An Open Letter to the Big Kids Formerly Known as Baby L and Baby O

Dear Big Kids,

Mommy has been a bit of a slacker on these open letter things. And, you know, on writing in general. Mommy is lame. But, by the time you read this, you will be WELL aware of that. And you will probably even have some other really colorful adjectives to describe Mommy too! Can’t wait!

Either way, I thought it was about time to get on in here and write you a little letter to let you know what you have been doing lately to drive me batshit insane make the world a hilarious and beautiful place to live.

We had some big changes in 2017. We bought our first house! It was something that your Daddy and I were super excited to get to do for you. We wanted to make sure that you had a place to be your “forever home”. And by “forever home”, I mean, the home that you live in until you are old enough to get a real job and make money so that you can move out and Daddy and I can start to day drink and do crossword puzzles in the hot tub (you know, the hot tub that we can’t afford until you get out of our house). Anyway, so yeah! We bought you a house! This should explain to you why you only got 250 Shopkins and race cars for Christmas instead of the 35 million others that you asked for. Just remember that. WE BOUGHT YOU A HOUSE.

L: You turned 5 in 2017! I can’t even believe that you aren’t that squishy, big cheeked baby that you were yesterday. Or, I guess…5 years ago…but whatever, you get it. You are sooooo talkative. You talk ALL. THE. TIME. And you know everything. You do. You will tell anyone who asks. You are the smartest. (You really are super smart, but you’re sometimes really damn annoying about it. Until you start designing rockets or curing cancer after school, we can do without all the “I KNOW. I am SO SMART” business. Just saying.) You love Kindergarten. Your teacher, Ms. Smith, tells me often how super sweet you are. You are. You are so sensitive and lovely and caring to everyone. And it warms my heart to see you blossom in this way. I do worry sometimes that people might take advantage of your kindness and I have to push this out of my head and remember to be cognizant of your feelings and watch the people who surround you. I feel so fiercely protective of you that sometimes it physically hurts me. Sometimes, I think that you just need a little time to develop your resting bitch face so that you can mask all that sweetness and keep the assholes away. I will be there, though. I can give you tips on that, for sure.

You are a bossy little thing. You love art and music and are sassy as hell. Currently, you talk back a little too much for my liking but I have a feeling this might just be a way for you to test the waters and see what you can get away with. (For the record, the answer is NOTHING, dammit.) You are about 42 lbs now and your favorite color is purple. Your best friend is a little boy named Aiden and when we went to your Open House for your class, you and he held hands and ran around and it made me so happy. (Your Daddy was not as pleased about this but…I mean…I don’t think that is going to change, like, EVAR.) You have nearly perfect grades in school and you love to PLAY IN THE DIRT….WHICH MAKES ME WANT TO STICK MY HEAD IN THE OVEN. (PLEASE STOP IT WITH THE DIRT ALREADY!) I will forgive you this for now. FOR NOW. But only because you are my first born and I am fairly certain you will take care of me when I am old. Maybe. You love tacos, and pizza but mostly, CHILI. Oh my god, I hope this passes soon because I used to really love chili and now I feel like I make it every other day and I am pretty sure that I am now 83% beans. But as long as you want it, my dear, I will make it. (And then I will eat popcorn and cheese for dinner instead. Because that is what love is.)

O: Oh my goodness. You turned 4 in 2017! And you started preschool! And you were SOOOOOO devastated that you wouldn’t have a whole three hours alone with me every day to help me with grocery shopping and going to the post office. I have to say, it took a minute to get you to feel good about going to school but you are doing great now. (You still refuse to eat or drink anything there, which is puzzling but I think it might just be because that is still something you get to do with me which your sister is not home. But OH, THE DRAMATICS!) Your teacher is a very nice lady named Miss Eunice who Daddy thinks doesn’t speak English at all, but really she just speaks quickly and without any enunciation at all. It makes me wonder how in the hell you are learning anything. But you are! You can understand her, which just proves that you are ALSO a super smarty pants. Duh. The teachers at school call you “Smart Guy” and you have a few little friends in your class.

