Author: KikiFikar

Every week my social media feeds are flooded with products, gadgets, books, services, and films that I apparently need to buy or watch RIGHT NOW. The algorithms are relentless. They know me far better than I’d like to admit.

And because my shopping tendencies are well documented (mostly by the Amazon delivery drivers), it’s no secret that I often surrender. Before I know it, whatever caught my attention is sitting on my front porch within a day or two.

This week, however, Instagram kept knocking on my door with something different. Instead of another kitchen gadget or pair of sneakers, it introduced me to a new Apple TV documentary called Row for Life.

The film follows Angela Madsen—a retired Marine, Paralympian, and extraordinary athlete—who, at the age of sixty, set out to row solo across the Pacific Ocean from Los Angeles to Hawaii.

I quickly learned that this wasn’t her first impossible dream. Angela had already successfully crossed the Atlantic Ocean twice despite being partially paralyzed from the waist down. Before long I was completely hooked. Listening to her describe the preparation, the physical demands, and the winding road that had brought her to this moment was captivating.

If you’re looking for something meaningful to watch, I encourage you to find this documentary.

Go ahead.

I’ll wait.

Seriously.

But if you don’t already know how the story ends, stop reading now and come back after you’ve watched it.

I’ll still be here.

I wasn’t prepared for what I experienced.

As I drove to the gym this morning at the completely unreasonable hour of 4:35 a.m., I couldn’t stop thinking about Angela. I had questions. Lots of them. The ending stayed with me. It haunted me. Yet somehow, so did her determination to keep rowing.

Did I expect the fairy-tale ending?

Absolutely.

I wanted the triumphant finish. The celebration. The crossing of the finish line.

Maybe that’s because I know what it’s like to train for one. I’ve spent months preparing for races, dreaming about crossing that final line with my hands in the air. I’ve also experienced my share of DNFs—Did Not Finish—not just on obstacle courses, but in life itself.

Instead of letting the story go, I started digging.

I looked up the filmmaker and discovered a podcast about the six-year journey of bringing this documentary to life. Six years. Imagine believing in a story for that long.

Naturally, I found her Instagram page and followed her. I left a comment explaining how deeply the film had affected me and how haunted I was by Angela’s story while simultaneously inspired by her relentless courage.

To my surprise, she responded just a few hours later.

Instant fan.

She is a remarkable storyteller, and she honored Angela’s life with incredible care and compassion.

Driving home through the rain this afternoon, I realized something.

Not every story gets the ending we desperately want.

Not every race ends with medals.

Not every dream reaches the shore.

But maybe that isn’t the point.

Maybe the point is to keep rowing anyway.

To keep showing up when the waves are higher than we expected.

To keep believing in ourselves when no one is standing on the shoreline cheering.

To keep moving forward even when the finish line disappears beyond the horizon.

Angela Madsen reminded me that courage isn’t measured by how a story ends. It’s measured by the willingness to begin, to keep going, and to refuse to let fear decide when the journey is over. None of us are promised a fairy-tale ending. We are, however, given the opportunity to choose how we face the miles in front of us. Whether the shoreline is ten feet away or ten miles beyond what we can see, I’ll keep rowing. I hope you will too.

Happy Fourth of July! 🇺🇸🇺🇸🇺🇸🇺🇸

Our recipe for celebrating America’s birthday is pretty simple.

Start with our small town parade, waving flags, proud Marines, bagpipes, and marching bands. Add a few pool floats, a platter of clams, a couple of cocktails, and a table at a marina. Finish it all off with one spectacular sunset.

Now stir in plenty of smiles, laughter, and family stories—some we’ve told a hundred times and somehow still laugh at just as hard as the first time.

That’s it. That’s the recipe.

No fancy ingredients required. Just gratitude for the people beside us, appreciation for the freedoms we often take for granted, and another opportunity to celebrate this beautiful country we call home.

Happy Birthday, America. 🇺🇸

I have a confession to make.

Every so often, life taps me on the shoulder, laughs just a little, and says, “Kiki…bless your heart.”

