Some kids had parents who reminded them after dinner, “Don’t forget to pack your homework.” My parents, however, had a daughter who specialized in 11:47 PM homework emergencies.

These emergencies usually started with me hovering by Mom’s bedside like the ghost of bad planning, “Mom, I forgot that I need to be a clown for school tomorrow.”

During Deborah's hospital stay—between the beeping, diarrhea, and medical team huddles—I had a lot of time to think.

I realized something: my whole adult life has been an exercise in searching for home.

What kept replaying in my mind was the drive I made three decades ago that took me away from my childhood home for good.

One afternoon, Deborah’s heart rate skyrocketed to over 200 beats per minute. Seconds later, a crash cart and eight people in scrubs rolled in like a pit crew at the Indy 500—instead of tires, they were swapping in wires, leads, and syringes. One of the physicians dropped to her knees beside Deb’s bed, plunging an emergency serum into her IV with the kind of focus usually reserved for bomb diffusers in thriller movies. Meanwhile, seven others buzzed around her, clipping leads and calling out numbers as if her body had suddenly become the New York Stock Exchange. I stood in the corner, tears stinging my eyes, both terrified and awed by the choreography of it all. Poor Vinny jumped from his recliner, ran to me, and wrapped his front paws around my left knee—the way he does when loud, unruly dogs he doesn’t know enter the dog park—shifting nervously, ears back, his tiny frame trembling as if even he understood that something fragile and sacred was at stake.

It’s that time again. It’s been a few years since you were introduced to my lovely person, Deborah. And, well—a lot has happened inside that head of hers. Enjoy a sampling.

Excessively loud noises are unpleasant to me. Especially unnecessary ones like someone gunning their Harley Davidson motorcycle within a few feet of me, or a shriek of excitement that surpasses the 105 decibels capable of shattering glass. But even more unnerving are the, as Aunt Bethany refers to them, “funny squeaking sound[s].”

You all know her as the unsung hero of our family. ‘Shy, humble and forever joyful’ are a few ways you’d describe her. That’s only because you don’t know her secret, and the fact that she is powerfully orchestrating everything behind the scenes. Read on to learn more about my beautiful mama.

You know her from her surprise discovery of poop emojis and “blueberry Alka Seltzer.” You also know her from conversations she’s had with my dad that leave us all wide-eyed and feeling like we’ve been transported into the Twilight Zone in the blink of an eye.

Now, experience her through 20 vignette moments guaranteed to leave you wanting more.

When I was a young teen, my friend Lori sat me down and explained that rock music is the devil’s playground. She goes on to tell me that Satan uses backmasking to hide subliminal messages on rock-n-roll records, to recruit child soldiers for his impending hellish reign over the world. Read all about it here.

A year ago, my family shockingly lost my Uncle Steve to a heart attack that took him in his sleep. He was 58 years old and in good health.

“Lassie, what is it? Is Timmy trapped in a well?” No, but Jenée is stuck in a ditch.

Join me for a trip (literally) down Mill Race Lane as I demonstrate how a series of mistakes make for great storytelling.

Traveling home for the funeral of my childhood best friend's father forces me into a nostalgia bubble that is as impenetrable as the needled, silken casing of a bagworm. There's no escaping the barrage of memories that flood my heart and mind.

My favorite text from my little sister during her cross-country trek with Mom and Dad to visit me is "Sheesh, do Mom and Dad need hearing aids?!"

Uh, is this really a question? Has she not read my blog posts from the past 3 years? Trying to carry on any sort of conversation with our parents from the backseat of a car, or, God forbid, requesting a bathroom break, is pointless.

Every December when I return home to celebrate the birth of the baby Jewish boy born in a manger to a woman and a man who've supposedly never consummated their marriage, I encounter an equally balanced amount of piety and frivolity. My trips home are forever laden with moments that entail belly-laughter as well as incredulous bewilderment, most of which stem from interactions with my father.

Most people in my life know this story. It is commonly referred to as "the time I gnawed my panties off" story. I alluded to it in one of my blog posts when Mom, Dad and I were vacationing in Door County and I was about to poop my pants.

I am traditionally left changed and strangely affected by my solitary moments with Mom and Dad, so forfeiting this strange yearly metamorphosis of my soul for the greater good of the entire family was admittedly a difficult thing for me to waive. I mean, where was all the good material for my blog going to originate if not left alone with the two nutcases to whom I was born?

Today, I smile when I think of that horrible incident, or when I see the faint scar on my gorgeous grown niece's forehead, because it reminds me of my connection with four of the most amazing women in my life, their connection with each other as mother/s/ and daughters, and how that connection transcends time or space or physical constraint.

Remember when I rejoiced at being able to retire my broken monocled ventriloquist doll Willy into our attic? I mentioned that the only more celebratory moment at that time in my life was when my parentally mandated pro-life bracelet took a quasi-accidental voyage down the toilet pipes into the sewer. This is that story.

Other than the 3-hour choir practice two nights ago, the last time I was in St. Anthony’s Cathedral was 2 months ago at my grandmother’s funeral.

Christmas 2014 was already destined to be slightly off-kilter given the absence of our family's matriarch who decided only two months ago that 95 years on the planet was sufficient lest she wear out her welcome, but Christmas is shaping up to be a doozy all its own for so many other reasons.