I’m calling it, “I worry too much.”

It was the day that my worry became something I wore so obviously, that it might as well have been hoopyloopy earrings or some fancy accessory.That same day, I started this category, – mostly to see if I do INDEED worry too much about the little things, or if I can be of some comfort to my companions in the crazy.

Someday, they’ll make pills for worry. And they probably won’t be pills at all since I don’t take pills, and they’ll probably even taste like orange tic-tacs covered in whipped cream, and they’ll be my vice.

Hi! And a GIANT – but careful – welcome to my new category; I worry too much.

It’s something that I’ve been told since I can remember, actually.
I tried to blame my anxiousness on having children, and while having them absolutely increased it, it’s been there all along. Carnival rides when I was little, being a passenger instead of a driver when we were 16, immediately figuring the worst when my cop dad didn’t get home on time, getting called into the boss’s office for something good and always assuming the opposite. Feeling even the slightest bit out of control and in the hands of fate, and I get this really cute pursed lipped – crinkled eyebrows face, chest red, tears ready. You’d have a hard time labeling me as crazy, I bottle most of it. But it’s time to uncork, with a goal to put hang some of my crazy out on the blog clothesline and let the good winds of comfort and compassion dry me out and force me to let the molehills remain un-montainous.

Let’s just list some of the things that go through my head, and later, I’ll blog a daily worry that we can hold hands and sing and dissect together, yes? LET THE FUN BEGIN.

-I left something plugged in at home and it’s probably burning down.

-Somebody is going to lure my children off the bus, away from the schoolyard, and into their camaro with really fancy candy, umbrellas, monster high dolls, or a bicycle.

-They’re going to contract Mono or worse from any and all public drinking fountains.

-My farmer is going to get run over by some piece of equipment, or struck be lightning, and nobody will even know it because a tractor in a field moving or stopped is never something people notice as worrisome.

-Can germs breed under fingernails?

-If my kids get on the wrong bus after school, what happens then?

-Not ONLY will they contract something much worse than Mono from a porta-potty, they’ll likely fall in AND THEN WHAT AM I GOING TO DO?

-There’s a burglar, murderer, and (not or, psh, they work together probably) rapist hiding in my basement WAITING for the ONE NIGHT that I don’t have the dogs or the giant guy or the cell phone battery charged, to pounce. You know that joke going around about hollering out to see if they’d like a sandwich? that’s me.




Here’s the thing. Every parent, at some point, feels defeated, discouraged, and disgusted. In fact, I’m pretty sure admitting to any of those things, actually makes you a better parent. It’s just that some days, I’m not prepared for the rampage of emotion that comes with feeling all of those things, resorting me to the couch pouting with gelato in hand, asking my spoon how I was even allowed to be responsible for tiny humans.

I have a seven year old and a almost-six year old They’ve each spun me around through the twists and turns of their developing personalities, and this is most definitely the biggest time in my parenting career where I am the closest to melting into a six year old version of a tantrum on my living room floor – still spoon in hand.

My kids are angels in the grand scheme of things. Last night, in fact, they put my laundry away (in “surprise places!”), dusted, attempted to vacuum, swept my kitchen floor twice, and taught each other new words. They’re well behaved, they’re respectful, they go to bed when we ask and sleep for 12 hours without waking. I guess that’s why the new level of sass is taking me so off guard, making me realize that I don’t know how to punish.


The other night we were driving home from another busy weekend, and they were fighting in the back seat (shock & awe, shock & awe!). After, I don’t know, seven warnings or so, I finally told my youngest she’d have to go to bed early, alone, AND WITH NO BLANKETS IF SHE DOESN’T STOP. She replied, “and?“. So, as a follow up, I put her to bed early. And while she was slightly miffed maybe, she did it with little complaint and challenged me to try something worse.

