“What? What is it?!” I asked, mildly alarmed.

“I forgot to get you an anniversary card.”

I stared at him in open-mouthed incredulity, which he clearly misread on every possible level.

“Don’t worry,” he sighed. “I’ll go out and get one tonight.”

“Oh, well thanks,” I said snidely. “How thoughtful of you.”

“Well, what do you want me to say?” he asked with an edge of defensiveness.

“You didn’t have to say anything at all!” I replied, thoroughly exasperated. “It’s the middle of the afternoon – our anniversary’s not ’till tomorrow! You could have just told me you had to run an errand and I would have been none the wiser. You think when I forget to do something important at work, I go running to my boss to rat myself out? NO!!! I fucking fix it and hope to God no one finds out!”

“Well, it’s not like I forgot our anniversary altogether,” he reasoned in the wake of this diatribe. “I said I’d get you a card!”

“Don’t do me any favors,” I spat back.

I forget what happened next. Except I know it involved a fight… on the eve of our anniversary.

Sigh.

But I don’t remember the details, save for the frustration of feeling that, try as I might, I could not get him to understand that I didn’t care about a stupid card. What mattered most to me was the sentiment behind it – sentiment that I couldn’t help but feel was lacking on his part, given his general attitude.

Was our anniversary just an imposition to him, I wondered? And if so, did it reflect the way he felt about our entire marriage?

I was still smarting the following day when I received an e-mail from him. Inside was a Word attachment and a simple message, for my husband is a man of few words.

Happy Anniversary. Love, Jim

And so I opened the attachment and began to read…

On this anniversary, I wanted to list 10 reasons why I’m grateful to be married to you:

1. I’m grateful for all of the dinners you prepare after a long day of work.

2. I’m grateful for all of the laundry you do every weekend, even when time is short.

3. I’m grateful for your support as I started my new job.

4. I’m grateful to be with someone who is smart, funny, and a talented writer.

5. I’m grateful for finding surprising new places where we can go to get away.

6. I’m grateful to be with someone who lets me watch both college and pro sports.

7. I’m grateful that you stick with me when times are difficult.

8. I’m grateful that you’re such a great mother to our little girl.

9. I’m grateful that you introduced me to wine and wineries.

10. I’m grateful that you decided to have a big night out in Centreville 10 years ago.

Okay… so he’s no Robert Browning. Although I was impressed by the way he deftly balanced his gratitude to me for such trivialities as doing laundry and watching sports with important fundamentals like devotion, commitment, and wine education.

Regardless, I was touched. For Jim, this was vulnerable and expressive – even downright soul-baring. It was all I needed to reassure me that neither anniversary nor marriage in general were an imposition to him. And that he was not lacking in sentimentality, but merely the good sense God gave him when it comes to Things You Say to Your Wife… and Things You Don’t.

And so as we close the book on our seventh year of marriage and dive headlong into our eighth, I’m willing to forego the cards and the fanfare and simply say to my husband…

Happy Anniversary. 

Love, Me  

Editor’s Note: That “big night out in Centreville” (i.e. the night we met) is another story for another day. And it’s a good one.

“I hear music!” announced Lil’ Bit.

Jim and I exchanged a wary glance across the table.

“Where is that music coming from?” she continued, brow furrowed in concentration.

Jim arched an eyebrow at me. Due to a comedy of errors, we were finishing dinner at a ridiculously late hour that teetered on the edge of Lil’ Bit’s bedtime, and we still had teeth-brushing, a bedtime story, and numerous stalling tactics – including one suspiciously well-timed nightly poop – to go before she sailed off to dreamland. Now was definitely not the time to be introducing her to the concept of the ice cream man. And why did that bastard always show up at bedtime, anyway?

“Mommy, where is that music coming from?”

“A truck,” Jim said shortly.

“A truck that plays music?” She sounded skeptical.

“Yup. A truck that just drives around playing music,” he answered.

“That’s all it does,” I interjected.

“Does it play Christmas carols?” she asked, wrinkling her nose as she tried to place the tune.

“No, not Christmas carols,” I said. “Just… music.”

“It just shows up, plays music, and then it leaves,” said Jim, exchanging another, more mischievous look with me. I recognized it as the same one he wore that one time he tried to convince me that the Marriott brothers who founded the hotel dynasty were named Ned and Larry; and that other time when he told me that one of Lil’ Bit’s more annoying baby toys played a well-known children’s song called The Monkeys Come Home; and that other time when he insisted that Conrad Bain had a twin brother named Bonar Bain, effectively making them Con and Bon Bain (except that one turned out to be true).

In any case, he was on a roll.

“And sometimes kids run up to the truck,” he said innocently.

“We’re not sure why,” I added.

