Clowns are more evil than birds.

Being sick is for the birds. I wonder where that phrase came from...but anyway it works for me because I hate birds. Well, truly, they hate me. It started when I was four and a merry band of evil geese chased little yellow-London Fog- coated me out into the middle of a very (thank the heavens) frozen Viele lake. Had to be rescued. True story. (also, when I say true story I really mean it...Zach is the teller of tall tales, hence: TOTT, but weird hist just happens to me on the regular. Such is my life!) Soon after that I realized that perhaps the geese had told all the other birds in some sort of bird email blast of their being chased off the lake and loudly admonished by the South Boulder Parks and Rec guy and so I had a mark on my head. A bird vendetta was issued against me.

Get her.

I have been dive bombed, had my hair grabbed and pulled, bitten by a pigeon in NY (he just flew up and BIT ME! And yes...a tetnus and rabies shot was had.) I have never, knock on wood, been how to say this delicately - ummmm pooped upon. No, but poor Dub was marked simply for being my sis and she has been baptised twice by the flying demon birds.

Is it any wonder I became a cat person?

I hate birds and they hate me. It's a very symbiotic relationship. Wait, no it's not. I never really learned symbiosis because I was crap at science. Actually, I might have been good at science but I never really went. My instincts told me that hanging out in the student center and playing SWISH would be way more fun. The power of following your instincts kids. Lesson for the day.

I feel guilty though. Saying bad things are for the birds. I mean they are still God's creatures.
Lucky for me there is something that I hate more than birds. Clowns. And I think we can all agree that Clowns are more evil than birds. And surely there is the devil's work those creepy red painted smiled and horrifically demented eyes. The proof is in the pudding people. 20 million horror films simply cannot be wrong!

I mean seriously. Clowns will bring the end of days. Mark my words.

I'm pretty sure there is zero photoshopping going on in this picture because clowns are just that evil. If I can find who it belonged to first I will have them come here and prove it.

I laughed till I peed.

Mr. M just pointed to this and said "mommy's juice!" Indeed.

In the immortal words of Clairee Belcher my dream last night was "too twisted for color t.v."

I mean, Borat and I took our jobs on that jury very seriously and we did a good job, but our subsequent Running Man (not a euphemism) left a lot to be desired. Still, "It's Getting Kind of Hectic" is a song that has stood the test of time, at least in my dreams, it's a jamming tune. Disappointingly, neither Borat nor myself made the Barnes and Noble Songleader squad.

Maybe next time.

My Southern Grandmother used to say that we suffer from a delicate constitution. She ran completely on Valium and narcissism so I'm a believer. Her thesis was supported by the very large fact that in her living room there was a separate fridge for the meds. The Valium had it's own fridge, people. True story. No wonder I suffer from a case of 'the nerves' (btw, you have to say 'the nerves' with a Southern dialect). I come by the crazy honestly, at least! 

Maybe I should get a fridge for the Zoloft. And the Puppy Bear's Prozac. Maybe the little light will help me read the label so as not to take the D-O-G's medicine again.  I don't need a big huge fridge like the Grandmother had...just a teeny mini fridge. Does Anthropologie make one? Cause I want it pretty. I should invent that. There's money in that, y'all.

It's such a bummer I can't have the gooooooooooooooood drugs with this dang cyst. Due to the fact that I am a bad weaner, I am relegated to Tylenol only. Although with dreams like these on the 'nol, I would fear to see what I'd come up with on the Vic. 

And now, (for a non-sequitor) I'd like to introduce a new feature here at the Minkster - Texts from Dub. The first month we moved away Dub and I texted 1, 478 times. This was both tremendously unfortunate as I did not have an unlimited texting plan then; and also totally impressive because at the time I had a baby pink Katana. Ah, the Katana...it wanted to be a Razor when it grew up. How did I ever live without a smart phone? Anyhoo, Dub is the funny. She makes me laugh till I pee. Those of you who have had a baby know what I'm speaking of. 

And so, I leave you with this...why I love Dub.

Only a sister would share that with you. And then let you share it with the world.

Wordless Wednesday~ Back in the saddle!

Audition? Check!

The Power of OW!

Max  has a new word. It's "OW" and he has learned ever so quickly that upon uttering that simple syllable everything not only stops, but everyone surrounding him rushes to his aide smothering him with assurances and snuggles. Just as soon as he learned this lesson, he learned to abuse it.
A simple removing of pj's now causes screaches of "OW! OW!", Don't want to eat those crackers? "OW! OW!" and forget about a diaper change. One would think we were dipping his booty in boiling oil instead of gingerly applying some A&D ointment.
Sometimes, it's really hard not to giggle at your child. I try, but sometimes I fail. Cause the drama? The drama is comedy.
Yesterday I reached my OW! limit. It's been a tough week here at the American Dream, TOTT had literally been brought to his knees by a kidney stone (which he showed me and other than the eeeeewww-there-are-somethings-couples-should-not-share factor, holy schnikes. That hist was huge and sharp. Poor TOTT!), then the whole fam, and I mean everyone was struck by a stomach bug.
It was the opposite of of awesome.
I laughingly joked to TOTT that I was having sympathy kidney stone pains, much like he had sympathy pains all throughout my pregnancy. Alas it turned out not to be a figment of my admittedly overactive imagination.
In case anyone is ever wanting an ultrasound...you know the first trimester kind...I suggest your mention the words 'lower left sharp abdominal pains' to your doctor.
Since I am not a man, it took me a mere week to admit that something was truly up and make an appointment. I was unconvinced that it was something major, but the docs bandied words about like ectopic pregnancy and ruptured ovarian cyst.
Excellent.
Yet again, due to my rampant refusal to wean my toddler just yet, I am regulated to nothing but Tylenol, Chocolate and Tears. My current holy trinity.
Luckily today I was informed it was not an ectopic pregnancy and was indeed a cyst, but it looked as thought it was on it's way down and is in no danger of rupturing. Whew. No word on why the pain is radiating up throughout my ribs...but at least I can relax about any imminent danger to my future baby making possibilities!

