I hope you…





My son at his schools multi-cultural night where the kids got passports and travelled around learning about where everyone is from. One of my favorite school events.

I am my son’s school for a surprise party. The kindergarteners have gathered on the rug in one gaggle of wiggles, they had filled out these adorable questionnaires;  their teacher was leaving to have a baby and they had all written their wishes for the new arrival.


“I hope you get a lot of toys.”

“I hope you get to go to Disney”

“I hope you like your brother”

“I hope you are not afraid of me”

When I volunteer there are some children who are a joy to work with, and this little girl is one of them. More often than not she wears a fancy party dress to school, with tennis shoes. I dig it. Pretty, but still ready to tear up the playground. Her name is one that is just different enough to feel unusual on my tongue and I wanted to get it right.

“It’s a long ‘eeeee’ sound, mommy. Not a short e sound.” says my five year old. I think to myself, ‘Suck on that Betsy DeVos.’

My sons attend a diverse school, and while my babies with their peaches and cream skin SEE color and acknowledge it, so far they haven’t attached value to it. Blond isn’t better than brown. White isn’t better than black. It’s just facts. And I have reveled in this. I mean, isn’t this what we want? It’s as easy as breathing for them to see, understand, and celebrate the differences without everyone being DIFFERENT. Because really they are all five and they just want to learn and play and eat goldfish crackers. It smacks me in the face again that I’ve not considered how the other children feel. I realize now, the world outside of the classroom is not that way for all of them. These children giggling all around me, some have already learned.


“I hope you are not afraid of me”


When my oldest was reading, I AM JACKIE ROBINSON, he learned that Jackie wasn’t allowed to swim in the pools with the white kids. When I explained the reason – my heart aching that I was even introducing the concept, but I guess at some point you have too- he said “Wait, so Isaac couldn’t swim with me?” “No, honey, back then some people thought white people and black people shouldn’t be friends.” “That’s so stupid.” he said, taking a long pause and getting right to the heart of it. “Isaac is a MUCH better swimmer than me ”



I watch as she tears into a present, their teacher has decided to let the children open her gifts for her and they do so gleefully and with abandon.

She is a tiny little thing, a firecracker of a girl, and you cannot help but smile when she smiles at you, her dimples deepening. She runs to me with a hug every time I see her, and her giggle is like bubbles. She is just about as darling as a kindergarten girl could be. Oh Halloween she wore, you guessed it, a fancy party dress and a tiara placed right on top of her bright hijab.


She hopes you are not afraid of her.


Imagine. She’s five. She hopes a brand new baby, not even born, will not be afraid of her. Maybe I am overreacting. Maybe I have a heavy case of white, liberal guilt. (Let’s not kid ourselves, I definitely do.) But all those questionnaires… “I hope you ride a pony” “I hope you get lots of hugs.” “I hope Santa brings you chocolate” and one, lone, heartbreaking message.


“I hope you are not afraid of me.”


I wish I could whisper in her ear, “I am not afraid of you. I adore you, and you are perfect exactly as you are.” I wish I could step in front of whomever may hurl harsh words or worse her way.


She is so sweet, so pure. I look at her and I see my own daughter in two years. She also loves a good party dress and tennies.


I suppose the best thing I can do is raise my children to not be afraid. To not be afraid, and to not cause others to be afraid. To continue to welcome everyone. To think that different is good. Some people are Muslim, some are Catholic. Some people like baseball. Some people like ballet. Some people have blond hair. Some people wear hijabs. Just like Kindergarten.


But we are all just people.

And I am not afraid of you.

TWO- Lady Baby is TWO.


Every year on their birthday  I write my children a letter, this is Piper’s second birthday letter.

(this is so late due to so much site trauma. So third child, my LadyBaby, please forgive me.)





My Sweetest Lady,

You are two. Without a doubt these have been the two fastest years of my life. I’ve blinked and you’re two.

And what a two year old you are!

Your aunt says  “Piper’s such a little bad ass” and it’s one of my favorite things that’s ever been said about you. You are. You are as girly as they come. You only want pink, sparkly things around you, and if they are Minnie Mouse related, all the better! You are distinctive in your clothing choices already, obsessed with shoes, a jewelry thief of the highest order. Your sweet  little “tink you” when you get what you want will melt even the coldest heart. But should anyone mess with you?

Nope. Not today.

