How to Structure a Marital Dispute in Six Simple Steps

Earlier this month, the husband and I celebrated our six-year wedding anniversary. Six years! Celebration is kind of an ambitious word for what we actually did. We spent most of the day doing what we always do - whatever the toddler terrorist wants - and then went to the fancy pants movie theater in Del Mar where I could park my giant pregnant behind in a comfy recliner, kick up my swollen ankles and order ice cream in the privacy of a dark theater without fear of judgment. Sexy, I know.

I wasn't really sure what to write about to honor six years of this married union. I could talk about his cute dimples or how proud I am of the life we have built together, but hey. I'm not one for the sap. He'd think I had been kidnapped and replaced by a sweet spouse who spouts platitudes. So, as I was cooking dinner one night and feeling irritable, I thought about how in six years we have learned to structure our arguments into six simple steps. What a coincidence! When spending a lifetime together, couples fall into a comfortable routine that can be oh so predictable. In our case, we have created our own Fight Club rule book to which we strictly adhere. Here is the structure of a good Greene domestic dispute:

1. The Spark
Like any good display of pyrotechnics, it has to begin with a spark. A flash. A bang. In our case, it often begins with some innocuous comment. Something innocent with no implication of malice, yet somehow, after a day of toddler tantrums, workplace weariness and overall exhaustion it becomes the spark that ignites a colorful display of unholy matrimony.
"Hey honey, I stopped by the store and got your butter..."
"MY BUTTER? Why is it MY butter? Do you not eat butter? Are you calling me fat? I'll show you YOUR butter..."

2. The Backpedal
Inevitably, once the the fuse has been lit, trying to avoid an explosion is futile. However, in desperate times, one must at least try to diffuse the volatile situation. Damage control goes into full effect. Stammering and stumbling backward, hands held up in surrender, the backpedaling begins.
"N-n-no, I didn't mean YOUR butter, I meant OUR butter! Come on babe, you're beautiful, I love you, um, I think I left something out in my truck...I think the tiny terrorist needs me..."And with the the grace of a roadrunner chased by the coyote, a sign is held up that simply reads Uh Oh and with a poof of dust and a sound strikingly similar to a meep meep! He's gone.

3. The Slow Simmer 
Like a teapot beginning to steam, the slow simmer begins. It starts with a simple how dare he. The brain then begins to reach into the dusty files stored in the back office of the memory, stashed away only to be brought out simply for occasions such as these. The time he left his socks on the floor? What a jerk! Or how about that annoying habit he has of always leaving his clothes in the dryer so I end up folding them?! Grrrr. And how about the way he stares at me blankly while I babble on about my feelings on [insert any topic here]? Oh man. The water is now boiling, and the kettle begins to whistle shrilly.

4. The Game On
As this step implies, the heavyweights are ready to throw down. Get your ringside seating, a couple of beers and some popcorn because this is going to get interesting. You might have to get out your toddler to adult dictionary translator, however, because we are going to be arguing in sickeningly sweet voices, hushed tones and code words since we don't want the toddler to know she is witnessing a Vegas-worthy clash of titans. Hello, we're not animals. It's an epic battle of the sexes disguised as a United Nations negotiation, punctuated every so often by a silly face made at the toddler terrorist or a pause between rounds to serve the toddler dinner or tie a shoe.

5. The Insult to Injury
There comes a point in every argument where someone starts to laugh. It's usually me, as I have made an outlandish statement so obnoxious that even I can't take myself seriously. This is a dangerously deceiving moment because my worthy opponent takes this as a prime opportunity to lower the gloves, towel off the sweat and innocently say, "I don't even know what you are so upset about, anyway!"
Really? Because I literally just spent the entire last hour outlining exactly why I was mad. I was even kind enough to illustrate his shortcomings with diagrams, examples, evidence and exuberant hand gestures. So, just like that, the bell rings for round 2 and it's time to place bets on which spouse is going to receive the proverbial knockout punch.

6. The White Flag of Surrender
And then, the beauty of marriage emerges. Both fighters retire to their corner of the couch, exhausted and over it. We settle on some mind-numbing television show and without even noticing, I eventually wiggle my cold toes under his leg to keep warm and he affectionately puts his hand on my knee and just like that, wedded bliss.

Until next time.

