On Aging

I will never understand why people dread birthdays as they get older. I don't. I love to celebrate my birthday. The excitement I feel in the week leading up to it builds more and more each year. I refuse to look at life as though I'm waking up every morning, marching along to my eventual, imminent demise.

No, my friends. Life is a celebration. I've made it another year! I get to enjoy the best of the world, as long as I have the motivation and opportunity to seek it! Tomorrow, I will get to say I've enjoyed 32 years on this earth.

And I couldn't be happier.

Sure, my physical attributes have changed. I ache a little more in the mornings. I depend on my caffeine addiction to spark my awareness each day. I require a little more TLC in the bathroom mirror to feel acceptable to walk out the door.

But I don't care.

I'm alive. I get to hear birds sing, rain fall, and car horns honk. I get to smell cake baking, stinky diapers, and salty ocean air (though that last one not as often as I'd like--and the one before more frequently than I'd like!). I get to see the enjoyment on my daughter's face when she swings at the playground.

And I'm grateful.

Birthdays are truly milestones. They keep track of the memories of your life for you.

• At 20, I began dating the man who would become my husband.
• At 23, I graduated college.
• At 24, I got married.
• At 29, I had my first child

Sure, my twenties were amazing. I look back on them fondly. But now, as I complete my 31st year, I realize that my thirties have the potential to be even better, as long as I seize the moments I'm blessed with every day. I have to experience life while I'm given the opportunity to do so.

So happy birthday, to me. Help me celebrate, I'll never groan and moan at you for bringing it up--in fact, I'll thank you for remembering my special day.

~CSM

Where did the summer go?

Apparently, when the weather warmed up, I just completely forgot all about this blog. No worries, I'm back at it strong now!

My darling daughter M has reached new heights in her 2 year old glory. Her grasp of the English language is, at times, close to surpassing mine, it seems. I stare in amazement at least once a week with the things she comes up with that I don't expect her to know already.

Example:
Set the scene: We are in the car, driving to my parents' house. During this trip, we pass a local state park, that usually has deer hanging out eating trees, and grass, or whatever it is they eat, when we drive by.

M: "Mommy, where all da deer?"

Me: "I don't know, sweetie, they might be sleeping."

M: "In da forest?"

Me: craning my neck around to look at her in amazement. "Yes...probably in the forest." (Inner monologue: "HOLY SHEISTA, where did she learn that deer live in a forest?! What two year old knows that?!)

M: "I go in da forest and find dem and wake dem up."

Me: "Okay, sweetie, you do that."

She is also very obsessed with music. My sister in law was kind enough to make me a CD of all of M's favorites, which has been both a blessing and a curse. I have no idea what popular music is on the radio anymore, because I mainly hear one song, on repeat, every single time we're in the car. And that song is....Gotye's "Somebody I Used to Know."

No...seriously. The kid LOVES that song. I'm sure over the summer I've heard it at LEAST five thousand times. But that's not even the funny part. She's seen the video, so she calls the song "Naked Weird Guy."

Do you know how awkward it is, when we go somewhere that music is playing, and M loudly exclaims, "I wanna hear Naked Weird Guy!"

Facepalm. I can only imagine what other people think when they hear her yelling that. I'm surprised CPS hasn't shown up at my front door. Of course, I would be the mother to have the child who perfectly enunciates all of her words, thus making her loud demands completely understandable to any passing shmoe within hearing distance.

I can hardly punish her for it...or even request she call it something else. He is, after all, a naked, weird guy singing a song, being painted. She's just being observant, I guess. <enter chagrined face here>


Plus, isn't that what kids are for? To embarass their parents in public? M got the memo at an early age...


~CSM

Funny Words

Miss M has started putting small phrases together, and her vocabulary has just EXPLODED.

She's starting to really parrot everything that is said, especially me. I've had to really watch what I say, lest she start walking around saying the s-word everywhere. (That happens to be my personal favorite cuss word, my go-to when things aggravate me.)

