Tryptophan the turkey fantastic.

Ah, gosh. Thanksgiving. The biggest most forgotten holiday of our culture.

If I were a holiday I would want to be Thanksgiving.

Just think of the patience and love Thanksgiving has. As soon as we all come out of candy coma on November 1st the Christmas trees are out and the “FA LA LA LA LA-ing” is all up in Thanskgiving’s business. But Thanksgiving is still there.

Thanksgiving doesn’t even care that we take take take and fall asleep before it’s through.

Thanksgiving loves us. Even though we don’t give Thanksgiving all the credit it deserves.

So here’s to being more like Thanksgiving, patient, steadfast, constant, modest and not jealous of that whore Christmas. (Well if it is, it doesn’t show it, and that’s a quality I’d do well to learn.)

Want the cheesy list of cheese that I’m thankful for? I really need to for my own good since I’ve been a wallowing ball of misery because I miss my husband so badly.

Ooh, when I start thinking about it, there’s so many things I’m grateful for. Gosh, I do a fantastic job of making myself miserable with missing my husband because there are countless blessings in my life. I have a healthy, funny, wicked smart and adorable kid. I have a husband who is just the bee’s knees in so many ways. I have a family who thinks I’m awesome, I think they’re pretty awesome too. I have friends, REAL friends, not just those fair-weather kind. I’m healthy, I have one of those bright shiny futures, I have talents, I have good teeth.

And to any of you who are reading this-THANK YOU. This blog has pulled me out of dark caverns when I needed it most, and the fact that you’re still here, either out in the open or lurking has soothed my troubled heart on more than one occasion.  I started this blog as a way to keep my family and friends updated on the fruit of my loins while we were in the wasteland wonderland of Indiana and it’s turned into one of the greatest things I could have ever done for myself.

That you’re all here to share it with me makes me so thankful.

the moosh needs a tishme, the little toad went and got sick. OH, BUT I’M SO GRATEFUL THAT I HAVE THE MEANS AND ABILITY TO CARE FOR HER.

To think, I almost complained on Thanksgiving.

I wish all of you peace, love, happiness and gratitude.

And I wish my husband were here.

But I’m grateful he’s working his tail off back in Indiana.

You know, for us. Thankful, thankful, thankful.

The incorrect yet adorable power of conjugation.

 When I have to blow my nose the moosh gets me a tissue.

When she has to blow her nose she gets herself a tishme.

Get it?



My kid’s wicked smart.
the moosh by kim.

Wicked cute too.

And if she even considers getting sick she and I will have WORDS.

You hear me moosh? WORDS.

The kind we’re not supposed to use because they hurt peoples feelings.

My best friend makes me look good

My lurver.

Some of you may know that my BFF Kim is also the BDPOTP (best damn photographer on the planet).

And I’m not just saying that.

You should all pay her lots money to take your pictures.

Need proof? Here’s the rest.

(Best moosh photos EVER may I add.)

The one about the overdose.

 I overdosed on prescription medication when I was seven months pregnant.

On purpose.

I didn’t want to be pregnant anymore. Pregnancy was (literally) killing me. I hadn’t eaten more than a half cup of food at a sitting in seven months. Ninety percent of what went into my mouth came back out. Every muscle in my body ached from dry heaving. My throat was constantly scratchy from vomiting up bile. Every smell was toxic.

And no one believed that I truly was sick.

One woman told me I was eating the wrong kind of crackers. Other people said I was being over-dramatic. Several people thought I was faking. Cody thought I was a wimp.

I didn’t even know if I wanted a kid all that much, I mentally could not get myself excited about having a baby.

The depression built gradually (I am bipolar). I told myself to go to sleep and I’d feel better in the morning. One morning I didn’t feel better, I felt worse. I called into work, got a glass of water and took well over a dozen pills, plus Zofran and a sleeping pill, so I could fall asleep while it happened and not vomit up all that I had just taken.

Cody found me an hour later.

I don’t remember much of the next 12 hours. I woke up in an ER, monitors and sensors all over my body.

And Cody was sitting by my side. Completely helpless to what his wife had tried to do to his baby.

A social worker came in and told me I would be going to a different hospital for some inpatient monitoring. And that I would be going there by ambulance.

I realized while I was lying on the gurney that I was being buzzed into an area of the hospital I had never been in before. I smelled cigarette smoke.

