inaugural thoughts.

Each of us approaches this inauguration day of our new president with a litany of feelings. We each have our expectations – preconceived ideas; some have worries, others excitement. Some believe this is the best, most God-ordained time in recent history, and some view the new president as the devil himself, or better yet, the anti-Christ.  One thing is for sure, this is the most polarizing time I’ve ever been alive for.

Some might call me an opinionated person. They might be right.  I haven’t been silent about my frustrations or concerns about this election or President Trump.  I didn’t like him as a reality TV star and I don’t care for him as a president. I support things like marriage and civil equality, and I believe that some of the policies and ideals entering the White House may put those things in jeopardy.  My family has a very real spiritual life and commitment to follow the teachings of Jesus the way we feel He puts them on our heart. I don’t necessarily think some of the things that are being represented or initiated by the incoming presidency reflects those things. These things are the heart of my disappointments in our new President.  Those are the facts as I know them, and I’m not inclined to apologize for them at this time.

However, in a conversation with my always and forever level headed and even-keeled, even to the point of annoyance husband today, I realized two things:
1) I literally married a saint. He is by far the most level-headed and even keeled person I know, EVEN TO THE POINT OF ANNOYANCE and 
2) I know (almost certainly, but not quite) that the world isn’t going to fall apart in the next four years. Or probably even eight if we get to that.  Dear God, that really hurt to type.

Eight years ago a guy went into office that I kind of liked, but the most I knew about him was that he offered “hope” and he was the first black president which was exciting. I didn’t care about the election much beyond that. I didn’t vote for him (or against him) and I cared about politics about as much as I care about what’s in the AARP pamphlet that gets mailed to my house now: not a lot.  Half of the country was convinced he was going to burn our country to the ground, steal our guns, legalize people marrying their toasters and make the white man a second class citizen.  Flash forward to today, and the other half of the country is convinced the new president is going to invite the Russians in to burn the country to the ground, put guns in every school, repeal all civil rights and terrorize people of every color that happen to be a shade darker than white.  I sincerely hope and pray that the fears being voiced today hold to be just as empty as the fears voiced eight years ago.

It’s a safe bet that every single person in this country knows someone who voted opposite of them (or how they would have voted.)  I am surrounded by die-hard Trump supporters- people who wore red, white and blue and were glued to their televisions all day and are probably throwing celebrations tonight.  I also know people who wore all black today and didn’t dare turn on the television and are participating in (peaceful) protest marches tomorrow (not to be confused with vandals and idiots who are not actually protesting anything other than morals and their own intelligence.)

Most of those celebrating this history making moment are good people. They voice hope in a proposed resolution to the things that they fear and the things they are convicted about in their lives.   Just as most of the those in opposition are not crybaby liberals that think we should all just walk into Wall Street and take billionaire money to use for our very own and never do an honest day’s work in our lives.  Those I know who are Trump supporters do not generally walk around spewing racist hatred, sexist dominance or other vitriol.  Some do; I’m not going to pretend they don’t. Some are critical and judgmental and angry.  They are ignorant and bullies and just downright rude.  Just as some liberals are hateful and angry and jump on every chance to be an ignorant bully in their way, and most aren’t. They are these things with or without Trump. They were these people before this election and they’ll probably be these people after Trump’s administration does whatever they’re going to do.

I don’t like being called a brainless retard (aka libtard sheeple) for believing like I do any more than the other side likes being called a racist deplorable.  It hurts.  I also don’t like being told I’m not a real Christian because I believe in marriage equality and women’s rights any more than other Christians like being judged for believing God might be able to use such a scoundrel of a man.  It’s not my place to pretend to be God and place judgement. If I say that they don’t reserve the right to judge anyone, then I guess I don’t get to judge them.  And damn if that doesn’t punch me right in the gut as I type it.

Calling Donald Trump an orange oompa-loompa is no less hateful and angry than calling Michelle Obama a monkey.  It’s so hateful and disgusting and I literally feel sick typing that- but both are rooted in anger and hatred- one seems more innocent, but I just don’t think it is.  Just because I happen to hate the “oompa-loompa” (and I’m really working on not hating right now, help me Jesus) doesn’t make it less.  I want it to with every fiber of my being, but hate is hate. Barf.  Jesus take the wheel. (I’m trying, not perfect, okay.)

