May
15
2026

Someone Else Has It Worse — and Your Pain Still Counts

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Do you ever have those days where you feel like your pain, your struggle, isn’t worth sharing because someone else has it worse? Have you ever been told not to complain because, guaranteed, someone else has it worse? And have you ever been in the middle of a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day… wondering how you’ll make it to bedtime without collapsing… when the doorbell rings?

And there’s a delivery. And it’s for you. And for one small second, something in you shifts as a small smile spreads on your face. Not everything. And not completely.

But enough. Enough to make your struggle feel a little lighter. Enough to make you feel seen. Enough to remind you that you might actually make it through this moment. I have. This was me two days ago. Laying on the couch. Feeling crappy and crappy for myself. The doorbell rang. It was a flower delivery. I was confused. Mother’s Day had passed. The note simply said: “Congratulations.” I didn’t even know what the congratulations could be for.

I called the florist to ask who it was from. The flowers were from my fiancé. “Thanks for the flowers,” I said. “Um… what’s the congrats for?” “Congrats on making your new nonprofit official.” You read that right. Nonprofit. I’ve been dreaming of creating this for as long as my heart can remember. And it’s one step closer to happening. This happened last week. Even signed a contract for an office.

So more than one step closer actually. In all the preparation for my procedure, I lost sight of these very exciting milestones.

And then the recovery took over fast and furiously. The flowers? They didn’t fix my day, my mood, or my wound(ed heart.) They didn’t erase the hard. They didn’t make everything suddenly okay. They didn’t magically turn me into a glowing, productive human. But I didn’t go back to the couch. The flowers gave me just enough strength. Just enough energy. Just enough oomph to do a little work. They gave me just enough warmth and oomph to not lose the entire day to the couch.

They brought me back to life a little. Made me feel a little less sorry for myself. A little more seen. A little more able. Simply stated, they interrupted the gray. They brought in a little orange.

And that? Oh, the irony. Because what that moment did to me? That feeling. That pause. That tiny shift in the middle of a gray moment? That is all I’m going to say for now. Except this: It reminded me exactly why I’m building what I’m building. Why I’m so excited. Why I believe it’s needed. Why I cannot WAIT to share more.

My only wish? That I had 48 hours in a day, a team of 100 people, and fewer gray moments interrupting the progress. But alas. We build anyway. One step at a time. As Orange Rhinos do.

Sending my warmth and a little oomph.
xoxo, Sheila

🧡 The Orange Rhino

May
14
2026

I’m Tired of Being Resilient: What I Finally Told My Therapist

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Yesterday was a hard day. I finally shared with my therapist what I’ve been feeling since February; what’s been growing slowly but heavily. “This whole repeated skin c@ncer, now high-risk situation has me feeling depressed. It’s growing. I think we need to add it to the weekly topics. I’m tired of being resilient. Of laughing with my doctors that I’ll see them soon. I’m tired of coping. I’m tired of putting on a brave, I’m-fine face.

I’m tired of pretending I’m all good. I’m tired. So, so tired.” And I am. Situational depression isn’t new to me. I’ve been there. Here. I’ve let it linger for months. I’ve fought back.

After therapy, I went back to the couch and promptly slept from 10 to 3. Healing this go-around is seemingly harder. As I went in and out of sleep, a popular thought came to me. Repeatedly. “Depression is a liar.” Depression was trying to tell me that I’d have no energy for days to come. Depression was trying to tell me that I’d lost my groove altogether. Depression was trying to tell me that it would win. Ha!! My mind knows better.

It has learned better. It, I, fought back. I refused to go back to 2016, when depression did indeed win. I started to think… What if… What if I did something bold? Years ago, almost ten to be exact, when depression rolled in, I stayed hidden and didn’t share. I figured my way out eventually and came back online in 2022.

But what if this time, I don’t hide? What if this time, I keep writing? What if I share the tools I’m using while I’m using them?

