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I read once about children entering a state of disequilibrium every six months or so. How starting at around 18 months old, they cycle between — and I’m paraphrasing here — being easy, mellow and pretty sweet to be around, to infuriating shits. Ok, that’s not exactly the theory, but it sure feels like it.

Year Two has been a YEAR. Owen challenges me daily. He is so smart. I don’t mean this in an annoying, braggy parent way, I just mean the kid surprises me. He sings all the 50 states, then turns around and chews on his shirt and trips over air. Normal kid stuff, right? Only sometimes I think he’s too smart for his own good because the kid argues with me like he’s 16. Occasionally I have to take a step back from an argument and check myself. You are fighting with a small person who hasn’t even been on the planet for a full three years. CHILL, WOMAN.

It was as though a switch flipped at two-and-a-half. My pleasant and fun kid became a constant battle. From sleeping to eating to leaving the house, everything was a fight. “No!” was shrieked more than anything else and I found myself wishing away our afternoons for the silence bedtime would (eventually, after a fight) bring.

I get it, I do. I realize he is working towards independence and his little brain is working overtime as he grows and learns. I also realize that he deals with some jealousy when people fawn over Ryan, or I have to care for the baby (taking attention away from Owen). It was no surprise at all that as soon as Ryan became mobile, the issues with sharing began as well.

The knowledge that this was coming/is normal/happens to all kids has been the one string I’ve clung to over the past six months. The understanding that this too shall pass and that we would emerge virtually unscathed. His third birthday is the light at the end of a very bumpy tunnel.

I thought we had coasted into quiet waters two weeks ago when suddenly naps and bedtime were easy. Fight free. He started eating his dinner again and didn’t run away from me every time I asked him to put his shoes on. I THOUGHT we were there.

We’re not.

Once again, the battles rage on. With his birthday just eight days away I am willing the shift back to equilibrium to happen soon.

I love Owen something fierce. He is my light, my heart, my world.

I just wish he’d stop being such a shit.



A few weeks ago, Michael’s grandmother came by with a pop up tent for the beach. It was all folded up in a circle and came in a handy carrying case a little smaller than a hula hoop. It boasted that to use it, all you had to do was unzip it and toss! That’s it! A tent! Sounded good to me. I had been looking for a tent Ryan could sleep in during our beach days this summer and this appeared far easier than anything I had seen.


Our first beach trip of the summer was going well. We joined friends and their baby on the sand and spent the morning playing and relaxing. When Ryan started to get tired I decided to use the tent. As described, it was easy as pie. I literally just tossed it in the air and POOF! Down came a tent. My friend gushed over it, begging to know where my in-law and found it. She wanted one for herself.

Ryan’s nap was short-lived (my little creature of habit will have to get used to a new nap local), but boy was that tent nice. Roomy, shady, and again…so easy! Here, let me show you:


Oooooh. Ahhhhh.

When our day came to a close, I packed up all the zillions of beach things and went to close the tent. I hadn’t checked out the directions before because I figured, how hard could it be? It just pops up. It must pop back down.


What followed was quite the show. I struggled to fold up the tent with one hand while reading the Ikea-like picture instructions with the other. No dice. I pulled, I pushed, I twisted. Nope. Not even close. One of my friends started to give me a hand. Surely the two of us could figure it out. NOPE, NOT EVEN.

While this was going on, an older man sitting in his beach chair chewing on a cigar kicked up his feet and took in the show. He laughed — loudly — every time we failed. After flashing him what I only imagine was a stink eye made only by mothers with whining children covered in sand, he stood up and offered to help. Laughing, all condescending-like, he strutted over, cigar still in his mouth, and tried to figure it out.

Only, he couldn’t either. OH, who’s cocky now, Mr. Strutting Cigar Man?

Finally, after far too long of this nonsense, the kids were DONE and it was getting late. My friend and Cigar managed to wrangle the tent into a shape just small enough for me to jam in my trunk and wrapped the cord around it. I was thisclose to being unable to shut my trunk, but managed to get it home. Friend: “I no longer care to know where you got this tent. Do not want one. Ever.”

Upon arriving home, I put Ryan to sleep in his crib and left Owen, who had fallen asleep on the ride home, in the car. (In the shade, with the windows down — obligatory I-did-not-leave-my-baby-to-roast-in-the-car disclaimer.) I dragged the tent out of the trunk, untied the string and POOF! Oh look! A tent! SO F-ING EASY.

