As Forrest Would Say…

On Saturday, we had a jam packed morning that consisted of Ryan preparing for his upcoming business trip and me preparing myself for a 25 minute YouTube workout. Before you rush to judgment about which one of us had the more stressful morning, I’d like to say that my morning involved something called “jump squats.” My lady parts suffered.

Anyway, after we went our separate ways, we came back together because his parents were coming over and that meant: attempting to make the house look like we don’t have two kids and then after 15 minutes of cleaning, yell “we have two kids, they’ll understand if it’s dirty.” In the process, Oliver had to nap before their arrival so they’d get to socialize with a happy-Oliver and not a tyrannical-Oliver.

While Ryan was downstairs not loading the dishwasher (source of a later argument—clearly I’m not bitter), I put Oliver down for a nap. I changed his diaper and realized that he was wearing jeans. Napping in jeans seemed wildly uncomfortable to me. When fantasizing about a nap, I’ve never imagined myself curled up in my bed wearing skinny jeans. I can’t even properly bend my knees in my jeans without feeling like my ass is going to literally explode like an overstuffed cannoli. Now granted, I don’t get the opportunity to ever nap so I’d take a nap while wearing sandpaper underwear and a wet wool bra, but that’s just me. Oliver should sleep like a king.

A comfortable, half-nude king.

So I didn’t put his pants back on.


Usually, he fusses for approximately 28 seconds (long enough to make me feel like a neglectful monster) and then passes out. However, this time he was talking nonstop to himself in his crib, cooing and walking around the perimeter of his crib. Since he wasn’t crying, we figured he would eventually tire himself out.

After about 20 minutes, he did.

He slept his usual length and after my in-laws arrived, we heard him stirring upstairs. Ryan ran up to grab him and shortly after opening the door, calmly called out my name.

Allee. Hey, Allee. Come up here real quick.”

I knew something had happened, but seeing as how Ryan wasn’t panicking, I figured it was something mild like Oliver getting his chubby thigh stuck in the crib slot or perhaps I accidentally locked the cat in his room (not as bad as when I locked her in the pantry for 7 hours while I was at work—whatever). But it wasn’t either of those…it was…it was worse.

I walked into his room and there was Oliver bouncing in his crib with his exposed little junk because he had taken off his diaper, but that part is kind of cute.

What wasn’t cute was the LITERAL pile of shit in the corner of his crib. My poor child wasn’t bored or not tired before he fell asleep, he was squatting like an abandoned peasant in the middle of a field pooping.


And then he curled up in the opposite end of the bed and fell asleep.

My son slept next to his own feces. Even dogs know better not to shit in their crates, but there’s my pride and joy baby human whipping off his diaper to take a freedom dump on his precious robot crib sheets.

I wish I could have been more surprised or disgusted, but motherhood kind of desensitizes your soul. What’s appalling and gross before children is suddenly laughable and endearing after children. Oliver could grow up to be the CEO of his own company, President of the United States, a doctor who rids the world of disease or a lawyer that Lindsey Lohan has on retainer, but to me he will always be my little man.

My little man who took a shit in his bed and didn’t give a shit.


Dear Moms that Work Out at Home

Dear Moms that Work Out at Home:

Your Facebook and Instagram posts made your fitness endeavors look shockingly easy and even fun. There you are, with your smiling children in the background of your sweaty selfie. Your caption details your dedication and how energized you are after working out and how thankful you are that you don’t have to go out to a gym to workout.

fit mom

Er, okay.

To that I say, what the fuck is wrong with you.

Today I attempted to do a 27-minute Jillian Michaels workout. I mean, it’s 27 minutes which seems long enough to make me feel accomplished and short enough that I won’t literally die since my only notable measure of fitness lately has been doing laps around the frozen food section at the grocery store pondering what ice cream flavor I’ll get.


I got out my dusty yoga mat that’s been nothing more than a cushion for our dog’s sex pillow for the last seven months and laid it out on the living room floor. Because my children have never seen exercise equipment, they were immediately drawn to the hand weights and mat. Like a model mother, I put on an episode of “Bubble Guppies” and demanded that they sit quietly while mommy transformed into a Victoria’s Secret angel.

But they didn’t and this is where I call bullshit on the work-out-at-home proclamation. Below you will find the various interruptions that I endured while trying to lift a damn 5 lb. hand weight and do a jumping jack.

