Is Topless Monday a Thing?

I would like to preface this story by saying that Beau wakes up every three hours during the night. He's been doing this for six months. Needless to say, I am tired. And quite possibly delusional.

I went to a new chiropractor today. My back was giving me trouble and I was hoping for a quick adjustment. Harper was at preschool but Violet and Beau were with me.

"Well, should we get started?" The doc asked. 

"Sure!" I said. "Just let me get them situated."

I handed Violet her 98 My Little Ponies. I gave Beau--who was sitting in his carrier--a bottle, then I took off my shoes, my jacket and my shirt. I folded them, laid them on the ground and stood up. 

Then I paused. This didn't seem right.

I was standing there in my high-waisted leggings pulled up well past my belly button. I had about five inches of muffin top between the top of my pants and the bottom of my nursing bra. If you're not familiar with a nursing bra, it's similar to a sports bra but grandma-ier. And I had nursing pads sticking out of each side of the bra. (Nursing pads are essentially maxi pads for boobs so I don't drench my shirt every time a kid cries in public.) Which probably looked like I had stuffed my bra to the untrained eye. 

It had been two years since I'd been to a chiropractor, but I'm pretty sure I didn't need to take my shirt off. I wracked my brain to come up with a reason for taking off my shirt. Nothing. I eventually looked at the doc. 

"Um. We don't. You don't need to-," he started. 

"I didn't need to take my shirt off, did I?" I asked. 

"Nope," he said. "Nope," he said again. 

I put my shirt back on. 

I have another appointment on Wednesday. I'm making a mental note to keep all my clothes on for that one. 

Sick Days Are A Sonofa

Since having Beau, people have asked what it's like having three kids. I usually tell them it's a lot like having two kids except there are more car seats.

I have since learned that this is mostly true, unless one of those kids is sick. Then it's like having 98 kids.

Sweet Violet recently had a strep throat-like virus. It made her not so sweet. Harper described her as this:

I have no idea what that actually means, but I understand the sentiment. And man was she grumpy. She had a fever, her throat hurt, she was hungry and tired. She screamed out in pain every time she tried to swallow something. Most of the day consisted of her asking for something to eat. Taking a bite. Crying uncontrollably. Declaring she no longer likes the food she just took a bite of, and asking for something else, which started the cycle over.

At one point she asked for a gummy vitamin. She put it in her mouth, it hurt, she took it back out. But instead of proclaiming her hatred for it, she held it in her hand, unable to eat it but unwilling to throw it away.

Naturally it ended up here:

By day three of the virus, her mouth hurt so bad she had stopped talking and resorted to non-verbal cues to let us know what she was thinking.

When Nick came home from work, he innocently suggested she take a drink of her medicine. She walked over and punched him in the eye.

We decided to try a different approach to get her to take it. We set it on the table, and told her when she was ready to feel better, she could come take her medicine.

Her scrawny behind walked to the bathroom and pulled the solid wood step stool from there to the kitchen counter. The she walked over to the table, grabbed the cup of medicine, walked back to the counter, climbed up the stool and poured it down the sink.

She made eye contact with us the whole time she was pouring.

Getting her to nap in her bed while sick was proving near impossible, but she deemed the baby cradle and the floor suitable alternatives.

Her sleep was often interrupted, which means my sleep was often interrupted. In my sleep-deprived state, I didn't ask questions when Harper told me her new role at preschool.

"The class voted me Class Boss," she said on the way to school.

"That's awesome honey," I replied, half in a fog.

When we got to her class, I was signing Harper in at the clipboard when I mentioned her new role to the teacher.

"So Harper tells me she's Class Boss," I said to her.

She stared back blankly. Then she blinked and stared again.

"The class didn't vote her Class Boss?" I said, finally listening to my words. Why in God's name would a group of four-year-olds vote someone boss, I thought.

"They voted her Weather Checker," her teacher said.

