Month: May 2026

  • Coffer Dams and Motherhood: Being Seen on the Hard Days

    Coffer Dams and Motherhood: Being Seen on the Hard Days

    Happy Mother’s Day to all the moms out there. Motherhood is one of the most rewarding and difficult jobs of my life. Some days it stretches me to my limits, and some days it surprises me with small moments of grace. I wouldn’t trade it for anything.

    When Motherhood Feels Heavy

    The other day was one of the hard ones. Nothing dramatic—just the slow pileup of decisions, messes, and worries that comes with raising small humans while trying to keep everything else in life moving forward.

    By bedtime, I felt wrung out and a little hollow, like I was running on fumes and expectations.

    That’s when my 6-year-old son, who knows how much I love reading about infrastructure and engineering, surprised me. That world is part of my work as an environmental professional, and it was a big focus in college. I still find it endlessly fascinating: how bridges stand, how dams hold, how someone once looked at a river or a marsh and thought, “We can build something here.” I love the history behind it too—the choices, mistakes, and bursts of ingenuity that gave us running water, paved roads, and power at the flip of a switch.

    An Engineering Book and a Small Act of Love

    That night, when it was time to pick out a book to read, my son paused a little longer than usual in front of the shelf. Normally he reaches for something about pirates or a familiar favorite. Instead, he pulled out an engineering book someone had given him. He flipped through the pages with a purpose and then landed on a section about coffer dams. He looked up at me and said he picked “the engineering part” because he knew it would make me happy.

    It stopped me in my tracks more than any store-bought Mother’s Day card ever could.

    We settled in to read. I started explaining what a coffer dam is, how it lets people work in a dry space while water is held back by steel walls, called sheet piles, driven into the earth. As I explained, I remembered my college professor with a Latin American accent who loved teaching about sheet piles. He knew exactly how the term sounded when he said it and would stretch it out with mock innocence that had the entire class laughing every single time. It’s a silly, fond memory, and it reminds me that even in the most technical fields, there’s a human side behind all the math and steel.

    As I read and shared those stories, I realized what my son had really done. He hadn’t just picked a book; he had reached for something that felt like me. In his 6-year-old way, he was saying, “I see you, Mom. I know what you like. I want to bring a little bit of that back to you.”

    His 2-year-old sister climbed into my lap too, not concerned with coffer dams or sheet piles—just happy to be included, her small body warm against mine. One child choosing the book he knew I’d love, the other snuggling in for the sound of my voice and the feel of my arms around her.

    There I was: tired, a little worn down, and surrounded by the two people who make this job both exhausting and holy.

    How Motherhood Feels Like Engineering

    It struck me how much motherhood feels like those engineering concepts I love. We build supports we hope will hold. We design routines and boundaries like invisible scaffolding. We stand in the middle of messy, rushing currents—school schedules, work deadlines, dinner, tantrums—and try to carve out solid ground where connection can happen. Some days the structure wobbles. Some days the coffer dam leaks. But then there are nights like this, when a 6-year-old chooses an engineering book to make his mom smile, and a 2-year-old tucks herself under my arm, and for a moment everything feels steady.

    This Mother’s Day, I’m thinking less about flowers or brunch and more about these small, thoughtful gestures—the way our kids notice us, even when they can’t quite put it into words. The way they remind us who we are outside of “Mom,” and love that person too.


    To all the moms who are tired, overwhelmed, and still showing up: I see you. May you get your own small coffer-dam moments—just enough dry ground, just enough support, and a few unexpected ways your kids show you they’re paying attention.


    What’s a small, thoughtful thing your child has done that made you feel truly seen as a mom?


    If this story resonated with you, would you take a moment to like, comment, or share it with another mom who might need a little encouragement today?

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    Read Next: Amish Bakery Visit for Bulk Groceries: A Homesteading Family Tradition

  • One Year of Homesteading Stories: Thank You for Being Here

    This is a little bonus post because today marks one year since I started this blog.


    One year ago today, I hit publish on my very first blog post: a piece called “Sourdough Bread,” a humorous take on how something as simple as baking bread can be both maddeningly difficult and deeply rewarding all at once. It felt like the perfect metaphor for the kind of life I wanted to write about—messy, slow, sometimes sticky, but full of small wins that make the effort worth it.

    Since then, this little corner of the internet has branched out in all sorts of directions. I’ve shared anecdotes from our homestead and family life, how-tos, reflections, and everything in between, all delivered in my own quirky, hopefully humorous voice. Some posts have been practical, some have been tender, and some have just been me trying to make sense of the chaos of growing food, raising kids, and building community. One of my poems, “If You Buy Your Wife a Chicken,” even made it into GRIT Magazine—something I didn’t think was possible when I started.

