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Wednesday, December 6, 2017

Santa Brings Joy and Cheer, Not iPads

The holidays are officially upon us. A time of joyful anticipation for children and ridiculous amounts of work-and wine-for adults. I thought I would take this time to share with you the way our family celebrates Christmas.

I treat the holidays as a time to gather with friends and family over copious amounts of food, laughter and usually booze. For me, Christmas is a time to be together. To ice cookies and listen to rat pack Christmas albums.

I don’t do elf on the shelf because I don’t need Santa's little helper narc sneaking around my house in the middle of the night to teach my children how to act. I do that. And because I sure as shit don’t have time to remember to move that motherfucker errry. damn. day.

I also don’t buy my children extravagant gifts under the guise of them being from Santa. Santa only fills stockings at our house and he doesn’t fill them with iPads. He fills them with little toys and trinkets that the kids love--like Rubik's cubes and candy and nail polish. The Hatchimal that I had to go to three damn Targets to secure came from mommy and daddy. Because Santa's jolly ass fo sho isn't getting credit for that shit.

But more than just not wanting to give a mythical figure credit for my hard earned money and time, I am thinking of other families when I limit what Santa gives my kids. My kids go to a school where there is an incredible range of household incomes. Some children at their school may be lucky to get a few trinkets from the dollar store from Santa, while others get an Xbox and a literal pony. How do you explain to a child in need that Santa provided a family that already had so much with even more and that he provided them with so little? I have no problem with you providing your child with a Clydesdale for Christmas, but don't do it in the name of Santa. On second thought, if you have Clydesdale money, please just promise me that you will make a gift to charity that equals the amount you pay for the horse. Also, can I pet it? And maybe name it Sparky? And possibly have it pull me around in a cart shaped like a smaller horse?

Anyway. So on Christmas, we give our children very little from "Santa". And to be honest, not much more from us. My kids each get three gifts. All totaling less than $100 per child. Because my kids don't need more "stuff". They need love and support and kindness-all of which come for free.

So how do our kids feel about this? Happy. And grateful. I told them that I asked Santa to only fill our stockings even when he gives others gifts because we are so lucky with all of the love that we have in our lives. And they get it. And they spread that love and spirit of it's-better-to-give-than-to-receive to others.

I will step off my Santa soapbox. But I hope that some of you will join me in pulling back on Santa's reins this year. In the name of raising grateful kids, supporting kids in need and getting ALL the damn credit for that damn Hatchimal.


If you share this post, I will buy you a pony. I suck at Twitter. I am OK at Facebook. Pinterest is my bitch. I am also on Bloglovin' and Instagram.

Tuesday, June 13, 2017

Parenting isn't hard.

Parenting isn't hard. Now before you gather your mom friends and head toward my house bearing flaming torches...


Parenting isn't hard. Life is. Parenting should be a joy. But often that joy is suffocated by real life. Bills, taxes, marital problems, etc. Dropping our kids off at soccer practice isn't hard. The problem is that during that drive instead of enjoying our kids we are thinking about laundry and cooking dinner and... We can't focus on singing crappy '90s rap songs with our kids on the way because we are too busy worrying about the myriad other things we need to be doing in order to keep the wheels on the bus from falling off and our lives driving into a fiery pit of chaos.

And crying over spilled milk isn't a joke--it's an epidemic. Just ask any mom who spilled 8 oz of freshly pumped liquid boob gold. Or a mom that just picked her kid's sippy cup off the ground for the 14 millionth time today. In the long run, we aren't mad about the spilled milk. We're mad because we made another mistake because we weren't paying attention. Or because we yelled at our kid for an accident--or a pattern they have developed trying to get our attention. I've lost count of the times that I have completely lost my shit over something small. All because I am absolutely overwhelmed by all of the people/pets/things that I am responsible for in life.


What's my point? God only knows. I am generally so distracted by everything in life that I lose track of what I was saying/doing three seconds in. But sometimes I'm not. For a split second every once in a while life stops me in my tracks with something beautiful. My children playing together without guidance or fighting, a butterfly fluttering by, a check I didn't know was coming in the mail just when I needed it.

