Monday Morning 9:37 am

After a long, and contentious discussion with The Boss about how we do not wear our pajamas to pre-school even if they are comfortable, I finally managed to get him dressed. And then promptly drove him to preschool. In my PJ’s. Well played Monday, well played.

Huck is working on all four incisors and two molars at once. Teething. The great baby design flaw.

Dear Monday, I’ll have a Super Big Gulp sized cocaine latte with an add shot of speed. And two Splendas please.Is there an app for that?

Monday? I cry UNCLE! I just want to snuggle in bed and watch Love Actually.

Oh yeah, I have kids. And they need, like, attention and food and stuff.

Crack latte it is! How was your weekend?


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.

A Perfect Metaphor for Motherhood. Or something.

Remember the days when “Me” time was whole day spent doing…well, whatever it was that you wanted? For some it was the spa (well, for me), or shopping (also guilty as charged), or camping (not on your life, but more power to ya!), or running (Gerlock, I am looking at you…with amazement!). Then we had kids and “ME” time became a trip to the grocery store or hallelujah, Target ALL BY OURSELVES? I feel I can state this with a fair amount of certainty due to the insane frequency of excited tweets regarding this whenever any one of us makes an escape from our oh-so-beloved minions and makes our way out into the world unincumberd by tiny hands reaching out to grab whatever it is we happen to pass by.

Chances of having some food, or kid residue of some kind unnoticed upon our clothing as we walk through the world? High.

My in-laws got me a metric ton of gift cards this year for my birthday. Starbucks. Nordstrom. H&M. To name a few. They know me so well. Zach and I had an errand to run so we loaded the kids into the car and headed out. And ooooo. Nordstrom Rack was Luckily for me, my darling man likes to shop almost as much as I do…or maybe not luckily. Whatever, his conference was coming up and he needed clothes.  So into Nordstrom we went. I bought Huckleberry some kicks. He looks fly #forawhiteguy.

Then the choir of angels sang and the God rays hit a bag…I have a real problem with purses, and addiction really, and Mumsy will tell you that it started early. I went through several school bags each year.

Because, reasons.

It pained me, pained me to walk away from this bag. Calvin Klein, which I don’t believe I’ve ever bought one of his…but this bag. It spoke to me. Probably because it’s a total knock off of a Micheal Kors, but whatever. I love it, and it loved me and I had to leave it there. So I did what I always do. I put it on hold. Sure someone might buy it, but not while I am in the vicinity. Then I remembered…GIFT CERTIFICATE! It was then that I used my terrible math skills to make deals in my mind. I announced to Zach “I’m going to get a big paycheck today and go back and get that bag.” Then the mail came, and my paycheck came, and I went back and got that bag.

Oh, I love it. It carries everything and I feel like a million bucks carrying it. It made me happy to my toes. A glimpse of my former glamorous no need to worry if I have wipes or fruit snacks life, and yet it is big enough to make sure that I do have both wipes and fruit snacks at all times.

Then sweet Super-fly Huckleberry decided that the perfect place to dump out his milk was-you got it- my bag.

I may or may not have cried a tear or two. Or a hundred. Poor bag. Not even three days old and already baptized in the ways of baby. Through the power of twitter people rallied to support me and tell me how to save my bag. She is saved. A tiny bit worse for wear, but certainly not smelling of old milk, thank God. Now she is just like me….she may look good at first glance, but look closer and there is definitely some left over baby residue of some kind.

It adds character, and let’s be honest, happiness.

And to top it all off…THE CUTE.

Last year the news reported that a mama duck had brought her ducklings to hatch at National Geographic. As soon as TOTT and my Father in Law arrived home I pounced on them there are ducklings at Nat Geo? Where are the pictures? I want to see them!

On Monday as we walked back to Daddy’s office from the White House we could see that they had roped off the reflecting pool in the courtyard in the few hours we had been gone.

Oh! Zach said, the ducks must be back! And they were. Mama is one smart duck and she knows everything stops at National Geographic for her and her babies! Thirteen in all this year, three born on Sunday and ten born just that day. And Oh! How sweet they are.
Nat Geo has Plan of Action for when Mama returns with her babies and she is well cared for and protected. If you ever doubt the hearts of men, glimpse everyone in action about these ducklings and mama. Yesterday they had an escort as they left the NG grounds, making their way down 16th all the way down to the White House. Now we will all wait, patiently, hoping that she will bring her next batch of babies to National Geographic.
Good job, mama, you couldn’t have picked a better place in D.C. to hang with your babies. It’s like you knew

On raising white boys in the wake of Trayvon Martin’s murder.

