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

TBT: Throwback Thanksgiving (One I Won’t Forget)

I’ve never been much of a fan of Thanksgiving. It’s a lot of fuss for a standard meal involving dry poultry and bland mashed potatoes. Add in the forced family interaction, travel and limited wine supply and it’s just a stress-filled day that only signifies the start of an even more stressful time—Christmas.

At any rate, it’s never been my favorite. Going into last year’s Thanksgiving festivities was no exception. I was 10 weeks postpartum and still navigating the strange, overwhelming world of being a stay-at-home mom to two. Thanksgiving represented a day that I’d be forced to leave the house, put on make-up and pretend to have my shit together. I wasn’t psyched.

On Thanksgiving Eve, while waiting for Ryan to come home from work, I decided to do a craft with Caroline while Oliver napped in his bouncy chair. Caroline and I were going to paint some wooden Christmas ornaments I had picked up and give them to a few of my in-laws at Thanksgiving dinner the next day. I always think about being thoughtful, but rarely act upon it so I was excited that we were going to show up to Thanksgiving with a homemade present for everyone. Mom points for me!


About an hour before “it” happened

While trying to teach Caroline not to mix paint colors so every ornament wasn’t brown, I heard a loud, unfamiliar sound coming from the living room.

It was Oliver.

Thrashing in his bouncy chair.



Eyes rolled back into his head.

Not breathing.

I scooped him up, completely clueless as to what to do. There are no books or forums that give you information on this. There are countless pieces of advice for newborn sleeping patterns, but never did I run across an article about what to do when your baby is lifeless during a nap.

My instincts told me to jolt him, to shake him, to shout his name and to simultaneously beg God to get us both out of this situation safely.

Holding him above my head with trembling arms for what felt like a thousand years but was most likely just seconds, he came back to me.

I gripped him to my chest, completely clueless as to what had just happened. His color came back, his eyes locked with mine and he resumed newborn normalcy.

Before I knew it, Ryan’s car pulled into the driveway and I bombarded him with what had just happened. Not one to dramatize situations or ever be truly concerned, Ryan was hesitant of my story. I couldn’t provide details, I was flustered, the baby was perfectly fine now, but minutes ago he wasn’t breathing. Or was he seizing? What had happened? Why couldn’t I explain it? Did I make it up? Was I exaggerating events? I was so confused.

We debated for a few minutes and I finally decided to take him to the Emergency Room, fully expecting them to send us home since Oliver appeared perfectly normal again. They’d probably just give us some lame explanation, look at me like I was a crazy person and send us on our way. I’d be back in time to tuck Caroline into bed.

Once at the ER, they questioned me about what had happened and chalked it up to something called an ALTE or “Apparent Life Threatening Event” which was as reassuring as it sounds. Essentially, they believed Oliver had stopped breathing, but they didn’t know why and hoped that it was a one-time event. Having been there for hours, I just wanted to go home and resume life when the doctor said that we would have to spend the night as a precaution. I countered him with the promise that I’d call the pediatrician in the morning and make an appointment with her, but he wouldn’t budge. He wanted to observe Oliver a little while longer so I called my sister to bring up some pajamas for us and settled in for the night.


My mom and sister left and I settled in for the night with Oliver. I fully expected to be at Thanksgiving dinner the next day because Oliver showed no symptoms of anything and hospitals don’t usually keep healthy kids. We’d be discharged by 9am, I figured.

I fell asleep watching “Gilmore Girls” (duh) and thought that I was a crazy, dramatic, over-exaggerating mother who maybe saw her baby do something weird and then whisked him off to the Emergency Room. I kind of felt stupid, to be honest. How do you explain that you maybe, kind of, possibly saw your baby not breathe and that’s why you’re late to Thanksgiving dinner?

In the middle of the night, I woke up to several nurses with panic-stricken faces standing over a sleeping Oliver. They were trying to jolt him to breathe—flashing lights in his face, rubbing his belly, screaming his name. His oxygen had dropped dangerously low and he wasn’t recovering by himself. I wasn’t crazy. Something was wrong with our baby.

We spent an entire week in the hospital trying to narrow down and rule out what could be causing these episodes. Every night while he slept, he would have these episodes and each morning the team of doctors would look more clueless than the previous day. Eventually, they concluded that he was born with narrow airways that became obstructed when he slept.


He had to have surgery at 11 weeks old.

We were sent home from the hospital with an oximeter to track his oxygen.


