEFORE. Now, I’m never quite prepared for the onslaught of noise that comes in the door around 3:45 pm each weekday. The door slam, the already bickering party of two, the instant requests for snacks, screen time, what are we doing this afternoon, etc etc.

I know, I know, this is one of those times where I’m supposed to be enjoying every moment, right? I shouldn’t be thinking longingly of retirement when my husband and I pore over a crossword puzzle for a bulk of the day…

In our house, we require music lessons, but perhaps I should rethink this policy as I’m not sure its really adding to our quality of life. My youngest had a difficult time selecting what instrument he wanted to learn–he began with piano and despite all our efforts to lure him into the ukulele or another instrument, he only seemed interested in the drums. So last fall he started taking drum lessons. And then we made the inane decision to get a drum set in December. 

The drums live upstairs, but don’t worry, you can hear them everywhere. You can hear the drums outside the house. You can hear the drums in the basement. Luckily, my kid does not have a great discipline for practicing, so we are only subjected to the cacophony for maybe ten minutes or so per day. The floor shakes. The entire house shakes. There is a lot of NOISE. And now, my other kid has decided the drums are cool and has taken to picking up the sticks from time to time. He also plays the electric guitar, and when he cranks up the amp, things can get a little wild.

I’m starting to really empathize with the Grinch here, with all the NOISE NOISE NOISE. 

Don’t get me wrong, I love that they are musical. Before I had kids, I remember being in someone else’s house and they had two children–one was practicing the cello and one was doing homework at the dining room table. I remember thinking how idyllic and peaceful and warm that scene was.

And now I know how misleading it was, too. I blame myself. The cello cannot be compared to the drums. This is clearly a parenting error.

At my house, there’s always someone inventing a new sport or crashing into something or wreaking havoc in some noisy manner. There’s thumping and yelling and unpleasant bathroom noises. They can’t even walk down the stairs without shaking the house. 

We’ve talked to my youngest about trying not to walk like he has cinderblocks on his feet when he gets up to use the bathroom in the middle of the night. But it doesn’t stick. I’m beginning to think he may be incapable of walking without sounding like an entire herd of wildebeest stampeding through a canyon.

My oldest tries to go down the stairs with the minimal amount of steps. This results in two to three house-shaking stomps. Sometimes he sounds like a pirate with a peg leg as he hops down every other step. Apparently stairs are boring, and it should be seen as a challenge to ascend and descend them as creatively as possible. 

And that’s fine. We love our noisy boys. 

But I’ll admit, the drums were probably not the best idea.

Ten years ago, when my oldest wasn’t even in kindergarten, I brought a paper and clipboard to the first soccer game. On this paper, I had handwritten the dates of each soccer game so people could sign up to bring a snack. My husband was the coach, and I thought this was how one would tackle the issue of who would bring the snack to each soccer game.

What a sweet adorable naive little muffin I used to be.

It had never occurred to me that this was not how things were done. Not anymore anyway. Perhaps back in the archaic days of my youth, sure. But now? No way. 

If you are fortunate enough to not know it yet, I’d like to introduce you to SignUpGenius. 

At first, you might think, wow, a collective place for everyone to sign up, see what dates or items are available and it updates in real time. Sheer brilliance! What a novelty! Obviously, this is much much better than that silly paper I handwrote a few dates on. How embarrassing.

Until you’ve got thirty two sign ups in SignUpGenius and you can’t remember what you are doing much less when you should be doing it. And when you are the one creating this electronic sign up sheet? Believe me, I long for that simple piece of paper I might “accidentally” misplace.

Clearly it’s far too easy to use SignUpGenius. All it has done is make it easier to ask other people for help. Get ready for an onslaught of guilt! Come on, you can spare a minute to make a pie for this event, can’t you? And bring 138 juiceboxes? Maybe also volunteer for those sixteen extra hours no one else picked up yet?

You can use SignUpGenius for EVERYTHING. Little league volunteer hours, soccer snacks, holiday party supplies, classroom needs, each and every event those crazy homeroom parents manage to dream up.

And now that we foster dogs, I get signups for everything rescue dog organization related: events, supplies, fundraisers, holiday donation drives, photo sessions, etc.

