About Good Times with Jess

I started blogging in 2004. My blog and I have been very single, dating, traveling, bartending, very married and now I'm raising 2 kiddos.

Happy New Year! I resolve to keep blogging at very irregular intervals. I’d love to promise you more than that. Maybe next year

Posted on January 7, 2025 by Good Times with Jess

I can’t say I recommend pneumonia. It took me out.

It’s hard to say when I went from some virus my small children swiped up from somewhere to never getting better.

I had a cough at the beginning of December. At some point I added congestion. By the week before Christmakkuh I was in bed in the middle of the day.

I took myself to the doctor. In the NP’s visit notes I’m referred to as:

“A pleasant 42-year-old female who presents today for evaluation of cough.”

I’m not sure where they got that idea. I did not feel pleasant.

I had already tested negative for Covid. I then tested negative for the flu and strep. My lungs sounded fine except he said he might’ve heard something. Then I was sent home.

On one of the busiest weeks of the whole year, I cleared my schedule and aside from being up and about for necessities, coughing all over my whole family, I was in bed.

And aside from feeling like I was dying, it was kinda nice to peace out.

The NP sent me home, so I wasn’t in a rush to go back to the doctor. Might’ve been nice if I did.

My inclination is to tough things out and eventually I’ll get better. That didn’t work out for me.

I took two more COVID tests, both negative.

On the second day of Hanukkah, ten days after I had last been at urgent care, I went again. A different NP said my lungs sounded nice and clear. She also said the last guy wrote in his notes,

“If she comes back, get a chest x-ray.”

Wish I’d known that. I might’ve come back sooner and not spent the week in bed.

My nice and clear lungs got x-rayed and were actually both full of fluid and diagnosed with pneumonia.

Between multiple antibiotics and codeine, I felt like a new woman in no time.

It turned out to be one of the best Hanukkahs I’ve ever had. I can’t remember the last time Hanukkah was during school vacation week. It was so relaxing.

Usually Hanukkah is a rush of: school, activities, light candles, eat dinner, open presents, play for a minute, go to bed, repeat.

This year it was eight days of: sleep late, leisurely breakfast, open presents, play, play, play, relax, light candles, eat dinner, never take off Hanukkah jammies.

We left the house plenty of the days, but it did not necessitate taking off our jammies.

If anyone is considering Target’s dollhouse for American Girl dolls, I can confirm it’s massive. Any dollhouse that requires wall anchors to not kill small children, is no small addition to the toy collection.

Back in August I mentioned the house to Captain. I told him the dimensions. He said,

“WHAT?! NO WAY!”

Somewhere between then and now I won him over, as evidenced by the missing corner of our living room, where there is now a three story mansion my children can fit inside.

There were many shared gifts this year. One gift, two girls. That’s just how it’s going to be and a week of screaming be damned.

The girls vacillate between playing together for hours like a dream, to being out for blood.

The house was in the middle of both scenarios.

During one ferocious battle of who puts what where in the dollhouse, RB said,

“Maybe we need two houses.”

At which point I kicked both kids out of the living room. Dollhouse all to myself.

If anyone has reservations about a 5-year old lighting her own candles, we do too

And if anyone’s wondering what happens when you take post-pneumonia lungs to 9,000 feet above sea level in Quito, Ecuador, I will let you know next month!

The magic of the holidays is alive! Or not! Depending who’s asking

Posted on December 12, 2024 by Good Times with Jess

It’s that time of year again when I marvel at the enormous amount of Hanukkah decor I’ve accumulated and I don’t add anything else. NOT ONE THING.

JUST KIDDING. Home Goods had a giant, metal, light up sign, as tall as my children, with arrows showing you what direction Hanukkah is. It’s HERE!

If I jumped the shark four years ago when I purchased traditional Hanukkah gnomes. I don’t know what I’ve done now, considering this decoration doesn’t even fit in our storage bins

Tutu, our elf on the shelf is back, she had a baby. Which surprised all of us.

I bought a tiny American Girl doll elf, intending to give it as a gift Christmas Day/Hanukkah night. The tiny elf is so CUTE. I couldn’t resist it coming out sooner.

What I didn’t anticipate was that this would send RB down the rabbit hole of how babies are made and more specifically, how elf babies are made.

Things in the Land of Make Believe have deteriorated. I’m not sure who believes what at this point and I’m about ready to wave the white flag or one of my 37 Hanukkah dish towels.

I would like to tell you I did not buy another one this year, but that would be a lie.

RB (my 5-year old) has come down every morning and interrogated me.

A few weeks ago, before our elf appeared, she stared deep into my soul and asked,

“Is the Easter Bunny real or are you the Easter Bunny?”

“What do you think?”

“I think it’s you.”

“Ah.”

She does not like this non answer. She presses her nose against mine and yells

“TELL ME THE TRUTH!”

I cannot hold up to these interrogation techniques. I whimper,

“It’s me.”

“I KNEW IT!”

At which point BB (8-years old) joined us and I thought RB would tell all. RB didn’t say a word.

Then Tutu our elf appeared. BB reminded RB not to touch her or else that would ruin her magic. BB ran around writing notes to Tutu, making her jewelry and when I wasn’t home, putting out a charcuterie board with cheese for her.

Why Captain thought that was a good idea I DO NOT KNOW.

The next morning RB pressed her face against mine and yelled,

“Is Tutu magic or DID YOU BUY HER AT THE STORE?”

“What do you think?”

“I think she’s real and pretend.”

“Sounds about right.”

No one should have to deal with the 7am pre-breakfast wrath of RB. (Who may be hard of hearing, so we’ll give her a small benefit of doubt with the yelling.) She locks eyes with me, staring deep beyond my soul again and shouts,

“DID YOU BUY TUTU AT THE STORE?!! TELL ME THE TRUTH!”

“Yes, I did.”

“I knew it.”

Again BB joined us and I was sure RB would tell her the new information. RB didn’t say a word. Not only did RB not say a word, but she continued to join BB in talking to Tutu and relaying messages for Santa.

Then two nights ago RB lost her first tooth! She accepted her money and hasn’t asked a single question about the toothfairy.

This morning, in what has continued to be my 7am torture session, RB asked,

“Does Santa really bring presents or is it you and Dad?”

Months ago I told both kids,

“This year, because the first night of Hanukkah is the same day as Christmas, we’re not going to do any Christmas presents. We’ll just do Hanukkah presents.”

BB said,

“That’s ok, because Santa will still bring us something.”

And so Santa set aside one gift for Christmas, because as you may have guessed, I have a strong affinity for Hanukkah.

This morning, RB wouldn’t even give me her usual good morning hug, kiss and snuggle. She demanded answers about Santa. I asked,

“What do you think?”

“I think it’s you and dad.”

“Yeah.”

“IS IT?!? TELL ME THE TRUTH!!!”

“Yes, it’s Dad and me.”

BB told me recently that a friend had told her and RB that the Easter Bunny wasn’t real. I asked BB,

“What do you think?”

“She made those muddy footprints in our living room one year!”

“That’s true. I think the Easter Bunny is like a unicorn. You can believe in them if you want.”

“Unicorns aren’t real.”

“Right.”

“The Easter Bunny is.”

So I think we’re in the land of BB wanting to believe. And I’m not sure what land RB is in. She believes and doesn’t believe and hasn’t said a word to BB about any of it.

