Spring is here, and so let the life changes begin!

Few things to be clear about on my self declared, Welcome To Spring Weekend.

First and foremost, the profile picture you see on FB currently or here, it’s me, for better or worse.  I’m just lucky enough to have besties who know where to buy me my perfect shirt.


The mouth that spews my truth and mine alone, it’s me, and I make no apologies.

My choices, are my very own.

My actions, are mine and I stand behind every one.

My family, as dysfunctional, and perfect, and seriously questionable as humans, they are mine, and I would always defend them until the end.

My beliefs, also mine and not to be questioned.

And this picture, my perspective.


I am, like it or not, choosing to live my life in an authentic way that does not allow for others to dictate my path, to apologize for me, or to redirect my efforts, my energy, my ambition, or the things I love.

I have lived a life full of happiness, extreme pain, some wisdom and many failures, and I love and live every single moment of my life with not.one.single.regret.

I will NEVER live a life I feel like I have to answer for. For me, for people who have met me, there are two things: You don’t prefer me (or hate, I get it) or you love me. There is very little grey in the world of Heather. And that, that is something I am not only ok with, I am beyond proud of.

I don’t like mediocrity, and I only strive to be memorable in life. Nothing much more, nothing much less.

Along the way, my parents taught me two things I will never forget, two things instilled in me, one lesson from each.

My mother always told me this: Big things come in small packages, Heather. You might be small, but you are nothing less than the rest and you have big things inside you that sometimes others can’t see.

And my father always said, a bit more aggressively, If you do not think the world of yourself, the best things you can be, the highest opinion of who you are, you cannot expect someone else to think that of you. Do not be ashamed of thinking highly of yourself. If you do not think the highest of yourself, you can never, ever expect any person, any boss, any man, any friend, to think that of you.

And those are the two things that I remember, three decades later, when I need to center myself and remember where I came from, what I believe in, and where I am going next.

Changes in life, redirection, etc, should always be looked upon positively.  And when you find a need to be recentered, just look to those who loved you most back when–especially those who loved you when you looked like a carnie, but with no traveling circus family to be had.  🙂

Why speaking to spouses should be optional…

I’m beginning to understand what it’s  like to live with someone who has dementia, at least in the early stages.  I assume it’s similar to having to say the same thing to the same person 900 times in a manner that sounds entirely new to them because they’ve never heard what you said the first time you said it.

Except I don’t live with a person with dementia.  I live with someone who literally stares at me when I talk and hears absolutely fucking nothing.  Lots of head nodding and nothing registering.  My father used to say, the lights are on but nobody’s home.  Yes, just like that.

Otherwise, no one in this house would have been confused or surprised when I came home with silver hair the other day.

Hours away at the salon, I return home, triumphant and pumped about my new hair. I swing open the door and expect some kid of, ooh, isn’t that different and sexy, look from the Mr. Instead, he looks at me and then starts to say, “Ooooh, Soy, look at Mommy’s haa…..”

And then he just stops.  And then he looks at me and then his face twists up into that pained look of confusion that doesn’t even come close to being discreet.

“Is that blonde?  That’s not blonde.  What color is that?  Is that…” I had no idea I had a third person in this house who would need a color wheel tutorial in the near future.


“Silver?” I interrupted.  “Yes, it’s silver.  I had her do silver.”  And then I smiled because I was quite proud of myself.  He just stared at me and the confused look didn’t change and also the things that kept coming out of his mouth didn’t change.

“Did you mean to do that?”  Seriously no fucking idea why those words were just falling out of his mouth.

“No, I fell into a bucket of silver. Yes, of course I meant to do that. What do you mean, did I mean to?” This is why I think speaking to your spouse does not have to be mandatory.

“Well, I just don’t know why.”

“WHY WHAT?” I knew he meant why in the world would you do that but I thought I’d give him a few last options to save himself.

“You don’t think it’s edgy?” He kept staring.

“Fun?” Blank stare.

“Sexy?” So much staring, probably very little brain waves.

“This is why your opinion does not matter when I go to the salon.”  I walked away so that I could go take 213 selfies to post 1 good one on FB.

Later in the car, on the way to the playground—

“You really don’t like it?” I tried again, admiring my hair in the mirror.

“You don’t think dying your hair grey makes you look old?”  Apparently someone hasn’t been paying attention to fucking Pinterest.

I didn’t answer and just stared out the window, wondering if there was a charm school in this world that would have him.