Light it Up and Watch it Burn

It's cliche at best, but when people look at your swollen, pregnant belly, give a nostalgic smile and say with a hint of sadness to enjoy every moment because the time flies by in the blink of an eye, they truly aren't kidding. Obviously, it's impossible to enjoy every minute because, as any parent knows, toddlers are cute, adorable, diabolical assholes. Unless, of course, you are like my mother. She swears we were perfect and never acted out. I don't have the heart to break it to her, but I'm pretty sure that's the wine induced amnesia talking. I suffer from the same condition.

The toddler terrorist turned two last weekend. Two! I was going to write a sentimental post through my waterfall of tears, but then good ol'e Bugsy Malone saved the day. She wasn't going to let me get sad as I looked back fondly over the last two years, forgetting all of the hard days and remembering only the sweetest of milestones. Like the time she first smiled at me, or the day she first garbled, "love you Mama", or the way she fits perfectly in my lap allowing me to be a total weirdo and sniff the sweet scent of her baby head.

Nope. Bugsy Malone had a different agenda. On her last day of being one, she pulled out a can of kerosene, threw it over the past year, lit a match and walked away in an explosive blaze of glory as she burnt that shit to the ground.

It started with a preschool play date. The preschool teacher may very well have been Miss Honey from one of my favorite books, Matilda. And if that teacher was Miss Honey, then Bugsy was the Trunchbull. She was so intent on reconstructing the power paradigm of the preschool's educational system that after the longest hour of my life, while the toddler terrorist was getting a tattoo and taking a smoke break in the school bathroom, I fearfully asked sweet, terrorized Miss Honey if the Trunchbull was going to get kicked out of the program. She assured me that no, of course the Trunchbull was not going to get expelled. I raised a skeptical brow, certain I detected the tremble of fear of a woman who had been locked in the Chokey by a toddler terrorist a time or two.

To continue on our rambunctious roll, we went to the doctor for Bugsy's two year checkup. The toddler terrorist gave the nurse a piece of her mind as she threw every Parenting magazine in the exam room up in the air as if they were confetti. Her pediatrician couldn't get out of that room fast enough, stumbling out as he stammered, "I've always wanted a patient who would grow up to be a leader...Ma-ma-maybe she'll be president one day..."

So because she had been incredibly well-behaved, or maybe because I wanted to salvage the smoldering remains of an entire year, or - even more likely - because I am pregnant, I was traumatized, and I needed to eat my feelings - I treated Bugsy to frozen yogurt. She put on her angel face, hypnotized me into a false sense of security and charmed me into taking her to Barnes and Noble to pick out a birthday book. In addition to a book, she picked out a doctor's kit! I strutted up to the checkout line, chest puffed with pride as I contemplated her future as a world renowned brain surgeon. She really would be a leader! And just as I had completely given in to the daydream delusions of doctordom, I heard a CRASH! followed by several collective gasps.

The world blurred around me and voices became muted as I turned around in slow motion. I was met with a scene of destruction that only a toddler terrorist can create. There stood Bugsy with a look of surprise and, might I add, satisfaction, and beside her lay the shattered remains of what used to be a rather large, ceramic decorative pumpkin. Before I could spring into action, the store clerk got on the loudspeaker and announced, in a voice dripping with exasperation and disapproval, that a cleanup was needed because someone (insert stern glance in our direction) broke a ceramic pumpkin and the scene was very unsafe for customers. I quickly and shamefully paid for the broken merchandise and slunk out of there with my head hung in shame while the terrorist raised a victorious fist and declared imminent toddler revolution.

Finally, later that night, as Che Guevara Bugsy Malone nestled perfectly into my lap while I read her a bedtime story, the day's mortifying events melted away. Maybe it was the intoxicating smell of her perfect baby head that allowed me to forget the toddler guerilla warfare in which I had been engaged all day, but as I said goodnight for the last time to my perfect little one-year-old, bittersweet heartache tugged at my soul and my eyes welled with tears. What a fitting end to an amazing year.

Terrible twos...We're coming for ya!

A Whole Different Kind of Mile High Club

Have you ever been somewhere, just minding your own business, when the shrill shriek of a mounting toddler tantrum pierces the air? It's cringe-worthy for sure, but most of us with small children send the parent of that difficult toddler a supportive sympathy smile while secretly thanking our lucky stars that it's not our kid. "That sucks," we think as we go about our business.