You are beyond fearless. You walk right up to the pool and plunge right in. Can’t swim? No big. You’ll figure it out. I am so grateful that you have deemed your pink safety float as a desirable accessory, because none of us can keep up with you!

You are determined, when you want to do something, you do it.

You are a sneak out of bed and destroy your room expert. You climb ALL the things and give me terrors over it! I kept finding these long bruises on your ribs and I admit it took me a while to realize it was because you were hurling yourself (quietly) out of your crib and then hurling yourself back in before the sun rose.  So off came the crib rail, and I was thrust into my last baby being a full on KID. But you’re my kid. I took you shopping for bedding for your new bed and you marched past all the characters and prints and went right for a frilly white quilt. “is Pippi!” You announced and I handed my card over to the cashier feeling so proud.


I’ve had to move things so you can’t get up on your dresser, take even the toddler rail off your bed, due to your climbing and jumping in the middle of the night. Keeping you safe is a full time job. There are no baby gates on our stairs, we had to put a hook and eye lock on your door for nighttime because you took one look at the baby gate at the top of our very steep stairs and attempted to hurl yourself over it.

You call yourself Pippi, or Mon Pippi, because you own yourself and apparently you are French.  Your brothers still call you Lady or The Lady. Speaking of brothers, oh how they love you and you love them! Max is sweet and kind and makes sure you are safe and plays so happily with you. He thinks of you as his and takes a great deal of responsibility for you. And Huckleberry, I am not going to lie, Huck had a hard time when you were born. It’s rather common, but now you and he are best friends. He beats you up like crazy, won’t leave you alone and is always in your space. You LOVE it. And when you don’t, well…the little bad ass comes out and takes care of business. I like to tease that you are twins, you and Huck. The Terrific Twosome! You are wild and adventurous and the way you laugh together absolutely makes my heart want to burst.

You can sing Twinkle Twinkle Little Star, and the ABC song and several others like a PRO! You can identify most shapes and all the major colors, especially PINK!

You are inventive and silly, sweet and snuggly, and so full of personality.

You rarely throw tantrums, when you do they seem to be short lived- so far. Our favorite tantrum thing you do is fall to the ground and cry “Why! WHYYYYYYYYYYY?” Someday we will show you video of an ice skater named Nancy Kerrigan and tell you how without even knowing it you performed pitch perfect imitations of her, regularly.

You were our missing piece. With you we are complete. You are utterly adored by your father, who is powerless against your charms. He doesn’t even get grumpy when we come home with yet another pair of shoes, he just smiles and says “anything for Piper.”

You bring joy to everyone you meet, you wave at strangers and we will need to drive home some stranger danger lessons soon as you tend to just go up to anyone who looks like a grandpa and asked to be picked up.

That’s not cool. How do we encourage your friendliness and teach you not to just GO with people?


Happy Birthday my sweet Lady Baby. You are the center of this family’s universe. Watching you play with your brothers heals my soul. Max teaches you love and kindness and gentle play. Huck makes sure no one will ever mess with you and with him you take over the world!
The three of you are a force to be reckoned with, trust me, I know. And I wouldn’t have it any other way.








Every year on their birthdays I write my children a letter. This is Huck’s fifth birthday letter.Huck Birthday collage WM


Dearest Huckleberry,

You are five. FIVE! I know  I sound like a broken record (and you won’t know what that means) but how did this happen? Where did the time go?  Five years ago today we brought you home from the hospital, so tiny and pink. You were one of those adorable “old man babies” and we were all smitten with you, no one more than Max.

Five years have passed and while you no longer look pink, tiny, or like an old man we remain smitten with our sweet Baboo. You are the spirit and the fire of our family. You bring the party wherever you go and you are all in for whatever is happening. This is usually a great thing, but sometimes not. You are what they describe as a “spirited” child, which means you have a very strong personality and a lot of joy, ideas, commitment and excitement. These are all amazing and excellent qualities that I cherish in you, even if it does make parenting a challenge sometimes. I read once that spirited children make for successful adults if we can just resist parenting the spirit out of them, and as your mother that is my goal. It’s hard to keep you safe and teach you how to negotiate the world when you are flying among the clouds and will not listen.

Listening is your least favorite thing in the world.

