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.


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

The Godmother (Subtitled: This is a long, personal, wordy, non-offensive post about God.)

So you’ve heard about Aunt Brookie and her fab three kiddos on this here blog, but I haven’t mentioned that I’m their godmother (the kiddos, not Aunt Brookie.). On an every day basis, this means acting less like a jerk than usual, but this year, the oldest (Bub) is going through an important church event, so I’m all consumed with how to be the best darn godmother ever.

My goal is to support Bub in his journey in faith, and, to do that, I’m trying to map out exactly what my role is. I know there are 14,000 websites that tell me the EXACTLY CORRECT ROLE OF THE GODMOTHER IN EVERY RELIGION KNOWN TO MAN, but as long as I’m adhering to the general rules of godparenting in our church, I’m not so concerned about the “what I’m supposed to be doing” as the “what’s important to our family, and how we can share and grow and learn together in our faith” part of things.

There’s the obvious: I need to share and be open (and knowledgable) about our religion. I need to agree on the values held not only by our church but also by his parents so that we present a united front on the who and how and what and why and all those other logistical components of raising a child in a religion. And I need to understand that this is his journey and be focused, respectful and supportive of his choices, and let him know how proud I am that he’s developing his own ideas about faith and his relationship with God.

What else? Being godmother means being a role model, in faith and life. It’s being the kind of person I perceive God wants us to be: kind, compassionate, always putting others first, sharing what we have with those less fortunate and remembering our blessings. In this sense, I’m lucky, because Bub inspires me to be those things, anyway. He’s an exceptional kid, and I’m not just referring to the fact he can build the death star out of duck tape, chewing gum and his sisters’ toothbrushes, and then use it to rescue the neighbor’s kitten from a tree. He’s one of the most thoughtful and helpful people I know (and he’s SEVEN, y’all), a kid to whom doing the right thing comes naturally. Actually, as I write this, I realize he’s kind of my hero. Which is a pretty big accomplishment since that list includes Winston Churchill, Jason Bourne and the founder of Chik-Fil-A.

Being Bub’s godmother also means I get to share some really special parts of his life (this is an “I” paragraph. At least it’s less than 700 words, okay?). I get the singular privilege of watching an already exceptionally thoughtful and intelligent child apply his empathy and intellect to our faith, and see how it changes him and how he changes it. Actually, I get to do more than watch. I have the privilege of sharing that journey with him. I get to be there when he has questions or thoughts or just wants to sit and watch the stars or the wind blow or his sisters playing, and marvel at the gifts God has given us.

Being a godmother to Bub means helping him understand that we’re always with him but even more so, God is always with him. It’s helping him not be uncomfortable  talking about God (like his godmother), and understand how special and lucky we are to be part of a global community of faith. It’s helping him see that he can always depend on (in order of importance), God, J.C. and associated cronies, his faith, his parents and sisters and family, and me as his godmother. It’s remembering how lucky we are to walk in God’s light and that our actions and not just our words represent that, and that we’re blessed to have not a particular tangible thing, but each other.


I’ll admit something else, internet peeps, that makes me nervous. See, I’ve always been cool Aunt Su-Su, and it’s important to me to remain cool Aunt Su-Su. This is not because I think he’s going to need someone to buy him beer when he’s seventeen and wants to look good in front of his friends (really, A.B. I promise), or because I’m so desperately clinging to the last three people in the world who still think I’m cool (which, of course, I am). This is because growing up, I never had an adult outside of my parents to whom I could talk (this is not a criticism of my parents, btw, who are in fact AWESOME). But boy howdy, could I have occasionally used a place to go or a shoulder to cry on or a logical engineer who could set me back on the straight and narrow AND show me how to build that damn toothpick bridge for physics. And so, in a really wordy way, I want to be cool Aunt-Su-Su because it is vitally important for me to continue having such a close relationship with Bub and the other two smushies up in A.B.’s ‘hood, so that they always have someone to go to, cry with, laugh with, play with, build bridges with (literally and metaphorically) – in short, so they always have that one extra person they can depend on and trust in and know will always love them and believe in them. Their godmother.