Sometimes I believe I’m an intelligent person. I raised two children who somehow survived adulthood. I’ve navigated cancer, a flipped Jeep, Spartan races, PTA meetings, and enough office politics to qualify for a minor in diplomacy.

Yet every now and then I discover I’ve been carrying around a belief that turns out to be spectacularly…wrong.

Take hurricane evacuation routes. I passed one of these blue and white sign beauties on a pole today. My eyes caught it at a red light. I burst out laughing.

For years—and I do mean years—I honestly believed that if you followed those blue hurricane evacuation signs all the way to the coast, there would be boats waiting to ferry everyone to safety.

It made perfect sense to me.

“Hurricane coming? Head toward the water. The boats are there.”

I pictured an organized operation. Coast Guard. Ferries. Maybe someone with a clipboard checking names before waving us aboard. We’d all sail off into the sunset while the hurricane did its thing.

Imagine my surprise when someone finally explained that an evacuation route is actually the road that gets you away from the coast.

Away.

Not toward.

Apparently, the giant body of water producing the hurricane isn’t where they’re trying to send you.

A few years ago Ernie and I had just finished a delish lunch on our way from the Tampa airport to our resort and were updating the GPS with the address. I spotted the Hurricane Route sign. I said “Ern you can turn there. That’s the way to the coast.”Ernie looked up and straight into my eyes. He said calmly…”Wait. You think there are boats waiting to pick you up in a hurricane?” My heart sank and in that moment I had never felt so blonde and naive. Instead of denying it I told the truth. “That’s right!” I declared. We giggled and drove towards the Gulf.

Once I admitted my hurricane theory out loud, I started wondering how many other things I’ve confidently believed without ever questioning them. It turns out my brain has been quietly writing its own instruction manual for decades.

The funny thing is, I don’t mind being wrong anymore.

Life has taught me that asking the embarrassing question is far better than spending another twenty years believing there’s a fleet of rescue boats waiting at the end of Long Island or in that case the west coast of Florida.

Besides, these little moments remind me that we all have gaps in our knowledge. Most people are just better at hiding them.

Me?

I write blog posts about them.

If my occasional misunderstanding gives someone else permission to laugh at themselves—or admit they’ve been quietly believing something equally ridiculous—then I’d say we’re all headed in the right direction.

If you had asked me ten years ago if I thought I’d be running through waist-high mud or carrying 75-pound sandbags up and down hills, I would have called you both crazy and delusional. Ten years ago, however, I approached a line of rocks and fire, leapt to the other side, threw my hands into the air, and stood there with tears streaming down my face.

At age fifty, I had conquered a goal I never imagined I’d even consider, let alone accomplish. Running a Spartan Race was certainly not on my bingo card.

Even after nine months of training, I had no real idea what I was getting myself into. The moment I entered the start corral—which, by the way, requires climbing over a six-foot wall just to get inside—I knew I was in for a battle. An uphill battle. Literally.

I climbed the first hill and immediately saw stars. My lungs looked around and collectively asked, “What in the world is happening here?”

Somewhere ahead of me I heard one of my trainers yell, “Where the F is Karen? Keep breathing, Karen! Keep breathing!”

And so I did.

For the next four hours and fifty-one minutes, I just kept breathing.

I rolled under barbed wire and sliced open my forehead. I commando crawled across rocks and left pieces of skin behind on my elbows and forearms. I swung from monkey bars, missed a grip midway through, and came dangerously close to donating a tooth to the course. Every obstacle seemed designed to convince me to quit.

I didn’t.

I kept moving forward until I eventually reached that finish line and jumped over the fire.

The following year, I cut my time in half.

Three years later, I completed that same course in just over an hour.

Progress.

Forward.

Proof that we are capable of far more than we give ourselves credit for.

Eventually, I upgraded to races that stretched close to twenty miles. I pushed my body far beyond limits I once thought were fixed. Along the way, I learned something important: life doesn’t stop when things get hard. It keeps moving. And because it keeps moving, so must we.

My Spartan adventures are well documented throughout the pages of this blog, so there’s no need to relive every mud pit, bruise, rope climb, or bucket carry. The real message after ten years isn’t about obstacle racing at all.

