Loosening My Grip: A Fantasy

I’m not judging anyone but whose kid is that pulling all the magazines off the racks and sprawling them across the floor? I need to meet whoever is in charge because I’d like to master the art of giving zero shits too. I mean, I’m not saying I always push a cart with a four year old when I’m in public, but kind of. There’s no doubt that my son has outgrown the nesting gate demographic but until I know for sure he’s not going to publicly shame the family by obliterating everything in his path, I have a containment policy to carry out. But I like your approach better. 

I’m sick of having rules, I'm too laid back for this shit. Back in my childless naivety I assumed that my future kin would have no desire to knock down store displays, wander away from me, or poke holes in ground beef packaging. I imagined that the most powerful motivation for good behavior would be obvious: that bad behavior gets you bad attention. And who would ever want that? Clearly I was unprepared and ill informed of the reality that is childrearing. Kids don’t give a shit about dirty looks or wagging fingers from strangers. They’re hardly embarrassed by anything! I, however, remain mortified and don't understand how in 2017 we still lack the technology to install a general code of conduct into our kids. So FINE. Rules. 

But come on! Is advising my son not to slap a bent over stranger’s ass really necessary? Is “keep your hands to yourself” simply too simple? Apparently yes, and Rule No. 321768 was born. Because what am I? A freaking rule writer. And even though these rules may preserve order, reduce humiliation, and [hopefully] prevent a sexual harassment lawsuit, they make me feel uncomfortably overbearing. I never intended to grow up and become a stickler for well-mannered spawn, but sitting idly as my son stands up in a booth so he can pester patrons on the other side cuts my life short by 6 minutes. 

I guess you can say I’ve picked my poison and would rather deal with being a rule master than be shamed by a stranger for birthing a rowdy boy. But as I rule on, adorning my social etiquette hat equip with the best child surveillance system public scrutiny can buy, I’m lost in a give no fucks fantasy. One where I’m humming merrily along to Yeezy in a crowded store, tuning out the sounds of any behavioral defects taking place and shrugging off my son’s incessant ninja moves against innate objects; laughing as I proclaim that "kids will be kids,” with zero intention to clean up or excuse behavior that isn’t actually my own. Still humming, like, “Excuse me, is you saying something? Uh-uh, you can’t tell me nothing.” 

So should you catch me watching quizzically as your child runs around freely, please know that I’m not judging. I’m merely fantasizing and longing for your level of zen because I’m not that chill…but I’d like to be.

Why I Don't Invite You Over For Dinner

“I promise my cooking will get better, I just don’t know when.” I sheepishly told my husband on week three of being unemployed. Unfortunately for me, my poor dinner skills are no longer protected by my income because I don’t have any. The law firm I’d been working at for the past 5+ years recently closed its doors and without a job to go to each day, I’m faced with the most unnatural and challenging work: domestication. 

It’s not a total calamity. I mean, I can bake and I’ve mastered a handful of meals, however, cookies for dinner wont cut it and it ain’t exactly chili season. Still, there’s a foundation to build upon if I ever felt like it...aka I don’t like this game. 

You see, I’ve worked fulltime hours the entire duration of my young adult life, always bustling past laundry and dirty dishes while performing the livable minimum with justified neglect. “I’m too busy,” or “I’m exhausted,” I’d mutter to myself instead of tending to the home. However, now that I don’t have professional obligations, I’ve learned that the truth is I’m too lazy, uninterested, and disenchanted with all things house. In fact, I’m a goddamn slob who will starve happily if it means not having to make a sandwich. Yet here I am, navigating through grocery store aisles that DON’T contain chips, buying extra virgin olive oil like it’s going to fix all my problems. Newsflash: It wont. (Though MSG might.) 

I take comfort in knowing that I can’t possibly be the only vagina in the world that struggles with performing her outdated gender role. Tuesday night’s teriyuki that should’ve been teriyaki does not define me as a woman, it’s just another example of how down my family is to risk their life on my cooking and how crazy it is to assume that kitchen skills come naturally. When I made the decision to dedicate myself to writing as a stay at home mom, opposed to securing another legal job, my first thought was, “Oh my god, my husband is going to expect me to cook.” ...I hope we survive.

But I can do this, right? With a dash of motivation and great deal of effort, I can learn. It’s not like I’m an idiot, I’m just super content with cereal and hoping I can keep my family belly-full until my writing career affords us a personal chef. So if after all these years I haven’t once invited you over for dinner, now you understand, and you're welcome. 

These two guys are the REAL MVPs

Baby Proofing? Nope.

