like sands through the hourglass…


I am not a great singer. I once had a pretty good voice, but so much now. It’s just a glorious thing that babies don’t care. They just want you to hold them and love them and sing to them. My lullaby of choice is Baby Mine from DUMBO. I sang it to Max from the time he was very tiny until one day when he was about 2 and a half he unceremoniously declared “no sing, Mommy.” And just like that it was over. When Huck was born I had planned on Moon River and only Moon River. My Huckleberry friend and all that. Somehow or another we settled into Baby Mine as well. I bust out Moon River regularly, but by and large it’s Baby Mine.

Recently he started trying to sing along. Easily the most adorable thing that ever was an adorable thing. He chimes in on the last word of every line his eyes brimming with pride the whole time. Nestled against me, sometimes nursing, sometimes not, smelling like heaven, all warm and heavy in my arms. I treasure it, knowing that sooner rather than later he will also unceremoniously break up with lullabies and nursing. We have had a good run, I’ve loved it all. I complain a bit sometimes about being the only one to do bed time and whatnot but the truth is I am selfish with my babies. With so much family around I cling to the firsts and the things that only mommy can do.

So it was on Sunday I cuddled a freshly washed and pajama clad Hucklberry, treasuring the last few moments of my birthday with him ame that after we sang Baby Mine he requested a song. How could I refuse? So we gently rocked and snuggled. And I softly rapped the theme from the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles.

Sweet dreams, booyakasha.


P.S. Finally got around to Huck’s 2 year shoot. Check it out here.

For my next trick I shall turn 29, again! Ta Dah!



For the last few years my birthday has brought dread. I just felt sad about it. Getting older in number of years and yet feeling exactly as I did when I was well, younger than I am now was hard for me. I noticed the skin of my cheeks not quite as plump and taught as they were. I saw my chin and neck begin to fall victim to the often heard ‘loss of elasticity‘, thanks Olay for drilling that nightmarish phrase in to my brain. I focused on every line and (thanks boys!) chin hair. (it happens people. Don’t pretend it doesn’t. It does.) Feeling very strongly that my outside didn’t reflect my inside. Thankfully each year I do feel more mature, less upset by trivial things, more focused on what’s truly important. But stil each year that ticked past seemed to feel like I was heading all to quickly to hagville.

For some reason this year I looked forward to my birthday. It wasn’t a big one. Not a milestone birthday. No big celebration was planned and yet I was just excited about it. Maybe it’s because postpartum anixiety is slowling lessening it’s grip. Maybe it’s because I found the perfect at home hair color. Maybe it’s that I have now actually accepted that I live here, this isn’t some little blip before I head back to LA, we are here for the forseeable future and so I have settled in, made friends. And that feels good. We are building a life here, not just treading water.  Maybe for me birthdays are no longer just a party and a good time, they are a celebration of everything I learned in the last year.

This year I learned that I can and do have a passion for a creative medium beyond the theatre. I learned that I can parent two boys and I can fight for them if I need too. I learned I can put down the phone and just PLAY with them. I learned that Max has usurped Zach and Sister Dub as the person who can make me laugh the hardest. Laugh till I can’t breathe laugh, and it is glorious. I learned that watching my boys together is the greatest joy of my life. Beyond any acting accolade, beyond any glowing review, beyond anything.

I also learned that all my summers in Texas learning to twirl a baton were not wasted. My boys think I have mad ninja turtle bow staff skills.

This year my boys took me to breakfast, took me shopping then sent me off to hang with my DC besties for a sweet mani/pedi, coffee and great conversation. These two can also make me laugh till I almost cant breathe. It’s such a lovely, fresh friendship. They have kids, they KNOW. We know, we speak the same language and yet we can- and do- go for hours without talking about our kids. After that they sent me home to a freshly cooked meal (Zach makes a mean Arribiata y’all.) and finally what Max had been waiting for all day. Ice Cream cake.

It was good. I had a really great ’29th’ birthday.

My boys got me a beautiful ring. Well done, boys.