A 12-pound baby had an oxygen machine and portable oxygen tanks.


We spent months waking up to the jarring sounds of his alarm telling us that he wasn’t breathing.

He had three overnight sleep studies.


I came to dread sleep. It represented a time that I had no control over my son’s wellbeing.

During the day he was fine and over time, people stopped being concerned and stopped asking how he was doing. He was hitting milestones, growing like a weed and overjoyed by everything. When I’d mention how scary this all was, others usually dismissed my concerns with a “he’s going to be fine” which I quickly realized was never what I wanted to hear. How’d they know he was going to be fine? It’s so easy to excuse a person’s fears and emotions when they aren’t the one there, experiencing it all firsthand.


Over the past year, I’ve coped with Oliver’s problems with humor. I’ve joked that our parental expectations are embarrassingly low because all we ask is that he breathes. I’ve called him “Old Man Apnea.” I’ve joked about how awkward his wedding night will be when I tell his new wife to monitor his oxygen and make sure he doesn’t get too excited.

Humor and sarcasm works well temporarily, but in all honesty, this last year has scarred us in a lot of ways. Sometimes I think back to last year and realize that I actually found my son not breathing. I hate to think of all the things that could have happened (and would have happened) if we didn’t take him to the hospital last year.


On Monday, the results from his latest sleep study came back. Ryan and I were convinced that his troubles were over. He’s excelling. He’s golden. This chapter is closed.

Except it’s not.

The study found that he’s still averaging nine non-breathing episodes an hour. Now he is on two medicines a day to help with airway inflammation and we’re right where we were months and months ago. To say that this was disheartening news is an understatement.

I know that when people look at Oliver, they don’t see his issues. They don’t see all that I had to see or feel all that we felt. I know other people have it far worse than he does. But that doesn’t make our feelings any less significant. He’s our baby and his issues are real, they’re scary and they’re still present.

Last year’s Thanksgiving didn’t make me like the holiday anymore, but it forever symbolizes something much more to me now. What used to represent a day of football and food now represents my deep gratitude for modern medicine, for hospitals, for nurses that work holidays and hugged me at my lowest place as a parent, for doctors that don’t give up until they find an answer, for insurance that helped cover the exorbitant costs of scans, studies and medicine.

Last year’s Thanksgiving showed me the strength of my marriage and our ability to laugh through a crisis.

It made me grateful for my daughter whose youthful ignorance to stress saved me and made me smile.

But most of all, last year’s Thanksgiving made me thankful for something that we all take for granted each day: the little breaths that keep us alive. Whenever I hold Oliver, I’m thankful that I can. Last year’s Thanksgiving showed me that nothing is guaranteed in life, but that you should appreciate everything in life.

I love you Oliver and I will devote every Thanksgiving to savoring the sweet life of yours that I am blessed to see everyday.

Happy Thanksgiving, everyone <3


Boston Remembered

A few Wednesday’s ago, (at around 12:30AM), I got home from three days and two nights spent in Boston with a few hundred high school seniors and some very brave teachers that volunteered as chaperones. I had never been to Boston and I can say that despite being the home of the Red Sox, the city is awesome. On top of that, it was also my first time being away from the kids.


Spoiler alert, moms: they can survive without us! It’s crazy, really.

Not that I don’t trust Ryan, but I figured three days alone with the kids would have me coming back to a house that looked like Axel Rose was a guest. Thankfully, the kids still had all of their limbs and I didn’t find any groupies in the closets.

The trip was sincerely a blast, made better by a great group of kids and incredibly fun adults. Because I have zero shame and am unafraid of public embarrassment, the highlight of the trip was the dinner dance at the hotel where I was the 30 year old, married mother of two dancing awkwardly to today’s hits with a bunch of hip 17 year olds. If I had a shred of pride left, doing the robot-dance to a Fetty Wap song erased it.


Aside from the embarrassing and outdated dance moves, there were several things that made Boston memorable.


For example, I discovered the joy of a $6 Starbucks drink. I figured “why the hell not?” when I ordered it and for the price, I think there’s organic elephant tusks and gluten-free diamond water in it. No regrets though because it was delicious and undoubtedly more calories than a tub of buttercream frosting.


I also learned that Boston takes flushing very seriously. When you have different flushes for pee and poop, you know your city is going places.


Also upon our travels, I toured Harvard University before quickly realizing that Elle Woods was nowhere to be found.


