HOW do you discipline with a straight face??

I heard something the other day that struck me…I can’t remember exactly how it went (because, well that is just out of the realm of my capabilities) but it was something to the effect of ‘being a mother is easy…being a parent is hard’

I realize I’m still at the early stages of this whole “parenting” thing…but I admit I am already baffled.

I know…doesn’t take much to baffle me, does it?

My son is the cutest thing I’ve ever laid my eyes on, how could I ever be act mad at him?! (oh wow, I just felt the parents of every teenager simultaneously roll their eyes at me even as I type this). I am in awe of everything he does, every movement, noise and expression. Even when he cries.

…especially when he cries. (Mother of the year –> right here)

oh, I could just kiss that little furrowed brow!

Oh, I could just kiss that little furrowed brow!

Yes, it breaks my heart into a million pieces, but it’s without a doubt the most adorable thing in the world. And here, my friends, is where my problem lies….I CANNOT help but smile and laugh (yeah, Mother of the year, I know).

At the ripe old age of 7 months, this innate reaction has actually been a benefit to me. He cries, I laugh, he starts laughing, he stops crying…all is right in the world. I win.

And then it hit me.

Literally, it hit me. A glob of peas to the face the other night. I “fussed” at him for grabbing the spoon as I am putting it in his mouth (consequently pulling the pea-scented-goo out of his mouth and dispersing it ever so evenly everywhere).

I felt his heart break. The bottom lip stuck out a solid inch and then came the tears.

Talk about mommy-guilt. He wasn’t even doing anything wrong, just trying to figure out this whole ‘eating thing’…and I wasn’t even really fussing at him. But he didn’t know that, all he knew is that mommy got a straight face and sounded mad.Of course, with the pouty face and sweet pitiful tears, I couldn’t help but scoop him up (giggling) and smoother him with kisses. As usual, as soon as mommy starts laughing, the troubles are forgotten and he wants in on the jokes. But it was this moment when it occurred to me…I’m doomed.

I’m never going to be able to keep a straight face when I start to actually discipline him. Even when he was still a bean in my belly, Christian and I would sit on the couch laughing about the first time he gets in trouble at school for acting exactly like us and how I’m going to have to play bad-cop while Christian hides his laughter.

Sure, in theory it seems do-able. Keep a straight-face and mom & dad can laugh about it together later. But, given my track-record thus far I know…one glance at the puppy dog pout and I’m a goner.

I mean, really….it IS hilarious.


Please note the peas. Everywhere!


“Shut-It, You Crazy Lady!”

…I said to myself.

Unfortunately, I ignore myself just as well as I would ignore a perfect stranger saying this to me.


I have never claimed to be sane. Not even close. It is actually the opposite. I know I am crazy. I know I am difficult. But, I am what I am…the bad comes along with the good. Yeah, I might be able to keep the house in order, the kid alive and put in a full day at the office. But that doesn’t come without its fair share of ‘trying to do too much at once’ induced meltdowns.

Lucky for me, I married a man who knows this. Not to say he didn’t have his fingers crossed behind his back during the part of our vows about loving ALL of me. I wouldn’t blame him for that. But he knows this, and so far, he accepts it.

However, I try to reign-in the crazy.

I really do.

I will simultaneously tell myself to shut-it while I’m caught in one of my infamous I’m-mad-for-nothing-you-did-but-because-I’m-a-greedy-control-freak-lady rants. And, without fail…I will ignore myself and keep on going.

Sure, I have a smidge of justification for what I’m saying. But nine times out of ten, I am just blowing things out of proportion because that’s just what I do. I can take myself from perfectly happy and content to frustrated to downright pissed in a matter of minutes.

What’s worse is that I can FEEL it. I know it’s coming. I try to fight it.

But I am at the mercy of my wack-a-doodle hormones (definitely the hormones, not me).

It plays out a little something like this (yes, I am fully aware of just how bipolar this makes me sound…and that this is a common theme in my posts…but I choose to overlook that for now):

Crazy Kelly: Ugh, stupid AT&T why the HELL doesn’t my phone work from our bedroom?!

Sane Kelly: eh, no biggie – I’ll call mom back later when I have a free minute to stand in the foyer and talk.