In the past three months, I’ve been involved with over 33 sign ups on SignUpGenius. And over the holidays it was closer to 50 sign ups. Is that normal? It seems excessive. To be honest, I ignored plenty of those, but still. I always feel at least a teensy bit guilty for not helping, especially when it’s for a wonderful cause or they really seem to need help.

And then there are certain class sign up sheets that fill up so quickly it will make your head spin. If I don’t sign up within an hour of a signup being posted, there will be no slots available. Sometimes, people are so excited to help, I don’t even get a chance to consider it. Let’s be real though. It’s kind of a relief for this introvert when that happens. But still. I might have sort of been looking forward to embarrassing my oldest by being present during his Pi Day party.

SignUpGenius is crazy. It’s chaotic. It’s a well-oiled machine that I both curse and admire. I honestly don’t even know how to unpack all the different emotions I have about SignUpGenius. Sometimes it’s a beautiful wondrous thing that I get to be a part of and I can log in and see all that I agreed to and everything is right with the world. Sometimes the document is so long that I have to scroll for days to find what exactly I said I would do and when. The people who create these monstrosities should be commended for their fortitude. It must have been a serious undertaking to create that 100+ slot beast. 

My oldest is playing spring soccer this year, and my husband is coaching. Looks like there might be a need for a super organized snack sign up sheet. Luckily, I know how to handle this parenting obstacle. I may look longingly at that simple sheet of paper, but in the end, I will succumb to the allure of the SignUpGenius. It is terrifying in its magnificence.

There’s something about this time of year. Maybe it’s the idea of going outdoors and not freezing, but for some reason, I want to do something fun.

And by fun, I mean anything to avoid having to clean the house or organize the basement. A new hobby perhaps?

Yes! Definitely a new hobby. For all that endless amount of free time I seem to be blessed with.

And by free time, I mean that five to thirty minutes per night when I watch television with my husband. This time has been getting smaller and smaller as the kids get older and stay up later. I am severely underprepared for this encroachment on my coveted free time.

But in spite of this, I’ve decided to try my hand at making some miniatures. I have my childhood dollhouse, and I recently saw some amazing stuff on Instagram, and my interest was piqued! I feel super confident that I will be making realistic chocolate cakes and cheeseboards for my dollhouse in no time. And a library. Definitely a library with little books (all my favorite titles of course). Oh, and lots of jars and bottles on the shelves, filled with all the things these people (sorry, dolls) will need to make all of their potions and tinctures. Because now I’m thinking we need a backstory for these people (sorry, dolls). Are they foragers? Is this house in the remote wilderness and they need to make everything they need? Are they snowed in for the winter? Or permanently? I’m thinking they are going to have to put on an addition, add a garden and a greenhouse, and remodel the entire interior. 

No problem.

Do I have any experience in this area? Absolutely not. But what I do have is a few minutes, so let’s get serious. This stuff is small, so how long could it possibly take? 

Good news so far. I made a tiny basket out of some twine, and it’s not hideous. My plan is to needle felt some Easter eggs to put in the basket. Think of how excited the dollhouse people will be to get this treat. They don’t even have any spring decorations! I’m excited for them.

More good news. I got a book from the library on how to make dollhouse miniatures with polymer clay. I’ve looked through it and I’m still undeterred! I might not start with the adorable flatware or intricately detailed tilework…and the mini dolls are a little creepy, but the plants?! And the food?! Ridiculously cute.

Does my husband think I’m crazy? Of course! Am I going to get frustrated and give up right after I start? Possibly. Are we getting a new foster puppy next week that will be a huge demand on my time? No problem. Are spring sports starting up and making our life absolutely crazy? Yes! Is now really the right time for a new hobby? You bet it is.

I’ve got other projects, too. There’s those needle felted garlands I’m going to make. And an old hutch in the basement I plan on refurbishing. I also grabbed a wagon wheel from my parents house that I’m totally going to do something amazing with. I’m also going to make some curtain tie backs out of beads and felted wool balls. And I have a soap stone carving kit I need to get into. 

You might be concerned there won’t be time for a new hobby when some of these other ideas have been hanging on for more than fifteen years. But don’t worry. 

It might take me twenty years, but just you wait. My dollhouse is going to be amazing. 

