When Marriage Happens


Seventeen. Years. Ago.

Yesterday was our 17th wedding anniversary.

No candlelit dinner. No spa day. No excursion to the exotic island of our choice. We’re not given to flights of romantic fancy very often, but even by our standards, it was low-key.

We found a sitter at the 11th hour and opted to go out for dinner, sans enfants. The restaurant was nice but not pricey. We used a coupon.

(Yes, I am my parents.)

Our conversation was decidedly prosaic. We didn’t reminisce about our wedding 17 years ago. We talked about a particular struggle one of our children is facing right now and how we can help. We talked about buying a piece of land, or maybe a new minivan, or maybe nothing. We talked about whether or not to grow our family, and the myth of spending “quality time” with our kids. Then we shared a Cannoli-Strawberry-Chocolate Cake gelato and went home to put the kids to bed.

It wasn’t until after midnight that I realized I hadn’t properly signified the occasion by uploading a picture or posting about it on social media.

For one stupid nanosecond, I felt guilty — as if our celebration of 17 years was in some way lessened because I didn’t post it to Facebook. Surely Scott deserves a little online bragging. Isn’t that something a loving wife should do?

And then I felt the urge to throat-punch myself.
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Caillou & Netflix Jesus

A mother can tell. I can diagnose an ear infection just on behavior.

So when my four-year-old daughter turned into a grouchy, demanding, whiny little brat this week, my “mommy-sense” started sending up alarms. A further investigation and the whole sordid truth came out.

My baby girl tested positive for Caillou.

Caillou must be stopped.

I was hoping it was something easy to treat. Like head lice or MRSA. But no such luck.

At one time or another, both my boys had a virulent case of Caillou. It took weeks to purge our household of that infection. Weeks of agony.

For those nursing the bliss of ignorance in this matter, Caillou is a French-Canadian animated TV series. The titular character is a four-year-old boy whose “adventures” are so mindlessly banal the producers elected to compensate by giving Caillou the personality of Joseph Stalin. He’s rude, obnoxious, disobedient and belligerent. And that’s when he isn’t whining.
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Put Down That Jar: Pasta alla Prescott

Moms like myself need some staple meals in our cooking arsenal. Something fast and easy. Something made from ingredients we always have on hand.

Something our kids will eat without a fight.


Chicken Pasta with Tomato Cream Sauce

Confession: At Chez Prescott, very few meals satisfy this trinity of requirements.

Still further confession: For some years, this dish didn’t either.

And then, one day, I ran out of artichokes.
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Official Nudge: Check Your Neck

Check Your Neck

I’m 99.999% positive that I never gave a thought to my thyroid gland until six months ago.

In July 2015, however, my thyroid and I had a rather ugly introduction. I wish I could say we were able to overcome our differences, but the truth is, our relationship went downhill from there.
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No Fridays in Cancertown

In some ways, papillary thyroid cancer is a “dream” cancer. When I see pictures of the ravages of radical mastectomy or the hair-free heads of chemo survivors, making complaint about my journey feels cowardly, self-important, and cheap. There are “real” cancer heroes out there — those who’ve beaten it, those who ultimately lost the battle, and those still neck-deep in the fight. Bona fide heroes.

I claim no such valor.

I live in a place and time in which this cancer is treatable and, in the vast majority of cases, beatable. I don’t have to lose an appendage in order to beat this cancer. Or even my hair. I lose a small, unseen — albeit important — organ that can be functionally replaced by daily medication.

Both the Endocrinologist who’s treating me and the Ear, Nose & Throat specialist who performed my thyroidectomy are excellent doctors: competent, compassionate and confidence-inspiring.

I have a great family and wonderful friends to cheer me on and support me. I serve a powerful God whose everlasting love is supported by His everlasting arms. I am very blessed and I know it.

But there are days, y’all.

Mostly Fridays, it seems.
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