You, unlike your sister, do NOT like to get dirty. It is somewhat unavoidable since you are a boy and a boy is basically a loud noise that is covered in dirt. But you are surprisingly better at keeping your clothes and hands clean than your sister is. (She is a HOT DAMN MESS.) You love noodles of any variety. And pizza. And BACON. (If you weren’t obsessed with bacon, I’m quite sure your dad would insist you weren’t his. But you look just like him and I am pretty sure that if you could, you would push me in front of a moving car to get to the bacon.)

You are the absolute best cuddler in the whole world. You are the perfect size now where you fit right beside me and I can wrap my arm perfectly around you and it is my favorite place in the world to be. You are a wonderful little dude. You are quite particular about EVERYTHING. I feel like you are going to be the guy who breaks up with his long time girlfriend because she puts the toilet paper roll on upside-down. (I will be almost not mad at this because, 1. You can’t have a girlfriend, you are my son and 2. I HATE THAT TOO.) We are working together to mellow you out a bit. You seem to be taking after me in this department and I’m not worried (YET) but we need to make sure you aren’t 20 and screaming at a waitress because of the tomato snot that is still lingering on your sandwich so that you KNOW that they put a nasty tomato on it and then took it off when they double checked the ticket. (Not that this has ever happened to me or anything…) Anyway…working on it.

You kiddos have grown so much and are SO FULL OF PERSONALITY that it both breaks and warms my heart simultaneously. Sometimes when I am hugging/cuddling/looking at you both, I get all sad because I know that this time with you is so fleeting. It breaks me into pieces to think about it. But then I am comforted and hopeful. Comforted that you are becoming such amazing little humans (maybe both because of and despite my influence) and hopeful that I will get to be there to see you through on your journey and offer you all that I have to give you. I hope that you never have to wonder how much you both mean to me and how loved that you are by me. I am your biggest fan. I am that idiot at the sporting events who is completely covered in body paint and is screaming like a moron and waving a giant foam finger. I am that guy for you. (And when you picture this guy, I want you to do it right. He is painted half blue, he is shirtless, balding, and has a giant beer belly. Because if you are going to do it…well…give it all you got.) Just remember that. I am your big, fat, drunken, blue sports fan. I love you both with everything I am. I can’t wait the circus that is to come.

To the Moon,


An Open Letter to My Childless Friends

Hey guys! Long time, no see. I know. You might remember me from that one time when we went to that martini bar and drank the sweet, sweet nectar of freedom. Or that time when we stayed up until four in the morning watching all of those really cheesy 80’s movies.  You know, or that time…well…you remember. No need to tell on myself here.

I know, I know. It has been too long!

I wanted to try and explain to you the reason for my absence. It’s not you. It’s me. Well…no, it isn’t. It is those two little people who live with us.

You’re probably wondering a few things. You know, like, why I don’t call, why I don’t email, why I don’t come to your little parties or have dinner at your house, why we don’t drink that sweet nectar together anymore, or why I don’t invite you over. Please allow me to explain.

1. I don’t call because I can’t possibly dial the phone with a toddler on my hip and one wrapped around my legs. You see, I have yet to master the art of tongue dialing. And really, even if I could figure that out, I can assure you, phone conversations with me during the kids awake times, are no good. They kind of go like this:

Me: Hey! How are you doing? I meant to—L, DO NOT step on your brother’s head!! Sorry. Anyway, I meant to call—L, I am SO SERIOUS. Stop.  I meant to call you yesterday because I saw that thing that you po—SERIOUSLY? What are you DOING? Hold on a second. (Put phone down and REGULATE by separating the kids to avoid severe bodily injury that they will inevitably inflict on one another.) I’m so sorry! She’s trying to step on O’s face and I just don’t understand WHY! Uggghhh. Anyway, I can’t remember what I was saying. Oh, yeah, I saw that thing that you posted on Facebook and I was going to call because I heard about something that—I CANNOT BELIEVE THIS. Seriously. Stop it!  I have to go. I think that the kids have just flushed all of my underwear down the toilet.

