Minding My Own Business… at 4:30 in the Morning

Image created by Beth using ChatGPT

Joe and I are adjusting to his new daytime schedule, and I will admit it has been harder on me than on him. If I would just learn to mind my own business, it probably would not be so difficult.

Joe has been getting himself up for work long before I came into his life. During our almost 32 years of marriage, he has managed just fine without me hovering over an alarm clock. He is perfectly capable of waking up, getting dressed, and heading out the door on time. This is not new territory for him.

But with this schedule change, I find myself waking up multiple times throughout the night to check the clock and make sure he has not overslept. I listen for movement. I calculate how many minutes he has left before the alarm. Then I lie there, wide awake, sometimes for half an hour or more between snoozes.

Of course, he has not overslept once this week.

Meanwhile, the interruptions to my sleep are catching up with me. I feel a little irritable. By afternoon I am sleepy, but I will not drink coffee that late in the day, and if I take a nap I will be staring at the ceiling at bedtime. It is a lose-lose situation, entirely of my own making.

Maybe this is less about his schedule and more about my need to feel useful, or needed, or somehow in control. After nearly 32 years, you would think I would trust the man to wake up on his own. He has earned that trust many times over.

So perhaps the real adjustment is mine. If I can learn to mind my own business at 4:30 in the morning, we will both sleep better.

By the way, I am going to be a bit busy for the rest of the month, so I will be taking a short break from writing for a couple of weeks. Maybe that will give me time to practice staying in my own lane, even in the middle of the night.

Thirty-Four Years in the Blink of an Eye

Thirty-four years ago tomorrow, on February 11th, I was excited to head to the hospital to induce labor so we could finally meet our little girl. She was due in mid-January and was taking her sweet time joining the outside world. I remember the anticipation so clearly. It feels like just yesterday we were celebrating her first birthday.

I am sharing a few photos of our birthday girl during her first year. The highchair picture was taken at her first birthday party. I still believe she was the smartest and most beautiful baby ever born. Some opinions never change.

Today was a good day for a very different reason. I got to see my friend Kara virtually. That visit more than made up for the two hours I spent working on quotes for homeowners and automobile insurance. I opened an email from our current insurer to learn that our umbrella policy is increasing by 76 percent. When I expressed concern, the agent responded, “Well, we haven’t had an increase in nine years.” Since I have only been insured with them for two years, I could not care less about what they did in the previous seven. Perspective is everything.

Thankfully, Kara is a breath of fresh air and a ray of sunshine on any day. Visiting with her always improves my outlook on life.

This evening, Oliver and I spent time together while Megan and Jeremy went out to dinner to celebrate her birthday. I cannot say I babysit. We play. He is very good now at pointing to what he wants and following simple directions. When I told him it was time for a diaper change, he marched himself right over to the diaper basket.

His play area looked like a tornado had come through. My attempts to tidy up were not well received. Every time I put something away, he pulled it right back out. I quickly got the message that it was his play space and he would decide where the toys belonged.

He spent a solid ten minutes opening a drawer, putting a small bean bag inside, closing the drawer, opening it again, taking the bean bag out, and closing it once more. Over and over. I worried about pinched fingers, but he carefully opened the drawer by the handle and pushed it closed with his palm, keeping his fingers far from danger. When Megan came home, I proudly told her about his safe drawer technique. She calmly replied, “Oh, he already shut his fingers in the drawer.” Apparently, experience is an excellent teacher.

Oliver and I ended our time together snuggled on the couch watching a bit of the animated version of 101 Dalmatians. When his mom and dad walked in, he shifted instantly from sweet, snuggly baby to pure excitement. Two of his favorite people in the entire world were back in his orbit, and nothing else mattered.

Thirty-four years ago I was waiting to meet my baby girl. Tonight I am watching her celebrate another birthday as a wonderful mom herself. Time moves faster than I ever imagined, but days like this remind me how full and layered life really is. A grown daughter, a beloved friend, a curious grandson, and a heart that somehow keeps expanding to hold it all.

Hideous (Reflections on Predatory Power) - A Poem for Our Times

Image created by Beth using ChatGPT

This poem contains references to sexual abuse and violence against children; if that may be triggering, I encourage you not to read further.

Hideous (Reflections on Predatory Power)

With the talk of molestation, rape, and the killing of children,
the uncovering of a massive failure by law enforcement
is hideous.