It’s about refusing to stop.

When an obstacle blocks your path, find another way around it. If you aren’t strong enough yet, train harder. If the answer is no, keep searching for a yes. Don’t settle for average simply because the first attempt didn’t work. Explore every avenue. Push every door. Exhaust every possibility before you ever consider giving up.

More than anything, I wanted my children to see that resilience isn’t something you talk about—it’s something you demonstrate. Life will knock you down. It will throw mud in your face, steal your breath, and occasionally leave you bleeding. But quitting can never be the automatic response.

Lately, I’ve scaled down from course racing to station racing, and that’s okay. As one of my closest peeps recently reminded me, “You’ve done it already. Let’s concentrate on new contests for you to win.”

And maybe that’s the lesson this decade of Spartan racing was really trying to teach me. The goal was never the mud, the medals, or even the fire jump. The goal was becoming the kind of person who believes she can tackle hard things. The contests may look different now, but the mindset remains the same. Keep breathing. Keep moving. Keep finding a way forward. Because whether you’re climbing a mountain, carrying a sandbag, or facing whatever life places in your path, the finish line isn’t where the victory happens. The victory happens the moment you decide not to quit. ❤️💙💚💜

Yesterday was more than a book launch. It was the culmination of years of conversations, observations, hard work, and a deep belief that leadership is less about titles and more about people.

I have watched my sister, Kathy, lead long before she ever put pen to paper. She has a remarkable way of making people feel seen, heard, and valued while still challenging them to become the very best versions of themselves. Those qualities don’t just make her an exceptional coach and speaker—they make her an extraordinary human being.

The E3 Leadership Code: A Human Approach to High Performance is a reflection of who she is at her core. It is thoughtful, authentic, and grounded in the understanding that the most effective leaders lead with both courage and heart.

As her sister, I couldn’t be prouder. It has been a privilege to stand on the sidelines cheering her on, and an even greater honor to celebrate beside her as this dream became reality. Congratulations, Kathy. The world is getting the gift of your wisdom, but those of us lucky enough to know you have been benefiting from it for years.

❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️

My sister asked me to share some words from my family angle about the book. Here is what I said:

Before I raise my glass, I’d like to say a few words.

So here we are. At the end of one road and the beginning of another.

The words that have been living inside Kathy’s head about leadership are finally out in the world and printed on these pages.

Truth be told, I suspect these ideas started taking shape long before Kathy ever accepted her first job offer. Kathy and I were raised in a family that talked openly about how to treat people. We were taught that you don’t judge someone until you’ve walked a mile in their moccasins. You treat people the way you want to be treated. You listen before you speak. You respect every person who crosses your path.

Those lessons came from our father, John Eastwood, with our mother, Anne Eastwood, right beside him holding his hand through every one of them.

I had the tremendous privilege of seeing those principles in action. Every summer and school break, I worked in our dad’s company. It was there that I learned leadership wasn’t born in the corner office or announced by a title on a business card. It was cultivated in the everyday moments.

It was knowing employees by name and asking about their families. It was having honest conversations about what people were thinking and feeling. It was treating everyone—from the newest hire to the most seasoned employee—with dignity and respect.

That approach built trust. Trust built loyalty. Loyalty inspired people to give their very best. Dad’s company thrived not simply because of what he did, but because of how he led. His team respected both the man he was and the example he set. It was team building at its finest.

Those lessons were certainly not lost on Kathy.

She witnessed firsthand what leadership looked like, and she took those lessons into every room she entered. Kathy became a take-charge kind of woman—okay, maybe a little too take-charge at times… insert your laugh here—but that drive, determination, and genuine care for people produced results everywhere she landed.

And now, she’s sharing those lessons with all of us.

Kathy, today may feel like the completion of your first book’s journey, but I have a feeling this is only the beginning. This book will travel farther than you can imagine. It will sit on desks, nightstands, conference tables, and bookshelves. It will encourage leaders who have lost their way, inspire those just beginning their careers, and remind people that leadership isn’t about power—it’s about people.