The truth of the situation is this:  I’m a white woman married to a white man and our little tiny life is not going to change a whole lot through all of this.  Heck, some things will probably end up benefiting us.  Our kids seem to be straight white people and they have enough of their mother’s downright scrappiness and their daddy’s good heart that they’re going to be just fine.  They might have to fight harder for some things than if a different president were in place, who knows.  I know not everyone I love has these same privileges. I want so desperately to make your fears and the very real reasons that you have them go away.  I want to say that this is all going to be okay and that your rights will not only be protected but progress will continue to be made.  I can’t say that.  I have no idea what will actually come of all of this.

I can promise that I will continue to stand and do all I can in my world to make those things be.  I will pray. I’ll pray for you and for the president and for those that he has put in power. And I will hope.  I will hope against hope and when all is lost I will hope and pray some more.  And then I will get up off my knees, and I will fight.  I will fight for love and I will fight for liberty, but I will do it without hate.  I will not even hate the bully that doesn’t know when to shut his mouth and just keep moving.  I might have to tell him to shut up, but I will not hate.  Not here and not now.  It seems to me that sometimes fighting is confused with hating – at least it is for me, and this is something I will change in me.

At the end of the day, each and every one of us want the same things. We want to be heard. We want to be given the same chance at life that we think the other guy has.  We want a chance at victory in fighting our battles and achieving success for our hard work.  We want to love and be loved and for those around us to celebrate our love.  We want to be understood.  We want someone to stand next to us and have our back.  We want to matter. We might show it differently, but this is the core of who we are.  This is what we are fighting for.  This is what I will fight for, and this is what I will give – to those who voted for Trump, to those who voted for Hillary and to those who didn’t vote at all.



the best /adult/ part of the season

Every year Jimmie and I host an adult only Christmas party full of shenanigans and with a ridiculous theme.


We used to host it at our house. (This pic was at our house during the “Christmas Vacation” themed party. I would never allow myself to wear pants that uncomfortable and, quite frankly, UNFLATTERING out in public- and we won’t even talk about Jimmie.)  A few years ago, the party outgrew our house.  We wanted to keep up the tradition, and wanted to make it open for our friends to bring their friends, so we created the Annual Christmas Crawl.  You guys, this event is quite honestly the best thing you can experience in your life, if you like to have fun.  It’s ridiculous on so many levels I can’t even tell you.

What’s a Christmas Crawl, you say?  Quite simply, it’s a pub crawl through the most amazing dive bars in our neighboring small town you can imagine, right in the middle of the most stressful time of year.  Every bar has a challenge or activity and it’s just seriously the most fun you can have within the law (mostly.)  This year’s “guests” topped out at around 60 people when everyone was actually present and accounted for.  There was a lot of wandering aimlessly by some people and a few “oh my god, does anyone have eyes on _____” a few more times in the night, so I don’t think we were ever all actually together.  Grown ups have a lot of stress around the holidays, and an adult night that isn’t spent with your work people, your family or your kids, tends to get a little bit rowdy.

The beauty of the Christmas Crawl, is that it’s an open invite for anyone and everyone. We start by inviting our friends, and we all but beg them to invite their friends.  Like most people our age, we have friends from a lot of different circles of our life. Everyone from family members that we love hanging out with, to friends from our kids’ schools or sports teams to neighbors to the “how did we even meet?!” friends.  This means, the friends of friends crowd is even more diverse and eclectic.  It’s amazing!

We start the night an awkward group of people that loosely resemble middle-schoolers lined up on the opposite sides of the gym at our first school dance, and end the night with some dude you don’t know nestled in your bosom while your husband holds him up and his wife swears he’s been roofied because this is SO out of character (and it truly is.)  It’s truly the most magical time of the year. This year was especially amazing, because around stop number three or four, we just starting adopting people from the bar into our group.  We seriously made friends with a guy who Jim and I immediately made our Facebook friend and decided was now part of our family whether he likes it or not.  He’s front and center of our group photo from the night, as he should be!
(This is just a sample of the group, hopefully small enough to protect the identities of the innocent.)

