Archive for the fails Category
That time I told the doctor she was wrong

I went to the doctor recently for some side pain.

Now before you up and call me a total pansy, know that it takes a lot for me to go to the doctor. Like I have to be oozing blood, running a super high fever, or pregnant. But then miraculously as soon as I set foot in the office, the bleeding stops, my fever is nowhere to be found, and of course the pregnancy is all in my head.

But this side pain had been going on for a while, and something in the back of my mind was saying it was my kidney, or I was dying. It seemed to flare up when I had drank too much coffee and not enough water (as in EVERY DAY), and it was especially bad on a Sunday after we had enjoyed a few beers while watching the Longhorn game at a friend’s house the night before. I probably did more beer drinking than watching the game, because football’s not really my thing, alma mater or not.

I feared a kidney stone, and nothing screams “You’re an unhealthy mess!” to me like a kidney stone. Only I’m not an unhealthy mess, I’m actually quite a healthy mess, thank you very much, except for the weekly pizza and the mini keg in my fridge, but we won’t mention those (again).

So I finally bit the bullet and made an appointment when the pain and complaining and the crimping of the side to ease the pain and complaining became kind of a daily thing. I was convinced it was one for the record books, and nurses would faint at its girth as they went in to blast it to a million tiny pieces, which would still end up being about the size of golf balls.

Once in the office and minus one urine sample, the doctor — I go to one of those awful chain type clinics, and I don’t even know her name — poked at my side, asked me some questions, and bent me this way and that in the name of diagnosing my ginormous problem. For maybe a whole 60 seconds.

“Okay, yeah…it’s muscle pain.”

Okay, yeah, what???

“It’s muscular. I’ll prescribe you an anti-inflammatory for the pain.” She jotted words down on her little pad while I stared at her like she was insane.

“You…it’s….are you sure?” I gave her my best “I don’t want to tell you you’re wrong, but I think you’re wrong” look. I mean, I watch a lot of Grey’s Anatomy, and there’s always something freaky going on in that hospital. And when they misdiagnose? People die.  “It just really feels like it’s my kidney, and it seems to flare up with certain, um, causes, and…” She gave me a blank stare. Dammit where is Patrick Dempsey and his empathetic hair when I need him?

You see, this is something I kinda do. I have a pain, or an itch, or a pimple, and I convince myself that I have some rare form of side cancer, skin ailment, or strange, dermatological anomaly. I try to convince myself that “I’m just listening to my body,” but what I’m starting to realize is that my body like to lie to me. Rather, it likes to see how easy it is to get me to believe that I’m about to meet my own demise by way of excruciating side cramps, then it points and laughs at me as I hastily google “chances of death by rogue kidney.” You know, kinda like that time that I thought my daughter’s vagina was about to spontaneously combust, only to find out that she really just had to pee.

Not that I wanted there to be anything wrong with my kidney. That shit gets expensive. Last year Christian went in for what he assumed was a kidney stone (unhealthy mess!), and it turned out that his internal plumbing was defective since birth, causing his kidney to not filter correctly. Had they not caught it, it would have ballooned up and exploded or something. I’m not really keen on the details. But there was an ER, a surgery, a high deductible insurance plan, and MONEY MONEY MONEY which can’t replace his health, but OMG BILLS.

So on the flip side, it’s also kinda one of my fears that something is dormant and terribly wrong with me, and the doctor will just overlook it because she only spent 60 seconds poking me and asking vague questions and my side pain could be a rare form of side cancer that gets better with crimping and bending over and such, or my kidney could be about to explode because my plumbing is wrong too, and how much would that suck and be awesome at the same time, because that would like totally make Christian and I soul mates!

I sensed that these generic anti-inflammatories might be a tad less expensive and less pain in the ass than hospitals and surgeries, but I still felt like she was kinda blowing me off and was all “NEXT PATIENT PLEASE DON’T EVEN CHANGE OUT THE SANITARY PAPER THINGY GO GO GO!” But she gave me a nod.

“Well, if you want to get it checked out, we can send you for an ultrasound.” Which was clearly her code for “Fine, don’t listen to what I think, I’m just the doctor, but let’s go take this expensive test and waste valuable time and resources that are for people who actually have weird side/kidney issues that they didn’t make up.”

And I was all “Thank you!”

Then she couldn’t decide if she wanted to send me for a renal ultrasound or an abdominal one, and she kinda looked at me expectantly like I would know the answer, but I didn’t go to medical school, and she was all “Oh you didn’t? I couldn’t tell by the way you were diagnosing yourself here in my office.” I made a special note to find a new doctor, stat.

The next morning I headed bright and early to the radiology place, where they too couldn’t figure out if I was going renal or abdominal. We finally made a guess and chose the one that would NOT require me to drink 5 gallons of water in 15 minutes and then sit and wait and not pee for an hour.

