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The Goose is 20 months old, and in a bleaker time for our country, she's this sharp burst of light for our household. She's the double dose of extravert, the showgirl of her mother and the comedian of her father, the dancer of all beats in the background, and a damn good time. She loves us almost as much as Ms. Rachel and definitely more than Elmo, as she now regularly pushes her sweet Elmo toy over and laughs. When we play in a group, she is the first to make friends, and in a room of toddlers still uncertain of one another, she's the hugger. Nestled inside the adorable smiling face is a bit of a chihuahua. You steal her sh*t and she'll snatch it back. Push her? Oh, snap. I'm not exactly opposed to this, as you may imagine. Raising a little girl with feist is my specialty. This month we had a family trip with friends to Taos. The Goose got herself some special time with her Auntie Meg and Uncle James. For people who live far from family, these manufactured family units are beautiful. We collected a whole headful of memories of her grasping her tall Uncle James and giggling with Aunt Meggie. She also screamed at them, sure sure, but friendamily folks are the ones who laugh at the insanity of toddlers they love and bask in the light of their more cuddly moments. That dark little thought that lingers in the back of every parent's head doesn't weigh so heavy for us. If anything were to happen to Tim and me, she has a community who would raise her to be a brave, empathetic, and wonderful human. Now that we've highlighted everything all rainbows and sunshine, there's some real bullsh*t going on in 19-month-old parentland, folks. I am very late to posting, but it's this compilation of world-crashing events that sent me into delay. You see, I've barely slept. (I mean, have you?) The first reason I'm delayed is a sleep regression, nay THE sleep regression. Let's discuss the 18-month (or 19-20 month for us) sleep regression. One day, we transitioned to 11-13 hours of sleep every night. We even have to wake this kid up at 9am because she'd sleep in. It is a state of living I'd never experienced (pre-baby life? never heard of it). There she is, 18/19/20ish months, and I am drinking, nay chugging, a rich elixir of rest and time for myself. Dude, I read a book. It's soft and heavenly, and I think "what an adorable little life I have and man, I love my family so, so much." I schedule photos of the three of us. We have dinner out with friends and even say yes to trips with her. My husband is cool and just lovely. Funniest guy in the room. Then, one night, this little angel baby wakes from her slumber in a fit. Oh no! I think. And she is just not to be consoled. And then when she is consoled, she thanks me for my soothing powers and requests a middle-of-the-night dance party with blocks and snacks. I think "sure I've partied at 2am, but I don't care for this party at 2am." She throws a book at me. She laughs. She's insane. I assume my darling child, my little one, must be off. Nay. She is not off. In fact, the universe has swooped into my blissful little life, pointed its fat middle finger, and pressed an on button. Electrodes fly through her brain and the concept of separation pierces her wee, little heart, causing a siren to blare every hour or two. MOMMY AND DADDY AREN'T HERE DEAR GOD WE MUST SCREAM. And just as I've nestled into a life of blissful sleep, I sink back into the pit of sleep deprivation and (lovingly) accusing my partner of being a huge asshole for snoring in the precious segments of time for sleep. Our house reverts back to a disaster and the laundry, when it is done, piles onto a couch to be folded—never—because this is now our closet. When I do sleep, it's in bits and pieces, so it's super convenient. I can just grab sweatpants and a hoodie on the fly from the couch pile. I wear my husband's clothes a little more often. UGH. This has been my life until about six days ago. I'm shaking as I write that and banging against my wood desk, hoping the universe and its middle finger stay far away. Because for the past six days she's slept for 11 hours. Like nothing happened. The actual F, my guy? The second reason I'm delayed in my post, and the second reason I struggle to sleep, is something so many of us are wrestling with: Do I parent like I'm happy or parent like I'm mad? Because in the big scheme of this world, I'm mad. I was ready to hit publish on the 12th, but that day a mother's murder was all over national TV. I was ready again a few days later. And again. How can I be a happy parent? The answer, I think, is that I can do it without disconnecting. You can be happy and aware, happy and talking. Post information and speak to those who may only access one source. Correct wrong information with credible sources. I hope that the Goose sees a sense of confidence and happiness in supporting people, upholding the constitution, and caring for those different than us. We take things day by day and cherish each second, especially when the world feels uncertain. We love this little girl so very much and we savor this age. I know I'm lucky. And I will do everything in my little power to give her and her generation a big, wonderful, lucky life. If you'd like to donate to an organization to help those in Minneapolis, my friends and mom groupies all recommend Hope-community.org . They strengthen communities by strengthening schools, understand asset management, build better infrastructure for the disabled, and create safe neighborhoods in Minneapolis. And to the many, many Minneapolis daycare and school teachers who have needed safe rides to work, thank you for loving the community's children. Thank you for adding another risk to your life for the sake of showing up for them. I'm proud to be associated with the parents who are giving you safe rides. Please know that you deserve so much more.

January 2026 thing of the month. In the past 15 years, and to my relief, admitting you have ADHD has become trendy—not that I'm ADHD because it's trendy, but because it's actually safe to admit that, yes, I have ADHD and my brain is a delicious, creative, spontaneous wad of spaghetti. This isn't groundbreaking stuff. In high school, I had a keychain that said "keys I haven't lost yet", ironically one of the only things I didn't lose... for a couple years. Throughout my scholastic journey, pieces and parts of lists would dangle from bags or books, or hide beneath the driver's seat of my car to be discovered a year after they were relevant. No, I'm not void of these experiences now, but I'm pleased to say, thanks to science, research, and really great ADHD experts, I'm double the productivity and half the anxiety of someone just raw-dogging a spaghetti brain. When I worked at Holder, one of my mentors took a good look at me, my two planners, two notebooks, three inboxes, and 500 lists and said, "You'll never get organized with all this." Thanks be to Scott. So , here beith the evolution of one of the many tools I've evolved since being formally diagnosed at 30. The beloved planner. It's taken a while, and I've kissed frogs. Had some flings. Got in a few serious relationships, even. But in the world of ADHD, less is more. One planner, Alyce. You need only one. And by golly, I found it. Before diving into the planner life, let me divulge what goes in the planner, what doesn't, and when I view it. ‍ What goes in a planner: Trips / vacations Big picture of my month and week To-do lists for home and work Weather forecast Outfits / meals (this is a 50/50 commitment… not a priority, but something I enjoy when the time presents itself) Doodles Inspirational floor plan concepts for my future mansion Random words said in meetings that felt fun to squiggle on the page ‍ What doesn't go into the planner: Contacts: that's in my phone / Outlook Hour-to-hour meetings: that's in my work calendar. I put work and life appointments in my work calendar. Flight and travel details and confirmations: that's in my inbox / calendar I look at my planner every day, but always on Sundays to prep for my week. It's how I start my morning and recap my day in prep for the next one. ‍ And now, a description of each planner in the order I used them over the years: The TUL System ★★★☆☆ Used:  for 3 years I really liked the TUL brand and system and for a long time. It's a disc-bound system at Office Depot, and you can use their small planners, large ones, and notebooks, moving documents around easily with the binding. You can find their planners and notebooks here. Staples also has a system that would work with these and they've recruited the beloved Lady Martha Stewart to design their system. Gah bless that woman. It's all customizable. Rip pages out and put them elsewhere. Get the T-hole punch, and you can punch and insert any page of your choice. I used this system to get me through my Creative Writing program at SMU and work. The issue? Too many options, brah. At the time I was unmedicated and sort of shrugging off the concept of ADHD as a real issue. Did it get me through? Yeah, sure. But atop my