Wake up; make beds; make breakfast; feed kids; run away to my closet for 45 seconds to put on outfit; run back out when a kid screams; run back into closet to finish getting dressed.

I distinctly remember the arrival of spring up North, not so much for the look or even feel of the changed weather, but because of the smell of it…a mix of fresh grass and baseball infield dirt and the explosion of six–no, nine–months’-worth of kids’ pent-up craziness.

When you find yourself saying “I’ll strip down naked if I have to, I just need to get on this flight,” you know your weekend away is off to a good start. Rewind!

Playroom: [pley-room, -roo m] Noun. A room to stash your kids so you can finally go to the bathroom alone. But only for 45 seconds. Because they will find you. (They always find you.)

If you are anything like me, you’ve got a crap-ton of imaginary friends.My imaginary friends aren’t “imaginary” in the sense that they don’t exist; rather, they’re imaginary in the sense that they’ve never met me.

“If I sit really, really close to the door,” she said. “If someone came running down the hall with a gun, I wouldn’t have time.”Please take a moment to process that quote. Really read it. Those words came from a high school student.

So. Much. Happening. So much, in fact, that I can’t even come up with a wittier intro to this post than that. Let’s get on with it! Here’s what’s been happening around these parts lately…

For all of its daily joys, the biggest knock on parenthood is the suddenly-crystal-clear lens through which you begin to finally grasp the relentless speed at which life is passing.

Ever find yourself buying the same pieces over and over (and over) again? That’s me and any button-down denim or chambray shirt. I immediately get all Gimme Gimme Gimme when I see a great piece that fits that bill, and this one is no different.

Before I get into today’s topic, may I just say, Holy crap, moving with three young children (two of whom were sick at various points over the past week) is its own special brand of hell, and I’m not sure I’ll ever reach my baseline of relaxation again, let alone ever be able to smell cardboard without immediately dry heaving.