Let’s hear it for the child who, after requesting an elaborate nature hike, is perfectly content with a random field of weeds.

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Like this post? You will probably enjoy this one or this one. (Both with favorite photos.)

Inspired? You might also like these posts about blast-offs, artificial intelligence and artistic vision.

My husband and I spent last Saturday night at a lovely fundraising gala. It was wonderful to put on makeup and heels and hang out with so many good friends. But a conversation that Hubs and I had only moments after walking in (before drinks were procured) tells me that I need to get out of the house more often.

HUBS:  Hey look, there’s Coach.

ME, gasping a little and feeling all fluttery:  Coach Taylor??

HUBS:  What? No! God Liz, I’m talking about Brent. You know, OUR SON’S SOCCER COACH?!?

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If you liked this post, you’ll probably love this one about Mrs. Coach Taylor.

I love making a playlist almost as much as I like Mother’s Day. Regardless, this longtime hobby doesn’t get near the attention it deserves.

So it was with great pleasure that I was able to contribute to a pre-show soundtrack for our recent Listen to Your Mother: Austin show. (A playlist! About motherhood! With an Austin vibe! I was in total High Fidelity geek heaven.)

The days building up to the show, I was busy with behind-the-scenes details, so I didn’t get to enjoy the playlist much after I created it. But ever since we wrapped, I’ve had the music on repeat.

It goes without saying that the list is much better when heard in its entirety, preferably after the kids are asleep and you’re holding a glass of wine and the handprint gift of your dreams. Happy listening and Happy Mother’s Day!

You can take away the iPhone and the Angry Birds, but you can’t take away a boy’s need to hurl things through the air with only the sheer force of his creativity.

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Like this post? You’ll probably dig this one or this one. Oh, and definitely this one.

I try very hard not to buy into the SuperMom myth…that constant pressure to do and be everything to our kids and families. We all know it’s impossible to attain and counterproductive to set those ridiculous expectations. That said, when my 7-year-old son puts a cape on me, by God I’m gonna wear it proudly.

The last few weeks have been crazy-busy. I spent a weekend at the Erma Bombeck Writers Workshop, where I got to hang out with wonderful and talented writer-pals from all over the country, plus be inspired by some incredible speakers. Camp Erma was everything I hoped it would be.

I’ve also been preaching the Listen to Your Mother gospel every chance I get. I even did a TV interview without throwing up before or after!

Tomorrow is the big day for Listen to Your Mother Austin. If you haven’t bought tickets, there are a few left. Hope to see you there. I just might be the one in a cape.

I never wanted a child. I always wanted children.

Siblings, confidantes, compadres, chums. Tattlers, teachers, accomplices, antagonists. Rivals, secret-keepers, scapegoats and partners-in-crime. Mentors and tormentors.

I wanted wagon pullers, swing pushers, fort builders and sand-castle destroyers. I wanted a full table, too many backpacks, and commas on our Christmas card.

I wanted a firstborn, a middle, a baby. I wanted to marvel at both the reliable and the shattered stereotypes. I wanted shifting alliances and third wheels. Teamwork and the circling of wagons.

For better or worse, I wanted individual players in the ultimate team sport. Sharing the same space, fighting for the same oxygen. Believe it or not, I wanted splash fights, inane arguments, thrown elbows in the hallway, imaginary Do Not Cross or Else! lines.

I wanted Your fault! Get out of my room! Gimme that back! No fair!  Because I knew, if thoughtfully tended, these battles could give birth to the flip side: The impromptu hugs. The late night whispers. The collaborations and negotiations. The I’m sorry. That’s OK. Sure you can come inside my hideout.

I never anticipated how immense the task would be, but I even wanted the challenge of finding energy for each unique personality. I wanted to stretch and defy my expectations, again and again and again, about what children (my children) are supposedly like. I wanted to learn to see, truly see, the individual before me. To make every child feel heard though their hearts speak entirely different languages.

There are countless moments–flash floods of drama and aggravation–when I forget how much I longed for this gift of siblinghood. But desires this deep are not easily dismissed.

And it often takes just one sidelong look, one inside joke, one tender gesture, to bring me back to my dreams and watch them come alive right before my eyes.

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If you liked this post, consider giving me a vote in BlogHer’s Voices of the Year. Sibling Revelry is nominated in the Visuals category. My mother-daughter story, On Being Nine, is nominated in the Heart category. Thanks, y’all!

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But who am I kidding? That’s every season around here. As a mother of three, I’m constantly juggling the barrage of questions and demands thrown at me from the little people in my life. Always at the same time, and usually requiring vastly different parts of my mental energy or physical self.

It can be maddening, I tell ya. But thanks to my new play-off system, I am able to let each child’s issue battle it out with a worthy competitor. And if the demand is deserving of my time, then it just might win the highly coveted spot as Champion of Mom’s Attention.

(Click image to enlarge)

You are killing me with your endless possibility and relentless tedium.

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