Grocery Shopping, Please Don’t Make Me…

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  “Shopping with kids is like trying to concentrate on a 150 things, while someone repeatedly beats you over the head with a plank of wood.” –Unknown

Confession: I cannot stand to buy groceries.

Truly, I loathe the entire act of grocery shopping…

  1. Driving there (Being judged by the two year old as I sing along to ‘Hello’ by Adele, on repeat, the entire 10 minutes it takes to get there).
  2. Finding a parking spot while combating my inner road rage (I saw that spot first lady, you know I saw it first, REALLY, ugh!!!! Go ahead, sure…STEAL MY SPOT!).
  3. Getting a two year old out of the car (“I not in cart, Mama.”  Yep, the tone has been set–Battle, War, Anarchy…help me, Jesus!).
  4. Convincing, pleading, bribing, and sometimes threatening said two year old to get into the shopping cart.
  5. Worrying about the nine million germs on the shopping cart (tuberculosis…enough said).
  6. Annoying people as you use more than the socially responsible amount of wipes to cleanse the shopping cart of bacteria.
  7. Pushing the cart down aisles, trying to mark your grocery list as you go, while the two year old screams, “I WALK!” while trying to skydive out of the cart.
  8. The person on aisle two, who stares at you, or more or less your screaming kid.  He’s clearly thinking, control your tasmanian devil, lady!
  9. Trying to smile wider, imagining him as a screaming two year old (we have all been two and mad).
  10. Stopping mid-trip because the two year old got ahold of a banana and has managed to rip into the peel (the eating of the banana shall commence. Period).
  11. Racing to the self-check out to purchase the mutilated banana so security doesn’t detain the two year old for theft.
  12. Back to shopping, which means you have to reopen tab #2109 in your mind labeled survive grocery shopping (don’t forget the cake mix, or 2 pints of icing–you deserve extra icing).
  13. Realizing several of the items on your list are sold out…it’s the 15th, everyone is shopping too (this is where, SMH applies).
  14. Finally crossing off the last item while making several mental notes about another trip for the items they didn’t have (In my best Kevin Hart voice, “Noooooooo.”).
  15. Standing in the check-out line, which takes half the time it took you to shop for six people (“Nandy, Mama.  NANDY, Mama!”  “No, candy Bella.” I say, to which she replies,  “RAAAAAAAAAAA!!!!!” Meltdown in checkout line 11 is happening, scaring everyone in the grocery store).
  16. Having a heart attack as you watch a child in the cart in front of you fall head first out of the cart, thankfully being caught by his mother.  (Sadly, this is the distraction that saves me from two year old’s candy meltdown.)
  17. Hauling your purchase to the car (actually, this part is fun, because you start jogging, then jump on the edge of the cart, riding the forward momentum through the parking lot.  Yes, you are 12.  Enjoy it! And it makes the two year old laugh, so it’s definitely worth it).
  18. Loading all the bags into the car while the two year old begs for another banana, and you start worrying about her potassium levels, surely three bananas (yes, you purchased another one, because you didn’t bury the bananas deep enough in the cart after she got the first one).
  19. Finally, getting into your car. (I got dis! I got dis! You made it, Mama!!!!! High fives self!)
  20. Just sitting there wondering what would rot if you just left it all in the car for a few hours, because now you need to go home and take a nap. (You don’t got dis.)
  21. Accepting while crying that you have to go home, unload, put up and manage the two year old at the same time.


Any Mama will tell you that grocery shopping with children is not for the faint of heart, but…..thank goodness it’s Friday!!!!

Have the best of weekends friends!







I don’t have my life together on Mondays, just look at my nail polish…

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Confession: chipped nail polish is my identity.

Monday (this is where I insert the gun emoticon facing the word Monday). Bang.

Monday’s are ugly, the kind of ugly your husband wakes to when you’ve forgotten to wash off a full face of make-up highlighted by falsies (which have fallen off through the night and are now doubling as extra eyebrows) and red lipstick (now mirroring some facial war paint of a 3rd world tribe you’re not apart of). The kind of ugly your husband can’t even laugh in the face of, bless him.

The above, has never happened to me.

But, Mondays are especially hideous when they end a long, lazy holiday break. Worse, when for some reason you thought to schedule two children’s doctor appointments on the first day back from said break.

I remember setting up those appointments, knowing, but refusing to accept that I’d come to regret doing this to myself. I’m positive I did this to myself on a day I was feeling fearless, one of those sacred days when I was not in pajamas, my face actually saw the sun, and I communicated with adults—face to face.