And so of course (of course!), I got a call in 2 days saying that my ultrasound showed….wait for it….


I was clean as a whistle. Healthy as a hog. Kidney stone free as a…person with no kidney stones. Plumbing 100% A-OK.

So when I got home and my side pain started flaring up, I popped an anti-inflammatory pill for my so called quote/unquote “muscular pain.”

Which disappeared in a matter of minutes.

*Blink blink*

So yeah. She was right. I was wrong. Damn you, real doctor with your knowledge and your degree of medicine!

As much as I’m glad that I don’t have some weird kidney/side disease,  I’m still planning on finding a new, non-gigantic practice doctor. I may have trouble looking this one in the eye again.


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Because that’s what mommies do?

I went and bought some shiny new poster board last week in preparation to make a “responsibility chart.” It’s time these kids started earning their keep. For a while there Rachel would get her stool and beg me to let her “wash the dishes,” which was really code for “drench all the things with the fun squirty thing!” I tried to appease her as much as I could, but I should mention that I’m also one of those people who just wants to get things done with little to no help from the 4 year old set. Something about 1 step forward, 2 steps back. So basically my kids aren’t faring well on the responsibility front.

Here and there, when its convenient, we have them set and clear the table, empty the silverware basket from the dishwasher, and put away their toys. Convenience means we’re all in good moods, no one is whining or crying, and I have an unusual stash of patience up my sleeve. But it’s high time we set them up with some regular daily and weekly responsibilities. Seeing as I’m not much of a “daily and weekly responsibility” person myself, this will either be a huge win for all of us, or a complete fail and we’ll all go back to our regularly scheduled happy chaos, where one only does dishes and laundry when there are no more plates or clean underthings.

Even Richard Scarry’s Cat Family has the right idea. I mean, look at ’em. I bet Huckle Cat empties that wastebasket like a boss without even complaining. Kids like to be given things to do. It makes them feel important. See that strut? He’s feeling it — the inflated sense of self that comes from feeling like what you’re doing really matters. Because if you don’t empty the wastebasket, my dear Huckle, no one will, and your whole family will die a slow, painful death by the sheer weight of all that colored confetti.

Huckle Cat Richard Scarry

I bet good old Huckle doesn’t even need a responsibility chart. Show off.

Unfortunately that poster board is still sitting against the wall, untouched. I know we’re at a golden era right now where the kids want to do things to help us (see Huckle’s inflated sense of self above), so I really need to jump on that. Check in with me next week and see how I’m doing, kay?

The great thing about being so eager to help is that they don’t really ask WHY we’re treating them like little slaves. They want to work! Which is odd, because everything else in the entire universe comes accompanied with it’s own “Why???”

Why Daddy go to work?  To work hard and make money so we can stay home and have fun.

Why Rachel’s sad?  Because she’s sick. Why she sick?  Because she just doesn’t feel well. Why she doesn’t feel well?  Because she has a tummy ache. Why she has a tummy ache? Because….she just does.

That’s right. She just does. Somewhere along the line I also uttered the phrase, “Because that’s just what they do.” I have no idea what the context was, or what they were asking about, but I needed to end that conversation quick to save my sanity. It could have been about cars driving down the street. Leaves falling off the trees. Dogs taking a dump. Whatever. It’s just what they do.

I admit, I’m not the best at coming up with creative answers off the top of my head. I have a hard enough time coming up with the right answers, much less ones that get the point across on a preschooler’s level. Let’s end this line of questioning and move on with the rest of our day, okay? Daddy works so I don’t have to. The dog took a dump because dogs poop too. Your sister is puking her guts out because her tummy hurts, now don’t touch her, and lets commence with the Clorox bombing of the house before one of us catches it.

And then again with Richard Scarry:

Huckle Cat Richard Scarry

Mother Cat is sewing. Why she sewing?

I could have said a lot of things: She’s making a dress for Sally. She’s sewing some pillows. She’s part of a rogue sewing circle that wears matching Michelle Duggar jumpers. In reality, it looks like she’s just practicing her chain stitch on a piece of ribbon while everyone else cleans the house, so who the hell knows? She’s either really dense, or a complete genius.


Why is she sewing? Well, because she just is. I guess she likes it.

Because that’s what mommies do?    

Well…some mommies I guess. Uh, not this mommy.

So thanks for that, Richard Scarry and Mother Cat. Now I need to bust out my sewing machine in order to fit the mold of what my daughter thinks “mommies do.” Next I’m sure will follow other absurd tasks like “cooking,” “cleaning.” But I ain’t wearing no Michelle Duggar jumper.


