Posts Filed Under Maybe my kids are the problem.

Tidy houses are not a thing so stop it

by Janelle Hanchett

I have decided that anyone with kids who says their house is tidy and clean is lying. Their house is not clean. It’s a fucking disaster like mine.

Don’t tell me I’m wrong. I’m not wrong. THEY ARE LYING.

I don’t give a shit if they have photographic evidence on Instagram. You know they pushed all the crap out of the camera frame and stuck their kid against the wall in its slouchy cap and harem pants and posted it like it ain’t nothin.


My light may be dim but it ain’t that dim.

Or, I’m wrong. That happens. Been wrong at least 4 times so far this year.

But I have given this a lot of thought man, and I just don’t understand.

Last Friday morning I looked around and said to myself “What the actual fuck

If we don't do the dishes. AFTER ONE MEAL.

If we don’t do the dishes. AFTER ONE MEAL.

has happened to my kitchen, living room, bathroom, hallways OhFuckItEveryRoomInTheHouse?”

It’s like all 6 inhabitants of this house walk around spewing toys, paper and dust from their fingertips.

And clothes. Oh my god the clothes. I hate clothes.

So anyway, Friday morning: I make a list for the 3 older kids. They each have their jobs, and I have mine. 1.5 hours of cleaning. Rocket, Ava, Georgie and me. Mac is at work.

Whine. Tears. Rage. Whatever offspring.

This ain’t my first rodeo. Do the damn work.

Rocket takes 50 minutes to unload the dishwasher. This baffles me. I tell him “We’re going to the beach once this is done so maybeYouShouldHurryUp. Miraculously, he does his other 5 chores in 12 minutes.

Uncool, Rocket. Uncool.

Arlo's job here is to dump each pile onto the floor. Thank you, Arlo.

Arlo’s job here is to dump each pile onto the floor. Thank you, Arlo.

Georgia is 4 so her jobs require putting things in other things. For example, “Put the shoes in the shoe baskets.” Fortunately this is also a fun pastime for Arlo, though he more enjoys taking things OUT of things.

On Friday I watched Georgia load shoes into a basket while Arlo removed them from the other side of the same basket.

We are an efficient fucking machine.

But we managed to get it done.

The house is clean. Swept, mopped. Shit picked up. Vacuumed.

Full floor visibility. I feel like a domestic goddess. Where’s my motherfucking apron? Somebody bring your father a casserole.

I look around and feel good. I’m so capable. I can move mountains. Let’s move mountains!

Look at me walk on these wood floors without shit sticking to my feet! Oh glorious motherhood!

We go to the beach. We’re gone til 9pm. We wake up. We eat breakfast on Saturday. We leave for the entire day, get home at 8:30pm.


it's pretty much never better than this unless we have people coming over.

it’s pretty much never better than this unless we have people coming over.

It’s been 48 hours and it’s all gone. How is that even possible? We’ve only spent like 4 waking hours in the damn thing.


Then I curl up in the fetal position and weep and cry out unto the lord “No but seriously dude how the hell am I to survive in these conditions?”

In response I hear only the sound of the cat food overturning across the living room floor which Arlo will surely begin eating within 44 seconds. (What is it with babies and pet food?)

Sometimes I feel defeated. Not gonna lie. Like when I open the hall closet and see my husband has decided a good place for cockroach catchers we’ll never use (given to us by the exterminator) is in the basket with the sunscreen and goggles in the linen closet.

Or when I FINALLY remove the 396 garments that no longer fit the baby and organize his dresser drawers FINALLY and one of the older kids “puts away clothes” by shoving random piles diagonally across my beautiful rows until the drawers won’t close. AGAIN.

Sometimes my life feels like one missing shoe and drawers that won’t close.

Ya feel me?


I know. I know it’s not that big of a deal. And I know it’s “nice” that my kids attempt to put clothes away and that we can afford an exterminator who gives complimentary cockroach catchers and that I even have a house and kids and husband at all and yes someday I’m sure I’ll miss the pitter patter of tiny feet dragging my household organization attempts into the fort they just built with clean sheets over a sticky kitchen table.

