Category Archives: Meghan

Happy Belated Fathers Day!

Sarah: We have apparently been busy and just realized that we haven’t posted in over a month! Since that time included our dad’s birthday AND Father’s Day, it seems that an appropriate first post back would be a tribute to the eponymous “Mister” of our blog. (Penned the 21st(ish) of June)


Meghan: Aaaaaaaaand over a month later, we will try this again…


Like Sarah was saying, our dad. People who know our dad would probably all describe him differently because he is part goofball and part most serious worker on the planet, as well as part sentimental and part WHO CARES.

Here is a picture of Daddy, Meghan, Granddad, and Uncle Steve deer hunting, one of our dad's favorite things in the world, which Meghan also inherited a love for.
Here is a picture of Daddy, Meghan, Granddad, and Uncle Steve deer hunting, one of our dad’s favorite things in the world, which Meghan also inherited a love for.
Also demonstrating his masterful rock-fishing skills


Sarah: PERFECT description. Looking back through old pictures, his birthday pics always involve him wearing something as a hat that’s not really a hat, and posing in a crazy fashion (i.e., with a huge ball of used duct tape stuck to his face). Unfortunately for our mom, I think that’s one trait Meghan and I both inherited from him. I remember plenty of occasions when mom wanted a “nice” picture but would end up yelling “can ANY of you just be NORMAL when the camera is on you??!!??”.



The many faces of Joe Labuda receiving gifts and hamming it up for the camera. He also doesn’t like cake (WHO doesn’t like cake??!?) and only eats banana pudding for his birthday.


Meghan: Daddy is definitely where Sarah and I get our sense of humor. In high school, our Sunday evenings revolved around us watching The Simpsons with our dad, and we would all laugh together and sing “Mr. Plow”. It was great bonding time. It still horrifies our mom that such filth was enjoyed by her husband and children, but we turned out okay, so whatever.


Sarah: Dad’s taste in comedy (The Simpsons) and sci-fi/fantasy (Lord of the Rings, Star Wars, Harry Potter) were all very influential for me growing up. I turned into more of a nerd than Meghan, but we watched these creepy weird anime versions of The Hobbit and Return of the King together with dad so she got at least a small amount of the ingrained nerdiness, even if she hides it well sometimes.

The late 80s/early 90s were TERRIBLE for my hair!

Meghan: No, I didn’t get sucked into the nerd movie vortex quite like Sarah did, but those books, especially The Hobbit, are probably my fondest childhood memory. I still remember sitting on Daddy’s lap while he read us a paperback copy of The Hobbit before bedtime (no picture books for us…he also read us Summer of the Monkeys when I was probably 6 or 7), and his big coffee table illustrated version was an obsession of ours.


A few years ago, I taught 8th grade in a district that used The Hobbit as one of their required readings for that grade level, and I’m pretty sure I scared my students with my enthusiasm for that book. I just had such positive associations with the story. I know that our dad’s sewing the seeds of a love of reading in us at an early age is what ultimately led me to love teaching reading and being a librarian. And obviously to Sarah’s geekdom. And, as I type this, my six-year-old son is humming the Imperial March from Star Wars. Not joking. So I guess it’s hereditary.

Sarah’s First Communion, 1988-ish

Sarah: Dad is also a former firefighter and fire safety engineer by trade, so we grew up with the utmost in fire safety training. I’ll never forget the 4th of July always having dad supply a bucket of water for our sparklers to be dunked into IMMEDIATELY after use, and Meghan and I had to go collect all of the used fireworks from throughout the neighborhood each year on July 5th.


Once, I was on the phone with my mom while I was in college, and she suddenly burst out with, “Oh my, Joe Labuda is in the backyard in full bunker gear with a water hose burning the brush pile!”. FYI, when living in the country it is normal to burn your own brush, but *not* usually while wearing full firefighter gear.

Dad’s surprise 50th birthday party in our backyard in Van Vleck, TX. Good times were had by all!



Dad with cousin and siblings at his 50th

I’ve moved approximately 18 times since graduating from high school, so each time I find a new apartment I call mom to tell her about the kitchen and flooring, then she hands the phone to dad so I can tell him about the sprinkler system, carbon monoxide and smoke detectors, and accessibility of fire extinguishers.