It’s been a month and I am still rage filled whenever this young man’s, tracked down and slaughtered, name is mentioned. So, that’s about twenty thousand times a day. I simply can’t understand how this went down and how now the police, media and apparently the fact that George Zimmerman has two African American friends negates that despite the police’s admonition to stay put he felt it was his place to pursue, corner and kill this young man.

A young man guilty of nothing but being in the wrong place at the wrong time. Suspended from school for weed residue in his bag? IRRELEVANT. What is relevant is that George Zimmerman followed this child in his car found him and killed him. You know the facts of course…you don’t need me to tell you. The claims that Zimmerman was struck first is a. his word only as Trayvon cannot tell his side and b. I guaranfuckingtee you that if someone was cornering me, chasing me down, and had a gun I would fight tooth and nail. Zimmerman has a broken nose. Poor baby. Trayvon is dead.

And we all know it was the racist with the gun and not the hoodie that killed him.

I don’t write much on current events, but this…this is under my skin. Literally. I read a wonderful post by Powermommy Nation on raising her black teenage boys in this aftermath. The next day my friend and friend and fellow iVoice DumbMom wrote this about her dudes. And I knew, I knew finally what it was that I wanted to write.

They struggle to raise black boys in the midst of this and more. I myself am raising near see through white boys. Boys who if they were seen walking through that gated community in the evening wearing a hoodie wouldn’t be given a second thought. I don’t have to arm them against ‘walking while black’, ‘driving while black’ or any of the like. Things that would never occur to me. Driving while white? Possibly a problem only in South Central. That being said, I got lost once in deeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeep LA and you know what happened? I got helped. I wasn’t shot at. I wasn’t raped. I was helped.

I don’t need to ready my sons to prevent them from being Trayvon. The mere chance of their skin color prevents that. (and believe me, as the daughter of a murdered 24 year old father by an African American man I do know that danger is all around us. People are killed, black or white but I am talking about this case.) I can, however, prevent them from being George Zimmerman.

As it stands now my three year old son sees no color distinction. Skin color is to eye color is to hair color. He has blue eyes, his best friend has brown eyes, a little girl he has a crush on in school has dark black hair and caramel skin. No big deal to him. No big deal to them either because they haven’t been taught that differences are bad. My son and all his friends haven’t been taught hatred. They are the lucky ones. At this point in their lives, on either side of the line they aren’t being taught to hate and they aren’t being taught that they are hated.

And at the least, my kids won’t be taught that particular lesson.To hate. I am up for the task for being on guard and knocking those ideas down when they rear their ugly head. Because they will. My boys will not hear it from me, but the chances of them hearing it from someone somewhere are damn good. I resolve not to shirk from the tough talks. I won’t hide from tackling the tough stuff. The why. The history.

As Amanda and Uneeka arm their boys to head out into the world I will also arm my boys. Differently, but arm them the same. Arm them with open hearts, open minds, and most importantly information and experiences. Hopefully between their boys, my boys and yours stories like Trayvon Martin’s will be a thing of the past.

Let’s not forget the girls. Make sure we arm the girls, for they are the ones who will be mothers like me, like you, like Amanda, like Uneeka, who raise the boys.



And a special PS to the media- the more you try to smear the name of the victim the worse Zimmerman looks. Well done there.

And then we left the house. Without the kids.

Don’t fret. The small tyrant and the tiny non-sleeper were well cared for by Ma & Bob-Bob. No sooner had Ma spoke the words “maybe you’d like to go to a movie or something this evening, we will babysit” than Zach and I were out the door.
I wore a dress. And make up. And PERFUME. And my new glasses. New glasses or contacts are always such a joy. I find myself amazed at how clear each leaf is on the trees or each blade of grass.

It was like the old days. Back in the day Zach and I would always head out for a nosh, a movie and then wrap it up with a relaxing coffee slash Barnes and Noble magazine fest. That’s just what we did, I love this local shopping area near us which has a beautiful pond with boats and fountains. Even though it’s right off the freeway it has a bit of the Santa Monica 3 rd street feel.

We bought a metric ton of popcorn and candy and settled into see Jeff Who Lives at Home. It was so good! I highly recommend it. Afterwards we grabbed a our lattes and wandered around Barnes and Noble collecting things, including a Green Day book for the Boss.

We hurried home to see the babies. Oh how I loved being out just me and the hubby, but I missed my little ones.  Their smiles and hugs are the best. Even better than a handful of popcorn mixed with M&M’s. And that’s damn good.

Anxiously waiting for Ma to offer to babysit again!

a blog post by Huckleberry.

My mom brought home a wicked weird thing and made me sit in it. I’m five months old now (TODAY thank you very much) so mom is all on this kick that I like, exercise and play and stuff.

At first I was like WHOA.