To put this all over the absolute top. BB came home from Hebrew school this week and asked,

“Why don’t we have a Mensch on the Bench?”

“I don’t know. We have two elves. Isn’t that enough?”

“But the Mensch on the Bench is for Hanukkah.”

“Is the Mensch on the Bench magic?”

This is a huge question of mine. The whole elf on the shelf thing goes along with Santa and all that make believe. BB ponders the Mensch magic dilemma and replies,

“Maybe?”

Our Mensch on the Bench is facing a shipping delay from whichever magical place with tariffs he’s coming from, but he should be here December 20th.

I asked my fellow Jewish yoga buddy,

“I don’t know what I’m doing with the Mensch, is he magic? Where does he go every night? Not back to the North Pole.”

“Jerusalem!”

Of course he does. Please give a warm welcome to our future Mensch and the last bit of Hanukkah decor I will buy. Until next week.

Where do you want to go? Check with your nearest consultant

Posted on November 21, 2024 by Good Times with Jess

Bonjour mes amis! I started work in September and I wouldn’t say I’m coming up for air, but I am prioritizing writing today.

My post-election workout vibe has been vengeance cardio, but my post-election writing vibe is: I’M SO EXCITED TO TELL YOU ABOUT MY NEW JOB!

Toddler Jessica promised to be a hair dresser. Girlhood Jessica swore she was going to be a prima ballerina. Teenage Jessica realized that was not to be and floundered for new ideas.

College Jessica zeroed in on writing. Post-college Jessica realized she could write AND travel. Writing, traveling Jessica realized working on a yacht was not for the faint of heart and recommitted to bartending to fund her writing/traveling habit.

Writing/traveling/bartending Jessica met Captain. Thirty-year-old Jessica rediscovered how she’d rather die than be in an office.

Then I got knocked up.

The idea to stay home with our kids was always grounded in the idea that someday, I would also do something else. TBD.

I spent all of last year thinking about what TBD might be. In a pinch I’d go back to bartending, but I wracked my brain for other ideas.

I figured I might as well define what my dream job would be. That didn’t really get me anywhere. So then I defined the qualities that my dream job would have: work from home and flexible hours.

My morning yoga and zumba classes feel non-negotiable. For me they are the equivalent to going to therapy.

RB requires drop-off and pick-up this year and both kids need an afternoon chauffeur, which I’d like to be here for. We have a secondary chauffeur, but he’s not as flexible.

Travel agent was something that kept popping into my head. I’ve thought about it on and off for years. I wrote it off as a dying industry.

Turns out people still use them. Captain pointed out,

“Our neighbors are all very capable of mowing their lawns, but they don’t want to.”

So that’s it. People are busy, but they want to take trips. I can help.

I started to reconsider it a year ago. Didn’t see a solid way forward. I was still all talk.

And so I talked on the beach to my dear friend. Who said,

“My friend has her own travel agency.”

Hmmm? Tell me more. Can I talk to her? So it began.

And I know what you’re thinking,

“Aha! Jess is a travel agent.”

Nope. I’m a luxury travel advisor. Advisor is the new agent. And just yesterday I was introduced as a Travel Designer. So there’s that too. As well as Travel Consultant.

Agent/Advisor/Designer/Consultant/woman for hire, they all have one thing in common: TRAVEL! Which I love, which I’m good at and which, I’m somewhat surprised to find out, I LOVE planning for other people.

I’ve been dreaming about Mexico, Scandinavia, Greece, PARIS! All the places my clients are bound for. I’m so EXCITED for them.

That part of it has really been a surprise. I had no idea I’d like planning other people’s trips as much as I do.

PLUS I’m doing it all from my couch, in my jammies, with my coffee, still going to exercise classes, still dragging my kiddos around. Feels somewhat miraculous.

Never mind the subsidized trips I’m eligible for. Which may be worth it all on their own. The work trips would be solo travel, which is how this journey all began. So I’ll be getting back to my roots, minus the overstuffed backpack full of varying degrees of unwashed laundry.

The joy of candy and decorating for EVERY holiday. P.S. Harris/Walz

Posted on November 4, 2024 by Good Times with Jess

Working has got the best of me. More on that soon. But first… The holidays!

RB asked me,

“Do you like Halloween?”

“Yes!”

“But not as much as me.”

“That might be true.”

There are many people in our neighborhood who decorate heavily for ALL holidays. That requires a level of stamina, commitment, organization, storage, money, and caring that I’m not ready for.

Mid-September I put out Star-of-David hand towels for the high holidays. After Yom Kippur, I put them away and took out our Halloween towels.

I spent the rest of the month defending my decorating choices to a five-year-old.

Every morning and every afternoon as we drove the ten minutes to and from school, she observed the neighbors and recited the catalog of possible Halloween swag.

Then she whined,

“When are we going to decorate?!!”

“We already did.”

“We did?”

“Yup. We have kitchen towels, three pumpkins and a sign on the door that says ‘Happy Halloween.”

“NOOOOOOOOO. That doesn’t count.”

The thing is, we do have a small, cackling witch, but anytime I try to hang it up, RB is too scared to walk by it.

EVERY drive she complained. I blasted Taylor Swift and threatened to remove the hand towels.

Every year, Captain gets closer and closer to buying some gigantic animatronic atrocity for the front lawn. And if he caves, no hard feelings, but it won’t be me.

RB tried again. She asked me,

“Why don’t we decorate?”

“We did.”

“Like lots of stuff in our yard.”

“Before you know it, we’re going to be decorating for Hanukkah and Christmas and we have SO MUCH.”

“It’s Hanukkah time?!?!?!?”

Nooo.

So that may have backfired. But to save myself trips in and out of the attic, I may just swap out the Halloween stuff for the holiday stuff. Once the bins are out, it’s anyone’s guess as to how long a Hanukkah gnome can stay in a bin.

I’m not sure when trick-or-treating turned into a sprint…

Other people aren’t decorating for Halloween either…

I don’t know what it is about this pumpkin stack, but I wouldn’t say no to it

Harris/Walz all the way! HERE WE GO

It turns out I do have children, but one may be moving out soon

Posted on October 16, 2024 by Good Times with Jess

My baby is five! And if she were coauthoring this, she would add that she’s not a baby.

On the drive home yesterday she told me,

“When I’m a high school girl, I’m getting my own house and moving out.”

As opposed to BB who’s current plan is to live with us forever. Maybe we’ll compromise and both will reach some happy independent place somewhere between high school and forever.

High school seems to be the current pinnacle. RB was using her pretend tools to fix a pretend car. Captain asked her,

“Are you going to help me fix up my truck?”

“Do I get to use REAL TOOLS?!”

I pipe up,

“When do you think you should use real tools?”

“When I’m a high school girl.”

“Sure thing.”

At pre-k they start their day outside and it’s getting chilly. RB told me,

“I need gloves.”

“How about mittens?”

“I want GLO-OVES!”

“WHAT?!”

“I want GLOVES PLEASE!”

“OK. If you can put them on yourself.”

“I can.”

She proceeds to stick several fingers in one finger hole. With her other hand she feels the empty fingers. She waves her misshapen glove at me and says,

“This glove has too many finger spots.”

It’s the gloves fault?! It couldn’t possibly be an issue on her end.

And as much as RB is ready to move out, she still wants to be BB, but doesn’t hesitate to get in an all-out brawl if so needed.

