Honey, I’m good.


So Buddy was born with laryngomalacia, which is a super hard-to-spell way of saying that his larynx would collapse with every breath he took. Which led to a whole host of not-serious problems like he wouldn’t drink a bottle for more than five seconds, he couldn’t laugh the normal way, and his sleeping sounds were roughly akin to being across the street from an international airport.

Now as a toddler, he’s pretty much fine. He’s technically grown out of it, although between what the doctor told us and what I’ve figured out from observing him, he only eats when he’s distracted enough to relax. Given that his larynx is firm, I think (in all my medical expertise) that he was probably traumatized by feeling like he was drowning as an infant and tenses up, which engages my husband’s gag reflex, and, well, it ends with me doing a lot of laundry and him not consuming a lot of actual food.

So we distract him with videos on our phones while we feed him (please, save your parenting suggestions, unless you want to move in and raise him, I do not care). Because of this, I’ve become incredibly familiar with a whole host of Netflix shows and YouTube videos that catch his interest for three or four days before he starts ignoring them and realizes that we’re actually trying to feed him and then, well, we’re back to laundry.

George of the Jungle 2? The 2003 direct-to-video sequel to the already crappy George of the Jungle starring Brendan Fraser? I can recite it.

Downton Funk? The Downton Abbey parody of Uptown Funk? I’ve memorized the dance moves.

That one weird family’s video Christmas card? I feel like we’re bestest friends.

Our current favorite is Andy Grammer’s Honey, I’m Good. Buddy LOVES the beat. And he likes all the people on the video. And with the exception of one bad word for…ahem…bottom, I can play it with Squeaks around (I mute that part). But that means that I have to listen to it for a good forty-five minutes of my day. And I have a few thoughts.

What, exactly? Is this song supposed to be holding up? Because it sure as hell isn’t an actually good relationship.

We begin with the lyric “Nah nah honey, I’m good/ I could have another but I probably should not/ I got somebody at home and if I stay I might not leave alone.”

Um. Okay.

So. A.) Why are you calling her honey? and-

B.) Are you seriously telling me you cannot be held to a basic standard of monogamy after a drink? Because THIS IS HOW RAPE CULTURE STARTS. By just assuming that men are pigs who cannot control basic human impulses so we have to be in control for them and then your skirt is too short and oh, Lord, let’s not go down this road.

This is backed up by the verse. “Now better men, than me have failed/ Drinking from that unholy grail.”

Seriously. Alcohol (I don’t care how much.) does not give you the right to or an excuse for cheating on your girlfriend/fiancee/wife. Never. I’m not saying don’t be responsible and know your limits, because of course, but THIS IS NOT WORTH SINGING ABOUT.

Then we have “You look good, I will not lie/ But if you ask where I’m staying tonight/ I gotta be like oh, baby, no, baby, you got me all wrong, baby/ My baby’s already got all of my love.

Okay. “Baby” can’t have you that wrong if she even has an inkling that she’s going home with you. Like, for serious. My husband could consume a fifth of whiskey at a bar and I’m pretty certain that while his liver would explode, he would not give any young lady on the premises cause to ask him where he’s staying that night.

So no, baby, she doesn’t have you all wrong.

And. if your baby really has all of your love, why are you out getting all these drinks from these women who think you’re going home with them? What is she doing? Sitting at home decoupaging?

(I ask because that legit sounds like a good night to me.)

Finally, the thing that annoys me most is that the video is all happy couples proclaiming how long they’ve been together. Which, as we saw above, MEANS NOTHING TAKEN IN CONTEXT OF THE LYRICS.

Gah. It irks me. Buddy’s going to have to go back to Downton Funk.

Five on Friday

I’m still pretty psyched by summer, you guys. And by “psyched” I mean unbelievably happy and free and have stopped getting up with my husband most days and I swore I wouldn’t do that when we got married but you know what, I still promise to do that in sickness and in health thing, so let me sleep until 7, okay?

Anyway, I have also become retrospective in my glee, so here is a list of five things I did during the school year that I swore I would never, ever do ever in my life.

1.) Let her wear the same thing every day for most of winter.

