The Carpool

Sometimes it takes a wrinkle in life to make you appreciate what you have. That wrinkle can be in the form of random acts of nature, or dating stories from your single friends.

There’s been a little bit of drama in Los Angeles over the last couple of days, and UCLA happens to be in the middle of it all. Laef’s car is still stuck underground, hopefully not completely submerged in water. But, Laef’s car problem <<<<< the massive drought occurring while millions of gallons of water were being spewed around campus.

So we’ve been thrown a curve ball in regards to our daily life. Laef, me, Harper and Reagan are all carpooling to and from work. Harper was ecstatic about this news.

“Mommy AND Daddy are taking me to school??!!!! Yayayayay! Can I have a lollipop?”

I was excited too. Not lollipop excited, but family-bonding time excited.

Carpool Day 1
Laef starts reading every UCLA flooding headline. Out loud. I can’t really hear the headlines or process his words because Harper is in the back crying over the fact that she forgot to bring her baby’s pacifier and her baby is sad. I tell Harper to stop crying and that her baby will be excited to see her Paci when she gets home. Harper tells me that if I go home and get the paci she will give me candy. I tell her no. She says, “Fine. Then you’re not getting ANY candy”, and stares out the window angrily. Laef says, “She has totally inherited your bitch face.” Reagan is still reeling from the piece of crayon she ate while everyone was busy trying to get ready and out the door. It’s a mess, but we are only about 20 minutes late to work. I consider this a win.

At 4:15 p.m. I start calling Laef to make sure he is on his way to my office for our journey home. But because he is Laef – and he doesn’t return calls, texts or emails for at least 72 hours – I don’t hear back. He shows up at 4:30 p.m., and we leave to pick up the girls. Harper wants a surprise for the drive home, but of course we don’t have a random surprise in my car so she tells us that “she’s not going to be our friends anymore.” She’s also mad because Reagan is “looking at her.” We stop at the grocery store, and aside from the essentials – milk, fruit and bread – we leave with Fruity Pebbles. I am pretty sure Harper won this grocery trip.

At this point, I leave the Carpool to walk down the street to meet with my writing group. I am already sweating due to the fact that just as it is our turn in the check out line, Harper announces that she has to go potty really bad. Obviously being a supermarket, getting to the bathroom is like an entire episode of The Amazing Race. Aside from one minor infraction (instead of letting Harper push the elevator button, I do it myself, and minor panic ensues) we make it out of the store without any accidents.

As I’m sweating and walking to meet my writing friends, I realize that I left my wallet in the car. Laef doesn’t answer my call (see above) so I have no choice but to walk home and get my wallet. At this point, I decide to call Uber to drive me to my writing group so that I can avoid parking on Wilshire Blvd. at 5:30 p.m. on a weekday. The Uber driver wants to know if I’m married and where I work. Really, guy? In light of the Uber headlines this is the conversation? Doesn’t anyone want to just shut the fuck up and enjoy comfortable silence?

I finally make it to writing group, and we end up talking about dating. I’m the only married one in the group so I listen intently and try to muster up advice. But, holy shit, it’s beyond complicated. There are way too many rules about texting, when to text, when not to text, how often to see each other. No one calls anyone anymore. There’s no sitting around waiting for Jake Ryan to call.

Dating is waiting. And wondering.

I hate waiting and I hate wondering.

Maybe married life and carpooling is actually perfect.



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When We Were Young

As our fifth wedding anniversary approaches, I have been in awe at the passage of time. Especially when I look at our wedding photos – God Damn, we look young, tan, fresh and carefree.

Like, Laef has gone completely bald since then, and I have grown an entire set of new bangs on the left side of my head.

Kids, man. They’ll knock the hair right off your head and the tan right off your legs.

So, anyway, I got caught up looking at our wedding photos the other day, and Harper came over because her No. 1 favorite hobby is looking at photos. Of herself.

But after looking at several photos like this one:


She realized this photo album was kind of boring.

“Where’s me, mommy?”
“You weren’t even here yet!”

And since her No. 2 favorite pastime is asking questions, the whole thing quickly escalated to a discussion about vaginas. Because, of course.