Crazy Kelly With A Handful Of Dirty Glasses: There are clothes scattered in the living room….agh…

Sane Kelly: no worries – you’ll have this place spotless in half an hour and can relax the rest of the night. Just don’t think about it too much.

Crazy Kelly That Just Tripped Over A Flip-Flop And Landed On The Coffee Table: WHAT THE HELL! How hard is it to kick your shoes off by the door!?

Sane Kelly That Is Now Slightly Irritated: Breathe…I’ll come up with a nice, productive way of asking him not to leave shoes on the floor.

Crazy Kelly With A New Bruise On The Shin And Arms Full Of Dirty Clothes And Last Nights Wine Glasses With A Crying Baby Who Got Woken Up When Mommy Started Screaming (refer to the previous “Crazy Kelly” for reference): THAT’S IT! HE CAN WASH HIS OWN DAMN CLOTHES!!

Not-So-Sane Kelly, She Is A Coward And Is Hiding From Crazy Kelly: *crickets*

…about this time is when Christian comes home…


Sane Kelly Peeping Out From Under The Covers: Shut-it, you crazy lady!!

Crazy Kelly (Ignoring Sane Kelly) Who Is Cleaning Up Milk And Is Now Crying Because She Is Totally Aware Of How Crazy She Sounds And Doesn’t Quite Know Why She’s So Mad In The First Place: BooHooooHoooAhhhBaaaaHaaaaHooooHumnmm (totally what I sound like when I’m crying, BTW). Easton is hungry and I spilled his milk and I’m the worst mom ever. I don’t spend enough time with him. He’s not going to love me! BoooHoooHooo

Baffled Christian: It’s okay baby, don’t cry over spilled milk.

Whew…that wore you out too, didn’t it?

That is just a hypothetical example. No really, it is.

But it’s pretty close to how it all goes down. And I’m hoping some of you can relate to this. Maybe not quite to this extent…but to some degree. Because I’d like to think that the female hormones are largely to blame and I can’t be held fully responsible for all this crazy.



That’s just too much crazy for one person.


Christmas makes my brain hurt

Okay, I had it bad enough as it was when it came to Christmas crafts. I could spend a solid 4 hours in Hobby Lobby brainstorming things to decoupage or paint. There were at least 4 different things I wanted to put antlers on, 6 I could make into snowmen, and don’t get me started on the year of the toy soldiers…sheesh!

Then came Pinterest.

I tried to stay away from Pinterest, I really did.

But I am weak and let’s face it – you put that amount of chocolate-guilt-inducing-recipes next to 236 different kitchens I could only dream about and then top that all off with a soccer mom’s guidebook to hand-made everything… and well, I’m gonna cave.

I’m gonna cave…and then my head is going to explode.

I. Can’t. Handle. It.

I want to make stockings and table runners and yard decorations and reindeer cookies for santa and take pictures of Easton with a glowing christmas tree and have every corner of my house dripping in garland….breathe….

Oh, and it is my first child’s first Christmas. Which also means….


We can make hand print ornaments and sip hot chocolate and build a gingerbread house and cut down our own tree and go to Houston Zoo Lights and get his picture with Santa and go caroling!

Ha, gotcha…Kelly doesn’t carol.

Not that Kelly wouldn’t carol – I totally would. But Kelly doesn’t can’t sing.

Enough about caroling…I think my point is pretty clear now…THERES TOO MUCH CHRISTMAS TO FIT INTO 25 DAYS! I feel so frenzied and pressured to capture the spirit and I just don’t know where to begin.

I keep seeing pictures of friends’ houses all done up for Christmas and I get motivated to rush home and make some miracles happen.

I scoop up Easton, make him dinner, feed him, get him ready for bed, put him to sleep and eat some dinner with Christian. And well, by that point exhaustion kicks in, I take a look around my house and think to myself “there’s still chocolate pie left in the fridge”.

Game over….I will live to be productive another day.

Oh and thanks family for leaving ALL of the desserts from Turkey Day Dos at my house. I mean, I thought we already established that I am weak?








dancing the line of pride & shame



My phone is vibrating far too loudly on my wooden desk at work. There are 8 people in my office. It is normally silent. Like I-just-heard-you-swallow silent. This buzzing is noticeable.