Baby proofing is for the birds. It doesn’t prevent every imminent danger and if you’re watching your kid, you’re gonna be fine. This wasn’t always my opinion, it’s a philosophy I developed out of experience with my first born, who proved that every safety net was useless because he had no interest in opening cupboards or sticking things in light sockets. He didn’t like to hang around opening and closing doors and toilets. All those stupid plastic knick-knacks that one spends time putting up to safeguard their boo-boo-babies is a gimmick, only benefitting the stress level of the parent who likely feels relief that the room is safer for little Foo Foo to roll around in. That’s what my son taught me. But then I had my daughter, and now I’m eating crow. 

My second born is no fucking joke. If it’s on the floor, invisible to the naked eye, and can kill you, my daughter has already put it in her mouth. Adrian is curious about every little thing. And even worse, she’s persistent. Girlfriend will NOT quit trying until she gets the results she wants. I’m low-key super excited and proud that she’s exhibiting such fierceness and had no idea how lazy easy my son actually was as a baby, but she needs to relax. I can’t just keep saving her life like I have nothing else to do with my day. I mean, if I don’t make dinner, we’re ALL gonna die. 

Yet a year has passed and still nothing at home is baby proofed. Better late than never? Nah, that simply won’t allow me to maintain the level of laziness I’ve grown accustomed to. Though I realized early on that Adrian was a totally different beast than my firstborn, I opted out of baby proofing because I underestimated her. This means for the past year I’ve been trying to out hawk-eye the hawk-eyed. Instead of resting in the confidence of my baby-proofed abode, I’ve been living on a gamble, a prayer, and a lot of intervention as I shout from the kitchen sink, “NO ADRIAN, DON’T TOUCH THAT!” My hands dripping soap while she smiles gladly at the door she’s six seconds away from slamming her fingers in. 

But I keep telling myself that since she’s a year old, I’ve missed my window. I’ve lost the opportunity to really benefit from baby proofing because she’s getting older. Or at least I’m banking and hoping that all the bumps, bruises, and close calls have taught her something. I know they’ve taught me that any contraption you can buy to avoid being omnipotent, omniscient, and omnipresent, is worth its weight in gold. Because when you have a baby that lives for the thrill of dying, bubble wrap is life.

"Having Kids Changes Everything," And Other Things I Didn't Pay Attention To

My husband and I are pretty tight. We're going on our 12th year of marriage, the first 7 of which was just the two of us, and it was a lot of fun. But now we've doubled ourselves by adding two young children. "Everything changes once you have kids," they all said. And that's quite alright, I mean, we did elect to become parents by our own free will so I have to assume we considered that notion. However, when you're elbow deep in baby shit, trying to unstick the wipe from the diaper strap while holding baby legs in the air as a 4 year old continuously asks you to put spiderman's head back on the junk toy he intentionally decapitated, one cant help but look at the other and question how sober they each were when they decided having children was a good way to spend ones time. And not just a child, we actually agreed to do this on TWO separate occasions. Clearly we must enjoy penal labor. 

I do love my children and that's no disclosure. But who knew parenting would break down every expectation for personal dignities my husband and I had spent seven years fostering? I had no idea we were coexisting as a married couple on such a highly expert level. Then poof, we gave it up. Just yesterday I literally hid all the croutons in my salad under a bed of lettuce so that I wouldn't have preschool fingers picking over my first chance at a meal. It was 2pm. Call me silly, petty, whatever, but I know the opportunistic vulture that is my child, who claims my food as his own. I wasn't surprised when he approached me with his, "Oh I want to see what's in that bowl," instead, I was prepared. And when he grimaced at my greens and said, "No thank you, I don't want any" to the food I never actually offered him, I squealed inside. It worked! I won. A meal sans grubby hands, aka an expectation I'd be foolish to believe I was still afforded. 

Lost dignities can be found in affections, too. These days, it seems as if I'm loving on everyone in the family other than my spouse. But it's not because I don't try. It's just that hugs and kisses are no longer under my jurisdiction. Affection has become community property and any special attention is instantly noticed by my son who has a heightened sense of awareness for that sort of thing, causing him to transform from boy, to wedge. And he obstructs it all; conversations, hugs, kisses, his sister's playtime, whatever. So it's no surprise that our daughter is now performing all the same tricks. They learn fast.

And it ain't just food and affection. After seven years of assuming life as an individual, I became Mom. And Mom doesn't get the freedom of choice like she used to. It's a big world with a lot of options, unless you're like me. My options get reduced by a "what kind of parent do I want to be" filter, resulting in playing a censored version (ew) of Bad and Boujee, and as if that wasn't bad enough, I'm also subjected to my kins' choosiness. This means I'm pretty much always listening to one song on repeat, and it's more than likely from the Nightmare Before Christmas soundtrack. I only have myself to blame.