  • Caroline decided she wanted to join in on my workout, but “needed” eye shadow in order to participate. I had to pause the video and apply a bronze-sparkle to her eyelids in order to proceed.
  • Oliver licked my hand weights. With his tongue.
  • The dog needed to go out twice because according to him, one should not pee and shit in the same outing. No. He needed to do it during one minute abs. My one shot at a flat stomach—gone.
  • Oliver emptied the pots and pans cupboard. I couldn’t listen to Jillian talk about proper chest-fly form because Oliver made a damn gong out of the lids. He was like a one-man 17th century Chinese parade.
  • Caroline made a “tent” somehow on top of my yoga mat.
  • Oliver knocked down the tent, which required me to pause the video to nurse Caroline through her architectural heartbreak.
  • I had to spent seven minutes rebuilding the tent.
  • Oliver demanded Cheez-Its so after every sit-up, I had to hand him another one.
  • Oliver spit out the Cheez-Its on the carpet. Pause the video to spot clean the area.
  • The cat is now napping on my yoga mat.
  • Oliver is rearranging the pantry now. Canned oranges are best placed on the floor.
  • One of the canned oranges fell on his toe. Pause the video to subdue cries.
  • Caroline announced her need to use the potty and because she’s weird, requires an audience in the bathroom. Pause the video to cheer on her bathroom habits.
  • Oliver then demanded more Cheez-Its.
  • I remembered that I was supposed to have started rice for dinner. Pause the video to boil water while emphasizing to Oliver that stoves are “hot” and shouldn’t be touched.

So there you have it, my attempt at working out at home. Tell me Moms-Who-Work-Out-At-Home, how do you actually break a sweat when your kids are literally trying to break your house? It’s too much. I was skeptical of your upbeat hashtags and captions, but having done the work out myself, I now know that you’re full of (grass-fed, organic, cage free, gluten-free) HORSESHIT. I felt no better for having worked out- my ass is still flat, my stomach is not and I still can’t try on bathing suits without being drunk.


 DVD Time to Complete: 27 minutes

Actual Time to Complete: 1 hour and 10 minutes

Total Calories Burned: Zero. I actually gained calories because while rationing Oliver’s share of Cheez-Its, I ate several of them. I’d like to think of it as “fuel.”

So Moms-Who-Work-Out-At-Home, calm it down. It sucks. And to make matters immeasurably worse, I’m pretty sure our UPS driver saw me in a size-too-small sports bra awkwardly attempting side lunges.

So thanks.


It’s Showtime

This weekend we pretended to be an upper class, Manhattan family by attending the theater. It’s important as an upcoming aristocrat to expand our minds through the arts so we decided to see an off-Broadway play. Now granted, the theater was a local high school auditorium and the tickets were $8, but whatever.

We decided to take Caroline to a matinee of “Beauty and the Beast” at my work. Aside from “Disney on Ice” and a showing of “Inside Out” on her birthday, she hasn’t had much experience trying to sit in the same seat for hours focused on one thing. At home, she can’t even play with her Little Ponies without getting up to get a Barbie and then disappearing to go brush her hair and then stopping to change her pants and then ultimately deciding to play pirates instead. She has a severe, undiagnosed case of toddler Attention Deficit Disorder.

She was pretty stoked about going to see the show despite my concerns and even picked out a shirt with Belle on it with the caption “Beauty and Brains” because let’s face it: Belle is the only damn Disney princess that is literate and doesn’t shit gold bricks all day. Home girl is an intellectual! I mean, you have Snow White hanging out with seven male dwarfs all day. That’s creepy and sounds like the plot of a disturbing “Law and Order: Special Victims Unit” episode. And don’t get me started on Ariel, she’s sixteen years old and trades in her entire identity for legs and a make-out partner.


Belle has books to read, I value that and wanted Caroline to see that dedication to academia.


As soon as the first note played of “Belle” (we call the song “Little Town” in our house), Caroline perked up and yelled “This is FUN!” which made my heart happy knowing that I made the correct choice in taking her.

But then dialogue happened and moments without singing and songs that weren’t in the movie and she was o-v-e-r i-t. She wanted to see “Be Our Guest” and didn’t understand the idea of plot progression or character development. She came there for SINGING and DANCING!