The next hour of my life went something like this. I beg of you to watch at least a minute of this video because THIS WAS ME. Only, angrier. With curse words. Actually, start at the 0:33 seconds mark and proceed to watch the tent pop open in her face. Then feel my rage.

See how she’s trying to hold the tent (“hold all four poles with one hand…”) while trying to decipher those nonsense directions with the other? Know why? Because those directions are BULLSHIT. The written directions mean nothing and the drawings of the man folding the tent are drawn as though you’re standing behind him so you can see…NOTHING. Except his ass, essentially. And that helps NOT AT ALL.

This went on for an hour. AN HOUR. I would get so frustrated that I would throw the tent in a fit of blind rage, only to have it pop open in the air (OOOH! A TENT!) and float back down to the ground all tent-like. There wasn’t even any satisfaction in giving it a good toss because that only resulted in a tent and ARRRGHHHH. I DO NOT WANT A TENT.

Finally, I realized that there’s no way I could be the only person who has ever wanted to murder this particular tent, so I turned to the all-mighty internet. What I found, however, was practically nothing of help, until a random image search landed me on a YouTube page in…German. Which lead me to more videos in German. Tons of videos in German of German people closing this tent.


I watched about three videos and while it certainly clarified things better than those bullshit instructions ever did, I still couldn’t do it. I finally gave up, fresh bruises on my arms from the tent popping up on me multiple times, and left it for Michael.

Only, I couldn’t let it go. I stewed on it. By this point I was so invested in it, was so determined to conquer the damn tent that I started searching again. This time, I unearthed another German video and it was pure gold. The guy who made it was so thorough. I mean, he would shoot the same step over and over from multiple angles. This guy was dedicated to helping you close your Abbau Pop Up Strandmuschel. Which I’m pretty sure translates into The Pop Up Tent From Hell.

It took a few viewings, but finally, FINALLY, I closed the tent. I was so proud of myself! I had conquered the beast! WOO HOO! I went inside and poured myself a stiff drink.


The tent is sitting in the family room waiting for it’s next beach adventure but I’m wary. Can I really close it again? I do not know. I will probably have to practice a few times before venturing out with it again.

Beware the Strandmuschel, friends.

You know those mommy bloggers who write post after glowing post about how wonderful motherhood is and how each moment is a precious gift?

This is not one of those posts.

If I were to define my job lately, it would go something like this:

Begin day early. Too early. Mentally prepare for 12-13 hour work day. Greet boss, who is ready with a list of demands already, starting with his breakfast, which I’m not attending to quickly enough. Fight with boss about wearing pants. Explain to boss that pants are a part of life and other people in the office (and outside the office as well) appreciate the use of pants. Especially when it’s 32 degrees outside.

Prepare breakfast for boss while he sits in his chair, high and mighty above this lowly servant. Offer him a beverage to tide him over while he waits. He concedes and for the moment, is quiet. Serve boss a bowl of oatmeal and blueberries. With a spoon, per request. He eats the blueberries first. Fifteen minutes later, he is finished and off to start his day. If I am lucky, he will be happy for a bit and allow me to get some other work done. You know, the work that keeps his life running smoothly, like cleaning the office, scheduling his meetings with acquaintances and preparing various food stuffs.

Oh wait, the boss is demanding another drink. Only I was busy with another task and wasn’t quite fast enough getting it to him and…OH MY GOD, THE WORLD IS ENDING!!!!!!

Walk away from the ranting and allow boss to vent his frustrations about my poor performance. When he has succeeded in telling me just how terrible I am, he decides the drink I offered him five minutes before will suffice and walks off with it.

Enjoy a few hours while boss is happy and pleasant. Share some jokes around the milk cooler and exchange some high fives. Laugh at his fart noises. Indulge in some office-place hugs and kisses. Promise him I won’t sue for harassment; I actually like them a lot, you know.

Sense a shift in the tides. Boss is hungry for lunch and my window is small. Hurry to create a meal suitable for a prince and serve him before his blood sugar drops. Am successful today, and avoid a speaking to. We chill some more. Begin to think that maybe today is the today boss will come out of this foul mood he’s been in for the past week. (Realize I am an idiot.)