Dad at the first responders memorial at Ground Zero in NYC in 2003. Though he doesn’t work in a firehouse any more, he still feels a strong kinship with all first responders, especially firefighters.

Meghan: I still feel like I’m sinning if I burn a candle. They were always off limits in our house. I remember going to friends’ apartments in college and they would have a candle burning, and I would be so nervous because a paper 5 feet away could be ignited by a spark or something.

Family vacation with Meghan rocking a sweet fanny pack

Sarah: Burning candles has always felt like a huge act of rebellion, for sure!


Dad is also, as Meghan said at the beginning, one of the hardest working people I’ve ever known. His dad, our Granddad Labuda, was in the military in World War II and then an electrician, so dad learned from him both how to do electrical work as well as how to be CHEAP. He jokingly refers to himself as a “cheap Czech” because of his unwillingness to pay anyone for something he thinks he can do or make himself.

Dad’s squad at his 50th

Meghan: When our Granddad moved out of the house he’d lived in 50+ years, we (Sarah, Daddy, Roye, and I) helped clean out his garage, which was FULL of odds and ends that Granddad couldn’t part with because they might be useful some day, such as 14 fan belts in various conditions hanging from the rafters, as well as a cast iron bathtub that almost killed Daddy and Roye. Our dad doesn’t necessarily have a fan belt problem (yet), but he definitely inherited the inability to throw things away. Yippee.


I guess I can’t really complain too much, because I do see some of the cheap Czech-ness in me; I follow our dad’s method of driving a vehicle until it literally falls apart, and then continuing to drive it until you have to pay someone to take it from you because no car is worth the money you have to pay a dealership and it’s all a scam, damnit. (Side note: Last week, one of the windows in my car, which has never been able to roll down due to the gremlins in my door, randomly fell down while I was driving the boys home from a friends’ house. The 100-degree air blasting in the car was glorious. Roye literally took off the door panel and rigged my window to stay up using a rope I made from aluminum foil. Us for the win. For now, at least.)

On the beach in Florida on spring break vacation in high school

Sarah: After being Dad’s “assistant” for all sorts of fun projects growing up, I was able to breeze through my Ag classes in high school. I knew how to use power tools, how to stick my arm up through a hole in the sheetrock in a wall while someone (dad) fed down wires while putting in a new outlet, and plenty of other home-improvement projects that involved our free child labor to complete. Once, Meghan and I had to stand in the bed of dad’s truck in the garage holding the garage door opener track over our heads up to the ceiling while dad installed it. That one ended in tears, but no injuries (that I recall, at least).


Meghan: It’s funny. Dad’s such a safety freak, but his cheapness definitely wins in most cases. Such as the lawnmower of our youth…


Sarah: Ah, that darned lawnmower…


I will start by fully admitting my fault and that I deserved the punishment I was dealt. I had always been a hyperactive kid and after breaking 2 clarinet mouthpieces in my sophomore year of high school because I was twirling my clarinet like a baton, my parents made me mow the lawn all summer to pay them back.


Not with the nice riding lawnmower, though. With the push lawnmower that was older than me, only had 2 wheels that touched the ground, and had an engine that could only be turned off by REACHING INTO THE RUNNING MOTOR and disconnecting the spark plugs, which he had helpfully labeled. So that goes with dad’s cheap side.


To account for safety, though, he made me wear safety goggles, ear plugs, and closed-toed shoes while maneuvering this beast around the yard. And remember how we grew up “in the country”? Since we lived in one of very few “neighborhoods” in our area, ALL of my friends drove by all summer and were able to witness me *safely* mowing the lawn with an ancient, decrepit lawnmower. For a 16 year old girl, there could be little better form of public humiliation.

The “picture trees” in our front yard, under which I spent that fateful summer mowing. And apparently we didn’t require shoes but Mom and Dad did?

Meghan: Aww, memories.


Back to our dad’s work ethic, though. He has not only taught but SHOWN Sarah and me what it means to work and help people.