I can almost remember the olden days when I only got myself ready, when skipping breakfast also meant not having to cook breakfast, when my alarm clock wasn't someone shouting, "I'M DONE MOMMY" from a toilet at 5:30 a.m. Who knew past monotonies I took for granted would later look like a vacation when recalled in these present times?

Again, I do love my kids and accept their needy ways, even if I failed to fully anticipate having so little of myself left for myself at the end of each day. This doesn't mean I regret becoming a parent (twice), it just means I didn't forget the sweet taste of freedom and I get cravings. Like during diaper changes. And tantrums. It also means I'm honest. Some parents will publicly fawn through childrearing, claiming they "could never imagine a life without their kids." But don't buy it. They either have a lot of paid help, or no imagination. The truth is that you're either giving up everything or you're hiding the croutons in your salad. And that's okay.

My 4 Year Old, The Raging Sexist

“Mommy, go into the kitchen and make me dinner.” Says my four-year-old son as if he’s an incompetent husband circa 1932. It doesn’t take much to observe that my kid may be a raging sexist, but I’d like everyone to know that this wasn't something he picked up at home. Haters will say that’s impossible because children are innocent sponges that mimic what they hear and see, but guess what? It ain't true. The boy was born a male chauvinist. Before he was even rolling over he was already displaying prejudices against women, refusing to get near them without emitting banshee scream protests. And as his mother, he barely tolerates me. Seriously. 

“Excuse me Dylan?” I ask, half-amused by the little fuck's macho meal request. 

“I said, MAKE ME DINNER!" 

Okay, hold up. Am I mistaken? Are these commands merely the pleas of a hungry, ill-mannered preschooler? Well yeah, sure. But beyond the “make me a sandwich" barks, there’s a solid history of Dylan displaying sexism. For instance, at six months old the boy decided he’d rather starve than breastfeed. Yes, he quit ME. Okay…that’s not exactly sexist but it was rude. He did however comment that mommy isn’t the boss because only daddy can be a boss, since "girls can’t be cool, only boys can be cool." 

“No Dylan, that’s not right. Girls are bosses and they are cool too.” '

“No mommy, you’re not right. Only daddy is right.” 

OH HELL NO, LITTLE TRUMP. 

I used to think that parents should have to answer for their little prick children, apportioning any ill behavior or crap attitude to the mom and dad behind the child. But now I know better (sorry) and understand that sometimes a prick is born a prick. And sometimes, that prick is matched to the exact family he needs in order to be unpricked. 

You see, what Dylan has yet to fully realize is that he was born into a girl power family. I have four sisters and all five of us were reminded on a daily basis that women rule the world, women are empowered, that men may try to play us down but they’re just silly ignorant boys that need to be shown their seat, something that both women and men are responsible for doing. So in our family, discounting women will get you nowhere, fast. 

Though it may take some time to scrub the chauvinistic nature out of Dylan’s genes, he’ll be scrubbing my jeans and making the whole family sandwiches by the time I’m done with him. For is it not my duty to set his domineering philosophies ablaze until he’s protesting for women's rights? 

So, should you or your daughters find yourselves on the receiving end of my son’s unsubstantiated bias, don’t worry, I’m on it. However, it does take a village, so feel free to show my silly little boy to his seat. 

Questions I Don't Want Answers To

I used to be so curious. I was proud of my agog nature that caused me to ask whatever inquisition piqued my interest. The thirst for knowledge was real, information was everywhere and I wanted to have it. But these days? Nope. Shut up, I've asked you nothing. 

Now all I have are questions that I never want answers to. Toddler life has me like, “Dylan, what’s on your shoe?” or, “What did you just put in your mouth Adrian?" And even a, “Did you just say you're 'wiggling your wiener?'" The questions don't stop and quite frankly I resent having to ask them, since the answers require additional questions that tend to veer towards disgust, panic, and/or more work for mommy. And guess what? I'm ALWAYS mommy. 

So, I squirm in silence. I try my very best to resist what comes naturally and bed the who/what/wheres and whys but BAM! I'm baited and I just cant- I MUST KNOW, "What are you holding in your hand?" 

"A sticker."

"Where did you get a sticker?" 

"I found it mommy."

"May I see it?" Just look at me go. 

"You can't touch it, you can only look, okay?" My son says to me as I've said to him so many times before. 

Oh, wow! What a cool sticker! It looks exactly like a bloody used band-aid you'd find on the street after six weeks of foot traffic. Insert gagging here. 

But I get it, I did the right thing for the kid by asking. It was practically my duty to ensure he wasn't holding something dangerous or disgusting like a stranger's used bandage. Only now that I've done my parental due diligence, I'm left with the dismal reality that my son is merely a young lass who doesn't know shit about shit and that there are so many more interesting discoveries still to come. 