And newsflash yes I know I’m not “defined” by the condition of my house or car and blah blah fucking blah I’M NOT ASKING FOR MUCH HERE PEOPLE.

After one hour of "playing." REALLY KIDS REALLY?

After one hour of “playing.” REALLY KIDS REALLY?

A visual on the floor of my car, perhaps.

A reduction in strange substances dried onto the floor.

300% fewer toys showing up on my floor even though I take shit to the Goodwill every week it seems.

Maybe a Level 1 instead of Level 4 hurricane in the bedroom after the kids “play.”



People tell me it’s that easy: “Just have the kids pick up after themselves. Before they get out a new activity have them clean up the old one.”

Would somebody kindly explain how the fuck I’m supposed to do that WITHOUT becoming Stalin? 

So maybe that’s it. Maybe I just refuse to become the type of person I would have to become to keep a tidy house all the time.

Or maybe I’m inept.

Let’s go with the former. It makes the circus seem intentional and therefore slightly more palatable.

Or something.

On the plus side, we cleaned the refrigerator, so we can definitely look forward to 4 hours of clean refrigerator.

AT LEAST. Go team.

I am unwavering however in my devotion to making my bed each morning. ha. ha. ha.

I am however unwavering in my devotion to making my bed each morning. ha. ha. ha.



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A handy guide to pleasing a 4-year-old

by Janelle Hanchett

When Georgia found out Arlo got to write directions for how to please him, she decided she wanted in on the action.


Dear Mom,

When I wake up in the morning, I need you to be ready to party. Right now. As I enjoy it. I like partying. I like furniture jumping, yelling and being naked. Basically I’m you when you were 20.

I need you to make me pancakes. I like pancakes. I only like eating things I like.

Stop talking about protein. I don’t give a shit about protein. What I give a shit about is pancakes on my plate.

If you put something on my plate that I’m not sure I like, I will tell you I don’t like it and do pretty much everything other than try it. If you play a super stupid game with me I may try it. Yeah, I’ll try it, but I might spit it out. But you can’t get mad at me because you said I just needed to “try one bite.” At some point you’ll give up because I’m so fucking annoying at the table nobody can stand me.

Don’t hate yourself. I’m just better at this. I’m actually having fun.

That’s your downfall. You don’t think this is fun.

I think this is fun. That’s why I always win.

Speaking of food, I like fruit, so please mostly or always just feed me fruit. Sometimes I like chicken but I don’t like any other meat that isn’t chicken so just call all meat-like substances chicken and you’ll have a better chance of me eating it.

Chance. I said “Chance.” Calm down.

I like to do everything myself always unless I need your help. If you try to help me when I don’t want it I’ll throw a temper tantrum because I hate feeling belittled, but if you don’t help me immediately when I need help I’ll cry really, really hard because obviously you’re never there when I need you and I’m pretty sure nobody has ever loved me ever and I am a forsaken, lost child alone in a cold dark world.

I’m a complex, mercurial human you can only hope to understand.

I like doing chores that I like doing, which you’ll recognize because they’re MY idea, and I like getting dressed when I want to get dressed but if you want me to clean up a mess I made or get dressed when I don’t feel like it I just won’t do it. Ever. I’ll sit down. I’ll turn around. I’ll walk backwards. I’ll do a thousand things but I won’t do that. Why do you bother convincing me? We can do this all day.

I like swinging.

I like swinging.

Basically I like doing things that I like. I like the park. I like swinging, and I like running. Because they’re fun.

You know what’s not fun? Naps. I fucking hate naps.

Naps are for assholes.

But if I don’t get a nap I’ll act possessed by insane demon spawn by 3pm. Not napping actually makes me more wild and unpredictable, and really quite miserable in general, but since I hate naps you need to figure something else out, maybe drive somewhere 30-40 minutes away around 1 or 2 or 3pm. Maybe I’ll sleep then. Give it a shot. But if you have somewhere to be and you’re relying on me napping in the car so I’m not demon spawn, I definitely won’t nap.

That’s for damn sure.

Why are you crying? I love you.