"And that consists of..." I asked for clarification. I wondered how Harper jumped from "Weather Checker" to "Class Boss" in her head.

"It consists of going to the window, checking the weather and telling the class," she said.

I've got nothing. Maybe Harper has a future in resume writing. #ladyboss

Luckily Beau was a good sport while I tended to Violet's every need. Here he is happily swinging:

e

And here he is patiently waiting to be held:

As I'm writing this, Violet is no longer sick and no one else seems to have caught it. But just to get back at her for acting like a crazy person, I'm not going to tell her about her dress...

Oh Boy, Oh Beau

This is one-week-old Beau. He's already tired of my kisses.

So I had a baby boy.

I was pretty sure it was going to be a boy because I wanted to fight everyone almost my entire pregnancy. I chalked it up to testosterone coursing through my veins.

I hoped after he was born, my hormones would go back to normal. But just in case they didn't, I did what any "normal" person would do and decided to encapsulate my placenta.

About a week before the baby came, I thought I should raise the subject with my father-in-law. He and my mother-in-law were staying with us while we waited for baby to arrive.

"So, I'm planning on keeping my placenta and having it turned into pills," I casually said one day in the kitchen. David was sitting in his favorite spot at our kitchenette reading the news. He's an open-minded man, but he's also in his 70s and set in his ways. Placenta consumption was outside his realm of comfort, I think.

"Is it done by a shaman?" was his only question.

"Nope, there's no shaman," I said. "But they do need to know if we would rather them prepare the placenta here in the kitchen or do it at their lab--."

"I think the lab is best, " he said quickly. I agreed. We avoided talking about placentas for the rest of the visit.

Luckily, having a boy provided plenty of other opportunities for awkward moments. Most of them came at Beau's one-week check up. I had some questions that I wasn't exactly sure how to ask the pediatrician. So I just went for it:

"Is his scrotum supposed to look like that?" I said.

"Like what?" she said.

I searched for the right words...
"Like it's 80. Like it's 80 years old," I said for clarification. The pediatrician looked at me. I looked back at her. I think she was trying to gauge if I was serious. I was.

"It's fine," she said.

"Ok good. That's what I figured, I just wanted to make sure," I said to save face.

Then she gave me directions on how to best care for the circumcision. After the "scrotum incident" I didn't want to look like an idiot again, so I think I over compensated.

"Ok cool. I think I know what to do. I'm pretty familiar..." I trailed off. Where was I going with this? Familiar with what? Penises? That sounds creepy.

"I'm mean, not too familiar. Not more familiar than the average woman, I would guess. Moderately familiar," I stopped talking.

"Ok, let's get his diaper back on," she said. "And we'll see you at his two-week appointment."

Against my better judgement, I made one last effort to connect with the doc.

"I can't believe his diaper was off for so long and neither one of us got R. Kelly'd," I joked.

At this point she gave me what I like to call, "Kanye Face." If you don't know what that is, here's a picture of Kanye looking completely unimpressed.

Photo cred: popdust.com

She had to know the reference I was making. She and I were about the same age, so we both should remember when he was in the news. Though maybe she didn't watch the news back then. After all, she would've been preparing to be a doctor. I was just preparing for my future as an unemployed journalist; I had plenty of time to watch the news.

Or maybe the joke just wasn't funny. I'll try it again at his next appointment just to be sure.

(Note: I'm sorry Beau. I promise to delete this blog post before you start school.)

What Not to Say to a Pregnant Lady

While it's not ok to comment on a pregnant woman's size, it IS ok to laugh at her jokes about her size. 

I think we all know that it's not ok to ask a woman if she is pregnant. Unless you are in the delivery room while the actual baby is being born, you should not ask. But that's only the start of the list. Here's some helpful alternatives to common pregnancy questions.

Inappropriate comment:
"You must be having a boy. They say boys steal your beauty."

Why this is not ok:
Because it's not. Even my four-year-old would know this is not ok to say.

