The day we got Apple…

Dear Dog People of America,

I am writing to you today in an effort to merge our two worlds: the world of
people that cry during animal rescue commercials, and the world of people that do not cry during animal rescue commercials. I fall in to the please keep reading so you don’t hate me category…

You see much like Elsa, I’ve spent most of my life in the icy world of Arendelle where it is eternal winter and dogs are not allowed… In my heart. Well, I mean, they’re allowed, but because it’s so cold, they’re just not welcome.

The only pet I ever had was a black cat given to me by best friend Tiffany when I was 6 years old. We called her “Sweetie,” but sweet she was not. I don’t remember how, or why, but Sweetie didn’t live with my mom and I for very long. Everyone in my family had animals: My Nana had a dog named Winkie- a black Cockapoo that I adored. My aunt had this huge sheep dog named Chelsea and I loved to lay on her because she reminded me of Snuffleupagus. My Dad and Stepmom had a few dogs through the years; my favorite was a Golden retriever named Travis… Until he ran away… or killed a neighbor. Either way, he wasn’t around forever. And the other animals… well they eventually died too, and I don’t think I was heartbroken. I loved them but I didn’t loooooove them.

As time went on and I got older, that genetic makeup that some most of you have that gives you the feeling of wanting to hug and kiss any dog you see on the street, never evolved. It’s not like it was just dogs either, it was pretty much all animals. Listen, I cried while reading Gorillas in the Mist like the rest of you, but touching one at the Zoo would probably give me the willies. God help me if I had a friend with a rabbit. EW. And don’t even get me started on pet birds or birds in general. DISGUSTING. They should be extinct. (I mean, you realize you’re talking to someone that flushed fish down the toilet as a ritual on Purim right?)

It became very apparent as I entered adulthood that I was very different from the rest of the world: I was not an animal person.

When Peter and I started dating, we bonded over the fact that neither of us felt that pull towards our primate counterparts. We rolled our eyes at our friends that were content with their “fur babies.” Not us. We were building a HUMAN family. And by the way, is it necessary for our friends to insist we meet at a restaurant where they can bring Muffy the lab? Or how about that I don’t really feel like having my crotch sniffed every time we visit friends with Tank the German Shepherd. It wasn’t our thing. HOWEVER, I always found my friends’ photos of their babies and puppies nuzzled together simply adorable and hoped that maybe, just MAYBE my predisposition to a life without animal love might change. Maybe, just MAYBE my social feeds would be filled with darling images of my children cuddling our puppy.

So, in November of 2016, on a very purposeful whim, we got Apple.

Purposeful and whim. I know. They don’t go together. But they do.

See there were a couple of things happening, all of which were related and led to this divine moment where we went home with a dog on November 19, 2016.
• I turned 40 in September of 2016 and we wanted another baby and were open to “trying” again in October or November.
• At some point in (his) life, I promised Jonah a dog when he turned 10.
• 10 would happen in September of 2017; which might also be the time when I possibly maybe could have a baby if things go smoothly in the “trying” department. And if I’m being honest, history had proven that I didn’t need to “try” very hard.
• Our neighbors had the cutest dog and Oliver was obsessed with her. He was due for another surgery in December. Impressionable would be an understatement in our emotional department.
• Trump was elected president.

So TO SUM IT UP: On November 16th, we decided to head to the adoption event (where our neighbors had gotten their dog years before) because Oliver was cute with their dog, I didn’t want to have a new puppy at the same time as a new baby, and Trump was now president so the world was coming to an end anyway.

What we didn’t know (because again, we are not animal people), is that you don’t go to a fucking animal adoption WITH YOUR YOUNG CHILDREN to “check it out.” Because if you have any semblance of a heart (which despite what you’re thinking, I swear I do), you don’t LEAVE without a goddman pet. A PET THAT IS NOT THE PET THAT YOU THOUGHT YOU WERE LEAVING WITH. (Mistake #1 & #2). Let me backtrack: So we go to this event and there are teeny tiny puppies in cribs all around the room. It’s crowded and crazy and we notice one crib of puppies with a couple “Shih-tzus.” One by the name of Apple… She’s like 4lbs, 4 weeks old, and of course is looking right at us and saying “If you take me home, I will be your best friend forever.”

“AWWWWWW,” we all say together as Jonah lifts her out of the crib. She’s gorgeous. Blue eyes, soft fur. A defining grey spot. I mean, doesn’t get cuter than this. I track down one of the people working for the rescue and ask about Apple. She tells me she was in an alley with the rest of her brothers and sisters (so I guess she was found?) She had some issues with worms and some infection, but she’s fine now. BUT she has already been spayed (which I didn’t know was a bad thing considering she was only 4 weeks old!), has the microchip, AND she is a SHIH-TZU and IS HYPOALLERGENIC AND WILL. NOT. SHED. “AT ALL.”

She even takes out her phone and shows me pictures of her dogs who are also Shih Tzu terrier mixes and they “make the best dogs in the world. Especially if you or kids have allergies.” PERFECT!

Just to make completely sure, we also track down the head of the rescue – the guy who apparently REALLY knows about dogs and different breeds. HE tells us that Apple was with a family and they couldn’t take care of all the dogs… This of course conflicts with what the other woman told us, but I wonder if it matters as she’s okay now (has been de-wormed and spayed and appears to be healthy). He TOO confirms that she’s a Shihtzu and won’t shed or cause me to cough up phlegm for 6 straight months. (Ooops… jumping ahead here!)

SO… a little bit of paperwork, a lovely donation of $500 to the rescue and a swift kick in the ass (Uh, just head to aisle 3 to pick up food and a leash and you’re good to go), and we are out of there. No really, that was it. Signed some shit, got some copies of her first vet visit and the microchip and they sent us on our way. A home visit was not required nor was it requested.

And like that, we had a puppy home with us.

ALL (and I mean ALL of our friends) nearly DIED when we told them about the newest member of our family because well, WE DON’T LIKE  ARE NOT animal people. BUT we assured them that now was a good time. We had seen the light and while not at all not entirely thought through, we were ready for Apple and would TURN INTO the kinds of people that know what to do with a puppy and don’t need to call everyone they know to ask how to take a dog on a walk or when/if she needs water.

At first, (and by first I mean the first 24 hours), we thought Apple was the chillest dog ever. We thought she exuded ZERO puppy characteristics and we hit the jackpot.

Then she started pooping and peeing everywhere (important) and we realized we knew nothing about dogs.

Months and thousands of dollars spent on training and super LA healthy dog stuff later, we found ourselves still struggling to weave Apple into our lives seamlessly. Well, also maybe the fact that we were still overcoming the emotional and physical recovery from Oliver’s surgery, a move to a new house, and oh, the arrival of Everett (also known as my third child). So yeah. We were/are fermisht, to say the least. (You can find the definition to Fermisht here, my non-Yiddish loves).

Look, here’s the deal: Most of you don’t need to “remember” to take out your dog for a walk. Or you don’t have to ask other people in your house, “Has anyone spent time holding and cuddling Apple today?” OR you don’t have babies and toddlers that play with toys ON THE FLOOR, that inevitably end up in your baby/toddler puppy’s mouth. Right? You have either an older dog or an older child, and are not constantly finding Minnie Mouse’s shoes, or Thomas the Train’s engine in your dog’s poo and then wondering when the day will come that you will have to make the agonizing decision of whether you should agree to the $6,000 surgery to remove Percy from her butthole or not. (You automatically say, “Anything it takes!” WE say, “Fuuuuuuuuuck me.”) And here’s the thing, it’s not that I wish ill will on animals or even that I don’t care- I DO. HOWEVER, the reality of OUR situation was that I have two children that will be playing on the floor with small toxic Chinese-made toys for at least another 4 years. And while chewing is what puppies do, I’m going to choose my kid’s development over a puppy’s habit any and every time. (Just for the record, she chewed up the eco-friendly wood stuff too. Don’t even get me started on the fear I had about splinter’s in her butt).

SO… one night we had the talk. We had had many talks about how Apple was hard for us but this was different. This was happening. We needed to find her a better home… And a home that wouldn’t be suffering from terrible allergies as I was (it had gotten worse and worse over the months). Devastated and feeling guilty that it was his fault and he should have been a better “brother,” Jonah cried and asked that we make sure that we’d find the best, most amazing home for Apple. I explained to him that it’s not like we were awful to her. In essence, we fostered her for a year. We took good care of her and gave her a nice home to live in. But we weren’t her “forever” home. (“The sun’ll come out tomorrrrooooowww…”)

That night, literally minutes after our talk, as I was walking Apple, a neighbor who I always knew had a “thing” for Apple (and all dogs in general) walked by and gave her nightly hugs to Apple. I said, “I’m glad I ran into you. We came to a tough decision, but I think it’s time that we—“

“I was waiting for this day. I will help you find a home for her.”

“Wait, wha-“ How in the fuck did she know I was talking about Apple and not perhaps, getting a divorce, or I don’t know, getting rid of one my other kids. Was I that bad of an owner?

“I knew a day would come when you would ask for my help. You’re overwhelmed, I can see it. It’s okay. You have a lot going on. Having a puppy with two babies is not easy. We’ll find her an awesome home.”

So apparently our struggle was not only real, but obvious!