But you know what really sucks? When it just so happens that your child is the tantrum throwing jerk. And you know what sucks even more? When your sweet, adorable child turns into a maniacal monster on a freaking airplane. Having family and friends up in Northern California, we travel up there quite a bit. In a prolonged fit of insanity, we've managed to visit five times in the last year. The toddler terrorist is accustomed to flying, and although she does get squirmy and antsy, she has never had a full on meltdown that made me want to don my oxygen mask and holler at the flight attendant to bring me as many mini vodka bottles as she can carry, stat. The powers of the universe convened and ultimately decided that I was indeed due.

On this particular trip, I was flying solo with the terrorist. Being a rather large and cumbersome seven months pregnant, everything seemed a little more complicated than usual. The wait at the airport set the tone of trepidation, as somehow I had forgotten to charge every single electronic device intended to distract Bugsy's attention. Oh hey, little terrorist, want to play on the iPad? Oh crap. Just a second. Mommy sucks. Don't cry don't cry don't cry! Here is the DVD player. It's dead too? Ohhhh no. This can't be happening. Dear sweet baby Jesus, have mercy on me! As the toddler terrorist began to loudly voice her disgust, I sent a code red text to my husband.

As we began to board the airplane, I prayed to all things holy that the toddler would keep a lid on the volcanic tantrum eruption that seemed inevitable, but as we settled into our seats steam came out of Bugsy's ears, her face turned bright red and with an explosive scream that could ground airlines within a fifty mile radius, the flight took a hostile turn.

I did everything I could. First, of course, I took a picture for evidence. Then, I begged. I pleaded. I scolded. I raided the arsenal of toys I had packed in my over-stuffed carry on. I prayed. I felt the sweat trickle down my back and hid my face in shame. I imagined every passenger raising a skeptical eyebrow as they surveyed the scene, certain that they were eyeballing my pregnant belly and concluding that I couldn't even handle one baby, let alone two.

Just as I had resigned myself to the inevitable fate of certain death by toddler terrorist, she arched her back, chucked a shoe at the window like a Cy Young award winner, and, with a final howl of indignation, the clouds parted, the birds began singing and Bugsy passed the hell out. I had just been inducted into the a whole different kind of mile high club. I smugly looked around, puffed my chest out with the confidence of a Mother of the Year and opened a magazine. Piece of cake.

Hit the Road, Jack

Have you guys heard about the family who left their three-year-old daughter at a rest stop for over an hour? If not, let me tell you what went down. It seems that a couple stopped at a rest stop, stretched their legs, got back into the car with two of their three children and hit the road, jack. Well, perhaps they noticed little Cindy Lou was missing as they pulled out onto the open highway, you say? Nope. Well then certainly Mama turned around to say something to cute baby Georgie and noticed with a gasp that Cindy Lou was missing, you might suggest. Wrong again! This family of five got ninety miles down the road when, like out of the scene from a thriller movie, a voice spoke to them through the radio.

"Mr. and Mrs. Smith?" the radio crackled. "Mr. and Mrs. Smith, please return to the rest stop you vacated over an hour ago. You left cute little Cindy Lou here and she would like to be returned to her family. Party of five, currently traveling as a party of four..."

I don't want to launch a grenade and participate in a battle of Mommy Wars and I certainly don't want to be a Mommy Shamer. I am no mom of the year myself, as illustrated by the following questionable parenting moments:

• I once let my precious little seven month old terrorist crawl off the precipice of my bed, failing to catch her as she plummeted face first into the floor. I was so horrified and ashamed that I didn't tell my husband about it for weeks until he finally did something as equally cringe-worthy. Then, taking pity on him, I told him my regrettable tale to help alleviate some of his guilt.
• One time I let my daughter lick the bottom of her father's flip flop (barf!) because I was fatigued from hours of toddler tantrums and felt that this was one fight I was going to sit out. 
• More than once I have hidden in the closet while binge eating jelly beans. When the toddler finds me, rather than hiding my stash and pretending I was just playing a game of hide and seek, I sheepishly hand over the bag and let her eat some. It only seems fair.
• Sometimes, when the cupboards are bare, I strategically plan my Costco trip around the toddler terrorist's dinner time. I then let her eat every sample in the store and call it a balanced meal.