desk was a pile of discarded or neglected notebooks to be used for "new hobbies". Nobody needs 15 hobbies. Or a notebook for learning crochet. Best for: Those without ADHD who need to review a lot of printed papers (itineraries, agendas, shopping lists, agreements, contracts, etc.). If you have ADHD, I recommend it only if you're medicated and not easily sucked into buying all the shiny objects floating through the TUL world (me). ‍ I bought purple back in the day. Now they have cool stickers. I lack the discipline to consistently and correctly use stickers, but love the thought. Microsoft Office Suite (including notes, teams, calendar, etc.) ★★★☆☆ Used:  for 8 months I tried. I was all digital on Microsoft Outlook and tried to flex the inner techy. As a gal with excellent penmanship and an affinity for rainbow themed pages, I was left with a bit of an identity crisis when typing out… everything. I felt too Silicon Valley, not enough Jane Austen writing by candlelight. And to be honest, I retain things a lot better if I can see it laid out big picture and have to hand write things. While experiencing this void, I'm pretty sure I collected 50+ random notebooks in an attempt to get my scribbly fix. Whoops. Pros: Nothing to tote around You’re already using your phone Cons: Easy to avoid and hard to remember things if you don’t write them down Unfulfilling for those of us who prefer the vintage lifestyle of a scribe You may die a little inside Best for: ADHD folks with meh penmanship (or little desire to handwrite anything), especially those who don't get sucked into scrolling or other shiny digital spaces (unless you have a brick). Also, best for extreme minimalists. There are no photos for this planning system. I'm not here to make you anxious about moving your mouse to turn on the green light. ‍ Ink and Volt Dashboard ★★★★☆ Used: for 1 year I used the dashboard system and the potential was there. Amazon has cheap brands of this style, but I highly recommend Ink and Volt . I loved a few things from this system that would stick with me in the future: Pros: The habit tracker Topics for lists Snapshot of the week Ink and Volt is a cool name Cons: I wanted a little more room to doodle and note There was just something… missing… In the end, it wasn't Ink and Volt, it was me. This system just left me jonesing for more. Which brings me to the next system I tried. The brand has come out with other planners that may be worth looking into, but I haven't the time at the moment. Best for: Most people I know, to be honest. Minimal, but effective for an ADHDer. Have a good digital system to support the dashboard, like Microsoft Office or Google. It's nice for someone who doesn't care about paper and pen to doodle or scribble thoughts and notes, and for someone who likes this thing open and in front of them at all times. I loved that. Not to sound sexist—but a lot of the ADHD men in my life enjoy this system. The dashboard is great! Buy from Ink and Volt, not an Amazon knock off. Bezos is going to be just fine, mmkay? ‍ Creator’s Friend ★★☆☆☆ Used:  for a couple weeks One time, two floors above my phone, I whispered "I may get a new planner" to my husband. An hour later, every other ad on Instagram directed me to the ADHD planner of the century—all 500 of them. Of course the one that pulled me in and courted me with beautiful colors and whimsical ideas was Creators Friend , an Australian-made (gah, I just love Aussies) planner system for spaghetti brain. So, I ordered. And gleefully awaited. I should have managed my expectations. Yes, this system is very pretty. You receive a small planner for each month, which the idea of giving each month a pretty color sounds divine. But the quality of the covers left much to be desired and the booklet was too stiff to stay open. I used it for two weeks, lost the will to go on, then retired the other 11 books I so enthusiastically purchased. Cons: The stitched binding is stiff, so it doesn't stay open The covers are stock paper… I was hoping for something a little nicer The different templates were disorienting and some were better than others Pros: The colors! So pretty and I love the idea of having a different color each month The planners are very small and take up very little space The brand has great accessories Best for: If you're an artist or creative hellbent on the exploration process, by all means give this a go. It's a really cool concept. Just order the three-pack to see if it fits your needs. Or message me because I have 11. ‍ ‍ Oooo. Pretty colors. Bullet Journal ★★★★☆ Used for: 2 years Ah, pre-baby days. When the world was my oyster and time was infinite. Every 4-6 months, I would purchase a bullet journal from Michaels and draw my own beautiful planner and corresponding doodles and lists. My collection of 1314893 colored pens stems from my former bullet journaling self. It took a full, meditative, glorious, pretty pen-filled day to set up a new planner and I would turn on music, pour some wine, and bullet journal. I followed bloggers and YouTubers who organized their planners in fun ways. While this was not a sustainable process for new mommy and bidnis lady me, it was an affordable one and one that taught me what I do and don't use in a planner. I could easily evolve my preferences with each new one. I highly recommend Artist's Loft brand journal from Michaels. Splurge $2 whole dollars on the nicer one with the pages numbered. It's worth it. It also holds a pen (though the pen holder has been known to break). It's a $8 planner. Buy it here. Pros: Totally custom Toss what you don't use, keep what you do Cheap Gets you a little influencer fix Cons: Time-consuming You can get caught up and overwhelmed by the options of this thing Best for: If you're childless and your hobbies are creative, I highly recommend the bullet journal. It was a really fun system that worked. Great inspirational bullet journal influencers:  Kaylyn Brooke Liane Davey Planning Annie Jashii Corrin I was going for an influencer shot of me and my bullet journals, but I just look scary. I'm also lazy so this will stay. ‍ Full Focus Planner ★★★★★ for the general public, executives, and, methinks, your disciplined CrossFit enthusiast ★★★★☆ for me and similar working parents with sleep deprivation and little room for extras Used for: 2 years Ah, so close. I had a business therapist who recommended Full Focus . Their planners run in 12-week increments and align with the book The 12 Week Year . I liked the book and still take a lot of those strategies with me into my current planner system, but with a newborn, it required more time than my ADHD postpartum brain could allow. I may return to it one day because the whole Full Focus brand is impressive, and it works. It's most beloved by large executives. Be warned, this brand is culty. I could see it sponsoring American Gladiator or megachurch business rallies (I'm just assuming that's a thing). But hey, cults are in right now. Honestly, this is the planner I recommend to most leaders and C-suite folks. It's exceptional and forces you into great habits, plus the Full Focus brand is very "be your best business self." They even put clever little "you can do it” quotes on each spread. To really flex my millennial business owner muscles, I bought their board game to play and identify my "personal brand." It's still sitting on a shelf wrapped in plastic. The ultimate tip: on Sundays, plan and strategize your week using this thing. There's a spread to prep and debrief each week, so if you have the time and availability on Sundays, it's worth it. Best for: ADHDers would benefit from this system if they have a partner or team also using the system and keeping them accountable. The website has a lot of resources there. If you have an ADHD coach or work coach, this could be a great supplement to those sessions. And just to show you how committed the Hyatt family (owners) is to being the top business planner resource, they have shmancy training courses. Now you, too, can planner like a rich Silicone Valley dirtbag. Or me at one point, I guess. Pros: Pretty easy to customize Forces good habits and strategic goals Polished and professional—you look smart just holding this thing Cons: Requires commitment I wish it had more space for notes and doodles It's worth noting, they have special edition planners so you can try one catered more towards your needs. There's a wellness planner and a minimalist one, which I may prefer in the future. These planners felt militant, so here's another weird shot. I did try to find a black turtleneck and work a high bun, but washing ones hair is not a priority in the toddler years. Whatever. Get this planner if you like to salute your boss or wear turtlenecks. ‍ Laurel Denise Planners ★★★★★ Used for: 2 years Ladies and gentlemen, may I present the planner for me. Laurel Denise planners market to a female audience, but their planners are great for everyone. They're classic and beautiful, and functional and organized in such a smart way. Plus, the Laurel Denise community is fun. There are tutorials on their site and tips and tricks to use