Less than a week later, I agreed to send Apple to a foster family via a Rescue Agency that had another dog and cat (after an initial “test” visit, it was determined that Apple got along with them swimmingly). From there, she would be adopted…. Only she wasn’t… well she was… but not by another family. The Foster Family fell in love with her and couldn’t let her go! THIS FOSTER HOME HAS TAKEN IN DOZENS OF DOGS OVER THE YEARS AND FOUND THEM OTHER HOMES, BUT NOT OUR APPLE! THEY HAD TO HAVE HER! AND did I mention that one of my good friends happens to know the woman who adopted her. Apple is now in a home with an older dog, a young cat, and a woman who makes amazing baked goods AND welcomes the opportunity for the boys to visit her any time. Apple literally got adopted by Daddy Warbucks (wait, does that make me Miss Hannigan?!)

Apple’s new family…

SO, Dog People of America, now that you’ve heard my story and have either decided that I’m the devil, an irresponsible human, or just annoyingly wordy (that has nothing to do with this dog thing, but I realize this letter is quite long), I am THANKING YOU for being the fur baby loving crazy people that we are not, and will likely never be. THANK YOU for your dog doting Instagram feeds and babies nuzzled next to your puppy. They are so cute! SO cute in fact it made me think that it was something I wanted to have too and something that I could handle. But alas, I have learned the truth, the hard way, and even the little sad way. My feed is meant for curly haired 2 year olds with dirty glasses nuzzled against a sass-mouthed 10 year old, with a 6 month old baby waving his hands in the background to be noticed. My feed is for recipes that I’m trying and inevitably fucking up. It’s for random date night pics, pretty sunrise and sunsets, faces with filters, and pictures of coffee or wine (because that’s what gets me through life). You won’t find dogs on my Insta or in my world, and I’m now okay with that. Are you? Can we still be friends?

Speaking of friends, can you please tell YOUR friends to stop bringing their dogs to Starbucks? I’m pretty sure dogs are not supposed to have coffee.

With love,
Jenny

The post Dear Dog People of America appeared first on Perfectly Disheveled.

I WEIGHED MY JEANS

I have a confession: I weighed my pants. Like stripped down and put my jeans ON the scale.

I waited for a number to come up. Nothing.

Zero.

I took them off the scale and tried it again.

Zero point zero.

Fuck. There goes that plan.

I was on my way to the doctor, the LADY doctor to be exact. Not for anything in particular, just a yearly check-up to make sure all my parts are still functioning after three babies. (Happy to report my reproductive system is still on fleek). ANYWAY, with a 10:00am appointment I was panicking a bit. Not because of the inevitable traffic to head over the hill to Cedars. No. That would be logical. But because at 10:00am, I would have already had breakfast and a shit ton of coffee. With all that in my system, the scale at the doctor’s would be waaaaayoff. And I would apologize to the nurse as if she gives a shit (about me not shitting that morning thereby affecting the outcome).

Now before I go on, let me say that I’m writing this as a cry for help. I’m calling on my sisters and fellow moms, who feel me and hear me. Body image is an issue almost every woman has dealt with at some point or another in their lives, right? But do most people agonize over what time their last meal was before they get to the doctor’s office (unless they have to fast beforehand)? The answer is likely, or generally, NO. They get to the doctor, follow the nurse back, step on the stupid scale and it is what it is. They don’t feel the NEED to take off their shoes, shirt, pants, wedding band, earring in the second hole —because people, I WILL and I HAVE.  But today, I didn’t want to be a total freak, so I weighed my jeans AHEAD of time so I could give myself a little mental break and cut myself some slack when she marked the number in my chart (Because in my head, I would know that that’s not the REAL number. I would be able to subtract the jeans and it wouldn’t be as high as what she was seeing. Of course, I wouldn’t TELL her that I weighed my jeans and that she should subtract that number too, because THAT IS CRAZY. Nope. I wanted to play the role of a person that gets on the scale CONFIDENTLY… like I had places to get to and things to do and weight is a waste of my headspace so look at me, I just step on scales like it’s no big thing.

Except it is. It always has been. Even when I was 122lbs at my wedding(s), (hey, how many people can say they got skinny for TWO weddings. Hooray for me!), I agonized over numbers. I was svelte and wearing cut-off white jean shorts that I would KILL to fit in now and yet, I thought I was FAT. I have never felt perfect in my skin. And I hate that. I don’t want that anymore.

Except we’re leaving for Mexico. Tomorrow. And in a month after that, we’re going to a wedding on Martha’s Vineyard and seersucker is synonymous with skinny. (At least on ShopBop it is). And I had these GOALS. Nine months ago, when Everett, my strawberry blonde who do you look like baby, came into the world, I told myself that baby weight was/HAD to go fast. When it wasn’t going fast, I asked for a blood work-up, because OBVIOUSLY, I had to have thyroid issues. Nope. Just fat. So, I kept pounding away at the pavement, so to speak. A clean/ Whole 30 diet, a three-day high fiber shakes only diet here, a week long intermittent 700 calorie a day fast there, a ketogenic diet, a no carb- lean protein – low fat diet, a fuck it- I’m eating whatever I want diet (which btw inevitably leads back to diet #1, 2, or 3) – I do/did them all. And you know what the result is: Sure, a little bit of weight loss here and there, but mostly: A GREAT BIG FEAR OF FOOD.

I LOVE FOOD. I AM AN EATER. AT BREAKFAST, I AM ALREADY THINKING ABOUT DINNER, AND AT DINNER, I’M ALREADY THINKING ABOUT WHAT WE’RE HAVING NEXT WEEK FOR DINNER. This is partially a Brandt Family OCD/ genetic thing and also a ‘I truly love and enjoy food’ thing. BUT NOW, I look at food like the enemy. I ingest it and immediately HATE what it will do to my body.

THIS HAS BECOME SOME FUCKED UP SHIT, PEOPLE.

And yes, I realize that being 48 pounds down from what I was the day Everett was born is great. It’s GREAT, Jenny. It’s GREAT. In my head, it’s mother-fucking great. But in my skin, in the mirror, I am not great. I could be better. I could be more. I could eat better, eat less, workout more, workout harder, LOSE another 15 pounds and THEN, THEN I would be OKAY.

Well, people of the Perfectly Disheveled fan club (Hi, Nana): I am hereby announcing: I AM DONE WITH THIS SHIT. Done, I tell ya!  And it’s not just because I heard Brene Brown speak last week at Mom2.0 Summit (Okay, maybe it is a little bit because of her). But it’s because I want to live my life celebrating our luck and our joy. I want to live in THAT. Not self-hate. Whatever she said STUCK. Something resonated. The dialogue in my soul shifted and asked for HELP. People, I’m ready to be vulnerable. (Actually, I don’t know if that’s what I need to be, but she did talk a lot about vulnerability. Okay, wait.  Maybe that’s a different chapter in the book. But I’m ready for something. And if I was listening correctly, you can’t be great or OKAY without being vulnerable. So there).

Anyway, I don’t know if the universe is trying to tell me something, or if there has been some sort of shift in the social media cosmos all together, but I’m finding a lot body positive role models and images. I’m stalking getting sucked into the vortex stumbling on to pages women sharing photos of themselves in bathing suits or clothing that are not size 2’s, sharing candid and personal insight into their own self-love, worth, and confidence. Women like Jenna Kutcher  modeling what body love looks like.

Her caption goes on to say:

“Want a bikini body? Put a damn bikini on your body. If I had a magazine, the headlines would read a little different: How to love the skin you’re in, how to feel whole with yourself (instead of trying to find someone who completes you), how to come home to your body.

Stop believing you’re not worthy, stop hiding because fear tells you to, stop waiting for confidence to find you, and start doing the work every time you look in the mirror.

This was the first bikini I wore in YEARS and the only thing that changed was the way I loved myself just as I am. You’re capable of that, too.” 

(You can’t see me right now but I’m literally doing an Oprah YESSSS! dance right now. Preach Jenna! Preach!)

Even celebrities like Reese Witherspoon are sharing words and quotes about self-love and being “enough.”

Instagram, your algorhythm works because this is what I want to see. This is what I need.

So now what. Now what do I do? Aside from seeing my therapist more than once a month these days, WHAT DO I DO? HOW DO I FIX MYSELF? How do I step out of my own way and spend time focusing on things that matter like WRITING THIS or FINISHING THOSE SCRIPTS, or here’s a novel idea: SPENDING TIME WITH MY KIDS. Actually, I get enough of them. I’m good on that. But you catch my drift.

And while I don’t have a daughter and don’t have to think about all that comes with body changes as they enter their teens, I do have three boys. And I’m already starting to see bits and pieces of negative thoughts and body self-consciousness and it breaks my heart. Kids pick up our baggage through osmosis. And this is one piece that I’m not going to let my boys carry around. I want to raise self-aware, self-loving little warriors. Self-loving warrior. That’s what I want for myself.

So, what does it take? What does it take to look at the mirror and love what you see? What does it take to eat food without worrying about what it will do to your body aside from fueling and nourishing you? What does it take to have balance? To exercise because it feels good and not because you’re trying to lose those last, 5, 10, 15 pounds?

Please, please, please, share your comments, thoughts, tips, and personal stories! Do you have another Instagram page I should follow for more motivation and inspiration? Tell me here!

And in the meantime, SHOULD you be interested in getting a pair of your own weightless jeans (for under $60 bucks), you can find them here. You and your scale can thank me later.

The post I WEIGHED MY JEANS appeared first on Perfectly Disheveled.

Global Warming is My Fault

I used to think that the worst thing I could do for my kids was let them have too much screen time. But the other day, when Oliver let 5 helium balloons “fly to the moon” without any concern, I realized my Fort Nite, Ryan’s Toys, YouTube addicted little monkeys were the least of my worries: I am raising global warming terrorists and they give zero f**s about their carbon footprints (I’m saying those words as if I even know what that means).

