When it comes to food, I’ve had to experiment with what things are worth paying more for, and what things are just as good in store brand form.
As it turns out, our family prefers Walmart brand to Oreos.
When it comes to baked beans, 6 out of the 8 people who eat solids in our house prefer name brand baked beans. That didn’t stop me in the past from trying to save a little dough and buy the off brand.
I am a bit of a pantry hoarder (the zombie apocalypse could come at any time). I bought several cans of the off brand at once, and they were really, really terrible. No one wanted to eat it alongside our time tested, made-from-scratch, mac and cheese.
I started googling ways to make canned baked beans taste better.
There are actually a lot of ideas out there. But the truth is, once the beans are made and they are already bad, adding new flavors tends to muddy the waters. So I tried making my own.
This girl has been bringing us joy from the very beginning. 
The day she was born, I was struggling to surrender to the process of birth. Her older brother, born just 18 months earlier, had subjected me to the hardest labor I’d ever experienced, and I was terrified about having to do that again.
We knew the baby was coming; my parents had already traveled in and were caring for our other kids. The pressure was on. At 11 a.m., in frustration and desperation after hours of an early labor phase that wasn’t progressing, I messaged my husband’s family and asked them to pray. After that, I was finally able to let go. Real labor started almost immediately.
This child’s entrance into the world was the closest thing I’ve ever experienced to a painless birth. She was smiling from the very beginning. 
These days, she has grown into a fierce fighter and a nurturing helper in equal measure.
If there is a disagreement or a brawl at our house, chances are, she’s involved. 
I love her independent spirit and her ability to advocate for herself. Those traits will serve her well in life. 
Another important quality of a fifth-born child is the ability to shine brightly in chaos.
We are so glad to have this little spitfire in our family.
A while back, I came across these artistic representations of mental illness as little monsters. I can’t remember who first sent me their way, but I really resonated with the idea. Especially that anxiety is a little, hairy living being. In my mind, it latches onto the back of one shoulder and hangs on to different things in my life, whatever is providing the most interest and fuel. Recently, its entire existence was being fed with our marriage problems. We are still cautious, but the crisis seems to have passed. Anxiety got hungry and after just over a week of calm, it latched onto my self worth.
The last four days have been tough.
What do you know about Sarajevo? I remember a number of current events from my childhood, the space shuttle Challenger, Operation Dessert Storm, the Rwandan Genocide. I remembered the name Sarajevo, but I didn’t know much about what had happened there.
I found Flowers for Sarajevo, by John McCutcheon, illustrated by Kristy Caldwell, at our library. I don’t even think I opened it, but the cover art was so arresting I was sure I would like it.
Weeks passed as it floated around our house. I couldn’t seem to sit down long enough to read it to everyone. We already read aloud for school each day and I have been flirting with homeschool burnout; adding more books didn’t feel doable.
My mom finally read the book to the kids one weekend when she was here for a visit. She reported it made her cry, along with my youngest daughter.
Finally, I read it. To myself. The kids were in bed as I paged through the story. The illustrations were as amazing as the cover. They reminded me of graphic novel art, and the colors and lines communicate such beauty. I finished it at 1:30 a.m. on a night when my own home felt like a war zone.
I worked another night shift this past weekend, and a brief chat with another nurse on the floor that night reminded me how easy I had it with my assignment. I was busy, but I had time to take good care of my patients, and make plans for how I would spend my time over the course of the shift that, for the most part, weren’t waylaid by unexpected occurrences. At the end of the shift, I came in to say goodbye to one of my patients, and she asked if she could give me a hug. I said yes.
Since I work very part-time, if a patient is having a longer stay, there is a very good chance that the eight hours I spend with them will be forgettable. I do my best to make their lives better in the short time that I spend with them, but I don’t hang onto any expectations that it will make a big difference for them or their families.
Despite the fact that I obviously made impression on a patient, I left wishing I’d been able to do more. As I walked towards the stairs on my way home, I absently pulled my phone out, opened up Instagram, and started scrolling. One of my friends had tagged a post with someone else we went to school with. I clicked through to her Instagram, then to her website. If the site is any indication, she’s successful and happy.
I knew her because we lived in the same suite freshman year. She lived next door to me and for some reason, she didn’t like me. She took it upon herself to “fix” me, since I didn’t wear makeup or even really know how to use it, let alone how to shape my brows properly.
