You Can Take the Celebs Out of the Country...

Jessica Simpson and Tony Romo...


At the Olive Garden? Are you kidding? Jessica. He can afford to take you...well, anywhere else. (And you can afford to get your roots done.)

We're Doin' It Up Tonight, WooHoo

Yesterday afternoon I was chatting online with my bestest friend Allison while she wasn’t working at the office and I wasn’t paying attention to my kids. Evie was particularly precocious after school and Abbie didn’t take her usually long nap so she was pissy all day and I was waiting for Todd to get home so that I could hand the baby to him and say, “Here. She’s yours for the next hour.” And then like Noah’s first glimpse of dry land that led him to know instantly that things were right with the world, I got an email from Allison saying that she was going to come babysit my kids tonight so that Todd and I can go on a date.

There’s nothing anyone could do for me right now that could make me happier. My usual Saturday night consists of Todd falling asleep to a Mets game on the couch in the living room and me falling asleep with a book in my hand in bed. SOMETIMES we get wild and drink some wine and watch a movie. SOMETIMES we get extra crazy and order a movie on pay-per-view. I think that the last time Todd and I went on a date was for his birthday. In June.

The other morning, on my way to drop Evie off at school, I was feeling sort of old and unexciting and pretty dull. And I realized that I haven’t done my hair, like really styled it, since my wedding. I haven’t blown it out, used a hot-iron, or even come close to my tresses with a curling iron or other styling tool in a VERY. LONG. TIME. I also noticed that same day that I am getting wrinkles. Yup. They’re starting to appear underneath my eyes. It’s undeniable. Despite the hundreds and hundreds of dollars of age-defying eye cream that everyone says I don’t need, my eyes have undeniably defied the claims and are starting to age.

So I was obviously feeling a little off this week and this night out couldn’t come at a better time. We’re getting a night away from the kids and some time to eat a quiet meal together without cheerios getting thrown at my head and having to refill a sippy cup with apple juice for the seventeenth time. There’s a new Japanese restaurant right in our neighborhood that we’ve been dying to try. There’s a bottle of warm Sake there with my name on it.

It’s really weird to still feel like a kid and then everywhere you turn be reminded of the fact that you’re not SO young anymore. My hips are wider than I think they are and my face looks older than I remember it. I. CUT. COUPONS. And sweep my front porch everyday. I always have a packet of tissues in my purse and I only see the sun come up these days because I’m awake before it rises, not because I haven’t even thought about going to bed yet. I discuss the benefits of all natural and organic cleaning products with anyone who’ll listen and actually have very clear and defined opinions about which toilet bowl cleanser is the best. I can’t stand MTV anymore and Todd and I can complain together for hours about “kids today”. My XM radio is preset to the 90s station who’s motto is “If you lived it, you get it.” I do get it. And it pisses me off.

So let us all raise a glass to Allison for making it a little easier to accept that I’m an old fart.

Excuse Me While I Barf

What the hell is this phenomenon known as the Jonas Brothers? I’ve been hearing about them and I know that they’re beyond huge, but I really never paid much attention. I saw them this past week on the MTV Video Music Awards which, apparently, I’m too old to be hip to dat game. Like, for reals, yo. Because like, word, you gotta have the dance moves to be a star. It’s not about the singing or the music or even about the performance. To be a star on MTV you either have to be a slut, talk about hating sluts, or talk about how bad you want to get with a fine looking slut. That said, I guess it is somewhat of a respite from all the sluts and the never-ending flow of slut talk to revel in that which is the Jonas Brothers. But come on! Just look at these nerds:

They’re little accountants with guitars. There’s nothing cool about their choreographed charm or their sappy sweetness. They wear promise rings showing to their commitment to remaining virgins until they’re married. Oh please! Like I’m supposed to believe that crap. They have thousands of girls chasing after them and screaming to touch them. And why?! They’re not attractive. They’re doofy. They sing like the boy version of Brittney Spears, nasally and scratchy. And we all know where her talent got her. Besides, I seem to recall a press conference a few years back with Brittney announcing her chastity to all her adoring fans.

