Letter to Dane, Day 1058


Dear Dane,

You are two.

You are maddeningly, frustratingly two. You are almost three. You are newly defiant, willful, mercurial. You are sometimes reserved, sometimes friendly, sometimes just want to be left alone. You are a long, lean string bean, except for your hands, which are still thankfully, blessedly, pudgy baby hands.

You are a tough little scar on your chin. You are thank you for the rain, Puppy, clocks and socks. You are monkeys-in-your-ears when I say stop, you are bananas-bananas-bananas when your sister steals your toy, you are a forlorn puppy when you cry. You are always safe in my arms.

You are your daddy made over. You are jumping in the waves and making my heart stop. You are digging in the dirt, mowing the lawn, trimming the trees, blowing the leaves, washing the car, playing in the sand, building a skyscraper. You are the most verbal two-year-old I have ever met. You are whip smart. You are a scary prospect at sixteen.

You are every wheel that ever turned, every engine that ever growled, every horn that ever honked. You are the bus, the digger, the train, the police car, the fire truck. You are still in love with your baby elephant, Horton-nee-Walter, who plays music from his tail.

You are trying to be big like your daddy. You are eat your healthy growing foodssleep so you can be big and strong. You are still little and secretly, quietly, we are all thankful for that.

You are popping out of bed every five minutes at nap time, you are excited to be a big boy in a big boy bed, you are the gate at your door that brings tears to my eyes, you are the clock that turns green when it’s time to get up. You are never sleepy, except when you are. You are on, on, on, until you are off. And then you are on again.

You are whispered conversations when I sing to you at bedtime. You are “This is nice. This is good, Mommy” when I snuggle you. You are one more book, some few more songs, one more drink of milk. You are delicious.

You are your Mimi’s, your Granpa’s, your Memere’s, your Pepere’s, your aunts’ and uncles’ and cousins’. You are Daddy’s and you are Hayden’s. You are your own boy. You are growing up to be a fine boy. You are, although I can’t think about it very often, going to be a wonderful man.

You are turning the car around and driving back to the beach to retrieve Puppy from the closet in which you were playing. You are tears welling in my eyes on the way back down the sandy stairs, because you are puppy, and he is you, and you are unashamedly, incontrovertibly mine.





Because, this.

Today at lunch I realized: no matter how sleep deprived, cranky, complain-y, two-year-old maddened and in general grumpy I am, if I could bottle this moment in time, with my kids at these ages, I would absolutely live it every day for the rest of my life. Forever.

Today in the Mommyhood, Day 1025 (Posthumous)

(This happened last weekend, but when you’re only getting three hours of sleep at a time… delays happen.)

So, last Saturday in the ‘hood:

We’d driven two and a half hours to a birthday party, and because keeping Dane in bed at night requires wood slats nailed across his door frame a lot of effort, we were driving home at bedtime. We do this on longer drives: get in the car around bedtime, kids nod off after takeoff, ride home is peaceful and we toss the kids in bed when we get home. Except.

The husband was driving. And when the husband drives, he gets sleepy. And when he gets sleepy, he wants a milkshake. So thirty minutes into our drive, the kids and I are asleep (did you read the part where I only sleep three hours at a time? YES, I was asleep), and I wake to find us EXITING THE FREEWAY. That’s right. He was SLOWING THE VEHICLE DOWN WHILE CHILDREN WERE SLEEPING INSIDE.

For those of you with no children, this violates four fundamental tenets of parenting, two international treaties and at least one law of physics. I don’t care if your hair is on fire; if there are sleeping children in your car, you douse it with the three-day-old Diet Coke in your cupholder and KEEP. MOVING.

But, no.

To his credit, the husband was tired, and it was raining, and it was late, and I understand the undeniable urge for a milkshake at any time of the day. We even made it through the drive-through, and here I am thinking well, what do you know, karma must be looking the other way, when what happened? Want to guess? Go on, give it a try.

The car overheats.

That’s right. It’s an hour past bedtime, toddler and infant asleep in their car seats, in a driving rainstorm, in a K-Mart parking lot, two hours from home, and the STINKING. CAR. OVERHEATS.

German engineering, my ass.

As you might imagine, the children woke up and chaos ensued. We spent the rest of the drive rocking to a tuneless, goats-only rendition of Old MacDonald Had a Farm, punctuated by the cries of our unhappy seven-month old. Oh, and ten minutes before we got home? Of course. They fell asleep. Because, well, that happens.

Miss me much? 🙂

2013_08_26 Car Ride

Getting ready for the next round of “wit a AAAAHHHHAAAHH dere and a AAAHHHAAAHHHH dere.”

smooch -s

Hello. Hello, Again. (Again)

Why, hello.