The 1940s in Germany: Minor political issues

So I’m at Ritter Sport Cafe on Sunday, enjoying the best Sunday brunch I’ve had in awhile.  Seriously, before I get to the actual story, I have to stress that they make THE most amazing french toast, maybe top three in the world, including in France, which I don’t think actually even sells french toast.  I will tell you that what else they have is the second best hot chocolate in the world, second only to the Godiva hot chocolate in Salzburg, which I think is actually just melted chocolate in a cup.

Sorry, the food was really that distracting.  Moving on.

In case you’re not aware, they also have a massive chocolate shop, which wasn’t open the day I went to brunch, and a museum, which details the different chocolate and wrappers and marketing they’ve had over the years, starting in the 1930s until present day.

Let’s take a look at some of the decades to see how the chocolate has changed.



Then we get a bit of vintage, the farther back we go.


And then the first wall, which has the very start of the chocolate factory on display.


Well that’s odd.  One wall doesn’t look like the others.  I wonder why the ’40s is so empty.


Nothing more that the Germans love than to refuse to say words to address an old fashioned 1940s closing.  There must be a story here somewhere.   Ah, yes!  Found it!


And there it is.  Those pesky political reasons, always shutting down chocolate factories.



The Art of Outdoor Potty Training

Sawyer announced that he had to pee four times while we were out in the city today. Three of the times, we were in stores close enough to places I knew had public restrooms that were clean enough to use with a toddler, ones within 30 seconds of wherever we were standing, because our response time is limited and only gauged by the level of urgency he chooses to awkwardly display on his face.

The last time, though, we weren’t near any restaurants. We were in the middle of a grassy park near the duck pond, and there was no way I was going to be able to run with him to the nearest brewery in time.  Look at how lovely today’s setting was.


Now that you know where we were, I’d like to unveil today’s lesson in responsible parenting.


The entire time I snapped away, the Mr. hissed, “STOP TAKING PICTURES OF HIM”, but not because he knew I ws going to post them all over the internet and doesn’t think it’s appropriate to put bare assed photos of our children out for public consumption.  He carried on with, “You are going to give him stage fright.”

First of all, no child of mine is even capable of stage fright under any circumstance.  Second, I witnessed that child poke our Frenchie, Bull, in the eye with his anteater penis the other day and laugh and laugh, slapping his knee and then doing what I’m assuming is the toddler attempt at that weird helicopter penis thing I’ve seen his father do more times than I’d like to discuss.

There is no way in hell I’m taking the blame if that child can’t piss on a tree in public.



The Mr’s store fails of late

I ask the Mr. to go to the store tonight after work for baby wipes and “whatever you want to make for dinner.” Comes back 30 minutes later (store is 1 min drive away) with enough ingredients to make an army mushroom stroganoff (unsure when we swapped meat for mushrooms but I digress since I don’t cook), two bottles of wine, including one red bottle that I’ve never asked for in my life and I feel like WHY DON’T YOU KNOW ME, maltauschen for the kids, ice cream bars for him, and another carton of milk to add to the two in the fridge.
Not a fucking baby wipe to be found.
“Where are the wipes?,” I asked, knowing full well where those fucking wipes are. They’re sitting on the German shelf, waiting to be sold to me when I get in the car and go get them.

“DAMMNIT! Ugh. I was there and I just didn’t know what to get and I wandered in circles and I forgot what I was doing and I didn’t know what I wanted and then I just bought one of everything and came home.”

One of everything I learned tonight translates into lots of nonsensical things (leeks, mushrooms, ice cream bars) on the counter, and more than lots of questions in my head about how one lives 4 decades and can’t go to the store and back and get the one thing needed to wipe the asses of children who have been shitting like Great Danes lately.

This is two days after a similarly interesting exchange occurred Wednesday morning that went something like,
“Do you know where THE deodorant is?” THE stems from a fundamental issue we have at home that we apparently prefer the same melon scented deodorant which shouldn’t reduce us to sharing but I don’t want to discuss that right now.
“I know there’s one in my purse. Why?” (there is also one upstairs next to the tooth brushes and one in the bin holding new toiletries for when we run out)
“Oh, good, because I didn’t know where it was and I’m on day three without wearing any.” Note to self, if purse deodorant is used, it shall go directly in the trash. I stare blankly and then give dead eyes because I just don’t know where to start.  I decide with something rational.
“Huh. There are two stores within 1 minute of either of our offices on base that sell brand new deodorants that you could try purchasing, like a grown adult, probably before day three, though.” I hope this doesn’t become as big of an issue as brushing teeth is for my three year old. Oddly similar, though.
“I see you’re back to being an asshole today.”