    What has surprised me most, though, are the connections that have grown beyond the screen. Friends have mentioned a post at the park or over coffee, neighbors have told me they tried a recipe or related to a story about the kids, and people I barely knew have said, “Hey, I read your blog.” Those little in-person moments have made this space feel less abstract and more like part of my real, everyday community.

    What you may not know is that, before I started writing here, I had mostly convinced myself that my voice didn’t really matter—that what I noticed or felt wasn’t worth saying out loud. Hitting “publish” that first time felt like stepping out of a very familiar pattern of staying quiet. Your encouragement over this past year hasn’t just kept the blog going; it’s helped me find my footing again and rediscover the things that have always brought me joy, like writing and gardening.

    To everyone who has taken the time to read a post, click like, leave a comment, or hit ‘subscribe’ over this past year: thank you. Truly. Every view, every “like,” every “I’ve been there too” in the comments has meant more to me than I can put into words. You’ve given this aspiring writer the affirmation that maybe, just maybe, I can do this.

    It means so much that you’ve let me show up in your inbox or feed with stories about bread that refuses to rise, kids who say the most unexpected things, garden experiments that sometimes flop, and the small moments that make it all feel worthwhile. I’m also deeply grateful for your patience when life got hectic and I took a hiatus, and for the way you still showed up as I found my way back to a more consistent rhythm.

    I’m so thankful for each of you who has stuck around, cheered me on, and made this space feel less like I’m talking into the void and more like a real community gathered around a virtual kitchen table.

    Here’s to year one of this blog—and to whatever year two brings. I can’t wait to keep writing, experimenting, and sharing the journey with you. Thank you, from the bottom of my quirky, homesteading, bread-obsessed heart, for being here.


    If you’ve been reading along this year, I’d love to know: what post or topic has stuck with you the most, or what would you like to see more of in year two?


    If this blog has encouraged you, made you laugh, or given you a helpful idea this year, would you take a moment to like, comment, or share this post with a friend who might enjoy it too?

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  • The Best Concerts of My Life: From Awolnation to Concerts in the Park

    The Best Concerts of My Life: From Awolnation to Concerts in the Park

    Daily writing prompt
    What is the best concert you have been to?

    What is the best concert I’ve ever been to? I can’t pick just one concert experience. The “best” concert seems to depend on who I was at the time. Live music has a way of marking seasons of life, and a few Green Bay concert memories stand out for very different reasons.

    Awolnation in a Gritty Green Bay Bar

    In 2016, in Green Bay, Wisconsin, I bought tickets for my now-husband and me to see Awolnation. The show was in a bar with a large open area usually reserved for winter volleyball leagues. The ground was somehow both gritty and sticky. The concert started late; the crowd was all in, and I sang every word along with them. At one point, the lead singer changed a lyric in “Run” from “capable of doing terrible things” to “capable of doing beautiful things,” and that shift stuck with me. I started at the back of the room and slowly worked my way to the front, carried by the energy of the crowd. Near the end, he threw a guitar pick into the audience, and somehow, I caught it. It still sits in my curio cabinet, ready to tell its story—whether anyone asks or not. Even now, ten years later, it feels worth the lost sleep and the slow next day at work.

    A Beatles Tribute and Pregnancy at Lambeau

    A few years later, in 2019, music met me in a quieter moment. I was pregnant with my son when Paul McCartney came to Lambeau Field—a huge event for Green Bay. The night before, Titletown hosted a free concert with a Beatles tribute band, BritBeat. We brought lawn chairs; my husband grabbed a beer and an iced tea for me, and I settled in for a calm evening of familiar Beatles songs. The Beatles have a special place in my heart. In high school, an influential choir teacher introduced them to us, and it was the first time I realized how much lyrics matter—how they can turn a song into something that stays with you. As the band played “She Loves You” and “Eleanor Rigby,” I felt my son start to move. Sitting there, singing along, it felt like we were sharing the moment. It wasn’t loud or electric like Awolnation, but it carried a quieter kind of weight.

    Family-Friendly Concerts in the Park

    These days, concerts look different again. We go to local family-friendly Concerts in the Park, where my kids run off to play tag and make instant friends while the music drifts in and out. I sit in a lawn chair with a friend—or occasionally my husband, if I can convince him to come—and still sing along, sometimes making up my own lyrics just to keep things interesting. I run into acquaintances and friends who deepen my sense of belonging in the community. The music is still there, but now it plays under everything else: kids racing past, someone calling out a name, a conversation that pauses and picks back up between songs.

