My BFF Troublemaker and I spend way too much time talking about sex.

We have pretty much the same issues regarding the procurement of it. We’re both single moms, who do NOT want to be in any kind of committed relationship. Which is not to say that we want cheap meaningless sex with randos, although that is surprisingly difficult to find in the suburbs.

We’re also not into online hookups, since neither of us wants to end up with a serial killer who has oral sex with our severed heads.

But we know lots of single chicks who have all the zany exploits we used to once have.

When she told me the story of her girlfriend who gave the Uber driver a handjob, I laughed like a hyena. I thought it made a great title for a story, even though it wasn’t mine. As a matter of fact, this was supposed to be published HOURS ago, but every time I try to proofread it, I look at the post image and start laughing till I cry.

It’s click-baity. I’m well aware of that.


A recent story went viral, a story whose title implied that a woman divorced her husband because he left dishes in the sink. Because I’ve read this blog before, there was nothing very interesting about it. It’s pretty much the same regurgitated crap this blogger has been writing for years.

It’s all about how men are the real reason marriages fail; stupid, stupid men who just don’t understand that women want, no NEED, you to put your dirty clothes in the hamper in order to keep our marriages alive.

The title was total click bait. He admits that isn’t why his wife left him.

Kind of like me titling this story “I Gave My Uber Driver a Hand Job” when that never happened.


The blogger purports himself to be some kind of self appointed expert on how to help people not get divorced.

Yes, I know he is preaching from his exalted place of “now enlightened” male. What’s REALLY interesting about this story, is the way he behaves in his comment section. EVERY differing opinion sends him in a tail spin of page long responses defending his position, showing that he is RIGHT. Which speaks VOLUMES about the person he is in a relationship.

And then, in a ploy to come off self-aware and oh-so-endearing, he even admits to having done THAT. It’s the relationship version of an Escher painting. You go round and round until you finally just hang a tire around your neck, fill it with gasoline, and light yourself on fire.



You know. BE THE CHANGE.

Otherwise, you’re just going to spend the next decade driving some poor women insane, by acting like an asshole and THEN owning up to it.


I also completely disagree with the premise of the article. I’m not going to comment on his blog because I don’t want THE WRATH OF BLOG unleashed at me. If I want to engage in pointless debates, I’ll call my Ex husband.

I personally am guilty of doing things that drove my Ex nuts; would, in fact, drive many partners nuts. For example, I often forgot to check in with him if I wasn’t coming home after work.

It drove him crazy. It often worried him. And I TRIED to remember to text him and let him know. The fact that it was super important to him should have motivated me to remember.

But I live in my head. I get so absent-minded, that try as I might, I STILL sometimes forgot. It was NOT a symptom of my lack of devotion to the marriage. It was more about the fact that I’m a space cadet, combined with how independent I was used to being, prior to the marriage.

Life is much too precious and complicated for people to view dishes as a symptom of deeper issues. The sink’s dishes are the sink’s problem.


I’m the first one to admit, always have, that who I am in my blog is not 100% who I am in real life.

Let me state for the record: The Samara on this blog is a version of me. It’s not fully who I am. I have met many, many online people in real life, who can attest to the fact that I am only part bad ass. In fact, I intend to write a story soon that reveals some of my worst flaws.

HOWEVER. I do not devote my blog to “How to Dress like a Grown Up.”  “How To Raise Your Tween Without Calling Him a Douchebag.”

I know not of these things.


The most interesting thing about his article was a comment someone left, which captured the truth perfectly. She wrote that not only was it a click-baity title but also, the author knows his audience and it was an article designed to make women swoon.

YES SO MUCH THIS. The blogging world is filled with the walking wounded, most of them women. And when you finally find a man who writes all about how stupid men are, how culpable they are in divorce, it’s swoon-worthy material. Women ask him out on his blog all the time.

Girls – read the comment section! That’s who you’re going to be fighting with at Olive Garden.