Harper: “But, but, where AM I?”
Me: “Sweety, this is before you were born. Before you were even in my tummy.”
Harper scanning over everyone as if they had any right to be there without her: “Who’s that?” “Who’s that?” “Who’s that?” “Who’s that?” “Who’s that?” “Who’s that?” “But, where am I?”
Me: “You weren’t born yet.”
Harper: “Why?”
Me: “Because …”

And then I wonder, is 3 too young to finish the sentence? We try to act normal about all body parts and things associated with them. I mean, Harper runs around the house naked singing, “VAGINA DO YOU KNOW THE COLORS OF THE RAINBOW? BOOBIES DO YOU KNOW THE COLORS OF THE RAINBOW?”

Maybe I can just say, “Because we hadn’t had unprotected sex yet and you hadn’t come out of my vagina.”

But, I decide it’s probably too soon for that so I go with, “Because we didn’t make you yet.”

Which of course only leads to more questions and her desire to “go make a baby in her kitchen.”

So I tell her to go in her kitchen and make babies, which is probably the wrong advice, but I just want to be relieved of answering her questions and start asking my own: “What happened to the people in this picture?!”

Posted in Kids Man, Laef, Life, The Peep | 3 Comments

We’re Up All Night For Good … Fun?

Every night right before I fall asleep, I reach over for my iPhone and set the alarm for 6:30 a.m. And every night I ask myself, “Why are you even bothering to set the alarm?”

I have the same thought as I drift to sleep: Maybe tonight will be the night.

Maybe tonight will be the night that Reagan sleeps all the way through. Maybe tonight will be the night that Harper sleeps like a rock and doesn’t wake up until 7 a.m.

Maybe tonight will be the night that Laef doesn’t snore in my ear while peacefully sleeping through the baby cries and cat meowing.

A normal morning consists of Harper bee-bopping into our room at 5:55 a.m. – 6:02 if we’re really lucky – with the following list of demands: “I want cereal, a banana and the iPad.”

I can’t describe how hard it is to take such specific instruction from a 3-year old when you haven’t had coffee. Peeling a banana is actually harder than you might think. Luckily Harper is in a phase where she needs to do everything herself, and thus if I peel the banana our day is ruined by 6:06 a.m. And, if we’ve forgotten to charge the iPad and it’s dead, well, let’s just say we might as well go back to bed and skip to tomorrow.

But this morning was different! I was in the middle of a dream where Hank Schrader, Jesse Pinkman and I were hanging out having drinks. I am pretty sure that Jesse (clean, sober, hot Jesse) was about to make out with me when my alarm went off!

And all around me was silence. No one was awake – not even the cat.

My internal monologue:

“Holy shit it’s 6:30 a.m. and no one is awake! I am going to lay here and enjoy the quietness. No, I am going to take a shower while NO ONE else is in the bathroom. Wait. What was Jesse Pinkman saying in my dream? I am going to snooze until 6:45. No, I am going to drink coffee and read the internet in peace. OMG, you better decide before everyone wakes up and you’ve wasted all this time. OK, I am going to take a shower and I am going to shave because it’s Amy D.’s bachelorette party weekend.”

I tip toe to the shower, close the door and start shaving my legs. I get one leg done when I hear Harper enter the bathroom.

“Mommy, get out of the shower!”


“I need to go potty.”

And so it begins. I tell Harper that she can go potty by herself and that Daddy can get her cereal. But for some reason she decides to wait for me.

Harper: “Why are you shaving?”

I think about the answer for a minute, and then decide to tell her the real reason:

“Because I am going away with Amy for the weekend and I want my legs to be soft.”

Harper: “Oh. You aren’t going to work?”

Me: “Yes, I’m going to work first.”

Harper: “Why are you going to work if you are going with Amy?”

Me: “So I can make money to buy all the things we need.”

Harper: “Mommy, I need a new basket to put apples and peaches in it. Maybe I can get a bike with a basket.”

Me: “Have you been looking at an Anthropologie catalog?”

At least a basket is easier than a puppy. Or a Christmas tree.

Anyway, my suitcase is packed, my legs are shaved and my brows are waxed. Girls weekend starts tonight, and tomorrow morning I will wake up in total silence in a hotel room with a King bed all to myself.

And I’ll probably reach for my phone at 6:12 a.m. and find the Face Time icon.





