Oregon Trails (Part Two)

Yesterday, I started blogging my way through the shit show that was my solo-parenting trip to Oregon with two toddlers.

As you may recall, the kids fell asleep late on Friday night, and my only solace was that they would be sure to sleep in on Saturday morning.

The saga continues.

Day 2: Saturday, May 12

I had just fallen asleep.  Like, just fallen asleep.  But before I knew it, Ell-Bell was crying in bed next to me.  Cranky, fussy crying.  I grumbled and rolled over to look at the clock.  Somehow, 6 hours had actually passed, and it was already 3:30 in the morning.

I grumpily nursed Ell-Bell, sure that she would fall back asleep after a little soothing.  In my wildest dreams, I had contemplated that she might wake up at 3:30 in the morning, because her body was, after all, accustomed to waking up at 6:30 eastern time.  But when she didn’t go to sleep until 9:30 pacific time the night before, I threw that possibility out the window.

After nursing, I laid Ell-Bell back down beside me and snuggled her, waiting patiently for her to fall back asleep.  Instead, she twisted, turned, cried, scratched my eye balls, giggled, and stood up.  Sometimes, she would lie back down and be still, just long enough for me to start hoping that she was falling back asleep.  It was always a fake out.

Finally, at 5 a.m., I gave up and pulled out the tablet.  I figured I’d turn on Moana for Ell-Bell and catch a few more zzzs as she watched next to me, thinking K-Man clearly had hours more sleep left in him.  But K-Man apparently has Moana spidey-senses, even in his sleep, so as soon as he heard that opening song, he started to stir.

Great start to the day! After browsing my phone internet for a bit to see if there were any other hotels I could book that had a better room arrangement with working wi-fi (there weren’t), I took the kids down to breakfast.

Eventually, my mom and sister started to stir, so we all made plans to meet at the local Saturday Morning Market after a little bit.  Because Ell-Bell was losing it again at this point, I took the kids for a drive/car nap.  Ah, some peace and quiet.  How was it only 9:00 a.m. at this point?

The Saturday Morning Market was meh.  My mom and her husband brought their 20-month-old dog (apparently we’re aging dogs in months now), and she is kind of a total hyper nightmare.  The minute we got there, she scratched the shit out of my sister’s leg, and my sister was understandably unpleasant about that.  Cue the awkward.

We walked around, me carrying Ell-Bell in her carrier and pushing K-Man in the umbrella stroller.  Little dude was in a mood, I think probably because he wasn’t that excited to have some random new dog all up in his face.  He wouldn’t look at me or answer questions.  His sweet little cousin offered him a peanut butter cracker and he just kind of leaned away in disgust.

Finally, we all sat down to eat in the food court area, and this is when K-Man decided that he was, in fact, wide the fuck awake and ready to party.  After refusing to eat any of the $10 quesadilla I bought him, he started sprinting through the crowd, pushing the umbrella stroller in front of him, running over toes and slamming into ankles.  After I finally wrangled the umbrella stroller away, he took off running down the street.  Like, he probably ran about 100 yards before I finally caught up to him.  And then he proceeded to be a slippery little fellow as I chased him/carried him back to the table where the rest of my family was casually chatting and having an all-around good time.  They could see on my face that I was done, so we all packed up to leave.  We made plans to meet up again at a playground after some resting.

Resting, of course, is not what happened back at the hotel room.  Why would Ell-Bell ever agree to nap in her bed with K-Man and I sitting there in the same room? So we hung out for a bit, and then headed to the playground.

After I got to the playground and met up with my sister and her fam, my mom texted that she was not coming because she was still resting.  Well, to be honest, that pissed me off.  She’s not a geriatric, she’s 55-years-old! And I spent $1500 and all of my mental and physical energy to fly my ass across the damned country with two little kids to come see her, and she didn’t even want to spend time with them?  What even was the point of it all?

I buried my resentment and enjoyed the playground, and then we all headed over to my mom’s for a nice dinner in.  Her husband was doing the cooking, which was really nice.  But he also said it would be ready at 5:15 so I could get the kids home nice and early that night.  And it wasn’t actually ready until 6:45.