I love click-baity titles. I try to use titles that will draw people in.


No, I DID not give an Uber driver a hand job. The only time I ever used Uber, I was in Portland with my 12-year-old. That would have been fucking awkward, as well as scarring him for life.



However, Troublemaker’s friend DID give HER Uber driver a handjob. It was quite the story.

Sorry, pervs. It’s not that kind of blog.


What do you think of click bait titles?
Is leaving dishes in the sink sometimes just LEAVING DISHES IN THE SINK?
Did you ever give an Uber driver a hand job?
Talk to me, I’m listening.


Join me on Facebook, Instagram, and Twitter so I can have friends without leaving the house.

tiger mom

By the time he was seven, my kid would tell his little friends “I do homework in the summer because when I grow up, my mom wants me to be able to compete in a global economy.”

I’m THAT mom, the one who questions her kid as to why he got that one A, when all the rest of his grades were A pluses. I wanted to state that early, so you can get all your judgements out.


Feel better? Good. Now I can get to the meat of what I want to say without your disgust clouding your ability to hear me.


I’ve had a tough life. Some would say, tougher than many. I’ve been able to forge ahead partly because of my intelligence and sense of humor, but undeniably because of my project girl survival skills.

My kid is soft. Thank God, he’s a soft suburban kid who never has to worry about gunshots in the playground. He lacks survival instincts because he doesn’t NEED them.

What if life takes a giant dump on him?

I can’t give him street smarts by dropping him off in my old neighborhood, like a Hunger Games arena, and see if he’s still alive at the end of the day.

I have no way to prepare him for emotional trauma or tremendous adversity.  But ONE THING I can give him – I can teach him to EXCEL at everything he does, particularly academics.

I can also make sure to raise him to be a good person, blah blah blah. Yes, that will really help when it comes to paying a mortgage and providing for his family. The phrase “nice guys finish last” was invented in Corporate America.

To help him establish himself in a career, I can prepare him to KNOCK OUT ALL THE COMPETITION.

I want him to be THE BEST.

Not just HIS best. THE best.



I taught him to read early, so he entered kindergarten already reading.  Around that age, I introduced him to numbers. By first grade, I was quizzing him on his time tables while we drove places.

Like most children, my kid initially balked at homework. He’s allowed some down time after school, to blow off steam. But I reinforced in him the notion that homework is a priority. At 12, he’s internalized this voice to the point where he does his weekend homework on Friday – so he can enjoy the rest of the weekend.

I make my kid do homework in the summer. I buy him workbooks in math and language arts for the grade he’s entering, and he has to spend a half hour a day on each of them.

There is a documented loss of academic skills in children over the summer. Knowing that, why would I want such an easily preventable thing to happen? Yes, I KNOW summers are for lazy days of barbecues and swimming. I’m not forcing my kid to kneel on rice. It’s an hour a day, people. Calm your tits.


I’m not a full throttle Tiger Mom, as in the woman who coined the phrase in her book Battle Hymn of the Tiger Mother. Amy Chua’s memoir of raising her two daughters chronicled daily hours of forced music practice, severe restrictions on extracurriculars, bans on social activities like sleepovers, and punishment and shaming if her children failed to achieve her high expectations.

My parenting style is somewhere in the gray area, between “tiger” and “dolphin,” albeit much closer to tiger. I’m a single working mom with sole custody of my son. Dolphin parenting advocates disciplining your child with “creativity and fun.” Ain’t nobody got time for that.

Furthermore, films of dolphins show them ramming baby porpoises to death. Probably because they snapped after trying to “have fun” disciplining their children.

The public loves to rip Amy Chua apart. I think it’s her combative, holier-than-thou attitude, and offensively pretentious tone she assumes in her book. She’s the Asian Ann Coulter, and it’s stylish Left liberalism to hate her. Her exaggerated version of Tiger Mom is more is an example of narcissistic personality disorder. I would never make my son practice his instrument relentlessly for hours, without bathroom or food breaks.

