he's got a fever

Wednesday, October 8, 2014

Jack's got a fever and the cure is more cowbell.


Hope the one liners just come to you today.

Talk soon,
Heather

P.S.  If you don't know what I'm talking about, I implore you to click the link above and watch the video.

P.P.S.  No, really.  Watch it.

hey, durel...

Monday, October 6, 2014




In 2001, I met a handsome guy named Durel with a really sweet Southern accent.  I got a crush on him.  Our first date involved beer, some dude with a TV show on public access cable, and his friend the rabbi who wouldn't answer his phone.  We've never been boring.

Today is Durel's birthday.

He's been my best friend for more than a decade, my husband for almost a decade, an amazing dad for five years, and Coach D to the formidable DC Dragons four year old soccer team for a month or so.

He's great.  And given the amount of ink I spill about Jack's birthdays, I had to take a moment and thoroughly embarrass Durel by spilling a little ink in his honor.

Hope you get some well-deserved props today.

Talk soon,
Heather

don't cut barbie's hair, and other important life lessons

Friday, October 3, 2014

Once upon a time, I was a snoopy little sister who read her big sister's diary.  I was about 10 years old, which would have made her about 17 years old.  

I thought her diary was full of VERY SHOCKING THINGS.  (Side note:  I was ten.  Cutting your Barbie's hair was VERY SHOCKING.  Context, people.)

I was smart enough not to tell anyone.  Because I knew that I would hate life if my sister knew that I had read her diary, and I also knew that I shouldn't have read it in the first place.  I think every kid is instinctively has the "fruit of the poisonous tree" concept hard-wired into them.  I certainly did.

So, I did what any smart-ass ten year old with a shred of self-preservation instinct would have done:  I went to my OWN diary and recounted what I had read.  I reacted to it, and I'm sure there were a lot of exclamation points.  I wasn't ever one for puffy hearts.

A few days later, I went to write in my diary again (replete with the "lock" for your secretive 1980's self) and found a note from my big sister.  I don't remember exactly what it said, but it was the emotional equivalent of a horse's head in my bed.

Message received.  "Hey kid.  Don't read my diary again.  You got it?"

I got it.

*     *     *     *     *

The other morning, Sawyer and I went to wake up Jack.  And this look happened.


Message received.  "Hey Sawyer.  I think you're amazing."

He got it.

*     *     *     *     *

For the record, I don't read other people's diaries anymore.  And my sister has long since forgiven me.  And I did cut my Barbie's hair, and it was shocking.  And it does not grow back.

I'll do what I can to pass on what I know to my amazing boys.  Clearly, we're all learning here.

Hope your sibling dazzles you today.

Talk soon,
Heather


brussel sprouts and grandiose aspirations

Wednesday, October 1, 2014

Before you have children, you have grandiose aspirations of what your parenting style will be.  

Those grandiose aspirations are also TOTAL BULLSHIT.  

This is because they are concocted, in large part, as you sip a nice Chilean Malbec at a nice restaurant while you pretend that you are not judging the nice family across the dining room.  You are, in fact, judging them, and you should not be.  First of all, because it's not nice to judge people.  Second of all, you should be applauding them because if they are at the same nice restaurant as you, they are doing a lot of things right.

As a matter of fact, that family might be mine.  So you should definitely be sending over a dessert to congratulate us for doing such a good job.  OK?

*     *     *     *     *

I, for example, was certain that my children would not be the ones eating food while at the grocery store.

[Hang on; let me stop laughing AT MYSELF.]  

Right.  Anyway.  I also was certain that my kids would not be the ones who refused to eat anything but chicken nuggets and french fries.

As for Jack, I will say that much is true.  He isn't that kid.  He will eat almost anything.  However, the route we took to get there and how I feel about it are VERY different than my naive pre-children self would have imagined.

We have always offered Jack bits of what we were eating.  And he happened to like most of it.  We are really, ridonkulously lucky.  End of story.

*     *     *     *     *

Here is Jack the Gourmand through the ages (so far).








*     *     *     *     *
Here's the latest addition to the gallery.


Seaweed salad, with a side of HAM.

Hope you crave something salty and silly today.

Talk soon,
Heather

saturday morning jumped out of bed

Monday, September 29, 2014

When I lived in San Francisco, my mom used to call me every Saturday morning.  

She was in Maryland, waiting impatiently until a "civil" time to call.  She usually waited until 9 or 9:30.

The trouble with that is the whole pesky time zone thing.  So, alllllllllllll the way in San Francisco, my phone would RINGRINGRING at 6 or 6:30 AM.

The trouble with that is that Saturday morning comes after Friday night.

For example:  We used to go to a bar in the Mission called the Makeout Room.  They played Social Distortion and had a baby doll head in a jar of formaldehyde behind the bar.  We took cabs and stayed until closing time.  I had a black faux fur Hello Kitty purse.

*     *     *     *     *

Last Saturday morning, Jack had his first ever soccer game of life.

The game was on the fields just down the street.  They start at either 8 or 9.

Jack and his doppelganger, A., ran around, passed the ball, made shots, made those shots at the correct goals, and scored a few times.

Look at my soccer mom photobomb.  Look at it!

I, never one to cheer, found myself whooping on the sidelines with the best of'em.

The trouble with this is that I think I am now TECHNICALLY a soccer mom.

For example:  Durel is the team's coach.  I emailed all the parents to rotate who brings snacks to the games.  I brought them this time.  I brought Goldfish, orange slices, and 100% juice pouches.  I wore (hot pink, thankfully) sneakers.


*     *     *     *     *

Tell me how you spend your Saturday mornings, and I'll tell you who you are.

Hope you diversify over time.