While we waited, I split my time between shielding K-Man from that damned dog all up in his face, and soothing Ell-Bell who just would NOT. STOP. CRYING.  Dang girl, get your life together!

The crying just escalated and escalated.  We offered her food, water, milk.  I tried to put her down for a nap in my mom’s bed.  Nothing worked.  She was sweaty and miserable.  Wait, sweaty? What? Why was she sweating? I really hoped she wasn’t getting sick.

Finally, dinner was served.  Ell-Bell was set up in a high chair (crying), and then my mom put some food down in front of her (bawling).  I was seconds away from calling it quits and leaving before eating my dinner.  In a last attempt, I pulled Ell-Bell out of her high chair and started bouncing her in my arms in the kitchen.

And then she burped.

“Uh oh.”

Burp. Burp. Annnnd vomit all over my shirt.

“Help! I need an adult!” I shouted, and my brother in-law ran in with some paper towels. I patted myself down, and did the same to Ell-Bell, but the damage was done.  Everyone was doomed to enjoy the rest of their dinner with the not-so-faint odor of barf wafting through the air.  Sorry guys!

When the wretched dinner was over, I ferried my kids back to the hotel.

We parked, I got K-Man out.  I went around the car and started pulling Ell-Bell out of her car seat.  And there she went again, vomiting all over me, herself, the borrowed car, the borrowed car seat, and the parking lot.  How did so much vomit fit in such a tiny little human?

So with the vomit baby on my hip, my other kid standing off to the side, I stood there for five minutes using baby wipes to clean vomit out of the car and car seat.

We headed in to the hotel and I avoided all eye contact as I marched my vomit troupe up to the room.

Thankfully, both kids went right to sleep after a nice, hot, thorough bath.

Stay tuned tomorrow for Part Three.  It was Mother’s Day, so I had that going for me.

Until next time,




Oregon Trails (Part One)

A few days ago, I returned from my dreaded trip to Oregon.  You know, the one where I had to solo-parent my way through cross-country travel with two tenacious toddlers in tow.

If you read my last post, then you know I spent a lot of time anxiety-ing over all of the things that could go wrong.  I had hoped that if I planned for the worst, there would be no surprises.  I hate surprises.

So how did it go? Let’s just say that things went repeatedly and horrifyingly wrong at every turn (with, of course, a few scattered saving graces).  So wrong, in fact, that I couldn’t possibly cover it all in one post.  So let’s just dip our toes in, shall we?

Day 1:  Friday, May 11

The first day of our journey was probably the easiest.  At this point, it was not yet undeniably apparent that the whole trip was, in fact, straight-up cursed.

So things started out with a 6 a.m. flight out of our dinky airport here in Upstate NY.  We were to change planes in Newark and then take a 6-hour flight to Portland.

Because I didn’t want to wake the kids up any earlier than necessary, I cut things a little close at our local airport.  I was horrified to find a long line at check-in, and had to be one of THOSE PEOPLE who gets special treatment and cuts the line because they are about to miss their flight.  I always roll my eyes at THOSE PEOPLE because come on, get your life together.

Getting through the security line was a bit bumpy.  I was treated like a terrorist because I forgot to take my shoes off.  I was also treated like a terrorist because I didn’t take my iPad out of my backpack and put it in a separate bin (apparently I’m supposed to intuit brand new security rules).  I was ALSO treated like a terrorist because one of the milk bottles I brought was not see-through.  So finally, after all of the terrorist treatment, I had to sprint with the kids to our flight.  Gotta love that feeling when you run up to an empty gate and see “Final Boarding” flashing on the screen.  Cue heart pounding.

But then, our flight to Newark was kind of a dream come true.  K-Man was adorably narrating everything that happened out the window.  “Are we driving? Is that a plane over there? Are we going faster? Are we gonna take off? Are we flying? Is that the ground?”  I can’t say for sure that the other passengers thought his loud and persistent questions were adorable at 6 a.m., but obviously they did, right?

The layover was uneventful.  Other than the entire mile we had to walk to our connecting gate.  And the trip to the restroom to let K-Man have a pee, wherein Ell-Bell screamed her head off because she didn’t want to be in her carrier.  And the second trip to the restroom, five minutes later, to let K-Man have a poop, wherein Ell-Bell screamed her head off again.

