The Chore of Common Core

The Chore of Common Core

When I get home from work, I’m pretty spent.

My days are usually filled with meetings and deadlines and fire drills and brainstorming and phone calls — capped off by a long commute on a crowded subway. So, by the time I get home, the last thing I want to do is something mentally taxing. I want a drink, a seat and some television.

But, alas, I have kids, so before I get to do those things, I have to deal with the fruit of my loins first. And that means common core.

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Your Dignity Doesn’t Matter

Your Dignity Doesn’t Matter

Being a good parent means your kids’ comfort, health and happiness always supersede yours.

Parenting is about sacrifice, and that means more than giving your son the last piece of bacon, or being forced to stop listening to Kanye when your daughter is in the back seat. It means letting your kid think he told you what Superman’s one weakness is, or why the dinosaurs went extinct.

You have to sacrifice a little ego, and sometimes you have to sacrifice a little dignity. Just make sure it’s worth it when you do!

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Venting Is Allowed

Venting Is Allowed

I recently wrote a post for Scary Mommy about a boy struggling with cancer. To raise awareness for the struggle sick children and their families face every day, his mother shared a heartbreaking photo of her son, bald, gaunt, and clearly in pain.

In the Facebook comments for the post, someone mentioned that the story reminded her that she should be grateful for what she has, instead of whining about what she doesn’t.

I get that, but I don’t think those two things are mutually exclusive. Venting is allowed. Especially for parents.

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Mother’s Day Made Easy With DIYZ

Mother’s Day Made Easy With DIYZ

Disclosure: This post is in collaboration with DIYZ. All opinions of apps and companies that help me complete DIY projects are my own.

When we moved to Raleigh in 2012, we bought a dining room table which came with a bench. But, the only bench the store had available was the display model. It wasn’t without some wear and tear, but we needed it. Obviously, a mere year and a half later, when we got back to Brooklyn, it broke.

The wood splintered on one of the legs and it was no longer stable enough to use. It seemed fixable, at least for someone who can fix things (read: not me), so we kept it in storage for when Mom and Buried got remarried.

To her chagrin, we’re still together, and the bench is still broken.

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