And the Department of Justice continues the atrocities,
releasing files with survivors’ identities unredacted
and the perpetrators redacted.

If we want to know how ugly America can be,
we can start here.

As with my refusal to call Forty-seven by his birth name,
I am renaming these files: Pedophile Dump.
Until someone suggests a better descriptor.

Buried in 3.5 million documents from the most recent release
is a child’s diary, scrawled in code,
detailing her experiences with influential monsters,
real monsters, using her body as a sex toy.

And the DOJ takes such care in releasing this child’s hidden words,
making no attempt to break a simple code or redact the diary,
telling the world her words do not matter,
are not important—just as her body
could not belong to her.

The sliver of good from this abuse of power
is that the child names the monsters.

Until the monsters are brought to justice,
I will weep for the girls they were
and the women they have become.

----------

If you read this and felt unsettled, that discomfort belongs to the systems that failed, not to the survivors. If this was too much to hold today, please step away and care for yourself. I wrote this as an act of witness, and I share it with the hope that attention, however uncomfortable, can be a form of care.

Dear Future Me

February 8, 2026

Dear Future Me,

If you are reading this, it means you made it through the years when forty-seven held the presidency and the country felt like it was constantly holding its breath. I hope, wherever you are now, life feels a little steadier and your shoulders are not always tensed without you realizing it.

I want you to remember how heavy those years felt. The constant news alerts. The way one headline could derail an entire day. The strange mix of anger, sadness, disbelief, and exhaustion that settled in and never fully left. There were moments when it felt irresponsible to look away and moments when looking away felt like the only way to stay sane.

You showed up anyway. You paid attention, even when you wanted to turn the page. You checked facts. You questioned what you were hearing. You resisted the urge to numb out completely, even though it would have been easier. And when the noise got overwhelming, you gave yourself permission to step back, take a walk, make a cup of tea, or write your way through it.

Remember that you protected your heart without closing it. You found comfort in small, ordinary things. Conversations with people you trust. Quiet mornings. Familiar routines. Laughter that felt almost rebellious in its normalcy. You learned that surviving did not always look like action. Sometimes it looked like rest.

I hope you remember that you were not perfect, but you were present. You worried about the future, but you also lived your life. You loved people fiercely. You stayed connected when it would have been easier to retreat entirely. You kept reminding yourself that this moment in history did not get to steal everything from you.

If things are better now, let yourself feel that relief without guilt. If things are still complicated, remember that you have already lived through uncertainty and found your footing again. You are more resilient than you gave yourself credit for back then.

Most of all, remember this: surviving those years did not harden you. It clarified what mattered. And that matters more than any presidency ever could.

With steadiness and hope,
Beth

Sometimes All You Need Is a Drive

I felt the need to get out of the house for a drive today, so Joe and I checked out a few local reserves near us. These are the kinds of places where people cross country ski, ride horses, or head out for a hike. There is snow everywhere, except on most well traveled roads, so we decided we will go back in the summer when we can actually get out of the car and walk one of the paths.

I love barns. Not to hang out in. Just to look at. So when I spotted a red barn off in the distance, we took a detour to get as close as possible. As close as possible turned out to be about a quarter of a mile from the road. There was a dirt road leading toward it, but a locked gate stopped us. I showed admirable restraint by not crawling over it. My iPhone camera was zoomed to 15x to get a better view, which felt like a reasonable compromise.

While we were already out and about, we decided to stop at Millside Tavern as we headed back into town. We went in without realizing they have won the Star Tribune’s Best Burger in Minnesota two years in a row, 2024 and 2025. We shared a double cheeseburger with jalapeños and pepper jack cheese, served with sweet potato fries. We also ordered a side of deep fried mushrooms.

I had a taste of the fries and carefully counted how many mushrooms I could eat while staying within my daily allotment of nutrients. The burger was excellent. The mushrooms and fries were excellent too. I was doing such a good job until I discovered they had huckleberry ice cream.

The ice cream was amazing. Only one scoop, and I did share it with Joe. I can easily see this becoming a new go to spot for us on Saturday afternoons. They also have a good children’s menu, and the prices were excellent.

Sometimes a simple drive, a barn admired from afar, and a very good burger are exactly what the day needs. Today reminded me that you do not always have to go far or do much to feel refreshed. Getting out, noticing small things, and sharing a meal can be more than enough.