There. My shameful confessions are out on the table. I understand that parents are exhausted, juggling a thousand things with only two hands at one time and trying to maintain some semblance of sanity. But forgetting your toddler at a rest stop? On the never-ending checklist of a mom's cluttered mind I would just think that adorable Cindy Lou would be on the top of the priority list. You know, it should look a little something like this:

• Road trip tunes? Check.
• Snacks? Check.
• All of my children? Check.
• Toothbrush? Damn! I knew I forgot something! 
• Extra diapers? Mr. Smith, I can't think of everything! I am only one person for crying out loud. 

And after you pull into the nearest CVS to stock up on the toiletries you understandably forgot, run a quick head count, confirm that you are in fact traveling as a family of five and drive off on your merry way into the sunset.

Come Waste Your Time With Me

Recently I decided that the husband and I needed a kid free weekend. An actual overnight adventure without a tiny terrorist simultaneously killing me with cuteness and driving me to an early grave with her outrageous demands. It was now or never, I figured. As if toddler tantrums, all-consuming full-time jobs and the daily demands of life in general don't keep both of us with very little free time for anything other than a quick hello kiss and dinner in front of the television (where one of us always manages to fall asleep with the fork hanging midair), I am belly deep in baking another bundle of joy. If we didn't run away for a romantic getaway now, right this very second, we probably would never ever in a million bazillion years get to do anything again for the rest of our lives. Or until the kids fly the coop. Whichever comes first.

We settled on a quick jaunt over to Catalina Island. My parents bravely agreed to babysit, and as we said goodbye our trip was almost instantly sabotaged by the toddler terrorist as she screamed "MAMA NO!" with such intensity that my heart promptly broke into a million tiny pieces. I didn't even have time to pick up the shards of my guilt ridden heart as the husband, seeing my resolve begin to diminish, slung me over his shoulder, threw me in the car and skidded out of the driveway like a masked bandit on the run. And so, like most mothers, I began our romantic getaway by leaving my heart behind in the tiny, destructive hands of my precious, diabolical everything.

No matter! Who needs a heart when you have the vast Pacific Ocean beneath you, the sea breeze blowing through your hair, the sweet song of freedom on your lips and the man you like more than anyone else (most of the time) enjoying the ride along with you? To the outsider, we looked like the perfect picture of a footloose and fancy free couple. But inside, I was panicked. All sorts of thoughts were swirling around in my head like a tornado of doom. How is the Outlaw Bugsy Malone? What will she think when she wakes up in the morning and I'm not there? This is our first weekend away ever without her. Will she ever forgive me?

And then my thoughts turned to the man standing next to me. Oh my god, what are we going to talk about for a whole weekend? What do we have in common besides two years worth of poop, no sleep and endless episodes of Mickey Mouse Clubhouse?  Holy crap, who is this man I married?! What's going on behind those sparkly green eyes? For the love of all things boozy, I need a cocktail. Dammit, I'm pregnant. Cocktails are off limits. Oh shit. Oh shit oh shit ohshitohshitohshit. Turn this boat around, let's call the whole thing off.

Just as I was about to take a flying leap and abandon ship, Catalina came into view and for the first time in a hundred years, the rat wheel in my mind skidded to a halt. I took a deep breath, grabbed my husband's hand and allowed myself to be swept away by the beauty of it all. I gave myself permission to put Bugsy on the back burner of my brain, knowing that she was safe and spoiled by her grandparents. I looked over at ol'e what's his name and laughed. We have over ten years of shenanigans together - how bad could this be!

We crammed so much fun into two short days it was one for the history books. Do you even know how much can be accomplished when you are not worrying about putting someone else's needs above your own? Imagine a world that is not dictated by nap time. You may say I'm a dreamer, but I know I'm not the only one, baby!

For example, you can do things like be on a boat without worrying that your toddler might catapult herself into certain slumber with the fishes:

If you are so inclined, you might want to rent a golf cart and mob around the island without car seat installation frustration:

You could stop and take in the spectacular view without hearing a tiny voice complaining about "my shoe, it's stuck" over and over:

You could leisurely kick your husband's sweet behind at miniature golf and be a total obnoxious jerk about how much you suck way less than he does:

You could ooh and aah over the wildlife without frantically chasing your tiny terrorist who insists the deer is a "doggy!" and is hell bent on pulling said dog's tail:

And, if you are feeling feisty, you could take a hike without beginning at a race worthy pace and ending with a toddler demanding to be carried the remaining 5,000 miles because she ran the first ten minutes.