The best part of being sick in bed, are the Puppy Bear snuggles.

Yet again, I must extoll the European sensibility of living with extended family. I know...I know...and soon we will indeed fly this nest, but honestly, what seemed like the end of the world has turned out to be one of our greatest blessing. No one circles the wagons like family. Even after a week of being sick everyone rushed to my aid. To play and care for M while I couldn't/can't pick him up. As in pain and wallowing in my own puddle of self pity, I do see how blessed I am. Even though the pain has sapped the funny from my very being...it shall rise again. Like the South. (only not really...the South, not the funny.)

Short and Sweet for the weekend...

Yes, that is me in my former life (last week- hehehe) modeling for Simon Thorpe. You know what I was thinking while this was being taken? I'm so fat. I'm so ugly. This is a joke. Etc. Etc. Etc.

Enough is enough is enough. Or, enuff as my 15 year old 'little sister' M insists on spelling it. Either way ladies, enough (enuff) is enough. For all of us.

In the last week I have had three IRL friends and countless internet friends confess to me how unhappy they are with their bodies, I see them discount their successes and point out their (perceived) failures.

I am guilty of it too.

But enough is enough. This weekend I declare a negativity diet for us all. Two days. We can do it.

You are ALL goddesses. You grew and birthed babies, your bodies are strong. Your laughs are like music to God. Your smile makes someone's day, you might never know whose...the cashier at the store, your husbands...someone's day is made brighter by you and you don't ever know it.

We are too old ladies, too old for this junior high apologizing for being alive. We must stop apologizing for taking up space on this planet. We are meant to be here, to accomplish things. We so frequently apologize for behaviours that need no apology, we consistently accept less than we require and make do.

We would never short change our own children this way, why do we short change our parent's children?

Giving birth to my son, was a tremendously spiritual experience. I never understood the saying 'I am a child of God' but looking at my son I saw a plan bigger than me or my husband. This child was created in my womb, but by no concious day to day work of mine. I never woke and said to TOTT: today I shall work on the central nervous system!

No, it was in me, but beyond me. My child is sacred, and therefore so am I. And so are you.

So no more Ladies! Two days! And like feeding yourself nothing but nutritious veggies and high protein foods, getting our bodies healthy, this weekend I challenge us ALL to get take a tiny step towards getting our hearts and minds healthy. Our esteem healthy, if you will!

I say this for myself as well.
It took me years, years to conquer my eating disorder. It was only when the doctor flat out told me "in six months you will either be getting better, or you will be dead. Your choice." that I found a survival instinct.

True story.

(of course when I was checked into that hospital the nurse doing my exam asked me my diet secrets cause I was just so cute and tiny. Yeah, see that GIANT red stamp my chart that says BULLIMIC- must watch? That's how it's done. You too could be 80 pounds!)
Turns out I kinda wanted to live after all. We (I) grew up internalizing everything. Any mistake meant I was bad. I never did anything bad...I WAS bad. I wasn't bad, by the way. Not at all. I struggle daily with anxiety (as you know) and also with BDD, left over from my eating disorder...BDD is like a scar from a car accident. I have to constantly remind myself that I do not see my physical self as it is. I see it through a fun house mirror.
I challenge us all to simply take notice of how often we discount ourselves, how often we inform people that we are too pale, too fat, too silly, too...whatever, to be taken seriously.

I'm going to try my very best when I catch myself doing that to replace it with a thought of something I am good at.

i.e. when I look at pictures of myself I always think two things: I look like a hunchback, and I look like the stay puft marshmallow man.
I'm going to try to replace that with: I've got a pretty nice smile and my personality shows through in that picture.

Something along those lines.

I am not a Dr. Phil fan per se, but I heard him say one thing ages ago that has stuck with me; people treat us as we inform them we want to be treated.
I don't know about you, but I would like to be treated well! That means treating ourselves well.

This weekend just try to stop and think about how amazing we all are, what we've accomplished, the babies we've birthed, the jobs we've had, the relationships, the *childhoods we've survived.


We are pretty damn awesome. The lot of us.

Are ya with me?


I'm too old to accept anything less than stellar treatment from anyone, including myself. How old is too old? Why 27 of course! :)


Ok, that turned out to not be so short after all. Anyone surprised?


(*And  Mom, before you get upset, my childhood was great! You know when I fell apart...)

As it turns out...

As it turns out, I did learn something at Crazy Hippie Montessori School in Boulder! I dig Montessori, but this particular school was a no. I mean at the time, as a youngster it was an emphatic YES! Dub and I spent our days drawing, playing let's pretend, and 'learning' long division by moving pretty turquoise balls back and forth in test tubes.

I put 'learning' in quotes because let's just say that long division is neither mine, nor Dub's strong suit.

Percentages though, percentages I got. I can figure a percentage like nobodies business. I need that skill for strategic shopping purposes.

Our mothers pulled us out of Crazy Hippie Montessori School at the end of 4th grade plunking us smack in the middle of the establishment's public schools for 5th. Say what? Desks? Homework? We were woefully unprepared. While Dub knuckled down and towed the line- smart girl - I preferred to act out and live in an imaginary world where I was a princess and had a horse. (So...nothing's changed except now the horse is a super safe awesome SUV to put the kiddo in.) The school district decided to hold me back in 6th grade because my 'imagination was too strong'. Can you imagine? The thought of a child's imagination being quashed makes my blood boil.

