Hey Dana Jane

Category: Motherhood

  • Cold Weather Logic: A Teenager’s Guide to Freezing on Principle

    Ah, teenagers. The fascinating species that walks among us, simultaneously believing they are invincible and victims of the cruelest injustices. Case in point: my son. The other morning, he requested a ride to the bus stop because, and I quote, “It’s freezing outside.” Logical, right? I mean, who wouldn’t want to avoid hypothermia?

    Except there was one glaring issue: he refused to wear a proper coat, hat, or gloves.

    Let me paint the scene: It’s January. In Wisconsin, a.k.a The Frozen Tundra. The kind of cold that freezes your nostrils shut and makes your car sound like it’s crying when you start it. I looked at him, standing there in a lightweight hoodie (unzipped, naturally), sweatpants, and sneakers. No gloves. No hat. And the pièce de résistance? His insistence that “a coat is too bulky.”

    So, here I am, torn between sympathy for his chattering teeth and sheer disbelief. My motherly instincts kicked in, but not in the way you’d expect. “Why,” I asked, “would I drive you when you won’t even make the basic effort to protect yourself from the elements?”

    Cue the sigh. The teenager sigh. You know the one—the dramatic exhale that suggests I have personally ruined his life.

    Now, I’ve been around teenagers long enough to understand their logic—or lack thereof. Somehow, dressing appropriately for the weather is an affront to their entire identity. Hats? Uncool (and would mess up his perfectly styled hair). Gloves? A social death sentence. And a proper coat? Apparently, that’s only for grandpas and people without Wi-Fi.

    But here’s the kicker: he didn’t argue that he wasn’t cold. Oh no, he fully admitted that the Arctic blast outside was a problem. He just didn’t want to wear the solution. And this, my friends, is where my grasp of teenage logic fails.

    If you’re cold, dress warmly. This is not rocket science. In fact, this is the sort of wisdom I thought I had passed down to my offspring along with basic survival skills, like brushing teeth and not licking frozen flagpoles. But alas, he is a teenager, and they operate on a different plane of reasoning—one that adults are not invited to understand.

    So, I gave him my final word: “No coat, no ride. Your choice.” And off he went, shivering all the way to the bus stop like a martyr in a Netflix drama, no doubt imagining how he would recount this tale of hardship to his friends.

    Parenting a teenager is a lot like negotiating with a toddler, except the toddler thinks they’re smarter than you. The good news? This phase will pass. The bad news? It might take a while—and several frostbitten walks to the bus stop.

    In the meantime, I’m just going to keep shaking my head, sipping my tea, and reminding myself that one day, he’ll have kids of his own. And when they refuse to wear a coat in the middle of winter, I hope he hears my voice in the back of his head saying, “Told you so.”

  • Default Parent Chronicles: When Do I Get to Retire?

    I’ve officially hit the stage of parenting where I’m wondering when my retirement plan kicks in. You know, the elusive phase where the kids magically figure out life on their own and your spouse suddenly becomes the go-to for all the snacks, emotional crises, and life-or-death decisions (like which socks match with those shoes). Spoiler alert: It doesn’t seem to be happening anytime soon.

    Let me set the stage: I’m the proud mom of three boys—ages 20, 15, and 9. The eldest? He’s on autopilot. I’ve essentially been promoted from full-time caretaker to occasional consultant in his life. If he needs advice on college, a ride to the airport, or tips on how to budget (he won’t take them, but he’ll ask), I’m there. But the younger two? Oh, they are still very much tethered to me, like I’m some sort of Swiss Army knife of parenting.

    Here’s the thing: I love my kids deeply, but why am I always the default? Stubbed a toe? “Mom!” Can’t find the remote? “Mom!” Need a snack? “Mom!” Their dad could be sitting right next to them—arms open, ready to help—and they’ll still make the trek across the house to find me, leaving a trail of chaos in their wake. I’ve tested this theory. I’ve sat silently, pretending not to hear. But they have radar. They know I’m there.

    Why Don’t They Go to Dad?
    Good question. Their dad is fully capable, funny, and sometimes more patient than I am. And yet, somehow, I’m the chosen one. I’ve asked him about this, and his response? “Well, they know you’re better at it.” Better at what? Googling “how to stop a nosebleed”? Guess who has two thumbs and a Wi-Fi connection, too? This guy.