The six hour flight to Portland — the one that gave me nightmares just anticipating — that was actually  pretty good too.  I let the kids watch as much TV on their tablets as they wanted.  I mean, I was a little annoyed that I purchased and downloaded the entire 4th season of Paw Patrol and they both suddenly decided that they have no interest in Paw Patrol.  But whatevs.

And then we landed in Portland and I felt this overwhelming relief wash over me.  We did it, the hard part was over! My sister and mom were there are the airport to pick us up, so I was finally ready to let my guard down and enjoy my trip.

(Let me just say here that my sister was amazingly awesome and lent me her extra car, already installed with two borrowed car seats from her local mom friends.  So that’s like an entire travel headache that I never once had to worry about. Amazingly awesome.)

We casually hung out at my sister’s for a while, and my heart swelled watching K-Man play with his two cousins.

After a bit, my mom announced she was going to go home and give her dog a little attention.  We promised to text each other and figure out dinner plans, and when I requested an “early dinner” for my kids’ sake she nodded in agreement.

After a little more time at my sister’s, I took the kids to our hotel.  I had booked a place that was a good 20 minutes away from everything because it had a suite option with two separate rooms — a sitting area and a bedroom with a wall in between.  Anyone who travels with kids knows that this convenience is pretty clutch, because those little turds will NOT go to sleep if you’re sitting there hanging in the same room as them.

So we check in, I drag my kids and luggage up to our room, and I enter to find … two beds and a sofa, with no wall between.  I was sure there was some mix up, so I called down to the front desk and told them that I had booked a room with a separated sitting area.  And then the clerk told me that I couldn’t possibly have booked that kind of room, because they didn’t have that kind of room at the hotel.

WTF? After looking back at my reservation I realized that the room description was just vague enough that it could be read either way.  So I guess I’m just a big dumbass.

After choking back a minor panic attack in response to the room situation, I decided to pull out all of our devices and get hooked up to the wi-fi.  I am, after all, a responsible data plan user (at Hubby’s repeated urging).

But the wifi, yeah, it didn’t work.  Not even a little bit.  After multiple calls down to the front desk, and repeated attempts over the following days, I never once got the internet to connect.  Which was kind of a nightmare.   Because K-Man lives and breathes those stupid YouTube kids videos.  And WTF was I supposed to do with myself after the kids went to sleep?  I had so much Facebook to scroll, and so much Jane the Virgin to watch! (Needless to say, we ran out of our data for the month before the trip was over.)

So things weren’t going so great at the hotel.  As dinner time approached, my sister and I started texting with my mom about plans.  Except my mom wasn’t responding.  For a really long time.  5:45 p.m. rolled around and my mom still was MIA.  WTF? We had talked about an early dinner, what did she think that meant?

Turns out she and her husband had taken their dog to the dog park and forgot to bring their phones along.  Old people, amiright?

My sister and I finally just made plans to meet somewhere at 6:15 p.m., hoping my mom would catch up with us when she figured her life out.  (She did figure her life out, and showed up only a few minutes late).

Meanwhile, it was 9:15 p.m. body time for my kids, after they had woken up super early for the day.  So needless to say they were completely toasted, and dinner was not so easy. K-Man was running around the entire restaurant, army-crawling up to strangers’ tables, trying to sprint out the door into traffic, asking to go pee and then refusing once we got to the bathroom.   Towards the end of the meal, Ell-Bell just sort of gave up trying.  She started wailing, and did not stop until well after we had left the restaurant.  I’m not usually one to sweat it when my kids make a scene in public, but I could tell that my mom and her husband were pretty uncomfortable with it, which made me uncomfortable.

Finally, finally, we said our goodbyes, and I drove back to the hotel.  By this time it was 8 p.m. local time, 11 p.m. body time, and I was SURE my kids would go right to sleep.  Because they had been up for freaking 18 hours.  But alas, the very-slowly setting sun was blasting through an uncorrectable gap in the blackout curtains and it was basically daylight in our room.  And my kids were overtired and wired.  And obviously they didn’t want to go to sleep with me sitting right there in the same damned room as them, trying not to make eye contact.  Ugh!

