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 If houses could talk, ours would tell tall tales of never-ending costume bins, 2-year-old indoor cars, and evenings filled with dance moves and nerf battles.

If houses could talk, ours would need elven notetakers to capture all the nuances and games and  afternoons at the beach, cars and towels and kids full of sand, running in, forgetting to wipe feet and hands, straight out the back door because the sun was still out and there was still plenty of time for make-believe.

If houses could talk, the one up Elks Point would point out the footprints in the snow, clearly barefoot and the imprint of the kiddie pool we used to fill on June afternoons when the moment was just right for tricks and stunts and summersaults complete with "watch me nows"and "look at this."

If houses could talk, the backyard "river" which was really a ditch filled with dirt would remind us of the power of magical imaginations - worlds where tiny sticks and kitchen twine could catch fish and stepping on grass or dirt was like walking on hot lava and the only safe passage was hopping on rocks and climbing trees too tall, yet somehow just right for two-and-five-year-olds.

The best part is that decades down the road the memories and laughter and late-night giggles still remain. And always will be.

That is the beauty of the sunshine and starlight and fairy dust that resides within a home.

Adulting

Nobody tells you that one night you'll brush your teeth, rummage in your nightstand for that favorite hand cream and then get up the next day and your child has woken up as an 18-year-old.

In between the PBJs and worrying about sugar consumption, tucked beneath layers of "make wise choices!" and filling Hydroflasks for overstuffed backpacks, it's tricky to find time to pause and relish and remember.

The tiny, little bitty hands that were always sticky like glue. Car seats littered with Cheerios and goldfish, Star Wars Lego figurines crowded on bedroom windowsills and the giant bin of costumes that were worn and reworn and never washed despite the stains and smears and tattered zippers. 

Early mornings and forts and playground monkey bars. Bike rides with sticker-covered helmets, fleece sweatshirts and vests and gloves and ice cold dips in the majestic Tahoe waters, regardless of season. 

Before we knew it, Indiana Jones and the powers of make-believe made way for Homecomings and Proms and truck-driving independence. Crayolas and temporary tattoos and bandaids just for fun traded in for Scantrons and laptops and gym workouts.

So here we are. EIGHTEEN. Which as an aside, is extra crazy since we're still fresh-eyed newlyweds in our early 30s, driving home from the hospital up and down the windy mountain roads with a baby in a car seat, firmly grasping on to the only concrete bit of advice from our favorite pediatrician: feed him when he's hungry.

And we did just that. 

Keep on crushing it, Curtis. And anytime you are hungry, come home.

Mid-century

When my mom turned 50, I remember a massive summertime party along the Swedish southern coastline, Copenhagen likely visible in the distance, guests sipping whites and reds and cocktails exquisitely planned to pair with an evening obviously filled with delicacies.

My sisters were there, I think. Details are fuzzy. There were speeches. Laughter. Tears, maybe. But most importantly that amazing "it's July and the entire country is on vacation" vibe that Europeans have expertly mastered.

Somehow 2023 is my 50th. 

Despite sounding ludicrous, it's true. And like most others, I'm clearly much too young to be this old.

Reflecting on the ifs and when's and how's and whys, remembering goals and aspirations and dreams and fantasies, I keep coming back to now. As in, it's now or never. Today. This moment. Because time, in all its intricate and unassuming ways, is no longer creeping. It's flying. Soaring. And the only way to experience it all is to keep up.

I've got several months until the official day. Lots of time to ponder and prevail. Perhaps even plan a miniature event. As in: let's devour the best charcuterie platter possible and enjoy only the fanciest wines.

But mostly: remember that the question of the hour is not, what's next? But rather, what's now?

A Paradise Pivot

We left everything behind. Couches. Beds. Lamps. Fancy, kid-approved gaming chairs with padded headrests and perfect swivels.

The 6am departure morphed into seven-ish, but somehow, two cars packed to the brim with odd and ends, Xboxes, and obviously my Keurig, red Kitchen Aid, and every single Le Creuset purchased over the years, snaked along side the early Lake Tahoe morning glimmers, two kids and a husky glued to the windows.

They weren't glued, really. In reality, we sped through town feeling like upended vagabonds, leaving behind a life in the mountains and looking only forward, anticipating all the changes related to residing in America's 4th largest city.

It was exhilarating. Liberating. The alt country seeping through the speakers only slightly muffled by the occasional gold fish crunch or Gracie in the back, shifting her paws and curling into a more accommodating pose.

Axel, Unplugged

When Axel was 2, we tried to ditch the pacifier. We ceremoniously collected all his "mimis" in a blue IKEA bowl, waved bye-bye and semi-successfully diverted all his pleas for the rest of the afternoon by offering boatloads of gummies, lollipops and other treats typically reserved for Saturdays. By bed time, we knew it was too early to "high five" on another milestone, but we were definitely optimistic.

