Adulting Done Right: 90 Year Old Woman Embarks on Epic Road Trip

Have you guys read about the 90 year old woman who was diagnosed with cancer and decided to screw it all and go on a road trip? It seems that at the dawn of her 9th decade, she found out she had none other than uterine cancer. The doctor presented her with treatment options and she thought about it for a minute, then remembered she has this awesome son who lives in an RV with his wife. And then she thought about all the things she hadn't done or seen in her 90 years on this beautiful earth and when weighed against the fun of chemotherapy, a totally awesome road trip in an RV sounded so much better than enduring poisonous IVs. So off she went with her son and daughter in law on a trip that has lasted six months and has so far included a jaunt at Disney World, a Yellowstone adventure, a Grand Canyon excursion, and a hot air balloon ride. If a 90 year old woman in a hot air balloon isn't one of the most bad ass things you have ever heard, I don't know what is.

On a side note, if you used to listen to the Adam Carolla morning show you know of a game called Rich Man Poor Man. The game was centered around things that either made you really rich or really poor. For example: Outdoor furniture. If you have outdoor furniture, you might be either really rich or really poor. Another example would be having lots of cars. If you have a lot of cars, you might either be really rich with a nice, fancy car collection, or really poor with a nice selection of junk cars scattered throughout your front yard. Having a son who lives in his RV might be a fun new category in this game.

Back to Miss Norma and her fabulous road trip adventure. I just love how she threw caution to the wind and embarked on such an epic trip rather than playing it safe and doing the thing that is simply expected. I am a play it safe kind of girl. I know this might be surprising to some (especially those who knew me back in the day), but I am actually a rule following type of gal. I like to flirt with danger, to hover just on the outskirts of the contrary. I like to bat my eyelashes at the illicit but then play hard to get right before the illicit turns illegal. I might have a few too many cocktails but I put myself to bed before the real fun begins. And things have changed even more profoundly for me now that I have two young children. My life is all, "better be in bed by 9" and "no I will not be attending that fun shindig because I can't find a babysitter" and "no, I'd better not, I am trying to be a good example". But what if being a good role model is doing exactly what Miss Norma did and just YOLO'ing the hell out of this short life? Why do we wait until we are 90 and terminally ill to hop in an RV and roll down the highway free as a friggin' bird?

Oh, right. Because...bills. And responsibility. And plain old, boring adulting.

So ride on, Miss Norma. Reading about your positive attitude in spite of enduring quite a few
wicked curve balls is a lovely reminder that we do only live once, so never stop striving to live the life you love. 

Image via Scary Mommy

A Punch in the Junk

The feeling of Saturday morning freedom had descended upon our home. I was standing in the kitchen, leisurely whisking eggs as the baby chilled out in her bouncer and the toddler multi-tasked, watching the iPad and coloring. Disney tunes filled the air, when suddenly the calm was punctuated as the toddler hopped down from the table, yelling with glee as one of her jams came through the Bose. She began wiggling around and wagging her finger in a silly dance, belting out the words with such confidence in her garbled toddler talk. I laughed and sang along with her as I chopped vegetables and made funny faces at the baby.

As the song ended it flowed into the next tune. Elton John's voice rang out and I was transported back to the 90s as I hummed along cheesily to "Can You Feel the Love Tonight". My husband walked into the room at that moment and as I turned around to watch the toddler dance, my heart broke into a thousand pieces. The toddler reached her chubby little paws up to her dad and he lifted her into a giant hug, and right there in the kitchen he began to twirl around with her in his arms. I had to turn away before I was reduced into a blubbering, sappy mess over a stupid love song about two damn cartoon lions. I squeezed the baby tightly and thought about all the times I've wanted to punch my lovely husband in the face. How many toddler poop fiascoes I have been forced to endure. I even thought about that time I had to pump in a storage closet when I was on a business trip because employers just don't consider working, breastfeeding mothers. All those times I've thought that I just might lose my mind, that this family life was not what I signed up for, that maybe I am simply not cut out for this mom business flashed before me as I realized - I am exactly where I am supposed to be. Standing here in this tiny kitchen, in our too small home with our too small salaries and our too big worries. There is no where else I can imagine standing than right here, right now with my husband and our two beautiful daughters. Life in this very second is oh so sweet.

