The Optimists.

I have been dealing with two sick toddlers on and off for the past 10 days, I haven’t been exercising, I’ve been eating terribly and yelling a lot. I think I might be half-sick myself, I can’t think of anything funny to say, and I’m cranky because I’m hungry. Now that I’ve gotten the whining out of the way, I can tell you about the little optimists I’m raising.

We went on a boat ride this weekend.

Because something is wrong with me, I dressed us like it was still summer. We were the only people on the river without jackets, and my children were huddled and shivering by the end of it all. I just held my head high, like yeah.





I drew the arrows on the picture above because apparently some of the good people on Facebook thought the entire log was an alligator. Um … if that were the case, I wouldn’t be smiling. It was a baby gator sunning itself, and I heard myself yelling, “WAIT! LET ME TAKE A SELFIE!” because I’m quickly becoming that person.

Now, no disrespect to anyone, but we saw several houses with slides or rope swings, which I assume means people actually swing or slide into the very same river that the baby alligators and the mama alligators live in. What the hell are they thinking? River people must be optimists.

Afterwards, we went to McDonald’s and Maverick dropped his ice cream cone on the floor. He quickly picked it back up and tried to continue eating it. I took it away (i.e. shrieked and jerked it from his grasp) and explained why you can’t eat anything that has landed on a McDonald’s floor … E-V-E-R.

He looked at me and said loudly and with zest, “At least it landed on my pants first!” And then he proceeded to lean over and lick ice cream off the leg of his pants.

Optimists, man. They don’t worry about Ebola, Salmonella, or being eaten alive. They just live.

Dinner In Thibodeaux

This weekend, we traveled down to the little town of Thibodeaux, LA. The landscape between Baton Rouge and Thibodeaux looks exactly like what you saw in last season’s True Detective (if you watched it). Sugar cane fields and old plantations, with a bayou running alongside the winding highway. It’s so beautiful, in that strange Louisiana way.


We went so I could see my friend Laure, of Finding Fresh. We stuck our husbands in front of a football game and watched our boys run around like wild Indians while Pepper crawled around and looked cute. All was well — my kids didn’t break anything that I am aware of, and no one said anything wildly inappropriate. This should have been my first clue. As we packed up to head out to dinner, I thought to myself how happy I was that we could visit someone’s home and be a totally normal, non-destructive, polite family of five.

Dinner was wonderful. The restaurant was thankfully almost empty except for the nine of us, and for whatever reason they decided to seat our party right in front, directly next to the hostess stand. Aside from Pepper throwing an absurd amount of food on the floor, we almost got through dinner without incident.

And then it happened.

The boys started getting a little stir-crazy. Asher was burping repeatedly and Maverick must have been laughing with too much food in his mouth and he started choking. I sat there staring at him, trying to determine if this was a real choking incident or if he was just being dramatic. Since I wasn’t taking action, Robbie came from behind me and started pounding him on the back. This is when I realized, hello, my child is actually choking. But he was definitely getting some air because he was able to cough and eventually puke it up. I then went to the weird place moms go when they have to deal with something they don’t want to deal with, and I held out my hand so he could cough masticated chicken nuggets into it.

He coughed with such force that it caused a nosebleed, which I wiped at with my other hand. By the time it was over, his shirt was covered in blood and ketchup and the entire place was silent. Laure and her family huddled on the other side of the table, staring. Later on, she commented on how calm Robbie and I were, but I don’t think it’s calmness. I think it’s desensitization.

When the bar gets set to a certain height, it changes things a little. When Asher fell in glass last year, I was beyond traumatized, so anything that is less serious than that (you can read about it here, or maybe NOT) just doesn’t faze us apparently. But wow … dinner with the Hobbs is kind of exhausting. And dangerous, apparently.



Open Letter Fail.

I don’t know where to begin. 

I’m writing an open letter to a specific group of people and I am concerned it will come off like I think too highly of myself. I assure you, I do not ride a high horse. I can’t even ride a regular-sized horse. One time I tried to ride one at summer camp and he hated me so much he tried to scrape me off on a fence. So then our hatred became mutual.


Image found at

Back to the letter. Weird people, meaning the not fun weird, but truly weird-weird type, bother me. Sometimes after I encounter one, the only thing I can think of to do about it is simply to write them an open letter that they will never, ever read.

I forgot how outgoing the people are down here in the bayou. I quite like it, except when it’s in the form of unwelcome sexual advances and/or attempted pick-ups. Then I dislike it a LOT.  Especially if my children are with me. It’s one thing for a stranger to bother me when I’m alone, but usually one or both of my kids are present and staring with their big saucer eyes. That is what happened today and I am still so furious that I’m starting to sweat a little just typing this. 

Do I want my sons to grow up seeing their mama ignoring strange men who talk to her? That makes me feel like I’m just allowing something uncomfortable to happen to me. Should I scream obscenities at them instead? I don’t know what would be better. They need to know that women are to be respected. Obviously the people I’m writing to never learned that.


Dear Strange and Unmannerly Man At The Gas Station,

If I gave you the impression that I am looking to take a ride to Slut Town because I’m dressed like a normal person who drives a normal car with two car seats in the back, I am sorry to have misled you.

No, I do not need a baby daddy. I have one already. His name is Husband. I find it strange that someone who is so persistent should be out looking for a girlfriend. Seems you’d have one already.

Now run along before I fucking run you over, you piece of shit.

Thank you,