Last night, for example, at dinner, M was refusing to eat her sweet potatoes, so I pointed at her plate and said, "eat that!" To which she promptly replied, "Eat tat!" and poked her finger in her food.

In addition to watching what I say, I'm having to learn an entirely new language. I couldn't understand why M kept saying "huh?" until I heard myself repeating that word over and over when she would say something I couldn't comprehend.

Like this morning. As I put her in her car seat, she kept saying, "boody! boody!" I said, "take your passy out, I can't understand you." She pulled it out and said, "booty! booty!" To which I replied "huh? wha? say it again!" Finally, she got frustrated, blew out a big breath, and said, "BOOTY SINGIN!"

Oh...."birdie singing."

I wonder if Google Translate has a "toddler to English" version?

~CSM

Auntie Em, Auntie Em!

Today's tornadic weather conditions have me reflecting on one of my biggest fears of life: inclement weather.

I was traumatized at a young age by watching "The Wizard of Oz." What should have been a lighthearted romp through the dreams of Dorothy fostered the hot mess that would become my storm phobia.

As a child, I was scared of tornados (tornadoes?). As an adult I'm petrified of them.

The very destructive nature of these awful things is what scares me the most. I don't worry so much about my underwear ending up in the neighbor's tree so much as I worry about ME ending up in the neighbor's tree, broken, battered, and bleeding. To say NOTHING of worrying that my tiny helpless defenseless child gets ripped from my arms and into the swirling vortex of destruction that dropped out of the sky like a surprise party gone horribly wrong.

Melodramatic much?

I have been pretty good with these storms as of late, but it's also been winter. HAHA. Now that I'm a mom, I'm having trouble finding a balance between being scared out of my wits and not showing that fear to M. So far, she's been too little to really interpret the fact that I'm terrified, and only once have I gotten her out of her bed to sleep in the house's half-bath. (My next house MUST have a basement.)



Inevitably, these storms almost always arrive just in time for me to be the only adult in the house with M, as my husband is usually on duty for his 24-hour stint. At least when he's home there's one rational parent in the house. I'm afraid that if we have a particularly bad spring this year, poor M is going to realize the full extent of her mom's crazy, or worse, develop her own personal phobia of twisters. I may have genetically passed on my worst traits to M, like my temper, my impatience, and lack of ability to be out in the sunshine without SPF80, but I'm hoping to save her from this particular impairment.

So I have to play it cool around her from now on. Unless K is home, and then I can leave her with daddy while I fall apart in another room.

~CSM

Gator Chomp

I'm horrified. My child is a biter! She bit another kid FOUR times at daycare yesterday and left marks!!

What do I do?! She's 19 months old...so I don't know her motivation behind why she's doing what she's doing. Do I bite her back? Spank? Time out? Stern talking to?

Funny part is...after she bit this child, he didn't even cry--SHE did. I guess you have to be tough to be a friend of M. She bit him on the forehead and left a mark! WHO DOES THAT!?

We roughhouse, M and I, but NOTHING like that. She's a tough kid--but I don't want her to be a bully!! 

I love my sitter. I don't want M to be kicked out of daycare. But at the same time, other parents shouldn't have to worry MY kid is going to chew on their kid.

I love my baby...I love that she loves to love others. I just wish she understood that "love" doesn't mean "bite."

(NOT MY KID--But funny!)





I don't want to have to outfit her for a muzzle, so I'm taking suggestions!!

~CSM

Who let you loose in public like that?

I forgot to pack a lunch today, and being that I'm dieting right now, I thought it best to go to the grocery store in town and purchase items to make a salad for lunch.

I must have somehow missed the memo that today was "leave your house wearing your pajama pants" day.

I kinda get why teenagers do it. Maybe it's a fashion statement. Teenagers are the ONLY ones, in my opinion, who CAN get away with wearing pajamas outside their houses.