Please. I can’t take it. The stars with the real talent don’t even waste their time with the MTV awards anymore. It used to mean something to get an MTV award. And the performances showcased talent and real music that was easily appreciated. 10 years ago we were entertained by bands like these COOL badasses:

The Eurythmics

Don Henley

Bruce Springsteen

This year we saw this and I just don’t get it. What do you think?

Abra Cadabra

Evelyn said “Please” last night. I almost fell over and died in mid-step. I literally stopped in my tracks and looked at her like she just told me she won the lottery. Getting Evie to say “please” and “thank-you” is like trying to get Hillary Clinton to accept defeat. Time-outs and tears haven’t been enough to get Evie to say those magic words. She just flat out refused. She preferred to just sort of belch what she wanted into the ethos. “Apple Juice!” “Blankie!” “Snack!” Early in the morning while Todd and I are still in bed she’ll watch TV in the living room. At some point she startles us awake with an “I’m hungry!” at the top of her lungs. She never asks. She DEMANDS. And when given the choice between saying please or spending the rest of eternity in her bedroom she’ll opt for a lifetime of solitary confinement.

So last night when Evie sweetly sang, “Mommy can I have some apple juice please,” I ran through a spectrum of emotion and feeling. First, utter shock. Second, VICTORY. Third, pride. And fourth, love. “Yes!” I barked. Then I ran over to her and kissed her all over and told her how proud I was of her and that “yes, of course, you can have apple juice because if you says please you can get whatever you want. Well, not whatever you want. It’s important for Mommy and Daddy to say ‘no’ sometimes because we know what’s good for you. But, oh, I’m so proud of you. You are the greatest.” I went on and on and on about how amazing she was for saying “please” until she interrupted me with the frustrated look I know so well.

“Mommy. My. Juice. Now.”

I really don’t know why I press my luck. But oh she did such a good job.

Surgeon General's Warning - May Rip Your Face Off And Eat It. You Are At Your Own Risk.

It occurred to me, because my sister let me know repeatedly, that I tend to depict Evie as some kind of monster. Well. If it walks like a duck…

So anyway, I decided that I needed to more accurately portray Abbie as the psycho terror that she too can be. Her cute little cherub cheeks draw even the most anti-baby person in. Her squishy, jiggly thighs attract anyone with a thumb and a forefinger. And those toes!

WARNING! CUIDADO! ACHTUNG!

Abbie is a siren with beauty and charm that disguises all intent. She’ll draw you to her; she’ll suck you in. And then she will attack – without warning. Without any indication of the malice in her mind she will hurt you. Abbie is beguiling and cunning, utilizing her assets to exert total control over all who fall under her spell.

Her tiny tushy and her sweet smile intoxicate her prey. We start acting like flaming idiots. Ooohing and going and coochie cooing. We move in to participate in her cute little charade. And then she lashes out! This precious innocent creature will try to scratch your face off. She’ll look away. And as soon as she loses eye contact BAM! Her tiny fingers reach for your face and rip at your nose and lips. And then when you react negatively to her attack she gets pissed. Not just “boo hoo I’m a baby” pissed. Pissed like “you just called my wife a whore” pissed.

Abbie is freaking cute. So cute. And beautiful and playful and generally happy. But BEWARE. She’s a blood seeking predator who has an innate desire for your blood.

What's the Difference Between a Pitbull and a 4 year-old?: Hannah Montana Chapstick

There’s not much more that I’d rather do less at 10 o’clock on a Sunday morning than pack up the kids and head off to a 4-year old’s birthday party. But, unfortunately, it’s how Todd and I spend many a weekend morning. Evie’s school has the politically correct rule that if you invite one, you invite them all. So we’re invited to every single, mind-numbing party. My kid’s been in every germ infested ball-pit in Northern New Jersey, licked every ringworm flavored blue gym mat in the county, and picked the cheese off of pizza from every pizzeria in the state.