Because here’s the thing. Depression isn’t always the big “D.” Sometimes it’s a little “d.” Sometimes it lasts for days. Or weeks. Or months. Or even years. And honestly, the tools I’ve learned to deal with the depression I face are the same tools I use when the gray in life hits in general. The heavy, blech moments that just happen because well, life happens. The ones that weigh things down. The ones that try to convince us we are stuck there.

And we all face those moments. Depression or not. I know they aren’t unique to me. Life is wonderful. It truly is. And also, life can weigh us down sometimes. I remembered yesterday — as my mind and I fought back the gray — that it is easier to begin feeling lighter when someone sees us. Shows up with us. For us. Yesterday, my fiancé sent me flowers celebrating an accomplishment I’m yet to share with all of you. Little did he know that seeing me, reminding me of the orange I’ve been working toward, would help me take one step forward.

One of my favorite tools. And honestly? One step forward counted. We are all in this together. When gray happens, we show up. With you. For you. For each other.

🧡 The Orange Rhino

Sending my warmth as always, xoxo, Sheila (Changed the order up today and soon it will make sense as to why it made sense today)

Apr
16
2026

When Parenting Overwhelm Makes Sobriety Feel Hard

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Sometimes the hardest part of parenting isn’t the moment. It’s managing your own overwhelm when all you want to do is escape. Last week, mine had me reaching for a glass of scotch after 450+ days sober. That’s when I knew just how overwhelmed I really was. Two of the three boys were hangry, hangry teenagers. I couldn’t breathe right. I couldn’t blink right. I couldn’t be anything… right. And yes, they are good kids having human moments.

I mean, I get hangry too and um my mood swings are fun at times. This said, I’ve parented from this philosophy for years: De-escalate, don’t elevate. Don’t elevate emotions. Don’t elevate tension. Which also means: de-escalate, don’t evaluate. Trying to assess what is actually going on, trying to figure out how to help them when they are amped up? Useless. Not gonna work. Trying to “teach” them how to do better next time when they are amped? Also not gonna work. That will definitely just escalate.

I mean, try telling me how to better handle my emotions during a sudden moment of hormonal rage. Ask me how well I will listen and take in your lesson plan. Amirite? So when they were stomping around the kitchen, nitpicking at each other, complaining about my meal (the one I was so excited to have made them) and my efforts to de-escalate were not working…

And I realized I was getting frustrated and starting to make things worse, I left the room. I needed a break. Leaving the room was easy. “I will not be treated this way.” Turn and walk away. Easy. The hard part? I still felt all the overwhelm. The sadness that we weren’t having a family dinner over a meal I thought they would love. The letdown. The clearly other emotions about other stuff I apparently wasn’t aware of.

On the way to the safety of my couch, I saw my fiancé’s glass of scotch. I guess I was bottling up more stress than I realized. I picked it up without hesitation. What’s one sip? That doesn’t destroy my 450+ days of not drinking, right? I immediately spit it out, poured the drink down the drain, and the tears fell. Dammit. Parenting is exhausting. I love my kids and still, it’s exhausting. They are human, they act human, and so I give them grace and still, it’s exhausting.

This happened last week. It had been a hard week. As I sat curled up on the couch, crying, letting all the stress out, I decided I needed to change clothes. I needed cozy. I needed to regulate myself so I could handle them better. So I could ooze out more comforting, chill vibes. Sweatshirt and sweatpants on, I returned to the kitchen.

They had fizzled out, thank goodness. One had left. The remaining one apologized, thanked me for going out of my way to make his favorite dinner and get cookies. The other one appeared shortly thereafter and said thank you for the cookies too. (Lol, not dinner. I knew it would be hit or miss with him.) Walking away was the right thing. Spitting out the scotch was the right thing. Neither was easy.

Naturally, I decided to take a picture. The one who hadn’t lost his shite with me saw the glass. “MOM! What are you doing? Put that down! You aren’t drinking.” Oh bless my heart. He was so worried I had taken a drink. That moment made spitting out the scotch, made deciding to be sober, worth it. One of the reasons I’ve chosen to be sober is to show my kids that life is okay without alcohol; that it is not needed to numb during hard times.