Not pictured: The time we got a couple's massage and Jeremiah alleges he was molested, the time we ate ice cream all day everyday, and the time we slept until 7:30 a.m.! Oh and the time we went kayaking and Jeremiah almost got eaten by a sea lion. I've never seen him so scared - and he saw my large intestine during my c-section.

So it turns out that we do exist as a couple outside of our primary roles as Bugsy Malone's mommy and daddy. The truth is, we kinda like each other. And as the boat pulled out to sea to return us to our everyday responsibilities, as the ocean churned beneath us and promised to deliver us to the tiny terrorist holding my heart, I leaned my head back, closed my eyes and smiled inwardly at the sound of drunk early twenty-somethings behind me carrying on with their early twenty-something antics. We might be frazzled, exhausted and up to our eyeballs in freaking Doc McStuffins, but we sure are the lucky ones.

When Pumping Gets....Weird

Not too long after I went back to work after maternity leave, I had to fly up to our corporate office in Northern California for a meeting. I felt like quite the professional working mother, adorned in a pencil skirt and heels, laptop bag slung over my shoulder and toting a purse devoid of diapers, polishing off the outfit that (ironically) screamed "Look at me! I'm a working mom! Proof that you can have it all!" with the best of accessories - my breast pump. Yes, I was committed to nursing, but  I also did not want to knock out my coworkers with my voluptuously lactating rack. You don't have to say it, I already know. I have Employee of the Year written all over.

By the time lunch rolled around, I was jonesing for a pump. I asked HR where a lactating working woman could go for a little privacy. Now, I'm no diva, but I was hoping for a nice comfy office with a lock. Not too much to ask for, in my opinion.

Waaaay too much to ask for, in their opinion. HR opened up a cozy little space otherwise known as The Smallest Storage Closet in the World. I looked around skeptically, shrugged, and shimmied my way into the confines of the cupboard, shaking hands with broken printers and giving the old what's up to the forgotten fax machines. Just when I thought this couldn't get any more awkward, I heard the booming male voice of my boss just outside the door.

"Where's Brooke?" he bellowed. I heard the muted voice of someone no doubt informing him that *giggle* she's *giggle* pumping *giggle giggle*. I rolled my eyes. Yes, providing life giving sustenance for my child is so *giggle* silly *giggle giggle*.

"OH!" I heard my boss stutter loudly. "WHOA! Ok. Did NOT need to know that!" He then erupted into the most embarrassed laugh I have ever heard, like a schoolboy who just realized that his mother has boobs. As I put my own boobs back in their home, I hid out a little longer until I was sure the coast was clear before emerging like a breastfeeding ninja.

Later that afternoon, the boss decided to take us out for a drink. Ugh. I hate having drinks with the boss. I am notorious for talking too much when I drink, and it's always the balancing act to remain professional while cocktailing. So what does a girl do when trying to escape libations with the man? Take a pumping break!

I took pumping to a new low as I escaped into the dirty bar bathroom. Nothing makes you feel further from your 20s than reading bar bathroom graffiti while expressing breast milk. Call Gina for a good time? Be careful, Miss Gina. A good time gets you a baby and eventually you may find yourself lactating in a bar.

I want to know! Where is the weirdest place you ever had to pump?

Scooby Snacks

There I stood in the kitchen, the picture of pure domestic bliss. The house was (somewhat) clean, my makeup was (partially) applied, my hair was (kind of) combed, and I was (sort of) dressed. But, best of all, after an hour of my best wild wild west wrangling, I had roped and subdued the tiny terrorist into the sweetest of nap time slumbers. I practically skipped out of her room as I oh so quietly closed her door, danced over the squeaky floorboard, gave my dog the look that said "you bark at the mailman even a little and you're pound bound" and stopped for a moment on my way to collapse on the couch just to revel in the serene sound of silence.

