It’s the Great Flu Bug, Charlie Brown




So, it’s Halloween today. World’s most divided holiday. (Well, Columbus Day is moving up in the polls on this, so perhaps Halloween will lose its ranking soon).

We celebrate Halloween, yes. Our rules are simple:

1.No creepy.

2. No scary.

3. No plastic knives with fake blood (see #1 and #2)

4. And all Reeses’ are subject to quality control sampling.

Anyhoo – we were all in the works for Halloween. So far this month we have had two birthdays, and something called Hyllingsfest which involves dancing and Swedish meatballs and Lord have mercy there were my boys in tights singing “Children of Our Heavenly Father” in SWEDISH and it was PREASHUSS.


CAN YOU EVEN? I MEAN HOLY SWEDISH POM POMS. Also: note the ears. They hold up the hat. Of course. Such great little preshus earsie wearsies.

Also there’s THIS:


It appears in this picture my cute little kid has had just a bit too much of Swedishness and has had to take so many pictures that he just snarls now. BUT IT’S STILL CUTE. IT IS.

Halloween also has the capacity for preshus. I give you, exhibit A:


And then… Wait for it….


The TAIL. I don’t even know how to use my words here. Which is kinda rare.

This Halloween, both boys wanted to be All Star Wars, All the Time. I was so proud. And then, that’s when I kind of detached myself from my reality, and said these fated words:

“Oh no, Blonde. Let me make you a Kylo Ren costume. I’m SURE IT WILL BE EASY.”

Yep yep yep. I said that. It’s about as scary and stupid as the girl who asks, “Is anybody there?” in the scary Halloween movie, right before she gets the big bloody heave-ho.

Do you know, that making a HOOD is not really all that easy? Like, if you don’t make it RIGHT, your kid starts to look sorta… like he’s part of the clan?

And I don’t mean caveman clans, people. My costume really really was taking a turn to the fascist, and that’s… well.. no. Just, NO.

So… then this happened:

“Mom? My head hurts. And my stomach. Also, my throat. And my arms. My arms are twitchy.”

Yes. Yes, twitchy arms are evidently also a symptom of MY KID HAS THE FLU RIGHT BEFORE HALLOWEEN.

I know. This is so scary. Basically it’s like the girl just asked, “Is anybody there?” And THEN she PROCEEDED TO WALK UP THE CREEPY STAIRS. (Why do we go for heights, people, when we are scared? Why? Has not anyone ever considered just turning your butt around and walking right out the door? Oh no. You have to saunter up the STAIRS because up THERE you will be safe and sound and not end up with body parts all over. Suggestion: There’s a Quick Trip down the street – get out, go get a cherry slushy and survive.)

But, I digress.

The kid was sick. Sickety-sick. This all happened on Friday and, as you know, moms never can live for longer than ten seconds without projecting something and then planning the heck out of the ahead, so I started devising.

And it went like this:

  1. My child is sick. And he might still be so on Halloween.
  2. Clearly the most logical thing is to convince the neighborhood to just have Halloween on Wednesday.

Totally should work, right?

When I presented my plan to the husband, I was met with a teensy bit of opposition. It went like this:

“You’ve got to be kidding.”

I responded gently, like this: “THIS IS OUR CHILD. THE FRUIT OF OUR LOINS. HAVE YOU NO SOUL.”

Red: “What are Loinds?”

Anyhow, the hubster, who has so very often found himself in this predicament before, JUST KEPT TALKING:

“Why don’t you just dress him up in his Grim Reaper costume and-”

“Excuse me? What? What did you say?”

“Um… just dress him up. He can answer the door?”

“In his WHAT costume?”

“Um… the Grim Reaper? The one who does the Reaping? No? No reaping? Why are you looking at me like that?”

“Why in the world would you think I would dress my son up as Death? Have you really REALLY no soul? This post is really writing you in a dark light, dude.”

“Okkkkaaay. He’s not the Grim Reaper. So, he’s Hooded Bathrobe Guy?”

The rest of the conversation is not acceptable for our ears BECAUSE WE HAVE SOULS AND MY HUSBAND DOES NOT.

I would like to add that Blonde is all better. I didn’t have to reconfigure the time-space continuum for my neighborhood, so that’s good. My husband and I have worked through our issues and he has adamantly stated that this is the best Kylo costume in the galaxy. He’s a good man.