This year’s theme was holiday/festive pajamas.  Jimmie was Olaf and I had some ridiculous winter onesie on.  It was…epic. I tried to think of any other word to use because that one is so done, but that’s really all I’ve got. Jimmie in a giant, white, fictional snowman pajama suit can be nothing less than epic.  Most of our friends got into the spirit of it all, and those that didn’t were wishing they did by the end of the night (whether they admit it or not.)


EDIT- Jim just read this and demanded I add funny details for everyone to experience…

My favorite part of the night is a little game I like to call drink or dare. It’s full of stupid challenges that intend to 1) break the ice among strangers and 2) embarrass as many people as possible. Some of the challenges are mild: high five every person in the bar, call everyone “Chief” for half an hour and take a selfie with a stranger are a few of my faves. Other challenges are a little silly: every time you laugh pump your arm like Tiger Woods…you get the drift. My personal favorite was “go caroling with a group of friends.”  Imagine your family sitting in a cute little pizza place and a group of strange, possibly drunk, men coming around in their pajamas singing Christmas carols. That happened. And here’s a little video of a small part of those events…

One of our friends was dressed in a Rocky onesie. Everywhere we went he sang the theme song and raised his arms like the champ. Everywhere. And then there was our group Santa Clause. This little outfit is probably illegal in most states. 

I’m honestly not sure why the town of puyallup even allows us to keep doing this year after year. We are complete menaces. 

Probably the most fun event of the night is the photo scavenger hunt. Here’s a pic of the challenges…

It’s amazing what total strangers will do for you to help you win a stupid scavenger hunt that has no real prize. 

I have no other point to make except to tell you that you need this in your life.  Start planning it now. Make a reason to get all of your friends together for something like this- or however best fits into your life.  It’s the best grown-up part of our holiday season.  We walk away amazed at the friendships and love that we have in our life.  Wishing you the same joy and love in your holiday season…






I made a comment on the Facebook a couple of months ago about how I miss the olden days of “mommy blogs,” and what they meant to me. I can’t even tell you how many of my friends were all “preach it sister! We need to bring back the good ol’ days!” (or something far more profound than that.)

Years before this particular blog transpired, my daily lifeline was the blog I wrote when the kids were babies.  A stay at home mom of two little carpet monkeys, deep in the trenches of lifeMySpace and my blog were my life’s blood.  There were mornings I’d stumble to the computer with a baby attached to each limb just to reach out to someone who could relate. –You guys, this was before the smart phone.  There was no rocking the baby while browsing the Facebook (There was NO Facebook.) This was haul out your laptop (if you were so lucky) and hope that the typing sounds didn’t wake the precious little life-drainer.  There were no baby wraps and slings- we balanced those little buggers on one knee and typed with one hand. This was OG real shit. God it was good.

As women, we were a unit.  We rallied around each other when the nights were long and sleep was short.  We congratulated each other on showering and the ability to survive “crying it out.”  We reminded each other to put on our big girl panties and press on through the tantrums and puke-fests.  We cried together when jobs were lost and cross-country moves were made.  We cheered one another on when we managed to handle whatever curve-ball life threw at us.  And we high-fived each other when we somehow managed to sneak in sex and actually enjoy it.  We were REAL, and we saved each other.

I mean this with the utmost respect, but these young/today moms don’t know what they’re missing. I love that they have their instagram and their communities and their pinterest-worthy etsy creations (whatever they may be,) but it’s just not the same. If I were a young mom today I would hide in the bathroom with a bottle of wine and cry myself to nap time. There’s so much damn pressure.  All this “what I’m doing now” staged photography and “join my circle” stuff I can’t even begin to follow makes my head spin.  Girl, if someone told me to take a selfie and post it for my “community” when I was in the trenches I would have asked how much they’d been drinking and did they have more to share.  A SELFIE! After three days of no sleep?  How about you go and fuck yourself?!  Here’s a photo: my dog puked on the floor and my new crawler decided today would be a fun day to discover finger painting. How’s that for a photo op?

I LOVE that things are evolving and social media is what it is.  It’s still somewhat of a lifeline to me, but I don’t have time to stage my house to look like it’s clean so I can take a “what I’m doing now” selfie.  My kids may be in school, but one of them has been sleeping on my floor for three weeks because that damn XBox game with the zombies scared the shit out of him. And I can’t sleep with him snoring at my feet! I’ll pass on the selfie documentation of these bags under my eyes, thankyouverymuch. There’s no less than 6 loads of laundry on my dining room table because my back has been out for days, and I think my dog just peed somewhere. That makes a lovely photo backdrop, right?