    But let’s be real—he’s also a master deflector. Got a kid asking about their science project? “Ask your mom.” Wondering why the dog is barking? “Ask your mom.” Need help figuring out why your sibling is being annoying? “Ask your mom.” It’s like a game of Hot Potato, and I’m always the potato.

    Here’s where I’m at: I thought that as the kids got older, my parenting workload would decrease. HA. Rookie mistake. Sure, I’m not waking up for midnight feedings or spending hours chasing toddlers around, but the mental load? Still there. There’s homework to supervise, sports schedules to coordinate, teenage drama to referee, and existential questions from my 9-year-old to answer. (“Mom, if animals could talk, what would our dog say about me?” Probably that you don’t share your snacks.)

    Now, before anyone accuses me of being ungrateful, let me make this clear: I adore my children. I’d move mountains for them (and I have, metaphorically speaking). But sometimes, I fantasize about what it would be like to be the “fun parent.” You know, the one who swoops in for the movie nights, the weekend getaways, and the pizza parties—without being bogged down by the day-to-day monotony of parenting logistics.

    So, what’s the answer? I don’t know. Maybe I need a sabbatical. A momcation. A week (heck, even a weekend) where I disappear, and my husband takes on the full brunt of “default parent” duties. I’ll leave detailed notes:

    • “The 9-year-old likes his grilled cheese cut diagonally but only on Tuesdays.”
    • “The 15-year-old will lock himself in his room, but check his Spotify playlist. If it’s all sad songs, bring snacks.”

    Maybe then, when I come back, they’ll realize just how magical I truly am. Or maybe they’ll just keep yelling “Mom!” anyway.

    Until then, I’ll be here—armed with snacks, wisdom, and a small glimmer of hope that someday, my retirement will come. Probably around the time I’m pushing 90.

  • “Dear Children, Please Go to Bed”

    By 8 p.m., I’m done. Like, stick-a-fork-in-me done. The kind of done where your body feels like it’s been carrying a backpack full of bricks all day, and your brain has the processing power of a potato. You’d think after working all day, shuttling kids to practices, making meals, and answering 1,276 “Mom?” questions, I’d deserve some peace. But no. My children treat 8 p.m. as the perfect time to turn into caffeinated circus performers.

    Why, oh why, do they seem most alive when I am most dead inside?

    Maybe it’s the thrill of bedtime rebellion, or maybe they’ve somehow tapped into my last nerve and decided to bounce on it like a trampoline. Whatever the reason, come 8 p.m., they’re buzzing around, inventing entirely new ways to delay bedtime, test my patience, and provoke existential crises.

    “Mom, I need cold lunch for tomorrow!”
    “Mom, my sock feels weird!”
    “Mom, can you help me find my stuffed llama that I haven’t thought about in three years but now I suddenly can’t live without?”

    Meanwhile, I’m standing there, dead-eyed, muttering something like, “Go. To. Bed.”

    The thing is, I need them to go to sleep—not just for their sake (yes, I love you and want you rested and healthy, blah blah blah)—but for mine. I need that sweet, quiet alone time to unwind, stare blankly at Netflix, and maybe, if I’m feeling ambitious, fold half a basket of laundry before passing out. And here’s the kicker: if you don’t go to bed, neither can I.

    But my kids? They don’t care about my exhaustion. They’ll happily argue about the injustices of bedtime while doing gymnastics on the couch. They’ll ask deep, philosophical questions about life just as I’m trying to turn off the lights. They’ll suddenly need to talk about the thing that happened at school three weeks ago, and if I don’t listen right now, they’ll be emotionally scarred forever.

    So here I am, at the end of my rope, begging the universe for mercy while simultaneously Googling “why are kids insane at night.”

    To be clear, I love my children. They’re wonderful little humans full of curiosity, energy, and spirit. But after 8 p.m.? They’re too much. They become wild, uncontainable forces of nature, and all I want is for them to brush their teeth and close their eyes.

    Every night, I try to be zen about it. I promise myself I’ll stay calm. But by 8:30, my inner monologue is screaming: “I CANNOT WITH THESE PEOPLE. GO TO BED BEFORE I SELL ALL YOUR TOYS AND YOUR VIDEO GAMES.” And at that point, I’m not even pretending to be patient. I’m ushering them to their rooms like a cranky flight attendant shoving passengers down the aisle.