Both girls pressed their faces against the same living-room window looking for their grandparents. It soon devolved into screaming and pushing. I remind them,

“We have plenty of windows! You don’t need to fight over the same one.”

BB doesn’t move. She says,

“This is the best one for wiping my nose on!”

Just when I thought I was cleaning all the right high-touch surfaces, I forgot to consider the WINDOWS! Children are GROSS.

For a while now BB has been insistent that she really wants a digital watch. We had already given her and RB perfectly good analog ones years ago. I told BB,

“You already have a watch.”

“It’s too hard to tell the time.”

Last year she studied telling time in school. Captain or I could work on this with her. I opted for the $16 digital watch.

She’s thrilled. RB had a major meltdown. I remind RB of HER analog wrist watch. RB is unfazed.

“I want one with the NUMBERS like BB’s!!!”

“But you can’t tell time with either of them.”

“But I want the same one as BB.”

But there’s no argument for that. I tell RB,

“Sorry, no watch, but your birthday is coming up!” This was more a reminder of presents to come, not that I had any intention of adding a digital watch to the pile.

Today, still watchless, RB put on her ski jacket and pulled out her compass. She exclaimed,

“I can tell you the time! It’s Ten Eighty.”

The compass says it’s Ten Eighty, the gloves have too many fingers, my living-room windows are covered in snot and my 5-year-old is moving out in 9 years. My work here is almost done.

Hippo had a hard time taking a selfie with Unicorn

Children? What Children? Haven’t seen them

Posted on September 26, 2024 by Good Times with Jess

I usually spend every weekend with my kiddos. I don’t try to, it’s just life, unless something extraordinary happens. And all of sudden there are three extraordinary things in a row.

First there was a family wedding on the Cape, kids weren’t invited. BYE!

Now there’s a friend getaway this weekend.

Then a different friend group going away next weekend.

And while it’s not ideal to have two friend weekends away in a row, especially after a wedding weekend away, I’m not saying no!

Bye! Bye! And bye again!

The best part of being away is sleeping all night and into the morning without any needy people.

RB is queen of the 4am shoulder tap to let me know she needs to go to the bathroom. She doesn’t require any support aside from wanting to share her experience.

At 4am I’d rather not share any experiences.

The morning of the wedding, I luxuriate in my morning aloneness. Captain meanders out eventually,

“I’m sorry I slept so late.”

Nothing to be sorry about! There were no blood curdling war cries from our children.

We are well into school and are knee deep in activities. RB marched out of swimming very happy.

“I told my teacher I’m 5 and that I’m in kindergarten.”

“Really?”

“Am I?”

“No.”

“Oh.”

Almost five. In pre-k. And on a tear.

Mornings are a lottery. Today she demanded one small braid with a green clip, one pig-tail on the right with a pink, furry scrunchie and the hair on the other half of her head just down. I asked,

“Are you sure?”

“YES.”

I put the finishing touches on her wacko hairdo.

She admired herself in the mirror, let out a cackle and said,

“I look like a villain!”

“A villain?!” Does she even know what she’s talking about? “What’s a villain?”

She looks at me like I’m the odd ball,

“You know. Like in the movies.” She slides a pair of sunglasses onto the collar of her shirt and she’s ready.

As far as I’ve been told, my little villain is a somewhat quiet character at school.

The other day at dinner, BB ponders her sippy cup and asks,

“Do 8-year olds drink from sippy cups?”

“Depends on the 8-year old.”

Any item on our kitchen table goes flying at any point. BB has a knack for inadvertently flinging everything everywhere. After a routine breakfast of toast with Nutella it is not uncommon to find chocolate on her ankles, ears, chair rungs, and the wall.

Whole strawberries, pieces of chicken, green beans find cover under my table. BB knows they’ve gone missing, she just can’t be bothered to chase them down.

Liquids are the most exciting. A flying fork does not send me running, but a full chocolate milk sloshing across the dinner table is hard to ignore.

I understand that I’m raising BB to go out into the world without me and if all goes well she will drink from a cup.

I said ok to no sippy cup with a two-spill waiver clause. After two spills, we go back to a sippy. Also I’ve been giving her the shortest, fattest, heaviest glasses we have.

They may not withstand a solid arm swipe across the table, but so far they’ve held up to a few rogue elbows.

Three weekends worth of messes, hair-dos and activities that are not my problem.

And if RB thought she looked like a villain today, I can’t wait to see what she looks like after she gives her hair requests to Captain.

Bye!

Can’t go wrong with a little wedding swag!

Back to school! Roger that

Posted on September 6, 2024 by Good Times with Jess

School!

On the drive home from pre-k yesterday RB told me about all the wonderful things she did,

“There’s jewelry! And I wore it ALL.”

Then she stopped and whined,

“M in my class gets to go to school every day.”

“You get to go to school every day too.”

“I do?!!”

YES YOU DO!

Two weeks ago as we dug our toes into the sand for a few final beach days, RB stood next to me and said,

“I’m ready to go home.”

“Ready to go home? We just got to the beach!”

“I have schoolwork to do.”

“You do?”

“I have soccer, ballet, swimming and schoolwork!”

I don’t know what summer schoolwork she thought she had for pre-k, but she’s taking her schedule very seriously.

And these pre-k teachers mean business. RB offered,

“During circle time D asked me if my shoes were velcro, but I refused to answer him because the teachers were talking and we’re supposed to listen.”

If anyone likes a good set of rules, it’s RB. She may or may not abide by them, but she loves to hold everyone else accountable.

She’s fast approaching five years old and any visible signs of babyhood are long gone, like her delicious, oh so munchable, squeezable, to-die-for, thigh rolls. When she was a baby/toddler I’d love her up, squish her legs and say,

“Oh I love these chubby bubbies!”

It became our thing. So much so that by the time she was four, and her chubby bubbies weren’t so chubby anymore, I’d give her kisses on her cheek, a big hug and then start to walk away. She exclaimed,

“Hey!” And lifted up a leg. I had NO IDEA what she was doing. I just stared. She continued,

“Do you want a chubby bubbie?”

“I DO WANT a chubby bubbie!” At which point I squished and munched it right up. Children are delicious. (Especially when I’m home alone writing about them in peace.)

Then I started to walk away. RB shouted,

“Do you want the other one?”

“YES I DO!”

So our thing became a hug, kiss and several thigh squeezes.

Most nights I snuggle RB to sleep. I only have patience for this because I stroke her arm five times and she’s asleep. This week she stroked my upper arm back. Then she squished it. Then she murmured,

“You have chubby bubbies too!”

So I do.

The weekend before school started we squeezed in one last sailing day. There’s a radio on the boat which is used to call marinas, other boats or the yacht club. People use specific radio language. Like: over, out, roger, etc.

Roger means: I received and understood your message. My kids have been listening to this without comment for years.

After a final beautiful sail for the season, we returned to our mooring. RB was bouncing off of the rails and knew we needed to radio to get off the boat. Annoyed she yelled,

“Can someone call Roger?!”

And we did.

Now my babies are off! Third grade and pre-k. As I walked RB up to drop-off this morning, she looked annoyed she couldn’t shake me. She stopped and said,

“When you drop me off for high school you DO NOT need to walk me in.”

ROGER.

I’m ready for my driverless car or so says my poor poor Highlander

Posted on August 21, 2024 by Good Times with Jess

I recounted the following story to my beach crew. A friend exclaimed,

“What a good blog post this is!”