My boys got me a beautiful ring. Well done, boys.


Here’s to learning some amazing new things this coming year. Hopefully how to decorate our own house….I’d like to learn that. Please?

And then yesterday morning, just 24 hours into my new year,  another mass shooting. what do we do? How can we stop this from happening? Those people kissed their loved ones good bye and never came home, much as my father did all those years ago.

I can’t worry about getting old anymore, I worry about NOT getting to get old. I am holding their families in my heart today. There are no words.

I think I’ll go ahead and turn 31 next year.

my love to you and yours.


There is no right way…

But there is a wrong way.

A few things you should know: I am unnaturally attached to the Kardashians and also Kim hopes you guys have the BEST 9/11 EVER!!!


Not surprisingly, this tweet has been deleted. Silly Kimmy. Tweets, like sex tapes, are forever. That? That’s the wrong way.

That aside, 9/11 got me this year as it possibly the last year of Boss’ innocence about the day. To him it is simply four days to Mommy’s birthday. (Hint: I like sapphires, computers, camera gear and Louis Vuitton) Very soon I will be faced with having to explain it to him. And not just that but so much more. He still lives in a land of everyone loves one another… And here is hoping that his generation moves us more toward that. But how do I then explain to him some people blame all Muslims, all Iraqis for 9/11? How do I do that and then take him to visit his Uncle, my nephew and their family…and thus MY FAMILY who are Iraqi, living here in this country, citizens, good lawful wonderful people that I love so much…How do we move past color and race and  simply figure out how to deal with each case on it it’s own? Is that possible? Because to blame every Muslim for 9/11 is like blaming all Christians for Westboro, and I know many Christians (myself included) who would say NO THANK YOU I DON’T BELIEVE THAT.

This year I avoided all tv coverage, I didn’t need to see the twin towers fall again, I stayed huddled all afternoon with an overtired Boss while Huck napped and we blissfully watched Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles. Then it was off to T-ball. My kids, for one more year at least remained oblivious.  I know we will have to talk about it eventually, and we will. I’ll focus on how our nation came together to support one another. I’ll tell them how we sat for hours unable to move from the tv, disbelieving this had happened here.

And I will tell them that 12 years, 13 years, forever, I will always be in disbelief.

God bless those souls, bless those who ran in to help and those who still suffer. Bless them.


Ya gotta go back, back, back to school oh yeah.



When one is a childless adult living in Los Angeles and working in the industry, there is no such thing as Back To School season. There is Pilot Season, Dead Season and End-Of-The-Fiscal-Year-So-We-Better-Hurry-Up-And-Spend-Our-Advertising-Budget-So-We-Can-Get-More-Money-Next-Year. Late August only brought thoughts of oh, I hope they drag out that Sears commercial where I played a teacher.  But here in suburbia with two kids, I am really feeling the back to school season. This is Boss’ third year at school…but he is five now, he gets it. Huckleberry also gets it, asking every three minutes “where brother?”



This was the first year since we moved, since we had kids, that we had a summer. A real summer. Filled with pool trips and baseball camps. Working in the garden, painting and crafts and splash pools in the yard. Complete with late afternoon naps and movie nights and way too late bedtimes. It was glorious. We had birthday parties with friends and playdates to the county fair and it was nearly Norman Rockwell in it’s very summer-ness.



Now? It’s over. Boss is to school 5 days a week. Huckleberry and I are on our own. I never understand when parents lament the growing up process…yes, it goes too fast, time is indeed a bitch like that. But the alternative? I will take the bittersweet tears of his childhood slipping through my fingers any day. It just so happened that one of his friends recently called him a baby, and this was hard for him. He is a young five and when you are desperate to be a big kid, being called a baby is the WORST. Baby is the C-word of the small crowd. I reassured him that he was not, in fact, a baby and although it lingered for a few days, he shook it off eventually and was back in the fray before we knew it. It’s the first of what I am sure will be many times in the school process where he was told simply who he was, wasn’t cool. And that’s a shock because, duh, we think he is the coolest in the land, ever. It was heartbreaking but a rite of passage, I guess my job is to build him up so he is okay being himself even if others don’t think it’s cool. This only made me feel stronger that we made the right choice last year pulling him out of pre-k and having him in with the 4’s. He is READY for pre-k this year, but not Kindergarten. Next year, he will be more than ready.

