Swim Suit Season

Swim suit season. Ugh. Those words make me cringe. I hate swim suit season. I love swimming, I love water, I love water activities, but I loathe having to squeeze my “I had two babies” body into anything form fitting and stretchy. I don’t think this is a unique sentiment. I don’t know a single woman over the age of 20 that is excited about trying on bathing suits. OK, well I do know one actually but we all secretly kind of hate her.

The problem is really the type of options we have. There are only three and none of them are ideal.

Option One, the bikini. I hate bikinis. I will never show my stomach publically again. I mean come on, this is just hideous. Candice Swanepoel Victoria's Secret Swim 2013

Just kidding, that isn’t me. I would look more like this in a bikini. untitled (3)
And actually, that orangutan has way more confidence with rocking that suit than I would. It would really look more like this. untitled (4)

The second option is the one piece suit. There are plenty of hideous options for this one as well. They tend to fall into three categories. The first options look like old lady couches or curtains and are clearly made for grandmas.


Look at the amazing shorts that come with this suit!

There are also one piece swim suits that try to be over the top fashionable and sexy and just look ridiculous. Like this one, for example: img-thing I mean, who doesn’t wear thigh high boots to the beach with the face suit?

Or this: z210895533This woman’s vagina is a field of wheat where stallions play. Gross.

All of these are terrible.

Then there is the one piece that is actually a two piece. Like this one: iece-Swim-Suit-Love-Kills-Slowly-in-White-236

What is it really covering? Absolutely nothing.

So we are left with the tankini. imagesCARR0JXZ

Not amazing or super flattering but somehow the lesser of three evils. I will put one on this year, look in the mirror, sigh, grab a cover-up and head to the pool. Being able to drink while I’m there will make it a little more bearable.


Daycare Art for 2 Year Olds

My two year old just started going to room 9 at daycare. It is quite the promotion above the toddler room. He’s with the big kids now. Well, 2-3 year olds at least. One of the new activities that he gets to participate in is art time. And when I say art time, I don’t just mean a coloring page here or there. It is full blown art projects. With paints and glitter, and googley eyes. Art time, with 10 children under the age of 3? Those poor teachers.

After having my toddler doing art time for about a month now, I am beginning to question how much of the art he actually makes. I mean, look at those samples. Paint dots that are perfectly even, color inside of the lines, stamps that line up perfectly on the page. Pretty sure my two year old did not make these on his own. I mean, I have watched homeboy try to use a spoon and hit his hair on accident. His hair. That is not even close to his mouth. His coordination is not nearly advanced enough to produce such examples of fine motor control. In addition, I think the ability to have the paint color inside the lines is a little bit more of an advanced concept than his brain has the ability to process.

I love how evenly he dipped the sponge in paint and how he sorted the bugs by type.

I love how evenly he dipped the sponge in paint and how he sorted the bugs by type.

Basically, when I get samples like this, it is the equivalent of a nuclear physicist writing a paper and putting my name on it. Actually, I probably understand more about nuclear physics than he does about coloring inside the lines. So, there are two options. Either his teachers hold his hand while he paints and colors, directing his every movement, or they do it for him while he does something else. The first option makes me cringe because it would basically involve wrestling my toddler and forcing his hand down into paint and then manhandling him so that he does perfect fingerprint spots on the paper. There is no way that he is willingly letting you paint with him. He barely lets me put on his socks without asserting his independence and free will (like for reals, I got kicked in the mouth this morning because I thought shoes would be a good idea). Option two is actually stranger to me because it means that my kid is playing with something else while an adult finger paints a picture of a snail. So really, how valuable is this “art time?” I would much rather have a scribbled on coloring sheet that I know my child actually made.

Look at the amazing understanding of painting inside the lines and using discrete color sections my toddler has.

Look at the amazing understanding of painting inside the lines and using discrete color sections my toddler has.

But, daycare does not share my sentiment, so every day I bring home a new art that my toddler supposedly made. My fridge is covered with them. And my fridge is stainless steel so there is only a very small area that I can dedicate to his artwork. I have often contemplated throwing them away. I mean really, what am I saving them for? I know he didn’t make them. But I can’t bring myself to do it. Mommy guilt is that strong. So I keep them. In boxes overflowing with art made by his 22 year old teachers and one or two hand prints thrown in for good measure.

5 Things That Are Better Than Sleep

Don't be fooled, he's pretending to sleep.

Don’t be fooled, he’s pretending to sleep.