You are about to touch lives, strengthen businesses, and change the way people think about leading others because of the wisdom, compassion, and experience you’ve poured into these pages.

So tonight, let’s celebrate not just the accomplishment of publishing a book, but the woman behind it—the sister, daughter, wife, leader, mentor, and now author.

Please raise your glasses with me.

Here’s to our newest author, Kathy Eastwood. May this be the first of many books, and may the road ahead be even more extraordinary than the one that brought you here.

Cheers.

I spend many mornings here with all of you on WordPress and Jetpack. After my morning meditation and mindfulness practice, followed by my wildly competitive Wordle showdown, I settle into my favorite chair with a cup of coffee and read your beautifully crafted blogs. You make me laugh, think, cry, and occasionally nod my head so hard I nearly spill my coffee.

Most nights, though, sleep and I aren’t exactly on speaking terms. Anxiety likes to clock in for the overnight shift, leaving me restless and, if I’m being honest, a little down by morning. But by the time I hit the start button on the Jeep and begin my drive toward my little coastal work town, something shifts. The sea salt air sneaks in through the cracks of the day ahead and reminds me to exhale. Another sunrise. Another chance to begin again.

Lately, I’ve found myself wrestling with the realization that the light switch can be turned off at any moment.

This week on one of those sleepless nights, my mind wandered back to that awful childhood game of Musical Chairs. What sadist invented that game anyway? A bunch of kids circling chairs like tiny caffeinated bulls, waiting for the music to stop so they could dive for survival. If you didn’t find a seat, you were out. That’s it. Game over.

Honestly, that game should come with a lifetime supply of co-payments for future therapy sessions.

I’m a realist. I know the music eventually stops for all of us. That’s the game of life. It’s not death itself that unsettles me so much as the thought that I still have things left undone. Stories I want to write. Places I want to see. People I want to hug a little tighter. Some days I make peace with that truth. Other days, it taps me on the shoulder and whispers, “Are you sure you’re making the most of this?”

This morning, the answer arrived courtesy of Jimmy Buffett.

I pulled out of the driveway early and headed to the gym. No Shoes Radio played through the speakers. Then came “Last Mango in Paris.”

Always one of my favorites.

It’s a song about a colorful Key West character who’s done his share of living loudly and loving deeply, yet still understands there are adventures left to chase and dreams left to pursue. The chorus rolled in, familiar and comforting:

“And Jimmy, there’s still so much to be done.”

The workout ended. I was drenched. My watch informed me that I’d burned 676 calories in 1 hour, 13 minutes, and 45 seconds. Despite feeling like a wet noodle that had been run through a spin cycle, I smiled climbing back into the Jeep.

At my age, I don’t take any of this for granted. The ability to move my body. The privilege of showing up. The friends waiting beside me at the gym. The coffee waiting at home. The ridiculous concern that my sleepless night might somehow ruin pool opening day at Chez Kiki.

Ninety minutes earlier, I’d been carrying the weight of all my worries. Now, I was ready to tackle the rest of the day.

Another cup of coffee. A Zero Sugar Gatorade. This blog. Tiny sparks, perhaps, but enough to light the way forward.

The music hasn’t stopped yet.

So I’ll keep reading your words each morning. I’ll keep singing Buffett songs in the Jeep. I’ll keep sweating through workouts, opening the pool, loving my people, and writing these stories while I still can. And every once in a while, when fear tries to convince me that time is running out, I’ll answer it the only way I know how.

“And Kiki… there’s still so much to be done.”

The calendar reads June 4, 2026. Apparently, it is National Cheese Day.

Why not? There seems to be a national day for absolutely everything these days.

Today, however, I received a reminder of why cheese holds such a special place in my world. Please hold while I explain…

Cheese and I are old friends. There really isn’t a type of cheese I don’t enjoy (although Monterey Jack and I have never quite been on a first-name basis, and that’s okay. We smile politely and nod when we pass each other.)

Even now, after all these years, I automatically say “cheese” when posing for a picture. Truth be told, after a cocktail or two, I’ll often say fromage, which is French for cheese and somehow sounds far more sophisticated than anything I usually say.