My husband has what I like to call winter anxiety. This is not what you think. It is not in any way related to seasonal depression, although I’d like to classify it as a seasonal disorder. You know how most people get sort of bummed out because the weather is icky and it’s no fun to be outside? This is kind of the opposite.

It’s a frantic obsession with making sure we complete every single winter activity known to humankind in the time allotted. And the weather is not an excuse to not do something. It’s just validation. My kids are not allowed to come in merely because they are cold. This is winter! It SHOULD be cold. Put on another layer. Grab some hand warmers. No Excuses. It doesn’t matter how dangerously low the temperature is. 

Is it cold? We should be ice skating. Is it snowing? Let’s ski or sled or go snowshoeing or build a snowman or just BE OUTSIDE.

Don’t get me wrong. I like snow. It’s pretty. But I’m not really into risk taking. I don’t want to strap some sticks on my feet and see how fast I can go down a mountain. But I’ll admit the snowflakes are pretty. I’ll hike to a frozen waterfall or take a walk in the fluffy falling snow. But my favorite winter pastime is sitting in front of a warm fire with a cat on my lap and a puppy at my feet, working on a jigsaw puzzle. 

In Pennsylvania, winter can be mild. This upsets my husband to no end. There is always a chance winter could be a total flop with zero snow and barely a night or two below freezing. This is his biggest fear.

So at the beginning of the season, at the mere mention of snow, he will say things like “This could be all the snow we get!” And as the season progresses, he says “This could be the last time!” and other admonishments to make sure you are enjoying every last moment of precious winter weather. 

And we know how well it works to tell someone to enjoy every moment.

So I’m not sure this tactic is the best approach. I know it annoys me. Even when he’s not there, I can hear him in my head. “There’s snow on the ground! Go outside!”

It’s exhausting.

And since most people around here seem to hate winter, he is definitely in the minority. He needs to be in Canada or perhaps some Scandinavian country. Maybe his mentality would fit in better there. 

And yet my oldest has shown signs of also having winter anxiety. He could ski all day every day and has been known to put on a headlamp and venture out in the dark to make sure his sled paths and belly whopper trails are in tip top shape for the following days activities. But my youngest is capable of ruining my husband’s ability to enjoy winter, as all young children can ruin anything you enjoy, with his incessant complaining and toddler-like lack of emotional control.

But this winter has been full of cold and snow, so is my husband happy? Shouldn’t he be happy?? No, he’s just crazy. You would think this would be what he wanted. But he still has to crack the whip, making us skate on every frozen lake in the vicinity and going skiing whenever there is a free moment. I’m not even sure he’s enjoying it, he’s so hellbent on making sure we are all making the most of it.

And then there’s the winter olympics, which only adds to the creativity of weird winter activities one can undertake. Sure, my kids tried to do a double luge down a hill, stacked on top of one another. Luckily, we have winter helmets.

And while I will let my husband torture our children to some extent in the hopes that it might build some character, I have no problem telling him he’s crazy as I pull a blanket over myself and curl up on the couch with a book. And a dog. Because Holly might not be a mountain dog, but she is also not a snow dog. She is a couch dog.

I always made fun of my mom for calling the downstairs bathroom “The Powder Room”. What did that even mean? Why powder? There was no powder at all in that room.

When we did The Great Remodel of 2025, we essentially added one of these mysterious rooms to our house. As we began discussions, I again chastised my mom for using this antiquated term. No one is powdering their wigs in this room. Or their noses for that matter. It’s just a half bath.

Then, when we had the contractor come to our house to discuss the project, guess what he called the future small bathroom?

A POWDER ROOM.

So I had to apologize to my mom. Apparently the term was not as antiquated as I had imagined. 

But it SHOULD be. 

According to a brief internet search, it really did initially come from the 18th century need for somewhere to powder one’s wig. And then when that went out of fashion, a powder room was a place to freshen up one’s makeup…or “powder your nose.”

But isn’t it just a bathroom without a tub or shower? It’s a half bath. Of all the things that happen in that bathroom, powdering is extremely low on the list. Let’s get rid of this term. I don’t like it. Unless someone is thinking of bringing back powdered wigs, let’s move on.

