Confession: Pottytraining SUCKS.

I’ve been MIA. Truth is, I was overwhelmed by hate mail (its true, but don’t give me the “don’t let it bother you speech.” I’m a wimp and hormonal and I’m fortunate for the friends who already have). I’ve also realized my kids have actually been pretty well behaved, and when you write a blog focused around the shitstorm, that is parenting,  it’s kind of like a sunny day for a storm chaser. But we all know behind the good- is the bad, and then the ugly. And that shitstorm I just mentioned, came back. Literally. I imagine this will be the first of many potty training posts. So for now…I’ll leave you with this.

We made the mistake of promising actual toys (bad guys as W liked to call action figures) as potty training rewards the first time around. You read that right. The FIRST time around, as in my kid was actually already potty trained once, hundreds of dollars in bad guys later. But then my kid might have bumped his head and suffered from amnesia and forgets we don’t put the poop in our pants anymore (only logical explanation). We have been in potty training hell for five months. FIVE. One hundred and fifty days.

We recently decided that it was time to start over. I was giving Jelly Beans as potty rewards…Star Wars jelly beans are the perfect incentive for a stubborn three year old who will put pee anywhere but the toilet and a lot less expensive. But you see, I stepped away for one moment and came back to this:



That stool is covered in pee (that’s why it’s yellow). It was moved from the bathroom to the kitchen so W could reach the potty training jelly beans and help himself. And help himself to having an accident right on the stool in the middle of our kitchen floor.

So how do you discipline a toddler with a fat face full of potty training jelly beans – wearing soaking wet underwear – standing in a pee puddle – on the potty training stool – he took from the bathroom? The irony here is exhausting and my kid is wearing diapers to kindergarten.



Are you a good mom?

I wait up until 11pm every evening to pump. Sometimes I eat a second dinner (unnecessary), sometimes I catch up on work (productive), sometimes- I pass the time partaking in a group text that’s burn book worthy with some moms in my playgroup (you still can’t sit with us). Often, I find myself overwhelmed by the anxiety of the day and what I can expect from my monsters tomorrow. I think about how I could’ve been a “better mom.” I glance down at my snot covered shoulder and mismatched socks and flip through the pictures on my phone:








I maybe should’ve taught W that when he drops pasta on the dog, though it’s nice to wipe it off, we shouldn’t eat it afterwards. Although, I’m thoroughly impressed by his understanding of the Five Second Rule.







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And when N eats dog food for the fifth time in one morning, I probably should lift the bowl up off of the ground instead of grabbing my phone for a picture. But he looked so fresh today.








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And breast-pump tubing is NOT a weapon, though it does make a pretty threatening whipping sound when used as nunchucks and will make your brother cry. A lot.








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And steam-in-a-bag vegetables are gag-worthy. And maybe he will forgive me that his brother was fed his organic veggies from Whole Foods straight from a silver spoon.







But most importantly, that my kids are sleeping soundly in bed (for now) and know nothing more than the life we have given them today. I’m not June Cleaver yet I’m not Kris Kardashian (is it bad that some days I want to be?) and we should really stop asking ourselves if we are good enough and just be good enough. Or just drink an extra glass of wine until we believe we are. Cheers.



Confession: You hurt my feelings.

What dreams are made of.



So I have been blown away by the support since launching this little endeavor of mine. The comments, shares, emails, messages, just wow! But with the good, comes the bad…and the ugly. And despite how hard I tried to explain my intentions, they were lost in translation. Someone recently called me a superficial mom (well technically a superficial mom-blog), but I’ll take it for what I want. I thought really long and hard about it, and I realized I am. I think you are. I think we are all a little superficial. Despite my take-it-as-you-see-it attitude, I guess it’s not enough.

“Anything superficial has to do with the surface of something. If you’re judging a book by its cover, you’re being superficial. People who worry too much about their clothes and hair may also be considered superficial.”

So here’s the truth. I’m currently writing this while eating a 3-day old stale donut left from W’s birthday party. We hosted just immediate family because honestly, our home isn’t large enough for the “friends” he’s acquired over his short life. I chose to host a brunch and still made it as “super” as possible. W didn’t know the difference. He ate way too much sugar, ran around like a zoo animal, and had the best day a three year old could ask for (well until he started projectile vomiting in the middle of my living room…but I’ll spare you the details, he most likely knew I was running out of blog material).