You said to me the other day “I get in trouble a lot” and that may seem true, we haven’t found your currency yet, so now we are trying something new. It broke my heart when you said that. The difference between you, Max (and so far Piper) is that when we tell them no, and why…they stop. You look at us with the cutest most sneaky little smile and keep on going. You test. And that’s okay. I want you to know that while you may GET into trouble a great deal right now, you are NOT a trouble to us. You are a joy. For no one brings pure love and joy to our family like you do.

You still love to hug and cuddle. You still say “mine” instead of  “my”. You are still the perfect size for snuggling. You love Rescue Bots and you felt bad about leaving Paw Patrol behind. You are kind, sweet, and above all else JOYOUS. Much like your joy is all encompassing, your hurt feelings or anger are also all encompassing. Your father likes to say you have been “notoriously wronged!” when you are upset and your anger is righteous! You, sir, are fully committed to whatever it is you are feeling.

You hate pants. In fact the very moment you get home you are pantsless. We are all used to it and in the words of your brother. “Huck has no pants on, that’s just his thing.” I used to fight you on it, but now…I just laugh. This too shall pass and soon you’ll be grown and off and I will laugh at how you used to wear a shirt and shoes and no pants.

Your perspective on the world is a constant delight. You handle your brother’s anxiety and sensory issues  beautifully. Willingly switching your party to a place he could enjoy, even when I reassured you that your party should be wherever YOU wanted it to be.

Max is reading Harry Potter right now and you’ve scratched your forehead in the exact Harry Potter spot, the other day  we were talking about it being a bummer we are Muggles and you piped up “not all of us! Max has super powers!” We frequently say that Max has super sonic hearing because of how easily loud noises can upset him. In that moment you made your big brother feel amazing. Thank you for that.

Spending time with you is so much fun, I am looking forward to trips this summer and lazy afternoons with you. There is nothing I don’t adore about you. You are a good, sweet boy, and while mischief comes easily to you, empathy comes even more naturally.

I am proud of how you grow every day.

You are my Huckleberry, through and through.

I cannot wait to see what this next year brings for you. You cannot wait to start Kindergarten and you are whip smart! I hope that you will be able to learn to follow rules and listen, while not losing that spirit and sweetness that make you YOU!

I love you always. Exactly as you are.






You can read Huck’s Fourth Birthday Letter Here  his third, second and first!

Rainy Days and Mondays always get me down…

tutu baby

Rainy days and Mondays always get me down. Except for rainy days. I love rainy days. Love them. Mondays though, ugh. Right? Except there IS a certain deep sigh I can breathe when my kids are back to school. I mean I love my kids. Love them. But it’s kind of nice to have a touch of quiet knowing they are safely ensconced in the care of others and learning to be productive members of society. Even one of them is only in preschool for 2 hours…an hour and forty five minutes by the time I get home. Hour and a half by the time I get the baby to nap.

That’s not enough time to REALLY do something. Well, take a shower. Yes. I could do that. A long hot shower without someone ripping open the shower curtain with the latest breaking Paw Patrol news! Yes, maybe I’ll take a shower. And blow dry my hair. That’s a luxury.

First though, I’ll just sit and enjoy the quiet and drink some coffee. Now where IS my coffee? Ah, yes. there it is, right there on the kitchen counter where I left it. I do adore that cute Starbucks travel mug. It makes me smile every time I use it. I purposely bought it so I could drink coffee while driving the boys to school. But I left it and now it’s cold.

I’ll just pretend it’s iced coffee. I remember when my husband and I were dating and we would go to little cafes and drink iced coffee and people watch. This is just like that. Except for the massive pile of laundry I need to fold and put away. And the breakfast dishes to wash. I’ll just close my eyes and enjoy my cold coffee.

Wait, is that the Phineas and Ferb theme? I must have left the tv on in  the playroom. I should probably get up and turn that off. HA! This is one of my favorite episodes. Oh, Candace. Candace, Candace, Candace.Why don’t my kids appreciate the genius of Phineas and Ferb like I do?

So funny.

Huh? What? I must have dozed off. Time to go get the preschooler!

Good thing my cold coffee is already in a travel mug.

Mondays. Right?

It’s a double edged sword.

I was only a month younger than my daughter when my father was murdered.

I was only a month younger than my daughter when my father was murdered.