He’s getting tired and is ready for a siesta. We’re one of those rare offices that encourages sleeping on the job, so I dim the lights, draw the shades and read him some books. He finally succumbs to sleep and for a blissful hour and a half, I slack off.

He awakes and is angry about it. I offer him a snack, but it’s only after I supply the exact combination of food and TV show (blueberries and cereal with milk in a cup, Curious George on PBS) that he stops shouting at me. We spend the next few hours alternating between having fun, and throwing ourselves on the floor for no reason and sobbing. (Him, not me. Although…I’m thisclose.)

Dada’s home! DADA’S HOOOOOOOOOMMMMMEEEE!!!!!! Joy and happiness and doves and rainbows and sunshine. I go to my office and use the bathroom with the door closed for the first time all day. Well, for a few minutes, anyway, until my boss opens the door on me.


It’s been a week. The last couple molars coming in plus the arrival of the (early?) Terrible Twos tantrums has pretty much knocked me out cold. The early wakings — hours of the morning we haven’t seen in ages — paired with the insistence that he come into “Mama and Dada’s bed” rather than go back to sleep in his own, the yelling and hurling himself to the floor for seemingly NO REASON WHATSOEVER multiple times a day. It’s taken all my strength and patience not to hang him upside down by his ankles and shaking the stuffing out of him.

I love him. And I get it, I really do. His teeth hurt, he’s old enough to become frustrated and wants me to know about it, but despite being highly verbal (ew, that was such a braggy mom thing to say. But no, really. He has a LOT of words. I promise.), he’s not old enough to clearly express to me WHY he’s so frustrated. So, he yells. And cries. And throws himself on the floor. A LOT.

It’s times like these during my motherhood journey that I want to take my mom by the shoulders, look her in the eyes and tell her, OH MY GOD, I’M SO SORRY. Because I did the exact.same.thing. to her, I’m sure. And then I turned into a teenager, so yeah. Shout out to my mama.

This stage will pass, eventually. I hope. Or you know, get worse, right as the baby is born.

At least then I can drink wine again.

Thanks for the congratulations, everyone. We are super excited for this next little one to join our family. But before I talk about it, I need to get something out of the way.

I’ve gone back through my archives to compare my pregnancy with Owen (the baby stuff starts here, if you’re interested) to this one and omigod, you guys.


Like, seriously. I got all uppity at the time when some people suggested that maybe I couldn’t talk about anything but being pregnant, but now I will agree that all the preeeeeciousness and ammmmaaazingness and oh my goodness being pregnant is such happy little bubbleness of those posts is a little overwhelming. I mean, I’m glad I documented it all. I’m glad I can look back and remember all those tiny things that I probably would have forgotten and I really was completely and totally in awe of being pregnant for the first time. It’s really quite awesome. But still. I’d like to go back and tell first-time pregnant me to chill just a little bit and go eat another bowl of mac and cheese.

Please don’t misunderstand me, I am beyond thrilled to be pregnant again. I feel so very fortunate and blessed to be able to conceive easily and that everything seems to be healthy and going according to plan. But maybe this time, when I write about it, it won’t be so…I don’t know…Pink. And fluffy. And won’t be the topic of EVERY SINGLE BLOG POST OMMIIIGGGOOOD WHAT HAPPENED TO MY BRAIN?

Phew. Feels good to get that off of my chest. That being said, I’m still going to talk about it today! Hehe.


Thing is, even if I wanted to focus all of my energy on being pregnant again, I just can’t. Because unlike the first time when I was unemployed and had all the time in the world to daydream and la la la, having a toddler just takes most of my focus away from it. Owen woke up one morning and was suddenly this little boy who jumps on the couch and discovers a tote of clothes makes a great stool for climbing up onto our bed and is constantly running around, zooming trucks and knocking down block towers and is SO MUCH FUN, and also, very tiring. By the time his nap rolls around I find myself collapsing onto the couch and passing the heck out.

The nausea this time was way worse, but  it’s basically gone now unless I let myself get too hungry. The thing that kills me is the fatigue, which I’m sure is equal parts growing a human and chasing an 18-month old at the same time. Sometimes on days Michael is home, I go back to sleep for an hour or so in the morning because otherwise I’m not going to be all the mom I can be to Owen. And if we’re being honest, sometimes even that nap doesn’t stop me from laying on the couch while he plays because oooh, I need a break.