She awkwardly crawled over her Aunt Jen for the majority of the first act and kept asking when the “real Belle” was coming out a.k.a. “Belle in a yellow dress.” After “Be Our Guest” concluded and it was time for intermission, she confidently stated “Well that was fun, are we going home now?” When I told her that it was only halfway done, she gave me a look similar to that of when I told her she wasn’t getting a guinea pig as a pet—utter shock and disappointment.


During intermission, we fed her a Kit Kat bar because she looked like her damn blood sugar had dropped 50 points. Thankfully, it perked her up through the noticeably shorter second act. However, candy aside, Gaston was the real reason behind Caroline’s upbeat, happy attitude.

It would appear that the little lady has a thing for the bad boys…

In what was my favorite part of the day, during the scene where sexual-predator and town harasser, Gaston battles the Beast, Caroline chanted repeatedly “Get him Gaston! Yeah! Kill him!”

She apparently missed the plot of the entire play. Gaston spent the entire first act masterminding a way to get under Belle’s provincial town dress. If Gaston had access to roofies in 1700s France, he would have definitely slipped one into Belle’s drink and here’s my daughter rooting for his forced, borderline criminal “flirting.”


When the Beast defeated Gaston, she yelled with a panicked voice “I hope Gaston’s okay!”

It’s like rooting for the Titanic to sink so Jack and Rose wouldn’t end up together. Or hoping that Allie’s Alzheimer’s gets worse so she wouldn’t remember her love story with Noah in “The Notebook.”


What kind of twisted, confused girl am I raising?!

Apparently one that values muscles over romance.


Eh, maybe that’s not that bad.




Oh, Howdy Neighbor

Last week, we got new neighbors a few houses down. We’ve been in this neighborhood for over two years and the most I can tell you about my neighbors is that their trash day is Friday and their kids like early morning driveway-hockey sessions. They could be mass murderers or Catholic priests—hell if I know.

Mother and daughter talking to neighbor while at clothesline

I’m cordial with most people on the street: I wave when I drive by, they ask about the kids when we’re on a walk and I compliment them on their garden beds. Am I inviting them over for beer on the back deck? No. Are they giving me a spare key to their house to feed their cats when they’re away? No.

The truth of the matter is that I have NO idea how to make friends as a grown-ass adult. I watch Caroline make friends at the park in 4 seconds flat because she just finds a girl whose sneakers she likes or the boy that says he’ll chase her. I’ve had the same friends for decades because they befriended me before my anxious, awkward weirdness kicked in. They’re still friends with me because I pay them quarterly.

I’ve been monitoring the house in anticipation of seeing who our new neighbors would be. I was fearful that we’d get angry elderly Republicans or people that used bed sheets as curtains so you can imagine my absolute DELIGHT when outside with the kids, our new neighbors pulled in. Out of the car door came a young, stylish, pretty, pregnant woman with a husband AND toddler son!


By looks alone, this girl was destined to be my friend because of our obvious similarities:

  1. She’s young and I’m young(ish). I’m young enough to know that slang words like “lit” and “turnt” exist, but too old to properly know how to use them in a sentence.
  2. Unlike our one neighbor, she wasn’t wearing oversized fleece Tweety Bird pajama pants which is an automatic upgrade. Said neighbor also hasn’t brushed her hair since the first George Bush was president.
  3. She’s pregnant and I was pregnant. She has a toddler son and I have a toddler son. What else do we need to have in common before we start braiding each other’s hair and sharing secrets?

I was straight-up giddy when I saw them preparing to take their son and little dog (I HAVE A LITTLE DOG TOO) for a walk in the direction past our house. This was our chance! Friendship with our new neighbors! Positive first impression, positive first impression…

I anxiously walked down the driveway to approach them when verbal diarrhea made an appearance with me shouting “WELCOME TO THE NEIGHBORHOOD! HIIIIIIIII!” As if that weren’t awkward enough, our diabetic watchdog decided that this wholesome family and their well-groomed 10 pound dog was a threat to our safety so he barked like a rabid zombie dog in the face of dinner.

Think fast! I need something to save ourselves! Caroline! She’s cute, they’ll fall for her!

Caroline came running down the driveway, completely unfazed by strangers.

“This is our daughter, Caroline…”

“My NAME is Little Red Hot!” (Well there goes that first-impression rescue)

“Okay, Little Red Riding Hood…”

“NO IT’S LITTLE RED HOT!” (Awesome. She’s introducing herself as a character from some random-ass library book we got where Little Red Riding Hood is instead ‘Little Red Hot’ and gets rid of the wolf by feeding him hot sauce. This is great. She looks like a freaking LUNATIC)


 Thankfully, the new neighbors segued into informing me that she is expecting another boy any day now and that their son is 18 months old. Instead of playing it cool, I geeked out and yelled “ME TOO! HE’S UP THERE!”