Posted in Domestic Bliss, Kids, Sleep, The Peep | 1 Comment

Everybody Is Game in La La Land

There was a stretch of time after Reagan was born when I decided that I should no longer blog about our intimate family details. I started to envision Harper and Reagan being 15 and 13, respectively, and googling our names and finding things like this. Or googling themselves and reading about their entire potty-training saga.

(Editor’s Note: The entire paragraph above is bullshit and should have read: Having a second child has changed the game. I don’t know when  I could find time to write a 10 paragraph blog about Reagan’s first word (no) or Harper’s favorite word (vagina). We are in a vortex of chaos, and it’s a miracle that I’m still employed. And married.)

And then it dawned on me. The blog was my baby wayyyy before the girls came around. I like writing stories about what goes on in my life. So these two are going to have to suffer through it the same way that Sanch and Laef have. Especially when Harper asks me why my boobies are so big. Or when she can drive. Or when the iPad is going to be done charging. You can’t provide a constant stream of content and expect it to go undocumented.

Speaking of things that come out of Harper’s mouth, it should come as no surprise to people that Harper has already used the word fuck. Might I proudly add that it was in perfect context. She was changing her baby’s diaper when she realized she didn’t have everything she needed, “Fuck! I forgot Annie’s diaper!”, she exclaimed.

Unfortunately, I was not present to witness her first swear word, but Laef – being the child of two teachers, a former 4.0 student and a polite Midwesterner – was sure to recount it to me later.

Laef: “We had the talk. I told her we don’t use that word. She said, ‘What word, fuck?’
Me: Crying from laughing so hard.
Laef: “Seriously. You can’t say it anymore.”
Me: “Wait. Tell me again how she said it.”
Laef: “This is serious. We are not going to have the kid at school who says, ‘fuck’.”

Fair enough. I don’t want that kid either.

But, it’s virtually impossible to censor yourself when you have two children under the age of 4 co-habitating with two adults and a cat. What you are basically saying to me is that when Reagan digs a peanut butter and jelly sandwich out of my lunch bag and spreads it all over the kitchen floor that I am not allowed to wonder, WHAT THE FUUUUCK JUST HAPPENED?!

What you are also saying is that when Harper and I have the following conversation at 2:45 a.m.:

Harper: “I hungry.”
Me: “We are not eating crackers in bed anymore. It’s nighttime and they make too many crumbs.”
Harper: “Milk doesn’t make crumbs.”
Me: “Milk makes you wet the bed.”
Harper: “But, Mommy, carrots don’t make crumbs. Or wet the bed.”

I am not allowed to end this conversation with, “WHY THE FUCK AM I HAVING THIS DISCUSSION IN THE MIDDLE OF THE NIGHT?!”

Needless to say, I have been working on it, and we are making progress. I just wish that Harper and Reagan would make progress on not throwing the roll of toilet paper into the toilet and dumping bath water onto the floor so that Sanch can drink it. “But, Moooooommmmy, Sanch really loves water.”

I wish that we could make progress on carrying a cup of milk from the kitchen to the table without half of it on the floor. “But, Moooooommmmy, Sanch really loves milk.”

I wish that we could get bedtime down to a 10-minute process rather than a 20 minute process. Who knew there could be so many questions about a toothbrush and toothpaste?

“Why is this toothpaste brown?” “Does Reagan have a tootbrush?” “Does Sanch have a toothbrush?” “What color is your toothbrush?” “Can I use your toothpaste”

Who knew that pee sleeps?

“Mommy, I can’t go potty yet because my pee is resting. We need to wait here until it wakes up. Shhhhh.”

The fuck?




Posted in Domestic Bliss, Family, Life, The Peep | 7 Comments


Like many other smart people, I gave up on New Year Resolutions a long time ago. As I got older, I began to accept the person I am. I’m not going to get a six pack in 2014 – or ever – because I don’t consider one glass of wine three nights per week suitable for my lifestyle. It is more like three glasses per one night.

I am not going to eat healthier because eating a kale salad for lunch makes me hungry, and being hungry makes me a bitch, which leads to my third failed resolution: be nicer to stupid people.

I’m going to be 40 this year. And, I’m excited about everything I have – our family, the friendships that have spanned many years, my health, and my job. I don’t want to drink less, work out more, eat better or save more money (shhhh….don’t tell Laef).