Sarah: Even when it panicked and/or terrified our mom. Like when he picked up hitchhikers, or would stop to change flat tires for people on the side of the road.


Meghan: He’s the type who can’t tell anyone no (Sarah and I inherited that one, too), and he’s served on school boards and many church committees, organized fundraisers, etc. all while being dedicated to his demanding engineering career and keeping his family his first priority.


Sarah: We are SO lucky to have him as our loving, funny, generous, nerdy, stubborn, cheap, AMAZING dad!
We love you, Daddy!!

The Labuda Family circa 1985

We Heart Our Momma!!

Sarah: Meghan and I have learned a LOT from our momma. Growing up, she taught us to be self-sufficient in life so that we could cook, clean, do our own laundry, and balance our checkbook (even though I generally refused to do it). I guess I thought there were times that she was tough, but when I moved to college and lived on my own for the first time I realized how lucky I truly was!!

Our mom LITERALLY cried when Meghan made these for the baby’s first birthday last year, because she didn’t think she would ever use her baking skills! (Or something like that?)

Meghan: Yes! Knowing to separate my whites and maroons so that I didn’t end up with a bunch of pinks was a big deal as a college freshman at A&M.


But in all seriousness, our mom deserves major accolades for dealing with Sarah and me, especially during our lovely teen years. It’s possible we weren’t the worst, but we definitely weren’t the best. I’m just glad I have boys and don’t have to potentially get payback in the form of raising a teenage Meghan.

One of the ways our mom made a huge impact on my life is her being a teacher. I always LOVED helping her in her classroom, and I can remember dressing up as a teacher for career day in kindergarten. I guess it stuck, or at least I wasn’t good at anything else, because fast-forward to now, and I’m a teacher (although currently staying home) and am so thankful for the opportunities I had to learn the ropes as I grew up and throughout my teacher training. But now I TOTALLY understand why she was always so eager to let me decorate her classroom at the beginning of every year. I need one of my kids to hurry up and be old enough to do it for me.


Cheers to all of the hardworking teachers out there!
Cheers to all of the hardworking teachers out there!

Sarah: Agreed – dealing with 2 teenaged girls like us should qualify her for sainthood!  


It may seem silly now, but one of the things I know our mom taught us that many people may have missed out on is canning our own foods. I learned not just to cook meals, but to bake (my favorite!) and make homemade pickles, jellies, and jams. It seemed like the HARDEST THING IN THE WORLD as a child, but Meghan and I actually CHOSE to can our own items a year or so ago and it was actually fun! I guess this just shows that she has some pretty cool skills and tricks up her sleeve, and she was awesome enough to want to pass them down to us.


HOWEVER – one of those skills I never took to was sewing. She tried to teach me to cross-stitch once, and even as a young child I had zero tolerance for it. I remember years later, in high school, finding the remains of a teddy bear cross stitching project thrown in the back corner of my closet, where I’d banished it when I lost my cool!!


Meghan: If Sarah has zero tolerance for sewing, I have negative eleventy billion. I beyond suck at it, and I have no patience for skills that I have no hope of improving on. It’s one of my more pleasant qualities.


One thing I NEVER understood when we were growing up was how Momma would get Sarah and me mixed up all the time. She was called Meghan and I was called Sarah. Or Maxine, the cat, or Aggie, the dog, or Joe, our dad. We were always like, “There are only two of us! How can that be so hard?!” Even until just a couple of years ago, Sarah and I gave Momma the hardest time over that. But I must beg forgiveness now and admit that it wasn’t Momma’s fault at all. It’s all our fault. That’s what kids do to you. They destroy your brain to the point that you can’t even recall the names you meticulously chose for them as you lugged them around in your body for 9 months. I’m sorry, Momma.

NOW try guessing which one is which!
NOW try guessing which one is which!

Sarah: Yeah, I got pretty used to responding to the calls of “SarahMeghanJoeWhoeverYouAreComeHere” growing up, and now – even without having kids of my own – I feel more understanding about the stress that we were for her to deal with!!