I really don’t want to have to subject you to that.

2. Emailing is also a little challenging. Not as noisy for you. And the beauty of email is that, after the kids bang all over the keyboard while I am trying to type, I can delete the nonsense that they have typed. However convenient this is, you know, for you, it makes email writing a time-consuming and challenging task. And I dunno. Maybe you don’t mind getting emails that look like this:

Hey!!! What’sjogiasjfroiw u-joidfja98en

What’s up!> DFJKJAFPIJDApoajpvmzpvokem 4575r4545a8ojr9i80uejgnv

I am going to snd a aogjhv;l alink


IU amaofhs just going to call you later. THis



3. The reason I don’t come to your parties is simple. I don’t have a sitter. Because I never have a sitter. I AM THE SITTER. That is all.

4. We don’t drink that sweet, sweet nectar together at that lovely martini bar anymore because I just don’t think it is appropriate to bring the kids there. Not because I don’t think that they would enjoy the ambiance or anything, because they are classy little people, but you know, I think that I would prefer to DRINK the martinis than to have my kids crawling all over the place and spilling the damn $10 drink all over me. Just saying.

5. I don’t come to your parties/cookouts/dinners because I LOVE YOU TOO MUCH to bring my kids to your house. The thought of bringing my kids to your house causes me so much stress that I sort of want to sharpen 85 No. 2 pencils and then stab myself in the temples with all of them. This has no reflection on you at all. But, you know that glass thing that you have on that table that looks like it could be tall enough that the kids can’t reach? If I bring my kids to your house, that glass thing is toast. And that table is NOT TALL ENOUGH. Also, you know that brand new carpeting you just had installed? Kiss it goodbye. Because things will be spilled. There may even be vomit. Because, why WOULDN’T there be vomit if I bring the kids? Be for real. You don’t want us to come. And you could argue right now, “Oh, come on, they’re not bad at all!” and I would offer to go and live in your nice, clean house and offer you mine, which is covered top to bottom in Cheerios. And then you would remember that thing you heard someone say one time that went something like, “We have kids. we can’t have nice things.” And you will know that it is all true.

In closing, I would like to remind you why you are still friends with me. First, because I love you and you know that. And no matter how busy I am or how many times I forget to return your call or miss a party, I still miss your pretty face and am waiting for the day when my life becomes just a little easier and I am better able to be a friend to you. Second, because you know that I would do anything for you. It may not seem like it now, but I will always be there when you need me. Always. And third, I make a kick ass pot of chili.  I mean, if that isn’t enough for you…I don’t know what else I can say…

Bear with me, y’all…And I promise not to be mad when you have YOUR kids and completely ignore me because you can barely remember to put pants on. P


An Open Letter to Baby O at Six Months

Oh, my Darling, Oliver,

You are growing SO FAST. You turned six months old the other day and I am having a hard time processing that. Because about this time last year, I was starting to plan your sister’s first birthday party. And now here you are…catching up with her. I can’t believe it.

You got your first tooth on December 7th. And not without a lot of screaming. I will be the first one to tell you, son, that you are the loudest screamer EVER. You are quiet and content and giggly almost all of the time, but when you scream, little boy, you don’t mess around. Your sister had a hard time with the teething too, as all babies do, but she didn’t come close to your range of angry sounds. L just kind of fussed continuously for months while those stubborn teeth popped in, one by one, taking their damn time and ruining any plans I had of sleep or peace in general. You are like a really pissed off air horn. I will forgive you sometime between now and your first birthday (hopefully) when all of these little bastards are in place and I can sit back peacefully and wait for the molars. At which time, I will move out of the house until you are finished growing them. Just kidding. (Kind of.)