    How Live Music Marks Each Season of Life

    Someday, I’d love to bring my kids to a concert like that Awolnation show—something loud and unforgettable. But for now, this season of life fits. The best concert wasn’t just one night; it’s the way live music has followed me—from crowded floors to quiet evenings to kids running in the grass—changing right along with me as I’m raising kids and building community.


    Feature Photo by Phil Desforges on Unsplash


    What’s the best concert you’ve ever been to, and what season of your life does it remind you of?


    If this story reminded you of your own favorite concert memories, please like, share, or pass it along to a friend who loves live music too.

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    Read Next: When Nostalgia Sneaks In: A Journey Through Music, Memories, and Meaning

  • Amish Bakery Visit for Bulk Groceries: A Homesteading Family Tradition

    Amish Bakery Visit for Bulk Groceries: A Homesteading Family Tradition

    About every two months, I make the hour-long trip to the nearest Amish settlement to stock up on bulk groceries. It’s a steady rhythm in our homesteading life—bringing home 50-pound bags of bread flour, dried vegetables, bulk pasta, and active dry yeast that stock our pantry and turn into loaves of bread, tortillas, and buns in the weeks that follow.

    But if you ask my kids, the highlight of every trip is the same: the Amish bakery.

    On this particular Saturday, it seemed like everyone else had the same idea. The parking lot was full, and the line stretched halfway across the gravel lot. For a moment, I considered turning around—but one look at my 6-year-old son and 2-year-old daughter made it clear we were staying.

    So, we settled in.

    There was a chill in the wind, but standing in the sun made it feel like a perfect spring day. Nearby, a little Amish boy—maybe three—chased a chicken across the yard, getting just close enough each time to keep trying.

    We started with a round of “I Spy,” which didn’t last long. Soon, we were watching horses in the pasture, sheep grazing in the distance, and pigeons circling overhead—much to my daughter’s delight, who confidently called them all “ducks.”

    As the line slowly moved, the wait began to shift. What felt long at first softened into something slower and more enjoyable. People started talking. A couple behind us—one from Sun Prairie, another from Watertown—struck up an easy conversation about travel, baking, and everyday life.

    The line as I got closer to the entrance. The smell of freshly baked bread and pastries was intoxicating.

    Meanwhile, my kids wandered off and found a little girl to play with, disappearing into their own world for nearly twenty minutes.

    My kids found a little girl to play with while I waited in line.

    By the time we reached the door, the smell of the Amish bakery had already found us—warm bread, sweet glaze, and something deeply comforting. Inside, shelves were lined with cakes, pies, and fresh-baked goods, but there was no question what we came for.

    We walked out with warm donuts in hand—chocolate for my daughter and me, glazed for my son—and barely said a word as we ate them back at the car.

    Somehow, the hour-long wait didn’t feel long at all.

    Trips like this are never just about bulk groceries or even the Amish bakery itself. They’re about filling a pantry that feeds our family, giving our kids space to grow and learn patience, and finding small moments of connection with people we might not otherwise meet.

    It’s growing food, raising kids, and building community—sometimes in the most unexpected places.

    And yes… the donuts help, too.


    Have you ever stuck out a long wait and realized it was actually the best part of the day?


    If you’re trying to slow down, raise your kids a little differently, or build a more intentional life—like and share this with someone on that path too.

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    Read Next: How Curiosity Keeps Me From Feeling Bored (Even on Long Car Rides With Kids)

  • A Moment I Wanted to Freeze—and Why I’m Glad I Didn’t

    A Moment I Wanted to Freeze—and Why I’m Glad I Didn’t

    Daily writing prompt
    What’s a moment you wish you could freeze and live in forever?

    It was Labor Day weekend, about nine months after I started dating the man who is now my husband, in those early days of our relationship. I was on my very first camping trip, and it was our last night before going back to separate cities for school.

    The evening felt perfect in a way that’s hard to recreate—a sky full of stars and that early September air that’s warm with just a hint of chill.

    We walked down to the lake at the campground and found a quiet bench at the end of the pier. He sat, and I stretched out with my head in his lap, looking up at the stars. For a while, we didn’t say much. We stayed there, unhurried, taking it all in.

    I remember thinking, very clearly, I wish I could stay in this moment forever.


    Seventeen years later, I still remember that night—but I see it differently now.

    If time had stopped there, I would have missed everything that came after. We finished school—him first, then me—and slowly built a life together. There were unforgettable trips, but also seasons of difficulty, struggle, and heartbreak. We got married, had two wonderful kids, and stepped into the messy, meaningful work of building a home and a homesteading life together.