The Committee In My Head Held a Meeting. Here’s the Result.



Ok, let’s call this meeting to order.

We can’t. She’s not here yet.

Oh geez. How hard is it? We’re in her head. It’s not like she has to walk down the hall… Ok, are there donuts? Someone always brings donuts.

Maybe she’s in the bathroom?

Oh hey! Hi. Hi. Hi! I’m here.

Wow. You really are bringing the whole casual Friday vibe.

It’s Wednesday.

It’s Friday somewhere? Right? Har har har.

No. No, actually it’s not.

Ok, guys I’m sorry. I haven’t changed clothes in two days. I know. I have the whole Hoodie of Gloom thing going on. But look, pink jammy bottoms! Also, I brushed. I think.

Teeth or hair? We can’t tell. Har har har.


ALL RIGHT. We need to get going on this meeting. I’ve got yoga at noon. Or at least, I have yoga on youtube. Or, well, I have youtube at noon. Or earlier. Maybe earlier.

Yes! Meeting! Let’s DO THIS. Why are we meeting?

We’re discussing why you haven’t blogged in crackamillion years.

Oh… You used hyperbole! That’s so cute. That’s my thing.

I know. You USED to write them, like a million of them. Crackamillion years ago.


Ok, onward people. Let’s just throw some ideas around for her to post today, mmmmkay? This is a collaborative group and we’re here to…

Stop, drop, collaborate?

And listen?


There was a horse blanket that sold for five thousand dollars.

I KNOW, right? Like, do you think the other horses were all, “What are you wearing?” And he was all, “Dudes it’s couture.” And they were all-


I’ve got an idea.

Yes, Momsie?

How about I write about my kids and I getting sick for the second time, all of us, in one month and how we are all steeped in despair and Mucinex and so many essential oils that we smell like an Aveda salon blew up in our house?

Brilliant. I’m so sure that no other mom blogger in the history of time has ever written about her kids getting sick.


Done. Let’s go get the donuts.

Seriously, did you see the lady who brought in the necklace and it was like 20 million bucks and she just smiled and said, “That’s so interesting.” What is WRONG with these people? Are they like Stepford Roadshow people?  I mean, I would puke. I would just puke right there all over Mr. Antique with a Bow-Tie guy. Just spew it. But in a highly cultured, PBS kinda way.

Annnnnd thanks so much for that visual. Meeting adjourned.


The Battle of the Tater Tot Casserole


55af89a9f7ba6273f1c0108faa467211.pngGuys. It’s been interesting over here.

But, I must qualify. I am never one to leave a vague adjective uncontested, I tell you. So… by “Interesting” I don’t mean in a “Season cliffhanger of Sherlock on the Netflixes” kind of way.

I mean in a “Wow, I didn’t know puke could really be that color,” kind of way.

It’s a small difference, but you know.

And, I’m thinking, if you are Sherlock, you are really, really happy for that difference.

Anyhow, let’s get into this.

The Attack of the Killer Flu Part One:

Characters: Red and Momsie. Down for two days. We did fine. We puked. We got over it. Lots of laundry was done (I would like to note here that MOMSIE did the laundry. Yep. That’s right. SICK Momsie. Momsie was still able to get laundry folded AND put away, whilst erpy and for THAT I believe I deserve a huge parade. But it won’t happen because of pay cuts and, as all moms know, we continue on. It’s our thing. Even sick. The only parades we’re having are in our heads.) Red was rather non plussed about the whole flu thing, and by that I mean he SLEPT through throwing up THREE TIMES and when I had to get him up at three am, he asked for VISUAL PROOF OF THE PUKE-AGE because he didn’t believe me. The fact that I was dressed in a Hazmat suit didn’t deter him. He just eyed the stuff, cheerfully got up and headed to the bath. Like a boss.

Killer Flu Part Two:

Setting: The dinner table.

Characters: Blonde and Big Blonde (aka the husband) and one irritated Momsie. Also, some tater tot casserole.

Momsie, sets the casserole in front of Blonde kid who immediately regards it as if it were the plague-food.

(I would also like to state that Red has started in on the plague-food with his usual gusto paired with a total disregard for silverware.)

Blonde: I… can’t… eat… this.

Momsie: I clocked out from Mom-ming about five minutes ago. I can’t help you.

