Twenty years I opened a browser window and started writing the blog that became Laughing at Chaos. It was the era of mommy bloggers (lord do I loathe that term) and I fell in love with writing for the first time since picking up a flute at age 9. What started with random musings soon became a blog on parenting neurocomplex twice-exceptional kids. Laughing at Chaos led to a book, If This is a Gift, Can I Send It Back?, which led to presentations and keynotes and becoming quite well-known in gifted circles. Evidently my writing was authentic to the point that other parents felt I was living in their closet or had cameras hidden in the power outlets. For the record, I’ve never lived in anyone’s closet nor do I even know how to install hidden cameras. I backed away from that writing, not because I didn’t love it, but because my kids are now neurocomplex twice-exceptional young adults who deserve some modicum of privacy. They’re (mostly) launched and their stories are not mine to tell. I will say, however, that parenting young adults ain’t for the faint of heart and everything you’ve heard about the frontal lobe finally considering thinking about maybe developing in the mid-20s is absofuckinglutely true. Take that as you will. Send gin, JFC.
Then covid hit, and writers block, and life changes, and writers block of concrete, and the gooey center of the generation sandwich (including the death of a parent FUCK PARKINSON’S FORFUCKINGEVER), and writers block of concrete encased in titanium, and more life changes, and writers block of concrete encased in titanium grown over with giant hogweed, and finally to the today of political and cultural upheaval sliding a greased pole to hell screaming YippieKayYayMotherfucker all the way down. It’s been…a lot.
I’ve changed. Oh gods how I’ve changed. I’m no longer the person who innocently started that blog in 2006. In some ways that’s a relief and in others it’s a little disconcerting. It’s just…who the hell am I now?
Well. I’m a woman in the third act of her life, deep into the hell of perimenopause. A mostly empty nester married for almost 30 years. A dog mom to Lemon; mostly Great Pyrenees with a variety of shepherd breeds, 100% loving goober, and the gentle guardian of my entire mental health. A flutist and writer, or was, and wants to be again. A foul-mouthed liberal with little to no patience for bullshit; quiet, reserved, and introverted until I’m not; deeply loyal once my heart and soul have been won; and leaning hard on the twin load-bearing supports of absurdity and gallows humor (I’m either professionally distracting you in the ER or I am your absolute worst nightmare). A very late-diagnosed woman with ADHD “with a sprinkle of the ’tism.” (Finally diagnosed in 2025 after years upon years of wondering). Other than all that? I have no fucking clue.
But what I’m absolutely certain of?
I’m past apologizing for a fucking thing. My mouth, my opinions, my march-to-the-beat-of-their-own-drummers-out-of-the-box family, my deep desire to do what’s best for me while not harming anyone else. I am almost 53-fucking-years old and I am over a lot. At best I have a solid 30 years ahead of me, and that’s a freakishly small number when compared to all I want to still do with this one incredible life.
When I started blogging in 2006, what drew me was the community. Others who wrote long-form posts, sharing their points of view and lives. Essays of life and connection, not SEO and sales. I started moving my writing base of operations over to Substack because there was a vibrant community there (I originally posted this there last fall). And then I realized that yes, there was community, but it was loud, I wasn’t sure I liked it and I liked my peaceful lil piece of the interwebz over here. I’ll rediscover and rebuild community; surely I’m not the only neurocomplex parent of neurocomplex young adults dragging themselves out of complete mind/body/soul burnout as their country disintegrates under their feet, yes?
So I’ve returned. Amazingly, this place wasn’t completely grown over, just needed some dusting and a light exorcism. As much as constant “improvements” to WordPress piss me off, I’m going to call them brain strengthening exercises as learning new things keeps the grey matter young. Probably a good thing, I’ve been asking too much of the crossword puzzles lately anyway.
I have no clue how this is gonna shake out over time, but the roadtrip of life is a lot more fun with someone riding shotgun.
I haven’t read much of your stuff but you will forever be the lady who remembers Santa’s pants falling down at the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade. My family accused me of lying for years! Glad to hear you’re a Liberal. Fuck trump.
YAS! Fuck Trump. 💪🏻
It’s been forever since I wrote that Santa’s Pants post, and I’m grateful videos of it have finally popped up!
Welcome back! And wait until it is 63 not 53 and you still have decided what you want to be when you grow up!
Oh. So you’re saying this is a chronic condition? 😏
Welcome home! Missed ya! Awesome to hear your voice again. (Buckles up.)
Thanks. I’m hopeful I can keep the plates spinning; I’ve missed writing so much. 🤞🏻
Glad to have you back in my inbox!
❤️❤️❤️
It is SO nice to have you back! I have cried, screamed, and survived with you. I LOVE seeing LAC show up in my inbox. Thank you – a thousand thank yous. And I’d love to buy you a G&T, next time you’re in the Boulder CO area.
We got this! No idea what “it” is, but we got it! LOL
I never quite thought you were living in my closet, but I have loved your writings for many years, and my heart lifted when I saw this in my inbox today. I’ve got two years on you, only one neurodivergent daughter, a mom with Parkinsons (who’s still *ok* but yeah, FUCK PARKINSON’S FORFUCKINGEVER!!), and a similar “give no fucks” attitude. Welcome back. I’ve missed you.
Oh babe. We’re in this leaky boat together. We got this. ❤️
Welcome back. Still enjoy your energy. You must know I think of you everytime I hang a new roll of toilet paper…thanks to a post where you mentioned you Trained your neuro-spicy teens that you like beards not mullets. And to think I really don’t mind either one (altho, yes beards ARE sexier) and yet I hang it with a beard…because you insist…and that means something (more than a patent to prove its “right”). It seems to me that peri-meno is at least as mindblowing as raising neuro-spicys (somehow mine seem to mostly be doing well on their solo flight) so I look forward to vicariously laughing at the journey with you. Even with the F-bombs 🤣
OMG I love that I come to mind when you hang tp. 🤣🤣🤣 But it works! They remember!
I’m glad you’re back. I have no idea what substack is, so glad it’s this ole format.. in the same place Jen, it’s a journey. I’ve got one more in high school, I’m 54 and my whole schtick is learning to breathe. Zen baby. We got this 🙂
Lo, how the zen is thin. I know we’ll all get through this, because we always do, but daaaammmmmnnnnn…..