Possible alternative:
"Hey, girl. You look great today." Lie, just lie. And if you're not comfortable with lying, offer to do her laundry while she takes a nap.


Inappropriate comment:
"How dilated are you?"-said by the grocery store cashier.

Why this is not ok:
If I'm just trying to buy a few groceries, please don't ask me about the size of my cervix.

Possible alternative:
Would you like paper or plastic?


Inappropriate comment:
"When were you due, yesterday?"-said to my neighbor who was five months pregnant.

Why this is not ok:
It implies she is bigger than she should be.

Possible Alternative:
"You look good. Want me to do your laundry for you?"


Inappropriate comment:
"Are you sure it's not twins?"

Why it's not ok:
I'm pretty sure if it were twins they would have told me at one of the 942 doctor's appointments I've gone to since I got pregnant. You basically just called me fat.

Possible alternative:
"Why don't you get off your feet while I do your laundry?"


Inappropriate comment:
"That explains why you've been nine months pregnant for the last four months." -My dumbass said this to my neighbor after she give birth to a toddler-sized newborn.

Why it's not ok:
Because there are literally a million other things to say to someone who has just had a baby.

Possible alternative:
Congrats. She's perfect. Way to go, Momma. Want me to do your laundry?

Regarding Having A Third Kid:

Inappropriate comment:
"You know they say two is company, three's a crowd."

Why it's not ok:
I'm already pregnant with our third. If I came to you beforehand and asked your thoughts on having three kids, that would've been a perfect time for this statement. Now it's a bit late.

Possible alternative:
"If your hands are full those first few months, let me know and I'll come over and do your laundry."


Inappropriate comment:
"You're going to want to kill yourself those first few weeks." -This has actually been said to me by two different people.

Why it's not ok:
This is in no way helpful or insightful.

Possible alternative:
"If you need someone to drink wine with after the baby comes, I'm your girl."


Honorable Mention Inappropriate comment:
"You must be trying for a boy."
(Most people do not consider this inappropriate, but for some reason it bothers me. If you tell me YOU hope I have a boy or you think I'm having a boy, it doesn't bother me at all. Confusing, I know. I blame the hormones.)

Why it's not ok:
It implies that having two girls is somehow incomplete. If you must know, we're not trying for a boy. We're just trying for not an asshole.

Possible alternative:
Congrats.

If you see something on this list that looks vaguely familiar, don't worry, we all fall victim to clumsy mouth sometimes. When in doubt, ask yourself this question: Is what I'm about to say a helpful statement? If not, just stick with "Congrats."

Day in the Life

Sometimes I feel like my days are busy, but I can't quite figure out with what. One morning, I decided to jot down notes:

I'm lying on the floor of the living room. This is where most of our playing takes place. Harper is running around singing something and Violet is sitting by my head, trying to force feed me pre-chewed pretzel sticks. I'm clenching my mouth shut and shaking my head vigorously, which is mostly working but occasionally she jabs me in the face with the pretzel.

At this point Harper decides to do what I can only describe as a wrestling-style elbow drop. If you don't know what that is, here's the most accurate portrayal I could find:

Photo credit: Wrestling Amino

Reflexively, I sit strait up and gasp for air. Violet sees this as her perfect opportunity to jam her sawed off shotgun of a pretzel stick into my mouth. Anyone who's had the back of their throat pierced by a jagged pretzel rod feels my pain.

The girls seem pleased with themselves. It's 9 a.m.

"Who wants to watch Daniel Tiger?" I'm not above using TV so I can drink coffee in peace.

Well, mostly in peace.

"Please don't pour your water on the floor," I tell Harper.

"Why? Because it will bring ants?" she asks.

"No, because it's supposed to stay in your cup."

"So ants don't like water?"

"I'm not sure. They probably like water. Everything likes water."

"So the water will bring ants?"

"Yes."

Defeated again.