I figured my perfect 18 month old Oliver would be doing something precious and endearing when we all turned our attention to him, but instead…he was speaking incoherently, pointing at the sky and RAKING snow. Meanwhile, their son was sitting peacefully in the stroller probably doing long division in his head while my son was two minutes away from eating paste.


At that point, they hinted at continuing on with their walk and ending our completely bizarre interaction. I tried really hard to be calm, but the thought of having a new friend made me BLURT out (again), “I hope the weather stays nice so I can see you again!”

What the f*^%.

Not even convicted stalkers sound this eager.


Upon them walking away, Ryan stated “you sounded a little desperate there, huh?” which naturally makes me want to soak my diary with girl-tears, but he’s probably right. But seriously, how do you make friends at 31 years old without looking like you’re auditioning for the role in “Single White Female.”

In a less-creepy manner, I’d really like to get them something to welcome them to the neighborhood or something for their new baby. I just want to be nice without looking too desperate. Maybe a gift basket? Or maybe I’ll offer to pay their mortgage for a month? Or volunteer to breastfeed their newborn during the night?

I don’t know…I just want to make a good first impression. Guess I’ll just stay here and wait for her to make the next move. I don’t want to appear too keen or creepy…


A Break Recapped

I was off of work for about nine days and because Ryan and I like to test the sanity and strength of our marriage, he took off the week as well. Before leaving work, I got asked countless times what our plans over break would be and I responded with “nothing, hanging out, I guess.” It seemed like everyone else had grand plans of Disneyworld, beach vacations, occupying timeshares and visiting family. My plans of Netflix, wine and filing my taxes suddenly seemed incredibly embarrassing.


Our family vacation. J/k lolz.

By Wednesday, I had a pre-lunch meltdown and yelled that we hadn’t done anything with our vacation. We were barely out of the house some days by 11am and Target was our go-to in terms of a family outing.

WE COULD HAVE DONE SO MANY THINGS! We could have learned how to figure skate, we could have taken an overnight trip somewhere (where, I don’t know) or we could have gone to one of the many local indoor play places (after I obviously popped a Xanax to suppress my dislike of crowded places). We could have helped with climate change, put an end to dolphin-hunting in Japan or at least cleaned up the 43 mile radius of dog shit in our backyard.

We could have done countless things and yet, all we had seemingly done was learn more about “Paw Patrol’s” new puppy.


This was horseshit.

We were supposed to maximize our time off with a packed schedule and come home exhausted every night and yet the biggest event of our vacation was shoveling the deck as a family so our dog could go down the stairs and shit in that 43 mile radius.

But then it dawned on me while playing “Little Ponies” with Caroline on the floor that this was exactly what a day-off from work is supposed to be. The best days are the lazy and unplanned moments with the kids. Minutes that require no structure, rules or agenda: it’s just unfiltered family time.

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Despite feeling reluctant about our vacation, I realized that I got to experience so many instances that showed me my break was exactly what I needed for nine days.

  • Oliver fell asleep on my chest for the first time in…I don’t remember when. There was no rush to go and shower or pack my bag, I just sat in the glider, in the dark room and rubbed his back for a half hour. It was perfect.
  • We camped out on the living room floor and watched a movie in the middle of the day. Scandalous, I know. IMG_6962 2
  • Since “Aladdin” was the movie, I “got” to pretend to be Jasmine’s tiger, Rajah for well over an hour while Caroline obviously played the part of Jasmine. Caroline informed me that I wasn’t allowed to speak or walk (as most tigers do neither) so I crawled on the floor meowing like a damn lunatic.f75c4ad9ec7e5e76f5906c90c8ca9c2a
  • I got to play choo-choo’s with Oliver and see his little mind work as he moved them along the tracks. IMG_6972 2
  • We had breakfast as a family. Most days, my breakfast consists of a large Dunkin Donuts coffee and a Reese cup so this was a step towards not having heart disease and ulcers.
  • Ryan and I got alone time that went beyond our usual nightly conversation where I say, “it’s 9pm, I’m going upstairs to watch ‘Gilmore Girls.” and he says something unexpectedly romantic in return like “okay.”
  • We had more dance parties than I can count. IMG_7002 2
  • Most days we didn’t bother to get out of her pajamas because why would we? Legos don’t judge and if they did, just knock ‘em the hell over. IMG_6946 2


Anyone outside of this house may label this break as mundane and boring and I suppose by most definitions, maybe it was. However, the opportunity to kiss, hold, hug and cuddle these two quickly growing babies was all I needed for the past nine days.