“And sometimes,” he said, “The man in the truck will hand things out to the kids that have nothing to do with music.”

“Or trucks!” I offered.

“Or trucks,” he agreed. “But it doesn’t mean anything. Nothing at all.”

At this point, however, Lil’ Bit had lost interest in the conversation, caught up as she was in trying to figure out exactly what song the truck had been playing. But as she headed upstairs with Jim to brush her teeth, I heard her ask, “Is the truck that plays music gone?”

“It’s gone,” Jim confirmed. “It drove away.”

“Playing music?”

“Playing music.”

And then I heard him add, “Because that’s all it does.”

Are your kids familiar with the ice cream man?

The Body Acoustic

Featuring classics like Time After Time, True Colors, and Girls Just Wanna Have Fun, along with two new tracks – including the soulful ballad I’ll Be Your River – the album finds Lauper stripped of the kitschy pop sound for which she’s known, allowing her to showcase her powerful vocal talents. I don’t listen to it often… but when I do, I remember how much I love it.

Some things are just better enjoyed unplugged.

And that is exactly how I spent the majority of my Memorial Day weekend – unplugged. Whereas I normally like to use long weekends to write ahead, this time I couldn’t be bothered. From a play date at the park to a trip to Harpers Ferry (where Jim displayed some mad rock-skipping skills) to a rousing game of Go Fish on a cool, cloudy Memorial Day afternoon, I was content to just enjoy – without distraction – time spent with my family.

As my apathy toward blogging and social media carried over into the week, it actually began to transform into nostalgia for the summers of my youth, when the Internet didn’t even exist. Which in turn planted another seed – a growing desire for discretion, despite sharing much of my life online for the past three years.

But something had shifted. The pendulum of privacy was swinging the other way. The times they are a-changin’.

There’s more where that came from… but first, let’s nosh on some tapas.

What I Say

• In preparation for an upcoming beach vacation, I’ve been working with a personal trainer – a baby-faced young thing who doesn’t even know who Larry Hagman was and who I keep inadvertently embarrassing with statements like, “I want to look good naked,” and “You can be the boss of me,” which unfortunately pop out of my mouth before I have a chance to activate my internal filter. But I do have one question I’d like to ask him: When did I develop the knees of an 80-year-old woman? And what the hell?!

• While in Harpers Ferry with Jim’s family this weekend, we introduced Lil’ Bit and her cousins to a root cellar – and then told them it’s where all the bad children went to live. Prompting my dad to inform me, “When she fails history, you’ll have no one to blame but yourself.” (We did tell them its real purpose… eventually.)

What She Says

• I don’t want to wake up. I just want to lay my head on this warm, soft pillow. This is what greeted me when I was finally forced to rouse Lil’ Bit at 7 a.m. on Tuesday morning after she had spent the entire long weekend waking up quite literally at the crack of dawn (we’re talking 5:30 a.m., people). Why, universe? Just… why?

• When she was two years old, Lil’ Bit received a Radio Flyer tricycle from her grandparents, which she more or less shunned because her legs were too short to reach the pedals. Then she suddenly grew five feet overnight, and when we were done wondering if she would wind up playing basketball or volleyball, we realized that reaching the pedals was not a problem anymore. And yet she continued the shun the tricycle – because she doesn’t always like to try new things. Over the weekend, however, she showed renewed interest in it, so Jim took her outside to ride it. I followed a few minutes later, only to find her sitting beside the tricycle talking to it – like Phoebe on Friends when she got a new bike but didn’t know how to ride it. With an arched eyebrow, Jim informed me that she was having trouble pedaling… and so she’d given up. Well. That was bullshit. I know my kid – and I knew she’d love her tricycle once she got the hang of pedaling. So, with a no-nonsense approach, I got her up on the trike. There were some tears and several angry protests, but with a minimal amount of coaching she indeed got the hang of it. Whereupon she declared, “Mommy, I love this!” Ahem. Like I said… I know my kid.

• Why do cars drive on roads? Why do little kids sit in car seats? Why do cats lick themselves? Why don’t they take baths in the bathtub? Suffice to say, I think we’ve entered a bona fide “question phase.” And three-year-olds sure do ask the tough ones.

• “Mommy, those people still have their Christmas lights up,” said Lil’ Bit, observing decorative lights strung up on a tree in someone’s yard as we drove to work and school one morning. They weren’t necessarily Christmas lights (although around here, anything is possible) but what she said next nevertheless made my mother heart swell with pride: “That’s strange, I think.” The child may physically resemble her father and do all sorts of things that I shunned as a child (and still find questionable), such as playing in the dirt and making mud pies. But that… that statement right there tells me she is undoubtedly of my blood. And I’m a proud mama.