Violet turns and waves to me. "Hi," she says. She has a low voice for a one year old and I love it. She gets out of her chair and totters over to me for a hug. She's my little cuddler and I can't get enough.

As I'm cherishing my sweet hug, a slimy, mushy piece of chewed up orange falls out of her mouth, inside the collar of my shirt, and slides down my back. This is when I discovered I react exactly the same to an orange sliding down my back as I do to a great white shark brushing up against my leg in the ocean.

For the record (mom), a shark has never brushed up against my leg in the ocean. It was likely seaweed. Though it felt like a shark and the fear was very real.

"Ouch! Ouch! My eye is burning!" Harper yells and runs toward me with one eye squeezed shut.

"Ok, let's rinse it out. What'd you do?" I asked.

"I squeezed my orange in it."

"Why?"

"I thought it would burn and it does," said my little scientist.

"Well, don't squeeze any in your sister's, she still has two good eyes."

Interspersed throughout the morning are Violet's silent tantrums. I'm not sure if she's a non-conformist or if she just never learned how to properly throw a tantrum. But for some reason when she doesn't want to do something she silently lies on the ground and ignores everyone around her. It's an interesting technique.

Here, Violet doesn't want to eat breakfast:

Here, Violet doesn't want to put her shoes on before going outside:

I'm not sure what this one was about:

And finally, Violet doesn't want to get out of the bath. Even after it's been drained:

I stopped taking notes around noon.

COSTUME WEEK DAY 3: "Watch Me (Whip/Nae Nae)" Music Video Stars

DAY 3: "Watch Me" Music Video Stars
Total cost for all four costumes: $9.39
Total time for all four costume: 25 minutes

Silento (Singer/Rapper)

• Red polo shirt (already owned)
• Jeans (already owned)
• Red headphones ($5, Five Below)

Steps

1. Get dressed

Tutu Girl

• Pink, yellow and blue tutus. I got two of each color so it would be fuller ($1 each, Dollar Tree)
• Shirt (already owned)
• Jean jacket. The little girl in the video wears a white one, but blue was all we had, so I went with blue. (already owned)

Steps

1. Get Dressed

Watch me whiiiiiip.

Watch me nae nae.

Red Dress

• Red dress or large red shirt (already owned)
• Black leg warmers or black boots (already owned)
• Yellow felt (39c, Michaels)

Steps

1. Trace and cut out "W" on yellow felt.
2. Glue to red shirt with fabric glue or hot glue gun.
3. Get dressed.

Now watch me superman.

Old Lady

• Yellow cardigan set (already owned)
• Black pants (already owned)
• Purse (already owned)

Steps

1. Get dressed.
2. Look WASPy :)

COSTUME WEEK DAY 2: Insurance Family

DAY 2: Insurance Family

Total cost for all four costumes: $28

Total time for all four costumes: 40 minutes

Mayhem (Allstate)

• Dumbells ($3.49 each, Target)
• Headband (already owned)
• Name tag (letters 2.99, Michaels)
• Bandage (already owned)
• Suit (already owned)

Steps

1. Make name tag
2. If you have a suit you're fine with ruining, ripping it at the shoulder seam would make an even better costume. 
3. Add bandage and dirt to face

Aflac

• White shirt (already owned)
• Orange pants ($4.50, Target. They're also turned inside out because they had hearts on them)
• Orange foam board (99c, Michaels)
• Elastic (already owned)
• Name tag (letters already owned)
• White feather boa (optional)

Steps

1. Trace a duck foot shape onto the foam board and cut an "x" in the heel large enough to fit over the foot.

   

   
   

2. Draw and cut out the duck bill from the foam board. Leave the center attached.
3. Poke two holes in the center of the duck bill and thread elastic through to make a mask.