This year, he barely gave me an over the shoulder wave as he headed into his classroom. Already busy chatting to his friends and wondering what fun was ahead that day.


Bittersweet, yes. But sweet nonetheless. And definitely not a baby. Enjoy the ride, Boss.


Twerk it, girl. The requisite Miley Cyrus post.

I saw only two parts of the VMAs this year. Miley Cyrus and Justin Timberlake. I feel like (After I had to search to find out what chanel they were on, because it couldn’t be MTV, they only show teen mom shows! And also…what number is MTV??? HGTV? I know by heart. Mama’s priorities have shifted, y’all.) I saw the high and the low of the show. I am sure those of you who don’t love my pop culture observations were like “yay! Radio silence on Miley!” but then several of you emailed and tweeted me …what? Nothing on Miss Cyrus? And I just want to tell you guys how that made me smile. I am struggling lately, with just about everything. And that someone could want to read my blatherings about Hannah Gone Wild really made me smile.

So here it is, the requisite Miley post.

Sweet, sweet  Miley. Did I gasp? Yes. Did I sputter? Yes. Did I clutch my pearls in horror? Yes. Did I take to twitter in the new world version of the clucking ladies in The Music Man? (pick a little, tweet a little) YES. But was young Miss Cyrus’ sexy dance why I was offended? Nope. Lest we forget, we have seen this show before. I remember distincly my mother gasping and clutching her pearls as I, a very young girl….like 1 (ha!) sat glued to those very same VMAs while a lovely lady in what resembled torn up undergarments one might wear under a wedding dress rolled about on the floor acting as if she herself were indulging in carnal pleasure while wearing a rosary. Miley’s shocking performance is same sh!t, different day, as far as young female performers go. So yeah, eh. it was gross, not sexy (to me) and whoever immediately made the picture of her and Jim Carrey side by side deserves some sort of comedy award. It’s funny because it’s true.

We get it Miley, you’re all grown up. But the thing about really being grown up is you don’t have to tell people. That being said, this is part of the process. I myself have never performed on the VMAs but I am certainly glad that certain events at some frat parties did not occur in the time of social media recording everything. I was lucky enough to go through my screaming I AM A GROWN UP phase in the privacy of  Los Angeles among others screaming I AM A GROWN UP. I believe at some time I probably did my own twerking in a halloween costume that, while not made of latex, was probably pretty small.  I remember watching Xtina (remember that phase?) and her Stripped interview when she was going through this and thinking “oh Lord, that girl is going to be so embarrassed watching this in ten years.” Miley will be too, just as sometimes someone posts a blurry instant camera photo of our young escapades on Facebook and I think duuuuuuuuuude, no Steph. Just no.

So, the reason I didn’t like Miley’s performance was not being it was over the line and gross. The reason was two fold. One, it sucked. Two…Miley has repeatedly said she wants to make “Black” music and “Ghetto” music, so the use of African Americans in her performance basically as props was pretty gross. Cultural appropriation at it’s worst. This is a sensitive subject and we are all just finding our way with these things. But I personally felt that she was simply going to shock value and resorted to old school, I don’t even know how to say this without sounding like an a-hole, almost mistrel show hijinks. It is entirely possible to be a white artist and create and perform what is an African American developed artform. I don’t even know how to make this point properly, so I am just going to let it lie and hope that you know what I mean.