This past week, I was convinced that a NBC Local news van was going to show up at my house to run a breaking news report about a series of (popped) helium balloons that landed in the LA River and clogged drains, contaminated the water supply, destroyed trees, killed animals, and shut down Postmates (the biggest natural disaster if you ask me). The balloons would all be linked to my house and children due to the DNA/ sticky lollilop/goldfish fingerprint findings that showed up on the broken latex pieces.  I wouldn’t be able to deny the crime. Because credit card receipts and my son’s piggy bank where mommy desperately grabbed all lingering change to purchase said balloons, would reveal that I did indeed spend $13.56 (in one day) on 6 goddamn balloons. Apparently helium is really expensive these days you guys.

You see, we live a few blocks from a balloon store, which is conveniently located next to an (also overly expensive) ice cream shop. Oliver, because he’s not an idiot, has identified the stores’ proximity to our house and because I am not a clever, energetic mommy bunny, I can no longer come up with things to do in the afternoon other than walk to the ice cream store, let him eat ice cream that inevitably makes him not hungry for dinner,  walk down to the balloon store, and spend way too much money on balloons that end up in the sky. To make (global warming) matters worse, I had a $23 credit at said balloon store because I, like the forgetful mommy I play in my blog, actually didforget to pick up the $40 worth of balloons I ordered for Oliver’s party. I knew something was missing.  Anyway, because we’re at the store 675 days out of the year, the owner was kind enough to extend a credit to me.

Needless to say, when Oliver’s greatest joy in life is now buying balloons and releasing them to the universe immediately, we flew through that credit real fast.

At first, I was hesitant to let him let the balloons “go to the moon” the minute we got home. I was worried that the second they flew up, he would want them back and freak out. Which he did. But he freaked out MORE when I said we couldn’tlet them go. So I figured, fine fucker, let’s learn a lesson. I suppose he quickly learned the lesson that they weren’t coming back but instead of bursting into tears he ERUPTED IN LAUGHTER. He thought it was HILARIOUS.  The higher they went the more exciting. One, two, three, four, five balloons… within a matter of seconds GONE. “Bye byeeeeee balloons!” he laughed. “Bye byeeeee! See you later!” And his best friend/arch nemesis Everett soon found it hilarious too.

And then I remembered some video I saw on instagram of a whale (or was it a seal) being pulled ashore with balloons tied around its neck (thanks to reckless, terrible moms like me) and I felt awful. I am literally ruining the world one expensive balloon at the time.

BUT can we plus side this for a sec, people???  I’m shopping small. I’m shopping local. I’m supporting a local balloon farmer!

No seriously, isn’t that something?

Okay, fine. The squirrel in North Hollywood that probably just ate a yellow balloon for breakfast is not something to be proud about, BUT keeping a local shop in business and my 3 year old who is like a volcano waiting to erupt between the hours of EVERY SECOND AND EVERY SECOND happy is something to feel okay about.

Right now, my journey to self-love and care is all about taking wins where I can get it—even if it means contributing to the destruction of mother nature. Okay fine.That’s dramatic. I know my lazy mommy’ing isn’t going to turn our country into Gilead with polluted Colonies a la “Handmaids Tale”, but I also recognize it isn’t helping. I know that you, (the earth loving goddesses that I imagine have a foul-smellingcompost that you use to fertilize your Kombucha or Collagen Peptide plant), ARE actively doing things to SAVE our planet and don’t do simple things like flush after every pee. And neither do I! (Though that’s mostly because I forget to and happen to hate the sound of a flush. That for another post though). HOWEVER, explaining to Oliver that “if it’s yellow, we keep it mellow” is too much for him to process amidst potty training. I let him flush the potty after he pees, because A) He already pees standing and like the good man I am raising him to be, likes to wipe down the rim after he’s gone and b) I believe he deserves the satisfaction of seeing the pee go away. It’s as exciting as the balloon “going to the moon” right now. In fact, sometimes I let him do an A for Effort Flush (even if he just stands at the potty but realizes he “doesn’t have the feeling yet” because FLUSHING is PART of his Potty-training/ just give me the Skittles process so I LET HIM FLUSH THE FUCKING POTTY OKAY. And now that I’m confessing my sins, I might as well tell you about how I let Oliver let the water run while he brushes his teeth. Three times. Every night. I’m sorry, but he is just so damn excited about brushing his teeth lately and is fully willing to let me get all up in there- front, back, side etc- but on one condition: The sink has to be running. The good news is I really didn’t start enforcing teeth brushing until like, last week. So if you’re doing the math, that’s actually 3 years of water I CONSERVED. So there.

Look, I’m in survival mode right now. I know at a certain point I will have to make the switch and stop using the excuse that I “just had a baby” or that I haven’t “just moved” or haven’t “just not had time to go to the market.” But right now, I’m just getting by. And it ain’t graceful. I’m certainly not at my worst but I’m not at my best. I don’t know how else to explain it but these days, I feel like I’m in a gluten free hamster wheel with really good jewelry on.

I. JUST. CAN’T. GET. MY. SHIT. TOGETHER.

Although, I’m looking around the room right now (at the laundry that apparently has an issue living in a hamper) and I’m suddenly feeling like less of a failure…  These days Oliver is wearing Jonah’s hand-me downs,  Everett is wearing Oliver’s hand-me-downs and I’m still wearing underwear from Obama’s first term. And that folks, is what we call conservation at it’s finest.

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At Nana’s house, 1981. Age 5.

Say hello to the most delicious Albondigas Soup Recipe… 

When I get sick, the only thing I can think about is Phil Donahue and soup.  It’s true. As a child, when I would get sick, my mom (who was a working, single parent), would take me to my Nana and Papa’s house, where I would rest and be treated like a royal queen. (It paid to be the only grandchild). On these days, I can vividly remember getting wheat thins from this ginormous pantry that always smelled like red wine vinegar, the uber 70’s wallpaper in the kitchen, watching Phil Donahue in the afternoons, and Nana making me chicken noodle soup from scratch BUT with her secret weapon: A packet of Lipton’s Chicken Noodle Soup added in. Let’s just say that some traditions have been passed down in the recipe department. (Read: You’re welcome for this).

Now as an adult, I’m the working parent and married to another equally busy human. This means when I get sick, there’s no lounging with wheat thins and watching trashy talk shows while a jewish woman attends to my every need. While I do my best to lay low and and let my own jewish forces take hold, I also still have to work and feed my family and myself! There are many local delis that make great chicken noodle soup, but in my opinion, nothing tastes better or feeds your soul more than homemade soup.

So yesterday, I mustered up the energy to make a homemade soup recipe that I got from my dear friend Ashley. Albondigas is hardly your traditional chicken noodle-cure a cold soup, but it’s incredibly delicious, packed with veggies and protein, ridiculously easy to make and since Peter and Jonah love it: It’s a new go-to!

ASHLEY’S AMAZING ALBONDIGAS SOUP

Start by chopping 1 cup of celery, 2 cups of carrots, and 1 onion diced. Do yourself a favor, especially if you’re sick, go to Trader Joes. By the already diced onion in a bag. It’s equivalent to 1 1/2 onions. So I use almost all of it and save the rest for something else later in the week.

I have this thing that every meal needs some sort of green veggie too, so I also add 3 chopped up zucchinis. Not only do J and P love this veggie and they’re still in season, but I feel like with this soup, the give it a heartiness and make it a really well-rounded and complete meal.

Before bringing 2 quarts of water to a boil (by the way, I use about 3 quarts), I like to sauté the veggies with a little olive oil, salt, pepper and garlic powder. The recipe also calls for 1 cup of sliced or shredded cabbage (also a wonderfully pre-packaged gem from Trader Joes). I added it to the sauté and let it cook for a few minutes until the onions were translucent.

Meanwhile, time to get started on the meat-a-balls as Jonah calls it. You need 1 lb of ground meat. I used a lean beef this time but have used ground turkey in the past. Both are delicious. You’ll need an egg and 1 cup of cooked white rice. I had a bag of frozen jasmine rice which I used. Easy. You’ll add salt, pepper, garlic salt, and a little cayenne to the mix.

The size of the balls is all to your liking…

Once your veggie soup mix is boiling, you’ll want to add 6 chicken bouillon cubes, a 28 oz can of diced tomatoes (with juice!), and if you want, 1 cup of pinto beans (without juice). I let all the ingredients boil together for another minute or two and then I add the balls. *Note, I ended up added more pepper and a dash of cayenne before I added the meatballs. The tomatoes added a lot of salt to the soup so make sure you taste and season accordingly*

Add the balls to the boiling soup and bring to a simmer for 35-45 minutes.

Serve hot. If you  feel like it needs something with it, you can pop some corn tortillas in the oven to make your own chips. Or I usually just make some extra rice that they add to their soup (Jonah even puts just the meatballs and veggies on the rice without the liquid). Sometimes Jonah likes to add a little sour cream to it too to give it a creamy consistency. Me: I like it plain and perfect.

Enjoy! It’s even better the next day….

Ashley’s Amazing Albondigas Soup:

• 2 – 3 quarts of water
• 6 beef or chicken bouillon cubes
• 2 cups sliced carrots
• 1 cup celery heart sliced/diced with leaves (I left leaves out)
• 1 28 oz can of diced tomatoes w/ juice
• 1/2 cup of dried pinto beans (or 1 cup of canned pinto beans w/o liquid)
• 1 cup of sliced or chopped cabbage
• 1 onion diced
• **3 small zucchinis chopped

Meatballs:

•  1 lb ground meat (Beef, turkey, or chicken)
• 1 egg
• 1 cup of cooked white rice
• Salt & pepper
• Garlic salt
• Cayenne pepper

Mix together to form meatballs.