   

   
   

4. Make name tag.

Geico Gecko

• Green shirt and pants or onesie
• Tan, green and black felt (39c each, Michaels)
• Black foam board (99c, Michaels)
• Headband (already owned)
• Name tag (letters already owned)

Steps

1. Make name tag
2. Draw and cut out tan felt tummy. 

   

   
   

3. Glue on shirt with fabric glue or hot glue gun.
4. Draw and cut out eye shape from black foam board. Include a tab at the bottom for glueing onto the headband.

   

   
   

5. Cover the eye shape, except for the tab, with green felt using a hot glue gun. 

   

   
   

6. Cut out eye balls from black felt and glue on. 

   

   
   

7. Glue tab to head band using hot glue gun.

We had to give her a lollipop so she wouldn't cry during photos. 

Flo (Progressive)

• White shirt (already owned)
• White pants (already owned)
• White apron ($5.99, Michaels)
• Blue letters ($3.99, Michaels)
• Black letters (already owned)
• Red lipstick (optional)

Steps

1. Add "Progressive" to apron
2. Add "Flo" to apron
3. Make "I Heart Insurance" pin

COSTUME WEEK DAY 1: Team Ronda Rousey

I'm kicking off a DIY costume series on the blog this week. Here are my criteria for costumes:

1. Easy

2. Cheap

3. Quick

4. Not a skanky version of something else (i.e. sexy nurse, slutty cat)

Day 1: Team Ronda Rousey 

Total cost for all four costumes: $11

Total time for all four costumes: 45 minutes

Ronda

• Black sweatsuit (already owned)
• Yellow letters ($2.99, Michaels)
• Mittens ($1, Dollar Tree)
• Black, silver, gold foam sheets (99c each, Michaels)

Steps

1. Add letters to sweatshirt. For a more permanent costume, use iron on instead of stickers.



This was her "tough" face. It's ridiculous.

2. Cut ends off mittens so they look like training gloves.

   

   For older kids you can consider taping their hands or adding tape on top of the mittens, but I thought this would be more comfortable for her.

3. Trace a circle onto a 12x18 inch piece of black foam board. (I traced a dinner plate) Leave strips on either side of the circles for the belt portion.
4. Trace a smaller circle onto the 9x12 inch piece of silver foam board. (I traced a salad plate)
5. Cut out the letters UFC from the gold 9x12 inch foam board.
6. Glue
   

   

   The actual UFC belt is not a circle. But I was having trouble free handing the actual shape, so circle it was!

7. Poke two holes at each end of the belt and thread ribbon through.

Referee

• White shirt (already owned)
• Black pants (already owned)
• Duct tape (already owned)
• Whistle (optional, but then you have to listen to whistling)

Steps

1. Tape stripes to the shirt. That's it. 

She's eating a chicken nugget right now.

Joe Rogan

• Microphone ($1, Dollar Tree)
• Name Tag (letters $2.99, Michaels)
• Suit or Tux (already owned)

Steps

1. Make name tag. 
2. Hand microphone to Joe.

Ronda Fan

• Yellow letters (already owned)
• pom pom (already owned)

Steps

1. Add letters to shirt. I chose "Fight Like a Girl."

A Different Kind of Post

When I was in eighth grade I was Confirmed.

If you're not Catholic, Confirmation is a rite of passage sacrament where you agree to continue your faith, among other things. As part of the process, you pick a confirmation sponsor whose role is to guide and assist you in your faith. Kind of like a godparent.

I picked my Aunt Mary. I should preface this by saying Aunt Mary is the funniest person I know. And  if there was anyone I'd want to sit in a long, dry, religious ceremony with, it would be her. In hindsight, maybe not the best criteria for a religious guide.

On the morning of the Confirmation ceremony the priest met with every student and their sponsor. He was a kind, lovely man, but he had an interesting speech pattern. He over-annunciated every word, had extra long pauses between his sentences and aggressively pronounced every single letter of every word. He also had a very wide, toothy grin--the kind where you can see molars. And he was somehow able to keep smiling his huge grin the entire time he talked.