After repeated attempts (and me choking back some exhausted sobs), the kids finally passed out at 9:30 p.m. local time, 12:30 a.m. body time.

I stayed up for about 15 minutes longer, and then I also hit the hay.  “At least they will sleep in a little bit tomorrow morning,” I murmured happily to myself as I drifted off.

What a long-assed day.  And yeah, that was the “good” day.  Stay tuned tomorrow, when the saga continues.

Until next time,





What’s the Worst That Could Happen?

So at the end of this week, I’m finally doing it.  I’m taking my first solo trip with the two kids.  A six-hour flight across the country, and then back again, all over the course of 4 days.  Honestly, what’s the worst that could happen?

If you’re a parent to young children, or know anything about young children, or have ever been on an airplane, you’re probably wondering if I’m out of my damned mind.

Oddly enough, traveling across the country alone with two toddlers is actually not my my idea of a good time.  But here’s the sitch.  My mom and my sister and my sister’s little family all live in the Portland, Oregon area.  I haven’t seen my sister or her husband or kids since last January, when they came to see me after Ell-Bell was born.  And my mom, who is not retired, managed to visit me twice last year.  So really, by all accounts, it’s my turn to suck it up and do the traveling.

Now ideally, I would bring Hubby with me to share in the blessed nightmare that is traveling with young kids.  But Hubby is a busy resident who was only allotted two weeks of vacation, and we’ve already burned both weeks on other trips to see far-away family.

I wish I could say that I’m totally confident, that I know I’ve got this, but the truth is I am scared out of my mind.  There are so many things that could go wrong, and I can’t help but repeatedly catalogue them in my fragile little brain.

Why not put pen to paper? Maybe if I write my fears down, it will help me process this bundle of anxiety.  So what’s the worst that could happen?  Well, let me think:

  • We oversleep and miss our 6AM flight
  • Security confiscates all the food I’ve packed for my kids to eat on the plane
  • There’s no milk for sale in the shops past security
  • Both kids insist on being carried at the same time
  • We miss our connection — yay for 55-minute layovers!
  • Ell-Bell cries for the entire 6-hour flight
  • Ell-Bell refuses to nap on the 6-hour flight
  • I urgently need to use the bathroom while Ell-Bell is napping on the 6-hour flight
  • K-Man urgently needs to use the bathroom while Ell-Bell is napping on the 6-hour flight
  • K-Man pees his pants
  • K-Man poops his pants
  • Someone vomits
  • I lose one or both of my kids in the airport
  • I drop dead from exhaustion after carrying all the things

And that’s just the trip over.  I can’t wait to navigate the three-hour time change, hotel sleeping, and making our way back home.

This trip isn’t going to be easy, but hopefully, it will be worth it.  I need to keep reminding myself of the positives that will come out of this:

  • I get to spend time with some of my favorite people
  • My kids get to bond with their extended family
  • I like Oregon
  • Hubby gets to have some alone time and focus on his work

After this trip, we will finally be in the black when it comes to family visits.  Which means next time Hubby has some vacation, we can actually take a vacation.  Where should we go?

Until next time,


Me and Snakes, Snakes and Me

Let’s go back to Arizona, circa 1996.

I was 10 or 11 years old.  My dad and I were away on a father-daughter backpacking trip somewhere in one of the numerous mountain ranges of Southern Arizona.  It was a warm night, so we slept in just our sleeping bags under the stars.  In the morning, we woke up and broke fast together on a big rock.

As we ate, our peaceful meal was suddenly less peaceful.  A loud bug — was it a grasshopper? a cricket? — started chirping annoyingly behind us.  Not so much chirping, more of a chicka chicka chicka.

What the fuck was that noise?  Finally my dad turned around to investigate the racket.  And he startled immediately.  “Shit, RUN!” He shouted as he jumped up and started sprinting away.  I looked back and, to my horror, saw the Western Diamondback rattle snake, coiled up in attack pose, rattling ferociously in my direction.  So yeah, I jumped up and started to run off towards my dad.  And immediately, I fell to my knees.  With my butt in the air, pointing right back at that venomous snake.  I somehow found the strength to lunge back up and keep running, reuniting with my dad about 100 feet away.