I want to eat and drink more with these friends and enjoy my life. I do not want to stress about changing anything or doing anything better. I just want to sit back and enjoy the life I have, and the people who are in it. It seems like I’ve spent a lifetime trying to improve upon the things about myself that I considered lacking, and now I want to take a break from that.

After years of coming up short on my resolutions, I realized at some point during my 30s that this is who I am. It’s not perfect, but it’s me. This doesn’t mean I don’t have things about myself that I wish were different, it just means that I’m going to spend more time doing things that I enjoy – writing, socializing, sleeping (ha) and making time for myself (ha).

There will be zero pregnancies or births this year. But since I never follow through with my resolutions, this probably means I will have twins by December. I guess I should add “No Sex” to my ME list for 2014 (shhhh….don’t tell Laef).

We spent the last six months of 2013 in some kind of parenting fog capped by pulling over on the side of Highway 16 in rural northern California on Christmas Day to pin Harper down and put ear drops into her ears to remedy her 78th ear infection of the year – all while listening to Reagan scream in the car because she realized that she had been born into a family that pins children down and leaves other children in the car alone with a Minnie Mouse rattle.

Listening to two screaming children while racing to the airport to fly on an airplane with two screaming children made me realize that I have got to start this year off by setting some new ground rules.

Yes, both girls are still going to get 99.8 percent of our attention. This is a .2 percent decrease from 2012 and 2013. What this basically means is that I will no longer share my expensive lip gloss. I will no longer share my favorite water cup and accept backwash. I will no longer be coaxed out of bed at 4 a.m. by a two and a half year old asking for the iPad. If you don’t have to pee, please stay in your bed.

Let me tell you how many fucks Harper and Reagan gave about the new sleeping rules: ZERO.

Congratulations to Harper who has done a better job of not waking up multiple times during the night to ask me for milk or the iPad or fruit snacks. But because she always wins at everything, she has decided that this is the year that she will wake up at 5:15. Upon hearing that it is still not iPad time, she then screams “iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiPAD” over and over and over like her first boyfriend just ditched her. Listening to a two year old cry a river over an iPad is pure comedy so at this point Laef and I are awake for the day, and of course Reagan wakes up to join in all the fun.

I don’t know if they had a secret baby/toddler meeting in which “Make sure the people in charge are sleep deprived to maximize desired outcomes (i.e. Lollipops at 9 a.m., milk before bed time, back-to-back episodes of Mickey Mouse Clubhouse, pajamas to school, use of mascara on a school day, unlimited supply of Band-Aids for non-existent injuries, etc.)” was at the top of the agenda, but they synced up on their early-morning wake up time almost immediately.

The other portion of the .2 percent that I am hoping to change revolves around being able to take a shower – or a shit – by  myself. Our apartment is small and has one bathroom. It is bad enough when I am trying to blow dry my hair while Laef hovers over me to shave, but now I have Harper sitting on the toilet telling me about her poop and how it’s “big”.

And forget about sitting on the toilet by myself.

Harper will always come in. And she always wants to be just like mommy and daddy.

“Mommy, do you need me to help you wipe?”

No, sweetie. But talk to me in 50 years. I might have a different answer.

I have sorely missed my morning ME bathroom time over the last year. I would like to take a leisurely shower, shave my legs, put on my bath robe, listen to talk radio, sip my coffee, apply my make up over a 15 minute span rather than a two-minute span, and make my hair look like Gisele’s before emerging.

But as it stands now, it is usually me huddled in one corner with an inch of mirror to use, Harper sitting on the ground eating her cereal (yes, I know), Laef using the remainder of the mirror to analyze how many hairs he still has on his head, Reagan sitting her in lamb seat in the doorway to make sure she doesn’t miss out, and Sanchez licking the drain of the bath tub.

Love every last one of y’all, but is it too much to ask for you to please get the fuck out of the bathroom in 2014? Can we get a sign up sheet? Is it wrong to ask Harper to use her portable potty between the hours of 6:30 – 7:15 a.m.? Can Laef use the portable potty? Can we put a mirror in the kitchen for gazing and shaving purposes?

Since my mission in 2014 is to enjoy all that I have, I guess I will embrace these special family meetings.

Posted in Domestic Bliss, Family, Laef, Life, Me Being A Lush, Me Spending Money, The Peep, Uncategorized | 2 Comments

My Little Christmas Angel

Anyone who knows me well, knows that I’m terrible with secrets. I’m even worse with presents. When I was younger, I rummaged through my parents’ closet, dug out a pair of shoes I was getting for Christmas, wore them to school, and put them back in the box before anyone ever knew.

