One of the things we’ve been doing ever since our boys learned to walk, is bringing them in to help us in the kitchen. Over the years, we’ve seen their skills sharpen, their tastes diversify, and their interest grow.

What started with a toddler measuring and pouring flour for cookie dough turned into Big Bro waking up to cook his own over easy eggs, taking pride whenever he doesn’t break the yolk. When he was nine, he decided to cook an entire dinner himself. He planned, shopped, and kicked us out of the kitchen while he ran his restaurant titled “The Fruit Bat” and enlisted his little brother as the server/comedic relief. He made meatballs, pasta, and even raspberry scones from scratch! All it cost was a burn on his arm while he took a pan out of the oven. He took it in stride and now we have matching scars, (mine is from making mixed nut pie).

What’s neat about having these little chefs in our house is that they not only learn and expand their own culinary experiences, but we grown-ups do too. Big B introduced us to making crepes, which I’d always thought would be difficult but turned out to be quick and easy. This past summer, Little b took an interest in pasta, which I’ve always wanted to learn how to make from scratch. The three of us took on fettuccini and ravioli and ate some of the best pasta I’ve had in my life. It really does make a difference, even if it also made quite a mess of our kitchen.

This year, we made a resolution to have kid-cooked dinners once a week. They select a recipe, plan the meal, and make it with some supervision and assistance. So far, we’ve had a potato sausage frittata and blueberry pancakes, and they tasted great! This week is tomato soup and grilled cheese. I can’t wait to see what they cook up next.

When Big Bro started creating his own website with the help of a few friends at school, I was a little surprised but also impressed. Even though the site is mainly pranks, jokes, and Wings of Fire fan fiction, his ability to create and connect multiple pages, forms and photos with relevant captions showed a tech savviness that’s sometimes hard for me to to find in my own office. One evening, he handed me a piece of paper he printed off our computer that referenced his website and said “News.” I glanced at it and smiled, noting his creation briefly while I continued my conversation with Drew.

Then later that week at the parent-teacher conference, his homeroom teacher brought out a printed paper, saying she was nervous at first when she saw my son distributing copies to his classmates. I looked at the paper and realized it was the same he’d handed me while I was talking. I should’ve paid more attention, because what he handed me was his own newsletter. And he used our printer at home to make copies for distribution.

I flipped through the pages of stories, jokes and links to his site for things like voting on the “person of the week.” His teacher and I had a good laugh and I told Big Bro it was fine to write a newsletter as long as his other work got done and I could be his managing editor before he sends it to print.

I received his fourth edition this week in my inbox. He now boasts a “staff” of about five other classmates who collaborate on reminders and topics. They add polls and fictional stories about hybrid zoo animals or sales on their site, and one true story about a substitute they had who was a published author. Complete with a link to purchase the book of course.

I don’t know what’s more unnerving for me as a parent. The fact that he seems more focused on this side project than any of his schoolwork, or the fact that he is showing such a passion for journalism. Drew and I left the news industry a decade ago, but the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree. I guess the only thing we can do now is see how this story unfolds.

They say you can’t go home again, but I’m lucky enough to be able to. While I love life in the desert, every year around this time I do miss the feeling of a chill in the air and the sound of wind in the leaves, the flash of bright color that comes only when the earth extinguishes its summer sun for the coming winter. That does not happen in much of Arizona. It’s why we travel for Fall Break, so we can experience everything I love about my favorite season. 

We stepped into my childhood home again on October first; a place the kids fondly call “grandmama’s house” while they run straight for the big bin of hot wheels cars and sturdy plastic track, circa 1980s.

We walked past my old high school, now mostly construction site, as workers transform the old ball fields into a new building and prepare to demolish the old one. We drove past miles of long gone restaurants and retail space as I counted about a dozen new “data centers,” several in the final phases of construction. The farmland behind my childhood best friend’s house was paved into a retirement community. The numbers on her house are all that remain the same as the residents I knew so well moved on years ago. But, like any house with good bones, there’s a lot left that feels just the same.

During our trip we spent time with grandparents, cousins, uncles and aunts, some who’ve earned their titles through lifelong friendship. They greeted us with warm smiles and hugs. The kids played and we caught up, shared meals and drinks and s’mores and laughter.