My son witnessed it in action. May he remember this. And may I keep remembering that I can do it because honestly? Seeing how quickly I wanted to numb when parenting hurt so badly… when I hurt so much… even after 450+ days? That’s why I personally have chosen to be sober. I know I need to be.

Sending my warmth and a little extra oomph to you all today and always,

xoxo, Sheila

🧡 The Orange Rhino

Mar
23
2026

When Your College Kid Calls Upset: How to Listen Without Fixing Everything

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Your college kid calls upset. You hear their voice on the phone. And you hear all the other voices in your head. The voices reminding you of how you’re supposed to respond. Let them vent. Let them share. Let them be. Let them fly. The voices in your head remind you this is their chance to grow. To learn. That’s it’s okay to hurt. That they will heal and come out stronger, wiser. As you listen, you hear it. You hear their hurt.

You hear their frustration. You hear their fear. And oh, do you feel it. You feel it so very deeply. And you want to give them advice. You really do.

Because you see the path to feeling better. Faster. Easier. With so much less pain. But you know that easing their pain today, right now, can just create more pain in the future. You know that letting them figure things out now, even though it hurts, might actually help them hurt less later. And so you bite your tongue. And you fight like heck to hide your own pain. To sound confident in their ability to figure things out.

To not sound concerned. And you struggle right along with them because this is not easy. In the moment, their pain is your pain. You hurt with them. Oh, do you ever. And you worry right alongside them.

But you don’t offer advice. And you don’t ask leading questions. And you don’t dig for more hard stuff. You offer love. You offer a soft landing place. You offer “uh huhs” and “oh, that’s hard” and “I’m here for you.” And then you offer to make homemade chocolate chip cookies even though you simply do not have the time.

Because that is all you can do to make them actually feel better. And then you think, not to them or of them, but to yourself: Who is making me chocolate chip cookies to help me feel better? Because this stage of parenting? Honestly? It can be brutal. He is okay, to be clear. This wasn’t a crisis. Just one of those tough, emotional, figure-it-out moments that comes with being away at college. Having our college-aged kids, especially our freshmen, far away from us, struggling, and not knowing which adults in their life are there to support them, guide them, help them find the answers they need? B.R.U.T.A.L. The letting go here is an incredible act of strength.

Of course I will lean in when I have to. But I will also let my kiddo fumble a little. I have to. It is part of this stage. This journey. His journey. And also? My kiddo wants to. He is in his independent era. We have returned to the “I do” phase. Except now it’s a more complete sentence, not that of a toddler. It’s: “I got it, Mom.” I know you do, kiddo. I know you do.

He sent me this text last night: “Good night. Love you. Thanks for the support (even though I keep denying I need it or want it. When I’m ready I’ll ask for it. Let me know when the cookies are coming.)” Ooof. That hit hard and heavy in a wonderful way. That’s the whole ache of this stage. Being needed in a whole new way. A quieter way. A farther away way. Not to fix. Not to solve. Just to stay close enough that they know you’re still there. Sending my warmth and a little oomph to you all this Monday morning.

You are all loved and appreciated, near and far.

xoxo, Sheila

🧡 The Orange Rhino

Mar
19
2026

Don’t Let a Disability Tell You What You’re Capable Of

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There is no polite way for me to write this post. I’ve actually waited a few days (and months) so I could be “cool, calm, and collected.” Truth? I’m not sure I will ever be entirely cool, calm, and collected about this. This post is for any parent, child, or person who has ever been told they weren’t good enough because they have a disability. Or because they learn differently. Or because they learn more slowly. Do not, I repeat, do not, let anyone tell you that you are not good enough to become what you want to become.

I have four sons. I’m sharing this with permission. One of my sons has severe ADHD, auditory processing and other learning challenges. He was bullied by students and teacher aides alike. In 6th grade, an aide said to him, “You will never go to college or succeed.” Imagine if he had listened?!