BUT. I did insist he LEARN an instrument, when in fact, he strongly resisted it. Playing an instrument has been shown to have real impact on cognitive abilities.

I also totally dig music, came from a family of musicians, and most importantly, need someone to jam with.


I was raised dirt poor; the kind of poor where I feared feeling my feet pressing the inside of my shoes. We couldn’t afford new shoes.
I’m better off than that, but not the kind of success I want for my child.

It’s simple Parenting 101. I want him to have a better life than the one I currently provide for him. He’s already having a better childhood, one that includes love, safety, security, encouragement, attention, real family time and memory-making adventures.

But achieving a higher standard of living than the generation that came before is nowhere NEAR the slam dunk it once was. So, I’m looking to hone his competitive edge.

Yes, he’s smart. Natural talent and innate intelligence, past a certain point, won’t take you far enough without a strong work ethic. At some point the ability to persevere is more important.


In America, the idea seems to be that we live in a land of opportunity and if you just follow your dreams everything will turn out wonderful in the end.

Not really.

The world is a hard place. Democracy is a sham and equality of opportunity is a myth. However, if you work hard to distinguish yourself among the pack, you have a better chance of clawing your way into the privileged class of people who can afford to not be enslaved by a soul crushing daily grind to make ends meet.

A lot of money does NOT equal a LOT of  happiness – but SOME money equals SOME happiness. No matter what your values are, being financially comfortable gives you the freedom to do things that struggling financially simply does not.

The problem with all the critiques of the tiger mom parenting style is that they feel Tiger Mom-ing only yields a socially constructed notion of material success. These critics fail to acknowledge “success” by a more accurate definition: growing up to be adults with power of self-determination. This is what money gives you. So deriding the single-minded focus towards “material success” as if it’s inherently wrong is just fashionable new age ethos.

When I came home with phenomenal grades, my mother ONLY looked at the one 97, demanding, “Why is this not 100?” I do not do that. I first congratulate my son on his A pluses. THEN I point to the one A, and demand,”Why isn’t this an A plus?”

That's what I call Fucking A

That’s what I call Fucking A


Unlike Amy Chua I never make my kid feel bad when he doesn’t 100% succeed, because learning to fail is just as important as learning to succeed. I do not want to raise a worker bee who is unable to fix situations that go wrong.



American parents use the emotional well-being of the child as an excuse for their own laziness in enforcing any sort of discipline and work ethic.

They assume fragility in our children, instead of strength.

My kid is loaded up like a pack mule on the days he has band practice. He has to carry his backpack, laptop, lunch bag and saxophone. Initially, he wanted me to walk him to the bus stop and carry his sax, because that’s what ALL the moms do.

Guess what? Who’s going to be at the other end of the ride, helping him drag all that stuff off the bus, and through the hallways? NO ONE.

So I refused. Instead, I helped him figure out the best way to juggle everything. He feels empowered.


And I don’t have to put on pants at 7:10 am. It’s s a win-win.


What is your parenting style? Are you a tiger, dolphin, kangaroo? Aardvark?
What do you think of the Tiger Mom style? 
Talk to me. I’m listening. 


Join me on Facebook, Instagram, and Twitter so I can have friends without leaving the house.


*Trigger Warning: Domestic abuse

In the history of the world, no one has ever loved anyone the way I loved my husband.

I felt that way all the way up until the moment he dislocated my rib cage.

He bought me my first car. I didn’t own a car until I was in my 30’s. I grew up dirt poor. My first car was the BUS.

Our first Christmas together, he presented me with a cherry red Mazda Miata convertible.

I loved that car. I named him “Herbie.” As in, the movie “The Love Bug?”


The very first week, I logged 800 miles, visiting every friend I had in the tri-state area.


For the first time in my life, I experienced the exhilarating sense of getting behind the wheel of my very own vehicle. He gave me my love of the open road. He called me “Road Warrior.”


In a world where everything changes, one constant for me has been my love of road trips.