the system. Plus, they feature case studies. You can see how someone with your career or goals uses their planner. The Laurel Denise community is pretty glitter and rainbows, but if that doesn't strike your fancy and you buy one of their planners, do not skip out on the tutorials and case studies. It's macho to effectively use highlighters and Post-its, kay? What this system brings given my experience with the others: Like TUL, Laurel Denise offers pages you can rip out and place into other sections. They're sold separately, but worth the purchase. Like Ink and Volt, I can view my week all at once and this one even lets me see my month. The Laurel Denise brand has the heart and soul like Creator's Friend, but better structure. I use the dotted pages in my planner for checklists like the ones I built into my bullet journal. This planner lets me track habits and weekly goals without feeling overwhelming like Full Focus. Take their quiz to see which one would work best for you. I also like the quiz as a tool to understand what you want from your planner. I've actually gone through three styles. The Nancy (large, landscape): This was my first planner from Laurel Denise and I selected a pretty solid shade of green in lieu of a print. First, I was like "good god this planner is massive." But it did fit in my La Clare bag (which is my go-to recommendation for a young professional purse, so stay tuned). And the space was used. I loved the whole month view, the weekly view, and the notes at the back. It was like looking at one big dashboard and digesting all that info at once. Satisfying and left less room to miss things hidden on other pages. ‍ The Anne (large, landscape): I liked the vertical notes or "list style" where I can list out what to do each day. It still gave me that satisfying holistic view of my month, my week, and some notes all at once. This was also about the time I realized having a kid requires a lot of stuff (too much if you ask me) and these planners are large. While that's nice for writing lots of notes, it's not convenient for an already packed bag. I picked a pretty floral print this round. This was also an undated planner. I ended up leaving it a little early to go back to a 2026 dated planner. I just like that the work's done for me, but the undated came with all the right tools to do your own. ‍ The Scout (small, portrait): I went wild. This planner is both small and portrait, with a coil. I have to say, the size is really great to fit in my bag, but sometimes I miss the amount of space a larger option provides. Still, I love the Scout and though it is small, I can view my month and to-do's all at once. I'll use this happily this year. And, the design is awesome. This past year they launched Jane Austen-inspired prints. It's as though they read my mind (see above). I picked a lovely red and yellow poppy print called Bewitched and it has bewitched me body and soul (I had to). ‍ Me and my Scout planner just living a honkey dorey little life. And so sorry to my OCD friends who see that loose sweater strap. ‍ Biggest tip: Get what works for you now!  As I approach the Big 4-0, I realize I've spent my 30's really researching the best option for me. Here's to evolving, changing, and trying systems that go with those things in my 40's! Happy Planning!

She's 19 months old (8 or 9ish days ago). Her hair is the love child of Farrah Fawcett and Medusa. Her personality is the love child of Farrah Fawcett and Medusa. Sometimes I'm like "my kid is so fun and so beautiful and everyone loves the charismatic and lovely Rainie!" and sometimes I'm like "I think she's going to kill me." Because, you guys. This month was a lil nuts. I want to start with a story. In January of 2024, I attended the 30th-ish birthday party of her Aunt Sheshe (Laushine). There was a tarot card reader, which is an exciting little activity for someone who is 5 months pregnant. The reader, a psychologist first and a reader later, flipped the cards and set them before me, beaming at their results. My past was tough and exhausting, but prosperity was on the horizon. In my future category, she actually flipped a card with a baby. Hoo-rah! This activity was for real for real. Below the baby card she flipped two more, then looked at me, smiling. "So, it's a boy?" she asked. "No," I respond. "Ah," she said. She pointed to the two cards. "So, you will have one boy and one girl. Your boy will be calm and soothing. He will bring peace." She pointed to cards with a prince or king and calm waters, maybe a heart - some sort of compilation of those things. Then, she shifted her finger over and pointed to a compilation of cards with a woman and swords and blazing flames. Huh, I thought. "Your girl will… have a lot of personality and feelings." She proceeded to pull out her psychologist side and recommended books on helping wild children channel their energy into other things. We've picked skiing, a trampoline, and a mini bike. Rainie picked screaming with a pitch so dire, and at an hour so late, you question if she's being murdered or murdering. Pray for her stuffies. So, Rainie is every bit her fate. I wrote that story last night at 2am, as she was screaming in the background. It was absolutely heart-wrenching, but she's slowly escalated to this point since we've arrived back from a 2-week trip. Her routine is off. She's been sick. Someone took her world (me) and shook it like a snow globe and we're living in the moment chaos is flying everywhere. Then, at 9am today, Tim took her to downtown Golden and the library so I could actually get some sleep. The photos were effing adorable. She played with all the other children, smiled at admirers, and her little hands grabbed her daddy's and dragged them all around the scene. I had FOMO (but no regrets sleeping, for the record). I know that side of her, and it's so much fun. And that is a 24-hour period with my toddler. This month she skied a real green run at Winter Park. She traveled to three states in two weeks, fought a nasty virus, sledded in the snow, cuddled with me more than I think I deserve sometimes, and pissed me off at record speed. There are marker stains in the floorboards and a few broken toys in the trash. There are matching pajamas on order because I don't know how long I have before she stops thinking I'm the one making the world turn. She's in her must-have-mommy phase and it's as annoying as it is the one thing I hope she never, ever gives up. This parenting gig sure is a conflicting, tumultuous experience. Rainie baby, happy 19 months. This is my favorite age tucked inside the hardest months. Please never grow up (but getting more sleep could be cool). Watching you grow is still just the best thing. And to recap this month, here are photos with some fun explanations. More photos than usual, you lucky dogs, you. Photo 1 + 2: This was one of 100 similar photos in a 10 minute shoot at our park's holiday party. A flask of apple bourbon and I decided to turn mediocre playground lights into a Hallmark movie shot. Took 100 and got two. Photo 3: I hosted my clothes swap with the fake monies. Rainie grabbed the entire organized stack of money and threw it into the air, yelling "Psh I don't need no man!" and that was her first sentence. We spent Thanksgiving with family in Winter Park. Rainie popped in her extreme paci, took a real, authentic ski lift (with applauses from the masses), and skied her first green! Well, half her first green. I had to hold up a limp 25-lb toddler the second half and my thighs are now rocks, athankyou. Rainie flew three times. She dominated the Denver, Baltimore, Manchester, and Boston airports and we have hundreds of stupid videos to prove it (ugh, we're so obsessed). We raw dogged those first three flights - no devices, yes montessori toys, and low on snacks. We almost died. On the flight home from Boston, Rainie had an iPad, headphones, and half the Hudson snack section. I almost went all in with some wild turkey, but decided three bad parenting moves in one flight was enough. Rainie is preparing to be a 1950's actress who slaps the heck outta the people she loves. We played at the Von Trapp family Lodge in Stowe. The hills were alive. She got some lovely time with Papa and Grandma Lynda. We ate and drank our way through Vermont. My life changed with a cider doughnut from Cold Hollow (blog post to come). Tim captured me tasting brews at his favorite brewery, while also watching Steve Brule. Renaissance man. In a 48-hour span, Rainie went to Burlington, played with her new cousin, caught a virus, and threw up all over her Grandma Lynda's beautiful home. I didn't sleep for three days. Somehow, the days were really special. (and I apologize to my family for the Patriots hat but I was cold and that's the only hat Tim brought... because you were right and Yankees are just bad people) But, below may be the photo that lives on forever as a real snapshot of toddler momming. Primarily because Tim has placed it in every digital platform he runs, including his screen saver. I have no idea how to minimize this thing. Cool cool cool. Merry everything, friends!