Like you said earlier, Meghan, one of mom’s biggest influences on me was through education, but more in the way she taught me to always work my hardest and helped me through stressful times. She was my first “study buddy” in school, and when I took Anatomy and Physiology in high school and it was the most insanely hard class I’d ever taken to that point, she would stay up to help review with me before tests. She would always be there to proofread papers (even to this day!) due to her expertise as a middle school teacher, and she and dad had the motto that’s always kept me pushing myself in my academic life. No matter how well or how badly something was going for me, they would say, “As long as you did your best, that’s all that we can ask of you”. This has kept me motivated to never half-ass anything, because I know that truly she (and dad) have worked their entire lives to give us the best possible opportunities in life, and I owe to it her to always try my hardest!


Meghan: ^^TRUTH. I’ve found myself telling my sons the same thing already about doing their best, and I’m so thankful they drilled that into us so much that it comes naturally as a parenting philosophy for me, too.


As awesome as our mom is, we wouldn’t be giving the whole picture without talking about her forgetfulness. Or misplacingness maybe is more like it. Keys, phone, COFFEE CUP. My whole life, her coffee cups have hidden from her. Once again, I think it’s a case of being a mom and having too much on her mind already to be able to recall something as menial as the location of a beverage, but still, I feel like she has spent more time looking for coffee cups and then having to reheat the coffee than actually drinking the coffee.


I recently found one of mom’s infamous MIA coffee cups in a microwave that hadn’t been used in over a month. So, in other words, she had reheated her coffee, forgotten it was in the microwave, and left the house with the coffee waiting for her all alone. When I found it, I learned that over time, coffee turns rather gelatinous and grows pretty fur.

Momma's coffee cup

You can pretend those are marshmallows.




I definitely remember the morning ritual of getting dressed, eating breakfast, and then searching the closets, freezer, etc for momma’s coffee cup growing up.

Mom taught us life skills, supported our education, drove us endlessly to dance/sports/cheer/whatever practices/games/competitions/meets, set an example of morality and empathy in dealing with others, and was a true example of dedication and love for me growing up through to this day.

Momma modeling a fascinator in Cambridge, England
Momma modeling a fascinator in Cambridge, England



Roaches are the Devil

I don’t think of myself as being a high-maintenance, girly-girl type, but cockroaches are where I draw the line. I can deal with spiders, snakes, (not frogs, but that’s another post), general boy grossness, etc., but if I see a roach scurrying across the floor, I will push my children out of the way to save myself from it. So naturally, when my husband was out of town a couple of weeks ago, after I had gotten all of the boys in bed and was trying to prepare the kitchen for the typical mad rush the following morning, there it was: a huge, terrifying, nasty roach.

*Sidebar: My house is very clean. Our house doesn’t look like a Pottery Barn ad, a.k.a. people obviously live here, but I sweep, scrub, wipe, BLEACH, dust, and clean everything frequently, and my husband is a little bit of a control freak, too, so when I’m not around, he goes through my stacks of papers (boys’ school work I can’t throw away because it will make me a horrible mother, so I’ll just hoard it until it takes over their closets and then put it in storage containers and gift it to their wives when they’re grown and married, who will just throw it away and keep the storage container for Christmas decorations). We also have quarterly pest control services to murder the little a-holes who try to infiltrate our clean house. We just live in an older house in an area with lots of trees and other older houses that for whatever reason seem attractive to roaches.

So anyway, when the roach tried to attack me that night, and I had to be the responsible adult since my husband wasn’t there to take care of it for me like he usually does, I could only do the reasonable thing and whisper-scream while I taped a Styrofoam cup over the little jerk.

I could hear its tentacles or whatever scratching against the cup and almost died.


It was still there the following morning, although I had to keep the boys away from it because all they wanted was to rip up the cup and play with the roach. A couple weeks earlier, I had scheduled our quarterly pest control service for that morning at 10, so my plan was to just look like an idiot to the pest control guy and make him deal with the roach instead of not using the kitchen for  2 days until my husband came home. Sure enough, Alex the pest control guy rescued me from the roach, but not before laughing at me. Whatever. It got rid of the roach, and he was even nice enough to ask if he could throw it in our kitchen trash can, or if he needed to take it farther away after he smashed it WITH HIS BARE HAND. I almost died again.