Perhaps they should have tried to hold me back because I didn't KNOW MATH. The very math they couldn't be bothered to teach me. But that's another matter.  So Mrs. Pinchuck, wherever you are, a little more attention on the teaching and a little less attention on the being mean. Also? If you have a strong Southern Dialect, don't get mad if you say mirrah in a spelling test and I write MIRRAH. You gotta say the terminal R sound for a little kid to get it!

Today Mr. Max happily trotted over to me with his lovely kelly green recorder, handed it to me and said "Mommy! Do this!" I promptly performed both Hot Cross Buns and Mary Had a Little Lamb.

Score one for Crazy Hippie Montessori School. Recorders are big in Montessori. And now I am big to Mr. Max.

Wordless Wednesday- Now! With Words! Give the Gift of Words.

I fail at Worldess Wednesday...again. But this was too fun and important to push it till Thursday!

Tuesday morning I was frazzled. Frazz.led. I woke late, for some reason the wee person decided to sleep past 6. Hmpf. Why when I can sleep in does he wake with the first rays of sunlight, but if I've got somewhere to go he sleeps in? That little trickster!

My eyes puffy, I raced about getting ready. One of those mornings where you reach for one thing on the shelf and everything crashes down. The culmination of which was the quick destruction of my new MAC Studio fix as it flew from my hand (of it's own free will!) and shattered into a million NC15 pieces on the newly mopped kitchen floor.

Curses!

Next up I was stymied by the ticket machine at the Metro. Seriously, have I been Yo Gabba-ing so long that I have forgotten how to buy a simple ticket? S'okay. I'm good at other things (I console myself). I had a taste of what life is like for TOTT (I'm dropping the first T.) morning in D.C. is loverly and I felt tres importante as I headed into the National Press Club.

Moments earlier I had tossed my beret in the air a la Mary Tyler Moore.

I was there because:
a. I was offered free coffee and muffins.
b. I was going to meet Dave Barry. I big puffy heart surrounded with little puffy hearts Dave Barry.
c. I was asked to come to the launch of the brainchild of The Pearson Foundation and Penguin Books; a new website. And I honestly, truly, thought it was cool.

I never miss a chance to slather on some lipsgloss and scarf some free muffins. Do you? I thought not. Plus it's just freaking cool to get to go places like the National Press Club. Yes, I took pictures of the napkins.

I am not a dork at all!

As much as I have tried to keep my munchkin away from the 'push' (computer) he is drawn to it like Oprah is to putting pictures of herself on the cover of O. He cannot resist.  We play on PBS, we visit Memo, I try to keep it to educational hist, but I do admit to one desperate 20 minutes post toddler-noggin bash America's Funniest Home Video's baby compilation. Mr. Max thinks it's way funny when babies fall over.

I'm a big reader, in fact the whole fam damily is, so when I was approached to check out this site I was like heck yeah y'all! Sign this girl up.

(Did I mention the free coffee and muffins? And Dave Barry? And oh! Amy Tan? AMY TAN, PEOPLE!!)

The premise is so simple it's utterly brilliant. Go to We Give Books, read a book with your kid on the site and a book is donated to a child who needs one. You even pick the place you want the book to go! The books are right there in front of you, fully illustrated, click to turn the page and when you finish a book is donated. Even without the free muffins and coffee I would be excited about this.

Dang, I think is a great idea. Teaching my son to read, and to love reading is one of my top priorites and raising a child who is caring and understands how his actions both positively and negatively affect others is tops too.  wegivebooks.org does both of those.

While I was sitting amongst some of my very favorite local blogging women - a powerhouse room to be sure- I was thilled and fascinated at the study they had done about rasing 'good' kids. Good Kids. I want Max to be a good kid. We were provided with the top ten key findings for parenting skills for raising good kids, philanthropic kids.

1. Explain how they can help other people by their actions
2. Encourage them to speak up in family discussions
3. Speak to them about the colunteering and charity that you do, and why.
4. Support them on things that they care about.
5. Tell them why we are proud of them when they do good things.
6. Encourage them to be their own person
7. Set goals for them to achieve
8. Talk to them about the way their actions make other people feel.
9. Talk to them about always considering other people's views.
10. Explain the importance of giving to others.

And most importantly, to walk the walk. Behave as you would like your child to behave.

Did you hear that? It was the sound of me patting myself on the back because this jibes perfectly with my child raising philosophy, which is of course modeled after the way my mother and my husband's parents raised us. I have already set into action many of these, age appropriately af course!


Max is still so small now, but when he is older I can see how empowering it will be for him to choose each day who he wants to give a book too! We're reading Spot's Day Out adnauseum these days anyway,  how lovely it will be to give another child a book! We read, enjoyed, and donated three books that evening. Mr Max sitting on my lap happily crying  "puppy!" every time we turned a page.

Today he's already asked for "book push!" So I introduced him to one of my favorites, Corduroy. He loved it. I can already tell we will be using this site a lot!

More and more content will be added, the site is still brand new and books for older kids are being added very soon. It's such an easy way to help, you can even set up book clubs for your children's classrooms that are PRIVATE. wegivebooks.org is very concientious about online safety and protecting our children. The site is easy to use and set up so that children, who are freakishly tech savvy, can navigate the site on their own as well as with a parent.

Listen, I can blah blah blah all the livelong day about this. But I'm asking nice, go check it out. Give a book to a school library, to Haiti...choose any of the campaigns you like and you can select a different one every time you log on. It's such a worthwhile cause, and honestly? It's super cool, and honest and for reals Mr. Max and I had a lot of fun reading together. So go check it out, and tell em Minky sent ya!