That’s just one of the perks of being a latchkey kid.

And when it comes to giving gifts, I almost can’t bear to wait until Christmas morning. Hence why Harper is wearing the pink Chucks that I got her for Christmas today. Daddy is gone so he can’t bust me for giving her presents early. It’s kind of like she rummaged through our closet with a little help from mommy.

It is beginning to look like Harper is a mini-version of her mother as she does not do well with secrets.

Harper: “Mommy. Reagan got a boo boo on her head.”
Laef: Quietly walking out of the room and out of sight.
Me: “She did?”
Harper: “Yeah. She fell out of the swing.”
Laef from the back room: “I was right there. I only looked away for a quick second.”
Harper: “Daddy dropped Reagan.”

Luckily for Daddy, Reagan is our second baby, and therefore drops on the head are commonplace and mommy didn’t have an epic freak out and rush Reagan to the emergency room to make sure that she wouldn’t be reading at a 1st grade level on her 16th birthday.

Of course, Harper returned the favor after she and I took a trip to the Farmer’s Market last weekend.

Laef: “How was the farmer’s market?”
Harper: “Good. I got a lollipop.”
Laef: “At the farmer’s market? No…you had blueberries, right?”
Me: Hiding in the kitchen.
Harper: “No lollipop. A purple one. Mommy got it for me.”
Laef: “Ohhhhh really. I thought we weren’t doing lollipops at 9 in the morning.”
Me: Damn Harper.

Now that it’s Christmas time and there are gifts everywhere, Harper’s penchant spilling her guts like she just drank 6 shots of Jägermeister is becoming a little troublesome.

For Laef.

Last weekend, Laef took Harper to CVS to pick out a present for me for Christmas. Harper was SO excited to tell me: “MOMMY! WE GOT YOU NAIL POLISH. PINK!”

My little angel. Now mommy doesn’t have to rummage through your bedroom to see what you got me. Thank you for saving us all time.

Most of the presents we have are wrapped. Some are under the tree, but the majority (from Santa) won’t be under the tree until Christmas morning. Harper hasn’t seemed too interested in opening any of the presents under the tree, but that all changed last night when Laef was giving Reagan a bath. He came out to find Harper with a present ripped open and her looking at a box of scotch stones. Now he knows what one of his presents is, although he was not nearly as excited to find out as I would have been. He put her in time out! The nerve!

And it was the first story she relayed to me when I got home from dinner.

Harper: “Mommy. Daddy is mad because I opened a present, but daddy put tape on it and fixed it. I had a time out. He’s going on an airplane tomorrow and he’s mad. But he got more tape.”

There is not one detail of what happens or what is said that she will leave out.

This is awesome at Christmas and my birthday. Terrible for just about everything else we do.




Posted in Childish Behavior, Christmas, Domestic Bliss, Laef, The Peep, Uncategorized | Leave a comment

The Most Wonderful Time of the Year

I spend a lot of time telling people how hard it is to raise kids. My gushing comes in the form of pictures on Instagram and Facebook. I don’t spend enough time telling the stories behind the pictures. Like the other day when Harper said, “What’s up chicken butt?”

Or how she constantly reminds me to “keep my panties dry.”

I’m going to leave that one alone.


When they are amazing, they are just that: amazing.

So it’s Christmastime, and it’s beginning to look a lot like we made the right decision to have kids. Harper is now 2.5 and fully understands what it means to get a present. When Reagan was born she got a lot of “big sister presents”, and ever since then not a day goes by where she doesn’t say, “Mommy, I want a present.”

I’ve been explaining that it’s almost Christmas, and Santa will bring presents if she’s good.

Me: “What should I tell Santa you want for a present?”
Harper: “Pink.”
Me: “Pink what?”
Harper: “Lollipop.”
In my head: Thank God she didn’t say iPad.