Instead, it was miles of brick buildings and incredibly smart students.


I could feel their eyes searing a hole in me as if they just knew I barely broke a four digit score on the SAT’s. Smug assholes. Say what you want about my unknown college, but at least we don’t have “The Unabomber” on our list of known graduates. Ha!


Overall, the trip was a ton of fun and I’m pretty sure that I kept my “crazy mom that’s away from her kids and misses them more than life” under wraps. It was a major mom-obstacle to be away from them and not be there for bedtime, baths, hugs and playtime. But we all survived.

And for three days, my clothes went without booger smears and shit stains.

I’ll consider that a win.

Currently <10_26_15>

Listen, I suck at multitasking. Some of the bloggers I read get up at 4am to run 8 miles, commute 2 hours to work, work 9 hours, commute 2 hours back home and then prepare dinner for their family.

I’m lucky if I can remember to pack Oliver’s bottles for the sitter AND put a lid on my travel mug. That’s the accomplishment-equivalent of securing world peace in my book.

With that being said, I thought I’d conveniently steal a post from one of my favorite bloggers, Colleen. I can’t find the time to keep my kids alive and come up with my own blog material—I’M NOT BEYONCE.

So here goes nothing…

Current Book:

The only damn book I read these days is “World History: Patterns of Interaction Student Edition” textbook. It’s a real page-turner, guys. I wonder how it’s all going to turn out: will Napoleon really invade Russia in the winter? Is militarism a cause for both of the world wars? How could it be?! Will the Korea’s ever unify? It’s all so captivating, really.

Current Music:

Um, we are obsessed with Drake’s “Hotline Bling” in this house. I don’t even know what “Hotline Bling” actually is. In my head, it’s like a call center for big-butted women. When you need a woman with a large ass to come to your bedside, you “hotline bling” her and somewhere in a busy cubical-filled office, a phone rings to answer this request
I don’t know what Drake is talking about (does anyone?), but I hold a special place in my heart for people that feature themselves dancing a solo salsa in a psychedelic rubric cube.

Current Guilty Pleasure:

Did you read what I wrote above?

Current Nail Color:

The new Essie shade called “Too Busy for that Shit.” Gah, I miss painting my nails to match my daily outfits! Being an adult ruins everything.

Current Drink:


Pumpkin spice coffee from Dunkin’ Donuts. Go ahead and call me “basic,” but I would lay down pumpkin coffee in a bed of roses and make out with it if I could. Offer me pumpkin spice in July when it’s nowhere to be found and I’d probably offer up my own kidney for a cup for it.

Current Food:

Maybe I’ve been buying Pillsbury cookie dough and making myself six cookies each night. Maybe. Refer to my thighs for confirmation.

Current Favorite TV Show:

“Gilmore Girls.”

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ALWAYS “Gilmore Girls!” Every day.

It was announced last week that GG is being revived on Netflix. Just like the day when JFK was assassinated, I will always remember where and what I was doing when I heard “Gilmore Girls” is coming back.

Aside from seeing double lines on the EPT, this was the best news of my life. 

Current Bane of My Existence:

Childhood constipation. Why can’t babies have coffee to make them “regular?” Holy hell. No kid is going to voluntarily down some prunes to ensure that they take a shit. What do I do?!

Current Celebrity Crush:

No idea. Someone hot like Bernie Sanders or something?


 Current Indulgence:

I spent a pretty penny at the mall yesterday on new work clothes. I basically bought two outfits and spent my entire salary. I hate shopping. If you gave me $500 and told me to go buy myself some clothes, I’d just stand there staring at you blankly and wonder why I couldn’t buy pie with that money.

Current Blessing:

About to get real here: my babies. I love them so damn much and there isn’t a day that goes by that I’m not reminded of how lucky I am that they’re our babies. We could have gotten some real duds, but we lucked out with these ones.


Current Slang:

My students taught me to say “that’s neck” when someone’s doing something dumb. You’re also supposed to then slap their neck. I have no idea. I’m so damn old, I can’t keep up with this shit. 

Current Outfit:

A dingy pair of sweat pants and an old college t-shirt. Men reading this: stop getting so turned on. Really. I’m married!

Current Excitement:

HALLOWEEN! It’s my favorite! Man, I freaking love Halloween. Caroline loves it too so we’re going to have a blast on Saturday. And yes, I’m going to pimp Oliver out with a bucket to collect candy that he can’t actually eat, but I can. That’s what parenting is all about. 