Well, he didn’t. Instead, he basically said, “Oh yeah? Watch me.” He is now at a top college, on scholarship, getting good grades, and studying to become a special education teacher. Because he had a few of us rooting for him, pointing out to him the good we saw in him; his strengths, his opportunities. We believed in him until he could for himself.

Another one of my sons has struggled since kindergarten. In 3rd grade, his teacher told him, “We don’t have books at your reading level in this classroom. You’re a big kid now. You need to try harder. Stop being lazy.” Lazy? I told her to look at the facts. To look at everything else he could do; how hard he worked, how hard he was trying to find ways to help himself read! I said, “He is not lazy. He is struggling to read. There is something we are missing. Help.”

Fast forward two years. I asked the elementary school principal for extra support going into middle school. “We don’t proactively add support.” Right…

Middle school was a challenge. His mental health took a hit; his homework, tests, quizzes, you name it, took a hit. A child who used to love learning, who tried so hard, slowly stopped trying. I pushed again for help. And I was asked, “Are you sure you’re not being a helicopter parent? Overbearing? Maybe trying to get him extra help just so he gets A’s? We see that a lot in this town.”

The fact that I stayed polite at that moment?

Honestly, a true Orange Rhino® moment. Because no. That was not it. I said, “He is masking. He is truly struggling. You’re missing it. I need you to trust me.” They didn’t. They kept insisting he needed to try harder.

And now? That child has an IEP because one person finally listened to me. One person took the time to look beyond the struggles to see the strengths. My son has a learning disability, including a form of dyslexia.

And the testing showed it is not mild. Cue the tears. Cue my rage. Cue the heartbreak of knowing I was right and that it took years to get him all of the support he needed. (I had gotten him other support but what he needed most was in school.) But here is what I need people to understand: A child (anyone really) who learns differently should not be written off. Different pace. Different path. Different strengths.

Still capable. Still worthy. Still full of potential. My boys are proof of that. Their struggles have built empathy. Determination. Resilience. Leadership qualities. Yes, I wish parts of their journey had been easier. Of course I do.

And I know they feel the same. But who they have become because they kept going? Because they had to try harder to learn and to (sadly) prove themselves to the world and sometimes to themselves? I would not change who they have become for the world. Who they are in heart, grit, perspective, and character is second to none.

So let me say this loudly: Let’s stop confusing disability with inability. A disability is not a disqualification. And different does not mean less. (argh!) Sending my warmth and a little extra oomph to you all today and always, and an extra amount of love and support to any parent who knows and feels this post all too well.

xoxo, Sheila

🧡 The Orange Rhino

Mar
17
2026

Sensory Overload, Clutter and Yelling: What My Teen Understands About Me

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My teenage son totally has my number. And it’s because I taught him well. Ever since I was little, I’ve been super sensitive to certain sounds, textures, and visual clutter. I used to sit in movie theaters thinking, When I grow up, I’m going to invent popcorn that isn’t crunchy sounding… and chip bags that don’t wrinkle when you put your hand in.

So yes…having four loud boys did not exactly help my sensory processing. When they were younger, my nervous system was often fried from the noise, the chaos, the constant touching, the overwhelm, and the exhaustion. A lot of my yelling came from that place. My body was screaming on the inside and it needed somewhere for all that overload to go. Once I started The Orange Rhino Challenge®, I began understanding that better.

And I started handling it differently. I took breaks. Splashed cold water on my face. Turned on music to dance out my energy. Put in earbuds to listen to calming music and tune out the noise. I talked out loud about what was happening in my body. As the boys got older, and it became more obvious we’re a pretty neurodiverse family, I tried to make two things clear: It is my job to take care of me (likewise goes for them!) If I’m overwhelmed, it’s my job to step away, get my earbuds, regulate, and do what I need to do to feel better and less snappy.

And that in a family, it’s loving to consider each other too. If someone says they’re overloaded, the kind thing is to be considerate, help if you can… or at least maybe not chew chips like you’re in a sound effects competition.