Even without that, it just sucked. She was out of breath – I guess twerking is not good cardio, not on key and I am seriously concerned about her tongue. It was sloppy and silly and it didn’t serve her song in the least. I am not sure what she was smoking when they came up with the concept but whatever. Lest you think I am giving Robin Thicke and his Beetleguise suit off the hook…no. There was one time where he looked a little shocked as if they hadn’t rehearsed that particular moment..but come on dude, you were a willing participant in this and of everyone rushing to Miley’s artistic defense you (and your mom) should be front and center. While Miley was grinding into our brains that she was an adult his participation just made her look more like a child and him more like a creepy older gentleman who really should know better.

What did you think?






Lately I have been thinking a lot about kindness. I’ve found myself telling my children to ‘be nice’ frequently in the last month or so. Being 5 has Boss all discombobulated, trapped between baby and big kid while Huckleberry is firmly planted in the mine phase. Big brother takes care of his toys, little brother likes to throw them. You can see where the conflict comes in.

Be nice! I tell Boss firmly and probably not sounding very nice myself. Huck! No hitting! Be nice! 

What I really mean is be kind. Nice somehow has a negative, inauthentic connotation. I want my boys to be kind. There is a difference. Nice is sometimes at our own expense, kind is…kind is different. More understanding. I’m trying to teach Huck not to hit or throw by redirecting his behaviour but he is hitting and throwing because he is frustrated, both by his inability to do everything his little heart desires and my inability to understand what he is saying. I need to be kind to him. (Not that I am mean, you understand.) Boss takes so much on the chin, stolen toys, broken toys, a baby brother who is into everything. All while dealing with his own things. His natural state IS kindness. And when he gets frustrated and upset I need to be kind to him. Take a moment before time outs, before punishments, before any of that…and see if I can find out WHY he is behaving as he is, to understand, to show empathy.

I want him to continue on that path of kindness, I want to encourage and nurture it. I see it in Huckleberry as well. You can’t give a treat to that kid without him wanting to take one to big brother and all his friends. Huck may be two with a vengeance but he is happiest when everyone is happy. Aren’t most kids born into a state of kindness? Until the world beats it out of them? So, my small resolution as it were is to stop telling them to be nice. Be kind, is what I will say, reminding myself as well as my little ones. Be kind.

So it was an interesting coincidence that my mother in law brought home a book and said emphatically “You have to read this!” Today I did, from start to finish and just, wow. How’s that for an endorsement? It’s just so interesting when you are ruminating on something and then things seem to appear everywhere on that same subject. The book was Wonder by R.J.Palacio and while it is a riveting tale about growing up, learning who you are and all the pitfalls of middle school; it is mainly about kindness and how kindness can be like an avalanche. The main protagonist of the story is August “I won’t describe to you what I look like. Whatever you’re thinking, it’s probably worse.” a young boy who has been homeschooled his whole life due to surgeries for his facial abnormalities. That’s putting it mildly, actually. It could be preachy and heavy-handed and yet, it’s not. It’s funny, smart, sweet, heartbreaking, wonderful and life affirming. And not one bit schlocky at all.

In the book the author quote the often quoted JM Barrie “Shall we make a new rule of life…always to try to be a little kinder than neccessary?” I think that might go right one one of those wonderful typography signs when I have my home.  Kinder than neccessary. I love that. And I will try to follow that new rule.

Except for snarky pop-culture blog posts. Obviously.

Raven Symone comes out and ruthlessly ruins peoples lives.

Forget Dr. Who. Raven Symone is an all powerful Time-Lord who can go back in time and alter lives.

Apparently Raven Symone came out this week, that’s right, the littlest Cosby loves the ladies. I took a quick stock of my life and the differences it held in the five seconds after I learned that information and quickly compared it to the status of my life, and particularly my childhood in the five seconds before I learned that information. Hmmm. No difference. Okay, one difference, I did think ‘good for her!’ but that was it.  I am guessing that this information was not life changing for you either, and it certainly didn’t go back in time and retroactively destroy your WHOLE CHILDHOOD. Did it? Cause if it did, then we need to talk. And know that I say this with love, okay?

A slew of the self-involved took to twitter with the hashtag #Childhoodruined to spout a whole lot of poor me; my life is ruined BS. Because That’s So Raven is a lesbian? That’s so lame.