When it was our turn to meet with Father, Aunt Mary picked up on his quirks right away. She immediately began speaking and smiling exactly like him. She was so convincing, in fact, that he didn't even notice he was being imitated.

There we were, sitting across from the priest in his office and I was just staring at her with my mouth open.

What are you doing?! I thought. You can't make fun of a priest!

I was barely hearing the questions he was asking me. Meanwhile, Aunt "Father" Mary didn't miss a beat. Every single tooth was visible as she answered all of his questions, made small talk and even told him I was just feeling nervous, is all.

It didn't stop there. The sponsors sit in the pew behind you during the ceremony. I was in the front row of the church. I could hear her behind me, still "in character", reciting all the prayers and songs. I'm almost certain my shoulders shook with silent laughter the entire ceremony.

At this point I was certain that instead of Olive Garden, we were going directly to hell immediately following the ceremony. I was pretty sure you can't make fun of a priest and you definitely can't make fun of one in a church.

As an adult, she used to joke with me for picking her as my sponsor.

"I'm surprised the church didn't burst into flames," she said once.

But this was Aunt Mary. She could find humor in everything. EVERYTHING. And there are thousands of stories like this. Anyone that has ever met Aunt Mary has a story--or 10--better than this one.

Sadly, Aunt Mary passed away yesterday. And when someone so full of life, with that big of a personality is gone, it can be hard to process. Harper saw me crying, and I tried to explain to her what happened.

"It's okay Mommy, we'll get you a new Aunt Mary," she said.

It was a very three-year-old thing to say, and it did make me laugh. But it got me thinking that there is no one on this planet anything like Aunt Mary. She was somehow the hilarious, inappropriate, life of the party, AND the loving, sensitive, Great Aunt who gushed over pictures of my daughters.

And while we never read the scriptures together, I stand by my decision for choosing Aunt Mary. She was an amazing wife, mother, sister, aunt and friend. She made light of everything. She was adored by everyone around her. You physically could not be in a bad mood when you were with Aunt Mary.

My life is richer for having known her. Until we meet again...

The Road to Hell

I started out with good intentions.

I thought taking the girls to explore a nearby cavern would be fun. So Monday morning we packed our lunches and got on the road. My first setback came when I saw it cost $26 to enter the cavern. It seemed like a lot of money to explore something that no one built.

But I happily paid it knowing how excited Harper would be. I imagined Future Harper graduating from geology school, speaking to her class about how a trip to a cave when she was three sparked an interest she never forgot. I couldn't put a price tag on that.

Then I found out we would be exploring the cave in a group led by a tour guide. Pre kids I would've thought this was great. With kids, I realize this just increases the number of people that my kids can ruin an experience for. My mommy alarm started quietly going off. This might be a bad idea, it said. But I had already driven the nearly two hours it takes to get there, so I figured we'd forge ahead.

We were with a group of about 15 people, most of whom I would grow to hate. We descended 68 stairs to reach the floor of the cavern. When we got to the bottom Harper looked around.

"This is amazing," she said wide-eyed. I knew it. I knew she'd love it.

"I'm hungry," she said approximately nine seconds later.

The tour guide began his intro: "No touching or climbing on anything in here."

There's virtually no chance of that happening, I thought. No climbing? Maybe. But no touching? That's just a pipe dream, Anthony.

"The tour is an hour and fifteen minutes long and a mile and a quarter in length."

That seems long. But if Violet gets fussy, I'll just turn around and go back.

"No leaving the group. The lights are on timers. Once we pass though an area the lights turn off. The cave is nearly impossible to navigate in the dark."

Sonofabitch. 

And there it was. The moment I realize why my mommy alarm was going off. It's very similar to dating when you finally realize why someone is still single. Yep, there it is. That's why.

So with Violet in the carrier and Harper with strict instruction not to climb, touch or spit on anything, we continued ahead.