Well. Fast forward to last night. I was super off. Later I realized my ankles were massively swollen, so apparently my body was not happy. Then my son started eating potato chips. I was about to absolutely lose my mind. And this child looked at me and said: “Mom, stop telling me to chew quieter. Where are your earbuds? You need them.”

Then he got up, found them, handed them to me, and said with the most loving and playful as possible but irritated voice, “I’ve had enough of you. I want to chew my chips in peace.”

Honestly? Fair. I put them in… but not before I blasted music on my computer and he chewed as obnoxiously loudly as possible. It became a full-on sound off. We both ended up smiling.

And I told him, “Thank you. I appreciate it. And you’re right… it was my job to get up and find them. Sorry, kiddo. Enjoy your chips. But first, may I have one?!”

We teach them and hope it lands. And then one day, it does and you feel so grateful. For the loving help and the potato chips. Sending my warmth and a little oomph to you, today and always,

xoxo, Sheila

🧡 The Orange Rhino

Mar
15
2026

ADHD and Perimenopause: Why Women Deserve to Be Believed

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Nothing says “support women” quite like questioning their diagnosis. We tell women to advocate for their health and then question the answer when they finally get one. I’m grateful there’s more conversation happening around perimenopause and women’s health. It is needed and it matters.

But there’s something about the conversation that has really been getting under my skin. Here’s the tricky thing: A lot of perimenopause symptoms can overlap with ADHD symptoms at first glance. And because of that, I keep seeing comments and videos — from other women, mind you — basically questioning whether women diagnosed with ADHD later in life really have it… or whether they’re “just perimenopausal.” And wow, does that get under my skin.

Because yes, some of us really do have ADHD. And yes, some of us are also in perimenopause. And yes, perimenopause can make ADHD even harder to manage. Those things can all be true at once. What frustrates me is this: We constantly tell women to trust themselves. To listen to their bodies. To advocate for their health. To keep pushing until they get answers because they know their bodies best.

But then when a woman finally does get an answer — and knows it’s right, feels the relief, finally exhales — people turn around and question whether it’s real. No thank you. That doesn’t feel like support. That feels like more dismissal. My ADHD signs were there long before perimenopause.

They were there in elementary school. “Sheila, raise your hand.” “Sheila, stop talking.”

They were there in how overwhelmed I got. “Sheila… she’s the emotional one.”

They were there in how hard I worked to stay organized. Binders were — and still are — my best friend.

They were there in the way I needed systems, structure, lists, and detail just to keep my brain from feeling all over the place. I’ll never forget the to-do list and Excel spreadsheet I made for my wedding. It was a masterpiece. My ex’s friend looked at it. Looked at me. Looked at it again.“Sheila… this is a bit intense, don’t ya think?” Oh, it was. But I needed every detail captured and tied to a time or I would have been lost. Side note: the marriage didn’t last, but the wedding was indeed phenomenal. So many wonderfully executed details. Thank you, ADHD creativity and hyperfocus.

So no, I wasn’t “suddenly ADHD” because I hit my 40s. I was a girl who learned how to compensate. A girl who tried really hard. A girl who looked capable from the outside while working overtime on the inside. A girl, then a college student, then a mom, who was absolutely exhausted.

And I know I’m not the only one. So yes…women should absolutely keep talking about perimenopause. And also about how it impacts ADHD women. And while we’re at it, let’s also stop acting like late-diagnosed ADHD in women is some suspicious trend people are latching on to. It isn’t. Trust me. There are upsides to ADHD and also, some real, not so popular, challenges. The diagnosis didn’t come out of nowhere. It just took a while — too long, really — to receive it.

And gosh, is it a relief to have. To finally understand myself better; to realize I’m not broken. And again, to know I’m not the only one. On that note, I’m going to take my medication, make a list for the day, then talk to myself to help keep me on task and remembering what I’m doing. Oh the things we learn!

Sending my warmth and a little oomph to you all today,

xoxo, Sheila

🧡 The Orange Rhino

Mar
12
2026

ADHD, Forgotten Dry Cleaning and the Humbling Reality of Everyday Life

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I was so proud. And oh so quickly humbled. Please tell me someone out there has the same story?! Y’all… the dry cleaning in this picture? Take a guess at the date on the ticket. Go on. If you’re guessing January 2026… Nope. December 2025? Not even close. September 2025. SEPTEMBER. What even is that?!