As I eagerly anticipated working out the mind numbing reality television show in which I was going to fully indulge, I heard the faintest sound of knocking. The dog's ears perked right up as she emitted a low growl. I frantically lunged at her as I whisper shouted SSSSHHHHHH! She looked at me apologetically. She didn't want to wake up the toddler any more than I did. I glanced toward the front door, confirmed that no one was standing there, and, convinced that both the dog and I should have our hearing checked, proceeded to turn on the tv.

I was only two seconds into the glorious drama that is Southern Charm when I heard the sound again. Knock, knock, knock. The dog jumped up, the hair raised on her back, poised to bark and ruin nap time and my subsequent veg time. I couldn't let that happen. I quieted the dog as I tiptoed toward the front door, ready to yell at what I thought for sure was the UPS guy. Thanks for supporting my online shopping addiction, Mr. UPS Man, but I swear to God if you wake the baby it is so on!

But no one was at the front door. Fully perplexed, I scratched my head in confusion but nothing - NOTHING - was going to keep me from the comfort of the couch and the endless time suck of the old tube. As I turned my back to the door, I heard it again. This time, the knocking was authoritative and definitive.

What. The. Heck.

The dog and I looked at each other, then looked down the hall, then looked back at each other. Her expression matched my bewildered one as I muttered, in my best Shaggy voice, "Uh oh Scoobs! This isn't good!"

The knocking, you see, was coming from inside the house. My heartbeat quickened as my spidey senses kicked into high gear. Slowly, I walked down the hallway, the pooch following closely behind. I made it to my daughter's room and as I cautiously opened the door and looked down, I saw it....

The tiny toddler terrorist had catapulted herself out of her crib and was furiously knocking on her bedroom door, demanding to be let out! She laughed when she saw my face, patted me on the leg and ran down the hallway with the gusto of an inmate who had tried for years and finally succeeded in busting out of the 'pen.

And as she claimed her new found freedom, I felt the carefully constructed walls of my own autonomy begin to crumble. I almost had a whole hour to myself - And I would have, too, if it hadn't been for that pesky kid!

There's Something Amiss in the Old Clubhouse

I owe a lot to the old Mickey Mouse Clubhouse. The toddler terrorist has loved the show since she was a little baby. This baby crack has saved me many a time when all avenues of child soothing was exhausted. I don't know what it is about this show, but it just does the trick. Do I feel guilty that Mickey is a better parent than I? Sure. Do I sometimes cringe when I use Mickey as a babysitter so that I can do super fun things like clean the bathrooms, cook dinner, steam clean the floors, vacuum the bedrooms...? Absolutely. Do I sometimes swear off the Micky sauce? Totally. But without an Intervention style rehab stint, it's just not going to happen. And if you did try an intervention, I would be the addict who agrees only after stipulating that I get to go home first and pick up some "stuff". I'd then pack up all the Mickey and the terrorist and fly the coop.

Because the Mickey Mouse Clubhouse acts a surrogate husband and father in our house, I have had the luxury of noticing a few action items that require some attention. These things simply do not make sense. I have outlined my observations below because I am a responsible parent who pays attention to details.

1. Why do Daisy and Donald refuse to wear pants while Mickey likes to rock it shirtless? I might wear the same outfit day in and day out. I might forget to put on makeup and on a crazy day when the tiny terrorist has tried to kill me, I might even forget deodorant. I often forget to brush my hair. But I always remember my pants and my shirt (you're welcome, world). Do the ducks face a closet devoid of pants or do they actively decide not to don their bottom duds? I know Mickey can afford a nice shirt with that fat Disney paycheck. His girlfriend Minnie seems like a proper lady. Why doesn't she do the girlfriend thing and buy him a shirt that he hates but wears anyway because he knows wearing the shirt is easier than receiving the silent treatment for the next few weeks? I'm just fascinated by these various states of undress. Perhaps I'm just jealous.

2. If Goofy and Pluto are both dogs, why does Goofy get to wear clothes and speak English while poor Pluto is...well, a dog? Poor Pluto! It must be so frustrating to be the same species of canine and yet he can't communicate but for a few ruff ruffs and a couple wags of the old tail. His agent probably had to negotiate the title of Pluto the Wonder Dog just to overcompensate for the fact that he doesn't get to be a lovable, clumsy, Goofy mess. He probably gets paid less, proving that even a cartoon canine can hit a glass ceiling.

