Sickness and sage advice.

I’m crawling out from the week long sick haze of the norovirus. I haven’t been that sick since I was pregnant with Huckleberry and let me tell you…this was way less fun because at the end of it there is no sweet squeaking tiny human to inhale.


But I made it, I am up, showered. I even ate REAL FOOD! First diet coke in a week….nectar of the gods, people.

Yesterday after a week of mom being in bed or puking I was finally able to play with the boys. What did they want? Of course, toddler dance party. After that it was finger painting and it was then that Boss said what may possibly be one of my favorite things he has ever said:

When you’re finger painting  

it’s important to keep your underpants on.

At all times.

I may get that on a poster for the house. That’s just good advice y’all.

Do you have a favorite child?

Do you have a favorite child? I do not…although I ponder this question whenever it pops up with an earnest contemplation. I love them both with an insane passion…differently, but an equal amount.

Huckleberry is my baby. He is spun sugar sweet. He has two speeds: angel baby and the rarely seen demon baby. There is nothing in between. He yells GO GO! When he drives his cars. He says ” ME ah ME!” when he wants you to give him soemthing. He does the cutest little booty dance whenever he hears the theme to Thomas The Tank Engine. I also do a little dance when I hear that song; it looks a bit like I am sticking an ice pick in my ear but whatever. Huck never met a hat he didn’t like and loves nothing more than a good accessory. Whatever the costume of the day is, he needs all the accoutrements. Hopefully when he really starts talking he will tell me where he put my brand new watch!

And The Boss? Well, he is too smart for his own good. Or rather, MY good. He calls going barefoot ‘being Brittney” he says “Mommy the toes are the basement of the body and the boobs are the family room!” Once during an epic battle of wills he pointed at me and said in a still, quiet voice “you have been warned.” It’s all baseball all the time these days. I miss the days of constant Green Day concerts, but I love hearing him call out I AM THE BEST HITTER IN LITTLE LEAGUE! He asks constantly when his little league will start. At the end of the day,  he snuggles close to me and falls asleep pressing his little body againt mine. I frequently forget how little he really is…

And oh! How they love each other! They are my breath and heartbeat.

So no, I do not have a favorite child. I do however, have a favorite eyebrow. It’s the right one. The left one can feck right off.

Me and Lady MacBeth are exactly alike about washing our hands.

I’ve beent thinking a lot about Lady MacBeth, specifically Act 5 scene 1, the famous out, out damn spot! scene which finds our Lady distraught to the point of sleepwalking through the castle and imaginarily washing her hands. I’m awake of course, and far less distraught, but I find myself washing my hands a great deal lately and yet they are never clean.

 Lady M.:  Here’s the smell of the blood still: all the perfumes of Arabia will not sweeten this little hand. Oh! oh! oh!

Me: Here’s the smell of poop still: all the perfumes of Bath and Body Works Peach Bellini antibacterial soap will not sweeten this little hand. Oh! oh! oh! 

Lady MacBeth had phantom blood and I have phantom poop smell.

See, I have two boys and while they are clean and bathe daily, and they themselves smell of Burt’s Bees and fresh air, it is my little hands that most often wipe their bottoms. Their hands remain free from the clinging, lingering scent of poop. Primarily it is the tiny centurion who is at fault. I could more easily diaper a greased piglet than put clean pants on the Huckleberry. Yet I am skilled…I never actually get the poop on my hands, mind you! I believe it is indeed, all in my mind.


And so I wash. And wash. I scrub with a nail brush. I use antibacterial wipes. And yet as I go to brush my slowly growing out bangs from my eyes I smell it, the faint smell of Hucklepoop.

Out. Out damn spot.

Perhaps I am having a mental breakdown about poop. Like Lady MacBeth was about spilling King Duncan’s blood. Alas, no poop has been spilled.

My husband says he can’t smell it, oh yeah you know I made him check. What a good man! I know my hands are completely poop free but I won’t be insulted if we ever meet and you don’t shake my hand, though I promise they are clean. So clean. Scrubbed raw and red and yet….

 Lady M. … What! will these hands ne’er be clean?

Mom in Chief. That’s me.

