Though I never saw the movie, my husband tells me that our boy reminds him of the young character in the movie, Taking Lives. Not in the way that the character pushes people in front of oncoming cars (you know…we hope), but that he is unpredictable and reckless. My son doesn’t always think before he speaks or acts. Like, pretty much, ever.

Last night I was working in bed when my son came in every few minutes for definitions of words in the book he was reading. One time he came up next to me then asked, “Mom, what’s a scythe?”

Not wanting to go into details of the Grim Reaper, I kept it simple and replied, “It’s kind of like a giant knife on the end of a stick.”

He thought for a moment then walked out to the hall. After a few seconds he popped his head back into the door and said, “Ta-Ta! I’ll see you in the next world.”

At which point I thought it was possible that my little 50 lb. child already knew what the Grim Reaper was and maybe my husband knew more about this, “Taking Lives” reference than I did. I double-checked, “What did you just say?”

And, I’m happy to say he innocently replied, “I said, ta-ta! I’ll see you on the next word.”

But, I didn’t eat the little ring, I put it on my finger. A few minutes later, when my finger turned purple, I went upstairs to show my mom. She stayed calm, because 4th child, and drove me to a nearby fire station where the firefighters had a tool to cut the metal off my swollen hand.

I bet none of those firefighters remember that incident, but my mom and I sure do. Just as I remember the two times I’ve had to call the fire department to my house in the years since. It’s amazing how safe you feel when you’re in the presence of life-saving people. It’s a total bonus that they look good in uniform.

Last night I attended an event at Firehouse Subs, where I got to meet the founder, Robin Sorenson. He and his brother were 2nd generation firefighters when they opened their first sub shop in Jacksonville, Florida.

See the bucket he’s holding? That’s one of 150,000 barrels of pickles that Firehouse Subs empties, then resells for charity, each year. Just since opening one of their five shops in the Columbus area, they have donated over $220,000 to local fire departments for life-saving equipment.

That’s just in central-Ohio. There are over 600 Firehouse Subs franchises and all of them give back to the communities in which they’re located. I don’t know about you, but that’s a great reason for my family to eat there. But, if that isn’t enough for you, just look at this brisket, oozing with cheese.

Mmm hmm. Plus, Firehouse Subs was voted No.1 fast food sandwich by Zagat and No. 1 sandwich in a Nation’s Restaurant News Consumer Picks study. For real, its good.

And, because they can’t stop being nice even if they tried, they’ve asked me to give a lucky reader $20.00 in gift cards! Just leave a comment on this post and tell me about a moment when a firefighter helped you or touched you in some way. You can earn an extra entry by tweeting about this giveaway and leaving the URL to your tweet in a comment on this post.

This contest ends on June 17th, 2013 at noon EDT. One winner will be chosen from among qualified entries. Good luck and happy eating!

I had the immense pleasure of speaking on a professional panel with my wonderful friends and co-workers Denise and Melisa. I totally got my geek on.

As if social media measurement wasn’t enough to get me excited, there were also a lot of margaritas.

And, when I got tired of regular margaritas, there were avocado margaritas.

And, cotton candy.

And good friends.

Photo shamelessly taken from Melisa’s FB wall.

And kids of friends.

And 20 minutes of me trying to figure out how to take a picture in my new, awesomely soft, Home T shirt without making Ohio come out backward. I blame the margaritas.

The Home. T sent me this shirt to wear to the American Dairy Association Mideast and Ohio Poultry Association party. Ohio REPRESENT! But, I wore it the night before because I could. Not. Wait.

And, there was heat. Lots of it. So there was also a lot of time spent in front of fans. Luckily, I look like a model and the wind just enhanced it.

There were also the heartwarming and soul-filling stories told by food bloggers, a lot of guacamole, engaging sponsors, and a chance to work in the same room with my co-workers who all live on the other side of the country. It was an exhausting, cankle-creating few days, but worth every bit of work we put into it.

I can’t wait for 2014.

When my son was young, he was very sick, not only because of his congenital heart disease, allergies, and kidney disorder, but with near-constant, chronic, bacterial infections. A bacterial infection is nothing to mess around with, but when you have a heart condition, you need to be extra careful. We faced what seemed like a never-ending battle against these bugs in order to keep his ticker, well, ticking.

He had strep many times. One case was so severe, and antibiotic resistant, that it nearly killed him. Have you ever heard of a mastoid infection? I hadn’t, until my son got one. It’s a bacterial infection in the bone behind the ear, which is not to be confused with adenitis, which made him look like he had swallowed a golf ball. Oh, and there was that UTI that he got before he was even one week old.

