The Plight of the Pacifier

One of the soothing staples in our household is the pacifier. My children know it as a “bee-bo” and it was a magical device up until my husband and I would regularly have conversations that sounded like:

“I couldn’t find the bee-bo with the rocket on it and that’s the only one that Charlotte says is “the good one” so she cried until we found the Mickey one which apparently is also acceptable.” I highly suggest sprinkling this sentences into your wedding vows, because I guarantee in your wedded bliss no one anticipates spousal arguments at midnight over whose turn it is to locate the good binky.


Feel free to substitute pacifier for anything to make our struggle relatable: bottles, blankets, boobies. We hold on tight to anything that makes our jobs as parents a little easier. Until it makes everything harder and that is where we landed. There are over 137 different ways to quit this habit but rather than fairies or fancy tricks we went cold turkey. As a rebuttal for going cold turkey—I had my 2-year-old boycott naps all together for 5 days and my 4-year-old waking up every hour in a sleepy haze, crying for her bee-bo like a nicotine junkie jonesing for a cigarette or the patch. Only there is no patch for this and I know a little something about addiction and half measures avail us nothing. Thankfully, in the most dramatic of fashions, I threw all 23 pacifiers in a garbage can in a parking structure in Sacramento, because I knew at 3 in the morning I would go dig them out of our own trash and be so tempted to cave to ease their “suffering”.

Knowing what I do now, would I go back in time and not put that tiny piece of plastic in my baby’s mouth to avoid the last week of hell? Nah, it has allowed me: many peaceful car rides, the precious few extra minutes of sleep and so many Stroller Strides workouts I couldn’t possibly count. The bee-bos have served their purpose and are gone for good, but I do promise to stand by you, children of mine, until you have learned to self-sooth in sickness and in health and in our new life together without pacifiers.


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A Valentine’s Day Poem for the Millennial Mom

It’s 2 in the morning,

I’m stuffing cards for their class.

How does every holiday

Become a pain in my ass?


The note from the school read:

“No sugar, nuts, dairy--and of course gluten-free

We don’t need to remind you,

About childhood obesity.”


Heart “cookies” for the girls

And little Legos for the dudes.

“Treats” should be baked

(Or) At the very least from Whole Foods.


Homemade cards that glitter,

Each topped with a feather.

It’s really just a contest,

To pretend we have our sh*t together.               


The goodies are completed

With cards they "helped" make.

I’m waiting for their exit,

Before I stuff my face with cake.


This holiday should be a day of compassion,

Full of sugar, friends, and our love interest.

It is not a day to out “Stepford Mom” each other,

From unobtainable goals on Pinterest.

Happy Valentine's Day from my munchkins to yours!




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The Ick Factor

Yesterday at my daughter’s preschool I watched 6 out of the 15 kids pick their noses during circle time. 4 of them ate it, 1 of them wiped it on their pants and the other on their neighbor. Let’s face it, sometimes our little angels are just gross little monsters. 

Several months into my first pregnancy, I remember reading Kaiser’s suggested birth plan ideas (pause for after-the-fact laughter that anyone thinks you can possibly plan how your precious miracle will enter the world). I vividly remember checking the box that said “I’d like my baby to be lightly toweled off before being placed on my chest”. I kept searching for the “just like in the movies” box that said, “a 5-month-old, freshly bathed and lightly dipped in jelly will be handed to me”, however that apparently wasn’t covered under our insurance. Not only did I help pull Charlotte out myself, but she could have been plastered in a pickle/black olive juice combo and I still would have kissed her head and inhaled her scent like I needed it to give me life (which I still do).

One of my children, who will remain nameless to respect their privacy, brought me a little treasure, cupped so gently in her hands I thought she was showing me an injured bird. Nope, it was poop. A perfectly shaped turd that must have fallen out during a diaper change. Rather than run screaming in disgust, I immediately hosed everyone down and then upped their fiber intake, in that order.

I thought that by having little girls I might escape the laundry list of icks, but no such luck. Luckily, there are no amount of boogers, bodily fluids, and BM’s that could stop us from loving our messy little monsters.


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