My point? It’s just too much. But I do miss having that kind of community.  I miss my ladies laughing and high-fiving, and even crying through the cyberspace together. I miss the men stumbling into our world and getting a brief “oooohhhhh” moment and understanding just what the hell was going on in our minds.  (Or an AAAAAHHHHH moment and running away for dear life!)  I miss the encouragement and the camaraderie.

This past month the OG mommyblogger of us all, Dooce, hung up her keyboard and is moving on from the blogging world.  (Real talk, I didn’t even know she was still blogging.  I kind of assumed that when I stopped so did everyone else. Because…I’m self-involved?)  Heather was a pioneer of mommyblogs.  She made people want to lay their shit bare and gather round one another. When I read about her decision today it made me sad.  Not for her, but that we’re in a time that people don’t gather around one another and push through the trenches together.  People clean one corner of their otherwise CRAZY house/life so they can snap perfectly filtered snapshots of their tidy little life to impress one another.  I’m sure their communities are encouraging and uplifting in their way, but it’s just…not the trenches.

Motherhood is raw.  It’s messy.  It’s ugly.  No instagram filter can hide the vulnerability of motherhood. So who do these women have?  There are people that I love and eternally respect because of the bond we made in the trenches. I ache for those relationships some days.  It’s been twelve years and I still need them on days that my daughter rolls her eyes at me and stomps away. (Usually to remind me that she’s just like me and that yes, I must actually let her live to see another day.)

I want us to revive the trenches.  I want to walk through the next twelve years of motherhood with the same community I started the first twelve with.  I want to show the younger moms that the trenches of motherhood are filled with a love and beauty so deep that a filter can’t begin to mimic its glow. I read about the “Mommy Wars” and I just shake my head.  We had mommy wars, but we were all fighting for the same thing: survival.  If you’d stop trying to make yourselves look so damn perfect,you wouldn’t have the burning desire to tear one another down. (I mean, there will always be that guy, but I just don’t think to the extent that we see now.)

I don’t know, maybe this is just a pipe dream, but I think it might be becoming my dream.

there’s rarely a time when facebook isn’t to blame.

If you follow me on facebook, you probably saw that photo yesterday.  Elle was home from school and locked in the office for a long time on the computer.  I thought she was working on schoolwork that she was missing while home playing hooky. I was such a proud mother.

Then, about an hour and a half later, she came out of the office and gave me a huge hug. And then began talking about a million miles per hour.

I found your blog, mom.  And it’s AMAZING.  I’m so glad you’re going to start writing again.  You are soooo good at it.  But wow, you really swear a lot.  I mean, A LOT.  It’s okay though because it kind of makes it so much funnier.  But wow. You swear a lot.  I mean. A. lot.

I had a moment of sheer panic. How on earth was I going to explain and justify and try to re-hide this from her? HOW DID SHE EVEN FIND IT? Ohhhh…the Facebook.  Damn that Facebook.  This is exactly why I have never accepted any friend requests from my friends’ kids.

That picture up there is the face she made when I asked her how she felt when she discovered the blog. Hahaha. She is hilarious.  The nice thing about having an incredibly mature tween child, is that you can mostly just be you, and they can be them, and life just works.  If she sees a blog post that makes me a little more human and flawed and easier to relate to, I’m okay with that. I may have to limit her exposure to topics that are too mature for her or more embarrassing than either of us wants to live through, but so be it.

I started writing when Elle was three.  Part of that was so I could leave something of myself behind for my kids after I’m gone- a way for them to know their mom forever, and witness my struggles and successes firsthand.  I don’t lie to my kids and I answer all of their questions as honestly and candidly as they are mature enough to handle.  I’d say very little about me will surprise them, especially Elle, at this point.  That’s not to say I’m going to give her unlimited access to this blog.  Not yet, anyway.  Jimmie and I are smack dab in the middle of a 30 days of sex challenge and I doubt she’s going to want to hear anything about how it’s changing our marriage. After thirteen years, sometimes you have to set alarms and reminders, folks. It’s a sad, sad truth. 😉

what do you title a blog post after being MIA for years?

