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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.

The Goose is 4 months old. She's lovely. She giggles and coos when she has our full attention and squeals when she doesn't. She still loves crowds and has appeared at a few happy hours, but isn't afraid to cry nice and loud for the folks if she's just not feeling up for it. She sports excellent rolls and this fantastic double chin. After months of swinging well below the 1% line for weight, she's climbed her way up to 5% and growing. Her doctor said she is the most improved baby she's worked with, and we really, really appreciate her community of tummy doctors (and the GOAT: goat's milk). I think about the things I wish I didn't worry so much about when I was growing up. I hope she knows she can keep those little chunky rolls forever. I hope she embraces every inch of who she is and who she becomes, not because of how she looks or how many people like her, but because she has character and the love of the good people. I hope she knows her value through doing whatever it is that makes her happy with whoever it is that makes her even happier. I hope she is independent but present for the people that value her time and talents and fine with letting go of the people that don't. I hope she finds someone like her daddy because he's absolutely obsessed with making us laugh and the way he loves her is present and loud. It's so much fun to watch. But really, when I reflect on parenthood in its most vulnerable, frustrating moments, I realize it all boils down to one universal question, one small thing that rapidly trickles into every spontaneous burst of crying or waving of the fist. I would like to know if the laundry will ever be done. Anywhom. Watching you blossom is the sweetest thing, Goose.

Goose is 3 months old tomorrow! We are coming to a close on the colic chapter and I never ever ever ever ever want to open that chapter again. Yes, she still spits up like Rosemary’s baby, but goats' milk formula (and time) has made a world of difference. Shout out to all the colic moms out there and the side conversations we’ve all had on this... yeah I'll say it... living hell. We're finally out of newborn clothes and she's outgrown her skinny Daddy long legs. She now rocks a few extra chins (where she tends to store her spit-up) and we see signs of her momma's thick thighs (TAKE THAT). She has these beautiful long lashes, strawberry hair, and her eyes get bluer each day. Her face lights up when she sees mom or dad and her wee fingers grip Daddy’s with the type of tenderness that ensures a pony by age 3. She’s expressive with this awesome smile and insane WTF face. She talks as much as her Daddy. Mayhaps even talks more than her Daddy? Either way, I sealed my fate by having his child. Despite my own gift for gab, I may never get another word in and that’s ok. And for the love of all things sleep, she finally sleeps in the SNOO, bringing our total investment of baby items marketing sleep to about a million dollars. Whatever. I’ll drive Uber and hustle ten MLM’s if it means two REM cycles a night. We had lots of fun this month with our village! Nicole and fam came to visit. We began plotting our life as mother-in-laws and forced the children to take photos we'll post at their wedding. (But which brother will she choose?) And there are finally small signs of me peeking out of her predominantly dad appearance, just in time for MarMar to visit and spoil her with TJ Maxx Runs and snoogles.

She is two months old! No, time does not fly yet, but I think it will soon... I wish I could say it was easier, but man the past couple months have just been hard folks. First of all, our basement and her nursery flooded, uncovering black mold then asbestos, so the three of us and her raging colic have been confined to just our bedroom (yay). She has her daddy's tummy (and yeah everything else, I know I know). It just isn't great and we're still under 8lbs so she's a little thing with skinny frog legs (something I've never had in my life). She loves to scream at us every couple hours for a feed we promptly give her. She then spits up all over us and screams again, then smiles so we forget all about it and love her more than life itself. In romantic relationships, we call this "toxic", but I think these mental gymnastics are considered regular ole parenting. That being said, she has a wonderful gastro and doctor, and we're slowly getting so much better. Still not in the clear at 1% weight, but there's a light. This month her personality has just blossomed, and when she isn't screaming her head off, she giggles and smiles and gives us sweet little coos. She is a little pensive, too, and stares at artwork on walls wherever we go so we think she's, like, super cultured. Her doctors and nurses love seeing us on their schedule and claim she's the prettiest little baby. If the pros say it, it must be true! And she has projectile spit-up or explosive pooped on all of them, so there little incentive to lie. Our basement is now under construction and we're actually doing some fun additions to her room, her meds are starting to work, and her giggles are just amazing. As all of my parent friends have proclaimed in the past, it's the hardest thing I've ever done (no really... I understand those who opt out of kiddos... my life is very, very different and yours is very, very nice). But we are obsessed and in love. Shout out to our village and to my work team for making it all so much better. I couldn't ask for a better friend group or job. I'm not sure where we would be without the hand-me-downs, the babysitting, the coverage, and the gifts of food and time. Donna, you are a dream business partner. Megan, for loving my nugget and babysitting so mom and dad could have a little time, and for showing us the adorable ways we can use baby as a prop for our bits. Jessica and Lindsay for being the first to hold her when we're with friends or just getting momma out of the house. Katelin, for ALLLLLL the mom support and clothes. My bestie, Kristen, for flying out here to give me some relief and love when it was really tough, and for providing Rainie with 70% of the things she owns (Mommaroo, clothes, baby Brezza, toys, etc.) And to my own mom for her button nose and pretty lips, and talking me through being a mom to a colic baby. I get it now and I don't know how you did all of it with me. Consider me a little more humbled. And of course my hubs and sidekick. I am so damn lucky to have a baby daddy that is involved and on it. I have graciously accepted that you will be the favorite parent and I can't wait to witness it as she grows up. I am more rested, fed, socialized, and loved than so many in this stage of parenting a tough nugget. You are ze best and I love you. And to my volcanic postpartum hormones, for flaring up nice and big so I write long, emotional Facebook posts that make me cry because my baby is growing and my people are great and omg when will I fit into my pants again and omg world hunger, etc. etc.