What They Said

(Yes, this week’s picks all follow a theme and, no, it’s not even remotely subtle.)

• The Important Thing About Yelling by Rachel Macy Stafford at Hands Free Mama is a moving story about the importance of being present for our kids and modeling empathy – not rage – for life’s little mishaps. As she moves toward her point, Rachel speaks candidly of her once distracted life, how it turned her into a “yeller,” and the effect this ultimately had on her – and her kids. Thanks to my mom for sharing this one with me (ahem… point taken).

• In May Was Meh, Alexandra Asher Sears of Alexandra Wrote struck a nerve as she pondered the frustration of feeling “stuck” as a writer, ultimately leading her to ask that most existential of questions: Why do I blog? Her answer? For the connection. 

• And though it’s a month old, I just recently got around to reading Why Being a Big Deal on the Internet Made Me Unhappy by Britt Reints at In Pursuit of Happiness about the price of Internet fame. I don’t know who Britt Reints is anymore than I believe that I myself am a big deal on the Internet, but I could nonetheless relate to the frustration she put forth in this piece. Create, market, promote, respond – over and over again. Such is the nature of blogging. It can often feel like a snake eating its own tail. And it can be downright exhausting.

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And on that note, this seems like a fitting point to mention that I’ve decided to take a step back from blogging insofar as I don’t plan to adhere to a set schedule (including tapas) and will likely be posting less frequently – at least for the next few months. It’s a move that I realize could alienate some folks, but I trust in my loyal readership - those aforementioned connections – to not abandon ship during any prolonged periods of absence. For it’s my hope that in stepping away, I’ll get back to a good place with my writing and remember how much I love it.

Besides… some things are just better enjoyed unplugged.

Like summertime.

And Cyndi Lauper songs about masturbation.

What’s on your mind? 

Many people came out in support of my post, Good Humor, this week and I appreciate your shares, comments, and general empathy. But others felt like it really missed the mark and I want to acknowledge their perspective, too.

I’m not a controversial blogger. In fact, I’m generally content to just hang out here in my own little corner of the Internet in relative obscurity doing my own thing and minding my own business. And for nearly three years now that’s exactly what I’ve done.

But moreover, I’m not a divisive blogger – and I don’t want to be perceived as one.

As a writer, I do find it disheartening that some bloggers shy away from trying their hand at humor writing because they feel intimidated by the current popularity of “snarky” humor. And though I maintain my overall point that humor need not be sarcastic to be effective, it certainly wasn’t my intent to diminish any particular forms of humor or those who choose to write (or read) them. Nor do I think my particular brand of funny is better or of higher quality than yours (or yours, or yours). In fact, I question my [rather vanilla] humor voice daily and envy those who can seamlessly write funny with an edge – among them The Bloggess, The Bearded Iris, and pretty much all of the contributors at In the Powder Room.

And lastly – and perhaps most importantly – while I may not particularly like the more sardonic parental humor myself, I do recognize that it has its place and its audience, both in the blogging landscape and in general. As does all humor, really. There is as much a place for the Daniel Toshes and Seth MacFarlanes and George Carlins (may he RIP) of the world as there are the Bombecks, Barrys, and Feys. And I genuinely apologize if the harsh and, in hindsight, divisive tone of my post made anyone feel otherwise. As writers, we all miss the mark at some point, and in this case “what she said” is not necessarily “what she meant.”

Also, now that I’ve written “Bombeck, Barry, and Fey” a few times, I’m starting to feel like it would be a good name for a band. Anyone else? No? Okay…

Let’s move on to some tapas. And since I’ve clearly said enough already, let’s start with…

What She Says

• Lil’ Bit is seriously into rhyming words these days. Which means that “I have an itch” becomes “I have a witch.” And “I like your shirt” translates to “I like your dirt.” And “I jumped” turns into “I humped.” Wait… what?

• In addition to rhyming words, she’s also into jokes, thanks in large part to Charlie from Thomas & Friends. This greatly pleases Jim, who has a goofy sense of humor himself, along with an arsenal of corny jokes after teaching 5th grade for more than a decade. “What do you call a fish with no eyes?” he recently asked her, before delivering the punchline: “A fsh!” (A fish with no i’s – get it? Yeah, it took me a minute.) Of course, this prompted Lil’ Bit to come back with her own joke: “What do you call a fish with yes eyes?” Which I admit gave me even more pause… until I remembered that, in addition to rhyming words and jokes, she’s also into opposites. And the answer? A backback! (Followed by raucous laughter – because when you’re three, you’re allowed to laugh at your own bad jokes.)

Lil’ Bit and her cousin at my mom’s retirement party: these two together are trouble.