I hung my head. I could barely tell the story due to a bad case of woe-is-me and feeling like an idiot. My friend asked,

“Too soon?”

Too something. But here ya go.

My Toyota Highlander and I have been together for 8.5 years. She’s a trustworthy one and despite my initial regret about not getting a minivan, I’m at peace with my mom SUV.

Within our first year together, I tested her. There was a FedEx truck in our driveway, I backed into it. There was a basketball pole in our driveway, I backed into that. There was our garage, it jumped out at me and broke my sideview mirror.

Captain removed the basketball pole. He did not remove the garage. All he could do was sigh and shake his head. I felt bad, but I didn’t lose any sleep. Not my fault our driveway is so dangerous.

At some point during the first year of owning the Highlander, the front right running light was shattered. I know you think it was my fault, but I swear it had nothing to do with me. Captain and I think it must’ve been a rock that flew up from the road.

The Toyota dealership quoted us $900 to get it fixed. Captain said,

“No way. I can fix it easily, I just need to find the part.”

For the next 8 years, every time I brought the Highlander in for a routine service, they quoted me $900 to fix the running light. I stopped even mentioning it to Captain.

Captain couldn’t find the part and neither one of us wanted to pay $900 for it. A running light is not required to pass the yearly inspection.

This past spring I brought the Highlander in for routine service. I left with a quote for $300 to fix the running light. Captain asked,

“Don’t they usually quote us $900?”

“Yeah.”

“For $300 we should get it fixed.”

As I pulled into our garage, CAREFULLY, a strong burning smell consumed me. That smell was NOT there before the service.

Captain inspected the car. The lids were left loose after changing the transfer case fluid or something like that. I have no idea what I’m talking about.

Either way, Captain was MAD and marched himself into the dealership. They gave us a $300 credit on our account. The stars aligned and were telling me that now was the time to get my running light fixed.

It took a long time. The guy called me up for my car. It looked perfect with a brand-new light. He said,

“We misquoted you. This repair really costs $900.”

Right. I stare at him. He adds,

“We’ll stand by our $300 quote and since you have a $300 credit on your account you’re all set!”

I rolled out of there on cloud nine. Eight years of a broken running light and now it’s sparkling new for free. After all the pain I’d put Captain through with the nicks and the dings, this was a MAJOR WIN.

The next day, less than 24 hours later, I headed to the YMCA. As I was backing in and out of a parking spot, there was a rock in my blind spot, the front right corner: CRUNCH. I smashed the just-fixed running light into the rock.

I slunk out of my car. A guy across the way juggling two toddlers offered,

“That didn’t sound good.”

Of all the things I’ve done to the Highlander, this is the only one that made me cry.

Eight years without that running light. Twenty-two hours of it fixed. I was never meant to have two running lights.

Loving up the running light that’s not broken.
Circa 2020

Captain’s Brat Summer

Posted on August 9, 2024 by Good Times with Jess

Happy 50th birthday to Captain!

I’m getting used to 42. For devoted readers of my blog or readers who have been with me since my bartending days, you may remember a bar regular whose code name was Old Guy.

I was 27 when I came up with that gem and you guessed it, he was 42.

I would not take kindly to being called Old Gal or Old anything. Even if many days I feel ancient compared to 27.

I spent an inordinate amount of time googling “Brat.” If Vice President Harris IS Brat, then I want to have a Brat summer too. Or at least understand what heck is going on and why we’re wearing green.

Don’t get me started on no-show socks.

I also wish I could have a word with Past Jessica. When 27-year-old Jessica casually lumped all people over 40 into “Old,” she was oblivious to her own march through time.

The morning of Captain’s birthday RB exclaimed,

“We got you a cake but we’re not supposed to tell you about it!”

Right.

As Captain blew out his candles, the kids shouted,

“Are you one? Are you two? Are you three? …”

Which is great if you’re under twenty.

“Are you eleven? Are you twelve?…”

I interrupt,

“How about you go by tens?”

“Are you twenty? Are you thirty? Are you forty? Are you FIFTY?!”

Current Jessica feels very youthful next to a 50-year-old. And if Captain thought he could forget for a minute how old he’s turning, no luck because I bought a fair amount of 50th birthday accoutrement.

Eight years is a long time to save it, but as I have learned, my time will come. If I’m lucky.

Best sailing sisters ever?

Posted on July 23, 2024 by Good Times with Jess

What a week! We sailed, we ate, we swam and when the kids weren’t fighting they had an amazing time too.

Areas of disagreement for BB and RB include but are not limited to:

She looked at me.
She touched me.
I want quiet.
That’s mine.
How come she gets…?
She had two lollipops today and I only had one.
She’s taking my fries.
She’s taking my drink.
She’s following me.
She won’t play with me.
Why won’t she play with me?
She won’t leave me alone.
I love my sister so much I’m going to smother her in hugs and kisses until I really piss her off.
I want to grab the rope!
I WANT TO GO FIRST.
IT’S MY TURN TO GO FIRST.
We both despise sunscreen application, but I might die if I DON’T GO FIRST.

Nothing beats waking up and going to sleep on the water. There were many moments of the trip when I could envision living on a boat again. Maybe when our children don’t rely on us for housing.

Expectations are slippery things. Before the trip, the general consensus was that if we all managed to sail for a week last year and now everyone is a year older, then we’re all set for this year.

I agree that at 42, still clinging to my early forties, I’m in a very similar sailing condition to last year. I’ve stopped saying Captain is 49 and started saying he is almost 50. Aside from his vague expressions of alarm about that, his sailing condition is also the same as last year.

BB, now eight, is ever more independent and capable. Four-year-old RB is convinced she is just as capable as BB and in many ways she is.

The main difference I see from last year to this year is that last year RB took a reliable two to three hour afternoon nap and this year she didn’t. That’s two to three MORE hours that BB and RB got to spend with each other in an enclosed space. I should consider myself lucky that no one started throwing poop at each other like monkeys in captivity.

And there was poop to be thrown. RB was very willing to pee in the boat toilet, but by day three it was apparent she was refusing to poop.

In my best poop voice, I warned her that I wanted to come out and would come out no matter what at some point. I’ll make anything talk if it means furthering the cause.

RB wasn’t hearing it. On day four it came out in her bathing suit and I dumped it overboard. If you saw a large floater on your way to Martha’s Vineyard last week, you’re welcome.

RB then decided it was okay to put the rest of her poop in the toilet and was rewarded with a lollipop. Don’t worry, BB got one too.

RB does not allow anyone to help her with anything, like climbing in and out of the dinghy, If you do, she yells,

“I GOT IT I GOT IT I GOT IT!”

She is also convinced she can paddle board. BB actually can. She did really well this year. RB struggled but persisted despite the paddle being twice as big as her.

One night, at a large restaurant on the harbor, BB was complaining,

“I really want a lemon.”

“You can go up to the bar and ask for one.”

BB shook her head. RB perked up and said,

“You can ask the bar for a lemon?”

“Yes.”

“Do they have cherries?”

“Yes.”

Without further ado, RB was out of her seat and marched herself toward the bar which was way over her head. She walked right past it.

I stayed at our table and kept an eye on her. She headed for the front of the restaurant. She was somehow directed to the general manager. I saw their heads bend together. He disappeared. He returned with a brand-new jar of cherries and scooped a bunch into a cup for her. She returned triumphant.