Cue Violet. If I had to think of a list of places that are terrible for a baby to start crying, an echoey, exit-less cave would be at the very top of that list. Luckily she didn't cry the entire time. The last six minutes she was pretty happy.

Here's a list of people we were lucky enough to join on this adventure:

-The woman on a date trying to be cute: "Oh my. Guess what that looks like. I'm not going to say it, but I think you know," she said. Giggles. I'll say it. It looks like a penis. Everything in here looks like a penis. We are in a mile-long cave surrounded by penis-looking structures. Can we move on now, Carol? You're too old for this.

-The guy who had to take pictures of all the things but couldn't figure out why none of his pictures were turning out. Because it's dark. It was dark back there, it's dark right here, it'll be dark up ahead. You're in a cave. Enough with the pictures.

-The sneezer. He was the worst offender. This guy sneezed on multiple occasions and didn't cover his mouth. Like at all. Didn't even try. We are in a cave with no air circulation. How dare you, Phillip. If someone punched me in the face, I feel like after the fact we could talk it out and figure out why it happened. But if an adult sneezes and doesn't even attempt to cover their mouth, I will never be able to wrap my head around that.

-The helper. She was either very nice or trying to steal my stuff. She kept offering to carry my diaper bag. "Seriously I don't mind," she said. "I can see you need both of your hands." The thing is, I was already using both of my hands. One to pat Violet on the back, and the other to hold Harper's hand. My diaper bag is a backpack and I was wearing it--hands free--on my back. It was strange. Each time I declined. "Well, let me at least take your picture," she said. This is what she took:

Two-thirds of the people in this picture have their eyes closed. And Harper is hooking Violet.

Crushed it. Great pictures. Thanks for forcing your photography skills on me. 

But still, out of all these people, the most annoying person there was me. I knew it and they knew it.

Finally, the tour guide said the tour was concluded. And we did see some pretty cool things. Violet had temporarily stopped crying. Harper didn't permanently damage anything. I was beginning to think this might have been a mini success.

"Now if you'll all just follow me up these 68 stairs..."

Sonofabitch.

Home

They say you can never go home again. Well that's not true, I went home last week.

And if you're lucky like me, your room will still have all your high school pictures framed in it so you can be reminded that you were once much skinnier and your kids can ask about the not daddy pictures still on display.

Here's a few random thoughts about my visit:

We used to have a nice van. This is what the van looked like after 8 hours in the car with two toddlers.

And packing for two toddlers is like touring with Britney Spears. Seriously, we were gone for four days.

The zoo serves beer. This is genius. My mom, who forgot her glasses and just had eye surgery, was somehow able to spot a lone beer tap 50 yards away behind a concession stand. It was impressive. It's a super power I hope to have one day.

Granted, the beers were $6.25 a piece, but it made it much easier to have this conversation 98 times.

"Can I pet it?"
"No, that thing would rip your arm off."
"Oh. Can I take it home?"
"Still no."

(For clarification I had this conversation with my three year old, not with my mom.)

You can feed a giraffe at the zoo. For $3 you get three pieces of lettuce. Three. I felt like I was at Whole Foods.

Going snail hunting also looks like harvesting mounds of poop. Here's Harper with my little sister holding snails. Or poop. You decide.

My brother and sister-in-law have one baby yet they both carried a diaper bag when they came over. At first I thought it was a bit much. But then I got to wondering what they had that I don't have. I bet they have secret non mediocre parent things in their diaper bags. I just started watching The Walking Dead (yes I realize I'm late to the bandwagon), and it's caused me to look at people differently. I want to be near those two should a zombie apocalypse happen. I feel like they'll be prepared.

Speaking of preppers, my older sister might be one also. She brought a pool bag with her one day. Here's a list of the contents: swim suits, towels, water bottles, a box of frozen fettuccine alfredo. I have no explanation for this.