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Things I do to avoid doing what I’m supposed to do

I complain a lot that I don’t have any leisure time. Since our days are napless and even movie times result in “I need snack!” and “I need drink!” and that oh so pesky “Sit wit me, Mommy!” I really can’t get anything worthwhile done during daylight hours.

So at “OMG they’re finally in bed” o’clock, I have to get to work. That means housework (bare minimum, folks), blog work, budget work, or honest to goodness actual work, like for money and stuff. I rarely crawl into bed before 11:30, and I never shut my brain off before midnight.

Sometimes I get a little resentful of some of the people loafing around all evening watching the DVR with their loved one. I don’t even have a DVR, and the only TV watching I do is online and reserved for laundry folding. Don Draper and I are the ultimate multitaskers. He juggles a a job, a wife, and multiple skank hoes, and I juggle folding laundry and watching him juggle multiple skank hoes. Everybody wins. Except maybe his wife.

But sometimes I really have to do something, and that that really having to do something makes my distraction meter kick into its highest “Oooooh something shiny!” setting. Those “have to do’s” usually include working on the budget or doing serious writing. Not like this. We all know things are far from serious up in here.

So say I’m writing. Something serious. Brilliant even. Thinking hard. My brain hurts.

Check facebook.

Comment. Share. Like. Comment. Brain feels better. Facebook is like watching mindless TV!

Make my move in no less than 11 Word With Friends games. Brain feels intelligent in 8 out of those 11 games.

Check twitter. Brain feels happy, but a bit overwhelmed.

Refresh twitter.

Refresh twitter. Brain feels bored.

Go back to Facebook.

Read that article from HuffPo that you liked.

Click on another article. Brain feels good about keeping up with current events.

And another. Brain feels dumber for reading about a Kardashian.

Oooh! Check my feedburner subscribers. Brain feels good momentarily, but self esteem is shot.

Check my blog stats. Brain’s self esteem takes another hit.

Laugh at the ridiculous google searches that lead people to my blog. Brain is entertained.

Respond to comments. Brain is overwhelmed trying to figure out when the last time was that it responded to comments. Brain aborts comment mission.

Check facebook again. Brain is irritated that no one has posted anything new in the past 90 seconds. Brain should have stayed on Twitter.

Look at my own facebook profile. Brain chuckles at my last witty status update involving poop and/or noncompliant children.

Browse through my own photos. Aw…brain remembers that one. And that one.

Remember upcoming Valentine’s party at Mother’s Day Out. Log onto Pinterest to look for DIY Valentine’s Day crafts. Brain is easily distracted by images of delectable cupcakes I’ll never make and DIY projects I’ll never complete.




Brain is confused. What was I looking for?

Decide making Valentine’s Day cards is way too ambitious. Brain feel relieved.

Look at clock. 97 minutes have passed and I have gotten nothing done but Facebooking, tweeting, pinning, and writing the word “the.” Brain is frustrated, and a bit defeated. It’s writing juice is gone.

Get in bed.

Read a few blogs on my phone. Curse stupid, tiny phone keyboard. Brain, however, is entertained.

Oh look! It’s my turn again in seven of my Words With Friends games. Brain is ecstatic about totally making up a word that turned out to be real for 59 points.

It’s past midnight. Brain sighs. So much stimulation. So little sleep.

Lights out. Settle into comfy bed. Close eyes. Brain starts relaxing….

Wait! Brain immediately thinks of 187 ideas for aforementioned serious writing project that MUST BE RECORDED RIGHT THIS MINUTE OR BRAIN WILL FORGET.

Pick up phone to jot down ideas containing lots of typos. Brain feels the burn. Brain feels so tired, yet SO ALIVE!

Ideas recorded. Brain lets out a sigh of relief.

But while were here, why not check Twitter one more time…..




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The Ultimate House Cleaning Checklist

I wonder…Are you one of those people who has it together enough to clean your house every day? Or do you feel like you’re constantly fighting a losing battle?

Wonder Friend

Today I’m honored to be featured over at Wonder, Friend. Missy just revealed her shiny new site design and a new guest posting series, and I am ecstatic that she asked me to be her first. Guest poster, that is.

Missy is one of those writers with whom so many of us can identify, because she’s so real, honest, and has the dry sense of humor that I absolutely love. I think we must be a little like long lost blog mates, because it seems like everything she writes is so in tune with what I’m currently thinking or feeling. Often I think I could have written her posts myself. Only not as well. And bonus? I’ve had the pleasure of hanging out with her, like multiple times, and well, I just plain adore her.

Now that I’ve gushed over her enough, head on over to Wonder, Friend and read all about my Ultimate House Cleaning Checklist.

 What the what? Comments are closed here so you can spend your time at Wonder, Friend! Don’t be shy!