Prior to our renovation, we had the downstairs bathroom and the upstairs bathroom. And they both had showers, so neither bathroom was ever known as a powder room. It wouldn’t have been accurate. I would argue that it’s never accurate, but whatever. Now that we have two bathrooms downstairs, clarification is needed. There’s My Bathroom, referring to the master bath. And then there is this mysterious other, smaller bathroom. Luckily I decided to paint it a lovely purply grey, so our not-a-powder-room is referred to as The Purple Bathroom.

No ambiguity there. 

Its claim to fame is being purple, not being used for powdering. So my suggestion to avoid having to use the soon-to-be-antiquated term “Powder Room” is to add a defining characteristic to your half bath. Make each one in your huge mansion have a different theme. 

Take a right at the Billiards Room and The Azure Bathroom is the first door on your left. 

Down the hall, past the Conservatory, The African Safari Bathroom is the second door. 

Have you visited the Study? The closest bathroom is the Retro Diner Bathroom, across the hall.

Clearly I don’t know what rooms are called unless they are in the game Clue. But in our house, we have zero powder rooms, we simply have The Purple Bathroom. No one ever calls it a powder room, except of course my mom when she comes to visit.

My parents are selling my childhood home next month. It’s been an emotional ordeal, saying goodbye to the beautiful farmhouse I grew up in. And also a lesson in knowing when to let things go.

And by things, I mean those notes from high school biology class, especially if you aren’t a scientist or have any aspirations thereof. But even if you do have even a slight sciencey stirring, I really don’t think you need to keep those notes.

The attic was somewhere we put things when we didn’t need them anymore. It became something between a trash heap and a storage pile for random items maybe we kind of wanted or felt guilty throwing away or just didn’t know what to do with. And there’s always the “I’m sure someone will use this” excuse…which may be true, but how will they ever find it in my parents’ attic when no one even remembered putting it there in the first place?

The basement was similar, but had more moisture issues and was visited more often, so maybe not quite as much of a dumping ground. Although there was some weird stuff in the back rooms. And if you needed a rusty old tool or a nearly empty can of paint, definitely check the basement.

Then there was the garage. The garage used to be a barn a long time ago (prior to my parents owning the house), and has a second floor which we used to store furniture from everyone we knew when they were moving or didn’t want it anymore. This was great when I got my own place. I’ve never bought a dresser. Or a table. It was like a free furniture store. I’d like to make a vow that my children will not be so lucky.

Now let’s talk about the shed. Don’t think small prefabricated cute place to store your tools. Think huge. Think old. Think falling apart. Think looong, with places you shouldn’t step for fear of your foot falling through the rickety wooden floor. This was another dumping ground. There were times when it had a purpose–my dad raised pheasants at one point, and we had chickens and a nasty rooster for a while. I named him Punky, because you know, Punky Rooster. Like Punky Brewster. There were ducks, too. The ducks were my favorite. 

But in later years it became unwalkable. Filled with dust and old gardening tools and tarps and random bits of our lives from the past forty two years.

Weird things we’ve found so far: bins of feathers, a manual on how to wire your model railroad, a fisher pelt, railroad spikes, a jar of moonshine, a rusty old locker, vintage swimsuits, a snapping turtle shell, a hex sign, a taxidermied raccoon, loads of old photographs, cabbage patch kid dolls, and a human skull. Don’t worry, I don’t think my parents are murderers. Apparently it’s not unusual to have a human skull in your possession if you studied to be a dentist in the 1970s.

My parents buckled down for several months and got rid of a ton of stuff. Dumpsters were involved. All hands on deck.

Every time I helped, I would come home and vow not to save things just to save them. I didn’t want to store that beautiful dollhouse for thirty years for my future grandchildren only to forget to get it out when they came to visit. So I would be motivated to declutter and de-hoard my house and storage spaces for a little while. But still. STILL. I can’t help it. It’s branded onto my brain.

“I’m sure someone could use this…”

And then I won’t throw it out. I’ll add it to the pile of stuff to donate or sell or keep forever. Because I am determined to find that person. No matter how long it takes. Even if the search spans generations.

So really I’ve learned nothing. Now if only I had a two story garage….