Then I was like huh…

picnikfile_1FzSQEThen I spit up.

So I got a new outfit, some kisses and a song sung to me.

Then I was like I’m more comfortable here:
Huck in a box
I know when she takes out that little rectangle thing to be real cute. She gets all squeally and then she picks me up and snuggles me.

I’ve got a pretty good gig going over here. If I have to hang out in some excersaucer once in a blue moon, so be it. You guys could learn something from my braveness. Try something new. Maybe you’d like a go in my saucer?It’s pretty bad ass.


You know when you need coffee so badly that you forget to put the cup under the Kuerig while brewing said cup of coffee?


You know when you buy new pillowcases for your bed because you just LOVE the pattern then realize it’s the same pattern as your blog background?

You know when your puppy is all warm from the sun and smells like corn chips?
Puppy Bear


You know when you are jealous of a fictional female Smurf and the undying love she inspires in your three year old son so you buy a Smurfette shirt in the girls department at Old Navy even though you don’t really believe in character clothing, especially for adults, but you are hoping it will make your sick three year old smile and maybe look at you with the adoration he saves for a damn blue stuffed Smurf?smurf



You know when you love all your blog friends and hope they have an awesome weekend and post oodles of pictures of their precious children in their Halloween costumes on their own blogs?

max Lightyear



the end of innocence


Just yesterday driving in the car one of The Boss’ favorite songs came on. I didn’t know it was his favorite song, but he quickly informed me that it was and the kid knows every.single.word.

He sang away in the backseat but I was instantly transported back to my childhood and Wheels Roller Rink. You see, Wheels was the awesomest place ever when Sister Dub and I were little. I’m sure Mumsy and Sister Dub’s Mumsy just loved taking us there every Friday night. Actually I am sure they had a lovely little chat as Dub and skated in unending clockwise circles until BAM it was was reverse skate. We practiced skating backwards, circles and figure eights. Crying our little 7 year old hearts out in the back corner by the lockers when no one asked us to couples skate.

Le sob.


One such Friday night I was really getting my groove on, rocking my skates with the pom pom attachments and coolio denim jeans with roller skate appliques on the back pockets. I’m pretty sure was a rainbow or a unicorn shirt happening as well. There I was skating my little heart out, jamming out to the tunes and singing at the top of my lungs while fluffing my Dorothy Hammil haircut. (which was way out of style by the way).

Suddenly my childhood came to a crashing end. Some guy, about 25 or so…so practically ancient, was laughing at me as I clapped, skated and sang the words. The wrong words.

For the record, I still sing the words wrong.

I love Rock and Roll put another dime in the jukebox baby I love rock and roll come sweetie pie and dance with me.

I went from free abandon enjoyment to devastating self conciousness. Embarrassment practically stopped my orange glittered wheels from rolling. I made a quick escape off the black lit rink and into the corner of the locker bank, my hot tears burning as they ran down my face. Mumsy tried to explain that the young man (probably a father there with his own kid that was jamming out and skating too) wasn’t laughing AT me but rather was enjoying how much I was enjoying myself.

Far too complicated a concept for a 7 year old.

Nope. He was laughing at me because I was clearly  stupid.

Back in the real world, I found myself bemusedly laughing at the Boss’s free spirited rendition of the song. Especially the ‘so we can be alo-wo-wo-wone’ part. He was putting his heart and soul into it, clapping and kicking his feet…I stopped laughing. I started car dancing. Shut it, you know you car dance too.

When the song ended I told Boss that was flat out the best singing ever and if Joan Jett heard him she would hand that song right over and never let anyone else ever sing it. He beamed with pride crying out and signing  “AGAIN! AGAIN MOMMY!” Unselfconscious as ever, childhood innocence still in check.

Thank God.


It doesn’t take Freud to figure it out…

Boss n Snurfie

The Boss, well he loves him some Smurfette. Or rather, he love Snurfette. He cuddles with her, he takes her to school with him (week two and three of school did not go as well as week one), he sleeps with one arm slung over her at all times. Like any boy he prefers her without her dress on.”I want her nakey, Mommy!”

Last night had a Halloween dream. I was struggling to get my make up on for my costume before the Boss saw me. My blue makeup. I rubbed on the bright foundation furiously trying to make my skin that aqua/royal blue combo that the lovely Snurfy sports. Nothing happened. Al Roker wandered by (because obviously) as blue as could be in his Brainy Smurf costume but was gone before I could ask to borrow his makeup. I became very upset insisting that TOTT take me to the store right then to get more blue make up and possibly a new blond wig because my costume had to PERFECT.

It was then that I woke up and the heavy realization hit me.

I am jealous of  mother f%^&**^ Snurfette.