“She’s really let herself go.”

Imagine you walk into Target to buy some useless stuff and while you’re in the dollar section, you see a face. A person. Someone who you may have gone to highschool or college with. You notice her body looks different. Way different. You start to feel sorry for her. She’s really just let herself go. What a shame. She used to have such a nice figure.

” That woman must have just given up.”

“At least my legs aren’t that stumpy, like hers.”

” I wonder when was the last time she showered. Doesn’t she know how to use dry shampoo?”


I am the first person to admit that I am JudgyMcjudgerson over here, and I’ve thought all of those thoughts and more. I like to preach that I’m this slightly crunchy, non-judgmental, *do what you want* kind of friend to other moms, but I’m not. I’m a jerk. Total jerk. A jerk who’s judging and watching your every move to make myself feel like a superior person. A superior mom.

It’s super easy to make fun of other moms. We all do it, but for some reason today this really just struck a nerve with me.


I no longer weigh 130 lbs. I no longer have beautiful hair. My eyesite is getting worse. I have excess skin where I used to have my flat tummy. These breasts were once perky, but after breastfeeding for over four years…they look like two pathetic fried eggs. What if I’m that person that you see? What if you see me and you immediately think, ” Omg. She’s really let herself go.”


I would die of embarrassment if I knew. If I knew what you were thinking of me, I would cry and throw myserlf into a pit of self-pity and depression. I struggle everyday with my body, and how I percieve it.

Maybe I should start actually letting myself go.


Maybe I should start loving myself. Maybe I should accept and admire this body of mine that has brought three human beings into the world. Maybe I should notice my dimples and smile. Maybe I should forgive these breasts for needing an extra push because they’ve nourished three little people. Maybe I should laugh at the grey hairs, instead of pulling them out.

It’s easy to look at someone else and jump to conclusions about them. Fat? Well, they’re lazy. Tired? Well, no one in the world is as tired as you. Yelling at their kids? Well, you would NEVER do that in public.

(HA. I literally told two of my kids that I was leaving them forever in Kroger today, because they just wouldn’t stop fighting.)


I’m so sorry for being that person. For being the one thanking God that I”m not that fat. We’re all in this mess together. It’s motherhood. I can be the worst selfish, jugmental, bitch that you’ve ever met, and it’s made me a bad friend, wife, and mother. I want to rewrite my narrative. I want to accept and love others, while loving myself as well.


It’s time to accept that perhaps, we should all let ourselves go. You can’t ever expect change without a challenge. For myself, this is the biggest challenege.


Letting go. ( This in no way, shape, or form is an advertisment for Frozen or any songs relating to letting go of anything…because, we’re all so FUCKING SICK OF FROZEN.)




By letting go, I hope that I become a person who spreads love and self acceptance. By letting go I hope that I learn to toss aside judgement and offer up love. We only have today. Make a difference.


How will I ever be able to send my child to kindergarten?

I was sitting on my couch when I turned the news on December 14, 2012. I was four months pregnant with our first child. When I clicked the on button I sank into my seat. My whole body recoiled. Those babies. Those innocent children. How could this happen? I’m from Connecticut. I had friends who lived only a few miles away. My friends had parents who worked in the school district. How? How?

I watched for hours and hours, listening to survivors, seeing grief stricken parents on live television, and I couldn’t turn it off. Something had to be done. Something needed to happen right then and there to make sure that this NEVER happened again. We all sat and our hearts broke for the victims families. I couldn’t stop thinking about the little boy who used his body as a shield to protect his friend. He gave up his life. His name was Jesse.


He was a child.


We all said our prayers and held our families close. We watched President Obama speak to the parents and faculty, his voice shaking and his eyes watering. We all said we would do something. We didn’t know these kids or their teachers, but we knew something had to be done. Something. Anything.


We thought good and hard about how we could make a difference.


And then guess what happened? After we were done with all of our prayers and thoughts we went back to our lives. “It will never happen here. No way.”, we said.


It would never hit too close to home, because our neighborhoods and schools were safe. There weren’t any mothers burying their children in our cemeteries. We watched children play at the school park, without even considering that they could have been in danger.

We just went back to living life, just as if it had never happened.


Don’t get me wrong, we always remember once a year when there’s news coverage about the anniversary. We hug our children tight again and go back to cooking dinner or reading on our kindle.