And sure, it's not all icky. Some very good laughs come from asking a toddler 15 consecutive questions in order to figure out what the fuck is going on in your household. "Honey, why are you sleeping on the dirty floor?"
"I'm just laying down like a piece of poop mommy!" Oh, lol, carry on.

Sometimes though, I'd rather skip the Q&A and look the other way. Maybe, just maybe, I don't need to know that my son is chewing on (and enjoying) a stale old cracker he found from god knows where. How is learning such info truly going to serve me, anyway? Cursed are the curious and dammed are those daring enough to ask questions they don't want the answers to. Or in other words, toddler life is the cat curiosity would rather play with than kill.

Summer Life - Road Trips

This shop has been compensated by Collective Bias, Inc. and its advertiser. All opinions are mine alone. #RoadTripOil #CollectiveBias

Road trips are a serious business. You can’t just get in the car and start driving around aimlessly, one must prepare for a journey on the open road. And if there are kids involved, preparation is life. I always said I wouldn’t take a road trip until my kids were out of car seats but that took too long. We’re in the smack of summer and California beaches are calling for me! I’m ready to road trip NOW! So I somehow convinced (aka promised) my husband that a mini-road trip from Orange County to San Diego would be manageable. Plus, look how worth it is is:

But my husband and I have conflicting ideas of what the most important preparation for a road trip is. His focus? The car. My focus? Snacks. But with Walmart? We both win, and that’s where the fun begins.

I don't know if I'm just a lucky ducky or what, but we pulled right into the Automotive Care Center (you can locate yours here) of Walmart and asked the Care Specialist for a Pennzoil® oil change. But which type? There's the Pennzoil® High Mileage Vehicle® and the Pennzoil Platinum®: Full Synthetic Motor Oil with PurePlus™ Technology. Our car has more than 75k miles on it so we went with High Mileage, but in hindsight, I wish we'd gone Platinum just to say we did. Ultimately, all Pennzoil® products help clean out the sludge lesser oils leave behind and is designed to be a "complete protection" that affords an extra 550 miles per year...AND! High Mileage is on rollback through September 15: $35.88 (normally $39.88)! Clearly that meant I could buy an extra three bag of chips…for the road of course, lol.

As our car was being pampered by Pennzoil® we ventured through Walmart to prepare for summer trip. 

These are my personal list of 5 essentials for any road trip, mini or long that I take to ensure a successful journey: 

- Sunscreen 

- Snacks: Trail mix, chips 

- First Aid Kit 

- WATER 

- A prepared car (Hello oil change)

- A stuffed dachshund 

My FAVORITE aisle.

We did it! We crossed our t’s and dotted our i’s in an hour! The Zepeda family (car included) is ready to hit the I-5 and head out to San Diego’s beaches!

- - - -

Pennzoil® is the only way to start your road trip, you can learn more about Pennzoil® here: 

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True Story: Terrified of My Daughter

I learned very quickly after having my first child that there's no controlling who your kid will be. This means instead of molding my son to be a pink-wearing-doll-playing feminist, Dylan was born ready to roll in mud, decapitate barbies, and practice sexism. Apparently, all claims I made about how I'd raise "my child," were fulfilled by an opposite reality. And the more confident and boisterous I was about it, the more obnoxiously different the reality was.

My favorite (and least favorite) example of this is when I scoffed at a mom changing her toddler's diaper, declaring that "ew," my child would be potty trained before his first birthday, because, why not? Three years later and my kid twitches if you mention the potty and his diapers are so damn big that they're an online-only item. Yes, things are going as planned. FML.

So throughout my second pregnancy I knew better than to open my cursed mouth. If a "my child" thought came into my head, I put it out like a kitchen fire. My mantra? Don't think it, don't speak it, definitely don't risk it.  So when my second child was finally born, I was ready for whatever. But Adrian is so far from "whatever." She's terrifying. 

Becoming acquainted with Adrian was no picnic. Sure, I loved her, but she was born demonic and constantly screaming. Every night was the same as the night before: full-blown colic. If you're not familiar with colic, lucky you. It basically means your baby cries inconsolably for reasons unknown and therefore it cannot be stopped. It's a special kind of shit show that I had a VIP ticket to until one day, it just ended. I don't know how or why, but one day Adrian just stopped crying and became the most amazing baby ever. 