I know the key to any strategy is consistency. But you tell me, after working 8 hours, cooking for 2, cleaning for 3, refereeing the kids for 4, and then being blatantly sassed – that you’re consistent and cool. If so, hi, can my kids come live with you?
My other problem is this: We want to encourage independence and self sufficiency, but we want to discourage both if they get out of hand. HI GREY AREA MUCH?

I also know I’m not the only mom out there with girls close in age, with independently sassy, brilliant little faces leaping into the world, and as a mom, feeling burdened with the responsibility of raising them right. It’s just that the weight of that burden some days is unbearable. That’s HUGE you guys, I’m supposed to successfully raise another human. Two, actually.

In any case, I suppose I need encouragement that it’s ok to love but not like sometimes, to lose my temper occasionally, and that my kids will turn out just fine – despite my overwhelming guilt of not seeing them enough, coming down on them too hard, nagging them constantly, and trying to find the gentle balance between love & logic (totally stole the L&L from my friend Christie, hiiiiiiiiiiiii Christie – & thanks for your brilliance and emotion this morning!).

I worry too much, really.

Le sigh.
& Ce la vi.


PS! – my friend posted this list on Pinterest the other day, and while some of them are a bit far-fetched for my toddler brains, I LOVE the idea of making our already favorite time of day – even better!

What do you like to dream about?
What is your best memory this school year?
Who is your hero? Why?
How would you describe your family?
If you could change anything about yourself, what would it be?
What are you most proud of yourself for?
Who is the kindest person you know? Why?
What do you like most about your best friend?
What is one thing you would like to learn to do well?
If you were an animal what one would you be and why?
When is the last time someome hurt your feelings? How did you react?
Do you know someone who is going though a hard time? How can you help them?
What is the scariest thing that happened this year?
If you could keep only one thing, out of everything you have, what would it be?
Who do you think is really successful? Why?
What’s the best thing about your teacher this year?
When do you feel misunderstood by grown-ups?
What three words best describe you?
What’s something that makes you angry?
What’s the best compliment you ever received

Re-Blog & a line of cute excuses

I miss the blogosphere SO much. I’ve been over analyzing lately (shocked right?) why I haven’t been writing, and I think I’m just SPENT, you guys! I literally spend 17 hours a day working on work, Social Media Campaigns, Photography, The Farm (heh. I don’t work on THE farm, but I cook and clean it, mind you…which STILL is nothing in comparison to the work of The Farmer). I’m a mom first and foremost, I’m a mate, I’m a worrier.

And by the time I have the gumption to write comes along, I’m like *zap-pow-sleep*. I promise I’m coming back. I’ve got some WILD inspiration headed my way, and about fourteen blogs constantly spinning around all blender-style at the front of my mind. Until then, though, I have to HAVE TO stop and appreciate this email. I love it SO SO thoroughly I want to reblog it.

Quoted, 100%:

“Are you hanging by a thread?

It’s hard, it’s wrenching. It’s incredibly painful and it’s difficult to feel lightness. Or to see clearly. Hanging by a thread can be really disorienting. What you’re going through undeniably sucks.

Listen to me: It’s going to be okay. You’re going to get through this. You can do it. Baby, you ARE doing it. You’re getting through this. Right now your cells are plumping up and your heart is beating and you have your breath. In breath. Out breath. It’s really okay if you have to get that basic about getting through it. In breath, out breath. Sun’s gonna rise. It’s going to be okay. Take encouragement from strangers. Like me. Go ahead. Take it. It’s free and I don’t feel karmically entangled. So listen to me: It’s going to be okay.

This will not kill you.

Do you believe in angels? If you don’t just believe in them for the next twenty fours. There are a hundred thousand angels by your side.

You’re probably feeling devastatingly alone, like an iceberg drifting. No one can hear you cracking. It’s cold. But, just like an iceberg, you have so much beneath the surface. Years of layers and lifetimes of experience and strengths to call on — skills of expanding consciousness that you didn’t even know you had. You will not sink.