Carrie Bradhaw? P'shaw! Minky in the City.

I really enjoyed being in the city, grabbing coffee and chatting with interesting people over the age of 2. But man, I missed that sweet baby. I talked to him on the phone and experienced his two toddler sides in two seconds. The sweetest 'hi mommy!' followed by baby dictator commanding 'abu both sides!' For those who don't speak Max, that means "Nurse me woman! And don't be stingy! Both sides!" He's really pretty Stewie about the whole sitch.

I swoon for him. And I swoon for Dave Barry too.

Someone needs to learn to stand up straight, and it isn't Dave Barry.

So I ask you, pretty please to head on over to wegivebooks.org and join Minky's Readers! I've got a challenge for you! Join the group,subscribe to my little blog and fan me on Facebook, then post a comment here telling me you've accomplished these incredibly difficult tasks with your wegivebooks.org username and the reader (and thus giver) of the most books by June 1st will win a present from little old me! Now this gift is not affiliated in anyway with MomCentral, The Pearson Foundation, or Penguin Books. It's just from me to you, to thank you for participating in a cause I truly believe in. Trust me, no gift is needed...you and your child will enjoy reading and giving books for years to come, but who doesn't love a present?

Think I gave you guys the link enough times? Check it out!

* I was honored to attend through Mom Central, I was given breakfast, tickets to see The Rockbottom Remainders and a gift certificate for attending and for writing about We Give Books, but ya know what? I would have done this for nada. It's an incredible site and cause.

Children bring us such joy!

Don't they? Don't your children just make your heart light and your cheeks hurt from smiling? Mine does. Ah, the sweet voiced way he says "Hi Mommy" can make my fluttering heart practically fly out of my chest and hearing him sing Big Yellow Taxi (well to be fair, he only sings the oooooooooo bop bop bop part) in the car just makes my whole day.

He is an utter delight.

But this week we have entered new phase of joy from children...the inadvertantly saying dirty things phase.

Maybe I'm twelve (okay I totally am twelve) but when Mr. Max asks for his 'dum dicks' I giggle every time!

BTW 'Mommy, dum dicks!" translates to "oh dearest mummy, would you please get me my drum sticks and move the rock band drums to the center of the living room so that I might, indeed, rock the house?"

Of course the answer is: YES! You're a rock god my little man and plus? mommy can have a little more coffee while you are banging the drum (silently) loudly.

Like all little ones his lexicon is a mix of actual English and then a great deal of Max-enese. It took me nearly a week to figure out that a tekko is actually a helicopter, while boon is a much more easily recognizable version of balloon.

Last night though I was at a loss for words. Max wasn't. He wanted poon. (oh the google searches that will lead to this post, eh? Sorry boys nothing to see...move along!) He wanted more poon. He wanted eat more poon. Max want poon. Daddy eat poon. Mommy eat poon. Poon, poon POON!!! His frustration  that I just did not understand what he wanted (because surely he did not want, y'know...the actual slang meaning) and wasn't readily giving up the poon was growing by the second. He was becoming more and more adamant in his want...no his need for poon!!!

And I was laughing and wishing I had a tape recorder. The more I tried to understand and take him seriously the more I giggled. Because I am 12. The more I giggled the more frustrated he became.

Thank heavens I finally opened the fridge in a desperate attempt to find something he might like and he joyously cried "POON!" and reached for the vanilla pudding.

Ooooooh. Pudding. I see - Poon. Ok, poon thou shalt have! I mean who doesn't love a good pudding! (Well, me. But that's besides the point.)

Ah, one more mystery solved. And now on to the next. Out of the mouths of babes!

The best laid plans...

Saturday night started off with a lovely offer from my father in law. They'd watch the baby on Sunday and The Teller of Tall Tales and I would be off to DC for a little work, and then some lunch and a bit of a shop!
How lovely. I woke early and dressed, I even curled my hair, put on a new outfit and my favorite cockroach stomping boots! But alas the best laid plans were not to be.

Here at the American Dream I've been sleeping down stairs in the crazy awesome apartment and since TTOTT (The Teller of Tall Tales) (Do we like TTOTT? I'm trying it out...) has to get up early for work, and let's face it he may be sweet and funny but he is not the quietest man in the land, he's been crashing upstairs in his childhood bedroom.

It's so ideal.

Plus the little league baseball trophies are way sexy.

By the time I got upstairs the poor dude was folded over in extreme pain. And just like that we were off to the E.R. Let me just say, if you need a trip to urgent care may I suggest that you schedule it for 7 a.m. on a Sunday. We were seen in a flash! I'm still pondering why hospitals must be kept at such a frigid temperature. I think my toes are still frozen, it was Cullen cold in there. Poor TTOTT (Yay? Nay? I dunno..) has kidney stones before so it was no shock what it was, but I do have to say that I haven't really seen him in this much pain before. It sucked hardcore.

Luckily our lovely nurse quickly administered the phine. Ah, yes. Morphine. If you all ever have the opportunity to visit TTOTT whilst he is all warm and fuzzy from the phine, I highly- HIGHLY- suggest it. (although let's hope today was the final time he has it)

You'll experience a little thing we call THE ZACH SHOW.

He gets all silly, smiley, and just 'on' there is no other word for it. He is 'ON'.

Zach has earned his monikers earnestly but he truly is not a braggart. He'll mention my accomplishments far quicker than his own.

It's just a good thing I wasn't imbibing any beverages as the nurse gave him a dose of the phine, he got a big smile on his quickly flushing face turned to her and said

"You might have seen me on television!"