I, however, saw two different grown women wearing fleece pajama pants at the grocery store.

I'm going to hazard a guess to say the first lady had an excuse, because she was likely clinically crazy. She had about 40 cans of cat food, a bag of dog food, and a snickers bar in her purchase. I'm not saying cat people are nuts, but based on her purchase, and her conversation with the cashier ("Miss Kitty likes this type of food, but I have to sneak in some other types too to make sure she has a well-balanced diet") I'd say she's the quintessential cat lady who lives alone in an apartment with 5 or 6 cats and makes them wear sweaters and treats them like her grandchildren. (Did I mention she was in her 60s?)

She also smelled like pot. She may not have been crazy, but just stoned. I can't say for sure, but the combination of these elements excused her, in my book, for wearing pajamas outside her house.

The second girl, I saw walking in as I was leaving. If you are over the age of 12, you should NOT be wearing "My Little Pony" pajamas. Especially OUT of your HOUSE. But, she wore them proudly, strutting into the grocery store with (presumably) her devoted boyfriend hanging on her arm. She looked to be in her 30s.

A) What self-respecting woman would wear My Little Pony PJs?
B) What self-respecting woman would wear them in public?
C) What self-respecting man would be seen with a woman who would wear that in public?
D) WHY!?

I do not claim to be a fashionista by any means. I'm lucky to remember to match my shoes to my outfit every day. But I do know better than to leave my house looking like I LITERALLY just rolled out of bed.

Which leads me to my next topic.

All criminals smell the same. (I am a civilian employee for a police department, in case you are wondering)

All of them have this same, ripe, "foot rubbed on a butt" smell. Close your eyes and repeat that phrase. It says it all.

That smell can permeate a small building in a matter of minutes. (Especially when they're required to remove their shoes while in the holding cell) It clings to your clothes, your hair, and the hairs in your nostrils. It's miserable.

So, out of curiousity, I asked a police officer WHY they all smell the same. I was told this:

"They don't go home and put on pajamas. They likely sleep in whatever they're wearing. You're smelling days of just going somewhere and laying down their head. Baths are not a regular thing, because they don't likely have a permanent place to stay."

The girl that walked by me going into the grocery store had that "foot on a butt" smell to her. Which made me come full circle to realize that a) she'd probably worn those same pajamas for days; and b) she could possibly be a criminal.

I left before I could get my confirmation. Hopefully she was going to buy soap, or deodorant or perfume or SOMETHING.

~CSM

Baby Love

Miss M has been so snuggly with me the last few days. I'm trying to relish it now, because I know in about 12 or 13 years she's going to want nothing to do with me.  Her being a teenager scares the living daylights out of me, and I know time will fly through these next years, but I can't fathom her being a moody, belligerent teen, addicted to a cell phone (or whatever the technology is in 10 years), moping around the house, and refusing to clean her room.

It seems eons away, but I know it'll be here before I know it. As a result, I'm soaking up all her squishy goodness now. I request "smooches" from her all the time, to which she is always willing to oblige, even if she's in the middle of doing something else. The funny part is, I never know what I'm going to get...

A closed mouth, tight-lipped quick peck on the cheek is about 70% of the time.

If she's laughing, I get the open-mouthed, slobbery raspberry smooch on the cheek. That's the other 25% of the time.

I was graced with a new one the other night. One I'm calling the "overexcited puppy smooch."

She licked my mouth. She leaned in, and at the last minute stuck her tongue out and slimed me.

And then proceeded to laugh hysterically when I went "bleeechhh!!" and wiped my mouth off.

The hysterical laughter made me wonder if it was premeditated.

~CSM



I'm gonna fly like an eagle

Today I get to spread my wings and fly...

I've been helping with a community program at work for about a year now. It's an academy put on by the department to educate the community about how police work happens (save it, fire friends!). This will be our third class, and tonight, I'm running it solo.


EEEK.