You sit up unassisted. Which, I mean, isn’t new. But it is something you are doing. You seem to be hitting your milestones a little slower than you are supposed to. But this is totally my fault. Or, rather, your sister’s. I am terrified to put you down on the floor to let you explore your body and strength and surroundings for two reasons: 1. we have hard wood floors and I am constantly concerned that you will lose control of your giant noggin and crack it open and 2. the other day, I put you on this baby gym thing that lies on the floor and has toys dangling above your head. I went to the bathroom and left the door open to where I could hear you and your sister but could not see you. I heard your muffled cries and ran into the living room with my pants around my ankles, only to find your sister, straddling your face, attempting to reach the dangling toys. And I screeched like some sort of bird not yet identified by scientists and pulled her off of your face. So…needless to say, our home is a dangerous place for the likes of you. And if it takes you a little longer to crawl but your cranium remains intact, so be it. Score one for mommy.

Aside from almost being smothered by your sister, you seem to really enjoy being around her. You get so excited when she is around. You giggle at each other and you babble to her and she treats you just like I do. When you cry, she strokes your head and says, “It’s OK, baby” and she gives you hugs and kisses ALL THE TIME. And you eat it up. And it melts mommy into a big, slimy puddle of gooey love all over the place. I really can’t believe how quickly and beautifully this bond is forming between the two of you and how blessed I feel about getting to witness it as it does.

You have giant, pink cheeks and beautiful hazel eyes. And you have a wonderful, happy disposition. You sleep well and you eat well and at your six month checkup on 12/12, you weighed in at a whopping 20 pounds, 11 ounces and you were 27 inches long. You are a big boy. Rightly so. You are definitely your father’s son. And that makes me happy. I hope that you learn from him how to treat the ladies. Because, honey, your father is truly a gentleman. I am so lucky to have him. And so are you and your sister.

We are finally about to transition you into sleeping in your crib full-time. And yes, we may be slow to do this, and we are aware. But your sister didn’t start sleeping in her crib until six months old (although, she pretty much still hates it) and your room was an utter disaster until this past weekend. And now, it is complete, and ready for YOU. Daddy put all kinds of things together for you and we bought all new toys and bedding and fun things for you to look at and play with. Just in time for Christmas!

I hope that, when you read these letters, you know that I love you more than I could possibly document here. I hope you know that there is nothing better than you and your sister and our little family.

I love you always, little man.



An Open Letter to Baby O: Five Months

Dear Oliver,

Today you are five months old. I always say that I can’t believe it. Because I CAN’T FREAKING BELIEVE IT! You are not only no longer a newborn, but you do tricks!

You can sit up unassisted now! Not for long periods of time, yet. But I am a firm believer that this is because your overall chunk factor is outweighing your ambition to do so. Understandably so. You are CHUNKY. You are at your most motivated when I am eating food next to you and you are intrigued and drooling. I am thinking that if I create some sort of device that dangles donuts in front of your face, you will do lots more interesting things.

You are not a fan of tummy time. And this is not a shock because your sister hated it so much that it took literally TWO SECONDS on her tummy before she started wailing her pretty little head off. You aren’t quite as bad as she was. You will, at least, humor me for a minute or so before you get angry. But you’re strong. And that makes me happy.

You might not believe this when you finally read this post, and you might call me a liar, but you absolutely LOVE YOUR SISTER. Your eyes light up every time she is within your line of sight and you squeal with glee when she pays attention to you. I mean, like, ANY attention. Now, like I said, you may never believe that this was ever the case. But here it is, Ollie. In print. Mommy has spoken. I get so much satisfaction out of the two of you and your interactions with each other. When you cry, she brings your pacifier to me to give to you. (She sometimes tries to shove it, ever so gently into your eye mouth. She tries to help. She loves you too.