    So, dear children, please understand this: I love you endlessly, but my capacity for nonsense expires promptly at 8 p.m. If you see me after that time, I’m not your mom anymore—I’m just a tired shell of a person trying to survive until tomorrow.

    Now go to sleep before I lose whatever shred of sanity I have left. Please and thank you.

  • Shopping Adventures with Owen and Gannon: Life Lessons on Marriage and Money

    Saturday morning started on a high note—house cleaning! I know, I know, thrilling stuff. But with the promise of a trip to Dollar Tree as a reward, Owen and Gannon were surprisingly helpful. What can I say? The allure of $1.25 treasures is powerful.

    Once the house sparkled (or at least looked less like a tornado hit it), we headed out to Dollar Tree, where they gleefully loaded up on candy, stickers, and whatever else their hearts desired. Mission accomplished, right? Not quite.

    Lunch was the next stop, and we hit up Mi Pueblo Mexican restaurant for chips, salsa, and some much-needed tacos. But the story doesn’t end there. Conveniently located next to Mi Pueblo is Ulta Beauty—an irresistible beacon of temptation for those of us with a weakness for skincare and makeup.

    That’s when Owen, my 15-year-old, surprised me. “Can we go to Ulta?” he asked, completely serious. Turns out, my teen son is all about checking out the latest colognes. I know, right? Who is this GQ gentleman-in-the-making?

    “I don’t know, Owen,” I said, trying to resist the trap. “Your dad will get mad if I spend money there. I don’t want to get a lecture as if he’s my dad.”

    Cue Gannon, my ever-spirited backseat commentator: “You’re a grown woman! You can do what you want!”

    While I appreciated his confidence in me, I had to set the record straight. “Yes, I CAN do what I want, but that doesn’t mean I SHOULD. Big difference, buddy.”

    Owen, however, wasn’t ready to let the conversation go. “When I get married, I’m going to give my wife lots of money so she can spend it however she wants. You make more money than Dad. Doesn’t that make you the boss?”

    And there it was—the jackpot comment. Naturally, I couldn’t let it slide. “Owen, when you get married, I’m going to share this conversation with your wife.”

    Before I could relish the thought, Gannon jumped in, determined to top his brother. “When I get married, my wife AND kids get to buy stuff when they want!”

    At that point, we were all laughing so hard we could barely breathe. But as funny as it was, it hit me—this was the perfect teachable moment. My boys are already plotting how to handle marital money, so maybe it’s time for a crash course in finances and relationships. After all, managing money will be very difficult if they are buying things whenever they wish!

    So, we skipped Ulta this time (you’re welcome, Huz), but the day wasn’t a loss. Between tacos and treasures, we walked away with some solid laughs and maybe—just maybe—a few life lessons about money, marriage, and the fine art of knowing when to say no to temptation.

    Parenting: where every shopping trip is an adventure and every conversation is future blackmail material.

  • Back to School, Back to Reality

    Yesterday marked the boys’ first day back to school after 12 days of Christmas break, and I’m still wrapping my head around it. The entire day I thought it was Monday—something about the holiday haze and lack of structure messes with my internal clock. But here we are, back in action, and while I’m relieved to return to some semblance of routine, I am utterly exhausted.

    Christmas break was a whirlwind. The boys were full of energy, bouncing between being overstimulated by holiday festivities and moments of sheer boredom. There were days when it felt like they were ready to climb the walls, and others when they were glued to their new toys or screens. Keeping them occupied was like juggling flaming torches while balancing on a unicycle—exhilarating but completely draining.

    Now that they’re back in school, the house is quieter, and I’m back at work, trying to plan for a new sales year. It’s a little calmer on my end, which is perfect for strategizing and finding my footing for what’s ahead. January always feels like a blank slate in some ways, and I’m ready to make the most of it.

    On the home front, I’m determined to keep this house clean and organized. We all know how quickly things spiral when routines fall apart, and I’m not about to let the chaos of break seep into the new year. If the dishes are done and the laundry isn’t threatening to overthrow the house, I’m calling that a win.

    So here’s to getting back into the groove, finding balance amidst the madness, and embracing the slower, quieter moments when they come. January may not have the sparkle of Christmas, but it’s a chance to reset—and I’ll take that any day.