What They Said

• In Is Hating Motherhood the New Black? Gigi Ross of Kludgy Mom also tackled the subject of biting parental humor this week, offering her own observations on this particular blogging trend in a much more diplomatic way than I managed to do. And in the end, she says, there are blogs you visit for sweet and blogs you visit for snarky – and the nice thing about the Internet is that you can choose where to go (or not go) depending on your mood and comfort level. (Gigi also had some good thoughts earlier in the week about the nature of social media following any sort of national tragedy, such as the Oklahoma tornado, in Social Media Needs Grace Too.)

• Also blogging about blogging this week was Fadra Nally of All Things Fadra who, using an awesome analogy involving Meryl Streep and Lindsay Lohan, called out bad blogger behavior in A Blogger’s Sense of Entitlement. If you’re a blogger who works with brands (or would like to), this is a must-read.

• And finally, thanks to Jennie from A Lady in France for introducing me to a new blogger this week – Andrea of  About 100% - who hilariously shared her thoughts on hitting the Big 4-0 in the aptly-titled Forty. Perception is such a tricky bitch.

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And on that note of levity, thus concludes this latest round of the Airing of the Grievances in blogging. Seriously… was there something in the water this week? And can we maybe skip the Feats of Strength?

I know I for one could use a restful Memorial Day Weekend.

What’s on your mind? 

Over the weekend, I traveled to Richmond to help host a bon voyage party for my mom who, in just a few short weeks, will retire after 32 years of enriching young, impressionable five-year-old minds in kindergarten. It was just Lil’ Bit and me, as Jim unfortunately had to stay behind due to a death in his family. And so I found myself pulling double duty at the party as both hostess and full-time parent, smiling and greeting guests even as I deftly balanced a tray of dinosaur-shaped chicken nuggets.

It was all quite a shock for me, a former party girl, even if that whole scene feels like a lifetime ago at this point. Growing up and becoming a mom has certainly changed the types of social functions I attend – and the way I act while I’m there.

Then again, it’s been said that having a toddler is like being at a perpetual frat party. And if this weekend was any indication, going to an actual party with one isn’t much different. On that note, below are five ways my mom’s retirement party was not unlike the keggers I used to attend as a carefree college coed at Radford University – even if I did spend most of it hanging out with a three-year-old.

1. Someone got naked.

The first shirt was doffed early in the evening after Lil’ Bit spilled bubble solution all over her younger cousin. At which point she, too, tried to take off her dress. “No, you may not take your clothes off at the party,” I said, reiterating the values my own parents had instilled in me prior to going away to college. But what’s good for the goose is not always good for the gander, as her older cousin later dropped trou right in the middle of a family photo op. Just like the Kappa Sig house, circa 1996. Good times.

2. I used the buddy system when going to the bathroom. 

The party included a roast of my mom, which involved several tawdry (and TMI) tales about my parents over the years. Through it all, I sat trapped on their couch, shrinking into the cushions, eyes downcast, nose buried in a glass of wine – of which there was not enough in the world at the time – hearing these stories that could never, ever be unheard. That is, until Lil’ Bit suddenly announced, “I’m going to Nonnie’s bathroom!” I popped upright. “Good idea! I’ll go with you!” I didn’t tell her it was to vomit.  

The deer-in-the-headlights look of someone who’s scarred for life

3. I was with “that girl.” 

At least it wasn’t a lampshade.

You know the one – she’s the lightweight who winds up making a dramatic scene of some sort before her friends are forced to carry her out of the party, usually crying. We’ve all been with that girl at some point. Hell, I’ve been that girl. But on this particular evening, “that girl” was my overtired and thoroughly punch drunk threenager, who ended the night running in circles around my parents’ dining room table mumbling unintelligible gibberish (something about being a spaceship and doing her best job) while I sat by describing the scene to Jim over the phone. “Oh my God,” I told him. “I kept her up too late and broke her brain.” Bidding him a quick goodnight, I caught my daughter on the next pass and scooped her up in my arms. “You’re cut off,” I said, and then carried her up to bed.

4. We partied too loud and annoyed our housemate.

It was already well past her bedtime when I tucked Lil’ Bit in and returned to the party, which was winding down except for a few close (but rowdy) friends. Regardless, when I went to check on her a little while later, I found her sitting up in bed demanding to go back downstairs. And with a sigh of resignation – it was pointless to fight her at that point – I let her. Whereupon she informed our remaining guests, “It’s time for Nonnie’s  friends to go home now.”

5. I woke up the next morning to find a strange person in my bed.

Due to a full house, Lil’ Bit and I were forced to bunk together following the party. Despite her wild night, she awoke early the next morning and, upon discovering she had company, gave me a slow, sleepy smile before saying (with vigor), “Mommy? I need a drink.” Then she took a swig of water from a sippy cup on the bedside table and promptly passed back out again.