And then, just like that, the peace is shattered and reality reappears. As the song ended and my husband gently set our toddler down, she screamed mischievously and sucker punched my husband right in the junk. Laughing like a maniac, she sprinted off yelling "I got you!" as my husband sputtered in pain and I, shaking with laughter, wiped a whole different kind of tear from my eyes

Yep. We are right where we are meant to be. 

The Day Peppa the Pig Almost Killed Me

Now that we are an official family of four, I have made a concerted effort to still give the first born some undivided "mommy and Bug" time. Overall, the toddler terrorist has accepted the newest member of our family without question. She doesn't act out in jealousy and is actually quite sweet to the baby. It is really lovely to watch and my heart grows exponentially on a daily basis. But sometimes I think back fondly on the times that she had my undivided attention, and as such I imagine that perhaps she does too. Which is how we found ourselves on a little mommy/daughter date at Peppa the friggin' Pig Live.

We have done Disney on Ice. I have sat through many an animated movie. So far, I have been entertained and only slightly bored. But Peppa the Pig may have ruined all things children for me. There were a few red flags that should have warned me, but like a girl determined to marry a bad boy I ignored all the obvious signs and forged forward.

First of all, the ticket prices were seriously ridiculous. If I wanted to pay an insane amount of money for two tickets to watch pig puppets jump in pretend muddy puddles, I would have paid to attend both Democrat and Republican presidential debates. I broke the bank to sit in the nose bleed balcony seats where we practically needed binoculars to see Peppa being pushed around the stage by a covert operative dressed all in black. But I approached the event with hope, wishing in vain that perhaps the show would be worth eating canned tuna until the next payday.

As we arrived, I noticed multiple bars surrounded with adults stocking up on beer, wine and cocktails as though their hydration depended on it. That was the second red flag. "Hmm, that's strange," I thought to myself. It's rare to see alcohol served at a children's function. Two seconds into the show, I totally got it. I was regretting my decision not to indulge in libations myself. I would have given my fancy left pinkie to be swimming in a vat of vodka while pretending to be deeply engaged in the drama of Peppa the Pig for the sake of my imaginative toddler.

As I tried to keep myself from nodding off into a blissful sleep where I was anywhere but trapped in a theater enduring a story line centered around whether or not Daddy Pig would break the muddy puddle splash record, my toddler terrorist squealed in delight. I rubbed my eyes and squinted at the stage. Oh, god. Is that a talking potato? Definitely did not see that plot twist coming. And just as I thought I could not take one more second listening to a whiny pig puppet lament the fact that her dear daddy pig did not practice jumping in muddy puddles, the show concluded and I was free.

As I gleefully made my escape as quickly as I could, my toddler terrorist grabbed my hand, squeezed it and patted me on the back. She jumped in pretend muddy puddles on the walk back to the car, and I forgot the torture of the past hour as she happily chattered away. As I drove away I had to chuckle with the realization that I would do just about anything to see that little girl smile. Even endure Peppa the damn Pig.

Terror for Two, Please

I am officially now the mother of two beautifully perfect tiny terrorists. I could tell you how chaotic my life has become, how overwhelmed I often feel at the suffocating weight of responsibility that accompanies holding the lives of two little people in my sometimes seemingly incapable hands. I could also tell you how much more lovely life is with the addition of another adorable little squish I get to call my very own. And maybe I will, eventually. But for now, I'd rather regale you with a story so filled with poop you might even say I'm full of shit.

It began the day all the help went home. No more family surrounded me, making sure the laundry was folded and I was fed, the children were alive and the baby smothered in adoration. It was just me and the girls. Alone. Totally alone.

I looked at their little faces, staring at me expectantly. I looked around for an adult in the room when I realized with a jolt that the only grown up was me. I sighed with a slight hint of desperation, but, with an air of bravado as if I knew just what I was doing, I decided to pack up the kids and head to the park. No big deal, right? Easy peasy.

Sixteen thousand hours later, the diaper bag was packed, the kids were dressed, I had pants on which I deemed to be good enough, and off we went. We hadn't even made it a mile from the house when I heard the oldest tiny terrorist, yell "EWWW! MAMA, LOOK!"

Well, considering that I was driving the world's biggest car in order to fit my family, taking a peek at what was transpiring in the backseat was not necessarily an option. So, I gritted my teeth, gripped the steering wheel and stared straight ahead at the open road, focused solely on the destination. I would find out soon enough what type of terror awaited me in the baby's car seat.