Yes, a lot has changed and will keep changing. But those bones, what’s most important, remain the same. That’s what makes it feel like home. It’s what stands the test of time. When you focus less on the place and more on the people, you can always go home again.

While I love that our boys are both brothers and best friends, we’ve reached the point in parenting where that unbeatable team can turn against us. Last week, they decided to present a united front to advocate for an allowance. What resulted were some pretty unusual agreements… in writing.

Both boys decided to write up their own contract to get paid for chores. In these contracts, they set their terms, tasks, payment proposals, all with formatting and spaces for signatures. The only thing missing was a notary, and now I’m wondering if I can use that detail to get out of the commitment I signed. Little b took composing his contract very seriously, insisting on typing it up on our computer. I even showed him an old work contract so he could get the formatting right.

It reads in part, “My contract is a contract to approve paying for the agreed chores and so I can buy toys and save money for later in my account and so I can not be broke for a long time of the year.” (the “long time of the year” of course being between his birthday and Christmas, when the gift money dries up and he’s forced to wait it out for his next set of legos.)

He sets the expectations in bullet points outlining payment, committing to get his work done before tv or video games, and my favorite point number 3 reads, “So he has an amount of money to use for later life although he intends to stay at the house and be with you and dad.”

Shortly after I signed and Drew and I began discussing payment once per week in cash, little b tapped the paper, reiterating bullet point number 2, which stipulated his payment should be received at the end of each day. Buyer beware.

While his contract read like a binding legal agreement from now until we retire someday, Big B’s read like a sales pitch. His included the benefits of entering the agreement, including “you won’t ever complain, the work will be so good.” After a page of options to select from an array of chores and number of days per week, the final (fourth) page of the agreement outlined discounts offered- including $1.25 off for every hour of tv or video game time.

I knew enough after little b’s contract to do a bit more negotiating, and we entered into an official agreement with our oldest son.

Although I’m excited about the prospect of more chores getting done without my asking, I am still trying to do the math on whether or not this shakes out in my favor. I will say, they both packed their own lunches this morning, little b has been doing the dishes, and Big Bro volunteered to learn how to do laundry. Perhaps you can’t put a price on good help, even if it’s contractually obligated.

I was having coffee with a new colleague the other day, clad in my usual accessories that often catch the eye of those who share my taste in movies or book genres. Sitting across from me, she said “I love your bag!” I get compliments on it a lot, and I smiled, ready to share our mutual love of Star Wars, when she asked, “Is it a Birkin?”

That’s when I found myself explaining the symbol of the Rebellion, and opening it up to proudly show tiny Tie Fighters lining the inside of the purse. It’s a Loungefly. Officially licensed fandom fashion that incorporates imagery from our favorite Disney franchises into bags, wallets, and more. Glancing at my watch (with Wonder Woman watchband,) I quickly changed the subject.

In our house, we love Sci Fi, Superheroes and book series of all sorts. It’s one of the things that has made this stage of parenting so fun. There was nothing like watching the kids watch Star Wars for the first time (after Drew and I heavily weighed the decision of the order in which to show them) or seeing them dress as their favorite characters and superheros and battle in the backyard.

Earlier this summer, we even took them to Phoenix Fan Fusion, a huge comic convention downtown. The boys loved it, and asked to go back again the next day. They loved seeing all of the other costumes, browsing booths full of memorabilia, and geeking out over everything from Pokemon to Lego to Zelda. They could, and have, spent hours and hours on each topic.

Tonight, they sat at our kitchen table, each adding to their own fan fiction stories. One about Big B’s favorite book series Wings of Fire, as little b wrote a continuation of The Mandalorian. It’s so fun watching their creativity and to know they’re unapologetically themselves. The world needs more people who care enough to know a lot about something—and love every minute of it.

I had my first eye exam in more than a decade this week. I’ve noticed my vision getting less and less clear, even given the permanent damage left by this rare pregnancy side effect. As it turns out, the changes I’m noticing are a different side effect. Of turning forty. And even though I’m getting older, I’m not seeing double. But sometimes it seems that I am.

When the boys went back to school this week and I posted this photo, several of my friends reacted. “They still let you dress them alike?” “Their matching outfits are so cute!” “I can’t believe they’ll still dress to match!”

The truth is they do, they are, and they will. Because they don’t really care. 