Now that the manic craze of the holidays is over, it’s time to buckle down and get to work. January is a miserable month, so let’s make it even worse by creating lists of all the things we’ve been putting off and then let’s strive to accomplish them with unreasonable rapidity. And if we don’t reach these goals, or slip for even one day, let’s feel terrible about ourselves. It’s January. The weather is awful, our moods might as well match! Come on, it will be fun.

Let’s make better routines, get healthier, get stronger, eat better, be more organized, finally tackle that mysterious pile in the corner of the bedroom that gets larger every time I look at it.

My head just stopped spinning from the whirl of the holidays and winter break, so I’m totally ready to get some stuff done. Except…all of that stuff is just as overwhelming as it ever was, and here is the ultimate crux of the problem: I’m still the same person. 

I’m still the person who chooses to push things aside on the counter to bake some cookies rather than clean the kitchen. I’d rather sit in a different room so I don’t have to look at that ominous pile teetering in the corner. I’m very good at avoiding things I need to do, and I’m really really excellent at procrastinating. 

So let’s just say for January and the rest of the months, I’ll continue to work on these horrid and deeply rooted flaws. In a very general sense. Nothing specific, because that’s going to stress me out and make me as miserable as the bleak half frozen scene outside my window. Maybe my New Year’s resolutions will only be about fun things. How many books I intend to read (mostly just so I can see that pretty collage of book covers in Goodreads), with a number low enough that it’s totally attainable and not at all a stretch. Maybe to rewatch all the seasons of Stranger Things with my kid. Bake more. Make a felted wool garland. 

In addition to working on yourself (and let’s face it, you definitely need a lot of work), don’t forget to help your kids with their New Year’s resolutions. My seven year old informed me that his New Year’s resolution was to make his bed without being told. I love that he can dream big, but I think we all know this is one of those resolutions that is destined to fall flat. 

Sure, I need to eat better, get more organized, have more patience, and start a manageable exercise routine. But seriously, that’s no fun. And I ALWAYS need to do those things. They will always be there for me to continue to work on. So for now let’s snuggle in our Christmas pajamas and do a holiday puzzle and pretend everything is still nice and fun and festive. January needs a little help, so I suggest leaving up your holiday decor as long as you can possibly stand it. 

Maybe this year I’ll just ignore January altogether. It’s such a bummer of a month and frankly its toxicity is bringing me down. 

Happy February! We are starting early this year. 

Happy New Year from Boiled Potatoes!  

So it finally happened.  That baby I’ve been waiting on arrived, and we have a new bundle of joy in our house!  

I’m not sure who coined the phrase “bundle of joy” to describe a newborn baby, but whoever it was, they obviously hadn’t spent much time with newborn babies.  Newborns are bundles of lots of things – meconium, razor sharp nails, and overnight reflux all come to mind – but I wouldn’t jump straight to “joy.”  Sure, every baby is a blessing, we love this new addition, and we very rarely sit up at 4 a.m. regretting all our life choices.  But the early days can be pretty rough for everyone, and it’s not like newborns ever seem very joyful to have been plucked from their cozy water bed and brought here into the real world.  In fact, they usually seem pretty indignant about that.  What else could explain all the screaming?  

Nevertheless, now that he is finally here, I can sleep on my stomach again, and he can begin fulfilling his destiny as the perfect excuse to get me out of any obligation for the next 10 years.

Which brings me to my announcement.  I am taking a break from the blog for a few months, while I try to remember how swaddles work and figure out how to get to the grocery store with a baby and a toddler.  I’d like to say I’ll post a few fun, newsy updates when I can, but infants have a tendency to turn their parents’ brains into mush, so I won’t make any promises.  And you might not want me to.  I still remember my husband using the word “simplifize” when our daughter was a newborn – and I didn’t correct him.  Heaven only knows what I might come up with in a 600-word blog post.     

During this time, Amanda will continue writing and posting (and probably answering 2:30 a.m. texts from me that say things like: “You know a topic we should write about?  Whales.”).  So stay tuned for more Boiled Potatoes content in 2026.  

As for me, I plan to return once I’ve got this whole “parenting two kids” thing under control.  Just kidding – that will never happen.  So let’s just say I’ll be back once I can stay awake without holding my eyelids open with toothpicks.