Something has been heavy in my mind lately. Last year I, like so  many of us, got into Serial, the NPR Podcast on the death of Baltimore high school student Hae Min Lee and the case against her ex-boyfriend Adnan Syed who had been convicted of her murder. I was not just ‘in to” Serial I was  OSBESSED with it.  My husband I listened, we researched and the hours we spent discussing it and the Undisclosed podcast, well, we probably could have gotten a lot of other stuff done. It seemed clear that Adnan Syed was not guilty, or at the very least was not given a fair trial. It was all about Adnan. But my heart was filled with Hae.
A few months ago Making a Murderer took Netflix by storm. Was Teresa Halbach really murdered by Steven Avery or was this an intricate plot by the state? This documentary took me longer to get into and honestly, I’m less outraged by it than most, with the exception of the (then) young cousin. I finished it a week ago and have crossed Manitowoc off my vacations spots thank you very much. I know all about the Avery family, and not nearly enough about Teresa Halbach.
This past week Serial’s Syed had a hearing for a new trial, it  began on Tuesday and wrapped up the following Monday and I hit refresh on that Twitter hashtag like I was playing the quarter slots in Vegas.

But still my heart was heavy.

I understand the stories of the killers are always the most fascinating. I love this stuff. And here we have two VERY intricate cases of what appears to us all as well, a criminal investigation clusterfuck. But I know all too well how the victim, and the victims families are usually a one liner at the end of the article or news story.

My father was murdered when I was a very little girl and I know how it can destroy a family

I keep thinking about the Halbach family, and especially this week, Hae Min Lee’s family. You see, every time there is an appeal, every time anything comes up it resets the grief clock. It’s losing your loved one all over again. And when you’ve lost someone in a vile and violent way, it’s horrific.
Today I saw a tweet about the Lee family and their “misplaced”anger. How could they be so certain about Adnan? How could they not be furious with the judicial system???

Because they have to be. And so do the Halbachs. And so did we. Because in the dark of the night when you can’t sleep and you mind goes to your loved ones last horrible moments-seared into your brain in a minute by minute account- the only balm we have for the wound is that their murderer won’t kill again. There will be other murders. But no one else will suffer the same exact fate as our loved one at the hand of their killer. No other family will suffer the same loss because we got him. He is off the street and that gives our loss a strange meaning. Their death may have saved others.

My family had a luxury they don’t. We absolutely had the right guy. We had witness after witness, his own words, evidence…it was a lock. Yet every appeal destroyed us.

My mother taught me early that it’s no good just to get a guy, you have to get THE guy. And we had the guy.
Still, I remember seeing my father’s killers  children on tv (then older than my father was when he was murdered) begging for their father’s life (and this is NOT a DP debate) I remember feeling so…outraged and forgotten. This man who had destroyed so many had three squares a day and a fully paid for degree, and 19 years to get to know his kids while we struggled, and I didn’t have one memory of my father. I have memories of the trials and sentencing though.I was furious with the empathy given to them (I’m grown now and can appreciate their loss as well) and my father? He was an afterthought

The Lees and Halbachs are going through this a thousand fold. Only so much worse.

I cannot speak for them exactly, but it’s the worst nightmare, their loved one is being murdered all over again and it feels like the world values their murderer over the victim.

So please, be kind. Remember Teresa and Hae.  Understand their families pain. They hold NO RESPONSIBILITY for the convictions.  As we  tweet and support Adnan (which I do) remember their pain. They are just trying to breathe day by day.

It really is no good to get any guy, you have to get THE guy. And currently there are too many questions about whether Adnan Syed is the guy. A new trial will answer that once and for all but for them? It’s torture. It’s terror. It’s happening all over again.

Justice for Hae is tied to justice for Adnan. If he is innocent then Hae’s murderer still walks free and the comfort that her death was not in vain is taken from them as well.

So yes, absolutely we need reform. We need to look hard at cases like Adnan Syed. But let’s not let the victims be victimized all over again. We can do that by understanding their outrage if they have it. By allowing them to rage without repercussion from us, the bystanders. Because they fear the loss of another’s loved one. They fear the loss of the comforting thought in the middle of the night.

And most importantly by not letting their loved ones be only a final line in the article.

Fear The Walking Dead, let’s discuss.



We are four episodes into Fear The Walking Dead and I’m intrigued. I’m on board. Mostly on the strength of the main couple. I like both those actors and I’m in for a few more to see where we are heading with all this.