I am so nervous I can't hardly sit still. I want to run around in circles, jump up and down and then power nap to prepare. But doing that would be counterproductive, and possibly make me seem even weirder to my coworkers...so a-blogging I will go.

Have you ever had so much built up tension that you feel like your skin is too small for your bones? I feel like I'm going to burst!

I feel wired, hyper-acutely aware of my surroundings. I can hear the secretary's pen scratching on the paper in the other room. A conversation in the next office. Bass from a passing car. I can smell the small amount of coffee left burning in the pot. The aroma of macaroni and cheese floats up from behind me, where my discarded lunch leftovers sit in my trash can. (Gotta remember to empty that.)

As I type, I can feel the tension draining out through my fingers. They fly across the keyboard, typing every errant thought that flies into my head. Somewhere in my brain, I know I'm prepared, as much as I ever could be, and that I have no reason to fret over tonight. But I continually run through my checklist of "to-do" to ensure that tonight will be a success. Excited and scared all at the same time: I have my continual worry that my neck will be a bright red blotchy tomato from all the nerves--as it does ANY time I do public speaking.

Deep breathing. Meditate. Calm. Type.

Wishing I was flexible enough for yoga. I heard that helps.

Whew. Even a short blog post has relieved a LOT of tension. I love blogtherapy.

~CSM

Well that's Pinteresting

I am full-on completely obsessed with Pinterest.

Can I get an amen?

I was intrigued by the idea you have to be "invited" to join the website, which, I'm assuming is to keep people from just blatantly posting advertisements, porn, or just ridiculous stuff on there.

I'm pretty sure I've spent a high number of productive hours of my day browsing the beauty that is Pinterest.

If you're not on it, let me explain. It's a website with pictures of cool stuff that you "pin" to your own page for future reference. For example, they have a Do-It-Yourself Crafts section. It ranges from quilts to lamp making. Granted, you have to weed through a lot of crap too, but when you come upon that one picture that makes you go, "YES!" well, it's like an adrenaline high.

Did you know if you put a dryer sheet in your back pocket, it will help deter mosquitoes? Thanks, Pinterest.

How about using an old screen door as a substitute pantry door? Thanks, Pinterest!

Need a funny picture to brighten your day? How about a picture of three little old ladies wearing scarves that look like saggy boobs, complete with tattoos? THANKS PINTEREST!!

I have found diet tips, fun ways to paint my nails, new hairdos, places to travel, and fun ways to decorate my very tiny house that are both space-efficient, practical, and pretty.

So if you're not on Pinterest, I encourage you to check it out. If you are, and you're like me, you're not reading this blog, but looking at Pinterest already.

If you want to join, tell me! I'll send you an invite!

~CSM

Happy Birthday!

Today I'm dedicating my post to my very good friend, S. It's her birthday.

I've known S since we were in kindergarten, and I'm going to age us both and say we've been friends for a quarter century. 25 years. Longer than some people are married.

S and I have had some really fun times together. No matter what has happened in our lives, we've always managed to stay in touch with each other.

She is also one of the most creative and caring mommies I know. She has three of the most beautiful girls ever, and they are so smart, well-adjusted and considerate people. I know they'll grow up to be brilliant, gorgeous women.

I admire S so very much in her mommy capability. Motherhood seemed to come very natural to her. She handles monsters under the bed with ease, can handle pukey stomachs with grace, and runs her household with military precision. If ever I'm concerned I'm not handling a situation with M in the right way, I think...WWSD?

From running around my backyard playing pretend, to babysitting younger siblings in runaway cars, to laughing on the phone about the craziest of things, I could not have prayed for a friend as amazing as S.

I can't wait to see what the next 25 brings. Love ya!

~CSM

INFJ

No, I didn't sneeze while typing my title.

It stands for "Introvert, Intuitive, Feeling, Judging." It's four categories of a Myers Briggs test, and it represents me.