In my panic to make it stop I hit answer instead of decline. Crap. I’m too nice to tell solicitors to shove it where the sun don’t shine.

To my (pleasant) surprise, it is not David Weekley asking me for the 213th time to do a brief survey. No, no…it is Pottery Barn. Let me clarify, it is a PERSON from Pottery Barn.

A living, breathing, I-work-at-the-store-15-miles-from-you PERSON from Pottery Barn. Inviting me to an ‘event’ they’re having tomorrow night.

I blush.

I toy with the idea that there is something seriously wrong with me for blushing at a personal phone call from Pottery Barn.

I toy with the idea that I should probably have more friends and maybe then I wouldn’t be so excited to get an invite to a store I frequent on an all-too-regular basis simply because they want more of my our money. (See honey, I caught myself that time!)

I call my mom.

MOM! Guess what! I made it to Pottery Barn’s personal calling list!

And here it is. Yep…riiiiight here.

The point at which I realize, is this fact something to be proud of, or shameful of?

I mean, the devil on my right shoulder is jumping – thinking YES, they love me too, I knew it…we should go NOW! And the angel on my left is shaking her head at me, going tisk tisk tisk, what does this say about your spending habits Kelly??

I have yet to reach a verdict on this one…so I dance the fine line.

…and I browse their website 🙂

…and day-dream about my future chandelier

hellloooo lover

In the meantime, I’ll let you tell me which side of the line I’m on….what’s it gonna be??

The MacDonald’s Newest Member!

HA HA – made ya look.

I better stop this game before I become the girl who cried wolf and no one believes me when we actually are expecting munchkin numero dos.

But in the meantime, I opt for trickey…if for no other reason than to make people read my blog so I can annoy Christian about how many views my latest post got (he lovessss when I do this).

It’s the little things that make me happy. Like new razor blades.

Now I’m just getting distracted….ladies and gentlemen….please meet Big Ben, Mufasa, Lambert, Leo!

Yes. we went through all those names in 12 hours. No. I don’t know how we named a person easier than a stuffed animal.

Well, you can’t quite tell by Easton’s expression in this picture, because the pictures of him smiling are so blurry, but he LOVES it. I don’t know what it is, but capturing a smile while he is holding still is about as fine an art as capturing a leprechaun. Kid CANNOT hold still and smile. So instead, you get the “am I happy or am I pooping” face.

At this point, you may be wondering ‘ok, he got a toy that he likes more than the box it came in, big deal’. But what you can’t see in the above picture is Leo’s FACE. That, my dear, wonderful friends is where the glory lies.

The glory that, at 5 am when you wake up for work and stumble through a dim-lit living room to get your baby will make you pee yourself…because how often do you have a life-like GIANT lion waiting to scare the begeezus out of you?

Yes, glory. pee-myself-glory.

I’m watching youuu

I mean…I’m a mom. I lost all dignity (and bladder control) when I pushed a person out of me. I know this. I accept this. Hell, I even laugh at this.

Like when I was 8 months pregnant and peed myself in my front yard…HILARIOUS!

However, with this known fact, I should probably exercise a bit more caution. Maybe NOT put life-like lion in the living room where I know I will forget about it at 5 am.

But wheres the fun in that?

Life just isn’t exciting unless you’re peeing yourself. That’s what I always say.

How NOT to Spend a Rainy Sunday Morning

Answer: a yard sale.

If yesterday were any indication, people don’t like to shop outdoors for your old picture frames and worn out tennis shoes in pouring rain. How odd. Those were REALLY great tennis shoes. They were going for $0.50. People should’ve been all over that.

But maybe I’m just bitter.

Okay, probably I’m just bitter.

Bitter that people didn’t jump all over the opportunity to snatch up 43 of my most cherished stuffed animals from my childhood? No.

Well, partly.

In reality, I was more disappointed that all my efforts went un-noticed by my fellow Houstonians.

After all, I had been carefully growing my “garage sale” pile since we moved into our house LAST December. For anyone keeping count, that was 11 months ago. I organized my pile, I neatly stacked it in the corner of my garage, I added to it bit by bit…just to ensure it didn’t feel lonely or un-loved. I nurtured it, sang to it and rocked it to sleep like it was my baby….well I kept it clean and spider-free, so that’s pretty much the same thing.

