Huffy Puffin’

the moosh got a new bike as a very belated birthday gift.

Princess Huffy

But before I tell you the story of the new bike, I must first tell you the story of her umbrella.

Umbrellas are a must in Indiana. In fact, when you move to Indiana they give you a supply list; and the list goes something like this:

1. Umbrella

2. Galoshes

3. Rain Coat

4. Ark

Indiana is also very windy and to make a long story short, a couple of weeks ago the moosh’s pink polka dot umbrella was violently blown from her grasp knocking her to the ground. Through screaming sobs she watched as her umbrella was blown across several soccer fields. I got her indoors with her preschool teacher and set out across the muddy goose terd laden field to get the $3.00 umbrella back.

Oy, the things they don’t tell you about motherhood.

She no longer uses her umbrella. She now hates the wind and with as much conviction as a three year old can have, she believes that the wind is out to get her.

Which brings me back to the bike.

Two wheelin'

For the first few days she had nothing against riding her bike endlessly around our neighborhood. So I was surprised when I told her we were going out to ride bikes on Friday and she broke down into hysterical sobs. As if something traumatic had happened on her bike but I had somehow missed it.

Ah, life with a three year old.

Then I noticed her clinging to her pink and purple handlebar tassels so hard her knuckles were turning white. If she hated riding her bike so much why did she insist on holding on to it? Then it hit me.

“Are you afraid the wind will blow your bike away?”


“What if I tied down your tassels so that they couldn’t blow away?”

“OKAY!” (this was not a happy okay, it was a ticked off bawling okay.)

Unfortunately the tassels couldn’t be removed without massive handlebar mutiltion. Rubber bands didn’t hold the tips of the tassels down to her satisfaction and tape would have ripped and stretched them. What was I to do?

And then, in a flash that could only come to someone who has truly been tested in toddler crisis it came to me. Shoved in the back of our first aid kit was a roll of vet wrap that my sissy had given my years ago when our cat had surgery.

A flyaway fix.

And this is how I solved the bike flying away into the sky problem.

The 28″ cankle.

My busted up leg, two weeks later.

The cankle that matches my waist size.

Two weeks after my fall.

Two weeks later.

Yeah, I’m pretty freaking awesome.

Now go find some Easter eggs.

Humble Pie.

Want to see me humbled?


Humble Pie

This is me on the phone with my best friend Kim, apologizing for the unintentional mess I made yesterday with this post. To make a long story short I had no idea that so many of Kim’s friends lurk on here. Needless to say Kim was assaulted after an emotionally difficult day with dozens of people calling and emailing to check on her.

I was not trying to steal her thunder.

I was not my intention to come off as a mean, backstabbing, jealous, catty, raging witch.

I truly am happy for her (and my other friend). I’m apparently just licking my wounds in an unacceptable manner for a lot of you. Truth is I am frustrated. As much as I’d like to throw my hands up in the air and say “It’s all up to you Lord.” I just can’t. It is one thing to know you will never be able to carry your own child. I cannot fathom the emotions that would come with such a knowledge and I greatly admire those who choose to adopt or go through invasive fertility treatments to have children of their own.

I let my own jealousy get the best of me. Knowing my body is capable of pregnancy and yet having it be uncooperative for the last three years is frustrating, okay? And to have a friend get pregnant in one shot (no pun intended) and another friend who was never supposed to be able to get pregnant in the first place because of a horrible case of endometreosis be pregnant with her third, on top of being surrounded by at least a half dozen pregnant neighbors on any given day?

I let it get to me.

I’m sorry.

I was trying to cover my own insecurities up with witty humor. And it helped. But that I hurt my best friend in the process, even if only for a few moments, doesn’t make it okay. Her friendship and trust mean more to me than any post ever could. And I’m sorry to any of you who I may have hurt or offended amidst this whole kerfuffle.
I love you Kim.

And I love that you’re cooking another half Brazilian baby for me to munch on.