I’m glad I lived, though, because a couple days later, while going through my 4-year-old’s school papers, he proudly showed me the person he drew that day.


Now, I am proud of his fine motor skills and all that, but all I could do was Google Cartman.


It was entirely appropriate for our middle child because regardless of the fact that most people think he’s always super sweet, those of us who are members of The Inner Circle know that Cartman is probably Caleb’s spirit animal.  Thankfully it’s not a roach, or he’d have to live under a cup for the rest of his life.

Sarah says:

Meghan and I share an absolute petrifying terror of roaches. I’ve lived on the African continent, where monster-sized roaches roam freely, and one of the most horrifying experiences of my life was opening the silverware drawer in my kitchen of my apartment in Cabinda, Angola and having a giant roach run out and CLIMB UP MY ARM!!! My friends/coworkers living upstairs came to check on me because they could hear my shrieks of terror.




One of THOSE Days

Last week, I had one of those days. My husband was out of town, which meant our three boys were extra crazy. They just know when Daddy is going to be gone for a while, and their brains kick into hyperdrive trying to figure out things they wouldn’t normally do when he’s here. Such as eat wood chips during recess because they refused to eat their breakfast and just couldn’t make it until snack time. Or the baby suddenly learns the word booty and parades around everywhere we go singing his new knowledge. Or other schemes/fights/general chaos. And I’m often the victim.


Now, I know my 19-month-old didn’t purposely stick Thomas in my hair knowing his little churning wheels would suck my hair in and cause it to wrap around tighter and tighter, until I finally got everyone buckled in their carseats and could finally locate the power switch, then have to find the scissors among the vases, candles, and matches all hidden from little people in the cabinet above the stove and butcher my hair.

Thomas hair ball

That’s just how it goes. Except that morning was going to be different. Even though our oldest was sick (and by sick I mean just enough to not go to school, but not enough to slow him down by any stretch of the imagination…he took a personal day) and Mr. 4 still didn’t eat breakfast, I was going to make the best of it. I had gotten a snack for Mr. 4 to eat on the way to school, we were going to be on time(ish), and I was psyching myself up to come home and jam to iHeart90s while cleaning bathrooms as Disney Jr. babysat the other two boys.

But then it hit the fan when BabyMan jacked Mr. 4’s coveted toy that he didn’t care about until his baby brother wanted it, causing Mr. 4 to pitch a fit and throw his pretzels all over the floor of the car. Of course, two minutes later he was over it and pining for his pretzels, which were by then coated in crumbs of everything else they’ve throw down there. Then he decided all of a sudden he didn’t want to go to school since his big brother didn’t have to go to school that day and protested LOUDLY and stiffly (ever had your kid do the thing where they think if they become stiff as a board, you can’t make them go somewhere?) as we walked to his classroom. I let his teacher know we’d had a morning and that I foresaw more wood chips in his future.


Now, I know it’s ridiculous, but it’s also very easy for me to see other moms walking their calm kids into school and think about how much better of a mom/kid combo they must be because clearly they didn’t have to scalp themselves for the sake of a toy that morning. Or if I see a kid throwing a fit, I convince myself that probably never happens to that parent, and they will take care of it much more calmly and patiently than I would. I know it’s unreasonable to think that, but for some reason, judgement is just so stinkin’ prevalent in our parenting society. I don’t so much judge other moms’ decisions as I judge myself negatively based on them. And unfortunately, those moms do exist whose goal it is to out-mom everyone else, which totally sucks for people like me. 

I just have to take it one day at a time and know my sweet/chaotic/energetic/growing boys were meant to be mine, and because of that, I will be able to handle life.


Sarah Says:


Meghan’s little brood of wild men are also some of the sweetest guys you could ever want to meet. They are good sharers, (generally) very polite and well-mannered, and, when encountered individually, can play quietly and manage to behave. It’s just in combination, and especially when alone with Meghan, that they seem to go a little off-the-rails at times. I like to think it’s just their way of showing their Mama how much they love her!