It was shortly after that our nurse betrayed all woman kind by saying a man having kidney stones was worse that a woman giving birth.

BETRAYER!!

But TTOTT was soooooooooooooooooooooper stoned at that point so he just giggled and then when the nurse left he told me that babies trump kidney stones. I say well done young man, and have another hit!
 He's gonna be fine, we are home now. We stopped for bagels and donuts on the way home and I have a new lover- a honey dipped donut. I proclaim my undying love for thee!

The man is resting now, no more morphine but he's got a nice prescription of Vicodin to see him through the next few days. Here's hoping he is on the road to 'delivering' soon.
I won't be getting a nursery ready though. Ew.

The problem with getting ready for bed...

The problem with getting ready for bed is that it kind of wakes you up. And then you lay in bed thinking:

I was so sleepy watching Family Guy not twenty minutes ago and yet, now here I lay staring at the ceiling and humming the words to Happy Tapping With Elmo.

Sigh.

Sleep has been a crazy struggle for me since Mr. Max arrived. It's all worth it since I love him more than my sonic toothbrush. And I really love clean teeth.
I am always tired. Always. I am pretty sure that I'm so tired is the National Anthem of Momhood.

Last night I was applying my many time fighting-superhero-anti wrinkle creams and lotions, (curse you non safe for nursing Botox and your smoothness!) finishing up getting ready to pass out (or sing Sesame Streets Greatest Hits, either one) and just longing for my squishy pillow.

The last step of my evening ablutions applying psycho amounts of hand cream and chapstick and of course taking my belved Zoloft. So I popped my pill and...

Wait. Oh, crap. That wasn't my medicine. It was the PUPPY BEAR's medicine!

I took. The dog's. Medicine.

Ah, well. It's only Prozac. Yes, the dog is also on anti anxiety meds. You can take the Puppy Bear out of L.A. but you can't take the L.A. out of the Puppy Bear.

This weekend I'm gonna stick some shades on him and take him shopping in a high end doggie stroller.
What are your weekend plans?

Have a good one...and stay out of the dog's meds for the love of Ray J.

Of Nightmares and Shopping. And shopping nightmares.

Ever have one of those dreams? The ones that seem so real you can't seem to shake the feeling of long after you've woken? Usually I just roll over and slug the Lying Liar Who Lies who groggily responds:

 "who did I sleep with this time?"

It runs the gamet from the girl who tortured me in Catholic School, who is now a lesbian so the chances of her coming for my man are pretty slim, to Jennifer Aniston who is a huge star so the chances of her coming for my man are also pretty slim.

(sorry honey.)

Sunday night I had the Academy Award winning 3-D nightmare of my kid being kidnapped. I felt it all day. Slept, woke up Monday and still felt a bit of it. This dream had it all. A phone that wouldn't dial with a battery about to die, cops that would be helpful if only my phone wouldn't die every time I managed to connect, a meeting point at a park where no one showed up, a search team looking for him in utter futility.

And then the baby woke.

In the morning after he wakes he likes to cuddle in bed with me for about 1/2 hour just nursing and babbling away to me. It's one of my favorite times of the day, I will miss it sorely when he no longer points to my bed and whispers "mommy snug!" I cuddled him extra close and kissed him from the top of his head to his cute little toes, blowing many raspberries on his belly and drinking in his giggles. Honestly, is there anything better than a baby's giggles? But even in the middle of this perfect moment I continued to panic. The emotions of the dream were so real.

The best part of your husband cheating on your dreams is that your husband is right there..having NOT (hopefully) cheated on you and you can punish him all day for the sins of his dream alter ego. Even if you try not too the chances that your husband will annoy you within a 12 hour waking period are high, even if he is at work for 8 of those hours, and then you can transfer all that left over residual angstyness right on to 'why can he NEVER remember to walk the dog?!'  or whatever.

There was no one to punish with this dream so I cuddled Mr. Max till he pushed me away and said "all done, Mommy!"

 Ouch.

Like Holly Golightly, I decided to head to the place that makes the Mean Reds (Unsettled Purples? Nervous Greens? Overreacting Oranges?) go away. Tiffany. But it's all the way at Tyson's Corner and I didn't feel like driving that far. Besides, a toddler in a stroller totally cramps my evening gown/tiara/cup of coffee/cruller holding/diamond window shopping style.

Shhhh. Honey, Mommy's pretending she's Audrey Hepburn. (again.)

I decided to settle for Montgomery Mall. They have a Nordstroms and a Malibu Coffee so it's good for an afternoon of shopping distraction. Plus Max is suddenly rocking the Urkel look with all his pants. Swear to Christmas they fit him last week, but now he is clearly expecting a flood of muppets and so his pants have risen accordingly. Not a good look for a dude. Even one as cute as my Mr. Max. Montgomery has an Old Navy which rocks for the small people so away we went...

Or not. Cause then I remembered that mall was the scene of the terrifying "YOU BETTER WATCH THAT BABY" incident.

Did you miss that one? Sheesh people, I tweeted about it! How did you ever live without knowing the play by play of my day!
10:48 @minkymoo  I'm tired.
10:50 @minkymoo  COFFEE!!!!
11:30@minkymoo I wish Target would go on my bank statement as "Totally Neccessary so @zdulli don't get mad"

See what you've been missing??

Anyway I was at Montgomery when this woman came up to me out of nowhere (ok, the line at Malibu) and said

"You bettter watch that baby. He is kidnappable."

Hello. My name is Stephanie and I have postpartum anxiety. So thanks for that random lady. Maybe next time just say: your baby is cute. That would be better.