Here is my kid at the beginning of the school  year. In an adorable Land’s End polo shirt with a cute peter pan collar and ruffles and oh my gosh just so cute!

Here is my kid after a week wearing the thing she’d wear until it became 80 degrees because that ugly overpriced white turtleneck doesn’t have any buttons, which apparently are coated with skin-melting material if you believe the screams coming from our house every morning at dressing time.

Oh wait. There’s no picture. Because there’s no point in photographing it because it’s so uncute.

(She, however, is still adorable.)

2.) Debate how sick you really have to be to miss school because a.) we’ve missed most of the days this week since a every virus that thinks about coming near the school building fells us for a week and b.) this is a really bad day because I have plans/errands/appointments.

Seriously. We got EVERYTHING. EVERYTHING. I think the last time I felt actually healthy was October. Maybe a few days in March as we switched from winter viruses to summer colds.

And there came a point where she was missing super fun stuff and I haven’t heard you sniffle in six minutes, so quick hop in the car Imma turn on Frozen really loud.

3.) Wear pajama yoga pants to drop off. And pick up. And the rest of the afternoon.

Never with  makeup. Or combed hair. No, that’s a lie. Sometimes my hair was combed. Full of coconut oil, but I had combed the coconut oil through it.

(My hair is a PROCESS, people. It’s basically a part-time job.)

Of course, as I sit here at 9:22 am typing this, I am also in pajamas. But, uh. It’s different. No one else is here. And yes I’m letting my children color the box our toilet paper came in (whoo Amazon Subscribe and Save!) but whatever, it’s summer.

4.) Throw away some of the pieces of paper that she brought home.

Mah bebe will never make anything that I will not treasure and adore….until that first week when HOLY COW do they come home with a lot of stuff. And some just isn’t that important. Really. I had to be realistic.

I’m not a bad mother. Tell me I’m not a bad mother.

5.) Hit another car during conferences.

In fairness, this one is pretty much just a daily goal of mine. Like I wake up thinking, let’s try not to hit anyone today. For serious.

But I failed to abide by this cardinal rule of mine by hitting a car at a whopping 2 mph in the parking lot leaving the conference, and another K4 mother at that. Thankfully she was afternoon, but it did totally make the end-of-the-year joint stuff awk-ward.

Summertime! And the fails have already started!

Guys! It’s summer! My kid is finished with school! I don’t have to be up at crack thirty anymore!

(I totally will be, because I am incapable of getting anything finished after like, eh, maaaaybe 2pm, and if I don’t get up early we’ll be living in one pair of shorts and t-shirts all summer and then we’ll smell and ever fewer people will like us and eh, it’s just a bad idea.)

(But I don’t have to GO ANYWHERE. That’s the part that counts.)

Here is my kid being thrilled about finishing the school year.

photo 1 (1)

That face? Is one I’m expecting to see a lot of over the next twenty years.

(Also my lawn/shrubbery doesn’t look so unkempt now. Yay summer!)

Anyway, the beginning of summer always makes me want to organize and change my life and hack ALL THE THINGS.

So I have been (marginally) successful at cleaning the basement with Buzz and forcing both of us to go through things because I’m sorry, I know 1997 was a great year for all of us (that’s a lie, it was not a great year for me since I was 10, but you I’m sure enjoyed it because you were like married with a couple of kids, honey), but we don’t need to keep all the stuff that we accumulated and have dragged to various cities across the country.

And I can get rid of my ponchos. 2004 ain’t never coming back.

So there’s that. I’ve also decided to change up my breakfast routine. I’m not dieting (I refuse to) but I am not stupid and realize that that bowl of Cheerios is probably not as low in calories if it only keeps you full for an hour and by 10 am you’re baking brownies to  just eat the pan. I found an amazing post on overnight oats on pinterest and I’m all omg I love oatmeal! I used to eat it every day when I had loads of time!

And oatmeal is totally healthy! And while I’m not unhappy with my body (that’s a lie. I’m always unhappy with my body. I thought I looked fat in this picture:


You stupid whore you will never look better, 2010 Me.), Buddy definitely changed things. It’s not baby weight, because I lost all the weight I gained with pregnancy (thank you, preeclampsia and postpartum depression), but the OH MY GOD WHEN IS YOUR FATHER GETTING HOME cookies and wine haven’t exactly tightened things up if you know what I mean.

