When you are in the midst of raising your kids, some days feel different than others.

I’ll admit, there were times I’d catch myself thinking, “I can’t wait until [insert milestone here]. Because my boys are exactly one year, two months, five days, eleven hours, and eighteen minutes apart, once the older boy would finish a phase, the younger would start, making everything feel like it took twice as long.

There were good times. There were not-so-good-times.

When the youngest turned eighteen, one month from his high school graduation, I counted down the days. As in I literally had a countdown on my phone.

He graduated, and I deemed myself retired. Sure, I’ll always be my kids’ mother, but I’d completed my contract.

Everyone tells you when the kids are small, “Don’t rush these years. It’ll be gone in the blink of an eye.” There’s more to it, the thing no one tells you: “So, be glad you are basically still in control. Once they are adults, you just have to sit back and wait until they need you.”

When I was thinking about writing this post in response to something regarding my youngest son, something hit me: I am also an adult child. Not too terribly long ago, my dad was asking me about some things in my life. Pointing out some details I had missed and should have considered. While I’m watching my adult children do this thing called life, struggling not to intervene, my parents are also doing the same thing.

*Cue ‘Circle of Life’ music*

The secret is out: if you have young children, hang in there. They will grow up. However, there is no such thing as retirement from parenting. It changes, but it doesn’t necessarily get easier.

Long before the advent of the Internet, I’d learned that one doesn’t air one’s dirty laundry for the world to see.

The practicality of that, especially in light of the current accessibility of social media, is evident. Now words and pictures can be screenshot and saved, without the original posters knowledge. The written word has a tendency to leave lasting, and at times, irreversible damage.

As a writer, I communicate the best through the written word. I’m not always successful in conveying the point in which I need to get across, but I come closer 99% of the time than in a verbal discussion.

I try to keep things light and airy over here. To snapshot those laugh-out-loud moments in my life. This is a public forum, after all. Accessible to anyone with an internet connection and ability to search. I do try to keep it real, but I do have a career to think about.

Through a recent series of unfortunate events, I find myself unable to find the funny in the everyday moments at his current juncture. Fall, generally my most favorite time of the year, has shown me what other people see in this season. The changing of the leaves before they make their way to the ground and compost. The animals hoard nuts and berries hoping to create a stash enough to get them through what is predicted to be a not-so-nice winter. The grass goes dormant. The hoodies, scarves, and boots come out to protect us from the chill. (On those rare days we have a chill in Tennessee.) The skeletons come out of the closet, and it’s not for Halloween.

In the last five days, I’ve made some decisions I knew where inevitable. The details aren’t important. However, what I didn’t anticipate was the sheer heartbreak I’d feel.

Because I do find typing – regardless of subject- cathartic, I sat down four or five times yesterday to write. Something stopped me. A little voice in my head, maybe?

It’s not your story to tell.

I slept horribly last night. The worse I’ve slept in weeks. I don’t recall what happened in the middle of the night, but I had quite a mess to clean up this morning.

While straightening up this morning before starting my day, it occurred to me because I didn’t choose to handle my feelings in the best way I know how it manifested itself in an innocent albeit less desirable fashion.

Words can be cathartic. Words can be damaging. Words need to be chosen carefully. Acknowledgment is good. Specific details are typically unnecessary.

Sometimes it feels better to admit that life is constantly changing and that means those little cliffhangers to the next chapter aren’t always funny. Just wait though. Something good always comes after the rain.

I hate glitter. Yes. HATE.

I know it’s a strong word, but a single piece can send me into an OCD rampage. Glitter is like cockroaches; if you’ve seen one, there are a thousand more.

There is probably some sort of scientific explanation as to why the stuff ends up everywhere. Negative ions. Positive atoms. The same principles of static, maybe? A single walk down a holiday aisle will likely have you covered in the sparkles from Hell.

Speaking of holidays, who in the world thought it would be a good idea to add glitter to Halloween decor? I can understand a little glitter around Christmas and Easter. But nothing is spooky about a skeleton or witch dipped in twinkle trash.  The whimsical things for kids I’ll give a pass to, but I still wouldn’t buy it even if I had small children in the house.

I’ve talked about my disdain for confetti before. As of this writing, I believe I’ve found all of those pieces.  In what I hope is the last of it, I found about two weeks ago. The rogue pieces of paper were under the area rug in the living room. I found that odd as I’ve vacuumed under that rug several times since March.

Glitter is like confetti in that it lasts long after the party. Like YEARS later. If you ever see me out and about, and I’m wearing a shirt with any kind of glittery design on it, I’ve been taken hostage, and it is my signal for help.

Having said all this, I do have a confession to make:

I have glitter in the house.

I KNOW.

While the irony is not lost on me, the fact of the matter is there are some people in my life who enjoy glitter and all that it entails. Because I said love said people, occasionally I will find a craft or other project in which glitter is necessary. There is usually some kind of meditation and mindfulness when indulging my people. Love will make you do things you didn’t think otherwise possible.

All of that changed a couple of nights ago.

Having finished a project in which an inordinate amount of glitter was necessary to complete the look, I was cleaning up the area and putting things away. I picked up the very large container and realized the lid was loose.

I. ALMOST. DROPPED. IT.

My life flashed before my eyes. I saw a never-ending parade of glitter attached to every piece of clothing we owned. The cat sparkling in the moonlight. The dog forever sneezing out the tiny particles. It would have been easier to count all the stars in the galaxy than to ever hope completely eradicate the spill. This article from Lifehacker would be helpful should I find myself in a glitter-horror quandary in the future.

After securing the lid, gluing it shut, and putting all containers (yes, containers plural) in an air-lock chamber, I might be able to rest now. All future craft projects for gifts will mostly likely be glitter-free.

I have since mopped all the floors, finished the laundry, and vacuumed all other surfaces. Who wants to guess how long it will be before I find the first piece, lurking in the shadows, waiting to jump out and taunt me with its creepy existence?