Nobody Told Me Teenagers Were Expensive

Nobody told me teenagers were expensive.

And no — I’m not talking about the expensive jeans, the name-brand shoes, the sports fees, or the “Mom, I need $40 for something I forgot to tell you about yesterday” kind of expensive.

I’m talking about the stealth expensive.

The “Mom, can five friends come over?” expensive.

The “We’re just going to the mall for a little bit” expensive.

The “We’re not even hungry” expensive.

Let me tell you something.

When your teenage daughter has five friends over and they all decide they want to go to the mall, you send your kid with money. Just your kid. Because that’s your kid. That’s your responsibility.

But somehow… everybody needs something.

And then — as if that wasn’t enough — they all come back to your house.

And suddenly your kitchen looks like a youth conference hospitality room.

Do you know how much it costs to feed six teenagers?

Holy. Smokes.

I swear I bought groceries yesterday. Yesterday.

Why does it look like a tornado of empty chip bags and missing pizza rolls came through here?

Teenagers don’t “snack.”

They consume.

It’s not “Can I have a sandwich?”

It’s “We were thinking about making grilled cheese… like… twelve of them.”

And you just stand there looking at the grocery budget like,
“Well. There goes that.”

But here’s the part nobody tells you either…

It’s worth it.

Every single dollar.

Because when your house is the house they want to come to? That’s a blessing.

When your home is the safe place — the place where they can laugh too loud, take off their shoes, raid the fridge, and just be themselves — that’s priceless.

I don’t let them break their parents’ rules.
I don’t let them break the law.
And I don’t let disrespect slide.

But I do let them be kids.

I don’t judge their personalities.
I don’t criticize their awkward phases.
I don’t make them feel small for figuring out who they are.

If they’re under my roof, they’re loved. Period.

And maybe that’s what makes me the “cool mom.”

Or maybe I’m just the mom who remembers what it felt like to be a teenager — wanting somewhere safe to land.

So yes… teenagers are expensive.

They’ll eat you out of house and home.
They’ll drink the last soda you were saving.
They’ll leave one single chip in the bag like that counts as “not empty.”

And just when you think the kitchen is finally clean, somebody whispers,
“Are there any more snacks?”

But here’s the truth.

If the price of raising teenagers is a higher grocery bill…
If the cost of being the safe house is an empty pantry…
If practicing hospitality looks like grilled cheese for twelve and paper plates stacked to heaven…

Then I’ll swipe the card and buy more cheese.

Because one day, they won’t crowd my kitchen.
One day, the house will be quiet.
One day, the fridge will actually stay full.

And I promise you — I won’t miss the money.

But I would miss the laughter.

So let the snacks disappear.
Let the soda vanish.
Let the grocery budget tremble.

As for me and my house…
We’re choosing love.

And apparently… we’re choosing bulk groceries too.

“Above all, love each other deeply… Offer hospitality to one another without grumbling.” — 1 Peter 4:8–9

Maybe the pantry is empty and the pizza budget is blown, but if loving loudly and practicing hospitality is part of my calling, then I’ll keep buying the snacks. Because sometimes ministry looks like grilled cheese for twelve.

Tiny House, Big Boundaries

As many of you know, Wayne and I split up in November.

I had finally had enough.

Enough of the gaslighting.
Enough of the narcissistic behavior.
Enough of questioning my own reality.

I had already shut down for almost a year before I left. And if you’ve ever shut down in a relationship, you know that’s not living. That’s surviving.

Three years ago, I left once before. It got better for a while. And then slowly — or maybe not so slowly — it got worse. Worse than before.

This time, when I said I was done, I meant it.

And no, I didn’t have some master plan. I didn’t secretly plot anything. I literally said, “That’s it. I’m leaving.”

That same day, I found property.
That Friday, I ordered a storage building.
It was delivered the following Thursday.
We started turning it into a tiny house.

By the weekend before Thanksgiving, Paisley and I moved in.

Was it scary? Yes.
Was it crazy? Probably.
Was it peaceful? Absolutely.

Now, to be fair, he has helped with a few things. He hooked up my gas stove. He picked up a cabinet for my shop. He helped me run a wire I couldn’t get to turn the corner. He loaned me his ladder, his skill saw, his grinder. (Yes, I still have them. I still have a ceiling to put up.)

But here’s the part that wears on you.

The constant calls.
The random demands.
“Can you do this?”
“I need you to handle that.”
“I don’t have money for this.”

And I usually help — not because I have to — but because I’m trying to keep peace. I’m trying to show our almost 14-year-old daughter how to respond with maturity. How to be the bigger person.

But this morning?

He called and accused me of stealing paper towels.

Paper. Towels.