3. Minnie has two nieces, Millie and Melody. Where the heck are their parents? These adorably mischievous trouble makers just show up sans parents demanding attention. When they don't get the requested consideration from their aunt, they resort to giggling maniacally, combining forces and wreaking havoc. Poor Minnie is the fun auntie and therefore has trouble with disciplining this child power couple. Remember when they screwed up Minnie's winter bow show? They giggled their way right out of trouble and then dragged poor Minnie along on their crazy adventure, causing her to completely neglect the bow show on which she worked so hard. Where were the parents? Taking a nap? There's nothing that bothers me more than a mysterious parent who drops their adorable but rebellious pint sized terrorists off with the sweet, unsuspecting relative. Better to plop them in front of the old babysitter Mickey Mouse Clubhouse and be done with it.

4. How does Daisy squeeze those duck feet into such a cute pair of shoes? Does she ever wish she could run around barefoot like Donald? I wonder if she ever gets sad that she can't just breathe a sigh of relief as she slips on a pair of flip flops. Everyone knows that webbed feet don't allow for sandals. She probably can't wait for the end of her work day when she can finally kick off those ridiculous shoes, stretch out her wide, flat feet and relax with a glass of wine.

5. Does anyone ever get the feeling that there is about to be a coup at the clubhouse? Mickey is clearly the star of the show, but Donald seems awfully exasperated a good portion of the time and Pete is always sabotaging his pal's plans. Seems innocent enough if you're not tuned in to the political power play that is prevalent in each episode. There is trouble in the clubhouse, folks. I'm telling you, there could be a House of Cards style power upset coming to a clubhouse near you. Minnie appears sweet, but you can tell there's a little Claire Underwood buried under all those pink bows. I'm just saying - things are about to get interesting.

These are just a few things that I have noticed about our good friend Mickey the Mouse. What things have you noticed amiss in the clubhouse?

Let it...Go?

Okay, okay. I get it. Parents are up to their eyeballs in Frozen. They're over it, but unfortunately their little ones are not. I've had conversations with other moms that go a lot like this:

Other Mom: "So how many times have you seen Frozen?"

Me: "Probably about 20 times."

Other Mom: "That's it? I've seen it 20 times too....This week."

I, on the other hand, am digging the Frozen phenomenon for one simple reason. Sure, I can recite every line and of course, I'd rather be watching bad reality television rather than listening to Anna lament her relationship with her sister (again), but Frozen has brought out something adorable in the tiny terrorist.

Turns out, the girl loves to sing. And it's adorable.

The first time I heard her singing Let it Go, I wasn't sure that was exactly what she was doing. I caught it on video so that I could run it by a few other judges for a ruling.

My husband wasn't convinced. But as the weeks went on, she became more and more animated. The way her face lights up when I play a song from the movie could thaw a Frozen heart. (See what I did there?) She now can belt out a rendition of Do You Want to Build a Snowman that is quite impressive if I do say so myself.

I get it. There is a major Frozen overkill. But I don't know if I can ever let it go when it comes to this adorable singing voice.

Taking to the Unfriendly Skies

In less than a month, I will be embarking on a solo plane trip with the tiny terrorist. It's a rite of passage through which all mothers must pass, but it has me trembling in my Toms. I have witnessed close friends of mine take flight with toddlers in tow without incident, but I always seem to be the exception to the rule. My husband and I travel frequently, yet we always seem to roll deep with stress and luggage.

Take the San Diego Airport. Whoever invented the Southwest terminal had a diabolical anti-baby plot brewing as he deviously drew up plans for a circular floor plan that forced the millions of travelers to shimmy by each other like packed sardines as they chase their own tails (or toddlers in our case) around, and around, and around...

Then this mischievous little terminal creator decided to put in one bar. It is always packed and the people are always spilling out into the already too small walkway, adding insult to injury to frazzled parents. Smell that delicious scent of libation freedom? Too bad you can't have any as you race through a throng of travelers, desperately chasing your independent (and really fast) child as she is resolutely hell bent on boarding a random flight sans parents.

Our last trip was particularly memorable. It was so crowded that I was forced to confine my little runaway in her stroller. The only good news was that her outraged screams were drowned out by the other travelers screaming over one another to be heard. I caught my husband's eye from across the terminal as we simultaneously rolled our eyes and pulled our imaginary triggers in a futile attempt to disappear from the hell that is the Southwest terminal of the San Diego Airport.