I would have loved to see the breakdown for casting the part of Travis; “seeking clean cut, good boy with an underlying essence of grit and toughness.  He is a family man but we can see the  journey he has taken, and will take in his eyes. Must be vaguely ethnic. Could he be Middle Eastern, Egyptian, maybe he is Sicilian or Portuguese?  Must NOT be Black. as he will not be killed off.” (we all know in the Walking Dead universe we are only allowed one Black guy at a time. And FTWD went and killed off Fiona Apple’s err…Alicia’s boyfriend in the first ep. Thus far we haven’t been introduced to another Black main character. Also, sometimes we have to trade someone rad like T-Dog or Tyrese and we get to keep someone like Derpy Bob,  and that’s just not fair. PLUS we all agree Sasha deserves  better, right? RIGHT? I digress…)

I thought it was a little trite that the premiere had only the junkie and the troubled kid at school saying something crazy stuff was going down. OH! And then of course there was Nick’s old BFF Preppy Cute Black guy who turned out to be the drug dealer and then, you know, died. 

But whatever. I love the Walking Dead so much I am hanging in, and honestly shouldn’t the premise of it all beginning be SCARIER? Like, we should all be able to imagine this happening. But my husband and I intersperse voracious watching with quoting Shaun Of The Dead. You’ve got red on you.

Next  we need to talk about Nick’s hair. Listen, Nick, we all have our struggles. His include being a junkie with greasy hair that can withstand even a slightly slimy chlorinated pool. I’d say perhaps the slime gave him a grease assist, but we are four episodes in and we know….that ish is all you. It’s like Edward Scissorhands was a formative experience in young Nick’s life and he thought “I’m gonna get that hair! But less stylish”  This week featured the rounding up of the sick and the weak and the ever wise, slightly annoying but somehow I still love him Mr. Salazar warned Assistant Principal Barbie that they say you’ll come back but ya don’t.  Of course Nick was rounded up for being an addict and carefully placed in an ambulance, no that’s wrong, they tossed him in a truck like cattle and he was whisked off to the hospital(?) We know he will be back since he is the main character’s son, which is kinda too bad because he takes away from Fiona’s self harm, breaking and entering story line, which is really only missing an instrumental version of “Criminal”. Poor kid. We can only hope that before Nick escapes he makes use of the industrial showers and some Head & Shoulders Oily Hair shampoo.

And maybe some bronzer. This is LA, after all.

Travis’ son Chris is the sleeper hero. They discount him already but he is the one who tried to help Fiona get over the fence when next door neighbor auntie was trying to eat her. He’s optimistically documenting what’s going down in hopes of scoring a TLC special once the world is righted. Perched on the roof (like a fiddler while LA burns) he notices a flashing light. Do we think the blinking light is a person? Is that Morse code? I don’t know Morse code, do you? And how would one look it up in order to try to communicate? I mean iPhone is dead, Google is gone. Dad doesn’t believe but Stepmom Barbie does, and perches herself roof top to watch the beautiful early morning sunrise with a mini flashlight, blinking. I’m pretty sure she is messaging “Is Sephora still standing? I am almost out of this AMAZING lip color!”

Someone blinks back. “No girl, it’s gone. Also everyone is dead.”

Will our hearty crew reunite with Nick? Will they bust out of the fence and go in search of Blinky? And will be Blinky be black? Cause if so, don’t get too attached.


Are you guys enjoying the show? Thoughts?

years measured other than numbers.



So. Today is that day we add one more candle to my cake. At this point I can illuminate quite a room with the flames!

But if forty is the new thirty and thirty is the new twenty, then twenty is the new…ten?


All I know is that I don’t feel as old as the number would indicate. However, I have noticed some  things about the passing of years. My trips around the sun are changing the way I think.  So this year, instead of a numerical age, I am defining my age differently.

I am Peter Rabbit is a total sneak thief and Farmer McGregor is totally in the right years old.

I am but I may or may not leave strawberries carrots and such for the family of bunnies that live in our backyard years old.

I am no thank you Urban Outfitters, I don’s want to pay 85 bucks for clothes that look like dirty rags years old.

I am too old for Forever 21 and too young for Chico’s years old.

I am basically my style guide is does this make me look like Amy Poehler in Mean Girls and if so…then it’s too young for me years old.

I am oh! That “ancient Korean Beauty Treatment that looks like a torture device sounds promising!” years old.