So what's my solution? I don't have one. Just a bit of perspective to stop and smell the sweaty soccer cleats every once in a while. Take a minute to laugh at being spit up on right before you have to head to an important meeting. Take five minutes out of each day to stop thinking about all of the flaming piles of poo that life is currently throwing at you and enjoy watching your kids throw all of the laundry you just folded into a pile that they can jump in. Hell, jump in with them. You are going to have to refold it one way or another so you might as well get some joy out of it.
If you share this post, I will buy you a pony. I suck at Twitter. I am OK at Facebook. Pinterest is my bitch. I am also on Bloglovin' and Instagram.

Saturday, February 4, 2017

You boys like Mexico?


So we booked a trip to take the kids to Mexico for spring break. One of those all you can eat and drink and sunburn deals that has a kids club. I am equal parts excited and terrified.

As we prepare to embark on a vacation that is complete luxury and no necessity, I am reminded of all of the families that are fighting so hard to stay in this country so they can better the lives of their children. There is no difference between those families and mine.

Though my children reap the benefits every day of the latitude and longitude of their birth location and color of their skin, two things that mean nothing in reality but everything in the mixed up world that they are living in, I work to teach them to fight for others. Speak up for those whose voices can't be heard. Recognize their privilege and use it to change the world for the better.

If ever I thought raising an infant was hard, raising children in a time where I have to explain the terrible actions of a rich, white male with no empathy for those who are different than himself is so much harder. But I will continue to mold two people who will be selfless, advocates for others.

Please join me in raising a generation of amazing men and women who will make this world better with every action.

If you share this post, I will buy you a pony. I suck at Twitter. I am OK at Facebook. Pinterest is my bitch. I am also on Bloglovin' and Instagram.

Friday, June 17, 2016

Love for Orlando

If you're like me, the events in Orlando, both at Pulse and at Disney, have shaken you to your core. It is hard to not imagine one of the dead as your friend, or brother, or son. 

As a mother, I feel their loss deep in my soul. My legs feel weak at the thought of the friends and family who have to go on without those 49 people in their lives--a feeling I know all too well. My chest aches and burns for the parents who lost their sweet little boy right before their own eyes.

It is times like this where kindness goes farther than ever. To strangers. To your loved ones. To yourself.

Though we will find a way to move on from these tragedies, they will change us. But don't let them sour you. Make them strengthen you.

Take this sadness and turn it into something that betters the world.

Don't just embrace people's difference, celebrate them. See people as human beings, regardless of the color of their skin, sexual preference or religious views.

Tell your children you love them more. Hug them a little tighter. Read them a story even when you just want to close their bedroom door and relax on the couch with a glass of wine.

(Steps off soapbox. Pours said glass of wine.)

Ending with love. For all.
If you share this post, I will buy you a pony. I suck at Twitter. I am OK at Facebook. Pinterest is my bitch. I am also on Bloglovin' and Instagram.

Monday, April 4, 2016

Bruce Wayne has had his first taste of blood…

So I guess the best way to start this story is to set the stage. Bruce Wayne is more dog than cat.
He likes to read books with the boy.

And bath time.

And...well...he doesn't seem to like this very much...

Example: when my husband came home yesterday after being out of town for the weekend, Bruce greeted him at the door, rolled over onto his back so my husband could rub his belly and then started licking my husband's hand for half an hour… Pretty much the only cat thing he does is watch animals out the window and squeak at them like a huge pussy. 

Well, this morning he finally filled the, "soon…" meme.


As we opened the door to head out for school/work this morning, a bird screeched like a fucking banshee and swooped over us all and into our fucking house!!! Bruce immediately came out of nowhere and pounced on it Matrix style. The bird managed to get away and fly through the living room and kitchen into the dining room. Bruce again sprung into action and pinned it down. I was amazed. My kids were a mixture of amazed and terrified...

Best comment so far: In his defense, it is the dining room.