All those books I read the first time remain packed away or gathering dust on a shelf in our family room, because this time it just kind of feels like old hat. Even as I stood in the bathroom one afternoon holding the positive test while Owen played at my feet, my reaction was more of a, “Oh! Sweet!” as opposed to the first time, where I jumped on Michael in bed at 7 a.m. and shoved the test in his face. And yet, I’m still excited to feel that first kick because that part never gets old.

The major difference has really been the belly, which made an appearance at five weeks along. I had heard second (and third, etc.) pregnancies show faster since the muscles have already been stretched, but I wasn’t expecting to show so early, especially when we had planned to keep it quiet the standard three months. But no, there it was on full display. I even got outed by a stranger at a toddler birthday party at just eight weeks, which makes me think maybe I should, I don’t know, do a sit up or two (or 1,000) after this one is born.

(9 weeks with Owen vs. 9 weeks with Baby #2)

This pregnancy has also reverted my palate to the tastes of a 10-year old, because while I try not to, I could sustain on chocolate milk, mac and cheese and pizza alone. If it helps, all three of those things that I’ve been buying are organic varieties so…uh…healthy! Yes.

So there you have it, first trimester round two in a nutshell.

Oh yeah, the official due date is July 15th and I would put money on having another boy.

Now, I’m off to eat some pizza.

Because it wouldn’t be social media without a mention of JUST HOW HOT IT IS OMIGOOOOOD.

Y’all know it’s hot. I don’t need to tell you that. We’re having a heat waaaaave. A tropical heat waaaaave. And while going to the beach sounds like a good option in theory, in reality, it would be mean lugging a ton of stuff and a toddler to sit on the sand with lots of other people trying to avoid getting sweaty, and you know what? We have air conditioning. I think I’ll just sit in the house today.

Heat and I don’t mix. For starters, I get Tomato Face. It’s genetic, this face. My mom gets it. My sister gets it. Any time we think it’s a good idea to do some exercise, we are left with a bright red face that lasts forever. Like, FOREVER. There’s a picture of me in high school about an hour after the finale of my dance recital and my head looks superimposed on top of my body, like a bad Photoshop experiment. Really red face, really white body. It’s sexy…not.

When it’s this hot out, I don’t have to exercise to get Tomato Face, I just have to walk outside. Or into a warm building. I swear, I’ll be surrounded by other people who maybe have a little glow about them, and I look like I just ran back-to-back marathons while chugging steaming hot tea. Glisten, I do not.

Heat: 1, Molly: 0

Next, we have my hair. The minute a spec of humidity enters the atmosphere, my hair rebels like a petulant teenager and to prove to me just how mad it is, shrivels up into these teeny, tiny curls that frizz around my head like a halo. It’s worse after being pregnant, because I sprouted all these new hairs during my pregnancy and they’re only a few inches long right now, meaning when they curl up they’re about half-an-inch long and a bird could probably nest in it and you wouldn’t know the difference.

The ONLY product I found that ever really helped combat it (Hang Straight by Aveda) has been discontinued, and my heart broke into a million pieces upon hearing the news. An internet search left me seriously considering spending upwards of $40 for one tiny bottle on Ebay, but I stopped myself, rationalizing that there must be some other product out there that would do as good as a job. I’ve yet to find it, though, and so, my hair continues to act out.

Heat:2, Molly:0

Finally, I just get really whiny when I’m hot. Ask anyone in my family, and they can do a near-perfect impersonation of me complaining about the heat. “I’m hoooot.” Gah, how can you not complain? I think I’d rather be cold, honestly. Well, I don’t know. Neither are really that great of an option, but I think I complain less when I’m cold. When I’m hot, I just feel oppressed and until I’m sufficiently chilled, there is no solution.

Heat:3, Molly 0

But. BUT! The heat means all things icy, and I cannot tell you the joy I get from popsicles, ice cream, homemade watermelon icies, frozen lemonade (a Rhode Island tradition!) If nothing else, the heat means indulging in some icy deliciousness, and I consider that a win.

Heat:3, Molly:1

The odds are stacked against me, but at least they’re tasty.

Stay cool, all!

Well let’s see. ‘Round here we’ve covered poop. And boobs, right? So why not talk about periods too. Or rather, a lack of one.