We were safe. We didn’t need to worry. We didn’t need to protest, march, call our senators…no, we didn’t need to do any of that. Other people would, and how could we even make a difference? We’re just one person in a fishbowl of millions and millions of other people.


Then Parkland happened. Once again, I was glued to the TV, only this time I was holding my three children. I was confused. I thought we all decided that this kind of violence would never happen again. I thought we, as a country, had learned our lesson after Newtown.

Not a fucking chance.

More lives slaughtered. More parents who will never hug their children again. More spouses who will never sit at the dinner table with their loved ones ever again.

This is some extremely fucked up shit and it never should have happened.


But once again, here we are, offering up our thoughts and prayers as if Jesus himself is going to show up and make it all better. Its kind to say that you’re praying. It’s nice. But it doesn’t change a damn thing.

The survivors who courageously spoke up against our gun laws, against  AR-15s, and against our leaders who sat around and did nothing, are braver than you or I will ever be. These students are our future and they are mad as hell. I want their anger, their hurt, their disappointment, their strength, and their bravery to trickle down to the next generation. I want everyone to feel the way they felt and still feel, because that’s the only way that this is going to change. The future voices of America are evolving into warriors of reform, and I’m damn proud of them.

They are setting an example for all of us. They are leading our marches, leading our vigils, and going directly to our President asking for necessary and immediate change. We all can choose to sit back and let someone else deal with this, or we can stand beside the youth that are leading us into a safer future. A safer future for all of us.


I registered Fiona for kindergarten a couple of weeks ago. I almost cried thinking how grown up she was and how much fun she will have. I was excited for her.

Now, I’m terrified. If it can happen anywhere. One day I could send her off to school and possibly never see her again. I cannot even begin to fathom that. I can’t go there. I just can’t.

So, what can I do? What can we do? It’s all so much. Every single step towards reform, whether big or small, makes a difference.


If you live in the metro Detroit area and you’re a mother, there’s an amazing group called *Moms Demand Action*. You can start there.

And just about anyone can go to this website, https://momsdemandaction.org/about/, and make a donation or figure out how you can help.

I decided to write this blog about this, because I want to hold myself accountable. I want to make sure that I do get off my ass and do something, because I can’t sit here and watch this all unfold again.

It could happen here. Let’s make sure it doesn’t.

I poisoned my husband, and I think (hope) he still loves me.

I don’t claim to be a master chef or anything, but I really enjoy cooking. It started with an obsession for baking, which I’m actually pretty horrible at. I just liked being in the kitchen. Once we had a wedding shower, I was gifted a few cool cookbooks. I started experimenting, and began cooking some good (mostly good) stuff. There’s a lot of really good cooks in my family and I felt like one of them.


This didn’t happen overnight. If you had asked me to cook something for dinner twelve years ago, I would have laughed at you.

Cooking? No.

Beer? yes.

I was a semi-sophmore/junior in college (five year plan baby, fiver year plan.), and met my future husband at a halloween party where he swept me off my feet.

That’s not exactly how it went. The cops showed up at our underage party in Logan Square, and I raced home like a bat out of hell. But…somehow he found me. He ran from the party too and ended up spending the night on our couch in my very first apartment. I’m sure my roommates were thrilled, but I think my dad would be even more thrilled to learn that I slept in my own bed alone, because I was a lady and he was a gentleman.

A few weeks later, I heard from him again. He wanted to take me out. I had just gotten out of some toxic ass shit, and was not looking for anyone at all. I thought I would try dating casually, because I was nineteen and in college and that’s what you’re supposed to do. He picked me up for our first date in his janky ass car. The muffler was so loud you could here it three miles away. In the city of Chicago. THREE MILES AWAY. Vroom, vroom.

We went to this swanky Lincoln Park pasta place on Halsted & Armitage. I love pasta. Seemed like a good idea. He was nervous as hell. I remeber thinking, “Jesus, this kid is really trying to make a good impression.”

It worked.

We both ordered the same thing. A creamy pasta dish with spiral noodles and grilled chicken. I laughed, I couldn’t believe we ordered the same thing. As the night went on, I could tell something wasn’t right. I couldn’t put my finger on it, but this guy was either REALLY nervous, or something was wrong with him. Hours passed, we watched a movie, hung out at my apartment, and then all of a sudden it all came to a head.

