It’s comically complicated.

From Maycember meltdowns to Grecian block parties, bridging ceremonies, and spreadsheets—this is how we rolled (and sprinted, and stumbled) our way into summer.

It didn’t all happen at once, though. It came in stages—each one a little funnier, messier, and more meaningful than the last. So here they are, in all their chaotic glory...

Stage One: Welcome to Maycember

May has officially reached meme status in parent circles—and for good reason. It’s when all the things happen at once. Recitals, field days, teacher gifts, soccer tournaments, classroom celebrations, school projects, and a wild parade of “just one more thing”s that hit your phone at any moment, every day.

Between two kids, two schools, and the onslaught of Class Dojo, Remind, GroupMe, Instagram, texts, email (and OMG, the voicemails I can’t seem to opt out of), we have 20+ channels of communication about school and sports—at any given moment.

And it’s not just about logistics—it’s about meaning. These are the moments we want to be present for. We want to cheer, clap, show up with the poster board and the chilled waters, and soak in the last sweet snapshots of a school year well-lived. But there are only so many hours in a day—and only one of each of us.

Still, somehow, parents (moms especially) make the magic happen. We juggle, we sprint, we spreadsheet. And we don’t (always) drop the ball. It’s chaotic, exhausting, and occasionally hilarious in its sheer absurdity. But it’s also laced with deep love.

Stage Two: Let’s add a full-on neighborhood festival, shall we?

Right in the middle of Maycember, my neighbor Russ asked if I’d help with our neighborhood’s “Heights Around the World” block party. Our historic little gem of a neighborhood, Winnetka Heights, threw a progressive dinner where three blocks represented a different country. Our block of South Windomere chose Greece!

Could I realistically fit this in? No. Did I say yes? Of course.

And here’s the twist: it became one of the best parts of my month.

My son and I were side-by-side in the garage, both working on big projects—his a food truck for school, mine a repurposed Sunny conference pull-up banner turned Greek party decor. I was painting signs while he was measuring and cutting cardboard. It was this unexpected moment of parallel creativity and connection that reminded me why I say yes, even when I shouldn’t.

Also—while I was juggling our family’s version of Maycember, my neighbors were juggling their own. And yet, everyone showed up with their talents and time. Russ handled logistics, graciously offered his beautiful yard for the party, and kept us on track. Janine and Jim tackled wine and beer. Linda coordinated with Ari’s Pantry and cooked a ton herself. Tina, my outdoor décor partner-in-crime. And Rachel, my next-door neighbor, who couldn’t even attend, still spray-painted two dozen blue wine bottles. I love my neighbors.

And oh yes, we dressed up. I was as Athena (I borrowed Vivian’s Grecian headband and jewelry, of course). And we made a video submission. A hilarious one. Because if you're going to go Greek, you might as well go full goddess.

Was I stretched thin? Sure. But do I regret it? Not one bit. Because in the heart of the mayhem, there was joy. There was laughter. There was community. And I love this neighborhood, these neighbors, and this life we’re building.

Stage Three: Divide, conquer, and volleyball (??)

If you thought we were done with the activity load, think again.

Six weeks before the end of school, we (brilliantly? foolishly?) signed Vivian up for volleyball. It was totally new for her—and us. She's more into solo pursuits like piano, ballet, and gymnastics. But she wanted to try it. And it turns out, she loved it.

So naturally, we added two more practices a week to the calendar.

Jim and I haven’t had a real conversation in weeks. We’re like ships passing in the night. High-fiving in the driveway while one takes her to volleyball and the other races to soccer drop-off. Every single evening has been a handoff.

Divide and conquer?
More like divide and collapse.

Stage Four: The last day of school hits hard (and soft)

The last day of school this year hit me right in the feelings.

Owen had his bridging ceremony, to celebrate his transition from elementary to middle school. Vivian had her end-of-year “Read-Out” —a sweet outdoor reading event for students and families. Of course, they were at the exact same time. I had to choose.

Jim and I both attended Owen’s bridging ceremony. He looked sharp in his little suit and new kicks. And another family (of one of Vivian’s besties) lovingly stood in for us with Vivian. I knew she was supported. But I still felt torn.

Later that day, I pivoted hard to be present with her, only to feel like I was shortchanging him. That constant emotional see-saw of motherhood. Did I do enough? Was I enough?

And still—I’m so proud. Vivian had the perfect second-grade teacher for her. Owen had four amazing teachers, one of whom made a lasting impact. Our kids thrived. And that is enough.

Stage Five: The great Colorado pause

After school let out, we headed to Buena Vista, Colorado, to see my sister, Mallory, her husband Jason, their son Paxton (Owen’s cousin and summer bestie), and my stepmom Susan. Owen stayed for two weeks of cousin time—which, for him, is the dream. The rest of us exhaled. Kind of.

Jim and I had big plans: we’ll reconnect! We’ll plan the summer! We’ll talk like grown-ups again!

Spoiler alert: we did not.

Because what I actually needed was stillness. I didn’t want to plan. I didn’t want a strenuous hike or a big adventure. I didn’t want to open my laptop or check off another box. I just wanted to be—to walk slowly, to breathe mountain air, to stare at birds. And I gave myself permission to do exactly that.

So for a couple of days, we took a slower pace. Family, hot springs, long walks, even badminton against a luscious mountain backdrop. No, we didn’t plot the summer out in Colorado. We tried to just live it.

Stage Six: Calendar reality hits

Tonight, back in Dallas, we went to dinner—no food in the fridge, of course—and sat down to finally look at the summer calendar.

And I had a moment.

Because I truly thought I had my shit together. The camps were booked. The spreadsheet was made. The logistics were...fine?

Then we started layering in our own lives.

Jim is in trial. I’m traveling for Sunny. We’re both working full-time. And suddenly the daily camp drop-off/pick-up puzzle looked like something out of a NASA flight simulation. At one point, Jim looked up from our family calendar and said, “We are just over-planned.”

But here's the real question: What would we give up?

Would I give up my job? His? Tell Vivian she can’t do volleyball or gymnastics or be with her best friend at theater camp? Tell Owen he can’t go on an outdoor adventure or be with his cousin?

No. I want to say yes. I want this life. I want the chaos, the joy, the privilege of these decisions.

Stage Seven: Meltdowns, magic, and a damn good team

I haven’t even told you about Vivian’s epic meltdowns in Colorado. But they happened. And we stayed patient. We held space for the magic that always returns once she catches her breath. We worked through it all—because that’s what parenting is too.

And through it all, I just keep coming back to this: I am so grateful for Jim.

I truly don’t know how this would be possible without the partnership we have. We are a team. In the chaos, in the quiet, in the carpool lines and calendar meetings, we’re in this together. I’m so proud of what we’ve created—for our kids, for each other, for this life.

So yes, it’s chaotic. And yes, it’s comically complicated. But it’s also freaking beautiful.

We’re doing it. We’re in the messy middle. We’re giving our kids a magical, complicated, deeply connected childhood. We’re showing up. And sometimes, that means laughing through the madness and just being grateful we get to do it.

Summer, here we come.