What happened next was a blur.  After a while, we must have found the courage to make our way back to our campsite.  We packed our things up and set out back to our car — but not before aggressively shaking the fuck out of our sleeping bags.  What on earth were we thinking, sleeping out in the open?

Every step on the trail back was torture.  Was there a snake waiting somewhere in the fringes, about to bust out and bite me?  What the fuck was that noise?  What the hell was moving under those leaves over there?

And even when we were back in our car and driving back towards home, I was haunted by what had happened.  I somehow convinced myself that maybe the rattler had bitten me while I was down, and that I just didn’t feel it yet because, you know, adrenaline.  I even pulled my pants down in the bathroom of a restaurant where we ate lunch, checking my ass out in the mirror to see if there were fang marks.  There weren’t.

Safe to say, the whole ordeal left me a little traumatized.  And that was just one episode in a whole childhood full of venomous snake encounters of one kind or another.

By the time I was a young adult, my fear of snakes had gotten a little out of hand.  I thought about it a lot.  I refused to go hiking.  I did anything to get out of yard work.  For my 22nd birthday, my parents took me to a dude ranch down near the border of Mexico.  I couldn’t enjoy a single horse ride, I spent the entire time scanning the surrounding landscape for snakes. Those little fuckers.

And then I moved away from the American Southwest, to colder climates, and snakes weren’t really a part of my life anymore.  And by that I just mean, I no longer had chance encounters with them.

That’s not to say I didn’t think about snakes from time to time.  Oh no, if ever I saw a snake on TV, that was almost certainly followed by a night chock full of vivid snake dreams.  The kind where you see a snake, and you kill it, and then you realize that your entire surroundings are actually covered in snakes and there’s no way out.  We’ve all had that dream, right?

So fast forward to yesterday.

There I was, playing innocently in my back yard with my two little kids.  We’ve lived in Upstate New York for almost a year now and I haven’t seen a single snake.  That doesn’t mean I haven’t kept a watchful eye on my surroundings at all times — I am traumatized, after all.

K-Man was playing in the grass by the raised deck, I was next to him, and Ell-Bell was on the other side of me.  Suddenly, I heard a very familiar rustling.  “Oh shit, what was that?” I said, as my eyes frantically scanned the darkness under the deck.  I didn’t have to look too hard.  Within a split second I saw it, the long, slithering body moving slowly about two feet away from K-Man.  My eyes followed the body up to it’s head, and I swear to god, the snake’s cold black eyes were staring right back at me.  Fucking taunting me.

“SHIT!” I said again, much louder this time.  I grabbed K-Man with two hands and basically threw him up on to the deck.  Ell-Bell followed.  I peered at the snake some more, noted it’s grey coloring and totally non-angular face.  Probably not venomous, but shit.  SHIT SHIT SHIT.

“Oh my god oh my god oh my god,” I muttered loudly as I paced back and forth.  And I’m not proud to admit it . . . I proceeded to lose my damned mind.  Like, I started bawling.  I ushered the kids in to the covered porch, bent over, and cried loudly into my hands.  Hyperventilating, heaving, the whole enchilada.

My two kids watched my little melt down bemusedly, until K-Man finally had the wherewithal to try and soothe me.  He hugged me and repeated, “it’s okay, don’t be sad.”

Through my violent tears I tried to explain to those poor sweet little children that I was okay, that snakes are really nice, but that mommy was just irrationally scared.  I’m sure they totally appreciated the distinction.

Eventually we went back into the house, and I put the kids down for nap/quiet time.  My heart continued to pound.  I didn’t trust any covered spaces.  I jumped when my watch buzzed.  When I went for a run on our treadmill in the basement, I watched the ceiling panel the whole time, just waiting for a snake to suddenly ease through and drop down on my head (as they do.)