Also Sweet Violet has to be the only kid on the planet that doesn't cry during the eight hours in the car, but then cries for six straight hours once we reach our destination. Thanks for the memories Violet.

Harper the Brave caught her first fish with my dad. In theory that is a happy occasion. In reality, it has created an addict. I get hit with a plastic hook at least twice a day because she's "practicing" casting. The dogs don't even come out of their cages anymore.

Like any visit home, there are people we didn't get to see and people we didn't get to see enough of. When I'm home, I simultaneously feel that I haven't been home long enough and that I have been home too long and need to get the kids back on their schedules and routines before they become monsters. 

And like any family, there is always the occasional unsolicited advice. But with that advice comes their unwavering, unconditional love. Knowing that I could be having the best day of my life or the worst day ever and this group of crazies will love me and my girls exactly the same, with as much enthusiasm, on both days, is an amazing feeling. And for that, I am forever grateful. 

NYC Hates Babies (Part 2)

The girls at Bryant Park.

Not having learned my lesson the first time, the girls and I ventured back into New York City, this time with Erin and her almost two-year-old son, Patrick. We were headed to Bryant Park because they were having a Broadway concert series that day. We secured a small table and pulled up four chairs for me, Erin, Harper and Patrick. Violet would eat her lunch sitting in the stroller next to us.

Not two minutes after we sat down someone walked up and asked if we needed all four chairs.
"Yep, we'll be using all our chairs," I said with a smile and went back to digging through my purse. A couple minutes later someone asked again. And then someone else. And every time they seemed truly confused, and somewhat annoyed, that only two adults would need four chairs.

"Can I take one of these?" Someone else asked with his hand already on the chair.

"No. Move on," I said. My patience was at a low.

"Really? Jeez," he said.

"There are four humans here!"

It might have been a bit much. But the lady two tables over with a shitzu sitting next to her wasn't bothered once, from what I saw.

The funny thing is, kids hate sitting. They are allergic to sitting. So the whole time I'm fighting the good fight, contemplating making "Kids are People Too" shirts, at least one of the kids was not in their highly coveted chairs. I perhaps picked the wrong cause.

After lunch we went sight seeing. Here's Harper at the Empire State Building and Madison Square Garden. She was riveted.

In Macy's at Herald Square we decided it'd be a good time for a bathroom break. We walked up to a man folding shirts and asked where the closest bathroom was.

"The men's bathroom is right over there," he said.

I looked at myself (a girl), Erin (a girl), Harper (a girl), Violet (a girl) and Patrick (not a girl).

"You're in the men's department," he said for clarification.

Apparently if you work in the men's department at Macy's, the location of all other non-men bathrooms are kept top secret. I've been trying to teach Harper to only get the urge to use the restroom in gender appropriate areas, but apparently she isn't getting it.

After finding the restroom on our own, we headed out. The kind doorman saw us coming with our strollers and happily opened the door for us.

"Here ya go," he said and handed Erin Patrick's shoe that had dropped on the ground.

"Oh thanks! I didn't even know he took them off," she said.

"Eh, small brains," he replied.

I thought I heard him wrong, but Erin agreed she heard "small brains" too.  I'm not sure if he was insulting kids or women, though. I'd probably be able to figure it out, if only my brain weren't so annoyingly small...

The rest of the day went just fine. We got a lot of "Wow, you have your hands full" comments, which aren't exactly insults, but seem a little misplaced considering the parent to kid ratio was 2:3. The guy in the pizza shop told me to stop yelling at him when I ordered our pizza. Not sure what that was about. And Erin got her picture taken by someone who she thinks writes for a what not to wear blog. Here's Erin reenacting the photo:

But none of this matters because I had a blast those few days visiting New York. And I'd go back in a heartbeat. I could explore a paper bag with Erin and still have an awesome time. But since open letters seem to be popular on social media, here's mine:

An Open Letter to New York City

Dear NYC,

Go to hell.

Sincerely,

Laura