He told me I was lying. Said they were “going down too fast.” I sent pictures of my pack. Sent the receipt with the date. And somehow, I was still lying.

At some point, you realize you’re not defending your character — you’re defending yourself to someone who has already decided you’re guilty.

So I said, “From now on, unless it has to do with Paisley, do not contact me.”

And I meant it.

I downloaded an app so all communication can be documented and limited to parenting.

Because peace costs something.

It costs boundaries.
It costs people misunderstanding you.
It costs being called names.
It costs being accused of stealing paper towels.

But it also gives you something.

It gives you quiet nights.
It gives you your voice back.
It gives your child a front-row seat to strength instead of silence.

He thinks $142 a month from Social Security is enough to raise a child. Enough to feed her. Clothe her. Pay bills. Provide stability.

I work two jobs.

And I still pray over groceries.

But I will not apologize for building a life of peace.

I don’t have all the answers. I don’t know what the future holds. I don’t know how to balance everything perfectly. I just know this:

God didn’t bring me this far to leave me defending paper towels.

He is my provider.
He is my protector.
He is my guide.

“When the enemy comes in like a flood, the Spirit of the Lord will lift up a standard against him.” — Isaiah 59:19

So that’s what I’m doing.

Standing.
Working.
Building.
Praying.

And trusting that the same God who helped me move into a tiny house by Thanksgiving is the same God who will carry us through whatever comes next.

Peace is worth it.

Even when it costs you.

And let me say this clearly.

I did not leave over paper towels.

I left because I was tired of defending my integrity to someone committed to misunderstanding it. I left because peace should not require proof, receipts, and photo evidence. I left because my daughter deserves to see a woman who knows her worth — not one who argues over things she didn’t take.

You can question my decisions.
You can doubt my motives.
You can even count your paper towels.

But you will not count me out.

I am building something steady.
I am raising something strong.
And I am trusting a God who sees every tear I never explained.

If choosing peace makes me the villain in someone else’s story, so be it.

I would rather be the villain in chaos
than the volunteer in dysfunction.

The door is closed.
The boundary is set.
And this time — it’s not up for debate.

“Bread, Judgment, and Choosing Grace Anyway” (Because sometimes the hardest thing to swallow isn’t hunger — it’s people.)

 It’s been a rough few days, y’all.

Last week — or maybe the week before — the sweet lady I sit with at night wasn’t able to pay me and the day shift lady our full checks. This past Friday, it was an even bigger amount missing. And listen… I get it. Life happens. I know how that goes.

But here’s the part people don’t see.

I had just enough money to:

• Buy feed for my animals.

• Grab a few groceries so my daughter could eat.

• Put gas in my car.

That was it.

Tonight, I’m sick. Cough that won’t quit. Head pounding. The kind of tired that crawls into your bones. I was hungry and broke.  And after finally being paid what I was owed, I deposited it… only to remember that a personal check takes two days to clear.

Two days might as well be two weeks when you’re hungry.

So I did something that humbled me to my core. I asked in an online group I normally feel safe in if anyone could DoorDash me something small to eat. I screenshotted a simple meal — about $20. And yes, I know. Twenty dollars is twenty dollars. That’s not pocket change. I didn’t expect anyone to respond.

I would’ve been fine with my handful of black jelly beans.

But instead of help, I got judgment.

“Just get a loaf of bread and peanut butter.”

I explained that peanut butter sends my acid reflux into overdrive — like, over-the-throne-for-hours kind of overdrive.

“Well then just bread and cheese. There are people starving in this world and you want someone to buy you food.”

And then…

“Call your mama.”

Y’all.

My mama’s been gone twenty years.
My daddy’s been gone five.
There is no one to call.

It’s me and my 13-year-old.
That’s it.
And the Lord.

I wanted to respond in a way that would not have reflected Jesus well. I’ll be honest. My fingers were ready.

But the Holy Spirit grabbed hold of my tongue.

Because here’s the truth:
There are people starving. There are people homeless. There are people without shoes. And there are also people working two jobs, doing everything humanly possible, who still sometimes come up short.

Struggling does not mean lazy.
Asking does not mean entitled.
Needing help does not mean irresponsible.

Scripture tells us in Galatians 6:2:

“Carry each other’s burdens, and in this way you will fulfill the law of Christ.”

Not critique each other’s burdens.
Not minimize each other’s burdens.
Carry them.

And in Ephesians 4:29:

“Do not let any unwholesome talk come out of your mouths, but only what is helpful for building others up according to their needs…”

According to their needs.

Not our opinions.
Not our assumptions.

Tonight, instead of replaying her words over and over, I’m choosing something different.

I’m praying for her.

I’m praying the Lord softens whatever in her heart felt the need to wound someone already weary. I’m praying He teaches her gentleness. Because haven’t we all needed mercy at some point?