And the wild part is…I was so proud of myself yesterday. First, I actually did my laundry like a functioning adult: put it in the washer, moved it to the dryer on time, and even took it out within a reasonable amount of time.

Honestly? I felt unstoppable. Then I thought, “Oh! The dry cleaner is on the way to the dentist. I can drop off my winter sweaters and pick up my pink button-down for spring.” Planning ahead. Following through. Managing life. Who was this girl?! The day before, I had even gotten myself to a doctor’s appointment on time by setting a timer, getting up when it went off, and staying on task all the way to the car. Again, who is this girl?!

I was so proud of myself. So pumped up. What the what?! I mean… is this what 48 is? Being genuinely excited that you followed through on basic tasks? Being genuinely excited that you’re finally figuring out how to manage ADHD while perimenopause is totally trying to make everything harder? Because if so… wow.

This is…humbling. Also maybe a sign to put “plan actual fun” on the calendar immediately. (Pause. Doing that now. You know, so I don’t forget.) I’m back.

So, yesterday I was feeling good. Proud. On a roll. I got to the dry cleaners. Got out of the car. Walked inside. And then… Guess what I did not have with me? The sweaters. Thankfully they were still in the car, so fine. Minor embarrassment. No crisis.

But then I asked for my pink shirt… …and she came back with the shirt and four other items. FOUR. From SEPTEMBER. This, my friends, is exactly why I do not do dry cleaning. I either lose the ticket… or forget the clothes exist entirely.

So yes, “pick up dry cleaning” now officially just got added as another task in Google Calendar. Oh Google Calendar task list… I’d be lost without you. Who am I kidding?

Still a little lost over here. But definitely less lost with you. Please tell me your version of this so I can feel less alone. I’m going to be kind and drop a few more in the comments so we all feel less alone. (As I drink my cold coffee. Not iced. Cold.) Sending my warmth and a little oomph to you today and always,

xoxo, Sheila

🧡 The Orange Rhino

Mar
10
2026

When Your College Kid Comes Home and the Transition Is Hard for Everyone

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I knew it would happen. And it did. Sometimes I hate being right. As much fun as I had picking up my college kiddo from the airport and having dinner together that night, I want to share another truth. Having him home was hard. For both of us. He (mostly) likes college better. He has friends there. No “quiet hours.” No expectations from me—directly at least;) Here, well… We all had school or work the next day so he had to be uber quiet at night.

And since the renovation, I’ve been slowly putting everything away. So he came home to a house where he suddenly didn’t know where any of the important stuff was. Phone chargers. Pens, pencils. Silverware. It was frustrating for him—to feel out of place. Literally and metaphorically. And honestly? It hurt a little for me too. I also wished he felt more at ease here, at home. Like he used to. You know, in the “before college” days. (Shite, those wet things on my face again.) It’s a strange feeling when your child comes home… and home to them feels different…and you know things are just no longer the same. Not bad, just changed.

Still, there were warm moments. We watched a new cooking show together. The next night, at his request, I made the meal from it and we both loved it. (Street tacos. O.M.G. Amazing recipe. This never would have happened before college, so there’s one, okay of many, upsides.) I introduced him to my mocktail, which he loved. We walked the dog together. It wasn’t all hard. By Saturday he was finally settling in… just in time for him to spend his last day home working on a school paper.

And that’s when the disappointment in myself started to creep in. I knew when I dropped him back at college the next day, I’d be bummed that I hadn’t been as present during his time home as I wanted to be. That I’d be bummed that I’d been frustrated when he’d been frustrated. I was also bummed that our time together was so short to begin with. He spent half the week in Florida with his dad (as he should) and his new friends.

At the same time, I was so happy he went on a trip with them, had a blast, and found a new level of confidence. Enough confidence to go skydiving. And yes, that was a long half hour waiting for the phone call that he was fine lol.