People have been through what you’re going through right now. Thousands of them. Really and truly. Your picture of heartbreak, your strain of pain is part of the human fabric, and that tapestry is holding you like an Eskimo blanket. Other people have survived this and when they got out of the hole, they left a morphogenic popcorn trail out of the pain. You can trace their steps.

It may be hard to believe right now, but not only will it be okay, not only will you get through and over this, you will thrive again. You will be clear and vibrant and INCREDIBLE. You will not only have more character to pull out at parties and wisdom to offer the world, but you will feel more joy than you think is possible right now. You will.

You may walk with a limp. You may wince when you look back (understandable,) you may cry unexpectedly in the book store, but you’ll be more alive, and more You. You will be strong. And you will feel a curious sensation of being more useful. And it will feel really, really fantastic.

What you’re going through right now is so difficult.
And it’s going to be okay.
More than okay.”

Find this article, and more of her brilliant work here!

Thank you to each and every one of you that has encouraged me to get back on this thing. I can’t WAIT ❤


“Does God have TV’s for us in Heaven?”

Just a simple question from the inquiring minds in the backseat.

Windows down, Sugarland playing, a breezy; carefree drive home from our day. The girls in the backseat, 5 & 7, discussing their favorite cartoons, wondering if God, in all of his preparations, remembered the TV.

I responded with, “no babes, God has so much in store for us that we don’t NEED TV’s! And besides, it’d be REALLY hard to carry all of those big TV’s up there, right?!”*commence epic upward sky gazing*

After a few minutes, my oldest says, “mom, do you know FOR SURE that He doesn’t have TV’s? You’ve BEEN there before.”, to which I said, “No, I’ve never been there baby, you only go there once you’ve died.”
“Nuuuh Uhhhhhh MOM, you said God makes babies and puts them in mommy’s tummy, so you were in heaven before you got THERE. If that’s not what really happens, than that’s not how babies are made. How are babies MADE, mom?!”


As a bit of a backstory, I put on Twitter this week that I was feeling all emotional and pissy and RAWRy and while most females SHOULD assume the opposite, a handful and a half of people were like OMGZ CONGRATULATIONS YOU’RE PREGNANT!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
So when I put a panicky status on my Facebook about my child asking where babies are made, PEOPLE ASKED ME FOR MORE BABIES.

I’m hoping blogging this adora-story helps people realize that:

#1. I’m not ready to be faced with how babies are made, and simply told them that I’ll explain things when they’re older, and cranked up their latest favorite Carrie Underwood tune.
#2. I’m not having ANY MORE GRANDBABIES. Or ok, at least for a few more years. Okaaaaaaaayyyyyyyyyyy? THEY COME WITH TOO MANY QUESTIONS YOU GUYS.
#3. I love my family and friends with all of their hilarity and support.



71 degrees of sunshine and randomized spewage.

It’s been literally months since a blog. I work at an accounting firm when I’m not out flaunting my social skills, and January thru April 17th and no longer, I disappear. Tax season slurps me up like a fat kid at 7-11 holding the latest flavor of slushy, or the Blue Raspberry, which is obviously the best. This post is not a warning even, that I’m leaping back into blogging because it’s only March and I’ve barely come up for air.

This brilliant breath of air, surrounded by sunshine (all 71 degrees of it, mind you) flowing through the chaos of the office, sleepy kitty supervising, slight breeze begging me to come up with a wild excuse to leave early for the day…is the perfect time for random spew.


Let it flow; Let it go.

~I’m oddly captivated by this whole March Madness…thing. I don’t have a CLUE what happens in the 64 (right?) games of it, but I had to join a pool for work, and while I’ve definitely became the entertainment of the office with my picks, it has my curiosity peaked and secretly checking the scores. Maybe sports aren’t as overrated as I’ve been accusing them to be. If nothing else, I love the excitement they bring. Between March Madness, the Superbowl, the Daytona 500, the Quidditch matches, and every huge rivalry in every sport that happens around the world, I love that it gives a reality break, something to !!!!!!!!!! about, something that doesn’t require CNN, a President, or a bad thing to happen for the attention of the public to turn it’s head. It’s a thing of tradition, despite the madness and chaos of the world.