So here’s a little I-spy as amends to anyone who thought I was being superficial in past posts.



-Champagne bucket that will probably sit there for another week. First time we used it (a wedding gift-5 years ago) and don’t ask why we had Champagne at a 3 year old’s breakfast brunch.

-The box of donuts with two left, hard as rocks, but ripped apart, because I wanted to see what kind of cream they were filled with. I could throw it away, but what would I eat for lunch?

-An empty paper towel roll, because changing it would probably be the hardest job in the world. Right after changing the toilet-paper roll.

-An apple cutter, because we had to put something healthy in W’s school lunch today, despite the fact we didn’t go food shopping.

-A chevron solo cup…I guess I am a little superficial.

-Formula. I am exclusively breastfeeding 98% of the time. But I don’t care if we have to supplement. Sometimes I’m dehydrated, sometimes Nash is extra hungry, sometimes I want two glasses of wine, and some days I can’t pump.

-Day old bowl of soup. We all have the flu. Nash has a double ear infection. Karma is real, my friends.

And this one…


-Yes, my christmas tree is still up. No explanation needed on that one.

-Boppy, haven’t used that in months….well except to prop up the baby with a bottle when I need to check my email. Or Facebook.

-Clean but ready to go mixing bowl, doubled as a puke bucket. And of course one of my nice hand towels for the clean up. Why, not?

-My sofa is destroyed, we need a new one but just can’t bring ourselves to it. Besides, then we would actually have to sit at the table to eat…together.

-Ninja Turtle blanket. Smells terrible. But I can never time the washing right and can’t deal with tears. (I should probably wash it right now)

-A play chair thrown on the floor, because everyone’s three year old doubles as the Hulk when it comes time to get dressed for school, right?

-Breastpump. Can I just be done yet?

And yeah, my hair would probably stay in that bun because I haven’t washed it in over a week. My kid is crusted in snot because he’s sick and so am I and there are not enough tissues in the world. I’ve been wearing that nursing tank since Sunday. I like nice things for sure. I am in to the way I dress and dress my kids (I own a children’s store for goodness sake!). And I would love for you to think of me as a well-educated, hard-working, loving mom who maybe appears half put together most of the time. Because why would I want anyone to think of me as anything less? I started exposing our terrible “is this real life?” moments because it was funny. When you laughed with me, I felt less alone. Because sometimes life really sucks. It has to, to make the good moments that much better….which is probably why we look forward to bedtime every night, but miss our kids while they are sleeping.


Don’t forget to email or message me your photos and stories. I would love to hear from you!


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Confession: Nightmares for days.


I’m not sure the monitor usually turns red on the top, or it’s warning us that my exorcist toddler is just waiting until we fall asleep to eat our brains and wear our hair as wigs. Good luck sleeping ever again after seeing this.  (how many times have you turned on your monitor to those glowing eyes?)

Confession: Officially a Threenager.


Freshly Picked-1-3

Happiest of birthdays to my first born, Wyatt Remington. Three. Wow. Thank you for giving us laughter, purpose, and patience. Without you I would never know how versatile yoga pants were. I would have wasted hours blow drying my hair and your dad may still think I’m hot.

 “Everyone you meet is fighting a battle you know nothing about, be kind.

I never truly understood the power of that quote until trying to get out the door in the morning with a two year old this year. I’m still winning the tally on tears. So many people have told me that three is worse than two, so I’ve watched the last few seasons of The Walking Dead to prepare. Wish us luck…



Disclaimer: I love this boy with all of my heart and soul. If you have met him, you probably do to. He’s a firecracker. Never boring. He’s full of life and dirty looks, but we wouldn’t trade him for the world. But nothing like your first born, to knock you completely on your ass.

Confession: Kids are gross.



I don’t know what’s worse…the potentially lethal batteries in his hand or the pound of snot falling from his face. Oh, and sure I’ll just take a quick picture instead of wiping his face and taking them away. Do yourself a favor, and get yourself a membership to Lysol of the month club. But make sure its the organic kind.