You are still such a happy baby. You sleep well most of the time and you coo and giggle and have all this personality and I just can’t believe how fast you are growing. You are generally content just to sit and watch as I put out your sister’s little fires all day. You bounce in the little bouncy contraption while she bangs pots and pans and creates a ridiculous amount of noise. You don’t mind. You just want to be near her. And when the mood strikes her, she pushes the bouncy contraption back and forth, saying, “WEEEEEEE!” for you so that it is like you are in a swing. (She used to push you in the swing too, if it wasn’t turned on, because she can’t stand you not to be moving?) You love this. You giggle and scream and just watch her. It melts my heart every time.

I hope that, by the time you read this, you and your sister are as close as you can be. I think that is the most exciting thing for me about you being this close in age. You, I hope, will grow to be best friends. I hope that you will love each other and look out for each other always. I hope that you get the best of the best out of having a sibling. Because, I mean, siblings are AMAZING. (Try and remember that when she plays tricks on your or tells you that you were adopted. You were NOT adopted and I have this blog, detailing all of the pain of my pregnancy, to prove it. But it is an older sibling’s DUTY to convince you of such things. Just kick her. No. Don’t kick your sister. Man…I maybe need to work on my parental advice before you get old enough that you actually do start kicking her. Crap.)

Anyway, I love you very much. More and more every single day. I can’t imagine my life without your smile. And your big, beautiful eyes. And being puked on 17 times before noon every day. (My guess is that I would probably smell better without that last one, though.) You should know that you, your sister and father are my whole world. And I couldn’t love any three people more. You all complete me. So, yeah. Thanks for that, little guy.


To the moon and back,



An Open Letter to My Kids: A Mommy’s Plea

Dear Kiddos,

I want to preface this letter by telling you how much I adore both of you. You are the center of my universe and your smiles are the most beautiful things I have ever seen. You make every day fun and interesting and pretty damn hilarious and, for that, I am so grateful.


You are being total assholes.

You have been taking turns driving Mommy batshit insane for days on end and you seem to have no remorse. You wait until the other is content (for the 3.5 minutes that this will last) and then you scream your bloody head off and create havoc until I calm you down. And then the other one of you starts. You do this for hours. And hours. AND HOURS. Until Mommy is almost bald and considering padding the whole house, not only for easier childproofing but for protection for herself for when she completely loses it. Padded rooms are supposed to be safer for crazy people, I hear.

Mommy is not a terribly patient person to begin with. She likes quiet and alone time and reading books. She doesn’t get any of that anymore and has dealt with it rather well considering that one of you is a little tornado who NEVER. SITS. DOWN. and the other is a tiny, brand new nugget who needs constant attention in order to become another tiny tornado down the road. Mommy is tired and cranky and spends the majority of her time dreaming of enough time to take a hot, glorious shower. One where she might even SHAVE HER LEGS.

There is not enough wine in the state of Florida for Mommy this week, you guys. You have to tone down the crazy-pants. Or Mommy’s head will explode.

Your dad is a marvelous man and is a wonderful father, but has been working many, many hours per week to make sure that Mommy can stay home and keep you alive and not have to leave you with strangers or people who can’t handle the crazy. This leaves Mommy alone with you both for 16 hours per day. 16 hours is a really long time. And being that one of you (probably the one who shouldn’t be yet, but is, obviously, wise beyond his months) is sleeping 9 hours per night and the other (who will remain nameless, LILAH.) refuses to sleep in her crib for more than five straight hours at night without pitching the world’s largest fit until being invited to sleep in Mommy and Daddy’s room where she will torment us with feet of steel (seriously, how are those little kicks NOT LITTLE KICKS?) to the kidneys for hours and then resort to head butting and sitting on our faces, Mommy is EXHAUSTED.

Mommy wants to finish ONE CUP of coffee while it is still hot. Mommy wants to eat a meal while sitting down. Mommy wants to shave her effing legs. Or pee without an audience. Just once. Maybe twice per day. Mommy wants to put on mascara and not read a book that does not involve red fish and blue fish or cats in hats and the like. Mommy needs David Sedaris, you guys. Can I read “Naked” to you? Because I’ve gotten to page 14 and it has been three weeks.