But mostly, I’m grateful that I got to experience first-hand my three-year-old daughter pretend to be a pregnant bride by wearing a veil and putting a baby doll under her nightgown.

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A mother’s dream.

Blog Signature Pink


So it’s been approximately 58 days since I last updated this blog. I could blame it on a plethora of factors: work, holidays, kids, illness, “The Bachelor” starting again- but I won’t. The simple truth of the matter is that “The Bachelor” started again and instead of blogging, I read blogs about “The Bachelor” cast members. Sue me. Everyone has his or her own priorities.


I miss you Olivia

The problem with falling into a blogging funk is that when I finally do put out another post, I feel the pressure that it needs to be top-notch, laugh-out-loud, slapstick greatness. I can’t return to blogging in nearly two months with meaningless stories about how I’ve eaten an entire pan of buffalo chicken wing dip and still haven’t painted my toenails. That’s not living up to the lofty expectations I know you all have of this blog. The same reason it took Adele years to make another album is the same reason why it took me to write another post: you can’t rush greatness.


Anyway, I truly wish I had good stories for you. Instead, I’ve just been tied up in the mundane of life and every time I try to write, one of the kids (usually Oliver) starts playing with matches and steak knives or (usually Caroline) demands that I instead wear a tutu and dance to “The Little Mermaid” soundtrack. In all fairness, “The Little Mermaid” soundtrack is usually my idea.

Truth be told, the juggling factor of motherhood and full-time employment is much harder than I anticipated. There’s always that feeling that I should be doing something else. If I’m playing with the kids, I should be grading papers. If I’m lesson planning then I should be pretending to be a pirate with my toddlers. There’s not enough time in the day. Like I said above, I haven’t painted my toes all winter. I think we can all agree that’s the real tragedy.

But let’s get serious here, what’s going on in the life of Allee?

~ I like to spend the final moments before bed on Etsy buying “Gilmore Girls” merchandise so clearly I’ve matured since my last post.

~ I still haven’t found a way to make vegetables appealing to my children. Or to myself for that matter.

~ I’ve stopped wearing my maternity leggings that have a giant hole above the knee. I’m one step closer to not looking homeless.

~ Oliver now has almost two sets of molars and I have two full sets of crows feet from dealing with it.

~ We registered Caroline for her last year of preschool, which means I only have one more year to prepare for her Common Core math problems. Better start studying now.

~ Ryan and I have been binging “Making a Murderer” on Netflix. For some reason that shit’s 10 hours long when it could have easily been 45 minutes and ended with “did he do it or not?” I’ve fallen asleep watching it 3 times which says a lot because I stayed awake during The State of the Union address.

~ With that being said, I really want to watch that new OJ Simpson show because apparently I really enjoy murders. #America

~ I turned 31 last month with three desserts, wine and these highly factual socks:


~ I had bronchitis for over three weeks that was so bad, my damn rib cracked from coughing. As if the world needed another reason to list me as “lame.”


~ Caroline discovered the joys of sleepwalking. She was asleep at the top of the stairs for an undocumented amount of time and finding her caused me immediate panic that was followed by uproarious laughter between Ryan and I imagining her as Will Ferrell in “Stepbrothers.”



~ We had our first major snowstorm on Tuesday and were blanketed by about 18 inches of snow. We responded with a living room floor matinee of “Aladdin” where I stared enviously at Jasmine’s small waist and flat stomach. Bitch.



Well that plainly sums up my life and I hereby vow to not only shave my legs regularly in the winter months, but to also blog occasionally. Small steps, small steps…

My Grown-Up Christmas List

Christmas music instinctively makes me happy. Eleven months out of the year, we’re forced to listen to songs about “hotline bling” and “anacondas” (fact: it’s not actually about snakes) so it’s refreshing to hear lyrics about happy kids and a happy world when neither of those generally exists.