I’d love you more though if you’d stop letting me down. If you tell me we can do something and then we can’t, I’ll remember it around bed time and hold it against you. You know, like if you tell me I get a bath but then I don’t get a bath for some reason I’ll throw my head back and wail so you’ll wonder if perhaps I have been seriously injured, physically, but actually it’s just my heart suffering under the weight of your bullshit.

Also that one time you told me I could have a playdate with my boy T but then you cancelled because I had the flu? We need to talk about that. Now.

If you’d stop letting me down I wouldn’t have to act this way right before bed, when I’m tired and worn out because I didn’t take a nap, because naps are for assholes.

You also bother me when you fail to adhere to the random incoherent patternless rules I invent, including, but not limited to: 1.) Which days are doughnut days; 2.) Who pushes the elevator button; and 3.) Who gets the blue cup.

I fucking hate the blue cup.

We’ve been over this. I feel I’ve been pretty clear on my cup-color needs.

Let’s go have fun. Can we go the park? You promised yesterday.

It was sure cute when you tried to establish the “talk it over chair” thing in our house because you saw it in the preschool and thought it might work here. You’re so cute.

Nothing you see or read will actually work in real life.

I’m glad I’m here to help you.

Want to take a picture of me? I feel like smiling unnaturally.

smiling unnaturally

smiling unnaturally

Are you in a hurry? That’s weird. I suddenly can’t move my body.

We’re going somewhere? I need to hide under my bed.

Is it raining and muddy? Awesome! This is the first time I’ve ever wanted to wear that expensive white tank dress you got me last Easter.


Let’s go snuggle.

And then, after that, I can tell you the next way you can please me.

Later, I’ll give you a big ass grin and say something hilarious, or I’ll do something that makes me seem big and growing too fast and you’ll say “Hey kid, get over here and hug me!”

And I’ll say “Sorry, mama, I gave all my hugs and kisses to daddy and his hurt hand.”

And you’ll die.

Don’t die. I need you.

At least I think I do. Sometimes. Sometimes I need you.

The rest of the time I’m wondering what in the hell you’re still doing here.

It’s cool though. We’re friends. I’m 4. I’ll be 5 in August. Then I’ll go to kindergarten. Why are you crying, mom? Why do you look at me like I’m your favorite tiny insane roommate and couldn’t take a breath without me?

It’s alright, mama, I love you too.

Wait. Is that the fucking blue cup again?

Peace out,

The 4-year-old



(Hey! There are 5 spots left in my writing workshop that begins next month. Get with it. Get on it.

Fuck your damn blue cup. Wait. Sorry.)


Twelve Easy Steps to Doing Creative Work while Parenting

by Janelle Hanchett

So I’m doing the National Novel Writing Month thing, only I’m not writing a novel. I’m writing creative non-fiction, what I would call sort of a fusion between Ann Lamott and David Sedaris, only less good than that sounds. Since November 1 I’ve written 27,887 words, which is about 110 pages. And I have written a few blog posts. Basically I’ve been a writin’ fool. Emphasis on the fool.

On October 1 and 6 months ago and last year I would have told you there was no way I could possibly write 1,700 words a day on a book. There was simply not time. There was absolutely not one single spare moment in my day. And that was true.

I have 4 kids from tween to 5 months. My husband works 7 days a week these days. I already maintain a blog. I’m trying to build an online writing/blogging class (for you guys. what? Yes.).

No time. No sleep. No fucking way.

But then I read a quote by somebody that basically said that the writer will write when the fear of doing nothing outweighs the fear of writing complete crap. And suddenly, on October 30, I realized I was there. Fueled in part by the reality that teaching community college next semester would require me to work really freaking hard for below minimum wage (when you factor in childcare costs), and we can’t go on like this, with my husband working 7 days a week, I suddenly saw through my own bullshit.

It’s not that I didn’t have enough hours in the day to write. It’s that I chose to use my time in ways that negated the possibility of writing a book.

All I had to do is lower my fucking standards, A LOT. Like to the ground. I basically had to just chop them off at the knees and move on.

No biggee.

So for those of you “creative” moms who have a hobby or talent you’re just not using because there’s no time, I’ve created a list of Twelve Easy Steps to Doing Creative Work while Parenting. (I’ve written it about writing but I imagine it applies to most art.)