So scratch the mall. Drinking it is. Oh wait, that's not a good plan, huh? Not the best to be drunk at 11 a.m. on white wine spritzers while you've got a small precious person in your care, you say?

Ah, well. I'm not a big drinker anyway. Also, I've never had a white wine spritzer. Someone ordered one at the Regal Beagel on a Three's Company rerun the other day. (I puffy heart John Ritter 4-ever)

No mall. No drinking. Chocolate it is! And baby snuggles. And Zoloft! If I ever meet the man/woman/lab rat who invented Zoloft I am going to tongue kiss them like Will Ferrel and Sasha Baron Cohen .

I love you even though you smell like puke.

A Wordless Wednesday with words (you all know I can't be quiet). I used to know this awesome dad who always used to say "Peace! Be still!" when he needed his kids to be quiet. I try to tell myself that all the time.

It never works.

(Yes, I know he didn't make that phrase up.)

Dear Trader Joes Broccoli Bites,

My son loves you and therefore I love you.

Even though I think you smell like puke.

Thanks for getting veggies in my kid. 

Love, Me

Everyone has a theme song.

Dub was a big Ally McBeal fan, me notsomuch, but I loved the idea of everyone having their own theme song as I myself have frequently found songs that don't just speak to me, but define me.

I'm pretty lucky that my mom had some great musical taste when I was growing up, Gordon Lightfoot not withstanding, and I am stunned to see how much of it has crept into my daily life. I hope Max gets the good stuff too. A little from Grandma and a little from me and Daddy before he starts listing to whoever the Kellis and Justin Beiber of his day will be. (How often are Kellis and Beiber mentioned in the same sentance ya think?)
Right now, as I type this, we are cruising iTunes buying James Taylor, Simon & Garfunkel, Judy Collins, Joni Mitchell...no need for the Beatles because we already own everything and have it set up that the second anything is released it is automatically purchased. 

Max loves him some Beatles.

(good boy.)

I asked Zach to see if they had Bread and Roses by Judy Collins. I remember dreaming of getting all the women in my choir in high school to sing it, but ya know I never did. Boo on me.
Zach quickly purchased it and it is still as moving to me now as it was then. More so, because now I am a mother.
I feel motherhood on a cellular level and every child is mine. The thought 'that could be Max' floats through my brain almost daily on hearing of any tragedy befalling a child.

That could be Max.

The melody was written by Mimi Farina and the words were written by a John Oppenheim in the  1920s to support the suffrage movement but it is a song about womanhood, about motherhood.

As we go marching, marching

In the beauty of the day,

A million darkened kitchens,

A thousand mill lofts gray,

Are touched by all the radiance

That a sudden sun discloses,

For the people hear us singing:

"Bread and Roses! Bread and Roses!"

As we go marching, marching,

We battle too, for men,

For they are women's children,

And we mother them again.

Our lives shall not be sweated

From birth until life closes;

Hearts starve as well as bodies:

Give us bread, but give us roses!

As we go marching, marching,

Unnumbered women dead

Go crying through our singing,

Their ancient cry for bread.

Small art and love and beauty

Their drudging spirits knew.

Yes, it is bread we fight for,

But we fight for roses too!

As we go marching, marching,

We bring the greater days.

For the rising of the women

Means the rising of the race.

No more the drudge and idleness

That toil where one reposes,

But a sharing of life's glories:

Bread and Roses! Bread and Roses!

Our lives shall not be sweated

From birth until life closes,

Hearts starve as well as bodies;

Bread and Roses! Bread and Roses!

You can listen to it here.

It starts with just her, singing. Lightly and delicately. Then voices join her. The voices of women for a common cause. It's incredibly powerful.

I think honestly blogging can be a bit like that. How powerful are we when we band together rather than tearing another down? I do believe it takes a village. In all things. The power of one is great, but the power of many can move mountains.

Schooled by a clown.

Photo courtesy of I have no idea, but I wish I did cause it's awesome.

When I was in Elementary School Ronald McDonald himself came to teach us about fire safety. I guess he was an expert from always being around all those deep fryers and griddles. Maybe Mayor McCheese busted him jaywalking and this was his community service. Whatever it was he was there, in person, and we were stoked! I can only imagine how the teachers were laughing their butts off at us going all Jonas Brothers over Ronald friggin McDonald. ( Dare you to diagram that sentence. Seriously, I need grammar for dummies.)

(Actually don't, I beg of you. Don't diagram any of my sentences, I actually need Grammar for Kids Who Went To Hippie Montessori School And Spent All Day Playing Let's Pretend So When They Got To Public School And Ronald McDonald Came It Was Too Late Because Everyone Already Knew About Adverbs And Multiplication Tables And Such.)

( Anyone know where I can get a copy of that? )

Now, I myself have never been a big fan of clowns, especially ones who are later arrested for *ahem* messing with kids, as this specific incarnation of Ronald McDonald was. And also? Well done on that background check Mickey D's.

So there we all are in the gym/cafeteria/auditorium being taught the Stop, Drop, and Roll by THE Ronald McDonald. No,  it never occured to us that there could be more than one. He may have hocked Happy Meals but he was a celebrity in our midst you guys!

We all took it very seriously because for reals, who wants to be on fire? Ok, fine so those monks and the dudes who doing it for the movies seem to be cool with it (how does one discover that is your special skill?) But who else? Not this fifth grader thankyouverymuch. I burned my hand on the tailpipe of our volvo (don't ask) when I was a bitty thing and I was not interesed in reliving that kind of pain.

Stop. Drop. Roll.