The only exception to happy Christmas music is that damn song “Christmas Shoes” about orphaned kids or childhood cancer or some shit. I try to avoid it because whoever thought that song would ever be a good follow-up to “Jingle Bell Rock” on the radio deserves a frying pan to the face.
But anyway, another Christmas song that drives me bonkers is the two-steps-away-from-jumping-over-the-ledge, “Grown Up Christmas List.” This is a deceiving title because when I think about what adults want, I think about booze and a high-yielding Roth IRA. However, apparently this “festive” bullshit is all about world peace and friendship which makes me fall asleep faster than watching a live Congressional vote on C-SPAN. For example, who in their right mind jams hard to this song with these lyrics:

So here’s my lifelong wish,
My grown-up Christmas list,
Not for myself, but for a world in need:

No more lives torn apart,
Then wars would never start,
And time would heal all hearts.
And every one would have a friend,
And right would always win,
And love would never end
This is my grown-up Christmas list

Who wrote this song? Mother Teresa? Gandhi? Am I the only selfish, piece of crap that actually wants things instead of universal love and free hugs for Christmas? If Bono and Angelina Jolie can’t get world peace then I’m sure as hell not about to waste a Santa-wish on it. Instead, I created my own “Grown Up Christmas List” that applies to a lot of thirty-something women that are such chronic messes; they’re known to accidentally put in (and wear) their husband’s contacts. I won’t mention any names, but…sorry, Ryan.


My (Own Version of) Grown-Up Christmas List:

  • To never go to the gynecologist again. Unless I’m pregnant, accidentally slept with Kid Rock or my vagina is falling off, why do I need to be seen every year?
  • That Adam Sandler would stop making movies. It’s painful for America as a whole.
  • That the Oscars were on twice a year and that college basketball wasn’t on ever.
  • That when I Google “baby constipation,” something other than a search result containing “rectal thermometer stimulation” shows up.
  • That my boobs look as perky as Sophia Vergara’s and my skin is as tight as Sandra Bullocks when I’m their age. Or right now, actually. I look like shit.
  • More wine.
  • More wine, more often.
  • To sit on the toilet as long as I want and get out all of my pee without interruption (or at least read one article in my US Weekly concerning Gavin Rossdale and/or Ben Affleck giving the nanny some overtime hours, if ya catch my drift).
  • That the devil returns Kris Jenner’s soul.
  • That overnight anti-aging creams actually work overnight.
  • My son stops chewing his crib rails like a rabid, feral animal.
  • My daughter stops telling me that I need a band-aid on my c-section scar. It’s been three years kid. That shit ain’t getting any better with a Johnson and Johnson strip slapped on it.
  • That Barbie’s hair was more manageable. 10 minutes out of the box and she already looks like a low-rent hooker after a night on the streets.
  • That I didn’t just discover an old milk bottle under my couch.
  • That I had time and a functioning memory that reminded me to check under the couch for souring and smelly milk bottles.
  • That coffee IV’s were real. People always joke about them, but I’m 100% f^%$ing serious about this endeavor. We send rockets into space, but we can’t safely pump my veins with caffeine so I can stay awake long enough to bathe my children and watch three episodes of “Full House?” Where the hell are the priorities in this country?
  • That my children eventually like being clothed as much as they like being nude.
  • That my son will stop peeing on the carpet while nude.
  • To eat a warm dinner before being requested to grab a fork for someone, picking up half of the meal off the floor before I’ve taken a bite and most importantly, not wiping an ass mid-meal.
  • A new mattress that I could get my regular maximum five hours of non-REM sleep on.

With less than 48 hours until Christmas and a botchy internet connection, I’m not sure this will make it to Santa on time. However, the liquor store is open until 10pm and I have a gift card for wine…


Merry Mom Christmas!

Lonely on the Island of Mom Fails

Maybe I’m in need of a rapid-fire therapy session. Or some high-dosage anxiety medicine. Or most likely, I just need to drink more.

I’ve been in a parental-rut the past week or so. I feel like I’m trudging through the day, looking for a mommy life boat to come rescue me. Maybe it’s Christmastime stress, work ramping up, but I feel like a lousy everything lately. I’m forgetful, absentminded, unprepared, delayed, despondent and exhausted.


Allow me to enlighten you on my latest failures. Feel free to judge my actions, but if you do, I’ll remind you that it’s been scientifically proven that you also suck.