Upon arrival, I scurried to the back of the car to investigate. There sat my cute little baby, looking at me blankly, covered in ooey gooey spit up. Yuck. Not to worry, though! Being a seasoned mom who has survived many a bio hazard terror attack, I had a change of clothes in the diaper bag. I got the baby dressed, grabbed the toddler and off we trudged to the park.

About halfway through our park experience, the baby got a little fussy. And then she got a lot fussier. Guessing that she was probably starving considering that she had just thrown up the majority of my liquid gold, I decided to go ahead and nurse her. Now, I am not at all comfortable nursing in public. With my first baby terrorist, I would retreat to a back bedroom or take the extra time to pump in order to ensure I had a bottle. This time around, I promised to tackle my fear. And what better time than the present to whip out the old hooter hider and nurse my sweet baby as my toddler played with reckless abandon on the slide.

Things began to unravel almost immediately. Just as my boob met the fresh air, the toddler ran over to the picnic table on which I was perched and demanded a snack. Okay, no problem. I reached into the diaper bag to retrieve the snacks when my dexterity failed me. I knocked over the bag, spilling all of the precious diaper bag contents onto the concrete. As I contemplated how to continue nursing while gathering all of my spilled cargo, a slight breeze rushed through the trees. How nice, I thought...until that lovely breeze lifted my nursing wrap and exposed all I had hoped to hide beneath it. And just as I thought things couldn't get any worse, I heard the unmistakable rumble of my baby's tummy get louder and louder until...

Oh shit. Literally. Everywhere. I had used my spare outfit on the great spit up caper, and now I was shit on and shit out of luck. Well, it's time to go, I mused. I yelled over to the toddler as I gathered up my things in an attempt to leave the park with my dignity in tact and my head held high. And just as I thought that perhaps I was going to be able to do that, I heard my toddler holler from high atop the tallest slide on the playground...

"MAMA! I POOPED!"

And that was how I officially became the mother of two.

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.

Adventures in Bachelorette-ing

You know that moment when you're out a swanky club, sipping on some classy champagne, admiring the panoramic view of city lights, and a Cutie McCuterson comes over and starts talking to you? It's flattering and wonderful and it's all fun and games...until you whip out your iPhone, start showing him pictures of your super cute baby and discussing how you are still breastfeeding. Where are you going, Mister Cutie Cute? Your mom's calling? Did I mention that I'm a mom? Okay, bye....

That's exactly what happened at my sister's bachelorette party this past weekend. I spent weeks planning a party suitable for my little sister. She has spent her whole life being amazing, so I had to plan a shindig that reflected just how fabulous she is. She and I have very different styles. She's glitz and glamor, I'm bars and banjos. She can dance all night to Britney Spears, I spent my 20s following Phish. We are as different as champagne and whiskey, but because she is my little twin star I knew just what kind of party to put together.

My sister leaves a little sparkle wherever she goes - and I mean this literally. The girl leaves a trail of glitter in her wake whenever she leaves a room. After she leaves my house, I find hot pink heart shaped rhinestones stuck in my carpet. I find cotton candy in my cupboards. She is creative and artistic and sparkly, and I don't mean that as a metaphor. So it only made sense that I had to glitter the heck out of anything and everything in sight no matter what. I started with champagne bottles.

They turned out so pretty, but let me tell you a secret - it was so easy. Just be prepared to find yourself covered in glitter for the next few days. You will find glitter in some very strange places, but it's a small price to pay for such a fun looking project. All you need is Modge Podge and glitter. Cover the bottle in the Modge Podge, and then get crazy with the sparkle. I used really chunky glitter, which I think works better than fine glitter. It covers the bottle better.

It was time to figure out what type of adventure upon which we should embark to celebrate my sister's impending nuptials. Because she loves me and knew that it would be difficult for me to leave the baby terrorist for the first overnight since the baby was born, my sister decided that San Diego was as good a place as any to party. I took it from there. I decided that a booze cruise made all the sense in the world because, well...there's booze. And water. And a boat. It's really a no brainer. I chose Sail San Diego to take on the challenge of sailing around 12 drunk girls, and Captain John did a great job! We docked at two bars and they paid for our drinks, then hopped back on the boat and boozed some more.