Put all ingredients into large pot and bring to a boil.** Add meatballs to boiling mixture, reduce heat to simmer and cook for 35-45mins.

**I added zucchini.

**I sautéed onions, carrots, celery, zucchini, and cabbage with olive oil, salt & pepper first before I added the water. Once water boiling, I added bouillon cubes, tomatoes and beans. Let boil for a few more minutes then add meatballs.

The post The Go-To: Delicious Albondigas Soup Recipe appeared first on Perfectly Disheveled.

As a little girl, my dream in life was to get married and have a big family. Mission accomplished (twice, lol!) So when the holidays roll around, I’m not going to lie and pretend I dread the holiday card frenzy. I don’t! I love it. I love having a reason to hire a photographer and get pictures of us all together. I even like the process of stamping and labeling envelopes. I know, weird. But the thing is, we all know that behind these photos, children were screaming, the house is a mess, mommy is counting down the seconds until the kids go to sleep, and daddy is checking the scores on his phone, yet again. And that’s just the tame version. 

In honor of the holiday season and all things year end, I thought I’d share what our year-end holiday letter might look like if I were being totally candid and unfiltered, along with some of the pictures that ended up on the cutting room floor. In true transparent form, may I recommend reading with a glass of eggnog spiked with something stiff (fuck that morning smoothie) and last night’s leftover Chinese food?  

 ********************************* 

Greetings from The Heilbrons!

Oh what a year it’s been!

2018 started off with a big shift in our family when we decided on New Years’ day, in fact, that we needed to get rid of our annoying dog Apple. Not only did Jenny develop horrible allergies that led to her coughing up green phlegm like the homeless man living on the embankment up the block from their home, but Apple really wasn’t as cuddly or cute as the shady dude at the adoption fair trying to pawn her off claimed she’d be. Shih-tzu Terrier Mix our ass! Oh well! After a good cry and telling us we were the worst parents in the world and he wished he could find a new home too, we promised him more iPad timeand Jonah understood our wish to find her a new home with people that knew how to walk/feed a puppy, and within a week Oliver, Apple’s only true friend in the house, forgot we even had a dog entirely. As luck would have it, a lovely woman up the block who silently judged me as I tugged Apple on our daily walks while I checked Instagram, noticed how miserable Apple was with us, and offered to find her a foster parent. Lo and Behold, the foster parent fell in love with that ugly little punim and kept her for herself! Apparently, she doesn’t mind white hair all over her furniture or a dog that looks like it escaped the Warsaw Ghetto. Anyway, the word on the street now is that her new owner changed Apple’s name to Olivia and moved them to New York!  

Speaking of things that make me think of pizza, once again Jenny committed to losing that pesky baby weight! Being the dedicated and committed person she is, Jenny is now an expert in all things keto, paleo, no sugar, I give up, low carb, low dairy, fuck this shit, smoothies only, high fat, low fat, I still have fat diets. She still has a little weight to lose but enjoys wine and wine and chocolate nightly so will continue to blame her lack of will power and control on her kids, exhaustion, Direct TV, and Trump in 2019.

Peter has had quite a crazy year too! This mother fucker ended up with another kidney stone. This time, it was so big it got obstructed and caused an infection in his kidney- He ended up having to have surgery! Jennifer was a perfect wife and stayed by his side while he was in the hospital and only told him that she would actually murder him once if he didn’t see a Urologist and change his diet after the procedure. She actually told him she’d murder him twice, but the second time was because she asked him to get up with the baby in the middle of the night but he can’t hear anything out of his left ear so he actually didn’t hear her say this… or the screaming baby. Though he’s got the insides of a 78-year old man, Peter still manages to get out on the golf course and shoot 76. Or 65. Or 100? Jenny doesn’t actually know what he hits because after he’s gone on a Saturday for 6-7 hours when it takes 4.5hours to golf, she loses interest and turns to sales on ShopBop.com to cope with her anger. Speaking of Daddy driving Mommy to shop, Peter that lucky fuck, managed to go Scotland and Ireland in August for 10 days! He missed the baby’s first birthday but thanks to technology, Jenny was able to text him lots of pictures on the big day along with a lot of sad Emojis to let him know how guilty he should feel! His trip was really marvelous and we’re so glad he got to take T E N days for himself. No one deserves it more than him.  

Moving on to le bebe. Ahhh, the baby! Everett, aka, the Forgotten Child. What a dumpling of love and poo pebbles that are impossible to wipe off his testicles. (The experts say it’s important to use proper terminology around the kids). Everett is 16 months old and really is adorable! Despite the daily blows to the head he takes from Oliver, he’s turning out to be quite the talker! The fact that he knows Elmo lives in mommy’s phone and all he has to do is scream loudly and say “Emmmo!” and she will give it to him along with a lollipop at 7am is pure brilliance. And I thought the other two were smart! Ha!

Well, Everett isn’t the only one with a knack for technology. Jonah is a Fort Nite and Call of Duty master. Nothing is more enjoyable at the end of a long day where no one knows how to shut the fuck up and leave me alone than listening to Jonah say “bro, bruh, bro, your trash, bro. Skrr. Skrr. Bro. Kill him. Bruh.”  I just love the friendships he’s making with random old men on the internet. We’re also so impressed by the way he’s been able rack up $98,712 in PlayStation and iTunes charges this year simply by wearing us down, throwing a temper tantrum and telling us we suck and how unwenfair life is.  Despite our best efforts to remind him that gratitude goes a long way and to think about the all the other children less fortunate that he is (ie. kids separated at border from their parents, kids without a home this Christmas, kids that DIE), he manages to get us to say fuck it this is the last time each and every time!! He has the real making of a boardroom executive or US President! We are beaming.

Last but certainly not least, our middle child and currently the one who we believe is responsible for our marriage counseling: Oliver! Oh this little whipper snapper stops people on the street with his big eyes, curly hair, and odd screams when they pass by. Oliver’s favorite words right now are Fuck, Jesus Christ, and Blippi. This year he made major strides when he started going pee-pee on the potty! We were so proud. Unfortunately, pooping on the potty is still a work in progress. Thanks to many trips to the gastroenterologist, we’ve determined there’s no medical problem, he’s just a willful motherfucker that  refuses to go. SO, we give him a nightly dose of Milk of Magnesia to blast that shit, literally. One day, he blasted so hard at our favorite sushi restaurant, the bathroom looked like a Jackson Pollack painting. What fun memories we’re making! When he’s not screaming with constipation pains, Oliver’s favorite activity is playing pretend restaurant and kitchen. He loves to take “orders” and follow it with “Coming riiiiight up!” His imagination is actually quite remarkable and we owe it all to a YouTube channel run by a very lovely and unintelligible Vietnamese family that makes videos on various pretend play like driving through McDonald’s and getting arrested for stealing cookies. He loooves this channel and its’ main character Uncle Jon.  Needless to say, Oliver has already discovered the world of the Happy Meal and goes to speech therapy now weekly.

We are so grateful for all the love and support you all have given us this year! We hope to see you in 2019! Just text Jenny or Peter, but mostly Peter because Jenny “forgets to hit send” on her texts back to people a lot these days. Ooops! Life is so crazy isn’t it!

Here’s to crazy and lots of holiday cheer.

Warmly,

The Heilbrons

Jenny, Peter, Jonah, Oliver, Everett and the ghost of doggies past

The post Holiday Cards: What I Really Wanted to Say appeared first on Perfectly Disheveled.

Photo from RealSimpleGood.com

As I finally sat down to write this post last night, aka known as my favorite night of the year, Julia Roberts was walking out on stage and she looked so gorgeous, I literally gasped out loud. How ironic, I think to myself… here I am in in the middle of writing a post, sharing a recent paleo recipe I discovered and I’m drooling over both her stunning pink gown and the raspberry peanut butter cup Humphrey’s yogurt that I’m pretty sure will tip the scales (literally and figuratively) on my macros for the day (because what would my life be like if I wasn’t actually dieting at some point).

But that’s not what this post is about. Okay, well it kind of is. I mean, I didn’t INTEND for this to be a post about the 645^thdiet, er, excuse me“lifestyle change” I’m trying. But since we’re being honest and you’re likely just scrolling through this part to get to the FUCKING POINT anyway, then I will tell you about the new diet du jour. It’s called Faster Way to Fat Loss. (I know, it is so Jenny Craig sounding I can’t even). BUT you know what, the befores and afters on insta have kept me up at night more than Jenny Mollen’s stories at the dermatologist or pulling out her own sutures, so that’s really saying something. I won’t go into deets about this diet, because I’m only on like day 5 and given my dieting track record, I won’t make it past day 10. But I feel like so far, it’s TOTALLY been worth the $199. (Hi, Peter. I love you.).

In a nutshell, you intermittent fast every day with an 8 hour eating window. So basically, I eat 12pm-8pm and fast 16 hours. At first I thought it was hard, but research shows

OMG WHO CARES. Even I’m boring myself. Just go on insta and search #fwtfl or follow @Seersuckerandsaddles and @somewherelately and you can see what my new crazy/time suck sitch is all about.

Wait, what was I talking about? Oh yes… THE RECIPE FOR PALEO CROCK POT CHICKEN TERIYAKI. So regardless of whatever diet I’m doing, if you follow me on Instagram, or happen to be an irl human that I know, then YOU KNOW I  do like to cook and am always searching for a new weeknight meal. I’m so over my usuals and was excited when I simply googled “Crockpot” Paleo Chicken Teriyaki and got this one.