The Goose is officially 18 months old. 1.5 years. 1 and 1/2 years. 78.5 weeks. 549 days. She skis on the real mountain. She breaks things. She can swing from handlebars higher up than last month. She grows more powerful each day. Her knack for being a “good eater” has become both ferocious and volatile — a real pendulum swinging from avoiding food altogether to devouring even the rind of a citrus fruit. I walked into to the kitchen the other day where she had scaled the barstools and hoisted herself onto the kitchen countertop. Not her first time. She had plopped a hand into our fruit bowl and pulled out a tangerine. By the time I found her, her teeth sank deep into the unpeeled fruit, juices dripping down each side of her mouth. When she spotted me spotting her, she gnashed the fruit with the ferocity of a wolf ripping meat from its prey and quickly began chewing. There was no way in hell I was going to take the sweet fruit away from her now. She chewed, her tiny teeth pulping both rind and fruit, and just as I was asking myself, “what the hell have I created?”, a little smile stretched across her lips, juice and fruit bits oozing out the sides, until she broke into laughter and said a sweet “momma.” I keep a stern face and pulled her down. But it was really cute. So then, I buy her a bike. Said bike arrives and it becomes part of her personality. We went to a festival with some friends and brought it along, knowing the speed she'd accumulated riding this thing in the house, but we think "no, no. Surely she will be more disciplined in the open, among strangers". Because we've become delirious and a bit of a shadow of our former selves. The moment we set it down for her to “explore,” she plopped on and flew straight into a moving crowd, folding herself into the flow of random families like a salmon swimming upstream. Instead of showing concern, people smiled. She was so natural. Other kids ran behind her, turning it into a game; some who were sword fighting in their costumes let her circle them like a giddy little shark. She widened the space between herself and her parents, filling it with happy new followers while we flailed through the crowd behind her. A nearby police officer watched as she zipped past him and muttered, “Damn. She's fast.” Then I caught the slightest look of concern on his face — primarily for me. And that is why we’ve started a savings account for her bail money. I take venmo. For Halloween, she was Chucky. She carried an ax. She lived her truth. My friend Liz, one of the many in my mom group, told me the Goose was her as a toddler. Here is the beautiful thing about Liz: she is so effing cool. No, really. You could ask the other moms. It takes someone about ten minutes to fall into her orbit and never want to leave. You'll laugh, you'll cry, you'll talk paranormal podcasts. By day she is a special needs teacher who cares deeply about the kids she nurtures and grows, but like, she goes deep on hot gos about crazy shit. Liz told me her mother said she was the Goose as a toddler - wild, unruly, hilarious, exhausting. And that everything that made Liz tough as a toddler, makes her awesome as a grown-up. What a beautiful thing to embrace the fearless, silly, wild and fun in our Goose today, knowing those are the key ingredients to an effing cool person. It was my favorite compliment. This past weekend, six of the moms in my acclaimed mom group did a retreat in the mountains sans toddlers. It was a weekend so special it warrants its own post, but I'll leave you with this. This month is my favorite month of the Goose. This phase is one of the hardest of my life. There is no giving 100% to a business, employees, a marriage, a tuned body and mind, and a very active 18-month-old. Little ones both enrich our lives in ways and deplete them in others. So, for two days six of us talked about that. It was the first time I've accepted that I can't do it all, no matter how many effective planners I buy, meals I prep, or books I read about doing it all. And its okay. I have help. I have a village. Sweet Goose, you've rocked my world. Somehow you've both crashed it and made it whole. I love you so much, stinkerbell.

The Goose turned 17 months on Sunday. She got her second ear infection this past month, a diagnosis that pairs nicely with four molars simultaneously poking through. Her angel doctor (and mother to three) even proclaimed that this was "a bit aggressive". To say sleep has been touch and go would be an understatement. What day is it again? I had my own birthday this month—a big ole 39. One more year, then I'm going to splurge on custom orthotics and some nice hair dye. I still get the “no way!” looks when people see my ID, so between retinol and a sprinkle of botox, I’m surely doing something right. Still, there are grays scattering across my head; a few now sit boldly on top, gleaming in the sunlight as if to say, “no, she is.” When I found my first three little grays at the ripe age of 33, I named them after my ex-boyfriends. That followed with spicy coworkers, then spicier clients. But boy howdy, did that gray count really ramp up in the past 17 months. And I thank my lucky stars every single day that she’s probably the culprit. We scaled back on spending this month like good little millennials who want to buy a nice house (Denver houses aren’t free, turns out). So as our DoorDash collects dust, fancy gym memberships pause, and we’ve bumped down a shelf at the liquor store, Rainie seems entirely unbothered that even our margaritas taste frugal. She finds joy in the simple things. It’s astounding how little toddlers need in a world where Amazon boxes exist—and even cutting back on their frequency doesn’t faze her. She needs only one Amazon box, secondhand clothes, pricey food, childcare, and ski lessons, sure sure—but the point is, in this bloated world of subscriptions and bells and whistles, she needs very little to enjoy herself just fine. We’re the problem. Well, me (oopsy). The past few weeks, I’ve been taking her to the park with Tim’s 14-year-old DSLR camera. Are the photos less impressive than a COVID-era iPhone? Probably. But there’s something adventurous about chasing down your feral toddler and snapping shots with a big ole vintage camera. Happy 17 months to the baby!