So! Overnight oats! Yes!

(Pause for a moment here as my father picks himself up off the floor because he has been present (and paid for) all of my previous attempts at fad diets. See: 2005 obsession with fresh fruit smoothies that ran him, oh, about $100 in produce that languished for a few weeks while I decided I didn’t really like smoothies.)

I found a recipe for ones that involved Greek yogurt and cocoa powder and they totally tasted like BROWNIE BATTER YOU GUYS!!! At least, according to Pinterest.

Except. Um. They didn’t. They tasted like Greek yogurt and unsweetened cocoa powder. And despair.

You know what tastes like brownie batter?


Brownie batter.

You know what doesn’t?


Yup. Overnight oatmeal with Greek yogurt and unsweetened cocoa powder.

I blame pinterest and mason jars. You’re supposed to make it in a mason jar, which confused me because I happen to usually drink alcohol out of mason jars and alcohol is tasty. Therefore, mason jars are a win. (Philosophy 211: Elementary Logic for the win, right?)

Except it turns out that even mason jars can’t make oatmeal taste like brownies.

But never fear. I will not give up on overnight oats. I’m going to try again and again until my credit card gets decline (aren’t you glad I got married, Daddy?)

At least I have a clean basement.

(And plans to replicated the Cheesecake Factory red velvet cheesecake for a dinner party I’m having later this month. I think it will turn out better than oatmeal soaked in yogurt.)



My amazing and funny sister sent me this article yesterday, regarding the morning habits of female moguls and trendsetters. It’s all very Lean In and fascinating and really makes you think about your morning routine.

And how seriously lacking it is.

For instance, something called “ashtanga yoga” is a.) a thing and b.) helpful. Huh.  I don’t do ashtanga yoga, but I do…well, not a lot. I jog to the mailbox sometimes if it’s cold and I was too lazy to go upstairs to get my shoes. But, uh, that’s it.

Um. Let’s see what else…breakfast! I can do that! They all make time for a nutritious breakfast. I make time for breakfast (we can quibble about how nutritious it is later) every day! Mostly because otherwise my Prozac makes me nauseous. And that makes me feel pregnant. Which makes me anxious. Which makes me want more Prozac. It’s a vicious cycle that a bowl of Special K can cut off so yes! I do make time for breakfast. Ha!

Here is the rest of my morning routine. Also known as “why I will never be a mogul.”

5:15- Alarm goes off. Ignore.

5:30- Alarm goes off again. Drool a little and ask husband if it’s the cuddle alarm* or the real alarm. Real alarm. Swear. Grumble.

5:31- Wonder if I the fact that I’m so tired is because I’m pregnant. Ask husband if he thinks that’s the case. He assures me that I am not pregnant (whew, back to the prozac and wine) and the actual children in the next rooms are the reason I’m so tired and not the phantom ppd anxiety baby I’ve created. This makes sense.

5:32- Demand that husband shower first and leave the water running while he comes and gets me because the thought of even turning that dial is too much to handle. Also that’s like 90 more seconds of sleep I could get.

5:40- Shower, makeup, get dressed, clean up bathroom upstairs and master bedroom

6:00- Get downstairs, make cup of coffee. Unload dishwasher, clean up kitchen from the mysterious overnight mess-making that always seems to happen. Forget about coffee.

6:15- Warm up coffee for the first time. Clean whatever part of the house needs it the most. Forget about coffee

6:30- warm up coffee the second time. Drink a few sips of it while saying a few uninterrupted sentences to husband. Ask what time he thinks he’ll be home that night. Add 45 minutes for good intentions. Decide what time I can start drinking wine. Say goodbye to husband.

6:35- Emails, permission slips, mail, whatever random crap comes across my desk, while shouting, “No you can’t get up yet be quiet don’t wake your brother!”