Memes I Can Relate to This Week

 

And ... for a few Political Memes:

 

Cookie Season, Ferrets, and Acts of Love

 

Photo by Megan Formo

My daughter Megan is a Girl Scout leader, along with two co-leaders, and she is also the cookie mom for her troop. I think this is her fourth year in that role. This year, however, cookie season looks very different.

Door to door sales will be somewhat limited in her town and even more difficult for troops in Minneapolis because of the ICE presence. Booth sales usually generate a large portion of orders, and those booths are typically set up in grocery stores or Walmart parking lots. Unfortunately, ICE has been known to go into parking lots to detain or deport people, which has created understandable fear. As a result, quite a few troops are opting out of selling altogether or are limiting themselves to online sales only. Online sales, however, do not include a rewards program for the girls.

Each year, cookie sales feature an animal mascot. This year’s mascot is a ferret. Girls earn prizes based on the number of boxes they sell, and it is likely that one of those prizes will be a stuffed ferret.

Megan came up with a creative solution. Using the family’s 3D printer, she designed a hard plastic ferret and began offering them for sale to troop leaders. For every ferret a troop leader purchases, Megan donates one to a girl who is unable to participate in sales because of the ICE presence. It is a simple and thoughtful idea. She already has far more orders than she anticipated, and most of the donated ferrets are already claimed. This is not a money making venture. It is an act of love.

Watching my daughter conceive this idea and then reach out to me for help with the recordkeeping side while she focuses on manufacturing has been a real gift. I love watching her learn about sales tax, Venmo business accounts, and how to think about costs. It has been fun for me to help where I can. We set up her recordkeeping in Google Drive, and opening a spreadsheet to find her questions waiting for me is a trip. I had forgotten how much of my work life centered on teaching people new skills. That is the part of working that I miss.

None of this fixes what is broken, and it is not meant to. It is simply one family, one troop, and one idea responding with care instead of fear. Watching Megan turn concern into action, and finding myself alongside her doing the kind of teaching I once loved, has been grounding. In a season made harder by forces far beyond cookie booths and prize charts, it feels meaningful to witness kindness taking a tangible shape. Sometimes that shape is a spreadsheet. Sometimes it is a small plastic ferret. And sometimes, that is enough for today.

Peaceful Evening Wish

The day sped by and now I simply want to get some sleep. All is well in my personal world (not so much the rest of the world). I hope you have a peaceful evening.

What I Thought Was Guaranteed

Until forty-seven became president, I believed that no matter who won the presidency, we would get through it and be fine. Republican or Democrat felt less important than the simple fact that we lived in a democracy where we had the right to vote. I trusted that whoever was elected would follow the law and at least try to make Americans’ lives better.

That no longer feels true. The only people forty-seven appears interested in helping are predominantly white, male, and wealthy. His cabinet is filled with like-minded people who seem far more focused on what benefits them personally than on serving the country as a whole.

Before forty-seven, my political anxiety faded quickly. I could watch the news for thirty minutes or an hour each day and feel reasonably informed. Now, there are not enough hours in the day, and even then it feels like I have barely scratched the surface. I struggle with the idea of tuning it all out because staying informed feels like a responsibility. If I know what is happening, I can respond. That might mean donating to causes that support democracy, writing about it here, or talking with people who are regretting their vote for forty-seven.

Any response feels better than silence. At the same time, as important as it is for me to stay informed and engaged, I also want my life back. I want to return to the days when I trusted that safeguards were in place and that everyday Americans were protected.

I want to know my grandchildren have a future in tomorrow’s America. I want to believe there will be jobs that allow them to support their own families. I want them to have affordable health care. I want my granddaughter to have the same rights as her brothers. I do not want them growing up in a country where people are forced into poverty to protect the wealth of an oligarch.

I have few regrets in life, but I do regret taking the America I grew up in for granted. I assumed it would always be there, steady and imperfect but moving forward. Now I understand that democracy requires more than belief. It requires attention, participation, and sometimes grief for what we thought was guaranteed.

How Did We Survive Childhood?

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Growing up, I remember our family of seven going places in one car. I remember the lap belts in the front seat. I remember five children packed into the back seat with no seatbelts at all. As the oldest of those five kids, I’m talking about the years before 1974, when I left home at eighteen.