I love fantasy. I like Science Fiction. It takes a real talent to write Science Fiction I could devour, as all too many nerds out there get caught up in the science part and forget they’re writing a story. If the fiction feels like a textbook, I am out. Buh bye. Mr. Sanderson. You were a bit of a nerd on this one, sir. wags finger It doesn’t help that my first Sanderson book wasn’t one of his true fantasy series reads. It was Tress of the Emerald Sea, something he wrote as a sweet nod to his wife and something more Princess Bride sweet than Warriors and Kings action. It was whimsical, but lovely. This book was completely different, which was to be expected but it was a little jarring to jump from one to the other. Despite the surprise, Mistborn opened strong. The setting was dark and eerie, with heavy mists and a world lacking color. Sanderson does have a knack for painting vivid worlds even if they are dark ones. The underground crime, the plantations, and the clever Lies of Locke Lamora -like personality of the main hero all drew me into this story. It was delicious for a time. About 25% through, I wanted to throw my oatmilk lattes with cold foam out the god damned window (this was an audible listen), which would have been fun for any onlooker to witness a woman in a blue SUV with a loud ass baby in the car seat, rage throwing a latte over the over a British narrator over-explaining the science of warriors consuming metals to fight dark lords. I sprinkled Ms. Rachel songs between the moments I just couldn’t take it anymore. I know Mr. Sanderson was jonesing to tell the tale with a scientific feel, a real nod to 2006, when the Parisian fashion houses paraded armor-like dresses and the phrase “bling” hit as hard as Kanye’s Gold Digger. Yes, Mr. Sanderson, I know the inspiration floating about you in this time shimmered metallic hues. I know because in 2006, I was probably at Club XS on 80’s night sporting a spiked belt buckle, gold heels, and a purse with enough trivets I could fight off an entire fraternity. But you took it too far, sir. The second quarter of this story had to be replayed a million times to really understand the point of the metals and how they worked until I could digest the whole concept. Here is an example of the dialogue: Teacher: “So, you see this metal pushes things and this metal pulls things. So, for example…(insert long hypothetical situation that will clearly happen in the future).” Student: “Okay. I think I get it! This metal pushes and this metal pulls. So, you’re saying… (repeats long hypothetical situation almost verbatim).” Teacher: “Great! Let’s have this conversation eight more times in the first half of the book and explain the hypothetical situations for these four metals and six scenarios in which you shall use them, totaling 24 boring ass conversations between student and teacher just to try and describe my metal magic. Whilst doing so, I’ll throw in exceptions and rules that completely throw off your understanding.” Student: “Gee wiz. I love repeating your descriptions. But 24 is a big number of scenarios. Never leave me.” Teacher: “PSYCHE! There are two super-secret metals! You thought it was just 24. Psh. Ha. 36. Ok. But I may leave you." Then, the student who was a skinny, loser girl in rags with bad hair takes off her glasses and puts on a dress and the hottest rich boy in the room wants to date her. Anyways, the second half of the book was good and the ending was one of my favorite Fantasy endings. I’m glad my lattes were consumed in vehicle and I stayed engaged. It did spark a moment of self-awareness to realize this fancy, shmancy science talk was just a little bit above my lady brain and I do well with charts and visuals. So, if you have ADHD or are a visual learner, I highly recommend you view this chart going into the alomancy portion:   # Metal Paired Alloy Category Power Description 1 Iron Steel Physical (External) Iron Pulls  — Pulls nearby metals toward you. Think magnet attraction. Steel Pushes  — Pushes metals away, like controlled explosions. (Mistborn often “fly” by pushing off coins.) 2 Tin Pewter Physical (Internal) Tin  — Heightens senses (sight, smell, touch, etc.), but makes you more sensitive to pain. Pewter  — Enhances physical strength, speed, and resilience — lets Allomancers fight or survive injury. 3 Zinc Brass Mental (External) Zinc (Rioting)  — Amplifies others’ emotions. Brass (Soothing)  — Calms or dampens emotions. Used for crowd control or subtle manipulation. 4 Copper Bronze Mental (Internal) Copper (Smoker)  — Creates a “Coppercloud” that hides Allomantic activity from detection. Bronze (Seeker)  — Detects when others are using Allomancy (like sonar for magic).   Yes, there are two more metals than the one listed above, and I suspect a whole hunk more in the later series, but for spoiler’s sake I’ll leave them out. I also found it helpful (as I will do in many reviews) to find a visual representation of the characters – whether an illustration or fake casting of characters.  I liked this one, drawn by someone by the name of Skinny Malinky Long Legs, and that may be 80% of why I chose this illustration. Good for you and your model-like physique, Malinky. Okay, now you have some tools. Let’s dive into a review of the story itself. Street rat named Vin gets in a pickle. Beloved hero of the people, Kelsier, gets her out and discovers – why, she’s not a street rat. She’s powerful (like him) and mayhaps more powerful. She is of a species known as Mistborn. The two galivant the city as student and teacher (see rants above) and Vin becomes more in tune to her powers. Mistborn powers and the power of femineity. She gets dolled up to work undercover as a fancy lady attending the balls of the noble, digesting all their secrets. Maybe it’s my current infatuation with the Gilded Age show, but Sanderson painted the experience of the noble balls so well, there were moments I was sure Bertha Russell would barge in and bash Vin’s inadequacy (through a backhanded compliment, of course). From the middle to the end, there were twists and turns or tiny details mentioned early on that later compounded into something relevant and earth-shattering. I think Sanderson did a beautiful job laying easter eggs throughout this story that came together in a series of not-too-overdone action and fighting. It was such a satisfying ending, and he nailed the goal of a Book 1. I immediately listened to the start of Book 2. This story has a female protagonist that is the most interesting and intelligent superhuman in the mix, and a male hero that is the savior of the people. So, feminists and traditionalists unite. There is also a clear socioeconomic gap with the good guys being the ones who struggle and bad guys being ultra-wealthy elite, but as the book continues, alas – there are good guys that are of the ultra-wealthy too! So for the socialists – this book lets you know equality is on the horizon. You just sacrifice the lives of half your people. And for the capitalists – you have some good ones. One of the ultra-rich guys becomes the king at the end! The timing of that statement is not lost on me. Anyways. It’s a good book and a staple to the Sanderson universe. It put him on the map as one of the Fantasy Genre’s best.

