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Spiked Lemonade

It has been a marvelous beginning of summer. The birds serenade us every morning with their beautiful song. It makes me want to open up our French doors and sing with them until my entire house wakes up to join in our sweet melodies. My pale pink, baby doll nightgown would blow in the breeze and my husband would cook up an amazingly decadent breakfast that he would somehow manage to make fat and calorie- free. There would be a carriage waiting downstairs to take us to the beach where we would spend time with our mermaid and unicorn friends in seventy-degree perfect, weather.
We would get great tans without the threat of strange sun spots that beckon WebMD’s dooming diagnosis. Our kids would behave like two little cherubs and not whine, hit each other, or need to poop or pee the entire day. I would have no desire to go to a separate part of the beach to have alone time, because being with my well-behaved, self-sufficient and loving family would be all I could ever want in the world. I …
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Stop N' Stare

Hey, Crimson,
Yes, I am talking to you in your fabulous crimson-colored pea coat with the matching leather gloves. You look positively regal climbing into your G-Class Mercedes Benz with your pursed lips and perfectly styled bob.  Everything about you is exquisite except for that side eye. Oh, how it made me cringe. It was an unmistakable scowl in my direction and it was as blatant as it was unnecessary. There isn’t an ounce of you that doesn’t scream constipated with a Prada bag full of laxatives.    
It was 7PM and nearly 40 degrees out and my ten-month-old’s feet were sock-free, but you should know that my daughter has an insatiable hunger for anything that sooths her aching gums. Like stuffed animals, fingers and her pink heart socks. So by the time we drove from school to the grocery store, her socks were saturated with enough saliva to morph them into two spitballs. Anyone who has had an overprotective Mother or even better, Grandmother, knows that wet socks equal the plague. An…

Kick Boxing Air Freshener

Let me let you in on a little secret.

I am wildly immature for my age and wear it like a badge. I have a difficult time keeping a straight face when in situations that suggest to keep a low profile. It's something I can do very little to control. So when the guy diagonal from me let out the loudest fart known to mankind, I laughed like the tickle monster was stuck in my clothing.

What made matters worse was the jackass that was sitting next to me. This chick couldn't control herself. She was trying so hard to stifle her laugh that I was afraid she would let one loose as well. She was doing me no favors.  The more she laughed, the harder I did and I have a very contagious chuckle that manifests itself into laughing gas for unassuming people near me. This was a problem.

I swear that people were taking deeper breaths than they were before.  Apparently farting was encouraged during kickboxing class because these people were inhaling the shit out of the air in the room. When did fa…

A Holiday Letter to the Working Mother Whose Husband Travels

I forgot to move the elf (again), the light-up snowflake fell off the top of the house and the living room looks like a toy factory for Santa’s elves. I’ve unsuccessfully attempted to cook meatballs for the last two nights only to give in and order take-out.  I didn’t take out the garbage this morning because I forgot last night. I forgot last night because I was rocking my ninth-month old to sleep while my four-year-old continually crept in with requests every five or so minutes to either put cream on her ass or change the music on our Alexa. Her version of tip-toeing of course is much unlike an adult’s version and it is always accompanied by a loud and mischievous “shhhhh,” willing the baby to wake up so she can torture play with her some more.

What was I saying? Right. I forgot a lot of things this week. I printed out our Christmas card list that I had drummed up proudly. This year no family member would dare make fun of me for not sending out my cards! I’d send a card out to every…

Raising Miss New York

I live with Miss New York.

She barks orders at me every morning, insisting that her water cup be placed directly in front of her while she watches her morning television shows. If the volume on the boob tube is not to her liking, I am immediately summoned back into the living room to fix it. If her breakfast is too hot, it is requested that I blow on it. On rare occasions when she is extremely fatigued, I even help spoon feed her in an effort to help quicken the morning routine so we can get Miss New York to her destination. She tends to get lonely as well so if I am in the other room grooming myself for too long she yells, "Where are you?" Until I appear.

Then there is the matter of doing her hair. Most of the time I rather enjoy it, but some days I would just as soon see to it that she be given a pixie cut.  After finishing what I believe to be a well-executed braid,  she roughly puts her fingers through one of the braid's intersections as if to test its durability. In…

Keep It Simple

Fully equipped with a massive hole in the passenger side floor, my family’s Chevy Chevette that we begrudgingly called, Little Red Fred, powered through the Jersey streets with the best of the 80's rock bands as her soundtrack. There was so much wrong with that car, but the cassette player was so right. The front seat was a prize to be won, regardless of the fact that whoever sat there would be fending off the occasional pebble or splash of water. 

Mom always had an extra pair of knee socks for my sisters and I in case a puddle “snuck its way in." She would frogger her way around puddles, but sometimes they were just unavoidable. That was an added bonus for us being Catholic School kids, Mom and Dad never had to worry about us dirtying the entire bottom half of an outfit. Change the knee socks and BAM you are good as new. Yes, we went to Catholic school and my parents were driving around a car with a hole in it at the time. Ah the prices one is willing to pay for t…

In Her Eyes

I saw her today.

She had on a pink Disney princess tiara that sat crooked over her straight, brown locks of hair. The tiara clashed perfectly with the blue, yellow and red Super Girl costume she insisted on wearing over blue heart pants and pink sneakers. The remnants of the strawberries she had eaten with breakfast were stained on the lower parts of her cheeks and when I tried to swap the tiara for a blue headband to better match her ensemble - we were going out in public after all- I got the look to end all looks from my very decisive four-year-old daughter.

That look. Her hands on her hips. The tapping of her impatient right foot. The way the sun was hitting her hazel eyes.  On mornings like that it was as though I was sent back in time. She was there which meant she was still here. Sure 99% of the time my daughters looked like the female replicas of their father, but in some special fleeting moments I saw my family.

When Madison placed the tiara on the coffee table to entertain he…