Last to pick up at preschool. I was seven minutes late to Caroline’s school. Seven. That’s not even enough time to take a shit or listen to the entirety of “Free Bird” and the school looked like it was the first target of the zombie apocalypse: completely deserted.


There was my daughter, with her book bag on, the only child apparently left in the school, helping her teacher clean up after the day. Hats off to the moms that are at school at 2:45 and don’t have to leave work early, drive 40 minutes and nearly rear end every senior citizen to get there on time at 3pm which according to “mom code” already makes me late. The best part was that Caroline’s reaction to my arrival was: “Oh, I thought Aunt April was coming to get me.”

Kanye West

Thanks for nothing

Forgot my son’s birthday. While on the phone with the doctor’s office, they expectedly asked me Oliver’s birthdate to pull up his file. She could have asked me who the fourth prime minister of Australia was or to explain the chemical breakdown of lactose because I was completely drawing a blank. He was born in September, yes. But was he born on the 14th in the year 2016? Nope. Incorrect. That’s the future. Is it the 14th in 2012? Shit, no. That’s Caroline’s birth year. Maybe the 15th? Nope, that was my due date. I finally stumbled upon the correct day and felt like I had just solved Final Jeopardy. I could feel her quiet judgment on the other end of the phone like “what dumb chick forgets her son’s birthday?” The answer is me and probably Michelle Duggar.


Late to schedule Oliver’s one year appointment. This wouldn’t be a red-flag ordinarily, but apparently there is such a thing as “15 month vaccines” and when your son is 14 months old, your doctor is going to casually suggest combining 12 and 15 month shots. So my poor baby who just wants to play with toy trucks and pee on the carpet like a mini heathen was given six shots at his appointment on Tuesday. Prior to his appointment, his world was innocent and full of sunshine and rainbows. Now, he’s distrustful of modern medicine and me as a parent. Good news is that he’s vaccinated from everything from polio to shin splints. Bad news is that Caroline yelled “DON’T SHOOT MY BROTHER!” at the nurse who was only holding syringes and not an AK-47 like Caroline apparently thought.

Forgot snack day at preschool. Yup, another preschool fail here. It was Caroline’s day to bring in some gluten free, grass fed, peanut-allergy safe, organically made, no fructose corn syrup bullshit, fu-fu snack to school on Thursday. Too bad we forgot.


Despite the teachers having a “snack backlog” (no doubt in response to shitty parents like ourselves), I just imagined ten toddlers sitting at the table sobbing over their snackless bowls like they’re all Oliver Damn Twist and them staring down Caroline as if she were to blame for their growling stomachs and the economic recession of 2008. I’m certain she’s an outcast as a result of my forgetfulness. Who likes the girl that forgets SNACKS? I certainly don’t and I’m her mother.

Immobile Elf on the Shelf. Here’s how I rank some of the worst inventions of mankind: intercontinental ballistic missiles, landmines and Elf on the Shelf. What asshole made this piece of crap and why are all of us buying into it?


Upon coming home the other day, Caroline noticed that her elf hadn’t moved and stated, “I guess she isn’t magical like you said.” I told her that the elf was tired the night before, but she wasn’t having it. She said the elf could go back to her village which is definitely toddler-talk for “go to hell mom.” I should have just been honest with her: “your elf didn’t move because mom had two glasses of wine and your dad was playing video games. Some things are more important in life, young child.”

Needless to say, this week has been all sorts of just bad and I’m happy to know it’s over and that Christmas break is approaching. At least I can say that I remembered Caroline’s 4:45pm Wednesday gymnastic class.

I remembered it alright…at 4:58pm.

I suck.





From the Mouth of My Babe v.2

If you ever had the scary lucky privilege of interacting with Caroline, you know that she is a character. She is like a thirty-something, sassy, high-class woman in the body of a three year old. I’m so proud of her attitude yet simultaneously scared of the independent spirit she possesses. I’m convinced that she’ll be smart enough to become President, but then I worry she’d tell ISIS they’re ugly or tell Putin he needs hair plugs.


As part of my popular series (it’s not popular, I just like to say that), I’ve documented some sharp-witted, feisty Caroline comments that help demonstrate the little Dictator-Royal I’ve raised.



“You look like a commoner”

Well, I am so there’s that. Nothing like your three year old telling you that your appearance is basic. We all can’t wear leotards and plastic high heels and not look like a person in need of an involuntary psych stay, I guess.