He remembered seeing some of the chicken in the pasta dish didn’t look quite right, but because he was trying hard to impress me, he just ate it. I didn’t notice anything wrong with mine.

Hours later as I clicked the channels on the tv back at my apartment, his face grew paler and paler. At one point he just couldn’t take it anymore. He ran to my bathroom and proceeded to throw up for the next twenty-four hours.

He got food poisoning on our first date.

It’s hilarious to think about now, but in the moment I was like, ” Crap… this is our first date and I have this extremley ill human being dying on my couch right now.” He mentioned his mom was a nurse, and I encourged him to call her ASAP.

He recovered eventually and spent the next thirteen years together after that incident. If I had barfed at someones house on a first date, I”d make sure to never see them again. I would have died from embarrasment.


So, let’s fast forward to this past week. I decided to defrost some beef. I do it all the time. I was sick of tacos, sick of meatballs, and sick of shepards pie. I decided to make meatloaf. I should have stopped myself right there, because meatloaf is never a good idea. Ever. As I was prepping the food and veggies, I realized the beef looked…strange.I said, “Whatever!” and went on my merry way finishing dinner up.

It just so happened that my children and I lost our appetites right before we were about to sit down. I don’t know what happened, but perhaps the memory of the weird beef got to me.

…Of course, he loved it. Said it was delicious. Had three helpings. I was rather pleased with myself, because he’s a damn picky eater. Next thing I knew, it was 4 am and the poor guy was praying for Jesus to take him home. The bathroom was a battle zone, his stomach vs the porcielen throne.

I’ll never make meatloaf ever again. 

I’m going to add this to the list of horrifying and yet hilarious stories of our family. You never know how much you love someone, or how much they love you, as when they’re sick puking their brains out. Especially, if you’re the one who has served the poison. It’s safe to say he’ll never eat anything I cook ever again, but we had a good run, you know? Maybe he can survive on Mexican food and Chicago’s Portillos for the rest of his life.

I love you Ryan. Thanks for not divorcing me over my failed meatloaf.IMG_2118


Money makes the world go ’round…

I’m lucky. I grew up with four parents (my parents divorced, and soon after I was given two more parents, whom I love) who made sure I had everything I needed. Clothes, food, roof over our head, Dr appointments, tutition for dance and music classes…anything I needed. I was raised in two homes and the overall theme was that family, friends, love, and the fact that money doesn’t make you happy.

But, everything I saw on tv or heard on the radio led me to believe that differently. If I didn’t have those se7ven jeans I wouldn’t fit it in. If my makeup came from CVS it meant I was cheap. Cool kids bought make up stuff at Sephora. I needed to have UGGS, because everyone had UGGS.

See that guy in that jewlery commercial? He bought the woman in his life a ring, and now they’ll have eternal happiness. How about those women in the bra commercials? You will never achieve great joy in your life if your bra doesn’t have sparkles and padding for a push up.

How the hell do I go about raising my kids to know that the size of your bank account doesn’t determine your happiness?


Commercial after commercial, all the same,

” My new Barbie has a tutu that changes colors, and she sings too!”

” This fluffy pillow is ALSO a big stuffed animal. You’ll have someone to snuggle with all night long!”

” You’ll have so much fun doing this 3,000 piece lego set!”


I remember Easter with my dads side of my family. We  would go to brunch at a beautiful restaurant, right on the long island sound. We would gather together and spend time on the beach, my cousins chasing each other near the waves. Seagulls would fly past, and we would worry that they might poop on our heads. We dug our toes in the cool April sand as we watched the waves crash. I remember the smell of the sea.

I didn’t buy that experience. I lived it.

I remember years and years of Thanksgiving dinners where we all held hands and sang a prayer over our food. After everyone was done eating, we would gather in my Aunt and Uncles living room and proceed to put on our annual family talent show. We would sing, dance, tell blonde jokes and laugh our asses off.

I didn’t write a check for those memories. I was there.


When I was in my early twenties, I spend night after night going to auditions in Chicago. I would sing, dance, get call backs (once in awhile…) and eventually get cast in a show. A show that I believed in. I didn’t audition or become a member of the cast looking for a big pay day. I did it because it brings me joy. Performing on stage was my passion, and it didn’t matter if I made any money off of it.