I am yay! Amazon prime can have that “Ancient Korean Beauty Treatment Device” here straight from China by next Friday years old.

I am Greg Heffly is horrible and the book should really be called Diary of a Selfish Brat: A Cautionary Tale of How To Have No Friends years old.

I am those aren’t grays, they are natural highlights years old.

I am I have to have my roots done every four weeks years old.

I am off all the styles I thought would stick around from when I was young, pants down around the knees is not the one I would have bet on years old.

I am I totally confess I just did that thing where you look in the mirror and pull your face back to see what you would look like with a little “refresh” years old.

I am by a little “refresh” I mean a total overhaul years old.

I am knowing I maybe have another year of nursing a baby if I am lucky years old.

I am I will be drinking a lot of wine when Lady weans because I had no idea how much nursing my babies would mean to me years old.

I am I recognize how sometimes things you never thought would happen can be the most meaningful seasons in your life years old.

I am I will probably also get a little Botox when she weans cause… you know, angry forehead years old.

I am if you don’t like something and you CAN change it, go ahead and do it years old.

I am acting AS IF really can work years old.

I am I love Pretty Little Liars years old.

I am but then sometimes I think…these are high school girls and I want Ezra Fitz in jail for statutory years old.

I am I teaching my children patience as I learn it myself years old.

I am I finally understand forgiveness years old.

I am hey! I think that “Ancient Korean Torture Device” straight from China might really be working! years old.

I am I have no time for sneaky, dishonest “friends” and I value myself- and my other friends- enough to say when I am done years old.

I am really happy where I am and though my life didn’t go the way I had planned (does it ever?) I wouldn’t change anything years old.

I am wait, no I would change one thing…I would save more money and not take out that damn student loan but other than that, nothing years old

I am sad for my younger self, so riddled with self hatred and I wish I could tell her she wasn’t fat, wasn’t bad, wasn’t worthless, I wish I could tell her all those people who were cruel don’t mean shit in the real world. That every year as you get older the world gets larger and you will find people who love and treasure you just as you are years old.

And now…cake. Or ice cream. Or both, cause it’s my birthday. Have some cake too. Just cause we are all still living and breathing and loving.

Here’s to another year! Let’s DO THIS!



There he goes, there he goes again.


The Chucks arrived in the literal nick of time. We needed to leave at 9:10 to get Huckleberry to school and they were left on our doorstep at 8:45. Debra at Converse had promised me Huckie would wear them for his first day, just like big brother and Debra meant what she said.

I had him all ready go, wearing his lion shoes that were a close second, and I was praying he wouldn’t remember how he wanted the “tall tops” for his first day. We walked down the stairs and saw the box and I said “Huckie! What do you think this is?” And he got all happy and yelled “MINE CHUCKS!”

I will cry with “mine” becomes “my”.

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The thing about having a big brother is that they set the tone for everything a little brother does. Mostly that is great, but sometimes not so much. Max was anxious about school. Huck was not…until he realized Max was anxious about it and you know what? Anxiety can be contagious. Huck suddenly felt he SHOULD be anxious about it when really he was excited. School is Huck’s jam. He is so social and excited to do just about anything I sometimes wish he could go to school all day because he just loves hanging with his buddies and doing stuff.

And let’s be honest, preschool is pretty rad. Paint a little, sing a song, read a book, have a snack, hit the playground; preschool is nice work if you can get it!

Max asked if he could go to school a little bit late so he could walk Huck in and it was so sweet. Just before Huck went into his classroom he said he needed to hold Max’s hand and Max held it tight and told Huck where he had sat in that very classroom. He walked Huck in.

2015-09-08 09.30.17

Then Huck fell apart. He came roaring back out crying and I held him tightly, hugged him and told him it would be okay, we would be back soon!

Then we took Max to school and hit Starbucks. Obviously.

At 11:45  my friend KG texted me “almost time to get Huckie and see how his first day went!” I texted back “not till 12:30”

Guess which one of us was right?

I rolled up at 12:15 thinking “why aren’t they on the playground? It’s so nice out!” right as I walked in I realized I wasn’t 15 minutes early, I was 15 minutes late. Way. To. Go. Mom!

All I can say is…at least I messed up the right way with the right child. Max would have been a WRECK. Huck was like “sweet! more time to hang out!” I mea culpa’d to the teacher and staff and let’s just say I won’t be doing that again.

