$h!t My Girls Say #7

$h!t My Girls Say are sporadic posts where I include things that Monkey, and eventually Penguin, say that are just… well… you’ll see. They can be funny, sweet, and just plain wrong, but regardless, I love the little mouths they come from.

To preface: my husband is a good man and very aware of how women are/should be viewed or treated. He is playing a video game for the second time. The first time, a character spurned his advances, and the wound has yet to heal.

Monkey: “Daddy, why don’t you like her?”
Husband: “Because, Monkey, she was mean to me.”
Monkey: “But she wasn’t mean to you, Daddy. She just told you no.”
Husband’s eyes widen as a five year old sums up and defeats male privilege.



To Channing Tatum for my daughter’s birthday

The title of this post might confuse some. Channing Tatum’s latest movie, Magic Mike XXL, just dropped on DVD and Blu-ray. My oldest daughter is six. Six and a half, (she tells me the half is important.) However would the two cross paths?

Well, it turns out Monkey is an over-the-shoulder Facebooker, meaning I frequently catch her peeking over my shoulder when I scroll through my feed. Mostly it’s a curse given the adult nature of many Facebook posts, and I shoo her away as soon as possible.

When Magic Mike XXL was coming to theaters, a preview popped up. You might’ve caught it:

So this is what I suddenly hear from behind me:

“Mommy! Who is that? He’s… he’s really pretty Mommy. And he can dance.”

I turn around and her eyes are the size of saucers. We were only about 10 seconds into the clip, so of course I covered her eyes for the entire midsection of the preview, only letting her see the guys strut around shirtless at the end. But the damage was done.

“I wanna marry someone like that when I’m big.”

Monkey has her first crush. His name is “The Pretty Boy Who Dances Good,” aka Channing Tatum. And you know what? There are worse things. He’s in a committed relationship with a family. He seems to be a genuinely nice guy. And most importantly, he’s not Beiber.

So thank you Mr. Tatum, for being pretty, dancing well, and not being a tool. Although I don’t expect it, if by some miracle this post finds you, her birthday is in February. A message from you might make her seventh birthday the best one ever.

And as one parent of a little girl to another: good luck sir. They start early.

(Also, she picked out the featured image herself. You would not believe how long it took for her to choose her favorite.)

The Inclusive Child

A few months ago, when the riots were going on in Baltimore, I took this picture.


I snapped it quickly and didn’t make a big deal out of it, because honestly, it shouldn’t be. Yet every time I come across it in my phone I smile. My daughter has friends of every color. She knows and adores adults regardless of how they identify or who they love.

We talked to her about Dr. Martin Luther King Jr., and how before the Civil Rights movement, our neighbors wouldn’t have been able to get married. Or how the other two girls in this picture wouldn’t have been able to play with her or go to the same school.

“That’s just… dumb.” She sputtered.

Then we talked about how two of our favorite women are finally able to get married in a few months, when they couldn’t before.

“What does it matter?” she asked. “They’re awesome.”

She sees me watching the news and asks about the presidential race.

“You mean before him, there weren’t any people with brown skin to be president? And there’s never been a girl president??” she scoffs.

I can’t speak for the younger one yet, we’re still working on what the word ‘no’ means. But with this one… I think we might’ve done something right.

$h!t My Girls Say – #10

$h!t My Girls Say are sporadic posts where I include things that Monkey, and eventually Penguin, say that is just… well… you’ll see. They can be funny, sweet, and just plain wrong, but regardless, I love the little mouths they come from. 

We tried to introduce Monkey to Star Wars last night. About a half an hour in, she got bored and started goofing off, so we put her to bed, saying to each other that she wasn’t ready. 

As heard from outside her room:

Monkey: *wailing* But I am ready! I am!

Husband: calm murmur in regards to it being bedtime. 

Monkey: *still wailing* I’m not a Padowan! Don’t call me that! I don’t wanna be a Padowan! I wanna be a Jedi!!

The drama is strong with this one. 

$h!t My Girls Say – #8

$h!t My Girls Say are sporadic posts where I include things that Monkey, and eventually Penguin, say that is just… well… you’ll see. They can be funny, sweet, and just plain wrong, but regardless, I love the little mouths they come from.
Monkey, in regards to raccoon and their rotund figure:

“They should just be called rat balloons.”

Adventures in Mommying

So all this just happened to me, and the events are so Keystone Cop-esque, I found myself needing to record them for posterity.

Fed the Penguin lunch. After the important stuff, she receives a handful of baby puffs and a sippy cup with some apple juice. She has yet to master the sippy cup, but its better than giving her a bottle, as it will inevitably end up spout down between her and the side of her highchair. At least the sippy cups will hold their contents upside down.