As for the bird, I managed to wrangle him away from Bruce. I checked him out and though he was missing a lot of feathers, he seemed OK. Just stunned. Hoping the best for him but but let's face it, that feathered little fucker dive bombed my entire family and flew into my damned house. He is kind of an asshole bird and deserved to have a few feathers ruffled. I hope he lives though. mostly.

Bye Bye, Birdie.
Needless to say, there are fucking feathers everywhere in my house. And Bruce has a crazed look in his eyes as he has finally gotten his first taste of blood. I am somewhat fearful for my own life now. Though I feel like for Bruce this is the culmination of months of methodical stalking. It is sort of the cat version of a mic drop.

If you share this post, I will buy you a pony. I suck at Twitter. I am OK at Facebook. Pinterest is my bitch. I am also on Bloglovin' and Instagram.

Wednesday, January 20, 2016

MAKING A MURDERER – THE CLIFFS NOTES



Today I am sharing a post with you by my completely funny ass friend, Hannah from sKidMarking. She is rediculous and has no sense of shame at all. I puffy heart love her. Enjoy!

If you’re like me, the NETFLIX series Making A Murderer has trapped you, chewed you up and spit you back out into a colder, crueler world where nothing will ever be as it once was. It is an infuriating, haunting and fascinating look into the justice system that will make you want to crawl into your TV and punch people.
Obviously there are two sides to every story, but I don’t have time for that. I prefer to consume my news in one sided documentary form and quickly jump to my own conclusions. Preferably conclusions which are spoon fed to me by people looking to make a profit.
If you don’t have NETFLIX or have not yet had a chance yet to watch, I’ve taken the liberty of nutshelling it all below for your reference. It is a story everyone must hear in order to be properly paranoid. The most routine traffic stop can turn into life in prison in the blink of an eye and you’re gonna need to know what to do when the cops plant a dead cat in your trunk.

Episode 1:

A vacationing woman is raped and beaten on the beach while jogging. The wrong man, Steven Avery, is convicted and spends 18 years in prison. Then in 2003 DNA is invented and they realize they made a mistake and let him out.
KEY TAKEAWAY:  Avoid all physical activity while on vacation

Episode 2:

Steven Avery attests the police knew he was innocent from the get go and unleashes Kill Bill-style vengeance in the form of a sensible, warranted lawsuit. But just when he starts to get some traction, dead girl bones are found in his back yard. Shit gets real.
KEY TAKEAWAY:  If you’re in prison because you’ve been framed by an ENTIRE POLICE DEPARTMENT, when you are let out you run far far away and never look back

Episode 3:

Brendan is Steven’s learning disabled nephew and is coerced into giving a confession that makes no sense, or backed up by, you know, any evidence. Everyone goes to jail.
Jodi, Steven’s girlfriend promises us she “Ain’t going nowhere”. Thank God for Jodi. She’s the only one in this whole show whose hair doesn’t hurt our eyes.
KEY TAKEAWAY:  Brendan can’t hear you, no matter how loud you scream at your TV to try to help him

Episode 4:

Brendan’s lawyer, a foreskin with glasses, tricks Brendan into giving a written statement.  He is later fired but the damage has been done. Jodi leaves us. She was our everything and now she’s gone. Brendan misses Wrestle Mania. His Dad tapes it.
KEY TAKEAWAY:  Jodi is a damn liar

Episode 5:

The trial starts and Teresa’s (the deceased girl) beady eyed, stocking hat wearing ex-boyfriend takes the stand and is obviously guilty because, you know – beady eyes and stocking cap.
KEY TAKEAWAY:  Never book a second date with someone you believe could be capable of shooting you in the head then throwing your body into a fire

Episode 6:

A bloody bullet, which was found in Steven’s garage, is presented as evidence. A bloody bullet found FOUR MONTHS after the previous searches. A bloody bullet found by the police department which was ordered to stay away from crime scene because, you know, THEY FRAMED HIM BEFORE.
On a side note, this evidence was presented by a woman who is a compilation of everyone who was mean to me in high school. Well guess what, Sherry! I’m a grown woman now; you can’t hurt me anymore. And I don’t give two craps about your “evidence”.
sherry culhane
KEY TAKEAWAY:  Just kidding please invite me to your birthday