So #basic


Princesses just don’t wear pants”

I suppose there’s some truth to this, but what about Princess Jasmine? When I tried debating this with her, her response was “she is special.”

So are you Caroline, so are you.



Ryan: “Where’s my iPad?”

Caroline: “Somewhere safe”

This is clearly Caroline’s audition for the role of a kidnapper in the reboot of “24.” Telling someone that his or her possession is “somewhere safe,” but not revealing its location is a clear terrorist tactic. “Oh you want your daughter back, Jack Bauer? She’s somewhere safe—unless you don’t give me 500 trillion dollars I need then she’s at the bottom of the Hudson River.”


“Don’t you tell me that bad word ‘no!’”

I wouldn’t have to tell you that “bad word” if you didn’t just smack the dog with a fairy wand after doing an unprovoked cannon-ball and landing 12 inches away from your baby brother’s face. Two acts of assault in a 30 second time frame sometimes requires the word “no.”


Santa: “What do you want me to bring you for Christmas?”

Caroline: Clothes.

This is not a good sign for things to come. Better start saving up—she’ll discover the difference between Target and Nordstrom clothes any day now.


Our future


Blog Signature Pink

When Bad Things Happen to Good Clothes

{{Thank you everyone  that commented, messaged and shared my last post. It was nice to get a year’s worth of feelings off my chest AND to have it so warmly received– you are all the best!}}


Hi everyone! I hope you all had a wonderful Thanksgiving. Since we weren’t in the hospital this year eating Lucky Charms and Sour Patch Kids for dinner (historically accurate as that is what the Pilgrims and Native Americans ate), we went to Ryan’s aunt’s house for a proper feast.

Surprisingly enough, we woke up nice and early to enjoy two full cups of coffee, a pancake breakfast and the Thanksgiving parade. I really hyped up the parade to Caroline and it turns out that the parade is actually awful. Like, why do I need to watch 15 different lip synced snippets of various shitty musicals followed by Jordin Sparks singing a seductive song while on a Goldilocks and the Three Bears float? Who the hell approved a woman basically grinding a pole on stage with classic children story characters? Why?


The only redeeming quality was introducing Caroline to the Rockettes. We obviously watched their performance three times and tried to imitate it. Caroline’s kicks were pretty impressive while mine practically left me with a pulled hamstring.


We left after Oliver woke up from his nap and I was so on top of my game that I had walked the dog, packed the car and curled my hair. We even hit up Dunkin’ Donuts 20 minutes before they closed and they gave us a bag full of donut holes despite only asking for a handful. Peeps were feeling the season of giving!

A good day so far.

After getting on the thruway for our hour-long ride, Caroline began complaining of a belly-ache. Now to complicate the situation: Caroline has thrown up in the car about 459 times (the only way to get rid of that smell is to actually set the damn car on fire and let it reach around 2,000 degrees for about an hour, make sure that the insides are fully charred), but this is also the girl that would request a prayer chain for a freaking hang nail. To say that she’s dramatic is an understatement. She will find week-old bruises on her body and make an attempt to file for Disability.

So I was in the dilemma of believing her complaints or potentially encouraging her dramatic tendencies.


Like a good parent, I told her to cool her jets and look out the window for stray, roadside cats.

We exited the thruway and as we approached the tolls, I turned around to see Caroline’s pale, sick face. She was going to puke.

I had to make a split-second decision: I could watch it happen and have her Gap Kids outfit be irreversibly stained or I could find anything to catch it with.


Glancing quickly, I only saw a spare fleece jacket that I use on the way to work in the mornings. It wasn’t a bucket, but it seemed far more useful than watching her adorable owl dress be forever sacrificed to the puke gods.

So while Ryan was still driving, I leaned back still buckled in, scooped up the jacket, held it to Caroline’s mouth and caught her vomit.


It is weird moments like that that showcase how particularly strange motherhood is. If you told me five years ago that I would arrive to Thanksgiving dinner with stuffed pepper appetizers and the physical remnants of my child’s car sickness, I would have given you serious side eye. But that’s parenthood for you: without thinking, you catch and bag a toddler’s puke.

The real tragedy is my generic North Face fleece that will be forever scarred by this event. You can’t come back from that shit. Maybe if it were an authentic North Face, it could have fought back. But this was from Wal-Mart—it didn’t even put up a fight.

Did I mention that it was white?

Rest in peace.


                                                Pour one out for the fake fleece