So, I guess it’s true what they say…

The more things change, the more they stay the same.

At what point does snarky humor cross the line to bitterness?

To which my insightful friend, Kym, replied, “I contend that all snarky humor is merely someone’s bitterness or displeasure wrapped in a passive aggressive package.”

She’s a wise one, that Kym.

I say that because passive aggressive discontent was, in fact, a motivating factor behind the inception of this blog. Oh, yes… in the summer of 2010, I found myself quivering with righteous indignation over various first world problems, from the age-old breast vs. bottle debate to Train’s newest overplayed single, “Hey, Soul Sister.” And thus What She Said was born, in part to express just how skeeved out I was by Pat Monahan’s untrimmed chest. (Untrimmed? Really, Pat? No other two-syllable adjective would do. Really?)

Alas, I never did launch my tirade against Train (and the Internets breathe a sigh of relief). But I did, in my early days of blogging, write a few rants virtually lactating with snarkalicious rage over specific incidents that I deemed personal injustices.

They’re gone now; I deleted them when I got a clue.

It didn’t take me long to realize that sarcastic, one-dimensional bitchfests with clunky exposition were not only not all that cathartic to write, they also weren’t particularly fun to read. And in doing so, I discovered that snark without depth, context, or a specific call to action comes off not as funny, but merely… well… bitter.

There is a thin line that separates laughter and pain, comedy and tragedy, humor and hurt.
~ Erma Bombeck

Blogging, I have discovered, can follow a pattern of redundancy – especially around major holidays. This is particularly true of Mother’s Day, as each year the blogging landscape is dotted with charts, lists, and even printable cards, all ranting about how all real moms really want for Mother’s Day is to be left the hell alone. And this year was no exception.

Written tongue-in-cheek – but with more than a hint of truth – these posts generally utilize brutal honesty, a healthy dose of snark, and varying degrees of vulgarity, often even citing the same recycled examples to make their point. But this year, one such post stood apart from the others with such brutal honesty, such snark, and such a level of vulgarity as to cause many readers to question whether the author even liked her children. Others, meanwhile, found it hilarious and the post quickly went viral, its polarizing nature fanning the flames of the comment wars, with dissenters being labeled as “humorless assholes” and “sanctimommies.”

I didn’t find the post funny.

I am not a humorless asshole.

My general philosophy – blogging and otherwise –  is right there in my tag line: An irreverent blend of family, life, and humor. Because if I didn’t laugh, I’d cry. 

I am a cynical, sarcastic bitch with a bone dry wit. And I believe it’s a good thing – necessary, even – to seek and find humor amid the more mundane aspects of life. But I will not do so at the expense of my child, who I hope will one day want to read at least some of what I’ve written over the years. And so I choose my words carefully, bypassing stories and passages that could potentially hurt, embarrass, or otherwise exploit her, both now and in the future. If this makes me a “sanctimommy” to some, then so be it. But I tend to use another term to describe it: Integrity.

Personal dogma notwithstanding, such humor has nonetheless entrenched itself in our current mommy blogging culture, where in-your-face honesty seems to be the parental equivalent of skipping class to share a smoke behind the bleachers. Snark-filled rants about the trials and tribulations of parenthood are a dime a dozen these days, often written and marketed with the intent of going viral. And they do. Because they are quick and easy reads that require little thought and tap into an innate desire among all of us to both complain and be heard.

I get it. I may not like or agree with it, but I do understand the mentality behind cheap humor, as well as the appeal.

However…

I also understand that profanity-laden snark at others’ expense is the lowest common denominator of humor writing. I just wish other writers realized this as well.

As is the case with any hot-button issue, the post in question elicited a fair amount of public discussion. And amid all the buzz, I was disheartened to read this comment:

I’ve taken a shot or two at writing funny posts and I still love to look at the lighter side of things, but I think I’m just not callous enough to be a ‘humour’ blogger.

And therein lies an unfortunate misconception perpetuated across social media to an increasingly desensitized society – this notion that in order to be funny, we have to be mean.

I thought about my favorite humorists: Dave Barry, whose dry wit is so authentically funny, gimmicks need not apply; Tina Fey, who deftly walks that fine line between comedic and crass; and the mother of all funny ladies, Erma Bombeck, who infused her humor with – dare I say? – heart.

Callous is not a word I would use to describe these notable writers.

I’m no Bombeck, Barry, or Fey, but I do enjoy writing humor. And perhaps more importantly, I enjoy reading it. And based on that, I am of the belief that good humorists are dry, witty, raw, self-deprecating, edgy, organic and, in the right dose and context, even a bit snarky.