I’ll paint you a picture of pretty much every party we’ve taken Evie to. It’s 10:30AM. The sound of children screaming and the pitter-patter of their sweaty little feet echo off the walls. Abbie looks from my face to Todd’s face and back again. “Where the hell am I?” her little eyes shout. “What the fuck is this hell you’ve taken me to?” There’s a cluster of parents not watching their children. And then there’s Todd and I, now accompanied by Abbie in her stroller, off in the corner talking about how much cooler we are than all the other parents. Seriously. We’re total nerds. We admit that. And we’re so much cooler than every parent there. Naturally, this is also an indication of how much cooler Evie is than any of the other kids at the party. But, obviously, this goes without saying. Anyway, the kids run around like crazy for an hour and then we herd them into a party room that’s half the occupancy limit for the number of people at the party. And we feed them pizza and M&Ms and cheese puffs and sugary juice. And then we shove cake in their face and let them suck that down until they’re drooling at the mouth and their eyes are glazed over. They’re inches away from a sugar coma and that’s when the tension rises. Parents start yelling and kids start crying. One boy will hit another boy. Some cry-baby girl, the same cry-baby girl each party, will whine that she didn’t get the color flower she wanted from the cake. My kid always tattles.

Because that’s who she is.

So last Sunday, Todd and I are in our corner analyzing how much more we rock than everyone else in the room and Evie comes up to us. She’s excited. Very excited. Her brain was definitely at work. Uh-oh.

With her hands fisted onto her hips and her feet spread in a powerful stance, “I’m Cash Register Girl! Give me monies!” Todd and I just looked at each other. I prayed that no one heard her. Because OBVIOUSLY I did something wrong that my child would even come up with such an idea. What must the very uncool parents think of me now?!? (Oh who am I kidding? I couldn’t give a shit what those losers think of my parenting. You should see their kids in action. Real gems.)

Quickly, I reached into my pocket and pulled out pretend monies and slapped it into her open palm.

“No. Give me real monies!” At least she’s no dummy.

What's a Girl to Do?

I'm having a MAJOR DILEMMA. Abby is the girl who waxes my eyebrows. She is great. I actually feel a sense of love for her. Maybe it’s the way she lowers the heat of the wax before my appointment so that it doesn’t scald my sensitive skin. Maybe it’s the way she gets bitchy when I dare pluck my eyebrows myself (which, incidentally, I have not done in over 2 years since she yelled at me last). Maybe I love Abby because since our first meeting she has nurtured and trained my eyebrows into the shape that they are today. Abby also happens to give phenomenal facials. So on the rare times that I treat myself to a facial I am pampered and soothed by her tiny little Zen hands.

Last month Abbie went on maternity leave. She gave me her cell phone number and told me that she will not be coming back to the spa after she has her baby, but that she will be doing waxing and facials out of her home. I was thrilled and excited that I would still be able to go to her for her services and that it’ll cost me less money.

In the meantime, I had to have my eyebrows done while she was off having her baby. So I made an appointment with any random girl at the spa. And that’s when I met Joy. Her name should give away how I felt after she did my eyebrows. She waxed and tweezed and snipped my eyebrows into the most beautiful arches. I went directly to my mother’s house to show her the stellar work and recommend that she go to Joy immediately. Instantly, I also knew that I was in trouble. A looming sense of guilt overpowered me as I wrestled with my feelings inside. I’ve been seeing Abby for so many years now and I feel a sense of loyalty towards her and I feel ashamed.

Slap a scarlet “A” across my chest! I saw Joy again last night.

Abby had a C-section so I figure I should give her about 6 weeks to recuperate before it’s appropriate to call her. Thankfully, I have about another 2 weeks before that time comes and I can squeeze another appointment in with Joy. But to be honest, I’m torn. I don’t know what to do. I love my eyebrows when I’m with Joy. But my loyalties lie with Abby. Should I break the bond and seek the services of Joy because she’s new and exciting? Or should I stay with the Abby because of all that we’ve been through and how consistently good she’s been to my brows? Oh, the agony of indecision!