The day Joe saved me 

The Senate had two types of elevators back in the day–staff, and Senator. We never went in theirs and they always popped up in ours. I’d like to think most encounters in the public elevators were pleasant, but I know better. 

Before I get to the time I shared an elevator with Obama, there was the time I was sent to deliver a note to the Senate floor. Like Game of Thrones, you never broke the wax seal of death, aka, the licked envelope of my boss, and so off I went, eager to pass off this note to the slaves on the floor so I could go back to answering the calls of insane yet colorful people like Prior, calling to complain about the red dress my boss was wearing on a Friday.  Honest to God, it was a thing. 

It was a nice day, I remember because I wore no coat as I took off to the Capitol. It was nice and I hadn’t tried to kill anyone that day, all indications of a successful week. 

The elevator opened on the bottom floor as planned and I lit up with the hope it’d take me to the desired floor w no family tour interruption. I was poised, ready, and anxious to get back.
The elevator door heavily slid open on the Senate floor, and before I could step outside, flashes of bulbs flashed and flashed and flashed and the amount of blinking I did was uncalled for but called for and I wanted to just hit close and go back down until a firm and guiding hand grabbed mine, pulled me out and whispered, “Hey kid, they’re out for me, not you. C’mon.” Bogart type shit.

I stopped blinking, looked up, and found my face in the attention of Joe Lieberman.  He winked, pulled me out, and tossed me along to the floor, gave me a quick wave, and off he went. He had nice hair. White hair, but nice, and a smile to match. 

I dropped the note on the Senate floor, ran outside to the driver pickup spot, lit a cigarette and told the drivers the story. I was ignited by meeting JL, and they laughed, knowing all too well the stories of leadership, and before I could realize what happened, Joe came out again, slipped into his car and went to leave. 

I went to toss my cigarette quickly, so he didn’t see me smoking, but heard his joyful bellow,

“You again?,” he smiled. “Better get back before they find you.”

And with that, he pulled away. 

Kennedy was more insulting, Obama so much more fun. Guess we’ll have to do this in batches. 

A true American hero–Martin Luther King, Jr.

“The ultimate measure of a man is not where he stands in moments of comfort and convenience, but where he stands in times of challenge and controversy.” —MLK Jr.
There are leaders. Quiet warriors, driven to protect, to serve, to fight for the underdogs, to exemplify all that is red, and white and blue. Educated, inspirational, hard working, determined, selfless, empathic, and kind. Kindness, maybe fundamental kindness, is the unsung characteristic of a true leader.
In a day where we are faced with our own leaders filled with hate, destruction, corruption, contempt, lies and laziness, it is today, this weekend, that is important to recognize those who have led, who have actually struggled, who looked fear in the eye and stared back unwilling to let hate win and conquer a people who have the potential to be so good, to be so brave, to trail blaze the living fuck out of the wrong this world is filled with today.
Remember this month, as we face a true mockery of American leadership, undeserving leadership, lacking qualifications, morals and the ability to unite our country that has not been as divided as it is at this very moment in a very, very long time.  Remember, there are leaders who have faced imprisonment, defamation and ultimately, death–all in the name of fighting for what is right in this world, for patriotism.
These men, Martin Luther King Jr., our most recent President, and many, many others, they carried on with a quiet selflessness and courage that I hope my children will always remember, embody and continue in their own lives. These are the men that I want my boys to know rose up and faced challenges head on, united people, lit sparks of hope that could not be put out, and asked for nothing in return, not fame, not fortune, and certainly not thanks. These are who I want my boys to know.
We are better than what we are about to witness take over this month. We are better than hate, and venom, and the incitement of fear and the bullying. We are Americans, we have risen from the ashes of those seeking to destroy us, and we will do it again. It is sad that this moment in time is unique in that the destruction comes from within our borders, in our own House, from people we hoped we could trust.
The circumstances, we cannot change those. But the future, we can, and we will, and we will all be better people for it.
The spark that MLK Jr ignited in 1963 with I Have a Dream, burns on. It’s up to us to ensure it lights new flames filled with optimism and hope, and that it never, ever goes out.
You were one of a kind, MLK, and you will be remembered forever.