I found a free test online after reading the status of a friend of mine on Facebook. The site I found also had several other links, including one that went into depth about the INFJ status, called "Portrait of an Idealist Counselor." If you want to read it, this is it:

http://keirsey.com/4temps/counselor.aspx

It was one of those things I read, and I thought, "wow! they really nailed it with me!"

I admit I'm going through a somewhat transitory period in my short life. Not a midlife crisis, I'm not THAT old (although I did have one of the interns at work tell me I looked to be in my 40s last fall...) but I'm still trying to figure out what I want to be when I grow up.

I love to write. Love it. In fact, I would blog every single day if I thought I wouldn't burn out on it. Or if I had enough time. Or if I thought people would want to read it.

I love talking to, and meeting new people, but I am absolutely horrible at making small talk. If I am just meeting you, chances are, my heart is pounding, my neck is blushing, and I have a big lump in the pit of my stomach.

I also love my alone time, especially when I can spend it lost in a great book.

I love to give people unsolicited advice. Which I'm sure is extremely annoying, but I can't help myself. Can't get that stain out of your shirt? I can help.

I like menial, tedious tasks that require an element of creativity. Within a structure. How's that for contradictory?

I like to be busy in my work, but I also like to play Zuma Blitz on Facebook for at least 10 minutes a day.  (If you have not tried this game...do so. You will be hooked, if you're anything like me!)

I don't like supervising people. At all. Period. I don't like correcting the behavior of others, I don't like being in charge, I don't like bossing people around (stop laughing, I DON'T!), I don't like anything about supervising.

I absolutely ADORE the job I have now. I get to do some extremely cool things. Sure, there's some things I'd improve (like giving the supervising part to someone else!), but overall, it's a great job! I've seen things most people will never see. I've met some really cool people, and work with some really cool people every day.

I just don't quite feel like I'm in my niche. After all, I never really intended to have this job; I wanted something full-time after college, and it sounded like fun to answer 911 calls. I never dreamed I'd be running the division among various other random responsibilities!

I am so far off on a tangent, and I feel like I've failed all of you, loyal readers. This entry isn't nearly as funny as it should be, nor was the last one! I promise to do better next time...but this time, I needed some catharsis.

~CSM

Skinny Slim Women

A story was posted in the news today online locally that said that most fashion designers consider size 6 to be plus sized. There was, naturally, a string of comments below the story, well over a hundred. Most were a form of outrage at this classification of women's bodies, but a few were sarcastic "I guess I'm fat now" comments.

What I didn't see was anyone taking responsibility for their OWN daughters.

Maybe I missed it, to be fair. I often skim over comments on news stories online, because they often are "OMG" or "ppl are crzy" or "your so dumb, u dont kno what ur talkng abt." Those type of short-hand, improper grammar, ridiculousness makes me feel 20 IQ points dumber just briefly grazing the comment.

Where was I? Oh yeah, their own daughters.

People blame the fashion industry for creating this unachievable standard with their sizing, claiming they are a bad influence on the youth of today. Here's MY question: why are you letting your child base their self-image on what some anorexic model looks like? Why not encourage your child to live a healthy, active lifestyle, and lead by example?

WHO THINKS THIS IS PRETTY!?!?  I seriously almost puked in my mouth.

I just don't see how anyone would WANT to look like that, when women like this are more the norm:

I did a Google image search of "full figured models." Any single one of those women that came up could be a woman I saw on the street on any given day.

If I looked half as good as the second picture, I would kiss my treadmill daily!

I tell my daughter every. day. that she is so smart. To me, intelligence is THE MOST important thing to nurture and develop in order to achieve a well-adjusted, successful adult.

However, I also tell her how pretty she is when we look in the mirror together. She will always know that her mother and father think she's beautiful, smart, funny, kind, and amazing.

She's setting a pretty high standard for kid #2...whenever that decides to come along. :)

~CSM

It snuck up on me

Old age. It snuck up on me, and smacked me right in the face.