I Can't Wait for School to Start

Evie has been out of camp since last week and she doesn't start school again until next Thursday. So it's been really crazy around here the past few days. Just me and my girls. Abbie's been crying. Evie's been spazzing. Mommy's been drinking.

I Entered Hell Yesterday

I took Evie to get a haircut. We go to one of those kid salons at the mall where when you walk in the door you’re smacked in the face by shrieking music and migraine-inducing colors. Every time we go there it brings to mind One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest, except worse. More like, One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest on acid. I have this recurring vision a lot, actually – at birthday parties for Evie’s friends, at Evie’s school, mostly whenever Evie is concerned.

Anyway, I only let a hairdresser named Cheryl cut Evie’s hair. Only Cheryl touches her head because, well, I’m picky about hairdressers. I have a basic rule of thumb – if the hairdresser either A. looks like a slut, she doesn’t cut my kid’s hair and B. if she looks like she goes home after work to smoke a doobie and kick back with a six-pack of Miller Lite, she doesn’t cut my kid’s hair, although I envy the shit out of her. Cheryl is more like my mom’s age so, of course, she gives an exquisite child’s haircut. Obviously, I’m not the only one who thinks so because Cheryl’s shift started at 2 o’clock and we walked in at a quarter to 2 and there was already an hour wait.

Evie and I sat down on vinyl electric blue couches and watched all the other kids run around like weasels. For once, my own kid behaved, but the surroundings were so deplorable that it totally detracted from the bliss that I could have experienced as Evie sat quietly next to me. Although, I don’t think that Evie would have been so well behaved were it that she wasn’t so utterly horrified and overwhelmed by the experience of waiting with all those kids. The stupid salon has a wall of toys for sale, but no one ever buys anything. Mostly, the rubber snakes, and wooden pop-guns, and glow in the dark swords are used by the kids waiting for a haircut to beat the shit out of each other. And they throw them. And they slobber all over them. And, of course, most of the toys make noise so that you want to rip them out of those kids’ grimy little fingers and wallop them on the head with them. And the parents are done caring because the 20 minute wait, inevitably turns into a 35 minute wait. And no one ever says “sorry for the extra delay” or “thanks for waiting”. It’s like the airport.

We were entertained for about 10 minutes when a little boy, probably around 3 years old was wrangled into the seat kicking and screaming bloody murder. He was brought in by his mom, his aunt AND his grandma, as well as 5 other kids. Some of them were his siblings and some were his cousins. Whatever. It was a really stupid situation to begin with and when the kid was forced into the chair things got CRAZY. He turned red and got all sweaty and flailed his arms and legs and tried with all his might to break free of the seat belt they used to strap him in. He rocked back and forth so violently that the chair almost tipped over. But I will give the hairdresser credit, she grabbed her clippers and just jumped right in there. She held onto the bucking bronco’s head and started clipping. Of course his mom, aunt and grandma were three useless vaginas making the matter completely worse. The aunt was screaming in the kid’s face to “relax” and “look at me”, “it’s ok”. And the mom was holding his hands, sort of. I’m not really sure what she was doing. It appeared that she was TRYING to hold him still, but she neither held him nor kept him still so… Grandma was trying to keep an eye on all the other kids. But they were all over the place and grandma was grandma got viscous. She turned red and she started smacking butts. Then when she got them all together and quiet they pointed and laughed at their little brother which pissed him off more and Grandma told all the rest of them to “Get the hell away!” but that was stupid because she just had to get them all again.

Evie sat in utter disbelief and terror. “Mommy, is the lady hurting him?” “No, sweetie, he’s just a baby.” Well he was.

So that excitement ended and so did our entertainment. Everyone had headaches. At least 3 of the kids who were waiting were now terrified because of the screaming boy. And Evie ran up to Cheryl to tell her that she had waited long enough and that she believed that her turn was next. Well, it wasn’t. And now Evie started to get antsy. But she waited as best she could. And she really was a good girl. I told her I was proud of her and I was.