More than anything, though, my boy suffered from sinus infections. From October to May, his little head was crammed with crud and mucus so thick that he could barely breathe. We filled prescription after prescription of antibiotics to keep the bacteria from traveling to his heart. He spent, roughly, two out of his first nine years on Penicillin.

During this same time, when we were pumping him full of medicine, we tried natural remedies too. We even had the air quality tested in our house to see if there was mold hiding somewhere. I knew that all of the antibiotics were keeping him alive, but I also knew that they were killing the good bacteria right along with the bad, and I worried that someday they simply wouldn’t work anymore.

Then, on television one day I saw someone talking about neti pots. Something told me that this was what would help him. I had a talk with his pediatrician and she thought it was worth a try, though she suggested a sinus flush instead of a neti pot, something that would force the water up instead of just letting gravity have its way with his nasal passage.

I bought purified water and a sinus rinse kit, positioned my kid over the kitchen sink, and promptly made him vomit. We tried again the next day, and the next, and the day after that, until my son became a nasal irrigation pro! Now he can even tell me which side needs to “go first” in order to clear his sinuses quicker.

I would love to say that he hasn’t had to take any antibiotics since we started this all-natural solution, but I can say that he’s gone from needing medication about three months out of the year, to about two weeks. He rarely has sinus infections anymore, when he used to live with them perpetually.

He’s had three sets of tubes to help with ear infections, he had his tonsils removed to cut down on strep, and I’m happy to say that sinus infections are, mostly, a thing of the past. I’m glad I made him stick with it and keep trying. I’m pretty sure that’s exactly what we parents are supposed to do.

This post is part of BlogHer’s My ‘I’m a Mom’ Moment editorial series, made possible by Seventh Generation.

Last week, on Memorial Day, there was a war movie on TV that I had never seen. You know how cartoon characters see something unbelievable and their eyes pop out of their heads? That’s how I felt when I realized there was a WWII film that you and I hadn’t watched together.

Maybe the movie was on one Sunday back in 1979 and I wasn’t paying attention because I was reading the comics to you (or the “funny papers” as you used to say). And, by the way, now that I’m a parent I am fully aware that you weren’t listening to me read Hagar the Horrible as much as you were pretending to listen. I’m on to you. I learned  from the best how to do that appeasing nod that insinuates I hear you, but really you’re watching The Bridge on the River Kwai.

I learned a lot from you, Dad, like to start a joke with, “This is a true story…” I learned that you should always wear black pants for an evening on the town, how to spin a basketball on my index finger, how to treat people, and most of all…how to spoil a kid. Or, spoil myself. Same difference. Because, for real, you spoiled me rotten. My husband wants me to thank you for setting the bar so high.

If it weren’t for you, I wouldn’t have owned a Grease album, a satin vest, or Jordache jeans. Aw, yeah. This kid was stylin’. I would have never known what it’s like to eat Moons Over My-Hammy at Denny’s at 3:00am, take a Ford Mustang for a joy ride, or yell, “Arm pit!” to a Pittsburgh fan. Not to mention that I wouldn’t know the amazingness of the Ohio State Synchronized Swim team.

I wouldn’t know how to number my jokes, smuggle beer into football stadiums, play Commando, or know that it’s possible to transform a green sofa into a Christmas tree. I wouldn’t know that a raw potato covered in salt is downright delicious, that it’s possible to read an entire set of World Book Encyclopedias, or what it’s like to have the most perfect wedding day in the history of weddings.

If it weren’t for you, I wouldn’t have the most amazing childhood memories a kid can have. I wouldn’t know the value of family, how important it is to laugh, or how significant a role a dad can play.

I also wouldn’t have giant earlobes, but that’s another post.

Thank you for everything you’ve given me. Happy birthday, Dad.

Right now, we’re playing a giant game of pin the tail on the donkey, what with the being blindfolded, sent spinning, then pushed off into the unknown. If we could just get that tail on the donkey’s butt, everything would be fine! You thought you were playing a child’s party game, but it’s really a metaphor for my life.

These games used to be fun and exciting, but now they’re exhausting. I just did the egg-toss and have raw yolk all over me. I HAVE A BELLY FULL OF PUNCH AND CAKE. STOP SPINNING ME. TAKE THIS BLINDFOLD OFF. I want to see where I’m going and I want to stick this pin squarely where it belongs, then wash the egg off my shirt. I want normal!

But, see? There’s no such thing.

At least, not for us. Maybe for you and your family, but not mine. YOU try to get the tail on the donkey and I will, instead, focus on making sure that my kin don’t spin themselves into traffic, or pin themselves in the face, or fall off that cliff over there. You try to win the candy prize and I’ll try to keep my family from being admitted to the hospital. Deal?