BB, not to be outdone, headed to the bar. She no longer had any interest in a lemon and asked for a cup of cherries.

This was in addition to the cherries on our nightly ice cream sundaes. I am never so well fed as the week we spend sailing.

Sibling rivalry aside, it was an incredible trip and I’m the first one to blog about it, so there.

Who doesn’t take their pet ox to the beach?

Gone sailing, again!

Posted on July 13, 2024 by Good Times with Jess

My dear pet snails are back in the wild and we sail away today for a week. I’m stocked up on vomit bags, coloring pages and coffee. The iPads are updated. My children haven’t seen them in three months.

Yes, I understand it’s possible for an impatient 4-year-old to sail for eight hours without an ipad, but even if I were that masochistic, it does not meant I want to inflict undue suffering on my in-laws.

I learned a lot last year and I’ve tweaked my packing: fewer clothes and more potato chips, smaller towels and more wipes, and shiny new pencils in pairs. I will keep the sibling rivalry to a low hum if at all possible.

I also packed MORE COFFEE and shelf-stable milk. Mornings on the boat are my absolute favorite time of the day.

My kids may go into a screen-time detox at some point, but I will not go into caffeine withdrawal. Nor should those two ever happen at the same time.

Rhode Island to Martha’s Vineyard and back again! Heave-ho!

Seafaring snail dudes summer at the Cape

Posted on June 30, 2024 by Good Times with Jess

I’ve had many pets in my life: three dogs, one parrot, two chickens, one rabbit, one cat and several fish.

Much to BB’s consternation, all she’s had is one dog who died when she was two.

She’s desperate for a pet.

The family decision is that two years from now, when all our extra money isn’t going toward pre-k or kindergarten, we’ll get a dog.

Two years is a long time. BB found me in the kitchen and presented a large caterpillar.

“I’m keeping him for a pet.”

If by keeping him, you mean keeping him outside.

Then yesterday she fell in love with two garden snails: Swirly and Speedy. She begged and begged and begged to keep them.

Speedy is not a name you might expect for a snail, but Speedy has proven themselves worthy.

Speedy prefers they/them pronouns considering they’re hermaphroditic. Put any two snails together and you can get baby snails. Or so says Google. Yes I’ve been doing my snail research.

I haven’t seen any snail hanky panky yet, but there’s still time.

BB presented her sand pail with her snails and pleaded her case. My initial reaction was,

Absolutely not! They belong in the wild and we’re not buying a terrarium.

Then it turned out we already had a terrarium, with dirt in it nonetheless. It became impossible to say no.

Next thing I knew I was cutting up strawberries for Swirly and Speedy and misting their habitat with water.

I wouldn’t think twice about them out in the wild, but now I fear for their life. I would like to say no pet snail has ever died on my watch.

And that’s why we’ll be releasing them in a week.

It’s either that or take them sailing to Martha’s Vineyard.

As excited as my in-laws would be for us to show up on their boat with the addition of a terrarium, I’m not convinced these are seafaring snails.

Don’t even talk to me about looking into snail-sitting.

If Swirly and Speedy want to stay close by, then maybe we’ll see them again. If not, I wish them the best and pray for whatever new wild animal BB gets her hands on next.

There really are a lot of great snail images. It was hard to choose.

And so we beach

Posted on June 13, 2024 by Good Times with Jess

It’s the final days of school and countdown to beach camp.

My two campers are ready. We’re stocked up on sunscreen, bathing suits and snacks. We’ve added a sloth float to our pile of beach gear because that’s both of my children’s favorite animal.

BB has long loved the sloth for whatever usual reasons people pick favorite animals. Then in the car the other day RB told me,

“The sloth is my favorite animal.”

“Really?? Since when?”

“Since it was BB’s favorite.”

Right.

In 2025 we’re headed to the Galapagos. This has been a bucket-list trip for me since elementary school when they showed us the underwater robots exploring there.

Fifteen years ago as I roamed around South America I counted my dollars. I could travel South America for four months or I could use the same money for one week in the Galapagos.

I chose four months, but held out hope that someday I’d be back. And as we continue to destroy our planet, it seems like the sooner the better for this trip.

It will be in honor of Captain and my ten-year-wedding anniversary. Yes we’re bringing the kids.

There are no sloths in the Galapagos, but there ARE sloths in the Ecuadorian rainforest. I hadn’t planned on going there in addition to the Galapagos, but considering we’ll only be a few hours away when we fly in to Quito I contemplated it. I asked our Ecuadorian travel agent. She told me,

“I’ve been working in tourism and visiting the rainforest for ten years. I have only ever seen a sloth in the wild once.”

Ok. Nix that. Maybe my children would like to consider blue footed boobies as their new favorite animal. I’m sure there’s a corresponding beach float.

RB has an extra week of school that BB doesn’t have. The same thing happened last year and I pulled RB out early to get to the beach. As much as I want to be in my lounge chair with a book, I’m having a hard time figuring out why I would miss out on several days of RB being in school.

Once BOTH kids are out of school, I’ll be in my lounge chair, with my book, counting the paragraphs before they start World War III.

No matter what we do, they will find something to fight about. But the total and complete hopelessness of it was brought home to me a couple weeks ago.

We were at a playground covered with standard-issue wood chips. Thousands and thousands of wood chips. Not as many as grains of sand on the beach, but close enough.

I was head down in my book. I heard some screeching. I kept my head down. The shouting escalated. I peered over the top of my book. Then a blood-curdling yell from one of my beloved children.

I called them over. BB thrust her hand at me. In her palm was one of the MANY wood chips. RB whined,

“BB won’t share her wood chip!”

I looked at BB. She shrugged.

I told RB,

“Go find another wood chip.”

“NOOOOOO I want THAT one.”

I asked BB,

“Can you share that wood chip?”

“But I’m the one who found the most perfect wood chip.”

Of course.

All BB would have to do is declare any other one of the thousands of wood chips “the most perfect wood chip” and RB would want that one. But how to telepathically relay this?

I tell them,

“You have one more chance to figure this out.”

You don’t need me to tell you they did NOT figure it out. I took the wood chip and put it in my pocket. They both lost their minds.

I told them,

“We can leave or you can go play.”

They went to play.

If you’re wondering what happened to “the most perfect wood chip” that everyone forgot about. It is well laundered and living its best life indistinguishable from all the other treasures in my yard.

Here’s to finding the most perfect grain of sand and keeping it all for myself.

I’m ready to beach. May the best person win.

Captain’s cleanse aka his colonoscopy, my middle-age acne and a town hemorrhaging teachers

Posted on May 29, 2024 by Good Times with Jess

It’s that time of year when I’m assessing all of my life choices.

Our town override vote failed by a significant amount and now our schools are losing SO MANY teachers. When we bought our house, I was not paying attention. If a town leans right, it’s bad news bears.

My 42nd birthday is approaching and I have a bottle of blood pressure medication on my counter that promises to cure my middle-age acne, while also giving me numerous other side effects considering I don’t have high blood pressure.

Captain’s 50th birthday is approaching which really makes me feel very good about 42. Also he’s overdue for his colonoscopy since they moved the marker on him and now you’re supposed to start getting them when you’re 45.

RB and I headed to Target to pick up Captain’s Miralax and all that fun stuff.