~Admittedly, I’ve been part of the “if you can’t beat them, join them.” team of pessimists lately. I’m normally one of the most optimistic people in all of the lands, but lately, I’ve had no problem finding reasons to whine. I think it’s my allergic reaction to the time change, combined with sheer exhaustion and working mom guilt. It’s not a very fun place to be in, and I’m frolicking myself right out of it. Optimism might not be reality, but you’re a fool if you think pessimism is either. Realists, put mind over matter, and choose how their worlds will turn round, and in what shade.

~I was SUCH a critic of my daughter having homework in kindergarten this year. And while I still think it’s a bit much for such a young mind, it thrills me to be able to snuggle in at night and let her read an entire chapter book to me and her younger sister. AT AGE SIX. I’m applauding public schools, and am blushing with pride over my brilliant girl.

~I read somewhere this week that we’re born loving the world, and the older we get, the more we fear it. It was a shocking reality for me, and I plan on reversing my current frame of mind before I run out of time. I’m nearly 27 and a half, and I can’t wait to make the next decade the most risking, most loving, most thrilling ride of my life. I’ve learned things the hard way for the last ten years out of fear. That’s quite enough, I think. This quarterlife-crisis has nearly ended, on to the next!

~I have an astounding feeling of regret that I don’t own more board games. Suggestions would be lovely!

The phones are ringing, the cat has awoken from his slumber, and it’s nearly time to update the basketball pool. I am barely short of two hours from aviators + windows down, and I’m checking out with the hopes that you guys missed me as much as I missed you!


I’m a hug-a-phobe.

Because, if I’m going to go weeks or days without blogging, we should start it back up with a feel good blog, right?

I hate hugs. I mean I used to hate hugs.

I'm the one in the middle, cringing.

My family hugs enough, so we can’t blame my upbringing. I mean, if you’ve never hugged my dad, you don’t understand what a hug is. Or my grandma. ♫ They’re the two best huggers that anyone could have…♫ (Ref: The Hangover, lolz)
I love hearing affection, so we can’t blame that either.

I’m just not a touchy-feely girl. I hate germs, and I hate how in order to feel hugged, you also have to feel another body. I tend to shy away from handshakes, cuddling, and massages. Feet, especially, are better left on the other side of the room.

That being said, after three years of having an excited hugfestival best friend:

She's the cute blond that just got married, but this is an every-chance-we-get occurance.

And three years of having a guy that is most excellent at wrapping me up and never letting me go:


as WELL as his family who hugs for everything all the time without reason or warning…

I’ve gotten over it.

All of a sudden, I’ve gone from a bone-deep fear and cringe of hugs, to looking forward to them, giving them, and enjoying them.

And while I could give all the credit to the people surrounding me, I think it’s mostly these two that have done it:

BUT PS: Hug me via text message, or with your feet, and be not offended at my cringe and complaint. 😉

Silver Lining: Working Mom Guilt …rectified.

I work at an accounting firm. I thought about leaving that sentence out in case creepy stalkers are out there trying to find my location, but I figure it’s valid, and vague enough that I’m safe. ish. Anyway.
So, starting January 1st, and ending around April somethingteenth, my social life vanishes, my internet existence diminishes, and the hardest part, my time with my kiddos is minimal.

And I’m a whiner. That loves her job, PS.

And a planner, so I’ve been dreading my time away from home since December. I’ve been tucking them in at night, squeezing them longer, apologizing for coming home late and leaving early in the mornings. I cry about not getting to volunteer at their schools, or even pick them up from school. I worry that they’re going to feel neglected and end up being those really sad kids with messy hair, iffy wardrobe choices, and slippery grades.