Anyhoo, back to this morning’s reminder and how cheese came knocking on my Thursday door.

Ding.

A text from Jake.

He tells me that our local News12 station is reporting that today is National Cheese Day. He follows that up by saying cheese always reminds him of his former classmate, Matt.

Instantly, I smiled.

And instantly, I remembered why cheese became such an important part of our family’s story.

We were somewhere around the year 2000. Jake wandered into the kitchen wearing a tiny velour bathrobe, his hair sticking up in every possible direction. He shuffled toward the refrigerator with the confidence of a twenty-year-old who had been out all night and was desperately searching for something to revive him.

He knew exactly where he was going.

He also had a lot to say.

The words weren’t entirely clear, but the conversation coming out of this little human seemed endless. I stood there trying not to laugh because I didn’t want to interrupt whatever important business he was conducting. The running commentary lasted several minutes before he finally settled on milk. I swooped in, grabbed it for him, and went on with my day.

Months later, we returned to the pediatrician for a routine visit.

The usual questions came first.

Height?

Weight?

Walking?

Jumping?

Standing?

Then came speech.

“Any speech?”

I froze.

No.

Not recently.

My once-chatty little boy had gone silent.

The babbling, the chatter, the endless observations about his world had disappeared. There were blank stares and occasional outbursts of frustration, but very few words.

The doctor must have seen the panic spreading across my marquee-sized forehead.

“No need for alarm,” he said gently. “Let’s just explore some options and see if there are any delays.”

Many of you who have been here for a while know where those “options” eventually led. Testing resulted in Jake being diagnosed with Autism.

At the time, there were many discussions about children who stopped speaking after rounds of vaccines and never regained language. I never fully bought into that theory, although I will admit that every parent searches endlessly for answers when something changes so dramatically. To this day, I still wonder what happened. But that’s a road that can quickly lead to despair, so we’ll stay firmly planted on solid ground and keep moving forward.

The next two years were filled with specialists, teachers, therapists, and extraordinary people who patiently helped pull words back out of him.

Jake learned to communicate using visual cards. He would assemble words into sentences and show us what he needed. It was fascinating to watch the wheels turning in his head.

He was communicating.

Just differently.

At night, after everyone was asleep, I would sometimes find myself sitting in the laundry room crying and praying. I begged God to let us hear his voice again. I prayed for conversations. I prayed for words.

Just words.

Then the summer of 2005 arrived.

One evening, I opened the refrigerator and pulled out a package of Land O’Lakes American cheese to make Jake’s dinner—grilled cheese and Smiley Fries.

As I stood there, Jake suddenly appeared beside me.

“Cheese,” he said.

I froze.

The package nearly slipped from my hands.

My heart started racing.

“What was that, Jake?” I asked.

He pointed.

“Cheese.”

I stared at him.

Then he added:

“Matt eats cheese.”

Matt was a little boy in his class.

With a few more questions, we learned that Matt brought cheese sandwiches to school for lunch every day.

Jake smiled, turned around, and casually walked down the hallway as if he hadn’t just altered the course of my universe.

Meanwhile, I was leaning against the refrigerator, looking toward the ceiling.

Tears streamed down my face.

I thanked God for those three simple words.

“Matt eats cheese.”

Three words.

That’s all it took.

Three words that opened a door.

Three words that announced his voice had returned.

Three words that launched an entirely new world for our family.

And the conversations we’ve had since then?

Well, those are stories for future blogs.

Stay tuned for one involving a Spelling Bee.

Trust me.

That’s a hoot.

So yes, today may officially be National Cheese Day. Most people will celebrate with a charcuterie board, an extra slice of pizza, or perhaps a grilled cheese sandwich. Me? I’ll celebrate something entirely different. Every time I hear the word cheese, I’m transported back to that kitchen, standing in front of an open refrigerator while a little boy unknowingly answered years of prayers. It wasn’t just cheese. It was hope. It was progress. It was the beginning of conversations I once feared we might never have. And for that reason alone, cheese will always be one of my favorite words. 🧀❤️

Daily Prompt 2781: Do You Believe in Minimalism?