The truth is moms like me have to ease back into a schedule, not pretend they have their crap together on the first day back with two appointments.

Regardless, I found myself at the eye doctor with both Avayah and Anabella this very fine, bright, I-didn’t-drink-enough-coffee, Monday morning.

(Back story, Anabella is a stage 10 clinger. Like we breathe and blink at the same time, our hearts actually beat together as one, and if we’re not within five inches of one another, we, no, she is having a baby crisis. *She is my last baby, I cater. Judge me.)

If I thought clinginess was bad, stranger danger is a whole other monster.

There we are, in an exam room that feels like a jail cell. The sweetest nurse is asking questions, typing my responses, and Anabella is curled into my lap, paranoid. Her eyes are accessing. Me. Or. Avayah. Me. Or. Avayah.

The moment the nurse turns and calls her name, Anabella is done. She starts turning into me. “Mama.”

“Bella, it’s okay…” She must remember that this is exactly what I said before she got three shots nearly a month ago. Her eyes shoot betrayal daggers at me, yet she can’t dismiss how strong her clinger instincts are.

“MAMA!!!!!” She screams, bear hugging me.

The nurse looks alarmed, but she’s experienced, not missing a beat. “Bella, look at my flashlight? Do you like flashlights?”

Bella is having no part of this, her wails are trying to not only match the decibel of the nurses tone, but flat out drown the nurse’s questions. This is the point all moms feel obligated to work their magic. Here I go.

“Bella, look Mama is looking at the flashlight.” I start looking at the light, waiting to be hypnotized, semi-forgetting this is Bella’s eye appointment, not therapy.

Bella side peeks up at the nurse at the exact moment the nurse says, “look here Bella.”

“Not my eyes! My eyes!” Bella cries, slapping both hands over her eyes, shielding her against this stranger’s laser beams. Yep, it all goes downhill from there.

Later, when I hold Anabella down for the nurse to administer drops to dilate her eyes, I wasn’t sure I wanted to cry more in that moment from Bella being scared, or Avayah huffing in the corner acting like I was letting her sister be sacrificed before her very eyes.

I nearly fall apart (that moment when you feel so flustered, feverish, close to vomiting because your surroundings are pure chaos and you’ve lost complete control) when the Optometrist comes in and tells me that he has to look at the back of my screaming child’s eyes.

Let me paint that picture for you…

You’re sitting in the eye exam chair, similar to a dental chair (this is before you know the chair can actually flip back to mirror one of those inversion tables you’ve seen on infomericals) with a terrified two year old in your lap, who is not only screaming, still, but has added bucking, kicking, and arms flailing to the menu as well. The doctor kindly asks you to hold her down, mainly those wild appendages that threaten to make him lose his own sight, before he flips back the chair so your head is now closer to the ground than your feet. You try so hard not to laugh.

It feels ridiculous.

There I am, upside down in a chair, cradling my two year old feeling like a contortionist (my arms wrapped, pinning her arms down, yet my hands manage to unhook from my wrists to also wrap around her face, while my legs criss-cross-applesauce over her lower body) as a stranger, hovers over us, peeling back Anabella’s eyelid to exam her eye.

Needless to say, she now hates me.


Mondays. Are. Ugly. And. Painful.

When we finally went to check out at the Doctor’s office (Praise Jesus!), the receptionist, who was smiling—clearly knowing it was us scaring half the metro—states, “we need to see you back in three months.”

Fabulous, I think to myself.

“Do Mondays work good for you?”

I laugh. It sounds manic.  This is when that quip…Too. Soon…heavily applies.

I reply in earnest, “I don’t have my life together on Mondays, just look at my nail polish…let’s try a Thursday.” (Travis is off on Thursdays, he can take one for the team)


Today was not our day, but we survived and Anabella still loves me, mostly.

Friends, I hope you rocked your Monday, had endless cups of coffee, soft jammies, a good playlist, laughs, and that you felt the love from someone, even if that person was wrapped around you tighter than a straight jacket for the sake of your eyesight. {{hugs to you…and me}} We need those on Monday.



Girl Crush

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I’ve got a girl crush (on my best friend), but not in the creepy way.

I should have probably rethought that subject line…my best friend might look at me in a whole new light, but I promise this is not a ‘Little Big Town’ moment, or even a “Katy Perry” moment either. (I can hear her thought process as she reads the tag line…“What?  Like a real crush?  I’ve been naked, like butt naked infront of Sarah! And this whole time she wanted me!!!! Oh my gah, I can’t.)

Do not fear, M. My crush is totally platonic. I promise.

