My kids are deprived. Or so they would have you think. My oldest daughter, Torri (18), came home the other day with a story about how the morning after spending the night with a friend, the friend apologized profusely that all they had in the cupboards for breakfast was cold cereal. To hear Torri tell it, her reaction was nothing short of crazed. She loves cereal, you see. Loves it with a vengeance even. And ever since we started making our own granola and stopped buying the sugary store versions a little over three years ago, cold breakfast cereals are something we resign ourselves to only when we’re staying in a hotel and a quick and convenient breakfast is key.

Growing up, my relationship with my mother was stereotypical in many ways. As a rebellious teen, I’d find myself staring down a punishment I didn’t like or a rule I didn’t want to follow and—in opposition-- I’d voice how differently I would do things when I became a mother. Without fail, she’d smile a knowing smile and nod pleasantly. “I guess we’ll see about that, won’t we?” she’d say.

My thirteen-year-old daughter is playing baseball on an organized, uniforms-make-it-official, team this year. It’s a first for her. She’s taking part in Challenger Baseball, a local league for children and young adults with physical and/or mental challenges. She knows the schedule by heart and—on game days—starts itching to get suited up right after breakfast. That in spite of the fact that her games don’t typically begin until 7:30 pm. Saying she enjoys playing is a bit of an understatement.

If you spend any time on Facebook or Pinterest you’ve likely seen a number of those clever cartoons—the ones that depict old-timey characters beside a mostly tongue-in-cheek phrase meant to elicit laughs and, of course, little thumb-up likes. Lately, I’ve noticed a relatively new addition to the virtual pictograms making the social media rounds. These are less tongue-in-cheek, more “inspirational”, and are quickly gaining momentum. The version I’m referring to typically feature a background image—a beach or the sun shining through an evergreen forest, for example—offset by a short sentiment that offers dime-store advice on how to live: Always smile back at little children. To ignore them is to destroy their belief that the world is good. There are variations, of course. Come to think of it, I seem to have an inordinate number of Facebook friends who post not-so-discreet comebacks seemingly aimed at the opposite end of a failed relationship: You had me at hello, lost me at goodbye, and everything in between was nothing, but a lie. So, too, are there the Stuart Smalley variety of motivational quotes: Life isn’t about waiting for the storm to pass. It’s about learning to dance in the rain.

There were a few things we did well at the small-town central California high school I attended. For starters, we routinely whooped the pants off of the rival football team from the next town over. Our cross-country team always did well in meets. Even our band was regularly invited to march in big name parades all over the state. And while there were a number of areas in which we excelled, I’d be remiss not to point out a weakness: our district so miserably failed in meeting the needs of kids with intellectual disabilities, and in doing so, I think they failed the rest of us, too.

When I was younger, my mom’s potato salad was among my favorite of her dishes. Striking just the right balance between tangy and creamy, her potato salad was the star of our backyard barbecues. Because she knew how much I loved it, she indulged me by making two separate versions: one with raw red onion and one without.

I’m learning French. What began innocently enough as a goal to pick up some conversational basics has evolved to an all-out obsession. I have CDs in my car that sing me through various scenes in which otherwise normal individuals break out in song (French songs, at that) about the most mundane things. It isn’t every day, after all, that full-grown men and women sing their one, two, threes. Picture Big Bird wearing a beret and you can get an idea of what it sounds like.

If your gift list is anything like mine, some of the most difficult recipients to shop for are the kids’ teachers. They’re difficult for me because I don’t know any of my kids’ teachers personally, so I can’t exactly choose a gift tailored to the individual. On the other hand, I know with certainty that I don’t want to resort to a trite “Best Teacher” coffee mug or a dime-a-dozen “A+ Teacher” Christmas tree ornament. Also, while I want the gift to be memorable, I don’t want it to break the bank. With those guidelines I mind, I brainstormed five gift ideas that most any teacher would appreciate. Here they are:

When my oldest daughter—now eighteen—was a wee little thing I went to great lengths to bring life to the magic of Santa. Just before bedtime on Christmas Eve we’d stand out on the lawn and scatter “reindeer food” so that Rudolph and his buddies would be inclined to stay and graze while the big guy scurried down the chimney. And then after my daughter was tucked snug in her bed my husband and I would go about the business of proving that Santa had indeed visited during the night. We went beyond building a toy wonderland beneath the boughs of the tree; our goal was to leave no doubt that Santa was real. To that end, we’d nibble on the cookies she left for him, being sure to leave a few crumbs behind. As if that wasn’t enough, we’d even sprinkle ashes into boot print stencils on the fireplace hearth, only to feign annoyance over Santa’s mess in the morning.

My husband and I are very much one of those “opposites attract” kind of couples. It’s apparent in many ways, but none more so than our opinions of air travel. Whereas he appreciates the hands-off approach to letting someone else do the navigating, I’d much rather go by car and retain the ability to stop when and where I want to.

We’re closing in on election season. With this being a presidential election year you can bet that there will be plenty of scrambling by both candidates as November 6th draws nearer. Political party affiliations aside, there is one thing I think we might all agree on: that those with intrusive campaign habits aren’t winning any voters.

My son is turning six next week. The invitations for his party have already gone out. We’re loosely going with a Muppet theme this year. By “loosely going with,” I mean to say that the theme will be discernible only to a discriminating eye. His invitations featured Kermit and Animal. His party favors are Pez dispensers with Muppet heads. The background music is the soundtrack from the most recent Muppet movie. We’re even doing rainbow connection cupcakes as a nod to Kermit’s performance in the original Muppet movie. That’s where the buck stops, though.

