Colt is fascinated by the fact that I don’t stand up to pee.
Those of you who don’t have kids are probably thinking, “EW. Why are you letting your son watch you go to the bathroom?”
First of all, to potty train your child, you have to SHOW him how to do it, so there’s that…
But even when the training is over, I can’t just lock myself in the bathroom and let my kid run free?!!!!
Spitting. One of the many few topics, in which my husband and I disagree.
Specifically, the appropriateness of it.
He believes that phlegm needs be expelled. That it will somehow make you sicker to swallow it.
It must leave the body immediately. In the parking lot. On the sidewalk. In the kitchen sink. Out the car window.
Apparently every player of every Major League Baseball team in America is under the same guise.
For more than a year now, my best friend and I have exchanged outfit photos each morning.
See my outfits here.
See her outfits here.
It’s been a great exercise for me because it’s forced me to put more effort into what I wear (and come to grips with my body image – I’m a size 8, and that’s OK!)
I believe when a woman likes her outfit,
Here's the cake I made for Colt's 3rd birthday. Unlike all of the other housewife bloggers out there, I did not bake this cake from scratch. I did not pluck the Valencia oranges from my modest back yard orchard, or the eggs from my grass-fed hens. I did not shave the zest from the rind of the organic lemons I picked up from Whole Foods. I bought the orange-flavored Duncan Hines cake mix on sale. And the dark chocolate icing in the can. My mother said it tasted like Baby Tylenol. She was about right. But like I always say, it matters more what's on the outside than on the inside. And It looks awesome, right!?
There’s nothing more exciting than an annual visit to the gynecologist.
The day when you get to be extra late to work because you have to go answer a bunch of really uncomfortable questions about intercourse and self-breast-exams and your family’s medical history. And then walk around all day with a gallon of KY Jelly oozing out of you. Asking yourself …why the hell did I decide to wear a skirt today???!!!!
Before you even see the doctor,
My husband Todd is a stay-at-home dad for the next five weeks until school starts again for him in the fall.
In his time off, he’s been coaching Colt.
Fine tuning important life skills like fist-pounding, vacuum-wand-sword fighting and nose-picking “cheese boogies.”
Every night, I come home from work to de-program Colt from everything he’s learned that day.
But a few nights ago, when I was tucking Colt into bed,
It’s 2-o-clock in the morning.
I “went to bed” at 10:30, but I’ve already gotten up twice to pee. And once to check that the oven is off. And once to make sure the front door is locked.
I’ve jussssssst started really sleeping…like rapid eye movement sleeping…like dreaming about Channing Tatum’s nether-regions sleeping…
When I hear it.
The blood-curdling scream of my toddler from the other room.
Every time I get into my husband’s car, I’m confronted with 90’s death metal.
AND IT’S BLARING.
Is he angry?
Is he mad at the world? At me? At the writers of Bob the Builder – whose story lines have taken over our lives?
When Todd leaves the house smiling – is it just a front?
Or is he smiling because he knows he’s about to escape from the madness.
When I had Colt, my nose evolved into a super pooper sniffer.
A finely tuned machine capable of distinguishing between BMs of all kinds. Healthy. Solid. Runny. Viral.
Like a German Shepard to a bag of coke.
My mom has the same skill, as did her mother before her, and her mother before her.
We come from a long line of Poop Snoops.
Why is it that I always have to pee more often when I’m wearing a one-piece bathing suit?
Probably because it’s sucking in my fat so forcefully that my bladder cannot store even one 12 oz. poolside beverage for any length of time.
I know everyone else is just peeing in the water.
That dad in the Deep End, with the red solo cup, has been sitting in his inner tube for 3 hours.