Halloween Costume Complications

Legitimately every time I have a moment to write, I sit down at my computer, fighting exhaustion, open up a Word document and then somehow end up on Halloween costume websites. It happens every time. I don’t know how, but it does. It’s like every time I open up a bottle of wine, I somehow end up drunk dancing to Journey. Shit just happens against my own free will.

Halloween is by far my favorite day/time of year because it involves zero family obligations and pressure to buy the perfect gift. No one is saying “Are you coming for Halloween dinner?” and then making us feel bad because we aren’t. It’s a “do your own thing” day, which is perfect because I plan to scare the absolute shit out of small children for fun.


The dilemma is that I simply cannot decide on a costume for my children. It should be something that will be recognizable and familiar to people (example: being Professor Wiseman from “Curious George” is out because no one knows who the hell that is), classically themed (I don’t want to look back and wonder why I thought it was a good idea to dress them up as characters from “Duck Dynasty”) and something that we can do as a family (well at least, Oliver and Caroline while they still get along as little ones).


Last year, Caroline was a pirate which easy to coordinate among the rest of us. She was in a pirate phase so this was a no-brainer, but all she’s into this year are big poufy princess dresses that she has a ton of. Her closet is something out of a Disney drag queen’s dream. Every day is princess dress-up day so I’m trying to gear her something different on Halloween and so far we’ve narrowed it down to her being a witch with the rest of us following in the “scary” theme.

But have you perused costume websites lately? First off, the possibilities are endless and overwhelming in terms of selection. But secondly, who is approving of some these costumes? For example, the seductive girl cop:


I know this has been addressed on social media already, but what the HELL? Whenever I see a female police officer, I’m pretty sure she’s always been wearing pants. Never have I seen a woman cop holding handcuffs like she was about to use them for kinky bedroom antics instead of arresting criminals. Furthermore, why the fingerless gloves and knee high boots? Neither one of those is professionally practical. I can barely walk through a dark, pothole-laden parking lot in boots without busting my ass. How’s this “cop” supposed to chase bad guys through the mean streets of the cities looking like a damn hooker? That’s horseshit. Somewhere in heaven, Susan B. Anthony is PISSED about this, I’m sure.

SO that’s out.

Some of these costumes are so beyond strange that I’m not sure who has ever bought them for their child and I cannot imagine any child willingly wanting to dress up in said costume:


Who the hell is like “my son should definitely be a lederhosen boy!” Huh?! Who loves German culture that much that this needs to be a Halloween costume and most importantly, who wrote this description of the costume?

Ah, Oktoberfest! Those Germans really know how to party. Plenty of cold, frothy beer. Big, fat sausages with names that are fun to pronounce and meat that’s even more fun to eat. Festive ladies in white blouses and long, blond pigtails. Just don’t show up wearing your Hawaiian shirts and Bermuda shorts. You need to step up your fashion game for a festival THIS international. And that means not forgetting the kids. Just because they’re a decade and a half short of being able to drink doesn’t mean that they can’t look just as festive while they’re chowing on a boterhamwurst, And they will definitely look the part in this lederhosen boy costume. He’ll look like he’s ready to party like it’s NEINteen NEINty NEIN. A fun little German pun, there!

There’s so much wrong with that. First, the emphasis on “big, fat sausages” makes me uncomfortable. That sounds like a synopsis of an HBO after-dark special. Secondly, I love that this encourages copious amounts of drinking. “Yeah, so you’re getting shit faced, but don’t forget about those ankle biters of yours. Dress those little assholes up because this is a FESTIVAL for ALL and Child Protective Services says you can’t leave them home alone!” Lastly, the “nein” references are exhausting. Whoever wrote that really loves Germany and drugs.

Speaking of Germany and drugs, I’d also like to know who is dressing their kid up on a satanic day as a nun.


Are you looking for a one-way pass into hell? I love me some God and Catholicism as much as the next person, but way to automatically make your kid the outcast. No one wants to bring the nun to go toilet paper the principal’s house—you know a freaking nun is not only going to confess to God, but she’s also taking info straight to the police. Certainly there has to be a middle ground between “sexy ladybug” and “nun” for girls on Halloween, right?

Hmm…wait…maybe I found the middle ground for us girls: a red peasant dress!