Diaper the Kid and Saddle Up

Evelyn straddled the baby today with a rousing “Giddyup!”

Abbie was crawling innocently across the floor no-doubt on a mission to find a glimmering toy across the room. Evie saw this as an opportunity to play horsie. With a smile on her face, ear-to-ear, and a gleam in her eye she mounted her little sister and prepared herself for a little romp. The “Giddyup!” caught my attention, just in time to see Evie’s fist in the air twirling her lasso.

As soon as Evie’s butt pressed down on Abbie’s back, the baby collapsed with a splat! and then a gut-wrenching, somebody-save-me wail. Evie’s smile collapsed too and she immediately looked to me, wide-eyed and ready for my reaction. And as uncertain and somewhat scared Evie was about my reaction, she never thought to get off the baby! She just sat there with Abbie screaming, her little arms and legs flailing in utter terror.

“Evelyn, get off the baby!” Upon her release, Abbie look to me for help. She started to make her way to me when Evie side-swiped her again, to "hug" her and comfort her, of course. And Abbie let it rip again. Evie “hugged” Abbie’s skull so tight that, were it at the right angle, it might have popped. And she tried to soothe her by dragging Abbie by her elbows into her lap.

It’s wonderful to see the children play so nicely.

Lentil Soup is Mental Fruit

Yesterday we spent the afternoon at my friend Allison’s house. We barbecued and had a great time. When we got home, I was still pretty full from the day, but Todd was ready for dinner soon thereafter. He suggested that he’d make us something to eat since I wasn’t so into the idea. Normally, a suggestion is as far as I let him get because he is the messiest cook on the planet. His food is tasty, though, I’ll give him that. The tastiness allows me to overlook the mess. But what’s hard to overlook is how dangerous he can be at the stove. One morning he decided to be a wonderful, loving husband and make me breakfast in bed. We ended up with a grease fire and a kitchen full of melted cooking utensils. Needless to say, I now have special Todd-proof utensils that can resist heat up to 500 degrees.

So last night when he suggested that he’d put something together I was hesitant not to hesitate, but I really wasn’t all that hungry and I really didn’t feel like making anything. And was I pleasantly surprised!

Do you know what we ate for dinner? We had a lovely meal of sautéed tofu. As you know, I’m not eating red meat, and I’m really trying to eat less of the other meat too. I buy the tofu for myself with the anticipation that maybe Todd will try a few pieces with his regular meals, but I NEVER considered that he’d actually eat it as a whole meal.

Why Todd cooking and thence eating tofu, unless at gunpoint, shocked the shit out of me:

1. Todd is a man, man. The principle of manness clearly states that tofu represents all that is soulless and evil in the world.
2. All prior statements that tofu is “fucking disgusting”, “fucking gross”, etc. lead me to believe that he actually tried tofu before and therefore had a basis for this opinion.
3. Tofu is healthy.

Honestly, I don’t know if Todd made the tofu because he just wanted to make me happy or because he thinks it’s kinda good and he wanted it. Maybe he’s just trying to support my new approach to eating. Well, whatever the reason. Thanks for dinner, babe.

Sorta Cute, Kinda Weird

Abbie eats with a visceral ferocity that would put most wildlife to shame. She eats like she’s never eaten food before. Her entire body convulses with delight when she sees a spoon. The anticipation that food is on its way is too much for her tiny body to bare. And if the food is not presented immediately the excitement quickly evolves through a serious of carnal responses ranging from frustration, despair and ultimately rage.

From the first sight of food until the food is put into her mouth, Abbie sets herself on a path of no-return. If she sees the food and doesn’t get it…basically, we’re all fucked. “Must have food!”

And when she finally gets the food, she eats with such gusto, such sated fulfillment of life. With every spoonful she grunts a very loud, “mmmmmmm.” And she expects spoonful after spoonful in a timely fashion. There’s no lollygagging around when it comes to Abbie and her food. It’s all eyes on the road when you’re in the driver’s seat with Abbie. When she’s ready for another bite you better be ready. That means there better be another spoonful right in front of her lips. If not. Well, then, you better just pack up your shit and leave. Abbie’s got no time for you and she’ll look to someone else to do the job better.