Yes, that's right. My colic riddled baby went from spawn of Satan to sainthood overnight. And now? I'm terrified. I suddenly find myself with the most easy going little girl. I can take her anywhere and do anything because little Adrian is going to observe quietly and patiently. How did that happen? No idea. Why did it happen? No idea. Will it last? Again, I have no idea. But I'd like it to- she is my dream baby! She's the most perfect little child I could have ever imagined! We have such a good thing going that I don't know if I could bounce back should she revert to the scream fest days.  

Trust me, I'm not banking on shit. Having kids has taught me not to count unhatched eggs and to never get too comfortable with today because tomorrow can always LOL all over your face. So should you notice my shoulders tense up while fear washes across my face as you begin singing my insanely well-behaved daughter praises, please know that my reaction is one of a true believer in the law of jinx, and I therefore have no comment. 

ADRIAN JULES

The last time I blogged I was in the thick of misery as a pregnant mom rearing a 2 year old with all kinds of preterm labor scares and ridiculousness. But hooray! Those days have come and gone and I can finally step back long enough to enjoy and appreciate the crazy little journey I've gone through and take the time to announce: OMG, I HAVE A DAUGHTER!!! And holy shit...I have two kids!

On January 7th at 3 something in the morning I received my very own little girl, Adrian Jules. And boy oh boy is she a gem.

Anyone who has more than one kid can attest that no two pregnancies are alike, nor are the babies themselves. Adrian and Dylan are total opposites- which is both super fun and super annoying. For instance:

• Dylan was a 20+ hour labor; Adrian was an 8 hour labor.
• Baby Dylan didn't cry; baby Adrian screamed as if she was being skinned alive every day from 5pm - 10pm until she turned 3 months old.
• Dylan reserved all of his affections for his dad (I was chopped liver); Adrian can't get enough of me (YAY!).
• Dylan couldn't roll over for the life of him; Adrian is practically doing somersaults.
• Dylan slept through the night at 11 weeks old; Adrian...HAHA! We're on week 22- what's sleep?

But I'm not complaining. Sure, there's colic, sleep deprivation, and extra work now that my children-count has multiplied, but I am SO HAPPY! Adrian Jules is the little girl I never knew I couldn't live without. So please consider this a formal proclamation of my unwavering, unconditional, and boundless love I have for my most precious little Adrian.

And also...I'm back!

Recap: Dylan's First Halloween

After two years of failed Halloweens, after protesting his costume for weeks, being unable to walk past Halloween decorations without freezing in fear, and then waking up sick on October 30th, we did it. Dylan finally had his very first Halloween experience. YAY! Though it was looking iffy for a while. I mean, how was I supposed to get a screaming, crying child into a costume without having a screaming, crying child? 

But as it turned out, enticing Dylan into wearing his Batman costume was actually pretty easy once I figured out why he chose to dress up as Batman: the kid wanted to fight. “You want to fight me?” I asked, kind of hoping he’d say no. 

“YEAH!” he bolstered without hesitation. 

“Okay but you can only fight me if you’re Batman.” I offered, since I am in no way above bribery.* Voila! Dylan was ready to fight me party. 

Still, there was the whole Halloween décor issue. How would Dylan summon the courage to walk door to door if every passing cobweb petrified him into paralysis? Another easy solution: candy. After Dylan’s first house, he was a trick or treat feign. This Halloween I learned that my son will walk past Satan himself if there’s candy to be had. He nailed the whole script too: knock on the door, say “trick or treat,” and then “thank you!!!” ...Okay, so maybe the whole “thank you” bit wasn’t very consistent. Most of the time he’d turn to my husband and say, “Daddy, I want more.” But please forgive him, he’s merely 2…and in character. Batman is apparently quite the brute. 

Dylan was so proud of himself. He ran through the streets from one house to the next. He could’ve gone all night if we let him but you gotta stop somewhere. I couldn’t figure out the wherewithal of all this extra energy until the following day while collecting on candy tax examining his treats for razor blades, I noticed there were several pieces of candy with bite marks in them. Apparently Dylan ate waxy candy wrappers under the radar without choking or getting sick, atta-boy! He's practically a professional! 

It took two very boring and failed Halloweens to get here, but my little Batman is a Halloween fool. WORTH IT.

The day after, with no intention of sharing

  


























*I’m actually right below it situated alongside of begging.

The Opposite of Pregnant Chick Envy

A reoccurring phenomenon takes place with each of my pregnancies: I become possessed. Somehow the positive, happy, relaxed and sharp lady that I normally am is replaced with a wretched woman that lacks patience, focus, energy, and enthusiasm. I’m just not myself. Though I’m trying…I really, truly am…but pregnancy isn’t for me. Sure, I’d like to enjoy these nine months of baby growing and bask in the miracle that is the creation of life; however, I can’t get past the swollen kankles and back pain to even acknowledge a so-called glow. And these ever-growing boobs? No thanks. 