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A Christmas mixup

Last week my family came from Dallas to visit for a little pre Christmas celebration. We opened gifts, had a marvelous Christmas dinner {cooked by ME}, and went downtown to view the huge tree of lights at Zilker Park, where we promptly froze our asses off and barely stayed long enough to snap a photo and snag a bag of freshly popped kettle corn. And the kettle corn? WORTH IT.

Zilker Park tree of lights

The view from inside the tree

My three girls and their 2.5 year old cousin had a blast opening gifts while the five adults screamed obscenities like, “Oh! What did you GET?!” or “WOW! Look at THAT!!!” and “Isn’t this FUN?!?!”

In a rare moment of free hands, I grabbed my camera to document the magic of Christmas. Or the magic of my kids’ heads since no one ever looks at me for a photo EVER.

So in the midst of “Open THIS one!” and “Hey, finish opening this one before you reach for another…oh hell, who cares?” there was me.

“Rachel! Raaaachelllll! Rachel! Look at Mommy!”

The kids continued with their paper tearing, toy viewing, general ignoring the woman with the camera.

“Rachelllllllll… me your happy face! Happy face, Rachel! HAPPY FAAAAAAAACE!!!!!!!!!” By now I’ve turned into some kind of crazed paparazzi like stage mom coaxing her kid to “Smile, dammit!”

“Hellooooooooooooo……Rachel! Look at me! Lookatme! Lookatme! Happy face!”

I glanced away from the camera viewing screen and stared at the band of kids below me. There sat Claire, Zoe, our cousin Cheyenne…all ignoring me.

All but Rachel. Who was sitting at my feet, giving me a happy face so big it lit up like a Christmas tree. Waiting patiently for me to STOP barking at her sister and take her picture like I keep saying I will.

So the next time you feel bad because you can’t tell someone’s twins apart, don’t. Because apparently even I can’t tell my own apart.

twins walking red coats

You're turn...which one's which? {Pssst! I don't even know.}

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Rules 17: Expect Misunderstandings

The winner of the Julie Anne Rhodes membership is below! Was it you?



You CANNOT Be Serious Elizabeth Lyons

This is part of an ongoing series chronicling my attempts to regain a bit of my sense of self, and my sanity, by implementing Elizabeth Lyons’ 32 Rules that Sustain a (Mostly) Balanced Mom. Subscribe to my RSS feed to follow my experiment, and check out the rest of the posts in the series!

We had quite the experience on Friday. Misunderstandings are commonplace around here with two three year olds and one not quite two year old. There’s things they repeat even though they really don’t know what they’re saying, like, “Mommy, you made me mad! That’s dangerous!”

Although I have to agree, making a three year old mad can be quite dangerous.

Then there’s lovely conversations like this:

Me: “Wow! Look at all the fog outside!”

Claire: “Where’s a frog?!?!?!”

Me: “No, not frog, FOG. It’s foggy outside. Like clouds that came down from the sky.” {That’s as scientific as I get, people.}

Rachel: “Look at all those frogs!”

Me: “FOG. Fog. It’s fo–”

Zoe: “Fog!” {Don’t get excited…she’s really saying frog too.}



But Friday’s experience took the cake. It was a normal day in the Torres house, full of twin arguments, a crying toddler, and activities that didn’t last more than 5 minutes at a time before someone lost interest or lost their temper.

But then all of the sudden I found a sad, crying Rachel in her room. Something had upset her earlier, and I assumed she was just having a hard time cheering up.

Picking her up and carrying her to the couch, my attempts to console her and find out what was wrong were just met with more crying. This time she was complaining that her butt hurt and that she needed cream. No rashes, nothing that I could see that would bother her, and as the minutes ticked by, she got more and more agitated and inconsolable. She made reference to falling and hitting her butt on the door, but honestly I couldn’t even see the physics in that.

She couldn’t sit, wouldn’t lay down, and insisted that I carry her 37 pound body around, then complained that my arms supporting her bottom hurt too. By the time Christian texted to see how we were doing, I was practically in a panic not knowing what was wrong with her or what to do. Was she constipated? Did she really fall and hurt herself? Did she have some kind of infection? It was all so sudden.

Luckily Christian was able to come home. The complaints of butt pain had now turned into complaints of vaginal pain, which just freaked me out more. I rushed her over to the doctor, still in her footie pajamas and for some reason sans panties, so they could squeeze us in.

And she cried. And cried. Calmness during the car ride, but back into near hysterics at the doctor’s. Complaining of more pain. Begging to go home. Asking to go bed, which she hasn’t done in months. Saying she was so sleepy. The receptionist took us back to an empty exam room to see if she wanted to lay down while we waited. I’m guessing someone wailing “It huuuuuuuurrrrrrrtssssssss!” in the background might be bad for new patient morale, you know?