Now let's talk airplane. Everything you are doing with your child, the flight attendant demands you do the opposite. If you are wearing your baby, you must remove her from the carrier. Never mind that she is sleeping, it is a fabulous idea to remove her just so that the flight attendant can raise a disapproving eyebrow as the baby erupts into screams, cranky that she was just so rudely awoken. As we take to the unfriendly skies, we are admonished for playing Mickey Mouse without forcing our 13 month old to wear headphones. I'm sorry, ma'am - have you met a 13 month old? Surely you haven't, because if you had you would certainly understand that getting a child that age to wear pants is a success. Headphones might be pushing it a little. And as you reason with this lovely flight attendant who is just doing her job, you remind her that a screaming toddler is much more disruptive to the passengers than the background melody of Hot Diggity Dog.

No? Okay, lady, you asked for it. There goes my toddler, bum rushing the cockpit as she petulantly pelts peanuts at unsuspecting passengers while belting out her favorite war cry rendition of Let it Go. Face flushed and feeling as though every eye in the plane is boring into my back, I frantically lure the outlaw Bugsy Malone back to her seat with a trail of toddler tricking snacks and resume the task of containing the wiggle worm to her assigned seat. Sigh.

We once sat next to a nice man with really long dreadlocks. When he first sat down next to us, we told him he was brave. He laughed it off and said she looked like a sweet girl and besides that, he loves kids, he claimed. My husband and I raised our eyebrows and smirked. Fast forward to mid flight, and the tiny terrorist was having the time of her life yanking on his luscious locks while he looked tried to laugh it off but was surely covertly Googling where he could turn in his kid loving card.

I have always had my husband to help wrangle the wild one. When she is sick of me, she can climb on her dad and vice versa. This time I will be flying solo with my sidekick who is always unpredictable. If it goes badly but I live to tell the tale, I will sure to share my stories. I'll see you on the other side!

Do you have any tricks for traveling alone with a toddler?

Ramblin' Fever

Ah, the Great Outdoors. The melodic sounds of birds chirping, ocean waves crashing, wind whispering through the trees, and the air punctuated by the shrill shrieks of a tiny toddler in the throes of a temper tantrum. As the record scratches and the music abruptly comes to a halt, the overwhelming beauty of the nature hike we were just enjoying blurs into the background as my tiny terrorist planks in the middle of the trail demanding that the we stop immediately and prove that once again, the world does in fact revolve around her. Goldfish crackers are frantically yanked out of a perpetually cluttered diaper bag, soothing shushing noises escape from adult mouths as if that might make a difference, heads swivel back and forth scanning to see who is noticing this debacle and desperately hoping not to overhear the disapproving clucks of fellow hikers. Just another day in paradise, baby.

I'm starting to get that rambling fever that creeps up every now and again. The palpable urge hits me to pack up the truck and drive across stretches of open highway for days on end Thelma and Louise style, blasting Tom Petty and getting into the kind of trouble you just don't find when caring for a tiny human. The only thing I want in my face is the sunshine. Who cares where the road leads me as long as it never ends. As long as the sound of silence remains uninterrupted by the incessant voice of Mickey the damn Mouse.

Just as I have mentally made it past the California state line, just as I begin to almost hear the first few chords of Free Fallin', just as I have escaped into a daydream so blissful I can almost taste the sweet fruit of freedom...

My tiny toddler picks herself up off the dusty trail, looks around at the wonder of the world completely unimpressed, flashes an unapologetic smile, and whips those pigtails around as she runs off.

As I chase her down the trail to save her from the impending danger of her adventurous spirit, it occurs to me - She has that rambling fever. The only thing she wants in her face is the sunshine. Who cares where the road leads her as long as it never ends. She is going to find the kind of trouble only a tiny toddler terrorist can discover. She will not live in a world without Mickey. Thelma and Louise have nothing on the Outlaw Bugsy Malone. And seriously how old am I? She couldn't care less about Tom Petty. Let it Go, she'd rather Build a Snowman.

So I am once again reminded that when I get that rambling fever, I'm going to have a sidekick along for the ride. We will find the kind of trouble that only a mother and daughter can. And oh sweet sunshine, I hope this road never ends.