  1. Yeah, you know that nap time that lasts 1.5 hours (maximum), during wthich time you’re expected to accomplish Every Fucking Thing Since the Beginnning of Man? Yeah, you just get to write now during that time. That’s all. Just write.
  2. Forget the laundry. The hallway. The toys in the living room and the piles on the couch. Forget it all. Step over it. Step on it. Sit on it, near it, in it to get to your computer to write. Neglect everything and do the thing.
  3. Put the toddler in front of TV. Feel guily. Feel super fucking guilty but do it anyway becaue only the tenacity of A RABID IRRATIONAL BULLDOG WILL GET YOU THROUGH THIS.
  4. Learn to write absolute drivel. Silence the voices telling you it’s absolute drivel by writing anyway. Always write anyway. Do not read what you’ve written already because you’ll realize not only should you stop writing because you suck and shouldn’t bother, you might want to just off yourself too, because you’re that bad. LEARN TO LOVE THE DRIVEL. Do not off yourself.
  5. Cry on days when the toddler is in preschool for 2.5 hours and the baby decides not to take his only reliable morning nap that day because you realize you’ll probably have to do your writing at 10pm after everybody’s asleep, turning you into a miserable zombie yet another day.
  6. On that happy note, learn to write even though your eyes keep getting blurry. Learn to write when you’re so tired your cheekbones hurt (yeah, it’s a thing apparently. Who knew?).
  7. Fuck homecooked meals.
  8. Consider bathing optional.
  9. Accept help always.
  10. Drink so much coffee you wonder how your blood hasn’t bubbled out of your veins. Crash around 2pm but go pick up your kids anyway because you can’t just leave them there.
  11. Get okay with not brushing your toddlers hair and letting her wear pajamas all day, in and out of the house. While eating mac & cheese. And yogurt, for the 2nd meal in a row. (I said lower your motherfucking standards and I MEAN IT.)
  12. Write anyway write instead write because of write when you can’t write. Write when you have nothing to say when you can’t form a sentence when it’s pretty much all adjectives and adverbs and shit.

Write the shit, because it’s better than writing nothing, and if nothing else, you’ll learn that you can do it. You just have to make it insansely important and get crazy and not complain about it because you’re the one who chose to have the kids, dumbass. Now deal with it.

Or don’t deal with it, but write paint sew garden sing compose sculpt anyway.

We may not have a room of our own, but we’ve got a tiny spot on the motherfucking couch, and it’s calling our name.

my office. it's super excellent feng shui.

my office. it’s super excellent feng shui.



The amazing Brene Brown says about Marianne Elliott:

“…She’s one of the best teachers I’ve ever experienced. If you want to do something extraordinary for yourself, I can’t think of a better teacher!”

Now THAT is a freaking endorsement.

Marianne Elliott is offering “Zen Peacekeepers Guide to the Holidays,” 30 Daily Lessons to help you keep peace with yourself and your loved ones. In her words:

You want to enjoy your families over the holidays, but you end up feeling ‘not quite at home’ with the people who you are supposed to be closest to.

You want to lay the table beautifully, buy the fancy wine, give your children ethical, sustainable gifts, and do it all with your hairZen Holidays brushed and your lipstick on straight. But you end up giving into pleas for the new Barbie, don’t even know which is the fancy wine, and never seem to leave enough time to brush your hair before the guests arrive.

You want to feel generous, maybe even a little bit indulgent, but you end up feeling financially squeezed, maybe even a little bit scared.

This mix of high expectations, financial pressure and family tension puts even the easiest of our relationships under strain. We start wishing the holidays would just be over and done with. And they haven’t even begun yet.

We don’t do much for ourselves sometimes, particularly during times when we really, really should.

Like now. When we’re trying to get through the damn holidays, and maybe even enjoy ourselves. Make memories that hopefully aren’t just all “What the hell is all this so stressful and why are my kids so annoying and why can’t I relax and when is Uncle Bobby going to stop drinking?”

Let Marianne help. She knows what she’s doing (somebody better!). Begin next week.