The weirdest thing is happening though. They’re surviving.
I’ve taught them to be self sufficient, and I’ve showed them that while mom will always be the favorite person (riiiiiiiighthahahahaha), but it takes a village. And I have one. And they’re amazing, and my girls are thriving. I’m not fine, but they are.

I have so much guilt about being a working mom. Like I’m missing out on all of the good stuff. And opportunities to hug them.

And THEN I was watching Law and Order: Criminal Intent last night, where one of the characters had a wife in the military. She got about a day and a half with him and their five year old girl before being deployed again. I realized that things could be a lot harder. And while I’m not necessarily being heroic at my job (save for handing out taxes with good news, 50% of the time), I do get to be the first to see them wake up for their day, and the last to snuggle them before they’re back to dreaming for the night. They’re brilliant, they’re loved, they’re supported, and there isn’t a bit of guilt worth holding onto about it.

With this madness comes bliss, with this whine comes silver lining. I absolutely bow to all working moms doing everything they can to keep their family both afloat and loved enough, and I’m near tears over the women out there serving our country first. Your strength is astounding, your perspective admirable.

And to my village especially, thank you. For the hours put into their schoolwork, preparation to get them to and from school, healthy meals fed, cute outfits bought, sturdy shoes adorned, beds made, dishes done, vitamins given, car seats secured, and mom comforted. Brandon especially, I could not make it even day to day without your support.

Thus beginning a new blog series. Silver Lining…to be continued.

Nightmares on Colorado Boulevard

*insert six-year-old wailing at 3:34am*
“Moooooooooooooooooooooom, THERE ARE SNAKES ON OUR PORCH AND I’M SCARED!!!!!!!!!!!”

I leapt out of bed, kicked the dog, knocked over my water glass, checked to make sure I didn’t ruin my bedside iPhone, fell on my laundry (organizing laundry – a blog to come), slid on the wood floors and fell into the arms of my crying six year old girl.

“Baby, there are no snakes on our porch, it’s just a bad dream! Go back to sleep, and try to stomp on them, use your stuffed elephant (*hands her one of the 3409 stuffed animals on her bed*), and you can take her to your dream to help!”

“I don’t waaaaaaaaaant to go back to sleep. I just want it to be morning!” *insert cutest pout ever*

In our house, nightmares are fairly uncommon. The girls sleep soundly. And we’ve always had the rule that they have to stay in bed and we’ll come to them, rather than them coming into our room (not only for our own privacy, but plz see above path of destruction).

It made me think back to my childhood, when I’d go find my parents, they’d kiss me on the forehead, tell me to get a drink, and go back to my room and pray about it. It always worked, I mean prayer + water = magic. And I developed this habit to go back to sleep trying to dream the same dream and logically work out my own happy ending, thus, my elephant stomping idea.

Apparently it worked for her, because she didn’t wake again.
What do you, as parents, do for your kiddo when the nightmares come? Do you try to tell them to think happy thoughts? Do you have a magic spell to help them feel comforted and safe? Do stuffed animals or water bottles full of monster spray help them feel like their room is the safest place in the house? Do they get to get up and snuggle with you?

My five year old swear dreams come from the walls, so we covered them all up in pink decorations and pictures. I mean if you’re going to dream, dream in pink right?

Tell me your stories!

Ink Love!

First, I’d like to welcome to my blog, the person that searched Google today for “side tattoos for chunky girls”. Bless you, welcome aboard, and please PLEASE find Pinterest as soon as possible, you gorgeous, brave girl. PS! Let me know what you find!

Actually, pretty girl who googled, you inspired this post. I actually logged in for my routine check of the blogs I follow, to see what everybody was up to. And then, because my inner-number-nerd is always curious, I checked my stats, and then went to blog about my Kindergartner because it’s her first day back after vacation, and it’s all I can think about. And THEN, you inspired me to think ink. So thaaaaaaanks for that distraction!