Basically, I was a mess.  I still am a mess.  And I’m super embarrassed.  Embarrassed that I cried about a harmless garter snake in front of my children.  And maybe also my neighbors.  Embarrassed that I cried again as I re-told the story to my husband, hours later.  Embarrassed that I am too scared to go back in my yard again.  Embarrassed that I sent Hubby out to buy and plant marigolds with his only free hour of the day, because I read on the internet that maybe somehow marigolds keep the snakes away.

It’s time to move past this phobia, right?  Is there a way to do that without immersion therapy? Because I am 100% not doing that.

Until next time,





We Scarred Him For Life

So this is embarrassing.

Disclaimer:  Things are about to get real personal.

It was a Friday.  Hubby had a rare early exit from work, and so was miraculously home before nap time.  And you know, Spring was in the air, so things were feeling a little –shall we say — frisky? between Hubby and I as we started to get the kids ready to go down for the afternoon.

(Did I mention that this is embarrassing?)

So I rocked Ell-Bell into sweet dreamland.  Baby girl is a piece of cake to put to sleep these days, thank god.  Meanwhile, Hubby set K-Man up in his own room with some Paw Patrol.  (Little dude has “quiet time” because he officially really truly doesn’t nap anymore.  I don’t want to talk about it ok?)

When K-Man is in his room for quiet time, he almost never comes out.  I mean, he’s watching TV, so he’s pretty much dead to the world, right?

Which, I guess, is why Hubby and I felt ok about acting on our adult urges in that moment.  I gave him my “meet me in the bedroom” eyes and he certainly wasted no time in following my lead.  We’ve got two young kids and he works 80-hour weeks, he wasn’t about to say no to a little mid-day love sesh!

So there we were, getting pretty tangled up in the sheets — and holy cow my face is burning as I type this — when we heard a noise.  A very distinct noise.  The sound of K-Man’s door knob turning.

Did I mention the door to K-Man’s room is approximately two feet away from the door to our master suite?

K-Man yelled, “Hey mom and dad!” as he started to push open our door.  And at honest-to-god-super-hero-speed, Hubby jumped out of bed and threw our comforter over my entire naked body.  Covered me from head to toe in one fell swoop.  (Pretty talented, no?)

So yeah, my son walked in to our room and encountered … my Hubby … standing seemingly alone in our room … naked.

K-Man said, “I need to pee.”

“Um, okay.”  Hubby said back.

“I need help taking my pants off,” said K-Man.

“Um, okay.”  Hubby said again.

Hubby then proceeded to help K-Man take his pants off.  Because, you know, he needed to pee.  Even though every other day of the week he took his own damned pants off when he needed to pee.

“I’m just going to leave these here.” K-man said, gesturing to his pants as he threw them in a heap on our bedroom floor. (Why tho?)

“Okay.” – Hubby.

“I’m just going to close the door now.” – K-Man

“Okay.” – Hubby.

And then K-Man disappeared back into the obscurity of his own Paw-Patrolled room.

So yeah, that happened.

He’s only three, and I don’t even know if he knew I was in the room.  But he was super awkward and insisted on closing the door when he left.  So maybe he felt a weird vibe.

I actually still remember walking in on my parents having sex during nap time when I was 3 or 4.  So that’s good news, right?

Did we scar him for life?

Until next time,




Good Friday (Grateful Friday)

I’ve been super grouchy lately.  It could have something to do with the fact that we are still very much in the endless throes of winter here in Upstate NY — is it too much to ask for the thermometer to break 40F on Easter Sunday?  It could also have something to do with the fact that I got trolled hard in a mommy group on Facebook yesterday — why are virtual peeps so mean?  Or it could have everything to do with the fact that, after four years of sweet bliss, I am finally suffering from the girl flu again.  (But can I really complain about a four-year break?  Prolly not.  Thank you, back-to-back pregnancies and breastfeeding gods).