To the humans wondering why I’m always late

by Janelle Hanchett

The other day a friend of mine and I were having a bit of friendly-text-banter about tardiness. She was like “Just start earlier” and I was like “talk to me when you have 4 kids” and she was like “I wouldn’t have 4 kids!”

And I told her she is a fucking smart woman, only I left out the f-bomb because I’m classy.

But it got me thinking about the whole late thing. Namely, that it happens with some regularity. I’m 90% sure my friends without kids tell me gatherings start 1-hour before they actually start because they know my, um, situation.

And I imagine repeated tardiness can get a little (ahem) annoying, so I thought I’d attempt to explain just for funsies what exactly happens when I’m trying to walk out the door with my 4 tiny dictators.

First, there’s the tween. She’s 12. She looks like she would be nothing but helpful. And often, she is. I mean she’s tall and mature and gets herself dressed and fed and stuff, but distributed throughout the crazy rad shit my tween is capable of doing is a mind-boggling penchant for snail-pace movement.

I don’t get it. She looks like she’s moving; I mean, her body is not actually stationary, but the tangible progress being made is AS IF she were standing still. It’s one of the great mysteries of humanity, I imagine.

She’s also, make no mistake, A KID. She’s not a do-it-all-for-me kid anymore, but she is for sure still a kid and as such, she sometimes gets way way way lost in her morning routine. Like one day she just forgets to set her alarm, or feed the dog, or make a lunch. Or homework. That’s due that day.

Yay fun!

Or she fights with her brother, who’s 9, over some profound injustice which, of course, WE NEVER ADDRESS because we’re always on her case instead of his. This is wholly not true because the “he” in question is hands-down the most annoying human to get ready with on the entire fucking planet.

I realize I haven’t tried getting ready with everybody on the entire fucking planet but it doesn’t matter. When you are relying on a human who literally forgets what he’s doing with the Tupperware he just removed from the dishwasher BY THE TIME HE GETS TO THE TUPPERWARE DRAWER and instead walks down the hall and opens the linen closet at which time he looks down at the Tupperware and thinks to himself “What am I doing here with this plastic at the linen closet?” then proceeds to put the Tupperware down and hold the kitten upside down because WHY THE HELL NOT PEOPLE?…

When you’re working with that, you’ve got nothing.

It’s all up in the air, folks.

Did you brush your teeth what about breakfast do you have a lunch why aren’t your shoes on did you feed the chickens where’s your homework OHMYGOD you didn’t do it DO IT NOW DO IT NOW eat a piece of toast get your backpack get in the car OHMYHELLDUDE your shoes still aren’t on?!

Every day, people. Every day. I mean it.

But you know what? Forget all this shit. There’s nobody worse than the Tiny Naked Insane Human. In fact, she’s so bad, only one of my handy helpful graphs will explain this nonsense.


You see what we’re dealing with here?

And then, there’s the baby. The baby. Oh, Arlo. Cute as a motherfucking bug’s ear. Doesn’t give a shit if we’re on time.

Possibly plans his bowel movements according to how late we are.

Always naps when we absolutely must leave.

Cries only when I really need him to be quiet.

Can’t walk.

So you see. All of this results in the following predicament:




NOBODY GETS BEHIND MY TIMELINESS EFFORTS except one kid. ONE. One out of 4, people.

Those are some bad odds, dude.


And yeah, I could wake up at 5am or better yet, 4:30am, to plan prepare and be AT THE READY for whatever nonsense may come up that day, but the truth is that would make me such an insane uptight pissed off mama I would need 13 Xanax to get through the morning and RECOVING ALCOHOLICS DON’T GET 13 XANAX.

Or at least this one doesn’t.

Plus, I usually don’t go to sleep until 11pm because the baby sleeps at 9:30pm and I need one point five hours to my SELF when nobody is touching talking yelling cuddling needing me, feeding off my nipple or otherwise using my body mind spirit emotions for the wellbeing of their overall persons.

Or, in short, leaving me the fuck alone.