It all started in the bathroom at work. I was washing my hands, looked in the mirror, and caught a glint of something shiny. Upon closer inspection, I discovered the dreaded "first gray."

Those of you that have them, know the feeling. One morning, you have a full head of glossy, colorful hair, the next, it becomes infiltrated with sproingy, lifeless, colorless wire-brush bristles that pop out in the most inconvenient areas.

So of course, I plucked it out of my head, went running down the hall to my friend/therapist, completely devestated that my youth had been shattered in one fell swoop. Mind you, my friend/therapist is approaching 50, but looks 20 years younger. (It's true, WL)

Today, upon close inspection in the mirror, I've discovered that my face has, despite my very best efforts, grown some creases and divots here and there. Little crinkles sprouting out from my eyes, crevices around my mouth that are tell-tale signs the humor that fills my life. Which meant I had to immediately go to Target and get wrinkle cream.

This. Stuff. Stinks. It smells weird. It makes my face tingly, and not in an "I've been laughing for an hour" sort of way. And expensive!! I bought the Target brand of Olay Regenerist and it was $19 for 1 ounce.

They say you get wiser with age? How dumb was I to buy this crap?! This has just solidified my opinion that people are meant to grow old gracefully, and so that is just what I plan to do.


After this stuff is gone--it WAS $19 an ounce.


Unless I see results, then I'm buying this crap in bulk. ;)

~CSM

Solitude

Monday, as I scrambled fretfully to achieve a halfway decent-looking appearance and rush off to work, I was graced with the magic of 15 minutes of solitude.

ANYONE who is a parent, has a significant other, or just lives with anyone else likely understands just how precious this is. And it's more than being the only one awake, or the only one in the room. It's being the only one in the WHOLE HOUSE.

Generally, I'm charged with taking M to Yah Yah's, however, on this particular day, K volunteered to take her on his way to take his truck in for repairs. Which allowed me to slow down (slightly...I was still running late) and assess my appearance/clothing/makeup/mental attitude before flying out the door. AND, it allowed me to be in my house. Alone. For 15 whole minutes.

These minutes I can break down for you, minute by minute.

1: OH! It's so quiet! Is that a pimple?

2. Maybe I should brew coffee to take with me on the way in. Nah, it won't brew in time.
3. It might brew in time.

4. Nope, coffee will never make it. How did I miss that eyebrow hair when I plucked?

5. Is that a blonde hair in the sink? No one in THIS house has blonde hair that long! What the hell? Oh, wait, that's gray, and it's mine.

6. Man I need to dye my hair.

7. I think this sweater makes my lumps look lumpier. I need to change.

8. Doesn't match, doesn't match, doesn't match. (Sorting through shirts)

9. Ah! Voila! That will do.

10. A little perfume, shirt tucked in, looking good...crap, I have to pee.

11 through 14, bathroom break.

15. Crap, I should have left for work 15 minutes ago. Where's my keys? Did I remember to put on deodorant?


And typically, this is an every morning affair, plus the added bonus of getting M ready to go to Yah Yah's.

I have absolutely no idea how I function at all in the morning, and I can tell you one of my New Year's resolutions was to be more on time in the mornings; I have yet to meet that goal even once. I am blessed to have a job that does not require me to clock in, or even be there at a specific time. I usually get there anywhere between 8:30 and 9am. I would prefer to get there right at 8am, but for some reason, I can't drag my rear out of bed any earlier than 7:30. I'm open to suggestions, by the way, on how to make that happen.


As I sit now, I look forward to my next moments of solitude, where maybe,  I can use them a little more productively. Like dying my gray hair.

~CSM

Farmer's Wife Mutilates Tails of Mice...Story at 10

Have you ever noticed how violent these nursery rhymes are?