Love that boy. The hair much less. HEY IT WAS 2004 YO.

Love – Aunt Su-Su

REALLY? + M. Nature + Inertia + Reflection = Radio Silence

Hola muchachos. Did you miss me? (Also, what is a muchacho? I feel that it should be some combination of a gaucho and a nacho.) (On second thought, that would be an unfortunate combination of noncompatible items.) (No, google says it is a male servant or a young man. I liked it better when it was a fashion nacho.)


So hi! It’s been a while, and JUST LET ME TELL YOU WHY. Oh yes, it’s going to be capsy. Not bad, so much, but just, you know, LOUD. So first there was my unfortunate medical issue, which is  ongoing; it’s getting better, but it’s still affecting my ability to effectively manage the three hours hour and a half that Dane naps every day. And then there are all the other things I’m trying to do while Dane naps, like, you know, unravel the mysteries of the universe and clean out my washer and write thank you notes and get our roof replaced and try to figure out how to keep my child nursing because last Sunday he randomly decided he was no longer interested in milky products of any kind. Really, little man? Which thusly meant a trip to the doctor and a phone call to the lactation consultant and from there we’re doing skin-to-skin and I’m carrying him everywhere in the sling (at ten months. Yes, he’s STOKED.) and feeding him at the drop of a hat and on the couch and in the car (but without my nursing cover because did I mention HE’S TEN MONTHS OLD, WHO DOES THIS?) and wherever he might be hungry and then naptime is all muckedy-mucked up because he MIGHT nurse or he MIGHT not and we need a different routine for each eventuality and by the end of the day you might just as well hook me up to an IV of lime juice and Cuervo because OMG SHOULDN’T THIS BE EASY BY NOW? I mean. LAWDY.

And then on top of all that, I’m trying to install cabinet locks and drawer locks and strap down all our furniture and hide the plastic hangers, because in the same span of time, Mr. Smushylicious Smartypants has learned to do this:

That’s right, Gladware. YOU CAN’T HIDE FROM ME.

So I get a few of those things done (but no, not the thank you notes, can I please just send out a great PSYCHIC YAWLP THANK YOU and be done with it, universe?) and just as I’m starting to feel a little better, somebody dialed up a hurricane and screwed up my plans to go to the beach last weekend. Instead I spent most of last week in a strange inert state, going to Target every day to pick up D batteries and bottled water and dried gnocchi and pasta sauce and diapers and wipes and Desitin (and a can of bean dip and some Diet Rite) (what, no REK fans out there?), and then lo and behold we got two gusts of wind, a twenty minute rain storm and a half-hearted growl of thunder and BAM it’s sunny again. Thanks, Mother Nature. WILL SOMEBODY PLEASE TELL THESE PEOPLE I’M FROM HOUSTON?


Here’s the silver lining part: the hurricane brought on the inertia which brought on some reflection time, in which I realized I’m a little south of satisfied about the blog (this one here, I mean). When I started writing again, it was more or less wordvomit. I was coming out of the crazymommy stage and needed to dump out the contents of my brain and HEY, why not do that in front of two billion people on the internet, right? And the more I’ve written, the more I’ve read other mom bloggers and the more I’ve realized I really enjoy reading and writing (good on me for figuring that out after two years of grad school), and blah blah blah, I’ve decided to make some changes. Find some new digs, maybe. Get a fancy title bar. Yes, I might even join Twitter, which is apparently what all the young kids do for fun these days (although Aunt Brookie has sworn SHE WILL NOT FOLLOW ME ON ONE MORE WEBSITE.) (But she will.) (Because all the cool kids are doing it.) (Or really, just because she loves me. Right, A.B.? Right?).

Good grief, this post is unreadable.

Anyway, the upshot of all this is I’m going to disappear for a few more days and try to find a fancy new spot to splash my baby’s mug all over and until then, I wish you guys love and candy bars and a great college football weekend and magical tequila that does not a hangover require. Don’t worry, we’ll be back. How could I deny the world… this?

Yummy boy.

Or this?

Where’s the baby?

Or even this?

I’m so screwed.