By the time I was married and settling into my first home, the 1980s were in full swing. Everything was BIG. Bigger was better. Flashier was fabulous. Subtlety wasn’t exactly trending.

Even designers known for a more classic look were thinking on a grand scale. Ralph Lauren may have been more understated than some of his competitors, but there was nothing minimal about the price tag.

Houses in my area seemed to grow overnight. Once-modest Capes and Ranches were transformed into sprawling “McMansions” complete with five or six bedrooms, multiple en suites, and enough Jacuzzi tubs to start a small water park. Hot tubs appeared in backyards like dandelions in spring.

It was easy to get swept up in this larger-than-life lifestyle.

And swept up I was.

My love of shopping reached new heights in the late 1980s. Before the internet, there were catalogs stacked on coffee tables and weekends spent roaming the mall. Nail salons began popping up in every strip mall. Long acrylic nails in bright colors were practically required. It was fast, fun, and unapologetically over the top.

I was all in.

Picture it: a head full of curls that added several inches to my height, a Chevy Camaro, Madonna’s “Material Girl” blasting through the speakers, and Happy Hour somewhere along Long Island’s South Shore.

Life was about accumulating. Stuff wasn’t just stuff—it was success.

Then came 1995.

We bought our first house—a modest three-bedroom, one-bath ranch located mid-block on the very street where I grew up. For those of you who have been reading along for a while, this was the house that sat at Third Base during our neighborhood kickball games.

The price was right. The location was perfect.

We gutted it room by room and slowly made it our own. Infertility treatments were consuming much of our savings, so any dreams of creating a mini mansion would have to wait. Looking back, that turned out to be a blessing.

The years passed and eventually the kids arrived.

Along with the kids came more stuff.

My clothing collection migrated to the basement where everything was neatly organized. Winter wardrobes swapped effortlessly with summer wardrobes. I had bins, systems, categories, and labels. It was practically a retail operation.

Then Jules went away to college.

Every time she came home, she brought more belongings. The basement accepted each new arrival like an overbooked hotel somehow finding room for one more guest.

Then COVID arrived.

Suddenly we were all home. All the time.

The walls started feeling a little closer.

Determined not to give up my daily workouts, I found an incredible gym program on Zoom. The only problem was that I didn’t particularly want my fellow exercisers staring at my carefully stacked clothing bins every morning. So I carved out a sleek little workout space that looked far more impressive on camera than the rest of the basement.

It worked beautifully.

For about eighteen months.

Then one day I read an article about an artist in New York City who had passed away. Everything she owned was emptied from her apartment and piled curbside. The photographs were heartbreaking. An entire life reduced to mountains of possessions stretching down the block.

I couldn’t stop thinking about it.

Who was going to clear out my forever when I was gone?

Certainly not my children.

Years of watching HGTV and countless decluttering videos and podcasts had entertained me, but none of them prepared me for that realization.

Then I discovered The Gentle Art of Swedish Death Cleaning by Margareta Magnusson.

Despite the dramatic title, it isn’t about scrubbing floors or polishing furniture. It’s about intentionally reducing what you own so the people you love aren’t left with the overwhelming task of sorting through a lifetime of belongings after you’re gone.

The concept hit me like a ton of decorative throw pillows.

This process has been life-changing.

I’ve looked around my home and realized just how much unnecessary spending has occurred since about 1988. Some of it made sense. Much of it didn’t. Yet every object seemed to come attached to a memory, a season, or a version of myself that I wasn’t quite ready to release.

But little by little, I’m learning.

I’m not talking about moving into one of those Tiny Houses that seem to be all the rage. I still enjoy my creature comforts. I simply want less clutter, less maintenance, less excess, and more room to breathe.

Funny enough, my hair has already come down a few inches from its 1980s peak. Perhaps it’s only fitting that the rest of my life follows suit.

These days, I don’t think minimalism is about owning as little as possible. It’s about being intentional. It’s about making room for what matters and letting go of what doesn’t. The memories aren’t in the bins, the closets, or the boxes stacked in the basement. They’re in the stories, the laughter, the photographs, and the people who shared those moments with us. If I’ve learned anything during this journey, it’s that a life well-lived isn’t measured by how much we accumulate. It’s measured by what we leave behind in the hearts of the people we love.