As she writhed in pain, I answered a ton of questions that I can’t even remember. The nurse asked me to try to get her to go pee and get a sample if I could, and all I could think was, “Yeah right, lady. This girl loves her little potty seat, and in this state? It would be a miracle if she went with less than ten of us pinning her down.”

But sit she did, albeit with lots of screaming and crying and holding onto my hand for dear life while my other hand held a cup underneath her. Sure enough, she had to go, and go she did. All over my hand.

And before I even got her off the toilet? It was like to fog {not frog} lifted, and my Rachel came back out.

“Mommy! The pee pee wake up!”

“Mommy! You got a cup!”

“Flush it, Mommy! Iss your turn!”

Holy hysterical toddler, Batman do NOT tell me that going potty solved the “excruciating pain” issue. I looked at her incredulously. “Rachel, do you feel better now?”

“Yeah! I feel much better!”

“Does it still hurt?”

“No! It doesn’t hurt! I fine! Less go get a LADYPOP!!!!!”

“You have GOT to be kidding me…”  Before I even pulled her jammies back on and stepped out of the bathroom I could feel the embarrassment creeping up on my face.

She walked back to the exam room, helping herself to said LADYPOP!!! on the way. The doctor came in and examined her, but of course found nothing but a chipper, happy three year old. For the love of God, with all the screaming and crying that she had just put us through, that doctor needed to pull some kind of rare, unusual butt/vag disease out of her ass that miraculously disappears upon peeing. Just so I wouldn’t feel like such a dumbass.

latorres twitter pediatrician

We asked her to point to where it hurt, and she gestured to her vagina, but continued to exclaim, “It doesn’t hurt anymore! I fine! I’m all better! Touch it, Mommy!” Um, no thanks.

Wouldn’t you think that if she had to go that bad that she would pee her pants? I mean, she’s known to hold it, but not to the point of pure agony.

She still insisted that she hit her butt on the door, but however she did it and whether or not that’s what caused all this drama remains a mystery.

I’m just glad that everyone else in that damn office could attest to her pre-pee hysterics. Oh, and I’m glad she’s okay too. And I’ll be really glad if our doctor just writes this one off as one of those crazy visits she decides not to charge for.

They do that, right?

I know you have some gem of a misunderstanding! Tell me!


Purchase your own autographed copy of You CANNOT Be Serious! You can also follow Elizabeth Lyons on Twitter: @elizabethlyons

And the winner of a 3 month membership to, including delicious recipes, weekly menu plans, grocery lists, how to videos, and helpful forums is…..Kristin (@AustinKVS)! Congrats Kristin!

Thanks to everyone for entering, and here’s a note from Julie Anne:

Just in case you are not the lucky winner – all gift certificates are 10% off from now until December 24th, and the premium memberships will be on sale December 26th – January 31st to help everyone get their year started right! Great stocking stuffers, hostess and holiday gifts.

For less than the price of one latte per week – you can stop fretting over “what’s for dinner” – just print, shop, and cook once a week. You’ll feel like you DO have a personal chef for the rest of the week or longer, one who SAVES you money (membership pays for itself) and affords you the luxury of time.

I’m in the forum almost daily offering support (where else can you get personal advice from a multi award-winning chef?) along with many of my experienced members, so you’re never alone in the kitchen – even the most inexperienced cook can master this approach. Don’t just resolve to eat healthy this New Year, learn to eat efficiently with the Personal Chef Approach™!



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This is why I should just not talk to people

I grew up what I describe as painfully shy. Which I later learned came across to a lot of other people as just plain old stuck up. Isn’t it nice when lack of confidence gets mistaken for snobbery? High school’s fun.

Anyway, I grew out of it mostly, or at least I can kind of fake it. I put on that face, turn on my extrovert dial up to eleven, and face whatever I have to face. I truly believe in the motto “fake it ’til you make it.” I faked it so much that I actually did end up shedding a lot of my inhibitions throughout the years.

I’m still talking about my shyness, people. Get your heads out of the gutter.

But I’ve been out of the work force for three and a half years, and damn if I didn’t lose those skills quickly. It’s like I’ve forgotten to how talk to people who don’t whine for my attention, beg me for fishies, or announce to the whole neighborhood that they “had a BIG poo poo.” And did you know it was brown?

No, these days I find myself taking many a false start, eager to get in there, put on my best face, only to find that I’m out of my league, out of my comfort zone, or no one here wants to talk about my kids’ potty etiquette. I mean seriously, who doesn’t want to know that Claire thinks that pee pee and poo poo are “so cute.” But no matter how adorable the bodily fluids are, there’s always that flash of fear that crosses someone’s face when you come up to them at a blogging event and ask calmly, “YOU’RE WENDI AARONS, RIGHT?????” I swear that woman had a knife by her side for the rest of the day, under the clever guise that it was a cooking event. Genius.