Before I became pregnant with my second child, I suffered from pregnant-chick-envy. I saw the little protruding tummies and longed for a wee wittle baby of my own. My first born was growing up, his baby fat was melting into big-boyhood, and my ovaries yearned for the scent of newborn flesh. What a fool. You see, somehow, in between post-pregnancy with my first and pre-pregnancy with my second, I lost all memory of the shit show that takes place during these nine months. And okay, not all women have such disdain for the days of alcohol free, sushi free, weight gaining, gel-brained living, but I look at myself in the mirror and I don’t even know who I am anymore. It’s like… 

When I drove to a restaurant to pick-up my to-go order that I never placed. No, I swear I ordered it. Look, I’ll check my email for the confirmation that I don’t have. 

Going to Las Vegas (which a pregnant person has no business doing), and buying new shoes every two hours because each pair is SO uncomfortable, only to realize six pairs later that the shoes ain’t the problem- these swollen feet though…*

Cutting out my daily meditations because I can’t focus, sit still, or even stay awake long enough to mediate. Three words: Attention Deficit Disorder. 

Coming home from Hawaii at 1 in the morning to a house with no power because I forgot to pay the electricity bill…probably since I… 

Ignored the mail man’s note on my front door advising me to “COLLECT YOUR MAIL, MAILBOX FULL!!!” because uhm…I just don’t feel like it. How long has it been again? Oops. 

Inadvertently teaching my two year old the term “fucking idiot” because that’s what everyone on the road is now. My patience? Dead.

Passing my iPhone to Dylan so that he can watch 34,000 monster truck YouTube videos while I try to nap. Questionable (and lazy) parenting alert.

Arguing with my doctor about my weight gain and reminding her that I gained 57lbs last time and NO, I still don’t drink soda or juice. 

Looking at my blog and realizing I’ve only posted twice in September and it’s already the 29th. Pathetic. And reading blogs? Sorry Tamara, Echo, Jessica, Jennifer, Tawyna, Liv, Camille, Karen, Danielle, and so many more I can’t think of at the top of my head. I’m hopeless!** LIKE VANESSA!***

So while all the other pregnant women of the world indulge in the wonderment of baby growing, baby glowing, and all things special within these 9 months of expansion, I’ll be counting the days until I can serve an eviction notice upon my unborn child because quite frankly, I miss myself. But hey, at least I'm getting a little baby, right?

With the man that did this to me

*Once the swelling goes down, I'm left with 6 brand new pairs of shoes that are two sizes too big. But of course.
**This makes 3 posts, so I'm celebrating with pie. 
***Couldn't be more embarrassed I forgot Vanessa. Aw fuck.

The 30 Day Bright Mind Challenge: Results

This shop has been compensated by Collective Bias, Inc. and its advertiser. All opinions are mine alone. #BrightMind #CollectiveBias

As I mentioned in my last post, I turned my old dog into an experiment by switching up her daily diet in hopes of noticing a visible difference in her interest to play in her older age, since she's always been a big time tennis ball chaser and I don't want to see that change. This meant feeding her Purina Pro Plan Bright Mind dog food for thirty-days, which is specifically formulated with botanical oils geared at memory, attention, and trainability promotion for dogs over 7.

It's not easy watching your dog grow older. I forever see her as that puppy that was unexpectedly brought home and bit my nose.

But here is Schatzie after taking the thirty-day bright mind challenge, with no signs of slowing down:

The proof is in the pudding, Schatzie is an old dog performing the same tricks and bringing the same sass she always has into our family. And I'm happy to have Purina's support in keeping her youthful and sharp. 

Now if you Spend $10 on any Purina Pro Plan Dry Dog or Cat Food* at PetSmart between 8/31 and 10/4, you can save $10 on your next Purina Pro Plan Dry Food purchase, 14-lb. or more, on or before 11/1. Subject to availability. Transaction total is after discounts and before taxes.

Old Dog...Same Tricks

This shop has been compensated by Collective Bias, Inc. and its advertiser. All opinions are mine alone. #BrightMind #CollectiveBias

It’s been a year since I lost my 14 year old dog Liebchen and I still miss her every day. It’s not surprising how immersed our pets become in our lives and how important they are as members of our family. The only complaint I have about our pets is that they don’t live long enough. By 7 years old, a dog is already considered a senior. SEVEN! I feel lucky to have had Liebe for seven years beyond that senior point but I still would’ve done anything to extend her health, happiness, and life for as long as I could. 