I’ve yet to get my first postpartum period. There’s a likelihood that I won’t for a while and it’s not like I’m in any rush to get it. NOT having my period for almost 16 months was not bad at all. Nope, didn’t miss it. But for the past few weeks I’ve just felt…off. Moody, tired, emotional. Enough that Michael asked if I could possibly be pregnant. (I’m not.) Sure, there’s always that slight possibility that you can get pregnant before getting a period while breastfeeding (I mean, you would have to ovulate first), but it’s pretty rare.

I kind of just disregarded how I was feeling until the last three days when all of the sudden my stomach started doing this horrible clenching thing. It initially felt higher up, like in the belly, but has moved down my pelvis enough to make me try to think back all those years ago to periods before going on the pill.

I cannot for the life of me remember if I used to get cramps; if this is what it felt like, but if this is my body gearing up for that monthly loveliness, I say NO. Couldn’t we just skip over this classic PMS symptom? I mean, really. Really?

I did some Googling and have found no real good descriptions of what the first postpartum period is like (anyone?), but I did read I could experience symptoms for months (MONTHS????) before actually getting it. Women? Short end of the reproductive stick, am I right?

My sister asked if I was prepared if it did come, and that got me thinking that maybe I should dig around in the closet and see if there are any lone tampons floating around. Just in case.


Of course, if it’s not my impending period, then I am clearly dying.


Dear Motherhood Maternity store # I’m not sure, but you’re in Connecticut,

Due to recent flooding in the state of Rhode Island, when I found myself without any short sleeve shirts that fit me, I was unable to go to our local mall to purchase some. See, the interior of the mall had about three feet of water damage and it’s going to be awhile before it reopens. No worries, I thought. I’m meeting a friend in Connecticut for lunch, so I’ll just pop into a mall there beforehand and get what I need.

I arrived at your store early in the day. The mall was still quiet, and I was the only costumer at the time. The woman working behind the counter took this opportunity to be extra helpful, pulling items she thought I might like and starting a fitting room for me. We chatted about the flooding, the weather, her two children, and various other topics before I headed into the fitting room to try on my choices.

Within moments, her arm was thrust over the top of the door. “Try this,” she said, handing me a sleeping bra. “I think you’ll really like it.”

I wasn’t in the market for a sleeping bra, but I realized she was probably just being friendly (and also trying to up her sale), so I took it without protest. If we’re being honest, I never tried it on, only carried it back out with me when I was done trying on tops.

I arrived at the counter to pay for my shirts — a great bunch in fun colors on sale! — and she began to ring me up.

“You didn’t want the sleeping bra?” she asked.

“No,” I replied. “Thanks anyway, but I’m not really having any discomfort up top when I sleep and I’ll just get fitted for some nursing bras near the end of my pregnancy.”

She stopped for a moment, looked up at me and replied, “Well, your boobs are going to sag, you know,” before returning to the cash register.

I looked at her dumfounded, but chose to ignore the comment.

But then she had to comment on my purchases. “Why are you buying short sleeves and sleeveless? It’s only April.”


“Well,” I said, “I don’t have any that fit, it’s been pretty warm out, they’re on sale and I can always layer if I need to.” All the while I kept thinking to myself, “HOW is this your business?”, but just smiled as I waited for her to finish. Her response to me was a raised eyebrow.

But then. THEN!

I know it’s her job to try and sign me up for a million promotions and I like coupons, so I gave her my email address. But when she asked me if she could sign me up for a free issue of Parenting magazine, I just wasn’t interested in another piece of mail so I said no thank you.

And she snorted. Outright snorted, looked me in the eye and said, “Why? Because you already know everything about parenting?”

Motherhood Maternity, had I not made a special trip to another state to purchase tops on sale that I was unable to purchase at home, I would have left my merchandise on the counter, turned around and walked out. I have never encountered a salesperson who was so rude and condescending before and I promise you, I will not be returning.

Sincerely yours,


Awhile back I decided to go enviro-friendly and invest in some reusable grocery totes. I always recycled the plastic bags I was using before, but come on, it was time.

I purchased a few totes from my local non-chain market and was a convert immediately. Eco friendly! Easy to carry! Sold!

As time went on, I accumulated a few more totes from various places, one being a health food store near my mom’s house, and another from Barnes & Nobel. Whenever I went to the grocery store, I would grab 2-4 bags depending on the size of my shopping that day. Sometimes they were all from my local market, other times they were a combination of those bags and one from a different store. Basically, whichever bag I happened to grab came with me.

