From the moment Mom, Dad, and my brother Jason arrived to retrieve me from the Denver airport in a rented minivan so chock full it looked like Jed Clampett and his clan making their way to Beverly Hills, I knew we were in for 5 days of customary Arthur antics. Little do I suspect, however, that I would soon come to realize that Buddy Ebsen's Beverly Hillbillies patriarch had nothing on my father when it came to personifying a backwoods mountain man.

For some reason, my dad had decided to complete his already questionable outfit of camouflage cargo pants and a Kansas City Chiefs hoodie with the felt cowboy hat I wore to my high school Sadie Hawkins dance. I have no idea where he found that hat, let alone what compelled him to bring it along on our family vacation, but he wore it with questionable pride.

“Doing hard things” has become a modern-day rallying cry. Glennon Doyle turned it into a movement, and her message is right on. But sometimes hard things aren’t about self-empowerment or shining brighter. Sometimes they’re about standing in the dark with someone you love and singing your heart out.

We’ve all had our share of “hard things,” and, as you can probably guess, mine typically entail my beloved family. The ones I’m focusing on today have to do with me singing at weddings and funerals of people I love.

Rumor has it that when my parents brought Julie home from the hospital, I decided the occasion called for a performance. A stubborn toddler still refusing to “void” in the big potty (or any potty, for that matter), I decided Julie’s homecoming was the day I should storm into my parents’ bedroom brandishing a fresh bowl of my own poop like it was the Olympic torch.

I leapt onto the bed, sprinting back and forth across the pillows where Mom sat cradling her seven-pound-10-ounce newborn. There I was, waving my offering like a parade flag, unaware that the swaddled bundle in my mom’s arms was about to tilt my entire world on its axis.

In first grade, I won a trophy at St. Mark’s parish for being the fastest kid in my grade. Not the fastest girl, not the fastest boy—the fastest little human. The race was a gritty asphalt sprint around the church parking lot, because nothing screams childhood like scraped knees with embedded tar fragments.

I grew up in a house smaller than my condo in Austin, where six of us shared a full and a half bath. The full bath in the middle hallway doubled as Grand Central Station every morning. Locking the door wasn’t just inconsiderate—it was an act of war. Privacy was a luxury we couldn’t afford, but punctuality was like a religion. The unspoken rule was very clear—get in, get out, and for the love of God, leave some hot water. 

This week’s story is about a horrid yet hilarious habit I used to have when my siblings visited me. No matter what, there was always “one last thing” standing between us and whatever plans we’d made.

And these last-minute must-dos weren’t simple errands like stopping by the grocery store to fetch a carton of eggs. They were labor-intensive or involved events so bizarre we still talk about them today.

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.