But they are not callous. Callous is not funny. Callous just seems bitter.

Thou need not be callous to write good humor. I feel fairly certain had God decreed more than ten commandments, this would have been number eleven – right behind not coveting thy neighbor’s wife, ox, ass, or manservant.

Of course, there are exceptions to every rule…

Deconstructing Train lyrics among them.

How do you define “good” humor?

I don’t what the answer is. All I know is that for the past two weeks, I’ve been in the unsettling grip of a quite random but fortunately minor depressive episode that has left me feeling bottlenecked in terms of writing and blogging. Which, in turn, has made me even more anxious and depressed. And round and round we go…

I’m happy to say the fog seems to have lifted and, along with it, the bottleneck freed. Although the words that flowed through in its wake surprised even me and may not be everyone’s cup of tea. Turns out self-censorship can be just as creatively stifling as depression and… well, I just needed to get something off my chest.

But before I potentially render myself the blogging equivalent of the roadkill I reference below, let’s enjoy some tapas, shall we?

What I Say

• Deep Thoughts: I never used to like geraniums because they reminded me of my grandparents’ backyard, and so I thought of them as old-fashioned. Now that’s exactly why I love them.

• Earlier this week, I lamented over finishing Echo in the Bone, thus [finally] getting all caught up on Diana Gabaldon’s Outlander series with more than six months to go until the next book comes out. NOW what the hell am I supposed to do? I asked. Answer: Read James Michener’s Chesapeake. Because as a native Virginian, it’s on my book bucket list. And because when it comes to reading, I say go big or go home. (Maybe after that I’ll tackle Gone With the Wind.)

• Every time I hear “Escape” (The Pina Colada Song) by Rupert Holmes, I just can’t help but think it’s the peppiest little effed-up ditty I’ve ever heard. Basically, it goes like this: Dude gets tired of his lady, so he places an ad in the personals. Woman answers ad and they plan to meet up at a bar to embark on an illicit affair. Woman walks in and dude realizes she’s “his own lovely lady.” Dude and lady share a laugh over how they were both trying to get some strange… and then live dysfunctionally ever after, the end. But it’s such a fun song to sing!

What She Says

• “Awww, a ducky!” said Lil’ Bit, spotting a giant black buzzard picking at a dead animal carcass on the side of the road. Ah, the innocence of youth.

• ”Boys have peanuts,” she informed Jim one morning as he helped her go potty. “You’re a boy and you have a peanut.” In Jim’s defense, he has slightly more than a… oh, never mind.

• “Caterpillars turn into butterflies!” she suddenly exclaimed while watching the always-educational The Cat in the Hat Knows a Lot About That. “Yes, they do!” I replied. “And what’s that thing called that  a caterpillar comes out of when it turns into butterfly?” She paused a beat before blurting out, “A sleeping bag!” Well, okay… I was going for chrysalis, but I had to award points for creativity and a hug for being so darn cute.

What They Said

• The full recap of LTYM-DC is up, and it includes pictures. Lots and lots of pictures.

• This week, Kim Bongiorno of Let Me Start By Saying brought hilarious new meaning to an infamous line from The Princess Bride over at In the Powder Room in Why You Should Talk to Your Kids About Sex. You keep using that word. I do not think it means what you think it means.

• Taking a break from the “thug life,” Roo Ciambriello of the erstwhile Nice Girl Notes-turned-Neon Fresh showed off her softer side this week with a lovely, poignant, and oh-so-true introspective on marriage called The Barn Wedding. It will make you cry. Thug life, my ass.

• And coming full circle back to depression, Allie Brosh of Hyperbole and a Half recently returned to the Internets after an 18-month hiatus with Depression Part Two, a wrenching, relatable, honest and, yes, funny account of her emotional struggles, including the single most accurate description of this debilitating disease I’ve ever read: It’s not really negativity or sadness anymore, it’s more just this detached, meaningless fog where you can’t feel anything about anything — even the things you love, even fun things — and you’re horribly bored and lonely, but since you’ve lost your ability to connect with any of the things that would normally make you feel less bored and lonely, you’re stuck in the boring, lonely, meaningless void without anything to distract you from how boring, lonely, and meaningless it is. Welcome back, Allie.

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That’s all I got, folks. But as shamelessly teased above, I’ll be back Sunday evening with a new, admittedly opinionated post. (May the “duckies” have mercy; can you tell I’m nervous about this one?)

In the meantime…

If you like pina coladas, gettin’ caught in the rain…

What’s on your mind? 

Even if she couldn’t figure out “that highlight thing” on Facebook.

And I, in turn, was reminded of how very much I love and miss her…

Even if she does drive me crazy sometimes.