Talk soon,
Heather

Wednesday, October 8, 2014

he's got a fever

Jack's got a fever and the cure is more cowbell.


Hope the one liners just come to you today.

Talk soon,
Heather

P.S.  If you don't know what I'm talking about, I implore you to click the link above and watch the video.

P.P.S.  No, really.  Watch it.

Monday, October 6, 2014

hey, durel...




In 2001, I met a handsome guy named Durel with a really sweet Southern accent.  I got a crush on him.  Our first date involved beer, some dude with a TV show on public access cable, and his friend the rabbi who wouldn't answer his phone.  We've never been boring.

Today is Durel's birthday.

He's been my best friend for more than a decade, my husband for almost a decade, an amazing dad for five years, and Coach D to the formidable DC Dragons four year old soccer team for a month or so.

He's great.  And given the amount of ink I spill about Jack's birthdays, I had to take a moment and thoroughly embarrass Durel by spilling a little ink in his honor.

Hope you get some well-deserved props today.

Talk soon,
Heather

Friday, October 3, 2014

don't cut barbie's hair, and other important life lessons

Once upon a time, I was a snoopy little sister who read her big sister's diary.  I was about 10 years old, which would have made her about 17 years old.  

I thought her diary was full of VERY SHOCKING THINGS.  (Side note:  I was ten.  Cutting your Barbie's hair was VERY SHOCKING.  Context, people.)

I was smart enough not to tell anyone.  Because I knew that I would hate life if my sister knew that I had read her diary, and I also knew that I shouldn't have read it in the first place.  I think every kid is instinctively has the "fruit of the poisonous tree" concept hard-wired into them.  I certainly did.

So, I did what any smart-ass ten year old with a shred of self-preservation instinct would have done:  I went to my OWN diary and recounted what I had read.  I reacted to it, and I'm sure there were a lot of exclamation points.  I wasn't ever one for puffy hearts.

A few days later, I went to write in my diary again (replete with the "lock" for your secretive 1980's self) and found a note from my big sister.  I don't remember exactly what it said, but it was the emotional equivalent of a horse's head in my bed.

Message received.  "Hey kid.  Don't read my diary again.  You got it?"

I got it.

*     *     *     *     *

The other morning, Sawyer and I went to wake up Jack.  And this look happened.


Message received.  "Hey Sawyer.  I think you're amazing."

He got it.

*     *     *     *     *

For the record, I don't read other people's diaries anymore.  And my sister has long since forgiven me.  And I did cut my Barbie's hair, and it was shocking.  And it does not grow back.

I'll do what I can to pass on what I know to my amazing boys.  Clearly, we're all learning here.

Hope your sibling dazzles you today.

Talk soon,
Heather


Wednesday, October 1, 2014

brussel sprouts and grandiose aspirations

Before you have children, you have grandiose aspirations of what your parenting style will be.  

Those grandiose aspirations are also TOTAL BULLSHIT.  

This is because they are concocted, in large part, as you sip a nice Chilean Malbec at a nice restaurant while you pretend that you are not judging the nice family across the dining room.  You are, in fact, judging them, and you should not be.  First of all, because it's not nice to judge people.  Second of all, you should be applauding them because if they are at the same nice restaurant as you, they are doing a lot of things right.

As a matter of fact, that family might be mine.  So you should definitely be sending over a dessert to congratulate us for doing such a good job.  OK?

*     *     *     *     *

I, for example, was certain that my children would not be the ones eating food while at the grocery store.

[Hang on; let me stop laughing AT MYSELF.]  

Right.  Anyway.  I also was certain that my kids would not be the ones who refused to eat anything but chicken nuggets and french fries.

As for Jack, I will say that much is true.  He isn't that kid.  He will eat almost anything.  However, the route we took to get there and how I feel about it are VERY different than my naive pre-children self would have imagined.

We have always offered Jack bits of what we were eating.  And he happened to like most of it.  We are really, ridonkulously lucky.  End of story.

*     *     *     *     *

Here is Jack the Gourmand through the ages (so far).








*     *     *     *     *
Here's the latest addition to the gallery.


Seaweed salad, with a side of HAM.

Hope you crave something salty and silly today.

Talk soon,
Heather

Monday, September 29, 2014

saturday morning jumped out of bed

When I lived in San Francisco, my mom used to call me every Saturday morning.  

She was in Maryland, waiting impatiently until a "civil" time to call.  She usually waited until 9 or 9:30.

The trouble with that is the whole pesky time zone thing.  So, alllllllllllll the way in San Francisco, my phone would RINGRINGRING at 6 or 6:30 AM.

The trouble with that is that Saturday morning comes after Friday night.

For example:  We used to go to a bar in the Mission called the Makeout Room.  They played Social Distortion and had a baby doll head in a jar of formaldehyde behind the bar.  We took cabs and stayed until closing time.  I had a black faux fur Hello Kitty purse.

*     *     *     *     *

Last Saturday morning, Jack had his first ever soccer game of life.

The game was on the fields just down the street.  They start at either 8 or 9.

Jack and his doppelganger, A., ran around, passed the ball, made shots, made those shots at the correct goals, and scored a few times.

Look at my soccer mom photobomb.  Look at it!

I, never one to cheer, found myself whooping on the sidelines with the best of'em.

The trouble with this is that I think I am now TECHNICALLY a soccer mom.

For example:  Durel is the team's coach.  I emailed all the parents to rotate who brings snacks to the games.  I brought them this time.  I brought Goldfish, orange slices, and 100% juice pouches.  I wore (hot pink, thankfully) sneakers.


*     *     *     *     *

Tell me how you spend your Saturday mornings, and I'll tell you who you are.

Hope you diversify over time.

Talk soon,
Heather

 
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