He gave me that.

He also unearthed the soft white underbelly under my fierce determination to rely on no one, EVER. Found in me the little girl who grew up abused and abandoned. And filled that great yawning abyss of feeling unloved.

Accepting love is a muscle that can atrophy if you let it go unexercised too long.


We accept the love we think we deserve.

–The Perks Of Being A Wallflower


His love for me was stronger than anything I had ever experienced since the death of my oldest brother. The first few years of our marriage were unequivocally the happiest years of my life.


In a world where everything changes, the only constant is change.

My husband got into serious trouble, and lost everything – including his ability to make a living. I stood by him, because I loved him. For Better Or For Worse.

We switched roles. He became the stay at home parent, and I the provider. I backed into a successful business purely by accident. But this unorthodox and unexpected role reversal was brutal for him.

It soured our relationship irreparably.


Love truly is blind.

I was blind to the years he gradually bankrupted me.

I was blind to his pathological lying.

As it all unraveled he transformed into someone I didn’t recognize. Or was he always like that?


Eventually all his financial malfeasance surfaced.


That doesn’t begin to describe your feelings when you realize your spouse has destroyed you financially.


When it first erupted into violence, I was FEARLESS.
I’m from New York. If you’re gonna hit me with a shovel, I’m going to hit you with a bigger shovel.

We might have beaten each other to death, Mad Max Thunderdome style, in my garage, had my then 4-year-old son not wandered in. I saw the fear in his eyes, and stopped.

I threw my son in the car and got on a highway. Drove to my NY BFF’s house upstate New York.

I filed for a restraining order and threw my husband out.


One night I received a phone call from my gym, which is affiliated with a medical center. A child in the playroom had been diagnosed with bacterial meningitis – the fatal kind. They were contacting every family who’d recently had a child in that playroom.

My son had come home that day with a fever and a stiff neck. I was told by the nurse on the telephone to wake him up immediately and bring him to the ER. I argued with her that to do so would terrify him.


Our conversation was interrupted by the ambulance she had dispatched, screeching into my driveway.

My son screamed in pain and fear for hours while they ran a battery of tests on him. Around dawn my husband showed up and my son calmed down. Daddy was here.

Maybe, if I had family or friends nearby.

Maybe, if I thought I could handle parenting my son alone.

Maybe. Maybe. Maybe.

The next day, my husband moved back in.


For the next few years I accepted his outbursts of violence and told no one.

We accept the love we think we deserve.


Then, more crushing debt surfaced. Reluctantly, I decided to tap into my son’s college fund.

There was no money in that account.

There was no money in that account?



That doesn’t begin to describe your feelings when you realize your spouse has emptied your entire life savings.



I started the fight that time, punching and kicking him.

He smacked me away, and caught my lip, which opened and bled.

I tasted the blood. And got up in his face.





I literally flew across the room.

He’d full-on punched me square in my chest. His 220 lbs to my 110.

My heart stopped beating.

Every time I tried to sit up, excruciating pain tore through my chest.


Slowly, painfully, I put my 6-year-old in the car.

And got on a highway. Fled like a thief in the night all the way to Boston.

I made up an elaborate story to my college BFF about my injury.


It was a dislocated rib cage. But really?






I’ve had to file for bankruptcy. The house I broke my back saving the down payment for – is lost.

It’s just a house.

It was my first ever backyard with a swing set and trampoline and everything my son deserves and will no longer have.



My Ex erupts into violence frequently. I’ve been advised by my lawyer, my therapist and the police to keep a bag packed at all times. Store it in the trunk of my car. Have a place ready to flee to with my son.




One night, he flew into one of his irrational rages.

He smashed my laptop. He grabbed the extension cord and began hitting me with it. I tried to diffuse his rage, hoping to not wake up my son, dodging the blows that were opening up cuts on my arms and legs.

He wrenched our child out of bed. My son was crying and terrified, and I was screaming at my Ex to get out.