Episode 7:

A car key found in Steven’s bedroom is presented as evidence. A car key found in plain sight MONTHS after the previous searches. A car key found by the exact policeman who was not supposed to be there because he was directly LINKED TO FRAMING HIM BEFORE.
KEY TAKEAWAY:  Previous assumptions that anyone with a northern accent is inherently trustworthy are false

Episode 8:

Everyone is in cahoots. Steven is found guilty and sentenced to life in prison despite any believable evidence or speck of blood found ANYWHERE ON HIS PROPERTY.
KEY TAKEAWAY:  There’s always someone out there having a worse Tuesday than you

Episode 9:

Brendan is guilty as well, despite any physical evidence and severe inconsistencies in the story police instructed him to say. But no one is surprised. We all knew that was coming after this shit show.
KEY TAKEAWAY:  No one ever should watch this documentary

Episode 10:

We’re all learning how to move forward with the lives we’ve been dealt. We have a new girlfriend – she’s no Jodi but she’ll do okay. Oh and P.S. the lead prosecutor in the case was fired due to sexually harassing his domestic abuse clients but we’re not surprised. He was creepy as all get out. No one seems to care or willing to re-open our case.
KEY TAKEAWAY:  The system is broken, and poor people accused of crimes are royally fucked

If you share this post, I will buy you a pony. I suck at Twitter. I am OK at Facebook. Pinterest is my bitch. I am also on Bloglovin' and Instagram.

Tuesday, October 27, 2015

The Value of Experience

Growing up, we never had liquid hand soap in our house (or a second bathroom for our family of six or even a shower, for that matter). My mom kept a bar of green soap next to our sinks that we used to get clean--and a bar of that heavy duty Lava soap with sand in it next to the kitchen sink to get the tough stains off of my father's and brothers' hard-working hands.

As a child, I remember going to friends' houses and seeing that they had liquid soap and thinking that they were basically living in a castle. How fancy and extravagant it must be to have such a novelty.

Now that I have my own house, hand soap is one of the little indulgences that I allow myself. I use Seventh Generation because it's purdy, smells good and isn't full of chemical crap. But really, it's just a cheap and easy way to get clean and wax nostalgic. It is also a reminder of the little things that can excite and amaze a child.

The kids get the unscented kind so they don't use the whole damn bottle in one wash because it "smells pretty".

Mama gets the good stuff. Queen of the castle! Queen of the castle!

My nostalgia-induced hand soap addiction makes me wonder what those little memories will be for my kids. Will they think that having canned bread sticks with spaghetti at a friend's house is the most amazing meal ever like I did? Will they take after me and swoon over their best friend's vast collection of toys, not realizing that those toys are parting gifts in place of their parents' affection?

When will my children start to notice things like how some houses are warm and inviting and others are cold and lifeless? That some families value possessions over people and feel that having more is never enough.

Will my children see buying a cheap bottle of hand soap as a frivolity in life or as a necessity? Because it isn't the value of the soap that matters to me. It is that the idea of the soap has value to me. Emotionally. As silly as it sounds, that small indulgence ties me to my past while celebrating my present. When I soap up my children's hands, I remember what it felt like to think that such a thing was an extravagance. But now it is part of our everyday.

What about you? What is your "hand soap"?


This post is sponsored by Seventh Generation, but all opinions, sappy stories and hand soap addictions are my own.

If you share this post, I will buy you a pony. I suck at Twitter. I am OK at Facebook. Pinterest is my bitch. I am also on Bloglovin' and Instagram.

Thursday, October 15, 2015

A Farewell to Fatty


Diabetes took its toll.
Our family is no longer whole.

I will always miss your penetrating stares.
You glared away without a care.

You liked to puke with reckless abandon.
You and the boy had much in common.

You did not like to go outside.
Though when you did, the critters would hide.

I will miss you forever you fat, furry bitch.


If you share this post, I will buy you a pony. I suck at Twitter. I am OK at Facebook. Pinterest is my bitch. I am also on Bloglovin' and Instagram.
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