Yesterday I won the gold medal in mom-dom. At least in the morning. We all woke up on time. Everyone ate breakfast. I got to drink my coffee while it was hot.I only had to threaten to take away baseball once. All children got dressed without fights. And I got to take a shower in the morning.  We made it to preschool on time and after we dropped Boss off, Huck made it quite clear he wanted a morning nap…so..


What to do with that. I had already showered (amazing, I cannot get over that. It’s the small victories, people) so I got my suburban mom on and clipped some coupons in anticipation of a trip to the mother ship. Target.

I know, you guys are like forget those awesome fashionable  Mormon mom blogs! Minky is where it’s at y’all. The excitement is palpable, non?

Then my Birthday Twin and sister in law sent me a text:
 It’s slightly sad the happiness I get from knowing that boot season is coming back

Ah, me too Kelly. Me too. Again, its the little things.

I wonder if I can find a coupon for boots? Because THAT would really tie things together.

So this happened…

You guys? I’m just…meh. Lately I am just meh. So blah I don’t even have a real word for it.  Meh. I’m not sure if it’s that my birthday is coming up and I’m feeling introspective as to what I have accomplished this year and how I’m not that much further along in finding a new career but am so much farther along in being comfortable as a mother and even farther along in slaying the dragon that is postpartum anxiety.

Note: Boss is obsessed with Mike the Knight so there’s a lot of dragon talk around the house lately.

Maybe it’s that I self inflicted some angst upon myself by taking the bull by the horns to find a place of our own, fell in love with a place, and then we decided to wait just a few more months and save some more money so we can decorate etc. The right decision, I know this, but just…ugh.  The place was small, only 932 sq. feet. But the moment I walked in I could SEE our life there, you know? And Max loved it. Boo was happily racing up and down the hall as fast as he could crawl and Zach was doing the big eyed head nod. You know the one; the this is good, we could do this but be cool about it. The woman who owned it? Well she loved us too. In fact before she leased it to someone else she checked back just one more time to make sure our sweet boys didn’t want to live there. There was even a yard. UGH!

But it’s the right choice. Soon, soon Pinterest will need more bandwith and you will all be subjected to countless how to make a rented space my own posts.

It’s still sticky hot here, but grey and sometimes rainy which breaks my brain as I think sweaters! boots! then I open the door and am hit by 90 degrees of hot humidity. But it is actually Fall and so school began for the Boss.

Yup. That about sums it up.

But then this happened and my heart exploded into a billion glittery pegacorns.

Boss had a blast at school and his face when he saw me at the end of the day was just heaven on earth.

Last night as we snuggled before bed he said “Mommy what’s under my skin? What am I made of?” I said “You are made of baseball, rock and roll, and vanilla milk.” He responded “I AM! I AM made of that!”

Maybe I am not so meh after all.

A new synapse formed.

It occurred to me, as things do, while I was ironing my pillow cases that perhaps not everyone does this. Perhaps not everyone thrills to the crackling sound of the sizing as it sprays on the white cotton. Perhaps not everyone is swept over by a peaceful calm as the iron smooths out all the wrinkles leaving nothing but crisp white.

I firmly believe that towels and sheets should be white but friends should come in all colors.

huckie mouth blog
I’m not sure when I discovered my love of ironing. It’s akin to making the bed for me. An instant payback, an immediate reward. With two small kids and no space of our own life is constant chaos. I can never seem to get all the laundry done, all the dishes done, all the diapers done…it is a constant catch up.

Let’s not discuss the state of my closet.

But smoothing the wrinkles away from my sheets, my duvet, and yes, my shower curtain is a calm in the storm. Hucklberry scoots all around the floor thrilling to Play with me Sesame and Boss practices his booty bounce on the bed as I spray and iron.

It’s a good day. Sometimes there is joy in the little things.

And then an angel appeared via twitter.

I was at the end of my rope. Our precious non-sleeping-who-once-was-a-great-sleeper Huckleberry was really, reeeeeeeeeeeeeeally not sleeping. No more naps. Refusing to go down until 9 or 10 and waking almost every single hour. I was losing it, people of blogland. Losing it. Not only that  but it was getting harder and harder to get him down every time he woke up and he had clearly designated 3 a.m. to 5 a.m. as time to party hard.

Did I mention I was losing it? There was one night where Huck’s cries physically hurt me I was so tired. Not only was I (am I) so exhausted that I could barely function but I was complaining. A lot. So much so that a sleep expert went to my profile and hunted down my email and emailed me. An Angel. She explained she had been following my tweets over the last (months) couple of days and asked if she could help me. I couldn’t type YES fast enough.