Schatzie is another dog that has been in the family for the past 10+ years. My husband brought her home one day as a surprise gift (for himself) and she quickly became the sassiest, curious, and most rebellious dog we’ve ever had. The day after bringing her home, I was woken up to her biting my nose. She’s eaten cash from my purse, she’s escaped yards, and she’s led complete strangers back to our house following her adventures. But despite her very colorful personality, there is one skill that stands above the rest: tennis balls. 

Schatzie can’t let a tennis ball fly past her without running for it. She will drop anything and everything to pursue a dang ball. It’s the ultimate way to control her. But I worry that because dogs’ brains begin changing around age 7, with glucose metabolism production impacting their memory, awareness, and decision making, that the day Schatzie slows down will be the beginning of the end for her. So proper nutrition is key here and I’m so happy Purina has come up with a formula of enhanced botanical oils that promote memory, attention, and trainability. Not that Schatzie is trainable….she’s SERIOUSLY a rebel. So I decided to give the senior formula that is Purina Pro Plan Bright Mind a shot. Thirty-days to see results, they said. 

So I took Schatzie to her favorite store, PetSmart, to pick out her special food and began our transition into sharpening her senior mind.

So far she’s as lively as ever, running around like a freak and chasing Dylan and her ball with no signs of slowing down. We have another week until we hit the full thirty-day mark I can’t wait to share the full results!

Suffering from Crazy Pregnant Lady Syndrome

“But what if we both die and he never sees us again? He’s not going to understand what happened and he’s going to be so sad.” 

That’s me, going through the what-ifs with my husband as I mentally prepare for leaving my 2 year old behind on our upcoming (and random) trip to Hawaii. I should mention that I’ve never been anxiety prone, especially when it comes to flying, but here I am, soiled in hypothetical morbidity as my mind runs through all the things I must do to prepare for the unpreparable: my death. 

And then I start crying. Ugly, uncontrollable, baseless crying. I try to talk myself down: people fly all the time; whatever happens is going to happen regardless; if I’m meant to die and orphan my child then that’s just how it was supposed to be. More tears. All I see are flashing headlines announcing my demise through a flight number, running across CNN, as people that knew me offer a few words of shock while recalling that I was 5 months pregnant. Wait a minute…I see what’s going on. 

I’m fucking pregnant! And these hormones are a real piece of work, let me tell ya. “Do you want to stay home?” My husband asks in response to my anxiety. Somehow, even though the possibility of dying during my trip to Hawaii seems very real and threatening, I can’t allow it to take over...completely. “Absolutely not! But YOU HAVE to survive.” I demand, hormones and all. 

I begin calibrating his survival skills. I rank him quite high. If anyone survives, it’s definitely going to be him, I tell myself. “Just remember, don’t drink the sea water, it will dehydrate you and kill you. No matter what!” I instruct him, confident that he’ll somehow manage to stay afloat in an emergency raft when the airplane dives into the Pacific, hypothetically of course. And then I fall asleep. 

And as ridiculous as it is, and as nutso as it sounds to regular hormone regulated folk, I still feel obliged to leave a letter to Dylan in a sealed envelope on my fridge, along with a list of all my account passwords so that he has access to my digital footprint should I never return from my tropical vacation. Not just because I love him, but because pregnancy is a real motherfucker and right now she's driving this bus all the way to crazy town, Xanax free. And mommy loves you DingDing.

Not Playing With My Toddler (He Had it Coming)

One day I will be buried in more past than future, so I try my very best to soak in every moment of my toddler’s childhood that I can. It goes by so fast, they say. So when Dylan pulls at my hand insisting, “Play with me? Yeah? In the room?” I know I ought to stop what I’m doing and make quality time for him. Because a year from now, two years from now, three years from now, and definitely 15 years from now, he’ll probably have no interest pushing around toys with mom across the bedroom floor...and it might will break my heart. But today, he wants my companionship, my attention, and my crazy. Badly. (Yay!)

So I do it. I pick myself off of my pregnant tuchus, waddle on over to my kin’s room and park it on his couch. “NO MOMMY, SIT HERE,” he instructs pointing to the carpet in his best no-bullshit-fortune-500-CEO tone. OKAY. I comply, begrudgingly, his worker slave. I take hold of one of the many monster trucks he has carelessly scattered around only to be corrected, “NO! Not this one!” He says, snatching it out of my hand. “Hey, that’s not nice, you have to share.” I remind him, quietly hoping that his sister-to-be will collect on his karmic debt. I go to pick up another truck, “No! Don’t touch this one.” My patience. It’s dying. “Dylan, I don’t want to play with you. You don’t share!” My sass however, is sizzling hot. 

