Sometimes, after I have yelled and hit my head against the wall in frustration, I look at your face and count your freckles.

When I am too tired to keep my eyes open at night, I stumble past the cluttered coffee table and nearly burst into tears at the sight of the kitchen sink. I see that you’ve used four different cups in the last four hours, then I sneak into your room and give you kisses while you sleep.

I sigh at your attitude and 10 minutes later I grab you for a hug. My shoulders slump when I see your mountain of laundry on the basement floor, but as I fold your shirts I smile at how much you’ve grown.

I want to stomp my feet because it’s impossible to get you to bed on time, and in the morning I am happy to hear your footsteps when you climb out of bed and I know we’re about to start another day together.

This job – this blessing – it is work and happiness and exhaustion and sunshine. It is tears, sleepless nights, worry-filled days, and joy beyond compare. It’s being thrilled for how far you’ve come and being frozen in fear when I think about the future.

I am proud, I am scared, I am confident, I am confused.

I am a parent.

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My 14 year old daughter is finishing up her 8th grade basketball season and last week, among the many emails from her future high school, current teachers, and summer camps, there was a message from her basketball coach that stood out from the rest.

It said that the girls needed to work on their rebounding, it gave the practice schedule for the week, and then there…at the bottom…I read a little, golden nugget; plans for a mothers vs. daughters basketball game.

Aw, yeah!

At the final practice of the season, a pack of 40-something, prone-to-get-distracted-by-wine, possibly-running-the-court-while-wearing-walking-boots, women will be taking on a sprightly bunch of teens. I can’t wait.

For one, it gives me ample excuse to embarrass my daughter. We’re planning to wear tube socks. And, maybe silk shorts.

It will also give me a chance to show off my impressive wing-span. They don’t call me “Orangutan Arms” for nothing!

And, lastly, even though it is highly likely that we will get our butts kicked, there is an ever so slight chance that we will have eternal bragging rights.

Not to mention that I finally get a chance to wear my headband again.

Bring it, girls.

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Dear Target,

Let me state from the outset that I love you. I love you so much that I visit at least twice a week and even if I only went in for paper towels, I give the cashier $75. Every time.

But, can we please talk about these ads for your Everyday Collection?

I’m all for edgy, but I find them downright bizarre. If you want to accurately portray a PTA mom, you should show her frazzled and running to the store at the last minute to buy pre-packaged cookies, IF she remembered the cookies at all. And trust me, she wouldn’t be wearing those heels.

And, how about this one?

Are women only about baking and changing diapers? Really? I don’t know about you, but it’s 2013 at my house. Show me a woman with a drill, free weights, or a car battery. Okay, I’m lying about the car battery, because I have NO CLUE how to change one of those. BUT I COULD FIGURE IT OUT IF I HAD TO.

Better yet, show me a man changing the diapers or baking a cake. That’s what I want to see. If you want to see a woman get excited about something, it’s having a man in your “Everyday” who flexes his muscles in the kitchen or while emptying the Diaper Genie. RAWR.

You’re better than this, Target. Continue to show that a woman can be strong and confident in her everyday life, but let’s give her a little credit so my 14 year old daughter knows that her future isn’t just about cake mix and baby bottoms.

And, if you’re going to have women portray moms while wearing all white I think it’s clear that the best thing to advertise would be a giant bottle of bleach.

Disclosure: I should have mentioned that Target is a customer of my employer BlogHer, Inc., but this opinion is my own; both the love of the brand and the critique of this particular ad.

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I sat down to write last night and thought, Now what was I going to write about? Hmmm…oh, yeah. I was going to write about being forgetful. (I wish I were saying this for the benefit of this post. It really happened.)

I have been so forgetful lately that I actually told my cousin I was afraid I was getting early-onset Alzheimer’s. She replied, “Oh my goodness! I JUST went to the doctor for that!” It seems I’m not alone. Or, it runs in the family.

My sister has also been concerned about her memory lately and last week, she forgot my daughter’s name. I thought it somewhat odd that she couldn’t remember her niece. Until yesterday.

Yesterday, I went to the gym, put my coat in a locker and shut the door. I took my little lock – the one with the same three-digit combination that I’ve used for almost two decades – and as I went to place it on the locker, I couldn’t remember the combination.

If my brain could’ve made a screeching sound at that moment, it would have. Everything came to a halt. Well, everything except my fingers which were desperately twirling the dials into every conceivable sequence and pulling on the tiny lock. How do you use the same three numbers for 18 years and suddenly not remember them?

There I stood – a frantic fool in yoga pants, briefly looking up to see if any of the other women noticed. Because forgetting your lock numbers is far more embarrassing than standing half-naked in the presence of strangers, at least to me. I was working up a sweat before I even started exercising.

I eventually remembered my combination, but not before sitting on a bench with my head in my hands wondering how much time I had before I’d forget my own name. As much as I’ve been told this is normal and as many times as I’ve read memory lapses are common at my age, it’s still freaky to feel like your mind is betraying you.

The good news, though? My sister has been forgiven.

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