When I cleaned out my parent’s storage, my “garage sale” pile really came to life. So much so that I took it upon myself to spend a Saturday nurturing it some more. This baby needed room to grow! I hauled lumber up into my attic took a hammer and nails (my drill battery was dead) and floored in part of my attic to make room for my beautiful, fruitful pile. For those of you who know what kind of coordination I have, you know what kind of task this was for me. But I did it. Yes, it took me 3 days to get the splinters out of my hands, but I did it.

Then, when the time came, I spent another Saturday loading my precious pile of memories of my younger self into the back of our truck.

One. Box. At. A. Time.

I woke up at 5 am that Sunday.

Wait, allow me to repeat that. I woke up at 5 am that Sunday.

I loaded up my sleepy baby and husband and drug them over to my sister’s house. I started un-earthing the contents of my pile faster than my arms could move. People are going to be here! Any second! We must hurry! FASTER! Packing paper was flying and boxes were being emptied at lightning speed. Go us.

And then….drip.

Drip drop. Drippity droppity drip drop drip drip.



Tarps were thrown over what we could cover, and we sat on the porch and watched everything get soaked. We turned the porch into a Bloody Mary bar and sat back and waited. A couple of hours later, the skies parted and things slowly started to dry up. And then things just got weird.

It was too late for the usual pickers, but I was determined to lure in some stray passer-bys. And why not? The bloody marys made me brave. I’ve got this, leave it up to Kelly.

Once glance at the boxing attire and I had my game plan. I strapped on rubber foot covers, hand covers and an awesome hat and proceeded to the nearest intersection to ensure people saw our neon “yard sale” signs.

My awesomeness must have been intimidating, because I am sad to report that this tactic did not work.

How odd.

Who wouldn’t want to buy this person’s old area rug?!?


this result from a bloody mary definitely puts me in the “light weight” category



Easton, Meet Fictitious Jimmy

Please, allow me to paint a picture…

Wait, Suz – go get your depends.

Ok. Now I’ll paint you a picture.

Suzie and James (names unchanged – sorry you don’t get to hide) are probably two of my favorite people ever. James, the lawyer and Suz, the eternal college student. Where he is composed and responsible, she is out-spoken and well, crazy. But don’t let me fool you, when they say it takes one to know one…this is what they meant (ie: James, you’re not off the hook). She’s the kind of blunt that in trauma-terms would send anyone to the hospital. You can hear her coming, either by the pitch of her squeal in response to the latest bit of gossip, or the click of her wine glass as she scurries past in a pair (one of hundreds, yes, she’s a hoarder) of pajama pants and taps the bota box in the fridge.

Their decade+ relationship is a length of time which (as I have learned) will make any couple get creative. Some will spice up their love life. Some will change their looks. Some find new hobbies.

And some will create imaginary people.

Enter: ‘Little Jimmy’

Let’s rewind about a year, Christian and I are in Austin for a visit and staying with Suz & James. We’re mingling in the kitchen, drinking wine (surprise, surprise) and catching up. I glance over and my eye catches a white board on the side of the fridge – a little scheduler. I do a double take when I spot the word “mommy”. Normally this wouldn’t phase me, but it’s just one of those words that catches your eye when you spot it in a child-less house. So, I read it.

“Little Jimmy loves his mommy”

or maybe it was “I’ll miss you mommy, love Little Jimmy”

…I don’t really remember exactly…there was a BOX of wine involved people!

In any event, there it was. In writing, for the world (or nosy house guests such as myself) to see…a note from a fictitious child.

Ah, yes! This is why I say they are two of my favorite people ever.

Now, I can’t remember exactly how they said ‘Little Jimmy’ came to be (do I need to remind you again that there was lots of wine involved) but that doesn’t really matter. Not in my mind at least. The part that matters is that they had an imaginary child. An imaginary child that they referenced in day-to-day happenings.

This would be the point that Christian and I look at each other  – our minds simultaneously taking this and running with it.

The WORLD needed to know about Little Jimmy. Well, OUR WORLD needed to know about Little Jimmy.