Husband: (shoveling in large bites) Blonde! You’ll love it! It’s really good! Also, bland! It’s like really, REALLY bland!

Momsie: Uh… ok…

Husband: Like, SO BLAND. This is so bland it’s AIR, son. It’s like AIR with TATER TOTS SPRINKLED ON TOP!

Momsie: Ok. You made your point-

Husband: The blandness here is really almost it’s own seasoning. It’s bland with a subtle hint of oaky blandness.


And then the battle was on. Blonde’s stubbornness is rather epic. It’s the Stonehenge of stubborn. Unmoving, and kind of mystical. People could traveL from all over the world, just to study him and find out his stubbornness’s origins, but really?

Me. His stubbornnes is from me. It’s all me.

So, on and on went, our battle of the tater tot casserole.  It was nerve-wracking, like watching four-star generals try to plan their next attack for victory, but with some corn and hamburger.

Finally, Blonde surrendered. He managed to eat three teeny tiny bites, he really did. But the entire time, he swore to me, it was killing him.

Momsie won.

Because, that’s parenting. A constant hashmark of who won what and why. I keep a journal where I record all my victories and often refer back to it when I’m feeling needy.

And so… nope, it didn’t kill him.

But he sure as heck did yak tater tot casserole all over the second floor of our house about two hours later. So, there’s that.

So, after I decided there wasn’t enough Lysol in the world to deal, and that perhaps just burning down the second story of the house was the answer, which will work out great for Brian and me when we get older anyhow… I realized something:

That whole “Is this the mountain your want to die on?” line really takes on a whole new meaning when dealing with piles of puke.

Yep. You’re welcome for the visual.

Disclaimer: No, I don’t usually regard my children as creatures to conquer. And no, I’m not one to make a different meal for Mr. Picky. But that night? Some toast and a hug would have been a good idea.

Lesson learned.

You had me at scones.

So, it’s the first week of summerrrrrrrr!

Cue the marching band and glitter unicorns and general merriment!

So far, at our house, aka Party Central,  we have:

  1. Cleaned all the things. Momsie has kinda decided to clean the entire house with all the things in the house clean too. Everything. Everything must be all sorted and organized and my goodness people I can’t stop.
  2. The rather unfortunate side effect of all this super cleaning frenzy thing, which I kind of look at as nesting only really really late in the game, is that my poor preshus little darlings HAVE TO CLEAN TOO AND THE PAIN. THE PAIN.
  3. Yesterday we sorted all the Legos by size, use, and color, people. If that doesn’t deserve a parade I just don’t know.
  4. Then, the little one got sick. Must have been all the cleaning. He opted out of the All Things Shiny plan yesterday by copping a fever and this horrible phlegmy cough that sounds kind of like the “Bring out your dead!” scene from Monty Python. (If you know, you know. If you don’t, don’t ask.)
  5. So, now Red is glazed out watching the Netflixes and eating popsicles and is surrounded by sheets, towels, buckets. Evidently, when someone gets sick, I like to swaddle them in towels and buckets because vomit. Vomit will happen.
  6. And yea, I know. A fever and plague-cough doesn’t usually mean puke, but it does if you’re Red. The little angel. Puking is one of his love languages. I don’t really know what that means.
  7. Oh, and also this:


IMG_5482.jpgMy sweet friend Alissa brought these by earlier today.  Those buttery, flaky bits of goodness are scones. And she brought an iced coffee because CAFFEINE. Notice the cup. She knows my maturity level.

My other friend, Jenna, has taken the Blonde for the afternoon, because, well, he might have to clean something if he stayed here with me, and I think he hit his quota with all the teeny tiny Legos in all the teeny, tiny the boxes, yesterday.

When I had kids I found this new form of female that I never really knew existed before: The Mom Friend.

Before kids? I figured the mom friend just was, well, kinda consumed with Mom-ing and we would sit around and compare baby wipes and stuff. I know. I had no idea.

Because you know what? Mom friends actually DO sit around and compare baby wipes! Baby wipes are important!

And also: they tell each other their fears about their kids and what to pray for and how they sometimes feel a little lonely and how they hate their non-ready for tank tops arms even though they are TRYING but by God the last time they did their arm workout they couldn’t lift the Cheerios box the next morning, and Lord have mercy the babies might have starved to death.

They talk fears and anger and sex and raw stuff. And they laugh.