Madness. Dysfunction. Chaos.

I ran for the bedroom and locked us in there until he left.


Just a few minutes later, my phone buzzed. Lizzi was Facebook messaging me.

And in that moment – I needed her desperately. Her kind words; her gentle voice. Her beautiful soothing English accent. Her humanity.

We skyped.

Never before had anyone seen me like that. Broken and bleeding and bruised.

We spoke until daylight.

At last.




And now I need to tell it. If even one woman feels less alone, then writing this will have been worth it.


I want this story to end the way other domestic abuse stories do.

With hope.

But even with him out of my house, and locks changed, I don’t feel safe.

You think the police can protect you from an irrational person who wants to harm you?



It’s not even me I worry about. What toll is this taking on my son?

And should I end up dead? What will happen to him?


The height of irony is my Ex accusing me of wanting to be with another man.

I will never, EVER allow myself to get close to someone again.

If I suspect someone likes me, I make sure to drive them away.

If I’m intimate with someone, I keep feelings out of it.

We accept the love we think we deserve.


People often tell me that I’ll heal when I find the “right person.”

For what? To strip me of my worldly possessions and my self-esteem?

Happily ever after isn’t REAL.

What’s REAL is that I spend my life looking over my shoulder.

We accept the love we think we deserve.


I have that bag packed in my trunk.

I’m ready.


Some day, I’m just going to get in my car.



Get on a highway.

And just drive.



and drive…

And keep on going.





*This post was originally published on Sisterwives. It is dedicated to all of my SisterWives, who supported me in writing this. Thank you. I love you.


Do you have a story about domestic abuse?
Talk to me. I’m listening.



The Cute Guy’s ex girlfriend is making my life miserable. Why can’t we all just have sex and be one big happy polyamorous family?

I’m willing to overlook the fact that she looks like a middle-aged Snooki. She’ll be fine once I get her out of that desperate MILF outfit and hose her down.


Over the summer, CG wanted to spend time with me more regularly than I was comfortable with. At the same time, his ex girlfriend found out through the grapevine that we were seeing each other.

Old Snooki contacted him, flipping out that he had moved on. He was craving more company. In a dysfunctional cloud of jealousy and unresolved feelings,they began seeing one another again.

I really didn’t care. He’s a grown-ass man. He can do what he wants, as long as I don’t catch Herpes Simplex 2 from him. Then we would have a come-to-jesus moment which involved him strapped to a chair with hot sauce on his privates while Wonderwall played on bagpipes.


The problem is, Old Snooki does NOT want him seeing me. She’s making his life miserable over it.

He has feelings for her. He tells me “it’s complicated.”


I did stop seeing him at one point, to avoid the drama. But we ended up hanging out again because he has a huge penis we have fantastic chemistry.

He’s kind of perfect. He adds pizzazz to the neighborhood when he roars up to my driveway on his motorcycle. He’s super funny. He’s one of the few people who doesn’t exhaust me, even though our dates stretch into dawn. It’s probably because he’s your basic good dumb fuck  not into a lot of in-depth conversation.


But he COMPLAINS to ME about how crazy she is.

I’ve been called that by men, so I don’t usually take it too seriously. There’s “leaves nasty messages” crazy, and then there’s “slashes your tires and you end up in jail” crazy.

“Crazy” is something a man labels you after they’ve done shit so heinous that you find yourself at your wit’s end and driven to things like trying to embarrass them in the comment section of their blog, thus lending credibility to their claim.
oopsie. That’s another blog post.

All women are a little crazy. And crazy has its upside. Would I be proposing threesomes if I was normal?


Hot chicks are often crazy. If you meet a smoking hot, totally chill woman, she’s a transvestite.

But on the Crazy Matrix, Old Snooki is in the Danger Zone. That’s above the Red Line Sector which contains strippers, redheads, or anyone named Tiffany.

She keeps her hand on his leg to monitor whenever his phone goes off. When he’s with me, he’s nervous that he’ll go home to find her in his driveway. Waiting to smell him.