At about 2am, we quickly realized that unless we were prepared for endless days followed by sleepless nights, reconsidering returning the beloved Mam would make our lives not only pleasant and lovely, but populated yet again by a happy little guy.

So we acquiesced.

Many moons and a birthday later, we tried again. This time, we recruited the help of Aunt Filippa who immediately FedExed a copy of a perfectly illustrated book, where the main character spends agonizing moments deliberating over which toy to relinquish for her paci. And while Axel never fully understood why anyone would opt for a yellow stuffed duck over a suckable mimi, he seemed to really relate.

On the designated day, we once again collected all the pacifiers (this time in a yellow bowl, just for kicks) and explained to the little guy that, as a reward, he could head to his local Wal-Mart and pick out anything in the whole store!

It still kills me that he returned with a yo-yo. 

But anyway ... not only have we not heard peep about his beloved mimi since this momentous day three weeks ago, we've also been introduced to a brand-new Axel. To call him "chatty Cathy" is an understatement. From the moment his eyes pop open to the very last second before delirious dreams, he talks. He explains. He ponders. He wonders. And mostly he wants to know why he can't have a hot air balloon.

And as if leaving the mouth free to babble was somehow related to his legs, he's suddenly become super fast. Daring. More adventurous. And -- shocking to everyone -- almost as wild and crazy as his big brother.

Love this newly discovered little dude. Shenanigans included.

And So It Begins

Curtis and a few of his cronies started golf lessons last week. Every Monday, Wednesday and Friday, four 5-year-olds invade our local private club's driving range, putting green, bunker and -- as of last week -- hole number four. Under the guidance of a "professional" they supposedly learn tricks and tips and, obviously, have boatloads of fun.

Last week, I nonchalantly inquired what he'd learned.

"Nothing!" he defiantly muttered, which normally wouldn't be cause for concern since the new status quo in our household involves a few similar sentiments which all pretty much translate to: parents are totally clueless!

Anyway. I prodded and pried, and finally, figured it out.

Ever since the lessons started, Curtis feels his swing has deteriorated. His grip is currently "messed up." His backswing is "like a lame L" and, as so oftentimes happens in this lovely game, his confidence is buried somewhere in the depths of a fairway bunker.

Not one to take matters involving golf lightly, we grabbed his sand wedge last weekend and hit the backyard. Axel, of course, in tow with his hand-me-down 7-iron.

Three minutes later everything was crystal clear: Curtis's swing, was indeed, "messed up."

Luckily for our big guy, his mamma is a seasoned albeit nonchalant player, and within a few minutes, we had it all mostly corrected. This was all accomplished between assuring Axel, who clearly also needed some tips, that "yes, your arms are straight!"

Here's the tricky bit. We still have three more lessons left. And both Curtis and I now have less than a sliver of confidence in this "professional" who will most likely continue to try to use kid-unfriendly tips for the remaining days. 

So when Curtis expressed his legitimate frustration over the confusion bound to occur on the range over the next few days, I paused only momentarily before I offered the following advice:

"Just pretend, buddy."

"What do you mean, Mamma?"

"I mean that when he tells you something that doesn't make sense, just ignore it and keep doing what I've been teaching you."

Evidently, this was the funniest thing I've ever said, because Curtis hasn't stopped laughing since.

I, on the other hand, suddenly realized that I just encouraged dissing a teacher. Which will probably backfire one day. But for now at least, Curtis is back to driving that ball straight and far.

Imperfect

Within all the mommy blogs and parenting ilists I devour, there's this common debate around things that are difficult. And, since competition is evidently just as inherent in adults as our littles, it's tricky not to read it all and avoid taking sides. Some days, according to those in the weeds, being a stay-at-home mom is mentally draining, exhausting and ceaselessly challenging. Other mornings it's the working crew that has the toughest beat: juggling making lunches, planning dinners and handling the emotions of drop-offs and pick-ups nestled between conference calls and quarterly performance reviews.

I wear both hats.

And honestly, I think both sides are equally true.

But that's not the point. Ultimately, regardless of what defines you -- as a parent -- the same tricky situations, melt-downs, and lovely snippets will punctuate your day. What's becoming more and more clear, as my kids grow and tempt and explore, is that our attitude is what cements everyone's experience.

Thing is, while theoretically a flooded bathroom is pretty easily cleaned up and leaving five minutes later than planned really has zero impact on the rest of the morning, when you're in the moment, it's easier to see that one, little measly tree than the beautiful forest. And just like playing dominos on a perfectly waxed hardwood floor, when one black-dotted, white rectangle begins to tremble and ultimately crash, the rest will definitely follow.

So the lesson?

Back to basics: spilled milk shouldn't result in tears and handed-down lemons have amazing culinary properties.

Focus on now. This minute. Today. And don't worry so much about messes, piles of laundry or mud-streaked tiles. There's always time to clean.

But playing in the sun is way more fun.