So last night Laef and I went shopping to Toys R Us hell, and before we left we told Harper we had a meeting with Santa and that we’d relay all of the information that we had gathered from our Elf, Buddy. (Sidenote: Do not ever shop at Toys R Us for any reason ever. There are perfectly good toys that can be purchased online without watching little Johnny flip out because he can’t get a Furby. Which, by the way, WHY DO YOU EVEN WANT THAT? It is the ugliest, most stupid toy ever. AND, it’s $50???.  Which reminds me of the time I wanted a Cabbage Patch Doll, but since my mom wasn’t willing to get trampled to get one, I was out of luck. I thought I was going to die because everyone else had one. Looking back, that’s the only reason I wanted one, and why they cost $150. My Nana finally sent me one, but I was pissed because I wanted a bald one, so within two days I cut the braids. Which didn’t make her bald at all. It made her look like John Travolta – just little pieces of hair coming out of plugs all over her head. The must-haves are different in 2013, but it’s all still a racket, and after listening to Johnny for 5 minutes, I told Laef it was time to go home).

And speaking of the Elf. I was against the Elf on the Shelf bullshit because, quite frankly, when I am laying in bed at night about to fall asleep there are a list of things that get me out of bed:

1. The Cat. I either forgot to feed him or forgot to open the back door so he can get to the litter box.
2. The Cat. He took a shit outside my door because I forgot to open the back door so he can get to the litter box, and he was probably holding it for two days.
3. Laef. Apparently the TV must be at volume 32 while watching Tosh.0
4. I forgot to take out my contacts.
5. I forgot to brush my teeth.

And now:


Harper is not even three years old, and yet, you can not slip anything by her. Every morning the first thing she does is look for Buddy. She knows he should not be in the same place, and she looks all over. The excitement on her face when she finds him is immeasurable.

The Elf – Buddy – has also provided a new way of bribing her that doesn’t involve sugar or chocolate. If we want Harper to eat her dinner, we simply tell her that Buddy is watching. If we want her to stop whining, we tell her that Buddy is going to tell Santa. To which she says:

“Mommy, I’m not naughty. I’m nice.”

And then she walks over to Buddy and spends 2 minutes convincing him how good she is, and how her panties are dry (going to the bathroom in the toilet is a very big deal in our house), she ate her eggs and she listened to Daddy.

Watching all of these things unfold is parenthood gold. It’s what I envisioned when I thought about having kids. I have been collecting ornaments and Christmas decorations for the past 4 years all for what we are experiencing this year – our first real holiday as a family where the excitement of it is written all over Harper’s face.

Every morning I go into our closest and see bags of gifts on the top shelf hidden away. And every morning I think, “How did time go so fast? How is it that just yesterday I was sneaking into my mom’s closet trying to find my gifts, and now I’m the parent who is hiding gifts?”

It’s the most wonderful time of the year.














Posted in Christmas, Dirty Sanchez, Domestic Bliss, Family, Laef, Life, The Peep, Uncategorized | 1 Comment


About a month ago, a friend of mine was talking about Tumblr, and how all the kids use it. She referred to it as the new thing (Instagram is soooo January). Not wanting to feel old, I immediately went to Tumblr and created a page. Excited and inspired, I was planning to move my blog to Tumblr and use it as a one-stop shop for photos, tweets, blog posts, etc. Then I spent almost an hour trying to figure out how to format my page and upload a profile picture. Eventually I was googling, “Tumblr for dummies”.

OK, fine. Tumblr is for the kids. I will keep plugging along on my old-school wordpress blog.

Nothing makes me feel older than following my nieces on Instagram. They’re teenagers so by default they have hundreds of followers. They mostly post selfies, and they are almost always posed with puckered lips. Their photos get a minimum of 70 likes, and the comments range from “Swaggy” to “ily and yo face”.

I used to feel completely comfortable commenting on their photos because I’m like, the cool aunt. But as I approach my 40th birthday, a sad reality is hitting me – not only am I probably not considered anywhere near cool to a gaggle of 13-year olds, I am not swaggy.

I am saggy.

In the span of 3 years I went from marathon-running, tequila-drinking, fresh-faced 30-something to the person who discusses her pension with her husband.


I should be talking about how hungover I am and how rad (that is a vintage word, and I am bringing it back) last night’s episode of Alias was.

But the proof is everywhere. A quick scroll of my Facebook photos tells the whole story: partying, partying, running, partying, engagement photo, bachelorette party, wedding, honeymoon, partying, ultrasound picture, babies.