There was a time when the Tooth Fairy was a frequent flyer in and out of my home. She’d presumably receive some sort of urgent notification from the Dental Gods that one of my cherubs had a loose tooth hanging on for dear life, and preparations for pickup would begin immediately.

My kids were very precise about lost tooth placement on the night of collection. This wasn’t some casual “leave it on the dresser” arrangement. Oh no. There were rules. Procedures. Exact coordinates. The exchange had to be swift and silent so the Tooth Fairy’s identity was never compromised. One creaky floorboard…one mistimed sneeze…one child popping awake at 2:13 a.m. and the whole operation was blown wide open.

It was basically a CIA mission with glitter.

On one such evening, Jules lost tooth number…oh, I don’t know…six? Seven? The child was an early dental overachiever. I was out of the tiny snack-sized bags I usually used to package the tooth along with a lovely little note to Ms. TF. As I was straightening my dresser and putting laundry away, I spotted one of those teeny-tiny jewelry bags from Tiffany & Co.

Perfect.

I tucked the wrapped tooth inside the suede-like turquoise pouch and snapped it shut like I was securing crown jewels. The package was carefully positioned under her pillow at approximately 8:30 p.m., well after Jules had entered a solid REM cycle.

Now, we all know the Tooth Fairy, much like Santa Claus, keeps an outrageous schedule. She’s flying all over the globe collecting teeth and distributing rewards deemed appropriate for the departing enamel. Occasionally, mothers must pinch hit for these transactions.

I checked my wallet.

One $20 bill.

That was it.

I called my husband, who was working nights at the time.

“Do you have any cash in the house?”

“Nope.”

Well then. Twenty dollars it is.

The next morning, I heard a squeal erupt from Bedroom Three clear down the hallway. Jules burst into the kitchen clutching the Tiffany bag in one hand and the twenty-dollar bill in the other.

“OMG MADRE! I’m rich! The Tooth Fairy came last night and brought me TWENTY DOLLARS…IN A TIFFANY BAG!”

She was practically hyperventilating with joy.

Meanwhile, I stood there packing mini muffins into lunch bags feeling like I had just won Motherhood MVP.

Score one for Team Tooth/Madre.

The very next evening was our school district’s Budget Vote and School Board election night. In an effort to lure parents out for their civic duty, the district hosted the annual “All-American Bake Sale” along with chorus performances, dance numbers, and enough patriotic enthusiasm to power a small village. It was basically a giant “Hooray for Everything!” extravaganza — but honestly, it worked. Parents showed up.

I had both kids with me. Jules was singing with the chorus and Jake never met a school hallway he didn’t want to revisit. We bought a few brownies from the bake sale table and when it came time to pay, I realized I still had nothing smaller than another twenty-dollar bill in my wallet.

The total was maybe $1.50.

Wanting to support the fundraiser, I waved off the change and told them to keep it.

That’s when Jules’ teacher — who had clearly been waiting for her moment — gently pulled me aside.

She smiled and said, “So…Jules came into class this morning announcing that the Tooth Fairy brought her twenty dollars last night. In a Tiffany bag.”

And suddenly my brain went into overdrive.

Wait.

Where exactly is this conversation headed?

Was she politely suggesting my daughter was a liar? Or was I now being viewed as some sort of over-the-top suburban mother tossing twenties around town like I’d just wrapped filming for The Real Housewives of Bethpage?

Because honestly…both scenarios felt possible.

And that’s the thing about parenting. One minute you’re sneaking around in the dark playing Tooth Fairy with a Tiffany pouch and a prayer… and the next you’re standing in an elementary school cafeteria wondering if you’ve accidentally created a tiny diamond-loving diva with a luxury brand expectation before second grade.

But those are the moments that stay with us, aren’t they? The ridiculous, funny, wildly imperfect little stories that become part of the family folklore. Not the big vacations or expensive gifts — but the twenty-dollar tooth, the Tiffany bag, and the look on your child’s face when they truly believe magic visited them overnight.