You know, that one day of the year when you can dress as ANYTHING in the world: a princess, an astronaut, a ferocious lion, your favorite character—why wouldn’t you dress as a poor person from the feudalism era? Nothing gets me more excited on Halloween than the historical exploitation of the working class! And look at this girl, she’s barefoot and EVERYTHING! It’s every little girl’s dream to dress up as an skilled laborer from the 1700s that couldn’t afford a loaf of bread. Good times, good times.

Oh snaps, we’re back to being slutty guys because your child can be a GEISHA! It says that you can teach your daughter about “Asian culture” with this costume.


Sooooo I can put her in this costume, load her face up with make-up while she “entertains” Japanese men? That sounds cool. Next year, she can be Julia Roberts’ character from “Pretty Woman.”

Only one thing to say about this costume: your son looks like a penis.

toddler-earthworm-costumeThe end. 



Oh Hi!


This is of course, long overdue. I promised myself that when I went back to work, I wouldn’t let my blog responsibilities slide. I mean, I have a responsibility to the public to make them happy. I’m basically like the president without the suits and actual responsibility, but whatever.

Anyway, all my plans for this blog were kind of punched in the face when I freaking got SHINGLES. While the rash is gone for the most part, the pain was awful. It’s starting to take a turn the better, which is great because popping 10 pills a day (literally) was making me feel like Lindsey Lohan and really try to live a life where I don’t feel like her on a regular basis.

I’m left with an ugly, deep scar on my forehead, which at least gives me some street-cred because I look like this gangster:


So what else is new aside from shingles and work, you ask? Allow me to provide you with a riveting look at the current happenings of my life:

  1. Caroline and Oliver both had birthdays and we chose to have a joint party on a day that broke rain records. It was like throwing a party in the middle of freaking Hurricane Katrina. The real tragedy was that our promised and scheduled bounce house was never delivered due to the rain so we had 40 people crammed into our wise. Needless to say, we ran out of wine and I may have had a lot to do with that.



  2. I still hate hosting parties. Like, why the hell do I need to care about whether or not you need a drink? Are you thirsty? THEN GET A DRINK.
  3. Caroline started preschool. She’s one week in and so far her teacher isn’t contemplating retirement. We had to fill out a questionnaire on what we’d like her to learn and I said the generic “to share!” but what I really wanted to say was “behavior that resembles a sane human.” Oh, and to wipe properly.
  4. I saw someone at Target wearing a “this face deserves compassion too” Timothy McVeigh t-shirt so I mean…that’s cool…if you like that sort of thing.
  5. Having shingles allowed me the opportunity to catch up on “Scandal.” That dumb show. It went from being likably unrealistic to the damn president literally starting a war with another country so he could save his extramarital sidepiece who was kidnapped by the Vice President in a coup attempt on the government. I couldn’t tell if I had taken too many meds or if this storyline was in fact real.
  6. When getting ready for work in the morning, I’ve been listening to a podcast where two straight men analyze episodes of “Gilmore Girls” and it’s freaking great. I have nothing else to add here.
  7. Caroline started soccer last week. Clearly she gets her affinity for team sports from her mother:

Okay, well we are off for a Sunday morning of grocery shopping, pet store shopping, coffee drinking and football viewing and I can feel Ryan’s judgmental eyes staring at me to get moving.



Why OH Why

Early last week, I had a bad headache, earache and an uncomfortable patch on my scalp. Then on Wednesday, I woke up with some bright red blotches on my forehead. Now, because I am a medically trained doctor who did my residency in “Bitch Knows Everything,” I chalked it up to the following:

Headache = Listening to constant kid cries/not enough wine/my period/too much wine/brain tumor per Dr. WebMD

Earache= Listening to constant kid cries/swimmer’s ear/build-up of earwax or some shit/brain tumor per Dr. WebMD

Scalp= Sunburnt scalp/brain tumor per Dr. WebMD

Red Blotchy Skin = eczema/brain tumor per Dr. WebMD

I decided to go to my dermatologist because I figured she could pump me up with some creams and a pep talk about how pretty I’d be again, but instead she sat down, sighed and said: “You have shingles.”


By that evening, shit got real and it’s been mostly downhill since then. I thought shingles was just adult chickenpox, but apparently it’s much more awful than that. Mainly because you get chickenpox in kindergarten (or used to anyway? They have a vaccine for it now so go science!) when no one gives a true crap about what you look like. When you have shingles, you’re a fully-functioning adult that still has to be seen in public by other fully-functioning and judgmental adults. It’s just awful.

