We go together like...


Being an adult can really suck sometimes.  Sure it's great that we get to own a home, have amazing kids, and make our own dentist appointments (yayyyyy), but being an adult also means we have to make like, real life adult decisions.  And we are definitely at the point in our lives where we see our dear friends make the decision to move home to be closer to family. 

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Boy Types

I am of the belief that all humans are entitled to the same human rights, one of the most important being a right to the self.  Namely, that no one human can control or define the race, religion, ethnicity, sexual orientation or gender identity of another, and that each and every individual is entitled to the same rights and protections regardless of the aforementioned differences. I believe that the inherent diversity of humanity is too infinite to pigeon-hole or generalize entire groups of people, or to make anyone feel like they are wrong if they don't fit into someone else's prefabricated mold.

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The second child thing is funny.  In some ways, they have it better - you’ve learned something from the first go-round, and now, you have two, so you have less time to hover anxiously and disinfect pacifiers.

The second one gets to watch Broad City while nursing, suck on tortilla chips before they have teeth and be held by any number of kind strangers offering to help as you try to help your toddler-aged first child in a public bathroom while dripping an Ergo baby carrier off your aching shoulders (not sure this last one is an upside for the kid, but it helped me out tremendously). 

Plus, you’ve done this before – now you’re an old hand at it – so Second Kid gets the way-less-stressed-much-cooler version of the parent you were with the first (case in point: Harvey ate shit the other day.  Like, literally put some dog shit in his mouth.  The kids were playing outside and I was sort of spacing out - something I never did when overseeing June as a toddler.  At first, I thought it was a rock so I just casually sauntered over to him and told him to spit it out.  When he did, and I realized what it was, I scooped him up frantically hollering at June to bring in the sidewalk chalk ‘cause I was going to have to cart him inside to bleach out his mouth.  Did I call Poison Control?  Maybe…).

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Time to Make the Donuts

It’s probably time I tell you that I’ve never been a huge fan of the raised donut  (doughnut?) – at least as a breakfast food. Warm sugar-covered fried dough served to me after a full meal? Fine.  But, when I’m hungry, raised donuts are just too light; it takes, like, 3 to fill to me up and I’m not sure that falls under anyone’s definition of “in moderation.”  Cake donuts, however, are a different story.  Old fashioned glazed are probably my favorite (which, it turns out, are often double fried, so I guess that fits) but plain old cake donut is a very close second, particularly when they are of the powdered sugar variety.   

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Let Me Change Your Mind

No one needs a new basic chocolate chip cookie recipe.  I mean, everyone has their favorite – their tried and true.  This website even has a recipe I have tagged as my all-time favorite chocolate chip cookie (though, granted, I still can't makes them as well as my mama does).  So, who am I to add to the mix?  And with so many recipes out there, there simply cannot be one that trumps them all.




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Mud Pie Madness

Dearest Libby,

One of mankind's greatest creations is ice cream.  I mean it.  A divine creation, it has helped to separate us from the rest of the animal kingdom.  Think about it: rich yet refreshing, cold and creamy, yet lovely with chunky bits, good in summer or winter, loved by young and old and sooooooo many flavors, few could be dissatisfied. I have heard of people who do not like ice cream, but they presumably live in far away lands, or at least, I have been fortunate enough to avoid them.  

In all fairness, my love of ice cream started years ago.  You see, my mom started running when I was a toddler.  I only vaguely remember her leaving to run with friends or by herself.  But I always remembered her coming back.  Because, then, she would take me out for ice cream.

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About a Brownie

My dearest friend,

Be forewarned:

If you are on a 30-day cleanse, don’t read this.  If you are avoiding refined sugar, superfluous oils and fats, processed nut butters or pleasure in general, stop reading. If you are looking at this while beginning a 13-mile run or heading to pilates, I’m begging you, look away.  Because, once you start, you won’t be able to stop.  You won’t be able to say no.  The life you have been leading, nay, striving for, will cease to exist as you know it.

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Momma's See-cret

Ah, Libs -

What is it about coming home?  I mean, to your parents' house?  I have a place of my own, a husband, kids, career – and yet, there is something about driving up to my childhood home that makes me let out a big breath and relax.  I’d like to say it’s the smell of the surrounding apple and cherry orchards that are heavy with ripening fruit. Or that it’s the anticipation of the summer sunset that is always red and orange and stunning.  Or even that it’s all the fond memories I have: you know, the ones of torturing my little brother or sneaking out with high school friends. 

But the truth is, coming “home” is so great because my mom is there.  And, as you can attest, nobody – but nobody - pampers like a mom.

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Pain Maman

Please be honest.  Because much of my confidence as a parent is riding on this.  What does Dash eat?  Like, on any given day?  Is it, like, the same 10 foods? 

Because, try as I might – with exposure (we try to eat all manner of things in any given week – from vindaloo to cheesy grits), involvement (I’ve been known to bake multiple batches of cookies in one day just to get June in the kitchen measuring and “enjoying” the art of cooking), gentle “one-bite-of-everything-on-your-plate-regardless-of-whether-or-not-it-makes-you-gag” rules, and, embarrassingly, the old “no-dessert-until-you-try-whatever-it-is-I-have-made-goddamn-it” ultimatum – the kid always ends up eating the same damn things.

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