I’m not even going to pretend that I know how this person came up with it or walk you through the steps (unless you want to know how to drink Rose while you cook at the same time. That I can do). But I will just say this: The recipe calls for chicken thigh, I used CHICKEN BREAST. I also “zsjuzshed” it a bit as measurements because their recipe calls for 2lbs and I had about 3.25… so I added another 1 or 2 dates, another ¼ c of coconut aminos, and a bit more of everything else. I also used arrowroot powder instead of tapioca starch at the end to thicken the sauce. Oh, and most importantly, I cooked in the crockpot for 5 hours on low. Next time I would do 4 hours on low. That would have been enough and made it a tad less dry.

All in all though, this was a HUGE success. EVERYONE loved it.

Tomorrow, I’m going to give this recipe a try. Will let you know how it goes. In the meantime, I have to go break my fast. And by break my fast, break the internet as fast as I can googling “Julia Roberts diet.”

Photo from RealSimpleGood.com

SLOW COOKER TERIYAKI CHICKEN: PALEO & WHOLE 30 APPROVED

Ingredients

2 lbs boneless chicken thighs**(Remember, I used breasts)

For the teriyaki sauce:

• 3/4 cup coconut aminos
• 4 pitted dates, soaked for 10-15 minutes in warm water to soften then drained
• 3 tbsp apple cider vinegar
• 2 tsp fresh ginger grated on a microplane
• 2 tsp garlic powder

For serving:

• White or cauli rice (cauli rice for Whole30)
• Mixed greens
• Sesame seeds
• Green onion diced

Optional (to thicken sauce):

• 1 tsp tapioca starch
• 1 tbsp water

Instructions

For the slow cooker:

• Place all of the sauce ingredients in a blender or food processor and run continuously to combine all the ingredients until smooth. Stop to scrape sides down as needed and restart.
• Place chicken thighs in the slow cooker and pour the teriyaki sauce over the chicken.
• Cover and cook on low for 6 hours or on high for 3 hours.

For the Instant Pot:

• Make teriyaki sauce as noted above.
• Place chicken thighs in the Instant Pot and pour the teriyaki sauce over the chicken.
• Secure the lid on the instant pot and close the pressure valve. Press the “manual” button (or “pressure cook” button) and set the time to cook for 20 minutes at high pressure. Once the time is up, quick release the pressure.
• While the chicken is cooking, prepare cauli or white rice for serving.
• Once the chicken is finished cooking, shred it with 2 forks inside the slow cooker or Instant Pot. Mix the shredded chicken with the cooking juices. Spoon some of the remaining teriyaki sauce over the chicken when serving.
• Serve and sprinkle with chopped green onions and sesame seeds.

Optional (to thicken sauce):

• If you want a thicker teriyaki sauce for serving perform the following steps after shredding the chicken.
• Remove shredded chicken from the crockpot or instant pot with a slotted spoon. Pour remaining sauce into a small saucepan.
• Mix tapioca starch into the water until it dissolves. Pour this into the saucepan and mix.
• Heat on medium-high until it just begins to bubble, then turn down and simmer for about 5 minutes, stirring frequently.

Spoon sauce over chicken for serving.

Photo of my actual dinner below

The post EASY WEEKNIGHT DINNERS: SLOW COOKER TERIYAKI CHICKEN appeared first on Perfectly Disheveled.

26 Hours in London

“You’ll write about this. I mean, it’s a blog post: ‘Mom guilt and why it’s never ending.’”

“No matter what you do…” I said.

“No matter what you do,” Jenn said shaking her head while hailing a cab.

We had been in London for 26 hours (well, almost 28 if you count the hour and a half it took to get through customs when we landed), when I got the call: “You need to come home.”

Everett had been admitted to the hospital for a severe allergic reaction to Penicillin. At least at that point they thoughtthat’s what it was. For the sake of me being a virgo story, let me give you the timeline, as I think it adds dramatic flarewill help this all make sense. (Also, I’m writing this from a Korean Spa. I’ve just had milk and honey poured all over my body and I’m high on ramen soup. Bear with me).

On Wednesday morning 3/20- the day I was set to leave-, Everett woke up with a rash. He had finished his dose of antibiotics a few days prior so I wondered if it was a post viral thing or a reaction to the meds. To cross my t’s and dot my i’s before I left my world behind, I rushed him to the pediatrician in the morning to get him checked out. After all, I was leaving on a 4pm flight to London. JUST ME and one of my best girlfriends. No kids. No husbands. No responsibility. THUS, it was my duty to make sure all was good before what felt like I was abandoning the ship. OKAY, let me be honest – because that’s not true and also sort of the point of this post: I didn’t feel like I was abandoning anyone or anything. I felt so completely thrilled and deserving to be able to accompany my talented, interior designer friend on a trip to London to shop for her clients. It was a dream come true, really! We were going to shop for art and décor, drink champagne, see a show, tour modern art museums and even a private house tour, and I would see London in a COMPLETELY different way than I had in 1998…. When I stayed in a hostel by the train station because it was really only the first and last stop of our 2-month backpacking journey through Europe. Lonely planet told us it was too expensive so we spent little time there. Barcelona and Prague was where it was AT. I saw Buckingham Palace, ate shitty fish and chips at a pub in Piccadilly Circus, and got crapped on by a pigeon in Trafalgar square and I was OUT.

But 21 years later, I was going back. As a 42-year-old woman, with a new Anine Bing coat, studded combat boots, and leather leggings – just like the bloggers I was stalking on Instagram for that perfect “London Lewk.” Hashtag INFLUENCED!

So, I take Everett to the doctor… he says he’s having a mild reaction to the antibiotics and not to worry. Benadryl and bye. He will be fine. SO… off I go to Virgin Atlantic where one of the other best things about traveling sans children awaits: 10 hours on a flight with nothing but my own personal thoughts, Mrs. Maisel, InStyle magazine, and the 34 posts and things I WAS OF COURSE going to write because the world was my oyster and I was going to get OH so much accomplished.

But WI-FI. Ahh, wi-fi. The blessing and the curse… As we are oh, an hour in to the flight, I get a text that Peter has taken Everett to the urgent care as the rash, swelling, and now fever and vomiting are now worse. So worse in fact, they say he needs to be transported by ambulance to the ER. I’m not even over the Atlantic yet, and I’m only in the Catskills with Maisel’s fam. This isn’t good. He assures me all is okay and not to worry… they think it’s just a bad allergy.

Hello, anxiety. Goodbye, me getting anything accomplished on my freedom flight.

We land in London at around 9:30am London Time. By now, Peter and Ev are back at home and he’s asleep. Still not great, but they’re home and I’ve been assured that I reaaaally don’t need to worry. They just need sleep. By the time we get through customs and to our hotel, it’s 11:30ish. We quickly change and head out to prance through the streets of Knightsbridge… through Harrod’s and Harvey Nichols (and Zara too. Why is it soooo much better in Europe?). After shopping and prancing, we change and head to Claridge’s for a fancy high tea sesh. I mean, it doesn’t get any more British and dreamy as this….

But the baby… not good. It’s 4:30pm London time, which is 9:30am LA time… Peter tells me he’s concerned and his symptoms are not getting any better. He decides he would feel better to just take him to the ER at CHLA…. Just hearing the words CHLA gives me chills… Again, he tells me NOT to worry and NO. I do not need to come home. It’s all precautionary. Jenn, being the amazing friend she is, tells me we can leave London as early or as soon as we need to… I’m doing my best to keep my shit together and enjoy every single bite of my Dorington ham and truffle sandwich and the Buford brown egg with roasted duck on the most delicious white bread I’ve ever tasted, but my anxiety is a’brewing. When I get anxiety, which isn’t a lot (just kidding!), when I get anxiety – like the real kind- that causes mild panic attacks- I feel it in my face. My cheeks tingle and my stomach goes into knots. To cope with this feeling, a feeling that I hadn’t felt since Oliver’s days of CHLA, I doubled down on the sparkling champagne … as one does whilst in London with one of their best friends and a new Anine Bing coat. (I feel like now is a good time to mention this coat again).  

I tried to focus on the gorgeous lobby, my second glass of sparking rose paired with quintessential scones and clotted cream and an amazingly delicious Paris-Brest with caramelized hazelnut. Oh, and some tea. Because duh, we were there for high tea, but high champagne should definitely be a thing. ANYWAY, as I finish the Paris-Brest and the Claridge’s blend (such a rookie/tourist move, I think. I should really know more about teas), my anxiety suddenly soars. Should I be on a plane headed back? (If you are reading this and are wondering why I wasn’t already on a plane back home at this point: CONGRATULATIONS. You are getting the whole point of this post, which is in NO WAY about my Anine Bing coat in London, except for maybe a little). I tell Jenn I need to step out. I need to go call Peter again. Also, I’m now certain that I am having a reaction to the hazelnuts. When I went through my big allergy scare over the summer, (for my fellow WebMD nerds: my Eosinophils were through the roof and there were many diseases floating around for ruling out) hazelnuts (and almonds) were flagged as major no-no’s. However, I had been eating almonds for months again with little to no reaction (unless you count helacious gas. You can’t die from that though, so I’ve chosen it as something to just live with). But now, my face was tingly again and my tongue, on the right side to be specific, felt sort of big. Could I be allergic to BRITISH almonds and hazelnuts? Maybe they farm or grow them differently. Maybe there’s a deadly leaf in the Claridge’s blend. Goddamn it, I should have stuck to Sparkling rose. That has never been an issue- no matter where in the world I go. Alcohol and me do juuuuuust fine .