My red blotches quickly evolved into a deep, painful rash that looked and felt like someone had poured acid on my face. Supposedly the virus sits on a set of nerves so I keep having incredibly painful spasms on the right side of my face that painkillers are very slow in actually killing.

Shingles usually lasts from 2-4 weeks which is great because I was wondering what kind of impression I could make on my co-workers that I haven’t seen in a year when I return to work next week and bam, why not oozing blisters and hardened scabs? People are going to be scramming to make sure their desk is right next to mine.

I think it’s starting to look a little better, but that’s like saying Freddy Krueger’s face looks a little better after a facial—not that good at all.

Now because my meds are finally starting to work, I must end this here, go to bed to watch “Scandal” and think about my head buried in a pile of snow to deter the real feeling of it being burned to a crisp.

OH and since I didn’t want this to be a picture-less post, but I also didn’t want to include a picture of my own face (those are reserved for my VERY lucky family and friends when I ask them over text to critique whether the rash has progressed), I thought I’d include this picture:

There, now every time you see an adorable kitten or puppy, you’ll think of my shingles. Isn’t that great?!

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Sounds A Mom Hears When She’s Just Trying to Pee

One of the quickest things you learn when you become a mom is that all privacy is gone. If you’re breastfeeding, you probably showed your boobs to 64% of the citizens in your town. If you need to take a shower, there’s probably a toddler in the shower with you or a baby staring outside the shower door watching you (I usually have both! #blessed) and if you desperately need to pee? Well forget about discretion and modesty because you peeing is equivalent to Elsa making a damn three-story ice palace with just her hands and her inner animosityit’s fascinating so expect an audience.

8b43346a4f730e0710494599d5c432c8Because I had two kids who used my bladder as a punching bag, I have to pee a lot and with that comes certain risks. It means that the children will be unsupervised and even though it could be for as little as 30 seconds, any mother knows that 30 seconds is enough time for a toddler to somehow assemble and detonate a bomb. So with that being said, I’ve written down the various sounds that I hear when trying to quickly escape into the bathroom without the kids.


Splashing: the mobile baby is playing in the dog’s water bowl which is great because it’s full of food debris from an animal that has his teeth brushed as often as I go to the gynecologist.

Screaming: the toddler is attacking the baby because of that one time four months ago that he accidentally mistook her giraffe blanket as his doggie blanket—what a fool! He must pay. With mom out of the room, the madwoman-toddler’s opportunity for revenge is in full effect. As mom rushes out of the bathroom to save the baby, the screams lessen and the toddler proudly announces that the baby “likes” when she pins him down against his will.

Whispers/Silence: They’re scheming and this should cause great panic. They could be looking up gang memberships, planting booby traps along the stairwell, hiding knives for a future assault or planning to enter me into a nursing home against my will at age 30.

Computer Keyboard: The toddler is trying to discretely load Netflix, but seeing as how she can’t read, write or operate a computer, she is somehow electronically sending my bank information to Botswana and deleting my entire folder of files from freshman year of college.

Door Opening: Dear God, they’re going outside. Do I stop them? I think I’ve given them enough skills to survive in the wild. Wait. The baby doesn’t know how to climb down the stairs and I know his sister won’t help him (see “grudge” above). I’m pretty sure Child Protective Services will come if they’re outside unattended for too long and I really don’t need social workers up my ass when I still have 11 episodes left of “Scandal” to watch.

There are of course other questionable sounds (like the dreaded “crackle” of a chip bag), but these are the most common in our house. With my second baby, I’ve become a little more laid back in regards to stopping these noises. Part of me now knows that they will be fine while I’m in bathroom and the other part of me just really wants to analyze the “Who Wore It Better” pictorial in my OK Magazine without an audience or interruption.


Bieber vs. Kris Jenner is like Satan vs. Satan

A mom can dream can’t she?

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From the Mouth of my Babe…

Like most toddlers, Caroline is naturally hilarious. Toddlers are like pint-size comediennes that speak a language you aren’t fluent in. You’ll listen because they’re passionate about what they’re saying and you’ll laugh because you have no idea what the hell they’re talking about. Also humorous are the intermittent curse words that you know they don’t truly understand the meaning of, but you’re at least proud they used them in the right context.


With that being said, I’ve collected a few “Caroline Gems” over the past week or that I’d like to share…

“I want the baseball ladies to come to our house and DON’T say ‘I don’t know what that means.’”