Here’s the history, I met M at a mutual friend’s playgroup when Avayah was two years old. We’ve been friends for nearly eight years, and in the course of our friendship we have never fought. Ever.

This is where I tell you we are true soul mates, trapped in the honeymoon phase, and also, that I go for older women, who are blonde. So, if you are older and blonde, we’re soulmates too. I’m competely shallow.

Truly, my best friend is someone you cannot help but love, irrevocably. You don’t get a choice, if you get to know her, it just happens. She’s the elusive cool girl. Yes, that unicorn really does exist.

Her name is Melisa Hildebrand.


We’re the two best friends that anyone could have…

And I’ve spent almost a decade crushing on her and I’ll tell you why I’m enamored, in a completely platonic, no I’m not in-love with her (everybody calm down) way.

She owns who she is. Her personality, values, her sense of humor, her beauty…she makes no apologies, but personifies kindness at the same time. It’s pretty stunning to witness.

Her fifteen year long marriage to her high school sweetheart is magic, think the makings of a fairytale (it’s so beautiful I can’t even gag) and the way she pursues motherhood is nothing short of graceful.

She’s that gorgeous older sister with the best style, you wish to emulate when you grow up.

She is light and warmth. You know those people you meet and suddenly you find yourself unable to stop the words flowing from your mouth, like your whole life story vomits out of you in front of them. This happens when you meet her for the first time.

She is that one person, who you can complain to–about everyone and everything. “M, I might strangle him/her. Today, it might happen.” And then the next day, when you’re shouting your love for him/her from the rooftops, she doesn’t remind you that you were mad at him/her yesterday.  She gets your dramatic personality and can decipher whether your bite is lethal or not.  Or when you’re complaining about that five pounds you gained, she won’t bring up those six two cookies she saw you eating.  She knows a girl needs cookies in her life.  Especially oatmeal ones.

She is the least dramatic person you’ve ever met. It’s how she answers seven ‘freak out’ phone calls from you in one day. Her patience is limitless.

She has your back, always. Her poker face in the presence of people she knows you secretly despise (yes, you are sometimes two-faced about people, but you’re working on it) is strong, like win the World Series of Poker strong.

She is funny, like legit funny, not even trying funny. And she’ll laugh with you, even when you’re not funny. Unless you hurt yourself, then she is totally laughing at you.

She can sing a tune, while your voice scrapes chalkboard.

She will not hold it against you when you order dessert with every meal. She knows sometimes, or every time, dessert is the solution to your problems. She will also support you when join jazzercise, she’ll even let you drag her with you, because you can’t be the only idiot not getting the moves right.

She’s the person who sends the best picture memes via pinterest… “If I ever had to run for my life, I would probably die.” or “Let’s workout really hard, then hydrate with margaritas!” and “Wasn’t that just so sweet of you to post that picture of us together where you looked like you were from Next Top Model and I looked like I was from the Walking Dead.”

She is like your diary, if it could talk back. She justifies your terrible behavior, laughs at your dramatic antics, and accepts your truths without judgement…but is still there to step in when you go too far and holds you accountable when it matters.

She has the sweetest heart. When you fall into a pit of ugliness, when life is so deeply painful, she embodies both action and support.  She fights for you, even if that means cleaning your house.  Further, she tells you, you will survive and you believe it.  And she’ll never bring your lowest point to the surface, ever.  She’ll even hug you, even though she doesn’t give out hugs to those not labeled her husband or her children.

“A friend is the one who comes in when the whole world has gone out.” ~ Grace Pulpit

She is your inspiration.  A role model.  A wonderful human being, who’s mastered the art of being both strong and soft at the same time.

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M, you’ve been the most divine best friend, the kind I pray my own daughters not only find, but are, to those they meet.  I’ve learned a great deal about each facet of life because of you.  Thank you for knowing how I am and still pushing me to grow. For being my haven, always.



p.s. If you don’t have this type of friend in your life, you cannot have Melisa, she’s unavailable. (I never learned how to share.  Just ask my mom.  You have to find your own.)  Better, be this friend to someone.  As a best friend, be someone’s safe place: balance the art of protecting them, yet pushing them to strive to be better too.  Soft and Strong.

p.p.s. If you have a Melisa, hug her and tell her you have a girl crush on her. Then wait six seconds before you clarify it’s not the “Little Big Town” or even the “Katy Perry” kind, she’ll laugh.  You’ll laugh.  You both will keep laughing, because you have to laugh away that kind of awkwardness.  Then celebrate her, in some way that means something.  Tip: words of affirmation are priceless and free.