I step in to the lobby to call Peter. I’m trying not to pace and talk loud like an ugly American. I’m working so hard to fit in. I take the call as if I’m a business woman there for Fashion Week (if it were in London), or to go to a very important charity event hosted by Harry and Meghan. For a moment, I’m so taken by the tile and beauty of the hotel, I feel like I really could be anyone… Until I hear Everett crying in the background of my phone call and my tongue- the right side- now feels like extra dry and big.

“Peter, please tell me: Should I come home?”

“No,” he said whispering. “He’s really going to be fine. We’ve already been seen by the doctor. They actually said he tested positive for flu. So now they think it could be a complication from that.”

“But what should I do?”

“Stay and have fun.”

“But I think I’m having an allergic reaction to hazelnuts. Is that possible? Maybe Everett and I both have some sort of rare allergy… or sickness? Can you ask them? If we both got something?” I’m fully pacing and talking loudly. My chill factor is zero. No one thinks I’m an art curator at all.

“Babe, you’re fine. I know you’re worried but you really don’t need to be.”

I hang up and take a deep breath. I tell myself, that if Peter needed/wanted me to come home he would tell me. But should I be making this decision for him? Should I do what I assume every wonderful, caring, and no-refined sugar giving mother on Instagram does and GO HOME?

FUCK. I have to poop. (Another fun symptom of anxiety).

Btw- if you’re squeamish and turned off by TMI type stories and a ridiculous amount of sidebars, non-sequiturs, (and parentheses), you’ve come to the wrong place.

But back to having to poop. God, this bathroom is gorgeous.

I’m back at the table now and Jenn can tell I’m nervous. She can’t tell my tongue is on the verge of blocking my airways, because I’m eating and drinking again, which I tell myself is a good sign as I would have been dead by now (btw, that’s always what I tell myself when I’m about to go down a hypochondriac rabbit hole: “You would have been dead by now if it was ____” a heart attack, an aneurysm, anaphylaxis , etc etc. It’s a great calming method. Give it a try.)  Anyway, I’m at the table and I fill in Jenn about my conversation with Peter. She is understanding and again reminds me that we can leave when we need to or even shorten trip if that would help.

In my head, I thinkyes, going home or shortening trip would help ease my anxiety, and obviously help Peter and comfort Everett, BUT: I don’t want to go home. Like, really don’t want to go home. I want 5 days in London, as planned. As dreamt. As charted and sorted and heavily researched. As a grown ass woman, with one of my favorite friends in the world, looking at art, eating fancy and delicious foods, and fulfilling my love of travel and exploration. I don’t WANT to go home. AND THEREIN LIES THE SOURCE OF THE ANXIETY:

FUCKITY FUCKING GUILT.

I FEEL GUILTY FOR WANTING TO STAY AND I FEEL GUILTY FOR NOT BEING HOME.

I FEEL EVEN WORSE FOR TELLING MYSELF I SHOULDN’T FEEL GUILTY. SHOULDN’T I FEEL GUILTY WITHOUT HAVING TO ASK MYSELF IF I SHOULD FEEL GUILTY OR NOT?!!!

NOW I DEFINITELY FEEL GUILTY. BUT I DON’T KNOW IF I HAVE GUILT OVER THE RIGHT THING.

AND MY TONGUE. Will I even survive in London long enough due to the Claridge’s blend tea virus I’ve caught and my new Paris-Brest allergy? This isn’t good.

As Jenn and I make our way to the theater, I am in a whirlwind of panic and stress. But also, trying to stop and smell the roses. Literally, every apartment is covered with gorgeous flower boxes. Each door is more gorgeous than the next and I feel like a real adult. The weather is perfect, my coat is BEYOND, and I’m certain if I lived here, I’d find my way into a royal friendship. BUT THE GUILT.

We enter the theater and I’m a little taken aback by the lack of metal detectors and bag checks. When I go see a crap show at the Pantages, someone checks us… Wow. Okay, London. I dig you. Our seats for Come From Away (a show I know nothing about) are amazing. Jenn and I decide I should take the aisle in case I get a call from Peter. At this point, he’s still in the ER just waiting to get admitted. I tell myself that it’s okay to put my phone away for 90 minutes, that it’s okay to sit back and enjoy the show- though I’m sure I won’t be able to because the right side of my tongue is no joke and oddly now my shoulder is tingly too. (Is this what death feels like?)

But wow. Not only did I survive, but 90 minutes and no intermission later, I’m on my feet CHEERING. I want more of this incredible show. Planes getting stranded in Newfoundland on 9/11?! Who even knew?! What an incredible story and what a perfectly uplifting show to see in LONDON WITH ONE OF MY BEST FRIENDS.  LIFE IS SO GOOD!

We make our way back towards the hotel… It’s about 9:30pm and we’ve been in London for 12 hours, and roughly 3 hours of airplane sleep, so the jetlag is setting in. No need to paint the town red tonight… in the morning our plans are to go to the Tate Modern and then a fancy lunch in Mayfair followed by an afternoon at Selfridges, then a dinner at the swanky Chiltern Firehouse, which I had to book legit 3 months out. And I thought LA reservations were bad!

I’m desperately tired but also feeling guilty for closing my eyes and sleeping as Peter hasn’t slept either since he’s been now in two ER’s with Everett. It’s approximately 3pm in LA… Peter andour trusted doctor/surgeon friend (oh, who basically saved Oliver’s life) once again tell me they’re merely keeping him for observations overnight but NOT to come home. A full-fledged doctor tells me this. I can’t feel guilty now, right? Just to make sure, I text two of my closest and trusted friends back in LA and ask IF I CAN ENJOY MYSELF AND ALSO LET THEM KNOW PETER SAID I SHOULD ENJOY MYSELF AND THE DOCTOR SAID I DIDN’T NEED TO COME HOME.

I text Peter one last time:

So, I close my eyes. And we sleep. Like reaaaally sleep. Until 10:50am the next day. FUCK! We missed the TATE!!!! It’s okay, I tell myself, we can go there AFTER lunch… We needed the sleep.

But also… there’s a gazillion texts on my phone…

“He’s still VERY swollen and tender to touch”

“Rash really bad”

“Definitely severe but not totally out of the ordinary”

“Vitals are perfect”

Once again, I ask “Should I come home?”

“Absolutely Not.”

IS IT OKAY TO ENJOY MYSELF YET?

Jenn and I get dressed and make our way to Mayfair. Holy, charming. We moved up lunch resis since we missed the Tate in the morning and now the plan was to eat lunch then go to the Tate…

Lunch at Kitty Fisher’s is charming AF and delicious in every way. But half way through the meal I get a call from my mom (it’s like 5:30am LA time): You need to come home. Followed by a text from one of my dear friends: Peter won’t tell you this but I think you need to hear it- you need to come home.

I START TO SHAKE. Jenn helps to calm me down…. The next 30 minutes are a complete blur. “Can you get to Heathrow in an hour and a half?” my friend back in LA texts. (I’m literally paying the bill at the restaurant, while simultaneously talking to Virgin about moving my flight… which they don’t have until the next day as I’ve missed all direct flights out of London to LA at this point). Via text, or maybe over the phone, (I can’t remember because I’m racing through the streets of Mayfair with Jenn as she hails a cab and I mentally brace myself for the onslaught of anxiety that I’m about to experience), my savior of a friend says she can get me on a flight out of Heathrow at 4pm- it will connect in DC, putting me in to LA the next day at 1:30am- but I need to get to the airport in an hour. Is that doable? Oh, and don’t bring a bag. JUST GO.

Jenn gets me in a cab to Heathrow (Did I even say goodbye?) I don’t even have a confirmed ticket at this point but I’m told by the time I get there I will be good to go. Like a crazy person, I run to check in and am fairly certain I will get flagged as I go through security since I have a one-way ticket booked ten minutes prior to boarding and my carry-on consists of my makeup, my toiletries, a pair of underwear, and my Anine Bing coat which is now in a ball.  My stomach is in absolute knots.

I race to the gate as I realize I never got the kids any souvenir from London, let alone a bottle of water to take with me on the flight. WHAT LUNATIC FLIES WITHOUT THEIR OWN BOTTLE OF WATER, not to mention some sort of snack for when I inevitably starve to death over the Atlantic? By now my anxiety is through the roof though and getting on the plane is my main focus.  Food can wait. They do have wine, right?

As I wait in line to board, I face time Peter. Everett is swollen and looks, well, Frightening and frightened.  Now I know I NEED to get home and I cannot get home soon enough. I am the worst mom ever. I tell him I’m coming home to see him and give him as many kisses as I can. My heart hurts and when Peter says he’s happy I’m coming home, it actually breaks.  What kind of monster am I? Am I? Do you think I am?

I find my seat. I’m next to a woman that has no idea what she’s in for. Within seconds, I unload on her, telling her everything that’s happened within the last 24 hours. I spare no details and of course, whip out my phone so she can see the evidence- pictures, texts, selfies I don’t mean for her to see. It’s basically diarrhea of the mouth (similar in length and detail to this post). This lady, who I am convinced works for the CIA because she is vague about her job except that she does “IT”, seems to be listening, I think… or silently judging me. I ask her, A COMPLETE STRANGER, what she would have done (she’s traveling back to Minneapolis after 3 days on “another work trip”). She gives me the ugh, every mom’s worst nightmare spiel but doesn’t reaaaaaally tell me what she would have done. Does she know I need her to forgive me? Does she know my guilt needs to be quelled in order for me to get through this flight? I order a chardonnay from the flight attendant the first chance I get, and spend the next 80000 hours trying to log on to mother fucking go-go inflight and trying to read Eleanor Oliphant is Completely Fine. (Oh, couldn’t have picked a better book as I too lose my fucking marbles).