Again, I love you guys. It is the kind of patient, unyielding love that I never expected to feel. But seriously, you guys, throw Mommy a bone here and GO THE EFF TO SLEEP. Like, at the same time, and for a couple of hours. Consecutively. My legs are a forest.






Milestones are Stupid Bastards

Since Baby L has discovered that, not only does she not hate her walker, but that she can move freely about the house without anyone chasing her and removing her from dangerous spots, she has become a fiend.  But not just for the walker. For standing and cruising and being mobile every way that she possibly can. Like, all the time. Even while sleeping.

I’ve read that it is normal for babies, while going through developmental changes, to have sleep disturbances. And that sometimes, with all the new stuff they are learning, it is difficult for their little minds and bodies to slow down enough to sleep like they had been used to doing. And man, internet, are we learning this or WHAT.

Baby L is a giant asshole when it comes to sleeping troubled sleeper.  She always has been. She wants to be on me. Or near me. And sometimes, she even manages to be curled up AROUND me. And she hates being put to bed. Generally, with a bottle and darkness and nature sounds, she will fall asleep in Daddy’s arms and stay asleep while he puts her, ever so gently, into her crib. Where she will stay for just a few hours before we start the “putting the baby to bed” process all over again. (We, decidedly, meaning me.)

But now, getting her to stop moving and go to sleep, even after the bath and the bottle and the quiet time with Daddy, is more and more like wrestling a tiny alligator. Or possibly even a regular sized alligator. I don’t know, you guys, but it is effing HARD. She fights and screams and can’t seem to stop her legs from just GOING. And really, she is just doing a bunch of kung fu all up on your ass. And it is TOTALLY FUN. And not at ALL uncomfortable with this giant pregnant belly I am currently sporting. And then, once you think the kung fu has finally stopped and she is finally in that place where the squirming has gotten to the point where you think that you might be able to put her into her crib, you attempt the transplantation from arms to bed. And then her giant, blue eyes pop open, looking offended and the kicking starts again. And this time, it might be accompanied by screaming.

So, you have no choice but to start again.

Don’t worry. Even though this process seems like it is very time consuming, the whole process takes about five minutes. But, because you repeat it several times and have to wear protective gear, it can seem like an eternity. But eventually, she will fall asleep. And she will stay that way while you put her little ass into the crib. Where she will stay for an hour or so. And then she will start to grunt. And you will be able to ignore the grunting because you are watching “Hannibal” with your husband and eating ice cream. But then the grunt turns into a whimper. And the whimper into a cry. And, if you wait too long, a full blown scream that will wake the dead. But, if you let it get that far, you have waited too long. And you are starting from the beginning. If you catch her at the grunt, you can place her pacifier into her little mouth and she will roll to her side and start to snore. I mean, usually. But now, she isn’t lying down anymore, guys. She is half-asleep, standing in her crib. Eyes closed. And when you pick her up, she will look surprised that you are even there. And confused about why she has been standing. And she will be, surprisingly easy to settle this time. She will go back to sleep. She will stay in the crib for 3-4 hours until she wakes up, stands in the crib and is ready for play time. PLAY TIME, you guys! At 3 in the morning! What in holy hell is going on?

I have tried to explain to Baby L that, while I know that she is super excited about her budding skillz, this walking thing she is trying to do can ABSOLUTELY wait until the sun comes up. Because, I say, this is when normal people walk around. And, I tell her, I will have no problem chasing her around the living room all morning if she just goes back to sleep now. I bribe her with the coziness of Mommy and Daddy’s bed where she gets all nestled in between the two of us and gets to cuddle with me and pull my hair freely. But it doesn’t work. She tries to stand on my face. And then I eventually bring her into the living room. Because now she will cruise for around for the next 2-3 hours before I try one last bottle and bedtime routine and finally succeed.

This is not a good gift for my first Mother’s Day, Baby L. Not at all. I am trying to be patient with you. But I am going to tell you right now that, if you think that this shit is going to fly in a month when your brother is here, you are sorely mistaken. You need to learn to walk RIGHT NOW and get all this crazy, kung fu ridiculousness out of your system. Thank you.