I know this is the new spring break normal. Trips with friends. I think this is one of the quieter heartbreaks of parenting older kids. They either come home on breaks, but not quite in the same way.Or they choose friends. Either way, you’re grateful they’re growing, gosh you are so grateful, and you’re happy they’re healthy and happy…but you’re also missing what was. Just because I know this doesn’t make it easier though. Likewise, I know this summer, when he transitions home again, it’ll be bumpy at first. That doesn’t make it easier either. Knowing does help me plan ahead though. Not worry… just create some workarounds to ease the easing back into home.

Yesterday morning, I made him pancakes and bacon one more time. Then I drove him back to his second home. It wasn’t even a few minutes into my drive back home before I got this text: “I love you mom. I already miss you. I had a great time watching the cooking show with you. I love you so much and you’re a great mom.” Exactly the dose of orange I needed to make it home without bawling my eyes out. LOL. I pulled in the driveway and another message from him popped up.

It’s in the comments (assuming I can figure out how to share it haha) Cue the tears. Oh life… you sure are full of grorange. Parents of older kids… did this stage catch you off guard too?

Sending my warmth and a little oomph to you all today and always,

xoxo, Sheila

🧡 The Orange Rhino

Mar
09
2026

You Don’t Need Alcohol to Be Fun: What My Kids Taught Me

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Someone once told me I wasn’t fun and needed to take the pole out of my ass or drink more. True story. Someone I trusted too. I think my sons would say otherwise. Actually, I know they would. I went to pick up my college kiddo at the airport this week. It was perfect timing. No traffic. No cops. Plenty of room to sit curbside and wait. That was the plan until… I saw my son walk out of the airport. I did what any totally normal mother would do.

I turned off the car, jumped out, and ran full speed toward my son, jumping up and down, waving my arms and yelling: “JAMES! JAMES! IT’S YOUR MOM!!! OVER HERE!!!” To be clear…he already knew where I was. He briefly tried walking away like he didn’t know me.

But eventually he turned around with the biggest grin. “Hi, Mom.” “HI KIDDO! I missed you!” “I missed you too. But please don’t ever do that again.” “Yeah, no promises.” “Okay, fine.” And then I got a hug. Honestly? I’ve been wanting to do that ever since seeing people impersonate Will Ferrell’s Elf character running around yelling names. Good news: I still have three other sons to embarrass in the future.

And that wasn’t even the funniest part of the week. Before my college kid came home, one of the younger boys said, “Oh man…James is screwed. He’s not going to understand the new dinner rule.” (Back in January we started eating dinner at the table instead of the counter.) “You know what?” I told the younger three. “You guys should totally play it up. Shower. Collared shirts. Perfect manners.” Zero pushback. 100% commitment.

The night my college kiddo came home… Three brothers showed up to dinner showered, hair done, collared shirts and khakis. Dead serious faces. I, however, struggled. It was just too much. (My boys? Fully, fully listening to plans?! What was happening?!) “We don’t just eat at the table now,” they told him. “We dress up. You need to too.” So off he went…to quickly shower and change. He came downstairs, saw one brother vacuuming and said, “What is happening here???” “Oh yeah,” they said.

“We also do chores while Mom cooks.” The perplexed look on his face? Pure awesomeness. We finally sat down at the table. Mid meal my son goes, “This is so weird. This family feels…normal.” I couldn’t hold it together anymore. I told him the dress code was a joke. He laughed. He loved it. And even took a family picture after dinner. No hard feelings. I’ll treasure it always. All boys, dressed up, laughing, and home in the same room again. Acting like young men. It was weird;) And priceless.

Turns out you don’t need alcohol or a personality transplant to have fun. Who knew? Sometimes all you need is an airport, a ridiculous idea, and four boys willing to commit to the bit. Tell me I’m not the only parent who embarrasses their kids in public. Happy Monday everyone.

Sending my warmth and a little oomph to you today and always,

xoxo, Sheila

🧡 The Orange Rhino