As time went on, I started to notice that while nothing was ever said about it, the cashiers at “local market” would fill their bags to the brim, and leave competitors bags empty. And let me tell you, sometimes you really need that extra bag — competitor or not — to be filled, because the totes can get heavy!

To which I say: STUPID! Are they serious? I’m shopping at “local market”, giving them my business, not the competition. (Which, side note: last time I checked, Barnes & Nobel sells books, not food, and the health food store is in NEW YORK so really? REALLY?) They really won’t use my extra bag because it doesn’t say “local market” on the side?

Now, this is really just a theory that I’ve worked myself up about. (Ask Michael, I think I’ve talked about it like 10 times in the last two days.) I’ve never asked the cashier why they won’t use my extra bag, or even stressed “Please use all the bags”, so I really don’t have much of a leg to stand on.

But I WILL. Because I plan on saying something next time it happens.

Oh! And this!

Yesterday, I grabbed two “local market” bags to do some quick shopping, but as I filled my cart I realized I would probably need an additional bag to hold my purchases. I asked the cashier to use both totes, then use a plastic bag for the last batch. (I use the plastic ones to line my bathroom garbage can.) To make sure I was being clear, I even rambled a bit about having too much for just two totes, and how I really wanted the weight evenly distributed.

Look, I realize this makes me sound a little high maintenance, but when I’m carrying the bags from the car into the house it requires some maneuvering. Like, getting the groceries out of the car, opening the gate, closing the gate, walking up onto the deck, unlocking the door, shoving past a big dog who is very interested in groceries, and bringing them into the kitchen. If I don’t have one random bag that weighs 20 pounds, it makes things a lot easier. Especially since I now have to manuever all that around my stomach.

The cashier told me no problem, so I didn’t really pay much attention as the groceries were bagged. Until the bagger asked me if I wanted to “just fill these totes to the brim instead?”

No. No I do not want them filled to the brim.

“Oh no thanks. Can you actually just split everything evenly between three bags? (Sticks out pregnant stomach.) I just don’t want one bag to be too heavy.”

Sure, not problem, he says.

And then hands me two totes…and one plastic bag containing all the heaviest items I had purchased. Milk. Apple juice. OJ. Pasta sauce in a glass jar, etc.


To those of you rolling your eyes, I know. I KNOW! Blame it on the hormones if you want, but this has been under my skin for two days now.

But I’m still totally going to ask about those competitor totes…

I started this whole post about a big goal for 2010 and intended on finishing it this morning, but then I woke up a total cranky pants and decided to finish it tomorrow.

I think the reason for the wrong side of the bed-ness is that the middle of the night pee sessions have begun. I’m not used to getting up in the middle of the night and now that I have no choice, well, I don’t like it. See, our bedroom is upstairs and the bathroom is downstairs, which means getting out of my (warm) bed, husband mumbling in my general direction asking me if something is wrong — then rolling into my spot sound asleep before I can answer, stumbling down the stairs while gripping the banister so my clumsiness doesn’t propel me face first, arriving in the (cold) downstairs, stepping over a big sleeping dog, and attempting to do my business without so much as opening one eye.

And then when I get back to bed after doing the whole thing in reverse, I’m wide awake.

I’ve never been a fan of 4 a.m., but I’m becoming quite acquainted with it.

So yes, cranky pants. Which means big goal post will be finished for tomorrow. Assuming I can fall back asleep tonight after my mid-night pee.

I did want to share one little story with you.

We were on our way out the door on Sunday, but since Michael just removed the Christmas tree, I decided to vacuum quickly before leaving so as not to come home to a trail of pine needles.

I had the rug attachment on and was bending down to move something out of the way, when all of the sudden, BAM! My scarf had been pulled into the beater bar and my face was smack dab on top of the vacuum. It happened so quickly, that my brain said “PULL!” instead of “Turn off vacuum”, which may have had something to do with my oxygen being cut off. So I did, pull, that is, hard. And luckily my scarf came out, along with my face.

I shut off the vacuum, turned around…and burst into tears.

I can’t really explain it. I was fine. My neck was a little sore and I didn’t have any moments flash before my eyes or anything, but that choking feeling? Happening so quickly and unexpected?


I won’t vacuum with a scarf on anymore.

A water main in town broke.

Which means no water at our house.

If only I had showered yesterday…

Ask me anything!

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Alltop, all the cool kids (and me)