I proposed to CG that we have a threesome. She’s not my type but I’ll take one for the team.

She adamantly refuses.

I understand she’s emotionally attached, but does that have to mean exclusivity? I was in love with my husband, and we still occasionally opened Door Number Three. We even had a steady girlfriend for a while; a young woman we referred to as “Bus Girl” because she used to take the bus to where we live.

Bus Girl was an ex-gymnast, capable of Cirque du Soleil worthy feats of sexual prowess. She was 15 years younger than me, and fucked like a porno Energizer Bunny.


Things would be so EASY if Old Snooki just accepted me. The Cute Guy is too stressed over this, and it’s a buzz kill. I can’t continue to see him.


The only problem is, now I have visions of a threesome with him in my head.

As an alternative, I spoke to my bestie about him. Not my college or NY bestie. Another bestie. She’s a hot brunette with a terrific giggle and an ass like J Lo. We can call her “Troublemaker” because she is.

Troublemaker doesn’t live near me, but she’s planning to visit, now that I showed her CG’s picture.

Get your minds out of the gutter! I showed her his enormous penis.


Women. Men are not biologically programmed for monogamy. Stone Age men, unshackled by stifling societal mores, grabbed multiple cave ladies by the hair and hauled them back to the cave for hot Troglodyte sex.

It takes enormous effort for a man to be faithful. Their penises have a mind of their own. Boasting this protuberance is like owning an extra fridge just to stock beer in. If it’s there, you’re always waiting for a party to break out.

Letting them indulge in a little extracurricular activity sanctioned by you is a great way to let them know you appreciate their efforts.

And If you and your man have completely incompatible sex drives, with his being really high and yours low to non-existent, he will just use his blog to prey on women
have repeated online affairs
be unnatural obsessed with boobs to the point of looking like an ass on social media
end up really frustrated. So invite another woman in the bedroom and let her play jiffy stiffy. It’s one less thing you have to do around the house, right?

There are so many reasons to indulge in threesomes, not the least of which is (as in the case of Bus Girl) designating the third-party to be the one to fetch drinks and snacks when you don’t feel like getting out of bed.

I could have used another woman for backup during my third trimester, when I was 11 months pregnant and still blowing my husband in restaurant bathrooms. In between Braxton Hicks contractions.


The threesome arrangement is not just for your man. Being with another woman is one of life’s great pleasures, ranking up there with shoe shopping and perfectly hot wiring a car.

If you’re daunted by the idea of eating a fur burger, you can keep everything above the waist. You think I’m gonna lick Old Snooki’s snatch? Not on your life. There’s no telling what I’ll find up there. If I put my ear to it like a seashell, her pussy will echo with the cries of a thousand desperate men.


Some men are completely disinterested in sex outside of their relationship. This is a unicorn. If you find a unicorn, capture it safely. Modern science would like to study and possibly replicate it.


If you do consider adding a woman to your relationship, there’s actually an app to help you find her.

Goddamn, I love technology.

Would you ever have a threesome? What if she had cool clothes you could borrow?
Have you had one? Fess up! 
Talk to me. I’m listening. 

Join me on Facebook, Instagram, and Twitter so I can have friends without leaving the house.



It happened the summer of 2013, and I’ve never written about it because I get agita just typing the title.

“Agita” is a New York expression. It comes from the Italian word for “stomach ache,” but New Yorkers use it to mean terrible agitation or anxiety. It’s like me saying “that skeeves me” when something is gross, or immediately using the expression “mothah fuckah” when I drive. New York style, with the “er” dropped.


Little Dude was in sleep away camp August of 2013. When the Ex and I went there on visiting day, my kid was in the infirmary. He had some kind of virus that was causing him agonizing stomach pain.

Kids get sick at sleepaway camp. They catch stuff from each other; from the woods, from the lake. He’s come home from there with impetigo, which totally skeeved me. But this was serious – more serious than something to be treated in the camp infirmary. We piled blankets and pillows in the car, and drove my son home.