Both of my children seem to have decided that sleep is for suckers. Especially between the hours of 12:30 and 3:00 a.m. What you may ask, do a two year old and a four month old do instead of sleep, and can I participate? Well, finally, the answer to your burning question. Here are the five things that are better than sleep in the wee hours of the morning.

  1. Practice your rodeo hand for your first mechanical bull ride. This is a particular interest of my four month old and a very good way to keep yourself awake when you otherwise run the risk of drifting off into sleep.
  2. Roll onto your stomach and become instantly angry that you can’t roll back..
  3. Beg for milk, M and Ms, “fisheys,” and to get “off” in no particular order.
  4. Kick the wall with such force that your crib slides across the room. Continue kicking until you can no longer reach the wall.
  5. Lie about poop.


So, there you have it, if you find yourself wondering about what to do in the middle of the night, try one of the options above. Or make up your own. Just don’t give my kids anymore ideas.


I hate grapes. With a deep, burning passion. Hate, hate, hate, hate the stupid things. Why, you may ask, why does someone hate such an innocuous fruit? Middle school. I hate grapes because of middle school.

I have lunch duty in the cafeteria during 7th and 8th grade lunch. My administration decided that there needed to be a certified teacher on duty with middle school instead of just aids and cafeteria workers. Somehow I drew the short straw and am the lucky lady who gets to spend 40 minutes of my day with hormonally fueled pre-teen students. Awesome.

Most days it’s not so bad, except when they serve grapes. Grapes are too throwable. They are too crushable. It is way too much fun to try to launch them into your friend’s mouth or squish them under your feet. The crunching sound of a grape as you slowly squeeze it between your fingers is entirely too satisfying. I get it kids. Grapes are fun.

But it is not fun when you have to be the grape police. I have to “gently” (read: scream at the top of my lungs in an already noisy, echoey cafeteria) remind kids not to throw grapes across the table. And I have to not so gently remind them not the chuck them at the back of my head (read: scream at the top of my lungs and threaten to send them to the principal). Throw in the cafeteria “boss” (aka a cafeteria aid on a power trip) who is constantly demanding that kids sweep the floor, and this 40 minutes becomes pure hell.

So my plea to school districts everywhere, stop with the grapes. Just stop. Find a fruit that is not quite so fun. Like orange slices. No one has a good time with orange slices.


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You don’t know worry until you have a child. Let me preface with, I have always been a worrier. When I was little (we’re talking like five here) I would sit up on Christmas Eve, unable to sleep. Sure, I was excited that it was Christmas, but mostly I was worried about coal. I would mentally run through every bad thing I had done over the year.

 I would say life is a stress layer cake. As you get older, you get more and more layers to worry about. When I was in high school, I obsessed over finals. I would look at my parents and think “they have it so easy, they don’t have to take a Geometry test tomorrow.” Later, I got a job and a dog. I worried about him digging up the yard, getting sick, or just generally being unhappy. I thought this was the epitome of worry. Boy was I wrong.

When I got pregnant, I worried constantly. I always had a thought in the back of my head, most of them were completely ridiculous. What if my baby has a tail? What if I accidently eat fish? I don’t really know how one could accidently eat fish, but I have never claimed to be rational. Then there were also real concerns about whether my baby would be healthy, or why I wasn’t feeling much movement that day. However, all of this worry was for not and I gave birth to a healthy baby boy. Then the worry multiplied.

As a new mom, I worried about everything. Literally, everything. What if my baby has SIDS? Why did he cough? Is he blinking enough? What if I can’t keep him on his back to sleep? Will he ever get teeth? Then come the toddler years. What if he actually a baby ninja and round house kicks the cord to his monitor into his hands, wraps it around his neck, and strangles himself? What if he isn’t eating enough? Is he talking enough?

Just when I thought I couldn’t possibly worry anymore, it happened. I got pregnant again. You would think it would be easier this time around. You would be wrong. Somehow the second time around I worried more. Would I love this baby? How would my toddler adjust? Why wasn’t I as sick as last time? What if I accidently eat fish?

My pregnancy ended after what seemed like an eternity when I gave birth to a healthy baby girl, and the worry started all over again. In fact, she was a more challenging baby than my son so I found that I worried more. Why was she crying? Was she getting enough to eat? What was I doing wrong? Why does she only sleep during the day? Why wasn’t this easier the second time around?

I have come to accept that I will not have a worry free, restful night sleep ever again in my life. My worries I have today will be replaced with new worries, both rational and not so rational. Will they be happy? Are they dating a good person? Are they too popular? Are they popular enough? What if she gets pregnant and accidently eats fish? However, I have realized that I would not trade these nights of restless sleep for anything in the world. I look at my perfect children and I know, they are worth the worry.