The kid gets the message and switches gears, offering me the smallest truck he has as if it’s some grand prize, “Here mommy, want this one?” I accept his not-so-generous peace offering and begin pushing wittle wimpy, doing doughnuts around his plethora of giants. Okay, now we’re jiving! I think to myself. But I’m having too much fun, apparently. Boyfriend rescinds his offer, “No, No, NOT this one, THIS one,” he barks as he switches me to a full-sized monster before I even have the chance object to his excessive micromanagement. 

Maybe I was romanticizing toddlerhood, but this is not what I meant when I said I wanted to soak up every moment. I mean, Father Time would never age me as quickly as Dylan’s dance of rules and regulations do. So no, I don’t feel even slightly guilty when I tell him, “You know who really wants to play trucks with you? Your dad.” He had it coming.

Mom's [Non-Existent] Book Club

Before I joined the parental posse, I had a long running list of activities I knew I wanted to do with my hypothetical child(ren). One of the big ones was: read. And for years, I’ve maintained a draft email featuring various titles I would buy and read to these little bookworms I would one day water and grow. I knew that this was one activity where I would truly shine because this my friends, was my shit. That is, until I actually had a kid. 

Life is funny like that. My fantasy bedtime routine has proved to be just that, a fantasy. I mean, sure, Dylan loves reading and has a laundry list of books on books on books he wants to read before shut-eye, just not with me. Dick. The kid wants his dad, which is funny because dad would rather play with trucks than read a book about them. And dad cuts him off at 1 book, 2 on a good day, whereas mom will go marathon style and is [eagerly] willing to comply with a “1 more” request. So....WTF CHILD. 

In addition to the blatant rejection I suffer on a regular, my kid is like any other toddler, in that he’s so damn rude about everything. “It’s bedtime,” I announce. But before I can even take a post-announcement breath in, Dylan interjects with a whopping, “I wanna read the books WITH DADDY.” Uhm, thanks for the clarification. Still, I try. “No honey, you’re going to read the books with mommy.” Insert protests here. 

So I fold 4 out of 7 days a week, and let the damn kid have his favorite parent. But on the weekends? That’s when I go off. That’s when I get Dr. Seuss popping like a library after hours, which I suspect is quite the…party? Whatever. I figure I still have a chance. I’m not going to throw in the towel on my Reading Rainbow night life just yet. Because now that I have a daughter on the way, I’m putting all my eggs in her basket. Grimm Brother’s fairy tales? WE’RE COMING FOR YOU.

Bad Mommy - Trouble at School

Don’t be fooled by the red lipstick and high heels, this heart is all boy. Tomboy, anyway. Growing up in a house of five daughters, I was frequently referred to as my mom’s only son. I played rough, I got dirty, and I liked it. Sure, I’ve warmed up to dresses and curling irons as I’ve gotten older, but I’m still the same old g. However, I may have gotten a little out of control in channeling my inner boy child when it comes to playing with Dylan. Though I don’t want to be the parent that apportions blame on themselves for their ill-behaved kid…I’m a bad example. 

You see, Dylan got in trouble at school yesterday for playing too roughly with his peers. Apparently he was pushing them, tugging on them, and trying to climb on their backs, then dismissing the teacher’s instruction to calm down. They had to move Dylan into another classroom for the day. And though I shouldn’t laugh because disobedience isn’t funny, I could just imagine the madness. Mostly because that’s how he and I play at home…every day. (Sorry Ms. Lisa!) 

It takes Dylan sixteen seconds to jump on my back once I sit on the floor. My response is to flip him off of me, pin him on the ground and squish him. And when he comes back for more, I declare “wrestle mania” so as to alert him that the ante has been raised. I used to think I was fun, now I realize I’m just immature. I may or may not be responsible for nurturing a perfectly normal wild child into an out-of-control brute for my own enjoyment. Regardless, it’s time for some damage control.

"Dylan, did you get in trouble at school today?” I asked my sheepishly grinning kin. 

"Yessssss.” GUILTY AND HE KNOWS IT! 

“Uh-oh, that’s not good. What did you do?” 

“I pushed Anabelle.” 

“Is that nice?” Crossing my fingers he gets this one right. 

“No.” Hallelujah! There’s hope! 

So I explained as best I could to a 2 year old that pushing is not allowed at school and that he has to listen to his teacher when she tells him to calm down. I love our rough play but wrestle mania in the classroom is a little embarrassing when it’s home grown (and my fault). But not as embarrassing as when Dylan asked me to “pop the pussy.” 

“EXCUSE ME?” I exclaimed. 

“I WANNA POP THE PUSSY!” He whined, “Ashes ashes, we all fall down!” 

Oh. “You mean a pocket full of posies?” 

“Yeah! I wanna pop the pussy!” 

Welcome to the freak show.

Photo credits: Eddie Gomez