You can’t put a price on that.


I remember the first time I held my baby sister and my baby brother. I’m twelve years older than them, and the love that was oozing out of me was priceless. It was love at first sight with the both of them. They looked so little and squishy, wrapped up in their newborn blankets.




I remember dancing to Mariah Carey’s Christmas album at my mom and stepdads house. I would pop the cd in and spend hours twirling and leaping throughout the living room. Dancing like a fool did the trick. Instant happiness.

Happiness can’t be bought.


Standing in line with my mother waiting to audition for American Idol, season two. We had such an adventure. We waited in line until the middle of the morning for our wrist bands, we were brought to room after room and told how the process would go. I was scared shitless, but I had my mom by my side. We laughed at the craziness of it all, and even though I got cut, the memories made with my mom will last for the rest of my life.


BAM. Cash can’t replicate that experience.


Basically, what I”m trying to say is… none of my memories throughout my life were happy memories, because they weren’t bought. They were in the moment, blissful contentment.


When I was pregnant with my first kid, I spent hours online looking up expensive strollers. My child would only have the best of the best. So what if the stroller at $900? MY CHILD WILL LOVE IT.

My child was an infant who could give two shits about what kind of stroller she was being pushed around in. We would take walks around the block and her giggle warmed my heart. She would ” oooh” and “aahhh” over the flowers, trees, the kids at the playground. I didn’t get that $900 stroller. We still had a great time.


I can’t keep up with the Joneses. I don’t want to. I don’t have an expensive car, I don’t buy my kids expensive crap that they’ll toss tomorrow. I want my kids to remember playing with each other in the basement. I want them to remember sliding down the slide, while screaming with glee. I want them to take in all of the nature at our local nature center, while we enjoy hiking together.

The more time I spend sitting at my computer, the more I realize I have instant access to almost everything, with the click of the ” purchase” button. If I want it, I want it right now. It will make me so happy to have it sooner rather than later. I demand prompt delivery for my new *whatever it is*.

I’m not stupid. I know money makes the world go ’round, but I will fight for my children, my family, to know grow with the knowledge that happiness starts here, with us, with our life experiences.

Happiness comes from spilling chocolate milk and giggling while it dribbles down the table. Happiness comes from watching my children run in circles, chasing each other with glee and determination. Happiness comes from sitting by my husband while enjoying a bonfire in our back yard.


Can’t buy me that kind of love.



Here’s a little treat…


Raising my daughters in the era of #metoo

I wasn’t shocked when the Harvy Weinstein scandal first opened up. Men in Hollywood and every other hood, abuse their previliges and power. They look at women as dissmisive and easy to use. I figured this was a normal kind of thing to go on in the media. Whatever. I’m thirty-one and I live in Michigan, this didn’t affect me at all.


Until it did.


I remember first hearing about the #metoo movement on the news. I sat down to watch and started to realize this was bigger than me. Bigger than you. So many brave, strong women moved out of their comfort zone and spoke up. They spoke up about verbal, emotional, and sexual assault. Suddenly, the Weinstein started to mean something to me.

I saw my friends facebook and twitter write their own #metoo story and I felt shameful for ever dismissing this epidemic. It reaches women here and there and everywhere. I can’t count the amount of #metoos I saw before I realized this might have happened to #metoo.

I had an experience during my freshman year of college. When I thought about it, it made me feel disgusting. I just pushed it back until I basically stopped thinking about it. I went to a party, I drank some alcohol, and a kind  gentlemen offered to walk me back to my dorm. I had been puking from the party and I was touched that someone cared enough to make sure I made it back ok. He didn’t just walk me back to my dorm, he entered my dorm, uninvited, and tucked me in. Looking back, he did all of those nice things so it would be easier to take advantage of me. He forced his lips onto my lips, and I remember thinking, ” This is not what I want, I’m trapped. I’m trapped.”

He kept pushing and pushing, and eventually I just ran out into the bathroom and violently puked. Puking probably saved me from an extreme sexual trauma, but luckily my body took over. It didn’t go very far, but it still made me feel dirty. I also felt guilty, because I had been drinking at a party. I should have been smarter. We always blame ourselves.

Although my story is very small compared to the stories of rape and abuse, I posted #metoo on facebook.