And on this particular Mother’s Day, my own daughter kinda behaved like a pill, whined constantly for her father, and more or less shunned me altogether. But I know she still appreciates me…

Even if she doesn’t always show it.

And so on this Mother’s Day, I say to you, the mother, grandmother, step-mother, foster mother, and/or mother-in-law: You are remembered, missed, cherished, and appreciated…

Even if you don’t always feel it.

Happy Mother’s Day. 

Because sometimes life happens. 

This is why I occasionally disappear for a spell… in case you were wondering. Crazy, chaotic life.

Actually, that may be a bit of an understatement. Harried at home, demoralized at work, disgruntled with the state of blogging in general, and suffering a massive inferiority complex over my writing, I feel like life didn’t so much “happen” this week as it did relentlessly assail me until I was pinned against the wall, hands over my face, crying, “UNCLE! For the love of all that’s good and holy, UNCLE, I say! UNCLE!!!”

Bygones. It’s Friday now and I’m ready to shake off this funk and thought some tapas might be a good place to start.

Tapas… and maybe some wine, too.

What I Say

• Philosophical question: If one has a quiet, restful weekend that is promptly followed by a week of absolute suck, did said weekend really happen?

Scenes from an idyllic weekend – there was even a May Day celebration!

• At lunch on Sunday (by far the best day of this week), Lil’ Bit made a new friend in the form of a two-year-old ladies’ man named Zeke.  Jim and I chatted casually with Zeke’s parents, who were sitting at the table beside us, while I took pictures and uploaded them to Instagram and Zeke’s dad browsed something on his iPad. And somehow we managed to do these things – talk, upload, browse, and watch our kids – all at the same time. Meanwhile, an older couple at the table on the other side of us sat ignoring each other as they each read from old-fashioned paperback books. Put that pinch of irony in your pipe and smoke it, people who think devices will be the downfall of civilization as we know it.

What She Says

This week, my daughter and my phone both took a near-tumble down the stairs. I was in the process of calling my mom when I heard the sickening thump-thump-thumps followed by the breathless cry, and quickly sprinted up the stairs to Lil’ Bit, phone in hand, frantically pressing the end call button.

Jim and I both reached her at the same time. She was fine, if a bit shaken up, having slipped and bounced down two steps on her bottom, wounding her pride more than her tailbone. But in the process of gathering her to me I dropped my phone and watched in what felt like slow motion horror as it seemed to hang suspended in mid-air, unsure of whether to land benignly on the steps or fall to the hardwood floors one story below.

“SHIT!” I yelled, the word reverberating loud and clear off the walls of our open foyer.

As it is, the phone also bounced two steps and stayed put, balancing precariously on an open ledge, whereupon I heard my mother’s tinny voice calling, “Hello? Kristin? Helloo-oo!”

A few minutes later while sitting on my bed soothing a still shaken but otherwise resilient Lil’ Bit, she asked me, “Mommy, did you drop your phone?”

“Yes, sweetie, I did. But it’s okay. It’s not broken.” I glanced at Jim. “Also? Mommy said a bad word when she dropped her phone. A very bad word. A word we never say, okay?”

She looked up at me gravely, sniffling a little. “Mommy, did you say… dumb?”

I stared at her, mouth agape as Jim – shooting me a comically reproving look – jumped in to save the day. “Yes, sweetie, Mommy said dumb. It was wrong of Mommy and she’s very sorry. She will not say dumb again.”

And he’s right, more or less – as four-letter words go, dumb is not one I often use.

What They Said

Oh, hey – Mother’s Day is this weekend. And if you claim to have forgotten, then I call shenanigans what with the blogosphere’s annual assplosion of posts centered around cards and gifts that REAL moms REALLY want – all of which seem to include taking a dump in peace and not wiping someone else’s butt for an entire day.

If that’s your bag, then okay… that’s cool. But if you’re weary of this rather tired and predictable spin on Mother’s Day and perhaps desire to read something with a little more originality that neither treats motherhood like a thankless burden nor references any bodily functions whatsoever, then you might want to check out these posts:

• Never mind the cards you want to get on Mother’s Day – how about those you’d like to give?  This year, Leslie Marinelli of The Bearded Iris has got you covered at In the Powder Room with Mother’s Day Cards That Should Exist to express all those unresolved issues to the moms, step-moms, and mothers-in-law who bring so much crazy into our lives. Happy Passive-Aggressive Mother’s Day!

• He’s mastered the art of wiping front-to-back and proudly concedes to being a “mom with a wenis.” And this Mother’s Day, sharing the piece he read at our show, my LTYM-DC cast mate Adrian Kulp of Dad or Alive offers a hilariously sweet tribute to moms from the perspective of a stay-at-home dad in Moms Are One of a Kind. (Okay, fine – this one may reference a few bodily functions.)