A quick glance in the mirror really tells the story. Um, is it me, or am I two bra sizes smaller now that I have two children? Is it me, or do I still look 3 months pregnant? Why am I not tan like I was in 2009? Is it me, or do I look 39 and not 29? When did this happen?

So, about a month ago – right around the time when I accepted defeat to Tumblr – I suggested to Laef that we join the Y. My logic was simple: they offer free child care while you work out if you have a membership. Laef being Laef needed time to process this request. Questions of more money going out of the household are filed with questions of “when are you going to clean the litter box?”. They usually take 3-6 weeks (Sorry, Sanch) to garner a response.

After looking in the mirror for an extended amount of time today, I settled on a new solution.

Me: “I want to get a boob job.”
Laef: …
Me: “Not bigger. Just. Less saggy. And maybe something with the nipples. I have no idea what is going on there.”
Laef: …
Me: “I want to be cute. For you.”
Laef: “You should join the Y.”
Me: “Really?!!! Yay.”

(I totally did not plan this, but it is filed away for future reference).




Posted in Laef, Life, Me, Me Spending Money | 1 Comment

Animal House

“Also, Harper dressed herself today, which is why she looks like that.”

That’s the text I sent to Harper’s daycare lady today.

Harper is wearing pink and white striped tights and a dress that is a size too big and covered in yellow and pink flowers. She’s rocking the off the shoulder look. It hangs down to her ankles. There’s a boobie exposed. Laef calls it her Little House on the Prairie outfit. She’s says it’s “so pwetty, mommy.”

There aren’t enough words to describe how bad this pains me. It also pains me when she wears her Daisy Duck pajama bottoms with her Minnie Mouse pajama top. Who cares, right? She’s only going to sleep. No one is going to see her. But I have bought her so many cute pajamas and outfits, and they are collecting dust in the closet because she will only wear dresses, and all garments must be pink. Basically if I want her to wear a cute matching outfit she will refuse because EVERYTHING HAS TO BE HER DECISION.

Seeing as we live in an insane asylum with Harper and Reagan, I have thrown in the white flag on a myriad of issues. The biggest ones being:

1. What Harper wears
2. Our couch
3. What we eat
4. The walls, the floors, the bathroom, the play area (OK, our entire house)

Over the past few days, I begrudgingly came to a realization: I live in a frat house with a bunch of farting, pooping, loud, messy, Lucky-charm eating animals. It used to be that I would clean up constantly during the day. I would regularly wipe yogurt up from the floor. Why? Because Harper thinks it’s fun to dab yogurt on each finger and then run all over the house until she finds me:


I don’t know what I was doing at that particular moment, but I only had time to cringe for one second before she ran away, most likely to put her hand all over the couch, which has become a cesspool of ICK. It’s like that couch that you slept on in college at some frat house because you were so wasted and the frat dude was so hot that you totally didn’t mind waking up on a beer/throw up stained couch. Except now you’re a full grown adult with a real job and looking at stains on your couch makes you feel like a total fucking loser and like you’re an intern at Forever 21 making $8.75 an hour. You know it’s bad when you’re dressed for work and you won’t go within a 17-foot radius of your couch because you don’t want anything from the couch to even possibly touch you, nor do you want to smell like the middle cushion.

Anyway, when Harper was running around with yogurt all over her hands laughing like a lunatic, all I had time to do was smile at how cute she was. I couldn’t chase her. I didn’t have any wipes handy. I finally just said, “Whatever.”

Because if I had ran after her, cleaned her hands, wiped up the couch, it would only be a matter of minutes before she got up from her table to come find me and show me how she was eating her soup out of her bib.

I mean.

Come. On.

When it comes to kids, there is just no way to predict what is coming next. It’s a constant hurricane of mess. They will draw on anything and everything besides paper. Unless, it’s my shopping list that I need. If that is the case, they will happily draw all over it, and tear it up for an extra does of silliness.

By the way, please don’t be fooled by the text on that shopping list. That is like my pretend shopping list. The one I would use if I was a DINK. The one I was working with on Saturday afternoon when I was inspired and rested. By Sunday  night our dinner was nowhere near Pork Tenderloin with baby potatoes and asparagus.

Bitch, please.

We eat what we can find. Sometimes it’s PB&J with soup. Sometimes it’s a cheese quesadilla. And, I’ve learned to accept it. What’s important is that everyone is fed. What’s important is that no one gets hangry.