First, writing this post will probably be controversial despite its intent. That is our world, but I ask you, dear reader, to set aside the intense bias built into your person to survive the current political turmoil. To my blue friends, I am not here to support Charlie Kirk. I especially found his disregard for highly qualified women of color poorly constructed and dangerous. This year alone, 300,000 women of color have been removed from the workforce, and this isn’t a reflection of merit. It's culture, and his words bled into other biases against immigrants and the queer community. Many now fear their safety in this country. And to my friends on the right, I am also not here to support his murder or the embarrassing reaction of many Democrats who had the audacity to celebrate. Multiple polls in September 2025 indicate that liberals are more likely than conservatives to say that political violence can sometimes be justified. Though red on blue violence is far more prominent, being okay with violence is wrong. No, this post is to hone in on one universal truth pouring through our airwaves. Words have consequence. But the consequences of words, if we shape and bend them carefully and intentionally, can sometimes be a beautiful thing. Erika Kirk’s speeches in general have left some of us moved, some concerned, and some indifferent. With piercing blue eyes and a tremor of hostility, her first public speech following the death of her husband radiated vengeance. Relationships with friends and family on the other side of the aisle are already delicate, no matter the level of love that binds them together. It felt as though this woman had no idea she carried a blow torch in her voice, inconsiderate of the fragility that is our differing views as Americans, a thing made of thin, flammable paper. I expect our president to incinerate love and togetherness, and while Erika is a new voice, she stands on his platform, clothed in brightly colored blouses, long blonde hair draping down her back. There is nothing more powerful than the making of a martyr’s wife, especially one that is stunning and freshly wounded. I'll admit now, in hindsight, of course she was angry. In her first real public moment as the widow of Charlie Kirk, did I honesty expect her to speak with grace and understanding? She’d just looked down at her husband, his neck incinerated and her children fatherless. I imagine she felt the anger and loss the children of the Minnesota senator and her husband felt, only she had a microphone against her lips and national pressure on her back to be angry, all while going through the stages of grief. Following the murder, posts crowded social platforms – and they were abhorrent from both sides. Morbid far left posts seemed to shrug Charlie Kirk’s murder off with a “he had it coming” attitude, or worse - celebrate it. Far right posts declared war and violence against entire groups of people despite the murderer being one person, ironically from the same people who flippantly wrote off the Minnesota murders. Both sides dangerously labeled the other, leaving all of us in mutual fear of the other side. I genuinely believe in that moment, we, as a country, cracked. And not a light fracture, a colossal and deep break through the core of our country. I turned on my app that blocks access to social media and tried to really, honestly tune everyone out. Despite my efforts, the days following Charlie Kirk’s funeral spilled into every open crevice of the internet, but it was not because of inflammatory words from angry politicians. It was from the words of Erika Kirk. Her words soft yet powerful, her demeanor mourning but strong, preached a sense of doing good to one another. Gasps roared in disbelief she would forgive such prolific act of hate, in a time anger is en vogue. And for this one moment, she has become the embodiment of what I believe the real Christ would regard as Christian. She spoke in a way I believe my late mother-in-law would approve as Christian, a woman whose life, ironically, was strictly built on devout Catholicism and the Democratic principles of loving your neighbor and helping those in need. Where I thought the funeral would erupt a national moment for revenge, she surprised me. No, everyone isn’t holding hands in a collective purple circle, but for a minute there was a shift. People on both sides of the aisle were posting her words – not Trump’s, not Vance’s, not the other politicians who called for retaliation. Her's. Though I’m not a pageant girl, I knew many growing up and in college. Many were gracious and poised, many were vain and inauthentic. I think she’s the former. Her words about forgiveness and husbands respecting their wives as a team member – not an employee or servant – were on-brand for the type of good merit you’d hope they’d crown. She calls hers an Ephesians marriage; I call mine a 50/50 marriage built on partnership. Either way the message is the same – respect and love one another. Be one team. There are men out there who needed to hear this from a powerful voice on their side of the aisle and as a result, they are better husbands. She claims Charlie Kirk set out to help broken men, and you don’t have to like everything her husband stood for to agree that many Western men are broken. But maybe the voice broken men needed to hear wasn’t Charlie Kirk’s. Maybe, through her husband, it's Erika’s. And I hope I never regret saying that. While the differences between me and this woman probably spill off the page, the fundamental similarities are there. We love our husbands. We love our children. Though her definition of family is more rigid and bound to a specific make-up, mine loose and inclusive to anyone you deem family, we both prioritize family as an anchor – she in Christianity and me in the Golden Rule. We both believe forgiveness and grace are needed to forge a more beautiful future. It was her speech, the standout speech across public forums, that gave me hope.

Tis that time. Pause on the political fiascos, the pop culture references, and the other things I should know better than to post. Goose update!   9 months. She’s the best kid. So silly and just the prettiest little thing. She has this laugh that takes over her body and blue eyes that go wide when she's overcome by the giggles. She can do no wrong. I will regret these words when she copies them off my blog 16 years from now, right after I catch her taking the car out too late or throwing a party when we’re on vacation. Karma is a bitch best served in parenting. Also, this kid is loud. Her sillies come with an action packed soundtrack. 2/10 babies in my mom group are yellers. She’s one. We left daycare this month and started at a nanny share with another friend from mom group. Her sweet, wonderful teachers were so sad to see her go, but I'm pretty excited for her nanny share. Here's how much getting sick all the time sucks: I am leaving a 5-minute commute to her day care, that she loves, to take on a 30-minute commute and 2 hours of less care time. I'm done. My nostrils are scarred. My lungs are exhausted. My guts are begging me to please get it under control. And my brain is almost completely packed with a nice, dense fog. No more daycare. No more foggy brain. Plus, the nanny is great. She's like midwestern ballerina barbie with a knack for making the F-word sound like it belongs in Sesame Street. I find that just delightful. A "fuck you're cute" sort of girl. She has the small town grit you see a lot in the midwest and south and a "raise em like the 90's" mantra, where they go free range in the backyard most days, clothing optional. Plus, she was a kindergarten teacher for many years. You know what that tells me? She has a radioactive immune system. Let's do this. She is growing up not fast or slow, but in her own quirky way. Her first teeth came in a little later than most. It was the bottom front two per usual, but they pierced through her gums as though they slept in and needed to sprint to make it out in time. One day she was gummy. The next, they were there. She isn’t crawling but scooting backwards and everywhere. In her last week of daycare they found her stuck in a corner because she'd scooted to the other side of the room and couldn't move forward. She can stand on two sturdy legs for about 5 seconds. When lying down she loves to grab the nearest pole (chair leg, table leg, etc.), kick her legs up, point her toes, and move em up and down to put on a show. Her Daddy calls this her Pink Pony Club. We’re just trying to be progressive and supportive parents of our child’s unique lifestyle. In terms of eating and foods, she’s a yes to it all. Black olives. Beet puree. Onion. Dino taters. Most veggies. Dirt. Receipts. Clothing tags. Vegetables. But the few things she doesn’t like, she doesn’t just neglect on her plate or push to the side. She makes a dramatic scene to prevent her parents from EVER making the same stupid mistake. Today, she grabbed a pea, dangled it over her high chair, eye brows furrowed, then released it. As it plummeted down to the floor, her gaze remained on me - dead in the eyes. Though a little scared, I laughed. She. Did. Not. When my mom and dad call, they enjoy at the loud noises in the background, marveling at how much more vocal and squirmy she is than Clark and I ever were. When her paternal Grandpa calls, he isn’t surprised, he says, with a wee little tickle of fear in his voice. And now we know who to blame if she isn’t perfect. And finally - she says dada. And as much as I want to deny it’s for her dada, she looks at that man with every ounce of her boundless energy and explodes in giggles and all the happy feels, as she yells a “DADADADADADADA”. It’s actually pretty awesome. We love you lil Quiche. You have only one month you’re allowed to grow, then my dear friend Jenna recommends we stop you there. Rumor has it 10 months is just the best.