"Love" between angel wings; sketched on me and my sister! ❤

I’m determined this year to get more ink. I’ve been saying it for two, and well, that’s just ridiculous. I’ve got so many ideas, like this gorgeous phoneix drawn up for my ribcage, my entire ribcage. I’ve got a shoulder quote, a feather, and a white-ink quote for a wrist tattoo all planned. If one happens this year, I’ll be happy.

I’ve been asked by quite a few people if I think I’ll regret later in life, being absolutely covered in ink. And of course, I think for a while about the what, but not ever the if. Of course it’s permanent. And of course our generation of plugged ears and tattoos will be the goofiest looking old people of all time. But will body art ever cause me regret?

After much debate with myself, especially on the wrist tattoo that will always be word for all the professional and unprofessional world to see, the answer is no.

I wear my regrets, my feelings, my heart, my emotions, and my life lessons out all the time, in the way I dress, my posture, my ever-changing hair color and style. My scars on my arms and head, my stretch marks on my belly, and my natural over-reactive, anxious personality. The way I react to things on a daily basis makes me who I am. Those tattoos that represent what I’m most passionate about, aren’t permanent or cause of prejudgment any more than the rings on my fingers, the plugs in my ears, or the emotion in my eyes.

Granted, you’ll never see me tattoo a fish on my forehead, but goodness, if that curvy girl gets a pretty side tattoo, or my friend with the blue hair changes it green tomorrow, I’m a better person for knowing them. The most beautiful people in this world are the ones that where their passions where their hearts are, their honesty on their sleeves, and I’m proud to be one of them.

Do you have tattoos? Any in the works? Which one has the most meaning?

Inked and Inspired,

I realize I’m an adult when…

I use the term adult lightly. I think by claiming to be one, you’re immediately held to this expectation of maturity. At 28, there are still days where I have room to work on that. I mean I still do things like this:

So, I’m not necessarily an adult, but growing up, and getting to the age that…

*Curtains and Mixers are exciting! For Christmas this year I got a new mixer to decorate my countertop and inspire me to learn to bake, and curtains for my windows, and I was more excited about those two things than, say, a LeapFrog learning center, a Pillow Pet, or the latest Spice Girls album. It was actually the day I asked for a vacuum for Christmas a few years ago that gave me the “OMG WHO AM I” moment.

I get to choose when I get up to pee. Kid you not, I will lay in bed and try to decide how bad I need to go, or if it can wait until morning. I no longer have a rule that I have to go brush my teeth, hair, and use the bathroom before clammering into my warm bed and refuse to move. And I can stay up as late as I want.

I’m tired. All the time, at THE most embarrassing times of the night. Like, 8:30 for example. *shutters*

If I don’t want to eat my vegetables, I don’t hafta. I can actually pick through my plate and leave them tidely off to one side, without a single “only three more bites and we’ll have a deal.” deal.

I can throw tantrums. Granted, it looks even more ridiculous than when my six year old does it, but still.

I like coffee. And whiskey. And candy. Sometimes all at the same time. AND I get to choose my limit.

I can sleep in! Well, actually I can’t. Which is an even greater point. My time clock literally JUST starting occurring and thinking it can have a routine all it’s own; ironic, now that I don’t HAVE to get up on Saturdays.

I can watch Zombieland and eat chili and hot dogs and tatertots at 9pm. Granted, the suffering induced (See: Bad dreams, indigestion, stomach pains from LOLing too late at night…) brought back a really cute “I tollllllllllllld you so” mom voice in my head.

I have THE best arguments ever against my toddlers. “Because I’m an adult that’s why. When you’re my age, you can too.”

I can cuss! Point & case.

And while these are all really, really great things…I sure do miss the days that I didn’t have to work. That I could blame my mother for everything. The days when my breakfasts were made before my feet hit the floor, my bills were paid for me, and I didn’t know what anguish, brokenhearted and betrayal felt like.

I sure do love feeling life though, don’t you?