I come from a long line of interrupters, one-uppers, and joke-tellers. The competition for air time in my family is FIERCE, so your story better be damn good or we are moving on to your way funnier uncle. From this lineage, a storyteller is born. There isn’t much I love more than when unexpected, funny, and (occasionally) poignant things happen to me. I feel like I might burst waiting to get to my people and tell them all about it.
I am Sarah, a messy and optimistic mom of four, wife of one. I am frequently giggling, but I can also be found smacking my forehead as I raise kids and chickens in a funky Atlanta neighborhood.
I am a high school teacher turned homeschool mom. Living and schooling with the kids is pretty rad, but my favorite gig is being married to Riley, my middle school sweetheart. Pull up a chair and I can tell you all about how awesome he is. We have been laughing our butts off for decades now.
I am a recovering envelope collector (ask my mom). I love paper. I just can’t help it. And paper that my kids have drawn on? I have a problem.
I am not an expert anything. I dabble but never perfect; this tendency is unequal parts character flaw and endearing eccentricity.
I delight in thrift stores, long books with short chapters, and cheap beer.
Despite knowing and loving Jesus, I have a grace leak. I need a refill all the time.
Obviously, there is more to this story, but this gets you on the right track. Here’s to living and telling stories.
What the critics are saying:
Atlanta Native, age 4: “My mommy is sweet, lovable, cute, awesome, the best mom ever. She doesn’t like crocodilians (this isn’t true, Levi). She doesn’t like when I won’t stop telling her what I want her to do.”
I was going to ask my other 3 kids some questions and put their cute answers here, but they are in very foul spirits today. Maybe another time.