Just a note to Ronald for future reference, you might want to specify which way you want the kids to roll because Mike Ferry  got a feel of a lot more than I was prepared for him too. Or maybe you planned it that way. Eeeeeeew.

This weekend I snuck in to check on the kidlet. He had a rough night the night before and I was anxious and desperate for sleep. Please, for the love of all things holy kid, sleep! Using my trusty iPhone as a flashlight I peered in at the crib. (oh you know you do it too, don't even pretend) when he stirred, rubbing the cutest little fist every over his eyes. I froze. No...

 I STOPPED. I DROPPED.  And then I ROLLED over next to his dresser and held my breath until I was sure he was sleeping peacefully again.

Dang. That creepy clown's lesson came in handy.

I think I'm having an affair.

Oh Target, how I love you so. I do. I crave your company every single day, and you always leave me wanting more.  Please never leave me, because I would surely perish without, at the very least, bi-weekly visits.

The moment I arrive I feel giddy, almost drunk and swoony. How do you do this to me every time? I've no resistance to you. None at all.

You are such a temptress, Target. You tease me with bargains on skin care and organic items and then BAM! You blindside me with cute strappy sandals and adorable designer shirts.

I am powerless to resist you, I don't even try anymore. I find excuses to visit...I just need diapers. I need chewies for the dog.  I need a bra. I need...something.

Our affair is a lasting one, we will never outgrow one another. Even if I became a millionaire tomorrow Target, I would never forsake you.

My husband, he knows. He's not happy about it, but like the good man he is he chooses to view our love affair as one of my bad habits. It's as if I chew my nails or pick at zits. Not pleasant, but he loves me enough to overlook it. Most of the time. I neither chew my nails or pick at zits, so at least I've got that going for me.

You're good to me though, Target. You send me home with gifts for him as well. You send me home with razors and DVD's. Little things you know he would enjoy, and I think he appreciates it. It makes him more tolerant of our love affair. Thank you for your thoughtfulness.

Other people recognize your glory too. How sweetly you've bedecked me. I have no shame when someone says "I love your outfit" and I realize I am head to toe showing your love.

Whenever I have a problem I run to you first and you have never once let me down. From Halloween to Christmas. From intimate dinner parties to last minute birthday celebrations. I can always count on you. It only makes me love you the more.

I crave your sheets and towels, new bedding and end tables. And oh! Our online affair only adds to my need to see you more. You've added more and more to your beauty products on line, and real wood furniture! Thank heavens my husband doesn't check my internet history or he would surely be jealous of all the time we spend together, without  actually being together.

Oh? You've got some new great baseball equipment that's perfect for this Summer? Tiny gloves so he can teach our son to play? Perfect. That will surely ease his anger, and even provide us with more time together as I would be utterly useless at helping teach the baby baseball!

I know...We visited just this morning but I already feel your call. I love this new little tank shirt I got, perhaps I need it in another color? It was only $9.99. Maybe when the baby wakes we will sneak on out to you.

What's that you say? You have new Elmo toys and Summer clothes for him?

We'll be right there.

Wordless Wednesday~ The skills that pay the bills

or:
 Performance Art Instalation Number One

I'm not a (just) mother, I'm a Performance Artist.

I am filing this one under:

  Things I Am Not Smart Enough For.

Did you click that? Do, I'll wait. Are you smart enough for it? Cause I am not. I am an artist, an actor, a writer and I do.not.get.it. At the end of the day to me it's just a naked chick on a bicycle, and a woman wearing a dress that she can pee in sitting on a wooden chair for 15 hours a day being silent.

What?

One of this artists past pieces was to carve with razor blade on her stomach. Sweet! Now I know that in junior high I wasn't just cutting...I was creating. I was doing a performance piece! Shame those doctors weren't smart enough to understand it.

And thus I've decided that I myself, am ready for my very own New York City art exhibition, because I do more than just sit in a chair peeing in my dress. I sculpt every day. So do you. And my sculpture is a living one.

My son.

 Each day I sculpt his mind, his self esteem, his feeling of being loved, his feeling of being secure. I also teach him not to touch hot things, to stay out of the dog's water (or at least I try), I sing to him and with him, I laugh at his antics and comfort him when he cries.

Each night when he goes to bed he is a little more sculpted, a little more formed than he was just 24 hours earlier. Then, like any good sculptor or painter, I let my artwork rest, and in the morning greet him with fresh eyes.

Each morning I am astonished at how beautiful my little sculpture is. Even better, I'm inspired in new ways every day of things to do, things to teach, and best of all ways to simply enjoy the most amazing art ever created.

Wouldn't it be lovely if every child was as cherished as ours? As painstakingly taught and sculpted to be caring, to share and to go through the world kindly?


Forget standing naked in a New York art gallery, I'm planning on doing some performance art this afternoon at the playground.

This piece shall be titled:

Stolen Moments and the joy of the wheeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!!


I hope you'll sculpt today too!

Audition..AUDITION!

*The title of this post is to be sung to the tune of Tradition from Fiddler on The Roof.

Has Spring sprung for good?

We've been singing a lot of Fiddler round these parts as the wee one has suddenly begun adressing everyone as 'the'. As in The Mommy. The Daddy. The Bob Bob. And as every loving family does, we are beginning to referr to everyone and everything using the Lexicon of Max.

Everyone is a geek about something and I am a geek about religion. So the fortuitous culmination of both Easter and Passover Seder on Sunday was a joy of much glee for me. (See? Geek) Plus an actual quote from the Seder is "Lean to the left and drink" which makes it far groovier than the Easter Mass (which I love btw). I totally dig that my kids gets to grow up in a multi denominational family.

