Okay, but JUST ONE (Present… or Firefly, Coyote, or One Dirty, Rotten, Stinkin’ Raccoon)

I’ve always been the kind of person who says, “Let’s just open one present.” You know, just a tiny peek, just one little ribbon tugged loose on Christmas Eve. And okay, maybe one turns into two… and then suddenly the tree is looking suspiciously empty by morning. Oops.

It’s not really about the presents. It’s about the joy. I love joy. I love the part where someone’s eyes light up and say, “No way, really?” I want to pass that kind of feeling around like cookies at a party. I want to share it.

And lately? The joy has been showing up as stories.

Writing these books has flipped my “just one present” impulse into full-blown overdrive. First came Frances the Firefly, a soft, glowing story that still makes my heart flutter. Then Calvin and the Coyote, full of feathers, firelight, and memory. It feels like handing over little pieces of a shared past.

But now… there’s this dirty, stinkin’, rotten raccoon lurking in the corners of my imagination. And I can’t lie, I want to tell you everything. I want to show you the kid with the firefly t-shirt, the mayor with the oversized hairdo, and the raccoon who may or may not be misunderstood…

And his friend.

Because yes, he has one. A young crow who’s always stirring the pot: clever, quick, and never far when something funny (or slightly chaotic) happens.
And if you’re thinking, hmmm… a firefly? a crow?, then congratulations. You’re already spotting the easter eggs. I know, I’m no Taylor Swift, but she’s onto something. If I start naming chapters after my exes, you’ll know I’ve gone full Swift.

But I can’t share it all just yet.

If I go all-in on the raccoon right now, I risk overshadowing Frances and Calvin, who are still out there finding their readers. They deserve their moment in the sun.
If you haven’t read those yet, I hope you will. And if they land somewhere soft inside you, I’d be so grateful if you’d share them or leave a review. I know, I know… everyone asks. But here’s the truth: these stories matter to me, and they can’t travel far on their own. I’m one person with a full heart and a very small megaphone, trying to help them find their people. Maybe even yours.

That said… the raccoon is coming. And the countdown is officially on.

If you have kids (or grandkids) who love a little summer caper, or if you just need a 20-minute break when the “I’m bored” chorus begins this summer, head to Firefly & Fog and check the Books section. You’ll find a “Wanted” poster for one dirty, stinkin’, rotten raccoon. He’s been spotted. He’s up to something. And this spring, I’ll be sharing free printable activity pages to help track him down and build the excitement.

Think: raccoon sightings, silly name generators, coloring pages, reading trackers… all with a mischievous twist. It’s a sneaky little way to keep kids reading, drawing, imagining, and maybe even giggling while they wait for the full story.

More fun printables will follow the book’s release, but for now, let the springtime sleuthing (and silliness) begin.

Frances and Calvin still have their time to shine, and I’m so proud of them both.
But I’ll admit… I’m keeping one eye on the woods.
There’s rustling out there.
And maybe a feather, too.

P.S. If you know a kid, a parent, a grandparent, a teacher, or a curious grown-up who still believes in mischief and magic, I’d love for you to share this with them. Word of mouth means the world. And if you’d like first dibs on printables, peeks, and maybe a riddle or two, signing up is easy — and full of sparkle.
As always, I love you, I appreciate you, and I thank you.

A Post About Dead Moms (Relax, I have one, so I can say it)

I miss my mom.

My mother died over twenty years ago.

And I am still finding her.

In the ache.
In the air.
In the things I whisper into the kitchen light when no one else is home.

She made Easter magic.
Real magic.
Lace bonnets and handmade bunny suits.
Hundreds of dyed eggs scattered across a field of shrieking kids.
She didn’t just host the town egg hunt
she became the heartbeat of it.

She gave love the way other people breathe:
freely, effortlessly, constantly.

And I miss her.

Not in a softened, “time heals all” kind of way.
Not today.

Today, I miss her so hard it squeezes from the inside out.
Like your ribs folding in on themselves.
Like your heart just got ambushed by a memory that still knows your name.

I miss her in the middle of doing things I’m proud of,
because she should be here to see them.

I’ve been writing books.
Building a home from words and wonder.
Creating things that feel sacred.

And all I want is to hear her say,
“Oh Jen… I knew you would.”

But I can’t call her.
I can’t send her the link.
I can’t hear her laugh or tell me which part made her cry.

So I’m crying for both of us.

Crying because no one cheers like your mother does.
Because she was always the first to show up and the last to leave.
Because I was always hers.

And because some grief doesn’t whisper,
it roars.

She used to say,
“The more you cry, the less you pee.”
No one ever really knew what the hell she meant,
but it always made us laugh through the snot and the tears.
Because she believed in a big cry.
She knew how to ride the waves.

She is why I love vintage.
She is why I save chipped things.
Why I believe the worn and weathered are worth something.
Why I think stories live in objects and memories live in light.

She would have loved this moment,
this messy, marvelous, hard-won moment
where I’m finally doing the thing.