Yah Yah, M's babysitter, let us borrow a DVD this weekend with babies that sing. Shockingly, it's called "Singing Babies." They have superimposed adult mouths onto baby faces and they sing these nursery rhymes. Apart from being creepy as all get out to me, M is completely infatuated with it.

Because of that, I've seen it about 100 times this weekend. I know what you're thinking..."her kid does NOTHING but watch TV!" but actually, the video is very short. Thankfully so.

Okay, so the backstory is there. I had never thought about it, or really noticed it, until I heard London Bridge. Talks about locking a girl up and major structure collapse. That does not make me want to skip about with joy....hmmm...maybe I should listen to these.

The Wheels on the Bus...no big deal. Other than being repetitive enough to make me throw someone under the wheels of the bus.

This Old Man. Wow. This guy plays knick knack on EVERYTHING. This old man, he played five, he played knick knack on my eye? I'm sorry, no one pokes me in the eye. This old man, he played nine, he played knick knack on my spine?? Who is this guy and why is he beating the crap out of me???

Itsy Bitsy Spider...sucks to be that guy. Every time he starts to climb he is drowned by a sudden downpour.

Three Blind Mice. If it isn't bad enough they're blind, the farmer's wife hacks off all three of their tails! Isn't animal torture a prelude to serial killing? The farmer better sleep with one eye open at night.

Rock-a-bye baby. WHO PUTS A BABY IN A TREE?

Ah, but this is only part of the songs of death, dismemberment, and destruction that are sung about on this DVD. But M loves it, and loves to try to sing along. "E-I-E-I-E-I-E-I-OOOOOOOOOOOOO" (which sounds more like "yahye yahye yoooo")

Speaking of singing and babies...
I heard Beyonce had her baby girl and named it BLUE IVY?! <insert sigh here> It's a good thing that kid has rich parents. Now she'll have more than her name as an excuse to be eccentric.

I might have failed to mention in my first blog that I frequently dive off into tangents in my own thoughts. Bear with me. ;o)


Happy Sunday, everyone!

And now to introduce the main event...

I am a 31 year old train wreck. Well, not really. Are you really a train wreck if you know you're nuts?

I am a white, suburban, gainfully employed mother of an 18 month old baby girl. I've been married for almost 7 years.



This blog is stories from my life. It may be incredibly vain to think that anyone else would ever read this, BUT, I'm not writing for anyone but me. If someone else happens to follow along, well, that's their poor judgment. ;)

I will likely talk a lot about my daughter, M. I will steadfastly avoid topics that drag me into Complainerville, because, well, who wants to read that?

I don't share this stuff with you because I feel like it's life changing, world altering, or even all that smart. I share it because it's fun. Who doesn't need a hobby? (Thanks, WL, for the suggestion!)

So tonight's post? Let's start with one of my favorite topics...my daughter, M.

One of her most favorite things to do is watch Yo Gabba Gabba. If you've not seen this little gem on Nick Jr., then you obviously do not have small children, nor spend any time in the vicinity of small children. Legions of parents will tell you, it's like Baby Crack. Are 18 month olds supposed to have a 30 minute attention span? They do when there's 5 character rejects from miscellaneous failed childrens shows dancing and singing about not biting your friends.

Don't get me wrong--this show is a miracle for me. It's how I'm able to clean my house, wash my dishes, fold my laundry, and pay my bills.

But the characters.

The only one that's even a definitive THING is the yellow robot. Even the dude in orange is iffy. (By the way, I could sit here and name all of their names, spelled correctly, identified from left to right. Yet, I can't tell you the names of more than 3 sitting Supreme Court Justices, and I used to be able to name them all.)

My daughter is constantly saying, "Yo, yo, yo, yo" from the time she wakes up in the morning, until the time she goes to bed. She has all 5 characters in Beanie Baby form (Thank you, Cracker Barrel). She drags around a blanket with their faces on it like Linus from Peanuts.

Is this healthy? Normal? Who cares, I get to poop by myself again!