My mother in law is Jewish and I'm slowly discovering that I know disturbingly little about her faith. Despite my fascination and all my study of religions I've never really delved in to Judaism. (My main fascination is the Christianization of indigenous cultures and especially the Catholic Church and Popes- the good the bad and the ugly. Let's me honest...things are a little ugly over at the Vatican rightaboutnow, eh?)Anyway, I could write a book called Everything I know about Judaism I learned from Dub's Mother. From my little childhood mind it would include things like this:

1. Hanukkah can be spelled a couple of different ways and I am sure to misspell each way at least once before deeming it ok...but it's probably not right.
2. Hanukkah is AWESOME! We light candles and sing and then get presents. What is not to love? Plus?  Dinner at Dub's house with Potato pancakes and apple sauce. Delish.
3. Dub and I get to find the Matza and that is good for yet another present, usually a chocolate present. Again, what is not to love? 
4. Dub's Mom lets us decorate for Hannukah by painting the windows. Repeat, we get to paint on the windows.
5. Passover, so cool. Bitter herbs- sign me up! YUM! 
6. Getting to be with the whole fam. Sweet! 
7. Again, we get to find the Matza and get a present. (maybe we only do that at Passover...I was a poor student.)

Not that Dub's mom wasn't a great teacher, we were just more interested in giggling and eating and talking about boys. Oh, how things have changed. (Not at all, except now the boys are 20 months old and way cuter than anyone we ever had a crush on. Sorry past crush boys.) So my lovely mother in law set about teaching me a little here and there and it is fascinating. I just love religions. (GEEK!)

Max even chimed in with a Dai eh nu or two of his own. Also? There is no way I spelled that right. No way. I myself had to be reminded that it is not Bah Ram Ewe, which is totally from the movie Babe and not religious at all. My kid is way smarter than me. (Thank God.)

After a delicious meal and some super yummy vegetarian matzo ball soup we headed off to bed. I had an audition this morning and wanted some sleep. Too bad Max was all hyped up from the Seder. (at last years Seder he called me Momma for the first time, I'm definitely pro-Seder.) So we were up half the night, but I made it on time Starbucks in hand to audition for the part of the stylist.

Clearly I was the only one there who watches the Rachel Zoe Project. I may have been dressed a little...ummm, Los Angeles? But it went well and as always I love auditioning. The thing I don't like is getting there. I have all my stress about finding the place, once I'm there I'm golden!
Lietrally, because while I won't wear fur like RZ (eeewww. My grandmother left me furs; including one particularly icky one of a full fox that was biting it's own tail. We donated them to the theatre department of my mother's alma mater. Cause there ain't no way I'm ever wearing that!!) I do indeed like to drip with yellow gold during the summer season.

And fake tanner. The summer is all about yellow gold and fake tan. Now you know.You're welcome.

All in all this weekend was a lovely juxtoposition of two beautiful religions and it ended with a rendition of Audition! Audition! Even if I don't get the part of the stylist, I'm thrilled to have been cast as The Mommy!

Headless Elmo's and DC Metro Moms

I am over at D.C. Metro Moms!

If you've got a minute to spare, come on by!

Seriously, it's about my nephew, my kid and tater tots.

I love all three of those.
Also? We learned by giving my son tater tots that the very sight of

a ketchup bottle can send him in to fits of fear.

Yes, my child is not afraid of big trucks, or baby trucks (cars),

not horses, or even the creepy dude who was dressed as the nastiest drunken Elmo in Hawaii:

Who graciously waited till he was surrounded by kids and then took of his wacko Elmo head

*photo is blurry due to our panic. Toddler was unaffected. His parents? Notsomuch.

But Ketchup?

Terrified.

It's so cute, that if it weren't so mean I'd take out a bottle and video tape him. But I'll resist. Plus, I need to go to the store and get some.

I am April's Fool.

April Fools Day is my least favorite day of the year. Worse than tax day, worse than my birthday. The. Worst. Day. That is because I am gullible. With a capital G-GULLIBLE. I fall for anything and everything even when I warn myself to be wary, I can't help it!  Along with klutziness I would say it is one of my worst faults and best qualities.
I have fallen for some of the worlds biggest scams. I mean...I've never given anyone money, but I have sent baby presents to people on message boards who are complete trolls. Bonzai kittens? Oh yeah. My very own mother is pregnant? WHAT? But, ok! I believe. Of course she is. The earth is flat? Totally. (I ditched school. A lot. Also, I didn't fall for that one. I had that earth marble during the three minutes that marbles were cool and those babies were ROUND. Marbles don't lie. That's a fact.)
I usually hide out of the day that shall not be named. When all of your friends are brilliant actors and artists practical jokes come intricately and well planned.

And I am always the victim.

I just want so badly to believe. I'm like Ann Frank that way. ( Relax people, Obviously the Holocaust-horrific & AFD- mildly annoying.) Even after all this time I can't fathom that think practical jokes are funny. They seem so purposely mean, and so often are at the hands of not mean people! I just can't comprehend that people enjoy hurting others. I'm talking every day, not just on the 4/1.
April Fools is a lot easier when you don't know anyone in town. I'm not so stressed about it today. I'm feeling fairly confident that the all too familiar sting of humiliation might  be skipped this year.
Only two things are working against me.

1. I am married to the Lying Liar Who Lies
2. The New Computer God's are playing with me. The totally RIGHT internet key is not working on my brand new pretty red netbook. So, Ha on me. 

The Puppy Bear didn't fare so well today. He got all excited and wiggly to ride in the see-ay-are to go Pet-Smart and then trickedoo! April fools, Puppy Bear! You're getting groomed!!

Sorry Puppy Bear,  but dangit you are so cute.