The next few hours suck. So, I will cut to the chase (I mean you’ve only been reading for 16 hours at this point). At 1:30am in the morning, I pulled up to Children’s Hospital. It’s eerie, magnificent and relieving all at once. I make my way to the 5^thfloor… There he is. Fast asleep. Hooked up to machines… I don’t wake him but I want to. Same with Peter. He’s so sound asleep.

I whisper, “Hi babe, I’m here.” He throws his arms around me and tells me how happy he is I came home. We sleep on the couch (for those familiar, it’s hardly meant for two), but we’re so tired that spooning and breathing in each other’s face for 4 straight hours is just fine. Because 4 straight hours of sleep is the most either of us has had in 72 hours really.

After I came back, and told this story, (don’t worry, I made it much shorter for them) everyone asked me if Everett immediately jumped into my arms and was happy to see me. The truth? No, not really. He was really sick. But I do know that within hours of me being there, his rash cleared up, his fever broke and we were discharged and sent home.

The cluster fuck of guilt that came from that experience has made me feel mad at myself, bad for myself, and grateful all at once. Guilt is a gnarly thing and is about as destructive as another negative emotion, if not worse. I don’t know what the solution is or how to stop the guilt like I stop the body hate thoughts (okay, I don’t really stop those, but I’ve seen some awesome quotes on Instagram that are really inspiring for the day I DO stop doing that), but I’d love to get there someday.

I’m literally finally able to sit down and write about this… from a Korean Spa. Where I was scrubbed, rubbed, and slapped (but like in a good way). I’ve had a huge bowl of ramen and a nice long sit in some tea bath and Himalayan salt room. I’m calm. Focused and for the first time in 3 weeks. And I’m not feeling guilty. Okay, maybe a little guilty. But not London guilty. Speaking of London guilt, is it possible I’m allergic to kimchee? My knee feels very itchy all of a sudden…

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Magic Jump Rentals: Why Bounce Houses Make the Best Birthdays!

September is a crazy month in my house. Not only is it back to school, but we’ve got three birthdays starting with mine on the 11^th, Oliver’s on the 15^th, and Jonah’s on the 20^th.  What’s a mama to do?! Bounce!

I wanted to keep Oliver’s birthday small and at home but also make sure there was enough to do for the little and big kids… So is there anything better than an awesome bounce house?! I teamed up with Magic Jump Rentals to find the perfect bounce house. Right now, Oliver is OBSESSED with Toy Story.

Magic Jump Rentals provided an awesome 5 in 1 Combo that featured (1) a bigger bouncing area; (2) a basketball hoop; (3) inflated push-through, obstacle pop-ups; (4) a wall climber; and (5) a “high platform” wet or dry slide.(We opted for dry because I’m lazy and didn’t want to wash towels. How’s that for a great hostess). 

Here are the reason why Bounce Houses make the best birthday parties:

• Everyone loves to jump! With a 12-year old, a 4-year old, and a 2-year old, finding activities all three boys love at the same time (other than melt downs which seem to happen simultaneously in an effort to kill me), is really difficult. Bounce houses literally make all three of them happy and they’re able to enjoy it differently. Oliver likes to climb up and slide on the slide. Everett likes to bounce and fall, bounce and fall. And Jonah likes to play basketball. PS. You may even find your grown up spouse bouncing with the boys (and by boys I mean  his friends too) from time to time.
• Magic Jump Rentals gives you an 8-hour rental window! So basically if your party starts at 3 and ends at 6, you can have your bounce house delivered at 11am and a 7 pm pick up with gives your kids 4 hours to get their bounce on and get super tired and sweaty before all of your guests arrive and they inevitably turn into miserable little people. But enough about me… The 8 hour wind is AMAZE.
• So many themes! What I loved about this bounce was that a) Toy Story theme meant I could coerce Oliver to remove the pajamas he insisted on wearing to his birthday (*smacks head on forehead) and wear his Buzz Lightyear costume instead… Which of course meant that Everett had to wear his Woody Costume. I mean, doesn’t get cuter than that.  

• It’s all you need to do. No really. You do not need entertainment. You don’t need bells and whistles. You just need a bounce house and it’s all contained. Not to mention, you know they’re working off all the sugar you’re giving at the party.
• They’re so reasonably priced! Magic Jump Rentals has the largest variety of games and rides with more than 700 to choose from! We’ve rented from them so many times (and other things too like chairs, popcorn stands and more), and their equipment is always so clean, so safe, and staff so reliable and friendly.
• Perfect for a random day… Like I said, they are so reasonably priced and come in all sizes and options, that it makes a great thing to go in on with neighbors on a lazy Sunday when all the dads want to watch  Football and all the moms hate the dads for watching football. Not that I know anything about that, but honestly, this really sounds like a great idea and I’m now thinking Super Bowl won’t be most dreaded day of the year after all!

If you want to know more about Magic Jump Rentals, head to their site or check out Yelp to see all their awesome reviews!

Thanks for an awesome party Magic Jump Rentals! See you again next September!

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I’m halfway through Glennon Doyle’s Untamed, and by half way I mean I’m an hour in on audible, and an hour as we know it now in “pandemic” terms could mean “forever” or “Tuesday” and no one really would know the difference.  Anyway, I’m listening to this book, something I’ve never done ever, because these days I need to have my eyes free for important things like simultaneously watching women I don’t know get facials and fillers on Instagram, or checking the vaccination websites obsessively to see if I should make/cancel/make/cancel appointments even though its not/ but kind of is/ but not/ it should be though my turn. Also, I have to listen because sitting down to read a book in the middle of a pandemic when you have a teenager that is learning from home, a husband working from home, and 16 loads of laundry and dishes, seems very very decadent. And usually at this point, when I’m in my world of Glennon and on the brink of adding some serum, diet powder, or a cardigan to my cart that I will ultimately cancel or return (see vaccination appointment ritual above), it usually means I’ve gotten in a quick ride on the Peloton, showered and applied the 3 different ointments to my psoriasis (a new gift from the pandemic, or maybe Judaism) and have about an hour left to feed said teen/man, finish said dishes and laundry, and turn around to pick up the two small children from preschool. I have truly mastered the art of multitasking. I feel happy. Should I feel happy for not wanting to actually be doing anything else but all the things I’m doing right now? At once.

Wait, what is this blog post about?

Oh, listening to a book. Right.

So I’m an hour in to halfway through Glennon Doyle’s Untamed, and I already feel rocked. Like where has this book been my whole life, and by whole life I mean, during 2020 coronavirus pandemic give me the fucking vaccine I’m so sick of talking about vaccines already shit show of a year.  I’m only a few amazing stories and anecdotes in and already I know she’s about to tell me something not only that was I ready and needing to hear, but that will change my life and make me get a new tattoo. Okay, maybe that’s jumping the gun but goddamn, I am hanging on to every word… and also wildly intrigued with this influencer showing me her “haul” of the 90’s mom “wedgie” jean look, a trend that the skinny jean hating Gen Z tells us we have to wear, which now leads me down a rabbit hole I go down often these days: How would this look on me? 

I must do further investigation.

I grab a stronger pair of my readers. Alrighty, let’s dive in and dissect a complete stranger’s body as it compares to mine ON SOCIAL MEDIA. I remind myself as I often do that thinness, particularly, a stranger’s thinness, doesn’t equate happiness… Oh, who am I kidding. Thinness is a gift and is what I’m striving for. It’s what’s missing from this mostly perfect life of mine. Let’s continue to look outward, I think, as I swipe, zoom in, and analyze this woman’s life I’m seeing through filtered photos ALL IN THE NAME OF GODDAMN 90’s JEANS just as Glennon says:

 “You are not a mess. You are a feeling person in a messy world.”

Excuse me, what? Did she just give me permission to feel everything at once? 

“You are are not a mess,” I tell/ask myself as I my eyes finally focus on what it is I’m doing while I’m listening to this gold: Jenny, you are  single white female-ing looking at a woman on instagram who you don’t know, has lived through zero days in your body, has not experienced any of the moments that have made you YOU, or birthed out three very different boys in three very different ways and from two different dads, if I may add. What does her body have to do with yours and how can you feel happy in life if you’re not happy in your own skin?

Wait. STOP. I need to hear what Glennon said again. No one has told me this. No one has told me it’s okay to feel what I feel exactly as I feel now.

Wait, how do I feel?

I close out from my app and hit rewind on audible and to listen again. This time, my eyes are on the pile of laundry I started to fold next to the peloton I’m supposed to ride.

“You are not a mess. You are a feeling person in a messy world.”

You are where you need to be. That’s the first thing that comes to my mind. 

Believe it or not, you like it here.

It’s okay to like it HERE. But it’s time to like the person that’s here.

IS THIS WHAT FEELING PRESENT FEELS LIKE????

This feeling is so new. Like I don’t need to be anywhere else. Like there’s nothing wrong with the fact that I’m actually dare I say it: Happy to be doing laundry and listening to Glennon Doyle and squeezing in a workout and dishes and turning around to pick up my toddlers. Like what if, dare I say it, I’m GOOD with this. Like what if, dare I say it, I’m not wishing I was somewhere else. What if, dare I say it, folding laundry, doing dishes, sweeping floors, shuttling to and from preschool, making lunches for the troops at home- what if this feels completely and utterly great and I’m completely and utterly grateful for the opportunity to do shit that feels completely and utterly meaningless and MEANINGFUL all at once.