The only reason to smell cigarette smoke inside a hospital is if the people inside aren’t allowed outside.

That’s when I realized I was in the psych ward.

I was wheeled down a quiet hall to a sterile room. My shoelaces were taken, and I was told to wait for a nurse who would read me the rules.

The rules went something like “if you don’t eat, we have ways of making you eat, if you don’t listen to us we have ways of making you listen.” And then I was told the visiting hours.

Visiting hours. An hour a day. I’d only get to see Cody an hour a day.

Cody was allowed to come in, bring me a few things from home and say goodbye.

And then I was left all alone. Alone except for the nurses that checked in on me every hour.

I wasn’t allowed to sleep with the door closed. A woman woke up screaming in the middle of the night about killing her husband.

I have never been so scared.

I had an OB, an OB nurse, a nutritionist, a psychiatrist, a therapist, a pediatrician a social worker and a perinatologist that checked in on me regularly. I had to go to three group therapy sessions a day and two private sessions a day. There was an arts and crafts hour where doctors took notes on how each patient interacted with each other.

Some patients had deep wounds that were stapled shut and bandaged, others had charcoal stains around their lips. I sat in my room most of the day staring down at the street I used to play on as a kid. Staring at all the people with normal lives, going about completely unaware that I was stuck there up alone.

It was the darkest, most miserable situation I have ever been in.  Humans shouldn’t be treated like that. If I learned nothing else while there for three days I learned that I never want to go back.

I couldn’t tell anyone where I had been, I was ashamed. No one likes a baby killer. Why would I ever admit to being one? But the people who did know finally believed me. Finally believed the hell it was being trapped inside my pregnant body.

I was ashamed of all of this until recently. I made a mistake. I’m human. And the Lord obviously wants to keep the moosh and me here or we would have had toe tags that cold day in September. There’s no logical medical reason why the moosh came out from that perfectly healthy. And for this I am grateful.

I am not ashamed now because I have a message, if someone says they’re not doing so well, please listen. I tried to tell someone that I was not well a week before this happened. They brushed it off as pregnancy hormones and sleepiness. I didn’t want to push, maybe it was just pregnancy after all. But that’s just my point, those who truly need your help will rarely shout for it. They will suffer silently hoping somebody, anybody will notice. Those who are truly hurting will not want to draw attention to themselves.

I didn’t want to be a burden or seen as a complainer. So I tried to figure it all out myself.

And I failed.

But I was blessed through my failure.

Not everyone is so lucky.

I heart moosh snoozes.

NaBloPoMo tells it how it is.

To those of you who come here for a giggle, I’m sorry.

I’m out of giggles. I’m out of funny.

For the time being at least.

I miss my husband. 

And for some reason it’s depressing the hell out of me.

Utah’s Moldy.

Until packing up and moving across the country when Cody graduated I had lived in the same five mile radius my entire life. What this means is that almost every memory, both good and bad, happened in this five mile radius. The same five mile radius in which I am currently staying. Cody asked my dad if he could marry me in this house. But I have also broke up with boyfriends in this house. I have had birthday parties here, I have passed out drunk in a backyard a few blocks away, I used to babysit the now tall and gangly teenagers that live across the street. I had my baby a few blocks away from the mall where I bought my first pair of heels. I spent nights in the hospital due to depression steps away from where I had my first kiss.

There are a lot of memories here.

And a lot of them hurt.

High school didn’t go so well for me. While the LDS religion is not (NOT, I promise) the majority, it is prevailent. And Utah has always had a feeling of  “us against them” regardless of which side you are on. (And I’ve been on both.) And rarely does either side see this the way I have been able to see it.

I was a wild child, that is obvious. My fellow wild buddies and I would swear off the goody goody Mormons, we stuck together in all our rebelliousness. Avoided their gathering places, avoided the things they liked to do. But I was always secretly envious, they had such a good time together, all without alcohol or drugs. But I was only invited once, and I was treated like an outsider the whole time.

Flash forward to to now. I have a dear friend who has been with me for what feels like forever. She has always lived in the “right” neighborhood and had the “right” friends. Her parents knew the “right” people and she did all the “right” things. GAH, how envious I was of her and that she had been born into the Utah “club”. She was going to grow up and follow in her parents footsteps, her kids would be another generation of the “cool” kids. They would never have to worry about unpopularity, vicious rumours or clawing their way to the top.