And maybe this is the lesson for me, too.

Maybe the Lord is reminding me that when I have twenty dollars to spare one day, I will give it freely. No lecture attached. No shame included.

Because I know what it feels like to be hungry and hurting — and still choosing grace.

And if you’re in that place tonight?
If you’re working hard and barely keeping it together?
If you’ve been judged for asking for help?

Hear me clearly:

God sees you.

“Let us not become weary in doing good, for at the proper time we will reap a harvest if we do not give up.” — Galatians 6:9

So tonight, I’m going home, crawling into bed, coughing and exhausted… but still held.

It’s just me and my girl.

And the Lord watching over us.

And that is enough.

Raising Independent Kids (and Goats, Apparently)

 

Independence doesn’t usually show up quietly in my house. It shows up loud, busy, caffeinated, and covered in hay.

Last night, I clocked out of one job just long enough to take the kids to the middle school Snowball dance—and chaperone it. Glitter, awkward dancing, and middle school energy included. This morning? Right back up early because today I’m working both day shift and night shift. Because why not.

Before the sun was fully awake, I had laundry started, made a grocery run for a loaf of bread, grabbed us a loaded tea just to see if we even like those things, picked up hay for the goat and pig, and headed back home.

Then it was time for mom mode.

I got Paisley up and laid it out plainly:
“I’ve got to work today. I need you to do ABC. Clean the dog crates. Sweep the floors. Pick up what’s on the floor.”

She nodded. No complaints. Already a win.

Then I took her outside and said, “Okay, Paisley, I’ve got a really big job for you today.”

I explained that Petunia the goat needed a hay rack—something simple. My plan was to cut a piece of wire, zip tie it to the fence, and keep the hay off the ground.

Paisley thought about it for half a second and said,
“But Mom… what if it rains?”

Fair point.

I told her we’d just have to clean out the wet hay, because goats don’t need moldy food. Then she added, “She really needs something to play on too.”

And just like that, my simple wire hay rack turned into a full-blown construction project.

I showed her the pallets we had—two from Miss Whiting and one extra—plus all the scrap lumber lying around. We walked through the shop together. I pointed out old flooring pieces she could use to cover the pallet and told her the only rules:
No holes she could fall through.
Build it in the middle of the pen so Petunia can’t jump out.

Then I said the words that probably sound crazy to some people:

“You know where the tools are. You know how to use the drill. You know how to use the saw. Be careful—it will cut you. Respect it.”

She looked at me and said, “Okay, Mom. I got this. I can do this.”

So yes… I left my 13-year-old at home today with instructions to build a hay rack and a playground for a goat. All by herself.

And you know what? It warmed my heart.

Not every child wants to learn like that. Not every child is interested in figuring things out, using their hands, or thinking through problems. I am incredibly blessed to have a child who is inventive, capable, and eager to try.

Will it be perfect? Maybe.
Will it fall apart? Also maybe.

I remember being her age and building a rabbit nest box for a clinic. I was so proud of that thing. I carried it across the floor… and it absolutely exploded. Boards everywhere. Total disaster.

But my parents didn’t laugh. They encouraged me to try again. To fix it. To learn.

Now? I can build solid nest boxes that actually last.

That’s what today is about—encouragement. Letting our kids try. Letting them fail safely. Letting them learn how to work hard, problem-solve, and trust the skills God placed inside them.

This little project—just a hay rack and a goat playground—might seem small. But it’s not. It’s teaching responsibility, confidence, and independence. It’s planting seeds for her future.

And most importantly, I want her learning all of it in a godly way—letting the Lord guide her steps, her hands, and her heart.

So if you’re wondering how to raise independent kids… stay tuned. We’re figuring it out one pallet, one goat, and one brave attempt at a time.

Laughing Through the Tears (Because God’s Still Good)

 

Today has definitely been one of those days where I’ve had to take life one moment at a time—and smile when the tears start coming. This morning was already heavy, trying to navigate my child’s grades and the weight of possible retention. That kind of worry sits in your chest and doesn’t leave much room to breathe. Then this afternoon rolls around, and since I have to work tonight, I come home to regroup… only to walk inside and discover my German shepherd has decided the middle of my kitchen floor is the appropriate place to potty. And mind you—we live in a tiny house. There’s no “other room” to ignore it in.

This all started after we kept a rescue over the weekend. Once she left, Bella apparently decided this was her new coping mechanism. I don’t understand it at all. So there I stood, tears sliding down my face, laughing like a woman who’s clearly reached her limit, cleaning up the mess and mopping the floor. Then it was everyone outside—feeding the dogs outside, feeding the pig, feeding the goat. Naturally, the pig eats the dog food, the goat eats the pig food, and the dogs are offended because the pig refuses to respect boundaries. The chickens need water. It’s freezing—well, Alabama freezing. Forty-five degrees feels like summertime compared to last week’s teens, but still.

