I’d like to think I’m a pretty great mother. Especially compared to what I had growing up. But I have to admit, there is one part of being a parent …

Vince made stroganoff noodles as a side for dinner last night. Nothing fancy, just a $2.89 bag where you only need to add butter and milk. As we all gathered …

Gianna asked me what time it was yesterday after watching Evie for me. I think she was exhausted and wanted to know how much of her life she just spent …

Sitting in the director’s office, I got choked up talking to her about my concern with Evie needing to socialize and separate from me a bit. I know this will be hard for her at first and I’m not looking forward to the frownie face and tears that will undoubtedly come. While almost crying myself, I glanced over in the corner of the room and noticed a pretty cool slime kit. Evie had been asking for pink slime and this had that and MORE. Though I hate slime, like most adults with a pulse, I asked the director where she got it. This thing would entertain Evie for at least 30 minutes, and I need all the time I can get.

In telling me where she purchased it, the director paused and said through her side-mouth (so Evie wouldn’t hear), “she can have it if ya want. Honestly I was going to take it to Goodwill because we aren’t going to use it.”

We went strawberry picking this past weekend. It’s something I’ve been wanting to take the kids to do for a while, but never seemed to have the time. This weekend was perfect. No soccer and cooler temps.

So I made plans to visit a nearby field (aptly named Berry Sweet Acres in Plant City) and we paid almost $40 to pick our own 8 pounds of berries. Why I had to pay to pick my own berries…and then pay for the actual berries is beyond me. But I did. It was expensive but sometimes you just gotta suck it up and pay the money. It was fun and the people that worked there were really nice. The girls all seemed to enjoy it too. I think it’s the “gatherer nature” in us woman. It’s really cathartic to pick fruit. I could probably do it for hours.

My dad was an alcoholic. He still could be as well. I’m not sure. I haven’t spoken to him in lifetimes. But, in the small span of years that I did know him, he drank regularly and in excess. This post isn’t about him, though. It’s about me and the ongoing thought that swirls in my mind that wonders “am I an alcoholic, too?”

I’ve been drinking in some fashion or another since I was 13 or so. Not that I was having daily drinks while in 8th grade. But I have these vivid memories of occasions where I would drink in excess. Like the time I sat on the floor of my aunt and uncle’s kitchen and, while everyone was sleeping, I drank from their bottle of Malibu rum, replacing my sips with water when I was done so I wouldn’t get caught.

I cried while drinking alone on that cold kitchen floor. My back up against the cabinet, cat hair swirling around my fingers, while I sobbed and sang a song to myself that I made up from reading the rum’s label.