Happy 2017!! Advice, goals and encouragement

Every New Year, I say I’m going to stop saying swear words and drink more water. Fucking lies, I know. So, this year, instead, I’m going to tell you what I wish for myself, how I’m going to try to represent myself daily, and I hope you make a similar pledge, something you write true to yourself, something that makes you ready for 2017.  And obvious disclaimer, I’m not perfect, not even close. I’m pretty awful most days. But, every new year is a time to do something new, bold, memorable and FUCKING AMAZING. And if nothing else, I’ll try to do that. Anyone with me?

Here we go, Happy 2017!!–
Talk to everyone, not just the person you think it’ll impress. Being kind is far more superior than being popular. And everyone, remember, has a story.

Remember a name, and never forget someone’s story. They told it to you for a reason.

Eat all the weird things.  Some weird things are nice. And if you hate it, spit it on a napkin quietly, throw it out when you pee, and make yourself a sandwich when no one is looking.

Hug everyone who looks like they need it, and maybe, those who don’t. A hug holds far more magic than you could ever imagine. And hugs are free. And sometimes, they save a soul.

Stop judging each other.  No one is as rich or smart or fancy as they make seem on social media. A size 6 in one place is a size 4, 8, 13, and 16 in another.  Everyone’s children are awful,  and they all, at one time or another, smear shit on walls or siblings or us when the rest of you aren’t looking through The Facebook. Your lawn is not better kept than mine just because you took a picture the one day a year you had it mowed.  Your picture with your painted toes on the lawn chair, on the beach, with the ocean in the background does not imply that you did not miss confessional (again) or that your child doesn’t eat rocks or that you wouldn’t trade a paycheck for a month’s worth of childless and husbandless naps.  Instagram, Facebook, Snapchat and all of THE INTERNETS is just a fucking lie.  We’re not who we are in our posts.  Unless we’re talking about the posts of filled wine glasses that I post on days that end in Y that I post for moral support.  Those are legit fucking real.  Anyway.  We all love a good filter, me included, but let’s let it stop there.  We aren’t all our filter selves, and no one should expect us to be.

A cheers to celebrate a drink is a universal sign of acceptance and friendship. Never be afraid to cheers a new friend–you’re probably making one for a lifetime.

Smiles are as free as hugs, though, don’t ask the Germans because they say the reason they never smile is BECAUSE SMILES ARE NOT FREE. This is why we don’t listen to Germans. However, smiles ARE FREE, and, sometimes, someone has been waiting for one for a very long time. Give them freely and honestly, and with love. You’d think they are carelessly tossed away, but for some, they’re not, and they’re the difference in the world.

Travel to the one new place you can afford to get to.  You don’t need to go to Japan, Africa or Cancun to make a difference in your life.  Sometimes, even that quiet piece of woods two towns over becomes the comforting slice of heaven you’ve been needing for all of time.  Water, sunshine and lots of dirt can cure far more things than money can buy, I promise. Get dirty and find your new place.  Maybe you’ll realize you have a new safe place you never thought you needed.

If you love someone, right or wrong timing, tell them–drunk OR sober. 🙂 There’s only one exact time in life for love, and it is always now, right now. Once you’ve blinked, it may be too late, and no one, no one ever, has been worse off in this life for being loved too hard or too much.

Stop hating women and empower them. I’m not going to get political, but this goes for men and women. If you are a woman, be proud and help another woman. Don’t be jealous and and spiteful in playgroups and social media or the workplace. Raise each other up, help each other with your families, be a light of hope and kindness and not a loud voice full of judgement and snark. And men? You have been surrounded by women who loved you your whole life. Love your own and make a good example of yourselves for your family. It’s hard to believe I need to add this to my goals in 2017 but can we just fucking love women in general and move the living fuck on?
Do that hobby that makes you happy. Shake, sweat, create, write, yell, run, build, snap, work hard, bust ass, paint, glitter, fix, nurture, love, cook, study, learn. Never stop. You only have until that last breathe and we never know just quite when it will come, do we?

Love the person that tells you they love you for your mind.  That person is the 1%, and that person means it, and you’ll maybe never find that person again.  Also, be the person who tells someone else this.  Lipgloss and gym memberships can be bought.  Crazy, bold and wild minds cannot be bought or tamed.
The world is only a better place if you participate in it. Stop complaining. Stop making noise. Meet people, read a book, donate money or your time. Try your inside voice instead of your shouting voice. Really, it’s going to be a tough year, and we all need to reach out. If you haven’t found something you love to support and be proactive in, give it a try. There’s a cause for everyone, and this world can’t hold up without us all trying.
Learn from your regret and mistakes and make the world blaze from your lessons. Stand tall in your hurt and shout from the highest of highs the lessons you’ve learned. You earned it. You deserve it. And no one can make you a better person than you can.