She likes to feed herself fruits with her mesh teether. She’s a pit bull with that thing, tearing and ripping and gnarling. “Mmmmmmmmm!”, “mmmmmmmmmm,” “aaaaaaaaargh,” the entire time. You’ve never known a voracious appetite until you’ve seen my baby eat.

You Said It Sister!

I got a ticket last week for speeding. I’m so angry with myself because I fell into the trap that’s right around the corner from my house. The cops are ALWAYS there. I should have known better.

Evie’s kind of afraid of the police. She doesn’t quite understand what they do. Whenever she does something wrong and I get angry with her she always asks me if the police are going to come and be mad at her. I try to let her know that police are her friends and that their job is to keep the neighborhood safe. So when we got pulled over I didn’t want Evie to be alarmed.

“Mommy, why is the policeman mad at you?”

“Because Mommy was going too fast.”

“Oh. That’s crappy.”

(Long pause. She knows that word is against the rules.)

“Yeah, sweetie. It’s real crappy.”

(When you hear the truth spoken…)

My Little Mussonlinis

I’m often reminded of my preconceived notions of babies and children. An entire day spent with babies or older children will kill a whole ton of thoughts you thought you knew about those little creatures.

I never realized how expressive someone could be who knows so little, or none, about language. By the look in their eyes you can tell when they’re sick, when they’re happy, when they’re scared or overwhelmed. Eyes let you know when they’re in agreement or disagreement, content or uncomfortable. Without speaking, a child’s eyes will let you know EXACTLY what she’s thinking.

Let me tell you about my darling Evie’s eyes. Evie has giant, sparkling blue eyes that are still changing in color from the icy blue that they were a year ago to a more mature and mysterious green-blue-gray. And they talk to me. They talk so well that I want to pluck those big, clear orbs right out of their sockets. I swear to god, at around 3 years-old my daughter told me to go fuck myself. She didn’t actually say it in so many words. In fact, she didn’t have to say anything at all. She pointed those death rays at me and silently told me to shove it where the sun don’t shine. She relays her utter disgust and contempt for my actions with one quick glance. I honestly doubt she knows how loud her eyes speak. I think she’s shocked and a little bewildered when I react because she must think I’m a mind reader. Her inexperience with people and body language doesn’t give her a grasp about what she’s doing. When Todd and I pounce on her because she gives us one of her, “If I had a gun, I’d shoot you in the foot and watch you hop around in agony,” looks she acts like she has no idea what the problem is. She’s clueless to the power of her eyes and thinks that we’re just omniscient.

I assume that this “skill” will never leave her even once she learns to control her contemptuous glares. But I can see it now. Fast-forward 14 years from now. 18 year-old Evie, adored by the opposite sex for her incredible sense of humor, outstanding intellect, and fun-loving personality, most sought after because of those gorgeous windows to her soul. Alone with a guy who has just irritated her again and she gives him one of those sharp, nanosecond glances. “What? What did I do?” she asks as he starts to cry.

And then there’s Abigail with her dark blues that take up about half her face. Even she can speak to me. She’s not quite as contemptuous as her big sister, but I imagine this is just a difference in age. I’m sure it’s coming in a few years. Abbie doesn’t have vengeful looks; Abbie gets pissed. Abbie’s eyes say, “Back. The. Fuck. Off.” And “I thought I told you to STOP messing with me.”

She especially gets this way when she’s tired. I’m sure that most kids’ most expressive moments are when they’re tired because they start to lose control of their actions. When Abbie’s tired she’ll let you know it. I don’t so much want to pop her eyeballs out of her head like I do Evie, it’s more that I want to laugh in her face (which pisses her off even more) because she’s such a little baby with a GIGANTIC ‘tude. When Abbie’s sleepy she looks at you like she wants to kill you. Her eyes squint and her nose crinkles a bit. She doesn’t want to be touched and she doesn’t want to be held. Abbie doesn’t let you rock her, cuddle her, or sing her to sleep. When Abbie’s tired she looks you dead in the eyes with complete anger and says, “Put me down. NOW.” I don’t imagine she’s so much yelling at us. She’s more threatening than that. It’s more the Tony Soprano, “Do what I tell you if you want to live.” And we do. Whatever the little tyrant wants.