Or so they would have you believe…

skepticalAs she allows me the privilege of feeding myself, I look over and notice her shirt is soaked with juice. “Really?” I say and removed the cup from her now sticky clutches. “You couldn’t get it to drip out, so you spit it out?”

In response, I am berated in the language of her people; the words are unintelligible, but the meaning is clear. She has been wrongly accused.

innocent“Mm-hmm,” I reply and hold the sippy cup for her to have another drink. It then precedes to leak onto her already wet shirt.

You have never seen a baby so triumphant as the Penguin watching me attempt to figure out the blasted contraption. I’m pretty sure she smirked at me, but pretended it was just the face she makes while eating puffs.

Fast forward: the sippy cup has been replaced with a tested, non-leaking version. I have finished my lunch. The puffs are gone.

“Alright, let’s go get you cleaned up… you little monster.” I mutter the last part under my breath, knowing that the Penguin will surely make me pay for my insolence if she hears me. As it turns out, Penguin possesses the gift of prophecy.

“Aw man! Gross!” I yell, for when I pick her up from her seat, her diaper is soaked, leaking apple juice like a sieve. (These sippy cups clearly hold more than they claim, storing up extra juice in a separate dimension or some other witchery. The quart I beheld dripping from my baby’s bum was not the half a sippy cup she allegedly drank.) Also, the puffs, or rather the unfortunate ones that were discarded after failing to find the Valhalla of Penguin’s mouth, had met an unfortunate end. Where as normally, I would brush them off onto the floor to be scooped up by Zoe the Destroyer, aka our pug, they were now mush. Soaked in a gallon of juice, their tiny puff souls doomed to suffer in purgatory until I could clean out the highchair.

ewI spirit the Penguin away, attempting to both keep her from dripping on the floor and myself on the journey between the kitchen and her room upstairs. Time will tell in how successful I was.

Once upstairs, I reach for a diaper, intending to change her and wipe her down with a baby wipe, as she still has another meal between now and bed time. My hand finds nothing and I groan. We are out of diapers… except for the ones downstairs.

Realizing the trip is inevitable, I look around frantically for a place to put Penguin and her sopping bum. “Bathtub!” I exclaim triumphantly, knowing I am surely the smartest mommy ever.Post-23319-Lion-King-Timon-NOPE-gif-Imgur-VRc9

It turns out, her older sister, Monkey, did not fully drain the bathtub the night before. It still holds two inches of cold, used bathwater.

cursesSearching around and finding no alternative, I leave her on the floor on her tummy, praying that she will miraculous remain in the downward facing dog yoga position she arranged herself upon making contact with the carpet. Running downstairs, I snag a diaper from the diaper bag, because its closer than our main stash, then pop back up.

“You know what? Let’s just give you a bath,” I tell Penguin, who is thankfully still on her tummy. Clutching her around the waist, I tuck her under my arm and go to open the drain. Nothing happens. Eventually, I hear a small trickle.

disappointed yoda

With a heavy sigh, because of course it’s clogged, I place the Penguin on the bathmat and go to gather up what I’ll need to bather her downstairs. Until I realize I can’t carry it all and her in one trip.

“A bag!” I yell, “My kingdom for a bag!”

gimme-gimme-gifAfter some searching, I’m able to find a tote that will work in the Monkey’s room. Dumping the contents, I discover one of the Penguin’s pacifiers. Because we need more help in losing them.

Now packed up, I return triumphantly to the bathroom. Penguin is right where she started, entertained by the sight of her Mommy darting to and fro. I pick her up, shoulder the tote, and as I turn… the tub is empty.


At this point, I can only shake my head. I run Penguin a bath while putting back everything I’d packed. The moment that little apple juice treated hiney touches the water, Penguin begins to splash. Not dainty, tiny baby splashes. Great kerplunks whose only purpose is to see if you can get water to drip from the ceiling.

I remove my glasses with a sobering thought: “There’s no way you make it outta this dry, Reese.”


Drying Penguin off after the entire ordeal, I realized there was only one thing to do.


Because trying to get your baby’s hair to stand up like Einstein and uploading baby pictures of her to the internet is as close as you’re ever going to get to revenge.

Now, here I sit. Typing away while a Penguin in need of a nap berates me for doing something not related directly to her. Her hair is dry and falls into place perfectly, curling at the ends and negating my one action of defiance, and all I can think of now is, “I have to get out of this shirt. It smells like apple juice.”

If you enjoyed this glimpse into my Mommyhood, or want to read more about the triumphs and tribulations of being a mother, check out Mommy Diarist, available at Amazon, B&N, and your favorite retailer.