I lay awake at night wondering if my daughters will someday post #metoo. I’m terrified that at some point in their life, they will be hurt or abused. It churns in my stomach, it clenches my fists.

Raising children is the single, most difficult task for many of us. I want to raise them to be strong, smart and kind. I would blame myself if they found themselves in a similar situation. It would break my heart.

I’m doing my best to talk to them about their bodies and their minds. I tell them no one, not even mommy or daddy, is allowed to touch them if they don’t want anyone to. I tell them that they are strong before I tell them their beautiful. I them to value their strength above their beauty. I am trying to arm them with enough self-worth to make it in this sad, scary world that we live in.

But, I can’t protect them forever. They will have to make their own way someday. All I can do is repeat over and over again how much value they are in this world, and that no man or woman can take that away from them.


#metoo unites us all in recognizing a problem that stretches over women, chidren and even men. No change has ever happened over night, but we have to keep pushing and educating our children. We have to.



A little gift I would like to share with you…

I’m not going to make this some drawn out, long, emotional blog about my children or mental health.


I’m going to tell you the secret to my own personal happiness on the last day of 2017.


I never thought something like this could be so revolutionary, but it truly is. It truly, truly is.


Today, I bought myself a full spanx body suit.


Like a leotard.


Like heaven.


No more mom bod, just a sucked in little sausage rocking her skinny leggings and a sweater.


I’m a believer.


I also hope that someday my body stops looking like it recently gave birth to three beautiful creatures, but until then… I’m going to spanx my pretty little ass off and I wanted to share my joy and glee with you all.




You know this bad bitch is going to put on sweats in about twenty minutes, but just let me have my fun while I can.


There were three in the bed and the mother said, “Get your dirty butt off of my face right now, before I send you back to your room. In the dark. Alone.”

Ah, co-sleeping with your babies. What a special, treasured time. I read book after book about breastfeeding and co-sleeping, and how those two things were crucial to having a close, bonding relationship with my child. So, of course, with baby #1, that’s exactly what I did.

Never mind the fact that I had just had a traumatic emergency C-section. Never mind, that my body was all discombobulated and I was dripping milk like a cow. I HAD TO CO SLEEP OR I WOULD HAVE FAILED AS A PARENT. We gave it a shot. She slept like an angel. She breastfed like a champ. I, on the other hand, got zero sleep, my boobs were exploding and I was terrified if I put her in the rock & play that she would surely grow up hating me and probably have a lower IQ.

First time parents are a real hoot.

Then we brought home baby #2. Her first night home was when my brain and body dove head first into the wonderful world of postpartum anxiety and OCD. I was terrified to put her down. I was terrified to smoosh her. I was terrified to breastfeed her. I felt guilt that my eldest had to share me now, and blah blah blah.

So, I put that kid in the rock & play and said, ” You’re going to have to just figure this out. I’ll feed you and all that, but seriously, you’re just going to need to figure out how to put yourself to sleep. I was losing my mind and I need at least four hours per night here, kid.”

Onto baby #3…hahaha. She came out independent, and she also was put in the rock & play at a few days old, while I selfishly grabbed some sleep on my own.


So, all my kids did the whole sleeping thing differently. Here’s the thing…they are my heart. We are all so very, very connected. We love each other and I spend many afternoons wondering where these beautiful children came from. They’re all kind of smart…I think…

They’re all healthy. My second and third kids started sleeping through the night WAY earlier than my first.


My first child that STILL finds her way into my bed, but now we have mommy cuddles and it’s a snuggle fest every night.

It’s taken me literally this long to finally tell myself that my younger two are going to turn out just fine even though I said F THAT to co-sleeping and exclusively breastfeeding. They’re alive, healthy and happy. That’s my job and I’m doing a damn good job.


I’m mad that I put all that pressure on myself to be this perfect, attached parent.


Now my version of being the perfect attached parent, is when I have two kids in the shopping cart, and one dangling out of the Ergo as I check the expiration dates on milk at the grocery store.


I’ve also been considering putting a tent in the back yard and tell them they can go camping every night… but it’s the middle of winter. That might be a little cruel.


Raise your hands up warrior moms, raise your hands up. Co-sleeping or not, we are some bomb ass mothers plowing through this crazy thing called parenthood.


(But I swear to God, if a stinky butt makes its way to my face in the middle of the night tonight, I’m leaving.)