I would’ve been going on my own, but the day before, RB came home from school, sat down in the living room and wouldn’t get up. Several hours of sleep later she asked me,

“Can you carry me to the art room?”

“Why?”

“I want to be with BB.”

“Go ahead.”

“I can’t walk.”

“You can’t walk?!”

“My knees hurt.”

“Both knees?”

“Yes.”

“Did you fall and get hurt today?”

“No.”

An hour later we were supposed to be headed to a fun event at her preschool. Captain and I stood before a seated RB. I told her,

“I don’t think we can go to the art show.”

“I want to go!”

“Then I need you to walk.”

“You can carry me.”

I stood her up. She screamed like I was trying to kill her. I put her down. I called the doctor’s office. The nurse said,

“Bring her in.” She also asked,

“Does her throat hurt?”

“RB does your throat hurt?”

“No.”

At 6pm we headed for the doctor. My 7:30pm book club plans were vaporizing before my very eyes. I was envisioning a night at the hospital with a child who could no longer walk.

The doctor came right in. She asked a minimal number of questions, shined her light in RB’s throat, took a swab and said,

“Looks like strep, we’ll know in a minute.”

STREP?! She can’t walk and she said her throat doesn’t hurt. The doctor said,

“Have a look.”

I peered down RB’s throat. Yup. Sure looked like it hurt.

I explained my confusion to the doctor. She said,

“Sometimes kids don’t even know what their throat is.”

Great point.

The rapid test came back fast. Positive!

I have never been happier to get a positive strep test. My imaginary night at the hospital was no more. One stop for antibiotics and off to book club I went!

So that’s why the next day I had RB’s company to collect colonoscopy supplies.

On the drive to Target RB asked,

“Is Dad sick?”

“No not at all.”

“Then why does Dad need medicine?”

“For his colonoscopy. He needs medicine to get all the poop out of his intestines so the doctor can go in his butt and look around.”

“She’s going to fit inside Dad’s butt?!”

“I mean she’s going to look inside Dad’s intestines with a stick.”

“The doctor is using outside things inside Dad?!!”

WOW I’m really butchering this conversation.

“No no no. I’m sorry. The doctor is using a special doctor tool to see inside of Dad and make sure he’s healthy.”

“Oooh. I don’t need medicine to poop.”

“Right!” And I don’t either.

When my doctor offered the oral, blood-pressure medicine he said,

“It’s hard to put topicals all over your back.”

Well it’s great for my shoulder mobility and I’ll happily do that instead of taking my chances with the thirty-seven side effects.

My acne is now under control; I have three more colonoscopy-free years and I don’t know what will happen to our schools. Please send help.

Marital love. Measured in gefilte fish

Posted on May 7, 2024 by Good Times with Jess

Another Passover is in the books. It was awhile ago now, but I started writing this awhile ago.

Thank you to PJ library for their kid friendly Haggadah. Every year we’re able to read a little bit more. And if it weren’t for the illustrations, I don’t know that we’d be able to read at all.

BB was a full-on participant this year, which felt extra special and RB was a full-on nuisance despite eating a not-kosher-for-Passover bowl of Frosted Flakes two minutes before the start of the seder.

RB was willing to pause her complaining to ask the Four Questions and bargain for money for the afikomen.

BB declared,

“Twenty dollars!”

I said,

“One dollar.”

“Fifteen dollars!”

“Two dollars.”

“Ten dollars!”

“Three dollars.”

At which point, without BB’s approval, RB shouted,

“DEAL!”

I paid ten dollars, but still felt proud of my bargaining skills.

This is the year I realized the love Captain and I have can be measured in gefilte fish.

I adore gefilte fish. I have adored gefilte fish from the minute I could eat solid food. I also adore Captain. The two of them side by side is an easy pairing for me.

Captain only met gefilte fish when he met me. Turns out he was not as enamored with the fish, but I never would’ve known.

Wikipedia says:

Gefilte fish (/ɡəˈfɪltə fɪʃ/; from Yiddish: געפֿילטע פֿיש, German: Gefüllter Fisch / Gefüllte Fische, lit. “stuffed fish”) is a dish made from a poached mixture of ground deboned fish, such as carp, whitefish, or pike. It is traditionally served as an appetizer by Ashkenazi Jewish households. Popular on Shabbat and Jewish holidays such as Passover, it may be consumed throughout the year.

Historically, gefilte fish was a stuffed whole fish consisting of minced-fish forcemeat stuffed inside the intact fish skin. By the 16th century, cooks had started omitting the labor-intensive stuffing step, and the seasoned fish was most commonly formed into patties similar to quenelles or fish balls.^[1]

Ten years ago, at our first seder together, Captain ate the whole gefilte fish topped with horseradish. One of my favorite combos!

I don’t remember his exact words, but something along the lines of,

“Not bad!”

Each year Captain continued to eat the whole gefilte fish. Then about five years ago, when we were no longer in the stage of ripping each other’s clothes off, Captain ate about half of his gefilte fish.

A few more years went by and he continued to eat at least half of his gefilte fish.

Then this year.

I was so busy slurping up every last bit of my ground-up fish that I wasn’t paying Captain the least bit of attention.

I glanced over. He had taken the smallest, most imperceptible, almost microscopic taste of his gefilte fish.

I looked at him,

“You really don’t like it.”

“No I don’t.”

In that moment all I cared about was being very happy to eat his gefilte fish.

Then days later it dawned on me, we have now reached a place in our marriage where there is ZERO need for him to prove his love for me by how much ground-up, mushed-back-together fish he is capable of eating.

For better or for worse, until death or the end of Passover, he’s sticking to matzo ball soup.

Celestial forces have aligned two weekends ago and now

Posted on April 19, 2024 by Good Times with Jess

HOME ALONE AND IT’S AMAZING!!!

The stars have aligned. (And two weeks ago the sun, the moon and the earth aligned.) The girls are at Grandma’s and Captain is at the office. I came home last night in a festive mood. I burst in the house singing,

“Happy weekend!!!”

Captain looked at me and said,

“I still have work tomorrow.”

Right. Happy weekend to ME! And let me drive you to the commuter rail.

This morning I returned to my house and skipped from the door to the coffee maker and skipped into the living room, then skipped back to the kitchen.

I now have the time/space/brain power to tell you about the solar eclipse that you are sick of hearing about.

A year ago Grandma told us she would be taking us to Vermont for the total solar eclipse.

I heard “taking us on a trip.” YAY! I let the total solar eclipse part go in one ear and out the other. Those words didn’t deter me, but also didn’t spark any interest either. Solar what? Eh. I love Vermont. See you there!

In December we were gifted solar eclipse gear. Oh right, the reason we’re going to Vermont in April.

Then the week before, a national fervor was kicking up. I was swept into the enthusiasm, although still not sure what it was all about.

The PBS Nova episode on the eclipse was fascinating, but the awe these people spoke of was hard to imagine.

I packed our eclipse shirts. RB said,

“I’m so excited to go to Grandma’s beach house!”

“Grandma is taking us to Vermont.”

“I’m so excited to go skiing!”

“We’re not going skiing. We’re going to see the total solar eclipse.”

“Oh. Is there a pool?”

“Yes.”

“YAY!

Feeling somewhat concerned about the projected crowds in Vermont, I slipped our bullet-proof shield into our backpack and reminded Captain that if we can’t run, we lie on top of our children.