Maslow’s Hierarchy of Needs… these people need to take a quick look at the oh-so-simple lovely rainbow pyramid chart and see if they can identify where they are on that there thing. See that top one? That’s the goal, right? We grow up and and have empathy and use words like self actualization? I remember being a teenager and feeling like everything was about me. Caught a red light? Clearly the ENTIRE WORLD WAS OUT TO GET ME. But then, you know, you grow up.  You realize that just because that girl you don’t like is thin it doesn’t make you fat and Raven Symone coming out has not one little thing to do with you. Or me. Or anyone other than Raven herself and whomever she chooses to share her life with.  Because she is a public figure she shares this with us as we as a country move towards this being NBD. Or are we? Because to think your childhood is ruined because some actress who played some character on some show you watched when you were little is gay?


Take from your elders, we have been through this before and our parents as well. Sulu? GAY.  Mike Brady? GAY. Doogie Houser? GAY!!!!! And how is your childhood not ruined by Miley Cyrus twerking? Or how about Amanda Bynes completely losing it? Why so choosey?

As long as there have been humans there have been gay humans. Deal with it. And if something that has nothing to do with you can ruin your childhood? Get over yourself. Grow up. Olivia Cosby being a lesbian has nothing to do with you. Being a self involved homophobe does.


coming up short


Recently I’ve had the blogging blahs. Nothing big…just the blahs. BlogHer really made me think about this self generated machine we are all a part of, both the incredible good it can and does do culturally, socially and individually; and also the negative. I’m not even talking about the Munchhausen blogs, the rip off, the snark sites. I am talking about comparing our ‘behind the scenes’ to others highlight reels.

It suddenly struck me why I’ve had such a rough time blogging lately, what began as a form of expression and sharing my stories and my stories of my kids has begun to be just one more area in life where I don’t measure up. And no, I am not talking site stats, subscribers or internet fame. I am just fine where I am in that regard. I mean that suddenly it seems as if I don’t love my boys if they don’t have ikat legging, minnetonks and saltwater sandals for summer. (And honestly, I think saltwaters are a little girly. My husband had saltwaters when he was little, and although adorable, I think they would have looked better on me. Also, it could have been the kickass 80’s jogging shorts and rainbow t-shirt he was sporting as well. The 80’s. Great music, bad fashion)

I read (and love) so many blogs, gazing at such beautiful pictures of beautiful children and their beautiful parents and I think…dude, I am still in my pj’s. I’ve busted up ten fights between my sweet Boss and my two with a vengence Huck. Crafts? Setting up gorgeous photo shoots? Drama free trips to the museum? Documented in all it’s adorable glory with perfectly edited DSLR photos? Mom perfectly dressed and looking well rested? In the immortal words of Sweet Brown, ain’t nobody got time for that.

Of course by nobody, I mean ME.

I’m not accusing these women of lying or staging things, some women (my best friend Janice is one of them) have it all together like that. That’s their forte. Clearly that’s not mine.

I am not coming down on them for having such a life, or portraying their lives in such a manner. I’m not judging them, I am judging me.

I need to get it together. I need to remember that just because my house isn’t the perfect blog worthy home, and my kids have peanut butter on their faces doesn’t mean it’s not worth writing about my life. For me, anyway. I need to remember that my kids don’t give a tiny rat’s ass about chevron or ikat or whatever is the new pattern. They don’t care if their bedroom is perfectly decorated or not. They don’t care if their birthday parties are pin worthy, pin-tastic or pinteriffic. They care if we are there and we celebrate together.

So I am going to let it go. We went to Chuck E Cheese this weekend and had a mad scramble birthday pool party for the Boss. Neither of which will end up on Pinterest, or reblogged. But we had a damn good time and my kid felt loved and had a blast. And in the end that’s what I have time for. What I want.