While most of the reactions are positive when friends see my boys dressed in matching outfits on vacation or for special occasions or just at the pool, it now comes with a tone of surprise and disbelief, as if it’s something they should’ve grown out of already.

And maybe they should have, and I get not everyone thinks it’s as cute as I do. But it still makes me smile, and it’s practical. It helps me keep track of them in crowded public places because I only have to remember one shirt color. If one gets lost and I need to ask for help, I can point to the one standing nearby and say, “like him, only taller.” 😆

I had actually expected a day to come when Big Bro said stop, or declined matching little b. So far, little b still likes to look like his big brother. And Big Bro pays as much attention to his attire as he does to the ketchup on his shirt, which is none at all. The first two articles of clothing his hand hits when he opens a drawer are the ones he puts on in the morning. Sometimes, it’s pretty obvious.

As I took that photo to document their first day, I realized it’s the last little shark shirt for Big Bro. Next year, he’ll move up to middle school. Who will little b dress to match then?

Another school year is coming to an end and as we navigate the “Maycember” scramble of projects, concerts, spirit weeks and field days, I can’t help but marvel at the growth I’ve seen in our boys this year both academically and socially. Working for their school district has allowed me the opportunity to attend school day events and help provide more for their classrooms. It’s also opened an unexpected opportunity.

Big Bro quickly discovered that I’m on the same network and email system. I started to get email notifications for his shared documents, presentations, even a prototype for a website. Sometimes it’s work he’s doing on a school report or essay, but often times it’s a powerpoint quiz show or presentation on Pokemon. It’s a sort of “look at me mom!” During the middle of my workday, and it always makes me smile.

When I ask what he’s supposed to be doing while generating this content during the school day, he shrugs and says he finished his work. The latest notification revealed a four-chapter portion of a Wings of Fire fan fiction novel he’s working on. So long as he keeps excelling in all of his subjects, I don’t mind one bit.

Next week, it will be summer and I’ll be poolside while hearing “look at me mom!” for all their dives and tricks. I’ll answer the call anytime of year. It really is the best view.

Today, I celebrate forty years on this planet. FORTY. It still sounds so weird in my head. I can’t be forty. My mom is still forty. Right? I’m shocked at how quickly the last decade has gone by, but I guess that’s how it goes when you’re having fun.

There’s a trend going around social media in which users write about meeting their younger self for coffee. I figured now would be a great time to try the exercise in self-reflection as I look back on what’s changed or stayed the same as I celebrate forty.

I met my younger self for coffee. She walked in wearing a ponytail and jeans, effortlessly and obliviously pretty with almost no makeup, and ordered a grande white mocha with extra syrup. I ordered a cold brew with cold foam.

She asks if I’ve been waiting long, rushing to apologize and I stop her right there. “You’ll learn to say thank you instead of I’m sorry,” I say. She tells me about her college courses in broadcast journalism and balancing her honors classes, clubs, and internship. She’s worried about getting perfect grades. I tell her she’s a lot smarter than she thinks, and she’ll get a Masters one day. She wonders how to balance it all, and I tell her it’ll be hard but she’ll end up learning to balance even more.

She asks if I live at the beach. I tell her I did, but then moved to the desert. She smiles and nods, pretending to be pleased while I know she never imagined leaving the East Coast. I tell her it’s where I live with my husband and two kids. Her smile turns genuine. She hesitates, looking down before asking, “Are you on tv? Did you make it? Did you become a reporter?”

“I did. But I’m not anymore. It was so exciting and fun, but then my dream changed,” I say. I tell her she’ll fall in love with the desert but she’ll continue to travel frequently. I tell her she’ll stop worrying so much about pleasing everyone around her. She’ll get comfortable with change, chaos, and failure. That they’ll lead to her greatest opportunities. She’ll change careers a few times on her own terms but she’ll stay in communications. She will never stop writing.

We finish our coffee and she pulls out her flip phone to look at the time, quickly closing it without a second thought. My phone is still sitting face down on the table and I find myself longing for the simplicity of that pink Motorola Razr only capable of making calls and taking photos with .3 megapixels. Before she leaves, she aks one more question. “Do you have any advise?”

I smile, and the wrinkles around my eyes get deeper. “Slow down when you can, and enjoy it,” I say. “Time only seems to get faster.”