Recommended Reading: A Tree Grows in Brooklyn

Okay, so I know it’s an oldie-but-goodie type of book, but I think every adult in the US needs to read A Tree Grows in Brooklyn by Betty Smith, like NOW. Gah. It’s good on so many levels. It’s part coming-of-age, part tragedy, part love story, and part kick-in-the-face to all of us who whine about our wifi being too slow.


In the event you’re like Sarah and me and A Tree Grows in Brooklyn wasn’t required reading for you in school, here’s a rundown: Francie Nolan is a second-generation Irish-American adolescent girl growing up in a Brooklyn tenement in the early 1900s. She and her family are super poor, and while her dad, Johnny, is an extremely talented (and apparently gorgeous) singer, he is also a dreamer/alcoholic who can’t keep a steady job, so Francie’s mom, the beautiful but hardened Katie, has to pick up his slack by working hard cleaning apartment buildings.

Francie and her younger brother Neeley fall in line with all the other kids in their part of Brooklyn by collecting scraps of junk to sell to the pervy guy down the street for a penny, unknowingly being racist toward people of other cultures in their neighborhood, and generally being consumed by poverty.

The difference with Francie is that she has her dad’s dreamer qualities and loves to escape her pitiful life through books, which she reads in the shade of a tree by their apartment building. Francie just doesn’t quite fit in with any of the neighborhood kids, and she eventually ends up convincing her dad to lie about their address so she can attend a better school where she can actually get an education and not just humiliation. The reader can tell early on that Francie is special and has the potential to rise above her socioeconomic status, if only her dad didn’t suck at life.  

Francie watches her parents’ complicated relationship: Katie and Johnny are the epitome of being in love, but Johnny can’t handle life well enough to provide for his family, so Katie kinda resents him for that, but at the same time, she loves him so much, she does what she can to protect him and support him despite his disease. AKA they are beautiful and dysfunctional and you JUST WANT JOHNNY TO GET HIS CRAP TOGETHER so they can all be happy and sing together and be the WWI version of the Von Trapps. (Hey, Katie is actually Austrian, so maybe there’s a way…)

Von Trapps

I seriously get goosebumps just looking at this picture. Sarah and I are total TSOM nerds.

It doesn’t happen, and Johnny dies of pneumonia as a result of his alcoholism. Don’t crucify me here–I’m not spoiling anything. The book makes it clear from early on that Johnny dies. Knowing he is going to die makes reading up to that point all the more emotional. Seriously, you just love him so much but also want to punch him in the face because he could make things so good for his family.

Throughout their marriage, Katie had a tin-can bank hidden in the closet where she was saving up for land in the country where they could live happily ever after. When she had to drain the bank to pay for Johnny’s cemetery plot, she told her kids that they wouldn’t need the tin-can bank anymore anyway because they now owned a piece of land. [Insert ugly cry]

The book goes on to follow Francie’s completion of school, getting the shaft from her mother regarding going to high school (Katie can only afford for one kid to go, and she chooses Neeley because she know Francie has enough ambition to find a way for herself. Not a cool moment for me.), and going out in the working world. She stumbles some and she soars some, and she falls in true love and she falls in practical love. Francie has mama drama, but she always comes back around is able to understand her mom’s reasons for doing what she does because Francie is super intuitive and level-headed.

The reason I think this book should be read by all is because it appeals to basically anyone in any situation. Crappy relationship? Done. Money problems? Got it. Family issues? Yep. Want to go against all the naysayers and get out of your rut? Uh-huh. Think you’re better than everyone and poor people just need to get off their lazy butt and get a job? This is for you.

So many of our immigrant relatives planted their foreign roots in the US with lives like these; the book is a wake-up call that makes the reader contemplate just how they got to their current situation, gives hope to those beaten down by life, and will hopefully make you consider other people’s experiences before judging them as worthless.

“Look at everything always as though you were seeing it either for the first or last time: Thus is your time on earth filled with glory.”-Mary Rommely


Seriously, all the feels.


Sarah Says:


UGH – FINE. I’ll add it to the list.