Huck told me he loved school and it was fun and the next morning he said “mommy, is it okay if I don’t miss you when I am at mine school?”


I told him his whole job was to have fun and learn. After pick up (I was early by the way) I asked if he made any new friends. He told me he knew all the girls names. Priorities, people. Huckie has them.

My sweet, snugly, spirited guy is off on his next adventure and feel like one of those instagram girls: Hashtag BLESSED. 2015-05-25 15.04.16-1

Oh Huck, I love you so. Have a wonderful year!

Hey Jealousy…

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Oh, my sweet crazy middle child. He has had a rough go of it the last month. Not only has he been sick, like terrifyingly what on earth is wrong with my baby sick, but he has watched oh so closely as big brother got a new backpack for school, new shoes, new clothes, new everything!

Baby brother has hand me downs. This injustice was made worse by not only his feeling poorly physically and eaten alive by jealousy of Max’s new high top converse,  then….THEN Piper’s first birthday gift showed up from Auntie Bridget. Pink converse, personalized with a purple butterfly and monogrammed with her name.   Huck was beside himself.  He was now, the ONLY member of our family without Chucks.

It’s the little things, right?

Sometimes you just gotta toss out all the mismatched socks and hit Target for all brand new white easy to to match socks. Sometimes you gotta plop your middle baby right on your lap, put him on Converse.com and let the little man order himself some new kicks. I thought he would choose red ones. He had mentioned red and of course, Lightning McQueen is red, so Huck’s new shoes would be red. Nope. Max won over McQueen and Huckleberry quickly chose black high top chucks, just like big brother. I paid for quick shipping so hopefully they will be here by Tuesday when he starts school. He can’t wait.

For now we just keep hoping he continues to heal, that this virus soon leaves him behind. After many, many, many trips to the doctor our sweet Baboo was diagnosed with HSP.  At first we thought he was just covered with bug bites but they soon overtook his whole body and we watched as lesions bloomed on his skin before our eyes.  Then they would blister and scab. He had been vaccinated against Chicken Pox (yay science!) but what else could it be? The pediatricians went back and forth, consulting specialists and emailing pictures of his skin to one another. He has excellent care. He had a blood test which came back good, which was great but provided no clues as to what was knocking our boy out. And the blisters and now a high fever just kept coming. Tylenol did nothing. Motrin worked….but only for 2-3 hours and then it shot back up. He was drinking water and sprite so at least that was good.  His doctor said if the fever doesn’t break by Friday we will have to put him in Children’s.

It broke Thursday morning, 2 a.m.  Since then he has been fever free and the blisters are fewer and farther between, but it can take 6 weeks for it to get out of his system, and those thing itch like crazy. He has been such a trooper.

Yesterday he had a dance party and tried to beat up his sister….so I think we are getting back to our old crazy wonderful Huckleberry.

Tonight he has a back to school picnic at “mine school!”, Chucks are on the way, and he even got a brand new non- hand me down shirt (his favorite color) for HIS first day of school.

I’m thinking like Mary Tyler Moore, he is gonna make it after all.


Away he goes…


He has decided camo is cool. A decision cemented by the photo sent of two of his oldest friends as they were off to their school, all of them wearing camo shorts as if they planned it. He insisted on wearing his black high top Chucks, even though they are huge on him. His mind was set, they were his one back to school request so I made sure he had them, even if I didn’t know they ran really, really, really large.

His backpack was filled with all the forms that needed to be signed for the first day and his requisite PB&J was tucked in his brand new lunch box.  As we turned the corner to his school, he asked us to turn off the radio, he has done this every day since he started, as if he needs a few moments of quiet to ready himself for the day ahead. He was nervous about the crowds outside the front door. He prefers to be able to walk right in the school. I reminded him of last year when he was in Kindergarten and how on the first day all the moms and dads stood outside taking pictures and trying not to cry. The crowd today would be much larger than tomorrow’s. I reminded him he knew where he was going and the crowd was NBD, as we say.


Before we knew it we were at the front of the line and he hopped out of the van, his jaw set with determination and we watched as he tentatively made his way through the crowd to the front door and then he was gone.

Watch out, first grade. Max is here.


Sometimes I have to pinch myself in order to believe Max gets to attend the school he does. Once again I am thrilled with the teacher he has been assigned, and he is really looking forward to his days. Here’s hoping that lasts and lasts and lasts!!