It’s been a while since I’ve been around. Let me ‘splain. No, there is too much. Let me sum up.

If you recall, once there was this guy:


Part trucker, part ballplayer, all yum.

Who turned into this:


Meet the new boss. Same as the old boss.

And then this happened (I’ll spare you the details):

Hayden Belly2

Why yes, Victoria, that is nine months worth of Blue Bell.

As it turns out, babies can be born MINUS WORKING EPIDURALS. Proof:


Sweetest Rosie girl.

And now she’s six months old. Already.


I’m so screwed.

I’ve been busy. But I missed y’all. And now that the creativity drain of pregnancy and six months post-partum is over, well, I’m back. Smooch -s

There’s Something About Harvey

First, thank you so much for the very kind, supportive comments on Hurricane Plants last week, and I’m sorry I’m only now getting around to replying to them. We’re still in semi-quarantine, but Dane has an appointment with a specialist this week and I’m hoping we’ll get some more information on Thursday. In the meantime, I’m spending my writing time staring at a blank screen and raging against a villainous, nefarious, rash-causing something. But really, bloggy peeps. Deeply. Thank you.

And now back to our regularly scheduled snark.

My husband is gainfully employed, for which I am deeply, deeply, truly, deeply thankful. And because of his gainful employment, and because this blog is on this newfangled dagnabbity contraption called the internet, and because prospective employers apparently can make you log into The Facebook during an interview these days (WTF, PEOPLE?), I will tell you only hypothetically of a conversation that may or may not have occurred between the two of us a while – quite a while, now, actually – back.

Me: Did you read my blog post?

Husband: Which one?

Me: The one about my ladybusiness?

Husband: Heheheheheh. Heheh. Heh.

Me: Nice.

Husband: Heheheheheh.

Me: Dude.

Husband: Okay, fine, yes. It was funny.

(Long pause)

Me: What?

Husband: Well, I was thinking of writing an ode to my (insert obnoxious-but-not-really-offensive-1984 -word for manparts here).

Me: That. Would. Be. Awesome.

And since that moment, all those weeks ago, I have time and time again wondered: what WOULD my husband say to his manparts, given the opportunity? So, with no further ado, I present:

An Imagined Letter From My Better Half to His Manparts

Hello, manparts.

So, manparts. Do you mind if I call you Towering Fortress of Manliness? Giant Turkey Leg of Awesomeness? Or Harvey? I’ve always liked the name Harvey. Harvey, it is.

So, Harvey.

You rock.



p.s. We scored on that wife thing, huh?

(Smooch -s)

read to be read at yeahwrite.me

Hurricane Plants

Yes. Hurricane plants.

Do you know the ones I mean? When a storm’s coming, a hurricane plant turns itself inside out so all that’s visible are the white undersides of the leaves. It’s disconcerting, foreboding, even, to feel the wind and see the purple-black sky and watch those plants curl over themselves, tucking under that shell. Google says they’re philodendron, but I thought they were hibiscus or some kind of palm. I should ask my mother. She would know.

Dane’s been sick for two weeks with no sign of abatement. His illness is changing, sure, but we’re progressing from one kind of bad to another, instead of into varying shades of better. His issue is not life-threatening. It’s not chronic, nor will it scar him or change his health outcome in any way. He has a nasty, untreatable virus that’s having some nasty aftereffects, and by the time we go to the beach in July, the whole episode will be a blip on the screen of an otherwise sunny spring. But. BUT.

I’m crouching over him anyway. I’m in the right now, and I’m tired and worried and there’s nothing I can do to help. We just have to have patience, which, as you may imagine, isn’t in my wheelhouse. My grandfather wasn’t the only rustic frontier-independent Texan in my family. You get in the way of my child, and like any good parent, I will move you. Only you can’t move a virus. Reason it off a ledge. Threaten it with a broken beer bottle (Stay green, Ponyboy. Stay green.). You can’t make a doctor, or drug, or your mother or husband, fix something when the only solution is time. And most importantly, I can’t fix him. Instead, I’m curled over him, not because I’m mother of the year or because I reasoned out the answer in a spreadsheet, but because it’s the only thing I know how to do. I feel like a failure. Helpless. And let me be clear. That helplessness? I HATE IT.

I’m not asking for sympathy. I know there’s much, much worse out there, and there are much stronger people who deal with those problems. Dane’s virus will pass and he’ll be back to picking up earthworms and rushing toward the future at lightspeed, and I’ll flip over some leaves and signal the bartender for another drink. But for now,  I’ve tucked this baby under me and we’re just waiting, and praying, for the weather to pass.


Smooch -s

read to be read at yeahwrite.me