Where's the Beef?

I scare the crap out of Todd sometimes, just for the hell of it. It’s fun to hit him with real whoppers. “I’m pregnant.” That’s the best one. Nothing more frightening than that. And anytime that I talk about vaginas. That’s scary and he hates it. I yell “Vagina” at the top of my lungs. Because it makes him nervous and it makes me laugh. Lately, I’ve been throwing another “V” word at him. Vegan. “I’m becoming a vegan.” This actually scares him as much as the idea of another kid. Or actually, I’m not sure what’s more horrifying – another mouth to feed, or 9 months of my brutality. I’m a bitch when I’m pregnant. Sorry Todd. I know I sucked.

Anyway, when it comes to food I can really scare the hell out of Todd. He thinks Tofu is a dirty word. I did slip Quinoa in the mix one day and he liked it, only because he didn’t know what it was. I didn’t tell him it was healthy.

The fact of the matter is, I wasn’t just being mean with the vegan word. I was sort of testing him out. Red meat runs my life. I eat a ton of it and it’s starting to wear me out. I’m tired. Red meat makes me weak. It takes so much effort to chew. I spend my life in a constant state of chew. Enough is enough. I’m giving my body a break. No more red meat.

And less dairy. This is harder for me. Dairy makes me happy. All of the bests foods are dairy – cheese, sour cream, cream cheese, chocolate, ice cream. We’ll work on this too. But I’m starting with the red meat.

One thing. Todd doesn’t know this yet. He’s going to find out when he reads this post. I’m used to scaring him because it’s fun. But now I’m afraid. He might panic. We love meat. He might also think I’m just kidding. No, baby, I’m not. I’m not eating red meat. I’m done.

Rainbows, Daffodils and Bunny Rabbits vs. Fire, Brimstone and a Rabid Raccoon

Abbie’s face lights up a room when someone she loves comes in. You should see her as she hears the front door opens when Daddy comes home from work. Her little head spins to find me and she looks at me with those giant blue eyes and that dumbfounded look. “Is that him? Is that really him?” she says. And then immediately her little mouth turns up and she smiles big, even chuckles, as she speed-crawls towards the door.

This is natural. Of course she’s thrilled when Todd enters the room. She’s spent the whole day wondering “Where in the hell did that big guy go?” When something is out of a baby’s line of vision they have no idea it exists. When something is gone, in their mind it’s just vanished. This is why we play peek-a-boo with them. It teaches them that things and people exist even when they can’t see them. That is until we confuse them later in life when we tell them about the bear that shits in the woods. Or does it?

Anyway, Daddy is fun. Daddy is comfortable. And most importantly Daddy means food. And Abbie, as are all babies, is smart and knows that when she bats those long lashes and smiles that gaping, toothless smile she’s going to get what she wants from him. So it doesn’t surprise me that Abbie is elated when Todd shows up. She gets something out of the relationship. And let’s face it, babies are life sucking creatures that survive because they have the finest tuned egocentricity on the planet.
Now, when Evie comes home or walks into a room she runs to Abbie. A little Evie scares me so I can only imagine what a giant, looming Evie looks like to a little baby. Evie runs over and gets right in Abbie’s face and screams or barks or even growls. And she does it again, and again, and again. Evie picks Abbie up by her head and squeezes her until she pukes up an entire bottle. She watches the baby as she crawls across the living room floor and then drags her back to where she started by her tiny little feet. Todd and I are constantly telling Evie to stop, constantly making sure Abbie’s ok. That I’ll find Abbie folded up into Evie’s play-kitchen oven or naked hanging from the ceiling fan by her toes is my recurring nightmare. I am actually afraid that Evie will hurt, mame, or otherwise scar Abbie while she plays with her. To be sure, there is nothing malicious about Evie’s behavior. She looks upon Abbie like a dolly. It’s just that Evie’s so damn exuberant and so creative and sometimes possessed by the Devil that we’re always keeping an eye out when they’re together.