The big thing.
The real thing.
The thing she always saw in me, even when I couldn’t.

Maybe love like that doesn’t die at all.
Maybe it just changes shape,
and lives in the fire we carry forward.

If you're aching today...
If Easter brings more memories than candy...
If you're holding it together with duct tape and whispered stories...
I'm with you.

Let it out.
All of it.
(You’ll pee less, apparently.)

With all my heart,
Jen

What If Everything Works Out?

Lately, every time doubt sneaks in, when I open the fridge and realize I forgot to eat again, or when I open the 48th browser tab and forget what I was even doing, I say it out loud:

“What if everything works out?”

I’ve been saying it in the shower, while clicking “save” for the eighth time, while trying to remember what I meant to Google before the cat walked across the keyboard. I say it when I get a weird comment or when something doesn't upload, or when I wake up in the middle of the night thinking, Why am I doing all of this?

But really…
What if, at the ripe old age of 51, everything actually does work out?
What if it’s been working out all along?

Not in some perfectly plotted, everything is easy kind of way, but in the mess, in the chaos, in the slow unfurling of all these quiet things I didn’t even know I was building. What if every heartbreak, every weird job, every dead-end moment and strange turn led me right here, to this glow?

Because here I am. Launching a website. Publishing children’s books. Telling stories that were tucked in my bones for decades. And people are actually reading them. Visiting the site. Leaving reviews. Showing up.

Maybe not in droves, maybe not in viral waves, but they’re coming, one firefly at a time.

And yes, it’s exhausting. I’ve lost 7 pounds this week because apparently anxiety burns calories, and also I forget to eat when I’m building empires. My desk is a sea of sticky notes and half-finished ideas. My brain is one long run-on sentence. But my heart? She’s still glowing.

What if this is the part where it all clicks? Not because I forced it, but because I finally stopped waiting for permission.

What if everything works out because I decided it would?

Even when my lifelong fear of jinxing it creeps in, even when I feel like just writing these thoughts down might unravel them, I still repeat it.
Naaahhhhhh... WHAT IF EVERYTHING WORKS OUT.

And maybe, just maybe, that's the kind of hope that keeps us going. Not all at once, but in tiny sparks. A good sentence. A kind comment. A moment that reminds you to keep showing up.

So if you're reading this, and you’re starting to second-guess your path, try whispering it, just once:
What if everything works out?

Say it again if you need to. And then go do the next right thing. One small, stubborn, beautiful step at a time.

I’d love to know what this stirred up in you… thoughts, memories, tears, a little hope? Leave a comment below. I read them all, even if I’m wearing fuzzy socks and crying into my matcha.

Juggling, Grieving, Creating... and Still Catching Fireflies

I don’t know how to explain what my life looks like right now.
I just know that at 51 years old, I’m finally starting to feel like myself. And it’s wild.

This whole creative tornado… launching books, building a website, running a vintage shop… it’s beautiful and deeply weird and sometimes too much. Like most big life shifts, it’s also a mirror. And when you look in that mirror long enough, you see who’s really still standing there with you. That part is both heartening and heartbreaking.

Right now, I’m:

• Running my Etsy shop

• Shopping for it

• Listing and shipping vintage finds

• Writing (and rewriting) three books

• Doing my own graphic design

• Learning to edit videos, record audio, and market like I know what I’m doing

• Walking that exhausting tightrope between “I’m annoying,” “I give up,” and “OH MY GOD THIS IS ACTUALLY WORKING”

• Feeling waves of grief, especially for my mom

• Trying to make time for fishing with Mark, and for just being with Mark

• Babysitting my granddaughter

• Paying bills

• Folding laundry

• Feeling everything

I know I’m lucky in a thousand ways.
I have a roof over my head, people who love me, and the ability to create something from nothing.
I’m not blind to that.

But knowing you’re lucky doesn’t make you less tired. Or less overwhelmed. Or less human.

I had to pull back from the never-ending dumpster fire that is this country.

I haven’t stopped caring.
I still write the letters, call my reps, speak out when I see injustice.
I will always do that.

But I can’t let it consume me, or it’ll eat the part of me that creates.
And if that happens... they already won.

Choosing to create something joyful in the midst of all this mess, that’s not selfish.
It’s survival.
It’s also power.

I never understood that until I started living it.

Joy is resistance.
Kindness is resistance.
Telling soft stories with sharp edges and hope buried inside them... that’s how I’m staying upright.

And no, this isn’t about winning an award for doing too much.
I don’t want a trophy.

I just want a little cabin on the seashore.
I want to write.
I want to paint.
And I want to catch fireflies.

So if you’re here, reading this, maybe you’re juggling too.
Or maybe you’re grieving. Or building something. Or trying to feel like yourself again.

You’re not alone.
And you don’t have to be perfect to make something beautiful.

Let’s carry it together.

Jennifer

P.S. Got thoughts?
Feel something? Think something? Trip over your shoelace on the way to the comment box?
Me too.
Say hi below. I read every one and carry them with me longer than you’d think..