Blogging sometimes makes me feel like I am in 7th grade and I don’t have the Guess jeans with the zippers at the ankle or whatever is the must have thing to be cool. It seemed like the end of the world then, but it wasn’t. It’s not the end of the world that my kids have a 19 dollar circus tent from Ikea instead of a hand whittled tipi covered with vintage sheets and embroidered by hand. They have a blast in that damn tent for days, even if it is a bit of an eyesore.

There is room for all of us here in this big blogging world. Even those of us who hate ikat.

Love to you all, yes even you.

P.S. while I was writing this Huck busted into my craft supplies and now has letter stickers all over his belly. And that? Is what craft supplies are for in my house. That and mugshot boards for the annual birthday mugshot.



It’s good to be five. Five is a real kid. No trace of baby left. Long legs and over-confidence. Five. The Boss is five today.



Today you are five. FIVE! I feel as though I’ve blinked and here you are, this fully formed and fully opinionated person. Everyday you challenge me and make me a better person. I live in fear that I will fail you in some way. I am forever regretful that I don’t know all the answers to all of your amazing questions. Like, why can’t we see our brain when we close our eyes? And how does the water get down to the sewers where the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles are and then get clean and come back? And how am I growing? And when I was with God how did he put me in your tummy? (A concept you came up with on your own, by the way. You talk a lot about before you were with me when you were flying with God) I don’t know how mothers did it without google! You frequently pipe up from the backseat after having stumped me with a question saying “don’t worry Mommy, you can just google it!”

You look out for Huckle-boo. I laugh at how I worried that you would have trouble adjusting to having a baby brother. You were not only the center of the world to me and your father but also to your grandparents and aunt. Our daily world literally revolved around you. When Huck came your heart grew just like mine did. Now Huck is two and man is he really two. He steals your toys, hits, throws temper tantrums and most of the time, you just take it. Sure, you complain from time to time, who wouldn’t? But your patience with him gives me patience. While I am desperate for an over-tired Huck to nap, you want him up. As soon as he is sleeping you start counting down till you can wake him up to play. You accept that he wants whatever you have, you share so beautifully with him. I am sure there will come a time when you don’t want him around at all, but not so far. You have said twice “let’s send Boo back.” That thought only lasts a minute before you emphatically state that you’d miss him and we should keep him. Twice. In two years. I think that’s pretty good!

Let’s talk Baseball for a second, you are well into what I am assuming will be a life long love of the game. You watch ESPN, you practice every single day. You blow me away with your skill, you can bat like crazy and you’re not-so-patiently waiting to break free of T-ball and get to pitched baseball! You love Spider-man, the Smurfs, rock-n-roll and Pitch Perfect. We have the greatest dance parties and you have some serious moves. One day I swear I will get your So You Think You Can Dance audition on video, it’s EPIC. One of my favorite things about you is how you vocalize your feelings. Coach Shannon wanted you to jump off the diving board at the pool and we could hear you all the way across the way “I’m feeling a little nervous about this.” I also adore how easily you accept praise for your accomplishments. After you get out of the water at swim class you turn to me and give me a big thumbs up, so proud of yourself. My heart just bursts with joy and pride. I hope you always feel proud of your hard work and what you accomplish. I will be.

Your dramatics make all of us laugh. If we say no to you you cry out “You broke my heart!” I hope your heart is never really broken, but if it is I hope you will come to me. When you get scared at night you aske me to protect you and I hear you whispering to yourself “They’re just shadows. It’s nothing” and I hold you closer until you fall asleep. Oh, yeah you sleep with us. You can’t bear to be away from us even at night. “But I’ll miss you” You say sweetly, and so, for now, you sleeping in any room other than ours is not even a thought.

You are the light of my life, Max. My constant companion and my partner in crime. Five years ago they brought you to me and when I saw you for the first time I said “Hi Max. I know you.” You reached a tiny, moments old hand out and touched my nose. You knew me too.

I love you so much. Thank you for a wonderful five years! It’s good to be five. And it’s good to be a five year old’s Mommy.

I love you and love you and love you and love you.


(my letter to Max on his Fourth Birthday , Third Birthday  and his Second Birthday )