And, sometimes I think it’s not fair; watching everyone scramble for bubble gum while I sit there, rubbing my face where I got whacked with the pinata stick. But, other times I sneak into my kids’ rooms at night and see them sleeping soundly, each holding a piece of rainbow-colored, papier mache. I hope they know that, although mom didn’t get the prize, she took a hard hit to the cheek in order to get us close to it.

Hopefully I will teach them that at the end of the day, life isn’t about the party favors, it’s about the clean-up and knowing that despite the mess, you will do it again. That sometimes you will have hopes of fun and normalcy that turn to shambles, but you pick up the trash and move on.

Please excuse me while I get my broom.

I don’t know how to describe the feelings of relief mixed with sadness when we heard Erik was alive. When he got back to Ohio that fall, I cried every time I saw him, because I knew many of his friends made a very different trip home. I was so grateful, that I was literally a sobbing mess every time he walked into a room.

I saved this newspaper and keep it in a drawer where I come across it often. Someday I’ll give it to Erik, if he wants it, though I’m sure he recalls that day without any physical reminders. I can’t imagine what he saw, what he still sees, or if he can even talk about it. I know that this paper, the one I held in my hands when the grief was raw, reminds me that it happened and we were very, very scared.

And, it reminds me to be thankful that Erik, his brother Mike, our nephew Alex, and our friend Jeremy have all come home alive in the last few years. I saw Erik and Mike on Saturday. We hugged, talked, laughed, played drinking games, poker, and a seriously competitive game of Taboo. I am incredibly proud to be their aunt even if they won’t let me win.

For all the families who are remembering their fallen this Memorial Day, thank you for sharing your sons and daughters with us. Their sacrifice, and yours, are not forgotten.

The problem is that when you’ve been with someone for 18 years (our relationship is officially an adult!) their pain becomes your pain; it’s like you’re stressed-out by proxy, but in our case my husband is feeling queasy and I am eating all the guacamole.

I have some experience with this anxiety stuff. Just ask my fingernails, my waistline, and my bar bill. What I don’t have experience with is someone I love going through it. I talk to strangers all day long for a living, but I have no idea what to say to my soul-mate other than, “Pass the chips.”

What I cling to is knowing that the most horrible, poop-inducing, anxiety-ridden moments of my life resulted in something great. Two premature births, all of my son’s surgeries, and speaking at a keynote in front of roughly 4,000 people stand out in my mind, but they were all necessary and wonderful in the grand scheme of things.

Shaking Like a Leaf at the Voices of the Year Community Keynote, BlogHer ’11

These events have taught me one very important lesson; good stuff happens to those who don’t die of dehydration from their nervous poops. So, see? I am not glib. I put forethought into donning my rose-colored glasses.

Even if my husband wants nothing more than to rip them off my face and throw them into the street.

Recently, we were asked to bring a patriotic dessert to a pot-luck so I turned to Pinterest for some inspiration. Part of my job is to pin items to the BlogHer Loves Holidays board and I knew there were some great ideas involving red, white and blue goodies. In particular, I wanted to make these rice cereal treats.

They didn’t turn out as pretty as the picture, but it’s me; this wasn’t a surprise. It wasn’t until we got to the pot-luck where I saw these adorably sprinkled cupcakes…

 …and this flag-waving dessert…

 …that I realized I had gone overboard on the dye and created the ugliest dish on the table. They weren’t even blue. They were green and very holiday-buffet looking. This is now my M.O. as I once created, what my friends refer to as, “Holiday S’mores” on a camping trip when I accidentally packed cinnamon graham crackers.

I used a 3-section foam plate as a tray, so as not to intimidate anyone.

At this most recent event, people were nudging me as I took these pictures to point out how bad the treats looked. In their defense, they didn’t know they were talking to the chef.

Next up: I put a Christmas spin on strawberry shortcake.

That doesn’t seem very long, until you’re actually sitting there. It’s long. Last week, I applied all of my makeup while sitting at that light. I even curled my eyelashes. Don’t judge me.

If a text is urgent I will reply using Siri (yes Mom, texts can be urgent when you work on Twitter and you have a tweet about quilting about to go up in the middle of a national disaster…and, this is not to say that quilting isn’t important, because it is…to quilters).

Sometimes, though, Siri doesn’t cooperate. In fact, she’s taken to insulting me.

So I told my daughter to snap a picture of the screen so I could tattle on my iPhone like any adult would do, then I tried again.

Rude.

Clearly, Siri has selective hearing which makes her a lot like my children. And, my dog. I may as well ask her to clean her room, or unload the dishwasher, or stop rolling in dead animals.

But I will not cave. I will not text while driving even though I kind of want to just to show Siri that I CAN LIVE WITHOUT HER and her lack of help.

At least the quilters are happy.