Check with me for more great, can’t-wait-to-get-this-vacation-started conversations.

Burlington, Vermont was so fun! The solar eclipse people were an amazing cross section of our population: all ages, abilities, colors, sizes, but somehow united in a sort of celestial geekiness.

Never mind the eclipse, the people watching was top notch. I was on a bench between my kiddos and no one cared to move for half-an-hour. We would’ve stayed there longer if someone hadn’t said “Pizza!”

We had a fair amount of discussion about where on Lake Champlain we should watch the eclipse. We needed to get there hours ahead. As soon as we’re talking hours, I’m thinking: ‘what are the kids DOING for HOURS? And is there a bathroom?’

So solar eclipse day it was playground or bust. Morning of, I slipped on a Smartwool top to go under my solar eclipse shirt. RB saw my long underwear and shouted,

“We’re going skiing!”

By 10am on solar-eclipse day we were at an awesome park and playground on Lake Champlain with seven porta potties. That sounds like plenty, but there was never not a line.

Have you ever wondered if your kids could be happy at a playground for SIX hours? Yes. Yes they can.

As we set up our chairs, RB jumped with excitement. She said,

“I can’t wait to see the meteors!”

At least she was finally talking about the solar system and not skiing or the beach.

BB was fascinated by the eclipse progression. RB was not. For the first half hour she refused to wear the glasses, but she finally relented and got into it.

Then TOTALITY. Darkness.

For over three minutes we had our glasses off and were able to look up at the eclipse with our bare eyes. We saw the sun’s corona. It’s only visible during a total solar eclipse. It brought tears to my eyes and not because my retinas were burning up.

Then at the end of totality, as the sun was reappearing, there was the flash and what they call the diamond ring.

It was unbelievably beautiful and awe inspiring in a way that I never expected.

The whole park, the best smorgasbord of people, erupted into cheers.

At dinner in Burlington that night I asked for everyone’s favorite part of the trip. BB declared,

“Playing at the playground all day!”

RB,

“Simming!”

And the adults?

Totality!

When RB returned to pre-school she was asked to speak in front of the class about her trip to Vermont.

After days of her talking about the beach, skiing and meteor showers, I was incredulous to hear that she recounted a solar eclipse.

Just like a day at the beach, but in a parka.

Bearded dragons want to see the eclipse too

April Fools!

Posted on April 3, 2024 by Good Times with Jess

I stole Captain’s car.

You know I’m committed to this holiday when I set my alarm for 5:00am April 1st to achieve my dreams.

Several months ago some cars in our area were stolen from driveways. Captain, who had been meaning to install an outdoor camera security system, went all in.

Except, as with many projects, it’s not quite finished. The driveway camera is up and running. It’s recording and notifying Captain the minute anyone makes any movement in the driveway.

Daily notifications of children getting their bikes out of the garage are high priority.

Another camera is not plugged in yet. Something about running the wiring through the attic. If you want a timeline on when that’ll get done, it’s anyone’s guess, but if it’s still not done next year, then the world is my oyster.

With one camera out of service, I was able to sneak out of the house undetected.

At 5:00am I slipped on black sweatpants, black combat boots, Captain’s long black shirt OVER my fleece. I thought it made me look a little beefy, offset with my slender, black leather gloves. I sealed the deal with a black face sock.

I clutched Captain’s long black crowbar and headed out the surveillanceless exit. I made a bee line for the back of our property. I jumped a mile as every motion detector light went off. They terrified me, but not the deer Captain was hoping to deter.

I escaped out the back corner of the yard. I felt scary and was also concerned that if anyone saw me, I looked like real trouble.

I reentered our yard from the street, came down the driveway. I had rehearsed a charade in my head of what I would do. I got under the car in the back and banged my crowbar around on the ground.

The security camera records sound. As I lay on the ground under the car. I stared up at the spare tire and thought to myself,

“What would a car thief be doing here under the spare tire?” Proof I came up with this charade without googling: ‘how to steal a car.’

Although I did google: “tools to steal a car.” My trusted crowbar was not listed, but I decided that between the crowbar and the key fob, it would be a good combo.

I moved to the driver door and pretended to use my crowbar. I successfully “broke” in.

I tried to embody my best car-thief self, I resisted the ingrained habit of buckling. I’d like to say I peeled out of the driveway.

I did not. I sat there for awhile and wondered how long a car thief would wait for the windshield to defrost.

I decided not long. So because I couldn’t really see and it wasn’t my car with all its battle scars, I made a slow cautious exit, squeaking by our trash bins.

I was about to come to a full stop at the stop sign, but I saw our neighbor pulling out. I didn’t want to scare the bejeezus out of them with my black sock covered head, I turned and headed around the block.

I buckled. I don’t care how hardcore a car thief you are, who wants to listen to that beeping?

I parked down the street from our house and headed back inside.

It was such a relief to be back in my jammies, on the couch with my coffee. I’m really not cut out for car thievery.

I checked the driveway footage. There I was! Around 7am Captain headed for the shower, I glanced at his phone. The security notification was there! Movement in the driveway detected and recorded.

I paced the kitchen and tried not to act like I just stole a car.

Captain came out for breakfast, drank his coffee, perused his phone. NOTHING.

I walked BB part of the way to the bus stop. I saw her look down the street. At which point I thought she was going to shout and ask what Dad’s car was doing in the street. She didn’t.

That was a relief. Later I asked BB if she noticed Captain’s car. She said she thought it was her grandparents’ car. Which it was, but also all the more reason to ask about it. Seven-year-old brains are mysterious things.

I came back in the house and took the risk of yelling to Captain in the other room,

“Hey! Where did you put your car?”

He looked out the window and said,

“Nice try, April Fools.”

I have never been more crushed in my life. But I wasn’t convinced the jig was up.

I had been counting on Captain being oblivious to the date, but I’ve fooled him almost every year, so for once he was trying to be ready.

He started looking out all the windows of the house for his car. I asked,

“Did you check the driveway video footage?”

“No. Should I?”

“Well I don’t know anything about your car, so we should check it.”

He reviews the video, zooms in on the masked robber and screeches,

“WHO IS THAT?!?!?!”

I inspect myself. I note the time stamp,

“5:30am! I don’t know! You know I don’t get up until 6am.”

“I need to call the police. Should I call the police?”

“YES! Not 911, just the regular number.”

“The regular number?”

“Yeah, google it.”

His hands are shaking, he keeps muttering,

“Who was that?! I can’t believe this. I can’t believe this.”

As he’s about to press send on the call to the police, I pop out with the black mask on my face.

April Fools victory is sweet.

We can’t all be big sisters, but we can dream

Posted on March 22, 2024 by Good Times with Jess

We tell our kids they can be anything. I’ve emphasized that they can be multiple things. But there are limitations. There are things they will never ever be no matter what and RB isn’t hearing it.

RB tells me,

“When I grow up, I’m going to be a big sister.”

“You ARE getting bigger everyday!”

Do I need to crush all her hopes and dreams right now? I’m just trying to get through the day over here.

She’s not oblivious to my evasive response. She doubles down,

“I’m going to be a big sister like BB. OK?”

BB tells me,

“First I’m going to be an olympic swimmer, then a prima ballerina, then an astrophysicist.”

Noted and I don’t feel the need to say anything. Meanwhile with RB, I’m tempted to tell her that no matter what she does, how hard she tries, how well she does in school that she will forever be a little sister. RB adds,

“When I’m the big sister, then I’ll have more toys than BB.”