Nightstand books to read
Just a few of the books I’m trying to read currently

Feeling Old

I work part-time with college students, mostly freshmen, who subconsciously have made it their goal in life to make me feel like an old hag. I mean, they’re all young and vibrant and happy and think college is the hardest thing they’ll ever do in their life, and I’m the old loser who’s like, ENJOY IT WHILE YOU CAN. IT ALL COMES CRASHING DOWN AS SOON AS YOU GET A DIPLOMA. In other words, that person I always detested when I was their age. Super.

Homer facepalm


So a few days ago, we were talking about movies while my students were CLEARLY studying for their first round of exams, and we got on the subject of horror movies, which I told them I can’t handle due to watching Scream at my friend Christina’s house when I was in 7th grade, and I tried to act all cool while we watched it, but I really wanted to curl up in a ball and cry.

I was in the middle of a lecture about how Scream was different from horror movies before that time and how it seemed to be revolutionary blahblahblah when one of my students was like, “But aren’t those comedy movies?” And it took me a few seconds to realize the only thing these kids know about Scream is from the Scary Movie franchise, which of course I’ve never seen but assume are all dumb because I’m old and boring, right?

Anyway, I started to explain the difference but realized it was useless and I was losing cool points, so I removed myself from the conversation, and they moved on to talking about Justin Beiber’s new stuff while I stared at the wrinkles on my hands.

Justin Beiber

Will it be yes or will it be sorry?

I’m really not one of those 30-somethings who freaks out because she’s getting old. I honestly think age is just a number, and it’s all about how you feel and how well you take care of yourself that determines your mindset regarding that number. But sometimes it’s a little disheartening to see Texas A&M Class of 2020 t-shirts popping up in the stores at the mall. That’s all I’m saying.

Speaking of wrinkles, a couple of weeks ago, my son’s class celebrated the 100th day of school with all sorts of 100-related activities. If you have school-age kids, you know the drill: they have to take 100 somethings to school so the somethings can be counted, graphed, etc. So I dug around the stack of crap on top of the fridge and found the dusty sheets of Minions stickers we bought for some other school thing a few months back, cut out 100, and sent them to school. Mom for the win.

Anyway, one of the more disturbing things my son brought home from the 100th day of school was this picture.


I mean, if that’s what he really looks like in 95 years, he’s golden, but I just wasn’t expecting that when I went through his daily folder. BUT it made me thankful because I may have the rikls, but at least I don’t have white haer. Yet.


Sarah Says:


I’m 3 years older, so I feel similarly. I’ve never really worried about my age, but here is a panicked text I sent Meghan a few months ago when I was observing the ravages of time on my poor visage:



Sooner or later, age gets us all.

First Post!

Meghan and I are very lucky. We are sisters born almost exactly 3 years apart, and despite almost sharing a birthday, and a significant portion of our DNA, we are very different people.

Venn diagram


We never had to compete for our parents’ attention, because they were adamantly 50/50 devoted to our upbringing and equally over-involved in everything we did. Besides the time our grandpa was sick with cancer, they never missed a game, performance, meet, or competition in which either of us participated. This allows us to easily maintain distinct identities within our lives while simultaneously being the best of friends and understanding each other better than almost anyone else on earth could.

Two of our overlapping interests are reading and writing, and though we also generally share a sense of humor and appreciation for sarcasm, our lists of favorite authors and books have no common elements. We were raised by a sci-fi and fantasy loving father who read us “The Hobbit” from the earliest times of our childhood, and a middle school English teaching mother who read us “Summer of the Monkeys” by Wilson Rawls a chapter at a time before bed in elementary school. We also always loved English classes all through school, and competed in Ready Writing at the district UIL scholastic meets each year.


We weren't brainwashed by our dad to be Texas Aggies at all
We weren’t brainwashed by our dad to be Texas Aggies at all

Somewhere along the way, “adulting” has taken away much of the time we used to devote to these pursuits, and we decided to take back the control. By consciously making the priority to read and write each day, we hope to take time for ourselves to strengthen our own sanity in our daily lives, as well as share with others the things that make us laugh, or cry, or reconsider the world in some way. Thanks for joining us on this journey, and be sure to subscribe and follow us for updates in the sidebar or on the Follow Us page!