There’s a solid chance three people will read this.  I am kind of confident people don’t even blog anymore.  I’m not even kidding- the new kids have instagram and tumblr (is that even still a thing?) and, honestly, I don’t even know what else.  I think we all know I can’t speak my mind in 140 characters, so that’s out.  But, I’ve had a few things happen recently that has given me the itch. (to write. that’s it, promise.)

Someone must at least read blogs somewhere, because I’ve had three completely unrelated people ask me what the heck happened to me and the blog in the past two months.  I’ve been desperately needing my therapeutic outlet, and Jimmie all but scolded me yesterday (okay, he scolded me, the jerk!) for neglecting this process and my voice.  So…there you have it folks, I guess I’m back to blabbing on this blog.  I can’t guarantee it will be often, but let’s face it, it hasn’t been often since the days of myspace.  Yipes.

I know there are people that leave their blogs for months at a time and then come back like it’s been a week and pick up where they left off.  I don’t know that I can do that, so I have to at least give a little rundown.  I hope you’ll just bear with me. My last post was 18 months ago and it could barely be called a post.  I guess the last time I really wrote anything of significance was when we began pursuing diagnosis for Jordan and ADHD.  YowZa, that seems like a lifetime ago.

In the time since Jordan began therapy and treatment for ADHD and SPD (when I last wrote,) he has since been diagnosed with Aspergers (no longer even the clinical “label” as it all just falls under Autism Spectrum Disorder now, but I digress.)  I guess that was the beginning of the end of writing for me.  I don’t feel like I can just skim past that point. Maybe that’s where we’re going today.

I have to be honest, I was not able to authentically be me on this blog (or otherwise) when we started this path with Jordan. I think anyone who has read me or known me for any length of time knows, if I can’t say what I want in the way I want, I can’t write or function in any way really.  To express the feelings I had when this journey began with Jordan, was just too raw for me to express publicly or even to those closest to our situation.  I very much went into a protective cocoon for…too long.  I guess this is my coming out party.  Here I am, a beautifully flawed mother butterfly, just trying to lead my baby caterpillars through the beginning stages of their own life metamorphoses.  (I also should tell you I’ve become quite poetic while I’ve been gone, in case you didn’t notice.)

It’ll probably take a little while for me to get whatever the writing version of “sea legs” is back underneath me.  Just these few paragraphs are kind of agonizing. It feels like part “holiday card brag letter” and part “miserable group therapy session.”

The fact of the matter is this: I am crazy in love with this life I live.  It’s so incredibly complicated and full of drama that is complete bullshit half the time. I am surrounded by the most bat-shit crazy people you could possibly imagine.  We are so flawed and imperfect and fun and just wicked wonderful.  My children are so imperfectly amazing, I simultaneously want to kiss them and kick them in the shins every single day.  My husband is a saint of a man who also makes me want to spit in his coffee at least two days a week.  My life moves in contradictions.  I think (God do I hope I’m right about this) that most of the people around me feel the exact same way, at least part of the time.

In order to be who I am, I have to release those contradictions into the universe from time to time.  I guess that is where this space of my life comes in handy… I hope there’s still one or two people in the world that will join me here. I like it when there’s at least one person who will high five me for spitting in the morning coffee.

This is my sanctuary.  This is where I find my peace.  This is where you can find me…


mermaid toes.

I popped online to say happy birthday to some people via facebook, because, let’s face it, without facebook…I am that one friend that never remembers anyone’s damn birthday.  In going on eleven years of togetherness with Jimmie, I have never, not even once, remembered our anniversary.  So, don’t feel bad people.  I don’t remember shit.

ANYway.  When I get online, four tabs open. Facebook (which I have grown to hate with a passion as of late.) WordPress (my blog’s host or whatever.) Gmail. and Pinterest.  It’s really the little things in life that keep me entertained.

Pinterest had this to show me:

People.  I need to know who has time for this kind of crap?!  I’m positive that even if I didn’t have a husband or children or a house to keep clean or a blog to ignore, I still wouldn’t have time for multi-colors of shellac and glitter and sparkles and trinkets to be applied to my feet.  That shit cray!