Ideal reader: Expecting parents with a subtle craving for the ex-patriotic life, preferably seeking source material to say "well, in France they..." Not ideal reader: Those who think croissants are for fancy people and the French are raging socialists. This book fell victim to my complete disinterest in preparing for a baby (I’m more of a wing it gal). Shame on me. I highly recommend reading this book while you’re pregnant. For an author experienced in more salacious topics, Pamela Drucker does an excellent job telling stories about parenting from the moment your feet pop out of the stirrups. (or you roll out of the operating table, or you get the adoption call, or your surrogate’s feet pop out of the stirrups, etcetera etcetera) My favorite overall theme from this book: give your children structure, but plenty of loose freedom within it. The author was mesmerized by their set rules combined with a rather laissez-faire approach to monitoring their children. They seemed to express shock and horror to the fussy business of helicopter parenting and constant reprimands. It felt appropriate that only the French could make the hard part look effortless and the easy part look frivolous, buttoning up the rules of parenting like a nicely tailored coat. Helpful (or validating) Advice: 1.        Don’t stop your life. This wasn’t a tip so much as assurance. Mine was what one would call an unplanned pregnancy. I’ll spare you all the details, but an assumed miscarriage turned risky pregnancy turned strong pregnancy and heartbeat only confirmed the little pariah had grown talons and stuck em into her walls. I was so relieved. I was also like “OH GOD. OH FUDGE. MY FREEDOM. MY SLEEP.” And it turns out that yeah, my sleep was fudged, but Tim and I spent enough childless years in adulthood that we were pretty baked into our free-living ways. Her nap times fluctuate on the weekends; her mealtimes bend and fold around our plans. We travel with and without her regularly, acknowledging one another’s autonomy outside of our trio. In one scene, the author watched a French couple drink martinis at a beachfront cocktail bar as their children played on the beach further away. I try to manifest that scene every single day.  2.        Give the child autonomy, too. She’s wild and free range, my baby, so this one was also validating. In America, we just call it “Fuck around and find out” parenting. But in Paris, it’s like, not cool to not let your kid fuck around and find out. They call it giving kids autonomie . It’s all about branding. But when I think of the freedom and the many (MANY) falls and spills this toddler has experienced because we let her, I also think of her at two months old with a BMI that rivaled a 90’s supermodel and health that broke my heart. Now, at 16-months-old, she is fearless. She uses a beautiful, thick set of thighs to climb to the top of the largest slide and fly down it with confidence, screaming like a banshee. She can dangle from handlebars for a freakishly long time. She can ski with 4-year-olds and she can’t even talk. I credit autonomie . 3.        Be polite . Simple and elegant, with an emphasis on saying please, thank you, hello, and good-bye. The French insist on mastering the French language before children read – including the proper and consistent use of these four magic words. I find this concept as sweet as petit fours and I swear by the 44% French in my blood as 23 and Me is my witness: I will do my best to instill these four words into her babbly little vocabulary. 4.        Make food fun.  I loved the food chapter (minus coursed meals, but I’ll get there). I am determined to avoid a picky eater, and I swear the tips from this book have helped me expand her little palette. Prepare colorful foods and when a kid doesn’t like something – keep preparing it in different ways until they do. This has worked. When we’re out at restaurants we don’t order from a kid’s menu. She eats what we eat. She loves black olives, sautéed spinach, and tikka masala. The author shadowed the team preparing meals at her children’s daycare. It gave me an idea of what foods and flavors to pack for her lunches. Her nanny has even complimented my efforts, athank you. 5.        Be firm and clear you are the authoritative figure — My child is prone to behavior that requires a “no” more than a “yes” – making the recommendation you use equal parts yes and no in your firm directions difficult for parents like me. But there was a chapter where a Parisian friend coached the author on how to firmly say no to her naughty child, and do it in a way that is firm, clear, and full of belief the child will listen. It sounds a little crunchy, but it was really inspiring. It put me in a better headspace when I tell my daughter “no”. I also find her more receptive to my instruction after this chapter. 6.        Bedtime. At 8pm, the author’s children go into their room. They don’t have to sleep, but they know they need to be in there quieting down and as a result, they have learned to put themselves to sleep.   Not for me advice: 1.         Implement “the pause” . Once again, we Americans brand this strategy as “cry it out” – a term that often leaves a circle of moms at each other’s throats, in tears, or, at the very least, mentally storing who they will NOT be nominating for the PTA in 6 years. And the French call it “the pause”. La pause. And it’s just that, they say, a pause when a child cries. They have a whole slew of French child psychiatrists famed for pushing the pause. We did some cry it out and pauses, because it was sort of a natural thing to do, but the book made it feel needlessly elaborate and the catalyst behind their children’s excellent patience. Which is probably true, I’m just bitter because I thought we did pauses. Mostly because we were too tired not to pause. And there isn’t a patient bone in my child’s body.   2.        Serve meals in courses . I’m not feeding my kid a god damned four course meal. I won’t do it. I live in America where we are impressed if our $250,000 per year daycare includes a free snack of Kraft mac n cheese. I’ll have my next baby in France and let your creche feed it a four-course meal on the house. Til then. 3.        Praise selectively . I’m an extraverted, American Libra in marketing and creative writing whose love language is words of affirmation. I am obsessed with my child and will need to squeal at even her most impressive shits. As God is my witness, I will never praise selectively.    Worthy Note: 1.        The entire concept of a creche.  So, the French have state-funded daycares, and they are like the Gilded Age for babies. Children are fed four course meals where a butler presents each dish to them, discusses the source of the ingredients as they serve the children, uh babies. And then the children, um, babies, politely wait to eat until everyone is served. This repeats through each course until the leader girl baby stands up and asks the other girl babies if they should go through and leave the boy babies to their port.   Overall – I give this book a 4/5. It was good and probably my fastest parenting book read. Pamela Drucker is a writer who enjoys her work, a trait that trickles off the page and makes the reader enjoy her work, too. It had an air of pretention, but let’s be honest. If it didn’t, it wouldn’t be French and I wouldn’t have believed a word.  Now, look. A baby named after a region of France. I had not taken a single picture of Goose on her birthday, so I dressed her up in this Parisian Toile Print dress from her big day. We set out to do a chic little photo shoot. As I chased her across the townhouse complex, buttons unbuttoned and ribbons askew, I thought “ah oui oui! I am bringing up bebe!”