I bought captain hats for each of the girls and hot pink sunglasses. Because I had a thousand pounds of glitter left over from the champagne bottles, I got crazy and bedazzled my sister's sunglasses in hot pink glitter.

After we were sufficiently boozed and cruised, Captain John returned us to shore and it was off to our pretty awesome hotel room. We stayed in the Star Suite at the Andaz Hotel in downtown San Diego. It had king bunk beds, a bar, and a bull's head on the wall so obviously it was perfect.

After eating pizza that my sweet husband and baby terrorist had thoughtfully dropped off, we headed upstairs to the rooftop bar where we proceeded to party a little more. I may have mentioned several times as I swizzled champagne that I was still lactating. Turns out that I am still "super fun" to party with. One by one we made our way back down to our room. I may or may not have returned to the wrong floor and knocked on the wrong hotel room door demanding to be let in before I realized that this was not in fact my room.

I am an old lady, and bachelorette parties in your 30s tend to end a little earlier than they did in your 20s, as we were all in bed by midnight and up bright and early for a nice brunch at Cafe 21. If you haven't been there, you must try it. It's amazing. Especially if you bring your own champagne in a water bottle, which I'm not saying that we did.

Cheers to you, Dolly!

Sweeten Up Your Event With Dolly's Cotton Candy, San Diego Style!

It's no secret that I agonized over returning to work after birthing my baby terrorist. As much of an adjustment it was transitioning into motherhood, the thought of allowing someone else to spend more time with the baby than me was something that made me feel incredibly sad. Ultimately, returning to work was something that had to be done for our family, but I continue to run through a list of entrepreneurial endeavors that will make me rich and give me the freedom to tell the boss man to take this job and shove it.

Now, you may have heard of Dolly's Sweet Dreams Cotton Candy, a business dreamed up and manifested by my sister. Four years ago, she announced that she was going to start a cotton candy catering company. As she grew her business, her client list grew - I still remember the day she did Kourtney Kardashian's baby shower, and I recall when I saw the episode aired on TV - there was my baby sister, making all of her sweet dreams come true. She eventually added caramel apples, popcorn, and shaved ice into her repertoire of all things delicious.

Right about the time I was wailing miserably about returning to the workforce, my sister had the idea to expand Dolly's into San Diego. She enlisted the help of yours truly to make this idea a reality. I am excited to announce that we have recently launched Dolly's Sweet Dreams Cotton Candy - San Diego! If you or someone you know wants to sweeten up a birthday party, wedding, baby shower, bridal shower, bar/bat mitzvah, or corporate event in San Diego County, please contact me at dollyscottoncandysd@gmail.com. I would love the opportunity to help you fill up on memories!

You Oughta Know

They didn't tell me certain things about having a baby. Or maybe they did, but I was under a blissful cloud of delusion and was convinced that my baby would be perfect. I tend to be more of a talker than a listener, and I have a gift for tuning out the things I don't want to hear. I may have been warned, but I sure didn't hear it.

They didn't tell me just how high I would be coming out of my c-section. Normally, that would be awesome - who wouldn't want to be floating on a cloud of legal drugs - but as I was hovering in a dreamy parallel plane in which I couldn't feel my toes, a world in which I was pretty certain I had just birthed a beautiful baby girl but wasn't quite sure, a nurse emerged from the fog and demanded that I begin breastfeeding.

Wait, what?

I was high as a kite. I unfortunately informed my dad as I came out of surgery that I had been high before, but never this high. In an instant, the years of self-righteous, indignant denial of any wrong doing whatsoever washed down the drain. But no matter, I had no time to worry about medically induced confessions. I had to figure out how to tell the nurse that I was unequivocally impaired and there was no way in hell that I should be holding my baby, let alone attempting to breastfeed the poor thing. Welcome to the world, baby - Sorry mommy is on (some really good) drugs and already totally incapable of being the parent you need me to be. I always knew that I would have some mommy fails, I just didn't realize that it would happen pretty much the second she was removed from my womb.

Those lactation consultants are incredibly militant, however, and my just say no approach was ignored as the nurse thrust the baby terrorist at me and tapped her foot impatiently as I fumbled for what I hoped was my boob - I still couldn't feel my body, so it was a shot in the dark - and luckily for me, the baby terrorist was quite adept at the whole eating thing.