I checked her out of course. One doesn’t just accept random strangers telling one what to do with one’s precious Huckleberry, know what I mean?

We’re still in the trenches, I am not going to lie…but we are a few days in and guess what? He napped. He slept. He woke up…and went back to sleep. Progress people. It’s being made.

And now…to get ME to sleep. Maybe she has some advice for me.

This place is a zoo.

On Friday it was summer-like here. 75 degrees and sunny, I felt completely at home…this was Los Angeles weather! There was nothing to be done but go to the Zoo. Taking my new camera. Did I tell you? Wandering around Target a couple weeks ago and the just below DSLR Canon was on crazy sale, after some research and camera forum investigation I quickly traded up. As soon as I can master this one, then and only then, will I spend the big bucks for a real DSLR. And I am staunch in the Canon Camp.

But I digress! We headed out to the National Zoo and had SO much fun! I was so excited to show Huckleberry the giraffes. Sadly, they gave the giraffes away! Huckleberry? Not amused.

One lovely Zoo employee told us they were hoping to get them back, which is good because the Hucklebaby loves him some geeraffs.

Luckily for me they hadn’t recklessly tossed the Big Cats aside…can you IMAGINE?

I want to snuggle him but I don’t think it would be wise.

How beautiful is she?

Boss compared his paws to a tiger’s and decided that the tiger was a grown up since tiger paws are bigger than three year old boy paws. He’s a wise one, that Boss.

My Tigers were too busy sleeping to give me a good look. I love the tigers the best. I swoon for tigers.
I was busy singing “what do Tigers dream of when they take a little tiger snooze” Hangover style when we happened upon a new addition to the zoo. The O line. It’s this crazy line that lets the orangutan’s just cruise around the zoo. Hanging out…and possibly pooping on the people.
It’s a tough life.
There was nothing to do but teach Boss the words to “I Wanna Be Like You”
Let’s hope that replaces “I’m Sexy and I Know It.” I am not sure who taught him that song…but when I find out-POW right to the moon.

Like Father Like Son.

 {The Boss running the school from the directors office. He earned his nick name honestly}

At least once a day I hear “He looks just like daddy!” or “wow he is all daddy, isn’t he?” Or something of the like. On one hand I don’t mind. I love my husband otherwise I wouldn’t have wanted to have babies with him and babies who are like him is a-okay with me. But honestly….I did all the work growing him and sometimes I confess it gets my hackles up. Oh I know the comments are only meant sweetly. I am never annoyed at the people who say it because it is indeed a true statement. I just wish there was a little tiny outward sign that I had something to do with the fact that The Boss is totally rad.

Yeah I said it. The Boss is totally rad.

We got his first report card yesterday. He is enthusiastic, social and making lots of friends. They are working on keeping his hands to himself and following directions.


He IS just like daddy.


an open letter to Mama Llama

Oh Mama Llama. We have all been there, sister friend. We have. It’s one of those bedtimes that never ends. “I need a snack. I have to potty. One more story! Can I have a drink of water?” And after the 200th request you’re like go the eff to sleep, am I right?

Let me just say it’s not that I think you don’t love Little Llama. I do! I mean you say it flat out:

Little Llama don’t you know, Mama Llama loves you so.

It’s just that…well. You look really pissed when you bust into to the bedroom. Maybe you have some sort of syndrome where your outward physical appearance doesn’t match what’s happening on the inside? If so, forgive me. All I know is that I am an adult and if my mama gave me that face I’d be afraid. I’d be very afraid.

Maybe after you drop the phone, race up the stairs, and run down the hall, take a second before you head into the kid’s room to just breathe and rearrange the face into something a bit kinder looking It’s one of those age old struggle’s of motherhood, don’t let the kiddo know we sometimes can’t wait for them to pass out so we can check out Pan Am on the old DVR and raid their Halloween candy.

I say this all with love, but I fear that if you don’t soften that face Little Llama is going grow up to be one of those Llama husbands who just watches football in his boxer shorts while drinking beer and screaming at his own kids. And really, you don’t want that now do you?

And hey if you need some one to get those frustrations out to just hop on the twitterz. We’re there for you Mama.

Love, Me.