I remember my mom holding my infant sister, Jeni, in the front seat while my dad drove. We never had baby car seats for any of us, so she probably held Jeff and Todd when they were babies too. It sounds horrifying now, but at the time it felt completely normal. Luckily for us, we were never in an accident that caused any harm.

Thinking about this sent me down a rabbit hole. I got curious about when seat belt laws came into effect in Ohio. I discovered that Ohio enacted its first mandatory seat belt law on May 6, 1986. At first, it only applied to front seat passengers, with full enforcement beginning after July 4 of that year. Children under four were required to be in a car seat or booster. Children and teens ages four through fifteen were required to wear seat belts in the back seat. Interestingly, Ohio still does not require adults sitting in the back seat to wear seat belts.

That last part was news to me. Anyone sitting in my back seat has to buckle up or we all get to listen to the relentless ding, ding, ding of the seat belt alarm. Highly annoying, but effective. It did make me wonder whether cars sold in Ohio have those alarms disconnected, or if people just ignore them.

This blog is a classic example of how my brain works. The original prompt for today was simple: “What seemed harmless to you as a kid that you now look back on in horror?” My answer was easy. No seatbelts for kids. But of course, I couldn’t stop there. I had to look up seat belt laws not just in Ohio, but also in California, where I lived from 1974 to 2023, and Minnesota, our home since 2023. For the record, both California and Minnesota require adult passengers in the back seat to wear seat belts.

Once I opened that door, more memories came flooding in.

There was trying to swing high enough on a swing set to flip over the top bar by wrapping the chains around it. I never quite made it, but I got pretty high. At my grandparents’ house, my brothers or cousins had to hold down the legs of the swing set so it wouldn’t tip over. Park swings felt luxurious because their legs were set in concrete.

There was walking to the bathroom at the drive in by myself as a little kid, barefoot on stones and small rocks. First, how did I never slice my feet open? Second, how was I not kidnapped?

And then there was leaving the house at age ten to walk into town to visit or play with other kids. It was probably a quarter mile, out in the countryside, walking along the road where maybe three or four cars passed by. There were no mobile phones. I don’t even remember if we had a house phone in that particular house. What I do remember is that it was important to be home when my mom said to be home. I also suspect that other adults in the community were quietly keeping an eye on me and all the other kids wandering around.

Looking back, it’s tempting to gasp at how reckless it all seems. But it was also a different time, shaped by different expectations, fewer safeguards, and a lot of trust. Some of what we did was genuinely dangerous. Some of it was survivorship bias at work. And some of it was simply childhood, lived with scraped knees, bare feet, and a freedom that feels almost unreal now.

I wouldn’t trade modern safety standards for nostalgia, but I’m grateful I lived long enough to look back and say, with equal parts disbelief and relief, “Well, that could have gone badly.”

The YUM Box Finale (Starring Oliver)

Yesterday our family finished the very last of our YUM International snack boxes, this one from Italy. For most of 2024 and 2025 we sampled snacks from a different country each month. In 2025, with the arrival of the new baby, we fell behind a bit. The final box arrived back in November, but yesterday was the first time we were finally able to slow down and open it together.

When I announced that this was the last box, Caleb (11) and Charlotte (10) both looked a little disappointed. Caleb has loved almost every snack we have ever opened. Charlotte has enjoyed quite a few as well, though she has also politely rejected her fair share. She also sits out anything with nuts because of allergies. We talked about the idea of creating our own international snack boxes going forward. That might be even more fun, since we could take the grandchildren shopping and let them see what international foods are sold right here in local markets.

While it was our final official YUM box, it was Oliver’s very first snack tasting. He started out sitting on Megan’s lap, but that arrangement did not last long. He quickly figured out how to grab snacks straight off her plate before she even had a chance to try them. Eventually Oliver rotated between Grandpa’s lap and his high chair, sampling everything along the way. He seemed to like every single snack, especially the Italian cake he claimed from Megan’s plate. Apparently he decided it was similar enough to his recent birthday smash cake and therefore belonged entirely to him.

It felt fitting that our last box was shared across generations, with older kids reflecting on what they had loved and a baby discovering it all for the first time. The boxes may be done, but the curiosity, the laughter, and the small ritual of sitting together and tasting something new are not going anywhere. Those are the parts worth keeping.