By the end of it all, I realized this has been one of those days where every giggle came with a tear. I know there’s a reason things happen. I know the Lord allows trials to stretch us, test us, grow us. But on days like this, I admit—I wonder what the lesson is supposed to be. I feel myself questioning, and then just as quickly, I feel the pull to hit my knees and pray harder for mercy. Because even in the mess, even in the exhaustion, I know He’s still good… and sometimes the only faithful thing left to do is laugh through the tears and keep going one minute at a time.

“We can make our plans, but the Lord determines our steps.” — Proverbs 16:9

Some days those steps lead straight through messes, tears, and absolute chaos. But even then, I trust He’s walking with me through it all—one moment, one prayer, and sometimes one laugh at a time.

 

 

When Advocacy Feels Like It Fell on Deaf Ears

 

The day before the annual SGA dance, progress reports came home.

Along with them came something I was not prepared for—a retention letter.

According to the letter, my child’s math grade is too low, and she is “not ready for end-of-year expectations.” In plain language: my seventh grader may not pass.

I won’t pretend I wasn’t emotional. I was aggravated. Hurt. Discouraged. And honestly? Confused.

Because this wasn’t new information.

I have been communicating with the school since October. I’ve asked questions. I’ve followed recommendations. I've got her a tutor. I’ve done everything I knew how to do as a parent to support my child academically, emotionally, and spiritually. I truly believed we were on the right track.

So when a retention notice arrived in today, it felt like all that talking did no good.

My child has trouble staying on task and focusing, several teachers have relayed this information to me. That alone should signal that something deeper is going on. This isn’t laziness. This isn’t lack of effort. This is a child who needs the right kind of support.

And that’s where my heart really hurts.

Because while I refuse to believe I’m failing my child as a parent, I do believe the education system is failing children like her—children who fall into the cracks when intervention comes too late instead of early.

Yes, we’ve had a lot going on at home. Life happens. But hardship is not an excuse—it’s a reality. And realities should lead to support, not surprise letters.

I am not asking for exceptions.
I am not asking for lowered standards.
I am asking for accountability, communication, and timely intervention.

If a parent has been asking for help since October, and it’s now February, then there is a problem—and it’s bigger than a math grade.

I have since emailed the principal, the teacher, the instructional partner, and her healthcare provider. I have formally requested testing and evaluation for an IEP or a 504 plan—because accommodations are not a privilege; they are a necessity for some children to succeed.

Here’s what I’m learning through all of this:

Advocacy is exhausting—but it is holy work.
Speaking up for your child is not being “that parent.”
And doing everything right doesn’t always lead to immediate results.

Scripture reminds us:

“Let us not grow weary in doing good, for at the proper time we will reap a harvest if we do not give up.” (Galatians 6:9)

So I won’t give up.

I will continue to advocate.
I will continue to ask hard questions.
I will continue to stand in the gap for my child—even when it’s uncomfortable.

And if you’re a parent reading this who feels unheard, unseen, or brushed aside—please know this: you are not alone, and your persistence matters.

Sometimes the lesson isn’t just for our children.
Sometimes it’s for the system, too.

Too Messy for a Book, Just Right for Grace

 Today someone told me I should write a book.

I laughed and said, “No, I do blogs instead.”

Because books sound like quiet rooms, long stretches of focus, and life being somewhat under control—and if I waited on that, I’d never write a thing.

Around here, life is loud.

There’s always something escaping, chewing on something it shouldn’t, or looking at me like I created the problem. Animals don’t care about schedules. Kids don’t wait until you’re ready. And the house? Well… let’s just say “lived in” feels generous on a good day.

Some days I’m juggling chores, work, and responsibilities like a circus act gone wrong. Other days I’m standing in the kitchen wondering how everything went sideways before 6 a.m. And right in the middle of the chaos, God keeps showing up—quietly, faithfully, without asking the mess to be cleaned up first.

That’s why I write blogs.

Because blogging lets me tell the story while the dishes are still in the sink, while the lesson is still forming, while the prayer is still half a sentence whispered under my breath. It lets me say, “Hey, life is a mess over here—but God is still good.”

And He really is.

Scripture reminds me of that when I forget:

“The Lord is close to the brokenhearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit.” (Psalm 34:18)

Close. Not distant. Not waiting for perfection. Close—right here in the middle of the noise, the laughter, the frustration, and the faith that keeps getting back up again.

So no, I’m not writing a book.

I’m just writing today.

One funny story.

One honest moment.

One reminder that even when life feels upside down, we are not alone—and God hasn’t missed a single detail.

And that’s enough for now.