Regardless of my grump, today is Good Friday.  Now, I’m no religious scholar, but I’m pretty sure the “good” in Good Friday doesn’t have to do with good feels (because I googled it).  But, hey, I can take some creative liberties.  So, in the spirit of good-ness, and in an effort to boost my crappy mood, here are 5 things that I’m grateful for today:

  1. Easter is upon us.  Which means Easter candy is upon us.  Now, I told Hubby the same thing I tell him every year: all I want is a freaking peanut-butter-filled chocolate bunny.  Every year he forgets.  Every year I let it go, because come on, I have 32-year-old metabolism.  But this year … this year I was cleaning out some kitchen cabinets and stumbled upon it.  A peanut-butter-filled chocolate bunny that he must have purchased behind my back, and is hopefully saving to give to me on Easter morning.  I know it’s only March, so is it too early to award him Hubby of the Year?  (Please, for both our sakes, let the bunny actually be for me.)
  2. Zzzzzzz.  Because I have no regard for my well-being, I am going to go ahead and disrespect the sleep gods here:  Ever since last week’s bitch fest about Ell-Bell’s atrocious sleep habits, baby girl has been sleeping much better at night.  I mean you guys, last night honeyboo didn’t even wake up for the first time until 5:30 in the morning! What? Of course she’s just trolling me, lulling me into a false sense of security so that I fall that much harder when she wakes up 5 times tonight.  But still, I’ll take a few nights in a row of good sleep!
  3. Things are about to get romantical.  The in-laws are coming for a visit next week.  Ugh, I know, there’s nothing romantic about that.  But of course, the silver lining is that they provide free and relatively safe-ish child care, which means Hubby and I are about to go on our first date in four months!  I am way excited, and I don’t know if I’ve ever spent so much mental energy planning a 3-4 hour block of time in my life.  I’m thinking sushi and a movie, but my god, the possibilities are endless!  (Side note: can somebody teach me how to hire a real babysitter?  I’m guessing it would be a good thing to not wait four months between dates).
  4. I’m basically an Olympian.  Okay, I’m not, at all.  I am actually that mushy-armed person at the gym who only ever runs on the treadmill — the one who everyone looks at and says, “girlfriend, you need to get off that treadmill and do some actual push-ups.”  But hey, I’ve been back to running pretty consistently for the better part of a year now and I am feeling really good about it.  I’m getting faster, I’m running longer, and gosh darnit, I might even get brave enough to run outside one of these days.  I just need a babysitter real quick.
  5. I get to spectate all the sports.  I don’t care what you say, I like to watch golf on TV, ok?  It’s relaxing.  For me, April (snow) showers mean only one thing:  it’s time to watch some golf hotties navigate the Augusta greens at the Masters.  Of course, my in-laws will be in town during coverage because OF COURSE THEY HAVE TO COME during the Masters basically EVERY SINGLE YEAR.  But whatever.  I’m also giddy for NBA playoffs and more golf and tennis tourneys on the horizon, for those keeping track.  (Holler at me if you are also secretly in love with at least half of the men’s tennis field, we might have to be besties).

So there you have it.  What’s on your grateful list this Good Friday?  Wishing everyone a happy passover, Easter, or whatever else you may be celebrating in the next few days.

Until next time,




Sweet Dreams ’til Sunbeams Find You . . . or Your Daughter Wakes You Up

You know that moment you’ve been looking forward to since you first woke up in the morning?  That moment when you finally crawl into bed and relax under your covers after a long day?  When your head hits the pillow and you prepare to surrender yourself to sweet sleepy bliss?  When every muscle in your body starts to give in, and your breathing gets deeper, deeper, and your eyelids get heavier, heavier . . .

Yeah.  That’s the exact moment that my daughter Ell-Bell wakes up screaming.  Every. single. night.  And it doesn’t even matter what time I go to bed.  She manages to pull it off whether it’s 10 p.m., midnight, or anywhere in between.  What on Earth did I ever do to her?

Am I embarrassed that my 15-month-old is still not sleeping through the night?  You betcha.  Do I feel guilty that I’m still nursing that sweet little demon back to sleep because it’s all I can do?  100%.  Is the end in sight?  God I hope so.

I remember with K-Man, we were sheepishly admitting to the pediatrician that he was still waking up in the night at his 18-month check-up.  But then a few weeks later, he miraculously started sleeping through.  And it was everything.  (Well, it was everything for four months, and then we had another baby.  That was dumb.)

So maybe my life is about to get a whole lot better?  I can do this for three more months, right?

Until next time,