AND WHAT IS THIS FUCKING BLOG POST ABOUT??!?!?

Oh, listening to a book… Or to myself. 

*******

I really don’t know what this blog post is about. I’m also not sure what has taken me so long to write a blog post.

But then again, does it matter? I’m here for now. Messy, Mid rise Skinny jeans and all. 

The post THE LAUNDRY LISTENER appeared first on Perfectly Disheveled.

When I was in 4th grade, in addition to thinking that Corey Haim and I would one day meet and fall in love, I considered myself to have a very keen sense of style (as exhibited by that darling get up on your left here). I just knew what was in and I knew what I liked. Luckily for me, the stir-up leggings, pushy socks, and over-sized sweatshirts splattered with neon paint look suited my twice baked potato like figure. Oh, if only the Gen Z fashion dictators of today’s world had any respect for thin-legged-bloated-tummy girls like me… But in 1985, I had the potential to be totally rad. And one day, I decided that I was going to take my radness to the next level and wear a WAFFLE KNIT legging to school. To be clear, these waffle knit “leggings” were not like the waffle knit material you’d pay $250 on Shopbop for. No. These “leggings” were in fact THERMAL PAJAMAS. Remember those? Yes? Before some marketing genius decided to call it “Loungewear” and suggest to exhausted mothers across America that if you just match your Thermal Pajama Pullover with your bottom Thermal Pajama Jogger,  you will look pulled together and happy to be telling your toddler for the 65th time that they may not have another popsicle until they eat one pea. ONE GODDAMN PEA. IS THAT SO FUCKING HARD?!

BUT I DIGRESS…

Thermal Pajamas. So here I was, one sunny, pre-pubescent day circa 1985… I had just slept in my thermal pajamas that had been purchased as actual winter undergarments for when we visited our cousins in Chicago. Although I had a perfectly acceptable pair of pants to wear that day for our recess rehearsal of “Hungry Life a Wolf” routine (being allowed to dance in this routine by the popular girls assured me that I was on the path to one day to kissing a real boy on the real lips), I decided maybe I should step out of my Esprit comfort zone and start a new trend: THERMAL UNDERWEAR – or as I saw it: Leggings with TEXTURE…. Ta da! 

“Honey, you’re wearing your pajamas to school?,” my Mom said with a tone that was way more complicated than that sentence looks. (But I’m not sure how to sum up ones 44 years of single mother/daughter experience in one sentence if you know what I mean).

“I wear them to sleep. But they’re not pajamas,” I defended.

“Well, they are thermal underwear technically. Like meant for under clothes.”

“But they’re pink,” I said. So like, “Duh.”

“But they’re your pajamas, Jenny.”

“Nobody knows they’re my pajamas. They don’t know what I sleep in.” DUH.

She gently criticized, er, discouraged this a little more. But my confidence in my fashion choice far outweighed the disapproval and fear I saw in her. What was there to fear anyway? So what if they’re pajamas? They have TEXTURE. They’re pale pink. They’re different and it’s okay to be different, a little, sometimes, right??? RIGHT??

Nope. Not in 1985. NOT RIGHT. NOT RIGHT AT ALL.

Halfway through our recess “Hungry Like a Wolf” routine, Roni, our ring leader told us she had new choreography she wanted to add. It was too late though, the bell rang and recess was over. As I hopped down from the bench, Daryl, a boy in my grade that dangled somewhere between Duran Duran routines with the girls and hoops at recess with the boys, walked by me and sneered,  “Nice pajamas, Jenny B.” (Btw, you never left out the last initial in the 80’s for any Jenny, Jennifer, or Julie).

“They’re not pajamas. They’re waffle knit leggings.” I would never reveal that they were actually in fact thermal underwear. They would never know the truth anyway. THEY don’t go to Chicago in the winter to visit cousins. THEY don’t know. Fuck Daryl. 

“They look like pajamas,” Daryl laughed, which soon lead to others laughing.

“Oh my god, Jenny!!! You wore pajamas to school???” Now my dance squad was laughing. They no longer saw a chic back up dancer (will I ever be a lead?), they saw little girl pajamas. I WAS WEARING FUCKING PAJAMAS TO SCHOOL and there was no escaping. 

For the rest of the day I felt naked, like those bad dreams where you’re standing in the middle of the store, school, work etc.  naked and everyone sees you. That was me. Naked, in thermal underwear pajamas and scrunchy socks. Any chances of a solo in our upcoming Wham routine was over as was the chances of ever being touched by a human boy. I screwed it all up. I will never believe in myself again. I will always care what other people think only. Especially my Mom. She always goddamn knows.

“How was school,” she asked.

“Daryl knew they were pajamas. They laughed at me.” 

“I told you, honey” she said lightly.  (But, like I said, I’m not sure how to sum up ones 44 years of single mother/daughter experience in one sentence, if you know what I mean).

____

A few weeks ago, my mom, mother in-law and I gathered in my backyard for our bi-weekly mani/ pedi date. This is a new “joy” from the pandemic, if you will… an absolute luxury… And certainly, one that does not go unacknowledged and is stored in the “Thank God for this (1st world problem)” vault. Usually, our mani/pedi party is done during the morning – while the littles are at school and I can enjoy my cuticle cut with without a child begging me for a snack or a wifi code. One particular day, our appointment had to take place while the boys were home… Typically, my kids RUN when they see a nail cutter. They are TERRIFIED of having their nails cut. I’m fairly sure this is because I’m a) terrible at cutting their nails b) panic when I have to cut nails c) shouldn’t be allowed to cut anyone’s nails, and they sense this all. For whatever reason, on this day, when they saw us doing it and wanted IN. 

“Mommy, can I have color on my nails?” Oliver said.

“And me??” Everett copied.

“You guys want polish like mommy… on your nails?”

They squealed, “YES!”

I gave my mom and MIL a shrug returned by a shrug that in ancient Judaism means, “Give him vat he vants.”

“Okay, I said. What color? Maybe gree-“

“PINK!” Oliver yelled. “I want Pink!” 

And then I said what my Gen X, baby wearing, VBAC giving, doula paying, avoid GMOs, parenting classes, gut instinct, advised me never to say: “Are you sure you want PINK?”

“YES! I want pink! Pink! I want pink! Can I have pink?”

I gave my mom and MIL another shrug this time deep from the Shtetl and they shrugged back, “So vat? Pink, shmink. Give him VAT HE VANTS.”

“Okay! Pink it is…”

I immediately run upstairs and in to Peter’s office. He’s on a zoom but this is urgent. He gives me a wtf look then excuses himself from the call. I tell him what is happening. 

“Oliver and Everett want a manicure.”

“With a color?”

“Yes…I already said yes.”

“What color?”

“Pink.”

“No.”

“But Everett wants Blue. With sparkles.”

“No.”

“No??” I ask.

“I mean Everett can have blue but Oliver can’t have pink,” he turned to get back on to his call.

“What??? That’s ridiculous. Of course he can have pink. You’re wearing a pink golf shirt right now?” My blood and brain are starting to come back to my fight for social injustice, I am woman hear me roar, body.

“Then why are you telling me this?”

WHY AM I TELLING HIM THIS, I think as I race back out the door like people that scream WHY ARE YOU YELLING when you’re the one yelling (I’m always the one yelling).

I run outside as Oliver and Everett sit down in front of the manicurist more patiently and intently than I have ever seen in my life. 

Oliver asks her another 35 times if she will do pink AS she’s doing pink. She says, “Sure! I’ll do pink.”

He really wants pink.

I give my Mom and Mother in-Law another shrug that the Torah refers to as “I should get over it right?” They nod in a way my ancestry tells me means, “Yes, get over it. It’s just a color.”

IT IS JUST A COLOR. Green, orange, metallic blue, pink. DOES IT MATTER? Does it say something about me? Does it say something about him? 

I remember that one day in 1985 I loved my waffle knit -okay, fine- goddamn THERMAL UNDERWEAR so much, I had to wear them to school. And in those days, mothers didn’t know (like I know thanks to endless amounts of therapy and social media to really make you feel inadequate) that you DO NOT stop your child from wanting to express themselves in the most harmless, inconsequential yet, identity affirming way. You don’t stop them from choosing a color or an outfit, just because you think it’s not what other people will like or approve of. You know better. You know this is a benign moment and has zero meaning other than the fact he likes pink because it’s a fucking pretty color and color has no deep, biblical, earth shattering meaning except for what your eyes are seeing… and ONLY what your brain has been conditioned to understand it means. You know this because you are 44 fucking years old and listen to podcasts and recycle when you can. You know this because you’re not woke, but you’re not a complete dumb ass either.

And even though you want (and continue to this day) to tell everyone and anyone you see that may or may not even look at this child’s hands that he “Ha! Wanted pink!” Don’t judge me, or him kind of way, you know that apologizing for the spirit your child has and his commitment to the color pink, along with a collared shirt he insists on wearing almost every day, is really unnecessary. You know you do not need to apologize for his fashion choices. Maybe, just maybe, he sees “texture” and greatness in his colors and clothes that I don’t see… and that my mother didn’t or couldn’t see in 1985. (But again, how do you sum up ones 44 years of single mother/daughter experience in one sentence post, if you know what I mean).

___

I’m not going to lie, as much as I had hoped that I had birthed at least one daughter, I often find myself relieved that I haven’t birthed at least one daughter… that the powers, the universe, and genetic makeup of my babies daddies gave me three sons. I often find myself feeling like I was meant for sons, that a daughter would be too complicated for me and that there is a bigger, more divine reason for my heart to beat blue…

Even when he wants pink.

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