Wednesday I claimed my latest victim, the adorable and lovely Casey Jones from TLC’s Quints by Surprise. There I was, roaming the Costco {she shops at my Costco, y’all!}, and there she was, alone–no cameras, no hubby, and no kids. I couldn’t very well let her enjoy that could I? No. I had to approach. I mean, after all, I’ve emailed back and forth with her husband several times to gather info for some articles I’ve written about the family {and seriously, Ethan is one of the nicest people on the planet}. We’re old pals, right? RIGHT?

So here’s me: Is that?….No….maybe…looks like her… {shoves cereal bar into Zoe’s mouth to muffle the impatient whining as I stalk my latest victim}

Here’s Casey: Hmmmm…..should I get the Quaker Oats, or the Nature’s Valley…that box of 72 granola bars is sure to last us a whole 3 days, right? Maybe 4….

And here’s me: Yeah, that totally has to be her.“Zoe, I’m going in!”  Look at me, I’m just another mom in need of bulk items, casually passing by…not stalking…

And here’s Casey: Wow, lady, thanks for walking RIGHT in front of my granola bar selection. Oh, now you’re stopping? Why are you stopping? Keep moving, Toots, I gots kids to feed!

And here’s me again: {feigning surprise, ignorance, or maybe ignorant surprise} “Oh! Are you Casey?”

And Casey: “Yes!” Crap! Anonymity be damned! I just want to buy granola bars!

Me: “Oh!” Didn’t I already say that? “Hi! I’m Leigh Ann!”

And then Casey: “Hi…….” Do I KNOW you? And why are you sweating?

Me: “Blah blah blah…words words words…..LOVE YOUR SHOW! Words words words…blah blah blah,” {maybe some stuttering and throw in an eye twitch for maximum creepiness.}

Casey: “Oh, well thank you!” Maybe if I look REALLY hard at this box, she’ll get the hint and leave, taking that well behaved and amazingly beautiful baby with her! 

And I just don’t stop: “Well, it was nice to meet you! Enjoy your free time! Hahaha, isn’t it funny how shopping at Costco is free time? Hahahahaha!!!” Could I BE any more of an asshole?

See? This is why I shouldn’t be let out of the house without a muzzle, people. I make a total ass out of myself whenever given the slightest chance. That poor woman just wanted to buy some damn groceries without a camera present or someone under three feet tall tugging at her pants leg.

She was sweet as could be, and if she called security on me, it was probably only in my head, but for some reason my membership card doesn’t work anymore?

We {and by “we” I mean “I”} sometimes forget that we feel like we know certain people because we watch them on TV, or even read their blogs. The quints made the Jones’ like local celebrities. But then when we’re met with that deer in the headlights look, we realize: this is a person. A person who is living their life, just like you and me.

Well, maybe with a few more kids.


Have you ever run into someone famous, local or not? Do you think the Jones family has put out a restraining order on me yet?

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Zoe tweets for #vlogtalk

Zoe’s nickname is the Honey Badger. She’s fearless. Leaps tall playscapes in a single bound. Flies down the highest spiral slide she can find, pointing and laughing at the little “babies” on the smaller structures.

She mocks the dog with her threats to throw small, sharp toys at him. She gives the cat a kiss, then yanks his tail.

Honey badger don’t care.

But Monday? I caught her doing something really naughty. See for yourself.

She could have at least used her own twitter account.

Vlog Talk

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Week in My Life: Thursday

This week I’m participating in a Week in My life with Melissa over at Adventuroo. Read more about the project here.


Oh, Thursday. One day closer to Friday. Today we had plans to meet up with a twin friend at a local park. She was going earlier than we normally do, to a park that I don’t usually go to on my own. It’s a great park, but it’s huge. I was hoping that the shiny new playscape would keep them from running off too much.

I know. I’m so naive. Here’s a play by play of how it all went down.


Arrive at 9:20ish and locate friends.

Halfway into my 1st sentence to friend, I get interrupted with “Mommy I need to go potty!” from Rachel, then discover Claire lingering by the men’s room saying it’s “scary.” Kids, this is why we go before we leave the house.

Friend watches Z while I take girls to pee.

Return to playground, start catching up with friend, and quickly realize I am missing one Claire. We scour the playground for her and I really start to get worried. This park is huge, but how could she have gotten so far so fast?

I finally catch up to her at a nearby pavilion, where she informs me, “I run away!” Yes, thank you for the heart attack.

All 3 take turns going down the slide. Just like Monday, Zoe has no limitations and zips down with her sisters. I’m telling you. Honey Badger has no fear.