Confession: Grocery Cupcakes

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Okay. I can’t bake. Like really, really, really CANNOT bake. You see, the thing with baking, is you have to follow a recipe EXACTLY as its stated. And if my kids could detach themselves from my leg long enough for me to use the bathroom, then yeah, I could maybe read the recipe long enough to throw a batch of cupcakes in the oven. But the last time I went to the bathroom by myself was maybe two years ago. (fun activity: pretend you are having serious, um, stomach issues, and need to be left alone…use your best Kim Kardashian cry face to yell at your husband to get the kids out of the bathroom…bonus minutes if you splash some water on your forehead and pretend you are sweating. Grab your iPad and divulge in 5 minutes of quiet. Works. Every. Time. You’re welcome, my friends- Toph if you are reading this: my stomach really did hurt).

But don’t think I didn’t see you strutting into school with your perfectly coifed frosting and your perfectly printed cupcake liners and your stupid red-velvet cupcakes from scratch, and you dare have on makeup and pre baby jeans?  I burnt the slice-and-bake tubes-of-lard birthday cookies and ended up at Giant picking up mini cupcakes 5 minutes before dropping off the birthday boy. I thought about re-plating them on my Hermes platter but I didn’t want to give you all a complex (it’s all about presentation, people). And think twice before you judge my extravagant $200 two-tier fondant cake at my kids’ birthday parties every year. It’s cheaper than therapy and it helps me sleep at night.

Disclaimer: Don’t let the look of disappointment fool you. That kid ate the entire tray on the way to school. I told the teachers that was toothpaste on his shirt. Kidding. Kind of.

Confession: Parenting Sucks.


The Highchair Confession: (n) a formal statement admitting that one is guilty of a crime, a crime related to improper parenting as a result of unexpected and wrongful acts of your child(ren)’s behavior.

When I envisioned my happily ever after, I was hopping in my perfectly polished G-Wagon to meet friends for a small salad and a latte while my kids were at school. My ass was made for LuluLemon and my kids were more VonTrapp and less Honey Boo-Boo. At home, my organic chicken was marinating in my perfectly clean kitchen…in my perfectly decorated home with a million rooms free of toys. My kids had the coolest clothes, the happiest hearts, and were full of life. I was forever smoking-hot and my husband was just as in love with me as the day we met. Cue the Real Housewives theme song…

After having my first baby, I was slapped with some serious truth. The 75 pounds you gain during pregnancy doesn’t just magically melt off with breast feeding. Thanks a lot Jessica Alba. And babies throw up. Tons. And they don’t give a shit about how expensive your shirt is. Or how it may be the ONLY one in your entire closet that fits right now…They also poop and pee…and poop and pee right through their clothes…and poop and pee right their clothes onto your clothes. At the absolute worst of times. And really again, they don’t care how bad it messes your day up. They remind you that selflessness is an art and no matter how good of a mom you thought you would be, it just won’t be good ENOUGH. In fact, anything you do during your time as a parent, really won’t be ENOUGH. Until I realized what I was comparing myself to…

Well before kids, I was a serial blog enthusiast. Mainly sartorial and fashion blogs, some home, and a few parenting blogs. Particularly obsessed with a group of Mormon bloggers with their perfect teeth, bangs so on point that you believe you would look good with them too (dear god, don’t get bangs!), wardrobes worthy of Anthro catalogs, and perfect little offspring dressed in mixed prints and boho leather sandals having the most amazing time doing the things you knew GOOD mamas to do. Painting and coffee dates and park picnics and zoo trips and dinner parties (not the dinner parties you see on RHOBH or Mad Men for that matter…but the dinner parties where everyone is so disgustingly hip, the food: blog worthy -duh!-…the striped straws…the place cards…the kids pounding on the candy colored piano- you know the type)

When I realized I would never be able to compare to this idealistic modern marvel of “parenting” or at least wasn’t as i-Photographically savvy enough to paint that picture as it stood, I posted my first “highchair confession.” It was a half-assed edit of my oldest, Wyatt, standing behind me with a pizza sauce covered face. He had smeared his sauce-encrusted hand down the back of my shirt. I snapped a picture as he leaned over me smiling devilishly. I realized that was parenthood. Your kid is happy. You did something right. And you are a good mom, afterall. I posted a few more photos with #thehighchairconfessions tag and was blown away by the response. The pictures got a lot of unexpected feedback. I received several calls and messages with personal thank yous from moms I knew well, and some barely at all, thanking me for being real- for sharing moments that we all have and reminding us all that sometimes parenting sucks. Sometimes we aren’t perfect. And sometimes we need a sauce covered pat on the back.


I invite you to share your confessions as I embark on this blog- sharing all of mine. We are all in this magically beautiful shit storm of parenting together.


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