And then there’s this:


My friend Christy sent me this the other day. I had texted her that I was at my happy place, The Walmarts (sarcasm! It keeps me regular!) and she sent me that. I did the snort-laugh in line behind this one guy who was purchasing about 50 cans of cat food. He was one of us, a cat person, you know? Basically harmless. But he just glared at me after I snorted and then my children started asking if they  could pleeeeeeease have one of the sixteen million right-at-child-eyeline chocolate sugar things because they are starving, STARVING and only a jumbo Reeses will fix it, and I had to get my Mom game face on and shut ’em down. So I never got to tell her thank you for the snort laugh.

Basically, what I’m trying to say is that Mom friends are NEEDED. Like vitamins. And long walks. And occasional binge watching of Tiny House Hunters. I need these things. They re-set, recalibrate, and reward.

Thank you, Mom friends. You had me at scones. YLN9yCl.gif



Monday and Monty Python

My darlings, all of them, have been a bit sickie lately.

Don’t worry, it’s not really dire or anything. It’s just this:

A never ending, wet hacking that sounds like a seal with smoker’s cough. I tried to google that, and you would be shocked, SHOCKED at the images that popped up. Thank you, interwebs.

The boys walk around in a sort of pleghmy haze, coughing and hacking like that happy “Bring out your dead!” plague scene in Monty Python. In fact, if my little urchins learned how to speak in a Brit accent and dressed in rags and cheeky British satire, we could audition.

‘Course, Monty Python’s Flying Circus is no longer. It is an EX-Monty. The Flying Circus has ceased to be.

(You see what I did there, right?)

Anyhow, I really have nothing more to tell you, except that with all this pathetic wheezing, I am feeling a bit tired. Also, it’s just possible I haven’t had a normal night’s sleep in about five hundred days. Or three. Somewhere in there.

And I told you that to tell you this. After six years (plus nine long months, but who’s counting) of being a mom, I have learned an important truth:

Mothers, you can give sleep a big fat kiss goodbye.

Yes, I have learned other things as a mom, like how to get eyes in the back of my head and quelling tantrums with one withering glance (this took practice, but it works like a charm on the hubs, every time), and how to refer to broccoli as “little trees” to amuse your children into eating it.* But the sleep thing? That’s been a tough one.

Let me illustrate for you (since I am really, really tired and pictures are easy)


Young woman sleeping










What? Oh. Well, all RIGHT. The lawyer would like me to state the following,

Disclaimer: Woman in bed is not actually me. She’s a stunt Momsie. And while we’re at it, my bed is not, nor was it ever, that white. And the hubs is not pictured above because, well, he would be sleeping with ANOTHER WOMAN and that is NOT the kind of blog I am running here, ya’ll.

And, also, I think she really needs to wash her makeup off at bedtime; that is so not good for your skin.

But I digress.









Yes, I know I have written about this no sleep clause after childbirth thing before. I apologize. There are two reasons for this:


2. It never ceases to amaze me, children. They are, like, relentless. They just keep AT you, like for food, and endless drinks of water, and because they want to come cough on you at three in the morning. Why must they cough on us? I don’t know. (I mean, I get the food part, sustenance and all, but the coughing? Does it have to be with another?  Coughing alone is not as… fun? Coughing likes to bond?)

I once did try to convince the boys that coughing on the cat was the way to go. I mean, Steve is about the mildest, most sweet tempered cat on the planet. And so, expectorating all over him at three am seemed like a good option.

A wee problem with this was that Steve the Cat was in our bed the first time that Red attempted this. So, of course, Red got up out of his bed, grabbed his blanket, and walked his cuteness right over to the edge of our bed, and then unloaded a huge, rattling whoop on Steve, us, and the entire four state area.

All this startled Steve a bit, and he decided to exit the bed rather quickly. The other wee problem here was that he was tightly wrapped in sheets (What? He looked chilly.) and so, he got a bit zealous with his claws to get the heck outta there.

No wee Reds where injured in the coughing incident. I, however, was woken to a wired cat who decided to use my stomach as a trampoline to catapult (I AM AWESOME. YOU SEE THAT? RIGHT?) himself onto the floor.

Don’t worry, I was fine.

It was just a flesh wound.


*”Little trees” ? Really? This so did not work on Blonde. He just gave me a withering glance. I was so proud. He has learned from the master.