Carry on…

(If you are the kind of person that thinks mermaid toes are the shiznit and want to create your own, you can just visit this website. It is WOW. Unbelievable.)

soft-serve fireworks

I feel like I should go back in time and make this blog completely anonymous so I can really share all of the details of what I’m about to tell you.

We have these neighbors.  They are the purest form of garbage you can imagine.  I don’t know 100% of the background, but I know enough.  There are currently five adults (if you can really call them adults,) two dogs and a whole mess of children living in a house that is roughly 1350 square feet, give or take.  That’s okay.  Times are tough.  I get it.  Their babes run from about three to nine years in age.  Oh, and there’s an infant too.  They can be seen walking the streets of our neighborhood at any given time of day or night completely unsupervised (minus the littlest one, thank God.) and up to whatever they so choose.  I have only ever seen the smallest one wearing one pair of shorts sans shirt.  Ever.  That’s okay, we all have our favorite comfies.  All of the women are bottoming out somewhere in the 325-350 range.  That’s okay, we all have our fat pants days.  A couple of them have hot pink hair.  That’s okay, I rocked a maroon look for a good two months this winter.

One of the pinkies who my husband so aptly described as a “pink soft serve ice cream cone” chose to let one of my babes have it, straight up trucker style tonight in our park.  That is… not okay.

If you know anything about me at this point it is probably that no one, but no one, messes with my kids.  They might be acting the purest form of evil for all I care, but unless you pushed them out of one of your reproductive organs, you don’t hold the right to berate them.  That’s my reward from God himself for the hell they put me through on the daily.

I only saw/heard about 30% of what happened, but my little Princess of Tattling was on hand for 100% and she broke it down for me like this:

Little Man was showing off his broken femur/surgery scars for one of the other little hellions during a rousing game of toilet tag.  This is a game  where if you get tagged, you have to perch yourself in a “toilet prone” position with arm raised in a handle fashion and remain there until a team mate comes and “flushes” your handle.  If you’ve ever seen the Little Man in person or in photos, you understand that he is ass-crack-challenged.  That sucker is always showing.  Upon graduation, there is a solid chance he will move on to a lucrative plumbing career.  He’s just that advanced.  This game, with the lots of crouching and lunging, probably not a great idea for him.  Add to that, that at some point he felt the need to hike up the leg of his shorts to show off his sweet scars, and what we have is a recipe for a lunatic asshole mother to go batshit on my baby boy for “exposing himself” to one of her brood.

I won’t repeat the things she supposedly said here on the blog because this is a family show (bahahaha,) but I will tell you that not even I talk to my kids like that.  So, I did what any mother in my position would do.  I marched my happy ass over to her front door and confronted the lot of the meth-ed out drunken rabble rousers.  That’s what I do.  Jimmie rode shotgun and waited at the curb in case shit got real and he had to peal me off of anyone, but his services were not needed.

When I first went to the door, she said that no, she did not talk to my son.  It was the little boy in the white wife-beater that she was talking to.  So I kindly walked away and let it go.  Then,  as we were walking away, the mother of the boy in the white tank top marched her happy ass up to the door.  We stayed within hearing distance to see what went down. (She, honestly, looked a little more unstable than even I did.  We thought it would be good entertainment.)  Do you know what I heard?  Her telling that mom that she was talking to MY KID.  Oh no, hell no.

I marched back over there and said, “Excuse me?  You just told me you were yelling at her kid?!  I’m confused.”  She went on to tell all sorts of lies.  When I told her that I had it on good authority she was full of shit, she said “well I don’t know how YOU were raised, but around here…”  To which I replied, “oh honey,  I see the kind of garbage you have living in this house, please do not question my upbringing.”  Things went on, it was unreal and I am even embarrassed at some of the Arkansas Roots that may have come out of my mouth.  I do try so hard to overcome the fact that I was, in fact, brought into this world in a trailer park.  But sometimes, your roots just take over.
{Yes, I do see the irony here, what with the questioning of my heritage and all.  But not all Arkansas trailer folk are actually trash.  Besides, we were out of there long before the trash actually stuck.}

She thought it ended with me telling her that if she ever spoke to my children again, there would be a problem between she and I.  (To which she asked if I was threatening her, and I politely informed her she could just try it out and see.)

When it really ends, is when someone throws an M80 over their fence on the 4th of July when they head outside for their afternoon toke off of the crack pipe.