Rachel cries poop. We go to the bathroom. No poop. THIS is why going to the park alone with 3 kids is difficult. Any other time I’d have to drag all 3 of them into the bathroom for every false potty cry.

Swings. Slides. Snacks. Claire is “so hungry.” Rachel’s already had a cheese stick, but is begging for more. True to her honey badger nature, Zoe is chasing birds and squirrels.

Friend has to leave, and I debate leaving myself, since being there on my own is hard. But I decide to see how it goes. We play a little more on the big playscape, then go on an “adventure” through the park’s trails.

Rachel cries poop again, along with a little grunting. Trying to hide the panic in my voice, I urge her to stop pushing and wait. After herding everyone together, of course, “It’s gone.” I’m not buying it, but seriously, there’s no way to make her go.

We make the rounds of the park and head back to the playground. I see the look on Rachel’s face and the funny way she’s standing. I know the poop has made its appearance. And the lump in the pants proves it.


Wrangle all 3 into the bathroom. Try to change Rachel’s underwear while 1) not getting poop on my hands, 2) keeping Claire and Zoe from touching the nasty public toilet, and 3) keeping the swearing to a minimum.

We’re done. I want to go home. But like a true martyr, I give them a few more minutes to play.

Dance party at the pavilion turns to wrestling. This always ends bad. Sure enough, Rachel runs away screaming, with Claire chasing after her, also screaming. Not fun screams. Like “I’m going to kill you, Sissy!” screams. I pick up the baby, also screaming, and jog after them. People are staring.

They catch up on one of the playscapes and start laying into each other. Still holding a squirming, screaming toddler, I drag a screaming Rachel to the car. All of the moms are staring at me. It’s okay ladies! I don’t need help! I got this! I toss Zoe into her car seat and shut the door without even buckling her in. Rachel has run back to the playground.

I consider selling tickets to all of the playground moms who are obviously engrossed in this thrilling show. But seriously, where could I get tickets printed at such short notice? Idea dismissed.

Pick up R, who is out of control at this point, and try to remain calm while she tries her best to fend me off. Drag her and C both to the car. Thank God C is being cooperative. I get Rachel in the car and give Claire huge hugs and positive reinforcement for cooperating like a big girl. She is now my favorite child.

Buckle up, everyone. We’re all in the car and I breathe a sigh of relief in between Rachel’s cries of “Wanna…go…BAAAAACK!”

Naturally, I tweet.

stay at home moms playground moms

Pull into the driveway, despite Rachel’s screams. It’s only like 11:30, people.

After that debacle, they watch a little TV while I make lunch.

Then a little more TV before nap time.

I move my computer to the kitchen for a change of pace, since my messy dining room table is kind of non conducive to getting anything done. I could clean it off but…yeah.

If anything, I really wish I had a good, organized work space in this house. We don’t have an office, and all of our bedrooms are being used by pesky kids. The dining room table is my desk for now, and it’s fine, but it’s also a catchall for everything: mail, toys, crap…you name it. Plus, I’m an organizational failure. But a girl can dream, right?

It’s now 2:53. Both big girls took forever to go to sleep, but are finally quiet. I smell poop wafting from their room, and I don’t care. I’ve been into Zoe’s room 87 times, and she’s still awake. It’s rare, but I think she’s skipping the nap today. Honey badger, I tell ya.

3:25: Zoe’s been up with me, and I kind of wish the big girls would get up. Even though it’s a pain when they don’t nap, at least then they could ALL go to bed early. Now either Zoe will go down early while they stay up, or she’ll just stick it out and stay up until they go to bed. Hard to say, but she really is a trooper.

The non-napper

Zoe ends up going into the girls’ room and waking them up at about I-don’t-know o’clock, when I’m not looking. They snack on some pretzels and lollipops that Grandma sent, ’cause we’re healthy like that, and I make desperate attempts to get their minds off of asking for TV. Or as Rachel put it, “I need to watch TEE VEEEEEE!” Um, honey, no.

This is my living room at 5:00. The racetrack was an attempt to emulate something they did at school, but it took me longer to put it down than it did entertain them.

Now don’t you feel better about your mess?

How ’bout now?

 Christian comes home while they’re watching Beauty and the Beast {yes, I gave in} and helps me with dinner. Tonight’s feast is his favorite, chicken noodle soup using the leftovers from last night’s rotisserie chicken. Mmmmm.

I love how you can see the steam rising in this photo. So tasty.

Then a lot  happened, kids got bathed and stuff, went to bed, and here I am at the end of a long day, quite possibly having gone crazy.

And I totally earned this. Even if I end up having to run it off in the morning. And the cat’s hovering around me, trying to steal it. Bad kitty!