My BBF for good reason.

“I love you too, Casey. All is forgiven. Feel free to munch on my babies anytime.”

All the blotch without the breath.

Want to see what I look like first thing in the morning?
(Along with the zit I named Dell?)

Head on over to Blissfully Domestic.

Want to see what a bitter jealous hag I can be?

Take a journey down Neener Neener Road below.

Neener Neener Road.

When your best friend in the whole entire world and your dearest closest newest friend who means the world to you both tell you that they’re pregnant in the same week a plethora of feelings come bubbling to the surface.

Most of them unpleasant and requiring some form of repentance.

While I am incredibly happy and excited for my friends (really!) these were the third and fourth pregnancies I found out about in the last two weeks. After a round of bitter jealousy and a little tiny pity party, I have chosen the higher *snort* road.  I call it the Neener Neener Road. Allow me to take you on a little tour.

On the right you’ll see the diaper shack. I have not had to enter the diaper shack for over three months and nor will I have to enter it for the next ten at least. No poopy diapers to change for AT LEAST A YEAR? Neener neener.

Over here on the left you’ll see the diaper bag emporium. Haven’t had to go into that store for over a year and a half. Instead I shop at the “cute stylish handbag you would never dream of carrying bottles in” store down the street. Neener neener.

Speaking of bottles. I haven’t had to make a bottle in over 28 months. I’m not even sure I remember how. Think of all that money saved on formula (because it was physically impossible for me to nurse) and time saved on washing bottles. Not to mention that I haven’t found a forgotten bottle of curdled stinky milk in a corner for almost two and a half years. Neener neener.

Up there on the hill you’ll see my bed. The bed I slept in for eight hours straight last night. I could have gone to bed when the moosh went to bed and gotten a solid twelve hours but that’s kind of overkill isn’t it? Neener neener.

And last if you’ll just direct your attention to my waist. Yes right there. Twenty eight inches and not a hint of stretch marks. Yes. I do believe this qualifies for a big neener neener.

So there you have it, you pregnant people in my life. You may be relishing in the joys of stretchy pants and blissful new baby smell, but I am relishing in the one curly haired heiress I have contributed to society and becoming okay with the fact that she may be my only contribution.


Take that bunk lady parts. NEENER NEENER.

Why SAHM’s Need Curfews.

Oh the joyous experience that is getting together with a bunch of Indianapolis bloggers and going out to dinner. And what better way to really get to know each other than a little post dinner fun and games?

With rented shoes?

That’s right baby, BOWLING!

So much fun she fell down dead.

You would think when we all got together for a big group photo we’d be CRAZY! OUT! OF! CONTROL! FUN! FUN! FUN!

But alas, you keep a bunch of moms out past 11 pm and we begin to resemble busted down tired Junior League rejects.

Indy Blogger Princesses


Why we don’t fall down stairs. In photos.

It’s been a week since I took a tumble down the metal staircase of death.
I can’t feel a four inch patch of flesh on my shin, and it stings whenever I step down too hard. the moosh has the uncanny ability to land any and all sharp or hard body parts she owns on my left leg, for this I am grateful, it’s making me tough. GRRR. And it’s teaching me all sorts of creative covers for swear words.
How I didn’t break something is truly a miracle. I attribute it to the fact I had just gone to the Temple and was divinely protected. Because honestly?

I should be waaay more busted up than this.

Cankle, one week later.

Aftermath of the stairs.

Don't fall down the stairs.

Tender flesh bruise.

Blissfully Domestic.

 The Fabulous Mrs. Fussypants asked me to contribute to her shiny new online magazine that’s all about making life easier.

 Blissfully Domestic.

Guess what topic I cover? Beauty. That’s right, beauty.

Is now a good time to mention I don’t know how to apply eyeliner and I don’t own a SINGLE tube of lipstick?

If you’re all about what works with the least amount of money and the least amount of effort,