Ahhh. We’ve hit the crux of it. A fight for resources.

There’s plenty of food, plenty of candy, an overabundance of everything. BUT ARE THE TOYS EQUAL???

BB tells me,

“Dad said when I’m a teenager I can change my room around. I’m going to need more space.”

Sensing an opportunity, I ask,

“Do you want to move the LOL doll house to RB’s room?”

“Yes!”

Within hours the LOL doll house joined Barbie’s dream house in RB’s room. I wasn’t waiting for BB to change her mind.

RB came home from school and her squeals of delight made me hopeful she’d forget her big sister career plan. RB informs me,

“I”m big enough now for the LOL house!”

“You are!”

“I’m getting to be a big sister.”

I don’t know what’s going on here, but as long as they stay outside, it works for me

When the kids are away, the adults will play

Posted on March 7, 2024 by Good Times with Jess

Heaven!

I’ve arrived.

Nothing like waking up in my own home without my children, knowing they’re having the most wonderful time at their grandmother’s. They survived on donuts, Thai food, McDonald’s and ice cream. And no need to share toys because Grandma has two dollhouses.

Captain walked in the door and we were able to finish every conversation we started. I woke up at 6am out of habit, rolled over and didn’t make a peep until 7:30am. This was vital considering we were planning to stay up past 9pm.

The kids weekend away was out of the blue. Captain and I didn’t have anything planned and it didn’t occur to me until a friend asked,

“What are you going to do?”

What WAS I going to do?

It didn’t really matter. Whatever it was, it would be glorious. The highlight being sleeping late and waking up to peace.

A whole two days of peace.

No screaming over who goes down the stairs first. No screaming because their two hot chocolates aren’t completely even. No screaming because someone looked at someone.

If parental love is measured out in the number of marshmallows each child gets in their hot chocolate, then my kids are evaluating my love with as much precision as their counting skills allow. RB doesn’t stand a chance.

Days before our weekend of bliss I ask Captain,

“Should we go into Boston?”

The thirty minute drive from the burbs might as well be the trek of a lifetime.

Captain ponders this momentous idea,

“We could.”

And we do. We park in our old parking garage. It’s nostalgic in a way like:

‘It’s so nice we don’t have to park here anymore.’

We wander through the seaport where I used to wander with baby BB in her sling, but it looks nothing like it used to look. Shiny new buildings are EVERYWHERE.

Around 7pm we walk into a shiny new building for a game of mini-golf. All ages of people are playing. Captain starts with a hole in one and then not realizing it’s a digitalized game, moves my ball to try to help me, but that adds a shot to my score. I was doomed. But who cares about winning?

I do. I didn’t come all the way in from suburbia to hand this game over.

We have a bite to eat. All ages of people disappear and we’re left with twenty somethings. Captain gazes around at the couples. He says,

“They have no idea that in ten years they’ll be living in the suburbs.”

I glance at one young woman displaying a grimace of disdain as her date returns to her. I don’t have my money on them.

We head for mini-golf round two. Captain and I scan the crowd for anyone close to our age. Captain almost shouts,

“See that guy? Gray hair and glasses?”

Yes! And his wife is yawning. I’m with you girlfriend. I didn’t know that a 9pm mini-golf game would finish around 11pm. But it was worth it because I won the second round.

If my children have taught me anything, winning matters, especially when your immediate family is involved.

I was also surprised to feel content with being middle age. There’s peace in my life, even when the kids are home, that didn’t exist in my twenties. Or at least that’s the conclusion I came to after spending a mini-golf game listening to the bravado of “Soupie” and “Sheppie.”

Sheppie said to Soupie or maybe the other way around,

“My second cousin is hot. I mean it. I’m really attracted to her, but she’s getting married next month.”

These are the quality conversations I’ve been missing since I stopped bartending.

The weekend worked out so well for everyone that we put another one on the books for April. Captain and I will go out in Boston again, aiming for the 5pm-9pm window.

I don’t know what we’ll do, but I’m going to win. I mean have so much fun!

It is rich on my part to give Sheppie and Soupie a hard time when I’m walking around playing for Team BJ.

Sugarbush! I went a whole week without making a bush joke, Can’t say the same for Captain

Posted on February 20, 2024 by Good Times with Jess

When Captain and I were whisking away on ski weekends with a bag thrown over our shoulders, I day dreamed about skiing with our future children.

Somehow I forgot to daydream about the impossibly overloaded luggage carts, overstuffed car, and children capable of putting everything on themselves when asked by their ski instructors, but capable of nothing when they see me.

I didn’t know that for ski trips each child would require two stuffies in addition to their lovie, plus RB’s huge music machine that is meant to attach to a crib, which we no longer need.

As our luggage cart obstructed the lobby, I took stock of the next two luggage carts. That family wasn’t traveling light either. They had a snoo bassinet and a full-size high chair.

We don’t need a high chair, so there’s room for extra stuffies.

This does include food for the week. Plus 3 ski jackets for me.
I own them, so if not now, then when?

This was a miracle year. It is the first year we all skied together the four of us. We rode the lift together and went down fun, blue-square trails. Not quite at the speed I would choose, but getting there.

The second best part after skiing was the outdoor hot tub/pool situation.

Skiing is how Captain and I met, and sitting in the hot tub together is a little bit of heaven. I sipped my beer and gazed at our children in the pool. I said to Captain,

“Can you believe this is how it started and now look at us?”

“Not an entirely unpredictable trajectory.”

Right.

I felt the same way after giving birth to BB. It was UNBELIEVABLE, yet millions of people have been giving birth for millions of years.

We’re just one of many couples falling in love in a hot tub and returning to it with the consequences.

My joy was splashed away the minute our children took to deep-sea swimming in the hot tub. There are age rules for hot tubs, but I don’t think that’s necessary. The only rule should be:

“Do you need goggles for the hot tub?”

“Yes?”

“YOU’RE NOT ALLOWED.”

And parents aren’t allowed in ski school. When I say it was amazing to ski together the four of us, it was amazing to ski together from 2pm-3pm.

And it was amazing to ski harder and faster with Captain the rest of the time.

I have perfected getting RB on the chairlift. It only took one time with her dangling down to make sure that didn’t happen again.

This is all thanks to wonderful instruction from ski school.

As I was putting BB to bed, she snuggled up to me and said,

“I’m lucky you’re my mama.”

After I was done melting, I asked,

“I’m lucky! What made you say that?”

“You’re not a mean ski instructor.”

“You had a mean ski instructor?!!”

“NO! The ski instructors are so nice. But some kids have to go from their really nice ski instructors to their mean, ski-instructor parents. I hear them yelling at their kids. And you just say, ‘Lead the way!'”

This is one of the very good reasons we pay for ski school. I can keep the mean, ski-instructor parent dormant inside me.

Of course the minute BB saw RB skiing, she didn’t attempt to hold her tongue. BB yelled,

“Turn RB! Lean forward. You have to stay forward!”

At which point RB told me,

“My tummy hurts, I need to go potty NOW.”

RB and I zipped down the mountain faster than BB would ever want to go. RB skied straight, leaned back, took full advantage of her wedge and we made it to the bathroom. We’ve got the skills we need.

Afterwards BB told me,

“At ski school they say: ‘No pee. No ski.'”

I have a new life motto.