Yesterday I did something that would make a more sentimental mother wince: I threw away the “Certificate of Achievement” that my daughter brought home from school. It was given in recognition of her attaining status on the High Honor Roll at her middle school. While I am immensely proud of her achievement, I’m not so much a collector of certificates—achievement or otherwise.

We have been enjoying some gorgeous weather here in Southern Arizona as of late, wouldn’t you agree? We all know, though, that these mild temperatures are fleeting so we best enjoy them while we can. With that in mind, here are five things you can (and should!) get outdoors and do before the mercury creeps up.

My six-year-old son just had his first t-ball game of the season. It’s his second year playing and already we’ve seen huge improvements in his coordination skills and understanding of the game. Whereas last year he paid closer attention to the dirt of the infield than the ball, this year he clamors for it and knows to make the throw to first base. And speaking of first base, I can also proudly report that his navigational skills can now get him to first after he’s hit the ball. He’s not the only one, though, who learned a thing or two last year. In this, my second year as team mom, I’m more confident in and commanding of the role.

Until about a month ago, my eighteen-year-old daughter had her college plans set: she was to attend the local community college for two years before transferring to a University in pursuit of a degree in marketing. This was a plan I could support, not only because it kept thousands of dollars tucked away in her 529 plan, but also because it meant she would remain at home, doing her coming and going right beneath the safety of my watchful eyes. All was well with the both of us.

Having grown up in California, I went to Disneyland countless times as a child. I remember fondly trudging out of the park after a long, exciting day—my Mickey-shaped balloon bobbing along as we went. That was back when you could drive right up the front gate and walk right back to your car when the fun had all been had. Long before the days of parking trams and security checkpoints to get into the Happiest Place on Earth. I spent so much time at Disneyland and made so many memories that not all of them are good ones.

I am the mother of four children: three girls and then a boy. In the early years of this motherhood I was overwhelmed with pink. Pink gowns and pink teddy bears and pink headbands with tiny pink rosettes. And since baby after baby of the female persuasion came along those same pink gowns and teddies and headbands stuck around the house as hand-me-downs for many, many years. When finally a little one with boy parts made his way into our lives I didn’t know what to do with myself. Him being the final piece of our family, I gave away all things pink and tiny. In their places, little denim overalls and blue fuzzy sleepers and itty bitty socks with masculine creatures like dinosaurs printed on them started cycling through the laundry. As the new mother of a son, the novelty of blue was welcome in our previously pink house. What I failed to realize back then was that with the blue came a whole new world of parenting.

When my youngest daughter was born nearly 13 years ago it was only a matter of hours before they told me she likely had Down syndrome. I distinctly remember lying in the hospital bed—that tiny, almond-eyed babe in my arms—worrying about the future. I didn’t know enough then to worry about the things that mattered: potential heart defects, behavioral issues and increased risk of countless health conditions. My focus, instead, was centered on fears of how Down syndrome would color the lives of my two older girls. My heart broke as I imagined the teasing they would face—the hardships that might come hand-in-hand with having a sister with an intellectual disability.

Confession: I’m a foodie if ever there was one. In my opinion, one of the very best perks of Sonoran desert living is the abundance of locally-owned restaurants that offer inspired menus rather than just the same old stuff served nationwide at a chain. It goes further than that, though. Beyond restaurants, we Tucsonans have access to fine artisan food and drink handcrafted right in our {greater} backyard. I keep my pantry stocked with local foodie finds not only to treat my family, but also so that when guests visit I can showcase a fraction of what the desert has to offer. There’s just something especially charming about taking an expected meal and infusing a little local flavor to make it extraordinary. Take your average, ordinary margarita, for example. Mixing in a bit of prickly pear syrup transforms that everyday cocktail into a regional delicacy. The seven sources for local, artisan foods I’m sharing today offer products you simply must try, at least once.

I was sixteen when I stood at a podium before my graduating class. With a tassel dangling in my peripheral vision, I delivered a speech on dreams and the audacity to pursue them. Audacious because beneath my graduation gown was a belly bulging, ripe with a life on the verge of beginning. Ironic because some might say that by choosing to grow that life when I was but a baby myself, I was bringing my own life to a screeching halt. I suppose that I was, in some ways. But mostly, I was beginning a whole new chapter.

I remember that when my kids were very young, refereeing arguments between them accounted for a decent chunk of my time. Now that they’re maturing, I typically step back and let the minor disputes between them run course until they fizzle and fade quietly away. Most often that sounds a lot like two bedroom doors being abruptly shut as they go their separate ways. Sometimes it’s even more visual. When my six-year-old son has a disagreement with one of his sisters, his aggression is typically played out in post-it notes. He pencils stick-figure drawings of the perceived offense, along with the command to: Stop being mean! Depending upon the severity of the situation, the offender might come to find ten or more post-it notes stuck to her bedroom door.

I have a pet peeve. I suppose it would be more accurate to admit to having a slew of pet peeves, but today I’m focusing on just the one. That is, the policy so many physicians have adopted that—with some variation—states that patients who are late for the appointment will be charged a missed or late appointment fee. The policy itself seems reasonable enough; it’s the hypocrisy of it that gets under my skin.

This time of year there is a lot of talk about change. People resolve to change their bodies, change their habits and change their lives. It’s true. You can simply skim through the Target sale ad for proof. What’s on sale? Exercise equipment for those wanting to change their bodies. Monthly planners for those wanting to change their hectic schedules. And storage boxes, bins, and baskets for those wanting to change their closets. This time of year, it’s all about change.