Let’s recap. My house is not mine. The bathroom is play area no. 2. I don’t have control of my make up, my nail polish, my sink, my tub or my toilet. Every time I pee, I have to remove the princess toilet cover. When I do my make up, I have to sift through the spilled powder to find my eyebrow brush. If I take a bath, I am staring at a plastic Elmo faucet cover.

There is never a moment where I am not reminded of my kids. I either see their “artwork” all over or I hear them singing while jumping on whatever they can find.

And I’m finally at peace with all of it.

Posted in Childish Behavior, Domestic Bliss, Life, The Peep, WTF | Leave a comment

The Swap

Well, it’s Friday.

Somehow, we made it.

And the best thing to come out of this anomalistic week: we have now walked a mile in each others’ shoes.

By the time I got home Thursday evening, I could not wait to see the girls. I realized that I had seen them awake for a total of about 5 hours all week. I came home and Laef proceeded to explain the best way to burp Reagan, that she’s now drinking 6 ounces of milk at each feeding and that Harper doesn’t fall for it when you give her tomatoes and tell her that they are red grapes.

“She’s really perfected the side eye.”


I miss getting that side eye. I feel like they both just grew a week older and I missed it. When I get home from work I have 1.5 hours to figure out to spend quality time with each of them before they go to sleep. It never seems like enough, and let’s be honest, 45 minutes of that time is spent trying to persuade Harper to take a bath and convincing her that she needs to wear underwear.

Bottom line: I feel totally out of the loop with what is going on with my family and have to debrief with Laef after they go to bed. This is something that Laef completely understands as he is usually the one trying to cram as much time as possible in with the girls. He is gone a lot, and now I know the sadness he must feel when he comes home and the girls are already sleeping. It sucks.

On the other hand, walking in the door and seeing Laef holding a crying baby while explaining to Harper that she can not have chocolate for dinner hit right at home. I’m not home for 30 seconds before he starts in:

“Reagan is ready for bath, but I’m trying to hold her off a little longer. Harps hasn’t eaten anything, and did you know she doesn’t like tomatoes? I was thinking of making the Parmesean meatloaf for dinner, does that sound good? And, by the way, Reagan doesn’t like to be burped while sitting down and she’s eating way more now and I think we should have her nap in the crib and not the swing. Oh, also, I found out today that Harper’s accidents at daycare are typically at nap time, and that she has milk because all the other kids have milk and they don’t know how to single her out. Did you know we only have two size 2 nipples? I went to Target, but they didn’t have any.”

Halfway through this discourse I realize: Oh my God, he’s been home all day by himself with a 2 month old with no one to talk to. He is so happy to have someone to talk to.

I feel his pain at my core. I look around and see everything in disarray because as every parent knows, we are now in the Witching Hour and things are teetering ever so slightly, and I have come home just in time to tag team the whole mess that is about to take place between now and bed time. You can see it on his face that he’s been holding things together, and the relief of me waking through the door is palpable.

Bottom line: Laef actually muttered the words, “I’m struggling to do what you do.” He now has a firm understanding as to why  he sometimes gets a call from me at 6 p.m. where I’m basically a lunatic and t-minus from taking a swig straight from the vodka bottle, “BUT SERIOUSLY. WHEN THE FUCK ARE YOU COMING HOME? COME HOME NOW.”

So, in a lot of ways this week was really good for everyone. But perhaps Laef had a little too much time at  home by himself.

We have been having some issues with Harper wetting the bed at night this week. Obviously this whole Wife Swap thing is throwing her off. By day two of washing sheets and remaking her bed, Laef decided that something needed to be done. So he went to Target to get a plastic cover for her bed.

I should have known it wouldn’t be that easy.

Laef: “Just so you know, plastic bed covers at Target started at $40.”
Me: “Oh, OK. Well, we can just see if she gets better.”
Laef: “Go look at her bed.”

I proceed with caution and as I sit on her bed, I hear the loudest sound of crinkling plastic I have ever heard. I lift up the sheet and all I see is a clear plastic something with little ring holes all along the edge.

Laef (with a look of utmost pride): “It’s a shower curtain liner. It was $3.”

He seriously can not help himself with this shit.

Life returns to normal on Monday. And by normal I mean let’s just try to survive.

Posted in Domestic Bliss, Laef, Life, WTF | 1 Comment