They didn't tell me that there would be a time a few days into this whole new life with a baby thing where I would lock myself in the car and cry like never before. My in-laws were in town visiting, meeting the baby terrorist for the first time. As her terrorist title might imply, she wasn't the easiest of babies. One particularly difficult evening, the tiny human was dissolved in a fit of animal sounding, ear piercing, insanity inducing screaming. No amount of rocking, shushing, or screaming along with her could console her. I was seriously sleep deprived, in pain, questioning all of my life choices that had led up to this very moment, and suddenly I just couldn't take one more second of it. I handed the baby off to my husband and because we had a house full of guests, I escaped to my car and cried. I contemplated putting on some good Pink Floyd, fully dissolving into my misery and driving off to some tropical paradise never to be heard from again.

That's when I heard a knock on my car window. Through tear filled eyeballs I looked up to see my husband, looking haggard, tired and concerned, and my baby terrorist, looking thoroughly satisfied that she had broken us as she sucked peacefully on a pacifier. Sighing, I abandoned all thoughts of a deserted beach and endless margaritas and rejoined my new life. They just don't prepare you for that.

They didn't warn me that going back to work would be the hardest decision I would ever make. It wasn't really much of a choice as it was either go to work or catapult our family into bankruptcy and financial ruin. Right before maternity leave ended, I was showing my husband all of the cute baby girl clothes I had bought the terrorist.

"Isn't this so cute? And look at these shoes, they are so cute. And this sweater, isn't it cute?! Cute cute cute!" I went on and on ad nauseam.

My husband leveled me with a stern gaze and said, "You know what else is cute? Having a roof over our baby's head."

Okay, okay. Point taken. I was going to have to work whether I wanted to or not. I locked myself in my office the first day back and cried, and, folks, I work from home. It wasn't like I had far to go to leave the baby but it felt like my world had ended. And again, that recurring thought of the tropical beach and bottomless margaritas returned to tempt me. It wasn't working that was difficult. It was surrendering my child to someone else for more than a couple of hours at a time that proved to be my undoing. They didn't tell me how much that would hurt.

They didn't tell me how much rage I would feel the first time someone said anything against my baby terrorist. Look beotch, I am the only one who gets to throw around phrases like "baby terrorist". The first time I heard anything other than she's the most perfect baby in the entire world, I saw nothing but red. I blacked out. I don't remember anything that I said but there is a record of it somewhere in text message format. It was that moment that I realized this mama bear I will lift a car off of my child don't mess with mom thing is no joke. Me, the girl who tries to avoid confrontation at all cost - turns out I have a little streak of fierce deep down. They didn't prepare me.

They didn't tell me how scared I would feel the first time my baby was really, really sick. My first clue was when the terrorist wanted to snuggle. Clearly, something was wrong. Usually she pulls my hair and bites me, all while talking smack in the loudest inside voice I have ever heard. This particular morning, she crawled onto my chest and let me hold her for hours. It was the sweetest and most terrifying day of my life. Her fever was high and I inundated the doctor with five thousand phone calls, each time being told that she is fine, she just has a virus, she'll get over it. This is when you realize that nobody knows your child better than you do. The five thousand and first phone call was to inform the doctor that the baby terrorist does not call a truce for a silly virus. She has an agenda. Something was wrong. The level of panic I had to suppress and the calm composure I had to maintain is something I will never forget.

I wasn't prepared for the tremendous feeling of relief and overwhelming thankfulness I felt when she began to get better. When she woke up one morning, yanked my hair and yelled at me I looked up to the sky and thanked God my terrorist was back.

They didn't tell me how full my heart could feel even at the strangest of moments. How at my most stressed out, what have I done, my life will never be the same again, I wish I could go to the movies alone, heck I wish I could pee alone, what did it feel like to sleep in past 6 a.m., will my boobs ever be mine again moments I catch myself looking at my husband and my baby and feeling like my heart is so full of love it could literally pop. How willingly I give up pieces of my life just to see her smile, to hear her laugh, to receive one of her open mouth awkward heavy breathing too much eye contact kisses.

They didn't tell me any of this. And even if they had, I probably wouldn't have listened anyway. It's much more interesting to just be surprised everyday on this crazy ride.