In rapid succession, we went from the pediatrician’s office to the ER to having him admitted to the hospital.

In between bouts of excruciating stomach pain, my son was completely lethargic. His was drained of all color and had a steady fever. He couldn’t even hold down fluids.

I spent that night with him in the hospital. It was a horrible night for both of us. There’s nothing that makes you feel quite as helpless as watching your child suffer brutal pain.

Early the next morning, the doctor arrived to examine my son. As she was feeling his abdomen, I detected a flicker of something in her expression. She asked my Ex and me if we could speak to her in the hallway.

“I’m going to have him transferred by ambulance to a specialized hospital, where they have a pediatric lymphoma clinic. I want him seen by the pediatric oncologist there.”



My feet gave out from under me. I would have plummeted to the floor, but my Ex was holding onto my arm, so I did a slow slide down, and collapsed there. I began hyperventilating. There wasn’t enough oxygen in the hallway and I was suffocating. Tears streamed down my face.

The doctor knelt down to eye level with me.

“Are you going to ride in the ambulance with him?” she asked.

I nodded.

“Then you need to pull yourself together for him. He cannot see you like this.”

She was not unkind, but she was businesslike. She understood that in that moment, what mattered most was keeping my son from being terrified.

We formulated a plan of what we were going to tell him (“we need to go to a bigger hospital, they want different doctors to check you, you’re going to ride in an ambulance! How cool is that!”)

Shit like that. Shit you say to a 10-year-old kid, instead of “We have to go to a pediatric oncology ward because you might have lymphoma.”


I spent the next five days and nights in my son’s hospital room. I never left. My Ex went back and forth, grabbing a shower and some fresh clothes each day, and I probably should have done that. A hot shower might have helped clear my mind. But the drive to my house and back was about 90 minutes, and that was too long to be away from my kid.

One minute was too long to be away from him.

My bestie drove down from upstate New York to sit with me. She got there just in time to see me go all Shirley MacLaine / Terms of Endearment on the nurses when my son was howling and convulsing with pain, and I screamed at them to give him intravenous morphine.

Doctor after doctor examined him. They administered every test imaginable. On two different occasions the doctors brought in groups of interns to speculate as to what he had. I felt like I was in an episode of House, only with way less sexy doctors.

The first two days, Little Dude was so gravely ill he couldn’t watch television or even speak to me. That’s when I was the most terrified. Little Dude never shuts up.



I found myself making deals with God. “Please, let me have cancer and not my son. Please.


My kid went through hell before they eventually diagnosed him with mesenteric lymphadenitis. It’s an inflammation of the lymph nodes in the intestines. The virus he’d contracted was so severe, his lymph glands had swelled to where the pain was intolerable. They weren’t even sure how he’d contracted it, since not one single other camper had it. After five days, he was released.

I’m not being dramatic when I tell you that I would not want to live in a world without my son.


Not every parent is this lucky.


Dorian Murray is an 8-year-old boy who has spent half his life bravely battling rhabdomyosarcoma. It’s a rare pediatric cancer, and his treatments are no longer working. Shortly after New Year’s, he decided to spend his remaining time with his family

His dying wish is to be famous, even in China. And thus the #DStrong movement began.

All over the world, people are taking pictures holding up signs to show Dorian that he has found his way into our hearts.


Me and Little Dude


Rachel of www.misfitsmountainmama.com reached out to some of her writing friends and asked us to flood the internet with Dorian love and BLOW THIS HASHTAG UP!

Tweet to #DStrong that you’re rooting for him! Take a picture if you’re so inclined. Share his story. Read about him on Facebook. 

If you’d like, please write something inspired by this badass little warrior.

Whatever you do, you can join up us with the #DStrong linkey thing on Darla’s blog. 


Tonight, hug your children so, so tight. And never let go.



Talk to me. I’m listening.