She is 8 months old and I am a couple days late. Let the delayed parenting updates begin because, life.   It is as though time with her was once a slow and soggy colic slug that transformed into a fast and fun and loud little race car. She yells at everything and giggles til it hurts. She sleeps with her butt in the air, still absolutely hates wearing clothes, rolls over and over and over, kicks in every position, sticks her feet up like a synchronized swimmer in swim class, and is so damn close to crawling it pisses her off. I remember little from the first months thanks to postpartum brain spaghetti, but I’m glad I wrote those months out on here. I’d hate to forget the toughness of the beginning. It builds up the love for what we have now. She’s in full-time daycare until we find a nanny share situation. We're tired of being sick all the time and we'd like something just a weeee bit more affordable. Here’s how it goes: Daycare is a shiny new Porsche and a nanny share is a mid-sized BMW. I have no business buying either one but they're the only two stupid cars on the lot and I can't walk to work. Pair that with the fact our kid prefers the finer things. Organic goat milk from Germany. Coterie diapers she can’t shat through. We just bought her a (baby) Bronco from Walmart, like peasants, and I can feel the disappointment radiate off her pink little cheeks. Tis no BMW. Tis no Porsche. Her Daddy continues to be the best dad in the world and is currently winning at parenting, with a 1 night away to my 6 nights, and this isn't including the few nights I was really sick and he had to parent. He even cared for her when she had a nasty virus, then cared for me when I ended up in the ER with Norovirus. Then, he took care of her another full day and night because my mom ended up in the ER with her own case of Norovirus, all because Mom boldly stood at the entrance to Rainie's daycare classroom and, ya know, breathed. But her Daddy finally took a night and went absolutely wild. Casinos, skiing, the bois, shots, etc. Overall: She is just the happiest damn baby on the planet. General consensus always gave her a high cute score, but this past month the happiness is right up there, too. I love watching her light up when we walk into the room. When we’re out and about, she’s soaking it all in, giggling at the ceiling lights and smiling at all the passersby until they halt and acknowledge. It’s all beautiful.

Goose is 6 months old. She lives fierce and she lives (mostly) naked. She giggles uncontrollably, cuddles like a champ, gets sick weekly, and pulls my hair every damn day - which would be adorable if my hair were even half as strong as it was pregnant. There’s this sick evolutionary joke where a woman’s hair sheds like a dog at the same time her baby’s motor skills include pulling it out. Speaking of evolutionary jokes, she is FINALLY showing little features that indicate I could maybe, possibly be the mother. We still get “She is so beautiful! She looks like her daddy.” daily. But while there’s still no questioning my loyalty to her father, she is starting to shape my eyes and smile, or so the critics say. In our last post, she’d tackled three short flights like a champ and I can proudly say she tackled the 4-hour flight from Boston to Denver like a professional traveling baby. The flight attendants gave her a certificate and our dedicated back-of-the-plane flight attendant said she was the best baby she’s ever had. We were punching one another in victory of having “the best baby ever” as we walked out of the gate. She projectile spit up all over the airport floor to keep us humble. We've also tackled a long TX road trip, but I'll save that for the next post. We still have a leg of the trip and I refuse to jinx it. We are all pretty sick, so maybe that's the extent of the toughness we'll endure? * knocks wood Independence is surfacing. We’ve started solids and she loves it, but she prefers to grab the spoon from me and feed herself. She screams in victory when she lands rolling over and swats us when we try to help. She yells in frustration when other kids run or crawl and she can’t, a little life-long craving to go 170mph in the body of an ’87 station wagon. She loves daycare and has figured out how to summon the crawlers in her classroom from her throne of a jumper. Her teacher showed us photos of babies flocking to surround her as she giggled. I was impressed. Her Daddy was terrified. In October, I placed her first memory into her trauma bank. I plopped her into a cold, carved pumpkin with my mom group and all their babies. All babies wailed in absolute horror as their little legs kicks in torture through two tiny holes at the bottom of the pumpkins and their bodies flailed from an opening at the top. There were seeds in diapers, seeds coming out of their wherever. Orange slime in hair. V excited for Christmas. And this month, me and a chunk of my mom group wore Moms for Mamala sweatshirts. We contributed to the campaign and the side that we believed in, for the rights we believed in, against an agenda we don’t want, as is our right as Americans. We lost, as happens. Many of you disagree with me this election and while I just don’t understand it, we love or accept one another through it. Empathy, a fudge ton of humor, and a strong voice as a woman, agnostic, parent, and business owner are my tools of choice to shape the future I’d prefer. I’ll use them all to contribute where I can and show this feisty little girl there is value in her vote. I want her to know her voice matters. And I think that's something all of us want for our kiddos.   Goose, we love you so much. We will teach you to care for others different than you, be curious about ideas different than your own, and to gracefully accept and learn when you lose. I can’t wait to watch you be whoever you want to be, wear whatever you want to wear, and love whoever you want to love. We will keep doing our family dance party through each phase of your beautiful life.

5 months. She’s our stinkerbell, our grabby lil hermit crab, a lil pink piglet with mudfish cheeks. The stink in her nickname stems from the latin word for "goat's milk vomit", a scent wondering the halls of our home and likely embedded in its walls. We are now the parents saying loud and weird oogles in public places to get a smile, in clothes that are more functional than fashionable. Please pass the white SUV with reliable airbags and an extra row. In true us style we turned her first flight into 4 legs and 3 destinations. We love a good overcommitment. This little rockstar slept like a (good) baby on the first 3 flights (stay tuned for 4). She spends most of her time in airports yelling at other kids, them all showing off their fancy running legs and yelling all these big ole real words. She smiles at strangers. She woos us with this fantastic grin that cuts through two plump, rosy cheeks, and she has continued to pass her social milestones ahead of the game. She LOVES baths guys. IFYKYK. She still hates clothes and we try to explain how inappropriate it is for a young lady to roll around the house topless. She. Don’t. Care. She’s going streaking. There’s a consensus from her viewership that she is a beautiful baby, which naturally shifts me into pageant mom mode and too many clothes in her color coordinated closet. But for all her beauty, she will projectile spit up goats milk across the room and it is this (and only this!) that’s keeping her from winning Miss Baby 2024. So, yes, the reflux still exists (cool), but it’s a little more tolerable. We accept a life that smells. The scent of colic could put hair on the chest. If only it could put it back in my postpartum head... There is this real person emerging from the wee little squish baby and we just love watching her evolve. I savor every moment at this phase, even the whole her daddy is her favorite thing. She talks his ears off about nothing and he listens to every word. She’s this living, breathing, giggling proof I picked the best guy out there to partner up with in life.