But then I wake up at around 3 or 3:30 with the baby, at which time he spends the next hour or so making up for that big stretch of not-nursing (which he barely survived, apparently, because he now must nurse for ONE HOUR STRAIGHT), which makes me going back to sleep at 4:30 or 5.

So “just starting earlier” turns my 6 hours of sleep into 4 hours, which is, incidentally, the EXACT number of sleep hours that transforms me into an irritable insane overly emotional zombie.


So there you go, people who can’t figure out why I can’t seem to pull it together in the timeliness department.

It’s either tardiness or zombie.

Sometimes it’s tardiness AND zombie.

Or maybe I just suck.

Either way, I’m trying. God knows I’m trying. (BUT 3 out of my 4 kids aren’t!)

And I guess really that’s all any of us can do.

You with your one kid or no kid, me with the four I can barely handle (although let’s be honest. I was late when I only had one.)

We’re all fightin the fight, man.

All we can do, once again, is try not to be a dick, one bullshit morning at a time.



Are you or are you not working with my girl Heather Thorkelson yet?

She travels around the world, takes crazy ass trips to Antarctica, leads groups through Peru,

and does it all through her freelance work.

She’s willing to teach you how.

Sign up for this:


She’s not just talking about it. She’s fucking doing it.

I thought age 4 would be better. I was wrong.

by Janelle Hanchett

Georgia, age 4 (as of August 5), pretty much sees me in two ways:

  1. I need to be so close to you I’m literally sitting on your face; and
  2. I’m trying to figure out what exactly your purpose is here.

We all know “terrible twos” was an invention by some prick who never had a 3-year-old, and found it amusing to make new parents think 2 is bad when actually, Dante’s 10th circle of hell is right around the corner.

Age 2 is sipping hot apple cider during a crisp fall evening with big orange leaves crackling at your feet. Age 3 (and 4, evidently) is like getting a bucket of ice water dumped on your head (only not benefiting a nonprofit) and the leaves shoved in your ears by a tiny insane human squealing “I don’t like the orange leaves. I ONLY LIKE THE RED LEAVES!”

And you’re like “but I didn’t make the leaves, sweet angel from heaven.”

And she’s like “I. DON’T. LIKE. THATTTTTTTTT!!”

And screaming and crying and growling and fists and shit and you’re like “This is why nobody likes you.”

But you keep it inside, because you can’t actually say that to a toddler. I mean, out loud. Plus, it’s not true. Everybody in fact likes her a lot since she saves this behavior for you and you alone. And maybe daddy. But mostly you.

And sometimes, when you’re in public.

Like the other day when we went to get Arlo’s birth certificate from the court records place and it had already been decided that Rocket gets to push the button on the elevator (because these are the issues that now concern me, people. This is important stuff here. WE MUST MAKE SURE IT’S FAIR AND EVEN AND RIGHT AND TRUE when it comes to elevator-button-pushing. Fuck my life.) But somehow, even though it was clearly Rocket’s turn (Georgia pushed them on the way up), and sharing and turn-taking have been working parts of our psyches for at least 2 years, suddenly, right now, this shit is INTOLERABLE and the thing to do when Rocket pushes that elusive, gorgeous light-up button is stand in the corner and let out some wails that might shatter the elevator glass, were it not bulletproof.

I ask her “Why are you such a dick?”

No, I don’t. But I really, really want to.

Instead, even though it’s never worked once in the history of motherhood, I attempt reasoning with her (also because this makes me look like a good, conscientiousness mother in front of strangers) “Georgia, you pushed the buttons on the way up. It’s Rocket’s turn now,” but we’ve entered full-toddler-psychosis. It’s no use.

Only thing to do is ignore it. Only way through it is through it. Going on a fucking bear hunt, folks. Somebody save me from these horrid jokes.

I am, after all, in an elevator with a toddler, newborn and 8-year-old. Can’t really sit there and “talk it through” lovingly in a supportive mom voice, exploring complex feelings of displacement (new baby came, very hard on toddlers) and existential toddler angst.

She probably just has to poop.

Or needs a nap (which she abandoned 6 months ago, because clearly if it’s helping her mood we should get rid of it immediately).

Besides, I have no capacity for supportive mom voice at that moment.