    All the things that have shaped us—the joy, the stress, the growth—were still ahead of us in that quiet moment by the lake.

    And as perfect as it felt, it wasn’t the whole story.

    Now, when I think about that night, I’m grateful time didn’t stand still. Because the beauty of that moment wasn’t just in what it was—it was in everything it led to.

    These days, life looks a lot different. It’s louder, fuller, and often far from still. It’s raising kids, growing food, navigating challenges, and finding connection in the middle of everyday routines.

    And maybe that’s the real gift—not freezing time, but living it.

    Even the parts that stretch us.

    Even the parts that don’t feel perfect.

    Because those are the moments that become a life.


    Photo by Evan Tang on Unsplash


    If you could freeze one moment in your life, would you? Or would you let it keep unfolding?


    If you’ve ever looked back on a “perfect” moment and realized life gave you something even fuller—like and share this with someone who’d understand.

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  • First-Time Pig Farrowing Prep: What We’re Doing Before Our Mother’s Day Litter

    First-Time Pig Farrowing Prep: What We’re Doing Before Our Mother’s Day Litter

    Preparing for our first-time pig farrowing feels a bit like bracing for a homestead hurricane. We’ve pored over library books, talked with several experienced pig farmers, and built out our setup—all in anticipation of our first gilt farrowing on Mother’s Day weekend, with the second following about a week later.

    She doesn’t even know she’s about to be a momma!

    Here’s how we’re getting ready to welcome these piglets.

    Research Meets Real Talk

    We’ve devoured books on pig reproduction—favorites include Storey’s Guide to Raising Pigs and various university extension guides—while my husband has gathered insight from a couple of experienced local pig farmers.

    The most memorable advice? “Make sure the piglets have a place to get away from their mom if her hormones kick in and she starts stomping around.” It’s the kind of practical wisdom that no book quite captures.

    Building Farrowing Infrastructure

    My husband jumped into a crash course on setup, spending about two weeks transforming a dilapidated shed into a functional farrowing space.

    We poured a concrete floor using old silo staves set in mortar, framed the interior with reclaimed barn tin, added electricity and a small light, and built a piglet-only area where mom can’t reach. A heat lamp hangs over that space to keep them warm and safe.

    The piglets will stay inside for 30–60 days depending on the weather, but since they’re arriving in mid-May, we’re hopeful it will be closer to 30 before they can start venturing out. In the meantime, we’ve also reinforced a space between several of our outbuildings so they’ll eventually be able to enjoy the outdoors. The front is framed with reclaimed bunk pieces—nothing fancy, but solid and functional.

    Front of pen made from reclaimed cow bunk

    Vaccination and Nutrition Boost

    We administered the FarrowSure vaccine before conception to help prevent scours and erysipelas.

    We’re also adjusting their feed after realizing we let them overeat for a bit too long. They’re now on controlled portions of about four pounds per gilt each day, which they’re not exactly thrilled about. Most nights, they root their straw bedding into chaos, but scattering corn kernels around the pen has helped redirect that energy into foraging instead of destruction.

    Spotting Mama’s Behavior Cues

    As the due dates get closer, we’re watching carefully for signs. Their udders began swelling about 3–5 weeks ahead of time, and we’re told that nesting and restlessness usually mean we’re within 24 hours. When that’s paired with grunting and constant lying down and getting back up, it’s likely go time.

    What Could Go Wrong—and How We’re Preparing

    The risks feel big right now, especially going into our first litter. There’s overlay—a 400-pound gilt rolling onto 2-pound piglets—as well as the chance a first-time mom might reject her litter or that weaker piglets will need help getting colostrum.

    As one farmer told us, “Your first litter teaches you more than all the books.” With that in mind, we’re relying on our crate setup and rails to reduce the biggest risks while staying realistic about the learning curve ahead.

    What’s Next for Us

    About a week out, we’ll move the gilts into their farrowing space, begin daily udder checks, reinforce anything that looks questionable, and give the FarrowSure booster.

    We’re expecting somewhere between 10–16 piglets and feeling equal parts nervous and excited. The plan, at least for now, is to sell about half and raise the rest for pork—but we’ll see what kind of interest there is.


    Have you ever gone through a first farrowing? What caught you off guard—or what would you do differently next time?


    If you’re raising pigs—or thinking about it—tap like and share this with someone who’s in the thick of homestead life too. It helps more than you know 🤍

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    Read Next: Our Biggest Homesteading Challenge: First-Time Pig Farrowing