Well then Caroline, I literally have no other response to that because what does that mean? Do you want the chicks from “A League of their Own” to stop over? Do you mean the wives of baseball players? And what are we going to do with them when they do get to our house? You don’t have enough coordination to independently wipe your own ass, let alone catch a baseball.

“You have big boobs and I have little boobs. Daddy doesn’t have boobs- he has balls.”

At least she’s on the track to pass Anatomy class.

Pointing to the toilet bowl after she went potty:

“Look at my crap.”

“What did you say?”

“I mean diarrhea”

Nothing is more ladylike than a little princess describing her bathroom ordeals and using words like “crap.” I’m not going to say that she learned that word from me, but I’m also pretty sure she learned that word from me.

“I got a fever from frogs jumping on me.”

Spoken like someone who would have been best friends with Britney Spears circa 2007. You seriously need to have that checked out by a doctor.


Singing: “I am who I am! I don’t need a man!”

My little feminist! But who is going to kill the spiders, Caroline? Or fix the toilet when it’s backed up from all of your “crap?” Men are handy for certain things.

“We don’t even know what we know.

That is some Level 5 Stephen Hawking shit. Like, what does that even mean? It’s so deep that I can’t even begin to decipher it. Are we all living lies? Are we all dumb? Why don’t we know anything? Pour some scotch and lets discuss the deeper philosophical meanings of life, please.



Until next time on “Caroline is Full of Crazy and Says the Craziest Shit”…

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Boys and Their Toys

We went to Toys R Us last weekend because I married a 12 year old boy disguised as a 34 year old man that occasionally wears a tie, dress slacks, works full-time in an office, but collects Legos. This man-child of mine collects all sorts of Legos that he assures me will be valuable one day and when something new is released, he insists that we go hunt it down at toy stores and call it a “family outing.”

Anyway, Ryan was after something this weekend so while he and Caroline walked the Lego aisles, Oliver and I walked around aimlessly. Because I am a great mother, I believe in bribing and distracting my children so I can do anything in peace. For example, in the grocery store I give them cookies so they aren’t knocking down hummus displays. In this particular instance, I found a random toy car that was barely three inches big, but shiny and red so I gave it to Oliver to hold while I perused the clearance racks for Cinderella nightgowns (for Caroline, not for myself unfortunately). He loved the dumb little car and was moving it between his hands and smiling. Judging by its size and cheap appearance, I assumed it was $1-$2. However, midway through the store I saw that it was $3.99! Who am I, Bill Gates?! Oprah? No one can afford $4 toy cars unless they’re actually real cars and can take my ass to work. I told Oliver not to get too attached because that was being left behind at the cash register. He didn’t say anything because remember—he’s 11 months old and doesn’t understand threats.


Not the car in question, but it’s the best the internet could do.

Now as most parents know that use bribery or distractions, sometimes that shit blows up in your face. I was fully expecting to have to pry the car out of Oliver’s baby hands like Mommy Dearest making her kids give up their Christmas gifts to charity. I figured he’d cry at his new favorite car being put back on the shelf by his awful, disrespectful, cold mother and then I’d feel like an awful, disrespectful, cold mother that would come home and drown her sorrows in wine. This is everyday life, folks.

But anyway…as we were making our way up to the register, Oliver did me a parental solid. He got rid of the car himself. While I was looking at how FRIGHTENING Monster High dolls were (seriously, who plays with dolls that look like this? Shit gives me nightmares), I turned around and he was carless and not crying.

He got rid of the car by himself and I didn’t have to be the bad guy!

I paid for our clearance Cinderella nightgown (once again, I wish these were made in a woman’s size 4) and headed out the door. While I was in the outside cart vestibule unbuckling Oliver, I looked down and saw the car.

Apparently, he dropped the car and it fell from the basket of the cart to the bottom rack making it completely undetectable. It then fell off the bottom rack, on to the ground outside of the store when we went over the ramp.

I looked at the $4 pint sized car and thought about what to do. I could leave it there for some other unsuspecting child to take, I could take it back in the store and tattletale on my kleptomaniac infant or I could scoop up the car, hightail it out of there and hope no one was watching me on surveillance.

So I did what any good, financially-challenged parent would do that wants to be a strong role model for their child- I picked up the car and got the hell out of there.

Yup, at nearly 11 months old Oliver is a criminal and I could probably be charged with aiding and abetting a crime to assist my infant in stealing a cheaply-made toy car.

We are a family of outlaws.

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