So, in true Suzie fashion, word spread. Like a wildfire it caught on and before you know it, friends were checking into their house as “Jimmy’s Sandbox” on facebook.  Naturally, when Easton came along he got to take part in this little circus, too. “Easton, you want to go play with Little Jimmy?”

While this form of entertainment is all well and good now – I’ve got a sneaking suspicion that I’ll miss the transition to when Easton starts to put two and two together and is wondering just WHO Little Jimmy is. And then, as responsible parents, we have two options….

“What do you mean Little Jimmy doesn’t exist?! Please – tell me there really is a sandbox!”

We can explain that it’s all a big joke and Little Jimmy isn’t a real person.


We can trick Easton into having an imaginary friend. “What, Easton? You don’t see Little Jimmy? He’s right there bouncing a ball. Go play with him.”

Ah, parenthood. What would you do??

I can’t help it if you’re an easy target….

Fortunately for you (unfortunately if ‘you’ in this case are Christian), I almost forgot about this event completely. Almost. But I didn’t!

And now I can write about it…aren’t you lucky!

Go ahead, do a little happy dance, I don’t judge.

…I’m just gonna go ahead and apologize now…I’ve had 2 large cups of coffee and no breakfast, so I’m a wee bit amped today.

Now, without further adieu…or before I get sidetracked and almost forget about this again…I bring you your entertainment:

It’s a Thursday night. In October. Which means, football. If you need clarification on how I feel about this, read this. This also means that I have a new goal on such days. And that goal is to beat Christian home, turn on the TV and find something to become so completely engrossed in that he won’t dare change the channel.

This is a delicate art, people. I can’t go all Lifetime on him, or without hesitation or remorse he’ll change it. I can’t even attempt to compromise on a Christian-approved movie such as wedding crashers – seen it, no biggie, know how it ends.

What we have to go for here is intrigue. TLC never disappoints. Just the right amount of drama and reality to get that “she did WHAT?! Oh, I have to see how this sh*t goes down” reaction. Hooked like an unsuspecting trout, and I sit back and happily snicker as they reel him in one wackadoodle at a time.

Now, I promised him I wouldn’t tell the world what we spent a Thursday night during football season watching…so you’ll have to take your own stab at guessing which show it was.

I needed to remind him of that unbroken promise and I continue this story.

Yes, it gets better.

Not only had my tactic worked…like I said, a delicate art, people…but it worked with flying colors.

So, the hook is set, they’re reeling him in. I’m feeling grateful and I volunteer to get dinner started (something he has taken over since baby E).

Yay, cooking! Oh, how I’ve missed you…even if it is merely tossing one of those frozen meals into a skillet for ten totally counts. Ok, maybe that doesn’t count, but I get to play with our new pots and pans, so I’m good.

I’m all caught up in shiny metal and un-scratched skillets when I hear it.

The sniffle.

I glance up just in time to catch the confirmation.

The eye wipe.

Oh yes, flying colors my friends. Flying. Colors.

My God, I love a man that can cry.

I do a victory lap in my head and bring my man dinner. I am proud. Proud of myself and my mad skills. Proud of my man for letting me have this one.

And then it occurs to me…that sniffle. that eye wipe. that tear.

Was is shed over TLC or was it shed in memorial of the lost football game?!

I rewind the evening in my head and pause it when I get to the eye wipe. Searching the blurry image, I find my answer.

Phone in hand. Fantasy football app, open.

Let’s make better decisions, Kelly

I would like to begin by thanking my sister, Karie, for unearthing what you are about to see. For the record, THIS is not what I meant when I asked you to put together an album of childhood pictures for the wedding.

Some people have bad hair-dos, boyfriends, lipstick colors, or wardrobe choices they look back on years later and laugh to themselves, going “WHAT was I thinking?!!”

I have all of these. But, I’m sure many of you do.

However, I win this game…because I also have this:


this is my gangster face. be scared.

oh yes. The Halloween I decided to be Vin Diesel from the movie xXx. I couldn’t find a picture of it, but I distinctly remember meticulously attempting to replicate all of his tattoos…then threw in my custom addition of ~VIN~ on my chest…just to help people make the connection.