Forgive.  Maybe most important and least used lesson each year.  I don’t know what YOU need to do, what you need to forgive or forget.  So I’ll give you the short list of what I need to forgive, and maybe you’ll see something along my spewing that makes you think maybe you should do the same.  What would I forgive? Myself, for all of these: Being so very imperfect, for not giving a fuck, for expecting people to order respectable beers, for not toning it down, for expecting the world to make sense, for hating people who ask for steaks well done, for expecting people to not act like back woods idiots during an election year, for not asking for an apology for my life, for not giving the apologies I should have and meant to but never got around to, for not saving lives, for not using my inside voice, for not being a perfect parent, for not writing enough, for not listening enough, for not napping enough, for not eating chips and cookies and butter every last chance I ever had, for not caring if my jean size was smaller than my shoe size, for swimming in public w no clothes on, for not drinking more gin because I know gin is just awful for me but actually magic but seriously awful for everyone involved, for not learning how not to give non verbal cues in the workplace and public where people don’t appreciate the accidental looks that I can’t (or don’t try to) control w my face, for not learning how to clean a house, for not learning how to cook meals like chicken finger salad or grilled cheese which APPARENTLY DO NOT COUNT, for singing too loudly and off-key because I think Adele and I basically have the same talent but I’m just not discovered yet, for wearing my jeans unwashed for 12 days at a time or just sweatpants 217 days a year because seriously, FUCK PANTS.  For pretty much everything I do on a daily basis, so let’s be real, it’s The Year 2017, and I’m probably close to being a lost cause already and it’s Day One.

So, as my hours in the First Day draw to and end, I’ll leave you with the above .  Hopefully, if you made it through this post, I’ve helped you with your goals, worked you through your issues and geared you up for another fulfilling and amazing New Year.  It’s going to be a great one, friends.  It’s just what you make of it.  Don’t you dare fucking let me down.  🙂

The holiday season of (sometimes) not so much cheer…

One of my friends reached out to me this week and confided in me that they lost a sibling to suicide last year.  This year will be the first Christmas without them, and no one anticipates it going well. They were looking for advice, or maybe just a, I fucking get you.  In any case,  I wrote an email to them detailing many personal tidbits I thought might make the holiday relatable for them, and I thought to share it here for anyone else angry or sad or depressed as fuck over the holidays.  For those of us that aren’t always mistletoe, ho ho ho and all that jazz, this one is for you….
Dear friend,
There are few times a year that are detrimental to my sanity regarding my dad’s suicide but Christmas is a huge one. The worst is death day in August because fuck death day. I do not remember my father that day. I do not celebrate him that day. I do not speak to humans that day. I take the day off, wear sweats, get black out drunk and try to give myself lung cancer. I FaceTime my sister and we basically love him, hate him and drink until one of us gets near a hospital visit, usually during daylight, still so that’s fun. Then our spouses shame us and counsel us on appropriate grief and then we drink more and wake up on a floor, hopefully in our own house, and then we’re glad the sun of a new day has saved us from self destructing for one more year. I’m a super support system for others but a fucking shit show in my own life. Shocking, I know.

Second worst day is his birthday, which he loved so much. The third is my birthday, which he loved to celebrate with me.

The last is Christmas. I don’t even know if it’s 4th on the list of misery, but it’s shit all the same. Jesus and the whole holiday can fuck itself. I try to be happy, but it was his favorite holiday, he was like a child in his celebrations, and without him, I wish everyone would choke and die and get to New Years and then die via firework. Very festive, I’m aware.