Plan for the rest of the night: Actually post this before 11pm and OMG free time to catch up on life. I’m horribly behind on my reader and visiting the other Week in My Life linkups. And the laundry. And the sleeping. Doing this project has been very tough, but like Melissa said, it’ll be worth it in the end when I have an entire week of our life to look back on.

Park poops and all.

 Special moments from today:

  • NOT actually losing one of my kids at the park.
  • Claire asking Zoe if she’s okay when she tripped. Then telling her she’s so sweet when she shared her lollipop with her.
  • Rachel coming to snuggle in my lap while I read a story.
  • Claire engrossing herself in pretend play with a piece of rubber tubing from a water toy and a bubble blower. Who needs real toys?

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Organize This

Not too long ago the brilliant and talented KLZ from Taming Insanity let out a cry for help on the Twitter.

Taming Insanity twitter

She’s adorable with the antlers, no? AND she’s about to welcome her second son into the world, so I can see why she wants to get a head start on the organizing bandwagon.

So naturally, like any good tweep would, I rose to the occasion for my friend. Well, in reality, it’s more like I kind of stalk her, but whatever. She needed my help. Because I? Am an organizational maven. MAVEN I tell you.

Sorting, color coding, organizing, labeling, you name it. I love it. Exhibit A:

Behold, the “under the mobile island craft extravaganza!” Gotta keep those craft supplies neat, tidy, and organized so you can whip up a project in no time!

craft organization kitchen organization

Here we have everything your little artist could ever want or need:

1. Spray bottle for wiping down the table. Okay, fine, we actually use this to spray them with water when they get into unruly screaming matches at the table. This might be something that only other twin moms understand. But it’s a necessity. #truth
2.  Lunchboxes. Again, not a craft item, but look how well it fits there!
3. Watercolors that are pretty much untouched, except the black. ‘Cause that’s all my girls paint with.
4. Egg cartons for all of your caterpillar making delight.
5. Play doh. Beware the mixing of colors and attempts to eat by the toddler.
6. Crumbs.
7. A glow in the dark star that should be on the wall in a bedroom. Not mine.
8. Neat and orderly stack of coloring books, construction paper, Highlights magazines, and pictures that won’t fit on the wall but how do you throw away your child’s precious drawings of nothing?

Now I know that KLZ is probably already running off in search of supplies ot make this happen, but wait! There’s more!

If you want to keep the toys from taking over your living room, you have to have an organized space in your kid’s room. Here is the “closet o’ wonder.”

kids closet organization

1. First, take off those clunky doors and replace them with pretty, open curtains, so that you can marvel at your organizational skillz.
2. Boxes. I don’t know what’s in them. But it’s hidden, whatever it is.
3. Irresistible breakable stuff.
4. Books that I don’t want torn to shreds whilst “reading.” And a photo box filled with precious memories. Actually, it’s empty.
5.  Parenting books that don’t do you a lick of good after the first kid.
6. An organizational bin!  I don’t know what’s in it, either.
7. Random books that I wish they would tear to shreds.
8. The 2 shirts my girls own. (Just kidding…they have 3. They just have to share the 3rd one.)
9. A tent that they love…to topple over again and again, and a random bag that I’m sure I used for something several months ago.


Whew! Dare we keep on going to the next room? I call it “open concept closet.”

kids closet organization

1. Remove the doors, but don’t bother putting curtains on this time. They sure do get in the way.
2. Leave the curtain rod sitting on top of the shelves though. You might change your mind.
3. Important baby memorabilia: a baby shower souvenir, a stuffed dog, 1st birthday tiara, cards, photo box and album full of precious memories (FINE. They’re empty too. What am I, a Walgreens photo center?)
4. Hell if I know…maybe some swimsuits, a leftover Halloween costume…it’s anyone’s guess, really.
5. Haphazardly strewn outgrown clothes. And a wicker basket. For organizational purposes.
6. A cowboy boot. WTF?
7. More outgrown clothes. On hangers. Most of which she never wore.
8. Rainforest activity gym that she plays with ALL the time. Wait, she’s 19 months, not 9 months. Where the hell has the time gone???
9. Oh look. More outgrown clothes. Apparently I am in denial.


Welcoming a second (or third) child and all the crap that comes with them into your home can be exciting and daunting, but organizational nirvana can be reached! Make sure to jot down all of these tips before I start charging for them. But in the meantime, pin away, fools!

And KLZ, I hope you enjoyed your guided tour of my organizational wonderland. Baby Insanity will be happy whether he’s surrounded by perfectly labeled toys and books, or he’s sleeping in a pile of outgrown clothes that can’t seem to make their way to Goodwill. Because honestly, the more kids you start to collect, the less you really care about the organization.

Okay, maybe that’s just me.


Now head on over to Taming Insanity and see HER ideas about organizing.


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