In my defense, I was a teenager. I was at that point in adolescence when your hormones start to really kick in. Ah, I remember that year. I finally started to sprout my own *pair*, I’d blush fifty shades of crimson every time I saw a cute boy, and suddenly strong arms are HOT. I was awkward and shy and trying to find my own personality.

It was all very confusing.

Enter Vin.

HELLO muscles! I think this was my first non-teeny-bopper-heart-throb.

Let’s please take a moment to pause and laugh at me. HAHAHAHA.

Lucky for me, all it took was one shameful ex-boyfriend who somewhat resembled Vin to end this phase. I now only see him for his terrible acting.

And the world is right again.

I can tuck this little gem back into the depths of my memory, give it a shot of whiskey and let it slip slowly into the cracks to live happily ever after. Maybe I should arrange a mixer for it to mingle with images of that pixie cut from ’91, tie-dye glasses from ’93 and pretty much every dance costume from ’01-’03.

What were some of your questionable decisions?? And PLEASE feel free to share pictures. Pictures are always welcome here. This is a safe space… 🙂

Oh, this is probably going to offend someone…

…but I’m gonna say it anyways, because quite frankly people who get offended easily piss me off.

No, that wasn’t it. But maybe those people have stopped reading now.

…last chance…

Ok, don’t say I didn’t give you ample warning. Now, it’s your fault, so don’t go cry to mom.

I was just told by my wedding dress seamstress not to lose any more weight.

And I’m mad about it.

Before you go all “oh, shut your mouth you little b*tch” on me, let me clarify this.

I just had a baby (If you haven’t read my other posts, yes I got it backwards). Five months ago. Not only was I pregnant when I got engaged – no, we didn’t get engaged because I got pregnant, for you and your curious mind ;)…but, I was THAT woman in the bridal salon trying on wedding dresses while I was six months pregnant (much longer story as to why this happened, but I’ll save that for another post).

I had to be extra careful to only look at myself in the mirror straight on. Because seeing me…with a baby bump…in a wedding dress…well it was just too much for my hormones to handle. I had to accept the fact that while every email from TheKnot talked about how to get into wedding-dress-shape, I still had a solid 15 pounds to put on before I could even think about losing anything. And, the day that my dress arrived and I got the call to come in and try it on…well…I was 10 days from my due date and HUGE.

Absolutely not. No way. No how. Can’t pull the ‘ole stare at yourself straight-on trick with a 9 month baby belly. Oh no, I was swollen and sweaty and had bags under my eyes from lack of sleep because my bladder was now the size of an ice cube.

So, I did the logical thing and waited a whole 10 days after he was born to go and try it on. Yikes, talk about things you can’t un-see.

Well, I accepted all of these things, I realized why it is people get married before having a baby. I mean, aside from the whole religion thing.

Oh, I did it again didn’t I…sorry, I am far from politically correct.

Anyways, I accepted these things and honestly, I leveraged them. All the more motivation to lose the baby weight! I’m gonna get married 6 months after popping a person out of my body! Nah, I’m gonna get married 6 months after popping a person out of my body…on a BEACH!

Whoa. *Someone’s* an ambitious son-of-a-b*tch.

Say what you will, it worked. I spent 9 months fighting LOTS of cravings. I printed out all sorts of workout regimens well before my due date even approached. I had it all planned out, and was ready to get my butt into gear as soon as my doc gave me go-ahead.

And I DID. With a probably overly ambitious ‘you haven’t exercised in a year’ naivety. I started Insanity. Or should I say, Insanity started me….started [to torture] me that is.

Yes, I puked 11 minutes into the first go. Yes, I kept going. I pushed myself and I worked my ass off. For weeks. I made it a priority, and I sacrificed time I could have spent sitting and staring at my baby.

And THIS fact is why I don’t care who I offended earlier. I lost the weight, yes. But, I have 2 weeks left. I am on a roll and I am this close to where I want to be. I have shed blood sweat and tears…I have forgone cupcackes, cookies…CHOCOLATE.

These are sacrifices I do make in vain.

So, when I am told not to lose any more weight one week before I’ll be on a beach in a bikini and 2 weeks before I take that walk down the isle, I get a little mad.

And then, I tell myself, “shut your mouth you little b*tch” and I pour myself a much deserved (if I don’t say so myself) glass of wine.

Cheers 🙂