Every year around this time, he used to tell me the story about the time he was five and opened all the presents before his family came down and he opened his big breasted sister Carol’s bra and put it on his head and went up to wake his siblings and then his sisters hated him and his father hit him and it’s a story he used to tell me for 20 years and I always thought it got old until he was never able to tell it to me again.
I used to hate him for waking us up before the sun on Christmas morning when I grew to be older than the age of 15, because I just wanted to be one of those families that when you have adult kids, you get to sleep in and then wake up at 11 to food and coffee and then booze but he woke me and my sister up at 6am, just like when I was 5 or 8 or 11 or any age, and I hated it until the year I didn’t have anyone to wake me up to check my stocking.
He used to take us to dinner every other year on Christmas eve, a tradition that spanned over a decade. It was always somewhere fancy, it was one of my favorite traditions–it was a restaurant we normally probably couldn’t afford during the regular year, and I know he saved for it and looked forward to it, and I know now he only did it for us, not him. He didnt care about those places. But that night, every other year, he was so proud and he wore a suit or a sweater and tie and I wore a fancy dress and lip gloss and we could order whatever we wanted. We felt so fancy. We were magic, especially that one night. I walked by one of the restaurants this summer on my trip home, it used to be called The Firehouse, an old fire department building that is no longer, not even a shell exists, and as I walked by I looked sadly at the sidewalk.  Many of my memories have become just that.  Even the buildings don’t exist.
Carrying on, though, one year, we became adults and even we realized that big nights out should be replaced by quiet times at home.  Chinese takeout night at home was far better than any stupid night out with a tab bigger than what he spent on any other meal in the year and so we had Chinese and game night on Christmas eve for years, but when he died, it stopped, and we haven’t had Chinese or games the night before Jesus’ birth since 2006. Even my sister and I never tried to do game night. It will just never be the same, and we don’t want it to be, so we pretend like game night on Christmas Eve was never a thing.
The year after he died, I was home alone and I had two gallons of wine and intentions for nothing good and I started drinking and baking cookies, but of the pre-made kind because I am truly awful at life, and I drank and “baked” and drank some more and listened to Christmas carols, which is a terrible idea while suffering an immense amount of grief. O Holy Night has always been a sanity ruiner for me and the year after he died, I spent a lot of time at Christmas laying on my stomach, face down, sobbing into the floor and hitting repeat with my mouth on a bottle of anything. Well, one particularly successful night, I I had it on repeat about 90 times and thought to go get his tiny urn and open it, because I wanted to be close to him, or see him, or actually, I don’t know, I was just hammered, and I tried to open it and forgot it was jam packed full and when I unscrewed it fast, a huge cloud exploded and it all fell on me like a rain shower except it was dry ash and tiny bones and I couldn’t rub it into the rug fast enough and then I sneezed and all of the ash covering my hands went straight into my mouth and down my throat and I oddly, in a moment of black out, felt comforted that I just ate my father and he would always be a part of me.
The lesson is don’t drink and do grief over the holidays.
The real lesson is we all will. I will. I’ll end up hammered and on a cold floor crying at some point. I’ll plead to the clouds to bring him back. I’ll be angry he’s gone and I’ll blame myself and I’ll be sad and depressed and at least once in the next two weeks, I’ll find it hard to not hate myself, because I’ll always hate myself. But, 26 December always comes, people always take down the lights, Santa disappears and I can go back to being my miserable, bitter, indifferent self until the next holiday.
We can’t all do it alone. I am part of a tribe of fucked up people, and newsflash, you are now a member, and we don’t deal with shit well and we have been faced with the worst of the absolute worst. But, good news, we’re still here and we’re still surviving and no one is going to give us a trophy but we’re bad ass all the same.
Be easy, friend, because the holidays shouldn’t swallow us alive. We’ll make it out and we’ll be ok.  Tomorrow is another day.

Gymnastics for kids

In case anyone wants to know what a waste of time and money is, I found something new: gymnastics for toddlers. So I decided to send the boys to a gymnastics class bc 1. We should all be so flexible. 2. They are monkeys. 3. Pay your own way to college, kids. But instead of what I envisioned, which was obviously dancing and moving swiftly and gracefully, tumbling to the extreme, young men owning this class, I get the following for $120 for an hour (for 5 weeks):


Sawyer, running in fucking circles around the gym like he’s been let out of a pen. He only stopped to shove some kid wearing socks on a gym floor which was humorous and irresponsible at the same time.

Sully, refusing to stand like he’s a legless drunk, eating scarves like I haven’t fed him in a week. The kid is a hangry drunk. I make no excuses for my #2.

Sawyer refusing to do a somersault and end with a proud standing pose w his hands over his head, flat out refusing to yell ta da! Which is confusing because when he slid down the fire pole we awkwardly have in our living room, he easily repeated, I’m a stripper! when I told him how to say it. (You’re welcome, world)

Sully threw up on the mat 3 times probably out of pure excitement.

One of them shit their pants.

Both of them left shoeless and with no fucks to give.

I was the only one sweating and jumping and rolling around like a beached whale begging to be put back into water.

So fuck children’s gymnastics. I don’t have time to take an hour out of my day to be proven my children are terrible at following rules and to highlight I’m not only unfit, but incapable of completing a routine created for 2 year olds.

Back to supporting contact sports like kick ball, cage fighting and full contact wrestling, things my children excel at.