Despite all of the ways that she’s manhandled, tortured, and abused, Abbie beams the same smile and her whole body gets excited just the same as when Daddy comes home. Abbie LOVES her big sister. She wants to be near her. Maybe she has a death wish. Maybe she’s a masochist. Abbie keeps going back for more. She laughs when Evie barks in her face. She shrieks with delight when Evie drags her across the floor by her feet. Abbie thinks that almost everything her big sister does is freaking hysterical. So when Evie walks into the room acting like a rabid raccoon and I take a deep breath psyching myself up to deal with the tsunami that’s about to hit, Abbie starts laughing and then I can’t make Evie stop. How can I make the thing that Abbie finds so joyful stop? And then it makes me happy to see my little girls, sisters, in-love with each other. Even though one is my sweet angel and the other is a freaking beast.

Yo Gaba What?

Yo Gaba Gaba is a new show for kids. My daughter watches this crap. You know it's bad when I'd prefer to hear the Dora shriek as opposed to this techno music mosh pit of weirdness. Take a look at the clip below. I'm going to write Nick Jr. to demand that they stop the company wide acid drops.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=q3fha9Bi5ac

"Anne Hathaway, What the Hell?"

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Eveloony Bin and That Baby

Since this blog is about me and my family I thought that the best thing to do would be to start with the introductions. I’ll begin with my two little girls. I’m pretty sure that they’ll be the source for most of my material and you should know of whom I speak when I write about things that will embarrass the hell out of them when they hit puberty.

First, there’s daughter numero uno, Evelyn. We mostly call her Evie, except when she corrects me and tells me, “My name is Evelyn, E-V-E-L-Y-N”. This should give you an indication of what we’re dealing with here. I also call her Miss Evelyn sometimes, because, well, she can certainly be a Little Miss. I have even been known to refer to her as Master (as I kow-tow), because in reality that is who she is. She is the master of this domicile and all things great and small occur because E-V-E-L-Y-N either makes them happen, allows them to happen, or doesn’t know that they happen because she’s at daycare.

Evie is a wonderful kid, really. All of her exuberance and energy radiates from a real center of joy. I am jealous of her joie de vie and wish that I still had the innocence to let life elate me. When we have to discipline her it’s mostly because it is just too damn hard, near impossible, for her to curtail her desire to shout with happiness, sing at the top of her lungs or dance to the beat of the dishwasher’s rinse cycle. She hugs the baby till she screams in terror, doesn’t give her dad enough space on the couch because she always wants to cuddle, and nearly topples me over with kisses while I’m carrying piping hot food to the table.

So yeah, Evie is A LOT to handle, too much at times, but her presence in our life is worth the aggravation. She was the first to teach us adults what it means to let go. She was my first baby and she will always hold a special place in my heart as the first human being to show me what it means to love myself - because I am truly fucking badass for having made such an awesome little girl.

Then there’s sweet baby-girl Abigail. What an incredible juxtaposition in personality to her big sister! Abbie’s not even 10 months old yet, but it is clear as day that she and Evie are so undeniably different. Their personalities are so dissimilar that I wonder how they could have ever come from the same womb.

Abbie is very serious. She studies me and stares me down. I get scared sometimes and scream, “Stop looking at me like that!” She is going to be my introspective child, the one who looks upon the world and thinks in volumes but says very little. She is going to be my child that wants to take care of herself because she knows that she can. I see her little analytic brain at work already and it sends my heart aflutter. This little girl is going to be like me!

What would I be like if my parents hadn’t fucked me up? I think we’re about to find out. Now all that Todd and I have to do is everything right and we’ll have a perfect child.