A Momish Moment

So, I know I’ve made you guys aware that Baby L is going to be ONE in just a matter of mere DAYS (18 to be exact) and that this sort of freaks me out. I mean. Okay, it totally, beyond anything I could describe to you, is FREAKING ME THE EFF OUT, you guys. And maybe because I am an irrational ball of hormones. Or maybe because it is just a BIG FREAKING DEAL. Either way. It is sort of like she decided at 11 months that she would cease this baby business and start doing grown up shit. Like staying up late and walking and all that crap that adults do (minus playing poker and smoking cigars, because those things would just be inappropriate). Okay, so she isn’t really “walking” yet. But she definitely won’t SIT either. She won’t sit, she won’t lie down, she won’t sleep. She needs to be UP. And MOVING.


And, you know, because I am still terrified of bumps and bruises, (and yes, I know that they will happen you guys, but I think we all know that I am insane and full of anxiety about ridiculous and irrational things. I just got over the fear of tripping, falling on my face and knocking out all of my front teeth that has plagued me since I was a little girl. And now that I am thinking about it, it is sort of freaking me out again. Thanks a LOT, internet.) I am constantly nervous. I have been working on it. I have not been piling our hardwood floors with 33 blankets to cushion the blow in case she falls down (anymore). I have just been letting her go. And this has been torture. Because then she inevitably does fall. And she bumps her head on said floor and she screams bloody murder until I put a pink, stuffed bunny in front of her face or give her a goldfish cracker. And for those 10.5 seconds wherein she is crying and looking at me with those big, blue eyes that seem to say, “Mama! How could you let this happen to me?!”, I feel like jumping off a bridge. But then she is noshing on a cracker. Or a bunny.  And she doesn’t even seem to remember that she just almost gave herself a concussion. But I do. And the trauma lingers. You know…for ME.

Yesterday was an especially good day for us. I was, despite my GINORMOUS belly, able to sit on the floor with her while she threw toys around the living room and then darted to retrieve them only to hurl them again (which, by the way, is one of her favorite things to do these days, aside from throwing things on the floor for her PARENTS to retrieve…). I was amazed that she was so content to be sitting with me without needing to try and do cartwheels or headstands or whatever kind of gymnastic maneuver she is normally trying to accomplish. I was pleased that we were playing so nicely. So calmly.

And then I realized that she was holding, in one hand, a plastic (noisy, annoying, ridiculously stupid) toy phone and in the other hand, a half of a dead leaf. And she was chewing. Now, I have never tried to eat a dead leaf so I can’t be sure, but I have this feeling that, even if you have a BUNCH of teeth (as I do), chewing a gross, dry leaf might be a little challenging. And because Baby L only has 8 (at the last count, before she was a piranha) teeth, and they are all in the front, I had a feeling that this could end badly. And sure enough, within seconds of realizing what she had done, I was being puked on. Because, you see, babies CANNOT chew dead leaves. (Just in case any of you were inspired to check this out…Don’t.) After the puke, even though I hadn’t seen the leaf, I assumed that this crisis had been averted and I was all, “Sweet! That wasn’t even chunky because we haven’t even had breakfast yet!” (Before being a mom, if someone puked on me, I would have unfriended them on Facebook. Because that shit is serious, y’all.) It wasn’t until I put her in her chair to have her first meal of the day, that I realized that the leaf was stuck, VISIBLY STUCK,  in the back of her throat, causing her to let out these tiny, annoying coughs every couple of seconds. It was at that moment that I became that crazy lady who has no fear of the gross consequences of sticking my fingers into the orifices of another person. It is at that moment that I become MOM. So, I did it. I stuck two fingers into the mouth of another person and retrieved…a leaf.

For real. Crisis averted. Everyone is alive.

But really, universe? Did you need to give me yet ANOTHER thing to be paranoid about? Really?