So the husband picks her up and puts her over his shoulder and she loses it all the way home.

People look at you wondering why your kid is so terrible, all tantruming-the-fuck-out and you just ignoring her. I feel like that’s excessively unfair because in my experience the only way to get them to stop being assholes is to ignore their asshole tantrums.

Yes, that’s my profound parenting insight.

If you have a better plan, please shove it up your ass.

Sorry. I didn’t mean that. I’m just bitter.

Well maybe I meant it a little.

But seriously, right? I can’t give in to my daughter’s irrationality and so, a tantrum ensues. The only thing that will stop the tantrum is letting her push the button. But if I do that, she’s earning what she wants from the tantrum, and will thereby do it again. And again. And again.

And the next thing you know, she’ll be the woman at the Target checkout line screaming at the pimply faced teenager for not giving the appropriate discount on her Scrubbing Bubbles cleaner. You know, the one we all look at and think “Why didn’t your mom teach you any damn manners?”

So in the interest of the greater good, sometimes you just gotta let them wail and wish you didn’t have kids, and endure the looks of strangers who have either never raised offspring or are better parents than you. Or think they’re better parents than you. There is no doubt that there are many, many better parents than me.

Except at the county fair. I am better than those parents. Just saying.

Anyway, the other day, Mac was changing the screen on one of the windows in the back of the house, nowhere near Georgia’s room, FYI, and she starts screaming and crying that Mac had “ruined the magic secret door to her bedroom.”

Look, kid, you can’t hold us accountable to your paranoid delusions of weird toddler shit. Err, I mean “imagination.”

A few hours later, we were driving along in our vehicle and Georgia asks “What’s that?”

I answer: “A restaurant.”

She asks “Why? Why mama why? Whywhywhy?”

I roll down my window and scream into the night “I can’t live in these conditions!”

But nobody hears my cries.

Leaving the house the other day, she says “I want to bring that stroller!”

But we don’t need that stroller, so I tell her.

So she furrows her brow and wails and screams, because that makes sense.

I tell her “I’ll give you $100 if you stop making that noise,” but she has no appreciation for money.

God help you if you don’t give her the red cup.

Or ask her to leave, anywhere, ever, in a hurry.

Do not, I repeat DO NOT, change your plans in the middle of the day if those plans involved parks, friends or grandmothers.

Right, because plans never change in families of 4 kids and a mother who puts things in her calendar then forgets to look at the calendar.

And if she squeezes the newborn’s face and makes him cry, don’t say anything, because SHE WASN’T HURTING HIM.

And I’m not jumping on the couch, she says, in an up-and-down motion.



Oh, George. You’re driving me fucking batshit.

Next week you start preschool.

I’ll miss you terribly.

Sort of.

Yes, terribly.

And not.


Yep, this is it. Motherhood. Age 4.

Thumbs up.




up-on-the-hill-ad-v2.1You know how you “meet” somebody via the interwebz and you know you could be friends? Yeah, that’s what’s happened with Amii and me. At least on my part.

She founded and runs “Up on the Hill,” a seriously awesome store that carries all the things I want to buy my annoying toddlers and babies. No, I mean it. That’s true and real.

Read her words and figure out why I fucking love her and what she’s done: “My husband used to work in the beer and wine industry, and was actually quite well know for his palate when it comes to beer, but was laid off 3 weeks before my due date with baby #2. Despite the stress we had a successful HBAC, and a little bit of savings. After 2 months of unsuccessfully trying to find a new job, we decided to open a business ourselves. 

We opened Up On the Hill in October of 2012 and never really looked back. Having a passion for cloth diapers and baby-wearing I jumped into this with no real business background, just 15 years in food service. It’s been quite the learning experience.

We are located in Historic Shepherdstown, WV and also carry children’s clothing and natural toys. We strive to carry items you won’t find in big box stores, and are huge supporters of local and small businesses. I have a 4 year old son, River,  and 1 year old daughter, Luna.”


So click this link and buy some shit. We have an “affiliate” arrangement going, so I actually get a little something too when you buy. So help two mamas out. Fuck Walmart. Thank you.

Much love.