6:45- Brother is officially awakened, go upstairs and get daughter. Pretend like saying “yes” when she asks to watch PBS is a unique occurrence and not something that happens every day. Gather up her clothes so that I can dress her manually like I did when she was 18 months old. Because kindergarten is that stressful. Get son up, and dressed in the first outfit of the day because he has my kidneys wets through the biggest size Pampers makes and OH MY GOD HE’S ONLY SIXTEEN MONTHS WHAT THE HELL.

7:00- Give son water and Cheerios so he can see how far he can throw them this morning. We’re not great with nutrition, but are working super hard on fine motor skills!

7:02- Ask daughter what she wants for breakfast. Am told she wants to think about it.

7:05- Ask daughter what she wants for breakfast. Am told she wants to think about it.

7:08- Ask daughter what she wants for breakfast. Am told she wants to think about it.

7:10- Ask daughter what she wants for breakfast AND WE’RE GETTING DRESSED IN TWENTY MINUTES SO YOU HAVE TO ANSWER ME SERIOUSLY. Am asked “what are my options?”

7:11- All options are rejected in favor of something in the shape of a duckie. I don’t even know. As a consolation prize, she’ll probably eat a bagel. Maybe. She’ll see after I make it.

7:14- The bagel is accepted, as long as she can eat it in the family room, with the coffee table pushed up to the sofa, and tucked in with blankets. Again, I pretend this doesn’t happen every day because it makes me feel like a better mother.

7:20- Begin first feeding of son. He gags as I open the baby food container. Ah. Always a good sign.

7:30- Finish feeding of son after he finishes all the food and/or starts to retch. On a good day it stays down and he goes running off to destroy some other part of the house. On a bad one we puke, strip, and move on to breakfast/outfit number two.

7:39- Start car. Because we live on Hoth, apparently.

7:40- Tell daughter it’s time to get dressed. And by get dressed I mean stand there watching Curious George while I dress you. She runs away to hide behind the couch. Ah. Mornings. I’m going to miss this next year when we homeschool.

7:41- Physically demand that daughter allow me to get to dressed. After some whining, she acquiesces. Just to be clear, she’s not happy about it. There will still be the squawks, screeches, random shrieks, and of course, the “MOMMY THE BUTTONS ARE TOUCHING MY SKIN!” dance we have to do around the living room for a few minutes.

7:46- Begin the hair combing process. Just like women were mercifully unconscious during childbirth in the 1950s, it’s perhaps best that we draw the curtain over this part of the morning.

7:50- Waddle to the car in our outerwear. Scream a little. Say that our safety restraints are too tight. Balk when I say that they have to be tight to protect her. Declare that dying in a fiery highway crash is probably preferable to the horror of that strap touching my neck.

7:52- Back over the garbage. Every week.

7:58- Cruise past school to see if the “valet service” (older kids who will walk our baby kids into the classroom) is staffed by girls (who are old and cool and may as well be Anna and Elsa for all Eva cares) and I can keep the car on and the baby inside and pull easily away into traffic or boys (who are old but scary and uh-uh mommy, I want you to take me in) and I have to circle the block and use death trap they refer to as a parking lot. Boys. Of course.

8:01- Park car, get son out, unbuckle daughter. Try to ignore the fact that she’s refusing to go in. Assure her she’ll have fun. Assure her I’ll come back for her. Assure her all will be well.

8:03- Pull daughter out of the car, and walk in to school, dodging cars and bikes, and a few horse-drawn carriages, I don’t know.

8:05- Get inside, take daughter’s coat off. Feel badly looking at the pictures on the wall because I was supposed to drop off a picture of daughter from the summer but I never got around to it and now like every kid has their picture up except mine *sigh*.

8:06- Pull son out of the kindergarten room. The one I’m spending thousands so she can attend can’t be ripped away from the doorframe; her brother decides it’s his life’s goal to be in K4.

8:08- Kiss daughter goodbye. Reassure her that I will come back.

8:10- Get son strapped in the car. Attempt to get out of parking lot.

8:11- …

8:12- …


8:15- Finally pull onto a road.

8:30- Get to my mom’s where she takes care of my son and I can actually drink a cup of coffee.

I don’t know why I don’t have time to form a multi-national corporation or anything.

*Yes we have a cuddle alarm. Shut up. We have a great marriage.