• Though a year old, An Open Letter to Pastors (A Non-Mom Speaks Out About Mother’s Day) by Amy from The Messy Middle, about the often awkward ways we honor this annual celebration of motherhood, is both relevant and refreshing. Her acknowledgement of the wide spectrum that constitutes motherhood – including the motherless and childless alike – brought tears to my eyes. And that’s no small feat.

• And on that note, since Mother’s Day is essentially a celebration of the strength and love and resilience of women in general, I would be remiss if I didn’t share these words by Andy Rooney on Women Over Forty as transcribed by Divine Caroline. Rooney might be a crotchety old bugger, but it can’t ever be said that he’s not perceptive.

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And with that, I’m off to spend my Mother’s Day weekend weeding the front flower beds, conquering two weeks’ worth of laundry (for which prayers will be gratefully accepted), and trying desperately to muster some sense of relevancy.

I’ll try not to say dumb in the process.

What’s on your mind? 

In the process of recapping the former, I was briefly waylaid by the latter when Lil’ Bit came down with what shall heretofore be known as The Quickest Stomach Bug Known to Mankind. Seriously – she woke up Tuesday morning, told me her tummy hurt, blew chunks, waited 30 minutes, blew chunks again and… that was it. By lunchtime, she was tearing around the house in an Indian peasant dress pushing a fake grocery cart and yelling, “CHASE ME, MOMMY, CHASE ME!”

And maybe I was still riding high from my Listen to Your Mother adrenaline rush – or perhaps parenthood is just mellowing me – but I totally took the whole thing in stride. ME! The chick who once debated even having a baby because it would undoubtedly mean a lot more stomach bugs in my future.

That said, I’ve been subsisting on chicken noodle soup and cheese toast for the past three days. You know… just in case.

Anyhoo, having conquered both stage fright and puke in the span of two days, I think I’m entitled to focus on something more fun – like, say, some behind-the-scenes dish on LTYM. And so that’s exactly what we’re gonna do in this week’s tapas.

What I Say

• One of the most fun aspects of LTYM was the chance to meet live and in person other bloggers whom I’ve read and admire (or, conversely, am just discovering!). People like Ann Imig, the creator of Listen to Your Mother and the portrait of class and grace, with whom I seemed to keep a perpetual foot lodged in my mouth as I chatted her up in all my socially awkward glory. And Amanda from The Dude Mom, who did a wonderful job as the show’s photographer and whose sassy online presence belies her sweet and soft-spoken nature in person. And then there was Anna from An Inch of Gray, Jenn from Bipolar Mom Life, and Kiran from Masala Chica; and of course my talented cast members, including Arnebya from What Now and Why, pictured right with Kiran and me at the after party at Jaleo Crystal City. It’s always a pleasure to meet fellow bloggers, and this experience was no exception.

• And in backstage gossip, I hear there were vodka shots being done before the show, but I neither witnessed nor partook in such debauchery. (And if I had, the entire event likely would have taken a very different direction, as vodka makes me mean, sloppy, and a little scary. Okay, a lot scary.)

What She Says

• The best part of my LTYM experience was emerging back on stage after the show and scanning the theater for my family, only to be quite literally tackled around the knees by my daughter as she shouted, “Mommy! Mommy! I saw you on stage! You did your best job!” The kisses were pretty nice, too.

• That said, I’m not quite sure she understood the entire concept of a “stage production” because she then said, rather accusingly, “But Mommy, you didn’t talk to me while you were on stage.” A sentiment she had apparently also expressed to her Nonnie and Pop. Clearly, this was troubling her. Although better to internalize that than the fact that my piece contained the word “shit.”

What They Said

• As recaps of LTYM-DC continue to pop up here and there, I would be remiss in excluding LTYM: A Catalyst for Reflection and Love, a lovely tribute by Ann Imig herself.

• Another nice recap came from MissA. I particularly like how she described my piece as “expounding on the hilarious inflating and deflating experiences of breastfeeding.” I’d never thought of it that way before.

And in non-LTYM news (yes, it does exist):

• Pinterest is not real life, as hilariously explained by Bec Oakley at Snagglebox in Real Parent Pinterest.

• And dredging up painfully familiar memories of social anxiety from childhood – as well as speaking to my own fears as a mother – Katie Sluiter of Sluiter Nation described a heartbreaking instance of living vicariously through her outgoing son as she watched him eagerly try – and fail – to make new friends in the poignant piece Do You Want to Play Basketball?

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And with that, I am off to enjoy what I sincerely hope will be a quiet, restful, stress and vomit-free weekend.

What’s on your mind?