Or so it seemed.

Today at the park by her house in the neighborhood I wished I had always lived in we watched the next generation of the “cool” kids. (with their Biblical names, might I add) They were going to be “cool” by birthright, “cool” because of where their parents chose to buy their house. I told her that one of the reasons I didn’t want to come back to Utah is because we would be classified, stamped and sorted as soon as we crossed city limits.

“LDS. Lawyer. White. Children.” YOU. GO. HERE.

And “here” is not where I want to be. It’s hard to break a Utah mold. Very few people have done it. If any. And compared to most of the other women I would be “sorted” with, I would be considered “not Mormon enough.” Anyone who has never lived in Utah is confused at this point, but I swear to you it’s true. This state feels like one big competition. And I don’t want to play.

After I told her this I was worried that she would be disappointed in my opinion. She loves Utah.

But then she told me she had the same feeling of inadequacy. That she will never be “Mormon enough” to fit the mold that she has been given. It was a weight off my shoulders. One little confession from someone I’ve looked up to and always considered such a perfect example of an LDS member for as long as I can remember.

Utah is beautiful. Painfully beautiful in fact. Salt Lake is an amazing city, it is run well and is very well taken care of. But there’s so many people running around trying to shove the rest of us into our place while keeping themselves in bigger, newer, shinier, tighter, more expensive places than their neighbor that they’re kind of a buzz-kill to the natural beauty of this area.

I understand we get comfortable with whom we associate with the most.

But is it normal where you live to get so comfortable that everyone else feels left out?

Best friend, thy name is Kim.

the moosh was overtaken by some horrible beast from the underworld yesterday. I can honestly attest that she has never been so naughty and so disrespectful as she was yesterday.

The screaming, the hitting, the yelling, the shrieking, the crying, the meltdowns, the NO! NO! NO! and the freaking out.

It was one of those days that makes you question your decision to populate the earth. And really makes you question if it really is a good idea to add one more shrieking ball of terror toddler to human existence. It went to bed at 5:30, hopefully not to be heard from again until it’s 18. (A coping mechanism I employ when my sweet girl isn’t so sweet is to call her an it. Because as you know, if you name it, you get attached to it. Therefore, yesterday, I had an it.)

Oy, the exhaustion.

EST to MST isn’t going so well.

But with me through the whole ordeal was my BFF Kim.

By the end of our day together we were both too exhausted to referee our tired and grumpy children (when I say our, I mean mine). So we laid together on the couch, full of cupcakes and fantasized about running away to Chicago and went over all of our deepest darkest secrets with no judgement.


Not even the silent kind.

You know that warm fuzzy feeling you get when you put something so ugly and naked about yourself out there on your blog and no one judges you?

Instead they rally around you and make you feel a little less crazy?

Kim is that feeling. IRL.

Dear Hunka Hunka,

I know it’s only been twenty four hours and that I never really see you much anyway, but I miss you. I only miss parts of you though. Not all of you. Don’t go getting all egotistic that your wife can’t live a day without you. Face it, there’s a lot not to miss. The socks in the middle of the floor, the whiskers in the sink, the incessant teasing and poking, the milk in the bottom of the cereal bowl and the fact that you demand to be referred to as “Legend.”

But you’re the moosh daddy, and the moosh misses her daddy.


I miss your smile.


I was going to write some disgustingly mushy garbage about how you just held me while I bawled into your armpit nook the night before I left.

Then you teased me the next morning about getting boogers all over your shirt and the mushy garbage I was planning to write went out the window.

Tonight the moosh watched “The Wizard of Oz” with Grandpa Fish. After dinner she asked to watch “Lizard of Bob” again. This is the kind of stuff I’m sad you’re missing. Oh? And remember that time we were on ESPN? I watched it tonight.
Remember that time we were on ESPN?

Baby, we look good in HD.

the moosh saw it too, she almost attacked the TV.

the moosh thinks she's seeing things. 

So don’t get too full of yourself. I miss you, yes. But I’m not going to see you until December 20th, so I can’t miss you too much yet. You understand right? Of course you do. Go get a job, get all A’s on your finals, don’t trash my house and get a little sleep worked in there too.

Loce, Love and Sloppy Kisses in all the right places,



Photo by Kim (hey sweetcheeks, I’ll be seeing you in an hour, *wink wink* RAWR)